Thursday, November 29, 2007

HNT and Barbara Nitke



Rascal and Jefferson, 2007


This week my feet take a star turn in the Photo of the Week at the website of Barbara Nitke, photographer to the perverted. She set up a studio at Dark Odyssey in September and kept snapping as campers took turns before her lenses.

I was passing by, innocently making my way to the dungeon, when my new pal Rascal drew me into a photo shoot. I liked Rascal. He didn’t get the memo that I can’t be topped or that my nipples are a no-fly zone, so he simply followed his instincts and made earrings of my ankles. Don’t ask about the nipples. Ain’t he fierce?

Also featured are my new clam diggers, a handover from a girlfriend the memo that my ass is hottest in girl jeans.

Thanks, Barbara!

Saturday, November 24, 2007

Abby Winters



Sue Ann

Am I Trustworthy?



"People have to show they can be trusted with little things if they want to be trusted with big ones."

Very good, Eddie.

Friday, November 23, 2007

Fleshbot and Here's Tilda



Beautiful Creature


This week’s Sex Blog Roundup at Fleshbot throws a little pixie dust in the direction of fantasies. Some of them may come true and some already have. Gee, just reading Aliza, I realized a fantasy I didn’t even know I had—namely, watching Aliza orchestrate an orgy. Phew!

Those of you who enjoy stalking me will find me getting my readers laid, watching my stars shake out, and thanked as my secrets are laid bare.

Lily takes good advantage of one lover’s good press to garner another good lover.

Bianca wakes to sex between us, after days of sharing.

Jocasta gets my angle and learns to ignore her mother’s advice.

Shockingly, Wendy is still making moves on my boyfriend. Back off, big girl!

Janie takes my dick out of her mouth long enough to thank me for putting my dick in her mouth. That’s nice, but . . . ahem? My dick?

Bridget is grateful too, giving me credit for many good things in her life. I read one, two, three more posts this week, in wonder as ever in our friendship and love.

Handsome wordsmith Sinclair conjures my first bumper sticker slogan. It may send us both to hell, but we’ll go down as millionaires.

Things get sticky when Lynsey leaves her glasses in place as she explores my nooks and crannies. And so I first learned on the Internet about a freckle the sun never made.

This weekend, we hand the Smut Turntable over to Tilda. Expect a steady groove from the woman who showed up for a sex date in a Joy Division t-shirt and a smile. You should’ve seen the smile when I handed the shirt back to her. I was sore for two days. I was impressed she could still walk.

Thursday, November 22, 2007

HNT



Does this ass make my foot look fat?

Friday, November 16, 2007

Fleshbot and Desire

This week’s Sex Blog Roundup at Fleshbot takes a cup of cocoa, props up its feet on a soft ass, and relaxes with comfort sex—though occasionally of the comfort-right-now-dammit variety. Think Barry White on adrenaline.

Those of you who enjoy stalking me will find me looking good in a sweater, making small talk over lunch, and keeping everyone content at an orgy—well, almost everyone.

Lily and I enjoy introducing each other to our friends. She so enjoyed meeting my crush Anna Smash that she agreed to keep Anna’s sexy boyfriend cozy on a business trip to the city.

Wendy thanks me for keeping my clothes on, for a change.

Janie finds that she can put her lunch hour to productive use so long as she is disciplined.

What do you get when sex bloggers orgy? Why, an orgy of sex blogging! Four reported in from the most recent gathering of my sex parties.

Eden finds Boymeat and his single tail whip before taking me to a quiet corner in order to make one hell of a lot of noise. Later, she compiles a list of cherries she has yet to collect. You know, Eden, you might want to get to work on that—you aren’t getting any younger, dear.

Tilda warmly held my hands—inside her body. Repeatedly.

Orgies can be great fun. They can also leave you feeling insecure, as Jocasta found when her high came crashing down.

The elated Lynsey keeps the ink flying with new sexy stick figures. She’s at a loss for words when shit happens, she’s a fly on the wall overhearing the darnedest things, and she pulls out a dictionary to define a few sex terms new to her experience.

This weekend, the DJ booth at the Smut Turntable is manned by Desire, a young rocker, sex rebel and dumpster-diving chef from down D.C. way. I was eager to get her mind between the ‘phones, given that she’s a musician with a fine flair for smut. She's also one for getting her naked self painted, which goes over big around these parts.



Desire


She’s easy on the eyes, sure, but let’s see how she is on the ears.

Speaking of easy, I could use some of that. This has been some week.

I need a vacation.

Abby Winters



Eloise

Thursday, November 15, 2007

HNT



I read a lot of sex blogs—heck, it’s my job—and there are certain features common to many that I find amusing. One is “Half-Naked Thursday” (or HNT), in which exhibitionists take the opportunity to show off some flesh.

I’ve never considered participating in that tradition. My life requires me to be guarded about my identity, and anyway, it’s probably more interesting that you don’t know what I look like when you imagine me having sex. I’m surely way hotter in your imagination.

But now and then, I think it’s a shame that I deny you my feet, because my feet are really all that and a bag of nail clippings. Look at those long prehensile toes, that abundant Hallux, that elegant Morton’s toe . . . how can I deny these to you?

If you would care to be photographed with such extraordinary feet, grab your pedicure kit and drop a line.

Tuesday, November 13, 2007

Holiday Plans

A few weeks before Halloween, I asked the kids if they wanted to trick or treat in my building or in their mother’s neighborhood in the suburbs. “You’re supposed to be with me that night,” I said. “But if you want to do Halloween at your mom’s, that’s fine by me if she doesn’t mind.”

“Mom hates Halloween,” Lillie said, using her fingers to push carrots onto her fork. “She turns off the lights and pretends she’s not home.”

“I think the candy is better there,” Jason said. “Plus we can go trick or treating with Jim and his dad.”

Collie put down his cup and grimaced “No way is the candy better there, Jason,” he argued. “Think about it. This building is huge. There is so much candy here.”

I picked up my plate and walked to the kitchen for more potatoes. “Well, you kids decide what you want to do and I’ll work it out with your mother.”

The debate raged on for several days before the kids realized they didn’t have to come to an agreement. They had two homes, and there was no rule that they had to be together at the same one. For the first time since the separation, the kids decided to spend a holiday apart from one another. Jason opted to be with his mother, Collie decided to be with me, and Lillie secured an invitation to be with her BFF, Mindy.

“I’m going to be a vampire,” Lillie informed me. “And Mindy’s going to be a pirate. And this is the last year we’re going to trick or treat, because next year, we’ll be fourth graders, and trick or treating will be babyish. We’ll just give out candy and say that babies are so cute. Don’t you think babies are so cute, Dad, dressed up like little pumpkins and ghosts and stuff?”

“Babies are very cute, big girl.” I kissed her head.

Jason planned to use the same costume he wore last year, a Scream mask and black cloak. At thirteen, he wanted a costume that looked like he didn’t care about his costume. Collie ultimately came to the conclusion that he was too old for Halloween, and he would sit it out.

“Are you sure? I asked. “Aren’t you going to regret not having candy?”

“It’s not like there won’t be candy,” he said. “I mean, come on, Jason and Lillie will have too much. I’ll sneak it when they aren’t looking.”

“It’s your call,” I shrugged.

On the afternoon of Halloween, Collie came home from school and announced that he had changed his mind. Some of his friends were trick or treating, so that meant it was still cool.

“It’s a little late to find a costume,” I said. “What will you wear?”

“I’ll wear the Frankenstein mask I wore last year, and a cape. It’s easy.”

That was easy. I keep Halloween costumes from year to year in a bag with make up, masks and such, in a closet with everything else I don’t need but can’t discard. Fibber McGee would feel at home with this closet.

However, as the witching hour approached, I dug into the closet to find that I couldn’t find the bag. “Collie?” I called. “Have you seen the Halloween bag?”

“No. Is it gone?”

“I can’t find it.” I opened a box of dried-out art supplies. “Honestly, I just don’t know what to do with myself,” I muttered.

I found a bag of broken cameras and had an idea. I gathered a few more things together.

“Okay, sweet man. Put on these shorts, this Hawaiian shirt and a baseball cap. You’re going to wear this camera, these sunglasses and shove this map in your pocket.”

Collie cocked his head. “What am I going as?”

I drew myself up and wriggled my fingers. “A tourist,” I creaked in my best Bela Lugosi.

“Ha! Awesome.”

“I only regret I don’t have a fanny pack.”

Collie curled his nose. “That’s too scary.”

He asked me to join him as we toured the building. We carried a list identifying which apartments had signed up to distribute candy.

“This is weird,” Collie said, hesitating at the first door.

“What’s weird?”

“This. Trick or treating. It’s weird. I’m glad no one can see me.”

He rang the bell, recited his line, and took away some Almond Joys. “I’m giving these to you, Dad. I know they’re the only candy you like.”

“Thanks, baby. Okay, let’s go to the next floor.”

We passed some other kids who are Collie’s age. A boy in a cape pointed his scythe at Collie. “That’s a great costume,” he nodded. “Everybody hates tourists.”

“I don’t see the Grim Reaper winning any popularity contests,” I replied.

“Let’s go in the other direction,” Collie whispered. “I don’t want people to see me. It’s humiliating.”

“It’s perfectly fine for an eleven year old to trick or treat,” I said.

“Humiliating.” He pushed the elevator button a few times, hoping to bring it faster.

I patted the shoulder of my middle child, knowing he is in a hurry to grow up, though he doesn’t really want to.

After he counted out his haul—sixty-seven pieces of candy, minus three Almond Joys—we went together to pick up his sister at Mindy’s house. Bridget drove, as we had plans to take Collie, Lillie and Mindy to see the musical Legally Blonde.

“I know the girls will like it,” Bridget said. “But what will Collie think? Is it too girly?”

“Na, he’ll be fine,” I said. “I think.”

Lillie came to the door at Mindy’s. I was shocked. “Oh my God, Lillie—you look so hot! You look like Stevie Nicks!”

“That’s what Mindy’s mom said,” she giggled. “Who’s Stevie Nicks?”

“A famous witch. God, look at you.”

Lillie smiled and stood erect, allowing herself to be looked over. She was in a black velvet skirt, a maroon top with a cinched bodice, black tights and boots. Her red hair fell past her shoulders.

“Your mom found that costume?” I marveled. “It’s just . . . wow.”

She giggled again. “I know, right?”

We returned to Bridget’s car and drove to Times Square. Bridget parked on the street, one block from the theater. A man in a Jaguar gave us a smile. It was an amazing parking space.

“I wish I had my camera,” I marveled.

“What? I just parked,” Bridget said, shrugging it off. “Big deal.”

“You are the luckiest sumbitch I know.”

The girls sat together in the theater, giggling about the Chihuahua they knew to expect on stage. Collie sat between Bridget and me. He looked bored.

“Are you ready to be wowed?” I nudged him. “Singing sororities? Sexy UPS man? Hair salons?”

He rolled his eyes. “Oh, brother.”

His eyes flashed as the curtain rose.

The next day, I was working at my computer as Collie played Halo Three in the next room. He slaughtered monsters singing “Omigod, You Guys!” at the top of his lungs.

Separate holidays may become the norm in our family. A few days later, Lillie asked about Thanksgiving.

“Dad, would it be okay if I spent Thanksgiving with Mom? She’s going to visit her friend Linda in . . . what’s it called?”

“Illinois?”

“Yeah, Illinois. And the boys don’t want to go. Can I go? Linda has a dog and a cat. Plus Terry is my age and one of my best friends. Can I go?”

“This is the first I’ve heard of this,” I said, disguising my annoyance. I have to accept that Lucy makes plans with the children without consulting me, and that I will first hear them from my eight-year-old daughter. Lillie was excited about visiting Linda and her daughter Terry. I was in a position to make that happen or to deny her something she now really wanted, all without any input from me. “Let me call your Mom, beloved.”

I called Lucy.

“Hello?”

“Hi Lucy, it’s Jefferson. So I hear you may be going to Illinois for Thanksgiving?”

“Yes, well, it’s not certain. I haven’t asked Linda yet, but would you mind of I took Lillie? The boys don’t want to go. Can they stay with you? Do you mind?”

“No, I don’t mind having the boys. It’s my Thanksgiving with the kids.”

“Okay, good. I’ll ask Linda. Okay, so now, can we split Christmas?”

“What do you mean?” I knew what she meant.

“I mean, can I have the kids this Christmas Eve, and you get them Christmas Day?”

I hate Lucy. I hate her above all for being so predictable.

As my lawyer drew up our divorce contract, she suggested that we alternate holidays.

“You always have the kids on Thursdays,” she noted. “Now, Thanksgiving is always on a Thursday. So you need to offer her Thanksgivings every other year. Can you do that? “

“I hadn’t thought of that,” I said. “Of course, that’s fair.”

“Good.” She scribbled on her legal pad. “Now, Labor Day, Memorial Day, secular three day weekends, you should alternate those as well. And you’ll gain time with the kids, as she will otherwise have them on Mondays.”

“Okay, fine.”

“Is she observant?”

“You mean, Jewish? Well, her family is ethnically Jewish, but she’s a die-hard atheist.”

“All right, so the High Holy Days aren’t an issue. Easter . . .”

“We don’t really celebrate Easter.”

She lowered her glasses. “What if you remarry someone who does?”

I laughed. “I’m not remarrying.”

She removed her glasses. “You don’t know that.”

I crossed my legs. “Oh, I’m very sure of that.” I crossed my arms.

She looked at me for a moment. “Fine.” She returned her glasses to their perch. “I’ll leave out Easter and the High Holy Days, but note that this can be renegotiated pending future developments. After all, you might marry a Jew.”

“I’m not remarrying,” I repeated.

“Fine. Now, Christmas. You are not really a practicing Christian.”

“No, not really.”

“So I suggest you alternate Christmases.”

“What?” I unfolded my legs. “I wouldn’t have my children on Christmas?”

“Is that a problem?”

“Well, yes, that’s a serious problem. How can I not be with my kids on Christmas? That’s crazy. Anyway, it’s not an issue. We always spend Christmas with Lucy’s family. That’s not changing.”

“Well, you know, Jefferson, that could change.”

“Why? I’m divorcing my wife, not her family. They are my family too.”

She took off her glasses. “And what, you’re going to bring your new wife to Christmas with her family?”

I sighed. “I’m not remarrying. Look, this is about the kids. They need stability, and tradition helps that. Right? So we’ll do Christmas as we’ve always done Christmas. Lucy would agree to that.”

She looked at me. She replaced her glasses. “Let me do this. I will say that you have the kids on Christmas Eve, and then she gets them on noon Christmas Day. The next year, you alternate. And so on. That’s what the agreement will say, but what you decide to actually do is between you and Lucy. How’s that?”

I crossed my arms. “It’s fine. I mean, we’ll do what we do.”

I stood looking out the window with the phone to my ear.

“Jefferson?”

“Yeah, Lucy?”

“So what about Christmas?”

“So, let me get this straight. You’ll have them Christmas Eve, and bring them back to me Christmas Day? And then next year, we switch?”

“Yes, just like in the divorce says. You’re so lucky you don’t have to be with my family for Christmas! I wish I could get out of it. You’re so lucky.”

She was pitching this to me as if she was doing me a favor. Like she didn’t know me. Like I was . . . like I didn’t . . .

“Can I get back to you on this?” I couldn’t say more.

“Yes, yes, of course. Thanks!” She hung up.

I hung up. I already knew the answer.

Just after college, I met Lucy. For a few Christmases, she went to visit her family and I went to mine.

After we moved in together, I stopped going home for the holidays and joined Lucy’s family for Christmas. Lucy’s mother came to make plans with me, as Lucy avoided the holidays. We made gift lists and plotted menus. After the children were born, we were Santas. Lucy was put out by all that.

I kept up the traditions.

Lucy kicked me out of her family. Just now, just like that. She destroyed our family four years ago and now, she has destroyed Christmas.

What else can I say to her request? Of course, I’ll concede. I wonder how I’ll tell the kids, but I'm sure she will first, abruptly, like it doesn’t matter.

This year, for the first time in my life, I’ll spend Christmas Eve without family.

I can’t . . . I can’t even . . . I never saw this coming.

I hate Lucy. I hate it, but God, I hate the mother of my children.

I’ll wake up without my children on Christmas.

I never saw this coming.

Friday, November 09, 2007

Fleshbot and Vacation

This week’s Sex Blog Roundup at Fleshbot just comes right out and says it: tits are the shit. End of discussion. Next topic.

Those of you who enjoy stalking will find me splendid in the grass, implicated in incestuous fantasies and—no surprises here—manhandling mammaries.

Janie joins the unfortunates who will not be included in my future Fleshbot Sex Blog Roundups. Like so many before her, Janie made the mistake of having sex with me. Professional ethics prevent me from including my sex partners in the Roundup—which is a loss, as I happen to like fucking good writers. Chin up, Janie: you may still make my co-editor’s Roundup, provided you refrain from sex with Always Aroused Girl.

Jocasta discovers that I like cheese.

Bridget checks in to say she’ll check in again, and to remind us that she puts me above all—above all except, you know, her fiancĂ©, my kids, sleep, work and Josh Rouse. Otherwise, she’s all about the Jefferson.

Meanwhile, in what is fast becoming everyone’s favorite stick figure sex blog, Lynsey notices that she and I share many physical traits and wonders: could it be that we’re . . . siblings?

This weekend will be quiet around these parts. Expect nothing new here, and the Smut Turntable goes quiet without a guest DJ. I’m off to the Caribbean for a few days. A fetching lady is flying me there so she can get laid on vacation.

Yeah. Seriously.

Friday, November 02, 2007

Fleshbot and Meet Molly

This week’s Sex Blog Roundup at Fleshbot visits Mom and Dad’s room to find out what the folks are up to behind closed doors. Sometimes, we find them elsewhere: the kitchen, the garage and oh God, not the family car!

Those of you who enjoy stalking me will find me both engagingly outgoing and downright mean and yet, despite such complexity, somewhat two-dimensional.

I may need to rethink my penchant for being with people who are smarter than me now that clever Lynsey has put me in the funny papers.

Wendy invites us to survey the damage to her splendid ass after our first date in a dungeon.

Tilda gets me so worked up that I dust the floor with her hair, leaving her so worked up that her head won’t stay on right.

Anna Smash takes a beating and gives careful thought to how that affects her relationship with her boyfriend—tears are shed, words exchanged, and love, well, don’t love beat all?

Eden looks up from my feet to notice my hands, catching a glimpse of them before they vanish, once more, into her body.

Jocasta recalls our first handshake, when she shook on my fingers.

Always one for cherry popping, Lolita picks up a camera as she watches me deflower a straight man. He was a sweet fellow. One of his last acts as an ass virgin was bringing me a bottle of bourbon.

Speaking of bourbon and ass virginity, I seem to have tripped into a recipe for these two great tastes that just taste better together. Lolita’s straight boy gave me bourbon and got his virgin ass fucked. My day tripper brought me bourbon and got her virgin ass fucked. I’m going to roll with this and proclaim November “Ass Virgin Month.” If you or someone you know is an ass virgin, deliver the ass and one bottle of bourbon to my attention.

I can promise you that the bourbon will last longer than the virginity.

When I’m not drinking or fucking, I plan to be reading Saul Bellow. Nicole had me read The Adventures of Augie March. It reminded me of what my father said after I gave him One Hundred Years of Solitude—he was about halfway through it one evening when he looked up and said, “I don’t know if I should thank you for this book or throw it at you.”

Dad made it though magical realism with the diligence of ants carting a baby into a jungle. Likewise, I’m sticking it out with Bellow. I’ve added some titles to my Amazon Wish List for those of you inclined to throw books at me.

Now, off to the Smut Turntable. This weekend’s guest DJ is Molly, a Londoner I met at Dark Odyssey in September. You may have seen her requests on the turntable; if so, you’ve noticed her eclecticism and fondness for live music. What you may not know is that she also has a predilection for fetish, which only makes the hotness that much hotter. Here’s a peek at your guest DJ to whet your appetite.



Molly and Marcus
Barbara Nitke


Stay tuned to the Smut Turntable to get between her ears.

Day Tripper

Gas: $25
Parking: $27
Bourbon: $48
Lunch with Jefferson: $27

Finally losing my ass virginity: FUCKING FANTASTIC!