A Certain Age

Yesterday was my forty-sixth birthday. I had a great, great day with my family. I’m told to expect a great, great week with friends, loaded with surprises.

Now and then, in my content present and optimistic future, I reflect on how it happens there are so many ways one’s past can come back to haunt. Especially when one reaches what is politely referred to as a certain age.

My vanilla Facebook is a good example of that. Like most people new to a social networking site, I was initially struck by the accumulation of resurfaced contacts from people representing various stages of my life. My every update is read by my parents, brothers, sisters-in-law, nieces and nephews; my first kiss, first love, first child, first boss; classmates from middle school, high school, college, graduate school; colleagues and competitors from every job I’ve ever held.

The other day, someone wrote to me, responding to a photograph I had posted from my participation in Improv Everywhere’s No Pants Subway Ride. I replied:

Wow, howdy! Funny that after all this time, you catch me with my trousers down.

She answered:

Especially when perhaps the last time I saw you I woke up in your bed with more than your trousers down . . . remember???

I didn’t remember. Not at all. Given the friends we knew in common, I surmised it would’ve been twenty years or more since we last met. I honestly didn’t recognize her name, which confounded me all the more. It was an unusual name. I looked at her photographs. She was very pretty.

Slutty as I was as a teenager, I wasn’t one to forget a girlfriend, let alone a very pretty one with an unusual name. Her claim was vague but suggestive. Had we had sex? Had we dated? Had I done something that somehow stuck in her mind? I cautiously replied.

Oh dear: tales of my slutty past trailing me to my slutty present.

We don't have any children I don't know about, do we?

She set my mind at ease.

Ha ha! No children. Basically some of us were hanging out in your apartment. I got tired and went to take a nap on your bed. Nobody bothered to wake me when they left, and I woke up around four in the morning to find myself next to a naked you. I thought: WTF! It was I who was worried about what I'd done in some altered state. You explained that that was how you always slept, and that you were the one who was due an explanation!

That put the mystery to rest. I now recalled our acquaintance and we were cool. According to her profile, she’s still close with many of our mutual friends and still an artist. She’s raising her kids as musicians. She’s still the cutest of buttons.

I assume we’ll stay in touch, flirtatiously, as we parent and live our lives, states apart. It’s been a million years since she napped on my bed and woke up with me, naked and unfamiliar, but, apparently, memorable.

Given how my life is now, I’m glad that, even then, I had the presence of mind to assert: if you wake up in my bed, honey, you wake up with me as I am. Tell me your story.

Fleshbot and Lost References

This week’s Sex Blog Roundup at Fleshbot does all the things that you’d never, ever do. Not in a million yea . . . oh, you did? Really?

Those of you who enjoy stalking me will find Eden delivering some unsettling news, Jocasta hankering for a threesome that hasn’t happened—at least, not yet—and Lynsey writing poems in which I don’t kill her—at least, not yet.

With the acquisition of a new computer a few months ago, I gained the capability to burn CDs. This lead me to begin learning to use iTunes. Yes, finally—like the survivors of Flight Eight-Fifteen I’m stuck in two thousand four. (Stuck in time . . . or are they?) Madeline pushed me along by giving me Senuti, which allows me to upload music from iPods.

I’ve let my friends know that I’m building my music library and they are stopping by to plug in their tunes. (Join the fun! Come over with your iPod. You can suck my dick as I rip your music.)

Now, one thing that’s cool about having friends and lovers in a wide range of ages is that I’m exposed to all kinds of music. That’s often reciprocal; for example, Cody turned me on to Eisley, and I introduced her to Carole King. My multigenerational friendships, and the fact that I’m a parent, make me wicked wise in pop culture references. It’s not everyone who can sing along to Grand Funk Railroad, Vampire Weekend and Hannah Montana.

When it comes to age, I’m the middle child. I pedal after the big kids, but I still enjoy the sand box.

Unfortunately, this breadth of pop culture trivia doesn’t always translate with the younger people in my life. I recently saw a funny mash up of ”Gilligan’s Island” and “Lost” and suggested that my son Jason take a look. “What’s ‘Gilligan’s Island?’” he asked. I realized that my boy probably couldn’t pick Mary Tyler Moore out of a line up.

A girlfriend was showing me photos of her friends on Facebook and pointed to a picture of a girl in front of a poster. “This is Heather in front of a totally random picture of some space alien.”

I looked closer. “Honey, that’s Miles Davis.”

“Huh,” she said. “I never knew what he looked like.”

Recently, two women came over for a threesome. We were having dinner preliminary to getting naked, as you do, and two of us were trying to describe a mutual friend to the third, who hadn’t met him.

“He’s pretty buff,” I said, “And cute, in a Penny Marshall kind of way.”

They looked at me blankly. “Who’s that?” one asked.

“Penny Marshall. Laverne.” Nothing. “‘Laverne and Shirley?’ Cursive L sweaters? Directed the movie about women playing baseball?”

The other touched my hand. “You’re showing your age, Jefferson.”

I guess that’s why I was gladdened when Lynsey mentioned that she had read a Dick Cavett piece on Bobby Fisher in today’s Times. Like, dude, I know who those guys are, too! Maybe we can discuss it the next time we’re listening to Mott the Hoople or playing Mass Effect.

Still, now and then, there’s an unexpected connection. The other day I came across Jason playing a game on the new computer. I heard a sound that pinged in the remnants of my long-term memory.

“Dude,” I asked. “Are you playing Pong?”

He moved the mouse to stop a volley. “Yeah!” he cheered facetiously. “Pong is only like the bestest game, ev-errr.”

“Totally, man,” I agreed. “Meet me in the den circa nineteen seventy-eight and I’ll deliver your butt kicking.”

Jason held up a hand. We high-fived.

Fleshbot and Smug

This week’s Sex Blog Roundup at Fleshbot takes a deep breath and goes for broke, consequences be damned. You may wake up with regrets, but for now, your id is in the driver’s seat.

Those of you who enjoy stalking me will find me bedding sticks, standing up to stubborn holes, and overhearing comments made behind my back.

Among the resolutions listed by Lynsey is a threesome with me and another bi boy. Any takers? Or do drawn sticks draw straws?

Eden ponders the ways that sex can impact our lives while she fucks my ass and holds my hand.

Janie finally joins the cool kids who get their bungholes plugged in one of the funniest devirginities I’ve read.

Joy perpetuates legends of our circle, praising my fingers and the famed blowjobs of Avah and Wendy.

Okie Ace speaks my name out loud for the first time, and Marcus is there to hear it.

Gay activist Bill Samuels takes this blog to task for purporting to illuminate “the bisexual lifestyle” when it seems primarily concerned with my relationships with women. He doubts the veracity of even these accounts—and yet, dear friends, they are all true. I might say pish-posh to some of his complaints, but I do think he’s right in one respect: other duties of late have kept me from writing as much blog smut as I would like. A superficial reading might overlook my Archives, and thus miss all the fine cocksucking, ass-fucking, male orgies and adolescent longing recounted within. Not that I owe apologies for not being satisfactorily queer in my bedroom, but I do regret that reviewers looking for queer content in my blog may need to actually read the blog to find it.

And what have I been busy with, you ask? I’ll tell you soon, just not yet.

For now—let’s visit the countdown from forty-five!



Thanks to Molly for creating a graphic for my Jack U Off project.

My goal of getting off forty-five people this month is off to a rollicking good start, with some folks already made happy even as others ready for their money shots. If you’d like to be among the forty-five, drop me a line to let me know how I can help to get you off.

Here are a few reports of progress to date.

Flogs and the Aging

A grey-bearded gent lamented that the medicines that keep him healthy have robbed him of his erection. Yet he perseveres and has discovered that while his orgasm may be retired, his sexuality has taken new turns. He has realized that his long attraction to giving pleasure extends to men as well as women, and he has been drawn to new physical sensations, such as deep tissue massages.

I had him over for a live sex show with Avah. As he described new turns in his sex life, I turned to her. “Flogging.”

“Yes,” she nodded.

He looked confused. “What’s that?”

I retrieved a flogger and explained how its thud impact on certain muscle groups can be compared to a deep massage. We talked about how Avah and I have integrated flogging and BDSM into sex. Lights flashed in his mind. We offered to demonstrate after he watched us fuck.

An hour or so of sex later, I beat Avah as he observed, rapt. Afterwards, she and I lay wrapped in each other’s limbs as he interviewed her about her sensations.

After we said our goodbyes, I walked him to the door. “I’m going to think about flogging,” he said.

I kissed his beard. “Whenever you’re ready,” I smiled.

Ladykiller

A bi-curious woman contacted me to talk about her growing desire to be with other women. At first, we spoke in general ways about first steps into bisexuality. Gradually, it dawned on me that she may have hoped that I would help to arrange her first experiences. She was glad I offered. And then, just like that, she branched out on her own, finding other bisexual women. One date led to another, and then another.

“Look at you,” I said. “You’re quite the ladykiller!”

She replied with a sexy photograph of herself imitating James Bond, shooting the camera with her fingers.

A beautiful woman doesn’t need my help in finding other beautiful women, but still, she had a place for me in her new life. She needed someone to share all this with, someone who could help her to process things. She didn’t feel she could go to her husband with this; their sex life was routine and besides, this was her own. And so she took me as a lover. We talk, have sex, and commiserate about marriage, parenting and the women she’s meeting.

Thwarted Kiss

A woman with a wicked sense of humor told me that she intended to kiss a pervert, and that pervert was me. Apparently, she had heard the rumor that I’m a passable kisser and an easy mark. If it got her off, I said, I’m game for a kiss. She replied by sending me a photograph of her pussy. Well, well, thought I.

Our date was scuttled, however, when her husband discovered our correspondence. He was understandably angry to learn that his wife was flirting with a pervert. They talked, and she opened up to him. She wasn’t satisfied, she explained. They had allowed the routines of life to interfere with their sexual relationship, and she missed being with him. He agreed—they needed to renew the passion that brought them together.

“Remember that pussy?” she later told me. “It’s sore. We can’t stop fucking. And it’s thanks to your blog and our notes. So . . . thanks!”

I smiled at that. With her consent, I added both husband and wife to the people I got off this month. And look at that, I didn’t have to do a thing.

Prejudice

My previous post about a college freshman engendered predictable judgments concerning vulnerable girls and predatory men. Never mind that the date was reported by the woman who fell victim to my . . . doing as she wanted. It can be a mighty bother when the victimized decline to be victims, though such bothers scarcely give hesitation to those intent on donning wigs and robes.

Sex and sexuality are routinely judged by absolutes, whether the judge is identified by clerical vestments, Tantric chants, gay activism or any rubric that posits a right or wrong that denies the value of lived experience.

If you are looking for a direction in this “Jack U Off” project, you’ll find it right there in the name. See, it centers on U.

When I consider a sex partner, I rarely dismiss someone out of hand based on bias. No consenting adult is too young, too old, too fat, too thin, too married, too inexperienced, too straight, too distant or too whatever to be taken at face value. I strive to take people as they are and to understand their circumstances.

I have little patience for views hemmed in by certainty and absolutism. If I did, I suppose I would send away the young woman who wants experience, the married woman who craves a lover and friend, or the older man whose sexuality is newly in flux. I would sign on for prevailing notions that young women are hapless, adultery is always wrong, and aging sexuality is unseemly.

But life, it seems, prepared me to act differently.

I spent most of my adult life locked into a contract to live as one is supposed to live. I took on the mantle of monogamy and marriage, and in return, I lived an essentially celibate existence knowing that should I break the standard rules, the state would side with my wife in claiming me a villain. That contract was ultimately rendered null and void on my wife’s whim, and there was little to be done but to accept the inevitable destruction of the marriage we had built up over fifteen years. I played fairly and lost to unfair circumstances, but them’s the breaks in the marriage game.

Now, I am suspicious of absolutes in sexuality. Better to embrace the ambiguity of reality and to apprehend the world as it is, rather than to take refuge in the certainty of smug prejudice.

Fleshbot and Passing Time

This week’s Sex Blog Roundup at Fleshbot plays peek-a-boo with sex bloggers who enjoy the unexpected. I would give you the lineup, but why ruin the surprise?

Those of you who enjoy stalking me will find my debut at Dominatrix Next Door. When Calico found me feeling shy at her first orgy, she came up with a solution—she put my dick in her. She showed similar ingenuity at a subsequent orgy in fending off the advances of a male model—she put my dick in him.

She’s a real problem solver, this one.

Elsewhere at the orgy, Adam and Emma had their plans for a quiet night foiled by the meeting of a lovely couple who simply insisted on being awesome.

Meanwhile, the somewhat shy and retiring Lily found a somewhat shy and retiring boy at the orgy and made a private date for another time. There, she learned his real name, met his pussy and saw his panties.

Speaking of alter egos, the footstool formerly known as Deidre has adopted a new name, Eden, and started her own sex blog. Visit her in The Garden; tell her Jefferson sent you.

Also let her know that my boots require lacing.

Speaking of surprises, I had an unpleasant one when my laptop died recently, taking with it every photograph I have made in the past year. Goodbye to Verdad’s cum shot screen test, farewell to the pinups of Nicole and Anna Smash, and sayanora to the smirk on Madeline’s face after a bukkake party.

Models to places, please. We need to reshoot.

I tend to follow the philosophy of Eeyore when things go wrong—things just go wrong, they always do—and turn my pinned-on tail to the whole mess. It’s technology. It’s supposed to screw up. I’ll learn my lesson (I know, Viviane, I know: back up!), acquire a new laptop, and await the next catastrophe.

I’ll just have to ask my friends to keep getting naked for my camera.

What I do regret most, though, is the loss of the pictures I made of my children. I’ll take more photographs of them, of course, but I can’t ask Jason to restage his first dives head first into a lake, or beg Collie to sing once more at his fourth-grade graduation, or entreat Lillie to remove the grown-up teeth she waited so long to grow.

For those moments, I’ll have to rely on my memory.

But this week, I found my memory shaken by the arrival of pictures from my Mom. She was going through some files on her computer and dug up pictures from seven summers ago Down South.

There was twelve-year-old Rachel, smiling with her still-crooked teeth, long before the braces she was wearing when she met her husband-to-be. There was six-year-old Jason, grinning as he held a basketball over his head, his eyebrows tucked behind his bangs. And there was three-year-old Collie, holding a ball and smiling with all the teeth he possessed, wearing tiny Baby Gap clothes I know I must still have someplace.

No pictures of Lillie, as she was deemed too young to travel that year by her mother, who clung to that as her own excuse to avoid a visit with my family.

I thanked Mom for the photographs. They made me smile in that panged, bittersweet way.

It’s bad enough that I miss my kids this week, as they vacation with their mother.

Now I find myself missing the kids in these photographs, the children they once were, and will never be again.

When my teenaged daughter announced her intentions to marry this summer, my friends elbowed me and teased, “Bet that makes you feel old, huh?”

“Not at all,” I said. “She’s marrying very young! That’s no reflection on my advancing years.”

But these photographs make me feel old. They make me feel the passing of time. I want to grab up those little babies I once knew, once more.

Ah, well. I’m sure to be a grandfather before you know it.