Christopher blew me before rehearsals. If he performs as well as he sucks cock, the show will be a barn burner.
Showing posts with label gay. Show all posts
Showing posts with label gay. Show all posts
Thursday, April 15, 2010
HNT
Christopher blew me before rehearsals. If he performs as well as he sucks cock, the show will be a barn burner.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
HNT
He wrote me the nicest letter.
I first started reading your blog three or four years ago as a young dumb kid in a far-away place. I suppose you already know that you have a transcontinental as well as a transgender following?
Anyway, as I said, I was a young dumb kid in a fairly small conservative backwater. I wasn't gay, I wasn't straight. I'd heard of the Kinsey scale but it was always lobbed in as some kind of theoretical hand grenade that had no real world application. The idea of violence and power in sexuality I only knew as a limited series of repulsive heteronormative acts or the cartoon-like antics of middle-aged S&M swinger couples. As soon as I read your blog, it made sense. It was great sex, incredible writing—and totally fucking hot.
I'll try not to ramble and be too fanboyish about it all. I’ll soon be in New York for the first time, and while images from Woody Allen, Spike Lee, Mad Men and Jack Kerouac all tousled in my head, I thought I'd finally get around to writing. I just wanted to offer my sincere thanks for everything you've written about. You and your blog are an ongoing source of comfort and inspiration, not to mention the fact that sharing your writing can be directly credited with having got me laid on more than one occasion. I wasn't able to help financially when you were having troubles with your family—and I hope for your sake that I never get that chance again—but I'll happily buy you a bourbon some time in gratitude.
As it happened, this time it was his own writing that got him laid.
Sunday, December 20, 2009
I Kissed A Boy
I Kissed A Boy is a new anthology of stories about first encounters between men. I contributed a true story about the last kiss I shared with the first boy I kissed. It’s a story about two straight boys in love, and how a love that confused us as teenagers would endear us to one another for life. We were open about loving one another—even now, this strikes me as remarkable, given when and where we grew up—and, as the story relates, our affection was always noted by our friends and families, and even by our future spouses. You'll need to get out your hankies for this one.
The stories in I Kissed A Boy are by turns arousing and moving, and include some great romantic writing. Enjoy!
Thursday, December 03, 2009
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Groomer
There are two things a right-thinking fellow shouldn’t have to pay for in New York City: blowjobs and haircuts. In this town, there are simply so many people so gifted in these practices—and so eager to practice them—that a resourceful fellow soon realizes that there must be barbers and cocksuckers who go wanting. How sad they must be, unable to ply their trades in a market so glutted with competitors. How grateful, then, when offered the opportunity to demonstrate their expertise!
I decided to provide such opportunities. Not merely because I am by nature a generous man, but also because I know myself to be an appreciative and yet discerning recipient of blowjobs and haircuts alike. I may be a challenging customer at times, but when a job is well done, my barbers and cocksuckers know they have impressed a connoisseur.
At first, I thought I might combine these opportunities by finding a cocksucker who wanted to cut hair: a barber to take care of my barber-poling, if you will. But the more I considered it, the more I realized that while gifted cocksuckers frequent my life, I’ve actually given my head over to relatively few good barbers.
My mother was my first barber. (To anticipate your follow-up question: no, what must you be thinking?) She had trained as a beautician and occasionally worked in beauty shops when I was a young child. She would usually come back from a shift with her own hair streaked and piled high, looking far more glamorous than the harried young mother who had left home that morning after breakfast. I remember accompanying her on a summer evening walk, shouting to the neighbors, “Do you know who this is? It’s my mom!”
As my brothers came along, she had less time to work. Her customers were limited to five: her husband and four sons. Whenever she decided it was time for haircuts, she assembled her clippers and called to her boys. I was always the first in the chair, as I put up the least resistance and it reassured the younger boys to watch what would soon happen to them. As it was the seventies, I always requested that my hair be cut long to hide my ears. As she was my mother, she cut my hair as she saw fit.
I complained after my hair had been cut too short, though, of course, it was too late by then. Because I was the first in the chair and my mother’s skills had rusted since she last held scissors, my hair was frequently cut unevenly. “Your hair is straight and your ear lobes are crooked,” Mom would reply. “Get back up in the chair.” Down would hop a brother, his wet bangs half trimmed, and up I would go, submitting my already over-shorn head to more clips. I winced as each new quarter inch fell past my eyes. By the time I got back to the mirror, my ears were shown in all their pokey glory. “Don’t worry,” my mom would called as she snipped a perfect cover for a brother’s ear. “It'll grow back.”
After graduating high school, I moved away from home and my mother’s scissors. I gravitated to the rockers and artists, far from anyone who might compromise our locks. “Oh, son, look at what a mess your hair is, all broken at the ends,” my mother would lament. “At least let me even it out, or maybe some layers to make it look fuller. . .” I would politely thank her, but I liked my hair fine just as it grew out of my head.
By the time I rediscovered careful grooming, I had fewer hairs growing from my head. I found that what looks best on my adult head is just the haircut pushed on me in my elementary school years—conservative, short in back, with all-access ears—just as Mom was taught to cut men’s hair during Camelot.
When visiting home each summer, I sit on a chair in my mother’s kitchen, the prodigal customer in her all-boy beauty salon. For the rest of the year, I look for a barber to keep her haircut maintained, always instructing, “Same thing, just the way it looked two months ago.” For a long time, I’ve relied on the proprietor of the Lucky Star Beauty Salon in Chinatown, who gets it just right for ten dollars, inclusive of my three-dollar tip. I tell him he may be my lucky star but I am the luckiest by far. He smiles and shakes my hand.
Soon after coming to my calling to provide opportunities for neglected barbers and cocksuckers, I realized that while I can teach someone to suck my cock as I like, I may not be able to teach someone how to cut my hair as I like. I’ve just had too few good barbers. Naturally, I couldn’t propose that my man at the Lucky Star throw in an extra service. (To anticipate your next question: no, what must you be thinking?) For now, I decided I would keep barbering apart from cocksucking. I set out to find someone for whom cutting my hair would be pleasure enough to do so.
I found just such a barber. “Whatever you require of me, I will do my best to provide,” he assured me. “I know that a handsome man needs to look his very best. He owes it to people, I think.” He understood perfectly. We worked out details in advance of our first meeting.
He undressed after greeting me. I asked him to turn for me so that I could become acquainted with his appearance. He was a little older than me, with a short salt-and-pepper beard and closely cropped hair. I appreciated that he was well tended.
I invited him to undress me. His fingers trembled as he undid my shirt buttons and gently eased my arms from their sleeves. He bent on one knee to untie first one shoe and then the other, removed one shoe and then the other, remove one sock and then the other. He remained on his knees to unbuckle my belt, unzip and lower my jeans. He averred his eyes as he held first one cuff and then the other so that I could step free. With my jeans folded at this side, his eyes gazed upward. “Oh, Sir . . .” he began.
“Yes?” I planted my fists on my hips.
“Sir, you are the most beautiful man I have ever seen. May I . . . admire you?”
“Yes, but only for a moment.” I closed my eyes and turned away. He could now look at me without the distraction of my gaze. He could only use his eyes to admire me. I had been clear in my instruction.
In my mind’s eye, I pictured the Archaic Torso of Apollo. I wasn’t comparing my body to that of the Greek statue. Rather, I was comparing our situations: we were both to be admired. I pictured Apollo as I adopted his role.
Apollo has his flaws—he is headless and misses extremities—and I certainly have mine. But despite our incompleteness, we may be admired for the beauty that is beheld, rather than the beauty that simply is. When admired, we are completed in an admirer’s gaze.
I thought of that statue and remembered Ranier Maria Rilke’s poem about admiring it. I don’t know this poem by heart, so don’t ask for a recitation when you see me, but I certainly walk around with the final line.
We cannot know his legendary head
with eyes like ripening fruit. And yet his torso
is still suffused with brilliance from inside,
like a lamp, in which his gaze, now turned to low,
gleams in all its power. Otherwise
the curved breast could not dazzle you so, nor could
a smile run through the placid hips and thighs
to that dark center where procreation flared.
Otherwise this stone would seem defaced
beneath the translucent cascade of the shoulders
and would not glisten like a wild beast's fur:
would not, from all the borders of itself,
burst like a star: for here there is no place
that does not see you. You must change your life.
I opened my eyes and looked at my admirer. ““Same thing,” I ordered. “Just the way it looked two months ago.”
He nodded and stood. I sat in a chair in the kitchen. My eyes were closed as hair tumbled over my face and shoulders. My upturned palms caught the clippings that fell into my lap, some getting caught in my pubic hair.
I looked into a mirror. “Shorter in the back,” I ordered.
“Yes, Sir, of course.” Again the base of my skull tingled, humming loudest in the left ear and then back in the right. “You know, Sir, and this is just a suggestion, but if I may, you may want to consider a buzz cut.”
I opened my eyes. “Really?”
“I think you have a lovely skull, Sir. And we’d leave enough blond showing so that the effect would glimmer.”
I scratched my ear lobe. “Hmmm, I’ll consider that suggestion. I’ve never done that, so clearly, I won’t do it on a first date.”
“Yes, Sir,” he chuckled. “You can’t give away everything on a first date.”
He cut and returned the mirror to me. “Very good.” I commended. I closed my eyes and looked away so that he could admire his affect on my appearance.
“And this, Sir?” He waved a hand near my body. “Would you care to have your body trimmed?”
I nodded. “Yes, let’s do that.” I moved forward to the end of the seat, extending my body to allow fuller access to his clippers. I closed my eyes. He could look and admire, touching me only with his utensil and, when necessary, the fingers of one hand. I resisted flinches when he trimmed near my nipples, the base of my cock and the flesh of my scrotum. I rested my hands on my head so that he could reduce the hairs under my arm to mere wisps.
He lightly touched my stomach. “And this, Sir? The hair on your belly is very . . . luxurious. But would Sir consider trimming it?”
I opened my eyes. “Really? Well, I hadn’t thought to do that.”
“It’s very masculine, Sir, don’t get me wrong. Still, you might care to try it, to see if you like it trimmed. If not, of course it will grow back.”
I had heard those words before. Still, warmer weather was coming, and I thought, well, why not expose a little more skin. “Sure,” I said, closing my eyes. “Let’s see what you can do.” I sat back as an unfamiliar sensation tickled its way down and across my torso.
“Sir, if you approve, I believe I am finished.” I stood and brushed away the loose hairs. I walked to a full-mirror. “Is Sir pleased?”
“I’m very pleased.” I turned left and right, looking at my reflection. “It looks like the body of another man.” I shifted again. “A thinner man.”
“Sir, you are perfect. May I please shower you? You mentioned liking the scent of eucalyptus and I have that oil for you.” I followed and watched as he prepared the water. He held back the curtain and I stepped inside. “May I join you, Sir, or should I wash you from where I stand?”
I looked down. “You’ll only make a mess of the floor. Step inside, please.”
I closed my eyes, absenting myself into my head. I raised my arms, making them vanish from my torso. I stood contrapposto, legs askance to his washings. He rinsed me for a long time, watching as the water he directed ran over the body he had shaped. Once my skin began to redden in streams, he turned off the water and toweled my body. He dusted me with a fine white powder. I opened my eyes and watched as he combed my hair.
“Sir, if I may ask: do you have a date tonight?”
I nodded. “I do, in fact.”
“She’s a very lucky girl, Sir. May I ask something else, Sir?”
I turned my head. “Yes, you may ask.”
“Sir, may I hold you? In my arms?”
I took his hands in mine. “You’ve done very well. Yes, you may hold me in your arms.” I pulled him close and wrapped his arms around my waist. I put my own arms on his shoulders. I held him, his face against my chest. I held him and felt his warmth and let him feel mine. Finally, he pulled back. “Thank you, Sir. You’ve been very good to me. One moment, please; I have something for you.” He left the bathroom and stepped into the kitchen. “It’s a little something, I thought you might want to share it with your date.”
He handed me a bag. I reached inside to pull out a bottle. “Scotch!” I said. “Twelve-year-old scotch?”
“I know you prefer bourbon, Sir, and I am sorry. But if you care to try this, I’m sure you’ll like it. If not, I’ll be sure it’s bourbon from now on.”
I stepped forward, putting my face to his. “I told you how I wanted my hair and yet you thought to suggest otherwise. I didn’t ask you to trim my belly and yet you thought to suggest it. You know I prefer bourbon and yet you thought to suggest scotch. I haven’t asked you to make suggestions. I was expecting you to take directions.”
He lowered his eyes. “I’m very sorry, Sir. I’ll try to do better, if you will allow me to serve you again.”
I turned my head and kissed his nose. “You make assumptions, but I am a reasonable person. Let me see how your suggestions grow on me.”
“You are kind, Sir.” He squeezed my hand. “I’ll go now to lay out your clothes.”
On my date that night, a cocksucker did not go wanting. My fresh grooming was nicely received. The scotch had a smoky, burning finish.
The next morning, I sent a note to my new personal groomer. “Well done. See you next month.”
I decided to provide such opportunities. Not merely because I am by nature a generous man, but also because I know myself to be an appreciative and yet discerning recipient of blowjobs and haircuts alike. I may be a challenging customer at times, but when a job is well done, my barbers and cocksuckers know they have impressed a connoisseur.
At first, I thought I might combine these opportunities by finding a cocksucker who wanted to cut hair: a barber to take care of my barber-poling, if you will. But the more I considered it, the more I realized that while gifted cocksuckers frequent my life, I’ve actually given my head over to relatively few good barbers.
My mother was my first barber. (To anticipate your follow-up question: no, what must you be thinking?) She had trained as a beautician and occasionally worked in beauty shops when I was a young child. She would usually come back from a shift with her own hair streaked and piled high, looking far more glamorous than the harried young mother who had left home that morning after breakfast. I remember accompanying her on a summer evening walk, shouting to the neighbors, “Do you know who this is? It’s my mom!”
As my brothers came along, she had less time to work. Her customers were limited to five: her husband and four sons. Whenever she decided it was time for haircuts, she assembled her clippers and called to her boys. I was always the first in the chair, as I put up the least resistance and it reassured the younger boys to watch what would soon happen to them. As it was the seventies, I always requested that my hair be cut long to hide my ears. As she was my mother, she cut my hair as she saw fit.
I complained after my hair had been cut too short, though, of course, it was too late by then. Because I was the first in the chair and my mother’s skills had rusted since she last held scissors, my hair was frequently cut unevenly. “Your hair is straight and your ear lobes are crooked,” Mom would reply. “Get back up in the chair.” Down would hop a brother, his wet bangs half trimmed, and up I would go, submitting my already over-shorn head to more clips. I winced as each new quarter inch fell past my eyes. By the time I got back to the mirror, my ears were shown in all their pokey glory. “Don’t worry,” my mom would called as she snipped a perfect cover for a brother’s ear. “It'll grow back.”
After graduating high school, I moved away from home and my mother’s scissors. I gravitated to the rockers and artists, far from anyone who might compromise our locks. “Oh, son, look at what a mess your hair is, all broken at the ends,” my mother would lament. “At least let me even it out, or maybe some layers to make it look fuller. . .” I would politely thank her, but I liked my hair fine just as it grew out of my head.
By the time I rediscovered careful grooming, I had fewer hairs growing from my head. I found that what looks best on my adult head is just the haircut pushed on me in my elementary school years—conservative, short in back, with all-access ears—just as Mom was taught to cut men’s hair during Camelot.
When visiting home each summer, I sit on a chair in my mother’s kitchen, the prodigal customer in her all-boy beauty salon. For the rest of the year, I look for a barber to keep her haircut maintained, always instructing, “Same thing, just the way it looked two months ago.” For a long time, I’ve relied on the proprietor of the Lucky Star Beauty Salon in Chinatown, who gets it just right for ten dollars, inclusive of my three-dollar tip. I tell him he may be my lucky star but I am the luckiest by far. He smiles and shakes my hand.
Soon after coming to my calling to provide opportunities for neglected barbers and cocksuckers, I realized that while I can teach someone to suck my cock as I like, I may not be able to teach someone how to cut my hair as I like. I’ve just had too few good barbers. Naturally, I couldn’t propose that my man at the Lucky Star throw in an extra service. (To anticipate your next question: no, what must you be thinking?) For now, I decided I would keep barbering apart from cocksucking. I set out to find someone for whom cutting my hair would be pleasure enough to do so.
I found just such a barber. “Whatever you require of me, I will do my best to provide,” he assured me. “I know that a handsome man needs to look his very best. He owes it to people, I think.” He understood perfectly. We worked out details in advance of our first meeting.
He undressed after greeting me. I asked him to turn for me so that I could become acquainted with his appearance. He was a little older than me, with a short salt-and-pepper beard and closely cropped hair. I appreciated that he was well tended.
I invited him to undress me. His fingers trembled as he undid my shirt buttons and gently eased my arms from their sleeves. He bent on one knee to untie first one shoe and then the other, removed one shoe and then the other, remove one sock and then the other. He remained on his knees to unbuckle my belt, unzip and lower my jeans. He averred his eyes as he held first one cuff and then the other so that I could step free. With my jeans folded at this side, his eyes gazed upward. “Oh, Sir . . .” he began.
“Yes?” I planted my fists on my hips.
“Sir, you are the most beautiful man I have ever seen. May I . . . admire you?”
“Yes, but only for a moment.” I closed my eyes and turned away. He could now look at me without the distraction of my gaze. He could only use his eyes to admire me. I had been clear in my instruction.
In my mind’s eye, I pictured the Archaic Torso of Apollo. I wasn’t comparing my body to that of the Greek statue. Rather, I was comparing our situations: we were both to be admired. I pictured Apollo as I adopted his role.
Apollo has his flaws—he is headless and misses extremities—and I certainly have mine. But despite our incompleteness, we may be admired for the beauty that is beheld, rather than the beauty that simply is. When admired, we are completed in an admirer’s gaze.
I thought of that statue and remembered Ranier Maria Rilke’s poem about admiring it. I don’t know this poem by heart, so don’t ask for a recitation when you see me, but I certainly walk around with the final line.
We cannot know his legendary head
with eyes like ripening fruit. And yet his torso
is still suffused with brilliance from inside,
like a lamp, in which his gaze, now turned to low,
gleams in all its power. Otherwise
the curved breast could not dazzle you so, nor could
a smile run through the placid hips and thighs
to that dark center where procreation flared.
Otherwise this stone would seem defaced
beneath the translucent cascade of the shoulders
and would not glisten like a wild beast's fur:
would not, from all the borders of itself,
burst like a star: for here there is no place
that does not see you. You must change your life.
I opened my eyes and looked at my admirer. ““Same thing,” I ordered. “Just the way it looked two months ago.”
He nodded and stood. I sat in a chair in the kitchen. My eyes were closed as hair tumbled over my face and shoulders. My upturned palms caught the clippings that fell into my lap, some getting caught in my pubic hair.
I looked into a mirror. “Shorter in the back,” I ordered.
“Yes, Sir, of course.” Again the base of my skull tingled, humming loudest in the left ear and then back in the right. “You know, Sir, and this is just a suggestion, but if I may, you may want to consider a buzz cut.”
I opened my eyes. “Really?”
“I think you have a lovely skull, Sir. And we’d leave enough blond showing so that the effect would glimmer.”
I scratched my ear lobe. “Hmmm, I’ll consider that suggestion. I’ve never done that, so clearly, I won’t do it on a first date.”
“Yes, Sir,” he chuckled. “You can’t give away everything on a first date.”
He cut and returned the mirror to me. “Very good.” I commended. I closed my eyes and looked away so that he could admire his affect on my appearance.
“And this, Sir?” He waved a hand near my body. “Would you care to have your body trimmed?”
I nodded. “Yes, let’s do that.” I moved forward to the end of the seat, extending my body to allow fuller access to his clippers. I closed my eyes. He could look and admire, touching me only with his utensil and, when necessary, the fingers of one hand. I resisted flinches when he trimmed near my nipples, the base of my cock and the flesh of my scrotum. I rested my hands on my head so that he could reduce the hairs under my arm to mere wisps.
He lightly touched my stomach. “And this, Sir? The hair on your belly is very . . . luxurious. But would Sir consider trimming it?”
I opened my eyes. “Really? Well, I hadn’t thought to do that.”
“It’s very masculine, Sir, don’t get me wrong. Still, you might care to try it, to see if you like it trimmed. If not, of course it will grow back.”
I had heard those words before. Still, warmer weather was coming, and I thought, well, why not expose a little more skin. “Sure,” I said, closing my eyes. “Let’s see what you can do.” I sat back as an unfamiliar sensation tickled its way down and across my torso.
“Sir, if you approve, I believe I am finished.” I stood and brushed away the loose hairs. I walked to a full-mirror. “Is Sir pleased?”
“I’m very pleased.” I turned left and right, looking at my reflection. “It looks like the body of another man.” I shifted again. “A thinner man.”
“Sir, you are perfect. May I please shower you? You mentioned liking the scent of eucalyptus and I have that oil for you.” I followed and watched as he prepared the water. He held back the curtain and I stepped inside. “May I join you, Sir, or should I wash you from where I stand?”
I looked down. “You’ll only make a mess of the floor. Step inside, please.”
I closed my eyes, absenting myself into my head. I raised my arms, making them vanish from my torso. I stood contrapposto, legs askance to his washings. He rinsed me for a long time, watching as the water he directed ran over the body he had shaped. Once my skin began to redden in streams, he turned off the water and toweled my body. He dusted me with a fine white powder. I opened my eyes and watched as he combed my hair.
“Sir, if I may ask: do you have a date tonight?”
I nodded. “I do, in fact.”
“She’s a very lucky girl, Sir. May I ask something else, Sir?”
I turned my head. “Yes, you may ask.”
“Sir, may I hold you? In my arms?”
I took his hands in mine. “You’ve done very well. Yes, you may hold me in your arms.” I pulled him close and wrapped his arms around my waist. I put my own arms on his shoulders. I held him, his face against my chest. I held him and felt his warmth and let him feel mine. Finally, he pulled back. “Thank you, Sir. You’ve been very good to me. One moment, please; I have something for you.” He left the bathroom and stepped into the kitchen. “It’s a little something, I thought you might want to share it with your date.”
He handed me a bag. I reached inside to pull out a bottle. “Scotch!” I said. “Twelve-year-old scotch?”
“I know you prefer bourbon, Sir, and I am sorry. But if you care to try this, I’m sure you’ll like it. If not, I’ll be sure it’s bourbon from now on.”
I stepped forward, putting my face to his. “I told you how I wanted my hair and yet you thought to suggest otherwise. I didn’t ask you to trim my belly and yet you thought to suggest it. You know I prefer bourbon and yet you thought to suggest scotch. I haven’t asked you to make suggestions. I was expecting you to take directions.”
He lowered his eyes. “I’m very sorry, Sir. I’ll try to do better, if you will allow me to serve you again.”
I turned my head and kissed his nose. “You make assumptions, but I am a reasonable person. Let me see how your suggestions grow on me.”
“You are kind, Sir.” He squeezed my hand. “I’ll go now to lay out your clothes.”
On my date that night, a cocksucker did not go wanting. My fresh grooming was nicely received. The scotch had a smoky, burning finish.
The next morning, I sent a note to my new personal groomer. “Well done. See you next month.”
Saturday, October 11, 2008
FAQs
Below I have answered some frequently asked questions about my custody case. Please feel free to ask others or follow-up questions. I can't promise to answer all, but I am glad to answer those I can. Thanks for your continued interest and support.
How did your ex learn about your blog and sexuality?
My ex has always known about my sexuality. I was out as bisexual before we met, and we each discussed our sexual history during our first dates. In fact, our first several dates were threesomes with a male friend who then shared a bed with me. We subsequently double-dated him and his girlfriend and frequently had sex together. Several of these dates were videotaped.
As our relationship deepened, my ex and I agreed to be monogamous. Still, I continued to identify openly as bisexual for personal and political reasons. My bisexuality was frequently discussed when were in couples therapy for a few years following our wedding. The therapy was focused on our sexualities, dealing primarily with my ex’s aversion to intimacy and its impact on our transition to marriage and efforts to have a child.
At the time, I was a volunteer at the Hetrick-Martin Institute, an organization devoted to supporting GLBT youth. I was also caring for my boyfriend from high school days, who was then hospitalized and succumbing to AIDS. My ex knew him well; she was fully aware that he and I had been lovers and continued to love one another deeply. Eighteen months after his death, we named our first child in his memory.
My sexuality has never been a secret to my ex.
The existence of this blog, however, was a revelation to her. My ex learned of my blog in March 2008, when it was included in a Time Out, New York feature on “secret lives.” She visited the site frequently between this discovery in March and her subsequent filing in late June. Her IP address shows that she clicked through to related blogs. Even though she knew of my bisexuality and interest in group sex, she may have been surprised to read about it in such detail. But if so, she made no mention of it to me. Instead, she contacted attorneys and filed for custody three months later, coincident with the beginning of a planned two-month sabbatical from her job. I was served with papers upon returning from a vacation with my children.
Why has a psychiatric evaluation been ordered, and what does that entail?
My ex requested that a psychiatric evaluation be undertaken for me and for each of our three children. The judge ordered that there be evaluations of both parents, but not the children. My evaluation is to focus on my involvement in BDSM and polyamory, as described in my blog. The judge is concerned as to whether this type of activity comes from some kind of pathology.
We are told that we may each expect between ten and twenty sessions. All of our past medical and mental health records may be opened for review. A final report will be prepared for the court’s consideration.
There have been no concerns raised about my mental health other than those based on my sexuality and involvement with BDSM and polyamory.
Is involvement with BDSM evidence of a psychiatric disorder?
The National Coalition for Sexual Freedom is currently engaged in the DSM Revision Project, with the goal of removing political emphases in the discussion of BDSM and sexuality in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM). This manual is published by the American Psychiatric Association and used to establish diagnostic criteria for mental disorders. The current edition was published in 1994. The next edition is due in 2012, and a draft will be released for review in 2009.
The politics of sexuality and mental health have been contentious in the DSM’s history; so long as there is a presumption that sexuality is symptomatic of mental illness, whole populations are at risk of being diagnosed purely in terms of their sexuality. So it was that in the early 1970s, gay and lesbian activists, supported by the research of Alfred Kinsey and Evelyn Hooker, successfully sought to have homosexuality removed from the mental disorders listed by the DSM. Thanks to that generation of activists, a bisexual parent such as myself may not be at risk of losing custody due to his bisexuality being classified as pathology.
However, the current edition of the DSM continues to classify the vague "sexual disorder not otherwise specified.” It also targets paraphilias (sexual fetishes) and female hypoactive sexual desire disorder (low female sex drive). If you like to dress in rubber or would just as soon pass on sex tonight, the DSM supports classifying you as mentally ill on those grounds alone.
The DSM formerly defined epilepsy as a mental illness. If it continued to do so, and a parent is epileptic, a court would reasonably ask for a psychiatric evaluation of that parent in determining her suitability for custody.
I have written of my interest in BDSM and polyamory. Therefore, the court reasonably asks that my interests be examined for evidence of pathology. I am confident that pathology is not afoot in my case, and I welcome the proof that will come from the process of a psychiatric evaluation. Precedents are a tricky issue in custody cases, where the prevailing standard is “best interests of the child,” a standard that may be different for each child. But I hope that my success in this psychiatric evaluation helps other parents. I hope that it helps the community by making the case against a presumption of mental illness in BDSM and polyamory in the next edition of the DSM.
Why is the hourly rate for a psychiatric evaluation so expensive? I see a therapist in Manhattan, and she only charges $125 per session.
A psychiatrist undertaking a court-ordered evaluation is required to meet certain criteria. Past medical and mental health records must be reviewed, and a formal report made to the court. It may be necessary to appear before the judge. In this case, both parents must be evaluated by the same psychiatrist. Understandably, this extra work is reflected in the hourly rate.
Why the need for a legal defense fund?
These proceedings are expensive. My ex hopes to use that expense to her advantage.
My ex is from a wealthy family. Over the course of the past seven months, even in advance of these proceedings, she has used her family’s resources to wage a campaign of financial intimidation in hopes of gaining custody of our children.
When our marriage ended, I was sent to live in an apartment owned by my ex’s father. After she read the Time Out, New York article in March, her father brought pressure to force my family from the apartment. At the time, I was unaware of her discovery of my blog. Our divorce settlement stipulated joint custody of the children. This effort to remove us from our home was designed to make it impossible for me to maintain that agreement.
My ex and her father each recommended that I voluntarily surrender custody of the children and make arrangements to stay someplace else, perhaps on a friend’s couch. Instead, I found a comfortable three-bedroom apartment and moved. At no time did my ex or her family express any interest in where the children and I might live. The strategy of winning custody by making me homeless failed.
Knowing that the sudden move had left me financially vulnerable—obviously, it would, and I had written as much in my blog—my ex then filed for full custody. She chose to do so by filing an emergency order to show cause. Such orders are necessary when children are in immediate danger and the court’s quick action is necessary. At no time did my ex or her family express to me any concern about the children’s safety and welfare. Indeed, as my ex worked with her attorneys on preparing this motion, I was out-of-state with my children on vacation. During the three months my ex had known about my blog, no effort was made to deter this vacation in light of a perceived “emergency.”
I learned of the motion late one afternoon and was expected in court the following morning. My ex also chose not to file in family court in an added effort to make the process as expensive and protracted as possible. Had she filed in family court, it would not have been necessary for me to have an attorney, and a court-ordered psychiatric evaluation would have been provided by the court, were it deemed necessary. Again, my ex and her family assumed that by taking the most expensive route possible, they could take advantage of my financial disadvantage.
Only after that initial court date did I learn that the motion was based wholly and entirely on my blog. The motion alleged that I could not be a fit parent due to my sexuality and sexual activity. The motion, which is as thick as a phone book, is replete with incendiary sexual language. In fact, the motion mentioned my bisexuality four times, orgies nine times, pornography three times and sex twenty-eight times. The word “hypersexual” was used eleven times. By contrast, the phrase “best interests of the children” appeared only three times.
A subsequent addition to the motion alleged my practice of the fetish “blooding,” which was defined as the use of blood as a lubricant during intercourse. Not only had I never written of any such interest, I had never heard of a fetish for “blooding.” I’ve Googled the term and asked around. No one seems to know about it. Having apparently coined the term, my ex’s attorneys are free to define it as they wish. Clearly, the hope was to shock the judge by ascribing this invented fetish to me.
The motion was reviewed by the legal experts of the Sexual Freedom Legal Defense and Education Fund. Given the extraordinary emphasis on my sexuality, the absence of any other claims against my abilities as a parent, and the motion’s acknowledgment that I am in fact a good parent, the Sexual Freedom Legal Defense and Education Fund created a fund to support the case.
How are free speech issues involved?
The claims against me are based entirely on my writing. Long-time readers of my blog know that I write not only about sex, but also about parenting. This dual focus is reflected in the blog’s subtitle. They know that I have written repeatedly on the segregation of my two lives. They also know that this blog has documented my trying relationship with the mother of my children.
Having perused the blog over several months, my ex is fully aware that it documents her actual behavior and actions. She is therefore interested in curtailing my writing.
In any other instance, her hands would be tied. The right to free speech would be hard to contest, as my writing is in no way slanderous or false. However, in custody cases, free speech is considered alongside the best interests of the child. In a custody case, the court may order me to cease or curtail my writing.
As this has to do with custody, sexuality and the Internet, we are in largely uncharted waters. My lawyer is beginning to research the issue and has not yet found any on point precedent for this situation. My case facts seem to present a “case of first impression” with respect to First Amendment freedom of expression and prior restraint law. As a restriction on a parent’s writing would have constitutional implications, the defense of free speech in this case could have a very broad impact.
How are you holding up?
Ever optimistic, thanks. My greatest concern in keeping this blog has been that my ex would discover it and sue for full custody. Now that she has done so (and done so, alas, with entirely predicted venom), I look forward to putting aside that anxiety once and for all with the reassertion of the original joint custody agreement.
Thanks again for your continued support.
Make an ANONYMOUS, TAX-DEDUCTIBLE contribution to Jefferson’s legal defense by visiting the Sexual Freedom Defense and Education Fund at:
Please remember to specify that your donation is earmarked for the Jefferson Legal Defense Fund. The Sexual Freedom Legal Defense and Education Fund affirms that these earmarked donations are tax deductible.
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Saturday, June 21, 2008
Sunday, March 30, 2008
Sunday, January 27, 2008
Humanity Falls Into Chaos
One of the most awesome things about sex with straight boys is hearing "the talk" afterwards. The talk usually includes the phrases "yeah, it felt good, but it was weird," "that was hot, but, dude, you know, I'm not gay," and, if you are lucky, "so, you're not telling anybody, right?"
I hate to tell you how often I heard the talk back in high school.
But even I never garnered the phrase "if guys start fucking each other, then all of the sudden, humanity falls into chaos." This fellow's boyfriend in Queens must be really, really amazing if his catastrophic blowjobs can threaten civilization as we know it.
Can someone give him my number?
Saturday, January 12, 2008
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.
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.
Monday, December 10, 2007
Monday, September 03, 2007
Fuck Me, Boy
Carlos leaned back on my couch, fully dressed. He caught his breath after a full day’s work. A glass of cold water sweated on the coffee table.
Our third date was almost routine. There was a nice domestic quality to awaiting his arrival, watching him relax and hearing about his day. I could imagine massaging his temples as he sipped a martini before sitting down to my home cooking.
However, I knew better than to harbor wifely fantasies about the man who fucked me.
Carlos already had one lover who was eager to be his boyfriend, and another who was a good friend. I was fitting into his life as a regular cocktail-hour lay between leaving his office and returning to the apartment he shared with his younger brother. Living with family curtailed his availability for late nights and sleepovers, and made it impossible to bring home dates. I had the time and place to offer him good solid sex.
Our relationship was not merely one of convenience, but it certainly didn’t hurt that it was convenient.
It worked for me as well. I liked that I could get in some hot sex with a boy who got me going before getting on with my evening plans, which, admittedly, generally revolved around hot sex. I liked that he enjoyed being with me and kept coming back for more, as that allowed me to think about ways I wanted to be with him.
He allowed the conversation to lapse and leaned forward to kiss me. I allowed him to take the lead; it felt good to know he wanted me.
I caught myself smiling as he kissed my teeth.
“C’mon.” I took his hand and pulled him to the bedroom. I undressed him, running my hands over each area of his body to be exposed to my touch. I kissed his body as he stood, his hand resting on my shoulder. He taste was becoming familiar to me, and that only increased my hunger.
I pushed him on to the bed, barely acknowledging him as I continued with his body. I could sense his withdrawal into passivity, his surrender to my mouth.
I lingered across his ribs, admiring how they vanished into his latissimus dorsi. I nibbled lightly on the muscle, watching it twitch in response, feeling his lungs fill and empty.
I turned to watch my finger traced its way lightly between his buttocks, looking back to see his head turn in response.
If Carlos were to stay over, this is how I would pass hours, touching him, looking at him, watching how his body responds to sleep.
His passivity aroused this desire to take my time, as if he had departed the room and left behind his body for my delectation.
I turned him, burrowing my nose into the canal of his spine. I bit his shoulder, leaning close to hear his breath.
“Carlos,” I whispered, having nothing further to add.
He opened his eyes and twisted around to kiss me. I took him in my arms, pressing close. One day, Carlos will fall in love. That man will be lucky to have ardor added to Carlos’s sweet sensuality.
Carlos turned me in his arms. He pressed into my back, rubbing his cock against my ass. His hands found my chest.
“No, wait.” I turned to look at him. “You’re beautiful and I want to watch you.” I pulled him onto me, looking at his face as I rubbed the stubble of his haircut. I kissed him again, gently, and reached for a condom.
He held back my thighs and lubed me. I put my hands behind my neck, watching as he rolled on the condom. I ran my foot along his cheek and down his smooth chest.
I gasped as he entered me.
He stopped. “You okay?”
I huffed and nodded. “Yeah, I’m okay. Fuck me, handsome.”
He pressed forward, filling me. My body seared.
He folded me back, pulling my legs to rest on his shoulder. I touched his face and nodded, meaning I didn’t know what, except that I wanted him, very much.
He rocked me back and forth as we fucked. As I relaxed he began to thrust harder.
How often had I had someone where he now had me? How rarely had I been there?
He kept his eyes on mine. I didn’t want to blink for missing a moment of his intent. I wanted him to fuck me.
I wanted to fuck him.
“Carlos,” I said, looking at him. He nodded, not replying, just fucking me.
I couldn’t stand being immobile, so far from his lips. “Carlos, wait. Pull out.”
“You’re okay?” he asked, falling back.
“Yes.” I pulled myself up. “I’m just so hot for you right now. We need to kiss.” I pushed him back and lay over him. I dropped my mouth to his, sighing as he opened to me.
I pulled my knees forward and sat up. My eyes dropped to his torso, my hands against his flesh. I took his eyes in mine again. Wordlessly, I slipped two fingers into his mouth. His eyes closed as he felt me against his tongue.
With my other hand, I reached down and returned his cock to my body.
I pushed my hips back and forth, pumping him in me. His eyes opened to watch me moving on his body. I put my free hand on his shoulder and squeezed.
I fell forward, taking my fingers from his mouth, taking his mouth in mine.
I held his face between my hands, growling into him as my hips pressed him into me.
I squeezed his cheeks and scowled. “You need to fuck me, boy. Like you fucking mean it. Now.”
His eyes sparked. He grabbed my thighs with his full strength and pressed up into me. I flexed around his cock, tugging him deeper into me.
I punched his chest with my fist. “Harder.”
Carlos realized I had him pinned. He struggled, pushing against me. I hit him again and grabbed his face. “No. Behave. You fuck me.”
His face flushed. He couldn’t make sense of this. In his experience, you either topped or bottomed. He had his cock in my ass, so he was topping. But I wasn’t bottoming. I was getting fucked, and I was topping.
I released his face and gently caressed his hair. I rested my thumbs on his eyebrows and smiled at him.
My desire for his body had not subsided in the least. Now, I also wanted his mind.
I leaned forward again, kissing him, gently gyrating my hips to fuck him with my ass. I gradually increased my speed. I flexed my hole, pumping him.
My lips left his. I dropped my forehead against his, closing my eyes, focused on his body in mine. I inhaled every breath he exhaled.
He couldn’t take anymore. He grabbed my shoulders and pushed me. I fell away willingly.
He pulled off his condom and crouched over my face, jerking furiously. I pushed my head into his thigh, caressing him with my hair. I raised my hands to hold his waist as he came on his chest and my face.
He gasped. I realized that he held his breath as he orgasmed.
I wiped my face with my hand and pulled him down to my kiss.
I washed my face and left him to shower alone. I wanted to soap him. I wanted to bath him, by candlelight.
But I’m smart. I save some fantasies. I wanted to savor the afterglow of this one.
That night, Madeline called.
“How’s your day, darlin’?”
“I’m having a great day. I now know how I like to get fucked.”
“Really? And how, pray tell, is that?”
“I dom with a dick in my ass.”
“Oh, honey, that’s great,” she laughed. “Carlos is so hot.”
“Carlos,” I nodded. “Is so hot.”
Our third date was almost routine. There was a nice domestic quality to awaiting his arrival, watching him relax and hearing about his day. I could imagine massaging his temples as he sipped a martini before sitting down to my home cooking.
However, I knew better than to harbor wifely fantasies about the man who fucked me.
Carlos already had one lover who was eager to be his boyfriend, and another who was a good friend. I was fitting into his life as a regular cocktail-hour lay between leaving his office and returning to the apartment he shared with his younger brother. Living with family curtailed his availability for late nights and sleepovers, and made it impossible to bring home dates. I had the time and place to offer him good solid sex.
Our relationship was not merely one of convenience, but it certainly didn’t hurt that it was convenient.
It worked for me as well. I liked that I could get in some hot sex with a boy who got me going before getting on with my evening plans, which, admittedly, generally revolved around hot sex. I liked that he enjoyed being with me and kept coming back for more, as that allowed me to think about ways I wanted to be with him.
He allowed the conversation to lapse and leaned forward to kiss me. I allowed him to take the lead; it felt good to know he wanted me.
I caught myself smiling as he kissed my teeth.
“C’mon.” I took his hand and pulled him to the bedroom. I undressed him, running my hands over each area of his body to be exposed to my touch. I kissed his body as he stood, his hand resting on my shoulder. He taste was becoming familiar to me, and that only increased my hunger.
I pushed him on to the bed, barely acknowledging him as I continued with his body. I could sense his withdrawal into passivity, his surrender to my mouth.
I lingered across his ribs, admiring how they vanished into his latissimus dorsi. I nibbled lightly on the muscle, watching it twitch in response, feeling his lungs fill and empty.
I turned to watch my finger traced its way lightly between his buttocks, looking back to see his head turn in response.
If Carlos were to stay over, this is how I would pass hours, touching him, looking at him, watching how his body responds to sleep.
His passivity aroused this desire to take my time, as if he had departed the room and left behind his body for my delectation.
I turned him, burrowing my nose into the canal of his spine. I bit his shoulder, leaning close to hear his breath.
“Carlos,” I whispered, having nothing further to add.
He opened his eyes and twisted around to kiss me. I took him in my arms, pressing close. One day, Carlos will fall in love. That man will be lucky to have ardor added to Carlos’s sweet sensuality.
Carlos turned me in his arms. He pressed into my back, rubbing his cock against my ass. His hands found my chest.
“No, wait.” I turned to look at him. “You’re beautiful and I want to watch you.” I pulled him onto me, looking at his face as I rubbed the stubble of his haircut. I kissed him again, gently, and reached for a condom.
He held back my thighs and lubed me. I put my hands behind my neck, watching as he rolled on the condom. I ran my foot along his cheek and down his smooth chest.
I gasped as he entered me.
He stopped. “You okay?”
I huffed and nodded. “Yeah, I’m okay. Fuck me, handsome.”
He pressed forward, filling me. My body seared.
He folded me back, pulling my legs to rest on his shoulder. I touched his face and nodded, meaning I didn’t know what, except that I wanted him, very much.
He rocked me back and forth as we fucked. As I relaxed he began to thrust harder.
How often had I had someone where he now had me? How rarely had I been there?
He kept his eyes on mine. I didn’t want to blink for missing a moment of his intent. I wanted him to fuck me.
I wanted to fuck him.
“Carlos,” I said, looking at him. He nodded, not replying, just fucking me.
I couldn’t stand being immobile, so far from his lips. “Carlos, wait. Pull out.”
“You’re okay?” he asked, falling back.
“Yes.” I pulled myself up. “I’m just so hot for you right now. We need to kiss.” I pushed him back and lay over him. I dropped my mouth to his, sighing as he opened to me.
I pulled my knees forward and sat up. My eyes dropped to his torso, my hands against his flesh. I took his eyes in mine again. Wordlessly, I slipped two fingers into his mouth. His eyes closed as he felt me against his tongue.
With my other hand, I reached down and returned his cock to my body.
I pushed my hips back and forth, pumping him in me. His eyes opened to watch me moving on his body. I put my free hand on his shoulder and squeezed.
I fell forward, taking my fingers from his mouth, taking his mouth in mine.
I held his face between my hands, growling into him as my hips pressed him into me.
I squeezed his cheeks and scowled. “You need to fuck me, boy. Like you fucking mean it. Now.”
His eyes sparked. He grabbed my thighs with his full strength and pressed up into me. I flexed around his cock, tugging him deeper into me.
I punched his chest with my fist. “Harder.”
Carlos realized I had him pinned. He struggled, pushing against me. I hit him again and grabbed his face. “No. Behave. You fuck me.”
His face flushed. He couldn’t make sense of this. In his experience, you either topped or bottomed. He had his cock in my ass, so he was topping. But I wasn’t bottoming. I was getting fucked, and I was topping.
I released his face and gently caressed his hair. I rested my thumbs on his eyebrows and smiled at him.
My desire for his body had not subsided in the least. Now, I also wanted his mind.
I leaned forward again, kissing him, gently gyrating my hips to fuck him with my ass. I gradually increased my speed. I flexed my hole, pumping him.
My lips left his. I dropped my forehead against his, closing my eyes, focused on his body in mine. I inhaled every breath he exhaled.
He couldn’t take anymore. He grabbed my shoulders and pushed me. I fell away willingly.
He pulled off his condom and crouched over my face, jerking furiously. I pushed my head into his thigh, caressing him with my hair. I raised my hands to hold his waist as he came on his chest and my face.
He gasped. I realized that he held his breath as he orgasmed.
I wiped my face with my hand and pulled him down to my kiss.
I washed my face and left him to shower alone. I wanted to soap him. I wanted to bath him, by candlelight.
But I’m smart. I save some fantasies. I wanted to savor the afterglow of this one.
That night, Madeline called.
“How’s your day, darlin’?”
“I’m having a great day. I now know how I like to get fucked.”
“Really? And how, pray tell, is that?”
“I dom with a dick in my ass.”
“Oh, honey, that’s great,” she laughed. “Carlos is so hot.”
“Carlos,” I nodded. “Is so hot.”
Sunday, September 02, 2007
Saturday, September 01, 2007
Genie
He hadn’t meant anything by it. Carlos came over to be photographed and maybe have some sex. It was a simple hook up with a camera thrown in.
That simplicity took a different turn when he fucked me. He had given it to me hard, making me cry out as he pulled my hair and came in my face. He was surprised by what that brought out in him.
I was no less surprised by what it brought out in me.
When he was in my bedroom, nude, under my body, stretched out before my camera, I felt entirely at ease. His beauty was soothing and made me feel confident; far from being intimidated by beauty, I am inspired by it. I could shape and mold his flesh to suit my inspiration in the moment.
He was undressed because I undressed him. He gave me kisses because I took them. He flinched under my bites and nibbles, his cock throbbing. My mouth and hands took him to precisely where I wanted him to be. In those moments with Carlos, I was practiced, assured and unrushed, an artist applying well-honed skills to his craft.
This was before he flipped me over and fucked me. As he pushed into me, pinning down my neck, I was momentarily stunned. This never happened—not the fucking, not the loss of composure, not the surrender of my body. Even more unfamiliar was the sense that I wanted it in that moment, badly, and wanted more of it, immediately.
I would see him again. I might even get fucked again. I didn’t regard getting fucked as an act of submission any more than I regarded fucking as an act of domination. Topping or bottoming are not innately acts of dominance or submission.
Even so, I had to wrap my mind around the sensation I felt in that moment when he flipped me. From my place of confidence and strength as I devoured his beauty—that familiar creative zone of domination—I was turned around and made his prey. He had wanted to take me just as intently as I had wanted to take him.
I wanted more of that.
So far as I knew, Carlos had no interest in anything having to do with domination or submission. He may have just been passive by nature and suddenly felt like fucking. But the raw surge of desire I felt as he fucked me, and the ferocity of his response to it, had clearly affected him as well.
True to form, I gravitated back to the top in my subsequent exchanges with Carlos. The prospect of seeing him again had my creative juices flowing. Without quite meaning to, Carlos was pushing me to want something new with him. I wondered if I could push him as well.
Jefferson: Have you ever been with a girl, Carlos?
Carlos: LOL. No, why?
Jefferson: I want you to fuck a girl for me. How about Tuesday?
Carlos: Are you serious? I don’t know . . .
Jefferson: It’s easy as pie. She’s very pretty—green eyes, sandy blonde hair, your age. You’ll be helping me out, since she has a fantasy about taking a gay boy’s virginity.
Carlos: LOL.
Jefferson: Do me this favor.
Carlos: Maybe I’ll just do you instead.
Jefferson: Carlos, God damn it, can’t you please just do what I tell you to do? Please? How fucking hard is that?
Carlos: LOL.
I had to accept that Carlos might not take my bait. At least, not yet. We barely knew one another, so I would just have to wait to find out if he was interested in allowing me to direct him to new experiences. That is, if I continued to hold his interest at all. Still, I couldn’t let rest my compulsion to test the edges of his susceptibility to suggestion.
Jefferson: I want you to come to the next meeting of my Bukkake Social Club.
Carlos: Bukkake?
Jefferson: Yes. You and a bunch of boys will watch me fuck a girl. The boys are all cool and most are bisexual. Eventually, they all jerk off and cum on the girl.
Carlos: Hot!!
Jefferson: Right? It’s damned hot. And I promise, I won’t make you fuck the girl.
Carlos: LOL. Cool, sounds good.
I considered this a good compromise. He might have had it in mind to fuck me, but this time, he would be watching me fuck a woman. This was something he had never done, nor seen done.
I realized that this invitation put him in the position of a voyeur. I had found myself craving his cock in me. Perhaps that craving now had me trying to put the genie back in the bottle by keeping him in a passive position—or at least by creating a situation in which I would be in charge.
Unfortunately, I could not be in charge of other people’s schedules. It was summer and many of the bukkake club members were out of town or otherwise engaged. Late on the day we planned to meet, I decided that we had too few confirmed responses and cancelled the session. I sent an email to the gentlemen and asked my invited guest to join me later that night for dinner and a sleepover.
I reported the news to Carlos.
Carlos: Too bad. That sounded hot. You still want to meet? I’m so horny today.
Of course, I agreed.
I smiled when I saw him in my peephole. We kissed lightly at the door. I offered him a glass of water as he sat on the couch.
We talked about his day. He talked about his weekend playing tennis with his brother and sister. He touched my face, gently, and kissed me.
My hands searched out his body under his clothes.
In my bedroom, he was passive, as before. He allowed me to undress him, closing his eyes as I toured his body with my touch and my mouth. I took my time, as he showed no sign of hurry.
I held the base of his skull in my hand, swirling my tongue around his throat, when the phone rang. It signaled a guest at the door.
“One sec.” I leaned over his body to reach the receiver. “Yes? Oh, hi . . . did you . . . okay, come on up.” I buzzed the front door open.
Carlos was watching me. I grinned sheepishly.
“What was that?”
“Sight complication.” I leaned to kiss his lips. “You ever been watched before?”
“Watched? You mean, during sex? Uh, no . . .”
I sat up and reached for my shorts. “Cool. That’s about to change.”
His eyes followed me as I left the room.
I opened the front door as the doorbell rang. “Hi Eric, good to see you again.”
“Hey man, good to see you.” Eric took my hand as he entered. His palm was damp from the heat. He looked around the living room. “Am I the first?”
“First and only, I’m afraid. Did you walk here?”
“Yeah, it’s only a couple of miles . . .”
“Then I think you missed my late email. I’m sorry, but we had to cancel at the last minute.”
Eric face fell. “Oh, that’s too bad.” He looked around. “I had sort of saved it up for this.”
“Well, never fear. I’m fooling around with one of the guys in the back. You’re welcome to stay to watch that—you know, as a consolation prize.”
He wiped his forehead. “Huh. Really? Well, sure, okay.”
“Good.” I smiled. “C’mon, I’ll introduce you.” I led the way to my bedroom.
“Carlos? I’d like you to meet Eric. Eric, this is Carlos.”
Carlos sat up quickly. His eyes looked over my shoulders to Eric. He could see us both as we entered, as Eric is a good head taller than me.
“Oh, uh, hey.”
“Hey.”
“My apologies that Carlos is already naked,” I said, pulling off my shirt. “We were just . . . you know.” I dropped my shorts and sat next to Carlos.
“No, that’s cool.” Eric looked around. “So should I . . . ?”
“Yes, please.” I waved a hand to the chair beside my bed. “Make yourself comfortable in your voyeur’s seat. We’ll simply resume.”
Eric stepped out of his sneakers. I leaned forward to kiss Carlos. He kissed me back, his eyes on Eric.
I was going to enjoy this.
Eric had been watching me fuck women for over a year. He was quiet and handsome, with a tall athletic body that invariably caught the glances of the other bukkake club members and our female guests. I was touched by his respectful demeanor and returned it with similar manners. He was always a welcome guest in my home.
Carlos had never been watched. I was about to choreograph him through his first live sex show.
I paused as my lips trailed down Carlos’s sternum. “You’ve never watched two boys, have you, Eric?”
He coughed slightly. “No. I mean, porn and stuff, but . . .”
“Oh, I didn’t know you liked that kind of porn.” Carlos twitched as I brushed my cheek across his smooth belly. “I mean, you’re straight and all. Have you ever done much with boys?”
“No.” Eric watched my hand gently pump Carlos’s cock. “A foursome once, but the other guy and me . . . well, we didn’t do much . . .”
“Huh, that sounds really hot,” I nodded, taking Carlos’s cock in my mouth. He sighed and fell back.
I already knew the answers to the questions I asked Eric. My interview was primarily intended for Carlos’s edification and arousal.
My hands cupped his hips as I pulled him deep into me.
Hmm, Carlos, I thought as my tongue waved under him. Let me do things with you.
I looked up. Carlos was watching Eric. I knew Eric’s rhythms well enough to know what had caught Carlos’s eyes. I glanced over to see Eric stroking his cock, his shorts open at the zipper.
I dropped Carlos’s cock from my mouth and crawled up his body. I turned my head to rest my cheek against his. “I forgot to mention that Eric has an enormous cock. Amazing, right?”
Carlos stared ahead. I ground my cock against his. “Yeah.”
Eric stroked faster as we watched.
I sat back on my heels. I pressed Carlos’s thighs back. “I really like to have Eric watch when I’m fucking,” I said, pressing against Carlos’s hole. “He really gets off on it.”
The only sound from Eric’s chair was the friction in his palm.
Carlos barely noticed as I reached for lube and a condom. Eric’s eyes moved from Carlos’s torso to his ass I lubed him.
This time, Carlos raised no protests about being fucked.
I held my slippery head at the edge of his well-greased hole and pushed. “Unh,” Carlos sighed, closing his eyes. “I’m sorry, so tight . . .”
I smiled. “Yes, baby, you are incredibly tight.” I pushed forward, gradually giving him the full length of my cock.
“Shit,” Eric whispered.
I looked at him as I slowly pumped. “He has such a tight hole, man.” I pushed Carlo’s leg up to afford a better view for Eric. “See? I’m having to be so gentle.”
“Fuck,” Eric whispered.
I looked down to Carlos’s face. His eyes were closed. He bit his lip.
I pushed back on his thighs, fucking harder.
He turned his face. His brown eyes bore into me.
I fucked him harder still, pivoting my hips.
Carlos turned to watch Eric. I preferred to give Eric his privacy and focused on Carlos.
I barely noticed when Eric removed his shirt. Carlos began to stroke himself.
I pulled Carlos to the edge of the bed. I stood, grabbed his hips, and plowed forcefully.
I heard Eric’s breath accelerate. I knew the sound of his orgasm. I turned slightly to be sure he had a fine line of sight.
“Unh, unh, unh!” Eric grunted.
Carlos pivoted his head. “Do you want to cum on my chest?”
Eric raised a hand and looked at it as though he didn’t recognize it as his own. It dripped on his lap. “Uh, well, I just came.” He reached for a tissue.
“Carlos.” My voice was low.
He looked up at me.
“Carlos,” I said. “Now you cum.”
He nodded. His hand reached for his cock. I looked down to see that he wasn’t fully erect. I spit at his balls. He nodded again, taking up my saliva as his lube.
Eric watched as Carlos shot across his chest and belly.
“Fuck,” Eric murmured.
I leaned forward to kiss Carlos. I kissed him deeply, pressing my body against his, smearing his cum between us. “You are very beautiful, Carlos.”
He looked up. “Thanks.”
I kissed his forehead and stood. I edged my cock out of him and tugged off the condom. I fell back on the bed.
“Whew!” I exhaled, looking at Eric.
“Aren’t you going to cum?” Carlos asked.
“Nah,” I said, shaking my head. “Date night.”
Eric laughed. “Anyone I know?”
I looked at the ceiling. “Hmm, probably. You’ve must’ve seen me fuck most of the women I know.”
“That’s awesome.” Eric stood and reached for his shirt. “Well, thanks for the show, guys.”
“You’re leaving?” Carlos asked.
Eric looked at me, his face looking slightly awkward. “Yes, Eric has places to be,” I smiled. “Here, let me show our company to the door.” I picked up my shorts and leaned to kiss Carlos. “Back in a moment.”
At the door, I shook Eric’s hand. “Thanks for being so understanding about the change of plans.”
“Oh, that’s cool,” he smiled. “I’d like to see that again, if that’s cool.”
I patted his back. “I’m pretty sure Carlos would like that too.” I opened the door. “Next time, Eric.”
“Thanks. See you soon.”
I undressed again before getting back into bed with Carlos. Wordlessly, I kissed him.
“That was very nice, Carlos.” I kissed him again.
“That was really hot,” he nodded. “How do you know him?”
“I know people.” I ran a finger on his arm and kissed his shoulder. “Thanks for letting me fuck you. I knew he would get off on that. And . . . “ I kissed his cheek. “So did I.”
“It was nice,” he said. “Sorry if I was too tight. It’s just been a while.”
“You don’t bottom much?”
“Not any more. I mean, it used to be all I did. Everyone assumed I was a bottom, I guess because I’m young and the way I look or whatever. But I tried topping and I really liked it. So that’s what I do.”
I nodded. “You top really well. And you bottom well, too. You’re lucky—I’m a terrible bottom.”
He laughed. “I thought you were pretty good.”
I grimaced and looked away. “No, that’s nice, thanks, but I know I’m really bad at it.” I sighed. “I guess I just don’t do it enough to get any good.”
Carlos smiled. “Then you should do it more.”
Maybe Carlos could take my bait after all. I leaned forward and pressed him back. I lay over him and kissed his lips.
“Carlos,” I murmured. “I want to be versatile, just like you.”
He grabbed my ass and laughed.
That simplicity took a different turn when he fucked me. He had given it to me hard, making me cry out as he pulled my hair and came in my face. He was surprised by what that brought out in him.
I was no less surprised by what it brought out in me.
When he was in my bedroom, nude, under my body, stretched out before my camera, I felt entirely at ease. His beauty was soothing and made me feel confident; far from being intimidated by beauty, I am inspired by it. I could shape and mold his flesh to suit my inspiration in the moment.
He was undressed because I undressed him. He gave me kisses because I took them. He flinched under my bites and nibbles, his cock throbbing. My mouth and hands took him to precisely where I wanted him to be. In those moments with Carlos, I was practiced, assured and unrushed, an artist applying well-honed skills to his craft.
This was before he flipped me over and fucked me. As he pushed into me, pinning down my neck, I was momentarily stunned. This never happened—not the fucking, not the loss of composure, not the surrender of my body. Even more unfamiliar was the sense that I wanted it in that moment, badly, and wanted more of it, immediately.
I would see him again. I might even get fucked again. I didn’t regard getting fucked as an act of submission any more than I regarded fucking as an act of domination. Topping or bottoming are not innately acts of dominance or submission.
Even so, I had to wrap my mind around the sensation I felt in that moment when he flipped me. From my place of confidence and strength as I devoured his beauty—that familiar creative zone of domination—I was turned around and made his prey. He had wanted to take me just as intently as I had wanted to take him.
I wanted more of that.
So far as I knew, Carlos had no interest in anything having to do with domination or submission. He may have just been passive by nature and suddenly felt like fucking. But the raw surge of desire I felt as he fucked me, and the ferocity of his response to it, had clearly affected him as well.
True to form, I gravitated back to the top in my subsequent exchanges with Carlos. The prospect of seeing him again had my creative juices flowing. Without quite meaning to, Carlos was pushing me to want something new with him. I wondered if I could push him as well.
Jefferson: Have you ever been with a girl, Carlos?
Carlos: LOL. No, why?
Jefferson: I want you to fuck a girl for me. How about Tuesday?
Carlos: Are you serious? I don’t know . . .
Jefferson: It’s easy as pie. She’s very pretty—green eyes, sandy blonde hair, your age. You’ll be helping me out, since she has a fantasy about taking a gay boy’s virginity.
Carlos: LOL.
Jefferson: Do me this favor.
Carlos: Maybe I’ll just do you instead.
Jefferson: Carlos, God damn it, can’t you please just do what I tell you to do? Please? How fucking hard is that?
Carlos: LOL.
I had to accept that Carlos might not take my bait. At least, not yet. We barely knew one another, so I would just have to wait to find out if he was interested in allowing me to direct him to new experiences. That is, if I continued to hold his interest at all. Still, I couldn’t let rest my compulsion to test the edges of his susceptibility to suggestion.
Jefferson: I want you to come to the next meeting of my Bukkake Social Club.
Carlos: Bukkake?
Jefferson: Yes. You and a bunch of boys will watch me fuck a girl. The boys are all cool and most are bisexual. Eventually, they all jerk off and cum on the girl.
Carlos: Hot!!
Jefferson: Right? It’s damned hot. And I promise, I won’t make you fuck the girl.
Carlos: LOL. Cool, sounds good.
I considered this a good compromise. He might have had it in mind to fuck me, but this time, he would be watching me fuck a woman. This was something he had never done, nor seen done.
I realized that this invitation put him in the position of a voyeur. I had found myself craving his cock in me. Perhaps that craving now had me trying to put the genie back in the bottle by keeping him in a passive position—or at least by creating a situation in which I would be in charge.
Unfortunately, I could not be in charge of other people’s schedules. It was summer and many of the bukkake club members were out of town or otherwise engaged. Late on the day we planned to meet, I decided that we had too few confirmed responses and cancelled the session. I sent an email to the gentlemen and asked my invited guest to join me later that night for dinner and a sleepover.
I reported the news to Carlos.
Carlos: Too bad. That sounded hot. You still want to meet? I’m so horny today.
Of course, I agreed.
I smiled when I saw him in my peephole. We kissed lightly at the door. I offered him a glass of water as he sat on the couch.
We talked about his day. He talked about his weekend playing tennis with his brother and sister. He touched my face, gently, and kissed me.
My hands searched out his body under his clothes.
In my bedroom, he was passive, as before. He allowed me to undress him, closing his eyes as I toured his body with my touch and my mouth. I took my time, as he showed no sign of hurry.
I held the base of his skull in my hand, swirling my tongue around his throat, when the phone rang. It signaled a guest at the door.
“One sec.” I leaned over his body to reach the receiver. “Yes? Oh, hi . . . did you . . . okay, come on up.” I buzzed the front door open.
Carlos was watching me. I grinned sheepishly.
“What was that?”
“Sight complication.” I leaned to kiss his lips. “You ever been watched before?”
“Watched? You mean, during sex? Uh, no . . .”
I sat up and reached for my shorts. “Cool. That’s about to change.”
His eyes followed me as I left the room.
I opened the front door as the doorbell rang. “Hi Eric, good to see you again.”
“Hey man, good to see you.” Eric took my hand as he entered. His palm was damp from the heat. He looked around the living room. “Am I the first?”
“First and only, I’m afraid. Did you walk here?”
“Yeah, it’s only a couple of miles . . .”
“Then I think you missed my late email. I’m sorry, but we had to cancel at the last minute.”
Eric face fell. “Oh, that’s too bad.” He looked around. “I had sort of saved it up for this.”
“Well, never fear. I’m fooling around with one of the guys in the back. You’re welcome to stay to watch that—you know, as a consolation prize.”
He wiped his forehead. “Huh. Really? Well, sure, okay.”
“Good.” I smiled. “C’mon, I’ll introduce you.” I led the way to my bedroom.
“Carlos? I’d like you to meet Eric. Eric, this is Carlos.”
Carlos sat up quickly. His eyes looked over my shoulders to Eric. He could see us both as we entered, as Eric is a good head taller than me.
“Oh, uh, hey.”
“Hey.”
“My apologies that Carlos is already naked,” I said, pulling off my shirt. “We were just . . . you know.” I dropped my shorts and sat next to Carlos.
“No, that’s cool.” Eric looked around. “So should I . . . ?”
“Yes, please.” I waved a hand to the chair beside my bed. “Make yourself comfortable in your voyeur’s seat. We’ll simply resume.”
Eric stepped out of his sneakers. I leaned forward to kiss Carlos. He kissed me back, his eyes on Eric.
I was going to enjoy this.
Eric had been watching me fuck women for over a year. He was quiet and handsome, with a tall athletic body that invariably caught the glances of the other bukkake club members and our female guests. I was touched by his respectful demeanor and returned it with similar manners. He was always a welcome guest in my home.
Carlos had never been watched. I was about to choreograph him through his first live sex show.
I paused as my lips trailed down Carlos’s sternum. “You’ve never watched two boys, have you, Eric?”
He coughed slightly. “No. I mean, porn and stuff, but . . .”
“Oh, I didn’t know you liked that kind of porn.” Carlos twitched as I brushed my cheek across his smooth belly. “I mean, you’re straight and all. Have you ever done much with boys?”
“No.” Eric watched my hand gently pump Carlos’s cock. “A foursome once, but the other guy and me . . . well, we didn’t do much . . .”
“Huh, that sounds really hot,” I nodded, taking Carlos’s cock in my mouth. He sighed and fell back.
I already knew the answers to the questions I asked Eric. My interview was primarily intended for Carlos’s edification and arousal.
My hands cupped his hips as I pulled him deep into me.
Hmm, Carlos, I thought as my tongue waved under him. Let me do things with you.
I looked up. Carlos was watching Eric. I knew Eric’s rhythms well enough to know what had caught Carlos’s eyes. I glanced over to see Eric stroking his cock, his shorts open at the zipper.
I dropped Carlos’s cock from my mouth and crawled up his body. I turned my head to rest my cheek against his. “I forgot to mention that Eric has an enormous cock. Amazing, right?”
Carlos stared ahead. I ground my cock against his. “Yeah.”
Eric stroked faster as we watched.
I sat back on my heels. I pressed Carlos’s thighs back. “I really like to have Eric watch when I’m fucking,” I said, pressing against Carlos’s hole. “He really gets off on it.”
The only sound from Eric’s chair was the friction in his palm.
Carlos barely noticed as I reached for lube and a condom. Eric’s eyes moved from Carlos’s torso to his ass I lubed him.
This time, Carlos raised no protests about being fucked.
I held my slippery head at the edge of his well-greased hole and pushed. “Unh,” Carlos sighed, closing his eyes. “I’m sorry, so tight . . .”
I smiled. “Yes, baby, you are incredibly tight.” I pushed forward, gradually giving him the full length of my cock.
“Shit,” Eric whispered.
I looked at him as I slowly pumped. “He has such a tight hole, man.” I pushed Carlo’s leg up to afford a better view for Eric. “See? I’m having to be so gentle.”
“Fuck,” Eric whispered.
I looked down to Carlos’s face. His eyes were closed. He bit his lip.
I pushed back on his thighs, fucking harder.
He turned his face. His brown eyes bore into me.
I fucked him harder still, pivoting my hips.
Carlos turned to watch Eric. I preferred to give Eric his privacy and focused on Carlos.
I barely noticed when Eric removed his shirt. Carlos began to stroke himself.
I pulled Carlos to the edge of the bed. I stood, grabbed his hips, and plowed forcefully.
I heard Eric’s breath accelerate. I knew the sound of his orgasm. I turned slightly to be sure he had a fine line of sight.
“Unh, unh, unh!” Eric grunted.
Carlos pivoted his head. “Do you want to cum on my chest?”
Eric raised a hand and looked at it as though he didn’t recognize it as his own. It dripped on his lap. “Uh, well, I just came.” He reached for a tissue.
“Carlos.” My voice was low.
He looked up at me.
“Carlos,” I said. “Now you cum.”
He nodded. His hand reached for his cock. I looked down to see that he wasn’t fully erect. I spit at his balls. He nodded again, taking up my saliva as his lube.
Eric watched as Carlos shot across his chest and belly.
“Fuck,” Eric murmured.
I leaned forward to kiss Carlos. I kissed him deeply, pressing my body against his, smearing his cum between us. “You are very beautiful, Carlos.”
He looked up. “Thanks.”
I kissed his forehead and stood. I edged my cock out of him and tugged off the condom. I fell back on the bed.
“Whew!” I exhaled, looking at Eric.
“Aren’t you going to cum?” Carlos asked.
“Nah,” I said, shaking my head. “Date night.”
Eric laughed. “Anyone I know?”
I looked at the ceiling. “Hmm, probably. You’ve must’ve seen me fuck most of the women I know.”
“That’s awesome.” Eric stood and reached for his shirt. “Well, thanks for the show, guys.”
“You’re leaving?” Carlos asked.
Eric looked at me, his face looking slightly awkward. “Yes, Eric has places to be,” I smiled. “Here, let me show our company to the door.” I picked up my shorts and leaned to kiss Carlos. “Back in a moment.”
At the door, I shook Eric’s hand. “Thanks for being so understanding about the change of plans.”
“Oh, that’s cool,” he smiled. “I’d like to see that again, if that’s cool.”
I patted his back. “I’m pretty sure Carlos would like that too.” I opened the door. “Next time, Eric.”
“Thanks. See you soon.”
I undressed again before getting back into bed with Carlos. Wordlessly, I kissed him.
“That was very nice, Carlos.” I kissed him again.
“That was really hot,” he nodded. “How do you know him?”
“I know people.” I ran a finger on his arm and kissed his shoulder. “Thanks for letting me fuck you. I knew he would get off on that. And . . . “ I kissed his cheek. “So did I.”
“It was nice,” he said. “Sorry if I was too tight. It’s just been a while.”
“You don’t bottom much?”
“Not any more. I mean, it used to be all I did. Everyone assumed I was a bottom, I guess because I’m young and the way I look or whatever. But I tried topping and I really liked it. So that’s what I do.”
I nodded. “You top really well. And you bottom well, too. You’re lucky—I’m a terrible bottom.”
He laughed. “I thought you were pretty good.”
I grimaced and looked away. “No, that’s nice, thanks, but I know I’m really bad at it.” I sighed. “I guess I just don’t do it enough to get any good.”
Carlos smiled. “Then you should do it more.”
Maybe Carlos could take my bait after all. I leaned forward and pressed him back. I lay over him and kissed his lips.
“Carlos,” I murmured. “I want to be versatile, just like you.”
He grabbed my ass and laughed.
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