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.
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.