Thursday, December 23, 2010

Monday, December 20, 2010

Sex Fifth Avenue

I gave up dodging tourists at Sixth Avenue. They were gathered in loose overlapping clusters of gawking children, wary parents and grandparents observing that Radio City Music Hall is right there, and look, right across the street is NBC, where they make “The Today Show,” so the whole family might be on television right then and not even know it. You can’t predict which way the herd will shift in a moment of excitement or panic, so I relented to its meandering pace and bid my time.

A text came into my phone. Where are you? My lunch break is nearly over.

I’m a block away. I replied. I should be there in a few hours.

LOL. Take a picture of the tree.

In time, I arrived at the Christmas tree at Rockefeller Center. Only a half block to go, I thought, glancing up briefly. I kept a hand outstretched to avoid jostling the upward gaping surge. As I reached the end of the block, more faces looked past me and pushed forward, reassuring one another that the tree was just ahead, and look, there was that gold statue from “30 Rock.” Fifth Avenue was penned in by traffic cops operating improvised gates of yellow crime-scene tape. I fell in line and crossed the street within two light changes. I shuffled behind two older women in matching coats, clinging together for dear life.

Most people outside the store were hemmed behind velvet ropes, queuing to gaze at the holiday windows. I made my way past them, peering over their heads to get my own glimpse before making my way to the store’s revolving doors. A few cycles and I was inside.

I pressed my back to a wall and took out my phone. I’m in make up. I texted.

Wow, that really did take twenty minutes. Take the elevator to seven. Turn right.

I put away my phone and followed distracted shoppers to the rear of the store. The main floor was no less crowded than the sidewalks outside, as tourists took respite from the cold and allowed their wrists to be sprayed with various unaffordable scents.

Two elevators came and went before I found space in one. All the buttons had already been pushed. I edged to the back of the car, prepared to take the local to the uppermost floor open to shoppers.

As the elevator emptied and refilled at the sixth floor, I reached for my phone. Almost there.

Men’s Lounge, first stall.

A friend of mine had taken seasonal work at Sak’s Fifth Avenue. Knowing my penchant for sex in city landmarks, he offered to blow me in the legendary store. “Should we dare?” I asked. “I’ve had sex at Lever House and Lehman Brothers and each went out of business shortly after the act. I may have a curse.”

“I think Sak’s can survive you. Anyway, my job is over in January. I’m in the same position whether or not you curse the store.”

The elevator door opened on Men’s Clothing. At the right, the Men’s Lounge was indicated in elegant script. I peeled away from those shuffling from the elevator and entered a corridor. Rounding a few corners brought me to the door. I entered.

I passed the first stall. I walked to the rear of the lounge to survey the space. I stood at a long countertop slowly washing my hands, scouting the space behind me in the mirror. A security guard stood at one urinal. I’d want to wait until he left. Beside me, a middle-aged man was scrubbing the face of his teen-aged son with a paper towel as an older son watched. I’d wait them out too. I sat down, affecting the air of a husband worn out by shopping wife. I texted my friend. Waiting on the herd to thin.

Good. I don’t have long. I’m in the first stall. Door is unlocked.

I removed my scarf. The guard washed his hands, conversing with someone who also seemed to work at the store. They walked out together. The father discarded his shredded paper towel and took another, wetting it before returning to his son’s face. How dirty is that kid’s face, I wondered. Did he get it made up on the main floor, as a goof? His father seemed good-natured about his task, but determined that he, and not his son, would wash his son’s face.

The father wore a Pittsburgh Steelers sweatshirt. I took off my hat.

The father went through another paper towel before judging his son’s face sufficiently clean. He spoke to his sons as he washed his hands and then his own face. As he reached for more paper towels, he suggested that his sons take this opportunity to go to the bathroom. The eldest nodded and walked to a urinal. The younger went to a stall. Finding it locked, he moved to another. It was open; my friend’s stall was untouched. The kid’s brother finished and washed his hands. He joined his father waiting for his sibling. Minutes passed. Finally, he came from the stall and crossed to the sink. He carefully and deliberately washed his hands and, returning to his father’s task, washed his face.

I silently composed a letter to the mayor of Pittsburgh, commending him on the meticulous hygiene of his city’s citizens.

The family made to go, but not before the father zipped up his sons’ coats and then his own. I watched them leave with a wish that all their adventures in New York be as rich and bonding as that which I had witnessed.

Now, I was left to my own adventure. I walked casually to the first stall, turned the handle and entered. It appeared empty. His voice whispered from behind the door, “I worried they would never leave.”

“I think they owe rent to Sak’s.” I pulled off a coat sleeve. “How’s your time?” I hung the coat on the door handle.

“I have time.” He took my coat and hung it on a hook with with his own. He locked the handle. I nodded and silently unhooked my belt. His eyes followed as I unfastened my pants, unzipped and, with deliberate nonchalance, took out my cock. I leaned back on a tile wall, my stance wide, waiting. He was my sissy cocksucker. I was his anonymous pick up. Generations of men had set the stage of this lounge before us.

I declined to remove either my shoes or my pants. He removed his own, leaving on his shirt and tie. His cock curved out like mine. He spread his knees wide as he went to his knees and took me in his mouth. As he blew me, I looked around the stall. He had chosen well. The stalls were tall, so no one could peer from above. The walls and doors continued to the floor, so no one could peer from below. The doors themselves were louvered, so that standing, I could see feet walk by, but no one could detect us. With the door securely locked, we were in our own private room.

He stopped to look up at me. “Don’t come in my mouth.” I nodded. “And don’t come too soon.” I nodded again. He retrieved a small amber vial from his shirt pocket. “Poppers?” I shook my head. He unscrewed the vial, took a deep whiff in each nostril, and returned the top. I held out a plan to take the bottle. It would be more convenient to him in my hand.

He hungrily returned to my cock. I knew the poppers sent a rush to his head, and it felt intense to suck me. I forced my cock into him deeper, knowing he would intently feel his control ceding to me, his silent unknown stud.

I put my hand on the back his neck, combing my fingers through his black hair. I took care not to muss it too much. He would shortly be back on the floor, selling shirts and trousers to men like the Steelers fan, none of them the wiser that he had been on his knees in a bathroom stall drooling on cock.

He took another couple of hits from his popper vial and returned it to my palm. “Do you want to sit down?” he asked, nodding to the toilet. I shook my head. “Do you mind if I sit?” I shook my head. He stood, left the toilet seat and sat. I turned to return my cock to him. He jerked off as I fucked his face. He soon moved forward, falling back to his knees. I turned, leaning back against wall. I preferred him on his knees.

“Do you want to suck me?” he asked. I shook my head and handed back his poppers. My message was plain: shut up and suck my dick, cocksucker. He nodded, whiffed and sucked.

I was turned on by my use of him and by our illicit location. The lounge door opened and closed continuously. Feet paced outside our stall as men waited for a stall of their own. I was edging close to an orgasm when someone tried the handle of our stall. I felt that if the door opened, I would come immediately, unable to stop myself at the terror and thrill of discovery. He looked up at the sound. The lock remained secure. I pulled out of his mouth as the footsteps moved away. “That was close,” I whispered.

“Yeah, but it’s locked,” he said, his hands still on my naked thigh.

“No, I mean that I’m close,” I said. “Finish the job.”

He began to rise. “Let’s jerk off. I want to watch you come. Do you want me to do you?”

I shook my head and began to jerk. I was too close to rely on his hand. My cock was soaked with his saliva. I watched as he pulled his own cock, his eyes riveted on my hand and cock.

He came in deep spurts, creating puddles on the floor. I followed soon after. As my legs spasmed, I reached over his shoulder to brace myself on the opposite wall. I steadied myself as the wave subsided. I leaned back on the wall, my cock still bouncing for more. “Here,” I said, handing back his poppers.

“Thanks.” He returned the vial to his shirt pocket. “Hang on, let me clean up before you go.” He unrolled toilet paper onto our shared mess. Using a paper seat cover, he expertly mopped up the tissues and dropped the papers into the toilet. He quickly dressed before flushing. “Okay, thanks,” he repeated. “You go first.” I nodded, unlocked the door and left the stall. I heard it lock behind me.

I washed my hands and, for good measure, my face. Twenty minutes later, I was on the sidewalk of Fifth Avenue.

Crossing John Cardinal O’Connor Way to Saint Patrick’s Cathedral, I looked back to Sak’s. Each year, I recalled, the store is wrapped in giant red ribbon, transforming the building into a giant gift box. Not this year, though.

Sunday, November 28, 2010


Today is the sixth anniversary of my blog.

Five years ago this week, I had a date with Celia. I had fostered a serious crush on her since the night, months before, she had showed up at my orgy on the arm of a guy I liked. Celia and I planned to go to a gallery and have lunch before her daily yoga class. She never made it to yoga. The date lasted all weekend.

As was my habit in those days, I described our date in a long email to my friend Dacia. The demise of my marriage was fresh, and after fifteen years of generally abstinent monogamy, dating and sex were wholly alien to me. It helped to share my experiences with someone who could relate to the wonder and surreality I felt in being with new partners. I was now free to desire others and, more astonishingly to me, others desired me in kind.

After reading this particular story, Dacia diagnosed me with “blog envy” and suggested I start my own blog. I had little notion of what a blog was; this was two-thousand and four, back when “weblogs” were novel and Facebook and Twitter mere twinkles in the eyes of entrepreneurial undergraduates. Dacia offered to help me get started. One evening over bourbon and conversation, she showed me how to start a blogger account. My email to Dacia about a weekend with Celia became my first post.

When I started blogging, I imagined I was writing into a void. No one I knew read blogs, much less blogs about sex. I was aware of only a few sex blogs and of those, none were by parents, none were by men and none by anyone over thirty. None were primarily focused on nonfiction erotica. I didn’t imagine that I had discovered a niche; rather, I felt like an interloper in an arena in which bespectacled twenty-something women offered sex advice to one another while waiting for the inevitable book deal. I contented myself by regarding my blog as a kind of safe deposit box. I now had a place where I could store the stories of my new life.

It wasn’t long before that perception changed. A reader began to correspond with me and, before long, we had a date. That date lead to love, a sexual relationship lasting nearly two years, and a friendship that endures to this day. Another newly-divorced parent found my blog, started her own, and, despite the twelve-hundred miles between us, we fell in love. People who read my blog also became bloggers. Other bloggers came my way as correspondents and sex partners. Within a year of my first post, I found that the void into which I had written had transformed into a community of friends, lovers and fellow smutmongers.

My writing as “Jefferson” soon became a second career, an adjunct to the work done under my real name. My blog drew media interest and offers to publish elsewhere. I began to teach at public events. Eventually, publicity led to catastrophe. My ex-wife discovered my blog and, asserting that my sexuality as described herein put our children in immediate danger, she sued for full custody. I took down my blog as that case went to court. Adding to my difficulties, two bloggers, Tess and Dee, saw my curtailed online presence as an opportunity to promote themselves at my expense. Dacia, dissatisfied with our friendship for reasons she declined to discuss with me, attacked me in her blog, initiating a flame war that speculated wildly—and altogether inaccurately—about my custody case. For nearly a year, I kept my life offline as my ex-wife sought to dismember my family and others sought to capitalize on my misfortune. The story of the smear campaign undertaken by Dacia, Tess and Dee is told at Feverish, Sad Drama.

In the end, I prevailed in my custody case. The State of New York did not concur with my ex-wife’s cynical assertions that my sexuality was in any way detrimental to our children. My family remained intact.

My blog returned and, to the dismay of malicious wags, it continued to attract a wide readership. In seeking to bury me with gossip, they only succeeded in making my story that much more interesting to readers.

Throughout these hardships, I was reminded over and again of the many good things that have happened because I began to put my life online in this blog. My struggle in the custody case was aided by Lambda Legal, The National Coalition for Sexual Freedom and The Sexual Freedom Legal Defense and Education Fund. Throughout my interactions with these organizations, I was supported in the free expression of my sexuality. I was offered daily encouragement by friends I met though this blog, including those who formed The Friends of Jefferson to aid in raising awareness and funds. Readers offered supportive notes and made financial contributions to my legal defense fund; as these donations were anonymous, I can’t thank contributors directly except by offering my gratitude here. The legal defense fund was instrumental in the preservation of my family. Thank you.

Being online and open about my relationships, my parenting and my sexuality is not a decision I’ve made lightly. I am aware of the challenges I risk because I choose to do so. Still, it would be wrong to stop writing merely to avoid conflict with my ex wife—she’s made it plain that she will continue to offer conflict, blog or no blog—or to cede to the bullying of online detractors. It’s gratifying to hear that my blog entertains. It’s inspiring to hear that it encourages others in their own lives.

Each year on my blogoversary, I reprint my original post. (This was unfortunately not possible two years ago, when I was obliged to keep my sex life offline.) If you enjoy this story, you’re welcome to root around in my Archives for more.

Enjoy. And Celia, I know you’re reading: happy anniversary.

My Celia

It’s been over a year since the break up.

For most of that year, I have hosted sex parties in Manhattan. I suppose I will need to catch you up on how that transpired. I’ve made great friends and lovers at these parties, and yet I haven’t often had the feeling of falling head over heels for someone.

Until my Celia.

I met Celia at a party at my place last spring. She arrived late with a guy who comes sometimes. The regulars were already naked, well fucked and relaxed.

Celia sat on a bed and chatted with us. She was dressed in jeans and a black t-shirt, worn backwards so that the logo was illegible. As we talked, Jane removed Celia’s clothes, and had soon stripped her naked. Jane kissed her torso as Celia leaned back, opening her thighs; we heard her gasp as Jane’s mouth reached her clit.

Being gracious like she is, Jane soon turned and offered me Celia’s body. I set to licking Jane's drool from Celia's labia.

As we fucked, as we did almost immediately, I decided not to stop fucking her. This is not the best form at a sex party, particularly for the host; one really should offer new guests an opportunity to work the room.

I doubt that Celia cared much for etiquette. She had gorgeous hazel-green eyes, focused intently on mine. I kept her gaze, noticing details at the periphery. Celia had a lovely face: aquiline nose, pre-Raphaelite features, framed in long black hair.

I was soon very curious to know more about the woman I was fucking, and so thought maybe we could take a break to chat.

"I would really like to talk with you," I said, meaning "Maybe we can stop and talk."

"Sure . . . what do you want to talk about?" she replied, as if I meant we should have a conversation while fucking. I was willing.

"So, where did you grow up?," I asked. I learned that she grew up in New England, she is an art student, and she would be working on a farm all summer. Within those first few moments, I gleaned that we had art in common, the sex was great, and I wouldn't be able to see her again for months.

I finally let her have sex with some of the others. Later we kissed, as intently as we had gazed. As she left, she stood in the door, giving me long, hungry kisses, as her date waited for her.

As it happened, she had an art show up, and as it happened, I was in the neighborhood the very next day. I was glad to see her art was good.

The summer passed.

Two weeks ago, I got an email from her, saying she was back in town and wanted to return to the sex parties. Cool!

I suggested we get together, and proposed we go check out the new Museum of Modern Art on opening day, as I had special tickets. It turned out she did too.

Later, we learned that the opening day was free to the public. So much for special access.

We decided to meet at an exhibition by Barbara Nitke at Art@Large gallery, get lunch, and see the museum--which we knew would be hellishly crowded. Nitke’s photos have to do with sadomasochism (SM). While not into SM herself, Nitke has an empathic insight into the lives of those who are. There is a strong sense of intimacy and care in her photographs.

Celia was late for our date, which was fine with me. We saw Nitke's work together. Celia says she knew many of the images, having seen Nitke lecture at the Eulenspeigel Society, a New York based organization for those into SM.

(I catalogued those details—Celia already knew Nitke and the Eulenspeigel Society?)

We lunched, and talked about out first encounter. It was her first sex party, she said, and her moment with Jane was her first encounter with a woman. She liked it, but she was taking downers at the time, which she regretted.

I referred to this as a pretty unusual second date. She agreed: first sex, then a lunch date. We were doing it backwards. She says she is surprised that she feels so shy.

She talked about her gaggle of girlfriends, and how she makes nude films of them, but can't imagine sex with them--though she really wants to be bisexual, as it's hip (it is?) and of course, there are more options for sex if you are bi.

She opines that the MoMA is going to be crazy crowded, and maybe we shouldn't go. This leaves her with two hours to kill before her yoga class . . . what can we do? Well, I suggest, we can go to my place and kiss. She looks at me like she can't believe I suggested this. I can't believe it myself--I am really getting bold.

"Okay," she says, "but I really am feeling shy about this. Is it too early to drink? Do you have any bourbon?"

"A girl after my own heart." I actually said that out loud.

Soon, we are at my place, on my couch, sipping bourbon. Soon, we are kissing. Fully clothed. For a long, sweet time.

Soon we are nude, in my bed, kissing. Touching. For a long, sweet time. She is so into gazing, touching, kissing, and I am melting, melting, melting. As the time passes, and her yoga class approaches, I think it will be wise not to start fucking. But I do go down on her. And she cums. And she cums again as I kiss her and hold her very close.

I should mention that she does intense yoga five times a week. And she is a semi-pro athlete. She has a strong, lean body. When she held me firmly, she knocked the breath out of me. Mind you, I was pretty breathless.

I tell her to go, it's time. She declines to leave. We fuck. Like all the foreplay, it's slow, and intense. At one point, I'm on top of her, holding myself up with my arms at full length. She is about to cum. She sits up, putting her arms around my shoulders. She lifts her ass from the bed. She is clinging to me, hanging from my body in air, pushing herself down on me. She cums. I can scarcely believe she made my body work that way.

We are back to kissing, touching . . . she discovered my sensitive nipples, and slowly tortured them. Exquisitely.

I am laying on top of her, tracing a finger along her nose, her lips, her cheeks. I take a breath. "You are really beautiful," I say. "You don't have to be. I would be nice to you anyway. But it helps that you are."

She looks down at me. "Are you bi?" she asks. I say I am. "I do well with the bi guys," she says. Why is that, you think? "Must be my physique," she says, flexing a bicep that would give pause to Charles Atlas.

She said she was hungry. I went to the kitchen and produced Spanish rice, steamed shrimp, and fresh calamari sauteed in garlic. We eat nude.

As we eat, we talk about the Nitke photos. She mentions liking one in which a man is fully bound to a flotation board, adrift in a pool. I say that there was such a sense of risk in that position. She says she likes the feeling of being bound.

I recall how she came when I was holding her, on top of her, as she pulled me closer to crush her.

"I can bind you," I offer. She produces rope and ankle bracelets from her bag, saying they were intended for a possible film shoot later that night. I dig up handcuffs and other stuff. She is soon strapped to my bed on all fours.

I torture her nipples. I tell her I am going to verbally abuse her. "Yes," she murmurs. I ask her why, with all that we've been doing, she has not sucked my cock? "Are you bad at it or something?" I ask. She opens her mouth, wide. I feed her my cock, and fuck her face hard. She can take it very well, so I commend her. Then I slap her for making me wait for that.

We had already established that she is an ass virgin, and so I take her to task for this. How can I let her fuck my friends if she can't even do anal? So I move around and give her a hard spanking. I lick her hole, and blow air in her. She moans. She can't help but fart. I spank her for this, and do it again. "This will burn, but only for a second," I warn. I take a sip of bourbon, and blow it up her ass. I plug it with my thumb, and then a butt plug.

I fuck her pussy.

"Can you take candle wax?," I ask. Never tried it, she mumbles. I drip wax on her back and ass for a very long time. She squirms until I tell her to be still. (Later she asked: was I making too much noise? I can try to be less responsive. Oh no, I say. You did very well.)

In time, I release her and take her to the shower. I wash her body, and flake off the wax. We go back to bed and it's tender again. She falls asleep. I read.

We woke up entangled, touching . . . her fingers are never still when they can be caressing. We spend the morning in bed. There was a joy in this, so palpable, for me at least, that I had to take care lest blurting out, "I am so in love with you."

I had to remind myself, I really don’t know Celia so well. Not yet.

I make her breakfast—bacon, eggs, and her first helping of grits. We were both very sated. We talk about how she just broke up with her boyfriend, and she had broken with her other two lovers in the last month. I say I am hers, when she wants me. Her eyes fix on mine. “That’s right,” she smiles.

My friend Todd calls. He reminds me that we are going to fuck this woman from Texas that night. I had offered to host, and said I would line up some others to join us. I had invited Thomas, that was easy, but I was so busy with Celia all weekend, I didn’t do much more.

I asked Celia if she wanted to do a group thing that night. She pondered it but declined. She was already well sexed. So was I, really.

Around two or three, I kissed goodbye to my Celia. I had a gang bang in a few hours. I would spend that time in the thrall of my Celia, picking up flecks of candle wax, and writing to my friend Dacia about her.

Thursday, November 18, 2010


Madison Young

Madison Young is one of my favorite people to see naked. Normally, I find her at or on her own website, but this week, I found her in Leila’s living room, loaned to Madison for use in a film shoot. In between takes, we talked babies (she’s five months pregnant) and art, as we were each influenced by some of the same artists, particularly feminist performance artists such as Marina Abramović and Carollee Schneemann.

Mama Madison loved the Eames chair. In fact, during the shoot she made love to the Eames chair so intently that, in some states, she'd be married to it.

We laughed a good deal. My foot was happy to share the spotlight with her grin. Perhaps one day, Madison will be as famous as my foot on the Internet.

After the porn shoot, we went off to Madison’s baby shower. Parents and perverts, that's what we do.

Friday, October 22, 2010


I fucked her. I just kept fucking her, looking at her face, trying to get past her beauty.

She was sitting on my stoop when I returned home. She smiled and stood as I approached. I leaned to kiss her cheek. “Been waiting long?” I asked.

“No, just ten minutes or so.” She smiled again, laughing slightly. Nervously.

She was about my height. I stood on a step to look down at her. “You’re pretty,” I observed, taking keys from my pocket. “Good. Come in, let’s see what I can do with you.” I opened the door and let her pass. I noticed that despite the sweltering heat, she wore jeans and long sleeves. I can leave marks, I thought.

Kay and I had waited months to meet. She anticipated an internship in New York and contacted me to propose a summer fling. Her photos showed an attractive brown-eyed girl with long hair, cutting up in silly ways. Her notes were bright and engaging. Though summer was half a year away, we agreed to a fling. It would pass the months of her internship and end with her return to school in the autumn.

Anticipation made us impatient. An event would have me in her town in February, so we became excited about meeting in advance of our fling. When my plans fell through, she suggested meeting in April when she would be in the city visiting family. Those plans also fell through. By the time June finally arrived, we’d had months of aroused correspondence, fueled by our thwarted desires.

I held open the door to my apartment. She stepped quickly, as if to avoid inconveniencing me for long. Inside, she put down her bag and looked around. “I just realized, I’m sorry,” she said. “I forgot to bring bourbon.”

I shifted my weight. “You forgot? We went over this, and it’s not like I don’t have a blog that makes it clear. You are to bring bourbon to dates.”

I know. I’m sorry. I just didn’t know of a liquor store in the neighborhood. Should I go get some?”

I stepped out of my shoes. “No, you’re here now and I have a bottle. Just, please, don’t make me repeat things you’ll only forget.” I turned to the kitchen.

“I really don’t mind . . . “ she began.

“On the rocks or neat?” I replied.

“Um, ice. Lots of ice. Maybe some water.” She stood in the kitchen doorway. “I don’t really drink bourbon, so . . . not too strong.”

Pretty. Long sleeves. Forgetful. Weak bourbon. Kay was probably nervous about my first impressions of her.

I led her into the living room and placed her drink on a table. I sat and looked at her. “Kay, take off your clothes.”

She looked at me blankly as the words registered. She laughed and began to unbutton her shirt. “Well, this is the fastest I’ve undressed on a date.”

“I regret waiting this long,” I smiled. I sipped my bourbon. She took off her shirt and paused to sip her drink before resuming.

She had soft round shoulders. As she lowered her jeans, I took note of the fluidity of her gestures. There was a kind of grace about her movements. “You chose not to wear matching underwear?” I asked.

She stood slightly, still holding the leg she was undressing. “I didn’t . . . I didn’t think of it.”

“You must’ve assumed you’d be undressing, Kay.” I sipped my bourbon, looking away.

She laughed, a nervous tic, I gathered. “You don’t like my underwear?”

“No matter. You’ll be rid of them soon enough. Please resume undressing, pretty girl.”

Kay pulled off her jeans and took another sip of her drink. She took a breath, as if resolving to carry on, before removing her bra with an affected casualness. Her breasts were small with faint pink areolas. My eyes moved down as she lowered her panties. “You know, I see more and more girls your age with pubic hair,” I observed. “Must be a trend.”

She added her panties to the pile of clothes by the door. “I didn’t know if I should shave or not.”

“You don’t seem to have given much thought to your appearance, really.” I cocked my head. “Kay, turn around so I can get a look at you.”

She raised herself on her toes and turned, awkwardly, unsure of what to do with her arms. “Do you like?” A nervous laugh.

“Yes, you’ll do nicely.” I put down my drink and patted my lap. “Come here, pretty girl. Sit.”

She turned and crossed the room. “I don’t want to crush you . . .” she began.

“I don’t ask for things I can’t handle. Sit.”

Kay lowered herself into my lap, wrapping an arm around my shoulder. I pulled her legs to drape over my own. She lowered her head to nuzzle. I took a breast in my hand. “Look at this,” I said. “Your breasts are perfectly sized to my palm.”

“You do have big hands,” she said, her voice softer now.

“Hmmm.” I assented. She sighed quietly as I traced my fingers down her side. “Spread your legs, pretty girl.”

Kay moved one leg aside. I felt her inner thigh, slowly moving up from her knee. I could feel her head moving against mine as my fingers caressed her labia. “Are you wet for me, pretty girl?”

She nodded into my shoulder. She gasped as a finger entered her. “Good girl,” I murmured. “You did bring me a nice wet hole to fuck.” She moaned more loudly. I took the back of her neck with my other hand. “Kiss me, Kay.” She lifted her head and brought her mouth to mine, her eyes closed. My tongue flitted against her lips, which parted for our first kiss. Two fingers now pulsed inside her as my tongue entered her mouth.

She groaned as I took my fingers from her. I pulled away from our kiss and raised my wet fingers to her lips. She nodded and took my fingers into her mouth. I rubbed them softly against her tongue, gently, and then, abruptly deep to her throat. She gagged, her eyes opening in alarm. I held my fingers in place, keeping her steady with the hand on her neck. “Do you suck dick well, pretty girl?” She sputtered and nodded as well as she could with her head pinned in my hands. “Oh, is that a ‘yes?’” She gagged and nodded again. “Well, pretty girl, that’s good, as I require an awful lot of cocksucking. If you aren’t good now, you soon will be. Can I count on you to suck my dick as I want, whenever I tell you?” She gagged and nodded again, her eyes welling as I kept talking, filling the time as my fingers filled her. “Good.” I took my fingers from her mouth and released her neck. She slumped, gasping for air.

“Stand up,” I instructed. She swung her legs around and, steadying herself with the hand on my shoulder, rose. I stood beside her. “Now, on your knees.” She knelt, her eyes gravitating to my hands unfastening my shorts. They fell to the floor. I kicked them aside and pulled off my shirt, giving her a look at my body. “You really are a pretty girl,” I said, stepping closer. I took her hair in my hand and pulled back her head. “Boys must hit on you all the time, huh?”

“Sure . . .” she began.

I put a finger to her mouth. “You’re not here because you’re pretty, pretty girl.” She opened her mouth to my finger, which moved slowly in her. “I don’t care about your looks. You’re not here because you’re pretty, or because you’re smart, or because you’re kind to small animals. You’re here to do what I say, when I say you should do it.” I added another finger to her mouth. “What you’re going to do now is suck my dick. You’ll do your best?” She blinked and nodded. “Good.” I released her hair and sat. I took my drink in hand and looked at her. She stared back at me. “Well? Was I unclear? Suck my dick.”

She crawled forward on her knees. She took my dick in one hand, moving her hair over her shoulder with the other. Practiced, I thought. She lowered her head to take my dick in her mouth. “Good girl,” I commended. “Show me what you’ve got.” I relaxed into my seat. My free hand rested on my lap. I wasn’t going to move or touch her. This blowjob was entirely hers to perform. I looked at the clock, planning to see how she did for a half hour.

She slurped back the saliva as her mouth moved up and down the end of my cock, her hand working its base in tandem to her sucking. She quickly settled into a comfortable, slow rhythm. I watched her, enjoying my drink. I withheld any feedback—no words, no instructions or guidance, no evidence of pleasure or reaction. After twenty minutes, she began to tire.

“I was afraid of this.” I put down my drink and took her chin in hand. She drew a sharp breath as I pulled up on her face, ending the blowjob. She hurried to wipe the saliva from her lips. “Kay, you suck dick like a pretty girl. It’s not your fault; I rarely meet pretty girls who are already impressive cocksuckers. You don’t have to put anything into your blowjob. Most guys can’t believe they’ve got a pretty girl sucking their dicks. I suppose they get one look at this pretty, pretty face bobbing on their dicks and they just blow.” I nodded at the clock. “You just sucked my dick for twenty minutes. I'll wager that's the longest blowjob you've ever given."

She glanced at the clock. “I don’t know, I think . . .”

I turned her face back to look at me. “Listen to me, pretty girl. Some people work very hard to be good cocksuckers. They aren't just pretty girls. I’ve had my dick sucked by gay men. I’ve had my dick sucked by some very homely women.” I leaned forward. “I’ve had my dick sucked by women from New Jersey,” I whispered. “Do you know what that means? Do you know how well New Jersey women suck dick?” I opened her mouth and moved my cock to her lips. “This summer, you are going to learn how to really suck dick. You’re going to forget how pretty you are. You’re going to suck my dick like the ugliest faggot in a New Jersey prison.”

I took the hand from her chin, grabbed her hair and rammed my cock into her mouth. She coughed in surprise. I pushed my cock into her throat and her in place. “Feel that, pretty girl? That’s where my cock goes.” Holding tightly to her hand, I pulled her head back and forth on my cock, standing still as I pumped myself with her head. Tears welled in her eyes. “Good, let’s see you cry, cocksucker.” She looked up at me, her cheeks sunken as she struggled to keep from drooling. “God damn it, cocksucker, open your mouth.” She struggled with my cock, confused by my instruction. “Open your mouth,” I repeated. “Part your lips. You don’t need to actually suck. Give me a big wet hole to fuck.” She parted her lips, releasing a reserved of saliva. She groaned. “Don’t be embarrassed,” I said. “That’s just what I want.” I adjust my stance, pushed forward my hips, and fucked her mouth roughly. Before, she had full control over her blowjob. Now, she had none. “Twenty minutes,” I instructed. Panic swept over her face. I ignored it.

Twenty minutes later, precisely, I released her hair and stepped back. She fell forward, gasping, her body covered in a sheen of sweat. “Good girl,” I commended. I offered a hand. “Here, let me help you up.” She looked up, still catching her breath. She put her hand in mine and stood. “So lovely, so pretty,” I smiled. I kissed her, taking both her hands in my left hand as my right played across her torso. I trailed a finger to toy with her pubic hair, her labia and, teasing, slowly into her.

She exhaled into my mouth, inhaling my warmth. Still woozy from her exertions, she was reduced to shallow breaths as we kissed.

A hand moved in mine. She wanted to touch me. She tugged slightly and realized, only now, that her wrists were bound in my fingers. I pulled down on her arms, intensifying our kiss.

A second finger entered her, followed by a third. I pulled my lips from hers. Her eyes were closed, her mouth agape. Her pussy was cupped in my hand. I squeezed the fingers inside toward my palm. I lifted. “Unh, oh, that’s so . . . you can’t pick me up that way!”

“On your toes, pretty girl.” I took a step back. “Come with me.” I walked slowly backwards, keeping pressure on her pussy to keep her own her toes, staggering a bit as she followed in tow. “Easy girl, easy . . .” I backed us into my bedroom, I pulled her to me, kissing her as I turned our bodies. “Now,” I said, releasing my grip and easing my fingers from her. “Let’s give your mouth a rest and move in to another hole.” I pushed against her sternum with the fingers wet from her body. She stumbled back onto the bed.

I took a condom from a nightstand and tore open the package. I kept my eyes on her as she watched it roll over my cock.

She laughed, her nervous tic. “Geez, don’t you ever take a break?”

“I only have you for three months,” I said, opening the package. “No time for breaks, pretty girl. Now spread your legs.”

Her body was hot under mine, and slick with sweat. I fucked her slowly, getting a feel for her responses. Her eyes were closed, so I studied the face I had so brutally used. She was pretty, as I kept reminding her, and now, I acknowledged to myself that my disinterest in that was mere pretense: her beauty really did affect me. Her dark hair spread over my pillows, her long lashes resting under large lids, her aquiline nose over unpainted lips . . . she really was a vision. I raided my memory for comparisons to paintings, resolving to keep quiet about that. If I compared her to art, that would really be the end. I’d fall for her. Beauty has that effect.

I fucked her. I just kept fucking her, looking at her face, trying to get past her beauty.

She breathed and sighed and still, I fucked her. I fucked her harder, then softer, always in the same position, always watching her face, flushed with arousal. I noticed the darkening of the sheets around her; we were soaking the bed with perspiration. I kissed her mouth, her beautiful, beautiful mouth, her exquisite mouth, her Botticellian mouth, her Davidesque mouth.

I was as close to her body as one can be—I was inside her body—and still it didn’t feel close enough.

I pulled back to look at her again. The sheets were now darkened in a wider halo around her body.

“Come for me,” I whispered. “Come for me.”

She nodded, Without opening her eyes, she moved a her right hand to touch herself. Her left hand played with a nipple. “Kiss my breasts,” she whispered. I lowered my lips to her untouched nipple, sipping the sweat that accumulated at her breasts. “Oh God . . .” she moaned, bucking her hips.

“So good . . .” I murmured.

“Keep doing . . . oh God, oh man, I’m coming . . .”

“That's right come for God and man,” I whispered. Her breath stopped and then, suddenly, she moaned, convulsing under me.

She dropped her hands and opened her eyes. “Oh my God, that was intense.” She breathed deeply, gulping air. Then she laughed. “’Come for God and man?’”

I laughed. “My head was in a divine place. I’ll say no more than that. Hey, look at this.” I held up a hand. “We’ve been sweating so much, my fingers are wrinkled like prunes.”

She looked at her hands. “Me too. Wow, I’ve never done that.”

“It’s a first for me as well. Take it easy: I’ll bring us some water.” In the kitchen, I poured two glasses with iced water and quickly drained one. I refilled it and returned to the bedroom with both. I handed her a glass and watched her gulp it down.

I took an ice cube from my glass in my fingers. “Here, let’s cool you off,” I offered. I placed the ice between her breasts.

“Agh, that’s so cold!” she winced.

“And you are an oven.” I traced the ice around her breasts, touching her nipples, and in swirls around her torso to her labia. It was still a substantial chunk when I put the ice inside her.

“Ah-ta-ah-ta!” she stammered. “Jesus, that’s cold!”

I lowered my face to her pussy. “Melt it for me,” I said, licking her. The ice was long gone when she came again.

I refreshed our drinks and poured a bath. We sat in the tub to cool off, our only light being the remains of dusk through the window. I smiled at her. “We met at two, right?” “Yeah.” She paused. “Wow, that was—what? Six hours ago?”

I raised my glass. “To time well spent.” She laughed and raised her glass to mine. We drank and talked, getting to know one another after an afternoon and evening of sex. “So, I’m glad you’re here this summer and we get to be together,” I said, taking care that the bourbon not do all the talking. “But . . . no, not but. And. And here’s the thing. We’re going to have lots of sex.”


“And sometimes, when we have sex, it’s going to feel a lot like making love. Like we’re in love. I think that’s just how we are, how you and I are when we have sex.”

She looked at me quizzically. “I’m not sure what that means.”

“I’m not sure I do either, but it’s what it feels like. To me, anyway. Some of that was pretty intense.”

“Yeah, we do have some pretty intense sex,” she agreed.

“Yeah.” I nodded. “That we do.”

“I like it. I like being so . . . submissive with you.” She splashed the water absentmindedly. “I’m going to do my best to suck your dick the way you want. Any way you want.”

I smiled. “Yeah, and about that . . .” I started to stand.

“Oh no, we just had so much sex . . .” she laughed.

“Three months,” I said, putting my cock into Botticelli’s mouth. “There’s much to be done.”

A year and a half later, Kay and I were in bed talking after sex.

“Do you remember when we were in the tub, on our first date?”

“I remember everything about our first date.” I touched her hand. “Pretty girl.”

She chuckled softly. “Do you remember that thing you said about how sex with me felt like making love?”

I nodded. “Yes.”

“You know, at the time, I thought that was just a line, something you must’ve said a million times. But now, I’m thinking it wasn’t. You meant it.”

I raised myself on an elbow. “That was no line. I meant it. That was really something, what I was feeling that day.”

“I’m not sure what I was feeling that day,” she mused. “I’m not sure it was as, I don’t know, intense as what you described, or that I felt as intensely as you, but yeah, there was something going on.”

“Something, indeed.” I kissed her Renoir breast.

“Baby,” she sighed. “And look at us now.” She fell quiet, stroking my hair as I kissed her. Suddenly, she laughed at a thought. “That thing about sucking dick like an ugly New Jersey prisoner?”

I looked up and smiled. “Oh, now that was a line.”

Happy birthday, beloved.

Tuesday, September 28, 2010


Last month I taught several classes at The Floating World, including a session on erotic biting. I focused on two aspects of biting—sensation and decoration—and encouraged everyone to practice biting in class.

Damaetasia was one of my models. She’s very pretty and feminine, which led me to have two thoughts: either I would mark her in a way that wrecked those qualities, or I would accentuate them. I decided on the latter route. She always wears dresses or skirts, so I added to her style by biting a line one each of her calves and thighs emulating the seam of hose. Smalls assisted me, chewing one leg as I chewed another. Later, a friend added a garter of hickies.

The results were rather fetching, don’t you think?

Thursday, September 23, 2010

Incriminating Polaroids

Last weekend, Dark Odyssey’s summer camp brought together over four hundred people from our diverse communities to teach, learn, play and socialize in the beautiful, secluded site that is annually transformed into “sex camp.”

Leila, Kay and I organized a cabin around the theme of art-making. We invited campers to stop by to create something—drawings, paintings, sculpture, writing, whatever—encouraging them to worry less about the finished product and to think more about the process of being creative. At the end of the weekend, the results were included in an art exhibition, complemented by the requisite white wine and friendly critique.

We named the cabin “Incriminating Polaroids,” mindful that instant photography is a popular art form that can have deliciously smutty results. To identify ourselves and draw attention to our art project, we designed and silkscreened shirts that our cabin mates subsequently wore to classes, meals and other occasions where we weren’t, you know, just naked.

Among other projects, Leila recreated performance artist Marina Abramović’s classic Rhythm 0 (nineteen seventy-four), in which viewers became participants, invited to make use of an array of provided objects to interact with the inert artist. It was a powerful piece when Abramović created it. It was extraordinary when Leila recreated it in a dungeon, with the participation of so many experienced players. Her gender presentation was altered, her flesh painted and flashed with numerous sensations, her spirits surprised by unexpected actions and occasionally sustained by kindness and care.

For my part, I transformed Kay into a living abstract canvas, coloring her nude body with hot wax in emulation of encaustic painting. She glowed in candlelight on the grass under a clear sky, with virtually no witnesses.

Here are a few incriminating Polaroids.

Preparing a silkscreen for printing, and the logo as it appeared on our shirts. For those too young to recall, the logo recreates the contour of a Polaroid picture.

My boots after making a particularly messy wax painting by moonlight.

As official camp photographs are made availble, I'll post links here. The next Dark Odyssey event will be in February in Washington, DC. Hope to see you there. If you're interested in taking part in art/sex events, drop me a line.

Tuesday, September 21, 2010

Lend Me Your Face

Fight Like Apes

I wanna cut you with glass
You haven't got such a pretty ass now
Wanna put you in a cast
And cast off all my memories of where you been at.

Thursday, August 26, 2010


It was as painful as it looks. I had stubbed my big toe a week earlier, but by the time I spanked her, it was already on the mend. It's all better now, thanks.

Thursday, August 12, 2010

Thursday, August 05, 2010

Feverish, Sad Drama

Two years ago today, Dacia immolated our friendship.

My ex wife had discovered my sex blog and was using it to sue for full custody of our children, claiming my sexuality put our children in immediate danger. Dacia was among the first friends I called with this news, hopeful that she would be familiar with resources that could help my impending legal battle. Dacia didn’t have any advice at hand, but offered to look into it. “I’m so sorry this is happening to you,” she said.

“Thanks,” I replied. “Me too.”

It was to be our final exchange. A few days later, Dacia launched a flame war against me in her blog. Dacia opined that the case wasn’t really about my sexuality. She hadn’t seen my ex’s motion, but she wondered: what if it was about something else, like alcoholism, maybe? Comments flowed into her blog, speculating about all manner of awful things that could be behind the case.

Tess and Dee watched with delight. Their gossip had been instrumental in fueling Dacia’s opinion, and their own voices, disguised behind various pseudonyms, kept her blog’s comments negative and flowing at a crisp pace. Tess and Dee saw great opportunities in encouraging gossip and speculation against me. For Dee, it was sweet vindication for her frustration that her love for me had proven unrequited. For Tess, it was an opportunity to promote herself by contributing to the downfall of a rival—in a rivalry of which I was fully unaware.

I’ve written about this at some length in this blog. At the request of those who want to follow the story in its entirety and to link it in their own blogs, I’ve complied the story at one site.

Feverish, Sad Drama

The site includes new chapters not published on this blog. These include revelations about the extraordinary efforts undertaken by Tess and Dee to accumulate fodder for their gossip—including, astonishingly, distributing correspondence hacked from a personal email account. Most of this draft focuses on Tess and Dee rather than Dacia—some stories need to be saved for the book, after all—but included is the story of how Dacia’s flame war was fueled, in part, by an ex boyfriend of hers who enjoyed pitting Dacia against her friends. Though Dacia was unaware of it, he played her, and he played her beautifully. Even he hadn’t anticipated that through his game, Dacia would behave with such ruthlessness.

As Dacia later wrote, the entire affair was a “feverish, sad drama” largely of her own creation. It showcased the worst behavior I’ve encountered online. Fortunately, it was limited to a small cohort—Dee, Tess and to a lesser extent, Dacia—who remain, to date, the only rotten apples I’ve encountered as a blogger. I’ve made great friends and lovers through this blog, for which I’m grateful. Blogging has been an overwhelming positive experience, and I’m glad to have this space in which to share my stories. Others who blog may take Feverish, Sad Drama as a cautionary tale—be very careful about your confidences. Some people are sharks.

Thursday, July 29, 2010


Preparing to take the stage at the Highline Ballroom for last night's Moth GrandSlam, I was nervous that I had chosen a story too awful for the given theme, “the point of no return.”

This was my first time to make it to the Moth’s championship round of storytelling competition. Like the nine other storytellers on the bill, I had won a previous StorySlam before moving to the GrandSlam. Competitors had been provided with the evening’s theme about two weeks prior to the event. Given the five-minute time limit and what I’ve so far ascertained about the audience’s familiarity with subjects I generally address as “Jefferson,” I felt a keen awareness of the challenges in choosing a story and telling it well.

A few days prior to the GrandSlam, I scrapped the story I had chosen in favor of something much more raw. The story went back two decades and yet its new revelations were only days old. As I told my story, I found myself shaking with a mix of emotions—fear, rage, numbness—and the audience’s dead silence as my only feedback.

I came in second place.

It’s not a story I anticipate telling on this blog, so to those who heard it live, thanks for allowing me to share it even as I’m not sure what happens next.

Welcome to those who found me through the Moth. By way of introduction, be aware that my blog isn’t safe for work, as I write graphically about sex. I also write about parenting, dating and relationships—our secret, but these are the real subjects of my sex blog—and each Thursday, you’ll keep up with the ongoing adventures of my right foot.

If your heart aches for stories of love and loss, you might start by reading Old Roads. If hot sex is more to your liking, that all began with my first post nearly six years ago. To keep up with my day-to-day meanderings, follow me on Twitter.


Thursday, July 22, 2010


Remains of a spontaneous summer night: depleted condoms, shredded panties, leftover limes, empty tonic and one-third of the feet implicated.

Tuesday, July 20, 2010

Psychotherapy Live!

For several years, Lisa Levy has performed Psychotherapy Live!, in which guests are invited to take part in a therapy session before an audience. She also films sessions for broadcast.

I recently found myself on her couch. I talked about parenting, divorce, sexuality, BDSM and more. Because I’m not keen on having my face publicized, my identity is obscured. This put me in the interesting position of talking about being out while disguised.

Get mental with me by watching the broadcast, divided into three parts:

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Monday, July 19, 2010

Moth GrandSlam

I recently told a story at The Moth, the competitive storytelling event you know from NPR and podcasts. And, as it happens, I won! That means I advance to the next Moth GrandSlam on July twenty-eighth.

Want to join my pervy pals in cheering me on? I have the inside skinny. Tickets are on sale now at the Highline Ballroom. This is an early announcement for the storytellers and their friends. Moth members will be notified this afternoon. The general public will be notified tomorrow. It will promptly sell out with the general announcement, so get your tickets now. You can save the online surcharge by buying them at the Highline.

Thursday, July 15, 2010

Thursday, July 08, 2010


Kay and I watching the sunset in advance of the fireworks display on Independence Day. The photo is a little blurry, but then, so were we.

Our search for a small town in which to celebrate the Fourth took us to the lovely harbor town of Port Jefferson—the friendliness of the village’s name being an additional lure. There, we saw fireworks, watched a parade and fucked in the back of a Hummer. I love this country.

Independence Day is a special holiday for me, in that it the anniversary of the end of my marriage. Following a disagreement about a business trip I made, and after months of bitter feuding and vast silences, my ex wife exiled me to an apartment owned by her father. He encouraged me to go, saying his daughter would never calm down until she had time to get over her rage. I moved out on Independence Day. That was seven years and two custody cases ago. Perhaps, one day, my ex wife get past her rage. Perhaps, by that time, she’ll see that it no longer impresses me.

Kay and I talked about this anniversary as the sun set. “I know the divorce was hard,” she said, “But I’m lucky your ex wife wasted your marriage.”

“Me too, honey,” I smiled. "Independence ain't bad."

Friday, July 02, 2010

Abby Wiinters


I happen to like this photo. It's merely coincidence I spent the morning on the phone with blue-eyed, black-banged Madeline.

Thursday, July 01, 2010


Not content merely to have sex at our parties, my friends and I recently put together a party at which our fellow orgy-enthusiasts could also make art. Amidst all the drawing, cutting and gluing, I took beautiful Kay outdoors to cover her in hot wax. This photo shows the lower part of her torso; that’s her bare pussy coated in layers of color.

I also built a structure from matt board, providing surfaces for others to paint and collage. Because our cohort includes many “burners” (those who attend the annual Burning Man festival), and because burners burn things, my sculpture was set to flames as we looked on.

Thursday, June 24, 2010


Halo organized a photo shoot that involved painting on flesh, and recruited Ava Amnesia and me among her models. Her plan was to script our bodies with emotional and sexual words using the phonetic alphabet; you can see that my foot is labeled lasivies, or "lascivious." I'll cop to that.

Late in the shoot, smudges of paint accentuated the bruises already coloring Ava's breasts from bitings I'd given her over several days. Additional colors transferred to her body from mine when we, um, mixed paint.

Monday, June 21, 2010

No One Cares About Your Blog

Last August, I participated in Kink for All, an unconference on sexuality founded by my friend Maymay. During last night’s broadcast of Kink on Tap—another brainchild of brainy Maymay—I learned that my presentation, which was recorded, is available online.

No One Cares About Your Blog

My tongue was somewhat in cheek when I entitled the presentation, which concerned the risks of putting one’s sex life online. I addressed my ex wife’s discovery of my blog and her subsequent (and unsuccessful) effort to use my sexuality to take my children from their father. I also talked about the flame wars and smear campaigns initiated by a team of three sex bloggers—Dacia and the brain trust she encouraged, Tess and Dee—as they outed me and otherwise sought to tarnish my reputation and affect the custody case then underway.

The title was in earnest, however, as the lessons drawn as these episodes overlapped. My ex wife cynically believed that the State of New York would concur that my writing endangered my children. In fact, the State of New York proved unconcerned with either my writing or my sex life. My ex learned that, like everyone else, the father of her children is allowed free speech and sexual freedom. The State of New York doesn’t care about my blog.

Further, in their slanderous gossip and malicious online attacks, Dacia, Tess and Dee seemed to believe their blogs were powerful engines to destroy reputations and damage people, including families. Their actions revealed wild delusions of import. Putting gossip into blogs doesn’t make it real or influential. Dacia later regretted this “feverish, sad drama” as a figment largely of her own creation. Their attacks were engineered by blog drama, not in reality, and in real life, no one cared about their blogs.

Thursday, June 17, 2010


Footsies in the rose petals at Figment.

Thursday, June 03, 2010


Making art is a fine advantage of having creative friends who enjoy getting naked for one another.

Tilda had an idea. She wanted to cull quotes on sexuality that had been important in her personal development and picture them on nude bodies. She wanted it to be hands-on; the texts would be imprinted on bodies and then photographed. She ran ideas by me and then decided to draft me as a calligrapher.

The models are our friends. Halo is my dear protégé. Leo is a fellow you recently read about.

The quote is from George Bataille’s The Story of The Eye. It reads:

“We did not lack modesty—on the contrary—but something urgently drove us to defy modesty together as immodestly as possible.”

. . . and so defy we did. My handiwork was primarily on Halo. I had many words to script on a small body, and as I painted, I stayed modest by contrast to Tilda’s bold proclamation of not lacking modesty.

Top photo courtesy Michael Meyer Photography.

Friday, May 21, 2010

Abby Winters

Jette and Navah


Savoir Adore

If you adore Savoir Adore, take your body to see them tonight at Angel Oresanz Foundation; while there, check out the photographs by my pal Irene Caesar.

Thursday, May 20, 2010


If she keeps clothespins on her night stand, and she doesn't have a clothesline, it's worth asking why.

Monday, May 17, 2010

Kinky Sticks and The Moth

You never know what to expect from The Moth. Even its organizers can’t be sure what will happen.

Organized in eight cities, The Moth is a storytelling event in which audience members are encouraged to stand up to tell a story on a given theme. The stories are limited to five minutes duration and must be told extemporaneously. Prospective storytellers put their names into a hat and are drawn at random; each open-mike night is limited to ten stories, so one can’t be sure of being picked. If selected, a reader has only a few minutes to prepare to take the stage. Storytellers are scored by judges, and the winner of each open-mike night goes onto to the next round of competition, The Moth Grandslam, which invariable sells out immediately to audiences of several hundred people.

Each storyteller is recorded, whether at open-mike or at the Grandslam. The best are chosen for NPR, podcasts and DVD release.

Participating as a storyteller can be a harrowing experience. I’ve prepared on several occasions, only to go home without being selected. I was chosen once, told my story and had ‘em eating out of my hand, only to run afoul of the five minute limit. I didn’t go on to the Grandslam.

By contrast, my darling Lori Baird has the luck of The Moth. She’s been picked twice to tell stories and won each time. You may already know her as a storyteller—Lori is the wiseacre behind Kinky Stick Figure. (Lori has shed her former pseudonym “Lynsey” because, well, Lori’s more famous and all.)

On May twenty-fourth, you’ll find Lori at the next Grandslam—that is, if you can get tickets. They went on sale today. The venue is B. B. Kings Blues Club. That’s right, Kinky Sticks is going to Broadway.

Today also saw the release of Lori’s first Moth podcast, recorded at her first event. I joined her that night at the Bitter End. See, I had a vested interest in hearing how this story turned out. Perhaps you’ll figure out why.

G Marks the Spot

Thursday, May 13, 2010


For a few years now, he’s been one of my go-to boys for threesomes. We were comparing notes about unmet fantasies when he offered one of his own. He had once blindfolded his girlfriend and had a friend of his come over to fuck her. Afterward, the friend left; she never saw his face or knew his name. He wondered: what must it be like to be in her position?

I offered to help him find out. I have a girlfriend he had never met. I told him he would get no photos or descriptions of her in advance of the blindfold date.

For good measure, I also declined to give her photos or descriptions of him. In fact, I neglected to tell her would be expecting a guest.

When he rang, my girlfriend expressed surprise. “My, who could that be?” I wondered.

“Oh, we’re playing that game, huh?” She jumped from the bed. “I’ll be in the bathroom.”

He undressed on arrival, per usual. I blindfolded him. My girlfriend came into the room, already nude. For the next few hours, we three went at it.

Afterward, we lay in each other’s arms. He remained blindfolded, as he would until leaving; he never saw her or learned her name. We asked him how the experience felt.

“For one thing,” he said. “I couldn’t tell your hands apart.” He sat up, clumsily. “Here, both of you: take my fingers and put them in your palms. Your left palms.” We did as he asked. He moved his fingerpads in a slow circle. “See, I can’t tell you apart.” He moved his fingers to explore our hands. “Okay, so this is Jefferson, obviously,” he said, lifting my hand. “His are bigger.”

“But just as soft?” she asked.

“Well, that hand has an advantage,” I said. “I jerk off with my left hand, so it has enjoyed a lifetime of lotion.”

He reached toward us. “Hey, can I touch your hair, um . . . female person?”

“Sure.” She guided his hand to her head.

He ran his fingers through her hair. “Hmmm, your hair is fine . . . not too curly . . . so you’re blond. Maybe redhead.”

She looked at me, smiling. “Yeah? What else can you tell about me?”

He ran a finger down her torso. “Your skin is really soft, so you’re not Russian . . .”

We laughed. “Are you really trying to guess her nationality by the texture of her skin?” I asked. “Do no Russian women have soft skin?”

“Well, you know Russian literature,” he said. “You’d expect coarse skin.”

“From working in the potato fields,” she nodded.

“Peasant stock,” I concurred. “The literature is definitive.”

“And here,” his fingers reached her mons pubis. “I felt your pubic hair earlier and thought, ‘she’s not Jewish . . .’”

“I’m not?” she laughed.

“Are you?” He wrinkled his brow. “I had a Jewish girlfriend and her pubic hair was very curly. Yours isn’t.”

“I’m going to question the depth of your research on that observation,” I challenged.

“Am I right at all?” he asked her.

“I have fine hair,” she smiled. “And soft skin and straight pubic hair. I’m not saying more than that.”

“I guess I’d never recognize you on the street,” he grinned, lowering his nose to nuzzle her breast.

“No, but I’d know you,” she answered. “So don’t be surprised if a blond stranger tells you you’ve got a hot body.” He moaned in her nipple. I prepared another condom to roll onto his cock.

Later, I helped him to dress and walked him to the door. He removed the blindfold. “Maybe next time, we can blindfold her,” he suggested.

“We’ll see,” I replied. “I may have to do some casting to match your vision of the woman you just fucked.”

I took a few photos. Here’s a blurry one of the confused boy in the blindfold.

Thursday, May 06, 2010


Fucktoy spent her twenty-seventh birthday with me. I commemorated the date with twenty-seven bites, plus one to grow on.

We lost track of the number of lashes from my whip.

Thursday, April 22, 2010


Anna Smash surprised me with an unexpected visit. She was in New York on business, sort of; she's fucking her boss and he's based here. He put her up in a hotel. We met while he was in meetings.

It was very nice to catch up with Anna over cocktails and hotel sex. Nicer still to leave the tabs for her boss.

Sunday, April 18, 2010

Venus in Furs

Neither Kay nor Halo knows the band the Velvet Underground referenced in my previous post (which was actually playing during the described scene) so I'll educate you all, dear readers.

The Velvet Underground is why you know Lou Reed. It was an art band in New York in the late nineteen-sixties created/destroyed by Andy Warhol that created/destroyed punk. On that, do your own research.

The song I mentioned is "Venus in Furs," the tile of which is borrowed from author Leopold von Sacher-Masoch, the "masoch" in "masochism." He was as "De Sade" is to "sadism."

The sound quality in the first film is awful and great art. That was a party you wish you had attended. The last is a bunch of pictures of the band backed by a better recording.

I bought a Velvet Underground album as a child because I was given four dollars in K-mart. There was a banana on the album cover. I'm glad that cash went to this candy.

I'm also glad that candy didn't go up Daddy's arm.

Close Call

I sat watching as Halo and her boy Luke topped my girlfriend Kay. Or rather, our girlfriend, as Kay is Halo’s girlfriend, too. Halo is my protégé. Luke is Halo’s submissive. He is not our submissive. Luke bottoms only to Halo, and he is otherwise dominant. I was watching to observe Halo in action as she led Luke with a submissive very familiar to each of us but unfamiliar to her boy.

Halo’s emergent style as a dominant is one of continuous communication—“Does this feel good? May I do this?”—which of course I encourage, though my own style is less verbal. Halo’s style suits her well. She is straight–edge on consent and control in a scene, and therefore very particular about choosing play partners. In this, I feel we are really teaching each other. Halo reminds me that I can afford to be selective.

Halo enjoys creating simple games, as she now did with Kay. Our girlfriend was to keep her eyes closed and to respond when asked questions. If Kay did well, she would be rewarded with pleasure. If she did not, she would be punished with sensation.

Halo delivers great sensations, and Kay responds excitedly to them. Kay wants to be obedient even though in her desires, reward and punishment are equally welcome. That’s a good way to top Kay, I thought, but it would be a hell of a confusing way to train a dog.

Luke lightly fingered Kay’s labia, teasing her, his eyes on her face. “Do you like how he’s touching you?” Halo asked, trailing the weight of a small chain around Kay’s neck. Our girlfriend nodded. “You need to answer with words, Kay, as I instructed.”

“Yes, it feels so good.” Her voice cracked.

“Good, that’s good to hear you say.” Halo trailed the chain down Kay’s chest, alternating from one breast to the other. “These are fresh bruises, aren’t they, Jefferson?” she asked.

“Yes,” I replied from my chair. “Little mementos from earlier this evening.”

“Very pretty colors, Jefferson . . .” she began. “Wait, Kay: did you just open your eyes?”

“Yes, Halo,” Luke confirmed. “She did.”

“I did, I’m sorry,” Kay apologized. “You said Jefferson’s name and I wanted to see him.”

“He’s here to see you,” Halo reprimanded. “You are not here to see him. You are here to obey me. Do you understand?”

“Yes.” Kay closed her eyes, nodding. “I do understand.”

“Good, but now, because you disobeyed, you’ll have be punished. Turn over.” Kay again apologized and turned as instructed. “Crouch on your elbows and knees,” Halo commanded. “Raise your ass a bit.” She ran her hand along Kay’s spine to indicate the position. Kay complied. “Luke, I want you spank Kay for being disobedient. Use the flat of your hand, like I showed you.” She leaned forward to Kay’s ear. “Luke has very big hands, and I don’t want him to hurt you.”

“You’re so nice to me,” Kay said, giggling nervously.

“I can be very nice, but now I have to be very mean to you,” Halo said. “You didn’t follow my orders.” Halo reached for two small knives I had placed at her disposal. Taking one knife in each hand, Halo traced lightly across Kay’s back.

I leaned forward to watch Halo’s blades cross over the marks I’d earlier left on Kay’s back with a single-tail whip.

Two others watched quietly. We were in the room designated for BDSM at a party otherwise primarily directed to sex. The sounds of moans and laughter came from another room, as in our space, the Velvet Underground sang of boots of shiny, shiny leather, tasting whips and pleading.

I took mental notes of Halo’s deliberateness, Luke’s measured strokes and, as they collaborated, their attentions to one another and Kay’s responses. My brain buzzed, tamping down suggestions that the pair try other things I know Kay enjoys, taking stock of the ways they treated her that differed from my own.

As my mind stored observations to churn into memories, I realized my cock had gone limp. I had become aware of a cycle of responses in my own body throughout this scene. When Halo directed punishment, I focused with my mind, analyzing and recording. When she directed pleasure, my body took over. Some time ago, I developed a Pavlovian reaction to Kay’s arousal. When she is turned on, I get hard. This is true whether I am touching her, watching someone else touch her, or overhearing her orgasms from another room.

“Now, you have been punished,” Halo said. She grabbed a fistful of Kay’s hair. “Now, you will turn over and we’ll reward you with pleasure.”

Kay grunted as her hair was tugged. “May I make a request, please?”

“Yes, you may,” Halo answered. “Thank you for asking first. What is your request?”

“May I please suck Jefferson’s dick? He looks so hot watching, and he’s so hard.”

Halo looked at me. She saw that I wasn’t hard. “What do you say, Luke?” she asked of her collaborator. “Shall we allow Kay to suck her boyfriend’s cock?”

Luke pondered the request, rubbing Kay’s lower back with his massive hands. Finally, he answered. “Yes,” he said with care. “Yes, Halo, I concur if you’ll allow.”

“Thank you for giving that such careful consideration,” Halo smiled. She turned back to me. “Jefferson, would you be so kind as to join us on the bed?”

“Thank you,” I said standing. “Halo, Luke, thank you for allowing me to join your scene with my girlfriend.” I sat at the head of the bed, positioning myself so that Kay’s face hovered over my dick. I leaned forward and kissed each of her eyes, flicking my tongue lightly over the tightly closes lids. “You’re sucking your man’s cock,” I whispered. “But Halo is still the boss.”

“I understand,” she smiled.

“Good girl.” I placed a palm on the back of her neck and lowered her face to my body. Her mouth rooted until it found my limp dick. She swallowed me, moaning. Pavlov took care of the rest. Kay kept her lips tight around the base of my cock, coughing spittle as I grew into her throat. “Good, good,” I whispered.

“That’s so beautiful,” Halo admired. She stood to one side, stroking the strap-on cock she wore. I knew it well; her Feeldoe is never far when we are co-topping. “You see Luke, that’s how I’d like you to learn to suck my dick.”

“I only wish I were so good as Kay,” Luke admired.

“You’ll learn,” Halo nodded. She placed a hand on Kay’s back. “Jefferson, do you mind if I fuck your girlfriend? She just looks so lovely on her knees.”

“I’m a guest in your scene, Halo,” I replied. I stroked Kay’s hair. “Honey, you don’t mind if my protégé fucks you, do you?” She gurgled onto my cock and slightly shook her head. “That’s ‘no, you don’t mind,’ or ‘no, you’d rather not?’”

Kay pulled back her face. Streams of spittle connected her lips to my cock. “Oh please, fuck me, someone, please!” she laughed. She gasped two gulps of air before taking me back inside her.

“Sound definitive!” I smiled, giving a thumbs-up to Halo. “Fuck away, dude.”

“Dude!” She laughed and held up her palm. “It’s so fun being a guy with you, Jefferson.” I gave back a resounding high-five. Halo positioned herself behind Kay. The grunt on my cock told me another was inside her.

I sat back, hands behind my head, surveying the scene. Kay held her hair in a bundle, her face flush from exertion. Halo fucked her in what was, between my protégé and I, a favored posture—each of us on either side of a body that we regard as our shared “angel.” Luke leaned against a wall, his long lean frame taut as he fingered his thick cock. Nearby, a straight dom who had been eying Kay all night jerked off next to a cute twink I’d be eying all night. I had caught the twink’s name right away: Leo.

“I have an idea,” Halo said after a while. “Something I’ve wanted to do for a long time.” She caught my eye. “Can we do a double penetration?”

“Smashing idea!” I replied. “And I know just the position. Here, let’s all pull out of Kay.” Halo and I backed away.

“Wait, what happened to the cocks?” Kay complained.

“Don’t worry your pretty head,” I said, patting her indifferently. “Okay, let’s do this? Halo, you lay on your back. When she does, Kay, you ride her cock.” I stepped out of the way as they got into position.

“This feels so good!” Halo smiled, as Kay’s body pushed the Feeldoe in and out of her own.

“Right? Okay, that’s great. Hang on, I’ll get into position . . .” I stood on the bed, one foot on either side of Halo’s shoulders. I lifted Kay’s chin. “Here, girl. You suck my cock. If you’re taking two dicks, you may as well have three.” Kay looked up and took my cock in her mouth. Her lips smiled slightly as she caught my eyes. “Good girl! Okay, now Luke, you’re up. Let’s get you in her pussy with Halo, her from the front, you from the back.”

“Is that possible?” Luke asked, reaching for a condom.

“Trust me, I’m a professional.” I gathered Kay’s hair in a fist. “You two doing all right?”

Kay gurgled. “Oh, we’re just fine,” Halo smiled.

“Everybody, think: teamwork,” I encouraged. Luke took his position behind Kay. His eyes were down as he tried to guide his cock into Kay’s pussy.

“Hmmm,” He murmured.

“Don’t rush, just take your time,” I encouraged. I fucked Kay’s mouth harder to keep her mind focused and blank.

“Jesus, that’s fucking hot,” Leo said. He spat into his palm and rubbed his cock.

Halo watched Leo’s erection take form. “Okay, now I want to suck cock, too,” she said.

“We can do that!” I exclaimed. I looked around. How would we do that? “We can do that . . . okay, look. Kay, sit back slightly . . .”

“Oh yes, do!” Halo laughed, as the Feeldoe was pushed inside her.

“ . . . Okay, now I’ll step forward . . .” I eased my cock back into Kay’s mouth. “Now you, Leo, you straddle Halo’s face.” I leaned forward to allow him into position. “ . . . and I can rest my back on yours.” The position worked, and worked all the better I was leaning on a cute boy. The only step remaining was to add Luke’s cock to Kay’s pussy.

“I don’t know, this isn’t working,” Luke said, sitting back on his knees. “I just can’t get in there.”

“Let’s get a look at that,” I said. I leaned forward, pulling out of Kay’s mouth. I kissed her hair. “Hang on, I’ll be back.”

“Take your time,” she gasped. “I could use some air.” She noticed Leo sitting on Halo’s face. “Oh, that’s hot,” she sighed, and began to finger herself.

“Now, this could be one of a few problems,” I said to Luke in my best auto-mechanic tone. I spread Kay’s ass. “Might be that she’s low on lube.” I ran a finger along the Feeldoe’s shaft. “Nope, that’s nice and slick. Could be that she’s in an awkward position. If she lowered her shoulders, you might be able to enter more easily. Or, it could be . . .” I patted Luke’s shoulder. “ . . . that your giant dick isn’t going to fit.”

Luke looked at the behemoth resting in his vast palm. “I thought that may have been the problem,” he said quietly. “But I didn’t want to say anything.”

I rubbed his back. “It’s not a problem, son. There’s a place in this world for big dicks, too.”

“I know a place,” Halo said. “My mouth! I want two dicks.”

“There you go, Luke,” I smiled. “Always a solution.”

As Luke moved away, I fingered Kay lightly. I tried inserting a finger, wondering if my cock might do the job. “Oh, that’s a bit much,” she winced.

I took back my hand. “Yeah, it’s Halo’s dick that’s mucking up the works. See, it’s pretty big. Plus, it’s not malleable, so unlike bio cock, it has less give . . .”

“Okay, you be the teacher,” Kay said, rising. “I think I need a little break.”

“Would you like a spanking or anything?” offered the observant dom, still stroking his cock.

“No, thanks,” smiled Kay. “I’m going to get some water . . .”

“Oh, you stay here,” he interrupted. “I’ll bring the water to you.” He hurried off in the direction of the kitchen.

Kay thanked him and settled next to me. “Pretty girls don’t fetch water at sex parties,” I whispered.

“I can see that,” she said, kissing my shoulder. We turned to watch Halo blow two boys, her giant Luke and the slight twink Leo. I began to absentmindedly stroke her Feeldoe.

Halo looked up from her cocks. “Oh, keep doing that,” she sighed. “Just like that. That feels so amazing!”

I continued stroked her gently. Her hips pushed up as I gently pushed down. I could only see a bit of her face between the bodies of the two boys she was sucking, so I listened for her contented gurgles.

“Jefferson!” Halo suddenly cried out. “Jefferson, for the love of all that is Holy, fuck me!”

“Fuck you?” I grinned at Kay. “Why, I’d like nothing better.” Kay reached to the night stand for a condom. My erection bobbed as I worked to remove the harness holding Halo’s cock in place. Kay put an unwrapped condom in my hand as the other slowly eased the Feeldoe from Halo’s body.

Halo looked up from her cocks. “Wait, what are you doing, Jefferson?”

I held up the condom. “Making way to fuck you, dear.”

Halo smiled and shook her head. “No, Jefferson,” she softly explained. “I meant ‘fuck me,’ as in ‘fuck my cock, you dirty slut.’”

“Oh! Whew, that was a close call—I nearly obeyed the wrong ‘fuck me.’” I eased the Feeldoe back into place. “That’s a horse dick of different color. You want to put this monster in my ass . . .” I replaced the harness, palming the condom as I refastened a strap. “Well, I suppose we can do that . . .”

“I’ll do it if you don’t want to,” Leo offered. Kay and I had watched Leo take a dildo attached to a power-tool jackhammer; Halo’s Feeldoe would be simple mechanics by comparison.

“Now, that would be hot,” Kay nodded, smiling.

“Uh-huh,” I agreed. “Well, I’ve got the condom here, if you can find the lube . . .”

“Wait, first I need to go to the bathroom,” Leo said. He turned and brushed past me on the bed. “Be right back, guys.”

Halo sat up. “You know, I need to got the bathroom, too.”

Luke kissed her shoulder. “I’ll come keep your company,” he said. “Sounds like there could be a line.”

Kay and I were left alone on the bed. I held forward the condom and shrugged. She shrugged and threw up her hands. We were fucking when the dom returned with a single cup of water.

“I ran into Leo in line for the bathroom,” he nodded. “Sounds like a hot scene coming up! I’ll get a good seat.”

“Oh, that scene is over,” I said, squeezing Kay's breasts as we fucked. “They won’t be back. There are too many distractions between here and the bathroom.”

The next time Kay and I encountered Halo and Luke, they were making out in the shower.