Friday, May 21, 2010
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Monday, May 17, 2010
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.
Sunday, May 16, 2010
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.