6:45
“Good morning! Time to wa-aa-ake uu-uu-up! It’s Monday and back to school time!”
“Unhhhh . . .”
“Lillie, wake up, baby. Your teacher is going to be so happy to see you! You missed a lot of school last week. Wake up, baby!”
“Dad, I don’t have any socks.”
“Take a pair from your brother’s drawer. They are the same size.”
“I brushed my teeth already. You can smell my breath if you don’t believe me.”
“I believe you. Now get dressed while I finish making lunches.”
“Did you make egg salad?”
“Yes I did! Now hop to it; we need to get out of here soon.”
8:15
“Good morning, Lillie! We missed you!”
“I was sick. Like this: cough, cough.”
“I know! Is she feeling better, Daddy?”
“She’s fine. No fever for a few days. Still has a nasty sounding cough, but it is very infrequent.”
“Good. You know, we had ten kids absent last week.”
“Good grief!”
“Hopefully, this virus has done it’s worst. Okay, Lillie, say goodbye to Daddy.”
“Bye Daddy!”
“Bye honey. Have a good day. I’ll call you at your mom’s tonight.”
“Okay Daddy. I love you.”
“I love you too baby.”
9:20
“Good morning, Jefferson. You catch me just getting out of the shower.”
“Is that so, Mitzi? Or have you been lounging in that towel, just for the effect of opening the door wearing it?”
“You see right through me.”
“I want to see all of you. Lose the towel.”
10:05
“I like that you play with your clit when I’m fucking you.”
“I can’t help myself . . . you know, this weekend I made a little trip to Toys in Babeland . . .”
“And what did you procure from said establishment?”
“Let me just show you, from my box of tricks . . .”
“Can you reach it while I’m inside you?”
“Yes, I keep it close for that reason. Let’s see here . . .”
“Ah! The Rabbit!
“Yes, I am still getting acquainted with Mister Rabbit. And there’s this . . .”
“Okay, cute butt plug.”
“And I believe you are familiar with this?”
“Oh yes, the Silver Bullet. We like the Silver Bullet. May I?”
“Yes please.”
“Let me get a condom on that bad boy. It’s going in your ass while I suck your clit.”
“Thank you!”
10:48
“Mind if I suck your cock?”
“Please, enjoy.”
“You are so good to me.”
11:26
“Unh, unh . . .”
“Yes, cum for me!”
12:15
“Umph . . .”
“Sorry sweet, I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“I didn’t know I was asleep.”
“We both dozed off for a moment. I’m afraid I need to get to work. Can I take a quick shower?”
“Of course. I’ll get you a towel.”
“I can use the one you were wearing.”
“I won’t hear of it. You get a fresh one.”
“Thanks.”
“So Jefferson, I’ve been thinking about your group sex parties . . .”
“Oh yeah?”
“You think I would do well there?”
“Honey, I know you would. I would take care of you. And heck, after your gangbang, you know a few of the folks already.”
“That’s true . . . well, maybe I will come tomorrow night.”
“You would be welcome. Come early and we’ll hang out beforehand.”
“I’d like that.”
“Me too, Mitzi.”
Wednesday, March 16, 2005
Tuesday, March 15, 2005
Passive
Anna was in a melancholy mood on our most recent date.
She was sitting with my head in her lap, stroking my hair. I felt very relaxed and not a little sleepy, having had an early morning with the kids.
She has been thinking of me a lot, she said. Not as in “thinking of you,” but giving serious thought to how I am adjusting to my new life. She is trying to understand what makes me tick.
“I’m not that difficult to figure out,” I said. “I mean, I’m pretty open about my inner mechanics.”
I know you are, she said, but I don’t think you fully understand all that goes on inside. You don’t understand how hurt you still are by the divorce. You don’t understand how that hurt affects the choices you make, the things you do.
I listened, eyes closed.
She talked in a low tone at great length, dissecting the pain and confusion the attributes to me. She said that sex is a nice balm on my pain, but warned that promiscuity will only leave me feeling hollow inside.
“What experience have you had with promiscuity?” I teased.
“I’ve been busy this week.”
I opened my eyes. Her face was serious.
She told me that she had meet a few guys online in the past week, and had sex with all of them.
“And did you enjoy that?” I asked.
She shrugged. “One of them is okay. I may see him again.”
“You don’t seem too thrilled about this,” I observed. “If you don’t like it, why do it?”
“You’re not the only one who can fuck around, you know.”
I remembered last week, when she announced that she had had sex with another man, saying that now we were both nonmonogamous. Now she had seen several men, saying that now were both promiscuous.
She wasn’t just thinking about what made me tick. She was synchronizing her clock to match mine. In trying to understand me, she was emulating me. What’s good for the goose may be good for the gander, but what’s good for me seems ill-suited to her.
I closed my eyes. “You don’t have to do as I do.”
“I know. But it does give me insights.” She went on with her analysis of me. Her words wafted over me. I felt passive, sinking as she spoke. Was she being promiscuous as an experiment to better understand me?
I waited for her to end this. She knows that I am not comfortable talking in detail about other people I see, and yet she brings it up almost every time we meet.
My answers are always the same. I am bisexual. I am seeing other people. I am very sexually active. Beyond that, I don’t provide details about specific people—she will only try to determine if someone else holds a higher place in my heart.
It’s fair enough that she wants to talk about our relationship. But her persistent return to studying my psyche so closely—in some ways on target, in some ways off the mark—leaves me feeling inert.
I escape into my eyelids.
As she spoke, in a low even tone, she slid her hand into my pants. She took my cock. I grew hard to her touch.
“Don’t you agree?”
“What?”
“I asked if you agreed that we are both free to do as we want?”
“Uh, yes, I agree.” I’m not sure she believes that. My body and mind were limp. Only my cock was hard.
“Good. Now I want to suck your cock, and I want you to cum. I want you to let go of your control.”
I lay still as she pulled my pants down to my knees. My arms rested on my chest. She went at me fast with her mouth and hand, as she does when she means business.
I’m not sure what she is after in this ritual of analysis and release.
She wants to get behind my defenses to bring me intimacy and pleasure, yet I don’t know what defenses she rails against. She seems to believe that my disinterest in monogamy is a rampart put in place to insure that I won’t be hurt again. She assumes that I avoid commitment to one person so that I won’t risk the pain of losing that person.
Her assumption is based on the premise that anyone who is not interested in monogamy must be avoiding commitment, as everyone wants to be loved by that special someone.
She doesn’t get it when I explain that I am not avoiding anything. Monogamy has plenty going for it, but it isn’t what I want now. I prefer honesty. I enjoy having multiple partners. I enjoy sex with men as well as women.
She doesn’t get it. My choices don’t square with her paradigm of happiness.
She sucks me until I shoot. She got big load out of me. If I felt passive and inert before, those feelings were now compounded by relaxation. I could barely move.
I didn’t move.
She sat on the floor, pleased that she had brought pleasure to me.
“Do you want to sleep?” she asked.
“No,” I replied. “I want your pussy on my mouth.”
We went into the bedroom and shed our clothes. As I licked her, my erection returned. I gave her a few orgasms before we fucked. She came again and again.
She left in high spirits. Her melancholia had shifted to me.
Over the weekend, as I parented sick children, she dropped off a box containing children’s novels, animated movies and—for Dad—a bottle of bourbon.
A care package.
She was sitting with my head in her lap, stroking my hair. I felt very relaxed and not a little sleepy, having had an early morning with the kids.
She has been thinking of me a lot, she said. Not as in “thinking of you,” but giving serious thought to how I am adjusting to my new life. She is trying to understand what makes me tick.
“I’m not that difficult to figure out,” I said. “I mean, I’m pretty open about my inner mechanics.”
I know you are, she said, but I don’t think you fully understand all that goes on inside. You don’t understand how hurt you still are by the divorce. You don’t understand how that hurt affects the choices you make, the things you do.
I listened, eyes closed.
She talked in a low tone at great length, dissecting the pain and confusion the attributes to me. She said that sex is a nice balm on my pain, but warned that promiscuity will only leave me feeling hollow inside.
“What experience have you had with promiscuity?” I teased.
“I’ve been busy this week.”
I opened my eyes. Her face was serious.
She told me that she had meet a few guys online in the past week, and had sex with all of them.
“And did you enjoy that?” I asked.
She shrugged. “One of them is okay. I may see him again.”
“You don’t seem too thrilled about this,” I observed. “If you don’t like it, why do it?”
“You’re not the only one who can fuck around, you know.”
I remembered last week, when she announced that she had had sex with another man, saying that now we were both nonmonogamous. Now she had seen several men, saying that now were both promiscuous.
She wasn’t just thinking about what made me tick. She was synchronizing her clock to match mine. In trying to understand me, she was emulating me. What’s good for the goose may be good for the gander, but what’s good for me seems ill-suited to her.
I closed my eyes. “You don’t have to do as I do.”
“I know. But it does give me insights.” She went on with her analysis of me. Her words wafted over me. I felt passive, sinking as she spoke. Was she being promiscuous as an experiment to better understand me?
I waited for her to end this. She knows that I am not comfortable talking in detail about other people I see, and yet she brings it up almost every time we meet.
My answers are always the same. I am bisexual. I am seeing other people. I am very sexually active. Beyond that, I don’t provide details about specific people—she will only try to determine if someone else holds a higher place in my heart.
It’s fair enough that she wants to talk about our relationship. But her persistent return to studying my psyche so closely—in some ways on target, in some ways off the mark—leaves me feeling inert.
I escape into my eyelids.
As she spoke, in a low even tone, she slid her hand into my pants. She took my cock. I grew hard to her touch.
“Don’t you agree?”
“What?”
“I asked if you agreed that we are both free to do as we want?”
“Uh, yes, I agree.” I’m not sure she believes that. My body and mind were limp. Only my cock was hard.
“Good. Now I want to suck your cock, and I want you to cum. I want you to let go of your control.”
I lay still as she pulled my pants down to my knees. My arms rested on my chest. She went at me fast with her mouth and hand, as she does when she means business.
I’m not sure what she is after in this ritual of analysis and release.
She wants to get behind my defenses to bring me intimacy and pleasure, yet I don’t know what defenses she rails against. She seems to believe that my disinterest in monogamy is a rampart put in place to insure that I won’t be hurt again. She assumes that I avoid commitment to one person so that I won’t risk the pain of losing that person.
Her assumption is based on the premise that anyone who is not interested in monogamy must be avoiding commitment, as everyone wants to be loved by that special someone.
She doesn’t get it when I explain that I am not avoiding anything. Monogamy has plenty going for it, but it isn’t what I want now. I prefer honesty. I enjoy having multiple partners. I enjoy sex with men as well as women.
She doesn’t get it. My choices don’t square with her paradigm of happiness.
She sucks me until I shoot. She got big load out of me. If I felt passive and inert before, those feelings were now compounded by relaxation. I could barely move.
I didn’t move.
She sat on the floor, pleased that she had brought pleasure to me.
“Do you want to sleep?” she asked.
“No,” I replied. “I want your pussy on my mouth.”
We went into the bedroom and shed our clothes. As I licked her, my erection returned. I gave her a few orgasms before we fucked. She came again and again.
She left in high spirits. Her melancholia had shifted to me.
Over the weekend, as I parented sick children, she dropped off a box containing children’s novels, animated movies and—for Dad—a bottle of bourbon.
A care package.
Sunday, March 13, 2005
Links
In the words of the Tavares brothers: heaven must be missing an angel.
Missing one angel, child, ‘cause Sophie has appointed herself as my webmistress. Heavenly to me, baby.
Sophie knows that when I am not parenting, I am pretty busy writing, fucking, or writing about fucking. She agreed to soup up my blog one evening as I ministered to sick young’uns.
As a gift to the host, she brought red wine, gummy bears and Children’s Tylenol. Girl knows the ways to a man’s heart.
She arrived as I was making grilled cheese sandwiches for the kids. As they ate, we toured the apartment she knows so well from my blog.
There is the terrace often peopled by naked people. Here is the bed broken by gangbangs on top of orgies. There is the futon that folds like a taco if you don’t position everyone on it just so.
With gay icon Spongebob Squarepants babysitting the kids, we poured wine and set to work on the blog.
Some of her handiwork is tucked away inside the website template, most of it intended to help like-minded flies find this particular spider’s parlor.
As she explained these systemic changes, I nodded, sipping wine and looking as blonde as I knew how.
If you will look to the left of your screen, you can see a few enhanced features she suggested.
At the top of the links is a Cast of Characters offering mini-bios of people who recur in this blog with some frequency. If you are trying to distinguish between Dacia and Marla, or Lucy and May, this can prove useful.
Bloglet will allow you to subscribe to this blog in a newsletter format that is emailed to your inbox, so that you no longer have to obsessively check the blog to discover new posts.
This leaves the obsession to yours truly, your own post-a-matic pervert.
If you prefer reading the post on the original template, never fear—the newsletter comes with a link back to the site.
Sophie also added Paypal, which you can reach by clicking the “Make a Donation” button.
“Why Paypal?” I asked. “I’m not selling anything. I’m a slut. I give it away.”
“Look at it this way, Jefferson,” Sophie explained. “You broke your bedframe with group sex. When are you going to replace it?”
“I don’t know. I can’t afford it right now.”
“Right. And why is that?”
“Well, I have kids. It’s not my biggest priority. ”
“True. Will you still have orgies on your broken bed?”
“Of course!”
“That’s why you need Paypal,” she explained. “It allows your readers and supporters to contribute to the things you blog about. They can pitch in to help you get a new bed frame, or condoms or bourbon or bacon or whatever. It brings them into the community.”
I got that. So fine, let’s see if my gentle readers want to keep us all bouncing on a secure bed frame.
Sophie and I sat talking until bedtime for the kids. We had put away a bottle of very good red wine.
As the children were in the back room watching “Full House,” I fetched Sophie’s coat and scarf. We embraced at the door and bussed cheeks.
We kissed cheeks again.
I took her face in my hands and kissed her lips.
Heck yeah, I slipped her the tongue. I met hers seeking mine.
Good night, Sophie.
Missing one angel, child, ‘cause Sophie has appointed herself as my webmistress. Heavenly to me, baby.
Sophie knows that when I am not parenting, I am pretty busy writing, fucking, or writing about fucking. She agreed to soup up my blog one evening as I ministered to sick young’uns.
As a gift to the host, she brought red wine, gummy bears and Children’s Tylenol. Girl knows the ways to a man’s heart.
She arrived as I was making grilled cheese sandwiches for the kids. As they ate, we toured the apartment she knows so well from my blog.
There is the terrace often peopled by naked people. Here is the bed broken by gangbangs on top of orgies. There is the futon that folds like a taco if you don’t position everyone on it just so.
With gay icon Spongebob Squarepants babysitting the kids, we poured wine and set to work on the blog.
Some of her handiwork is tucked away inside the website template, most of it intended to help like-minded flies find this particular spider’s parlor.
As she explained these systemic changes, I nodded, sipping wine and looking as blonde as I knew how.
If you will look to the left of your screen, you can see a few enhanced features she suggested.
At the top of the links is a Cast of Characters offering mini-bios of people who recur in this blog with some frequency. If you are trying to distinguish between Dacia and Marla, or Lucy and May, this can prove useful.
Bloglet will allow you to subscribe to this blog in a newsletter format that is emailed to your inbox, so that you no longer have to obsessively check the blog to discover new posts.
This leaves the obsession to yours truly, your own post-a-matic pervert.
If you prefer reading the post on the original template, never fear—the newsletter comes with a link back to the site.
Sophie also added Paypal, which you can reach by clicking the “Make a Donation” button.
“Why Paypal?” I asked. “I’m not selling anything. I’m a slut. I give it away.”
“Look at it this way, Jefferson,” Sophie explained. “You broke your bedframe with group sex. When are you going to replace it?”
“I don’t know. I can’t afford it right now.”
“Right. And why is that?”
“Well, I have kids. It’s not my biggest priority. ”
“True. Will you still have orgies on your broken bed?”
“Of course!”
“That’s why you need Paypal,” she explained. “It allows your readers and supporters to contribute to the things you blog about. They can pitch in to help you get a new bed frame, or condoms or bourbon or bacon or whatever. It brings them into the community.”
I got that. So fine, let’s see if my gentle readers want to keep us all bouncing on a secure bed frame.
Sophie and I sat talking until bedtime for the kids. We had put away a bottle of very good red wine.
As the children were in the back room watching “Full House,” I fetched Sophie’s coat and scarf. We embraced at the door and bussed cheeks.
We kissed cheeks again.
I took her face in my hands and kissed her lips.
Heck yeah, I slipped her the tongue. I met hers seeking mine.
Good night, Sophie.
Saturday, March 12, 2005
Sweet Potato Says
My inbox is full of the good stuff today. Sweet Potato wrote to tell me that she enjoyed our recent romp.
She included part of a letter she had written to a friend about the experience, and allowed me to share it here.
Such kind words—they melt my pervy heart.
I made a new friend in New York who I recently visited.
J. is a pumpkin. I may have forwarded you the link to his very well written but very dirty blog. I began a correspondence only with the intent of asking questions and not having any actual contact with him whatsoever.
As we spoke via e-mail, it soon became apparent that rule was going to fall by the wayside.
Fortunately one of my girlfriends has airline miles and hotel points to burn from her days as a consultant so she was kind enough to spring for a weekend away in New York at a hotel on Central Park South.
Luckily my flight reservations were for the day after the rest of my friends left. I had an extra day all to myself with my new friend J.
We met at the Ritz Carlton bar for drinks. He looked like his picture, was easy to talk to and seemed to be very charming. I adore smart men.
Seeing that the chemistry was there and the Ritz happened to be down the street from my hotel, we made the progression from the Ritz to the Whiskey Parc then to the bar at my hotel. Seemingly with a wink and a nod we were upstairs in bed undressing and kissing.
At times I think that there’s something wrong with me sexually. I love sex—I just don't want to have it with everyone. But to further confound the issue, I've never gone through my true slut phase. I think one should go through this phase to see if I can run these thoughts and feelings out of my system. Sowing wild oats and all that jazz.
Among many things that seem to cause drama is that I truly would rather fuck than do anything else.
Those sentiments are a bit off putting to most men. I think that they believe my enthusiasm and experience don't accurately reflect on how few men I've truly been intimate with. In short, they tend to think I am the village whore when in actuality I am anything but. My intensity very well may scare them or perhaps it's my own sense of ego that may not let me see other things that have been wrong with past relationships.
But I digress . . .
I can honestly say the details are sketchy. From the moment he put his hands on me (and in me) I wouldn't have been able to tell you my name or where I lived. The man is a masterful lover—perhaps a Happy Hooker-type book is in the future for him. No trepidation, no fear just carnality in its purest form. Simply there to please me and to be pleased.
I now understand how a good woman can go very, very bad.
I was under the impression I didn't have a “G” spot, but boy was I wrong. The intensity of my orgasms scared me and I had to make him stop as it was just too much for my brain and my body to handle all at once. I can't remember when I've responded so quickly to someone who really doesn’t know me or my body.
That man is a quick study.
We romped most of the late evening/early morning and went right back at it again after the sun came up. BTW, did I mention that I love morning sex?
The more he touched me, the more I wanted. We even fucked through my 9:10 airport shuttle ride. My only regret is that we didn't have at least a full weekend to devote to pleasure. We didn't do it doggie style and I wanted to try anal again. I figure with such a commanding lover, it wouldn't be a bad thing, eh?
Naturally he has a standing invitation to visit provided he gives me enough notice.
When I think of him the word “sated” comes to mind.
Now isn’t that a stirring testimonial? And a very nice ego stroke for yours truly.
A word to the wise, gentle reader: when you have really great sex with someone, let them know how much you enjoyed it. Sweet’s note really got me going!
I don’t include this note here to demonstrate that I am one dynamic sex machine. (Okay, I’m lying—of course I am!)
Primarily though, I thought Sweet’s comments on being considered the “village whore” because she is such an enthusiastic sex partner might elicit comment on that age-old “Madonna/Whore” complex.
My friends and I talk about this all the time. Every slut knows those moments of “slut remorse,” when you ponder if perhaps too much sex is just too much. We all take breaks now and then; mine are enforced by the regular cycles of parenting duties.
Women may get the bigger doses of slut remorse, given that societal double standard that promiscuous women are “sluts” and promiscuous men are “studs.” But trust me, men get it too.
In Sweet’s case, the dilemma is that she is a true good girl. She flies right, she works hard and she is square with the Lord. And yet that good girl loves to fuck. She likes hours of intense, hardcore, pounding sex that leaves you unable to walk steady or form complete sentences.
It’s hard for her to find a lover (or lovers) who can reconcile those two aspects of her personality. Anyone with similar tales to relate?
She included part of a letter she had written to a friend about the experience, and allowed me to share it here.
Such kind words—they melt my pervy heart.
I made a new friend in New York who I recently visited.
J. is a pumpkin. I may have forwarded you the link to his very well written but very dirty blog. I began a correspondence only with the intent of asking questions and not having any actual contact with him whatsoever.
As we spoke via e-mail, it soon became apparent that rule was going to fall by the wayside.
Fortunately one of my girlfriends has airline miles and hotel points to burn from her days as a consultant so she was kind enough to spring for a weekend away in New York at a hotel on Central Park South.
Luckily my flight reservations were for the day after the rest of my friends left. I had an extra day all to myself with my new friend J.
We met at the Ritz Carlton bar for drinks. He looked like his picture, was easy to talk to and seemed to be very charming. I adore smart men.
Seeing that the chemistry was there and the Ritz happened to be down the street from my hotel, we made the progression from the Ritz to the Whiskey Parc then to the bar at my hotel. Seemingly with a wink and a nod we were upstairs in bed undressing and kissing.
At times I think that there’s something wrong with me sexually. I love sex—I just don't want to have it with everyone. But to further confound the issue, I've never gone through my true slut phase. I think one should go through this phase to see if I can run these thoughts and feelings out of my system. Sowing wild oats and all that jazz.
Among many things that seem to cause drama is that I truly would rather fuck than do anything else.
Those sentiments are a bit off putting to most men. I think that they believe my enthusiasm and experience don't accurately reflect on how few men I've truly been intimate with. In short, they tend to think I am the village whore when in actuality I am anything but. My intensity very well may scare them or perhaps it's my own sense of ego that may not let me see other things that have been wrong with past relationships.
But I digress . . .
I can honestly say the details are sketchy. From the moment he put his hands on me (and in me) I wouldn't have been able to tell you my name or where I lived. The man is a masterful lover—perhaps a Happy Hooker-type book is in the future for him. No trepidation, no fear just carnality in its purest form. Simply there to please me and to be pleased.
I now understand how a good woman can go very, very bad.
I was under the impression I didn't have a “G” spot, but boy was I wrong. The intensity of my orgasms scared me and I had to make him stop as it was just too much for my brain and my body to handle all at once. I can't remember when I've responded so quickly to someone who really doesn’t know me or my body.
That man is a quick study.
We romped most of the late evening/early morning and went right back at it again after the sun came up. BTW, did I mention that I love morning sex?
The more he touched me, the more I wanted. We even fucked through my 9:10 airport shuttle ride. My only regret is that we didn't have at least a full weekend to devote to pleasure. We didn't do it doggie style and I wanted to try anal again. I figure with such a commanding lover, it wouldn't be a bad thing, eh?
Naturally he has a standing invitation to visit provided he gives me enough notice.
When I think of him the word “sated” comes to mind.
Now isn’t that a stirring testimonial? And a very nice ego stroke for yours truly.
A word to the wise, gentle reader: when you have really great sex with someone, let them know how much you enjoyed it. Sweet’s note really got me going!
I don’t include this note here to demonstrate that I am one dynamic sex machine. (Okay, I’m lying—of course I am!)
Primarily though, I thought Sweet’s comments on being considered the “village whore” because she is such an enthusiastic sex partner might elicit comment on that age-old “Madonna/Whore” complex.
My friends and I talk about this all the time. Every slut knows those moments of “slut remorse,” when you ponder if perhaps too much sex is just too much. We all take breaks now and then; mine are enforced by the regular cycles of parenting duties.
Women may get the bigger doses of slut remorse, given that societal double standard that promiscuous women are “sluts” and promiscuous men are “studs.” But trust me, men get it too.
In Sweet’s case, the dilemma is that she is a true good girl. She flies right, she works hard and she is square with the Lord. And yet that good girl loves to fuck. She likes hours of intense, hardcore, pounding sex that leaves you unable to walk steady or form complete sentences.
It’s hard for her to find a lover (or lovers) who can reconcile those two aspects of her personality. Anyone with similar tales to relate?
Readers' Queries
This has certainly been a challenging week. The kids are sick, the ex is a shrew, the work piles up, and the evil eye hits my blog.
My spirits were lifted considerably when I received this note:
Jefferson,
I want to share with you what's been happening in my life since I started reading your blog last week. You seem to be the kind of person who would be interested in this.
I've lived a pretty sheltered life and it's an understatement to say I'm ignorant to a lot of sexual activities that other people indulge in. Some of the stuff you write about, well, wow. Things I've never heard confessed, to be sure.
I've been married for a year now, and the relationship is wonderful, but we both suffer from very low sex drive. It hasn't been weighing on our relationship so much as it has been on my mind. I often wonder why when we were dating we couldn't get enough sex, but now that we're married, it just doesn't come up very often.
I was starting to feel unsexy and old, wondering if this is what being a wife is.
Since I've read your blog, though, we've been having sex more and it's better, too. I can't really tell you why, but it's great and fun and I feel like we're dating again. I have lots of theories, but thinking about them too much ruins it, so I'm just going to bask.
Who knew that bi-sexual-orgy-blog guy three thousand miles away would help my sex life?
Just wanted to thank you.
Samantha
Could that be any sweeter? After the recent unpleasantness with Shelby—which taught me that blogging can have unfortunate and unintended consequences—here was a testimonial that that it can have a positive impact as well.
Samantha wrote about something very common to long-term relationships; inevitably, the hot burning flames of lust give way to the slower burning embers of committed love.
It’s a natural progression, as couples become increasingly familiar and adjust to the new realities of life together. Marriage and cohabitation bring on new realities and stresses that can interfere with desire for one another. It's natural, but it can be a tough transition from near-constant sex to the occasional roll in the hay.
As long as each partner feels fulfilled, and the romance is sustained, this shouldn’t be cause for concern. So maybe you are no longer humping like rabbits on the dining room table because you just couldn’t wait to get the bedroom. That doesn’t mean you have lost something irreplaceable.
It’s great when partners are open to new stimuli that can stir up that lustful spark. Samantha found it in this blog—which is personally gratifying to me!—but it could be anything: a shared favorite song, a vacation, or even a renewed commitment.
I recall that my ex and I had more sex when she was first pregnant with our eldest; we were excited and frightened, and brought closer by the baby gestating in her body.
I thanked Samantha for sharing her good news with me, and asked if she was sharing the blog with her spouse. I was also curious to know: was there anything in particular that she found arousing in my posts?
She replied:
It is exciting and arousing to read about your exploits, but I don’t know if it’s that simple. I just feel relieved, mostly.
I guess I was putting a lot of pressure on myself to perform a certain way and somehow reading about someone else's sex life helps me to see that there are things that go right and there are things that go wrong and it's all okay. And with that relief I feel more available and relaxed.
My husband doesn't read the blog, but I've told him about it. We had a lengthy discussion about being sexually healthy, about realizing what you want and being comfortable with that. We (I’m speaking generally now) seem very concerned with repressing ourselves and spend a lot of time trying to curb our desires and put a lid on our eccentricities.
My husband and I remarked how you labeled yourself a pervert, but we thought you might be one of the healthiest people out there.
Gawrsh!
Samantha honey, if you are this sweet to me, I can only imagine the loving you are pouring on that lucky husband of yours.
You two keep up that dialogue and let les bon temps roulez.
My spirits were lifted considerably when I received this note:
Jefferson,
I want to share with you what's been happening in my life since I started reading your blog last week. You seem to be the kind of person who would be interested in this.
I've lived a pretty sheltered life and it's an understatement to say I'm ignorant to a lot of sexual activities that other people indulge in. Some of the stuff you write about, well, wow. Things I've never heard confessed, to be sure.
I've been married for a year now, and the relationship is wonderful, but we both suffer from very low sex drive. It hasn't been weighing on our relationship so much as it has been on my mind. I often wonder why when we were dating we couldn't get enough sex, but now that we're married, it just doesn't come up very often.
I was starting to feel unsexy and old, wondering if this is what being a wife is.
Since I've read your blog, though, we've been having sex more and it's better, too. I can't really tell you why, but it's great and fun and I feel like we're dating again. I have lots of theories, but thinking about them too much ruins it, so I'm just going to bask.
Who knew that bi-sexual-orgy-blog guy three thousand miles away would help my sex life?
Just wanted to thank you.
Samantha
Could that be any sweeter? After the recent unpleasantness with Shelby—which taught me that blogging can have unfortunate and unintended consequences—here was a testimonial that that it can have a positive impact as well.
Samantha wrote about something very common to long-term relationships; inevitably, the hot burning flames of lust give way to the slower burning embers of committed love.
It’s a natural progression, as couples become increasingly familiar and adjust to the new realities of life together. Marriage and cohabitation bring on new realities and stresses that can interfere with desire for one another. It's natural, but it can be a tough transition from near-constant sex to the occasional roll in the hay.
As long as each partner feels fulfilled, and the romance is sustained, this shouldn’t be cause for concern. So maybe you are no longer humping like rabbits on the dining room table because you just couldn’t wait to get the bedroom. That doesn’t mean you have lost something irreplaceable.
It’s great when partners are open to new stimuli that can stir up that lustful spark. Samantha found it in this blog—which is personally gratifying to me!—but it could be anything: a shared favorite song, a vacation, or even a renewed commitment.
I recall that my ex and I had more sex when she was first pregnant with our eldest; we were excited and frightened, and brought closer by the baby gestating in her body.
I thanked Samantha for sharing her good news with me, and asked if she was sharing the blog with her spouse. I was also curious to know: was there anything in particular that she found arousing in my posts?
She replied:
It is exciting and arousing to read about your exploits, but I don’t know if it’s that simple. I just feel relieved, mostly.
I guess I was putting a lot of pressure on myself to perform a certain way and somehow reading about someone else's sex life helps me to see that there are things that go right and there are things that go wrong and it's all okay. And with that relief I feel more available and relaxed.
My husband doesn't read the blog, but I've told him about it. We had a lengthy discussion about being sexually healthy, about realizing what you want and being comfortable with that. We (I’m speaking generally now) seem very concerned with repressing ourselves and spend a lot of time trying to curb our desires and put a lid on our eccentricities.
My husband and I remarked how you labeled yourself a pervert, but we thought you might be one of the healthiest people out there.
Gawrsh!
Samantha honey, if you are this sweet to me, I can only imagine the loving you are pouring on that lucky husband of yours.
You two keep up that dialogue and let les bon temps roulez.
Friday, March 11, 2005
Scars
The longevity of my marriage was largely derived from my ability to disguise my wife’s . . . eccentricities.
I had a secure place in her life. She had me to anchor her, so that she would behave as people are supposed to act.
She grew up hiding her own mother’s eccentricities. She was very appreciative that I could manage all the quirks she inherited, while never losing respect for her.
In public situations, I knew when to lean over and whisper, “Ix-nay on the olitics-pay. ” I could tell her, with a glance, when an opinion became a rant, or when the drinks had made her incoherent. She trusted me to do this.
In private, I endured her hypercritical assessments of yours truly.
She was trained to avoid any imperfections. Her mother was a model, a copyeditor, and an alcoholic in the 1950s. You couldn’t ask for a more volatile mix to create a perfectionist.
Lucy did a number on herself, battling depression and anorexia in her struggle to live up to her mother’s ideals. Then she found good clay to mold in me, a talented kid who needed direction and ambition.
No more sleeping in. I was up early, responding to her monologue.
No more late nights with friends. Why go out when I could be with her?
No more dead end jobs. I needed to make more money.
She trained me well. Under her tutelage, I became a responsible husband and father, just like my own dad before me.
But there were some things she could not change.
I snore. She tried waking me. She tried nudging me. She hit me, so hard there were bruises. Nothing made me stop. I was sent to my doctor to seek a cure.
The doctor said that if she could do anything, she would have cured her own husband’s snoring years ago. She recommended my wife get earplugs.
Lucy was not happy with this diagnosis.
Lucy decided I had bad breath. I was sent to the dentist to seek a cure for chronic halitosis.
The dentist told me I did not have chronic halitosis. She asked why I thought I had bad breath. My wife says so, I replied. Try gargling when you get home from work, she recommended.
Lucy had no interest in touching me. When we passed in the hall, I tried to steal a kiss. She turned away, grimacing awkwardly.
Sometimes she allowed me to snuggle next to her as we slept. I gulped that human contact.
Other times she flayed her arms, telling me to get the hell off her and back to my side of the bed.
She complained that my erection pressed against her as I slept.
We went into couple’s therapy. Every week. For years.
Lucy was encouraged to initiate physical contact when she wanted it. By this point, I was too discouraged to start anything sexual. I thought I was repulsive. I was encouraged to use words rather than touch to suggest intimacy.
It was a good thing that I was so interested in her pleasure, I was told. But what about my own?
I was really embarrassed about this. I get off sometimes, I protested.
How often do you have sex? Now and then.
How often do you orgasm during sex? Umm, sometimes.
Lucy, he enjoys giving oral sex to you. Do you go down on him? No.
Why not? Because that is disgusting.
Jefferson, do you enjoy receiving oral sex? Yes.
Do you want Lucy to give you oral sex? Well, no.
Why not, if you like it? If she doesn’t like it, she shouldn’t do it. Right?
Well, yes, no one should do what she doesn’t want to do. But it can be satisfying to pleasure your partner.
You are both in your mid-twenties and in good health. You are really too young to live as companions. You are sexual partners. You need to take care of each other’s needs.
Will you work on that?
We nodded.
We had more sex, doing our homework like the diligent graduate students we were. No blowjobs, of course, but I came now and then.
We made some progress.
I never, never told anyone that we had no sex life to speak of.
I never, never told anyone how she railed at me, and made me feel like dirt.
I never, never told anyone about the many times she threatened to leave me.
She didn’t hit me often, and I only had scars now and then. The scratch she tore into my face on the night before our wedding was awkward to explain, but everyone put that down to wedding day jitters.
That’s just how she was. I could deal with that. She was worth the effort.
So long as no one else knew.
I had a secure place in her life. She had me to anchor her, so that she would behave as people are supposed to act.
She grew up hiding her own mother’s eccentricities. She was very appreciative that I could manage all the quirks she inherited, while never losing respect for her.
In public situations, I knew when to lean over and whisper, “Ix-nay on the olitics-pay. ” I could tell her, with a glance, when an opinion became a rant, or when the drinks had made her incoherent. She trusted me to do this.
In private, I endured her hypercritical assessments of yours truly.
She was trained to avoid any imperfections. Her mother was a model, a copyeditor, and an alcoholic in the 1950s. You couldn’t ask for a more volatile mix to create a perfectionist.
Lucy did a number on herself, battling depression and anorexia in her struggle to live up to her mother’s ideals. Then she found good clay to mold in me, a talented kid who needed direction and ambition.
No more sleeping in. I was up early, responding to her monologue.
No more late nights with friends. Why go out when I could be with her?
No more dead end jobs. I needed to make more money.
She trained me well. Under her tutelage, I became a responsible husband and father, just like my own dad before me.
But there were some things she could not change.
I snore. She tried waking me. She tried nudging me. She hit me, so hard there were bruises. Nothing made me stop. I was sent to my doctor to seek a cure.
The doctor said that if she could do anything, she would have cured her own husband’s snoring years ago. She recommended my wife get earplugs.
Lucy was not happy with this diagnosis.
Lucy decided I had bad breath. I was sent to the dentist to seek a cure for chronic halitosis.
The dentist told me I did not have chronic halitosis. She asked why I thought I had bad breath. My wife says so, I replied. Try gargling when you get home from work, she recommended.
Lucy had no interest in touching me. When we passed in the hall, I tried to steal a kiss. She turned away, grimacing awkwardly.
Sometimes she allowed me to snuggle next to her as we slept. I gulped that human contact.
Other times she flayed her arms, telling me to get the hell off her and back to my side of the bed.
She complained that my erection pressed against her as I slept.
We went into couple’s therapy. Every week. For years.
Lucy was encouraged to initiate physical contact when she wanted it. By this point, I was too discouraged to start anything sexual. I thought I was repulsive. I was encouraged to use words rather than touch to suggest intimacy.
It was a good thing that I was so interested in her pleasure, I was told. But what about my own?
I was really embarrassed about this. I get off sometimes, I protested.
How often do you have sex? Now and then.
How often do you orgasm during sex? Umm, sometimes.
Lucy, he enjoys giving oral sex to you. Do you go down on him? No.
Why not? Because that is disgusting.
Jefferson, do you enjoy receiving oral sex? Yes.
Do you want Lucy to give you oral sex? Well, no.
Why not, if you like it? If she doesn’t like it, she shouldn’t do it. Right?
Well, yes, no one should do what she doesn’t want to do. But it can be satisfying to pleasure your partner.
You are both in your mid-twenties and in good health. You are really too young to live as companions. You are sexual partners. You need to take care of each other’s needs.
Will you work on that?
We nodded.
We had more sex, doing our homework like the diligent graduate students we were. No blowjobs, of course, but I came now and then.
We made some progress.
I never, never told anyone that we had no sex life to speak of.
I never, never told anyone how she railed at me, and made me feel like dirt.
I never, never told anyone about the many times she threatened to leave me.
She didn’t hit me often, and I only had scars now and then. The scratch she tore into my face on the night before our wedding was awkward to explain, but everyone put that down to wedding day jitters.
That’s just how she was. I could deal with that. She was worth the effort.
So long as no one else knew.
Soldier On
In combat situations, good soldiers emerge as heroes when they withstand extraordinary duress with clear thinking and utmost regard for their comrades.
Would that divorce made good soldiers of us all.
My two younger kids are sick again, having missed most of this week at school due to fevers and the croup. They are with me today, as I work feverishly on deadline.
Yesterday, their mother took on the task of calling their doctor about a prescription. Around noon, she called to say it would be phoned to a pharmacy in my neighborhood at noon. Would I please, please call them in a half hour to be sure it was ready?
Yes, I can handle that.
I called and it was not ready. It would be ready in late afternoon. And by the way, it could not be delivered. I needed to pick it up with the insurance card in hand.
Going to the druggist would mean bundling up two sick kids and dragging them along as—remember—I am a single parent with no one to watch them at home. But if that is the way it is, that is the way it is.
If it were ready for pick up in the late afternoon, at least Jason would be home from school to stay with the younger kids, so I could race off for a few minutes.
Jason is eleven, and I have begun to rely on him as a babysitter when I make short outings in the neighborhood. It is so much easier and efficient than dressing his younger siblings and dragging their complaints into the winter every time I need eggs or milk.
It was about three when the medicine was ready. Lillie was conked out, and I was not going to wake her for a bracing walk in freezing weather. Jason was due home at four thirty. I would just wait it out.
Now, all you armchair generals take note: this was a pivotal decision! Had I rallied the troops and marched forward, that medicine might have been working its magic by three thirty.
But I drew up a divergent tact of engagement.
Jason came home and I dashed off to pick up the medicine. It was to be administered twice daily. It tastes chalky, so the doctor recommended mixing it with ice cream.
Twice a day . . . ice cream . . . it was already approaching the supper hour. I opted to reserve the medicine until after dinner.
Another crucial decision made. Perhaps it was the right one, perhaps not. All I know is: I will live with it for the rest of my life.
My ex Lucy called as I made dinner and asked to speak with Lillie and Collie. I handed the phone to Lillie and went back to frying chicken.
In a few moments, Lillie brought the phone to me. “Mommy wants to talk to you.”
I took the phone. I held it away from my ear as she ranted.
“Why haven’t you given the children their medicine?! Jefferson, the children are sick. The medicine will make them better. The prescription was phoned in at noon, and it is now nearly six o’clock! You have to give them the medicine! Why don’t you understand that? Please, please give them the medicine!”
“Well, the doctor said . . . hello?”
She hung up on me. Pretty common practice, actually. You get used to it, though I don’t have to tolerate it.
I did as I often do. Adopt a very soothing tone and call back.
I got the machine.
“It is very rude to hang up on someone, particularly family. But you know that, and you do it anyway. At any rate, the medicine was only ready late this afternoon. The doctor suggested giving it with ice cream, so I am giving it to them after dinner. I guess that’s all. Bye.”
I got a snippy email about how a mother worries and I wouldn’t understand that.
Yes, it’s true. I will never know what it is like to be a mother.
I replied that the kids have had their medicine, and I would see her in the morning when she picked up Jason for school at six thirty.
My cell rang a little after six. I was in the bathroom and missed it. I woke Jason and made his lunch. Collie woke up too, so I gave him his medicine.
Six thirty came and went. No sign of Lucy. I called.
“Good morning. Are you picking up Jason?”
“No I am not. I called to say I was on my way, and there was no answer. So I am at work.”
“I’m sorry we missed your call. But the plan was . . .”
“I can’t trust plans with you! That’s why I had to call!”
“But if you had done as planned, we would have heard you at the door. Did you drive to the apartment?”
“No I called because I knew you would oversleep!”
“Well, we didn’t oversleep. We are up.”
“I can’t do anything about that.”
“Okay, I’ll get Jason to school. Bye.”
She had already hung up.
We killed a little time. I left the younger kids alone and took Jason to the corner. It was snowing. I put him in a cab.
He is growing up fast thanks to this divorce.
He’s a good soldier.
Would that divorce made good soldiers of us all.
My two younger kids are sick again, having missed most of this week at school due to fevers and the croup. They are with me today, as I work feverishly on deadline.
Yesterday, their mother took on the task of calling their doctor about a prescription. Around noon, she called to say it would be phoned to a pharmacy in my neighborhood at noon. Would I please, please call them in a half hour to be sure it was ready?
Yes, I can handle that.
I called and it was not ready. It would be ready in late afternoon. And by the way, it could not be delivered. I needed to pick it up with the insurance card in hand.
Going to the druggist would mean bundling up two sick kids and dragging them along as—remember—I am a single parent with no one to watch them at home. But if that is the way it is, that is the way it is.
If it were ready for pick up in the late afternoon, at least Jason would be home from school to stay with the younger kids, so I could race off for a few minutes.
Jason is eleven, and I have begun to rely on him as a babysitter when I make short outings in the neighborhood. It is so much easier and efficient than dressing his younger siblings and dragging their complaints into the winter every time I need eggs or milk.
It was about three when the medicine was ready. Lillie was conked out, and I was not going to wake her for a bracing walk in freezing weather. Jason was due home at four thirty. I would just wait it out.
Now, all you armchair generals take note: this was a pivotal decision! Had I rallied the troops and marched forward, that medicine might have been working its magic by three thirty.
But I drew up a divergent tact of engagement.
Jason came home and I dashed off to pick up the medicine. It was to be administered twice daily. It tastes chalky, so the doctor recommended mixing it with ice cream.
Twice a day . . . ice cream . . . it was already approaching the supper hour. I opted to reserve the medicine until after dinner.
Another crucial decision made. Perhaps it was the right one, perhaps not. All I know is: I will live with it for the rest of my life.
My ex Lucy called as I made dinner and asked to speak with Lillie and Collie. I handed the phone to Lillie and went back to frying chicken.
In a few moments, Lillie brought the phone to me. “Mommy wants to talk to you.”
I took the phone. I held it away from my ear as she ranted.
“Why haven’t you given the children their medicine?! Jefferson, the children are sick. The medicine will make them better. The prescription was phoned in at noon, and it is now nearly six o’clock! You have to give them the medicine! Why don’t you understand that? Please, please give them the medicine!”
“Well, the doctor said . . . hello?”
She hung up on me. Pretty common practice, actually. You get used to it, though I don’t have to tolerate it.
I did as I often do. Adopt a very soothing tone and call back.
I got the machine.
“It is very rude to hang up on someone, particularly family. But you know that, and you do it anyway. At any rate, the medicine was only ready late this afternoon. The doctor suggested giving it with ice cream, so I am giving it to them after dinner. I guess that’s all. Bye.”
I got a snippy email about how a mother worries and I wouldn’t understand that.
Yes, it’s true. I will never know what it is like to be a mother.
I replied that the kids have had their medicine, and I would see her in the morning when she picked up Jason for school at six thirty.
My cell rang a little after six. I was in the bathroom and missed it. I woke Jason and made his lunch. Collie woke up too, so I gave him his medicine.
Six thirty came and went. No sign of Lucy. I called.
“Good morning. Are you picking up Jason?”
“No I am not. I called to say I was on my way, and there was no answer. So I am at work.”
“I’m sorry we missed your call. But the plan was . . .”
“I can’t trust plans with you! That’s why I had to call!”
“But if you had done as planned, we would have heard you at the door. Did you drive to the apartment?”
“No I called because I knew you would oversleep!”
“Well, we didn’t oversleep. We are up.”
“I can’t do anything about that.”
“Okay, I’ll get Jason to school. Bye.”
She had already hung up.
We killed a little time. I left the younger kids alone and took Jason to the corner. It was snowing. I put him in a cab.
He is growing up fast thanks to this divorce.
He’s a good soldier.
Thursday, March 10, 2005
Madonna of the Dreams
I suppose everyone has had “sex with Madonna” dreams.
I rememberhaving one in which she appeared as she looked circa 1995. She held my handand wept that she truly missed Sean. I listened sympathetically, tellingher it would hurt for a long time, and she would never stop loving him, butshe would find happiness again.
I awoke from that dream liking Madonna better.
I’mnot a big fan or anything, but that’s how the subconscious works. It seeksout cultural icons to throw into the mishmash of daily life to fabricatedreams.
Madonna equals sex in the popular imagination, so it’s no surprise she haunts our sex dreams.
This morning, I awoke from this dream:
Iwas at Madonna’s beach house. Madonna was home, but in a private wing. Justas visitors to the White House aren’t likely to bump into the President,I assumed I would not see Madonna.
I was in a small bedroom withBugs, and we started to fool around. Raven soon joined us. Then Meg. Allthree were focused on me.
This isn’t right, I thought. There should be more men here.
The dreaming became metacognitive at this point; I was aware of being in a dream.
The bedroom led onto a living room where men milled about. I didn’t recognize them.
Oneof the men was drunk. He went into a room, from which soon came the soundof breaking wood. Investigating, I saw that he had broken a bed.
I looked for Jake or Todd, thinking we should get this guy to leave. I couldn’t find them.
I ran into Madonna in the kitchen. She looked as she does now, long blonde hair, very fit and pretty. She was making a snack.
I tried to be nonchalant.
“Hey, Jefferson,” she said, as she chopped vegetables. “I got something for your kids . . . it’s on the counter.”
Iguess she knows me in this dream, I thought. On the counter was a bubbleblower. I was nervous around her, so I distracted myself by blowing bubbles.
“Thanks Madonna.”
“Oh it’s no big deal. I thought it wascute.” She remembered something, and pointed her knife at me. “Listen, whateverthe greyhounds tell you, it’s a lie.”
“The greyhounds?”
“Yeah,they’re miffed because we got some dachshunds. It’s like a civil war aroundhere.” She laughed, picking up her plate. “See you, Jefferson. Have fun.”She strolled into an adjacent corridor leading to the private quarters.
Two greyhounds approached me by the pool. They were barking and agitated. They wanted me to follow.
In a patch of high grasses, they showed me the corpse of a third greyhound. Its four paws had been amputated.
“You see what they are doing to us?,” one implored of me.
Backinside the house, a sex party was underway. At least, I was told it was asex party, but my metacognitive mind believed that it was not a sex party.
Madonna walked up to me. She was heavier, resembling Mae West, andvery intent on me. We kissed. We were soon on the floor, having sex.
“Umm, I want you to be happy, Jefferson.”
Dacia strolled by, nude. She patted me on the back. “Having fun there, Jefferson?” she smiled. She walked out to the pool.
I came. Madonna smiled.
Her smile broadened mischievously. I didn’t like the looks of this.
Shelifted her neck, and closed her eyes. Her head detached from her body androlled quickly toward to the kitchen and the private quarters beyond.
“Hey Jefferson! Jefferson!” Dacia called from the grasses by the pool. The greyhounds were at her side. “You have to see this!”
“I know about the greyhounds! Come here, you have to see this!”
Madonna’shead stopped and emitted a bubble. The bubble grew and transformed into Madonna’smore familiar body. The body reached down and put the head in place.
Enough! I woke myself.
Madonna
sex
dreams
sexblogs
erotica
I rememberhaving one in which she appeared as she looked circa 1995. She held my handand wept that she truly missed Sean. I listened sympathetically, tellingher it would hurt for a long time, and she would never stop loving him, butshe would find happiness again.
I awoke from that dream liking Madonna better.
I’mnot a big fan or anything, but that’s how the subconscious works. It seeksout cultural icons to throw into the mishmash of daily life to fabricatedreams.
Madonna equals sex in the popular imagination, so it’s no surprise she haunts our sex dreams.
This morning, I awoke from this dream:
Iwas at Madonna’s beach house. Madonna was home, but in a private wing. Justas visitors to the White House aren’t likely to bump into the President,I assumed I would not see Madonna.
I was in a small bedroom withBugs, and we started to fool around. Raven soon joined us. Then Meg. Allthree were focused on me.
This isn’t right, I thought. There should be more men here.
The dreaming became metacognitive at this point; I was aware of being in a dream.
The bedroom led onto a living room where men milled about. I didn’t recognize them.
Oneof the men was drunk. He went into a room, from which soon came the soundof breaking wood. Investigating, I saw that he had broken a bed.
I looked for Jake or Todd, thinking we should get this guy to leave. I couldn’t find them.
I ran into Madonna in the kitchen. She looked as she does now, long blonde hair, very fit and pretty. She was making a snack.
I tried to be nonchalant.
“Hey, Jefferson,” she said, as she chopped vegetables. “I got something for your kids . . . it’s on the counter.”
Iguess she knows me in this dream, I thought. On the counter was a bubbleblower. I was nervous around her, so I distracted myself by blowing bubbles.
“Thanks Madonna.”
“Oh it’s no big deal. I thought it wascute.” She remembered something, and pointed her knife at me. “Listen, whateverthe greyhounds tell you, it’s a lie.”
“The greyhounds?”
“Yeah,they’re miffed because we got some dachshunds. It’s like a civil war aroundhere.” She laughed, picking up her plate. “See you, Jefferson. Have fun.”She strolled into an adjacent corridor leading to the private quarters.
Two greyhounds approached me by the pool. They were barking and agitated. They wanted me to follow.
In a patch of high grasses, they showed me the corpse of a third greyhound. Its four paws had been amputated.
“You see what they are doing to us?,” one implored of me.
Backinside the house, a sex party was underway. At least, I was told it was asex party, but my metacognitive mind believed that it was not a sex party.
Madonna walked up to me. She was heavier, resembling Mae West, andvery intent on me. We kissed. We were soon on the floor, having sex.
“Umm, I want you to be happy, Jefferson.”
Dacia strolled by, nude. She patted me on the back. “Having fun there, Jefferson?” she smiled. She walked out to the pool.
I came. Madonna smiled.
Her smile broadened mischievously. I didn’t like the looks of this.
Shelifted her neck, and closed her eyes. Her head detached from her body androlled quickly toward to the kitchen and the private quarters beyond.
“Hey Jefferson! Jefferson!” Dacia called from the grasses by the pool. The greyhounds were at her side. “You have to see this!”
“I know about the greyhounds! Come here, you have to see this!”
Madonna’shead stopped and emitted a bubble. The bubble grew and transformed into Madonna’smore familiar body. The body reached down and put the head in place.
Enough! I woke myself.
Madonna
sex
dreams
sexblogs
erotica
Drinks
My two youngest children are home sick again today. I will call for a prescription once the doctor is in.
A deadline looms. I will work when they sleep or drowse to cartoons.
It will be a trying day. At the end of this week, the world owes me a drink.
Wide web of the world, let's put this on your tab. Wanna buy me a drink, sailor?
Drop me an email if so. You can phone an order into a liquor store near me. They will deliver to your very own pervert.
I will toast to you as I write.
A deadline looms. I will work when they sleep or drowse to cartoons.
It will be a trying day. At the end of this week, the world owes me a drink.
Wide web of the world, let's put this on your tab. Wanna buy me a drink, sailor?
Drop me an email if so. You can phone an order into a liquor store near me. They will deliver to your very own pervert.
I will toast to you as I write.
Wednesday, March 09, 2005
Sweet Potato
Pain. Pleasure.
My head hurt like hell.
My dick was being sucked.
My eyes opened, dry and shrinking. An unfamiliar corner of ceiling.
I looked down. An unfamiliar face.
She took my cock from her mouth. My cock, at least, was familiar. “Good morning. I hope this is all right?”
“Its very good, Sweet Potato.”
The night before, after weeks of emails, I met Sweet at the bar of the Ritz Carlton, an oak-paneled hotel room on Central Park South. At nice hotel bars in this zip code, the staff dresses far better than the patrons.
She was drinking white wine. I ordered bourbon.
“Why am I not surprised that you want bourbon, Jefferson?”
She addressed me as “Jefferson,” which, by the way, is not my real name. I didn’t correct her.
We had a drink and compared notes based on our shared emails, and her reading of my blog. We also sized each other up physically.
She is a good-looking woman, with a great smile and short cropped hair, chic and 1920s, like Josephine Baker. I guess I look how “Jefferson” is supposed to look.
She told me about her nights out with the girls, which included an evening at the Gaiety, a Village stand-by for seeing male strippers. She marveled at the routine there. The boys come out and strip, then go backstage and come out again, rock hard.
“Do they have a fluffer back there?”
“I’m not sure. I think they do it themselves, or amongst themselves, maybe.”
“But they are mostly straight, right?”
“So they say. Some of the dancers are regulars, some are just passing through.”
“All I can say is: hot, hot, hot! I still have all these singles that I procured to make tips.” When I went home the next day, that wad of singles was in my wallet. I don’t remember why.
We talked about my blog, but I was more interested in her life. We got another round.
Sweet has a full time job and puts in a part time job on weekends. She gets by by flying right.
But her inner bad girl survives the daily grind and the Sunday schooling that mark the days of her life by finding an outlet in her trips to New. It helps to find a like mind in my blog, she says.
Its true, folks. Behind the curtain of Jefferson’s Oz, I’m really a pretty normal fellow. She picked up on that.
Another round, she suggests? Let’s go over to the Whiskey Bar.
Two more. I am past my limit. Okay, so I don’t have a limit, but it’s clear that she is getting me pretty loose.
It’s okay. Her agenda.
“You want to go my hotel?” It’s all of two doors down.
“Let’s.”
We enter the lobby, and she suggests we hit the bar. I am fed two more whiskeys. We talk and talk. I like her. She is fun. And I am drunk.
I don’t know how late we fucked in her room. We just kept going.
Once I got my bearings the next morning, we were back at it. I listened as I pounded her. “You are going to knock all of that church out of me, I know it,” she said.
“Come to daddy,” I intoned.
A while later, she worried, “I am going to miss my shuttle. Oh well.”
A while later, she worried, “I am going to miss my flight. Oh well.”
She made the shuttle. I fucked her efficiently once I knew she was on schedule. We only had to send the housekeeper packing once.
As we parted, she said we are on again when you are in Chicago. I was last there in 2000, but I agreed.
Don’t forget to blog me, she said.
What should I call you? I asked as she got into a cab.
"Sweet Potato," she shouted to me.
My head hurt like hell.
My dick was being sucked.
My eyes opened, dry and shrinking. An unfamiliar corner of ceiling.
I looked down. An unfamiliar face.
She took my cock from her mouth. My cock, at least, was familiar. “Good morning. I hope this is all right?”
“Its very good, Sweet Potato.”
The night before, after weeks of emails, I met Sweet at the bar of the Ritz Carlton, an oak-paneled hotel room on Central Park South. At nice hotel bars in this zip code, the staff dresses far better than the patrons.
She was drinking white wine. I ordered bourbon.
“Why am I not surprised that you want bourbon, Jefferson?”
She addressed me as “Jefferson,” which, by the way, is not my real name. I didn’t correct her.
We had a drink and compared notes based on our shared emails, and her reading of my blog. We also sized each other up physically.
She is a good-looking woman, with a great smile and short cropped hair, chic and 1920s, like Josephine Baker. I guess I look how “Jefferson” is supposed to look.
She told me about her nights out with the girls, which included an evening at the Gaiety, a Village stand-by for seeing male strippers. She marveled at the routine there. The boys come out and strip, then go backstage and come out again, rock hard.
“Do they have a fluffer back there?”
“I’m not sure. I think they do it themselves, or amongst themselves, maybe.”
“But they are mostly straight, right?”
“So they say. Some of the dancers are regulars, some are just passing through.”
“All I can say is: hot, hot, hot! I still have all these singles that I procured to make tips.” When I went home the next day, that wad of singles was in my wallet. I don’t remember why.
We talked about my blog, but I was more interested in her life. We got another round.
Sweet has a full time job and puts in a part time job on weekends. She gets by by flying right.
But her inner bad girl survives the daily grind and the Sunday schooling that mark the days of her life by finding an outlet in her trips to New. It helps to find a like mind in my blog, she says.
Its true, folks. Behind the curtain of Jefferson’s Oz, I’m really a pretty normal fellow. She picked up on that.
Another round, she suggests? Let’s go over to the Whiskey Bar.
Two more. I am past my limit. Okay, so I don’t have a limit, but it’s clear that she is getting me pretty loose.
It’s okay. Her agenda.
“You want to go my hotel?” It’s all of two doors down.
“Let’s.”
We enter the lobby, and she suggests we hit the bar. I am fed two more whiskeys. We talk and talk. I like her. She is fun. And I am drunk.
I don’t know how late we fucked in her room. We just kept going.
Once I got my bearings the next morning, we were back at it. I listened as I pounded her. “You are going to knock all of that church out of me, I know it,” she said.
“Come to daddy,” I intoned.
A while later, she worried, “I am going to miss my shuttle. Oh well.”
A while later, she worried, “I am going to miss my flight. Oh well.”
She made the shuttle. I fucked her efficiently once I knew she was on schedule. We only had to send the housekeeper packing once.
As we parted, she said we are on again when you are in Chicago. I was last there in 2000, but I agreed.
Don’t forget to blog me, she said.
What should I call you? I asked as she got into a cab.
"Sweet Potato," she shouted to me.
Assumptions
A few weeks ago, I received an email that read:
I am an avid reader of your blog and commend your adventurous spirit and well-crafted writing. It's rare to find eroticism and good writing in one package but you have filled that void nicely.
I'll dispense with any pesky questions as you pretty much answer them when others write in with the same queries. I will say that I've often found that when people say that they're bisexual , it is often the first step for coming out of the closet.
I guess my thoughts on the subject are a part of my solid Midwestern background. I generally don't care which team you play on but pick a team—any team. To say that my skepticism about true bisexuality is high would be putting it mildly.
Nonetheless, you and your blog and taking my smug little assumptions and pronouncements, dragging them front and center and giving them a sound thrashing. I'm not completely won over to believe in bisexuality but you make a compelling case.
I'm coming to Gotham on March 4-6th. I would love to have a meal or a drink with you. I usually not curious to meet the people behind the blogs but you have piqued my interest.
Perhaps it's to see that other perfectly normal looking people have perfectly dirty thoughts. Perhaps in some way you'll serve as a muse to get me to open up other avenues of pleasure. Either way you intrigue me.
Now, how did this person know I was susceptible to flattery?
I say “this person” because I learned so little about writer from this email. Male or female? Old or young? Gay or straight? No idea.
I knew that the writer was a Midwesterner who considered his/her attitudes on bisexuality to be provincial, yet he/she had the chutzpah to ask me on a date, sight unseen. That was about all I could ascertain from one note.
Smart money said the writer was an older gay man, as it is the “friends of Dorothy” generation who tends to subscribe to the notion that bisexuals are “fence sitters” who have yet to accept their “true” sexuality.
And why not? They are the ones who remember life before Stonewall. They fought for the freedom to be out, and it changed their lives. I forgive a little partisanship where they are concerned.
Compare this to many of the twentysomething queers I know, who care less whether you are gay, bi or straight. It’s more about whether you are top, vers or bottom. It’s not about politics. It’s about, uh, can we fuck?
I also assumed a male author because I supposed it would be pretty bold of a woman who confesses to “smug little assumptions” about sexuality to ask out a self-avowed perv like me, knowing me only through my blog.
In response to the email, I wrote:
Thank you for your kind words. I'm glad that you enjoy reading the blog. It's certainly become a favorite writing project of mine.
It sounds as if your attitudes on bisexuality were due for a thorough thrashing. Keep reading this blog, baby—we'll make a believer of you.
Almost to prove the point: it is unclear from your note whether you are male or female. Yet as I ponder your invitation to meet, my slutty mind thinks, say, d'ya think he or she is making a move on me?
Let me know more about yourself.
The writer apologized for the mystery, and sent a pic.
On the weekend of March 4-6, I had a date with an attractive black woman in her thirties, an avid churchgoer from Chicago in town with the girls.
She wanted to meet someone like me to be sure she wasn’t a freak for being a normal person who has “nasty” thoughts.
I am an avid reader of your blog and commend your adventurous spirit and well-crafted writing. It's rare to find eroticism and good writing in one package but you have filled that void nicely.
I'll dispense with any pesky questions as you pretty much answer them when others write in with the same queries. I will say that I've often found that when people say that they're bisexual , it is often the first step for coming out of the closet.
I guess my thoughts on the subject are a part of my solid Midwestern background. I generally don't care which team you play on but pick a team—any team. To say that my skepticism about true bisexuality is high would be putting it mildly.
Nonetheless, you and your blog and taking my smug little assumptions and pronouncements, dragging them front and center and giving them a sound thrashing. I'm not completely won over to believe in bisexuality but you make a compelling case.
I'm coming to Gotham on March 4-6th. I would love to have a meal or a drink with you. I usually not curious to meet the people behind the blogs but you have piqued my interest.
Perhaps it's to see that other perfectly normal looking people have perfectly dirty thoughts. Perhaps in some way you'll serve as a muse to get me to open up other avenues of pleasure. Either way you intrigue me.
Now, how did this person know I was susceptible to flattery?
I say “this person” because I learned so little about writer from this email. Male or female? Old or young? Gay or straight? No idea.
I knew that the writer was a Midwesterner who considered his/her attitudes on bisexuality to be provincial, yet he/she had the chutzpah to ask me on a date, sight unseen. That was about all I could ascertain from one note.
Smart money said the writer was an older gay man, as it is the “friends of Dorothy” generation who tends to subscribe to the notion that bisexuals are “fence sitters” who have yet to accept their “true” sexuality.
And why not? They are the ones who remember life before Stonewall. They fought for the freedom to be out, and it changed their lives. I forgive a little partisanship where they are concerned.
Compare this to many of the twentysomething queers I know, who care less whether you are gay, bi or straight. It’s more about whether you are top, vers or bottom. It’s not about politics. It’s about, uh, can we fuck?
I also assumed a male author because I supposed it would be pretty bold of a woman who confesses to “smug little assumptions” about sexuality to ask out a self-avowed perv like me, knowing me only through my blog.
In response to the email, I wrote:
Thank you for your kind words. I'm glad that you enjoy reading the blog. It's certainly become a favorite writing project of mine.
It sounds as if your attitudes on bisexuality were due for a thorough thrashing. Keep reading this blog, baby—we'll make a believer of you.
Almost to prove the point: it is unclear from your note whether you are male or female. Yet as I ponder your invitation to meet, my slutty mind thinks, say, d'ya think he or she is making a move on me?
Let me know more about yourself.
The writer apologized for the mystery, and sent a pic.
On the weekend of March 4-6, I had a date with an attractive black woman in her thirties, an avid churchgoer from Chicago in town with the girls.
She wanted to meet someone like me to be sure she wasn’t a freak for being a normal person who has “nasty” thoughts.
Birthday Gangbang
The kids were sick and a deadline loomed, but plans proceeded apace for the party for Mitzi’s twenty-sixth birthday. Per her request, I organized a gangbang. This was her second gangbang, the first under my management.
We talked about what she would ideally want to have happen. I also took log of other gaps in her sexual history—she had never played with a woman, for example, or a black man—that she was interested in addressing.
I wrote a scenario for the evening, to be distributed to the participants, and sent it to her for approval.
In a room, you will find a woman tied to a bed. She will be blindfolded. You will not know her name.
She is there for you and the other men to use.
She cannot see anyone, so her senses will be confused. You can compound this by touching parts of her body—her feet, her arms, her hair—so that she will be unable to distinguish one man from another, or even to know how many there are.
Don’t address any of the other men by name. She will be in the dark, literally and figuratively.
I am responsible for her, so pay attention to me through out.
After a while, I will remove the blindfold and ropes. She will be able to see the handsome men she has been with.
Introductions will be made and we will all make nice. Chances are there will be more sex!
That gets me so wet, she said.
We agreed that there should be five men, to be chosen by yours truly from my cadre of group sex regulars.
My first choice was Thomas. I thought he would respond well to the intense yet tender way Mitzi can go at it, and there’s a nice mesh to their personalities.
I dropped a line to Jacob, a former party regular who has been scarce since breaking up with his girlfriend a few months back. He’s a regular fellow, good looking, athletic and nicely endowed. He’s straight, but always played well with our bi group. He was in.
Franz said he expected to be there. He is tall, blonde, distractingly handsome, and a very pleasant person to be around. He’s gay, but enjoyed playing with women at our parties—much to their joy. He had gone monogamous on us for a while there, as he had a boyfriend. Sadly, that relationship had not worked out, but the good news is that he is ready to return to our fold.
For the final man, I turned to Alfie. We’ve been online pals for a while. We had talked about the gatherings, but he is straight and could not bring a date, so that didn’t quite mesh with the demographics. He wasn’t sure he would be into such a scene anyway. In our chats, we generally talk about things other than sex.
He dropped me a line, asking I wanted to go to a museum with him next week. Sounds good, I said. Want to go to a gangbang with me this week?
He mulled it over, and decided to join us. Cool. That would take care of Mitzi having her first black man.
With five men and one woman, I wondered: did we need a fluffer? A fluffer could work the men Mitzi wasn’t with at a given moment, keeping things at a nice pitch.
I ran the idea by Alice. She has a submissive streak, and could be attracted to the bondage elements we had introduced. She appreciated the invitation—she’s never been to a gangbang, and she would love to watch.
In keeping with the theme of anonymity, Mitzi would know nothing about any of these people beforehand. I withheld that I had invited another woman. Normally, there should be a free flow of information between the participants in a gangbang. But Mitzi was turned on by the idea of not knowing them, and I was turned on that she trusted me to make good decisions.
The party was cast, and everything set in motion.
Then we had another snowstorm.
Mitzi was nervous and excited all day. She arrived an hour before the main event, beaming as I lit candles and made the beds with the sex sheets. “What’s going to happen, Jefferson? Tell me again.”
I poured her a bourbon and related the scenario again, kissing her, touching her.
I took down her pants and licked her wet pussy. She squirmed down in her chair, touching her breasts through her sweater. She sat up, pulling the sweater over her head, unclasping her bra.
I stood and fed her my cock, holding a fistful of her hair.
“On the bed,” I commanded.
She lay back on the bed. I joined her, covering her body with my own, covering her mouth with kisses. I sucked her breasts long and hard.
I was preparing to fuck her when Jacob arrived. I left her on the bed, dressed and went to the door. With Jacob situated with a glass of wine in the living room, I returned to Mitzi.
“Time for the ropes!” I said. She giggled nervously and wriggled on the bed. I tied her arms behind her head, lashing the rope to a bedpost.
“Wait, wait, I should go to the bathroom!” she said.
Damn, I meant to remember that. So many details to organize.
I unleashed her. A piss later, she was back and secured. The restraints were widely spaced, so that she had some flexibility. I tested this by ordering her to get on all fours. She could manage that. Good.
We put the blindfold in place, and reconfirmed our safe word, which she would say to indicate that she was finished. We chose “popcorn,” borrowing it from a Saturday Night Live skit.
Thomas arrived, and caught up with Jacob in the living room. I joined them a moment later.
“Okay, I’ve got the naked woman tied up so she won’t come in here to interrupt our conversation.”
“Great,” Thomas responded.
Beat.
“Hey wait, maybe we should go hang out with the naked woman.” Jacob agreed that this was a fine idea and stood to lead the way.
Hewing to the scenario, the men undressed silently. Jacob ran a hand along Mitzi’s side. Her body turned to his touch. Thomas ran his hands through her hair. I mouthed her toes.
She turned her face to Thomas. He gave his cock to her mouth. Jacob fingered her clit.
Thomas mounted her face as Jacob began to fuck her. They rode her in tandem. Mitzi’s restraints only allowed her to touch Thomas.
I remained clothed, as I was still responsible for working the door. I ran my hands along her legs.
When Alfie arrived, I was glad to see that he was even better looking in person, and just as easy going. I was even happier as he undressed, revealing a lean and well-muscled body, and a cock as big as my forearm.
Alfie had confided once that he didn’t consider himself very attractive. But he is a stunning man.
Jacob and Thomas stood aside, allowing Alfie to have a go. A gangbang is just a pleasure with such gentlemen.
Alfie pulled on a condom and climbed onto Mitzi, kissing her in greeting. She moaned as he entered her, gasping as his cock kept going and going. She ran her hands to his head and neck, trying to catalogue details about this new man.
Alice arrived, and we chatted in the kitchen. I handed her a glass of wine. “Let’s go back,” I suggested. “Remember, if you don’t say anything, she won’t know you are there.”
Thomas kissed Alice in greeting. Josh waved hello from the other side of the bed, as Mitzi sucked his cock. Alfie was going fast and furious, but managed a nod.
Alice stayed close to a wall, as she often does when becoming acclimated to a sex party. I stayed with her for a while, and then joined Josh at Mitzi’s mouth. I took her hair and guided her mouth to my cock. I fucked her face good and hard.
“Mmmf,” she murmured, pulling away and looking up with blindfolded eyes. “Hello, Jefferson.”
“Nice detective work, Sherlock.” I slapped her face with my dick. “Now suck that cock.” She went at it with gusto.
As she worked me, I noticed Alice tugging off her panties. Thomas was putting on a condom to fuck Mitzi, so I dismounted. In two steps, I was kneeling before Alice, licking her pussy as she watched the action.
That’s right, I was fluffing the fluffer. I can’t help myself.
I stood and gave my cock to Alice’s mouth. She took it noisily. “Ah ha,” said Mitzi, turning towards the sound. “Someone is getting his dick sucked.” She envisioned boy-on-boy action, which she had never witnessed, not knowing about the other woman in the room.
I put a finger to Alice’s lips as I retrieved a condom. As I entered her, she pulled her legs back. I pulled her hips forward on the chair. With my hand on the arms of the chair, and my feet on the floor, I could push deep and fast into her, barely touching her skin.
“Should I remove the blindfold now?” Mitzi wondered.
“Is now the time?” I responded, pounding Alice.
She reached down, feeling Alfie’s face as she rode his cock. “No, I think I will wait,” she smiled.
Eventually, though, the time did come. Mitzi was sitting on the bed, as we all gathered around. She removed the blindfold, blinking as she surveyed the candlelit room.
I sat next to her. Even now, she could barely see the features of their faces.
I asked everyone to make introductions. They went around the room. Alice was last.
“Oh, hello,” Mitzi said. “You are not a boy.”
“That’s right,” I smiled. “One of your boys became a girl.”
“Where is the other boy?”
“I don’t know,” I replied. I would later find that Franz had sent his regrets due to the snowstorm.
Mitzi told us that she had been unable to distinguish much, though touching had told her some things. She figured that Alfie was black by the texture of his hair, for example, and when he went at her again, the necklace he wore told her it wasn’t another man. Josh and Thomas had each fucked her from behind a few times, and she was unclear who was who then.
“Did you fuck me?” she asked.
“Did I?”
“Did you?”
“Did I?”
“Fucker. I’ll know when you blog it.”
“Will you? Will I?”
Some mysteries are fun to keep mysterious.
As we settled into an intermission, Mitzi took me aside. “Jefferson, you know I have a problem with jealousy. Why did you invite some other girl you fuck?”
“Alice is not some other girl I fuck, really,” I explained, as honestly as I could, considering I had just fucked her. “She is someone who comes to the parties. She was here to observe, and to play along in the next phase of the evening. With all these guys, you will be glad she’s here.”
After a brief round of conversation, during which Jacob had to go, we resumed. I focused my energies on Mitzi. Thomas and Alfie were eager to work on Alice, who was all about Alfie.
As we all hit the bed, there was a loud crack. Mitzi’s eyes widened.
“Huzzah, another crack in the bedframe.” I high-fived Mitzi. “You get credit for that one!” The original break had been sustained at another gangbang, held to honor my birthday. Credit for that break went to Jake.
Mtizi was on her back at one corner of the bed, eyes wide open. I stood above, making eye contact as I fucked her.
Alfie moved Alice around the bed, their feet clonking Mitzi in the head. They settled down, and Alice reached to suck Thomas. Alfie lay besides her, fucking her in deep long strokes.
“Hey Thomas,” I asked. “You up for some double pussy penetration?”
Mitzi squealed in delight. “Sure man, let’s do it,” he said, reclaiming his cock from Alice.
I appointed him the anchor. He lay on the bed, and Mitzi mounted him. Once they had a groove going, I stood behind her, holding Thomas’s cock. I slide mine in on top of his, as Mitzi moaned. We both pounded.
Thomas and I have done this on several occasions, so we’re pretty good at it. This was Mitzi’s first—she is sold on it.
“Damn, that’s hot,” Alfie admired as he fucked Alice.
In time, I pulled out to let Thomas do his business. I rimmed Mitzi, occasionally borrowing Thomas’s cock to get in some sucking.
Mtizi hopped down to watch. “Ooh, Jefferson,” she cooed. “You are bisexual.”
Damn straight.
Thomas arched his back and moaned as my hands roamed his body. He was poised to cum.
“Okay, I need to fuck this one,” he said, a thumb to Mitzi. That’s my Thomas; always ready to reassert his heterosexuality.
Mitzi bent over, and he entered her. “Hey Mitzi, “ I said. “Meet me over at Alice’s breasts.” She crawled forward a bit, and we each took one.
I leaned over her to lick Alice’s clit as Alfie fucked her. It was a very nice view.
“Try it out, Mitzi,” I suggested.
“Really? Can I eat pussy for the first time ever?”
“Why not? It’s your party,” I replied. “Anyway, it’s stuffed full of cock. You will recognize the flavor.”
Mitzi set to it. My cock had found it’s way to Alice’s mouth. I checked her face; she was in her bliss. Nothing could kill that buzz for her.
Actually, something could.
Later, Mitzi sat in my lap in tall chairs, as we sipped bourbons and watched Thomas and Alice fuck.
“You two look so regal,” Alfie admired. “Can I take your picture?”
Cameras are not allowed at my parties. Everyone knows that, but this was Alfie’s first party at my place. He always carries a camera. This was not something he had planned; it just occurred to him that we looked worthy of photographing.
Our tangled limps naturally covered the naughty bits. Mitzi shrugged, “Oh, okay.” I said sure, let’s do it.
“Cool,” Alfie said, going to his bag. He pulled out camera and tested the flash.
“Was that a camera?” Alice hopped up.
“No, just a flash, actually . . . ,” Alfie began to explain. Alice, though, was miffed. She told him that cameras were totally uncool at sex parties, as people do have real lives to be concerned about.
Things cooled down, as Alice understood that this was an honest mistake, and no photographs had been made. She certainly forgave him; when everyone went home, she took him to hers.
Mitzi stayed overnight with me. It was a great party, she said. Thank you.
It was my pleasure, I replied.
But in my head, I made note of my errors in judgment.
One, Mitzi should have been informed that there would be another woman, and know why I recommended it.
Two, I should have been very clear on the camera policy, instead of seeing a nuance in having two consenting models. It just muddies the waters.
I don’t want to repeat those mistakes next time.
Oh, and there will be a next time.
We talked about what she would ideally want to have happen. I also took log of other gaps in her sexual history—she had never played with a woman, for example, or a black man—that she was interested in addressing.
I wrote a scenario for the evening, to be distributed to the participants, and sent it to her for approval.
In a room, you will find a woman tied to a bed. She will be blindfolded. You will not know her name.
She is there for you and the other men to use.
She cannot see anyone, so her senses will be confused. You can compound this by touching parts of her body—her feet, her arms, her hair—so that she will be unable to distinguish one man from another, or even to know how many there are.
Don’t address any of the other men by name. She will be in the dark, literally and figuratively.
I am responsible for her, so pay attention to me through out.
After a while, I will remove the blindfold and ropes. She will be able to see the handsome men she has been with.
Introductions will be made and we will all make nice. Chances are there will be more sex!
That gets me so wet, she said.
We agreed that there should be five men, to be chosen by yours truly from my cadre of group sex regulars.
My first choice was Thomas. I thought he would respond well to the intense yet tender way Mitzi can go at it, and there’s a nice mesh to their personalities.
I dropped a line to Jacob, a former party regular who has been scarce since breaking up with his girlfriend a few months back. He’s a regular fellow, good looking, athletic and nicely endowed. He’s straight, but always played well with our bi group. He was in.
Franz said he expected to be there. He is tall, blonde, distractingly handsome, and a very pleasant person to be around. He’s gay, but enjoyed playing with women at our parties—much to their joy. He had gone monogamous on us for a while there, as he had a boyfriend. Sadly, that relationship had not worked out, but the good news is that he is ready to return to our fold.
For the final man, I turned to Alfie. We’ve been online pals for a while. We had talked about the gatherings, but he is straight and could not bring a date, so that didn’t quite mesh with the demographics. He wasn’t sure he would be into such a scene anyway. In our chats, we generally talk about things other than sex.
He dropped me a line, asking I wanted to go to a museum with him next week. Sounds good, I said. Want to go to a gangbang with me this week?
He mulled it over, and decided to join us. Cool. That would take care of Mitzi having her first black man.
With five men and one woman, I wondered: did we need a fluffer? A fluffer could work the men Mitzi wasn’t with at a given moment, keeping things at a nice pitch.
I ran the idea by Alice. She has a submissive streak, and could be attracted to the bondage elements we had introduced. She appreciated the invitation—she’s never been to a gangbang, and she would love to watch.
In keeping with the theme of anonymity, Mitzi would know nothing about any of these people beforehand. I withheld that I had invited another woman. Normally, there should be a free flow of information between the participants in a gangbang. But Mitzi was turned on by the idea of not knowing them, and I was turned on that she trusted me to make good decisions.
The party was cast, and everything set in motion.
Then we had another snowstorm.
Mitzi was nervous and excited all day. She arrived an hour before the main event, beaming as I lit candles and made the beds with the sex sheets. “What’s going to happen, Jefferson? Tell me again.”
I poured her a bourbon and related the scenario again, kissing her, touching her.
I took down her pants and licked her wet pussy. She squirmed down in her chair, touching her breasts through her sweater. She sat up, pulling the sweater over her head, unclasping her bra.
I stood and fed her my cock, holding a fistful of her hair.
“On the bed,” I commanded.
She lay back on the bed. I joined her, covering her body with my own, covering her mouth with kisses. I sucked her breasts long and hard.
I was preparing to fuck her when Jacob arrived. I left her on the bed, dressed and went to the door. With Jacob situated with a glass of wine in the living room, I returned to Mitzi.
“Time for the ropes!” I said. She giggled nervously and wriggled on the bed. I tied her arms behind her head, lashing the rope to a bedpost.
“Wait, wait, I should go to the bathroom!” she said.
Damn, I meant to remember that. So many details to organize.
I unleashed her. A piss later, she was back and secured. The restraints were widely spaced, so that she had some flexibility. I tested this by ordering her to get on all fours. She could manage that. Good.
We put the blindfold in place, and reconfirmed our safe word, which she would say to indicate that she was finished. We chose “popcorn,” borrowing it from a Saturday Night Live skit.
Thomas arrived, and caught up with Jacob in the living room. I joined them a moment later.
“Okay, I’ve got the naked woman tied up so she won’t come in here to interrupt our conversation.”
“Great,” Thomas responded.
Beat.
“Hey wait, maybe we should go hang out with the naked woman.” Jacob agreed that this was a fine idea and stood to lead the way.
Hewing to the scenario, the men undressed silently. Jacob ran a hand along Mitzi’s side. Her body turned to his touch. Thomas ran his hands through her hair. I mouthed her toes.
She turned her face to Thomas. He gave his cock to her mouth. Jacob fingered her clit.
Thomas mounted her face as Jacob began to fuck her. They rode her in tandem. Mitzi’s restraints only allowed her to touch Thomas.
I remained clothed, as I was still responsible for working the door. I ran my hands along her legs.
When Alfie arrived, I was glad to see that he was even better looking in person, and just as easy going. I was even happier as he undressed, revealing a lean and well-muscled body, and a cock as big as my forearm.
Alfie had confided once that he didn’t consider himself very attractive. But he is a stunning man.
Jacob and Thomas stood aside, allowing Alfie to have a go. A gangbang is just a pleasure with such gentlemen.
Alfie pulled on a condom and climbed onto Mitzi, kissing her in greeting. She moaned as he entered her, gasping as his cock kept going and going. She ran her hands to his head and neck, trying to catalogue details about this new man.
Alice arrived, and we chatted in the kitchen. I handed her a glass of wine. “Let’s go back,” I suggested. “Remember, if you don’t say anything, she won’t know you are there.”
Thomas kissed Alice in greeting. Josh waved hello from the other side of the bed, as Mitzi sucked his cock. Alfie was going fast and furious, but managed a nod.
Alice stayed close to a wall, as she often does when becoming acclimated to a sex party. I stayed with her for a while, and then joined Josh at Mitzi’s mouth. I took her hair and guided her mouth to my cock. I fucked her face good and hard.
“Mmmf,” she murmured, pulling away and looking up with blindfolded eyes. “Hello, Jefferson.”
“Nice detective work, Sherlock.” I slapped her face with my dick. “Now suck that cock.” She went at it with gusto.
As she worked me, I noticed Alice tugging off her panties. Thomas was putting on a condom to fuck Mitzi, so I dismounted. In two steps, I was kneeling before Alice, licking her pussy as she watched the action.
That’s right, I was fluffing the fluffer. I can’t help myself.
I stood and gave my cock to Alice’s mouth. She took it noisily. “Ah ha,” said Mitzi, turning towards the sound. “Someone is getting his dick sucked.” She envisioned boy-on-boy action, which she had never witnessed, not knowing about the other woman in the room.
I put a finger to Alice’s lips as I retrieved a condom. As I entered her, she pulled her legs back. I pulled her hips forward on the chair. With my hand on the arms of the chair, and my feet on the floor, I could push deep and fast into her, barely touching her skin.
“Should I remove the blindfold now?” Mitzi wondered.
“Is now the time?” I responded, pounding Alice.
She reached down, feeling Alfie’s face as she rode his cock. “No, I think I will wait,” she smiled.
Eventually, though, the time did come. Mitzi was sitting on the bed, as we all gathered around. She removed the blindfold, blinking as she surveyed the candlelit room.
I sat next to her. Even now, she could barely see the features of their faces.
I asked everyone to make introductions. They went around the room. Alice was last.
“Oh, hello,” Mitzi said. “You are not a boy.”
“That’s right,” I smiled. “One of your boys became a girl.”
“Where is the other boy?”
“I don’t know,” I replied. I would later find that Franz had sent his regrets due to the snowstorm.
Mitzi told us that she had been unable to distinguish much, though touching had told her some things. She figured that Alfie was black by the texture of his hair, for example, and when he went at her again, the necklace he wore told her it wasn’t another man. Josh and Thomas had each fucked her from behind a few times, and she was unclear who was who then.
“Did you fuck me?” she asked.
“Did I?”
“Did you?”
“Did I?”
“Fucker. I’ll know when you blog it.”
“Will you? Will I?”
Some mysteries are fun to keep mysterious.
As we settled into an intermission, Mitzi took me aside. “Jefferson, you know I have a problem with jealousy. Why did you invite some other girl you fuck?”
“Alice is not some other girl I fuck, really,” I explained, as honestly as I could, considering I had just fucked her. “She is someone who comes to the parties. She was here to observe, and to play along in the next phase of the evening. With all these guys, you will be glad she’s here.”
After a brief round of conversation, during which Jacob had to go, we resumed. I focused my energies on Mitzi. Thomas and Alfie were eager to work on Alice, who was all about Alfie.
As we all hit the bed, there was a loud crack. Mitzi’s eyes widened.
“Huzzah, another crack in the bedframe.” I high-fived Mitzi. “You get credit for that one!” The original break had been sustained at another gangbang, held to honor my birthday. Credit for that break went to Jake.
Mtizi was on her back at one corner of the bed, eyes wide open. I stood above, making eye contact as I fucked her.
Alfie moved Alice around the bed, their feet clonking Mitzi in the head. They settled down, and Alice reached to suck Thomas. Alfie lay besides her, fucking her in deep long strokes.
“Hey Thomas,” I asked. “You up for some double pussy penetration?”
Mitzi squealed in delight. “Sure man, let’s do it,” he said, reclaiming his cock from Alice.
I appointed him the anchor. He lay on the bed, and Mitzi mounted him. Once they had a groove going, I stood behind her, holding Thomas’s cock. I slide mine in on top of his, as Mitzi moaned. We both pounded.
Thomas and I have done this on several occasions, so we’re pretty good at it. This was Mitzi’s first—she is sold on it.
“Damn, that’s hot,” Alfie admired as he fucked Alice.
In time, I pulled out to let Thomas do his business. I rimmed Mitzi, occasionally borrowing Thomas’s cock to get in some sucking.
Mtizi hopped down to watch. “Ooh, Jefferson,” she cooed. “You are bisexual.”
Damn straight.
Thomas arched his back and moaned as my hands roamed his body. He was poised to cum.
“Okay, I need to fuck this one,” he said, a thumb to Mitzi. That’s my Thomas; always ready to reassert his heterosexuality.
Mitzi bent over, and he entered her. “Hey Mitzi, “ I said. “Meet me over at Alice’s breasts.” She crawled forward a bit, and we each took one.
I leaned over her to lick Alice’s clit as Alfie fucked her. It was a very nice view.
“Try it out, Mitzi,” I suggested.
“Really? Can I eat pussy for the first time ever?”
“Why not? It’s your party,” I replied. “Anyway, it’s stuffed full of cock. You will recognize the flavor.”
Mitzi set to it. My cock had found it’s way to Alice’s mouth. I checked her face; she was in her bliss. Nothing could kill that buzz for her.
Actually, something could.
Later, Mitzi sat in my lap in tall chairs, as we sipped bourbons and watched Thomas and Alice fuck.
“You two look so regal,” Alfie admired. “Can I take your picture?”
Cameras are not allowed at my parties. Everyone knows that, but this was Alfie’s first party at my place. He always carries a camera. This was not something he had planned; it just occurred to him that we looked worthy of photographing.
Our tangled limps naturally covered the naughty bits. Mitzi shrugged, “Oh, okay.” I said sure, let’s do it.
“Cool,” Alfie said, going to his bag. He pulled out camera and tested the flash.
“Was that a camera?” Alice hopped up.
“No, just a flash, actually . . . ,” Alfie began to explain. Alice, though, was miffed. She told him that cameras were totally uncool at sex parties, as people do have real lives to be concerned about.
Things cooled down, as Alice understood that this was an honest mistake, and no photographs had been made. She certainly forgave him; when everyone went home, she took him to hers.
Mitzi stayed overnight with me. It was a great party, she said. Thank you.
It was my pleasure, I replied.
But in my head, I made note of my errors in judgment.
One, Mitzi should have been informed that there would be another woman, and know why I recommended it.
Two, I should have been very clear on the camera policy, instead of seeing a nuance in having two consenting models. It just muddies the waters.
I don’t want to repeat those mistakes next time.
Oh, and there will be a next time.
Good Days and Bad
It was a warm, sunny afternoon. Shelby and I took advantage of the unseasonable weather by walking through Central Park.
We watched the dismantling of the Gates (at last!), holding hands as we strolled. She kissed me in the Ramble.
We shopped for groceries. She practiced her cello as I cooked dinner. Afterward, we talked and made love until falling asleep.
Overnight, a cold front moved in, bringing a snowstorm. A rough start to the day. But it would get worse—before nightfall, I would have murdered Shelby.
As I settled down to do some work, I found this missive:
your sweetheart by whatever psuedo name [sic] you chose is my daughter. Since you have chosen to engage her into this perverted life of yours, she now belongs to you. I suggest you rent her a uhaul and come pick her things up because her other home no longer is her home. I vomit inside everytime [sic] she leaves to come into your perverted world.
Her father and I wash our hands of her life. She has two choices to stop her trips to your world or remain their [sic].
Shelby’s mom read my blog. She was pissed.
She discovered it while snooping on her daughter’s computer. As a parent, I can’t say that I blame her for snooping, or for being angry. Her daughter is an adult, but still her daughter.
Shelby was sickened when she read the email. She had to go home to straighten this out.
Shelby wrote later.
Right now . . . I'm crying. I've been crying for almost three hours. I'm currently at my aunt's house. My dad backhanded me across the face and threw me up against a wall then across the room. They took my car. This has gone too far and I'm frightened to go home.
I also heard from Shelby’s mom.
she's yours . . . move her in and keep her . . . Shelby or whatever psuedoname [sic]you choose . . . the perversion has no place in her old world . . . move her in with you. She is no longer welcome in the world that raised her to be beautiful, talented and brilliant. Beware your perversion will tire of her childish self centered consumption and you too will send her back to us to heal and suffer with the healing.
The mother she hates.
The mother whose pain is beyond words as she watches her daughter self distruct [sic].
The mother who has supported her.
Shelby met me through my blog. My blogging on Shelby has exacerbated existing tensions to the point that her parents use physical violence and force her from her home.
I can’t tell how this will go. But I do know that it will happen offline. This blog will not fuel the family’s anger.
So far as this blog is concerned, Shelby is now dead. The real Shelby is safe. She will survive this.
We watched the dismantling of the Gates (at last!), holding hands as we strolled. She kissed me in the Ramble.
We shopped for groceries. She practiced her cello as I cooked dinner. Afterward, we talked and made love until falling asleep.
Overnight, a cold front moved in, bringing a snowstorm. A rough start to the day. But it would get worse—before nightfall, I would have murdered Shelby.
As I settled down to do some work, I found this missive:
your sweetheart by whatever psuedo name [sic] you chose is my daughter. Since you have chosen to engage her into this perverted life of yours, she now belongs to you. I suggest you rent her a uhaul and come pick her things up because her other home no longer is her home. I vomit inside everytime [sic] she leaves to come into your perverted world.
Her father and I wash our hands of her life. She has two choices to stop her trips to your world or remain their [sic].
Shelby’s mom read my blog. She was pissed.
She discovered it while snooping on her daughter’s computer. As a parent, I can’t say that I blame her for snooping, or for being angry. Her daughter is an adult, but still her daughter.
Shelby was sickened when she read the email. She had to go home to straighten this out.
Shelby wrote later.
Right now . . . I'm crying. I've been crying for almost three hours. I'm currently at my aunt's house. My dad backhanded me across the face and threw me up against a wall then across the room. They took my car. This has gone too far and I'm frightened to go home.
I also heard from Shelby’s mom.
she's yours . . . move her in and keep her . . . Shelby or whatever psuedoname [sic]you choose . . . the perversion has no place in her old world . . . move her in with you. She is no longer welcome in the world that raised her to be beautiful, talented and brilliant. Beware your perversion will tire of her childish self centered consumption and you too will send her back to us to heal and suffer with the healing.
The mother she hates.
The mother whose pain is beyond words as she watches her daughter self distruct [sic].
The mother who has supported her.
Shelby met me through my blog. My blogging on Shelby has exacerbated existing tensions to the point that her parents use physical violence and force her from her home.
I can’t tell how this will go. But I do know that it will happen offline. This blog will not fuel the family’s anger.
So far as this blog is concerned, Shelby is now dead. The real Shelby is safe. She will survive this.
Tuesday, March 08, 2005
"Our" Song
A song has come into my life, just begging to be shared as “our” song. But with whom do share it?
My online girlfriend Madeline asked if I had heard “Such Great Heights” by the Postal Service. I had not, so she sent it to me.
I liked the song on first listen. It was giddy pop, just 80s enough to suggest Depeche Mode on a good day, when the band was inspired and the producer was not there to muck it up.
It had a fun, upbeat chorus, so hippy in its imagery:
They will see us waving from such great heights
‘Come down now,’ they’ll say
But everything looks perfect from far away
‘Come down now,’ but we’ll stay
Lovely, right?
A few days later, Shelby was over. She left me some CDs to listen to as I work. Among these was the fine soundtrack to “Garden State,” a movie she really liked.
(She had insisted that I watch the movie too, which only confirmed my moviegoers’ crush on Peter Sarsgaard. He was dreamy as Clyde Martin, the bisexual assistant in "Kinsey"; in "Garden State," he was appealing as the pothead-next-door and third wheel of ambiguous sexuality.)
I put the soundtrack in heavy rotation. It reminded me of Shelby.
One night, as Madeline and I conversed over long-distance bourbons, my room was filled with a sad, slow song. I wasn’t paying attention, but these lyrics wafted across my consciousness:
They will see us waving from such great heights . . .
Was this the same song? It sounded entirely different—a male voice and acoustic guitar, so full of longing, of missing someone.
I looked at the playlist, written in Shelby’s hand. For the movie soundtrack, “Such Great Heights” was covered by Iron and Wine. I looked up the lyrics.
I am thinking it’s a sign
That the freckles in our eyes are mirror images and
When we kiss they're perfectly aligned
And I have to speculate
That God himself did make us into corresponding shapes
Like puzzle pieces from the clay
And true, it may seem like a stretch,
But it’s thoughts like this that catch my troubled
Head when you’re away when I am missing you
To death
When you are out there on the road
For several weeks of shows and when you scan
The radio, I hope this song will guide you home.
They will see us waving from such great heights
‘Come down now,’ they’ll say
But everything looks perfect from far away
‘Come down now,’ but we’ll stay
I tried my best to leave
This all on your machine but the persistent beat it sounded
Thin upon listening
That frankly will not fly
You will hear
The shrillest highs and lowest lows with
The windows down when this is guiding you home
Now, isn’t that sweet? Such sappy, romantic sentiments. It’s not a perfect song. The lyrics aren’t enhanced by the bit about the beloved being “out there on the road for several weeks of shows.” Do we need to know why the beloved is away? The important thing is that the singer is sending a song to the beloved’s radio to “guide you home.”
And what about that deft use of “that frankly will not fly?” Nicely done.
“Do you know this version?” I asked Madeline. She didn’t, so I called and sang it to her. She downloaded it immediately.
“Do you know this version?” I asked Shelby of the original recording. She didn’t, so I played it for her. She thought it was great, and very different from the more familiar second version.
Now, this was a fine moment to adopt a tune as “our” song. But . . . which version for which girlfriend?
It makes sense that the faster Postal Service version could be Madeline’s song. After all, she turned me on to it.
But she really likes the Iron and Wine version. She’s sought out their other songs. She plans to see them in concert.
So perhaps Shelby and I could take the Postal Service version as “our” song. She certainly likes it.
But you know, I think that if she weighed in, we might be considering another song by another band. She likes this song, but would she put it ahead of something by, say, Gem or Frou Frou?
I think not.
The song really seems to fit the situation in which Madeline and I find ourselves. We live far apart. We can’t see each other except via webcams. “Our” song should be about absence and longing.
Plus those lyrics about returning home . . . Madeline and I share the sad misfortune of rebuilding our lives and starting new homes after divorce. We want to return home.
Shelby, on the other hand, is young. "Home" still refers to that place where her parents live, the place she wants to put behind her.
Now that I’ve thought it out, I think “Such Great Heights,” in both versions, can be the song of Madeline and Jefferson.
Shelby and I will just have to keep listening.
Postal Service
Iron & Wine
Peter Sarsgaard
Kinsey
Garden State
My online girlfriend Madeline asked if I had heard “Such Great Heights” by the Postal Service. I had not, so she sent it to me.
I liked the song on first listen. It was giddy pop, just 80s enough to suggest Depeche Mode on a good day, when the band was inspired and the producer was not there to muck it up.
It had a fun, upbeat chorus, so hippy in its imagery:
They will see us waving from such great heights
‘Come down now,’ they’ll say
But everything looks perfect from far away
‘Come down now,’ but we’ll stay
Lovely, right?
A few days later, Shelby was over. She left me some CDs to listen to as I work. Among these was the fine soundtrack to “Garden State,” a movie she really liked.
(She had insisted that I watch the movie too, which only confirmed my moviegoers’ crush on Peter Sarsgaard. He was dreamy as Clyde Martin, the bisexual assistant in "Kinsey"; in "Garden State," he was appealing as the pothead-next-door and third wheel of ambiguous sexuality.)
I put the soundtrack in heavy rotation. It reminded me of Shelby.
One night, as Madeline and I conversed over long-distance bourbons, my room was filled with a sad, slow song. I wasn’t paying attention, but these lyrics wafted across my consciousness:
They will see us waving from such great heights . . .
Was this the same song? It sounded entirely different—a male voice and acoustic guitar, so full of longing, of missing someone.
I looked at the playlist, written in Shelby’s hand. For the movie soundtrack, “Such Great Heights” was covered by Iron and Wine. I looked up the lyrics.
I am thinking it’s a sign
That the freckles in our eyes are mirror images and
When we kiss they're perfectly aligned
And I have to speculate
That God himself did make us into corresponding shapes
Like puzzle pieces from the clay
And true, it may seem like a stretch,
But it’s thoughts like this that catch my troubled
Head when you’re away when I am missing you
To death
When you are out there on the road
For several weeks of shows and when you scan
The radio, I hope this song will guide you home.
They will see us waving from such great heights
‘Come down now,’ they’ll say
But everything looks perfect from far away
‘Come down now,’ but we’ll stay
I tried my best to leave
This all on your machine but the persistent beat it sounded
Thin upon listening
That frankly will not fly
You will hear
The shrillest highs and lowest lows with
The windows down when this is guiding you home
Now, isn’t that sweet? Such sappy, romantic sentiments. It’s not a perfect song. The lyrics aren’t enhanced by the bit about the beloved being “out there on the road for several weeks of shows.” Do we need to know why the beloved is away? The important thing is that the singer is sending a song to the beloved’s radio to “guide you home.”
And what about that deft use of “that frankly will not fly?” Nicely done.
“Do you know this version?” I asked Madeline. She didn’t, so I called and sang it to her. She downloaded it immediately.
“Do you know this version?” I asked Shelby of the original recording. She didn’t, so I played it for her. She thought it was great, and very different from the more familiar second version.
Now, this was a fine moment to adopt a tune as “our” song. But . . . which version for which girlfriend?
It makes sense that the faster Postal Service version could be Madeline’s song. After all, she turned me on to it.
But she really likes the Iron and Wine version. She’s sought out their other songs. She plans to see them in concert.
So perhaps Shelby and I could take the Postal Service version as “our” song. She certainly likes it.
But you know, I think that if she weighed in, we might be considering another song by another band. She likes this song, but would she put it ahead of something by, say, Gem or Frou Frou?
I think not.
The song really seems to fit the situation in which Madeline and I find ourselves. We live far apart. We can’t see each other except via webcams. “Our” song should be about absence and longing.
Plus those lyrics about returning home . . . Madeline and I share the sad misfortune of rebuilding our lives and starting new homes after divorce. We want to return home.
Shelby, on the other hand, is young. "Home" still refers to that place where her parents live, the place she wants to put behind her.
Now that I’ve thought it out, I think “Such Great Heights,” in both versions, can be the song of Madeline and Jefferson.
Shelby and I will just have to keep listening.
Postal Service
Iron & Wine
Peter Sarsgaard
Kinsey
Garden State
Kitchen
Sex got in the way of breakfast. Shelby was feeling skinny and had one request:
Bacon.
As the griddle heated, she stood nude in the kitchen doorway. “You know,” she said. “I think this may be only room in your apartment that I haven’t had sex in.”
Oh really?
Bacon sizzled as we fucked, standing by the stove.
Bacon.
As the griddle heated, she stood nude in the kitchen doorway. “You know,” she said. “I think this may be only room in your apartment that I haven’t had sex in.”
Oh really?
Bacon sizzled as we fucked, standing by the stove.
Monday, March 07, 2005
Monday Dessert
“How was the orgy?” Shelby kissed me.
We talked as we walked to my bedroom. “Not bad, about the usual. How was Todd?”
“He’s fine. His kittens are very cute. We got high and watched anime.”
“No sex?” I asked, pulling off my shirt.
“I told him I was too sore. I’ve been having sex all day! So he said, ‘Fine, then you can just blow me.’ Which of course I did.”
“Of course. Well, too bad you are so sore, ‘cause we’re going to have sex now.”
“That’s fine, I think I’ve recovered. Anyway, I have yet to have the multiple O.”
I put on a condom and slipped into her. This was not the quickest route to the multiple O, but it is how I like to start the journey.
I took her nice and slow, enjoying a leisurely missionary fuck. As she got into the groove, I withdrew.
I went down on her, fingers working her g spot as she squirmed and wriggled her way through several deep orgasms.
After she had enough, I wanted to push the boundaries, to do something more daring than either of us had done all day.
I wanted her feet.
Shelby is convinced she had the freakiest feet on earth. I see them as part of this pretty woman who treats me so well.
Over her objections, I massaged her feet. She gradually relaxed and gave into it. At last: we can add that to our repertoire!
The next day, as we sat talking, I massaged her feet. She took mine and massaged them. Progress sometimes comes in baby steps.
But that was tomorrow. Tonight, we were bushed. We curled up and dozed off.
We talked as we walked to my bedroom. “Not bad, about the usual. How was Todd?”
“He’s fine. His kittens are very cute. We got high and watched anime.”
“No sex?” I asked, pulling off my shirt.
“I told him I was too sore. I’ve been having sex all day! So he said, ‘Fine, then you can just blow me.’ Which of course I did.”
“Of course. Well, too bad you are so sore, ‘cause we’re going to have sex now.”
“That’s fine, I think I’ve recovered. Anyway, I have yet to have the multiple O.”
I put on a condom and slipped into her. This was not the quickest route to the multiple O, but it is how I like to start the journey.
I took her nice and slow, enjoying a leisurely missionary fuck. As she got into the groove, I withdrew.
I went down on her, fingers working her g spot as she squirmed and wriggled her way through several deep orgasms.
After she had enough, I wanted to push the boundaries, to do something more daring than either of us had done all day.
I wanted her feet.
Shelby is convinced she had the freakiest feet on earth. I see them as part of this pretty woman who treats me so well.
Over her objections, I massaged her feet. She gradually relaxed and gave into it. At last: we can add that to our repertoire!
The next day, as we sat talking, I massaged her feet. She took mine and massaged them. Progress sometimes comes in baby steps.
But that was tomorrow. Tonight, we were bushed. We curled up and dozed off.
Monday Supper
When Shelby first proposed that we spend Monday together, I was delighted to think that she would join me in breaking my five-day fast from sex.
Checking my calendar, though, I saw a conflict. I had already committed to co-host an all-male orgy at my place on Monday night with my pal Jimmy.
Shelby would have been more than happy to stick around for the show, but the rules on Jimmy’s parties are clear: no girls allowed.
She could just go home, but we wanted to sleep in each other’s arms. The orgy would only last two or three hours, so it didn’t make sense for her to go all the way to her place and then come back.
What to do?
Well, she said, I could go hang out with Todd. I’ve been meaning to see his place and meet his kittens.
Todd is the proud papa to two adorable kittens.
Good idea, I thought. I contacted Gentleman Todd, who was more than happy to entertain my sweetheart while I tended to my gay orgy.
He suggested that they have dinner and watch a movie, as both Shelby and Todd are film geeks. Shelby liked that idea.
Of course, it was safe to assume that they would also fuck.
We acknowledge that ours is not a conventional romance.
I bundled up Shelby and sent her out into the snow just before the first men arrived. Jimmy processed his crew according to the routine—they arrived, sign off a check list, pay a fee, strip naked and check their clothes in bags marked by name. All very efficient.
Things went largely as planned, but Jimmy was perturbed. He had expected seventeen men, but with the snow, only eight or so had shown up. A few more might arrive late, but still . . . you plan a sex party for weeks, and Mother Nature wrecks it. This put him out of sorts.
Never mind that tonight’s theme was bukkake. One of the men had asked to be the bottom for a cum fest. “You can’t do a decent bukkake party with so few men,” Jimmy fumed. “The guys will be happy doing what they do, whatever, but I like to deliver as advertised.”
The fellow who had requested the theme was also absent, which only irked him more.
I toured the party, still dressed, glass of wine in hand.
The men were doing fine, theme or no theme. Four were on my bed in a side-by-side sixty-nine, while one sat in my chair blowing two cocks.
A loner sat in another chair, watching and jerking. I had my eyes on him for later, if I decided to play along. He was a frat boy type: twenty-five, built, dark crew cut.
For now though, I was content to watch or chat with Jimmy.
The first round of cum shots was fired. Men untangled from one another, washed up, and began to retrieve clothes. It was a small party. Maybe it would end early, and I could get back to fucking my Shelby.
About that time, Oak arrived.
He was full of apologies for being late—after all, he had requested the bukakke shower. Jimmy forgave him, taking his money and clothes.
Oak was fucking hot.
Tall, blonde, smooth body, pierced nipples, with tattoos derived from Eskimo designs. His hair was in a shag; he looked like a cuter version of the young Keith Richards.
Another fellow, Larry, was dressing to leave. He saw Oak stripping down, and reversed his own actions, taking down the pants he had just buckled.
Now we’re talking.
Larry, Oak and I went to the bedroom. We stood to one side watching as the remaining men went at it. Their eyes duly noted the arrival of a hot number like Oak.
“So,” I whispered to my companions. “Who was it that requested a bukakke scene?” Oak smiled meekly and raised his hand. “Nice. Should we get on that, then?”
I asked the men on my bed to push aside to make room. Larry sat on the bed, and Oak began to suck his cock. I ditched my clothes, dropping my cock into Larry’s mouth.
Oak’s long lean body was just too tempting a target. We soon had him stretched out on the bed. He sucked Larry’s cock as the frat boy blew him. Three fellows stood around, jerking. He was set for a nice drenching.
“Hey Oak,” I asked. “You like to get fucked?”
He took the cock from his mouth and looked at me.
“Not really,” he answered. He sucked some more, then looked back. “Well, sometimes.”
Sounds like he meant to say: fuck me hard, cowboy.
I tugged on a condom and lubed up. I nudged the frat boy aside. He sucked Oak from another position as I entered his ass.
Now Oak was full. Cock in his mouth, cock in his ass, his cock in a cute boy’s mouth, surrounded by jerking men.
I revved up, fucking him hard and deep.
The first load came with a noisy release, hitting Oak in his hair, on his neck.
The next was dumped on his taunt belly.
Oak sucked Larry furiously. I pounded away.
The frat boy seemed to need more space for do his work. I pulled out for a moment. He dug in, sucking Oak as intently as Oak sucked Larry.
I pulled on a latex glove, lubed up, and slid two fingers into Oak’s ass. I curved my fingers up to hit his prostate. He gasped his pleasure into Larry’s cock.
I massaged his perineum to maximize my hit. After a bit, I put the frat boy’s fingers there. “Rub, like this,” I instructed, guiding his fingers through the motion.
I pressed down on Oak’s pubis as I fingered him. He pushed himself into the pressure me. I curled my hand into a fist and pressed it hard into his gut.
Larry came for Oak, soaking his face.
Oak gave over to moans, and then shot his load.
Frat boy iced the cake.
I wasn’t going to cum. I had plans for later.
As the men cleaned up, Oak asked me, “How did you know how to do that?”
Nothing is more gratifying than a mystified sex partner. “Just a little bit of know how and a whole lot of trial and error,” I shrugged.
He gave me his phone number.
With Jimmy and the boys gone, I phoned Shelby.
The coast is clear, baby. Come home.
Checking my calendar, though, I saw a conflict. I had already committed to co-host an all-male orgy at my place on Monday night with my pal Jimmy.
Shelby would have been more than happy to stick around for the show, but the rules on Jimmy’s parties are clear: no girls allowed.
She could just go home, but we wanted to sleep in each other’s arms. The orgy would only last two or three hours, so it didn’t make sense for her to go all the way to her place and then come back.
What to do?
Well, she said, I could go hang out with Todd. I’ve been meaning to see his place and meet his kittens.
Todd is the proud papa to two adorable kittens.
Good idea, I thought. I contacted Gentleman Todd, who was more than happy to entertain my sweetheart while I tended to my gay orgy.
He suggested that they have dinner and watch a movie, as both Shelby and Todd are film geeks. Shelby liked that idea.
Of course, it was safe to assume that they would also fuck.
We acknowledge that ours is not a conventional romance.
I bundled up Shelby and sent her out into the snow just before the first men arrived. Jimmy processed his crew according to the routine—they arrived, sign off a check list, pay a fee, strip naked and check their clothes in bags marked by name. All very efficient.
Things went largely as planned, but Jimmy was perturbed. He had expected seventeen men, but with the snow, only eight or so had shown up. A few more might arrive late, but still . . . you plan a sex party for weeks, and Mother Nature wrecks it. This put him out of sorts.
Never mind that tonight’s theme was bukkake. One of the men had asked to be the bottom for a cum fest. “You can’t do a decent bukkake party with so few men,” Jimmy fumed. “The guys will be happy doing what they do, whatever, but I like to deliver as advertised.”
The fellow who had requested the theme was also absent, which only irked him more.
I toured the party, still dressed, glass of wine in hand.
The men were doing fine, theme or no theme. Four were on my bed in a side-by-side sixty-nine, while one sat in my chair blowing two cocks.
A loner sat in another chair, watching and jerking. I had my eyes on him for later, if I decided to play along. He was a frat boy type: twenty-five, built, dark crew cut.
For now though, I was content to watch or chat with Jimmy.
The first round of cum shots was fired. Men untangled from one another, washed up, and began to retrieve clothes. It was a small party. Maybe it would end early, and I could get back to fucking my Shelby.
About that time, Oak arrived.
He was full of apologies for being late—after all, he had requested the bukakke shower. Jimmy forgave him, taking his money and clothes.
Oak was fucking hot.
Tall, blonde, smooth body, pierced nipples, with tattoos derived from Eskimo designs. His hair was in a shag; he looked like a cuter version of the young Keith Richards.
Another fellow, Larry, was dressing to leave. He saw Oak stripping down, and reversed his own actions, taking down the pants he had just buckled.
Now we’re talking.
Larry, Oak and I went to the bedroom. We stood to one side watching as the remaining men went at it. Their eyes duly noted the arrival of a hot number like Oak.
“So,” I whispered to my companions. “Who was it that requested a bukakke scene?” Oak smiled meekly and raised his hand. “Nice. Should we get on that, then?”
I asked the men on my bed to push aside to make room. Larry sat on the bed, and Oak began to suck his cock. I ditched my clothes, dropping my cock into Larry’s mouth.
Oak’s long lean body was just too tempting a target. We soon had him stretched out on the bed. He sucked Larry’s cock as the frat boy blew him. Three fellows stood around, jerking. He was set for a nice drenching.
“Hey Oak,” I asked. “You like to get fucked?”
He took the cock from his mouth and looked at me.
“Not really,” he answered. He sucked some more, then looked back. “Well, sometimes.”
Sounds like he meant to say: fuck me hard, cowboy.
I tugged on a condom and lubed up. I nudged the frat boy aside. He sucked Oak from another position as I entered his ass.
Now Oak was full. Cock in his mouth, cock in his ass, his cock in a cute boy’s mouth, surrounded by jerking men.
I revved up, fucking him hard and deep.
The first load came with a noisy release, hitting Oak in his hair, on his neck.
The next was dumped on his taunt belly.
Oak sucked Larry furiously. I pounded away.
The frat boy seemed to need more space for do his work. I pulled out for a moment. He dug in, sucking Oak as intently as Oak sucked Larry.
I pulled on a latex glove, lubed up, and slid two fingers into Oak’s ass. I curved my fingers up to hit his prostate. He gasped his pleasure into Larry’s cock.
I massaged his perineum to maximize my hit. After a bit, I put the frat boy’s fingers there. “Rub, like this,” I instructed, guiding his fingers through the motion.
I pressed down on Oak’s pubis as I fingered him. He pushed himself into the pressure me. I curled my hand into a fist and pressed it hard into his gut.
Larry came for Oak, soaking his face.
Oak gave over to moans, and then shot his load.
Frat boy iced the cake.
I wasn’t going to cum. I had plans for later.
As the men cleaned up, Oak asked me, “How did you know how to do that?”
Nothing is more gratifying than a mystified sex partner. “Just a little bit of know how and a whole lot of trial and error,” I shrugged.
He gave me his phone number.
With Jimmy and the boys gone, I phoned Shelby.
The coast is clear, baby. Come home.
Sunday, March 06, 2005
Monday Lunch
Whenever Shelby and I can devote a day or two to sex, I look back over our past experience and wonder if something new should be added to the repertoire.
Scanning my memory, I realized that we had thus far neglected to have a threesome with another man. This was an oversight on my part, given that serving up an extra helping of boy is the Chef’s Special on my menu of sex.
Sure, we have had sex with other men in a group setting, but that’s not quite the same as a good old-fashioned threesome.
In a group, any permutation of partners is subject to change, as a threesome morphs into a daisy chain, which gets clipped into component couples, which get swapped or stacked . . .
A threesome offers a more focused opportunity to see what two boys and a girl can do. I can tell you, I was hankering for some of those familiar favorites. Boy-girl-boy is my comfort food.
By chance, I got a call from Driti.
You may recall Driti: he was the nineteen-year-old that May and I picked up on our first weekend date. Now he’s twenty-one.
After that fine experience, I took on Driti as my first protégé. This meant that I took responsibility for advancing his sexual experiences, offering opportunities, advice and guidance. Which, in return, gets me off.
Driti and I worked well with threesomes. There was a good esprit des corps between us as we worked over the lucky girls who joined us.
He came over some evenings to hang out, watch porn and jerk off, generally sleeping over if the hour got late.
He’s straight, and pretty caught up in the machismo of his native Albania, but he’s into getting his dick sucked. He came quick and got hard fast, ready for more. I never seemed to find the bottom of that barrel.
But, in teaching him, I had to accept the limits of his potential. He just didn’t cotton to group sex when I invited him to the gatherings. No matter how many orgasms I gave him, he wasn’t going to be bisexual.
Eventually, I sent him into the world, far better than I found him, and moved on to another protégé.
I sent a photo of Driti to Shelby. What do you think? I related our history.
She liked. In the photo, Driti stands in my bedroom, wearing only jeans. His body is lean, smooth and well muscled. His handsome face beams with a smile, his short dark hair tousled with gel.
Driti was summoned for Monday at one.
Just before he was to arrive, I roused Shelby, still sleeping off the morning’s sex. She was cuddled nude under my duvet. “I’m awake,” she lied.
I met Driti at the door. We sat on the couch for a moment, catching up.
“So tell me more about this girl, Jefferson. Is she white, black? What is her nationality?”
“I think I told you, she’s American, a white girl . . . well, would you like to meet her?”
I lead him to the bedroom. He saw her stretched back on my pillows, eyes closed, hair splayed, a palm-sized breast exposed over the bedding.
“Damn bro, this girl is nice!”
I undressed and crawled into bed with her. “Shelby, honey, Driti is here.” She opened an eye. She looked at me, then over to Driti. He shyly raised a hand in greeting.
“Hey,” she said, opening her eyes. “There’s a person wearing clothes.”
Driti sat at the window. Shelby introduced herself, and they made small talk about schools, music and such. I bandied their conversation, toying with Shelby’s nipple.
“Why don’t you undress?” Shelby offered.
“Oh yeah?” Driti asked. “You are ready to be destroyed by two men?”
“You are very confident,” she countered.
“He has cause to be,” I assured her.
He undressed. He had trimmed his pubic hair and shaved his balls. His sizable cock was stiff, leaning in a curve that was familiar to me. We scooted over as he climbed under the covers.
I was sucking Shelby’s left breast. Driti’s finger traced an imaginary circle around her right breast. “This one is mine,” he smiled, licking it.
“Oh yes, I like this attention,” Shelby smiled. I kissed her. Our hands roamed her body, in gentle caresses. Driti learned well. We moved in tandem.
My finger told me she was very wet.
Shelby turned and sucked Driti’s cock, swallowing it deftly, showing off. “Damn,” he exclaimed.
“She’s good,” I concurred.
Shelby took his cock from her mouth and held it. “So,” she asked him, leering. “What do you want to do?”
He all but blushed. “I would like you to ride me.”
“I’m such a top today,” she joked. True; we’d been working this position that morning. He slid down on the bed. I unpacked a condom and rolled it on his cock. I lubed the two of them, fingering her clit and stroking him.
Shelby mounted Driti.
“Your body is like waves,” he told her, taking a nipple in his mouth.
“What does that mean?” she asked me.
“You are moving your body on his in this nice, undulating motion,” I said, taking my hand from my hard on to indicate a wave.
“Whatever, I’m just fucking,” Shelby laughed. “Which reminds me—what the fuck are you doing?”
Smart ass. I stood on the bed, my feet planted on either sied of Driti’s head. I took Shelby’s head in mine a pulled her to my cock. I began to give her face a good fucking.
Mouth off to me, will you? I’ll show you what that pie hole is for.
Driti was watching me go at Shelby, and he pounded her from below. Her moans were muffled by a mouth full of cock, but very much discernible.
When I had my fill of that, I tossed her head back, off me. Driti went at her harder. I stepped off the bed, and sheathed my cock.
I got onto the bed behind Shelby. Driti’s balls were bouncing as he fucked her. “What are you doing?” Shelby asked.
“You’ll see,” I replied. “Driti, stop a sec.” He complied.
I took the base of his cock in my right hand, holding him steady. With my left, I guided my cock against his, pushing slowly. My cock joined his inside Shelby’s pussy.
“Unh . . . “ she moaned.
“Damn,” Driti sighed. He began to thrust hard. I thrust in a counter rhythm.
I know that Shelby is a size queen who is aroused by feeling, as she puts it, “filled up.” Now, for the first time, she could feel two meaty cocks in her.
Double pussy penetration is hot. I could feel Driti’s ramrod cock pressing against mine, our balls banging together, drenching in Shelby juice. Her vagina contracted in pleasure, pulling us all together tightly.
I grabbed her waist and pulled her back and forth, fucking hard. She moaned through an orgasm. Driti was holding her ass. I lifted his hands out of the way and slapped her ass hard, firmly, repeatedly.
I wailed her red ass through more of her deep panting orgasms. Driti got the idea and gave her more slaps.
I pulled out, giving Driti’s cock unencumbered access to fuck her.
“You want to fuck me now? On top?” Shelby teased.
“Yeaaaahhh . . . ,” he moaned.
She dismounted him, She sat up. They both looked dazed. They sat on their knees, not moving.
Time for some direction.
“May I suggest a position?” I asked, cupping Shelby’s pretty face in my hands, kissing her lips.
“Unh unh.”
“I am going to lay down on the bed. You will sixty-nine me. And Driti, you will fuck her pussy from behind. You want to fuck her on your knees on the bed or standing on the floor?”
“You’re the boss, bro.”
“I recommend standing. You will get deeper thrusts. Okay Shelby, suck my cock and feed me some pussy.”
So many good combinations in a male-female-male threesome, but this ranks highest for me, from either the vantage I had assumed, or the one I had assigned to Driti. (I haven’t tried Shelby’s position, but I was sure she would like it.)
From my perspective, I would get a face full of watching him fuck her, as I sucked her clit and, now and then, his cock. My tongue could roam the realm of their fuck.
Nirvana for the bisexual oral enthusiast.
From Driti’s angle, he could alternate fucking pussy with fucking mouth, a fine treat for swordsman of the top variety.
We went at it with gusto. Driti fucked her hard as I devoured her clit, licking his shaft and hairless balls. His balls retracted as I sucked them, indicating his arousal. He watched intently from above.
“Shhlap her assth,” I reminded him as I licked her. He did as instructed.
Shelby gobbled my cock. She took me from her mouth to moan loudly through another orgasm, biting my hip. I put my cock back in her mouth, bending my knees so that my calves rested on the back of her neck, lowering her head to suck me, swallow me. I locked her into that position, deep throating me.
“Take those cocks, Shelby!” I commanded. “Harder, Driti!”
Driti pounded her, and took advantage of my mouth. He came as he fucked sweet Shelby’s sweet cunt, which dripped into my mouth.
He left to wash up. Shelby and I shifted positions to kiss. When he returned, I was fucking her again.
He dressed and we talked as I fucked her. He had to get off to class. He did find time, however, to call his best friend to boast about the hot girl he had fucked at Jefferson’s.
I showed him to the door. Shelby was hungry, so I made grilled cheese sandwiches just the way she likes them. Then we went back to bed and fucked.
The snow was still falling as sun set. And I realized that except for those moments when Shelby was asleep or eating, I had kept her full of cock all day long.
She needed it. She had gone two weeks without sex.
I needed it. There are times when I just can’t keep my dick out of this girl.
Scanning my memory, I realized that we had thus far neglected to have a threesome with another man. This was an oversight on my part, given that serving up an extra helping of boy is the Chef’s Special on my menu of sex.
Sure, we have had sex with other men in a group setting, but that’s not quite the same as a good old-fashioned threesome.
In a group, any permutation of partners is subject to change, as a threesome morphs into a daisy chain, which gets clipped into component couples, which get swapped or stacked . . .
A threesome offers a more focused opportunity to see what two boys and a girl can do. I can tell you, I was hankering for some of those familiar favorites. Boy-girl-boy is my comfort food.
By chance, I got a call from Driti.
You may recall Driti: he was the nineteen-year-old that May and I picked up on our first weekend date. Now he’s twenty-one.
After that fine experience, I took on Driti as my first protégé. This meant that I took responsibility for advancing his sexual experiences, offering opportunities, advice and guidance. Which, in return, gets me off.
Driti and I worked well with threesomes. There was a good esprit des corps between us as we worked over the lucky girls who joined us.
He came over some evenings to hang out, watch porn and jerk off, generally sleeping over if the hour got late.
He’s straight, and pretty caught up in the machismo of his native Albania, but he’s into getting his dick sucked. He came quick and got hard fast, ready for more. I never seemed to find the bottom of that barrel.
But, in teaching him, I had to accept the limits of his potential. He just didn’t cotton to group sex when I invited him to the gatherings. No matter how many orgasms I gave him, he wasn’t going to be bisexual.
Eventually, I sent him into the world, far better than I found him, and moved on to another protégé.
I sent a photo of Driti to Shelby. What do you think? I related our history.
She liked. In the photo, Driti stands in my bedroom, wearing only jeans. His body is lean, smooth and well muscled. His handsome face beams with a smile, his short dark hair tousled with gel.
Driti was summoned for Monday at one.
Just before he was to arrive, I roused Shelby, still sleeping off the morning’s sex. She was cuddled nude under my duvet. “I’m awake,” she lied.
I met Driti at the door. We sat on the couch for a moment, catching up.
“So tell me more about this girl, Jefferson. Is she white, black? What is her nationality?”
“I think I told you, she’s American, a white girl . . . well, would you like to meet her?”
I lead him to the bedroom. He saw her stretched back on my pillows, eyes closed, hair splayed, a palm-sized breast exposed over the bedding.
“Damn bro, this girl is nice!”
I undressed and crawled into bed with her. “Shelby, honey, Driti is here.” She opened an eye. She looked at me, then over to Driti. He shyly raised a hand in greeting.
“Hey,” she said, opening her eyes. “There’s a person wearing clothes.”
Driti sat at the window. Shelby introduced herself, and they made small talk about schools, music and such. I bandied their conversation, toying with Shelby’s nipple.
“Why don’t you undress?” Shelby offered.
“Oh yeah?” Driti asked. “You are ready to be destroyed by two men?”
“You are very confident,” she countered.
“He has cause to be,” I assured her.
He undressed. He had trimmed his pubic hair and shaved his balls. His sizable cock was stiff, leaning in a curve that was familiar to me. We scooted over as he climbed under the covers.
I was sucking Shelby’s left breast. Driti’s finger traced an imaginary circle around her right breast. “This one is mine,” he smiled, licking it.
“Oh yes, I like this attention,” Shelby smiled. I kissed her. Our hands roamed her body, in gentle caresses. Driti learned well. We moved in tandem.
My finger told me she was very wet.
Shelby turned and sucked Driti’s cock, swallowing it deftly, showing off. “Damn,” he exclaimed.
“She’s good,” I concurred.
Shelby took his cock from her mouth and held it. “So,” she asked him, leering. “What do you want to do?”
He all but blushed. “I would like you to ride me.”
“I’m such a top today,” she joked. True; we’d been working this position that morning. He slid down on the bed. I unpacked a condom and rolled it on his cock. I lubed the two of them, fingering her clit and stroking him.
Shelby mounted Driti.
“Your body is like waves,” he told her, taking a nipple in his mouth.
“What does that mean?” she asked me.
“You are moving your body on his in this nice, undulating motion,” I said, taking my hand from my hard on to indicate a wave.
“Whatever, I’m just fucking,” Shelby laughed. “Which reminds me—what the fuck are you doing?”
Smart ass. I stood on the bed, my feet planted on either sied of Driti’s head. I took Shelby’s head in mine a pulled her to my cock. I began to give her face a good fucking.
Mouth off to me, will you? I’ll show you what that pie hole is for.
Driti was watching me go at Shelby, and he pounded her from below. Her moans were muffled by a mouth full of cock, but very much discernible.
When I had my fill of that, I tossed her head back, off me. Driti went at her harder. I stepped off the bed, and sheathed my cock.
I got onto the bed behind Shelby. Driti’s balls were bouncing as he fucked her. “What are you doing?” Shelby asked.
“You’ll see,” I replied. “Driti, stop a sec.” He complied.
I took the base of his cock in my right hand, holding him steady. With my left, I guided my cock against his, pushing slowly. My cock joined his inside Shelby’s pussy.
“Unh . . . “ she moaned.
“Damn,” Driti sighed. He began to thrust hard. I thrust in a counter rhythm.
I know that Shelby is a size queen who is aroused by feeling, as she puts it, “filled up.” Now, for the first time, she could feel two meaty cocks in her.
Double pussy penetration is hot. I could feel Driti’s ramrod cock pressing against mine, our balls banging together, drenching in Shelby juice. Her vagina contracted in pleasure, pulling us all together tightly.
I grabbed her waist and pulled her back and forth, fucking hard. She moaned through an orgasm. Driti was holding her ass. I lifted his hands out of the way and slapped her ass hard, firmly, repeatedly.
I wailed her red ass through more of her deep panting orgasms. Driti got the idea and gave her more slaps.
I pulled out, giving Driti’s cock unencumbered access to fuck her.
“You want to fuck me now? On top?” Shelby teased.
“Yeaaaahhh . . . ,” he moaned.
She dismounted him, She sat up. They both looked dazed. They sat on their knees, not moving.
Time for some direction.
“May I suggest a position?” I asked, cupping Shelby’s pretty face in my hands, kissing her lips.
“Unh unh.”
“I am going to lay down on the bed. You will sixty-nine me. And Driti, you will fuck her pussy from behind. You want to fuck her on your knees on the bed or standing on the floor?”
“You’re the boss, bro.”
“I recommend standing. You will get deeper thrusts. Okay Shelby, suck my cock and feed me some pussy.”
So many good combinations in a male-female-male threesome, but this ranks highest for me, from either the vantage I had assumed, or the one I had assigned to Driti. (I haven’t tried Shelby’s position, but I was sure she would like it.)
From my perspective, I would get a face full of watching him fuck her, as I sucked her clit and, now and then, his cock. My tongue could roam the realm of their fuck.
Nirvana for the bisexual oral enthusiast.
From Driti’s angle, he could alternate fucking pussy with fucking mouth, a fine treat for swordsman of the top variety.
We went at it with gusto. Driti fucked her hard as I devoured her clit, licking his shaft and hairless balls. His balls retracted as I sucked them, indicating his arousal. He watched intently from above.
“Shhlap her assth,” I reminded him as I licked her. He did as instructed.
Shelby gobbled my cock. She took me from her mouth to moan loudly through another orgasm, biting my hip. I put my cock back in her mouth, bending my knees so that my calves rested on the back of her neck, lowering her head to suck me, swallow me. I locked her into that position, deep throating me.
“Take those cocks, Shelby!” I commanded. “Harder, Driti!”
Driti pounded her, and took advantage of my mouth. He came as he fucked sweet Shelby’s sweet cunt, which dripped into my mouth.
He left to wash up. Shelby and I shifted positions to kiss. When he returned, I was fucking her again.
He dressed and we talked as I fucked her. He had to get off to class. He did find time, however, to call his best friend to boast about the hot girl he had fucked at Jefferson’s.
I showed him to the door. Shelby was hungry, so I made grilled cheese sandwiches just the way she likes them. Then we went back to bed and fucked.
The snow was still falling as sun set. And I realized that except for those moments when Shelby was asleep or eating, I had kept her full of cock all day long.
She needed it. She had gone two weeks without sex.
I needed it. There are times when I just can’t keep my dick out of this girl.
Monday Breakfast
Five days of full-on parenting. No sex.
When I was married, that wasn’t anything.
Back then, I parented every day. Five days without sex was not at all unusual. Heck, five months of celibacy was a pretty standard stretch.
But now, when I parent, I do so alone. I am on-call 24/7, with no passing off of duties. No “honey, can you get that?,” no “did you remember to pick up the . . . ,” no “I’m concerned about that cough . . . does he feel warm?”
I am on my own as a single dad.
As for celibacy: nope, that just doesn’t cut it. Not anymore. Even a few days without sex is just plan wrong.
Shelby saw it coming, bless her heart. That’s going to drive you crazy, she said.
She didn’t offer to help with the parenting. I don’t want that. She offered to help with the man who parents.
“Want a couple of days after the kids are back in school? It’s going to snow. If I have to be snowed in someplace, I want to be with you.”
Yes, baby.
On Monday morning, the sky was gray, the news full of hand wringing about an imminent snowstorm.
I got the kids to school. I walked home through Central Park, glad that this was the last scheduled day that Christo and Jeanne-Claude’s Gates would be on view. A few days of dismantling the things, I hoped, and we would get our park back, rid of those orange hazard signs.
I got home just before Shelby showed up.
It had been two weeks.
My sweet lover kissed me hello.
We undressed while talking, like long time lovers, and got into bed. She was in my arms. She was mine, again, finally.
We kissed. I was in her.
We made love.
And it took time, but somewhere along the line, as she rode my cock, as I sucked her nipples, or as I pinned her down and roughly used her tits as handles to move her body to my thrusts, somewhere in there, that longing that I have for her—that intense pang that makes me want to devour her—subsided and was transformed, as it always is, into a slower-burning yet no less intense state of desire.
I could touch her without my teeth gnashing with hunger for her flesh.
Shelby fell asleep afterwards. The snow started to fall.
She is so lovely on my pillows.
When I was married, that wasn’t anything.
Back then, I parented every day. Five days without sex was not at all unusual. Heck, five months of celibacy was a pretty standard stretch.
But now, when I parent, I do so alone. I am on-call 24/7, with no passing off of duties. No “honey, can you get that?,” no “did you remember to pick up the . . . ,” no “I’m concerned about that cough . . . does he feel warm?”
I am on my own as a single dad.
As for celibacy: nope, that just doesn’t cut it. Not anymore. Even a few days without sex is just plan wrong.
Shelby saw it coming, bless her heart. That’s going to drive you crazy, she said.
She didn’t offer to help with the parenting. I don’t want that. She offered to help with the man who parents.
“Want a couple of days after the kids are back in school? It’s going to snow. If I have to be snowed in someplace, I want to be with you.”
Yes, baby.
On Monday morning, the sky was gray, the news full of hand wringing about an imminent snowstorm.
I got the kids to school. I walked home through Central Park, glad that this was the last scheduled day that Christo and Jeanne-Claude’s Gates would be on view. A few days of dismantling the things, I hoped, and we would get our park back, rid of those orange hazard signs.
I got home just before Shelby showed up.
It had been two weeks.
My sweet lover kissed me hello.
We undressed while talking, like long time lovers, and got into bed. She was in my arms. She was mine, again, finally.
We kissed. I was in her.
We made love.
And it took time, but somewhere along the line, as she rode my cock, as I sucked her nipples, or as I pinned her down and roughly used her tits as handles to move her body to my thrusts, somewhere in there, that longing that I have for her—that intense pang that makes me want to devour her—subsided and was transformed, as it always is, into a slower-burning yet no less intense state of desire.
I could touch her without my teeth gnashing with hunger for her flesh.
Shelby fell asleep afterwards. The snow started to fall.
She is so lovely on my pillows.
Friday, March 04, 2005
Shame
Just after Christmas, the kids and I went shopping for books. Collie picked out Judy Blume’s It’s Not the End of the World, a novel about a girl whose parents are getting divorced.
“It’s like me,” he said brightly.
My middle son, Collie, is a sensitive boy. He tends to observe and comment on things. He is a real stickler for playing by the rules.
When other boys play ball, he referees. When he and Lillie gather their stuffed animals, she spins fantastic yarns that he embellishes with plot lines anchoring their play in reality.
My kids think about and talk about the divorce a good deal. For Collie, though, it is a living breathing entity. He keeps holding it up and examining it, trying to understand its genetic make up.
Picking up the kids one evening, Lucy noticed Collie’s new book and took me aside.
“Judy Blume is not appropriate reading material for a third grader,” she chastised me. “The language is too advanced, and the subject matter is geared towards pre-adolescents. She writes about menstruation, stuff like that. Collie isn’t ready for that!”
I have to concede Lucy’s superior expertise on children’s literature. I put the book aside for later.
This morning, parents were invited to join the third grade class to discuss the class reading projects.
The teacher had assigned Judy Blume’s It’s Not the End of the World.
Collie was in a reading group with his new best friend, Cindy. He has hand picked her as his new pal because her parents are also divorcing. He liked that they had this in common.
In a classic Slaves of New York manner, Cindy’s parents continue to live together as they divorce. I can only imagine.
(Side note: Cindy’s mom has got it going on.
She’s a real head turner, attractive in a way I find completely unappealing.
She has full, shoulder length hair, streaked blond. Her gym-toned body is perfectly tanned in winter. She works hard to achieve a look that seems very cookie-cutter Malibu/Park Avenue.
You can take this look apart and price its individual components. Hair salon, tanning salon, nail salon, gym membership, personal trainer, teeth caps . . .
I like her well enough, and I know I shouldn’t judge a book by its cover. But dang, my kids’ school is crawling with moms working that look. Give it a rest, sisters!)
I joined the reading group to discuss the book. The kids were talking about ways the divorce had impacted the central character’s life.
Cindy said that the divorce had caused many things to change, like where the girl would live.
Isabel said that because of the divorce, a lot of decisions had to be made.
Collie, sitting on my lap, noted that the parents had to be “strict” (his word) in explaining the divorce to the girl, so that she would understand it.
Mark added that grandparents and aunts were encouraging the mom to remarry, which might mean a new dad for the girl.
We talked about these ideas, and I was impressed by their understanding of the text and the issues discussed.
I wanted to leave the room. I thought I might cry.
The students were engaged in a very open, rational discussion about something in a book, something affecting the real lives of two of the students. Collie and Cindy talked about things they had in common with the girl in the book.
And as they did so, I felt churnings of resentment, anger, and shame.
I am deeply ashamed of my divorce.
“It’s like me,” he said brightly.
My middle son, Collie, is a sensitive boy. He tends to observe and comment on things. He is a real stickler for playing by the rules.
When other boys play ball, he referees. When he and Lillie gather their stuffed animals, she spins fantastic yarns that he embellishes with plot lines anchoring their play in reality.
My kids think about and talk about the divorce a good deal. For Collie, though, it is a living breathing entity. He keeps holding it up and examining it, trying to understand its genetic make up.
Picking up the kids one evening, Lucy noticed Collie’s new book and took me aside.
“Judy Blume is not appropriate reading material for a third grader,” she chastised me. “The language is too advanced, and the subject matter is geared towards pre-adolescents. She writes about menstruation, stuff like that. Collie isn’t ready for that!”
I have to concede Lucy’s superior expertise on children’s literature. I put the book aside for later.
This morning, parents were invited to join the third grade class to discuss the class reading projects.
The teacher had assigned Judy Blume’s It’s Not the End of the World.
Collie was in a reading group with his new best friend, Cindy. He has hand picked her as his new pal because her parents are also divorcing. He liked that they had this in common.
In a classic Slaves of New York manner, Cindy’s parents continue to live together as they divorce. I can only imagine.
(Side note: Cindy’s mom has got it going on.
She’s a real head turner, attractive in a way I find completely unappealing.
She has full, shoulder length hair, streaked blond. Her gym-toned body is perfectly tanned in winter. She works hard to achieve a look that seems very cookie-cutter Malibu/Park Avenue.
You can take this look apart and price its individual components. Hair salon, tanning salon, nail salon, gym membership, personal trainer, teeth caps . . .
I like her well enough, and I know I shouldn’t judge a book by its cover. But dang, my kids’ school is crawling with moms working that look. Give it a rest, sisters!)
I joined the reading group to discuss the book. The kids were talking about ways the divorce had impacted the central character’s life.
Cindy said that the divorce had caused many things to change, like where the girl would live.
Isabel said that because of the divorce, a lot of decisions had to be made.
Collie, sitting on my lap, noted that the parents had to be “strict” (his word) in explaining the divorce to the girl, so that she would understand it.
Mark added that grandparents and aunts were encouraging the mom to remarry, which might mean a new dad for the girl.
We talked about these ideas, and I was impressed by their understanding of the text and the issues discussed.
I wanted to leave the room. I thought I might cry.
The students were engaged in a very open, rational discussion about something in a book, something affecting the real lives of two of the students. Collie and Cindy talked about things they had in common with the girl in the book.
And as they did so, I felt churnings of resentment, anger, and shame.
I am deeply ashamed of my divorce.
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