Sunday, July 29, 2007

Slow

She had me at ‘hello.’

Hello Jefferson,

I found your blog through the tales of a teacher and slut (which I love). I've slowly started reading through your archives and was incredibly turned on by the posts I've read so far. I came across the post about Eden and I guess that gave me the courage to write to you, so here goes.

I recently lost my virginity. I love having sex, I love giving and receiving oral, I'm curious about anal and have no problem having orgasms when I masturbate but for some reason I haven't been able to come during sex itself. Any chance you want to meet sometime and possibly have a try? :) I'm in and out of the city this summer before moving away from the city (I'm still in heartbroken denial about leaving New York).

I'm sending a picture. I am not looking for a relationship since I'll be gone by the end of the summer, just a drama-free someone who wants to have fun and help me learn. I'm also very interested in exploring my submissive side, although I'm not sure if I'm into pain. Let me know if you might be interested, I really hope you are . . .

Areum

Apparently, the impending move away from New York had emboldened Areum.

I thanked Areum for her note and commended her taste in Meg’s blog. I also thanked her for her photograph—which was dead cute—and asked her to elaborate on her interest in submission.


My submissive side . . . there's not that much to say because I haven't really had a chance to experiment yet, it's more embryonic than fully realized.

I've been shy about expressing my desires with my previous partners because this is all pretty new to me. It's hard for me to initiate things (which is one of the reasons why I was a virgin for so long). I want someone to pin me down and tie me up and command me. I want to feel not in control. I think this side of me struggles with the (pretty big) part of me that wants to be pampered and romanced and reassured that she's beautiful. It also clashes with who I am in my public life—I'm in a position of authority within my company, and I'd rather do things my own way and get it right than delegate to someone else.

Areum had clearly given this some thought.

I learned some things about her as we corresponded. She had lost her virginity later than most, after spending her twenties in pursuit of her career and taking care of her parents and siblings. Being a good girl, she assumed she would get around to sex once her career was established and she found the right man to marry.

Now that she was leaving New York, she had decided to do some of the things she had never done in the city, such as walking across the Brooklyn Bridge, visiting Coney Island, and riding the Staten Island ferry. This same spirit of adventure led her to decide that maybe she should take a more proactive stance about sex. She took the very daring step of reaching out to me, a man she knew only though this blog.

I agreed to meet.

She was glad. She asked for my photograph.

I refused to send a photograph. She had already offered me sex and submission based on my words alone. That would have to suffice.

I also declined to reveal my real name. She was to meet me sight unseen, not knowing my actual identity.

She was excited about meeting—and anxious as hell. Hours before our date, she sent a final email.


Jefferson, I think I need to ease into things and start slow. I've never been this nervous before. Would that be okay?

I replied.

Your nervousness is understandable and welcome. I will take you at a pace that feels comfortable, but you will be mine.

Here’s her account of our date.

I walked to your apartment cradling a bottle of Woodford Reserve. I backtracked at least three times, wondering what the hell I was doing. I was meeting a strange man for sex, a man whose name I didn't know and whose picture I had never seen.

When I arrived at the lobby and called up, the phone didn't work and I nearly left right then and there. I'm not too sure what made me stay—I suspect it was the prospect of having sex with a strange man whose name I didn't know.

When you opened the door I was surprised that the author of such dissipated doings looked so normal: blond, handsome, that smile and those eyes. You gave me a soft kiss and then gently kissed me all over my face, on my cheeks, my forehead, my eyelids. That was quite lovely.

I had asked you to take it slow during our first meeting, so naturally you ordered me to take off all my clothes, close my eyes, and suck your cock within the first five minutes. I got wet immediately.

Then you ordered me to get on my hands and knees and walked me to the bedroom, where you proceeded to put a blindfold on me and fuck me and do unspeakable things to my clit with your tongue. It was my extreme nervousness that was preventing me from reaching my orgasm, but it didn't stop me from whimpering and clutching the pillow. Goodness.

"You're a good kisser," you told me later as we fucked face to face, and I told you the same while smiling around the tongue you had in my mouth.

You bit me hard, slapped me harder, until I had to tell you to stop. I'm a coward when it comes to pain.

Somewhere in the course of events you slowly stuck a finger into my ass and another into my pussy and plunged and twisted faster and faster until I thought it would actually kill me dead. I tried to set aside my frustration at not coming and just lose myself in it.

You then flipped me onto my knees and starting pushing slowly into my ass for the first time. It hurt so much—I couldn't help crying out while you stayed still and shushed me softly in my ear. But then I was undone by the feeling of you moving in and out of me.

We took a break and you told me to bring you a glass of the bourbon I had brought. After all we had done, I was suddenly irrationally shy about walking naked in front of you and I quickly came back and sat on the bed.

"What are you doing all the way over there?" you asked smiling.

I scootched over closer to the armchair you were sitting in.

"Not close enough."

You pointed to the ground beneath the chair and I nestled in between your legs with your foot in my lap. At some point I realized I had lost my right contact lens when taking off the blindfold (something that's happened several times before—losing a contact, that is, not taking off a blindfold after sex. I'm not often in the habit of doing the latter.) So I was sitting in an interesting fuzzy haze that suited the surreal situation I found myself in. When I looked at you I had to focus in so that your features popped out from the background, like those hidden 3-D pictures I used to see in the mall.

We chatted for a while and I finally asked you your name. I occasionally lapsed into quiet spells, gently buoyed by a haze of endorphins that scrambled my synapses and prevented me from speaking coherently. I hope you didn't think I was ignoring you.

As we talked I found myself liking you more and more.

At one point I looked down and realized that I was covered in shockingly bright crimson marks. My skin is extremely sensitive and never fails to make a record of any and all encroachments; I'm not even allowed to donate blood any more because of the enormous hematomas that bloom over my inner arm afterwards. So my right breast had three long parallel stripes on it, which was an odd pattern to get from your bite. Perhaps you had an extra row of teeth, like a shark? My initial shock soon transformed into a sort of fascination, and I kept glancing down at those lurid marks on my skin.

You told me to go down on you. I did for thirty minutes, the longest I have ever done by far. I'm still very new at this. You talked me through it and I soaked it all in.

You told me how I needed to be, to act, to think, in order to be truly submissive.

You grabbed my hair and pushed me down until I gagged, and then the thing I dreaded the most happened and I gagged so hard I couldn't keep it down. As I wiped you off with a washcloth I felt sick and embarrassed, but also oddly comforted by you. Why is that?

You asked me what I wanted to do with our remaining time, and I wanted to feel you on top of me again, covering me up. I think I enjoyed that the most. At one point you dragged me to the edge of the bed and lifted my legs high as you stood over me, and you felt so good in me that I had to hold my hands over my face. It's something I almost always do.

"Why are you covering your eyes?" you asked while you were thrusting into me. When I didn't reply, you asked it again.

I thought you were just telling me to take my hands away, and I didn't realize that you expected a response. I couldn't speak even if I wanted to.

"Are you taking yourself away, so you can just focus on what you are feeling?" I think I nodded. In truth I don't know why I do this. Maybe it's because I find myself overwhelmed, and it's a way to contain myself so I don't fly apart.

You leaned painfully hard on my chest as we resumed kissing. You grabbed the back of my neck hard and I nearly swooned.

You told me to write up an account of our night as my homework assignment. I am nothing if not a willing student. Then you slapped my ass playfully and told me to get the fuck out.

I walked languidly back to my apartment in the evening heat. I chatted with the doorman as I stopped to pick up my spare key, since I had accidentally left my set on your counter. He said I must be enjoying having a break from work during the summer and that I was looking good. I grinned and told him yes, I was feeling much better. I was flushed and sweaty, my shirt was wrinkled to hell and I smelled like you, and I turned and walked across the lobby to the elevator.

Sex and Submission




Derrick Pierce and Kayla Paige

Saturday, July 28, 2007

Fleshbot and Too Much, Too Little

This week’s Sex Blog Roundup at Fleshbot takes a little extra sum’n sum’n for added spice. Too much, these bloggers tell us, ain’t never enough.

Speaking of too much, those of you who enjoy stalking me may have to make do with too little. Unless I’m missing something, I didn’t get laid in anyone else’s sex blogs this week.

This astonishing turn of events may be attributed to two factors. First, I was on vacation for the early part of this month, and so I was beyond the reach of most who blog the nasty. Second, upon my return, I found that many of my friends were holed up for all-nighters with another fellow—a certain bespectacled Brit with a wicked dueling scar. He’s very engaging, I am told, and so I might worry that I would never see my friends again were I not reassured that he’s good for a solid twelve-hour marathon but then, well, its over.

I took heart to find I was not altogether shunted aside, for Maymay offered thoughts on my request for reader responses in advance of my upcoming sessions at Floating World. (Those interested in attending should note that a schedule of sessions has now been posted on the event website.)

I thanked Maymay for his thoughts. A few days later, I met him in person. He was naked. In fact, so was I, for we met on a nude beach—a first foray for your pale interlocuter.

I bussed his cheek and enjoyed the cool wetness of his skin as we touched. It was a warm summer afternoon, and he was fresh from the heavy surf—“bottoming to nature,” as he put it.

I set up my blankets with Maymay and friends. I had already about been naked with about half the people in this group of ten—naked, you know, when we had sex. The folks who were new to me were certainly easy on the eyes, and were gladly added to the roster of “naked people with whom I have yet to have sex.”

(No special emphasis on the “yet.”)

With my first experience with a nude beach, I resolved one anxiety from my youth. “What happens if you get hard?”

Here’s what happens: you get hard. No big deal.

I had a find time sunning with friends, new and old, in some measure thanks to the blessings of sunscreen . . . and a surreptitious handjob from a well-tanned mama.

That was too much.

Program note: Viviane’s Sex Carnival has moved. Update your links!

Thursday, July 26, 2007

List

This story is also told by Lily.

There was something quirky about her post on Craig’s List. It was a little longer than most and certainly better written, but more so, it was at once cheeky and anxious, as if she had meant to throw caution to the winds but then grabbed it back at the last moment.

I found her post by searching for the word “submissive.”

I had decided that I wanted to meet people who identified as submissive on the premise that this would allow me to go into things as a dominant. If these things were established before the first handshake, I reasoned, it might spare confusion down the line.

I wanted to flex my muscles after sex camp. I hoped to find someone (or, knowing me, someones) who would enjoy experimenting with ropes, floggers, canes and all the new skills I wanted to hone, without the messy complications of love and romance.

Love had lately left me feeling worn out. I had exhausted myself by falling too hard too often, and I was numb from the ways women who loved me were led—almost inextricably, it seemed—to jealousy and potential disappointment.

After sex camp, I decided that I was getting out of the girlfriend business. I would no longer allow myself to be claimed as a boyfriend by anyone who really and truly, deep down, wanted me as her very own.

I was resolved to be studiously superficial—kind, caring and pleasant, to be sure, but in no way receptive to the pursuit of happiness ever after.

My firmer footfalls on the paths of BDSM afforded the opportunity to meet new people in situations where the ground rules are often preset. By establishing facts up front, perhaps I could avoid flame-ups by clearing away the underbrush of drama in my life.

I was succinct and direct in my response to her post. I commended her openness and sensibility, and sent her a link to my blog. By this time, I had decided that I preferred to date people who had access to this site, as it puts everything out in the open. If she was interested in me, it would be in the full knowledge that I am a parent, I am bisexual, I have sex with whomever I please, and I am not likely to be her one and only.

She replied quickly. She was, in a word, astonished, and, in a second word, aghast. She wrote that she had not imagined people really did the things I wrote about. She enjoyed my writing, she said, but she didn’t think she could get together with someone so promiscuous.

I replied that her reticence was understandable. No harm done. I wished her well.

She thanked me for understanding.

I told her there were no worries, and made a joke.

She wrote that my joke was funny.

Pretty soon, we were trading photographs.

She sent me a photograph of a terrace covered in plants, overlooking a verdant park. Just behind a planter was a face; I could make out dark hair and glasses.

“You’re very handsome!” she wrote.

“I want to avoid the word ‘adorable’ in describing you,” I replied. “But I don’t think that’s possible.”

We decided to meet for drinks at a dive bar in my neighborhood. She recommended that we meet at three on a Sunday afternoon, a little early for drinks but safely beyond the range of a late-night snap decision to go to my place.

She certainly thought ahead.

I was outside when she walked up.

“Lily?”

“Jefferson!” she exclaimed. “I’m sorry I’m a little late. Have you been waiting long?”

“No,” I kissed her cheek lightly. “I just got here—I’m afraid I’m typically late myself.”

“Oh, cheers,” she smiled. “So shall we . . . ?”

“Yes, let’s,” I said, opening the door for her.

I took a longer look as she passed. I added “cute” to the words I would have to avoid using to describe her; she must get that all the time. Her brunette hair was sensibly cut to accentuate its thickness and draped to her shoulders. She had smiling brown eyes that responded to her soft grin. I’m sure she had considered her clothes, as one does before a first date, but I suspected her closet was filled with multiple versions of this simple outfit—a skirt that hugged her hips and ended just above her knees, and a top cut low enough to reveal cleavage, but only a little. Her clothes suggested a modesty determined to belie the sensuality of her wasp-waisted figure.

She came up to my shoulders. I was tempted to pick her up and squeeze her. “Aren’t you the cutest thing, you adorable thing you?” I would coo.

“Do you come her often?” she asked as we slid into a booth.

“No, I very rarely drink in public,” I said, putting a pint on the vinyl tabletop. “Just when I’m first meeting cute . . . I mean, pretty gals.”

“Judging from your blog, that must be fairly often.”

“Nah, not really. Most women just show up at my door. How’s your gin and tonic?”

“Tasty, thanks.” She put the swizzle straw to her lips and sucked a long drink. “So, I’m interested: how did you get into writing the blog? Are you a writer otherwise?”

We talked about writing; it turned out that she was an aspiring novelist with an abiding admiration for Laurie Colwin.

Talking about my blog led us to talking about her interest in domination and submission. As she spoke, I realized I might have been too literal in my understanding of her description of herself as “submissive.” She was not, as I had first assumed, someone who “played” in “scenes” at “dungeons.”

“Oh, God no, not at all,” she winced, putting down her glass. “I mean, I can’t tolerate pain. I’m not into anything like that. What I meant was, I am lately coming to realize that I tend to be submissive in bed, and I like that. I like being told what to do. Like, for example, I was on a date recently and Jeremy—my date—told me to cross my legs. I did as he said and I got a real thrill out of it, because I had done as he asked.”

“Interesting,” I said, refraining from instructing her.

“Hmmm,” she said, taking another sip. “I don’t know how interesting it is, but, you know . . . funny, I’m just realizing I’m slightly embarrassed to be talking about this! I don’t usually.”

“Well gosh, who would you talk to about this?” I picked up my glass. “’Hey mom, guess what I’ve discovered? I like it when boys boss me around.’”

She laughed and looked steadily at me. “You know, you’re nothing like I pictured you. I think you may be nicer than the ‘Jefferson’ you write.”

“Thanks.” I wiped the suds from my lips. “I mean, I am the Jefferson I write, but I’m also, you know, me. I appreciate the challenge of reconciling those things.”

“I guess the blog creates certain impressions.”

“Indeed it does, which can be amusing or distracting by turns. It’s a challenge to turn oneself and one’s friends into characters. You’re a writer; you should try blogging—you’ll see what I mean.”

“Oh,” she said, taking the stirrer from her lips. “I do have a blog.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Oh, do you, now?”

“It’s nothing, it’s good I think . . . ,” she hesitated. “It’s about dating and this decision I made to go on more dates and have more sex.” Her head tilted slightly. “Please don’t think me superficial for hoping it leads to a book deal.”

“Attractive woman dating in the Big Apple,” I said. “That’s a book, all right . . . maybe even a television series . . .”

“And did I mention I have nice shoes? I have very nice shoes.”

I laughed. “Well, you’ll have to share your blog with me. You know, for professional reasons.”

“Hmm, we’ll see,” she demurred. “I haven’t shared it with anyone I date.”

“Why, Miss Lily, how presumptuous,” I drawled. “Is this here a date? Mind if I walk you home afterwards? Maybe meet your mama?”

“Okay, okay,” she nodded, reaching for her glass. “Point taken. We’ll see.”

“I’ll take that as ‘yes, sir.’” I ran a finger along the rim of my pint. “So, tell me something: you say that you have this new lease on life with sex . . . ,”

“Hmmph,” she nodded, taking the swizzle stick from her mouth. “Right. Well, in March I decided that I wanted to have had more experience . . .”

“’Have had?’” I interrupted. “Why the past tense?”

“Yes, I mean, as in later, when I’m married. I mean, my long-term goal is to get married and be monogamous and have kids. Well, maybe ‘short-term’ is more accurate, since I’m thirty-three. I’m not exactly waiting to get married, I just haven’t met anyone yet. Anyway, so I made a conscious decision to have more experiences now, for about a while. I call it my ‘Year of Living Somewhat Dangerously.’”

“Cute . . . I mean, nice. So you conceive of this as an experiment of limited duration.”

“Yes,” she sipped her drink and swallowed. “A year or something like a year, unless of course I get into a monogamous relationship. Then, of course, I would tell him.”

“’Him’ being this man you have yet to meet. You would tell him about your experiment? Or about your relationship with him?”

She smiled. “Well, no, obviously he would know about the relationship. I mean I would tell him about my sexual history.”

I took a sip of Bass. “Got to watch that subject agreement, young novelist.”

She nodded. “Duly noted. So yeah, so honesty is very important, obviously. It’s one reason I have a list of questions I ask prospective partners. It’s all about sexual history and . . . STDs. I have to confess, I am concerned about HIV . . . well, more than concerned, I’m frankly paranoid about contracting HIV—or anything, really, but especially HIV—in this experiment.”

“Well yeah, you have to be careful,” I agreed, taking a sip. “That’s not paranoia; that’s common sense.”

“Well, I think my concern exceeds most people’s.” She took another sip of her drink, staring at the ice in the bottom of the glass.

A moment passed. She looked up.

“So?” I asked.

“So . . . ?” she echoed.

“Am I not considered a prospective partner? Do you have the list?”

“Oh yes, of course, I keep it with me always.” She put down her glass and reached for her bag. “I mean, I’ve read your blog, so I know some of the answers already, but . . . hang on, it’s in here . . . ah!”

Lily pulled a folded sheet of paper from her bag. She began to open it. “Are you sure you don’t mind . . . ?”

“No, please.”

“Okay.” She adjusted he glasses and looked down at the page. “I hope you don’t think this is silly, but . . . I found it online, and I trust the source, so . . .”

I smiled. “It’s fine. Hit me.”

She nodded and looked back to her page. “Well, this one is kind of obvious—‘Have you ever had sex before?’”

I laughed. “Uh, yeah. Now and again.”

“Wait, wait, there’s more. ‘If yes, how many partners have you had before? In the past year? Right now?’” She looked over her glasses at me.

“Hmmm, gee. Well, to tell you the truth, I don’t keep track of numbers . . .”

“Would you say ‘more than ten?’”

I looked at her.

“’More than fifty?’”

I shrugged.

Lily paused. “’Hundreds?’”

“Let’s say ‘less than thousands.’”

She raised an eyebrow. “’Thousands’ plural?”

“Well, ‘less than thousands.’ I think that’s safe estimate,” I said, reaching for my pint. “I mean, the highest number in that category would be nine hundred ninety nine thousand nine hundred and ninety nine, right? I seriously doubt I’ve broken a million, so it would surely be somewhere between zero and a million.”

She laughed. “That’s not the most reassuring answer.”

“What can I say? I’m slutty. But seriously, yeah, I just don’t care about numbers. I could probably reconstruct the number from before my marriage, and of course I was monogamous forever, but these days . . . actually, in point of fact, my numbers may not even be that astronomical, as these days I mostly have sex with the same people, just, you know, lots of the same people lots and lots of times.”

“Ah, which gets to the next part of this question—‘How many partners have you had in the past year? Right now?’”

“’In the past year?’ I dunno. But I regularly have sex with about . . .” I looked up and counted in my head. “Maybe a dozen people? Maybe?”

“Okay, we’ll put you down for ‘less than thousands’ and ‘one dozen, give or take.’”

“Sounds reasonable.”

She nodded. “It’s a lot, but . . . okay, next question. ‘Have you ever had sex without using a condom?’”

I nodded. “I have four children.”

Lily looked confused before my answer sank in. “Oh right, of course, but now . . .”

I nodded. “Yeah, condoms are de rigeur in my crowd.”

“Okay, good . . . that’s one, now this one . . . well, I know part of it—‘Have you ever had sex with another man? With a prostitute?’”

I nodded. “Yes to both. My boyfriend Marcus is a whore.”

“Oh!” she said. “No one has ever answered ‘yes’ to that question.”

“Not many men are likely to be honest if they have, either,” I noted. “But wait, is that seriously a compound question? They equate sex with men and sex with a prostitute as comparable health risks?”

She reread the question. “Yes, it’s the same question.”

“That’s pretty absurd. I mean, this assumes that all prostitutes and all men who sleep with men are automatically health risks, which is simply untrue. And kind of insulting, actually.”

Lily blanched. “Oh, I didn’t mean . . .”

I smiled. “No dear, it’s your list that’s insulting, not you. Anyway, go on.”

“I really didn’t mean . . .”

“I know, it’s no big deal. It’s just a persistent homophobic stereotype about bisexual men, that we are carriers between gay men (who can all be assumed to be diseased by this line of reasoning) and heterosexuals (who are clean and, ultimately, matter more anyway). Never mind the implication that all prostitutes are diseased and reckless.” I sipped my pint. “Don’t get me started, I can talk all night. Okay, next question.”

Lily looked to her list. “Have you ever had any STD? Have any of your other partners ever had an STD?”

“Yes, long ago and all gone, and yes. Next?”

“Um, okay . . . “ She sipped the remains of her drink and read. “Have you ever shot up drugs? Or had sex with someone who did?”

“Nope and nope—well, not that I know of, anyway.”

She looked up.

“The second part,” I clarified.

“Oh, right. Okay. So, ‘Have you ever had a discharge from your penis? Any sores or warts on your penis? A burning feeling when you urinate?’”

“Nope, I’m all good.”

“’Have you ever had a blood transfusion?’”

“Yes.” She looked up, expectant. “No, wait, no. I misheard you: I thought you asked if I gave blood. I used to, but no more, as the Red Cross is prejudiced against bisexual blood. That’s more fodder for the ‘I can talk all night’ talk.” I sipped my pint. “Next?”

“’Do you have a tattoo? If so, are you sure brand-new sterile needles were used?’”

“No, but man, I like ink on others. However, I did get my left ear pierced back the day. At a Spencer’s in a shopping mall.”

She smiled. “Quite the outlaw, eh?”

“Vroom, vroom. Is that the last question?”

“Nope, one more—‘Will you agree to always use a condom if we have sex?’”

“Who says we’re having sex?” I teased.

She laughed. “Hypothetically.”

I grinned. “Okay, in the hypothetical event that we have actual sex, we will use actual condoms. Deal. So do you really ask these questions of everyone you have sex with these days?”

“Yes,” she said, folding the paper and returning it to her bag. “I know it may seem silly or paranoid, but I dunno, it helps with my anxieties.”

“Then do it,” I said. “But goodness, if those are your standards, who do you wind up having sex with?”

“Well, they aren’t exactly ‘standards,’ just guidelines. And not everyone has been as sexually . . . adventurous as you.”

“To sexual adventure!” I toasted, raising my glass.

“Cheers!” she said, raising hers. She sipped from the glass. “Hmm, but my glass is empty . . . and I need to go to the ladies room.” She looked around.

“Back and to the right. I’ll order another round.”

“Cheers, that’s nice.” She smiled as she slid across the vinyl seat of our booth. She stood and suddenly blushed, as if embarrassed by a thought. “I’ll be back.”

“I’ll be here.” I returned her smile. “Unless I decide to dump you mid-date.”

Her shoulders fell forward. “Oh thanks, that’s a nice thing to say,” she laughed. “You’re mean to neurotic girls.”

I smiled, saying nothing.

She turned and walked to the restroom. I watched her walk away, noting how her prim skirt seemed tailored to her low-slung hips.

“Jefferson, Jefferson, Jefferson,” I muttered. “You are totally checking out that sweet young lady.”

I ordered another round.

The next day, I sent a nice follow-up email to tell Lily that I enjoyed our date and looked forward to more.

“Also, before our next date,” I added. “I’m getting tested.”

Friday, July 20, 2007

Ultimate Surrender



Claire Adams, Ariel X, Calico, Darling

Fleshbot and Catching Up

This week’s Sex Blog Roundup at Fleshbot looks into the secret thoughts of people in the sex biz, from the whore and the dominatrix to the gal in the peepshow and the guy at the porn shop. Sex pays the bills for these reflective minds, but it also gives them plenty to think about.

It’s been a busy time for those of you who enjoy stalking me. While I was on vacation, I popped up in a number of places. In fact, Madeline found me catching up on sleepy time down South, and finds she misses the old folks back home.

Wendy follows her nose to our first encounter and takes her throat to new depths.

Lily recounts a threesome that became a foursome (and damn near a fivesome), offering her another lesson in sharing. Later, she ponders whether her ass virginity will go to me or to our shared boyfriend Jed who is, to be sure, a true ass aficionado.

Those of you who still read print media—surely a few of you remain?—can find me and some of my friends in this month’s Penthouse Forum, courtesy of columnist and gal pal Selina.

Dear reader, that’s not all. Two more friends have taken to spilling their sex online.

Adam and his fiancĂ© Emma are regulars at my orgy. They are lovely kinksters as well, and now he’s taken to blogging their experiences. It’s nice to welcome another gent to the girl’s club of sex blogging.

Mind you, I’m no less thrilled to welcome another woman. Ruby tagged along with Wendy to her first orgy at my place. While I was out of town on vacation, she tended my plants and in the process, uncovered the secret mojo of my apartment: it brings romance into your life.

Last summer, a girlfriend was watching my place and fell for the man she will marry. Last winter, another girlfriend watered my plants and a serious affair bloomed. Now, Ruby’s stint at my love pad has led her to be taken by a statuesque beauty. Alas, as she recounts, she leaves him and us behind, as she is off to California, where she is sure to break other hearts.

Speaking of catching up and breaking hearts, I’m off to brew more smut. Stay tuned.

Ron Harris




Rebecca

Thursday, July 19, 2007

Floating World

The fish of the Deep South may gurgle a collective sigh of relief. I’ve put aside my fishing pole and resumed my place in the city, back at my sticky, muggy keyboard.

My children have had their splinters plucked and the lake water washed from their hair; now, they are off for a vacation with their mother. Their freckled daddy plans to spend his summer days catching up on things—and that includes sending some true-life smut your way.

As you plan your summer vacation, perhaps you’d care to join me for a spell? I’m teaching three sessions at Floating World, which takes place August 24-26 in Edison, New Jersey.

Take a peek at the list of presenters: they include some of my favorites, such as Boymeat, Rita Seagrave, Lee Harrington, Piper Pony, Seraphin and my famed fuck buddy Lolita Wolf. Don’t that sound like a hootenanny?

I’ll be teaching the following sessions:

Odd Man In: Male Bisexuality on the Scene

In many sex communities, it is assumed that women will be bisexual and men will not—no matter the reality. These nettling presumptions (and, in some cases, regulated prohibitions) discount the needs and experiences of men who desire sex with other men, as well as those of women who enjoy male bisexuality. This session centers on a frank and open dialogue designed to address double standards on bisexuality within sex communities—particularly those of BDSM and swingers—that come together at Floating World.

Mind Your G and P: The Alphabet Down There

Some deny their existence. Others swear by them. In recent years, the female g spot and the male p spot have ignited storms of controversy—even as they were stimulated to countless orgasms. This hands-on (or rather, hands-in) session cuts past the verbiage to get down to business. Learn how to locate your own spot and that of your partner, as well as techniques to make the most of these erogenous zones. Please note that this session will include nudity and sexual activity, as well as opportunities for audience participation.

The Whole World is Wanking: Sex Blogging

In a few short years, sex blogging has had a tremendous impact on how people relate to sex and technology, both online and offline. Communities have flourished and enmities have been formed. Writers and readers have become friends and lovers, publishers and consumers, hecklers and stalkers. This session introduces the basics of sex blogging, explaining how to start and maintain a sex blog, and, more importantly, how to be smart and safe in doing so. Sex bloggers write fact, fiction and fantasy; some regard their blogs as polished writing, others as an open private journal. Whatever your genre, whether you value privacy or crave attention, whether you write for pleasure or profit, this session will help you to consider sex blogs in the context of a cultural milieu.

If you plan to attend Floating World, or if you have questions about my sessions, feel free to drop a line. I’m particularly curious to hear from readers on the following subjects, whether or not you plan to attend.

1) Do you blog about sex? Let me know your site, your reasons for blogging, and your experiences as a blogger.

2) What are your experiences with male bisexuality? I'm interested in your personal experiences as well as those involving friends, lovers and/or communities. Anyone is welcome to reply; you needn't be bisexual or identify as male to have an opinion or experience to relate.

3) What are your experiences and interests on g spot and p spot stimulation? Do you enjoy them? Are you frustrated by an inability to locate them, or to stimulate them? Also, if you are interested in volunteering to have your g spot or p spot stimulated during the session, please drop a line—be advised that volunteering would involve public nudity.

I wonder if there will be orgies in Edison . . . ?

Monday, July 02, 2007

Abby Winters



Gale

The Training of O



Bobbi Starr

Fleshbot and Gone Fishin'

This week’s Sex Blog Roundup at Fleshbot mows the greener grasses that leave us wondering if our own gardens measure up. Oh, the discontents of relative content.

Those of you who enjoy stalking me will find the unmanageable Anna Smash musing as she procrastinates.

Finally, you’ll find me joyous at the return of Aliza. We missed you during your sabbatical, Aliza—it’s good to have you back. Now, get naked. Now.

Speaking of greener grass, I spent this weekend weeping at my teenage daughter’s wedding and adding a son-in-law to my brood. Now, I’m in the Deep South for a couple of weeks, getting fat and collecting freckles in the fold of my ever-expanding family.

Those of you who enjoy stalking me will be on your own—but shoot, you know where to find me. Viviane will be covering my beat at Fleshbot.

Y’all send some love my way now and then, y’heah?