Saturday, April 26, 2008

Fleshbot and Fritz

This week’s Sex Blog Roundup at Fleshbot finds those turning points that set us off in new directions. Sometimes it’s as simple as wearing something different; sometimes it’s all about treating the same old lover in entirely new ways.

Those of you who enjoy stalking me will find me watching the clock, wondering after the arrival of Tilda’s second gangbang of the day. What finally arrives proves worth the wait.

There’s also a new blog to stalk. You may recall the young woman who wrote to Time Out New York to thank the magazine for leading her to someone who could help her to orgasm. Now Alice has gone off to start her own sex blog. You can read about our first encounter and stick around for more, as the girl gets around.

Speaking of new things, this is my last week in my current apartment. Next week will find me in different digs and, more than likely, offline for a few days.

This week the kids enjoyed spring break, which included their last night in the apartment. While they are at their mother’s home, I’ll finish packing and move. When they next come home to Dad’s place, it will be at a new address.

It was the last time we will all live in the place in which each of the three children was conceived. I didn’t put too fine a point on that fact—though, I confess, it had me feeling sentimental. We declared our final night to be a party. We ordered in pesto pizza drizzled in corn, mozzarella sticks and Greek salads, poured rivers of fruit punch, and remembered some of our favorite moments in the place we know so well. The kids say they are happy to be moving on; I’m crossing my fingers and hoping for a smooth transition.

This being a busy time, of course things are bound to go wrong. First my camera went on the fritz. I suppose it must’ve been jostled or dropped as the kids documented Bridget’s wedding, or maybe it just grew weary of the weekly sight of my feet. Alas, the move will go undocumented in photographs.

Then, on the morning after our family farewell party, I awoke to find Lillie passed out on my bed. On my way to make coffee, I found my desk littered by two empty water bottles, a wad of paper towels and a keyboard that no longer worked. That’s funny, I thought. Everything was just fine when the boys and I gathered to watch “Lost,” leaving the computer to Lillie.

I can’t do without a keyboard, so when the boys awoke, I made a quick trip to pick up a replacement. I junked the old keyboard, installed the new one and downloaded its software, all before Lillie rustled from her slumber.

When I heard her giggling with the boys, I joined the kids. “Good morning, Lillie,” I smiled. “You must’ve been up late last night. Did you sneak to the computer when I was asleep?”

“Yes,” she giggled. “It’s spring break.”

“I know!” I nodded. “So, did anything unusual happen with the computer?”

Her brow furrowed. “No . . .” she began, before catching my drift. She giggled again. “Um, okay, yes.”

I bit my lip. “Something to do with water, maybe?”

“Dad, you already know!” she laughed. She paused and asked, “Is it broken?”

I nodded. “I’m afraid so. Computers don’t like water. But luckily, it was just the keyboard and I’ve got a new one now. But can we have a rule? No more drinking at the desk.”

She agreed. Later, as she visited her favorite websites, she kept a cup of water on a table across the room. She would type, leave the desk to take a sip, and return to the computer. I thanked her for obeying the rule. She told me she liked the new keyboard much better than the older one. “That’s a nice spin,” I said, “But let’s try to make this one last.”

Now, only Daddy is allowed to drink as he writes. Such are the vagaries of the bourbon-sipping smut monger.

Back to packing.

Thursday, April 24, 2008

HNT



It started as a nibble, a little way to tingle her skin. But my mouth became aroused and got the better of us.

Sunday, April 20, 2008

Abby Winters



Freya

Poor Connection

We were in bed enjoying post-coital bourbons when she began to muse on her desire to be dominant. “Don’t get me wrong, I really enjoy how submissive I feel with you,” she said, touching my forearm. “But I also wonder what it would be like to be the one in charge. I think I’d like having someone bowing in front of me, kissing my boots as I whipped him.” She rested her glass in her bare sternum. “I know, that sounds incredibly clichéd.”

“Why should that be cliché?” I asked. “That’s a perfectly fine fantasy, and perfectly realizable. But you’ve never done anything like that, have you?”

She took a sip. “No,” she swallowed. “No, the most I’ve done is like this, being submissive. Maybe a little bit of bossing men around in bed, but nothing very extreme.” She took another sip. “I’ve certainly never whipped anyone. I wouldn’t know how.”

“It’s something you can learn,” I said. “I didn’t know anything either until I started learning.”

She turned to me. “You could teach me that, couldn’t you?”

“Well, there are more experienced teachers,” I demurred. “But yes, I know enough to get you started.” I sipped my drink and thought for a moment. “You know what we need? We need a submissive to work on together. A teaching submissive.”

“Really?” she sat up. “Really? Because that would be perfect. Wouldn’t it? We could team up and really work holy hell on someone. I’d learn a lot from that.”

I turned and leaned on an elbow. “Yeah, let’s think that through. I’d really enjoy doing this with you. We’re having a great time together. This would be a fun project for us.”

“Yeah! Let’s do it.” She raised her glass. I clinked mine to hers and leaned to kiss her cheek. I fucked her ass to seal the deal.

That night we drew up a wish list for our submissive. I suggested that we start by looking for someone with whom neither of us had a preexisting history. That way, we could find a recruit who was dedicated to serving us equally, without interfering with our other relationships. She agreed and added that she would prefer a man if possible, as she wasn’t sure she felt ready to dominate a woman. Fine by me, I said—even better if he’s someone we can “force” to be bisexual. Hot! she exclaimed. Hell yeah, I nodded. We decided to see what might come our way online.

She sat on my lap as we composed an ad.

Attractive, creative, educated couple seeks submissive boy for our shared use.

“Nice,” she said, squeezing my cock. I kissed her shoulder blade and continued typing.

You will be expected to serve us together, as a servant to the pleasure we already share. You can expect to be our sexual plaything at our discretion, or you may simply be ignored as we enjoy one another’s company. You will take care of our basic needs, such as refilling our drinks, changing our sheets and generally proving useful. He will use your flesh to teach her to flog, cane and whip, so you must be willing to submit to the lash.

I squeezed her breast. “Anything else?” She leaned forward to type.

Enthusiasm more important than experience.

“Right,” I nodded. “Oh, and one more thing.” I reached for the keyboard.

Some domestic duties required.

“Really?” she asked.

“My bathroom doesn’t scrub itself, you know.” I hit send and patted her hips. “Come on, let’s get back to drinking and screwing. We can check responses tomorrow.”

The next morning, I made coffee as she stayed in bed. Although we awoke to sex, she had decided to forego a shower, preferring to head to her office smelling of us. I stroked semen from her hair as we kissed goodbye at the door.

As expected, there were dozens of responses waiting when I signed on. I poured a second cup of coffee and began to weed through my inbox. By the time I returned for my third cup, my trash was filled with men who expressed a readiness to fuck my “wife,” men who weren’t interested in being submissive but hoped we would forego that requirement after considering photographs of their cocks, and one-line replies asking ‘sup, are you for real, how about tonight. Such is the white noise of trash when a woman is mentioned in the mix.

I was left with a few contenders. I asked a muscular young man to tell us more about his oral fixation. A graduate student alluded to his quest to serve smart people. An artist asked if he could show his devotion by sketching us as he waited in service.

One man wrote simply, “Can we talk on the phone? I have a few specific questions that are better discussed that way.”

He had no way to know of my own peculiar aversion to telephones, which I regard with a wariness reserved for traps waiting to be sprung. Once I’m on a phone call, manners preclude me from rushing it to a conclusion. If we spoke, I would be stuck until this stranger had his say. It was just after nine. I had work waiting. I sent a quick reply.

Thank you for your response. I don’t have time for a phone call this morning. Please tell us more about your interests and experiences. Also, we require a photograph.

He replied quickly.

I can’t send a pic. I must be discreet. I have an important job. Please, a call will just take a moment. I will know quickly if this is a good match.

“Discreet.” I supposed this meant he was married. This wasn’t an issue for me, but I knew it was a deal breaker for my friend. I took another sip of coffee and steeled my dom manner.

We appreciate your need for discretion. You should respect our wishes. I can not waste time on phone calls this morning. I asked simple questions you can answer via email. Now I add another: are you married? That doesn’t work for us.

Again, his reply was instant.

Sir, please. I promise our conversation will be brief.

“Sir.” Another strike—why should he presume to address me as “sir?” I finished my coffee and opened my work. The prospective submissive could wait until I had time for him.

Another email swiftly followed.

Sir, my questions are few. I can only talk for a moment. May I please call you?

Call me? No one calls me. Everyone knows my phone works in one direction only. I drew a breath and exhaled. Maybe I should just get this over with and get on with the day.

I’ll give you five minutes. What’s your number?

He answered in a moment.

Sir, I can’t receive calls. I am at my office. Please give me your number and I will call you.

I didn’t like this at all. But I had taken on the task of recruiting a submissive, and that meant taking the time to vet applicants. I relented, and gave him my number, along with instructions that he was never to call without permission. My cell rang instantly. The caller id read “private caller.” He had blocked his number, which further irritated me. He had insisted on taking information from me, and I had none in return.

“Yes?” I answered. My ear was immediately filled with an electronic squall. His voice hid somewhere in its center.

“Thank you for allowing me to call, sir.” I strained to hear him over the poor connection. His voice was deep and accented. He spoke in a hush.

“This will be short,” I said tersely. “And you’ll have to speak up.”

“Thank you, sir. I promise, I only have a few questions." His voice remained low. "I know specifically what I need to make this work for me. I’m sure it will be better if we are all clear about these things from the beginning. Otherwise, it can’t work. If it doesn’t work for me, I lose interest. That’s no good for me.”

“You’re wasting my time,” I said impatiently, already regretting that I had agreed to this call. “Ask your questions.”

“Thank you, sir. I know what will work for me. I hope you will accept my needs. You are a couple, is that correct?”

“The ad stated that,” I reminded him.

“Uh huh, I see. Is she you wife?”

“No.”

“Uh huh, I see. Is she your mistress?”

“Why are you so concerned about the nature of our relationship?”

“Sir, I need to know that you are a real couple. That’s important to me if I am to stay interested.”

I nestled the phone against my shoulder and returned to my email. “We are a real couple. Any more questions?”

“Yes, sir, thank you.” A spike in the surface noise made me wince. “When you meet with a submissive, are you nude? Or do you wear clothes?”

I opened another email and read it. “We dress as we choose,” I replied absentmindedly.

“So you do wear clothes?”

“Or we are nude. This is our choice.”

“Oh, well, you see, that wouldn’t work for me. It’s very important that only I am nude. I don’t like to see other people’s genitals. It’s . . .” He said something I couldn’t hear. I didn’t bother asking him to repeat it.

“Fine then, we can wear clothes.” I sent an email and opened another.

“Thank you, sir. Do you have uniforms, or do you wear street clothes?”

“Uniforms?” My ear was numb. I transferred the phone to another shoulder. “No, we don’t have uniforms.”

“Oh, you see, that wouldn’t work for me. I prefer uniforms.”

“I suppose this isn’t a good match then,” I said impatiently.

“No, wait, perhaps we can make it work. Do you own black clothes?”

“This is New York. Of course we own black clothes.”

“Do you have them in leather, or rubber?”

“Neither. But we wouldn’t be averse to you providing them as gifts.”

“Oh, you see, that wouldn’t work for me. You would need to have the clothes on when I arrived.” He paused. Something scratched the microphone of his receiver. “Do you have black pants and a shirt? What would she wear?”

“I have those things, yes.” Another email sent. “I know she has a black dress.”

“No, a dress won’t work. I can’t have a dress in the room. She would need to wear slacks, or I would lose interest.”

“Okay.” My voice indicated that I had already lost interest.

“Is that acceptable, sir? That she could wear slacks?”

“I’ll ask her. Are you finished with your questions?”

“No sir, thank you, just a few more, please. Now, my master and mistress would be dressed, and I would be nude. Would you ignore my genitals, or touch them?”

“That would be up to our discretion.”

“But sir, what do you think would happen? Would you ignore my genitals, or touch them, or maybe torture them?”

I had run out of emails to answer. “I suppose we would torture them.”

“Oh sir, that wouldn’t work for me. It’s very important that you both ignore my genitals. My problem is that I’m a premature ejaculator. If you touch me, it’s over for me, and I lose interest.”

“Understood.”

“Of course, you can touch me at the end. That would be acceptable.”

“Understood.” I stood and paced. “Your five minutes are over. Any more questions?”

“Just a few, thank you sir. Now, your wife, or your mistress . . . is she slender or heavy?”

“My partner is slender.”

“Oh, see, that wouldn’t work for me. I prefer a heavy woman, a thick woman.”

I stopped pacing. I could accommodate many requests, but I couldn’t alter my friend’s body to suit him. “Why didn’t you simply say so at the beginning?” I said, clearly irritated. “Why ask me question after question if you have a specific preference? Why not just tell me what you have in mind?”

“Oh sir, but you see, this way I get the truth. You tell me the correct answer rather than what you think I want to hear.”

“I have no reason to lie to you.”

“I have to be careful,” he went on. “I can’t take risks. I’m a rabbi and my wife is unaware of this. I trust you can host?”

“Wait, what?” I pinched my brow. “You’re a rabbi?”

He paused. “This is a problem?” His receiver rustled again. I realized he was using it to scratch his beard.

I shook my head. “We prefer not to have a dress code imposed on us. We do not own uniforms. My partner doesn’t want married men and she’s not your preferred body type. We specifically requested a submissive for sexual use and you can’t provide that.”

“Please, there are compromises, sir . . .”

“I gave you five minutes and I answered your questions. This is clearly not a match. This concludes our telephone call. Do not call this number again. Good bye.” I hung up. My ears still rung from the background buzz of his connection.

I needed to clear my head. I took a short shower, washing away the sweet scent of morning sex and the cloying desperation of a submissive rabbi.

A new email was waiting when I returned to my computer.

It sounds like you don’t want to meet.

Men In Pain



Lexi with a Tattooed Love Boy

Saturday, April 19, 2008

Fleshbot and Networking

This week’s Sex Blog Roundup at Fleshbot enjoys the new season’s opportunities for sex outside the bedroom. Stay creative by considering your options, such as a shaded country lane, an arena parking lot or a reeking Port-a-John.

Those of you who enjoy stalking me will find Bridget reporting the bride’s-eye view of her perfect wedding. Keep an eye on the dance floor: you may recognize a few flying feet.

Stalkers now have additional ways to find me, via Fetlife. Links are provided here and at right. Click along and add me to your network.

You won’t find me at Twitter, the allure of which continues to elude me. Apparently, the site’s purpose is to allow users to report on their activities and whereabouts at any given time. Who invented this? My mother? If I want you to know where I am right now, you already know. Otherwise, it’s none of your business—though you probably know anyway.

Now I need to run. Lillie’s packing and I should try to keep up.

Wednesday, April 16, 2008

Moving, By Lillie

Every day in school, Lillie has free time to write whatever she chooses in a daily diary. Here is today’s entry.

Need some tips on moving? Then read this paragraph!

Moving in fourteen days in is very hard! When you have to move in fourteen days, you have to pack, arrange the new house and say bye to everyone! Sometimes when you, for example, need to do laundry, people say stuff like, “Bye, gonna miss you! What’s your new house like? Where are you moving?” And anything else. That could put you under pressure because you have to race back upstairs and keep packing. This is very stressful. You can have no free time sometimes!

Sometimes, you have to get rid of stuff in your house that you like and replace it. But you can also think happy things. If you’ve always wanted a pet and your old building didn’t allow them, you might be able to get that pet in your new building.

Here’s a few tips when you pack:

1. When you’re packing books, put them sideways so there’s more room in the box.

2. When you pack clothing, fold them so there’s more room.

Well, good luck moving!

The End.

Bye,
Lillie

Lillie had not yet packed anything when she wrote this entry. When she came home from school, she promptly sorted and filled boxes with her stuffed animals and books. The discards, she said, will go to “hungry kids.”

Monday, April 14, 2008

Training of O



Adrianna Nicole

Fleshbot and Girl Talk

This week’s Sex Blog Roundup at Fleshbot ties down submissives to get an earful from the bottom. Ball gags off, please.

Those of you who enjoy stalking me will find me with some of the birthday girls—and still one to go!—wondering what’s with all the Aries in my life?

Tilda decided she would like a gangbang for her birthday, and asked me to invite one man for every year of her life. Did I mention she turned thirty-six?

A little while ago, Sinclair of Sugarbutch Chronicles asked me to participate in a contest. She invited eleven bloggers to submit erotic scenarios that she would elaborate into salacious sex tales. (I was the only biological male she asked, more evidence in support of my contention that I’m the last stop on the road to lesbian, and the first exit on the return.)

Now that Sinclair has concluded her series, it’s time for readers to vote—who will be the next Sugarbutch Star? This button will take you to a page where you can vote for your choice. You can also read the complete series.



Here’s an update on my family crisis: it seems to be coming to a resolution, as this weekend, I signed a lease on a new place. I’ve certainly learned a good deal about New York real estate in the process of searching for a home. I can’t wait to forget it all. Thanks so much to those of you who helped to make this possible, and who have inquired after my family. Stay tuned for more.

Speaking of tuned, my daughter Lillie enjoys tuning in on anything any girls are doing anywhere. She’s surrounded herself with a clique of girls in school, anointing one her BFF and the rest her “special friends.” The gang allows one boy to be around, she tells me, “but only because it’s fun to rub your hands on his hair.”

One afternoon, as we rode the bus home after school, Lillie fell quiet and eavesdropped on two teenage girls gossiping in the seat behind us.

“Yeah, but she was already with that one guy and then she hooked up with that other guy. She’s a slut, if you ask me.”

“No, she’s not,” her friend said, her voice rising in disagreement. “That dude was gone. He didn’t even live anywhere near her. That shit was over.”

“I don’t care about that,” the first teen argued. “If you say you’re with somebody, you don’t just go off and hook up with someone else. That’s just two timing.”

“What was she supposed to do? Just sit around, doing nothing? When it’s over, it’s over. End of story. She got herself a new man.” She sat back. “I’d have done the same damn thing.”

“Oh yeah?” her friend laughed. “What, would you get knocked up, too, like she did?”

“No! I’m not stupid. I’d use protection. But no way am I sitting around waiting on some boy to call.”

“Yeah, me too,” the first girl agreed. “She just should’ve told him it was over before she hooked up with the other guy. That’s what she should’ve done.”

“Yeah,” her friend nodded. “That shit’s fucked up.”

The girls paused, looking out the window. Lillie smiled up at me, excited to have been privy to such salacious adolescent gossip. I bobbed my head, pretending we weren’t listening.

“Anyway,” the first said. “What’s up with her name?”

“I know!” her friend laughed. “She’s got such an old lady name.”

“’Hester.’ Who names anyone that?”

“It’s like an old lady name.”

“It makes me think of a rat.”

“A baggy old lady with wrinkles.”

“A baggy old lady rat with wrinkles.” The girls giggled.

“Seriously.” The first girl stared out the window. “’Hester Prynne.’ What an effed-up name.”

After we left the bus, Lillie watched the teens walk off in another direction. “Those girls are so mean to their friend,” she said, almost admiringly.

I took her hand as we crossed the street. “Sweetie, I think they were talking about a character in a book, not a real person.”

She look up and rolled her eyes. “Dad, that was real.” She looked over her shoulder at the teenagers. “That’s what girls talk about—real stuff.”

Thursday, April 10, 2008

HNT



Seventy-six degrees in Central Park. Tomorrow the temperature drops twenty degrees, so enjoy the bare footing while you can.

Letter of the Week

Here’s a nice pick-me-up. The following was chosen as Time Out New York’s “Letter of the Week,” in response to the Secret Lives issue earlier this month.

Secret Service

Thanks to your Secret Lives of New Yorkers issue, I found a guy who could give me an orgasm! After being so intrigued by Jefferson’s story, I went to his blog, we emailed a bit and then had a meeting. After much cunnilingus, he was successfully able to get me off! He was the second man to ever do that. (Thank God for vibrators.) He might be helping me find my g-spot soon, too! Thanks again!

A., via email

She only left out the part in which I had to remove a painting from the wall she had been slammed against.

Sunday, April 06, 2008

Fleshbot and Good

This week’s Sex Blog Roundup at Fleshbot holds its nose and makes do with the man who’s available. He may not be Mister Right, but at least he’s Mister Right Now.

Those of you who enjoy stalking me will find me spinning tunes, getting fed and dancing with the bride.

Janie takes a listen to my tunes and is reminded of a past queer romance.

Bridget swallows hard and breaks some difficult news to my children—she will not be marrying their father because she is marrying another man. I think she actually shocked them.

This weekend, my family was part of the ceremony as she and Connor married. It was really, truly beautiful to see my sweet Bridget jump the broom with her handsome groom. I tell you, when Bridget gave up our sexual relationship to be with Connor, she totally traded up. That man is superfine. He’s so adoring of her, and—as readers of her blog know—perfectly kinky and sexy. They’ve got the hot monogamy game down pat.

As we danced at the reception, we were surrounded by people who love my friend and rejoice in her happiness. When good things happen to good people, it’s a good reminder that being good to people is . . . good. It comes back in goodness.

And that’s all to the good.

As my recent life has become fraught with challenges, I’ve been thinking about goodness. I always want to be someone people feel they can count on, and now, as I’m in a bad way, I’m grateful for the good people in my life. Bridget and Connor, for example—even in the midst of planning a wedding, they’ve been concerned for my family and our current situation. Honest to goodness, she was nearly apologetic about the timing of her honeymoon.

Compare that to this. Now and then, I’ll get an email from someone upset that I’m not available to fuck or hang out. And I think: really? Do I have to put out in order to maintain this relationship? That’s not good.

I’m glad to be a good lay, but these days, I can only satisfy people who are good enough to be good.

Wednesday, April 02, 2008

My Dog



Nellie McKay


Last night I went with friends to see Nellie McKay at Joe’s Pub. She’s a great performer, even if much of the time you watch thinking, “What the hell is she going on about?” She’s got a quirky mind that moves too rapidly to be followed.

After the show, I found myself backstage. I watched as people queued to tell her how much they had enjoyed the performance.

I smiled at the man standing next to me. “I suppose I’d get in line if I could think of something to say other than, ‘you’re a tad insane, aren’t you?’”

The man grinned, and I realized he was David Byrne. “She really is great. I’d like to see her in a long-running show of her own.”

I looked back to her. “Yeah? You mean, like a house devoted to her for a run?”

He nodded. “Yes, that would be really great. Don’t you think?”

I agreed. We talked a bit about the Armory Show before someone interrupted to give David a poem. David thanked the poet and excused himself to stand in line. I guess he had thought of something clever to say. Too bad; I was going to use his “you should put on a show” line.

I told Lynsey about my encounter with a Talking Head. I regretted that I didn’t have camera, as I would have liked a picture of my foot with David Byrne and Nellie McKay. Lo and behold, our house stick artist makes it so:



I see Nellie has more upcoming New York dates, including a live broadcast on the Prairie Home Companion. Speaking of Garrison Keillor, what the hell is he going on about?