Thursday, January 31, 2008


Jocasta gave me a large box for my birthday. Inside I found books by Saul Bellow and other authors, several lengths of her famous nylon rope to complete my set (I now have enough to suspend someone, she tells me), and a fifteen-inch length of hemp.

"What can you do with one short rope?" I asked.

She showed me.

Sunday, January 27, 2008

Abby Winters


Fleshbot and Boogers

This week’s Sex Blog Roundup at Fleshbot puts on smiles as we head off to the happy places sex bloggers go. Merrily, merrily, y’all.

Those of you who enjoy stalking me will find me compared to other men, biting kittens, and helping with your homework.

Fed up with poor grammar in sex blogs, Chelsea Girl shows that proper punctuation can be to smut what lube is to anal sex, which is to say, painful when absent. She uses me in one of her examples, finding a teaching moment in one of my deepest regrets.

Lynsey passes notes in class, but I’m watching.

Eris writes that in the coming year, she would like to fuck me or to be tied up by Monk. Only “or,” Eris? Why not “and?” Dream large, girlfriend.

Eden remembers a forgettable boy while pissing at my orgy.

Cody breaks up with a boyfriend and feels frustrated that the intimacy with him is gone, while the intimacy with me is mitigated by what she reads on other blogs.

Wendy tries topping from the bottom, which only gets her smacked around.

Jocasta has a tight pussy, and you can quote me on that. In fact, she has done just that.

You know what else is hot? Bookshelves. A friend encouraged me to sign up for Goodreads, an online social network that links you to other readers. You can join me using the link on the upper right hand side of this blog, under “Contact,” or simply by clicking here. I’m not adding titles retroactively—it’s tempting, but seriously, I’d rather be reading—but you can keep track of what I’m reading now. My eyes are currently straining to Saul Bellow, Charlie Brown and chick lit.

My birthday project of getting off forty-five people is entering its final week. If there’s something I can do to get you off, drop a line; I can’t get you off if you don’t take the first step. Thanks to the lurkers who have come forward in the past few weeks. A submissive man served me and a girlfriend. Public sex was had. Lesbianism was forced. And then, there was mud. So much mud.

Here’s a joke. What the difference between broccoli and boogers?

Kids don’t eat broccoli.

Funny, right? I saved this joke to tell Lillie when I picked her up from school one day. I thought she might like telling it to her friends.

She scrunched her nose. “Why is that funny?

“Because kids don’t eat broccoli. Get it?”

“Dad, I eat broccoli. All my friends eat broccoli. Every girl in school likes broccoli.” She rolled her eyes at my ignorance.

“Hmm, well, how about if we changed the joke? Like, ‘what’s the difference between liver and boogers?’ Do your friends like liver?”

“I don’t know.” She thought for a moment. “Do I like liver? What is it?”

“It’s a kind of meat. I think it tastes like lint.”

“What’s lint?”

“Oh, that’s what is left in the dryer when you do the laundry.”

She grimaced. “Why did you eat laundry, Dad?”

“I didn’t eat laundry. I’ve never really eaten lint, but I’ve imagined . . . anyway, back to the joke. What’s a food you don’t like?”


I slapped my forehead. “Will you please stop pretending you don’t like burritos? You do like them.”

“No, I hate them. And tacos. I hate them, too.”

“Honey, come on. Nobody hates tacos. Tacos are, like, perfect food.”

“I do. I hate tacos and burritos.”

“But that won’t work in the joke, because normal kids like tacos and burritos.” I poked her shoulder. “Why can’t you be a normal kid? Huh? Why?”

“Dad, I am normal. You’re just . . . bald.” She laughed at her own brand of insult comedy.

“Oh, no you didn’t!” I said.

“And fat,” she giggled.

“Ugh, I give up. You’re just a mean, mean girl.”

“All the girls at school are mean. It’s funny.”

When we got home, Lillie dropped her book bag, took off her coat and ran to find her brother.

“Hey, Jason,” she called. “Why aren’t boogers the same thing that broccoli is?”

Jason looked up. “Um, why?”

“Because kids eat boogers.” She waited for him to laugh.

Jason shook his head. “I don’t get it.”

“Me either,” she shrugged. “Dad thinks it’s funny. Whatever.”

That night, I made broccoli for dinner.



Humanity Falls Into Chaos

One of the most awesome things about sex with straight boys is hearing "the talk" afterwards. The talk usually includes the phrases "yeah, it felt good, but it was weird," "that was hot, but, dude, you know, I'm not gay," and, if you are lucky, "so, you're not telling anybody, right?"

I hate to tell you how often I heard the talk back in high school.

But even I never garnered the phrase "if guys start fucking each other, then all of the sudden, humanity falls into chaos." This fellow's boyfriend in Queens must be really, really amazing if his catastrophic blowjobs can threaten civilization as we know it.

Can someone give him my number?

Thursday, January 24, 2008


Today's weather report:

New York
High 34
Low 21
Fifty percent chance of snow as children are dismissed from school.

High 81
Low 69
Late evening showers as you drift to sleep.

Abby Winters


Thursday, January 17, 2008

Happy HNT to Me

Today is my birthday. It begins on a lake with Mickey Mouse, a geyser and another pair of feet. Tonight, I'll be on a cruise ship steaming my way to the Bahamas.

I'll be offline while skirting the Bermuda Triangle. This weekend's Sex Blog Roundup will come to you from Madeline (she of the mirror).

Meanwhile, I'm holding a space for you among the forty-five people I'll get off this month.

Saturday, January 12, 2008

Fleshbot and Smug

This week’s Sex Blog Roundup at Fleshbot takes a deep breath and goes for broke, consequences be damned. You may wake up with regrets, but for now, your id is in the driver’s seat.

Those of you who enjoy stalking me will find me bedding sticks, standing up to stubborn holes, and overhearing comments made behind my back.

Among the resolutions listed by Lynsey is a threesome with me and another bi boy. Any takers? Or do drawn sticks draw straws?

Eden ponders the ways that sex can impact our lives while she fucks my ass and holds my hand.

Janie finally joins the cool kids who get their bungholes plugged in one of the funniest devirginities I’ve read.

Joy perpetuates legends of our circle, praising my fingers and the famed blowjobs of Avah and Wendy.

Okie Ace speaks my name out loud for the first time, and Marcus is there to hear it.

Gay activist Bill Samuels takes this blog to task for purporting to illuminate “the bisexual lifestyle” when it seems primarily concerned with my relationships with women. He doubts the veracity of even these accounts—and yet, dear friends, they are all true. I might say pish-posh to some of his complaints, but I do think he’s right in one respect: other duties of late have kept me from writing as much blog smut as I would like. A superficial reading might overlook my Archives, and thus miss all the fine cocksucking, ass-fucking, male orgies and adolescent longing recounted within. Not that I owe apologies for not being satisfactorily queer in my bedroom, but I do regret that reviewers looking for queer content in my blog may need to actually read the blog to find it.

And what have I been busy with, you ask? I’ll tell you soon, just not yet.

For now—let’s visit the countdown from forty-five!

Thanks to Molly for creating a graphic for my Jack U Off project.

My goal of getting off forty-five people this month is off to a rollicking good start, with some folks already made happy even as others ready for their money shots. If you’d like to be among the forty-five, drop me a line to let me know how I can help to get you off.

Here are a few reports of progress to date.

Flogs and the Aging

A grey-bearded gent lamented that the medicines that keep him healthy have robbed him of his erection. Yet he perseveres and has discovered that while his orgasm may be retired, his sexuality has taken new turns. He has realized that his long attraction to giving pleasure extends to men as well as women, and he has been drawn to new physical sensations, such as deep tissue massages.

I had him over for a live sex show with Avah. As he described new turns in his sex life, I turned to her. “Flogging.”

“Yes,” she nodded.

He looked confused. “What’s that?”

I retrieved a flogger and explained how its thud impact on certain muscle groups can be compared to a deep massage. We talked about how Avah and I have integrated flogging and BDSM into sex. Lights flashed in his mind. We offered to demonstrate after he watched us fuck.

An hour or so of sex later, I beat Avah as he observed, rapt. Afterwards, she and I lay wrapped in each other’s limbs as he interviewed her about her sensations.

After we said our goodbyes, I walked him to the door. “I’m going to think about flogging,” he said.

I kissed his beard. “Whenever you’re ready,” I smiled.


A bi-curious woman contacted me to talk about her growing desire to be with other women. At first, we spoke in general ways about first steps into bisexuality. Gradually, it dawned on me that she may have hoped that I would help to arrange her first experiences. She was glad I offered. And then, just like that, she branched out on her own, finding other bisexual women. One date led to another, and then another.

“Look at you,” I said. “You’re quite the ladykiller!”

She replied with a sexy photograph of herself imitating James Bond, shooting the camera with her fingers.

A beautiful woman doesn’t need my help in finding other beautiful women, but still, she had a place for me in her new life. She needed someone to share all this with, someone who could help her to process things. She didn’t feel she could go to her husband with this; their sex life was routine and besides, this was her own. And so she took me as a lover. We talk, have sex, and commiserate about marriage, parenting and the women she’s meeting.

Thwarted Kiss

A woman with a wicked sense of humor told me that she intended to kiss a pervert, and that pervert was me. Apparently, she had heard the rumor that I’m a passable kisser and an easy mark. If it got her off, I said, I’m game for a kiss. She replied by sending me a photograph of her pussy. Well, well, thought I.

Our date was scuttled, however, when her husband discovered our correspondence. He was understandably angry to learn that his wife was flirting with a pervert. They talked, and she opened up to him. She wasn’t satisfied, she explained. They had allowed the routines of life to interfere with their sexual relationship, and she missed being with him. He agreed—they needed to renew the passion that brought them together.

“Remember that pussy?” she later told me. “It’s sore. We can’t stop fucking. And it’s thanks to your blog and our notes. So . . . thanks!”

I smiled at that. With her consent, I added both husband and wife to the people I got off this month. And look at that, I didn’t have to do a thing.


My previous post about a college freshman engendered predictable judgments concerning vulnerable girls and predatory men. Never mind that the date was reported by the woman who fell victim to my . . . doing as she wanted. It can be a mighty bother when the victimized decline to be victims, though such bothers scarcely give hesitation to those intent on donning wigs and robes.

Sex and sexuality are routinely judged by absolutes, whether the judge is identified by clerical vestments, Tantric chants, gay activism or any rubric that posits a right or wrong that denies the value of lived experience.

If you are looking for a direction in this “Jack U Off” project, you’ll find it right there in the name. See, it centers on U.

When I consider a sex partner, I rarely dismiss someone out of hand based on bias. No consenting adult is too young, too old, too fat, too thin, too married, too inexperienced, too straight, too distant or too whatever to be taken at face value. I strive to take people as they are and to understand their circumstances.

I have little patience for views hemmed in by certainty and absolutism. If I did, I suppose I would send away the young woman who wants experience, the married woman who craves a lover and friend, or the older man whose sexuality is newly in flux. I would sign on for prevailing notions that young women are hapless, adultery is always wrong, and aging sexuality is unseemly.

But life, it seems, prepared me to act differently.

I spent most of my adult life locked into a contract to live as one is supposed to live. I took on the mantle of monogamy and marriage, and in return, I lived an essentially celibate existence knowing that should I break the standard rules, the state would side with my wife in claiming me a villain. That contract was ultimately rendered null and void on my wife’s whim, and there was little to be done but to accept the inevitable destruction of the marriage we had built up over fifteen years. I played fairly and lost to unfair circumstances, but them’s the breaks in the marriage game.

Now, I am suspicious of absolutes in sexuality. Better to embrace the ambiguity of reality and to apprehend the world as it is, rather than to take refuge in the certainty of smug prejudice.

Friday, January 11, 2008

Blake Mason



She was home from her first semester of college. She wrote to say that she liked my blog, and apologized for bothering me to write to say so. She stayed up nights to read it, she told me. She was eighteen and she had had sex a few times, but there were so many things she wanted to know about, so many things she had not done.

We traded notes. She wanted me to tell her what to do. I gave her simple instructions. She followed them diligently.

She had never had sex in a motel. It had been a while for me.

This is her account of our first date.

“Oh, boy, we even get to stay on the second floor!” I remark, as we walk up the stairs.

“We do . . . it’s a good thing, too; I don’t think we have any neighbors,” he replies, turning the key, opening the door to our room.

Once we step into the room, I put my bag down on the chair next to the door, and it’s clear that he’s already been in the room before picking me up. There is a bottle of bourbon on a table next to the ice bucket. Condoms and lube are ready on the nightstand tables.

I am anxious as hell, and he knows it. We kick off our shoes. He cups my chin in his hand, kissing me, parting my lips with his tongue. I pull back, and wrap my arms around him. He holds me.

“Such a brave girl,” he whispers, kissing the top of my head, running his fingers through my hair.

I step back from him, unzip my jacket, and take off my scarf. He sits on the bed and looks at me expectantly: our rule is that when we are alone together, I must be nude. I take off my clothes and lay them on the chair where I had placed my bag just moments before. He is standing right next to me. He holds my hands down by my side and orders me to stay still. I don’t say a word, He knows that I want to obey him.

“Close your eyes. And keep them closed.”

He begins at the top and moves down; stroking my hair, kissing the top of my head, my neck, shoulders, running his hands down my body, taking my nipples in his mouth, so gently. I sense him kneeling down, hands on my waist, running them down my legs, parting them, kissing the inside of my thighs and my pussy. He stands up abruptly.

“Honey, you are about to give the longest blowjob of your life.”

I open my eyes, looking up at him.

“Keep them closed,” he reminds me.

He pulls one of the chairs away from the table, throws a pillow down on the floor in front of it, guides me to it, and instructs me to kneel.

I get down on my knees, patiently, unable to see what he is doing. I trust him. I hear him open the bottle of bourbon and pour it into one of the plastic hotel cups. He pulls off his shirt, unbuckles his belt and unzips his jeans; I can hear him taking them off. Socks next. Then he sits.

He guides his dick to my mouth.

“You can open your eyes.”

I take it in my mouth, circling the tip, running my tongue underneath on that sensitive spot, one that I didn’t even know existed until he told me. I am nervous; all I want is to please him.

“Have you sucked a lot of cock? Hmm? Or are you just working on intuition?” he asks, sipping his drink, smiling down at me.

I sit back on my heels, look up at him and tell him that really, I haven’t sucked that much dick. I look back down, close my eyes, and take him deep in my throat. He groans, pushes my head down, urging me to keep going. I come up for air and ask him how I can stop gagging so much. I am glad that I can ask him questions and not feel foolish, He doesn’t mind answering.

“It’s good, you’re good, and you’re doing good. Jersey girls give the best head. There must be something in the water!” he laughs.

I suck cock for a while longer until he finally utters the words I’ve been waiting for.

“Get on the bed. I’m going to fuck you.”

I jump on the bed and lay on my back. He kneels in front of me, rolls a condom over his hard cock, and enters me, wrapping my legs around his waist. After a few minutes, he pulls my legs up over his shoulders. He held my hands up over my head. I fought back, although I loved every second of it. He made a comment about how he should have brought the ropes. I had already told him how I wanted to be tied up. After a while, he let up, and I moved my right hand down my body, resting it near my pussy.

“Go ahead. You can touch yourself.”

I start to finger my clit, faster and faster, to match his thrusts. I cum—my first time ever during sex. He knows this, and he slows, not pulling his cock out of me. He wraps his arms around my legs, which are still on his shoulders.

He leans down and kisses me.

“Um, was that an orgasm? Did you just cum during sex?” He smiles, and pretends to gasp. I just smile up at him.

He pulls me around and slides me up the bed, my head on the pillows.

He puts my legs back up over his shoulders and enters me again. I groan and throw my head back, bumping into the headboard. I start to rub my clit again—and he pulls out. He starts kissing and rubbing the inside of my thighs. I have my eyes closed, but I know he is watching me touch myself. I make myself cum again. And then, I feel his fingers enter me.

His fingers fill me up, hitting all the right spots. I moan as his mouth latches onto my clit, using his tongue; he is using both hands inside of me, alternating in and out, and he keeps hitting my g-spot. I am not so sure I have ever felt that before. Leave it to him. I have my hands up over my head, palms up against the headboard, eyes closed, breathing heavily. He makes me cum a few more times, and then I pull away.

“Why did you stop me? I was watching you before. I could see you have a sweet spot . . . and I went after it. We found your sweet spot, and your g-spot. You looked pretty damned hot.”

Then he laughs and demonstrated what I looked like just then.

We lounge on the bed for a while, and he holds me. His stomach gurgles. I mention to him how it is so college of him to be drinking out of a plastic cup. We start talking about my cocksucking. I insist that I really am nothing that special. He disagrees.

“Speaking of . . . you should probably get on that.” He points at me, then at his dick. “You know, you are the only cocksucker here. Beside me, I mean, and I can’t suck that cock.”

I decline and cross my arms. I make my “face” at him, and snap my teeth, pretending to bite. I am lying on my stomach next to him, and he spanks me, hard. I yelp. He continues with little taps, getting harder and harder.

He says he likes my ass. I laugh and tell him that he likes it more than he likes me.

He rolls over so he is on his stomach. He smiles and wiggles his ass at me.

“Spank me.”

I decline.

“You’ll be sorry. In ten years you are going to ask yourself, ‘Why didn’t I spank Jefferson when I had the chance?’ You’ll beg me, and I’ll say no.”

I laugh at him. He rolls over and gets back into his previous position, sitting, leaning back against the headboard, his legs sprawled in front of him.

I keep protesting that I really am no good at sucking dick, and he challenges me.

“You are. But if you don’t think you are, you should know that practice makes perfect. Now get going.”

I lay between his legs, taking his cock in my mouth once again. I keep gagging. I am embarrassed, but he thinks its hot, because to him, that means that he knows that blowing him is my number one priority at that moment. He knows I’ll do anything to please him. But it’s not really the best position to be sucking dick in.

He moves back to his chair, and I resume my place on the floor. My feet are falling asleep, and I will later realize that I am receiving my first rug burn. I can take him deeper in my throat now. He is groaning, one hand on my back, the other on my head, pushing me.

He tells me to get back on the bed, on my knees. I oblige, and he walks to the other side of the bed. I face him, but he tells me to turn around, smiling and gesturing with his hand. He rolls on a condom. He pushes me down and enters me again, this time from behind. He pushes down on my back; my face is squished into the comforter. He grabs my arms and pulls them behind my back; he holds them there while he fucks me.

He pulls out, and I move to lie on the bed, head on the pillows. He pulls off the condom, climbs onto the bed, straddles my chest and starts to fuck my face. I take him as deep as I can; trying as best I can . . . this is new to me. He comes so close, but he isn’t cumming.

I joke and tell him that I have failed him. He reassures me that it’s fine, and that we should sleep for a while. There is plenty of time for him to cum. I nestle into him, I like that I fit so nicely next to his body. He likes that I am affectionate. He kisses me.

A few hours later, we wake—the first time. He kisses up and down my back, and then turns me over and kisses me. We don’t speak. He flips me over, rolls on another condom and enters me from behind. He puts a pillow up against my headboard so my head doesn’t go through so much abuse. He fucks me hard, I touch myself, and I cum again.

He flips me over so I am on my back, and continues to slam into me. My legs are on either side of his waist, I reach my hands around and grab onto his ass, making him thrust harder. I grind against his flesh, bringing myself so close, but this time, I don’t cum. He does, and I couldn’t be happier. His body shakes, his eyes closed, his head back. He smiles and comes down to kiss me. I bite his lower lip. I am so glad he finally came.

We fall back asleep in each other’s arms.

I wake up a few hours later, and kiss his cheek. No response. He is fast asleep. I lie there next to him, and wait for him to wake from his deep sleep.

Around ten-thirty, he finally wakes, and tells me we have a half hour. We have to be out of the room by eleven. He puts his arms around me and suggests that we shower. I shrug, and he says we can stay in bed. He kisses my cheek, my eyes, and my mouth. He runs his hand across my chest, pinching my right nipple as hard as he can until I gasp and he lets go. He moves his hand down my stomach, and touches my pussy.

My eyes are closed, head turned to the side. He reaches to the nightstand to get a condom; I can hear the package ripping. I move, and look into his eyes. We can fuck once more before we have to leave. He puts my legs back up over his shoulders one last time and enters me. He fucks me slow, soft. I want more. I reach my arms around and grab his ass, pulling him into me. He gives me his fingers in my mouth, and I bite them and keep quiet, breathing heavily. He moves my legs down from his shoulders, holds them down. Our time together is running short. He pulls out, lies on top of me and kisses me.

“Really? We have to get dressed!”

I smile, and tell him I am not allowed, since we are still alone together, longing for more time with him. He tells me that it is time to go back to the real world. I complain that I hate goodbyes. He reminds me that this is only the beginning, and that the next time we see one another, it will be at his place. I smile; he pushes me back on the bed, straddles me, and kisses me one last time before we leave.

Thursday, January 10, 2008

Abby Winters


My colleagues at Fleshbot report that the women of Abby Winters are a surprise hit at the AVN convention in Las Vegas, now underway. Who's surprised? Not readers of this site; we think those Sheilas are rippers.

Read the story, or crack a fat, mate, by taking a Captain Cook at Abby Winters.

Tuesday, January 08, 2008

Lillie, Don't Write a Song

My eight-year-old daughter Lillie wrote a song this week that speaks to the power of music—or perhaps to the power of stasis? Goes a little something like this:


Oh dear, Lillie, don’t write a song!
It will burn my ears off
Oh yeah, now!

Oh dear, Lillie, don’t write a song!

Repeat chorus

So Lillie, don’t write a song!

I think you know why—
You don’t?!

Repeat chorus

It may be fun
But it probably most likely

Repeat chorus THREE times

Saturday, January 05, 2008

Fleshbot and Jack U Off

This week’s Sex Blog Roundup at Fleshbot is for those who resolve to keep it fresh in the new year. It ain’t necessarily the same old same old.

Those of you who enjoy stalking me will find me disturbing breath, taking in waifs and watching Letterman.

Lily writes me with the news that we’ll no longer be having sex, and I am thrilled for her.

Tilda finds that telling me a few things goes a long way, as her breath is taken away after letting me know her interest in erotic breath play.

Janie spends time in her new comfort zones of deep throat cocksucking and submission on her way to losing another virginity.

Lynsey resolves to have more sex, has an awesome dream, and learns when that when it comes to advice, it is sometimes better to receive than to give.

Bianca misses a train and enjoys a rare peek at a day in the life of the man behind the curtain. She finds that it’s all tuna sandwiches, writing and late night television.

Bridget doesn’t mention me at all in this post, but since it concerns a blonde, daisy dukes and white trash, let’s just pretend it does so I can link it.

Cody gives me credit for saving her life tonight, but don’t cue up the Elton John so quickly. I mean, that’s what friends are for. (It will get better, Cody, as will my song references.)

Your requests are playing at Smut Turntable. But I warn you, do not listen the Dresden Dolls’ Shores of California. It’s an earwig! If you listen just once, it will course in your bloodstream like . . . like . . . the protozoa that first climbed onto the shores of California . . . or Aristophanes and Homer . . . or tease, or sleaze, or escort agencies . . . fuck, now I have to hear it again. Just once more. I can quit anytime.


Speaking of traps, by passing “Go” on the new year, we collect two hundred dollars and enter the low-rent month of my birth. But baby, don’t you know I’ve got hot-sheets hotels on Mediterranean and Baltic Avenues? Book a room, because you’ll need it.

On the first birthday following the dissolution of my marriage, I turned forty. I found I had drawn three losing cards—middle aged, divorced and broke. My new girlfriend May suggested that we commemorate survival by getting out of the apartment and taking a room at a fancy hotel on Central Park South. There, we fucked and lounged nude. At one point, she blindfolded me, tied me to the bed and began to kiss my body. I felt her lips on my neck, my cock, my toes . . . and then, my cock and toes at the same time, and then my cock and toes and chest, all at once. “Hey, what gives?” I asked. She took off the blindfold. She smiled as I gasped, looking at Marcus, up from Washington, and his friend Daniel, who had flown in from San Francisco. Both were also nude. Our private retreat became a surprise party—or rather, a surprise orgy—arranged by friends who had left their lives behind to be with me on my birthday.

May and I were skidding by my next birthday. By that time, my sex parties had taken off, I had started a sex blog, and I was falling fast for a woman half my age, Shelby. That year, I decided to commemorate my birthday with a week of wall-to-wall sex that began with an all-male gangbang that cost me my bed.

By my next birthday, my annual week of wall-to-wall sex had left me exhausted. I got together with a dozen women, half as many men, and rolled from threesome to threesome before crashing and feeling dissolute. Last year, my most recent birthday week of wall-to-wall sex expanded to a month, I was inspired in the final two weeks of January to call for blowjobs from forty-four people: one for every year of my life, with one to grow on. Incredibly, that goal was reached by month’s end.

Now, of course, my friends want to know—how will I celebrate my birthday this year? Another broken bed? Another month of sex? Forty-five blowjobs?

I’ve got a different idea. This year, I want to get you off.

I really appreciate hearing from readers who’ve enjoyed getting off to this blog. For some, it’s been a fun diversion. For others, it’s opened doors to trying new things. For still others, the blog has let them know that they aren’t alone. That’s all good stuff, and it has much to do with why I write as “Jefferson.” It gives me joy.

So give me more joy for my birthday. Tell me how I can get you off. Maybe you want to have sex with me, trade oral sex, or find your g spot. Maybe you’ve dreamed of spankings or getting your virgin ass fucked. I can have sex with your lover, watch you masturbate, or teach you to deep throat.

Or maybe you would get off on having someone listen to the things you can’t tell people. Maybe there’s a picture you want someone to see, or a desire you want to share. There are many ways to get you off, and we don’t even have to meet for many of them.

This month, I'm going to get off forty-five people. One for every year of my life, plus one to grow on.

If you’re interested in participating, drop me a line at to tell me what you have in mind.

Wednesday, January 02, 2008


What could add to the pleasure of having a drink and propping up one's feet at the end of a trying day?

Aficionados, please note the rare HNT appearance of my left foot.

Tuesday, January 01, 2008

Sex and Submission

Derrick Pierce and Chayse Evans


Shhhh. My daughter and her husband are still sleeping it off. They arrived two days after Christmas, and until yesterday, we enjoyed the company of all my children under one roof. This happens twice a year or so. It’s noisy and messy and my kitchen is transformed into a round-the-clock beanery, with Dad staffed as chef and short-order cook, at your service.

As recently as Christmas Day, my apartment was orderly and clean. A week later, it needs to be excavated. Opened gifts still under the tree, wads of new clothes fast evolving into wrinkled laundry, candy canes and chocolate piled on a table, suitcases exploding with pink things and bath products, games and compact disks in loose stacks, toys clustered in arrangements that somehow take life in Lillie’s imagination and so shouldn’t be altered.

It feels like home.

Soon, my newlyweds will depart. I’ll wash sheets and towels, fold clothes, scrub the kitchen and bathroom, and sweep. I’ll wonder what to do with the remains of an enormous lamb roast, toss out the last of a rotisserie chicken, and remember fondly the ham that yielded Christmas dinner, Southern breakfasts and several quiches, and may yet come back as bean soup. I’ll reclaim my bedroom and sleep in my bed for the first time in two weeks, returning the couch to its primary functions as meeting place and storage unit.

I’ll be able to once more write until all hours, drink until all gone, and burn off my holiday abstinence.

Home again.

Last night, the newlyweds and I brought in two thousand and eight with the Dresden Dolls. This seemed a good reprise of the gender-bending theme of last year’s New Year’s Eve.

The city was warm and alive with people; blocks away from Times Square, we could hear the racket of those who kicked out the previous year outdoors in the drizzle. The Dresden Dolls were wholly unknown to my teen bride and groom, so their exposure to underground cabaret got off to a good start. The crowd was enamored of the band, many of them dressed in gorgeous trash, dancing and singing in beer-hall bonhomie.

“That drummer is awesome,” Ray said.

“And cute,” Rachel noted.

“Yes,” I agreed.

The newlyweds kissed at midnight. I kissed their cheeks and hugged them, telling them I loved them.

The Dresden Dolls ended the show with “Sing,” vamped up to an anthem. Following an ensemble sing-along cover of “Sweet Dreams” as a wall-of-sound gypsy foot-stomper, the audience was already feeling part of the band.

We made it home not long after two. The newlyweds were up for hours. I had a bourbon, read for a bit and turned in, leaving on the lights of the Christmas tree.