We were a threesome mill.
Farahnaz and I have evolved into the Wonder Twins of Sex. Each of us is good. Together, can’t nobody stop us.
Our combined powers are rooted in a mutual respect for one another’s singular abilities. She professes to admire my prowess. I am taken by her beauty, humor and astonishing endurance.
At the sex party, Farahnaz and I set up camp on the taco futon of death. We made love with ferocious tenderness, cool ease contrasted by heated passion.
Anyone who came near us risked being drawn into our swirling vortex.
One by one, we drew in man after man. One after one, they were spent and consumed, each to be replaced by the next.
Throughout, we peppered one another with smiles and kisses, long glances and sensuous words.
A couple of days later, I dropped a line saying how nice it was to spend time with her at the party.
She replied by asking when we might try meeting one on one.
This girl is an incorrigible flirt—as is this boy.
Anytime you like, I replied.
Anytime? she ventured. Anytime? As in now?
It was ten in the morning.
I could see you now, I said, but only for a couple of hours. Would you prefer to meet at my place or yours?
Come to my place, she invited. You have never been to Farahnazville.
I scribbled the address and put on my shoes.
It rained as I strolled under my umbrella.
On impulse, I brought flowers.
“You are soaked to the skin!” she exclaimed at the door. She leaned to kiss my cheeks, as if to avoid contact with my clothes—which were scarcely wet.
“Oh, and these are for me?” She took the flowers. “There was no need.”
“Never any harm in bringing flowers to a beautiful woman,” I said, kissing each of her cheeks in turn.
“Your mother must be very proud.”
I left my umbrella open near her door, and crouched to remove my shoes. She was barefooted and wearing one of the Audrey Hepburn dresses she favors.
Elegant casual at home on a weekday morning. Ravishing, as ever.
Farahnaz talked as she tied the flowers I brought. Stepping over her sofa, she hung the flowers upside down from a curtain rod.
I noticed dried flower arrangements similarly hung on every wall of her studio apartment.
So many suitors, I thought.
She walked across her bed towards me. “May I offer you water, or juice, or coffee?”
“I’m fine, thank you. I’ve just had coffee.”
“Good, you are no bother at all. Sit. I am glad to have this opportunity to talk and get to know one another better.”
Of course, my head was abuzz with curiosity about my new transsexual lover.
Still, I thought it forward to ask the most obvious questions: When did you leave Iran? How long have you been a woman?
All things in time. She can reveal her autobiography at her own pace.
For now, I was happy to savor her mysteries.
“One thing I wanted to ask you about,” she began. “Your divorce. I hope you don’t mind my prying, but I am beginning my own divorce, and it is very confusing.”
“It is confusing, and I don’t mind at all. Anything I can offer by way of advice, I am happy to do so.”
Was she married as a woman to a man, I wondered? Or prior to that, as a man to a woman? If the latter, was she still married to a woman—and thus in a same-sex marriage?
All of that would be outside my own experience.
“You are very kind.” She put a hand on mine, gazing in my eyes. She withdrew her hand. “It’s not a very complicated matter. My husband and I are on friendly terms, but it is just over between us. We hope we can do this simply and easily. “ She paused. “Would you like to see a picture of my husband?”
“Yes, please.” One question answered.
She stood and crossed the room to a bookshelf. Among the books were dozens of videos of Dean Martin roasts. She lifted a frame that was face down on the top shelf. She looked at the photograph for a moment before passing it to me.
“He is nowhere near as handsome as you, of course,” she said, “But in my way, I loved him.”
The photograph showed Farahnaz with a blonde man, each well dressed and smiling in a nondescript room.
“You married at the courthouse?”
“Yes, with my mother as the witness. Just a few years ago, but it seems ages.”
“You both look very happy in the photograph,” I said, handing it to her.
“We were.” She glanced at the picture again before returning it, face down, to her shelf. “But that was then, and this is now.”
She sat next to me on the sofa. “So.”
“So.”
“So tell me about your divorce. If you don’t mind.”
I began to talk through the basics—how we broke up, the emotional upheavals, the legal travails—that constitute the conversational level of my divorce. Ask the right questions, and I will take you deeper.
“It’s awful,” she said. “And nothing like mine.”
“I suppose not. Different issues entirely. How are you transitioning to dating, and so on?”
“Well, dating, you know, that is an easy thing. I have someone who is very fond of me, and we go out. Of course, I have other friends. And I am very happy to have met you, and Todd, and everyone at your party.”
“Likewise, dear. But you have no immediate plans to find Mister Right?”
She smiled. “If Mister Right is looking, I am here. I mean, look at me.” She raised her hands and looked down. “Am I not, if you will forgive my immodesty, extraordinary?”
“You are certainly that.” She was boxing me into a corner, prepared to toy with me as she might any man enamored of her beauty.
I think she knows that, with me, is not necessary to do so. But I played along.
“You are very sweet. As I know.” She stood. “Shall we do something about getting you out of those wet clothes?”
“If you don’t mind, please.” My clothes were perfectly dry. For show, I removed my socks.
She rubbed my thigh. “Where did you get these pants?”
“Someone bought them for me. Said they made my ass look good. Why?”
“If I were to buy you clothes, they would be much nicer.”
“If you were to buy me clothes, “ I replied, “You would find me very grateful.”
She smiled. “Mister Jefferson, we are going to get into great trouble together, you and I.”
I touched her cheek and pulled her face to mine. We kissed, soft and sure.
“Sign me up for all the trouble you have to offer.”
As I undressed, Farahnaz stepped across her bed to close the blinds, disappointing floors of office workers across the way.
She unzipped the back of her dress, and pulled the shoulders forward. She lifted the dress over her head, tossing it onto her sofa.
She stood before me in black thong panties, her dark and lithe body as I remembered it.
I removed my pants.
As we made love, my eyes were well aware that we were, for the first time, in a brightly lit space. I soaked in her familiar beauty, looking for new details in her cuticles, her toes, her skin.
Curves, bones, childhood scars—all were inventoried for future reference.
Her eyes were open too, as if we were evaluating one another.
As we went one on one for the first time, we rehearsed things we already knew about one another from sex parties, and introduced things we reserved for more intimate moments.
I was letting her know that beyond the sex party stud, there was me—gentle, easy, romantic.
She had never seen me cum. I rarely do at parties.
In time, as she pulled me close, as our eyes locked, as I breathed her, I came.
She ran her hands through my hair as I convulsed. “Jefferson, Jefferson,” she said. “That was so beautiful.”
I kissed her in response, too breathless for more words.
She held me as we relaxed afterwards. Our eyes gravitated to the television muted at the foot of her bed.
It was tuned to “Dynasty.”
“Joan Collins,” she said, admiringly. “Now there was a real woman.”
I laughed.
“Minus the shoulder pads, of course.”
I could not stop laughing.
sex
sexblogs
bisexual
group sex
threesome
transgender
Audrey Hepburn
divorce
Dynasty
Joan Collins
Saturday, July 23, 2005
Friday, July 22, 2005
Afternoon
With Meg in town overnight, Mitzi reminded me that we had unfinished business.
“You know, Jefferson, you still owe us a threesome. You fell asleep the last time we tried this, old man—think you can manage if we try again during the afternoon?”
I pledged to eat my Wheaties and rest up.
Mitzi joined us in the mid-afternoon, before the evening’s sex party, to find a very mellow household.
Meg and I were taking a load off on the couch. Marcus was working the phones and his computer, this being his first free hours to do so after several days with his kids. He had a lot of catching up to do.
He also taking care of a bandaged right hand swollen by an infection.
“How did you get an infection?” I asked.
“I dunno,” he said, wearily. “Too little sleep, too much activity. It can’t help that I’ve had sex with thirty people in the past week.”
Marcus’s doctor prescribed that his hand be kept elevated. He tried ever more inventive ways to comply, resting it casually on his head, his shoulder, and available door jams.
Meg suggested he try props, like hoisting portable electronics on his head, to make it look natural.
“Why don’t you rest it on my shoulder?” I teased. “You know, like you care about me? Like I mean something to you?”
He grinned and wrapped an arm around my neck.
“How am I going to have sex with this thing?” he fretted about the bandage. “That’s my ‘clean’ hand, you know.”
Marcus has adopted, as I have, the Muslim practice of designating the right hand for clean activities (traditionally eating; in our case, genital play), the left for dirty activities (traditionally ass wiping; in our case, anal play).
This helps to keep things clear when one is going at it.
Now Marcus worried that his bearings would be off.
Mitzi arrived with a carrot cake, established as a shared favorite when we plotted our original threesome.
As Marcus worked, Mtizi joined Meg and me on the couch, getting acquainted and catching up as we had done on our previous attempt at a threesome.
There were occasional lulls in the conversation. Mitzi or Meg would look at me a little expectantly, as if asking if this was where we got naked—or do we have more to talk about?
I wondered if either of them would initiate the move to sex if given the opportunity.
It was clear that we were all interested. That was established. Was it primarily up to me—as the man or as the host—to get things going?
Apparently, it was.
In time, I stood and announced that it was time for sex.
Mitzi and Meg were raring to go. Marcus continued typing and told us to have fun.
Mitzi and I lay on the bed, talking and kissing. Meg settled into a chair, responding when we address her, but slipping into a quiet mode.
She was preparing to watch.
Mitzi takes her kisses tenderly, with great ardor. Her eyes flash as my lips meet hers. Her body arches and twists.
She likes to be watched.
My kisses traveled down her neck, to her clavicle, to her breasts. She gasped quietly, her breathing becoming heavy.
She gives herself over to romance.
She gives herself over to being ravished.
I removed her shirt and bra. I sucked her breast softly and tenaciously, as she likes.
Meg watched, silently. My view of her lap was obscured—was she masturbating?
“Meg, help me out here. I want to lick Mitzi’s pussy. Can you take over on her breasts?”
Mitzi gasped, more audibly than before.
“Sure!” Meg crossed to the other side of the bed as I removed Mitzi’s panties.
“Suck them firmly now, like I showed you,” I instructed. My mouth would soon be too busy to offer further directions.
My tongue found Mitzi’s swollen clit. My mouth latched on, my fingers massaging her labia. I kept my attentions soft and gentle, teasing her.
Meg sucked a nipple long and hard before her tongue wandered to the other breast.
Mitzi was ecstatic.
“Jefferson, please, fuck me—please!”
Meg’s lips curled into a smile as she suckled.
I reached for a condom. I tore the package carefully, hoping Mitzi could hear the prolonged ripping.
I rolled it onto my cock with slow deliberation.
Mitzi squirmed in anticipation.
I raised her legs, looking her in the eyes.
“Please . . .” she breathed.
I took my cock in hand, and directed it into her. Gently, slowly.
Meg sat back to watch.
When I was deep in her, I leaned forward to kiss her. My kisses were now more forceful.
I wanted to melt Mitzi.
She was edging closer to orgasm.
“I want to be on top, please, please,” she moaned.
“Hold onto my neck, then.” I took her wrists in my hands. “Ready?” She nodded.
I pulled her up towards me and fell back. Now she was on top.
She came fast and furious.
I flipped her back and fucked hard. I focused on her eyes. She had told me she likes my “mean fuck face” when we are going at it intently.
She got that face.
As Meg watched us, I thought I should do something more to get her involved. But she seemed more than content to watch, and to record with her mind’s camera.
I gave as much as I could before tumbling to Mitzi’s side.
We lay together, catching our breath.
“Wow,” Meg said.
“Yeah, wow.” I slung a leg over her hip.
“Ew, you are getting my skirt sweaty.”
“Ditch the skirt, then.”
Meg agreed that was a fine solution. Now my leg rested on bare flesh as I caressed contented Mitzi.
Marcus had wandered in and out of the room as we fucked. Feeling caught up on his work, he now joined us.
We talked as he rummaged through my box of sex toys.
“What’s this?” he asked, holding aloft an aneros plug, still in the original packaging. “Oh wait, you have two?”
“Yep, large and small. Recent gifts from Bridget. Supposed to be a butt plug with great prostate stimulation.”
“Uh huh,” Marcus nodded, reading. He tore the package open. “Well, I have to try this.”
I noticed the time. “Shit, I have to run some errands before the party.” I stood and pulled on clothes as Marcus stripped his. “I’ll be back in a few.”
I kissed Mitzi and Meg goodbye. Meg was already a little distracted by Marcus’s fascination with the new toy.
My errands took me to the grocery store and the liquor store.
I found hamburger meat on sale. I realized I was starving, and picked up some buns.
When I returned home, Jake was nude on my bed, laying on one side. Marcus was also nude, lubing Jake’s ass and holding the smaller aneros plug.
“Hey Jake, you’re early.”
“Yes, not much going on at work,” he replied in his calm voice.
I peered over Marcus’s shoulder. “So where is the other plug?”
“In Marcus,” Mitzi said, pointing to his ass.
“Now, be still,” Marcus instructed Jake. “Here it comes—okay, it’s in.”
“Nice,” Jake said.
“Looks snug,” I observed. “Hey, I’m making burgers. Anyone hungry?”
“I’m fine,” Jake replied. I took orders from Mitzi and Meg.
Mitzi joined me in the kitchen.
“You missed it,” she reported. “Meg and I blew Marcus as he used the butt plug.”
“Well, that’s nice,” I said, firing the grill. “Was it hot?”
“Uh huh. We took turns sucking him. Then Meg tortured his balls.”
I seasoned the patties. “That boy loves to have his balls tortured.”
“You need a hand?” she asked. “I mean, cooking?”
“Yes, you can kiss me.” She did.
The meat sizzled.
Jake joined us in the kitchen. I asked about the butt plug.
“It rocks.”
“Where is it?” Mitzi asked.
“Oh, here,” Jake said, turning. He bent over to reveal the plug in his ass.
“There’s an appetizing sight,” I laughed, flipping the burgers.
“Indeed,” Mitzi agreed, patting Jake’s cheeks.
“I like it,” he said.
We decided to eat on the terrace, which meant that a few of us needed to get dressed. I plated burgers, carrots, watermelon and carrot cake.
After dinner, Mitzi lit a cigarette. “My last,” she said. “Then I should get going.”
Mitzi didn’t care to stay for the sex party. She had enjoyed her fill of group activities for the day.
I kissed her goodbye at the door.
“Are we still on for tomorrow night?” she asked.
“Yep,” I smiled. “A sleepover.”
“I like that.” She nuzzled into my neck, then pulled back. “Have fun tonight. Kiss Farahnaz for me.”
“I shall.”
She left.
The next night, we would have a very cozy and romantic stay in her crisp clean sheets.
That night, the gang would be mussing up my sex sheets.
sex
sexblogs
bisexual
group sex
threesome
anal sex
kissing
voyeurism
exhibitionism
“You know, Jefferson, you still owe us a threesome. You fell asleep the last time we tried this, old man—think you can manage if we try again during the afternoon?”
I pledged to eat my Wheaties and rest up.
Mitzi joined us in the mid-afternoon, before the evening’s sex party, to find a very mellow household.
Meg and I were taking a load off on the couch. Marcus was working the phones and his computer, this being his first free hours to do so after several days with his kids. He had a lot of catching up to do.
He also taking care of a bandaged right hand swollen by an infection.
“How did you get an infection?” I asked.
“I dunno,” he said, wearily. “Too little sleep, too much activity. It can’t help that I’ve had sex with thirty people in the past week.”
Marcus’s doctor prescribed that his hand be kept elevated. He tried ever more inventive ways to comply, resting it casually on his head, his shoulder, and available door jams.
Meg suggested he try props, like hoisting portable electronics on his head, to make it look natural.
“Why don’t you rest it on my shoulder?” I teased. “You know, like you care about me? Like I mean something to you?”
He grinned and wrapped an arm around my neck.
“How am I going to have sex with this thing?” he fretted about the bandage. “That’s my ‘clean’ hand, you know.”
Marcus has adopted, as I have, the Muslim practice of designating the right hand for clean activities (traditionally eating; in our case, genital play), the left for dirty activities (traditionally ass wiping; in our case, anal play).
This helps to keep things clear when one is going at it.
Now Marcus worried that his bearings would be off.
Mitzi arrived with a carrot cake, established as a shared favorite when we plotted our original threesome.
As Marcus worked, Mtizi joined Meg and me on the couch, getting acquainted and catching up as we had done on our previous attempt at a threesome.
There were occasional lulls in the conversation. Mitzi or Meg would look at me a little expectantly, as if asking if this was where we got naked—or do we have more to talk about?
I wondered if either of them would initiate the move to sex if given the opportunity.
It was clear that we were all interested. That was established. Was it primarily up to me—as the man or as the host—to get things going?
Apparently, it was.
In time, I stood and announced that it was time for sex.
Mitzi and Meg were raring to go. Marcus continued typing and told us to have fun.
Mitzi and I lay on the bed, talking and kissing. Meg settled into a chair, responding when we address her, but slipping into a quiet mode.
She was preparing to watch.
Mitzi takes her kisses tenderly, with great ardor. Her eyes flash as my lips meet hers. Her body arches and twists.
She likes to be watched.
My kisses traveled down her neck, to her clavicle, to her breasts. She gasped quietly, her breathing becoming heavy.
She gives herself over to romance.
She gives herself over to being ravished.
I removed her shirt and bra. I sucked her breast softly and tenaciously, as she likes.
Meg watched, silently. My view of her lap was obscured—was she masturbating?
“Meg, help me out here. I want to lick Mitzi’s pussy. Can you take over on her breasts?”
Mitzi gasped, more audibly than before.
“Sure!” Meg crossed to the other side of the bed as I removed Mitzi’s panties.
“Suck them firmly now, like I showed you,” I instructed. My mouth would soon be too busy to offer further directions.
My tongue found Mitzi’s swollen clit. My mouth latched on, my fingers massaging her labia. I kept my attentions soft and gentle, teasing her.
Meg sucked a nipple long and hard before her tongue wandered to the other breast.
Mitzi was ecstatic.
“Jefferson, please, fuck me—please!”
Meg’s lips curled into a smile as she suckled.
I reached for a condom. I tore the package carefully, hoping Mitzi could hear the prolonged ripping.
I rolled it onto my cock with slow deliberation.
Mitzi squirmed in anticipation.
I raised her legs, looking her in the eyes.
“Please . . .” she breathed.
I took my cock in hand, and directed it into her. Gently, slowly.
Meg sat back to watch.
When I was deep in her, I leaned forward to kiss her. My kisses were now more forceful.
I wanted to melt Mitzi.
She was edging closer to orgasm.
“I want to be on top, please, please,” she moaned.
“Hold onto my neck, then.” I took her wrists in my hands. “Ready?” She nodded.
I pulled her up towards me and fell back. Now she was on top.
She came fast and furious.
I flipped her back and fucked hard. I focused on her eyes. She had told me she likes my “mean fuck face” when we are going at it intently.
She got that face.
As Meg watched us, I thought I should do something more to get her involved. But she seemed more than content to watch, and to record with her mind’s camera.
I gave as much as I could before tumbling to Mitzi’s side.
We lay together, catching our breath.
“Wow,” Meg said.
“Yeah, wow.” I slung a leg over her hip.
“Ew, you are getting my skirt sweaty.”
“Ditch the skirt, then.”
Meg agreed that was a fine solution. Now my leg rested on bare flesh as I caressed contented Mitzi.
Marcus had wandered in and out of the room as we fucked. Feeling caught up on his work, he now joined us.
We talked as he rummaged through my box of sex toys.
“What’s this?” he asked, holding aloft an aneros plug, still in the original packaging. “Oh wait, you have two?”
“Yep, large and small. Recent gifts from Bridget. Supposed to be a butt plug with great prostate stimulation.”
“Uh huh,” Marcus nodded, reading. He tore the package open. “Well, I have to try this.”
I noticed the time. “Shit, I have to run some errands before the party.” I stood and pulled on clothes as Marcus stripped his. “I’ll be back in a few.”
I kissed Mitzi and Meg goodbye. Meg was already a little distracted by Marcus’s fascination with the new toy.
My errands took me to the grocery store and the liquor store.
I found hamburger meat on sale. I realized I was starving, and picked up some buns.
When I returned home, Jake was nude on my bed, laying on one side. Marcus was also nude, lubing Jake’s ass and holding the smaller aneros plug.
“Hey Jake, you’re early.”
“Yes, not much going on at work,” he replied in his calm voice.
I peered over Marcus’s shoulder. “So where is the other plug?”
“In Marcus,” Mitzi said, pointing to his ass.
“Now, be still,” Marcus instructed Jake. “Here it comes—okay, it’s in.”
“Nice,” Jake said.
“Looks snug,” I observed. “Hey, I’m making burgers. Anyone hungry?”
“I’m fine,” Jake replied. I took orders from Mitzi and Meg.
Mitzi joined me in the kitchen.
“You missed it,” she reported. “Meg and I blew Marcus as he used the butt plug.”
“Well, that’s nice,” I said, firing the grill. “Was it hot?”
“Uh huh. We took turns sucking him. Then Meg tortured his balls.”
I seasoned the patties. “That boy loves to have his balls tortured.”
“You need a hand?” she asked. “I mean, cooking?”
“Yes, you can kiss me.” She did.
The meat sizzled.
Jake joined us in the kitchen. I asked about the butt plug.
“It rocks.”
“Where is it?” Mitzi asked.
“Oh, here,” Jake said, turning. He bent over to reveal the plug in his ass.
“There’s an appetizing sight,” I laughed, flipping the burgers.
“Indeed,” Mitzi agreed, patting Jake’s cheeks.
“I like it,” he said.
We decided to eat on the terrace, which meant that a few of us needed to get dressed. I plated burgers, carrots, watermelon and carrot cake.
After dinner, Mitzi lit a cigarette. “My last,” she said. “Then I should get going.”
Mitzi didn’t care to stay for the sex party. She had enjoyed her fill of group activities for the day.
I kissed her goodbye at the door.
“Are we still on for tomorrow night?” she asked.
“Yep,” I smiled. “A sleepover.”
“I like that.” She nuzzled into my neck, then pulled back. “Have fun tonight. Kiss Farahnaz for me.”
“I shall.”
She left.
The next night, we would have a very cozy and romantic stay in her crisp clean sheets.
That night, the gang would be mussing up my sex sheets.
sex
sexblogs
bisexual
group sex
threesome
anal sex
kissing
voyeurism
exhibitionism
Thursday, July 21, 2005
Collision
There sat Meg on the couch, leaning on one thigh so as to avoid putting weight on the fresh scratches and bruises that marred her ass.
There sat Todd on the terrace, eyes closed and dressed head to toe in black, stoned and zoned out to his MP3 player.
There stood Marcus, near my desk, his hand bandaged, his face frozen in a smile.
For here was my ex, Lucy, with whom he had not spoken in two years.
With Lucy came my children, now eating watermelon at the dining table and playing magic tricks on one another.
My universe had collapsed upon itself.
That morning, my phone had rung as I made bacon in the kitchen.
Marcus and Meg were also making bacon. In my bed. Loudly.
“Dad?”
“Hey Jason, how are you?”
“Fine. Mom wanted me to call to ask you something.”
“Sure, what’s that?”
“How many times did I fuck you last night?” Marcus barked.
“Unh!” Meg moaned. “Unh, I don’t, unh . .”
“Tell me!”
“Twice! You fucked me twice!”
Slap!
“I’m sorry, Jason, what was that you said?” I turned the bacon and put a finger in my free ear.
“I said, Mom wants to know what you are doing today.”
“Not much. Why?”
“Well, you know that we are going camping tomorrow with Mom, and we’ll be gone for a week, and it is Collie’s birthday tomorrow, and so she wanted to know if . . . wait, what, Mom?”
“Jason?”
I tucked the phone between my neck and shoulder, and removed the bacon to a paper towel on a plate. Six fresh strips hit the griddle.
“You like it hard up your ass, don’t you?”
“Unh, yes, I . . . unh . . .”
“Dad?”
“Yes, Jason?”
“Mom wants to know if you can make dinner for us all tonight.”
“What, at my place? Well, actually, I have plans tonight. Why does she ask that? Can she talk?”
“No, she is busy, she’s . . . what, Mom?”
“Jason?”
“Hang on . . .”
I turned the bacon.
“Mom wants to know if we can come over today to collect gifts for Collie.”
“Well, we planned to do that when you returned.”
“I know, but now . . . hang on, what, Mom? Oh wait, she’s coming to the phone.”
“Jefferson!” Marcus hollered.
“What?”
“When is breakfast?”
“Just a few minutes.” I turned the bacon and slung bread slices into the toaster oven.
“Jefferson?”
“Hi Lucy.”
“Look, can we please come over today? The kids are driving me crazy, and I need to get away from all this packing I’m doing. It would be so much better for me if Collie had some gifts from you before we leave tomorrow, so it seems like he is having a bigger birthday. I feel so sorry for him that we are driving eight hours on his birthday. Don’t you?”
“That is a long drive. Where are you going? You haven’t really told me where you will be with the kids next week.”
“Maine. So is it okay if we come over? For a while?”
Lucy never asks to come over with the kids. If I had no plans, I would be more than happy to make dinner for the family. It would be great to share that time, all together.
But of course I have plans. I book my life in advance, never expecting the unexpected.
“Sure, it’s okay. I can’t do anything about tonight. But this afternoon is fine—though I will have friends over. Including Marcus.”
“Oh.”
“He is staying with me for a few days. The kids saw him the other day, so they know this.”
“Oh. Well, okay. We will come over about three.”
“You are okay with this?”
“Yes. Bye.”
Click.
I closed the phone. “Bye.”
I pulled the bacon off the griddle, and drained the extra grease. I gave the eggs one last whisk and drizzled them into the heat.
“Marcus! Meg! Breakfast!”
“About time! Damn.” Marcus bellowed. A moment later, Meg giggled.
They strolled into the dining area like two cowboys with a secret.
Meg lowered herself onto a pillow as she settled at the table.
Meg had slept over the night before, after her first sex party at my place.
Well, “first” is a relative designation. Meg has had few adventures in my apartment—including a threesome here, a fivesome there.
But this had been her first bonafide, regularly scheduled, get-to-know-the-gang gathering.
She made a very fine debut. Never mind the afternoon before the party, when things got going a little early.
As we ate breakfast, I went over the day’s agenda, noting that I now had to do some shopping for Collie. They opted to join me.
Meg and I shopped for children’s books. Among a few others, I picked out 1000 Jokes for Kids.
“For the long drive,” I said, showing the book to Meg. “Think it will drive their mom nuts?”
“Cruel bastard,” she smiled.
At the register, Meg lent me her teacher’s discount.
As we looked over the magic tricks at Ricky’s, I fielded calls from Todd, who had been at the party and was now coming uptown to spend the afternoon with us.
Back at home, Meg and Marcus wrapped gifts as I cleaned up from the previous evening’s debauchery. I needed to hide any evidence.
I told Todd that my kids were going to be over for a little while. He registered this news and decided to check out from the situation by “meditating” on the terrace.
He was out cold in a moment.
Todd was understandably reluctant to be drawn into family time.
Meg was happy to be meeting my kids, and more than a little curious about my ex.
Marcus was a little nervous about seeing Lucy.
Marcus and Lucy have known each other nearly as long as I have known either of them.
Their falling out dates to the argument that ended my marriage.
Two years ago, I was going on a business trip to the Middle East. Lucy did not approve.
US-led forces were then launching the invasion of Iraq. This was no time to be in the region, she told me.
When she made no headway in trying to convince me that I was an idiot to consider the trip, arguing that “they hate us” there and I am a “walking blonde target,” she fell back to the tried-and-true practice of rallying the troops to her side.
Her mother called to warn me against the trip.
Her father called to warn me against the trip.
My father called to warn me against the trip.
My mother called to warn me against the trip.
When these appeals had no effect—other than to annoy me—Lucy moved on to friends. She called Marcus.
Marcus has traveled a good deal. He used to live in the Middle East.
Lucy discovered that in the course of preparing for the trip, I had spoken to Marcus.
She found that Marcus agreed with me. The trip was fine. It was safe. There was no cause for alarm.
Lucy hung up on Marcus, furious.
When Marcus wound up joining me on the trip, he was reduced to persona non grata in her book.
Lucy’s fury led her to immolate our marriage. She tossed her friendship with Marcus onto the flames for good measure.
Lucy succumbed to an impulse that too often guides frustrated ex’s and angry kindergarteners—if you are his friend, you can’t be my friend too.
It’s a wicked impulse that rarely works out as one might hope. For as it happens, people generally don’t like being told who they may or may not have as friends.
Most often, giving into the impulse means you will lose friends now, and possibly eat crow later.
Lucy does not savor the flavor of crow.
I can only imagine what Lucy thought as she followed the kids into my apartment.
Here I was with my best friend, a twenty-something redhead, and a sleeping vampire.
Her mind whirred as she tried to put this together.
She smiled wanly at Marcus, who was fending hugs from Lillie.
“So,” she nodded to him, her body wound in a bouncing stance. “How you been?”
“Pretty good, can’t complain. And you? What you been up to?”
“Not much. Packing for this camping trip. Hey, what’s wrong with your hand?”
“Oh, nothing,” he said, holding it aloft. “An infection.”
She nodded though his response, not really listening.
“Dad, can I open these presents?”
“Sure Collie, go to it. Let Lillie help.”
They kids opened the gifts, showing each to the grown ups, who oohed and aahed in kind.
Lucy sat on the couch between Meg and Marcus, never altering her smile.
With the gifts open, Lucy suddenly asked if she could leave the kids with me for a while to run some errands. Of course, I agreed. She said goodbye to the kids and was quickly off.
The kids were too absorbed in the new gifts to notice.
“What was that?” asked Marcus.
“Awkward social situation,” I guessed. “She wanted to remove herself rather than face it.”
“But why did she want to come here if . . .”
“I’m still not sure. I think maybe she really did want a break from the kids, and she wasn’t expecting this. Are you okay?”
“Yeah, but it was pretty awkward.”
We played with Lillie and Collie, as Jason gravitated to the Game Cube.
In time, Lucy returned from her “errands,” no packages in arm. I offered coffee or a drink; she declined.
She soon gathered the kids to go. I kissed the children, saying I would miss them in the coming week.
“I love you,” I told each of them, whispering, “You are my favorite.”
Lucy and I exchanged smiles at the door.
“Have a nice trip. Good luck.”
“Thanks. Bye.”
“Bye.”
I closed the door.
“She’s pretty,” Meg observed.
“Yeah,” Marcus laughed, braying. “She’s hot. I’d do her.”
“Have at it,” I replied. “But be forewarned: she’s okay for the first fifteen years or so.
“After that, things can get weird.”
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There sat Todd on the terrace, eyes closed and dressed head to toe in black, stoned and zoned out to his MP3 player.
There stood Marcus, near my desk, his hand bandaged, his face frozen in a smile.
For here was my ex, Lucy, with whom he had not spoken in two years.
With Lucy came my children, now eating watermelon at the dining table and playing magic tricks on one another.
My universe had collapsed upon itself.
That morning, my phone had rung as I made bacon in the kitchen.
Marcus and Meg were also making bacon. In my bed. Loudly.
“Dad?”
“Hey Jason, how are you?”
“Fine. Mom wanted me to call to ask you something.”
“Sure, what’s that?”
“How many times did I fuck you last night?” Marcus barked.
“Unh!” Meg moaned. “Unh, I don’t, unh . .”
“Tell me!”
“Twice! You fucked me twice!”
Slap!
“I’m sorry, Jason, what was that you said?” I turned the bacon and put a finger in my free ear.
“I said, Mom wants to know what you are doing today.”
“Not much. Why?”
“Well, you know that we are going camping tomorrow with Mom, and we’ll be gone for a week, and it is Collie’s birthday tomorrow, and so she wanted to know if . . . wait, what, Mom?”
“Jason?”
I tucked the phone between my neck and shoulder, and removed the bacon to a paper towel on a plate. Six fresh strips hit the griddle.
“You like it hard up your ass, don’t you?”
“Unh, yes, I . . . unh . . .”
“Dad?”
“Yes, Jason?”
“Mom wants to know if you can make dinner for us all tonight.”
“What, at my place? Well, actually, I have plans tonight. Why does she ask that? Can she talk?”
“No, she is busy, she’s . . . what, Mom?”
“Jason?”
“Hang on . . .”
I turned the bacon.
“Mom wants to know if we can come over today to collect gifts for Collie.”
“Well, we planned to do that when you returned.”
“I know, but now . . . hang on, what, Mom? Oh wait, she’s coming to the phone.”
“Jefferson!” Marcus hollered.
“What?”
“When is breakfast?”
“Just a few minutes.” I turned the bacon and slung bread slices into the toaster oven.
“Jefferson?”
“Hi Lucy.”
“Look, can we please come over today? The kids are driving me crazy, and I need to get away from all this packing I’m doing. It would be so much better for me if Collie had some gifts from you before we leave tomorrow, so it seems like he is having a bigger birthday. I feel so sorry for him that we are driving eight hours on his birthday. Don’t you?”
“That is a long drive. Where are you going? You haven’t really told me where you will be with the kids next week.”
“Maine. So is it okay if we come over? For a while?”
Lucy never asks to come over with the kids. If I had no plans, I would be more than happy to make dinner for the family. It would be great to share that time, all together.
But of course I have plans. I book my life in advance, never expecting the unexpected.
“Sure, it’s okay. I can’t do anything about tonight. But this afternoon is fine—though I will have friends over. Including Marcus.”
“Oh.”
“He is staying with me for a few days. The kids saw him the other day, so they know this.”
“Oh. Well, okay. We will come over about three.”
“You are okay with this?”
“Yes. Bye.”
Click.
I closed the phone. “Bye.”
I pulled the bacon off the griddle, and drained the extra grease. I gave the eggs one last whisk and drizzled them into the heat.
“Marcus! Meg! Breakfast!”
“About time! Damn.” Marcus bellowed. A moment later, Meg giggled.
They strolled into the dining area like two cowboys with a secret.
Meg lowered herself onto a pillow as she settled at the table.
Meg had slept over the night before, after her first sex party at my place.
Well, “first” is a relative designation. Meg has had few adventures in my apartment—including a threesome here, a fivesome there.
But this had been her first bonafide, regularly scheduled, get-to-know-the-gang gathering.
She made a very fine debut. Never mind the afternoon before the party, when things got going a little early.
As we ate breakfast, I went over the day’s agenda, noting that I now had to do some shopping for Collie. They opted to join me.
Meg and I shopped for children’s books. Among a few others, I picked out 1000 Jokes for Kids.
“For the long drive,” I said, showing the book to Meg. “Think it will drive their mom nuts?”
“Cruel bastard,” she smiled.
At the register, Meg lent me her teacher’s discount.
As we looked over the magic tricks at Ricky’s, I fielded calls from Todd, who had been at the party and was now coming uptown to spend the afternoon with us.
Back at home, Meg and Marcus wrapped gifts as I cleaned up from the previous evening’s debauchery. I needed to hide any evidence.
I told Todd that my kids were going to be over for a little while. He registered this news and decided to check out from the situation by “meditating” on the terrace.
He was out cold in a moment.
Todd was understandably reluctant to be drawn into family time.
Meg was happy to be meeting my kids, and more than a little curious about my ex.
Marcus was a little nervous about seeing Lucy.
Marcus and Lucy have known each other nearly as long as I have known either of them.
Their falling out dates to the argument that ended my marriage.
Two years ago, I was going on a business trip to the Middle East. Lucy did not approve.
US-led forces were then launching the invasion of Iraq. This was no time to be in the region, she told me.
When she made no headway in trying to convince me that I was an idiot to consider the trip, arguing that “they hate us” there and I am a “walking blonde target,” she fell back to the tried-and-true practice of rallying the troops to her side.
Her mother called to warn me against the trip.
Her father called to warn me against the trip.
My father called to warn me against the trip.
My mother called to warn me against the trip.
When these appeals had no effect—other than to annoy me—Lucy moved on to friends. She called Marcus.
Marcus has traveled a good deal. He used to live in the Middle East.
Lucy discovered that in the course of preparing for the trip, I had spoken to Marcus.
She found that Marcus agreed with me. The trip was fine. It was safe. There was no cause for alarm.
Lucy hung up on Marcus, furious.
When Marcus wound up joining me on the trip, he was reduced to persona non grata in her book.
Lucy’s fury led her to immolate our marriage. She tossed her friendship with Marcus onto the flames for good measure.
Lucy succumbed to an impulse that too often guides frustrated ex’s and angry kindergarteners—if you are his friend, you can’t be my friend too.
It’s a wicked impulse that rarely works out as one might hope. For as it happens, people generally don’t like being told who they may or may not have as friends.
Most often, giving into the impulse means you will lose friends now, and possibly eat crow later.
Lucy does not savor the flavor of crow.
I can only imagine what Lucy thought as she followed the kids into my apartment.
Here I was with my best friend, a twenty-something redhead, and a sleeping vampire.
Her mind whirred as she tried to put this together.
She smiled wanly at Marcus, who was fending hugs from Lillie.
“So,” she nodded to him, her body wound in a bouncing stance. “How you been?”
“Pretty good, can’t complain. And you? What you been up to?”
“Not much. Packing for this camping trip. Hey, what’s wrong with your hand?”
“Oh, nothing,” he said, holding it aloft. “An infection.”
She nodded though his response, not really listening.
“Dad, can I open these presents?”
“Sure Collie, go to it. Let Lillie help.”
They kids opened the gifts, showing each to the grown ups, who oohed and aahed in kind.
Lucy sat on the couch between Meg and Marcus, never altering her smile.
With the gifts open, Lucy suddenly asked if she could leave the kids with me for a while to run some errands. Of course, I agreed. She said goodbye to the kids and was quickly off.
The kids were too absorbed in the new gifts to notice.
“What was that?” asked Marcus.
“Awkward social situation,” I guessed. “She wanted to remove herself rather than face it.”
“But why did she want to come here if . . .”
“I’m still not sure. I think maybe she really did want a break from the kids, and she wasn’t expecting this. Are you okay?”
“Yeah, but it was pretty awkward.”
We played with Lillie and Collie, as Jason gravitated to the Game Cube.
In time, Lucy returned from her “errands,” no packages in arm. I offered coffee or a drink; she declined.
She soon gathered the kids to go. I kissed the children, saying I would miss them in the coming week.
“I love you,” I told each of them, whispering, “You are my favorite.”
Lucy and I exchanged smiles at the door.
“Have a nice trip. Good luck.”
“Thanks. Bye.”
“Bye.”
I closed the door.
“She’s pretty,” Meg observed.
“Yeah,” Marcus laughed, braying. “She’s hot. I’d do her.”
“Have at it,” I replied. “But be forewarned: she’s okay for the first fifteen years or so.
“After that, things can get weird.”
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Monday, July 18, 2005
Brandon's Eyes
Around seven thirty on a Monday evening, there was a knock on my door.
“Hey baby, how are you?” Marcus shifted his shoulder bag as he kissed me.
“Hey hon. You’re traveling light.”
“You think? I’m only going to be here for a few days. Where should I put my bag?”
“Drop it in my room; you’ll be sleeping with me.”
“Yeah? What’s in your wallet?” He grinned and ambled back to my room.
He found six naked men waiting.
“Hey guys, how’s it going?” he greeted them.
A few of the men nodded, a few others were already busy sucking cock. Marcus put his bag in a corner and smiled again on his way out of the room.
He found me in the kitchen.
“Jefferson, did you know there are naked men having sex in your bedroom?”
“Yes baby, the party started right on time.”
Marcus has arranged his schedule to attend some of this summer’s sex parties at my place.
First up: the monthly all-male orgy, on the last Monday in June, the day after Gay Pride.
I introduced him to Jimmy, who organizes the event.
“Nice to meet you, doll. Jefferson has told me all about you.”
“Same here,” Marcus fibbed. “It’s great to finally meet you. Fuck, those guys are so quiet! I thought no one was here until I saw them all.”
“It’s a quiet group,” I agreed.
“What do they have to talk about?” Jimmy rolled his eyes. “They are naked horny boys. What else do they need to know?
“I was just telling Jefferson about the blonde bottom,” he continued. “I told him all about our favorite quiet dom, Jefferson. So be sure to give him the magic touch.”
“Thanks Jimmy, you are such a yenta.”
“Which one is he?” Marcus asked.
“Um, kinda buff, blonde, goatee,” Jimmy said. He looked at the pile of garbage bags against the wall, each marked with the name of the man whose clothes it contained. “His name is . . . Rob. You can’t miss him.”
“Yeah?” Marcus looked at me. “Let’s go check him out.”
“All right, let’s.” I hopped down from the counter.
“Have fun, boys,” Jimmy smiled, shooing us off.
Marcus and I undressed in my bedroom. The main action had shifted to the other bedroom.
He kissed me again now that we were nude.
“It’s so good to see you!” he said, smiling.
I hugged him, pressing close. “I’m so glad to have you here. Now, let’s go check out the bottom.”
Men were gathered in the back room, jerking, touching and watching as a muscular older man fucked someone bent over the taco futon.
My eyes were drawn to the fucking that captivated the room. Marcus checked out the men and leaned to me. “That’s Rob the bottom getting fucked.”
“He looks busy. Bad timing for us.”
Marcus moved among the men. I settled back on bed to watch the action.
My cock was getting hard.
Marcus said a few words to Rob and the guy fucking him. Whatever Rob said in reply made Marcus laugh.
Marcus crouched on the floor and reached between the top’s legs. He took Rob’s balls in hand and set to work.
Rob squirmed and moaned as he was worked by Marcus and the top.
In time, the top stood aside. Marcus took a condom and whispered a few more words to Rob.
Marcus entered him, slowly, holding Rob steady with a hand on his lower spine.
Rob soon got Marcus at fill throttle.
I thought I might join Marcus at his task, but I was soon distracted by a familiar cock sucker .
I caught up with Marcus again as he washed up in the bathroom.
I stood in the hallway, talking to him through the door.
“How was Rob?” I asked.
“Pretty good,” he shurgged, rubbing a washcloth on his cock. “Not much reaction. You know. So how many men do you know here?”
I looked to one side, cataloguing the faces in my memory. “Well, I have seen about, let’s say, two thirds of them before. The best ones I know for us are the long-haired tall guy—he’s cute and likes a tough fuck—and the guy with the shaved head—he’s a dynamite cock sucker who gets fucked well. Lots of eye contact.”
“Good to know,” he said, joining me in the hall doorway.
As we talked, someone brushed by, squeezing my cock as he passed.
At a gay orgy, I guess that is the equivalent of getting pinned.
I turned to look at him. He looked back at me—young, with dark hair, side burns and eyes that bored into mine. His body was naturally tan and lithe.
He flashed a smile as the walked into my bedroom.
“Huh!” Marcus said. “You know him?”
“Not like I soon will.”
I followed the boy into my room. He had settled onto my empty bed.
Everyone else in the room was standing about or settled in chairs.
I glanced at the group as I made my way to the bed. The hazel-eyed boy and I leaned against the pillows, side by side.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey there.”
“So this is your place?”
“Yeah. Welcome.”
“Thanks. I’m Brandon.” His hand reached over to my cock in greeting.
“Jefferson. Nice to meet you.”
Brandon kissed me.
I kissed Brandon, and took his cock in my hand.
Men standing around gathered closer to watch, tugging their cocks.
One fellow kneeled next to me, jerking near my hips. I looked up. It was what’s-his-name, that guy with the cute face and bubble butt.
Brandon moved to suck my cock. He soon alternated between mine and the other one being offered.
With one hand, I held our cocks to Brandon’s mouth as my other hand rubbed his slender muscled body.
I looked up to see Marcus’s hands on Brandon’s legs and dick. He lifted Brandon’s legs up, which pushed his ass back and up.
“You know, Brandon,” Marcus offered, looking down at the boy folded under him. “I can fuck you with my balls.”
Brandon took my cock from his mouth, still gripping the other fellow’s. “That would be a first,” he replied, calmly. “How does it work?”
“Simple. I put my balls in you, one at a time, and then I put my cock in you. And then, you know, I fuck you.”
“I’ve seen it done,” I said by way of recommendation. “He’s good.”
“Cool, then, let’s do it.”
Brandon smiled at the other guy, relieving him of duty. He fell back among the other wankers, who had circled in for a closer look.
“Okay. Jefferson, could you hand me that lube, and hold Brandon’s leg up?”
“May I hold the other?” a wanker asked.
“That would be helpful, thanks.” He gave Brandon’s leg over. He looked down. “Brandon, you ready? Relaxed?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be.”
“Okay, good. Good!” Marcus had put on a condom, lubing his shaft and balls. He positioned himself over Brandon’s ass, leaning in slightly.
He lowered his left nut to the waiting sphincter. He pressed it into Brandon.
He opened Brandon’s hole with a finger, then replaced the finger with his right nut.
“Now, my balls are in you.”
Brandon craned his neck to see. “Wow, that’s cool.”
“Here comes the amazing part,” I said.
Marcus leaned back on his heels, slightly shifting his angle. This tugged his sack just a bit, without disturbing the placement of his balls.
He folded his semi-erect cock over on itself.
He guided his cock into Brandon, leaning forward as he entered him.
He shifted, pushing his weight down and onto Brandon, sealing his cock and balls into place.
“That’s it, I’m in you.”
“That’s impressive,” Brandon admired.
“Thanks. I’ll take that now,” Marcus said, taking the leg from the helpful wanker.
Marcus thrust, hard.
Brandon gasped.
And just like that, Marcus was fucking Brandon.
I held the other leg and turned so that I was feeding Brandon as Marcus fucked him.
As Marcus fucked him, Brandon’s body went limp as a rag doll. Marcus toughed up on his ass. I did the same on his mouth.
Brandon’s eyes moved back and forth between us, expectantly.
We got rougher, fucking his holes harder, cruder. We talked as though he wasn’t there.
“You are giving it to him good, Marcus.”
“Unh, yeah.”
“Nice ass?”
“Yeah, how’s his face hole?”
The wankers around us enjoyed the show. Brandon played his part well, his eyes expressive, his throat full of gutteral moans.
After a sound pounding, Marcus slowed to shift his weight.
“Hey, can I fuck him now, Marcus?” I asked.
“No,” he scoffed. He thought for a moment, then pulled out. “Sure, take some.”
I took my cock from Brandon’s mouth. We turned his body as though he were on a lazy Susan. It would have been easier, I suppose, to simply switch positions. But instinct told us otherwise, and I liked this: it reinforced the notion that Brandon’s personality was vacated from his body.
He was just meat for us to fuck.
He liked it too. As I entered him, he set his eyes on mine. His face was intense, yet smiling.
Marcus scruffed Brandon’s hair and kissed him goodbye. He was off to scrub up and fuck other men.
Marcus had worked Brandon over with rough, rapid thrusts. I thought I might try a different tact, going deep and long.
Brandon is a kisser. I wanted to take advantage of that.
I held him close, kissing him and holding his face as we fucked. His lean body sweated under me, his hands holding me close.
His romantic gaze, with his deep brown eyes, was a great turn on.
I pulled up to look at him, and in spite of my intentions otherwise, I was fucking him hard and deep.
His jerked his cock, his mouth open for air.
His eyes never left mine, as he came.
He convulsed, my cock in him as he shot over his torso.
As he panted his release, I leaned over to kiss him, with all the ardor of our earlier kisses.
Beside us, one of the wankers came.
We disengaged and walked to the bathroom to clean up. The wankers dispersed in search of other visuals.
We rinsed at the sink. Brandon was soaked in cum and sweat. I offered him the shower and a fresh towel.
He said he would like that. I turned on the water and readied his shower.
After that romantic eye contact, I would have made him a bath of milk and rose petals.
But this was a party pick up.
We had just had some damned fine crowd-pleasing sex, exchanging only a few words in the process.
In this context, that’s a nice how-do-you-do, nothing more.
Who knew if we would, you know, actually enjoy getting acquainted.
There was no obligation to do more. Still, we chatted as he showered and toweled. Our conversation followed us into the living room.
On the couch, I learned he was an artist. We were soon talking about art schools and galleries . Our nudity and the sex party around us fell away just a little.
“You are an artist. So what do you do for a living?” I asked.
“The usual stuff to get by,” he said. “And make some porn.”
Marcus soon joined us. He also liked it that Brandon, the meat we had fucked, was so cool and conversant.
“Isn’t that funny, Jefferson?” he said. “At the mixed party you host, everyone talks for a while and then has sex. At this one, you have sex, and then maybe talk.”
“Gay men and girls, I guess. Different strokes.”
“You do other parties?” Brandon asked.
I told him about our usual gang. I invited him to check it out.
“That would be nice,” he said. “I’ve never been with a girl—curious about it, though.”
We traded contacts.
“I do have a super-secret sex blog,” I mentioned. “You’re hot, and I’d like to write about meeting you. Do you want me to use a pseudonym, or your real porn name?”
“You can use my name, that’s fine. Use my picture if you want.”
He was soon off to meet friends.
It was just a little before nine.
Our threesome with Brandon had made popular tops of Marcus and me. For the rest of the evening, we were in high demand.
We traded a few bottoms back and forth.
We fucked other subs on our own.
But that night, as we traded notes over a late supper, our conversation kept coming back to Brandon Aguilar.
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“Hey baby, how are you?” Marcus shifted his shoulder bag as he kissed me.
“Hey hon. You’re traveling light.”
“You think? I’m only going to be here for a few days. Where should I put my bag?”
“Drop it in my room; you’ll be sleeping with me.”
“Yeah? What’s in your wallet?” He grinned and ambled back to my room.
He found six naked men waiting.
“Hey guys, how’s it going?” he greeted them.
A few of the men nodded, a few others were already busy sucking cock. Marcus put his bag in a corner and smiled again on his way out of the room.
He found me in the kitchen.
“Jefferson, did you know there are naked men having sex in your bedroom?”
“Yes baby, the party started right on time.”
Marcus has arranged his schedule to attend some of this summer’s sex parties at my place.
First up: the monthly all-male orgy, on the last Monday in June, the day after Gay Pride.
I introduced him to Jimmy, who organizes the event.
“Nice to meet you, doll. Jefferson has told me all about you.”
“Same here,” Marcus fibbed. “It’s great to finally meet you. Fuck, those guys are so quiet! I thought no one was here until I saw them all.”
“It’s a quiet group,” I agreed.
“What do they have to talk about?” Jimmy rolled his eyes. “They are naked horny boys. What else do they need to know?
“I was just telling Jefferson about the blonde bottom,” he continued. “I told him all about our favorite quiet dom, Jefferson. So be sure to give him the magic touch.”
“Thanks Jimmy, you are such a yenta.”
“Which one is he?” Marcus asked.
“Um, kinda buff, blonde, goatee,” Jimmy said. He looked at the pile of garbage bags against the wall, each marked with the name of the man whose clothes it contained. “His name is . . . Rob. You can’t miss him.”
“Yeah?” Marcus looked at me. “Let’s go check him out.”
“All right, let’s.” I hopped down from the counter.
“Have fun, boys,” Jimmy smiled, shooing us off.
Marcus and I undressed in my bedroom. The main action had shifted to the other bedroom.
He kissed me again now that we were nude.
“It’s so good to see you!” he said, smiling.
I hugged him, pressing close. “I’m so glad to have you here. Now, let’s go check out the bottom.”
Men were gathered in the back room, jerking, touching and watching as a muscular older man fucked someone bent over the taco futon.
My eyes were drawn to the fucking that captivated the room. Marcus checked out the men and leaned to me. “That’s Rob the bottom getting fucked.”
“He looks busy. Bad timing for us.”
Marcus moved among the men. I settled back on bed to watch the action.
My cock was getting hard.
Marcus said a few words to Rob and the guy fucking him. Whatever Rob said in reply made Marcus laugh.
Marcus crouched on the floor and reached between the top’s legs. He took Rob’s balls in hand and set to work.
Rob squirmed and moaned as he was worked by Marcus and the top.
In time, the top stood aside. Marcus took a condom and whispered a few more words to Rob.
Marcus entered him, slowly, holding Rob steady with a hand on his lower spine.
Rob soon got Marcus at fill throttle.
I thought I might join Marcus at his task, but I was soon distracted by a familiar cock sucker .
I caught up with Marcus again as he washed up in the bathroom.
I stood in the hallway, talking to him through the door.
“How was Rob?” I asked.
“Pretty good,” he shurgged, rubbing a washcloth on his cock. “Not much reaction. You know. So how many men do you know here?”
I looked to one side, cataloguing the faces in my memory. “Well, I have seen about, let’s say, two thirds of them before. The best ones I know for us are the long-haired tall guy—he’s cute and likes a tough fuck—and the guy with the shaved head—he’s a dynamite cock sucker who gets fucked well. Lots of eye contact.”
“Good to know,” he said, joining me in the hall doorway.
As we talked, someone brushed by, squeezing my cock as he passed.
At a gay orgy, I guess that is the equivalent of getting pinned.
I turned to look at him. He looked back at me—young, with dark hair, side burns and eyes that bored into mine. His body was naturally tan and lithe.
He flashed a smile as the walked into my bedroom.
“Huh!” Marcus said. “You know him?”
“Not like I soon will.”
I followed the boy into my room. He had settled onto my empty bed.
Everyone else in the room was standing about or settled in chairs.
I glanced at the group as I made my way to the bed. The hazel-eyed boy and I leaned against the pillows, side by side.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey there.”
“So this is your place?”
“Yeah. Welcome.”
“Thanks. I’m Brandon.” His hand reached over to my cock in greeting.
“Jefferson. Nice to meet you.”
Brandon kissed me.
I kissed Brandon, and took his cock in my hand.
Men standing around gathered closer to watch, tugging their cocks.
One fellow kneeled next to me, jerking near my hips. I looked up. It was what’s-his-name, that guy with the cute face and bubble butt.
Brandon moved to suck my cock. He soon alternated between mine and the other one being offered.
With one hand, I held our cocks to Brandon’s mouth as my other hand rubbed his slender muscled body.
I looked up to see Marcus’s hands on Brandon’s legs and dick. He lifted Brandon’s legs up, which pushed his ass back and up.
“You know, Brandon,” Marcus offered, looking down at the boy folded under him. “I can fuck you with my balls.”
Brandon took my cock from his mouth, still gripping the other fellow’s. “That would be a first,” he replied, calmly. “How does it work?”
“Simple. I put my balls in you, one at a time, and then I put my cock in you. And then, you know, I fuck you.”
“I’ve seen it done,” I said by way of recommendation. “He’s good.”
“Cool, then, let’s do it.”
Brandon smiled at the other guy, relieving him of duty. He fell back among the other wankers, who had circled in for a closer look.
“Okay. Jefferson, could you hand me that lube, and hold Brandon’s leg up?”
“May I hold the other?” a wanker asked.
“That would be helpful, thanks.” He gave Brandon’s leg over. He looked down. “Brandon, you ready? Relaxed?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be.”
“Okay, good. Good!” Marcus had put on a condom, lubing his shaft and balls. He positioned himself over Brandon’s ass, leaning in slightly.
He lowered his left nut to the waiting sphincter. He pressed it into Brandon.
He opened Brandon’s hole with a finger, then replaced the finger with his right nut.
“Now, my balls are in you.”
Brandon craned his neck to see. “Wow, that’s cool.”
“Here comes the amazing part,” I said.
Marcus leaned back on his heels, slightly shifting his angle. This tugged his sack just a bit, without disturbing the placement of his balls.
He folded his semi-erect cock over on itself.
He guided his cock into Brandon, leaning forward as he entered him.
He shifted, pushing his weight down and onto Brandon, sealing his cock and balls into place.
“That’s it, I’m in you.”
“That’s impressive,” Brandon admired.
“Thanks. I’ll take that now,” Marcus said, taking the leg from the helpful wanker.
Marcus thrust, hard.
Brandon gasped.
And just like that, Marcus was fucking Brandon.
I held the other leg and turned so that I was feeding Brandon as Marcus fucked him.
As Marcus fucked him, Brandon’s body went limp as a rag doll. Marcus toughed up on his ass. I did the same on his mouth.
Brandon’s eyes moved back and forth between us, expectantly.
We got rougher, fucking his holes harder, cruder. We talked as though he wasn’t there.
“You are giving it to him good, Marcus.”
“Unh, yeah.”
“Nice ass?”
“Yeah, how’s his face hole?”
The wankers around us enjoyed the show. Brandon played his part well, his eyes expressive, his throat full of gutteral moans.
After a sound pounding, Marcus slowed to shift his weight.
“Hey, can I fuck him now, Marcus?” I asked.
“No,” he scoffed. He thought for a moment, then pulled out. “Sure, take some.”
I took my cock from Brandon’s mouth. We turned his body as though he were on a lazy Susan. It would have been easier, I suppose, to simply switch positions. But instinct told us otherwise, and I liked this: it reinforced the notion that Brandon’s personality was vacated from his body.
He was just meat for us to fuck.
He liked it too. As I entered him, he set his eyes on mine. His face was intense, yet smiling.
Marcus scruffed Brandon’s hair and kissed him goodbye. He was off to scrub up and fuck other men.
Marcus had worked Brandon over with rough, rapid thrusts. I thought I might try a different tact, going deep and long.
Brandon is a kisser. I wanted to take advantage of that.
I held him close, kissing him and holding his face as we fucked. His lean body sweated under me, his hands holding me close.
His romantic gaze, with his deep brown eyes, was a great turn on.
I pulled up to look at him, and in spite of my intentions otherwise, I was fucking him hard and deep.
His jerked his cock, his mouth open for air.
His eyes never left mine, as he came.
He convulsed, my cock in him as he shot over his torso.
As he panted his release, I leaned over to kiss him, with all the ardor of our earlier kisses.
Beside us, one of the wankers came.
We disengaged and walked to the bathroom to clean up. The wankers dispersed in search of other visuals.
We rinsed at the sink. Brandon was soaked in cum and sweat. I offered him the shower and a fresh towel.
He said he would like that. I turned on the water and readied his shower.
After that romantic eye contact, I would have made him a bath of milk and rose petals.
But this was a party pick up.
We had just had some damned fine crowd-pleasing sex, exchanging only a few words in the process.
In this context, that’s a nice how-do-you-do, nothing more.
Who knew if we would, you know, actually enjoy getting acquainted.
There was no obligation to do more. Still, we chatted as he showered and toweled. Our conversation followed us into the living room.
On the couch, I learned he was an artist. We were soon talking about art schools and galleries . Our nudity and the sex party around us fell away just a little.
“You are an artist. So what do you do for a living?” I asked.
“The usual stuff to get by,” he said. “And make some porn.”
Marcus soon joined us. He also liked it that Brandon, the meat we had fucked, was so cool and conversant.
“Isn’t that funny, Jefferson?” he said. “At the mixed party you host, everyone talks for a while and then has sex. At this one, you have sex, and then maybe talk.”
“Gay men and girls, I guess. Different strokes.”
“You do other parties?” Brandon asked.
I told him about our usual gang. I invited him to check it out.
“That would be nice,” he said. “I’ve never been with a girl—curious about it, though.”
We traded contacts.
“I do have a super-secret sex blog,” I mentioned. “You’re hot, and I’d like to write about meeting you. Do you want me to use a pseudonym, or your real porn name?”
“You can use my name, that’s fine. Use my picture if you want.”
He was soon off to meet friends.
It was just a little before nine.
Our threesome with Brandon had made popular tops of Marcus and me. For the rest of the evening, we were in high demand.
We traded a few bottoms back and forth.
We fucked other subs on our own.
But that night, as we traded notes over a late supper, our conversation kept coming back to Brandon Aguilar.
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Saturday, July 16, 2005
Always a Bride
A few months ago, Lillie served as flower girl in her aunt’s wedding. (I was conspicuously not invited; despite my good relations with my ex’s sister, Lucy had blackballed me from the joyous occasion.)
Since then, wedding bells have been ringing in Lillie’s ears.
She recently arrayed her dolls and stuffed animals on a picnic blanket, each matched to a suitable partner. Kitty joined Rabbit, Barbie joined Woody, Bear joined Beary, among many couples, in a large circle.
In front of each couple, she placed an index card on which she had carefully enclosed the word “love” in a hand-drawn heart.
She went from pair to pair, conducting a mass wedding. Reverend Moon would have been impressed with her efficiency.
“Do you, Kitty, take Rabbit to be your lovely wedding husband? I do. Do you, Rabbit, take Kitty to be your lovely wedding wife? I do. You may kiss the bride.”
When the assembled menagerie was hitched one to the other, she sent them all on honeymoon by ignoring them until dinner.
The other day, she brought me a jar of dill pickles to open. As she took a pickle, she wet her hand in brine and sucked it clean.
She stuck her fingers back in the jar for more “pickle juice.”
“Lillie! Please don’t put your yucky fingers in the pickle jar!”
“I can’t help it,” she giggled. “I love pickles so much!” She bit into her pickle and ran off a few steps. She stopped in her tracks and looked back at me. “I know what you are going to say,” she grinned. “’If you love pickles so much, why don’t you marry them?’ Well, maybe I will!”
She walked back to the pickle jar. “Do you, pickle jar, take me to be your lovely wedding wife?” She nodded. “I do. And do I, Lillie, take you, pickle jar, to be my lovely wedding husband? I do. You may kiss the bride.”
She kissed the jar.
“I’m married to the pickle jar!” she giggled, racing off.
Later, she found me reading on the terrace.
“You know, when say ‘I do’ in a wedding, you are really saying ‘I do’ to fighting. And to kissing! You and Mom said ‘I do,’ and you fighted. Aunt Jill and Uncle Aaron said ‘I do,’ and they fighted. When we see them this summer, I am going to watch them. And if they fight, I will tell them they said ‘I do’ to fighting. And if they kiss, well, I am going to look in the other direction!”
I sat with my book lowered to my lap.
“Lillie, do you remember your mom and dad fighting often?”
“Okay, I am outta here!” She ran back inside.
She was in a mood for pithy observations, not extended conversation.
I went back to my book.
Heck. We had thought were doing a good job of hiding our fights.
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Since then, wedding bells have been ringing in Lillie’s ears.
She recently arrayed her dolls and stuffed animals on a picnic blanket, each matched to a suitable partner. Kitty joined Rabbit, Barbie joined Woody, Bear joined Beary, among many couples, in a large circle.
In front of each couple, she placed an index card on which she had carefully enclosed the word “love” in a hand-drawn heart.
She went from pair to pair, conducting a mass wedding. Reverend Moon would have been impressed with her efficiency.
“Do you, Kitty, take Rabbit to be your lovely wedding husband? I do. Do you, Rabbit, take Kitty to be your lovely wedding wife? I do. You may kiss the bride.”
When the assembled menagerie was hitched one to the other, she sent them all on honeymoon by ignoring them until dinner.
The other day, she brought me a jar of dill pickles to open. As she took a pickle, she wet her hand in brine and sucked it clean.
She stuck her fingers back in the jar for more “pickle juice.”
“Lillie! Please don’t put your yucky fingers in the pickle jar!”
“I can’t help it,” she giggled. “I love pickles so much!” She bit into her pickle and ran off a few steps. She stopped in her tracks and looked back at me. “I know what you are going to say,” she grinned. “’If you love pickles so much, why don’t you marry them?’ Well, maybe I will!”
She walked back to the pickle jar. “Do you, pickle jar, take me to be your lovely wedding wife?” She nodded. “I do. And do I, Lillie, take you, pickle jar, to be my lovely wedding husband? I do. You may kiss the bride.”
She kissed the jar.
“I’m married to the pickle jar!” she giggled, racing off.
Later, she found me reading on the terrace.
“You know, when say ‘I do’ in a wedding, you are really saying ‘I do’ to fighting. And to kissing! You and Mom said ‘I do,’ and you fighted. Aunt Jill and Uncle Aaron said ‘I do,’ and they fighted. When we see them this summer, I am going to watch them. And if they fight, I will tell them they said ‘I do’ to fighting. And if they kiss, well, I am going to look in the other direction!”
I sat with my book lowered to my lap.
“Lillie, do you remember your mom and dad fighting often?”
“Okay, I am outta here!” She ran back inside.
She was in a mood for pithy observations, not extended conversation.
I went back to my book.
Heck. We had thought were doing a good job of hiding our fights.
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Friday, July 15, 2005
First Date 'Eighty Eight
Summer has three significant anniversaries in my relationship with my ex, Lucy. This year, like last year and the year before, all will go unacknowledged between us.
First up on the calendar is the anniversary of the end of our cohabitation, Independence Day.
Next month will come our wedding anniversary.
Today marks the anniversary that she would never recall, the one that I would always surprised her by remembering: our first date.
“How do you remember the exact day?” she would ask every year when I reminded her. “That’s too much!”
“Easy,” I would kiss her. “It’s exactly one month and three years before we got married. You do remember the date itself, don’t you?”
“Yes, I do remember that.”
Lucy and I met in the middle of my senior year of college. I was assistant manager at a book store, and she had been hired to help with the Christmas rush.
She had finished college the preceding spring, and was enjoying the freedom of being out in the world.
She worked out for the holiday season, and so she was asked to stay on.
It was, we would later joke, the last time I was the boss in our relationship.
For months, we were co-workers, but that was really the extent of things. I was busy with school and tending to my own social circle. She was much more relaxed, socializing with the crowd at our bookstore.
Our first impressions of one another were friendly enough.
She chain-smoked as she sat in the back of the store, receiving books and talking politics. She was wiry and acerbic, wound tight with nervous energy.
I thought she was a Commie lesbian.
I gravitated to the front of the store, taking orders and directing customers to titles they half remembered from reviews. I read reviews diligently, to fake a greater knowledge of books than I actually possessed.
With my long hair and art school association, Lucy took me for a spacey art fag.
She wasn’t far wrong. I was mentally preparing to resume my life as a bisexual after graduation.
My school was small and something of a fishbowl. Everyone knew one another’s business. The prevailing aesthetic code was set by Dischord records. Everyone was in a band or knew someone in a band. Straight edge punk was the order of the day.
This never quite fit me.
I was a vegetarian, but that wasn’t strict enough for the vegans.
I didn’t do drugs, but I drank, which was just as bad in many eyes.
I had sex. Fuck that, I was bisexual. A lesbian girlfriend, Lisa, took me aside to explain how that was a challenge for some in our crowd to accept. When Guy Picciotto had confided his bisexuality, she told me, it damn near caused a riot.
Gay was scarce enough in the mosh pit. Bisexuality was elbowed further aside, being neither black nor white, the preferred color spectrum of the straight edge set.
So I tended to play my cards close, waiting until graduation to relax my sexuality. Meanwhile, I drank beer at shows, listened to Husker Du and the Replacements at home, and fucked my straight roommate.
Shortly after graduation, my roommate and I gave up our apartment. He moved home to save money. I moved into a group house.
About that time, Gabriel came to work at my bookstore.
Gabriel was a preppy Catholic boy, with owlish glasses, wavy brown hair and a penchant for chino shorts. He cared not a whit for straight edge. He gravitated to New Order, Roy Orbison and house music.
How refreshing, I thought.
He lived with his girlfriend. They were caretakers for a gay bed and breakfast. I stopped by to visit on many occasions, flipping through the issues of Bear and Inches on their coffee table.
Gabriel called me all the time. At work, he followed me through my various tasks, laughing at my jokes, picking up my slang, happy when I listened to music he recommended.
Lesbian Lisa diagnosed a crush.
“No way,” I said, pulling my hair into a ponytail. “He’s straight. Got a girlfriend and everything.”
“Whatever you say,” she smirked.
Did he have a crush on me? I wondered. He was cute . . .
With my roommate no longer available for regular sex, my eyes were open for something new.
I fooled around with Marcus.
Marcus was so sexy. Funny, handsome and living in a cool studio apartment decorated with tribal art and a toilet he had transformed into a fishbowl.
But Marcus had a girlfriend of some sort, so he wasn’t really available.
I fooled around with Marcus’s friend Curt.
Curt was gay and wry. He had curly blonde hair, a quick smile and he smoked like an old lady. Unfortunately, he also had sex like an old lady, taking care not to undress fully, or to kiss too much.
He also had an odd symbiotic relationship with a guy who was not his boyfriend, but territorial nonetheless. I saw too many red flags on that.
And Gabriel was cute . . .
He confided in me that things were not going well with his girlfriend. They got into screaming fights. He was scared they would be asked to leave their caretaker’s job at the bed and breakfast due to the racket.
“Screaming is not cool,” I agreed. “You really can’t do that. When things are that bad, just come crash at my place.”
“Really, you mean it?”
“Of course, Gabriel. No fight is so bad you can’t make up later. But screaming is just so out of control.”
“Thanks, Jefferson, that could really help.”
Not long afterwards, I got the call at work.
“Jefferson, she is really angry at me and swearing all kinds of things. I can’t stay here.”
“Gabriel, go to my place.”
“You’re sure?”
“The back door is unlocked. Go. I’ll be home after my shift, and you can tell me about it.”
“Okay, Jefferson, I’ll see you after work.”
Weeks later, he was still living in my room.
He had gone back to the bed and breakfast to collect clothes, CDs and his word processor. He broke up with his girlfriend.
Staying with me was clearly a preferred option. Even if things had gone south with his girlfriend, Gabriel had a room waiting at his parents’ house in the suburbs.
He wanted to be with me.
Every night, we slept in the same bed.
I usually slept nude, but I wore boxers to accommodate the new arrangement. We would listen to Wire and talk until all hours, our voices humming under the sound of the fan.
It was soon out at work that Gabriel was shacking up with me.
“That didn’t take long,” Lisa teased.
“We aren’t sleeping together. I mean, we are sleeping together, but not like that.”
“All things in time.”
“He’s straight, Lisa.”
“Yeah. So was your roommate.”
Well, she had a point there.
One night, as we lay in bed, no longer talking, drifting to sleep, I summoned all my courage.
It took an eternity.
But I did it.
In the warm still night, under the covers of the bed we shared, faint lights tracing shadows on my ceiling, Wire playing low, I allowed my hand to touch his.
He recoiled as if a snake had bitten him.
“Jefferson, gross!”
“Sorry, Gabriel. I didn’t mean . . .”
“It’s okay, it’s okay, let’s just . . .”
“Okay, it’s cool.”
“I’m sorry, I like you and all, but as friends . . .”
“It’s okay.”
We lay in silence as the album played out.
I pretended to be asleep, and eventually, I was asleep.
“He’s not into me like that,” I told Lisa.
“How can you be sure? He is such a puppy dog to you . . .”
“Trust me, I know.”
“Closet case.”
“Whatever. Case closed.”
Not quite.
A few nights later, I walked home from work, picking up a six pack a few blocks from my house. It was around midnight.
When I reached the front porch, I saw Gabriel sitting with Lucy.
“Welcome home, Jefferson,” he grinned.
“Hi Jefferson,” she smiled.
“Here’s a pleasant surprise,” I smiled back.
It was anything but.
I wasn’t sure what was going on with Gabriel and me, but I knew one thing for certain.
He wasn’t bringing girls over to my place.
I was not sleeping in the living room so he could get laid in my bed.
“Want a beer?” I put down my bag and handed them each a sweating bottle.
“Thanks,” Lucy said, twisting the top.
Makes sense, I thought. Here’s how Gabriel asserts that he is straight—he brings home a girl. How fucking awkward.
Gabriel had a shit-eating grin.
The three of us went up to my room. We sat on my bed.
I turned on a fan and a lamp, and put on a Meat Puppets album.
Lucy pulled out some grass and papers. We got high.
We opened more beer.
We were talking, giddy and fun.
After a while, Lucy reached across my bed to pick up a deck of cards on my bookshelf. She laughingly suggested we play strip poker.
I thought she was kidding, but she was dead set on the game. She shuffled the deck as Gabriel giggled and re-lit the joint.
I was not at all sure where this was going, but I did know the first rule of strip poker: lose quickly. The sooner everyone is nude, the sooner things get more interesting.
I kept getting winning hands.
Gabriel was soon down to his boxers. He lost them, fair and square, but he was reluctant to doff them.
“Oh come on, that’s not fair!” Lucy complained. She was down to panties and a tank top.
“You lost, sucker. Lose the boxers,” I said, sitting shirtless.
“I can’t,” he blushed. “I’m shy.”
“Lame. Okay, you are out of this hand,” Lucy said, dealing the cards. “You and me, Jefferson.”
I put two back. I had one pair of tens in my hand and one pair of shorts to bet.
Lucy took one card. The tank top was at stake.
The game was down to the wire. Tits if she loses, cock if she wins.
“Call.”
I put down my pair.
She put down two pair.
“You lose, I win,” she laughed.
“Okay, then, I’m ditching the shorts.”
“Lose them, loser!”
“I will!”
“You sure talk a lot, loser.”
I stood up and unbuttoned my shorts. “Here goes!”
“Put up or shut up,” she giggled.
Gabriel sat, eyes on our interaction.
I unzipped and dropped my shorts. I kicked them across the floor.
I was naked in front of my friends. My cock was swelling.
“Get an eye full,” I said, raising my arms. Lucy and Gabriel convulsed in laughter, smoke snorting from Lucy’s nose.
“You have nerve,” I taunted Gabriel. “This should be you standing here.”
“No, no way, I can’t,” he waved his hand.
“Shit Gabriel, you are such a coward,” Lucy said. She tugged the tank top over her head.
Her breasts were small and firm, her nipples dark and full.
“Your nipples look like erasers,” Gabriel observed.
“Okay, loser, you’re next.” I lunged and wrestled him to the bed. I lay over him, holding his arms back. He squirmed, his eyes nervous and aroused. “I’ve got him, Lucy. Take the shorts!”
She gave Gabriel a mischievous glance, and stood.
“No, wait, wait!” he squealed, crossing his ankles.
“We waited,” I said. “Now you give.”
I was getting harder.
Lucy took the waistband of his boxers and tugged them to his thighs. His cock leapt out, hard and throbbing.
“Oh come on, move your ankles,” Lucy said.
He went limp under me and did as she directed.
I released him.
Well, I thought. Now what?
Lucy rolled another joint.
I flipped the album and dropped the needle on “Mirage.”
Gabriel relaxed, laying on the bed, his cock flopped on his hip as he watched Lucy. His eyes were on her breasts.
We decided to take the joint up to the roof. This was accessible from a ladder in the sleeping porch adjacent to my room.
The roof was much cooler. The sky was clear and filled with the chatter of animals from the zoo across the street.
We passed the joint.
I kissed Lucy.
Lucy kissed me.
Gabriel rubbed Lucy’s back as we kissed. She turned and gave him a little peck.
I removed Lucy’s panties.
We rolled on the rough shingles. I took care not to touch Gabriel and to give Lucy time with him. I was, I thought, crashing on their date.
Thing was, though, she wasn’t interested in him.
She kept reaching for me.
After a while, she turned to Gabriel and asked him to let us be alone.
“Really?” he asked.
“Yeah, really. Do you mind?”
“Well, no, I guess not.” He stood and crouch-walked over to the ladder. His cock was still hard. “See you guys downstairs.”
“See ya,” I said, surprised by Lucy’s bluntness. “You aren’t here to see Gabriel?”
“No,” Lucy said, averting her eyes. “I came here to see you.”
“I had no idea you were . . .”
“I am, now, as of last week.”
The previous weekend, we had been at a party hosted by one of our co-workers. I remembered talking with Lucy there. At the time, I didn’t think anything of it—we were two friends talking.
But, it seems, she had suddenly seen me in a new light.
She had taken note of my tight black jeans with rhinestone studs.
She had liked the way the bare bulb on the porch haloed my hair from behind.
She noticed, all at once, that I was hot. But what she didn’t know was this: what’s Jefferson’s story?
Earlier this evening, she had asked Gabriel to join her for a beer after work.
Once they had downed half a beer, she cut to the chase.
“So, what’s up with you and Jefferson? Are you guys lovers or what?”
“No, no,” he said, shocked. “No way. We’re straight.”
“You sure?”
“Sure I’m sure. Wha . . . why do you ask?”
“Well,” she said. “I think he’s hot. Is he seeing anyone or what?”
“No, no.” Gabriel smiled. “This is great. You have to tell him. Let’s tell him tonight.”
“Tonight? But how . . .”
“Just come to our place! Let’s get some more beer. He’s going to be glad to hear this!”
And so it was, when I got home from work, Gabriel and Lucy were on my porch, waiting.
And so it was, hours later, that Lucy and I were nude on my roof, under the stars.
“You thought I was hot?” I said, a little shocked.
She kissed me in response.
I licked her body in gratitude, tasting her for the first time.
“Hey, you know, the roof is a little rough,” she said as I sucked her clit. “Let’s go back to your room.”
“Good idea. My knees are shredded.”
We climbed down the ladder. I went first to help her down, holding her slender waist—unnecessary, but allowing me to touch her, to be a gentleman.
We found Gabriel sleeping on my bed, flat on his back. His arms and legs were extended to the corners, leaving no space untouched. His cock was still hard.
“Faker,” I whispered.
“Where else can we go?” she whispered.
“One of my housemates is gone. He would hate for us to be in his room, but . . .”
“. . . what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”
We crossed the hall.
Lucy latched the door behind us. “Gabriel is a pest,” she said, walking into my arms.
We kissed in my housemate’s room. His walls were covered in Grateful Dead posters, his floor supporting methodically organized shelves of paperbacks and concert tapes.
We lay on his pallet on the floor.
We made love for the first time.
We made love and talked as the sun came up.
We made love.
We fell in love.
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Fugazi
Wire
Meat Puppets
First up on the calendar is the anniversary of the end of our cohabitation, Independence Day.
Next month will come our wedding anniversary.
Today marks the anniversary that she would never recall, the one that I would always surprised her by remembering: our first date.
“How do you remember the exact day?” she would ask every year when I reminded her. “That’s too much!”
“Easy,” I would kiss her. “It’s exactly one month and three years before we got married. You do remember the date itself, don’t you?”
“Yes, I do remember that.”
Lucy and I met in the middle of my senior year of college. I was assistant manager at a book store, and she had been hired to help with the Christmas rush.
She had finished college the preceding spring, and was enjoying the freedom of being out in the world.
She worked out for the holiday season, and so she was asked to stay on.
It was, we would later joke, the last time I was the boss in our relationship.
For months, we were co-workers, but that was really the extent of things. I was busy with school and tending to my own social circle. She was much more relaxed, socializing with the crowd at our bookstore.
Our first impressions of one another were friendly enough.
She chain-smoked as she sat in the back of the store, receiving books and talking politics. She was wiry and acerbic, wound tight with nervous energy.
I thought she was a Commie lesbian.
I gravitated to the front of the store, taking orders and directing customers to titles they half remembered from reviews. I read reviews diligently, to fake a greater knowledge of books than I actually possessed.
With my long hair and art school association, Lucy took me for a spacey art fag.
She wasn’t far wrong. I was mentally preparing to resume my life as a bisexual after graduation.
My school was small and something of a fishbowl. Everyone knew one another’s business. The prevailing aesthetic code was set by Dischord records. Everyone was in a band or knew someone in a band. Straight edge punk was the order of the day.
This never quite fit me.
I was a vegetarian, but that wasn’t strict enough for the vegans.
I didn’t do drugs, but I drank, which was just as bad in many eyes.
I had sex. Fuck that, I was bisexual. A lesbian girlfriend, Lisa, took me aside to explain how that was a challenge for some in our crowd to accept. When Guy Picciotto had confided his bisexuality, she told me, it damn near caused a riot.
Gay was scarce enough in the mosh pit. Bisexuality was elbowed further aside, being neither black nor white, the preferred color spectrum of the straight edge set.
So I tended to play my cards close, waiting until graduation to relax my sexuality. Meanwhile, I drank beer at shows, listened to Husker Du and the Replacements at home, and fucked my straight roommate.
Shortly after graduation, my roommate and I gave up our apartment. He moved home to save money. I moved into a group house.
About that time, Gabriel came to work at my bookstore.
Gabriel was a preppy Catholic boy, with owlish glasses, wavy brown hair and a penchant for chino shorts. He cared not a whit for straight edge. He gravitated to New Order, Roy Orbison and house music.
How refreshing, I thought.
He lived with his girlfriend. They were caretakers for a gay bed and breakfast. I stopped by to visit on many occasions, flipping through the issues of Bear and Inches on their coffee table.
Gabriel called me all the time. At work, he followed me through my various tasks, laughing at my jokes, picking up my slang, happy when I listened to music he recommended.
Lesbian Lisa diagnosed a crush.
“No way,” I said, pulling my hair into a ponytail. “He’s straight. Got a girlfriend and everything.”
“Whatever you say,” she smirked.
Did he have a crush on me? I wondered. He was cute . . .
With my roommate no longer available for regular sex, my eyes were open for something new.
I fooled around with Marcus.
Marcus was so sexy. Funny, handsome and living in a cool studio apartment decorated with tribal art and a toilet he had transformed into a fishbowl.
But Marcus had a girlfriend of some sort, so he wasn’t really available.
I fooled around with Marcus’s friend Curt.
Curt was gay and wry. He had curly blonde hair, a quick smile and he smoked like an old lady. Unfortunately, he also had sex like an old lady, taking care not to undress fully, or to kiss too much.
He also had an odd symbiotic relationship with a guy who was not his boyfriend, but territorial nonetheless. I saw too many red flags on that.
And Gabriel was cute . . .
He confided in me that things were not going well with his girlfriend. They got into screaming fights. He was scared they would be asked to leave their caretaker’s job at the bed and breakfast due to the racket.
“Screaming is not cool,” I agreed. “You really can’t do that. When things are that bad, just come crash at my place.”
“Really, you mean it?”
“Of course, Gabriel. No fight is so bad you can’t make up later. But screaming is just so out of control.”
“Thanks, Jefferson, that could really help.”
Not long afterwards, I got the call at work.
“Jefferson, she is really angry at me and swearing all kinds of things. I can’t stay here.”
“Gabriel, go to my place.”
“You’re sure?”
“The back door is unlocked. Go. I’ll be home after my shift, and you can tell me about it.”
“Okay, Jefferson, I’ll see you after work.”
Weeks later, he was still living in my room.
He had gone back to the bed and breakfast to collect clothes, CDs and his word processor. He broke up with his girlfriend.
Staying with me was clearly a preferred option. Even if things had gone south with his girlfriend, Gabriel had a room waiting at his parents’ house in the suburbs.
He wanted to be with me.
Every night, we slept in the same bed.
I usually slept nude, but I wore boxers to accommodate the new arrangement. We would listen to Wire and talk until all hours, our voices humming under the sound of the fan.
It was soon out at work that Gabriel was shacking up with me.
“That didn’t take long,” Lisa teased.
“We aren’t sleeping together. I mean, we are sleeping together, but not like that.”
“All things in time.”
“He’s straight, Lisa.”
“Yeah. So was your roommate.”
Well, she had a point there.
One night, as we lay in bed, no longer talking, drifting to sleep, I summoned all my courage.
It took an eternity.
But I did it.
In the warm still night, under the covers of the bed we shared, faint lights tracing shadows on my ceiling, Wire playing low, I allowed my hand to touch his.
He recoiled as if a snake had bitten him.
“Jefferson, gross!”
“Sorry, Gabriel. I didn’t mean . . .”
“It’s okay, it’s okay, let’s just . . .”
“Okay, it’s cool.”
“I’m sorry, I like you and all, but as friends . . .”
“It’s okay.”
We lay in silence as the album played out.
I pretended to be asleep, and eventually, I was asleep.
“He’s not into me like that,” I told Lisa.
“How can you be sure? He is such a puppy dog to you . . .”
“Trust me, I know.”
“Closet case.”
“Whatever. Case closed.”
Not quite.
A few nights later, I walked home from work, picking up a six pack a few blocks from my house. It was around midnight.
When I reached the front porch, I saw Gabriel sitting with Lucy.
“Welcome home, Jefferson,” he grinned.
“Hi Jefferson,” she smiled.
“Here’s a pleasant surprise,” I smiled back.
It was anything but.
I wasn’t sure what was going on with Gabriel and me, but I knew one thing for certain.
He wasn’t bringing girls over to my place.
I was not sleeping in the living room so he could get laid in my bed.
“Want a beer?” I put down my bag and handed them each a sweating bottle.
“Thanks,” Lucy said, twisting the top.
Makes sense, I thought. Here’s how Gabriel asserts that he is straight—he brings home a girl. How fucking awkward.
Gabriel had a shit-eating grin.
The three of us went up to my room. We sat on my bed.
I turned on a fan and a lamp, and put on a Meat Puppets album.
Lucy pulled out some grass and papers. We got high.
We opened more beer.
We were talking, giddy and fun.
After a while, Lucy reached across my bed to pick up a deck of cards on my bookshelf. She laughingly suggested we play strip poker.
I thought she was kidding, but she was dead set on the game. She shuffled the deck as Gabriel giggled and re-lit the joint.
I was not at all sure where this was going, but I did know the first rule of strip poker: lose quickly. The sooner everyone is nude, the sooner things get more interesting.
I kept getting winning hands.
Gabriel was soon down to his boxers. He lost them, fair and square, but he was reluctant to doff them.
“Oh come on, that’s not fair!” Lucy complained. She was down to panties and a tank top.
“You lost, sucker. Lose the boxers,” I said, sitting shirtless.
“I can’t,” he blushed. “I’m shy.”
“Lame. Okay, you are out of this hand,” Lucy said, dealing the cards. “You and me, Jefferson.”
I put two back. I had one pair of tens in my hand and one pair of shorts to bet.
Lucy took one card. The tank top was at stake.
The game was down to the wire. Tits if she loses, cock if she wins.
“Call.”
I put down my pair.
She put down two pair.
“You lose, I win,” she laughed.
“Okay, then, I’m ditching the shorts.”
“Lose them, loser!”
“I will!”
“You sure talk a lot, loser.”
I stood up and unbuttoned my shorts. “Here goes!”
“Put up or shut up,” she giggled.
Gabriel sat, eyes on our interaction.
I unzipped and dropped my shorts. I kicked them across the floor.
I was naked in front of my friends. My cock was swelling.
“Get an eye full,” I said, raising my arms. Lucy and Gabriel convulsed in laughter, smoke snorting from Lucy’s nose.
“You have nerve,” I taunted Gabriel. “This should be you standing here.”
“No, no way, I can’t,” he waved his hand.
“Shit Gabriel, you are such a coward,” Lucy said. She tugged the tank top over her head.
Her breasts were small and firm, her nipples dark and full.
“Your nipples look like erasers,” Gabriel observed.
“Okay, loser, you’re next.” I lunged and wrestled him to the bed. I lay over him, holding his arms back. He squirmed, his eyes nervous and aroused. “I’ve got him, Lucy. Take the shorts!”
She gave Gabriel a mischievous glance, and stood.
“No, wait, wait!” he squealed, crossing his ankles.
“We waited,” I said. “Now you give.”
I was getting harder.
Lucy took the waistband of his boxers and tugged them to his thighs. His cock leapt out, hard and throbbing.
“Oh come on, move your ankles,” Lucy said.
He went limp under me and did as she directed.
I released him.
Well, I thought. Now what?
Lucy rolled another joint.
I flipped the album and dropped the needle on “Mirage.”
Gabriel relaxed, laying on the bed, his cock flopped on his hip as he watched Lucy. His eyes were on her breasts.
We decided to take the joint up to the roof. This was accessible from a ladder in the sleeping porch adjacent to my room.
The roof was much cooler. The sky was clear and filled with the chatter of animals from the zoo across the street.
We passed the joint.
I kissed Lucy.
Lucy kissed me.
Gabriel rubbed Lucy’s back as we kissed. She turned and gave him a little peck.
I removed Lucy’s panties.
We rolled on the rough shingles. I took care not to touch Gabriel and to give Lucy time with him. I was, I thought, crashing on their date.
Thing was, though, she wasn’t interested in him.
She kept reaching for me.
After a while, she turned to Gabriel and asked him to let us be alone.
“Really?” he asked.
“Yeah, really. Do you mind?”
“Well, no, I guess not.” He stood and crouch-walked over to the ladder. His cock was still hard. “See you guys downstairs.”
“See ya,” I said, surprised by Lucy’s bluntness. “You aren’t here to see Gabriel?”
“No,” Lucy said, averting her eyes. “I came here to see you.”
“I had no idea you were . . .”
“I am, now, as of last week.”
The previous weekend, we had been at a party hosted by one of our co-workers. I remembered talking with Lucy there. At the time, I didn’t think anything of it—we were two friends talking.
But, it seems, she had suddenly seen me in a new light.
She had taken note of my tight black jeans with rhinestone studs.
She had liked the way the bare bulb on the porch haloed my hair from behind.
She noticed, all at once, that I was hot. But what she didn’t know was this: what’s Jefferson’s story?
Earlier this evening, she had asked Gabriel to join her for a beer after work.
Once they had downed half a beer, she cut to the chase.
“So, what’s up with you and Jefferson? Are you guys lovers or what?”
“No, no,” he said, shocked. “No way. We’re straight.”
“You sure?”
“Sure I’m sure. Wha . . . why do you ask?”
“Well,” she said. “I think he’s hot. Is he seeing anyone or what?”
“No, no.” Gabriel smiled. “This is great. You have to tell him. Let’s tell him tonight.”
“Tonight? But how . . .”
“Just come to our place! Let’s get some more beer. He’s going to be glad to hear this!”
And so it was, when I got home from work, Gabriel and Lucy were on my porch, waiting.
And so it was, hours later, that Lucy and I were nude on my roof, under the stars.
“You thought I was hot?” I said, a little shocked.
She kissed me in response.
I licked her body in gratitude, tasting her for the first time.
“Hey, you know, the roof is a little rough,” she said as I sucked her clit. “Let’s go back to your room.”
“Good idea. My knees are shredded.”
We climbed down the ladder. I went first to help her down, holding her slender waist—unnecessary, but allowing me to touch her, to be a gentleman.
We found Gabriel sleeping on my bed, flat on his back. His arms and legs were extended to the corners, leaving no space untouched. His cock was still hard.
“Faker,” I whispered.
“Where else can we go?” she whispered.
“One of my housemates is gone. He would hate for us to be in his room, but . . .”
“. . . what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”
We crossed the hall.
Lucy latched the door behind us. “Gabriel is a pest,” she said, walking into my arms.
We kissed in my housemate’s room. His walls were covered in Grateful Dead posters, his floor supporting methodically organized shelves of paperbacks and concert tapes.
We lay on his pallet on the floor.
We made love for the first time.
We made love and talked as the sun came up.
We made love.
We fell in love.
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Thursday, July 14, 2005
Solstice
“I’m terrible with names,” Tina whispered, leaning close to my ear. “Can you help me out?”
“Yes, of course.”
“The fellow to the right, who looks like Christian Bale?”
“That’s Mark”
“And the one sitting next to him, the Alan Cummings lookalike?”
“That’s John.”
“Okay. And John is talking to Theresa, and Theresa is next to Shelby. Right?”
“Right.”
“Okay. Mark, John, Theresa, Shelby.”
“You got it.”
“And I’m Todd,” smiled Todd. Tina sat between us on the couch.
“Oh, I remember you, Todd,” she squeezed his thigh. “I remember you very well.”
It has been a few months since Tina was at my place.
She had caught wind of our parties, and sent regrets that her job prevented her from attending on the usual nights. After we corresponded for a while, I offered to arrange a little dinner party so she could meet our gang.
She had been very impressed.
The feeling had been mutual.
Now she was back for more.
Tina must do well in most social situations. She is naturally curious about people, and an easy conversationalist. She’s attractive—athletic, brunette, late thirties—and successful in a high-stakes field that requires a good mix of smarts, charm and diplomacy.
Attributes that carry over well to sex parties.
“Todd, Jefferson,” Tina began, her voice low and conspiratorial. “I want to tell about this fantasy of mine, because it involves both of you.”
Any confession that begins with that sentence can only go well.
She had our attention.
“I have this pseudo-boyfriend, and I like him. He’s not bad at all. But he’s just a little . . . possessive. He know I am free to see anyone I want, and he accepts that. But he clearly wants me all to himself.’
“That can be a problem,” Todd agreed.
“Been there myself,” I nodded sympathetically.
“So I have this fantasy. He knows about it, and he wants to see it happen. See, the idea is to have a gangbang. I would invite a few guys I have dated or had sex with, and he will be forced to watch as these men have sex with me. Then afterwards, when all the men are gone, he will be allowed to have sex with me too.
“The idea is to show him that I can have any man I want—and he knows this—but I choose to be with him.”
“That’s pretty hot,” I said. “A little cuckoldry. Would he be tied to his seat as he watched?”
“Ropes might be a good thing,” Todd acknowledged. “But I think the biggest thing would be him seeing how each of these men knows how to get you off. He might learn some things about what you like.”
“See,” she nodded, sipping her wine. “I knew you two would understand the spirit of this thing. And you contribute good ideas.”
“Well, we have done this a few times,” Todd laughed.
“Yeah, gangbangs-r-us,” I admitted. “Looks like we are in.”
“Good,” she said. “It’s a lot of schedules to coordinate, but I will try to arrange this soon.”
“Cool,” Todd said. “Maybe we should try it out now?”
“I was just thinking the same thing,” she said. He stood and took her hand. I nodded to Shelby as I followed them to my bedroom.
The last light of evening filled the room, cool and gray against the candlelight.
It was the summer solstice, the end of the longest day of the year.
It was a warm night.
Todd and Tina kissed as he undressed her.
I removed my shirt and stood at her back, pressing her between Todd and me, lifting her hair to kiss the nape of her neck.
I removed her bra. One breast was in my mouth, another in Todd’s lips.
She sat back on the bed, looking up at Todd as he removed his pants. Her eyes lowered to his cock. He offered it to her mouth.
I lost my pants and busied myself with kissing her breasts, her arms, her legs. Her legs are long for her frame, and strong from running and scuba. I extended them to admire her musculature.
She leaned back on the bed to focus on blowing Todd. His moans had her excited; she spread her legs to my mouth.
I tasted the red lace of her panties. They were soaked.
I kissed and licked, moving the panties aside as I maneuvered to the smooth flesh of her labia. I recalled that her g spot was newly discovered at the last dinner party. I wanted to get reacquainted with that—after renewing my taste for her easy clitoral response.
With my mouth on her clit, and Todd in her mouth, Tina panted into her first orgasm of the night.
She’s loud, I remembered.
“Hmmm,” she sat forward to kiss me. “May I return the favor?”
“You may indeed,” I smiled, kissing her lips, her cheeks, her eyes.
“You really are a sweet one,” she murmured.
“That’s right,” I whispered into her ear. “Now suck my cock.”
I scooted myself to the top of the bed, and lay back in the pillows. Tina turned and crawled forward to bring her mouth to my dick.
She looked at my eyes as she swallowed me whole.
She raised her ass to Todd, who stroked himself hard. A condom later, he was in her.
The three of us had fucked for the first time months earlier. Now we were back at it, so easily, as if we had worked out every movement in advance.
This is why, I thought, sex is fun with people who know what they are doing.
Shelby joined us, followed by Mark and John. She plopped herself into a chair and smiled at me. She was still dressed.
“How often do I get to watch you start a party?” she teased.
“A first for everything.” I bit my lip, my voice fading as I responded to her.
“This is so fucking hot,” Shelby said.
“You enjoy the show, baby.”
Todd concurred. “You never get to watch—you are usually too busy fucking. Enjoy!” He spanked Tina’s ass for emphasis.
Tina got the best we had to offer.
Mark and John were nude, jerking one another as they watched.
Todd decided he needed a break. Shelby decided to avail herself of Todd’s availability.
They were soon off.
Tina took my cock from her mouth and surveyed the room. “Is that Mark?” she asked.
“’Tis I,” Mark replied.
“Can you fuck me, please?” Tina remained where Todd had left her, ass high in the air.
“Happy to oblige.” He stepped to my nightstand to fetch a condom.
“Why aren’t you sucking cock?” I asked Tina. She returned to her task.
I stroked her hair as Mark mounted her from behind, just as Todd had done.
Like Tina, Mark is an athlete and very limber. In a few moments, they had found a strong forceful rhythm that worked for both of them.
Tina grunted and sighed as he pushed her forward and back.
It was all I could do to keep my dick deep in her mouth.
Mark began to move rapidly. Tina pressed back into him, her strong body matching his, thrust for thrust.
I pressed my palms to her head, holding her on me, my grip light but firm.
“Fuck,” she shouted into my cock. “Gah dab id!” Her body convulsed in orgasm.
“Nice, nice!” I commended, releasing her, petting her.
Mark’s eyes were on me.
“I’m cumming too,” he announced. He pushed forward and back, rapidly pulsing his thrusts as he came inside her.
“God damn,” Tina panted as he pulled out, her face sweaty and resting on my pubic hair. “That was so fucking hot.”
We were so worked up. Our vocabularies were spent. Our educations meant nothing, our bodies were in command. “God damn” and “fucking hot” would have to suffice.
Mark stood and kissed her face. “I’ll see you in a bit,” he said. “I need to clean up.”
“Uh huh,” she gasped. “Later.”
We were alone in my bedroom. I stroked Tina’s hair, pulling it from the sweat on her brow. She smiled in appreciation.
She works so hard, I thought. She handles huge accounts all day, dealing with difficult situations and other people’s money, for a company that owns you during working hours.
She had managed to leave that behind just now, to be in her own body.
“Feels good to be in charge of yourself, huh?” I whispered.
She looked up at me.
She wasn’t done yet.
“I think you need to fuck me,” she said.
“I know, I do.” She rolled off me onto her back, pulling her hair back with her hands. She palmed the sweat from her torso as I pulled on a condom. She looked about before wiping her palms on the sheets.
“Sorry, I’m just soaked.”
I wiped her brow with a tissue. “Sweat all you want. They are just sheets. You ready?”
She nodded.
I lifted her legs back and entered her.
She relaxed as I held back her hands.
After the strong fuckings she had taken from Todd and Mark, I was giving it to her easy.
But I knew she wanted me in charge.
I kept my cock low, pushing up as I entered her. If her g spot is still a novelty, I wanted to explore it.
“Unh, what are you doing?” she asked.
“Does it feel good?”
“God, yes.”
I pushed her legs further back, keeping my cock shallow and aiming upward with my thrusts.
“Like this?”
“Don’t stop, please . . .”
I kept at it, teasing her with variations.
When she was poised to cum, I kept it steady and sure.
She gave up a noisy orgasm, her body twisting under my firm grip.
“God, Jefferson,” she breathed as she caught her breath. “Thank you.”
“Thank you, Tina. It is such a privilege to please you.”
“Sweet man, I want to give you pleasure too.”
I had no intention of cumming so soon into the party. Shelby and I had a date with Mark for later; she had yet to be with the boy we all favor. While Mark can cum and cum again, I can typically rely only on one big release. I needed to hold out.
Still, I was happy to give Tina another run.
We sprinted fast and furious until she called a break.
“I am just too damn sweaty,” she said. “I need to pause.”
“Damn, what is with you? Three men give you a tough fucking, and you have to quit?” I teased. “How will you handle a gangbang?”
“Believe me, you boys are more than a gangbang of ten men.” She looked towards the door. “Can I add Mark to my request from your group? I want him in my gangbang”
“I’ll see if he is game.”
“Thanks! And, uh, can I owe you that orgasm for now?”
“It’s on your tab. Plus, I have something special for you.”
“What?”
“Meet me in the kitchen.”
I pulled out. She tugged on her panties and followed me.
“What’s the surprise?” she smiled, her eyebrows raised.
“Voila.” I opened my freezer.
I had an array of frozen Flav-R-Ice.
“You are shitting me!” she gasped.
“Help yourself!”
She took the flavor “green.” I snipped the plastic tip with scissors.
We joined Mark and Todd on the terrace. There was warm breeze.
We talked and had drinks as Tina sucked her frozen ice.
“Can I tell you boys a secret?” she asked.
“Yeah?” Todd replied.
“I can see my boyfriend’s apartment from here. That’s where we will have my gangbang.”
We laughed.
I asked her to indicate the building and count up the floors so I knew which apartment was that of her boyfriend.
After a while, Shelby poked her head outside.
“Mark? Jefferson? Can I see you in here?”
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“Yes, of course.”
“The fellow to the right, who looks like Christian Bale?”
“That’s Mark”
“And the one sitting next to him, the Alan Cummings lookalike?”
“That’s John.”
“Okay. And John is talking to Theresa, and Theresa is next to Shelby. Right?”
“Right.”
“Okay. Mark, John, Theresa, Shelby.”
“You got it.”
“And I’m Todd,” smiled Todd. Tina sat between us on the couch.
“Oh, I remember you, Todd,” she squeezed his thigh. “I remember you very well.”
It has been a few months since Tina was at my place.
She had caught wind of our parties, and sent regrets that her job prevented her from attending on the usual nights. After we corresponded for a while, I offered to arrange a little dinner party so she could meet our gang.
She had been very impressed.
The feeling had been mutual.
Now she was back for more.
Tina must do well in most social situations. She is naturally curious about people, and an easy conversationalist. She’s attractive—athletic, brunette, late thirties—and successful in a high-stakes field that requires a good mix of smarts, charm and diplomacy.
Attributes that carry over well to sex parties.
“Todd, Jefferson,” Tina began, her voice low and conspiratorial. “I want to tell about this fantasy of mine, because it involves both of you.”
Any confession that begins with that sentence can only go well.
She had our attention.
“I have this pseudo-boyfriend, and I like him. He’s not bad at all. But he’s just a little . . . possessive. He know I am free to see anyone I want, and he accepts that. But he clearly wants me all to himself.’
“That can be a problem,” Todd agreed.
“Been there myself,” I nodded sympathetically.
“So I have this fantasy. He knows about it, and he wants to see it happen. See, the idea is to have a gangbang. I would invite a few guys I have dated or had sex with, and he will be forced to watch as these men have sex with me. Then afterwards, when all the men are gone, he will be allowed to have sex with me too.
“The idea is to show him that I can have any man I want—and he knows this—but I choose to be with him.”
“That’s pretty hot,” I said. “A little cuckoldry. Would he be tied to his seat as he watched?”
“Ropes might be a good thing,” Todd acknowledged. “But I think the biggest thing would be him seeing how each of these men knows how to get you off. He might learn some things about what you like.”
“See,” she nodded, sipping her wine. “I knew you two would understand the spirit of this thing. And you contribute good ideas.”
“Well, we have done this a few times,” Todd laughed.
“Yeah, gangbangs-r-us,” I admitted. “Looks like we are in.”
“Good,” she said. “It’s a lot of schedules to coordinate, but I will try to arrange this soon.”
“Cool,” Todd said. “Maybe we should try it out now?”
“I was just thinking the same thing,” she said. He stood and took her hand. I nodded to Shelby as I followed them to my bedroom.
The last light of evening filled the room, cool and gray against the candlelight.
It was the summer solstice, the end of the longest day of the year.
It was a warm night.
Todd and Tina kissed as he undressed her.
I removed my shirt and stood at her back, pressing her between Todd and me, lifting her hair to kiss the nape of her neck.
I removed her bra. One breast was in my mouth, another in Todd’s lips.
She sat back on the bed, looking up at Todd as he removed his pants. Her eyes lowered to his cock. He offered it to her mouth.
I lost my pants and busied myself with kissing her breasts, her arms, her legs. Her legs are long for her frame, and strong from running and scuba. I extended them to admire her musculature.
She leaned back on the bed to focus on blowing Todd. His moans had her excited; she spread her legs to my mouth.
I tasted the red lace of her panties. They were soaked.
I kissed and licked, moving the panties aside as I maneuvered to the smooth flesh of her labia. I recalled that her g spot was newly discovered at the last dinner party. I wanted to get reacquainted with that—after renewing my taste for her easy clitoral response.
With my mouth on her clit, and Todd in her mouth, Tina panted into her first orgasm of the night.
She’s loud, I remembered.
“Hmmm,” she sat forward to kiss me. “May I return the favor?”
“You may indeed,” I smiled, kissing her lips, her cheeks, her eyes.
“You really are a sweet one,” she murmured.
“That’s right,” I whispered into her ear. “Now suck my cock.”
I scooted myself to the top of the bed, and lay back in the pillows. Tina turned and crawled forward to bring her mouth to my dick.
She looked at my eyes as she swallowed me whole.
She raised her ass to Todd, who stroked himself hard. A condom later, he was in her.
The three of us had fucked for the first time months earlier. Now we were back at it, so easily, as if we had worked out every movement in advance.
This is why, I thought, sex is fun with people who know what they are doing.
Shelby joined us, followed by Mark and John. She plopped herself into a chair and smiled at me. She was still dressed.
“How often do I get to watch you start a party?” she teased.
“A first for everything.” I bit my lip, my voice fading as I responded to her.
“This is so fucking hot,” Shelby said.
“You enjoy the show, baby.”
Todd concurred. “You never get to watch—you are usually too busy fucking. Enjoy!” He spanked Tina’s ass for emphasis.
Tina got the best we had to offer.
Mark and John were nude, jerking one another as they watched.
Todd decided he needed a break. Shelby decided to avail herself of Todd’s availability.
They were soon off.
Tina took my cock from her mouth and surveyed the room. “Is that Mark?” she asked.
“’Tis I,” Mark replied.
“Can you fuck me, please?” Tina remained where Todd had left her, ass high in the air.
“Happy to oblige.” He stepped to my nightstand to fetch a condom.
“Why aren’t you sucking cock?” I asked Tina. She returned to her task.
I stroked her hair as Mark mounted her from behind, just as Todd had done.
Like Tina, Mark is an athlete and very limber. In a few moments, they had found a strong forceful rhythm that worked for both of them.
Tina grunted and sighed as he pushed her forward and back.
It was all I could do to keep my dick deep in her mouth.
Mark began to move rapidly. Tina pressed back into him, her strong body matching his, thrust for thrust.
I pressed my palms to her head, holding her on me, my grip light but firm.
“Fuck,” she shouted into my cock. “Gah dab id!” Her body convulsed in orgasm.
“Nice, nice!” I commended, releasing her, petting her.
Mark’s eyes were on me.
“I’m cumming too,” he announced. He pushed forward and back, rapidly pulsing his thrusts as he came inside her.
“God damn,” Tina panted as he pulled out, her face sweaty and resting on my pubic hair. “That was so fucking hot.”
We were so worked up. Our vocabularies were spent. Our educations meant nothing, our bodies were in command. “God damn” and “fucking hot” would have to suffice.
Mark stood and kissed her face. “I’ll see you in a bit,” he said. “I need to clean up.”
“Uh huh,” she gasped. “Later.”
We were alone in my bedroom. I stroked Tina’s hair, pulling it from the sweat on her brow. She smiled in appreciation.
She works so hard, I thought. She handles huge accounts all day, dealing with difficult situations and other people’s money, for a company that owns you during working hours.
She had managed to leave that behind just now, to be in her own body.
“Feels good to be in charge of yourself, huh?” I whispered.
She looked up at me.
She wasn’t done yet.
“I think you need to fuck me,” she said.
“I know, I do.” She rolled off me onto her back, pulling her hair back with her hands. She palmed the sweat from her torso as I pulled on a condom. She looked about before wiping her palms on the sheets.
“Sorry, I’m just soaked.”
I wiped her brow with a tissue. “Sweat all you want. They are just sheets. You ready?”
She nodded.
I lifted her legs back and entered her.
She relaxed as I held back her hands.
After the strong fuckings she had taken from Todd and Mark, I was giving it to her easy.
But I knew she wanted me in charge.
I kept my cock low, pushing up as I entered her. If her g spot is still a novelty, I wanted to explore it.
“Unh, what are you doing?” she asked.
“Does it feel good?”
“God, yes.”
I pushed her legs further back, keeping my cock shallow and aiming upward with my thrusts.
“Like this?”
“Don’t stop, please . . .”
I kept at it, teasing her with variations.
When she was poised to cum, I kept it steady and sure.
She gave up a noisy orgasm, her body twisting under my firm grip.
“God, Jefferson,” she breathed as she caught her breath. “Thank you.”
“Thank you, Tina. It is such a privilege to please you.”
“Sweet man, I want to give you pleasure too.”
I had no intention of cumming so soon into the party. Shelby and I had a date with Mark for later; she had yet to be with the boy we all favor. While Mark can cum and cum again, I can typically rely only on one big release. I needed to hold out.
Still, I was happy to give Tina another run.
We sprinted fast and furious until she called a break.
“I am just too damn sweaty,” she said. “I need to pause.”
“Damn, what is with you? Three men give you a tough fucking, and you have to quit?” I teased. “How will you handle a gangbang?”
“Believe me, you boys are more than a gangbang of ten men.” She looked towards the door. “Can I add Mark to my request from your group? I want him in my gangbang”
“I’ll see if he is game.”
“Thanks! And, uh, can I owe you that orgasm for now?”
“It’s on your tab. Plus, I have something special for you.”
“What?”
“Meet me in the kitchen.”
I pulled out. She tugged on her panties and followed me.
“What’s the surprise?” she smiled, her eyebrows raised.
“Voila.” I opened my freezer.
I had an array of frozen Flav-R-Ice.
“You are shitting me!” she gasped.
“Help yourself!”
She took the flavor “green.” I snipped the plastic tip with scissors.
We joined Mark and Todd on the terrace. There was warm breeze.
We talked and had drinks as Tina sucked her frozen ice.
“Can I tell you boys a secret?” she asked.
“Yeah?” Todd replied.
“I can see my boyfriend’s apartment from here. That’s where we will have my gangbang.”
We laughed.
I asked her to indicate the building and count up the floors so I knew which apartment was that of her boyfriend.
After a while, Shelby poked her head outside.
“Mark? Jefferson? Can I see you in here?”
sex
sexblogs
bisexuality
group sex
oral sex
slut
gangbang
cuckoldry
Sunday, July 10, 2005
Casting Couch
So now you know.
When the movie of my life plays in my imagination, I’ve cast Peter Sarsgaard in the lead.
It used to be a toss up between Keanu Reeves (bofo box office) and Michelle Pfieffer (physical resemblance), but for now, I’m set on Sarsgaard—an actor who can act and looks something like me.
As added bonuses, Sarsgaard and I are the same height and we both like Corona beer—not that it matters, but it is less work for him as he “takes on” Jefferson.
He doesn’t have to fake the length of my shadow or my taste in beverages.
As I thought about that, I read an email from Jake after our most recent sex party. He dropped me a line saying he had enjoyed it, also noting that Farahnaz would make a brilliant James Bond villain, circa 1963.
She would, I thought! So beautiful, so glamorous—so deadly!
That inspired this notion.
I’m going to be largely offline for a few days. May I offer up a game to be played in my absence?
How would you cast One Life, Take Two as a movie?
You can follow my lead, and cast living actors of roughly approximate age.
You can work across generations, and cast actors of different eras.
Heck, cast anyone you like.
Just offer your justifications so we follow your logic.
I won’t color your casting ideas. Like, I won’t say why it would be a tough call for me if Christina Ricci, Tura Santana and Caroll Baker were each vying to be Shelby.
Or why I would be returning Sarah Gilbert’s calls.
My lips are sealed.
It is my life and your casting couch. Have at it.
sex
sexblogs
bisexuality
Peter Sarsgaard
When the movie of my life plays in my imagination, I’ve cast Peter Sarsgaard in the lead.
It used to be a toss up between Keanu Reeves (bofo box office) and Michelle Pfieffer (physical resemblance), but for now, I’m set on Sarsgaard—an actor who can act and looks something like me.
As added bonuses, Sarsgaard and I are the same height and we both like Corona beer—not that it matters, but it is less work for him as he “takes on” Jefferson.
He doesn’t have to fake the length of my shadow or my taste in beverages.
As I thought about that, I read an email from Jake after our most recent sex party. He dropped me a line saying he had enjoyed it, also noting that Farahnaz would make a brilliant James Bond villain, circa 1963.
She would, I thought! So beautiful, so glamorous—so deadly!
That inspired this notion.
I’m going to be largely offline for a few days. May I offer up a game to be played in my absence?
How would you cast One Life, Take Two as a movie?
You can follow my lead, and cast living actors of roughly approximate age.
You can work across generations, and cast actors of different eras.
Heck, cast anyone you like.
Just offer your justifications so we follow your logic.
I won’t color your casting ideas. Like, I won’t say why it would be a tough call for me if Christina Ricci, Tura Santana and Caroll Baker were each vying to be Shelby.
Or why I would be returning Sarah Gilbert’s calls.
My lips are sealed.
It is my life and your casting couch. Have at it.
sex
sexblogs
bisexuality
Peter Sarsgaard
Friday, July 08, 2005
Power to the People!
It’s no secret to my friends (and longtime readers) that I am a fan of the actor Peter Sarsgaard.
I’m not really one for crushes on celebrities. But I make an exception in this case because Sarsgaard is dreamy (those droopy lids, that creamy voice!) and because he is practically a poster boy for my kinda sex.
He won this distinction in his portrayal of Clyde Martin in Kinsey. Sarsgaard played the part as a young bisexual exceedingly comfortable in his own skin—particularly for the mid 1940s—who brought Alfred Kinsey to a greater understanding of queer sex through the acceptance of his own bisexuality.
Bisexuality. Check. Honesty. Check.
When I mentioned my nascent crush to Shelby, she brought me her favorite movie, Garden State. Sarsgaard was again a relaxed figure, in this case a pothead gravedigger with few ambitions or illusions. He was also a man of ambiguous sexuality, inserting himself as an affable third wheel in the romance of Natalie Portman and Zach Braff.
Threesome. Check.
I had the bug pretty bad by this point. Todd loaned me Center of the World, in which Sarsgaard played a computer geek who falls hard for a freckled stripper.
Obsession. Commercial sex. Love. Check, check, check.
Sarsgaard and sex—he just keeps punching my buttons.
Apparently, he is heterosexual. But get this: his main squeeze is Maggie Gyllenhaal, who played the titular role in Secretary, about a young woman who discovers happiness as a submissive.
Kink. Check.
So you see, even when Sarsgaard ventures away from being the man for me, he steps right back in my home turf. Go right ahead, straight boy. You match yourself with that starlet of the kink set, and I’ll still be here.
For his efforts, Sarsgaard was nominated as the actor I would select to play me in the movie version of my life.
You know, if anyone asked.
A while back, Viviane asked me if I would like to be her guest for the New York premiere of Sarsgaard’s new film, The Dying Gaul.
“There will be lots of celebrities there,” she said. “Including your own Peter Sarsgaard.”
“Count me in!”
“You will have to wear a suit or a tux . . . “
“I have both! Bring me to Peter Sarsgaard!”
On the night of the premiere, Viviane and I dolled up. We had drinks at my place then walked over to the theater.
Sure enough, it was a swank crowd. And sure enough, Peter Sarsgaard was there to introduce the film, along with the director and screenwriter, Craig Lucas.
Sarsgaard stood at the dais holding a Corona.
“He really does have that voice,” Viviane whispered.
“Shh!” I admonished. “But, uh, yeah, he does.”
In the film, set in the year 1995, Sarsgaard plays a young gay playwright whose lover has recently died of AIDS. His lover’s life and death become the material for a script that is purchased by a movie producer (Campbell Scott) on one condition; the main characters must be recast as a heterosexual couple.
Faced with a million dollar advance, the playwright reluctantly accepts the change—and wrestles with the guilt of betraying the memory of his lover.
He is also soon wrestling naked with the producer, a bisexual married man.
This fuels more guilt, as the playwright is befriended by the producer’s wife (Patricia Clarkson).
Things get complicated when the wife adopts an online persona to meet the playwright in gay chat rooms, gradually culling details about her husband’s infidelity.
Great stuff for me, right? Hot boy-on-boy action, bisexuality, online sex . . . right up my alley. That Sarsgaard sure can pick ‘em.
The film is well acted, clearly a labor of love for the three leads.
Alas, there are a unfortunate holes in the script. We don’t understand why or how the two men became lovers in the first place. We don’t understand how the wife obtains information used to create her online persona.
In the end—which I don’t want to give away—the bisexual producer suffers the sort of fate once reserved for gays in pre-Stonewall cinema, whereas the gay playwright prospers. Why? No apparent reason, except that by virtue of being openly gay, the playwright is presumably more sympathetic than the closeted producer.
Never mind that the producer is a pretty innocuous fellow—despite his adultery and oily Hollywood business ethos—whereas his wife and playwright undertake actions deliberately designed to cause harm.
Is the gay playwright behind this film, Craig Lucas, trying to say something about bisexuality?
Viviane and I were talking about this afterwards, as we made our way to the reception following the premiere.
“Hang on, Viviane, I need to hit the restroom.”
“Me too. Meet you back here in five.”
As I stepped into the restroom, Peter Sarsgaard was stepping out of a stall.
We nodded as we passed, and I took the vacated stall.
Locking the door, I made a startling discovery.
Peter Sarsgaard had failed to flush.
Is he a slob, I wondered? A misophobe unable to touch the handles of public toilets?
I tried flushing the toilet. It was broken.
Nothing to do but urinate into Sarsgaard’s piss.
A rather intimate introduction.
I washed my hands—did Sarsgaard? I don’t know—and rejoined Viviane.
We made our way to the reception.
It was a small crowd, filled with famous faces. Campbell Scott, Alec Baldwin, Mary-Louise Parker, Craig Lucas, Patricia Clarkson and Joan Allen, all fending kind words from admiring cinema buffs.
“Are you going to say hello to the actor destined to play you in the biopic?” Viviane teased as we noshed and sipped vodka.
“I wonder,” I replied, my eyes watching Sarsgaard just over Viviane’s shoulder. Fans were telling him how much they enjoyed his movies. He was nodding and thanking them.
I supposed I could suffer him my own banal accolades. But that seemed such a waste of breath when I could be chatting with Viviane.
“Perhaps you could mention that you have a great movie script for him?” Viviane offered.
“Yeah, wonder if he’s ever heard that one. Anyway, I don’t have a movie script. I have a blog he hasn’t read—a blog that would be damned hard to envision as a movie.”
“Unless it was a porn film.”
“Or an arthouse sizzler!”
It was fun playing “my life: the movie” with Viviane as we ogled the celebrities. She had pulled a few strings to get us into this room, which was a very cool thing to do purely to feed a friend’s fixation on a movie star.
But it just goes to show you. If you are nice to people, they may just be nice back at you.
And that, in turn, may get you in a room with the actor who will one day play you.
“Oh, to heck with it,” I said. “I’m getting his autograph.”
“Really?”
“Sure, it’s dorky, but let’s do this.”
We borrowed a pen and found a program.
I walked a few steps to stand at Sarsgaard’s elbow as he chatted with an attractive blonde.
His eyes caught mine.
“Sorry to interrupt,” I smiled. “But may I bother your for an autograph?”
“Sure, no problem,” he nodded. I handed over my pen and paper.
“My name is Jefferson.” He wrote “To Jefferson,” and looked at me expectantly.
“Your name is Peter Sarsgaard. Two ‘a’s at the end.”
“Oh,” he grinned. “I know that. Anything special you want it to say?”
“Anything you like.”
“Check it out,” he said to his publicist as he wrote. “This is how I sign autographs now. I stole it from Patti Smith.”
He handed me the autograph.
I put my hand on his back and thanked him.
Viviane and I walked away casually. Then we laughed.
“Check it out!” I said, handing her the program.
sex
sexblogs
bisexuality
Peter Sarsgaard
Craig Lucas
The Dying Gaul
I’m not really one for crushes on celebrities. But I make an exception in this case because Sarsgaard is dreamy (those droopy lids, that creamy voice!) and because he is practically a poster boy for my kinda sex.
He won this distinction in his portrayal of Clyde Martin in Kinsey. Sarsgaard played the part as a young bisexual exceedingly comfortable in his own skin—particularly for the mid 1940s—who brought Alfred Kinsey to a greater understanding of queer sex through the acceptance of his own bisexuality.
Bisexuality. Check. Honesty. Check.
When I mentioned my nascent crush to Shelby, she brought me her favorite movie, Garden State. Sarsgaard was again a relaxed figure, in this case a pothead gravedigger with few ambitions or illusions. He was also a man of ambiguous sexuality, inserting himself as an affable third wheel in the romance of Natalie Portman and Zach Braff.
Threesome. Check.
I had the bug pretty bad by this point. Todd loaned me Center of the World, in which Sarsgaard played a computer geek who falls hard for a freckled stripper.
Obsession. Commercial sex. Love. Check, check, check.
Sarsgaard and sex—he just keeps punching my buttons.
Apparently, he is heterosexual. But get this: his main squeeze is Maggie Gyllenhaal, who played the titular role in Secretary, about a young woman who discovers happiness as a submissive.
Kink. Check.
So you see, even when Sarsgaard ventures away from being the man for me, he steps right back in my home turf. Go right ahead, straight boy. You match yourself with that starlet of the kink set, and I’ll still be here.
For his efforts, Sarsgaard was nominated as the actor I would select to play me in the movie version of my life.
You know, if anyone asked.
A while back, Viviane asked me if I would like to be her guest for the New York premiere of Sarsgaard’s new film, The Dying Gaul.
“There will be lots of celebrities there,” she said. “Including your own Peter Sarsgaard.”
“Count me in!”
“You will have to wear a suit or a tux . . . “
“I have both! Bring me to Peter Sarsgaard!”
On the night of the premiere, Viviane and I dolled up. We had drinks at my place then walked over to the theater.
Sure enough, it was a swank crowd. And sure enough, Peter Sarsgaard was there to introduce the film, along with the director and screenwriter, Craig Lucas.
Sarsgaard stood at the dais holding a Corona.
“He really does have that voice,” Viviane whispered.
“Shh!” I admonished. “But, uh, yeah, he does.”
In the film, set in the year 1995, Sarsgaard plays a young gay playwright whose lover has recently died of AIDS. His lover’s life and death become the material for a script that is purchased by a movie producer (Campbell Scott) on one condition; the main characters must be recast as a heterosexual couple.
Faced with a million dollar advance, the playwright reluctantly accepts the change—and wrestles with the guilt of betraying the memory of his lover.
He is also soon wrestling naked with the producer, a bisexual married man.
This fuels more guilt, as the playwright is befriended by the producer’s wife (Patricia Clarkson).
Things get complicated when the wife adopts an online persona to meet the playwright in gay chat rooms, gradually culling details about her husband’s infidelity.
Great stuff for me, right? Hot boy-on-boy action, bisexuality, online sex . . . right up my alley. That Sarsgaard sure can pick ‘em.
The film is well acted, clearly a labor of love for the three leads.
Alas, there are a unfortunate holes in the script. We don’t understand why or how the two men became lovers in the first place. We don’t understand how the wife obtains information used to create her online persona.
In the end—which I don’t want to give away—the bisexual producer suffers the sort of fate once reserved for gays in pre-Stonewall cinema, whereas the gay playwright prospers. Why? No apparent reason, except that by virtue of being openly gay, the playwright is presumably more sympathetic than the closeted producer.
Never mind that the producer is a pretty innocuous fellow—despite his adultery and oily Hollywood business ethos—whereas his wife and playwright undertake actions deliberately designed to cause harm.
Is the gay playwright behind this film, Craig Lucas, trying to say something about bisexuality?
Viviane and I were talking about this afterwards, as we made our way to the reception following the premiere.
“Hang on, Viviane, I need to hit the restroom.”
“Me too. Meet you back here in five.”
As I stepped into the restroom, Peter Sarsgaard was stepping out of a stall.
We nodded as we passed, and I took the vacated stall.
Locking the door, I made a startling discovery.
Peter Sarsgaard had failed to flush.
Is he a slob, I wondered? A misophobe unable to touch the handles of public toilets?
I tried flushing the toilet. It was broken.
Nothing to do but urinate into Sarsgaard’s piss.
A rather intimate introduction.
I washed my hands—did Sarsgaard? I don’t know—and rejoined Viviane.
We made our way to the reception.
It was a small crowd, filled with famous faces. Campbell Scott, Alec Baldwin, Mary-Louise Parker, Craig Lucas, Patricia Clarkson and Joan Allen, all fending kind words from admiring cinema buffs.
“Are you going to say hello to the actor destined to play you in the biopic?” Viviane teased as we noshed and sipped vodka.
“I wonder,” I replied, my eyes watching Sarsgaard just over Viviane’s shoulder. Fans were telling him how much they enjoyed his movies. He was nodding and thanking them.
I supposed I could suffer him my own banal accolades. But that seemed such a waste of breath when I could be chatting with Viviane.
“Perhaps you could mention that you have a great movie script for him?” Viviane offered.
“Yeah, wonder if he’s ever heard that one. Anyway, I don’t have a movie script. I have a blog he hasn’t read—a blog that would be damned hard to envision as a movie.”
“Unless it was a porn film.”
“Or an arthouse sizzler!”
It was fun playing “my life: the movie” with Viviane as we ogled the celebrities. She had pulled a few strings to get us into this room, which was a very cool thing to do purely to feed a friend’s fixation on a movie star.
But it just goes to show you. If you are nice to people, they may just be nice back at you.
And that, in turn, may get you in a room with the actor who will one day play you.
“Oh, to heck with it,” I said. “I’m getting his autograph.”
“Really?”
“Sure, it’s dorky, but let’s do this.”
We borrowed a pen and found a program.
I walked a few steps to stand at Sarsgaard’s elbow as he chatted with an attractive blonde.
His eyes caught mine.
“Sorry to interrupt,” I smiled. “But may I bother your for an autograph?”
“Sure, no problem,” he nodded. I handed over my pen and paper.
“My name is Jefferson.” He wrote “To Jefferson,” and looked at me expectantly.
“Your name is Peter Sarsgaard. Two ‘a’s at the end.”
“Oh,” he grinned. “I know that. Anything special you want it to say?”
“Anything you like.”
“Check it out,” he said to his publicist as he wrote. “This is how I sign autographs now. I stole it from Patti Smith.”
He handed me the autograph.
I put my hand on his back and thanked him.
Viviane and I walked away casually. Then we laughed.
“Check it out!” I said, handing her the program.
sex
sexblogs
bisexuality
Peter Sarsgaard
Craig Lucas
The Dying Gaul
Thursday, July 07, 2005
Tough or Sweet?
Marcus is spending a fair amount of time in New York this summer.
This is a real boon all around, as our kids get time together, and Marcus and I get time together.
Plus, of course, Marcus is a big hit at the sex parties.
For me, the greatest advantage is that my longtime best friend boyfriend is now a serious contender to be my summer boyfriend.
Marcus and I were together last week when he decided he must acquire a digital camera that very day.
We took our collective ignorance about digital cameras to a knowledgeable sales person. Marcus asked all the right questions.
“And what does this button do?” Marcus asked, holding a camera recommended by our fellow.
“That allows you to make short videos.”
“Oh,” Marcus nodded. “So I could, for example, make a video of myself jerking off, and post it to a website?”
“Uh, yes, you could do that, sure.”
“Great. I think this is the one I want. Does it have a leather carrying case?”
When we got home, Marcus was ready to play with his new toy—by aiming it at his old toy.
“Take off your clothes,” he directed. “I need a model.”
“You are the director,” I agreed, unzipping. “Just give me a few that I can use at my blog. You know, photos of me that don’t reveal my features in any detail.”
“Yeah, yeah. You’re the shy boy. Go stand by the window.”
Marcus is a natural talent as a photo director.
After snapping a few of me at the window, he told me to sprawl face down on the bed.
“Okay, legs apart . . . good. Now bring your right leg up . . . good. Raise your ass . . . okay, now shift your weight to the left . . . good!”
He showed me the results.
“Wow, I have a great ass!”
“These will come in handy if you ever become a bottom,” he grinned. “Okay, let’s get some of your torso.”
Marcus directed me to lay back on the bed.
“Let’s try a few with your arms back . . . good. Now, drape an arm over your chest, whichever arm, doesn’t matter . . . good. Okay, let’s see some with your cock hard.”
Holding the camera in his right hand, he leaned over and took my cock deep into his mouth. I was instantly hard.
“Great, good!” he snapped away. “Now, hold it in your fist . . . nice!” I grabbed my cock in two fists, so that only the head showed. “Hot! Very good. Now squeeze it . . . nice.”
He moved me around the apartment. He moved furniture, placing me here and there.
He alternated between responsibilities as director and fluffer.
At the end of the session, we reviewed the results. He had clicked his shutter about two hundred times.
“You’re hot, Jefferson!”
“Credit the camera, not the model.” Some of the photos had very sexy poses. Mostly, they looked too much like me for me to be a fair judge.
The majority were pretty darned explicit.
Still, we found two that I might use for this blog. One of them will wind up as my new profile picture.
Do you have preference, readers?
There’s this one of my silhouette against a window.
[pic removed--under construction]
It certainly makes me look like one tough mutha’, doesn’t it? I like that the pose is a rip off of a photo that Dacia used on her original site—imitation being the sincerest form of plagiarism.
Then there is this photo.
Now, ain’t that sweet? Here’s the smile you want to see on the next pillow when you wake up in the morning.
Let me know what you think by voting on the poll below. I mean, after all, you’ve got to look at this thing, so you may as well weigh in.
I may even take your suggestions.
Tough or sweet?
Results: Tough or sweet?
sex
sexblogs
bisexuality
erotic photography
fluffer
This is a real boon all around, as our kids get time together, and Marcus and I get time together.
Plus, of course, Marcus is a big hit at the sex parties.
For me, the greatest advantage is that my longtime best friend boyfriend is now a serious contender to be my summer boyfriend.
Marcus and I were together last week when he decided he must acquire a digital camera that very day.
We took our collective ignorance about digital cameras to a knowledgeable sales person. Marcus asked all the right questions.
“And what does this button do?” Marcus asked, holding a camera recommended by our fellow.
“That allows you to make short videos.”
“Oh,” Marcus nodded. “So I could, for example, make a video of myself jerking off, and post it to a website?”
“Uh, yes, you could do that, sure.”
“Great. I think this is the one I want. Does it have a leather carrying case?”
When we got home, Marcus was ready to play with his new toy—by aiming it at his old toy.
“Take off your clothes,” he directed. “I need a model.”
“You are the director,” I agreed, unzipping. “Just give me a few that I can use at my blog. You know, photos of me that don’t reveal my features in any detail.”
“Yeah, yeah. You’re the shy boy. Go stand by the window.”
Marcus is a natural talent as a photo director.
After snapping a few of me at the window, he told me to sprawl face down on the bed.
“Okay, legs apart . . . good. Now bring your right leg up . . . good. Raise your ass . . . okay, now shift your weight to the left . . . good!”
He showed me the results.
“Wow, I have a great ass!”
“These will come in handy if you ever become a bottom,” he grinned. “Okay, let’s get some of your torso.”
Marcus directed me to lay back on the bed.
“Let’s try a few with your arms back . . . good. Now, drape an arm over your chest, whichever arm, doesn’t matter . . . good. Okay, let’s see some with your cock hard.”
Holding the camera in his right hand, he leaned over and took my cock deep into his mouth. I was instantly hard.
“Great, good!” he snapped away. “Now, hold it in your fist . . . nice!” I grabbed my cock in two fists, so that only the head showed. “Hot! Very good. Now squeeze it . . . nice.”
He moved me around the apartment. He moved furniture, placing me here and there.
He alternated between responsibilities as director and fluffer.
At the end of the session, we reviewed the results. He had clicked his shutter about two hundred times.
“You’re hot, Jefferson!”
“Credit the camera, not the model.” Some of the photos had very sexy poses. Mostly, they looked too much like me for me to be a fair judge.
The majority were pretty darned explicit.
Still, we found two that I might use for this blog. One of them will wind up as my new profile picture.
Do you have preference, readers?
There’s this one of my silhouette against a window.
[pic removed--under construction]
It certainly makes me look like one tough mutha’, doesn’t it? I like that the pose is a rip off of a photo that Dacia used on her original site—imitation being the sincerest form of plagiarism.
Then there is this photo.
Now, ain’t that sweet? Here’s the smile you want to see on the next pillow when you wake up in the morning.
Let me know what you think by voting on the poll below. I mean, after all, you’ve got to look at this thing, so you may as well weigh in.
I may even take your suggestions.
Tough or sweet?
Results: Tough or sweet?
sex
sexblogs
bisexuality
erotic photography
fluffer
Monday, July 04, 2005
Off Again, Again
Anna and I met for drinks.
We haven’t done that more than a handful of times since our first date, a year and a half ago.
I had other plans for dinner, so we would be unable to extend the evening. We were just meeting to bend elbows during happy hour.
This was her plan.
As we tested the waters of our latest reconciliation, she proposed that we go a while without sex in order to share different kinds of experiences.
This after she tested the waters by instant messaging her regret that I was unavailable for a booty call when she was horny.
She was a little all over the place with this plan.
Anna and I are easily distracted by the great sex we have. When we tetter to our “off again” moments, she laments that we spend too little time going to movies, eating at restaurants and looking at art—you know, normal stuff.
Maybe if we turned off the sex switch, she reasoned, we would be encouraged to do other things.
I was game. I wanted to do whatever we could to address her apprehensions about the state of things.
Drinks went well, though Anna’s analytical mind was self-conscious of the situation.
“Weird that we are sitting here in clothes,” she observed, twirling her glass on the table.
“You look very nice in clothes,” I said. “Tell me about your day.”
When we parted, she kissed me goodbye.
“Do you want to meet for lunch this week?” she asked.
“Sure. Let’s aim for Thursday.”
“Sounds good,” she nodded. She paused. “Can I ask you about your dinner plans this evening?”
I expected this. “Yes?”
“Is this with someone you are going to have sex with tonight?”
“No, it isn’t.” This was the truth, and all I cared to say on the subject. “See you Thursday!”
She looked dubious.
On Thursday, she arrived at my place for lunch, about an hour later than we had agreed. I let it pass.
“I made fried chicken for the kids last night,” I offered. “There is plenty left over. I figured we could have that cold, with some watermelon and a salad.”
“Sound very good,” she nodded.
We sat on the couch, catching up. As we talked, she took my leg into her lap. She rubbed my calves and lower thighs.
Her hand traveled up my leg.
I rested my forehead against one hand. My other hand was in my lap.
I kept the conversation light.
“Can I ask you a question?” she inquired, her hand inside my shorts, caressing my hip.
“Shoot.”
“Why are you so dead set against monogamy?”
A whole new cache of Jackson Pollock paintings has surfaced—but are they authentic?
There is a new theory explaining how King Tut met his early demise—but does it fly?
The White Stripes put a piano on their new album—the end of their spare instrumentation, or a new direction within it?
So many interesting things to talk about.
And yet this is the conversation we keep having.
“I just don’t understand your position,” she said, tracing her fingers on my flesh.
“Yes, you do. We’ve had this talk many times. Are you hungry?”
“I understand that you believe you were burned by monogamy in your marriage. But, you know, I’m not your ex.”
“I know.”
“And I am not an abstract idea, some idea about monogamy. I’m a real person. Me. Anna.”
“I know.”
“So why don’t you want to try monogamy again, with me?”
“I’m just not interested in a monogamous relationship right now. I’m still getting divorced. It just doesn’t appeal to me.” I took her wrist from my shorts, and held her hand. “How about some fried chicken?”
“Okay, I get it,” she sighed. “Fine, let’s eat.”
She ate quietly.
A few days later, she instant messaged me as the kids watched television. She wanted to schedule a date for the coming week. My calendar was pretty full.
Anna: Jefferson, if you want me to be a part of your life in some way, a little more effort has to take place on your part. I've been really understanding of your situation. I've tried to be patient. Sometimes I've succeeded, sometimes I've failed. I suspect that I've been more persistent than most in terms of trying to keep some kind of relationship going with you, given all of the challenges that accompany you.
Jefferson: You are persistent all right. I've never been in a relationship so analyzed as this one
Anna: I don't think its analysis so much as trying to communicate. Listen, if you don't want to be with someone who thinks and talks about what she thinks, then tell me to get lost.
Jefferson: I think "our relationship" easily rates as our "most frequent conversation topic." Just above "go ahead and dump me."
Anna: Touche. You're deceptively easy to be with on the one hand. On the other, you're really inflexible. I'd like to talk about other things, but things don't change much. You even admitted as much yourself. The reason I keep talking about "our relationship" is that it's not been a fair one.
Jefferson: I more than admit it—I anticipate it. Things won't change much for me right now.
Anna: All I've wanted is a little more fairness and time for us to know each other better. Is that more change than you can handle? I want a companion to experience things with. Is that an unreasonable thing to want?
Jefferson: I think it is reasonable. I just fret being dumped again, because I can't do much to carve out more time.
Anna: For one, I didn't dump you.
Jefferson: Right.
Anna: We're on a break, not a breakup.
Jefferson: Right.
Anna: I think I've seen you just about the same amount of time since the break as I would have had we continued as before. The primary difference has been the lack of sex. And it's not for lack of desire or out of a rejection of you. I want you as much as ever. I have faith that you care for me and appreciate me in many different ways. Sometimes, I just need to have it demonstrated, manifested.
Jefferson: I appreciate that.
Anna: What would you like from me, dearest?
Jefferson: I want you to be happy with our relationship. That's about all I want from you.
Anna: Do you want our relationship to continue as it was before? Because I will have a very hard time being happy with that. Jefferson, you can't even try it for a short period of time, say six weeks? And at the end of that if you're really unhappy or unable to stand it you can go back to doing things the way you want. You wouldn't be able to offer even that much?
Jefferson: Six weeks? What’s that? You mean, you want to continue the experiment of not having sex for six weeks?
Anna: What I mean is, can you see just me for six weeks? That's not a long time.
Jefferson: I don’t follow.
Anna: I'm talking about your not fucking anyone else when you return to fucking me. For a period of six weeks.
Jefferson: What would be the benefit of that?
Anna: Think of it as a trial subscription. If you don’t like it, you can go back to seeing other people.
Jefferson: A trial subscription suggests an interest in an extended subscription. And I am in no way interested in a monogamous relationship. That won’t be any less true after six weeks. I mean, what would you think in week seven, when I went back to seeing others?
Anna: I would think it’s not going to work out for us.
My son stood at my elbow.
“Dad, I’m hungry. What’s for dinner?”
“Ummm, hang on,” I mumbled, distracted as I typed a response.
He stood quietly.
“Dad,” he asked. “What’s ‘mono-game-mouse?”
“Hmmm? Oh . . . well, for dinner we are having pasta. You want to help me make it?”
“Yes!” He jumped excitedly. “But what’s ‘mono’ . . .”
Jefferson: I have to go make dinner. Will you be on later?
Anna: Go, super Dad. I’ll be here.
“Come on, let’s cook. And ‘monogamy’ is when two people love each other and decide to be a couple. They don’t date other people.”
“Oh. Like you and mom . . . before.”
“Yes. Here, you can wash and cut the mushrooms while I do the onions.”
I later found this email in my inbox:
Jefferson,
I called and left you a message to call me back. You can ignore that.
I don't want to continue our relationship. I'm not happy with it, haven't been happy with it for some time. The balance of time between being with you (which has been really wonderful and has made me very happy) and being without you was too heavily tilted towards the latter. You've admitted that you don't change. What's worse is that I feel like you don't even want to try. I'm not talking about your sexuality, which is yours and yours alone to decide how you want to express it. You've made that very clear and I don't even want to touch that subject anymore. I understand you have a full life and a number of responsibilities. I had no choice but to be accepting, flexible and adaptable to all of the conditions in your life. I had also been very clear about wanting more time with you, for which I felt like I was always last in line. I'm tired of being left with the dregs of your time and the occasional chance opening when it seems like all of your other social options have been exhausted.
It's not that having more time with you would solve everything either.
I told you that I wanted the kind of exchange and rapport with each other that we had sexually to extend to other aspects of our relationship. You were so open and generous in the bedroom. When we had been together, I felt that we were both there for each other's pleasure which only increased our own individual ecstasies. There was a mutuality there that I didn't think was possible for me. Unfortunately, I don't think you're ready or capable of that outside of the sexual part of our relationship.
I did not ask for anything unreasonable or unfair. But after over a year of asking for the same, it's gotten to the point where I feel like it's hopeless even to try. If there's no hope in the relationship, but plenty of frustration and disappointment (and the expectation of more of the same), there's not enough reason for me to stay. Continuing with you without any hope of anything shifting even slightly feels like living out one of Samuel Beckett's plays, over and over and over again.
I knew from our first meeting that dating you would be a challenge. I wanted to give you a fair chance. I think I did more than that. I'm sorry for the trials and tribulations, as you put them. They were just a part of my trying to fit myself into a situation that wasn't comfortable and wasn't going to get any better. I really enjoyed being with you.
Thank you for the time that we did share and the privilege of meeting your kids. I don't think it is realistic to try to be friends at least for a very long time. Take care of yourself, Jefferson. I wish you and your family only the best.
Anna
I could salvage this.
I could agree to a six-week trial period as a monogamous boyfriend. But that would be a failure. It’s just not what I want.
I could reorganize my life to spend more time with Anna. But it wouldn’t be enough time.
I could write a very grown-up response. Somehow, I want Anna in my life. But I don’t want her to be miserable, wishing for something I am not offering.
Do what you have to do, Anna.
You know where to find me.
Jefferson
sex
sexblogs
bisexuality
dating
divorce
parenting
We haven’t done that more than a handful of times since our first date, a year and a half ago.
I had other plans for dinner, so we would be unable to extend the evening. We were just meeting to bend elbows during happy hour.
This was her plan.
As we tested the waters of our latest reconciliation, she proposed that we go a while without sex in order to share different kinds of experiences.
This after she tested the waters by instant messaging her regret that I was unavailable for a booty call when she was horny.
She was a little all over the place with this plan.
Anna and I are easily distracted by the great sex we have. When we tetter to our “off again” moments, she laments that we spend too little time going to movies, eating at restaurants and looking at art—you know, normal stuff.
Maybe if we turned off the sex switch, she reasoned, we would be encouraged to do other things.
I was game. I wanted to do whatever we could to address her apprehensions about the state of things.
Drinks went well, though Anna’s analytical mind was self-conscious of the situation.
“Weird that we are sitting here in clothes,” she observed, twirling her glass on the table.
“You look very nice in clothes,” I said. “Tell me about your day.”
When we parted, she kissed me goodbye.
“Do you want to meet for lunch this week?” she asked.
“Sure. Let’s aim for Thursday.”
“Sounds good,” she nodded. She paused. “Can I ask you about your dinner plans this evening?”
I expected this. “Yes?”
“Is this with someone you are going to have sex with tonight?”
“No, it isn’t.” This was the truth, and all I cared to say on the subject. “See you Thursday!”
She looked dubious.
On Thursday, she arrived at my place for lunch, about an hour later than we had agreed. I let it pass.
“I made fried chicken for the kids last night,” I offered. “There is plenty left over. I figured we could have that cold, with some watermelon and a salad.”
“Sound very good,” she nodded.
We sat on the couch, catching up. As we talked, she took my leg into her lap. She rubbed my calves and lower thighs.
Her hand traveled up my leg.
I rested my forehead against one hand. My other hand was in my lap.
I kept the conversation light.
“Can I ask you a question?” she inquired, her hand inside my shorts, caressing my hip.
“Shoot.”
“Why are you so dead set against monogamy?”
A whole new cache of Jackson Pollock paintings has surfaced—but are they authentic?
There is a new theory explaining how King Tut met his early demise—but does it fly?
The White Stripes put a piano on their new album—the end of their spare instrumentation, or a new direction within it?
So many interesting things to talk about.
And yet this is the conversation we keep having.
“I just don’t understand your position,” she said, tracing her fingers on my flesh.
“Yes, you do. We’ve had this talk many times. Are you hungry?”
“I understand that you believe you were burned by monogamy in your marriage. But, you know, I’m not your ex.”
“I know.”
“And I am not an abstract idea, some idea about monogamy. I’m a real person. Me. Anna.”
“I know.”
“So why don’t you want to try monogamy again, with me?”
“I’m just not interested in a monogamous relationship right now. I’m still getting divorced. It just doesn’t appeal to me.” I took her wrist from my shorts, and held her hand. “How about some fried chicken?”
“Okay, I get it,” she sighed. “Fine, let’s eat.”
She ate quietly.
A few days later, she instant messaged me as the kids watched television. She wanted to schedule a date for the coming week. My calendar was pretty full.
Anna: Jefferson, if you want me to be a part of your life in some way, a little more effort has to take place on your part. I've been really understanding of your situation. I've tried to be patient. Sometimes I've succeeded, sometimes I've failed. I suspect that I've been more persistent than most in terms of trying to keep some kind of relationship going with you, given all of the challenges that accompany you.
Jefferson: You are persistent all right. I've never been in a relationship so analyzed as this one
Anna: I don't think its analysis so much as trying to communicate. Listen, if you don't want to be with someone who thinks and talks about what she thinks, then tell me to get lost.
Jefferson: I think "our relationship" easily rates as our "most frequent conversation topic." Just above "go ahead and dump me."
Anna: Touche. You're deceptively easy to be with on the one hand. On the other, you're really inflexible. I'd like to talk about other things, but things don't change much. You even admitted as much yourself. The reason I keep talking about "our relationship" is that it's not been a fair one.
Jefferson: I more than admit it—I anticipate it. Things won't change much for me right now.
Anna: All I've wanted is a little more fairness and time for us to know each other better. Is that more change than you can handle? I want a companion to experience things with. Is that an unreasonable thing to want?
Jefferson: I think it is reasonable. I just fret being dumped again, because I can't do much to carve out more time.
Anna: For one, I didn't dump you.
Jefferson: Right.
Anna: We're on a break, not a breakup.
Jefferson: Right.
Anna: I think I've seen you just about the same amount of time since the break as I would have had we continued as before. The primary difference has been the lack of sex. And it's not for lack of desire or out of a rejection of you. I want you as much as ever. I have faith that you care for me and appreciate me in many different ways. Sometimes, I just need to have it demonstrated, manifested.
Jefferson: I appreciate that.
Anna: What would you like from me, dearest?
Jefferson: I want you to be happy with our relationship. That's about all I want from you.
Anna: Do you want our relationship to continue as it was before? Because I will have a very hard time being happy with that. Jefferson, you can't even try it for a short period of time, say six weeks? And at the end of that if you're really unhappy or unable to stand it you can go back to doing things the way you want. You wouldn't be able to offer even that much?
Jefferson: Six weeks? What’s that? You mean, you want to continue the experiment of not having sex for six weeks?
Anna: What I mean is, can you see just me for six weeks? That's not a long time.
Jefferson: I don’t follow.
Anna: I'm talking about your not fucking anyone else when you return to fucking me. For a period of six weeks.
Jefferson: What would be the benefit of that?
Anna: Think of it as a trial subscription. If you don’t like it, you can go back to seeing other people.
Jefferson: A trial subscription suggests an interest in an extended subscription. And I am in no way interested in a monogamous relationship. That won’t be any less true after six weeks. I mean, what would you think in week seven, when I went back to seeing others?
Anna: I would think it’s not going to work out for us.
My son stood at my elbow.
“Dad, I’m hungry. What’s for dinner?”
“Ummm, hang on,” I mumbled, distracted as I typed a response.
He stood quietly.
“Dad,” he asked. “What’s ‘mono-game-mouse?”
“Hmmm? Oh . . . well, for dinner we are having pasta. You want to help me make it?”
“Yes!” He jumped excitedly. “But what’s ‘mono’ . . .”
Jefferson: I have to go make dinner. Will you be on later?
Anna: Go, super Dad. I’ll be here.
“Come on, let’s cook. And ‘monogamy’ is when two people love each other and decide to be a couple. They don’t date other people.”
“Oh. Like you and mom . . . before.”
“Yes. Here, you can wash and cut the mushrooms while I do the onions.”
I later found this email in my inbox:
Jefferson,
I called and left you a message to call me back. You can ignore that.
I don't want to continue our relationship. I'm not happy with it, haven't been happy with it for some time. The balance of time between being with you (which has been really wonderful and has made me very happy) and being without you was too heavily tilted towards the latter. You've admitted that you don't change. What's worse is that I feel like you don't even want to try. I'm not talking about your sexuality, which is yours and yours alone to decide how you want to express it. You've made that very clear and I don't even want to touch that subject anymore. I understand you have a full life and a number of responsibilities. I had no choice but to be accepting, flexible and adaptable to all of the conditions in your life. I had also been very clear about wanting more time with you, for which I felt like I was always last in line. I'm tired of being left with the dregs of your time and the occasional chance opening when it seems like all of your other social options have been exhausted.
It's not that having more time with you would solve everything either.
I told you that I wanted the kind of exchange and rapport with each other that we had sexually to extend to other aspects of our relationship. You were so open and generous in the bedroom. When we had been together, I felt that we were both there for each other's pleasure which only increased our own individual ecstasies. There was a mutuality there that I didn't think was possible for me. Unfortunately, I don't think you're ready or capable of that outside of the sexual part of our relationship.
I did not ask for anything unreasonable or unfair. But after over a year of asking for the same, it's gotten to the point where I feel like it's hopeless even to try. If there's no hope in the relationship, but plenty of frustration and disappointment (and the expectation of more of the same), there's not enough reason for me to stay. Continuing with you without any hope of anything shifting even slightly feels like living out one of Samuel Beckett's plays, over and over and over again.
I knew from our first meeting that dating you would be a challenge. I wanted to give you a fair chance. I think I did more than that. I'm sorry for the trials and tribulations, as you put them. They were just a part of my trying to fit myself into a situation that wasn't comfortable and wasn't going to get any better. I really enjoyed being with you.
Thank you for the time that we did share and the privilege of meeting your kids. I don't think it is realistic to try to be friends at least for a very long time. Take care of yourself, Jefferson. I wish you and your family only the best.
Anna
I could salvage this.
I could agree to a six-week trial period as a monogamous boyfriend. But that would be a failure. It’s just not what I want.
I could reorganize my life to spend more time with Anna. But it wouldn’t be enough time.
I could write a very grown-up response. Somehow, I want Anna in my life. But I don’t want her to be miserable, wishing for something I am not offering.
Do what you have to do, Anna.
You know where to find me.
Jefferson
sex
sexblogs
bisexuality
dating
divorce
parenting
Sunday, July 03, 2005
Independence
The kids eat cereal in their underwear.
School is out! And for several days, I have started their late mornings with celebratory brunches.
Now, after one box of pancake mix, a package of bacon, a dozen eggs, eighteen biscuits, six English muffins, a gallon of juice, two sticks of butter, a jar of jam and one pineapple, I leave them to their own devices.
Cheerios and milk will suffice.
I will get by on coffee.
I regret that I did not stock champagne, for today marks an anniversary.
Two years ago today, I moved out of my marriage.
After several months of enduring Lucy’s bitter silence and acrimony, after sleeping alone in our bedroom as she camped on a sofa, after fending off her fists when her fury exceeded her capacity for cursing, after doing whatever I could think of to avoid it, I relented and gave Lucy her independence for Independence Day.
She was very relieved to see my back walk through the door.
Through my sorrow and anger, I was glad to get away from the misery she had made of our family’s lives.
I set up camp in dusty apartment. I put new sheets on our old bed, the one on which we had conceived our three children.
I plugged a phone line into our old computer.
I made a beeline for Craig’s List.
I found a fellow named Gus. He looked like Matthew Broderick.
He kissed me when we fucked.
Lucy never kissed during sex. “Too intimate,” she would wince, turning away.
“God, you like to kiss,” Gus told me.
“I have a lot of kissing inside me,” I told him.
sex
sexblogs
bisexuality
dating
divorce
parenting
kissing
School is out! And for several days, I have started their late mornings with celebratory brunches.
Now, after one box of pancake mix, a package of bacon, a dozen eggs, eighteen biscuits, six English muffins, a gallon of juice, two sticks of butter, a jar of jam and one pineapple, I leave them to their own devices.
Cheerios and milk will suffice.
I will get by on coffee.
I regret that I did not stock champagne, for today marks an anniversary.
Two years ago today, I moved out of my marriage.
After several months of enduring Lucy’s bitter silence and acrimony, after sleeping alone in our bedroom as she camped on a sofa, after fending off her fists when her fury exceeded her capacity for cursing, after doing whatever I could think of to avoid it, I relented and gave Lucy her independence for Independence Day.
She was very relieved to see my back walk through the door.
Through my sorrow and anger, I was glad to get away from the misery she had made of our family’s lives.
I set up camp in dusty apartment. I put new sheets on our old bed, the one on which we had conceived our three children.
I plugged a phone line into our old computer.
I made a beeline for Craig’s List.
I found a fellow named Gus. He looked like Matthew Broderick.
He kissed me when we fucked.
Lucy never kissed during sex. “Too intimate,” she would wince, turning away.
“God, you like to kiss,” Gus told me.
“I have a lot of kissing inside me,” I told him.
sex
sexblogs
bisexuality
dating
divorce
parenting
kissing
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