Blogoversary

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.

Illegal Grill

“That’s too funny,” Sandra said. She lifted her wine glass. “Her ‘expensive face.’ That’s too much!” She sipped cabernet.

“That face must be worth a fortune, serious money,” I nodded, chewing steak. “The ring tone was the killer for me. I mean, there I was.” I put down my fork and knife and grabbed two fistfuls of air. “I was fucking and fucking this woman, she’s looking up at me and saying, ‘I sink you don’t like me so mush,’ and then, suddenly, the air is filled by ‘The Ride of the Valkyries!’” Sandra sputtered and reached for her napkin. “It was like Apocalypse Now! Only I’m napalming her with overwhelming force and she's simply shrugging it off.” I grinned and reached for my wine.

“It’s so funny that that’s the ring tone she picked for her husband. Pretty foreboding!” Sandra took a bite of salad. “So tell me, do you often hook up with married women?”

“I love this wine,” I hummed. “Nice choice.” Sandra smiled. “Um, well, married women and men, because, remember, that’s also an option. I don’t really seek it out or anything, but it happens now and then. I mean, married men are always looking for bisexual fellows, it seems, so that’s a niche. Married women, sure, that happens pretty frequently. I guess because it’s clear that I’m not looking for a wife myself, so I’m a relatively easy side dish.” I cut into steak, thinking. “Well, I also get with married couples, but I take you to mean cheating spouses.”

“I was referring to that, yes.”

I swallowed. “Great, great steak. Perfect. Well, I suppose I have a lot of sympathy for people who are in sexually unsatisfying marriages, having been there myself. I think we have to be real that wedding rings don’t control our desires, else monogamy is simply a trap.” I reached for my bourbon. “Monogamy is gorgeous when it works, but when it doesn’t . . . “ I took a sip and shuddered.

“But don’t you think,” Sandra leaned over the table, intent, “That instead of cheating, people could just, you know, be honest about that?”

“Yeah, of course, but please. That’s hard. You could sit down your spouse and say, ‘Honey, let’s try something different.’ But it’s natural that this takes more bravery than most people can muster. Especially if they feel they already know the answer. It’s easy to assume that it’s better to cheat than cause strife within the marriage. I suppose.” I skewered my roasted potatoes. “I suppose I have a lot of respect for the coward’s way out. At least it’s a way out.”

“Do you ever feel bad about being ‘the other woman?’” Sandra asked, laughing softly.

“Me? Nah. That’s really an issue between a husband and wife. I’m not the one cheating, I’m just the vehicle for cheating. But like I said, I have sympathy in many cases. I mean, being a faithful husband apparently got me nothing but fifteen years without a blowjob.”

Sandra laughed. “I can’t imagine you going fifteen days without a blowjob, much less fifteen years.”

“Perish the thought,” I said, reaching for the wine bottle. “Fifteen minutes, maybe; beyond that, I get the shakes. But you’re still seeing that married man, right? How’s that going?” I poured wine into Sandra’s glass, refilled my own, and settled back to hear about her affairs.

Sandra comes and goes in my life as she chooses; so far as I’m concerned, she has a lifetime pass. She first showed up in my life having read my blog, recently divorced and looking for some fun. She told me that being a “corporate chick” had made her boring, but if so, I couldn’t see it. She had an easy charm and a lilting drawl that could make an annual report sound flirtatious. We both grew up in the South, in the same years. A former lifetime of iced tea and “yes ma’am” gave us the lingua franca that makes instant let-me-hug-your-neck friends of ex pat Southerners in New York.

During our first conversation over bourbon, I could imagine Sandra as a popular blond cheerleader in high school, her boyfriend a good-looking linebacker. We would meet as equals in the classroom, two of the smart kids, her taking care to be bright without seeming competitive, as Southern girls once did, me developing a crush, wishing she would let her brain shine, wishing she would notice me in some way other than the inevitable recognition that I was too nice to date. In high school, I would’ve been told I was so sweet, and I love you, but not in that way, so let’s just be friends, okay?

Now, as grown ups, we sat on my couch, drinking and talking, both anticipating the first kiss that would certainly lead to my bedroom. Breathing the contented air of Sandra’s adulthood, I didn’t regret a single missed kiss, furtively stolen behind the bleachers. We had found each other at the right time.

She declined to sleep over after we had sex, saying she needed to be ready for work the next morning, and she preferred to leave from her apartment. I could imagine her place as well ordered and reflecting a lifetime of acquiring only what she needed. This proved to be true when I visited her. She apologized for living in a dump—it was a nice Upper East Side apartment with a small patio in back—but it was only temporary, she told me, while her own place was being renovated.

As we fucked on her large bed, she asked if I would mind if she did something a little nasty. I acceded. Sandra climbed off me to dig in a nightstand drawer, retrieving a dildo. “Thanks for not minding this,” she smiled shyly. “It really gets me off.” She lowered herself onto my cock and, after a few moments of kissing and grinding into me, she groaned into my mouth as the dildo entered her ass.

“Here, let me help,” I offered, reaching to hold the dildo in place. “You just cum for me. Can you do that?” She nodded, her hair shaking in my face. Soon, she had done as I asked.

“Well, that was intense,” she gasped.

“Honey, we need to do a few things together,” I smiled. “You game?”

She laughed. “Well, I’m a big girl. What do you have in mind?”

I put a finger to her lip. “Let’s talk about that after I fuck your ass.”

As I left her place that evening, an itinerary was already take shape in my mind.

When I invited her over for sex with a few of my men, she brought a bottle of wine. I thought that was rather classy. The boys were charmed and she enjoyed the admiring attention.

I knew a secret of Sandra’s body. Her first orgasm comes more readily than those that follow. After our times together, I knew where to find them all. As I fucked her before passing her to other men, I whispered, “I’m getting you off.”

“Don’t,” she whispered back. But it was too late. It was already happening. As she caught her breath, she looked at me crossly. “That’s just too easy for you.”

“I know, I’m a bastard.” I smiled, pulled back and looked around. “All yours, boys.”

She had never been with a woman, so I set up a threesome with a friend who was, as it happened, also a Southerner. The two had even been in the same sorority, albeit at different colleges and in different decades. Sandra brought Chardonnay. “That’s one lovely lady,” my friend admired as Sandra tasted her body.

After her place was renovated, she invited me over for a steak dinner. “I have an illegal grill on my terrace,” she confessed. “I could get in trouble, but I know it’s safe. I flirt with the firefighters down the street and I had one of them check it out.”

“The power of positive flirting,” I admired.

I had been late arriving, which she pointed out politely. “Thanks to you, I’ve already opened the wine,” she admonished. “So you’ll have to drink your cocktail alone.”

I kissed her cheek. “I am ashamed to impinge upon your hospitality. Forgive me?”

She frowned. “We’ll see. You may have to forgive me if I do anything untoward, having overserved myself.”

“’Overserved!’” I laughed. “That’s now my favorite Southernism.”

“Don’t try charm on me.” She wagged a finger. “Consider buying a watch.”

She served me a bourbon, poured herself another glass of wine, and we repaired to her terrace. We talked as she grilled, and gradually, I was forgiven.

She was in good spirits as we finished dinner, talking about the two men she most frequently dated—the married man, and one other who lived some distance away.

“I may break it off with the married man,” she mused. “I really prefer my long-distance lover, and after all, this guy is married, so . . .” Her voice trailed as she reached for her wine. “One thing I’ve wanted to ask you: do you think you’ll ever remarry?”

I sipped. “Dunno. How about you?”

“No, now, you answer me. I asked the question. Be serious.”

I shook the ice in my glass. “I never say ‘never,’ but you know, I was married for a long time. Marrying now would be complicated, as it would involve my children, and really, I’m not looking for a new stepmother for my kids. I do know that if I remarried, it would be different. I’d get married as an adult, because I wanted to, not because I am young and that is what one does. I can imagine something when I’m older, something companionate, sensual and warm. And sometimes I imagine starting another family, when my kids are older. It could be a joy to raise kids in a loving marriage. But no, I don’t really think about that much.”

I looked up to see Sandra looking at me intently. “You know what I think?”

“Tell me.” I lifted my bourbon. “What do you think?”

A slight smile crossed her lips. “I think you’re going to marry Madeline.”

“Yeah, we hear that now and then.” I sipped.

“The way you both write . . .” Sandra swirled her glass, looking through wine at a candle. “It’s just so romantic.”

“Thanks.” I let the thought linger in the red glow of her face.

Sandra watched the flame for a moment before looking up from her reverie. “I’m sorry, that was a little rude of me,” she apologized. “It’s just that, with you and the things we talk about, I have a hard time remembering that some things are personal.”

I smiled. “That’s fine. And I appreciate that you understand the distinction.”

She sat back. “Are you ready for dessert? I’ve got a really nice pie.”

“Let’s save that for now. I’ve got another dessert in mind.” I stood. “Here, let’s clear the dishes and reconvene at the couch.”

With candles burning, the lamp low and fresh drinks ignored on the coffee table, I took Sandra in my arms. Her body pressed against me as I kissed her hair, drawing deep scents as my heart accelerated. Her heart picked up my pace and she turned to kiss me. My neck craned as my mouth responded. She lifted onto her knees, hungrily moving into my mouth. I gave back with equal ardor. “Oh, Sandra,” I breathed. “You really do make out so beautifully.”

“Kissing is my favorite thing,” she spoke into my mouth, taking me back. We may have missed our high school kisses, but now we brought to one another a lifetime of kissing others to make this new kiss, singularly ours and in our moment.

I stayed over that night.

Fleshbot and First Dates

This week’s Sex Blog Roundup at Fleshbot stretches back for one last long summer weekend. Before we’re too fully buttoned up in back-to-school clothes, let’s wiggle our toes in the grass once more and let the sun shine where it soon won’t.

Those of you who enjoy stalking me will find that Wendy gets the warm spot in a post-coital shower that goes unexpectedly golden.

Unlikely as it seems, Lily also forgoes potty training to emerge as the dark horse candidate for Orgy Ass Queen.

Cody discovers that even the most anal retentive perverts can’t hide all the evidence as her barely legal cousin takes a self-guided tour of my bedroom. She’s a little more sly in sneaking in some tender moments behind her cousin’s back, until the inevitable “ew” of discovery.

On the sweet side, Bridget reflects on her lover previous to me, and ponders her year with the only lover she wanted after me.

Educating Erica finds she has more time to blog now that her man Levi is away—unfortunately, there’s less sex to blog, what with the man being absent and all. And so she busies herself by sending me sexy self-portraits to share with you.



For the record, Erica and I aren’t having sex—yet.

Meanwhile, on the clarifying edge of self-identification, Eileen comes out in my class on male bisexuality.

Speaking of clarification, a number of readers have noted that I’ve lately met many new people. That’s true if you judge by my blog; since April, my posts have dealt primarily with first dates.

This was true of stories concerning Fawn, Gina, Eden, Cody, Leah, Lily, Areum, Jacob and Carlos.

Now, if you are a devoted reader of online sex, you may realize that I’ve known a few of these people for quite some time, as some have written about our relationships in their own sex blogs. But even the most erudite smut scholar would be left wondering how things have played out with the others—for that, you’ll just have to stay tuned.

Looking back on these first dates, you may have noticed a trend in how I’ve met sex partners in the past couple of years. Lily, Leah, Jacob and Carlos were first casually encountered through Craig’s List, the city’s most popular site for dates and pick ups. The others found me though my blog.

I meet people for sex through this blog and I provide the URL to anyone with whom I have an ongoing sexual relationship. These practices make me an anomaly among the sex bloggers of my acquaintance, but I find that opening my life in this way supports my desire to be transparent and honest in my sexual relationships. Certainly, those listed above have access to my blog, whether or not they choose to read it.

This involves taking some risks, not the least of which is the sacrifice of a fair measure of privacy. It can also lead to the occasional outbursts of unwanted drama, as anyone who reads my blog also has access to the linked blogs of my other friends and lovers. I have no control over what anyone else writes, nor would I want to edit or hide their disclosures. On the contrary: once I became aware that there are those who stalk me across the blogosphere, I decided to make it easy to do so by compiling a weekly roundup of my sex life as it appears in other blogs.

To me, this is a salutary reward of being out of the closet—you can’t reasonably confront me for hiding what I’ve already given you.

This openness hopefully spares me from repeating the refrain of my first dates. I am bisexual. I have multiple partners. I have no current interest in monogamy. I don’t answer to anyone in choosing my sex partners. These things are unlikely to change in the near future.

I certainly understand why these guidelines would not appeal to some people, and that’s why it’s important they be duly warned. For those who stick around, I add a caveat—don’t come crying to me if you are upset to learn, on some blog or through gossip, of something that proves I am bisexual, I have multiple partners, I am not monogamous, and I don’t answer to anyone in choosing my sex partners. All of that was covered in bold-face type at the very beginning. These things are unlikely to change in the near future.

I am always available talk about my relationships and to work on sustaining them—that is all a part of being open and honest, after all—but if that proves repetitive or unproductive, we may need to accept that this may not be a good relationship to continue.

In my pursuit of honesty and avoidance of drama, I have increasingly realized how great a role this blog plays in my sexuality. It has become a significant actor in my life. Not only do I meet sex partners because of the blog (and through them, often, other sex partners), but also, the blog keeps my contract front and center. With each post, my basic guidelines are reiterated with new evidence. The longevity of the blog—nearly three years by this point—provides a deep archive that demonstrates, over and again, that I mean what I say up front.

I am nothing if not consistent.

Now, I have two more first date stories to relate before I go off on another theme. But before I tell those stories, I’m going to meet to your kind requests for more boy smut. If I’m very clever, I may even be able to weave in some aspects of the upcoming series. Find out in the next two installments of sex with Carlos.

Also, real quick, do me a favor. I’m getting some hits from Best Male Blogs, which offers a good compilation of the minority gender in sex blogging. At this site, blogs are rated by readers. So far, I’ve had only a few ratings and some of these from haters who give low marks (please, bitch, as if). Knock me up a few notches, won’t you, and while you’re there, be sure your favorite male bloggers are also listed.

Slow

She had me at ‘hello.’

Hello Jefferson,

I found your blog through the tales of a teacher and slut (which I love). I've slowly started reading through your archives and was incredibly turned on by the posts I've read so far. I came across the post about Eden and I guess that gave me the courage to write to you, so here goes.

I recently lost my virginity. I love having sex, I love giving and receiving oral, I'm curious about anal and have no problem having orgasms when I masturbate but for some reason I haven't been able to come during sex itself. Any chance you want to meet sometime and possibly have a try? :) I'm in and out of the city this summer before moving away from the city (I'm still in heartbroken denial about leaving New York).

I'm sending a picture. I am not looking for a relationship since I'll be gone by the end of the summer, just a drama-free someone who wants to have fun and help me learn. I'm also very interested in exploring my submissive side, although I'm not sure if I'm into pain. Let me know if you might be interested, I really hope you are . . .

Areum

Apparently, the impending move away from New York had emboldened Areum.

I thanked Areum for her note and commended her taste in Meg’s blog. I also thanked her for her photograph—which was dead cute—and asked her to elaborate on her interest in submission.

My submissive side . . . there's not that much to say because I haven't really had a chance to experiment yet, it's more embryonic than fully realized.

I've been shy about expressing my desires with my previous partners because this is all pretty new to me. It's hard for me to initiate things (which is one of the reasons why I was a virgin for so long). I want someone to pin me down and tie me up and command me. I want to feel not in control. I think this side of me struggles with the (pretty big) part of me that wants to be pampered and romanced and reassured that she's beautiful. It also clashes with who I am in my public life—I'm in a position of authority within my company, and I'd rather do things my own way and get it right than delegate to someone else.

Areum had clearly given this some thought.

I learned some things about her as we corresponded. She had lost her virginity later than most, after spending her twenties in pursuit of her career and taking care of her parents and siblings. Being a good girl, she assumed she would get around to sex once her career was established and she found the right man to marry.

Now that she was leaving New York, she had decided to do some of the things she had never done in the city, such as walking across the Brooklyn Bridge, visiting Coney Island, and riding the Staten Island ferry. This same spirit of adventure led her to decide that maybe she should take a more proactive stance about sex. She took the very daring step of reaching out to me, a man she knew only though this blog.

I agreed to meet.

She was glad. She asked for my photograph.

I refused to send a photograph. She had already offered me sex and submission based on my words alone. That would have to suffice.

I also declined to reveal my real name. She was to meet me sight unseen, not knowing my actual identity.

She was excited about meeting—and anxious as hell. Hours before our date, she sent a final email.

Jefferson, I think I need to ease into things and start slow. I've never been this nervous before. Would that be okay?

I replied.

Your nervousness is understandable and welcome. I will take you at a pace that feels comfortable, but you will be mine.

Here’s her account of our date.

I walked to your apartment cradling a bottle of Woodford Reserve. I backtracked at least three times, wondering what the hell I was doing. I was meeting a strange man for sex, a man whose name I didn't know and whose picture I had never seen.

When I arrived at the lobby and called up, the phone didn't work and I nearly left right then and there. I'm not too sure what made me stay—I suspect it was the prospect of having sex with a strange man whose name I didn't know.

When you opened the door I was surprised that the author of such dissipated doings looked so normal: blond, handsome, that smile and those eyes. You gave me a soft kiss and then gently kissed me all over my face, on my cheeks, my forehead, my eyelids. That was quite lovely.

I had asked you to take it slow during our first meeting, so naturally you ordered me to take off all my clothes, close my eyes, and suck your cock within the first five minutes. I got wet immediately.

Then you ordered me to get on my hands and knees and walked me to the bedroom, where you proceeded to put a blindfold on me and fuck me and do unspeakable things to my clit with your tongue. It was my extreme nervousness that was preventing me from reaching my orgasm, but it didn't stop me from whimpering and clutching the pillow. Goodness.

"You're a good kisser," you told me later as we fucked face to face, and I told you the same while smiling around the tongue you had in my mouth.

You bit me hard, slapped me harder, until I had to tell you to stop. I'm a coward when it comes to pain.

Somewhere in the course of events you slowly stuck a finger into my ass and another into my pussy and plunged and twisted faster and faster until I thought it would actually kill me dead. I tried to set aside my frustration at not coming and just lose myself in it.

You then flipped me onto my knees and starting pushing slowly into my ass for the first time. It hurt so much—I couldn't help crying out while you stayed still and shushed me softly in my ear. But then I was undone by the feeling of you moving in and out of me.

We took a break and you told me to bring you a glass of the bourbon I had brought. After all we had done, I was suddenly irrationally shy about walking naked in front of you and I quickly came back and sat on the bed.

"What are you doing all the way over there?" you asked smiling.

I scootched over closer to the armchair you were sitting in.

"Not close enough."

You pointed to the ground beneath the chair and I nestled in between your legs with your foot in my lap. At some point I realized I had lost my right contact lens when taking off the blindfold (something that's happened several times before—losing a contact, that is, not taking off a blindfold after sex. I'm not often in the habit of doing the latter.) So I was sitting in an interesting fuzzy haze that suited the surreal situation I found myself in. When I looked at you I had to focus in so that your features popped out from the background, like those hidden 3-D pictures I used to see in the mall.

We chatted for a while and I finally asked you your name. I occasionally lapsed into quiet spells, gently buoyed by a haze of endorphins that scrambled my synapses and prevented me from speaking coherently. I hope you didn't think I was ignoring you.

As we talked I found myself liking you more and more.

At one point I looked down and realized that I was covered in shockingly bright crimson marks. My skin is extremely sensitive and never fails to make a record of any and all encroachments; I'm not even allowed to donate blood any more because of the enormous hematomas that bloom over my inner arm afterwards. So my right breast had three long parallel stripes on it, which was an odd pattern to get from your bite. Perhaps you had an extra row of teeth, like a shark? My initial shock soon transformed into a sort of fascination, and I kept glancing down at those lurid marks on my skin.

You told me to go down on you. I did for thirty minutes, the longest I have ever done by far. I'm still very new at this. You talked me through it and I soaked it all in.

You told me how I needed to be, to act, to think, in order to be truly submissive.

You grabbed my hair and pushed me down until I gagged, and then the thing I dreaded the most happened and I gagged so hard I couldn't keep it down. As I wiped you off with a washcloth I felt sick and embarrassed, but also oddly comforted by you. Why is that?

You asked me what I wanted to do with our remaining time, and I wanted to feel you on top of me again, covering me up. I think I enjoyed that the most. At one point you dragged me to the edge of the bed and lifted my legs high as you stood over me, and you felt so good in me that I had to hold my hands over my face. It's something I almost always do.

"Why are you covering your eyes?" you asked while you were thrusting into me. When I didn't reply, you asked it again.

I thought you were just telling me to take my hands away, and I didn't realize that you expected a response. I couldn't speak even if I wanted to.

"Are you taking yourself away, so you can just focus on what you are feeling?" I think I nodded. In truth I don't know why I do this. Maybe it's because I find myself overwhelmed, and it's a way to contain myself so I don't fly apart.

You leaned painfully hard on my chest as we resumed kissing. You grabbed the back of my neck hard and I nearly swooned.

You told me to write up an account of our night as my homework assignment. I am nothing if not a willing student. Then you slapped my ass playfully and told me to get the fuck out.

I walked languidly back to my apartment in the evening heat. I chatted with the doorman as I stopped to pick up my spare key, since I had accidentally left my set on your counter. He said I must be enjoying having a break from work during the summer and that I was looking good. I grinned and told him yes, I was feeling much better. I was flushed and sweaty, my shirt was wrinkled to hell and I smelled like you, and I turned and walked across the lobby to the elevator.

List

This story is also told by Lily.

There was something quirky about her post on Craig’s List. It was a little longer than most and certainly better written, but more so, it was at once cheeky and anxious, as if she had meant to throw caution to the winds but then grabbed it back at the last moment.

I found her post by searching for the word “submissive.”

I had decided that I wanted to meet people who identified as submissive on the premise that this would allow me to go into things as a dominant. If these things were established before the first handshake, I reasoned, it might spare confusion down the line.

I wanted to flex my muscles after sex camp. I hoped to find someone (or, knowing me, someones) who would enjoy experimenting with ropes, floggers, canes and all the new skills I wanted to hone, without the messy complications of love and romance.

Love had lately left me feeling worn out. I had exhausted myself by falling too hard too often, and I was numb from the ways women who loved me were led—almost inextricably, it seemed—to jealousy and potential disappointment.

After sex camp, I decided that I was getting out of the girlfriend business. I would no longer allow myself to be claimed as a boyfriend by anyone who really and truly, deep down, wanted me as her very own.

I was resolved to be studiously superficial—kind, caring and pleasant, to be sure, but in no way receptive to the pursuit of happiness ever after.

My firmer footfalls on the paths of BDSM afforded the opportunity to meet new people in situations where the ground rules are often preset. By establishing facts up front, perhaps I could avoid flame-ups by clearing away the underbrush of drama in my life.

I was succinct and direct in my response to her post. I commended her openness and sensibility, and sent her a link to my blog. By this time, I had decided that I preferred to date people who had access to this site, as it puts everything out in the open. If she was interested in me, it would be in the full knowledge that I am a parent, I am bisexual, I have sex with whomever I please, and I am not likely to be her one and only.

She replied quickly. She was, in a word, astonished, and, in a second word, aghast. She wrote that she had not imagined people really did the things I wrote about. She enjoyed my writing, she said, but she didn’t think she could get together with someone so promiscuous.

I replied that her reticence was understandable. No harm done. I wished her well.

She thanked me for understanding.

I told her there were no worries, and made a joke.

She wrote that my joke was funny.

Pretty soon, we were trading photographs.

She sent me a photograph of a terrace covered in plants, overlooking a verdant park. Just behind a planter was a face; I could make out dark hair and glasses.

“You’re very handsome!” she wrote.

“I want to avoid the word ‘adorable’ in describing you,” I replied. “But I don’t think that’s possible.”

We decided to meet for drinks at a dive bar in my neighborhood. She recommended that we meet at three on a Sunday afternoon, a little early for drinks but safely beyond the range of a late-night snap decision to go to my place.

She certainly thought ahead.

I was outside when she walked up.

“Lily?”

“Jefferson!” she exclaimed. “I’m sorry I’m a little late. Have you been waiting long?”

“No,” I kissed her cheek lightly. “I just got here—I’m afraid I’m typically late myself.”

“Oh, cheers,” she smiled. “So shall we . . . ?”

“Yes, let’s,” I said, opening the door for her.

I took a longer look as she passed. I added “cute” to the words I would have to avoid using to describe her; she must get that all the time. Her brunette hair was sensibly cut to accentuate its thickness and draped to her shoulders. She had smiling brown eyes that responded to her soft grin. I’m sure she had considered her clothes, as one does before a first date, but I suspected her closet was filled with multiple versions of this simple outfit—a skirt that hugged her hips and ended just above her knees, and a top cut low enough to reveal cleavage, but only a little. Her clothes suggested a modesty determined to belie the sensuality of her wasp-waisted figure.

She came up to my shoulders. I was tempted to pick her up and squeeze her. “Aren’t you the cutest thing, you adorable thing you?” I would coo.

“Do you come her often?” she asked as we slid into a booth.

“No, I very rarely drink in public,” I said, putting a pint on the vinyl tabletop. “Just when I’m first meeting cute . . . I mean, pretty gals.”

“Judging from your blog, that must be fairly often.”

“Nah, not really. Most women just show up at my door. How’s your gin and tonic?”

“Tasty, thanks.” She put the swizzle straw to her lips and sucked a long drink. “So, I’m interested: how did you get into writing the blog? Are you a writer otherwise?”

We talked about writing; it turned out that she was an aspiring novelist with an abiding admiration for Laurie Colwin.

Talking about my blog led us to talking about her interest in domination and submission. As she spoke, I realized I might have been too literal in my understanding of her description of herself as “submissive.” She was not, as I had first assumed, someone who “played” in “scenes” at “dungeons.”

“Oh, God no, not at all,” she winced, putting down her glass. “I mean, I can’t tolerate pain. I’m not into anything like that. What I meant was, I am lately coming to realize that I tend to be submissive in bed, and I like that. I like being told what to do. Like, for example, I was on a date recently and Jeremy—my date—told me to cross my legs. I did as he said and I got a real thrill out of it, because I had done as he asked.”

“Interesting,” I said, refraining from instructing her.

“Hmmm,” she said, taking another sip. “I don’t know how interesting it is, but, you know . . . funny, I’m just realizing I’m slightly embarrassed to be talking about this! I don’t usually.”

“Well gosh, who would you talk to about this?” I picked up my glass. “’Hey mom, guess what I’ve discovered? I like it when boys boss me around.’”

She laughed and looked steadily at me. “You know, you’re nothing like I pictured you. I think you may be nicer than the ‘Jefferson’ you write.”

“Thanks.” I wiped the suds from my lips. “I mean, I am the Jefferson I write, but I’m also, you know, me. I appreciate the challenge of reconciling those things.”

“I guess the blog creates certain impressions.”

“Indeed it does, which can be amusing or distracting by turns. It’s a challenge to turn oneself and one’s friends into characters. You’re a writer; you should try blogging—you’ll see what I mean.”

“Oh,” she said, taking the stirrer from her lips. “I do have a blog.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Oh, do you, now?”

“It’s nothing, it’s good I think . . . ,” she hesitated. “It’s about dating and this decision I made to go on more dates and have more sex.” Her head tilted slightly. “Please don’t think me superficial for hoping it leads to a book deal.”

“Attractive woman dating in the Big Apple,” I said. “That’s a book, all right . . . maybe even a television series . . .”

“And did I mention I have nice shoes? I have very nice shoes.”

I laughed. “Well, you’ll have to share your blog with me. You know, for professional reasons.”

“Hmm, we’ll see,” she demurred. “I haven’t shared it with anyone I date.”

“Why, Miss Lily, how presumptuous,” I drawled. “Is this here a date? Mind if I walk you home afterwards? Maybe meet your mama?”

“Okay, okay,” she nodded, reaching for her glass. “Point taken. We’ll see.”

“I’ll take that as ‘yes, sir.’” I ran a finger along the rim of my pint. “So, tell me something: you say that you have this new lease on life with sex . . . ,”

“Hmmph,” she nodded, taking the swizzle stick from her mouth. “Right. Well, in March I decided that I wanted to have had more experience . . .”

“’Have had?’” I interrupted. “Why the past tense?”

“Yes, I mean, as in later, when I’m married. I mean, my long-term goal is to get married and be monogamous and have kids. Well, maybe ‘short-term’ is more accurate, since I’m thirty-three. I’m not exactly waiting to get married, I just haven’t met anyone yet. Anyway, so I made a conscious decision to have more experiences now, for about a while. I call it my ‘Year of Living Somewhat Dangerously.’”

“Cute . . . I mean, nice. So you conceive of this as an experiment of limited duration.”

“Yes,” she sipped her drink and swallowed. “A year or something like a year, unless of course I get into a monogamous relationship. Then, of course, I would tell him.”

“’Him’ being this man you have yet to meet. You would tell him about your experiment? Or about your relationship with him?”

She smiled. “Well, no, obviously he would know about the relationship. I mean I would tell him about my sexual history.”

I took a sip of Bass. “Got to watch that subject agreement, young novelist.”

She nodded. “Duly noted. So yeah, so honesty is very important, obviously. It’s one reason I have a list of questions I ask prospective partners. It’s all about sexual history and . . . STDs. I have to confess, I am concerned about HIV . . . well, more than concerned, I’m frankly paranoid about contracting HIV—or anything, really, but especially HIV—in this experiment.”

“Well yeah, you have to be careful,” I agreed, taking a sip. “That’s not paranoia; that’s common sense.”

“Well, I think my concern exceeds most people’s.” She took another sip of her drink, staring at the ice in the bottom of the glass.

A moment passed. She looked up.

“So?” I asked.

“So . . . ?” she echoed.

“Am I not considered a prospective partner? Do you have the list?”

“Oh yes, of course, I keep it with me always.” She put down her glass and reached for her bag. “I mean, I’ve read your blog, so I know some of the answers already, but . . . hang on, it’s in here . . . ah!”

Lily pulled a folded sheet of paper from her bag. She began to open it. “Are you sure you don’t mind . . . ?”

“No, please.”

“Okay.” She adjusted he glasses and looked down at the page. “I hope you don’t think this is silly, but . . . I found it online, and I trust the source, so . . .”

I smiled. “It’s fine. Hit me.”

She nodded and looked back to her page. “Well, this one is kind of obvious—‘Have you ever had sex before?’”

I laughed. “Uh, yeah. Now and again.”

“Wait, wait, there’s more. ‘If yes, how many partners have you had before? In the past year? Right now?’” She looked over her glasses at me.

“Hmmm, gee. Well, to tell you the truth, I don’t keep track of numbers . . .”

“Would you say ‘more than ten?’”

I looked at her.

“’More than fifty?’”

I shrugged.

Lily paused. “’Hundreds?’”

“Let’s say ‘less than thousands.’”

She raised an eyebrow. “’Thousands’ plural?”

“Well, ‘less than thousands.’ I think that’s safe estimate,” I said, reaching for my pint. “I mean, the highest number in that category would be nine hundred ninety nine thousand nine hundred and ninety nine, right? I seriously doubt I’ve broken a million, so it would surely be somewhere between zero and a million.”

She laughed. “That’s not the most reassuring answer.”

“What can I say? I’m slutty. But seriously, yeah, I just don’t care about numbers. I could probably reconstruct the number from before my marriage, and of course I was monogamous forever, but these days . . . actually, in point of fact, my numbers may not even be that astronomical, as these days I mostly have sex with the same people, just, you know, lots of the same people lots and lots of times.”

“Ah, which gets to the next part of this question—‘How many partners have you had in the past year? Right now?’”

“’In the past year?’ I dunno. But I regularly have sex with about . . .” I looked up and counted in my head. “Maybe a dozen people? Maybe?”

“Okay, we’ll put you down for ‘less than thousands’ and ‘one dozen, give or take.’”

“Sounds reasonable.”

She nodded. “It’s a lot, but . . . okay, next question. ‘Have you ever had sex without using a condom?’”

I nodded. “I have four children.”

Lily looked confused before my answer sank in. “Oh right, of course, but now . . .”

I nodded. “Yeah, condoms are de rigeur in my crowd.”

“Okay, good . . . that’s one, now this one . . . well, I know part of it—‘Have you ever had sex with another man? With a prostitute?’”

I nodded. “Yes to both. My boyfriend Marcus is a whore.”

“Oh!” she said. “No one has ever answered ‘yes’ to that question.”

“Not many men are likely to be honest if they have, either,” I noted. “But wait, is that seriously a compound question? They equate sex with men and sex with a prostitute as comparable health risks?”

She reread the question. “Yes, it’s the same question.”

“That’s pretty absurd. I mean, this assumes that all prostitutes and all men who sleep with men are automatically health risks, which is simply untrue. And kind of insulting, actually.”

Lily blanched. “Oh, I didn’t mean . . .”

I smiled. “No dear, it’s your list that’s insulting, not you. Anyway, go on.”

“I really didn’t mean . . .”

“I know, it’s no big deal. It’s just a persistent homophobic stereotype about bisexual men, that we are carriers between gay men (who can all be assumed to be diseased by this line of reasoning) and heterosexuals (who are clean and, ultimately, matter more anyway). Never mind the implication that all prostitutes are diseased and reckless.” I sipped my pint. “Don’t get me started, I can talk all night. Okay, next question.”

Lily looked to her list. “Have you ever had any STD? Have any of your other partners ever had an STD?”

“Yes, long ago and all gone, and yes. Next?”

“Um, okay . . . “ She sipped the remains of her drink and read. “Have you ever shot up drugs? Or had sex with someone who did?”

“Nope and nope—well, not that I know of, anyway.”

She looked up.

“The second part,” I clarified.

“Oh, right. Okay. So, ‘Have you ever had a discharge from your penis? Any sores or warts on your penis? A burning feeling when you urinate?’”

“Nope, I’m all good.”

“’Have you ever had a blood transfusion?’”

“Yes.” She looked up, expectant. “No, wait, no. I misheard you: I thought you asked if I gave blood. I used to, but no more, as the Red Cross is prejudiced against bisexual blood. That’s more fodder for the ‘I can talk all night’ talk.” I sipped my pint. “Next?”

“’Do you have a tattoo? If so, are you sure brand-new sterile needles were used?’”

“No, but man, I like ink on others. However, I did get my left ear pierced back the day. At a Spencer’s in a shopping mall.”

She smiled. “Quite the outlaw, eh?”

“Vroom, vroom. Is that the last question?”

“Nope, one more—‘Will you agree to always use a condom if we have sex?’”

“Who says we’re having sex?” I teased.

She laughed. “Hypothetically.”

I grinned. “Okay, in the hypothetical event that we have actual sex, we will use actual condoms. Deal. So do you really ask these questions of everyone you have sex with these days?”

“Yes,” she said, folding the paper and returning it to her bag. “I know it may seem silly or paranoid, but I dunno, it helps with my anxieties.”

“Then do it,” I said. “But goodness, if those are your standards, who do you wind up having sex with?”

“Well, they aren’t exactly ‘standards,’ just guidelines. And not everyone has been as sexually . . . adventurous as you.”

“To sexual adventure!” I toasted, raising my glass.

“Cheers!” she said, raising hers. She sipped from the glass. “Hmm, but my glass is empty . . . and I need to go to the ladies room.” She looked around.

“Back and to the right. I’ll order another round.”

“Cheers, that’s nice.” She smiled as she slid across the vinyl seat of our booth. She stood and suddenly blushed, as if embarrassed by a thought. “I’ll be back.”

“I’ll be here.” I returned her smile. “Unless I decide to dump you mid-date.”

Her shoulders fell forward. “Oh thanks, that’s a nice thing to say,” she laughed. “You’re mean to neurotic girls.”

I smiled, saying nothing.

She turned and walked to the restroom. I watched her walk away, noting how her prim skirt seemed tailored to her low-slung hips.

“Jefferson, Jefferson, Jefferson,” I muttered. “You are totally checking out that sweet young lady.”

I ordered another round.

The next day, I sent a nice follow-up email to tell Lily that I enjoyed our date and looked forward to more.

“Also, before our next date,” I added. “I’m getting tested.”

Pearls

Two drinks in, I was thinking ahead to our second date.

Leah and I had met on a soft summer evening at Bethesda Fountain, perhaps the most romantic setting in this city of twinkling skyscrapers and horse-drawn carriages. We had talked at the higher levels of our individual acuities, chasing each other—cautiously a first, then, at each firm footfall, with mounting assuredness—ever upwards.

I had been reserved about her beauty. She made no fuss about my appearance.

Noel Coward was humming in my mind.

When our date might have ended with a kiss on the cheek, I had invited her over for drinks. Or had she invited herself? I couldn’t be sure, but at any rate, here she was in my living room, smiling.

It was after eleven.

I wasn’t going to rush anything.

“Are you comfortable?” I asked. “I just realized you’ve been in that dress all day. Should I turn on the air?”

“That would be nice,” she said, reaching for my coffee table. “Oh, you’ve got the catalogue for that show at MoMA. I’m seeing it this weekend. How was it?”

I thought for a moment as I shut a window. “You know how MoMA’s perfection slides at times to a certain sterility? Like the cleanliness of a hospital ward?”

“ICU,” she nodded, flipping pages. “Like that?”

“Precisely,” I said, turning a knob on the air conditioner. “Not a damn thing wrong with that show but for the filtered oxygen. Perfect can be rather stupefying at times.”

“Perfect is a little overrated,” she agreed closing the book. She reached for her glass. It was empty. She left it alone.

“I’m sorry, would you care for another drink?” I offered.

“Yes, please.” She took the glass and handed it to me. “I’m usually a vodka girl, but this is good.”

“I regret I have no vodka,” I said, standing. “Bourbon man.”

“It’s manly,” she shrugged, smiling.

I was not sleeping with her.

For all the sex I’ve had since my marriage collapsed, I’m not terribly experienced with what normally passes for a date. I don’t often meet women for drinks and conversation. I more often meet women who have read my blog and want some of what they read about. I more often meet women who are recommended to me by mutual friends who enjoy fucking me. I more often meet women who show up at my orgies and like me well enough to request private encounters.

Leah and I were on a date of a more traditional sort.

Yet we had met online. I had responded to her advertisement for a dominant man to help to fulfill her submissive desires.

We had met through the most uber-lumpen of online forums, Craig’s List. I can only imagine how many cock shots she had deleted before responding to me.

Having met through Craig’s List, we each knew what it was like to be pearls before swine. Now we were nestled into our respective oysters, eying one another.

She had read my blog. I had shared it by way of introduction, in the interest of honesty and potentially snaring her attention. She had read what she cared to read of my sexual exploits, but she expressed no special interest in talking about that.

We kept sex at arm’s length.

My mind came to wonder about our second date. Would we be so cool then? After she went home that night, would she write me a note slightly more heated than our previous correspondence? Would I reply with coy innuendo, hoping she would want a date as soon as possible, given that neither of us had any claim on the heft of one another’s schedules?

Or would she simply put me off?

We fell to talking politics. She told me that she had once contemplated entering politics as a candidate.

“It was student government,” she laughed at a memory. She took a sip of her drink. “I liked my odds, though. Like I could lose with my slogan.” She raised a fist into the air. “More caffeine and anal sex!”

“You didn’t!” I laughed. “Are you serious?”

“No, I didn’t. But my slogan polled very well.”

That sealed it.

“You’re killing me,” I said. “Lean back.”

She set down her glass. She reclined on a pillow.

“Like this?” she asked. She extended a bare leg across my lap. I took a foot in my palm. It was perfectly manicured.

“Precisely like that,” I smiled.

Gingham

I worked until the last moment. I pulled on some shorts, stepped into sandals and put a bottle of Cabernet into a bag. The bottle clinked against plastic cups and a corkscrew as I walked down the sidewalk.

The sun was lowering in a clear sky. The setting would be a little romantic for a first date, but I wasn’t overly concerned with that. Some clichés are pleasant enough.

I stopped at the terrace to scan the people around Bethesda Fountain. Tourists snapped photographs. Women in shorts and visors talked as their dogs sniffed one another. A family clustered near the hot dog stand.

She was the only person sitting alone.

I walked down the western stairs, my eyes on her. She was sitting in the shade, her posture erect as she looked out over the Lake.

She wore a gingham dress.

“Leah?”

She turned to look up. “Hello.”

“I’m Jefferson,” I smiled, extending a hand. “Pleasure to finally meet you.”

“Yes, I know—I mean, I know it’s you.” She took my hand. “So . . .”

I sat beside her. “So!” I patted my hands on my knees. “Let’s have an awkward round of conversation, shall we?”

She smiled.

I had brought wine with the thought that we might sit in the grass near the Lake, sipping as we got to know one another in the late summer evening. Now that I was sitting with her, I had second thoughts. I decided to hold off on opening the bottle, allowing her the opportunity to gracefully bow out of an extended date.

I mean, women like Leah can afford to be selective.

From our first exchange of photographs, I had anticipated a polite rejection. She was, to put it plainly, beautiful: shoulder length red hair, full lips, and a slender figure that accentuated her large, firm breasts.

I have no complaints about my physical appearance, but I knew that a woman such as Leah could have the attention of men more handsome than I.

Still, she was interested in meeting.

As we sat, I noted that she was not merely pretty, but self-possessed and poised. She was, as ladies used to say in complimenting one another, “well put together.”

Talking with Leah, I could feel my voice modulating to her register. I talked slowly, smiled frequently, and generally felt that I must indeed be a pretty cool fellow to keep her interest.

Despite myself, I was scouting for tripwires, wondering if she would discover the limits of her interest in me.

In the meantime, I would put my best face forward.

She talked about her childhood in the city, as the daughter of well-educated parents in an upscale neighborhood. I countered with some things I know about the history of that neighborhood. I didn’t talk about my childhood; I get bored just thinking about it.

She referred to moments in college. I listened, mindful of the fact that her education surpasses most, and her college days came nearly two decades after my own.

She spoke about her career. In most introductory conversations, I’m accustomed to being the person in the more interesting field. This was not necessarily the case with Leah.

She spoke about the war. She spoke about the war without using such words as “idiot,” “imperialism” or “stupid.” She spoke about post-traumatic stress disorder, improvised explosive devices, vehicular armor and limb replacement. She said things I hadn’t already heard or thought.

By the time she mentioned that her days begin at a gym, I decided I could safely open the bottle of wine.

Leah had evidently sized me up and decided that my first impressions suited her. She was beautiful, young, educated, successful and, I began to suspect, possibly smarter than me. If we had met in a bar or at a party, perhaps she would consider other men before me.

But we did not meet in a bar or at a party. We had met online, and in meeting, we had established a mutual attraction.

She was submissive. I was dominant.

In the back of her mind, as we talked, she pondered the possibility that this reasonably attractive, reasonably intelligent older man could beat her and fuck her senseless.

What’s more, she hoped she could have these needs met without undue interference in her life. My life was no less full that her own. I would not chase her down for dates, or stare at her with mooning eyes, or pressure her to move in with me or to meet my parents.

She wasn’t looking for a boyfriend. She liked it that I wasn’t looking for a girlfriend.

That’s how we found one another.

The sun had set, but we continued to talk. We never spoke of sex or submission; there was no need to do so, really, and besides, we never ran out of other topics.

Eventually, we did run out of wine.

She looked up at the moon over the fountain. It was balanced on the angel’s extended hand.

“It’s getting late,” she observed.

“Yes, it is,” I said, standing. “We should head out of the park.”

We continued to talk as we walked a path under streetlamps. We exited the park and walked a few blocks more. We stopped outside a subway station, never pausing in our conversation.

She reached the end of a sentence and realized we were no longer walking. “Jefferson, did you just walk me to the subway?”

“Yes.” I leaned to kiss her cheek. “I really had a great time meeting you.”

“Likewise. It’s been really . . . nice.” She looked around. “Don’t you live near here?”

I nodded. “Sure, pretty close.”

She looked at me. “I could come over for a drink.”

“I could invite you over for a drink.”

She smiled.

We resumed our conversation as we walked toward my place.

Fleshbot and Dates

This week’s Sex Blog Roundup at Fleshbot finds us the third wheel as sex bloggers head out on dates. Things being what they are, you know they are scoring in ways we hadn’t quite anticipated.

Those of you who enjoy stalking me will find me losing track of Marcus at a sex conference. Swear to God, the next time we’re at the same orgy, I’m slapping a GPS on that whore.

Speaking of dates, I have one tonight with my beloved progeny. Stay tuned for more.