Blogoversary

This week marked the third anniversary of One Life, Take Two. I've met most of my closest friends and lovers because one day, Audacia Ray convinced me to start a blog. It just changed my life, that's all.

As I do each year, I'm republishing my first post, which began as an email to Audacia. If you enjoy it, rummage back in the Archive for more.

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.

Naked on the Internet

Naked on the Internet

I remember discovering that Audacia Ray is hot.

The possibility first dawned on me one afternoon as she stood framed in a doorway, describing in great detail an arcane legal code designed to identify as a streetwalker any single woman alone in a city after dark.

I listened, scribbling notes now and then. About twenty minutes into her extemporaneous lecture, I looked up and absently-mindedly thought, gosh, Audacia’s got such a strong physique. Must’ve been all those years of riding horses.

I’d never really noticed. She played down her physical appearance, wearing frumpy sweaters and baggy jeans. Anyway, I was mostly concerned with her mind—she came up with sharp insights based on research illuminated by sparks of clarion inspiration. She matched her passionate zeal with an orderly, fastidious reasoning that lead to observations that were nuanced and, in her favorite word, awesome.

In short, she was a nerd.

One night a couple of years later, Audacia stopped by my place for drinks. She had spent the summer hiking around Europe, and I was eager to hear about her adventures.

We hugged and bussed cheeks at the door. She stooped to put down her bag. When she stood, she turned slightly to look around my apartment.

That’s when I noticed it.

“Oh my God, Audacia. What happened to you?”

She smiled. “I got hot.”

I shook my head, stunned. “No, I mean, yeah, you really did. How on earth . . . ?”

As we shared bourbons that night, Audacia brought me up to speed on her life and her plans for the coming year. She had continued to be a serious thinker about issues of sexuality—particular women’s sexuality—and was, as ever, an advocate of participant activism.

Along the way, she had decided to put her body where her mind was. She was not content to ponder bisexuality, sex work, modeling or publishing as an academic observer. If she was going to address women’s sexuality in a serious way, she was going to experience women’s sexuality in a serious way.

She reasoned that achieving that goal would be easier if she were hot. A summer of walking and a few shopping trips later, she was transformed.

That decision led to the experiences she describes in the introduction to her new book, Naked on the Internet She reveals her early excitement in online hookups, discusses her emergence as a sex worker, talks about her career as a model and alt porn producer and describes the exposure of blogging her sex life.

She then puts that aside.

The book, she tells us, will not be about her. It doesn’t have to be, as so many women share similar experiences, while others are doing things that are outside her own personal interests or abilities.

For the remaining pages, Audacia relates the tales of women for whom the Internet has become an instrument of their sexuality in ways that can be personal, commercial or—especially in the penultimate chapter—directly physical.

In language that is so accessible as to be conversational, Audacia takes us into women’s bedrooms and workplaces to listen to stories of relationships, businesses and orgasms.

As I read, I nodded along in recognition as she covered subjects with which I am well acquainted, such as blogging or online hookups. I found myself underlining passages and making marginal notes as she covered subjects less familiar to me, such as women-produced alt porn or cyberdildonics.

In approaching material new to me, I was impressed by the reportorial tone of her narrative. Throughout, Audacia doesn’t seek to pontificate; rather, her goal is to make coherent observations about a moment in flux. She allows her subjects to speak for themselves. When she has an opinion, she expresses it as such. Were it not for the identifiable voice and underlying scholarship, you might at times forget that Audacia is in the room.

But it was in reading material closer to home that I was most impressed, for Audacia often put me in the room with people I already know.

I was not an interview subject for the book—disqualified, alas, by the whole “being male” thing—but a number of my friends and lovers were. Sometimes, they talked about their relationships to me or to my blog. Reading those passages (okay, I’ll admit: I flipped ahead to read these immediately), I was struck by Audacia’s sensitivity to her subjects and their stories.

I know these women, and so I could affirm that their thoughts were accurately conveyed and fairly reported. It can be awesome to see one’s life written into a public narrative, as my friends and lovers find when they appear in my blog or when they write their own. It can also be dreadful, as jealousy comes into play, commenters race to judgment and stalkers shove misery into inboxes.

The vulnerabilities of sex blogging lead some—including, at this very moment, Meg, who is represented in the book—to question the entire enterprise.

Audacia’s objectivity regarding people I know well gave me confidence in her treatment of those I do not. This in turn led me to want more. Her interview subjects do not represent the full range of women’s sexuality, as she makes clear—by its thesis, the book is focused on women with access to the Internet and whose use of it is generally public. It is difficult to quantify the impact of the Internet on women who do not make their experiences known.

I would also have appreciated more on women who may use the Internet to pursue agendas not consistent with the culture we’ve come to describe as “sex positive.” Audacia writes well on abortion opponents, which highlighted my sense that many of her subjects happen to share my personal politics. Given the book’s ability to fairly represent diverse points of view, I found I wanted even more of Audacia’s guidance in understanding those with whom I might not agree.

It gives away nothing to give away the end of the book. Audacia reminds us that the book, once published, is dated. The relationship between women’s sexuality and the Internet will continue to evolve, she notes, and so she refers us back to her blog, inviting readers to leave comments and send emails as she continues to follow developments.

That is a mark of Audacia’s mind at work. The project is never over so long as there is more research to do, and more observations to make. Naked on the Internet is a great contribution to all of us who are affected by or participate in online sex; for her, it is yet another moment in her ongoing dialogue with sexuality.

Naked on the Internet is essential reading for those concerned with women’s sexuality online. If you are a regular reader of sex blogs, dude, you should already be reading it. You can support independent booksellers when you pick it up here.

Fleshbot and the Hub of Cool

This week’s Sex Blog Roundup at Fleshbot gets sensuous as we find all one-two-three-four-five (breath) senses working overtime.

Those of you who enjoy stalking me will find me offering a shoulder to my friend Selina as she grieves the end of a relationship.

It’s never easy.

Though sometimes it’s for the best, as when Lily inadvertently offended a cultist and lost him as a lover. In taking stock of things, she is heartened to recall that she does attract fellows such as myself who aren't quite so nuts.

Which is to say: compared to cultists, I’m pretty normal.

That may be why I function so well in unusual situations, as Cody reflects as she ponders a live sex show or two.

Evidently, it’s good to have such a staunch character around, as Lolita explained when she took me out to tea. She congratulated me on having passed the six-month review in my new career as her fuckbuddy. I didn’t even know a review was forthcoming! I really should read contracts before I sign.

A few days later, Lolita and I caught up with Annie Sprinkle at the opening of “Sex Worker Visions.” The exhibition of art by sex workers includes one of Annie Sprinkle’s glittery prints based on a vintage medical illustrations of female reproductive organs. Annie is in town with her main squeeze and collaborator Elizabeth Stevens to perform Exposed: Experiments in Love, Sex, Death and Art.

I kissed Annie’s cheek and paid my respects to her cleavage.

“Sex Worker Visions” was curated by the second busiest (and second bustiest!) woman in the sex biz, the mighty Audacia Ray. I asked Audacia what she had been up to lately, to which she replied, “The usual, you know.”

“Yeah, me too,” I said.

We fell quiet, watching people shuffle past artwork.

“So, I hear you’re working on a cool project,” Audacia said. “Madeline says it’s really awesome.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m very excited about it,” I nodded. “She tells me your book is due out soon.”

“Yep. June first.”

“That’s great.”

“It’s awesome.”

We stared off into space for a while.

“Madeline says she’s looking forward to being on your panel next month,” I noted.

“Yeah, that’s awesome. She says she’s looking forward to seeing you again.”

“Oh, tell her I said ‘me too.’”

“I will. And please tell her I’m glad she’s so excited about the panel.”

“Will do.”

We looked at each other for a while. There wasn’t much more to say, really. We each knew all the latest on the other.

Now that we have Madeline in common, Audacia and I save so much time in conversation.

Because that Madeline has a gift. She’s the hub of cool.

There are more things out there for the stalkers—it’s been a busy week—but those LiveJournal folks like to lock up the sexy bits of their posts, so don’t bother looking.

Oh, and for those who wondered: Jonathan got the job.

Metacognition

“I’m not sure where we are speaking,” Simone said, looking around the conference room. “I mean, the chairs are arranged here, so maybe we’re talking before the movie?”

“They wouldn’t have you speak beforehand, would they?” I asked. “How would the Q&A work?”

“The screening is in the theater,” Dacia said. “You’re probably talking afterwards. The chairs are just screwy here because they are. New School fucks up.”

Simone laughed.

“I’m sorry, excuse me,” Jamye said, taking Simone’s elbow. “I just need to introduce you to someone. Sorry guys!”

“It’s cool,” Dacia said. Jamye pulled Simone to a cluster of people. Dacia turned to me. “She’s super cute.”

“Simone? Or Jamye?”

“Well, both, but I was referring to Simone.”

“I have an enduring crush on Jamye Waxman,” I nodded. “She pushes all my ‘Rhoda’ buttons. I want to have hot Mary-loves-Rhoda lesbian sex with her on my sofa bed. But yeah, your star is adorable. And she’s so nice.”

“Yeah, she’s nice,” Dacia said. “I can’t wait to watch her fuck again.”

Dacia and I were at a reception preceding the premiere of Simone Valentino’s new porn flick, Afrodite Superstar. The executive producer was Candida Royalle, a friend of ours who was launching a new line of African-American films aimed at women and couples.

We like to support Candida’s work any time, but we were particularly eager to attend this function, as Simone is also the star of Dacia’s new release, The Bi Apple.

As we talked, a man announced that everyone should adjourn to the theatre for the screening. Dacia walked ahead with Jamye and Simone. I followed, chatting with Veronica Vera.

Dacia and I caught up in the theatre and found two seats near the middle.

Dacia turned to me. “I was meaning to ask you—how was the last party? Were you hypertexting?”

“Was I what?” I said, raising my eyebrows.

“Showing my movie at your orgy. There must’ve been some metacognition.”

There sure was.

The Bi Apple concerns a sex researcher, played by Simone Valentino, whose work brings her to an apartment in New York City where people meet for orgies and bi sex. As she watches sex and scribbles observations in her notebook, Simone finds herself drawn into the activities—masturbating as two men kiss, dreaming of sex with a woman, and finally, doing the deed with two bi fellows.

Anyone who knows Dacia—personally or through her writing—would recognize her in the character of Simone’s sex researcher. And anyone who knows me—personally or through my writing—would draw parallels to Dacia’s experiences at my bisexual orgies.

So with the film’s release, I thought: how better to celebrate art’s imitation of life than to bring the onscreen sex back home to roost? I decided to show The Bi Apple at my next orgy.

It was a big party, with a number of novices in the mix. My friend Lily was attending her second orgy at my place. Her ex-boyfriend’s ex-girlfriend Wendy was also there. When Wendy broke up with a boyfriend (not her former ex, now Lily’s new ex, but a newer ex), Lily had suggested that Wendy contact me for breakup sex therapy. Wendy and I had some very fine sex as a result, and now she was at my party.

Avah was there, chatting with her new buddy Lolita, who had brought Boymeat and his girlfriend. A couple that Dacia had introduced to the party was there, chatting with another couple, as well as a third couple I like to fuck. Bugs dropped in, as did her friend Callie, who brought homemade mint brownies.

With so many women, I had called in lots of men. Our mainstays Jake, Thomas, John and Mmmark were there, as well as two recent additions: Jed, a straight boy who loves strap-ons and sucking dick, and Fred, a bodybuilder and porn actor who had never been to an orgy—off camera, that is. Funny thing was, he didn’t have that much group experience outside of his porn appearances. The first time we met, he said his biggest fantasy was to have a girl blow him as she fucked a man.

“Did you ever do that?” he asked.

I took his dick from my mouth. “Now and then,” I shrugged.

I had also invited a crossover from my male orgy, a gay man who hadn’t been with a woman in years but admitted to being “bi curious.” He’s handsome and sensuous, which I like, but above all, I adore that he laughs when I describe his thick hair as a “Franz Kafka ‘fro.”

It began as a chatty party. You know how it is with girls at orgies—they love to trade recipes and talk smut.

After a while, I spoke up.

“Everyone, can I have your attention please? Hello?”

“Shhh,” Jed said. “Jefferson’s got something to say.”

“Thanks, Jed.” I looked around. “Well, friends, tonight we have a special treat. Our friend Dacia has created her first porn film, and we have it. This is not her debut as a porn actor—that was another film. This is her debut as a director.”

Thomas looked around. “Hey, where is Dacia? Is she coming?”

“Alas, no,” I replied. “Dacia doesn’t do our orgies so much these days. I may have to retire her jersey eventually. But, as many of you know, her film is partly inspired by her experiences at our shindig . . . and a number of us saw her get naked for the party celebrating the release of The Bi Apple . . .”

“Oh, that reminds me,” Boymeat interrupted. “We have your blue balloon.”

Avah laughed. “You do?”

“Yeah,” his girlfriend nodded. “Some Hispanic kids gave it to us in the subway that night. So now it’s at our apartment.”

“My goodness,” I grinned. “You have to chronicle its further adventures.”

“Well, I think its high times have passed,” Boymeat said. “It’s retired now.”

“Do give it our love,” I smiled. “Now, anyway, some of you old timers will recall that we used to play porn at the orgies.”

“Yeah, what happened to the porn?” Thomas asked. He looked at Jake. “I loved the porn.”

“Well, everyone loved the porn,” I said. “And that was the problem. I kept finding groups of naked people sitting around watching the screens.”

“Tsk. You should be making your own porn,” Lolita admonished.

“My sentiments exactly,” I said. “So tonight, I am showing porn. But I warn you, if it kills the sex, I’m turning it off. In fact, to facilitate our usual level of activity, I suggest we watch it nude.”

Lolita pulled off her t-shirt. “Let’s go,” she smiled.

I pulled off my shirt. “Friends? To the bedroom.”

I hit “play” as everyone undressed.

A bass note hit as Simone cruised the city streets.

“God, I love porn music!” Wendy cried.

“You know, Dacia got her brother to compose the music,” I said.

“That’s fucking hot,” Avah said.

“The family that porns together . . .” Callie added.

“Do you mind if I stay to . . . watch?” Simone asked a couple as they fucked.

“Do you mind if I stay to . . . fuck?” I asked Avah. I picked up a condom as she spread her legs and grinned.

“Tucker, you need to concentrate,” Trixie whined. “Sex can be so much more intense if your chakras are aligned.”

“Get on the bed,” Jake ordered Callie.

“On my back or stomach?” Callie asked.

“Who the fuck cares?” Jake shrugged.

“I’m just going to shower,” Tucker said as he passed a nude man shaving at a sink.

“Cool,” the man said.

“You,” I pointed to my gay friend. “C’mere.”

He crossed the room and stood beside me. I pulled out of Avah.

“This is my friend, Colin,” I said to her, tearing off my condom. “He’s going to fuck you now.”

“Hey, Colin,” Avah smiled.

“It was just so . . . unprofessional,” Simone said quietly. “I shouldn’t have given in.”

“Hey, Callie,” I whispered, fucking her.

“Yeah?” she whispered.

“Check out the cute muscle boy.”

“Yeah, he’s hot.”

I kissed her. “Want to trade his cock?”

“Hmmm,” she nodded.

I stood, keeping my dick in Callie. “Hey Fred, c’mere.”

Fred walked over from side of the room, where he had been leaning against a wall. “Me?”

“Yeah,” I smiled. I took his cock in my hand. “Mind if we blow you a bit?”

“Uh . . . no,” he said, putting his hands on his waist.

“Awesome.” I took his cock in my mouth and fucked Callie with renewed vigor.

After a bit, I passed his cock to her mouth.

He caught my eye. “Fuck, bro.”

I winked as I moved in and out of Callie. “One fantasy, down.”

“Hmmmm,” Simone sighed. “I’d really like to get my cock in that ass.”

“I have some lube over here,” Josh offered. “And a harness for you.”

“Hey, where’s Josh?” Avah asked.

“Yeah, wasn’t he supposed to be here tonight?” Callie asked.

“He was,” I answered. “Along with his wife, whom I’ve never fucked . . . uh, met. I guess they are not coming tonight.”

“Oh shit, I’m coming,” Josh said.

“Come on me,” Simone moaned.

“Oh, God,” Wendy sighed.

“Unh, take it,” I whispered.

Wendy trembled. Her body shook under me. “God . . . unh, God damn it . . .”

“Take it . . . ” I said.

“Unh, ooh . . .” Wendy’s body went still as she stopped breathing. For a moment, she was absent. “Unh, oh shit . . . fuck!”

“Yeah, yeah,” I laughed into her mouth.

“God damn it, unh!”

“Go, go,” I said, pulling her hair.

“Fuck me!”

“I am, I am.”

I felt Wendy splashing on my cock. She bucked and twisted, and then went limp under me.

She looked up at me. “Fuck, man.”

“No shit,” I smiled.

“While you were having your fun,” Thomas said, “The porn ended.”

I looked back at the blue screen on my television.

“Yeah,” I kissed Wendy. “The porn ended.”

Dacia elbowed me. “That’s Mister Marcus.”

I looked at the screen. The denouement of Afrodite Superstar played out. “That’s one fine wall of man.”

She nodded. “No shit. I met him at AVN. He was so mellow. ‘Hey, how’s it going.’ I should’ve fucked him.”

“You’ve thought of this?” Simone asked.

“Yeah, I’ve thought of this so much . . .” Mister Marcus said, his voice low and sexed. He reached for a condom.

“Yeah,” I nodded, low and Barry White. “Magnum.”

Dacia laughed. “Sweet.”

Blue Balloon

It was the end of the line for me.

I couldn’t complain. Life is fleeting for my kind, and I had enjoyed a pretty good run. Still, I hadn’t imagined that I would meet such a grisly fate.

I was moments from being crushed by the next downtown local.

That’s when he found me.

“Oh my God, where did you get that balloon?” Avah laughed.

Jefferson tugged on my ribbon. “It was hiding behind a post. Can I keep it? Can I keep it? Pleeease?”

“Only if you take care of it,” Avah smiled. “Balloons are a big responsibility, you know.”

“Oh, I know,” Jefferson nodded. He poked me. “You’re my new best friend, blue balloon. And I’m taking you on an adventure.”

The train that had been destined to destroy me sped into the station. It did not splatter me into blue confetti and a wisp of helium; instead, it took me, intact, along with my new protectors, to my very first concert.

I heard that it was Avah’s second.

“It’s going to be very hard to be the hottest people here tonight,” Jefferson said. “I mean, look at this crowd.”

“Don’t worry, baby,” Avah replied, patting his hand. “We’re very hot.”

I scanned the concert hall. Apparently, I was the only balloon in attendance. That might have made me feel conspicuous and uncomfortable, but instead, I felt rather unique.

“I think I’m in the minority,” Avah noted. “Being a girl.”

“Maybe,” Jefferson agreed. “But you remain in the majority by virtue of being a cocksucker.”

The lights went down and Jefferson tucked me under his seat. I felt as cozy as an egg waiting to hatch.

My skin began to shake to unpleasant loud thumps.

“What do you think?” Avah shouted.

“I think it is the worst opening act I’ve ever seen, bar none,” Jefferson shouted back.

A loud voice slurred that the act was from Kingston, Ohio. “Let me amend that,” Jefferson added. “This is also the worst band I’ve ever seen from Kingston, Ohio. Tonight, at a gay club in Kingston, someone is asking someone else, ‘Hey, where are those two annoying faggots? You know, the really fucked up ones with no talent?’”

The lights came back on.

An hour and a half passed.

Of course, I can’t tell time—I’m a balloon, not a clock. I know how much time passed because Avah kept asking, “Is it supposed to take so long before the real band comes on?”

Finally, the lights dimmed again. Everyone stood and cheered. Jefferson tucked me between his knees so that I wouldn't float away.

Suddenly, my skin began to vibrate. My helium began to throb. What was happening to me?

“God, I’m so excited!” Avah said, squeezing Jefferson. “The Scissor Sisters!”

“Awesome fabulous,” Jefferson nodded.

Scissors? Balloons dread scissors. When they cut my ribbon, I thought I was going to pop dead.

But this sensation was like nothing else. If I had exploded on the spot, I would have evaporated a happy balloon.

I bounced contentedly between Jefferson’s knees.



At one point Avah shouted that Jefferson was filthy, and contended that she, Avah, was gorgeous. The roar of the crowd stretched my skin.

“C’mere, blue balloon,” Jefferson said. “I want you to see something.”

He held my ribbon so that I was level with his eyes. I blinked as bright lights shone through me, turning my blue to greens and violets.

And then, I saw them. Projected over the stage, as large as a movie screen—two bouncing pink balloons. The balloons shook and shimmied, back and forth, as I had never imagined balloons might do.

I wriggled open my knot, just a little, to let out a whistle. It was that exciting!

After the concert, I was led back onto a subway, once again thwarting death.

We emerged in lower Manhattan. My helium contracted in the cold night air.

My innards relaxed as we entered a place called the Pussycat Lounge.

I blinked as once again, lights filled me.

Jefferson and Avah pulled me through a crowd. At a table, they met Simon Valentino, a beautiful porn actress who was signing copies of her new movie, The Bi Apple.

I gathered this was a party for the movie, directed by Jefferson’s friend Audacia Ray. It’s about an apartment in New York City where people meet for bisexual orgies.

Pretty improbable scenario, if you ask me. Still, balloons have an affinity for apples, so I kept an open mind.

Jefferson seemed to know a lot of people. A handsome man named Mmmark let Jefferson sip from his cup of bourbon. A beautiful woman named Les admired his leather motorcycle jacket.

Another fellow, Thomas, said it looked like Jefferson had picked up his jacket in the nineteen seventies.

“Near enough,” Jefferson nodded.

“You should’ve left it there,” Thomas said.

“Thanks for the consult, Mary,” Jefferson replied. “By the way, you’re sporting a nice jacket. They carry Miami Vice in boys’ sizes?”

I was floating pretty high by this point, so some things got lost in the din. But I was drawn back when Lolita approached Jefferson.

“Have you ever played with electricity?” she asked.

Jefferson gripped my ribbon. “Uh, no,” he stammered.

“I’d like to put an njoy plug up your ass, wire it to a connector on your cock, and shock you,” she grinned. “You’d do that, right?”

Avah clapped. “You should totally do that,” she giggled.

“See?” Lolita said. “Avah’s on my side.”

“You want to fry my cock? How about . . . well, can we just wait and see about that?”

Lolita turned to Avah. “He’ll do it. You can watch.”

“Oh, goodie!” Avah smiled.

A crowd of people pushed toward a stage, where two naked women were licking each other’s bodies. I floated up for a better view.



Pretty soon, Audacia Ray joined the performers. She was accompanied by a woman with a spiky Mohawk. Spikes scare me, so I was especially concerned when I saw so many pink balloons bouncing on stage. What if they should burst?!

Evidently, though, those balloons were made of sturdy stuff. The spikes poked and prodded, but the balloons only bounced all the more.

I squeaked with joy.

Soon, we were back on another subway, joined by a group of people from the Pussycat Lounge. When we emerged into the cold again, Jefferson looked around and smiled.

“Two weeks ago, I was in Paris watching Rufus Wainwright sing Judy Garland. Tonight, I saw the Scissor Sisters, went to a bi porn release party in titty bar, and now I’m on Christopher Street after midnight. Man oh man, am I queer or what?”

“Yes baby, you’re queer, all right,” Avah smiled.

“Oh, it’s not like it used to be around here,” Selina said, looking wistfully at the Duplex. “Too many yuppies now.”

Several tables were pushed together at a restaurant. Jefferson tied me to his chair so that I could survey the room.

The waiter was round, like me. He seemed to enjoy having so many people talking about sex at his restaurant. He tried to participate, though he felt a little awkward about it.

“This man offered me his telephone number,” he complained to Boymeat. “But I’m not gay.”

“You should keep an open mind,” Boymeat suggested.

“ . . . but we’ll keep the man’s number,” Jefferson added.

Later, the waiter brought Jefferson some mustard and added, as an unordered side, that he had recently had sex with a teenage Swedish tourist. “It was so hot,” the waiter noted.

“I’ve seen old porn films like that,” Jefferson nodded. “Actually, I think ‘Teenage Swedish Tourist’ was one of the titles.”

When the waiter left, Boymeat turned to Jefferson. “He needs us. We should totally . . .”

“Yes,” Jefferson agreed. “We totally should.”

“So, did you read my fantasy about Jefferson in chains?” Lolita asked Avah.

“Yeah, that’s a nice one.”

Lolita nodded. “Yeah, and he’s already said he would do it.”

“Wait,” Jefferson interrupted. “What am I doing?”

“I’m telling Avah how I’m going to put you in cut-off Daisy Duke shorts.”

“Yeah, I think you mentioned that. But what’s this about chains?”

Lolita smiled. “It’s a new inspiration. I want to do you up like Christina Ricci in Black Snake Moan.”

“I don’t remember agreeing to chains.”

“Oh, you should totally do that,” Avah laughed.

“See?” Lolita pointed. “Avah’s on my side. You have to do it.”

“What I have to do is keep you two separated,” Jefferson sighed. He changed the subject by asking a man across the table about toys that go up people’s asses.

I had certainly been rescued by an interesting group.

Outside, the crowd said goodbyes. Some were looking for cabs, others were headed to the subway.

Jefferson was too cold to linger. He took Avah’s arm in his, held my ribbon and walked quickly down Christopher Street.

A train was coming into the station as we cleared the turnstiles.

“Should we wait on the others?” Avah asked.

“It’s after three in the morning and they are dawdling, so no, let’s go,” Jefferson replied. “Quick, get on the train.”

A chime sounded. Jefferson held me close.

“Blue balloon, I need you to wait here. Tell our friends we went ahead.” He held my ribbon outside the closing doors. “Thank you for a lovely night.”

Suddenly, a hand took me from Jefferson.

“Hey, thanks man,” a young man laughed. “Yo, check it out,” he called to his friends. “That guy just gave me a balloon.”

I looked back. The doors had closed and the train began to leave the station.

Through a wiindow, I saw Jefferson kiss Avah as my new protector tugged me away.