A few days after Madeline left, I found her online just as I was about to start dinner for the kids.
Jefferson: What’s for dinner, sweetheart?
Madeline: Pain. Side order of heartache.
Jefferson: And I am only frying chicken. What’s your recipe?
Madeline: Marcus is my sous chef.
Jefferson: Come again?
Madeline: He’s breaking up with me.
Jefferson: He’s what?
Madeline: Via instant messenger.
Jefferson: No way, he’s never online.
Madeline: He is now.
Jefferson: Well, I know when to get out of the kitchen. Good luck, baby. I’m thinking of you.
Madeline: Thanks. Is it too early for bourbon?
Jefferson: Is it ever?
So it was that our boyfriend broke up with our girlfriend.
Or did he?
As it happened, Marcus was with me soon after. I asked him why he broke up with Madeline.
Was it because she came to see me, and he was not there?
“No, no, I get that,” he said. “You two needed that time together, especially after my visits with her. That was really okay with me.”
“Really? You’re sure? You weren’t jealous?”
“No,” Marcus said, cutting a cigar. “Okay, yes, of course, I would have loved to see her. But I understand. And that’s not what this is about.”
“So what? Tell me.”
Marcus passed me the cigar. I put it in my mouth, and he lit it.
“I am just not interested in having her as a girlfriend.”
He took another cigar for himself.
“Marcus, you adore her.”
“I know, I know, I do . . . but the ‘girlfriend’ thing is different.”
“Baby doll, you pushed the girlfriend thing. I mean, you introduced her to your kids and family as your ‘girlfriend.’ So why quit that?”
“You have to understand, Jefferson.“ He lit his cigar. “I felt that way about her. I had to tell my family.”
“And you no longer feel that way?”
“I do, of course I do.”
“I don’t get it, Marcus. You say it’s not about jealousy, and you say you have feelings for her, but . . .”
“Look, what I said was, it’s not about you and her. I mean, it’s a factor. You have feelings for her too, and obviously I don’t want to stand in the way of that. But we all seem to be dealing with that, and so it’s not the central factor.”
“Yes, but . . .”
“And I said, I have very strong feelings for her. That doesn’t change.” He took a drag on his cigar.
He voice was rising. He was agitated.
I sipped my bourbon.
We let a moment pass.
“It’s just,” he said, lowering his cigar. “It’s like this—I can not have a girlfriend I can’t touch. I can’t have a girlfriend who is just a voice on the phone, or an email, or whatever. I need someone I can feel.” He took a drag on his cigar. “That’s a girlfriend.”
I understood this.
Marcus lives very much in the moment. In this moment of his life, he lives in a rural area with his children. He is a sex worker in a nearby city, and he is booked solid.
He has children. He is never lacking for love.
He has sex. He is never lacking for touch.
What he needs, what he misses, is a lover.
What he needs a girlfriend.
And then he met Madeline.
She shares his reality as a parent, she matches his sense of adventure in sex, and she cares for him and his best friend, yours truly, the boyfriend they share.
Yet she is so damned far away.
She can’t live so far away and fulfill his everyday needs for a girlfriend.
And so he broke up with her.
“I understand that,” I said, putting down my glass. “It makes a lot of sense to me, actually. But let me ask you something. You still have feelings for Madeline.”
“Yes,” he puffed smoke towards the street. “Of course, you know that.”
“And would you see her again?”
“Yes.”
“And if you saw her, would you have sex, and be caring, and all that?”
“Yes.” He took another drag on his cigar. “Of course.”
Everything was the same.
He just didn’t want to surrender the label of “girlfriend” to one so far away.
Soon after, I instant messaged Madeline. She huffed about Marcus.
Madeline: He is dumping me over semantics.
Maybe so, Madeline.
But if I hear heard him right, you still have two boyfriends.
Madeline sorted through the aftermath.
Meanwhile, Marcus never stopped calling her every day.
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Tuesday, September 20, 2005
Monday, September 19, 2005
Marrying Kind
I have never had to piss so badly.
I woke on top of the covers.
Madeline was next to me, masturbating.
“Good morning,” I kissed her. “You take care of business. I have to pee like a motherfuck.”
“I’ve had to go for hours,” she sighed. “But I wasn’t sure what’s up with Bernard.”
Right: my father in law in the next room.
I mean, my ex father in law.
It was just after nine.
“I’ll see if the coast is clear,” I said, getting up. I pulled on pajama bottoms and t-shirt, and opened the bedroom door.
Bernard’s bed was made. No sign of him in the apartment.
Good.
He was already out, presumably for the day. We would have the place to ourselves until she left.
I went into the bathroom, raised the toilet seat and began to pee. Midway though an unending stream, I realized I should have let Madeline go first.
Nothing to do about it now.
Finished, I lowered the seat and washed my hands. At least some manners remained intact.
“He’s gone,” I reported, pulling off my shirt as I returned to the bedroom.
“Oh good, I was sure I’d bust.” Madeline jumped up and pushed past me to the bathroom.
I undressed and got back into bed.
“I’m sorry I didn’t let you go first,” I apologized when she returned. “I guess I woke up thoughtless.”
“It’s okay,” she said, sinking into the pillows. “I woke up with thoughts to spare.”
Madeline’s eyes were full.
After five days, our remaining hours together were now dwindling to the single digits. Later that afternoon, she would take her bags to the airport and return home to her children and her life.
Leaving behind the part of her life that thrives in my bedroom.
We kissed, and I was in her.
Our eyes were intent on one another, and my mind went back to my original hopes for these days together. I had wanted simplicity and ease, to build on the stream of online conversations and the extraordinary time we shared in April.
As we made love, I knew she was thinking that it would be the last time for a very long time.
I knew that our connection made her sadder about our imminent separation.
I pressed close, to squeeze that sorrow deep. She wouldn’t want me to take it away; she wants to feel it, as part of her love.
I kissed her to tears.
I slapped her cheeks numb.
For the remaining hours, I would take care of her.
We made love and afterwards, she showered. I gave her coffee.
I took her out and fed her.
We walked and spoke of the things we have in common, and reflected on the things that keep us apart.
We came home.
With the evening drawing near, she packed her bags and checked her tickets, as I contemplated the packaging of her souvenir.
On the walk home from the park after the concert the night before, we had passed a pile of junk left for pick up in the morning. Instinctively, I paused to give a once over to the refuse, to see if there was anything worth salvaging.
I am an inveterate scavenger. Dumpster diving is a habit that dies hard.
I saw that two paintings were neatly set to one side.
One was just awful. It deserved its fate as landfill.
But the other had a kind of charm.
Someone who signed his name “Ari” had painted a wedding scene in a naive style very much indebted to Chagall. A couple embraced under a Chuppah before a happy group; overhead, three faces loomed in the clouds.
Ari had used a label maker to add the title to the frame, in white letters on green tape: “The Patriarchs Blessing a Wedding.”
I crouched to look more closely at the painting. “Isn’t tomorrow your wedding anniversary?” I asked.
“Fuck, yes,” Madeline replied, a little drunk. “My last day in New York is indeed my wedding anniversary.”
“I think I have found the perfect gift, a wedding portrait here in the city trash.”
“You are too, too thoughtful,” she grinned.
A wedding painting rescued for her wedding anniversary, the first since her husband had ruined their marriage—an anniversary she would spend with me.
Madeline and I often commiserate on our marriages and divorces, about how fucked up it all is.
If her husband had not cheated, she’d still be married. If my wife had not dumped me to win a fight, I’d still be married.
For better or worse, for richer for poorer, we had each put our fates in the hands of Type-A control freaks. And for all that we endured for that decision, we would have stuck it out.
I guess we are the marrying kind.
Being married sure beat that the hell out of us.
For if even the marrying kind play by the rules and get shafted, then screw the whole enterprise.
I can’t speak for her, but I know I will never again give someone else the power to destroy my future, and that of my children.
I can fix my life, and I can have love and joy, and all that, but I’ll be damned if I will ever again risk losing it all if an impulsive wife decides that I am public enemy number one because—who knows why?—I work too much. I work too little. My shit stinks. Whatever.
Still, as all desire for matrimony hits the gutter with good riddance, I think of the kids.
Madeline and I also talk about the daily life of parenting, and how difficult it can be to go it alone.
I am absolutely confident that being single is right for me now, and that I am doing a brilliant job as a parent.
But on those mornings when there is no one else to get up and make breakfast . . .
When all three children need haircuts and new shoes, and the bank account is groaning . . .
On those days when a child is sick, and someone has to be the nurse . . .
On those nights when the kids are asleep, and I’m alone in bed, hugging a pillow . . .
At those times, I am reminded that raising children is hard work, and a job much better shared.
At those times, I can imagine myself saying to someone—even Madeline, or Marcus, or both, or God knows who—that we have kids to grow and the clock is ticking. We are still young and the next decade is crucial. Let’s move to a big farmhouse, raise the babies and then worry about being happy.
Just one of those thoughts.
When your future is wiped clean, it is disconcerting to realize that suddenly, anything at all is possible.
And sobering to recall that whatever that future holds, it comes with children who are now—and will remain, for years and years—the absolute and immediate priority.
Madeline and I found a painting of a wedding.
I gave it to her for her now defunct anniversary, a day she will have to reclaim for her calendar as one just like any other.
We brought it home.
Now, I had to get this new acquisition packed for her trip home.
I cut cardboard to size and made a box for the frame. I wrapped this in bubble wrap, creating a secure package, though one that would be awkward to carry.
I rummaged through a catch-all drawer and found a handle. In order to affix it to the package, I needed some line.
My tool box yielded twine—not enough—and thread. I tried the thread, but it broke.
“Shit.”
“What’s the matter, sugar?”
“Agh, I just need some rope to tie up this package. Just a few feet will do, but I don’t have anything.”
Madeline laughed.
“What?”
“Jefferson . . . you need rope?
Oh my dog.
Of course I have rope.
I went to my cabinet and found the rope I had used to hang Madeline from my closet door a few nights before.
I wrapped it around the painting. I attached the handle.
Perfect.
The perfect, poignant end to her perfect, poignant trip.
Until fate sent an awkward coda our way.
As we sat holding one another, preparing for the inevitable, there was a key at the door.
We jumped apart.
My father in law, Bernard, was back.
I mean, my ex father in law.
Our last twenty minutes of goodbyes would be spent in introductions.
Madeline was charming. She had heard so much about Bernard.
Bernard, himself a charmer, replied that he had heard nothing about Madeline—and if he had heard a great deal of Madeline, as we had sex the previous night, he was too much the gentleman to say so.
Pleasantries were exchanged. It was determined that he had visited her hometown in the early sixties. Was it still as lovely?
Yes, she thought it was.
Did she think the college basketball team was improving?
Yes, there is a lot of heart there, she agreed.
I commented on the time, and offered to walk Madeline to a taxi.
Bernard and Madeline said their goodbyes.
I picked up a bag and a painting. Madeline wheeled a bag behind her.
I closed the door behind us, smiling to her, sad about her departure, annoyed with the interruption.
The elevator was slow. Our eyes were kissing.
We flagged a cab.
The bags and the painting were nestled in the trunk.
“This is harder than last time,” she said, tearing.
“I know.”
“It’s just that . . . oh,” she cleared a tear. “Oh, we’ll talk.”
“Look for me tonight.”
“I love you.”
“I know. I love you.”
The cab pulled away.
I watched, then turned and went upstairs.
“Lovely person,” Bernard said.
“Yes.”
“An old friend?”
“A new one.”
“Ah.”
We watched the news.
He wanted to kill some time before dinner.
He was going out with his daughter, my ex wife.
I’m sure that Madeline’s ears were burning as her plane rose about the clouds.
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I woke on top of the covers.
Madeline was next to me, masturbating.
“Good morning,” I kissed her. “You take care of business. I have to pee like a motherfuck.”
“I’ve had to go for hours,” she sighed. “But I wasn’t sure what’s up with Bernard.”
Right: my father in law in the next room.
I mean, my ex father in law.
It was just after nine.
“I’ll see if the coast is clear,” I said, getting up. I pulled on pajama bottoms and t-shirt, and opened the bedroom door.
Bernard’s bed was made. No sign of him in the apartment.
Good.
He was already out, presumably for the day. We would have the place to ourselves until she left.
I went into the bathroom, raised the toilet seat and began to pee. Midway though an unending stream, I realized I should have let Madeline go first.
Nothing to do about it now.
Finished, I lowered the seat and washed my hands. At least some manners remained intact.
“He’s gone,” I reported, pulling off my shirt as I returned to the bedroom.
“Oh good, I was sure I’d bust.” Madeline jumped up and pushed past me to the bathroom.
I undressed and got back into bed.
“I’m sorry I didn’t let you go first,” I apologized when she returned. “I guess I woke up thoughtless.”
“It’s okay,” she said, sinking into the pillows. “I woke up with thoughts to spare.”
Madeline’s eyes were full.
After five days, our remaining hours together were now dwindling to the single digits. Later that afternoon, she would take her bags to the airport and return home to her children and her life.
Leaving behind the part of her life that thrives in my bedroom.
We kissed, and I was in her.
Our eyes were intent on one another, and my mind went back to my original hopes for these days together. I had wanted simplicity and ease, to build on the stream of online conversations and the extraordinary time we shared in April.
As we made love, I knew she was thinking that it would be the last time for a very long time.
I knew that our connection made her sadder about our imminent separation.
I pressed close, to squeeze that sorrow deep. She wouldn’t want me to take it away; she wants to feel it, as part of her love.
I kissed her to tears.
I slapped her cheeks numb.
For the remaining hours, I would take care of her.
We made love and afterwards, she showered. I gave her coffee.
I took her out and fed her.
We walked and spoke of the things we have in common, and reflected on the things that keep us apart.
We came home.
With the evening drawing near, she packed her bags and checked her tickets, as I contemplated the packaging of her souvenir.
On the walk home from the park after the concert the night before, we had passed a pile of junk left for pick up in the morning. Instinctively, I paused to give a once over to the refuse, to see if there was anything worth salvaging.
I am an inveterate scavenger. Dumpster diving is a habit that dies hard.
I saw that two paintings were neatly set to one side.
One was just awful. It deserved its fate as landfill.
But the other had a kind of charm.
Someone who signed his name “Ari” had painted a wedding scene in a naive style very much indebted to Chagall. A couple embraced under a Chuppah before a happy group; overhead, three faces loomed in the clouds.
Ari had used a label maker to add the title to the frame, in white letters on green tape: “The Patriarchs Blessing a Wedding.”
I crouched to look more closely at the painting. “Isn’t tomorrow your wedding anniversary?” I asked.
“Fuck, yes,” Madeline replied, a little drunk. “My last day in New York is indeed my wedding anniversary.”
“I think I have found the perfect gift, a wedding portrait here in the city trash.”
“You are too, too thoughtful,” she grinned.
A wedding painting rescued for her wedding anniversary, the first since her husband had ruined their marriage—an anniversary she would spend with me.
Madeline and I often commiserate on our marriages and divorces, about how fucked up it all is.
If her husband had not cheated, she’d still be married. If my wife had not dumped me to win a fight, I’d still be married.
For better or worse, for richer for poorer, we had each put our fates in the hands of Type-A control freaks. And for all that we endured for that decision, we would have stuck it out.
I guess we are the marrying kind.
Being married sure beat that the hell out of us.
For if even the marrying kind play by the rules and get shafted, then screw the whole enterprise.
I can’t speak for her, but I know I will never again give someone else the power to destroy my future, and that of my children.
I can fix my life, and I can have love and joy, and all that, but I’ll be damned if I will ever again risk losing it all if an impulsive wife decides that I am public enemy number one because—who knows why?—I work too much. I work too little. My shit stinks. Whatever.
Still, as all desire for matrimony hits the gutter with good riddance, I think of the kids.
Madeline and I also talk about the daily life of parenting, and how difficult it can be to go it alone.
I am absolutely confident that being single is right for me now, and that I am doing a brilliant job as a parent.
But on those mornings when there is no one else to get up and make breakfast . . .
When all three children need haircuts and new shoes, and the bank account is groaning . . .
On those days when a child is sick, and someone has to be the nurse . . .
On those nights when the kids are asleep, and I’m alone in bed, hugging a pillow . . .
At those times, I am reminded that raising children is hard work, and a job much better shared.
At those times, I can imagine myself saying to someone—even Madeline, or Marcus, or both, or God knows who—that we have kids to grow and the clock is ticking. We are still young and the next decade is crucial. Let’s move to a big farmhouse, raise the babies and then worry about being happy.
Just one of those thoughts.
When your future is wiped clean, it is disconcerting to realize that suddenly, anything at all is possible.
And sobering to recall that whatever that future holds, it comes with children who are now—and will remain, for years and years—the absolute and immediate priority.
Madeline and I found a painting of a wedding.
I gave it to her for her now defunct anniversary, a day she will have to reclaim for her calendar as one just like any other.
We brought it home.
Now, I had to get this new acquisition packed for her trip home.
I cut cardboard to size and made a box for the frame. I wrapped this in bubble wrap, creating a secure package, though one that would be awkward to carry.
I rummaged through a catch-all drawer and found a handle. In order to affix it to the package, I needed some line.
My tool box yielded twine—not enough—and thread. I tried the thread, but it broke.
“Shit.”
“What’s the matter, sugar?”
“Agh, I just need some rope to tie up this package. Just a few feet will do, but I don’t have anything.”
Madeline laughed.
“What?”
“Jefferson . . . you need rope?
Oh my dog.
Of course I have rope.
I went to my cabinet and found the rope I had used to hang Madeline from my closet door a few nights before.
I wrapped it around the painting. I attached the handle.
Perfect.
The perfect, poignant end to her perfect, poignant trip.
Until fate sent an awkward coda our way.
As we sat holding one another, preparing for the inevitable, there was a key at the door.
We jumped apart.
My father in law, Bernard, was back.
I mean, my ex father in law.
Our last twenty minutes of goodbyes would be spent in introductions.
Madeline was charming. She had heard so much about Bernard.
Bernard, himself a charmer, replied that he had heard nothing about Madeline—and if he had heard a great deal of Madeline, as we had sex the previous night, he was too much the gentleman to say so.
Pleasantries were exchanged. It was determined that he had visited her hometown in the early sixties. Was it still as lovely?
Yes, she thought it was.
Did she think the college basketball team was improving?
Yes, there is a lot of heart there, she agreed.
I commented on the time, and offered to walk Madeline to a taxi.
Bernard and Madeline said their goodbyes.
I picked up a bag and a painting. Madeline wheeled a bag behind her.
I closed the door behind us, smiling to her, sad about her departure, annoyed with the interruption.
The elevator was slow. Our eyes were kissing.
We flagged a cab.
The bags and the painting were nestled in the trunk.
“This is harder than last time,” she said, tearing.
“I know.”
“It’s just that . . . oh,” she cleared a tear. “Oh, we’ll talk.”
“Look for me tonight.”
“I love you.”
“I know. I love you.”
The cab pulled away.
I watched, then turned and went upstairs.
“Lovely person,” Bernard said.
“Yes.”
“An old friend?”
“A new one.”
“Ah.”
We watched the news.
He wanted to kill some time before dinner.
He was going out with his daughter, my ex wife.
I’m sure that Madeline’s ears were burning as her plane rose about the clouds.
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Friday, September 16, 2005
Two Voices, Overheard
One of these days it will soon be all over, cut and dry
And I won't have this urge to go all bottled up inside
One of these days I'll look back—and I'll say I left in time
Cause somewhere for me I know there's peace of mind.
“It really is Emmylou!” Madeline exclaimed.
“Wow. Wow!” I nodded. “Let’s follow the voice.”
We had clean forgot that there was a concert in the park that night.
While planning for Madeline’s trip, we found that Emmylou Harris and Elvis Costello would be playing Summerstage in Central Park on her last night in the city.
We were excited until we noticed the ticket prices—seventy five a pop, with a sold out crowd certain—and decided that even so promising a concert as this was not going to separate us from one hundred and fifty dollars.
As we drew closer, I wondered if that had been a wise decision.
The pairing of Elvis and Emmylou was quirky and irresistible.
At first blush, they appear so different. When I was a kid, Emmylou was the voice on my parents’ radio (I am from her red-dirt hometown, where she is revered), whereas Elvis came only from my turntable and eight-track player.
Radio wanted nothing to do with the songwriter who bit the hand that feeds, but after my friends and I saw his spastic performance on “Saturday Night Live,” we were buying albums and passing around cassettes.
Elvis and Emmylou made sense together, now. Their voices were two sides of the same coin in the seventies, as both have an appreciation of popular song that is at once instinctual and learned, with shared roots in country and blues.
It seems obvious in retrospect. Hell, George Jones knew it back then; he performed with each of them.
I pressed closer, peering through the trees, past the bleachers. Emmylou was fifty yards away, alone on stage with her guitar, singing.
“We are staying here,” I said.
“We’re not going anywhere,” Madeline replied.
We spread our blanket on an incline under trees and sat, just listening and watching the leaves turn orange in the setting sun.
In time, Elvis joined Emmylou onstage.
They bantered before trying harmonies on a few songs.
Emmylou can harmonize with anyone. Her voice floated up and above, sure and steady.
Elvis stammered, faltered.
His voice seemed cockney and unfocused by contrast to hers.
He would pursue a line then lose the harmony. Each time, he apologized. Emmylou would continue, quietly assuring him in asides that it was all right, keep going, you’ll get it.
They struggled through her songs with Gram Parsons. They were good together in “Love Hurts.” They were awkward in a traditional ballad.
The sound check concluded without fanfare.
“Fuck,” Madeline said. “That was amazing, the way they worked on that ballad.”
“Think they got it?”
“I don’t know . . .”
“Think we should stay to find out?”
“Oh yes, we have to know.”
The concert would begin in two hours, time enough to take care of dinner. But we were exactly where we needed to be, and loathe to give up our spot.
I proposed that Madeline stay with the blanket, while I foraged for food.
I kissed her goodbye, leaving her with her book and water.
I walked home quickly, mentally raiding my refrigerator for picnic options.
When I arrived, the door was unlocked.
The lamp was on. There were two bags on the floor by the bar. I heard “The NewsHour” playing in the back.
“Hello?” I called.
“Jefferson!” a voice called back.
It was Bernard, my father in law.
I mean, my ex father in law—I’m still getting used to that.
Bernard and I are close. I’ve known him for nearly half my life. When he is in New York, he stays with me.
Just after Madeline had purchased her tickets for the trip to see me, Bernard wrote an email to say that he would be in the city for a few days. The first day of his trip overlapped with the last of Madeline’s.
I never, never want my family life to mix with my dating life.
It’s a good guideline for my life now. It helps me to protect my kids from dealing with a shifting roster of daddy’s girlfriends. Their lives should be stable, not troubled by concerns that total strangers are being considered as possible stepmothers.
This rule also protects my privacy. I do not want to have my kids, my parents, my ex, or her parents—or anyone else, for that matter—involved in conjecture about my romantic life.
Madeline knows this.
She did not want me to be in a bind over this schedule conflict.
We talked over the various options.
She could cut her trip short, and eat the cost of changing the reservations.
We could rent a hotel room for the night, leaving the apartment to Bernard.
Viviane offered her place; we were welcome to crash with her.
It was up to me, Madeline said. I was the one troubled by the conflict. She didn’t care one way or the other if Bernard was in the apartment, but she did not want me to be uncomfortable.
I thought about it, long and hard. I did not want to complicate my life, or those of my loved ones. I just wanted this time with Madeline, as easy and simple as possible, and I wanted to sleep in my own bed.
I thanked Viviane for the offer.
I told Madeline to leave things be.
I told Bernard I would have a guest when he was in town.
“Hey Bernard!” I followed the sound of the television. I smiled at the sight of him. He stood and we embraced.
“You’ve lost weight—it’s not cancer, is it?” I teased. “How’s the foot?”
“Eh, much better, thanks, thanks. Let’s just say I’m walking and leave it at that.”
“Hey, so long as you are walking, you ain’t pushing up daisies.”
“This is the much better option.”
“How was the flight?”
“Exhausting, exhausting. I’m jetlagged—its six hours earlier at home, you know. I’m turning in soon.”
“Ma pauvre.” I swallowed and adopted a nonchalant attitude. “We’ll be quiet when we come in. You remember I have a guest tonight?”
“Yes, right. What do you want to do about the sleeping arrangements? You want to give him the room? I can take the couch.”
I looked aside—casually, I hoped.
“Well, she will stay with me, in my room.”
“Ah,” he smiled. “Of course, that’s fine. I will be asleep, this we know.”
He followed me to the kitchen and we chatted as I put together a picnic.
I chopped a roast chicken, cut watermelon into wedges, and gathered crackers. I mixed a pitcher of gin and tonics.
I babbled to keep the conversation in my hands, to avoid questions.
“Some friends and I are seeing Emmylou Harris and Elvis Costello in the park,” I offered, alluding to fictional picnickers that may be implicated in some future white lie. “Or rather, we are listening, as we are set up just outside the concert.”
“Emmylou Harris? She is still working, huh?”
“New album last year, in fact. All songs she wrote.” I packed a corkscrew, two plastic cups, and a bottle of wine Viviane had given us.
“I met her, years ago. Lovely woman.”
“Have you seen her lately? She’s stunning.”
He chuckled. “Some of us age better than others.”
“As long as we are aging, right? Sure beats the alternative.” I tucked some napkins into the bag.
“So long as there are alternatives,” he nodded. “Frankly, eh, I’m not so sure how many remain.”
“Well, Bernard, you just keep that foot in the grave, you hear?”
My picnic was packed.
“Okay, mister, I am out of here. Get some sleep and I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Have fun,” he waved. “Another hour meditating on the impending collapse of civilization as we know it, and I’m done. Iraq . . . another car bombing. It’s not pretty.”
“It’s fucked, as predicted. Sleep well!”
I hit the elevator button and paced, annoyed.
Why can’t it just be easy? God damn it.
I talked myself back into a high as I walked to the park.
The plan was brilliant.
Our blanket was now surrounded by dozens of others. A long line of ticket holders snaked down a sidewalk.
Madeline sipped a cup of wine that had been proffered by an adjacent group.
That’s what happens when you leave a pretty lady unattended, I thought.
“Look at those suckers, “ I nodded toward the line, dropping my bag to the ground. “So much money for bench seats . . .”
“And we have a lovely picnic,” Madeline smiled.
I unpacked, explaining that Bernard was already at the apartment.
“You’re okay with that?” she asked, opening the watermelon.
“I’m fine. Whatever.” I pulled out the thermos of gin and tonics. “Shake, shake. Pass the cups.”
We talked as we nibbled.
The gin and tonics gone, I opened the wine.
The concert began.
The decks of two thirty-year careers were shuffled, and shuffled again with the music they admired.
Emmylou performed alone.
Elvis performed with the Imposters.
They came together.
They shared Larry Campbell, longtime accompanist of Bob Dylan, who switched from mandolin to pedal steel to electric. Punk to country and back again, they took us from song to song, genre to genre.
We were sweating, just listening.
Emmylou was transcendent. Elvis took the lead, exuding the bon homie of a bandleader at the Copacobana.
They pushed over two and half hours before they hit that troublesome traditional tune.
Elvis took it over, pressing out the soul, seeking out the edges.
Emmylou chased him down, tossing the heartache back and forth.
Two voices reached, intertwined, and found salvation.
The sky echoed, awed.
And then the voices brought us home.
Love hurts, they reminded us.
What’s so funny ‘bout peace love and understanding? they asked.
As the final chords kicked back from the trees, picnics were disassembled. Concertgoers trudged down a path behind us.
Madeline and I looked up at the leaves, lit now by street lamps.
We were quiet.
“They nailed it,” she finally said.
“I’m just floored,” I said, flat on my back.
“Over here,” a park worker shouted to the crowd. “Towards Seventy-Second Street, Strawberry Fields. Fireworks this way.”
Fireworks?
The sky exploded.
If fate were designing a romantic last night for us, this was too much, utterly gratuitous.
We kissed to fireworks, ears numb, minds alive, the skyline clear and electric beyond the trees.
“I love you,” I said.
“I know,” she smiled, eyes welling. “I love you.”
I packed the remains of the picnic as Madeline collected our things.
We held hands as we walked home.
“Shh,” I reminded her as I opened the door. “Meet me in our room.”
I dropped the bags in my kitchen and washed my hands. I poured two bourbons.
Madeline was in the bathroom. She soon joined me, undressing next to the bed.
“I’m just not sure about sex,” I winced. “You know, with the old man in the next room.”
“You do what makes you comfortable,” she said.
We talked.
We kissed.
We made love, keenly aware that our time together was ending.
Our bodies joined, our voices mingled as we talked.
Other ears asleep, so close.
sex
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Emmylou Harris
Elvis Costello
And I won't have this urge to go all bottled up inside
One of these days I'll look back—and I'll say I left in time
Cause somewhere for me I know there's peace of mind.
“It really is Emmylou!” Madeline exclaimed.
“Wow. Wow!” I nodded. “Let’s follow the voice.”
We had clean forgot that there was a concert in the park that night.
While planning for Madeline’s trip, we found that Emmylou Harris and Elvis Costello would be playing Summerstage in Central Park on her last night in the city.
We were excited until we noticed the ticket prices—seventy five a pop, with a sold out crowd certain—and decided that even so promising a concert as this was not going to separate us from one hundred and fifty dollars.
As we drew closer, I wondered if that had been a wise decision.
The pairing of Elvis and Emmylou was quirky and irresistible.
At first blush, they appear so different. When I was a kid, Emmylou was the voice on my parents’ radio (I am from her red-dirt hometown, where she is revered), whereas Elvis came only from my turntable and eight-track player.
Radio wanted nothing to do with the songwriter who bit the hand that feeds, but after my friends and I saw his spastic performance on “Saturday Night Live,” we were buying albums and passing around cassettes.
Elvis and Emmylou made sense together, now. Their voices were two sides of the same coin in the seventies, as both have an appreciation of popular song that is at once instinctual and learned, with shared roots in country and blues.
It seems obvious in retrospect. Hell, George Jones knew it back then; he performed with each of them.
I pressed closer, peering through the trees, past the bleachers. Emmylou was fifty yards away, alone on stage with her guitar, singing.
“We are staying here,” I said.
“We’re not going anywhere,” Madeline replied.
We spread our blanket on an incline under trees and sat, just listening and watching the leaves turn orange in the setting sun.
In time, Elvis joined Emmylou onstage.
They bantered before trying harmonies on a few songs.
Emmylou can harmonize with anyone. Her voice floated up and above, sure and steady.
Elvis stammered, faltered.
His voice seemed cockney and unfocused by contrast to hers.
He would pursue a line then lose the harmony. Each time, he apologized. Emmylou would continue, quietly assuring him in asides that it was all right, keep going, you’ll get it.
They struggled through her songs with Gram Parsons. They were good together in “Love Hurts.” They were awkward in a traditional ballad.
The sound check concluded without fanfare.
“Fuck,” Madeline said. “That was amazing, the way they worked on that ballad.”
“Think they got it?”
“I don’t know . . .”
“Think we should stay to find out?”
“Oh yes, we have to know.”
The concert would begin in two hours, time enough to take care of dinner. But we were exactly where we needed to be, and loathe to give up our spot.
I proposed that Madeline stay with the blanket, while I foraged for food.
I kissed her goodbye, leaving her with her book and water.
I walked home quickly, mentally raiding my refrigerator for picnic options.
When I arrived, the door was unlocked.
The lamp was on. There were two bags on the floor by the bar. I heard “The NewsHour” playing in the back.
“Hello?” I called.
“Jefferson!” a voice called back.
It was Bernard, my father in law.
I mean, my ex father in law—I’m still getting used to that.
Bernard and I are close. I’ve known him for nearly half my life. When he is in New York, he stays with me.
Just after Madeline had purchased her tickets for the trip to see me, Bernard wrote an email to say that he would be in the city for a few days. The first day of his trip overlapped with the last of Madeline’s.
I never, never want my family life to mix with my dating life.
It’s a good guideline for my life now. It helps me to protect my kids from dealing with a shifting roster of daddy’s girlfriends. Their lives should be stable, not troubled by concerns that total strangers are being considered as possible stepmothers.
This rule also protects my privacy. I do not want to have my kids, my parents, my ex, or her parents—or anyone else, for that matter—involved in conjecture about my romantic life.
Madeline knows this.
She did not want me to be in a bind over this schedule conflict.
We talked over the various options.
She could cut her trip short, and eat the cost of changing the reservations.
We could rent a hotel room for the night, leaving the apartment to Bernard.
Viviane offered her place; we were welcome to crash with her.
It was up to me, Madeline said. I was the one troubled by the conflict. She didn’t care one way or the other if Bernard was in the apartment, but she did not want me to be uncomfortable.
I thought about it, long and hard. I did not want to complicate my life, or those of my loved ones. I just wanted this time with Madeline, as easy and simple as possible, and I wanted to sleep in my own bed.
I thanked Viviane for the offer.
I told Madeline to leave things be.
I told Bernard I would have a guest when he was in town.
“Hey Bernard!” I followed the sound of the television. I smiled at the sight of him. He stood and we embraced.
“You’ve lost weight—it’s not cancer, is it?” I teased. “How’s the foot?”
“Eh, much better, thanks, thanks. Let’s just say I’m walking and leave it at that.”
“Hey, so long as you are walking, you ain’t pushing up daisies.”
“This is the much better option.”
“How was the flight?”
“Exhausting, exhausting. I’m jetlagged—its six hours earlier at home, you know. I’m turning in soon.”
“Ma pauvre.” I swallowed and adopted a nonchalant attitude. “We’ll be quiet when we come in. You remember I have a guest tonight?”
“Yes, right. What do you want to do about the sleeping arrangements? You want to give him the room? I can take the couch.”
I looked aside—casually, I hoped.
“Well, she will stay with me, in my room.”
“Ah,” he smiled. “Of course, that’s fine. I will be asleep, this we know.”
He followed me to the kitchen and we chatted as I put together a picnic.
I chopped a roast chicken, cut watermelon into wedges, and gathered crackers. I mixed a pitcher of gin and tonics.
I babbled to keep the conversation in my hands, to avoid questions.
“Some friends and I are seeing Emmylou Harris and Elvis Costello in the park,” I offered, alluding to fictional picnickers that may be implicated in some future white lie. “Or rather, we are listening, as we are set up just outside the concert.”
“Emmylou Harris? She is still working, huh?”
“New album last year, in fact. All songs she wrote.” I packed a corkscrew, two plastic cups, and a bottle of wine Viviane had given us.
“I met her, years ago. Lovely woman.”
“Have you seen her lately? She’s stunning.”
He chuckled. “Some of us age better than others.”
“As long as we are aging, right? Sure beats the alternative.” I tucked some napkins into the bag.
“So long as there are alternatives,” he nodded. “Frankly, eh, I’m not so sure how many remain.”
“Well, Bernard, you just keep that foot in the grave, you hear?”
My picnic was packed.
“Okay, mister, I am out of here. Get some sleep and I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Have fun,” he waved. “Another hour meditating on the impending collapse of civilization as we know it, and I’m done. Iraq . . . another car bombing. It’s not pretty.”
“It’s fucked, as predicted. Sleep well!”
I hit the elevator button and paced, annoyed.
Why can’t it just be easy? God damn it.
I talked myself back into a high as I walked to the park.
The plan was brilliant.
Our blanket was now surrounded by dozens of others. A long line of ticket holders snaked down a sidewalk.
Madeline sipped a cup of wine that had been proffered by an adjacent group.
That’s what happens when you leave a pretty lady unattended, I thought.
“Look at those suckers, “ I nodded toward the line, dropping my bag to the ground. “So much money for bench seats . . .”
“And we have a lovely picnic,” Madeline smiled.
I unpacked, explaining that Bernard was already at the apartment.
“You’re okay with that?” she asked, opening the watermelon.
“I’m fine. Whatever.” I pulled out the thermos of gin and tonics. “Shake, shake. Pass the cups.”
We talked as we nibbled.
The gin and tonics gone, I opened the wine.
The concert began.
The decks of two thirty-year careers were shuffled, and shuffled again with the music they admired.
Emmylou performed alone.
Elvis performed with the Imposters.
They came together.
They shared Larry Campbell, longtime accompanist of Bob Dylan, who switched from mandolin to pedal steel to electric. Punk to country and back again, they took us from song to song, genre to genre.
We were sweating, just listening.
Emmylou was transcendent. Elvis took the lead, exuding the bon homie of a bandleader at the Copacobana.
They pushed over two and half hours before they hit that troublesome traditional tune.
Elvis took it over, pressing out the soul, seeking out the edges.
Emmylou chased him down, tossing the heartache back and forth.
Two voices reached, intertwined, and found salvation.
The sky echoed, awed.
And then the voices brought us home.
Love hurts, they reminded us.
What’s so funny ‘bout peace love and understanding? they asked.
As the final chords kicked back from the trees, picnics were disassembled. Concertgoers trudged down a path behind us.
Madeline and I looked up at the leaves, lit now by street lamps.
We were quiet.
“They nailed it,” she finally said.
“I’m just floored,” I said, flat on my back.
“Over here,” a park worker shouted to the crowd. “Towards Seventy-Second Street, Strawberry Fields. Fireworks this way.”
Fireworks?
The sky exploded.
If fate were designing a romantic last night for us, this was too much, utterly gratuitous.
We kissed to fireworks, ears numb, minds alive, the skyline clear and electric beyond the trees.
“I love you,” I said.
“I know,” she smiled, eyes welling. “I love you.”
I packed the remains of the picnic as Madeline collected our things.
We held hands as we walked home.
“Shh,” I reminded her as I opened the door. “Meet me in our room.”
I dropped the bags in my kitchen and washed my hands. I poured two bourbons.
Madeline was in the bathroom. She soon joined me, undressing next to the bed.
“I’m just not sure about sex,” I winced. “You know, with the old man in the next room.”
“You do what makes you comfortable,” she said.
We talked.
We kissed.
We made love, keenly aware that our time together was ending.
Our bodies joined, our voices mingled as we talked.
Other ears asleep, so close.
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bisexual
erotica
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Emmylou Harris
Elvis Costello
Wednesday, September 14, 2005
Portraits
The last full day of Madeline’s visit began as had the others, with sex and conversation. A tad earlier than I would have preferred, but that’s what I get for bedding a farm girl with a libido that answers to the cock’s crow.
I remind myself that I can sleep when I’m dead—or at least tomorrow, when Madeline is gone.
Before she goes home, I am determined that we spend a day out in the city, so that her memories will include sites other than the ceiling of my bedroom.
“Let’s go to a museum,” I suggest as we lay in bed, staring up. “And then read in the park.”
“That sounds really lovely.”
“Don’t it, though? Well, what do you think? The Met? The Guggenheim? MoMA?”
“That’s really your decision, isn’t it?”
Of course it was—it’s my city. I thought about the exhibitions I wanted to see, and the collections Madeline has yet to see.
I thought about the crowds. I thought about trudging through those vast galleries, past all those people and visual stimuli, checking off masterpiece after masterpiece, drugged as we were on sex and companionship.
What a buzz kill.
I didn’t want to ruin our intimacy by taking Madeline to a museum.
I wanted to build on it by taking her to a painting.
One single painting.
“Let’s go to the Frick,” I said. “Ever heard of it?”
She shook her head.
I smiled. “Good.”
Madeline was going to meet the Comtesse d’Haussonville.
We walked through the park to the Frick, toting a bag stuffed with a blanket, our books and bottles of water. It was a warm afternoon, and the park was filled with families, runners and sun worshippers.
This was about our speed, languid and taking life as it came.
That mellow idyll was tempered when we were face to face with the Frick’s grand doors.
Installed in the former mansion of Henry Clay Frick, the collection is a jewel box of erudite connoisseurship, each artwork judiciously chosen and placed in juxtaposition to others.
The perfection of the place is meant to inspire awe, to make you feel underdressed for a fine occasion. Indeed, we were underdressed—not so long ago, visitors were required to conform to a dress code of slacks for gentlemen, skirts for ladies. To this day, children are not allowed, lest they disrupt the decorum.
I took secret delight in walking among such elegance in my shorts and sandals. I hoped that my desecration kept that bastard Henry Clay Frick rolling in his worm-eaten grave, and roiling in anger from his special place in hell.
See, before I met Mister Frick on the hallowed ground of his home—this carefully constructed monument to the privileges of wealth and taste—I met him in the writing of anarchist Emma Goldman, Frick’s sworn enemy and early molder of my young mind.
Her enmity was born in May 1892, when Frick—an anti-labor coke magnate—crushed the effort of steelworkers to unionize in Homestead, Pennsylvania. He ordered his men to shoot the workers, killing many and their families.
It was an outrage, turning public opinion on Frick, and galvanizing radicals.
Goldman’s beloved, Alexander Berkman, was moved to assassinate Frick in retribution; the attempt failed, and Berkman was jailed, further infuriating Goldman.
Even now, I regret the corrupt soul of Frick’s collection, purchased as it was with blood money mopped from the brutality of that riot.
Well, at least my inner unrepentant lefty sees it that way.
Faced with the collection’s quality and beauty, my inner esthete claps his gloved hands in absolute glee.
My inner radical and my inner aesthete—those two old queens are always finding something to argue about.
I followed Madeline’s path through the collection, knowing it would eventually lead to the Comtesse.
We passed slowly passed the Bouchers, the Holbein in the living hall.
She was stopped in her tracks by the sugary colors of Fragonard’s Progress of Love, a series of large paintings installed on the walls of a high-ceilinged sitting room.
We held hands as we moved around the space, following the progress as one lover seeks another, they meet and are adorned by laurels—only to be separated once more, resorting to letters to express their sentiments.
“So perfect, sweet and sad,” she said, holding my arm.
“Purty, ain’t it?” I kissed her hand. “C’mon.”
In a corridor, we found the Comtesse waiting.
I don’t know much about the Comtesse, but I know her well.
What I mean to say is, I know only the barest details about the woman portrayed, much of it self-evident in the painting. Take a look, and you can see that she was an elegant young woman, confident and assured as she gazes at the viewer.
I know her well in the sense that this is a masterpiece by Jean-Auguste-Dominique Ingres. The artist was drawn to the subject, I gather, by her beauty but also by her independence of mind—she was a brilliant conversationalist and socialite who had produced books well regarded in mid-nineteenth century France.
Ingres might have posed the Comtesse in any number of ways, but he chose to depict the young intellectual in her boudoir, informally, as though she were preparing to go out to a function, or just returning from one.
Rather than present her as she presumably presented herself—as a sophisticate in the social arena—Ingres brought us into her intimate world, where she remains observant and alert.
Beautifully rendered, is also something of a psychological portrait of real woman, in a real space and time, whose presence continues to connect to modern viewers; more so, really, than do her own writings.
“Perfect, right?” I asked.
“Really, it’s incredible. She’s just . . . right there,” Madeline agreed.
“And yet when you look at it for a time, you recognize all the ways Ingres has manipulated reality to fit the composition,” I said. “I mean, if she were to turn and face you, her left arm would reach to her knees!”
I was drawn here, actually, by the experience of another artist looking at this same painting, in this same collection, over half a century ago.
Then a struggling young painter, Willem de Kooning stood here contemplating the use of line and form, the way Ingres composed a picture so that your eyes are drawn across its planes.
But I suppose he was also drawn to this as a portrait of a confident woman.
In time, de Kooning would be renowned for his own depictions of women.
Stylistically very different, right? Of course they are—a little over a century had passed between the creation of each painting, which is a whole lot of water over the dam of art history.
And yet, there are similarities.
De Kooning’s Woman is not a portrait so much as the representation of an archetype. She doesn’t represent an actual woman; she is derived from art history, pop culture, figure drawing and, okay, maybe a smidgen of the artist’s mother, wife and lovers.
But in moving to the archetypical, de Kooning steered to representing strength and power, assurance and fecundity.
This was on my mind, looking at Ingres that afternoon.
I am no match for such painters, but I can put myself in de Kooning’s shoes as he pondered the Comtesse and asked: how does one do this?
De Kooning was after breakthrough in modernism.
Me, I am just writing a blog.
Even so, I relate to the struggle of portraitists and figure painters. Because here, in this blog, I am turning real people into representations of real people. I do so in words, not paint, but in my mind at least, it is a related creative dilemma.
How much of Madeline, for example, do I need to observe and put into language, to give you a sense of who she is? To what degree is my portrait of Madeline consistent with the actual subject, and to what degree is this written Madeline a creation of my own imagination and abilities?
Madeline writes her own blog; how do I conjure her words and thoughts in a way that complements her own writing—when, in some respects, we are different authors working with some of the same characters?
For even as I write Madeline, Madeline writes Jefferson.
And here, in words, we become something other that what we are in flesh and blood.
Emma Goldman’s portrait of Frick is real, but not complete. The hagiographic bust of Frick outside his mansion is real, but not complete. The two depictions of the same man could not be more different.
Those depictions were created for ideological purposes, to decry or to praise the man who once lived in this mansion.
Madeline and I, writing each other and ourselves, for ourselves and for others, take a stab at the truth, to getting the facts right, knowing full well how subjective and flawed such an undertaking will ultimately be.
“Madeline, did you ever think . . .” I turned, but she was gone.
I found her in the next gallery, gazing at Vermeer’s Girl Interrupted at Her Music.
Such a romantic, drawn to a scene of domestic courtship. I didn’t interrupt her.
Instead, I looked at Madeline looking at art.
I realized that if I were to commission her portrait from any artist I can name, my first choice would be the late Jack Kirby.
It’s all in the cheekbones, I thought.
Madeline walks the earth as evidence that Kirby was visionary. Someday, somewhere, someone would have a face like the ones he drew.
For a couple of hours, we trailed past the art, then sat in the garden to take in the air conditioning.
In time, we were ready for the park. I collected our books and blanket from coat check, and we stepped outside.
The sun was lowering towards the Central Park West skyline as we crossed into the park.
A few steps along a path, we were stopped by a familiar voice.
“Oh my dog,” Madeline said, her eyes widening.
“Fuck,” I said. “Emmylou Harris.”
sex
sexblogs
bisexual
erotica
polyamory
Frick
Emma Goldman
Fragonard
de Kooning
Ingres
Jack Kirby
Emmylou Harris
I remind myself that I can sleep when I’m dead—or at least tomorrow, when Madeline is gone.
Before she goes home, I am determined that we spend a day out in the city, so that her memories will include sites other than the ceiling of my bedroom.
“Let’s go to a museum,” I suggest as we lay in bed, staring up. “And then read in the park.”
“That sounds really lovely.”
“Don’t it, though? Well, what do you think? The Met? The Guggenheim? MoMA?”
“That’s really your decision, isn’t it?”
Of course it was—it’s my city. I thought about the exhibitions I wanted to see, and the collections Madeline has yet to see.
I thought about the crowds. I thought about trudging through those vast galleries, past all those people and visual stimuli, checking off masterpiece after masterpiece, drugged as we were on sex and companionship.
What a buzz kill.
I didn’t want to ruin our intimacy by taking Madeline to a museum.
I wanted to build on it by taking her to a painting.
One single painting.
“Let’s go to the Frick,” I said. “Ever heard of it?”
She shook her head.
I smiled. “Good.”
Madeline was going to meet the Comtesse d’Haussonville.
We walked through the park to the Frick, toting a bag stuffed with a blanket, our books and bottles of water. It was a warm afternoon, and the park was filled with families, runners and sun worshippers.
This was about our speed, languid and taking life as it came.
That mellow idyll was tempered when we were face to face with the Frick’s grand doors.
Installed in the former mansion of Henry Clay Frick, the collection is a jewel box of erudite connoisseurship, each artwork judiciously chosen and placed in juxtaposition to others.
The perfection of the place is meant to inspire awe, to make you feel underdressed for a fine occasion. Indeed, we were underdressed—not so long ago, visitors were required to conform to a dress code of slacks for gentlemen, skirts for ladies. To this day, children are not allowed, lest they disrupt the decorum.
I took secret delight in walking among such elegance in my shorts and sandals. I hoped that my desecration kept that bastard Henry Clay Frick rolling in his worm-eaten grave, and roiling in anger from his special place in hell.
See, before I met Mister Frick on the hallowed ground of his home—this carefully constructed monument to the privileges of wealth and taste—I met him in the writing of anarchist Emma Goldman, Frick’s sworn enemy and early molder of my young mind.
Her enmity was born in May 1892, when Frick—an anti-labor coke magnate—crushed the effort of steelworkers to unionize in Homestead, Pennsylvania. He ordered his men to shoot the workers, killing many and their families.
It was an outrage, turning public opinion on Frick, and galvanizing radicals.
Goldman’s beloved, Alexander Berkman, was moved to assassinate Frick in retribution; the attempt failed, and Berkman was jailed, further infuriating Goldman.
Even now, I regret the corrupt soul of Frick’s collection, purchased as it was with blood money mopped from the brutality of that riot.
Well, at least my inner unrepentant lefty sees it that way.
Faced with the collection’s quality and beauty, my inner esthete claps his gloved hands in absolute glee.
My inner radical and my inner aesthete—those two old queens are always finding something to argue about.
I followed Madeline’s path through the collection, knowing it would eventually lead to the Comtesse.
We passed slowly passed the Bouchers, the Holbein in the living hall.
She was stopped in her tracks by the sugary colors of Fragonard’s Progress of Love, a series of large paintings installed on the walls of a high-ceilinged sitting room.
We held hands as we moved around the space, following the progress as one lover seeks another, they meet and are adorned by laurels—only to be separated once more, resorting to letters to express their sentiments.
“So perfect, sweet and sad,” she said, holding my arm.
“Purty, ain’t it?” I kissed her hand. “C’mon.”
In a corridor, we found the Comtesse waiting.
I don’t know much about the Comtesse, but I know her well.
What I mean to say is, I know only the barest details about the woman portrayed, much of it self-evident in the painting. Take a look, and you can see that she was an elegant young woman, confident and assured as she gazes at the viewer.
I know her well in the sense that this is a masterpiece by Jean-Auguste-Dominique Ingres. The artist was drawn to the subject, I gather, by her beauty but also by her independence of mind—she was a brilliant conversationalist and socialite who had produced books well regarded in mid-nineteenth century France.
Ingres might have posed the Comtesse in any number of ways, but he chose to depict the young intellectual in her boudoir, informally, as though she were preparing to go out to a function, or just returning from one.
Rather than present her as she presumably presented herself—as a sophisticate in the social arena—Ingres brought us into her intimate world, where she remains observant and alert.
Beautifully rendered, is also something of a psychological portrait of real woman, in a real space and time, whose presence continues to connect to modern viewers; more so, really, than do her own writings.
“Perfect, right?” I asked.
“Really, it’s incredible. She’s just . . . right there,” Madeline agreed.
“And yet when you look at it for a time, you recognize all the ways Ingres has manipulated reality to fit the composition,” I said. “I mean, if she were to turn and face you, her left arm would reach to her knees!”
I was drawn here, actually, by the experience of another artist looking at this same painting, in this same collection, over half a century ago.
Then a struggling young painter, Willem de Kooning stood here contemplating the use of line and form, the way Ingres composed a picture so that your eyes are drawn across its planes.
But I suppose he was also drawn to this as a portrait of a confident woman.
In time, de Kooning would be renowned for his own depictions of women.
Stylistically very different, right? Of course they are—a little over a century had passed between the creation of each painting, which is a whole lot of water over the dam of art history.
And yet, there are similarities.
De Kooning’s Woman is not a portrait so much as the representation of an archetype. She doesn’t represent an actual woman; she is derived from art history, pop culture, figure drawing and, okay, maybe a smidgen of the artist’s mother, wife and lovers.
But in moving to the archetypical, de Kooning steered to representing strength and power, assurance and fecundity.
This was on my mind, looking at Ingres that afternoon.
I am no match for such painters, but I can put myself in de Kooning’s shoes as he pondered the Comtesse and asked: how does one do this?
De Kooning was after breakthrough in modernism.
Me, I am just writing a blog.
Even so, I relate to the struggle of portraitists and figure painters. Because here, in this blog, I am turning real people into representations of real people. I do so in words, not paint, but in my mind at least, it is a related creative dilemma.
How much of Madeline, for example, do I need to observe and put into language, to give you a sense of who she is? To what degree is my portrait of Madeline consistent with the actual subject, and to what degree is this written Madeline a creation of my own imagination and abilities?
Madeline writes her own blog; how do I conjure her words and thoughts in a way that complements her own writing—when, in some respects, we are different authors working with some of the same characters?
For even as I write Madeline, Madeline writes Jefferson.
And here, in words, we become something other that what we are in flesh and blood.
Emma Goldman’s portrait of Frick is real, but not complete. The hagiographic bust of Frick outside his mansion is real, but not complete. The two depictions of the same man could not be more different.
Those depictions were created for ideological purposes, to decry or to praise the man who once lived in this mansion.
Madeline and I, writing each other and ourselves, for ourselves and for others, take a stab at the truth, to getting the facts right, knowing full well how subjective and flawed such an undertaking will ultimately be.
“Madeline, did you ever think . . .” I turned, but she was gone.
I found her in the next gallery, gazing at Vermeer’s Girl Interrupted at Her Music.
Such a romantic, drawn to a scene of domestic courtship. I didn’t interrupt her.
Instead, I looked at Madeline looking at art.
I realized that if I were to commission her portrait from any artist I can name, my first choice would be the late Jack Kirby.
It’s all in the cheekbones, I thought.
Madeline walks the earth as evidence that Kirby was visionary. Someday, somewhere, someone would have a face like the ones he drew.
For a couple of hours, we trailed past the art, then sat in the garden to take in the air conditioning.
In time, we were ready for the park. I collected our books and blanket from coat check, and we stepped outside.
The sun was lowering towards the Central Park West skyline as we crossed into the park.
A few steps along a path, we were stopped by a familiar voice.
“Oh my dog,” Madeline said, her eyes widening.
“Fuck,” I said. “Emmylou Harris.”
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Frick
Emma Goldman
Fragonard
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Ingres
Jack Kirby
Emmylou Harris
Tuesday, September 06, 2005
Cinema Jefferson
Scene: A cacophonous Dim Sum restaurant, Chinatown. Sunday lunch rush.
The décor is red and gold, with large carved dragons flanking a central banquet area. Hostesses with walkie-talkies wave patrons to large round tables they will share with strangers. Carts rattle between the tables, guided by women offering dishes and descriptions in Cantonese.
A man (JEFFERSON) sits between two women (MADELINE, VIVIANE). Viviane and Jefferson crane to peer at a passing cart. Madeline stares at a man, sitting opposite, as he sips soup.
Under the table, she holds Jefferson’s hand.
“I don’t see it yet,” Jefferson frets at the cart. “The shrimp balls wrapped in bacon—have you seen them?”
“No, not yet,” Viviane says, turning to the woman behind the cart. “Har gow?”
“Har gow,” the woman replies, removing the bamboo top from a dish and tossing it on the table.
“Shrimp dumpling, it’s a start,” Viviane says, offering the dish.
“Anything and everything with shrimp—keep it coming.” Jefferson reaches for chopsticks. “I am so fucking hungry.”
“All that hungry fucking,” Viviane nods.
“Baby, you want a dumpling?” Jefferson says, turning. “Madeline?”
“Huh?”
“Do you want a dumpling?”
“Oh, uh . . . yeah.”
Jefferson holds the dish, waiting.
“Baby, do you want to take the dumpling, or shall I serve it?”
“Oh, sorry.” Madeline’s eyes flutter as she reaches for chopsticks.
“Baby, you done been fucked stupid, ain’t you?”
“Guh huh,” she replies, her teeth tearing the har gow.
It was a romantic night out.
A walk along the Hudson as the sun set, orange light shimmering on the river. A cool breeze brought in the first scents of night.
Dinner at the boat basin, simple and filling.
The conversation, light and easy.
Viviane, Madeline and Jefferson, out on their second date.
The first had been the night before, when the trio met over several hours of drinks and sex.
Now, the courtship extended to dinner and a movie.
As they walk to the theater, Jefferson finds himself between the two women. Madeline’s hand reaches for his; instinctively, he takes it.
Their hands drop at some point, casually.
Reaching a curb, he takes Viviane’s elbow. For a block or so, they walk arm in arm.
At the theater, Jefferson sits in the middle.
Viviane had picked the film, Louis Malle’s Au Revoir, Les Enfants, with an enthusiastic nod from Madeline.
The film takes place in a rural Catholic boarding school in the closing months of World War II. The boys come to realize that the priests are hiding Jews among their classmates, disguising them behind Christian surnames.
The Jewish boys do their best to go undetected, sitting out Communion, tucking Sabbath candles under their pillows.
The actors are children.
It doesn’t end well for all.
There are moments when Viviane reaches for Jefferson’s hand. He takes it.
There are moments when Madeline’s eyes leak. He wipes her tears.
And he ponders—it’s one thing to navigate carnal desires during a sexual threesome.
It’s another thing again to navigate affections during a tearjerker.
We are three friends, he thinks. But I am also the date of each, having brought them together.
The thought leaves Jefferson feeling a bit reserved.
Dishes are passed back and forth between the three diners.
Jefferson gazes over cart after cart, inquiring about shrimp wrapped in bacon. No sign of it.
“If my dream dim sum does show, I’m going to be too full, at the rate I’m eating,” he complains. “Y'all want more pork balls?”
“Shumai,” Viviane says.
“Shumai?” Jefferson offers.
“This shit is the shit,” Madeline says, holding a morsel in her chopsticks.
It is late on the first of two nights the three friends will spend having sex.
Madeline has cum, again, watching Jefferson fuck Viviane.
He is rough, biting her breasts and shoulders, pumping relentlessly as he pins her to the edge of the bed.
It excites him to see Viviane submit to his force.
It excites him to hear her pants and sighs, to hear the bed shudder beneath them.
It excites him to know Madeline watching, aroused.
Later, Viviane dresses to head home.
Madeline kisses her goodbye in bed.
Jefferson pulls on clothes to see her to the door.
“Are you sure you don’t want to stay over?” Jefferson asks, automatically.
“No, I need to wake up at my place tomorrow,” Viviane demurs. She pauses. “But you would be okay with that? With Madeline here?”
Jefferson hesitates. Maybe he should have checked with Madeline before making that offer. “Sure, why not?”
“Hmm, well, maybe tomorrow.” She kisses him. “Thanks—and shit, you’ve never fucked me like that before.”
He smiles and kisses her. “My pleasure.”
He locks the door after her, and turns out the lights.
He undresses and gets into bed with Madeline.
He thought about what Viviane had said. “Never fucked me like that before.”
Was that a good thing? he thinks, curling up.
Hell, I guess I fucked her the way Madeline likes it.
“’Dim sum’—it means ‘a little bit of heart,’ right?”
Jefferson finally has his shrimp wrapped in bacon, each one a tidy bite-sized heart attack. He dips them in mayonnaise—all the better to grease the arteries.
“Actually, it’s closer to ‘something that touches the heart,’” Viviane corrects.
“That’s fucking gorgeous,” Madeline nods, chewing.
Not long after Madeline returns home from New York, Jefferson is laying nude in Viviane’s bed.
“You know,” she says. “I really enjoyed seeing you with Madeline. You looked happy. You both did.”
“I guess so, huh?” He remembers what Madeline had originally said about the prospect of meeting Marcus in April: I want to know him because you love him. I want to see that kind of love.
Perhaps that desire also enters into Viviane’s relationship with Madeline.
“Thanks for that,” he adds. “So that threesome was your best ever?”
She laughs. “You know it was my only threesome.”
“Thus far, yes.” He props himself on an elbow to kiss her.
The bill arrives. The three were stuffed. The total was twenty-six dollars and change.
“Highway robbery,” Madeline notes.
“Some nerve,” Jefferson agrees.
“You’re crazy,” Viviane rolls her eyes. “Three adults stuffed to the gills, for under thirty dollars—in Manhattan? That’s great.”
“Extraordinary bargain,” Madeline notes.
“Some deal,” Jefferson agrees.
Viviane pads the tip. “C’mon kids,” she says. “Let’s go shopping for sex toys.”
Madeline leans on Jefferson’s shoulder.
“And then,” she whispers. “I’m taking you home.”
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Louis Malle
The décor is red and gold, with large carved dragons flanking a central banquet area. Hostesses with walkie-talkies wave patrons to large round tables they will share with strangers. Carts rattle between the tables, guided by women offering dishes and descriptions in Cantonese.
A man (JEFFERSON) sits between two women (MADELINE, VIVIANE). Viviane and Jefferson crane to peer at a passing cart. Madeline stares at a man, sitting opposite, as he sips soup.
Under the table, she holds Jefferson’s hand.
“I don’t see it yet,” Jefferson frets at the cart. “The shrimp balls wrapped in bacon—have you seen them?”
“No, not yet,” Viviane says, turning to the woman behind the cart. “Har gow?”
“Har gow,” the woman replies, removing the bamboo top from a dish and tossing it on the table.
“Shrimp dumpling, it’s a start,” Viviane says, offering the dish.
“Anything and everything with shrimp—keep it coming.” Jefferson reaches for chopsticks. “I am so fucking hungry.”
“All that hungry fucking,” Viviane nods.
“Baby, you want a dumpling?” Jefferson says, turning. “Madeline?”
“Huh?”
“Do you want a dumpling?”
“Oh, uh . . . yeah.”
Jefferson holds the dish, waiting.
“Baby, do you want to take the dumpling, or shall I serve it?”
“Oh, sorry.” Madeline’s eyes flutter as she reaches for chopsticks.
“Baby, you done been fucked stupid, ain’t you?”
“Guh huh,” she replies, her teeth tearing the har gow.
It was a romantic night out.
A walk along the Hudson as the sun set, orange light shimmering on the river. A cool breeze brought in the first scents of night.
Dinner at the boat basin, simple and filling.
The conversation, light and easy.
Viviane, Madeline and Jefferson, out on their second date.
The first had been the night before, when the trio met over several hours of drinks and sex.
Now, the courtship extended to dinner and a movie.
As they walk to the theater, Jefferson finds himself between the two women. Madeline’s hand reaches for his; instinctively, he takes it.
Their hands drop at some point, casually.
Reaching a curb, he takes Viviane’s elbow. For a block or so, they walk arm in arm.
At the theater, Jefferson sits in the middle.
Viviane had picked the film, Louis Malle’s Au Revoir, Les Enfants, with an enthusiastic nod from Madeline.
The film takes place in a rural Catholic boarding school in the closing months of World War II. The boys come to realize that the priests are hiding Jews among their classmates, disguising them behind Christian surnames.
The Jewish boys do their best to go undetected, sitting out Communion, tucking Sabbath candles under their pillows.
The actors are children.
It doesn’t end well for all.
There are moments when Viviane reaches for Jefferson’s hand. He takes it.
There are moments when Madeline’s eyes leak. He wipes her tears.
And he ponders—it’s one thing to navigate carnal desires during a sexual threesome.
It’s another thing again to navigate affections during a tearjerker.
We are three friends, he thinks. But I am also the date of each, having brought them together.
The thought leaves Jefferson feeling a bit reserved.
Dishes are passed back and forth between the three diners.
Jefferson gazes over cart after cart, inquiring about shrimp wrapped in bacon. No sign of it.
“If my dream dim sum does show, I’m going to be too full, at the rate I’m eating,” he complains. “Y'all want more pork balls?”
“Shumai,” Viviane says.
“Shumai?” Jefferson offers.
“This shit is the shit,” Madeline says, holding a morsel in her chopsticks.
It is late on the first of two nights the three friends will spend having sex.
Madeline has cum, again, watching Jefferson fuck Viviane.
He is rough, biting her breasts and shoulders, pumping relentlessly as he pins her to the edge of the bed.
It excites him to see Viviane submit to his force.
It excites him to hear her pants and sighs, to hear the bed shudder beneath them.
It excites him to know Madeline watching, aroused.
Later, Viviane dresses to head home.
Madeline kisses her goodbye in bed.
Jefferson pulls on clothes to see her to the door.
“Are you sure you don’t want to stay over?” Jefferson asks, automatically.
“No, I need to wake up at my place tomorrow,” Viviane demurs. She pauses. “But you would be okay with that? With Madeline here?”
Jefferson hesitates. Maybe he should have checked with Madeline before making that offer. “Sure, why not?”
“Hmm, well, maybe tomorrow.” She kisses him. “Thanks—and shit, you’ve never fucked me like that before.”
He smiles and kisses her. “My pleasure.”
He locks the door after her, and turns out the lights.
He undresses and gets into bed with Madeline.
He thought about what Viviane had said. “Never fucked me like that before.”
Was that a good thing? he thinks, curling up.
Hell, I guess I fucked her the way Madeline likes it.
“’Dim sum’—it means ‘a little bit of heart,’ right?”
Jefferson finally has his shrimp wrapped in bacon, each one a tidy bite-sized heart attack. He dips them in mayonnaise—all the better to grease the arteries.
“Actually, it’s closer to ‘something that touches the heart,’” Viviane corrects.
“That’s fucking gorgeous,” Madeline nods, chewing.
Not long after Madeline returns home from New York, Jefferson is laying nude in Viviane’s bed.
“You know,” she says. “I really enjoyed seeing you with Madeline. You looked happy. You both did.”
“I guess so, huh?” He remembers what Madeline had originally said about the prospect of meeting Marcus in April: I want to know him because you love him. I want to see that kind of love.
Perhaps that desire also enters into Viviane’s relationship with Madeline.
“Thanks for that,” he adds. “So that threesome was your best ever?”
She laughs. “You know it was my only threesome.”
“Thus far, yes.” He props himself on an elbow to kiss her.
The bill arrives. The three were stuffed. The total was twenty-six dollars and change.
“Highway robbery,” Madeline notes.
“Some nerve,” Jefferson agrees.
“You’re crazy,” Viviane rolls her eyes. “Three adults stuffed to the gills, for under thirty dollars—in Manhattan? That’s great.”
“Extraordinary bargain,” Madeline notes.
“Some deal,” Jefferson agrees.
Viviane pads the tip. “C’mon kids,” she says. “Let’s go shopping for sex toys.”
Madeline leans on Jefferson’s shoulder.
“And then,” she whispers. “I’m taking you home.”
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Louis Malle
Saturday, September 03, 2005
Cinema Madeline
Camera close up on the face of a woman (MADELINE), eyes closed, turned to her left as she reclines on a pillow.
Her face is flushed and shines; her bobbed hair clings to her face with sweat.
Her grey eyes flutter open. She turns to her right.
Cut to her perspective.
Madeline watches the couple next to her as they fuck. The man (JEFFERSON) moves gently into the woman (VIVIANE), caressing her face with his hand. Her mouth is open, her eyes closed.
Madeline props herself on an elbow. Her other hands travels down her hip. She absentmindedly moistens a finger in her pussy, freshly wet from fucking Jefferson for most of the past hour.
She retrieves the finger, her tongue pulling it into her mouth.
Look at him kiss Viviane, she thinks. And the way his body moves.
He’s like another man when he is with her.
She notices he is very quiet. Did he speak when he fucked her? She can’t recall.
It is late on the first of two nights the three friends will spend having sex.
Madeline has stepped out of the bedroom.
Jefferson and Viviane begin to kiss.
He is on her. She pulls him close.
He pulls back, looking down at her. He opens the drawer of a nightstand, and pulls out a condom.
Slowly, gently, he is in her. She gasps.
He fucks her with a repetitive thrust of his hips. Undulating, superficial, light.
She grasps the flesh of his ass, pulling.
He does not alter his motion. He thinks of ripples.
Her body begs for waves. She craves tsunamis.
Jefferson looks up to see Madeline leaning in the doorway, watching. Her hand is between her legs, another cupping a breast.
He smiles at her, unsure if she can see his smile in the candlelight. He looks down at Viviane, poised for more than he has offered.
He will give it to her.
Jefferson leans forward to take a breast in his mouth. He sucks until he finds the mark. He bites.
“Unnh,” Viviane moans. Then: “Okay, okay, okay.”
He relents, pulling his mouth away.
For only a moment.
He lunges to the other breast. He licks flesh. Tasting the spot he seeks, he bites.
Until: “Okay, okay, okay. Shit.”
He pulls back, pulling out as he stands beside the bed.
He reaches forward, taking Viviane’s hips in his hands.
He pulls her toward him, to the edge of the bed.
He pushes back her legs.
He grasps his cock, roughly, as though it belonged to someone else.
He looks down at Viviane’s face, then down to her cunt.
He pushes in.
She exhales, hard, through her nostrils, abruptly inhaling in reaction.
He is standing on the floor, his cock pushing down into her.
She can have her tsunamis.
Jefferson fucks her hard and fast.
When she is pushed back on the bed, he takes her hips and pulls her back to get her fucking.
Madeline watches, masturbating, cumming.
Madeline sits up on the bed, and leans forward. Her fingers vigorously massage her scalp, pulling the hair away from her face. She exhales, blowing up to catch a few errant strands.
She fingers Jefferson’s spine for a moment, then rises, leaving her friends to their sex.
She walks unsteadily to the kitchen, opens the refrigerator, and takes a slug of orange juice straight from the carton.
Her eyes catch sight of the clock.
Damn, she thinks. We didn’t sleep at all.
She lets the cold air of the open refrigerator dry her body, using the door as a fan.
Refreshed by the juice, she pours a tall glass of water, drinking as she walks back to the bedroom.
Her eyes are back to the couple on the bed. Her eyes roam down Jefferson’s legs to his feet.
Last night, in an inspired moment, Madeline had straddled his big toe, fucking it as he fucked Viviane.
Does it still taste like me, she wonders, taking his toes into her mouth.
Madeline opens her hips, giving Viviane more room.
“Does this feel okay?” Viviane asks.
“Yes, honey, that is just right . . .” she says, her voice calm and assuring.
“Good.” Viviane nods, pressing her fingers into Madeline’s cunt.
Jefferson watches, touching and kissing Madeline’s torso.
He nods as he feels her body tense. “Yes, baby,” he whispers. He wet a finger in his mouth. He touches her clit.
Viviane looks up, instinctively prepared to surrender her position.
“No, you are fine,” he says. “Let me join you.”
He moves, crouching behind Viviane, wrapping an arm around her body and pressing close.
His other arm extends alongside Viviane’s, his hand joining hers at Madeline’s body.
Viviane’s two fingers massage inside her friend’s body, as her other hand massages a thigh.
Jefferson’s thumb pushes and swirls Madeline’s clit, flicking it gently.
Madeline’s thigh flinches in Viviane’s palm.
Jefferson’s fingers begin to join Viviane’s inside her body.
Her mind was slipping away. She could make out words, barely audible.
“Yes, like that . . . now, rest your palm in mine . . . good. See that space in your palm? Put your thumb there . . .”
“What are you doing to me?” Madeline moans. “How much? How many?”
“Um . . . “ Jefferson replies. “Let me count . . .”
“Shit!” Viviane answers. “Nine!”
“Well, ten actually,” he corrects. “Counting Viviane’s other thumb. Eleven if you count my thumb in your ass.” He pauses a moment. “Okay, twelve.”
Madeline had stopped listening.
Her hips are in charge now, pushing up and forward.
“Okay, get ready,” Jefferson warns, adjusting his body to brace Viviane. “Stay with her, now.”
He pushes his arm gently; Viviane moves in concert.
Madeline wails, her body twisting.
“Jesus . . .” Viviane marvels, as a torrent streams between her fingers, collecting in her palm.
Madeline stretches as her body convulses.
“Give it, baby,” Jefferson encourages, his voice raspy.
“You are so beautiful now,” Viviane says.
Madeline moans, gone now.
“I’m not sure she can hear us,” Jefferson whispers in Viviane’s ear.
“She knows we are here,” Viviane whispers back.
Having had her fill of Jefferson’s foot twitching in her mouth, Madeleine settles into a chair by the window.
Sunlight filters through the blinds, covering the bed with the stripes of shadows. She watches the naked flesh of her friends, wrapped around one another.
She sips her water, breathing, listening to her breath, listening to their breath, mentally playing with the overlapping rhythms of inhaling, exhaling, gasping.
She measures her breathing, thinking of control.
Her eyes drift to the rope dangling over the door.
“Okay, now I want to tie up Maddie.”
It is late on the second of two nights the three friends will spend having sex.
Viviane is feeling antsy, concerned that time is short and they have neglected opportunities for bondage.
“I’d like that,” Madeline agrees. “But this time, I’d like to be standing.”
“Standing, huh?” Jefferson asked, looking around the room. “Fine by me, but where . . . oh wait.”
Jefferson opens a cabinet, collecting a length of rope. He measures it across the length of his outstretched arms—good, he thinks, three yards ought to do.
He opens the closet, and pushes aside shirts and jackets to expose the metal bar. He lashes the rope to the bar.
“I can’t stand in your closet, darling,” Madeline says. “The bar is too low.”
“You won’t be in my closet, dear.” Jefferson raises the rope over the closet door, closing it in place. “You will hang from the door jam.”
“Aren’t you clever?” she kisses him.
“I am, indeed.”
“Okay kids, but I get to tie her up,” Viviane says, stepping forward.
Jefferson stands aside.
Viviane directs Madeline to stand facing the door.
Madeline complies, raising her hands over her head, her wrists one over the other.
Viviane stands on her toes, securing the crossed wrists.
Jefferson watches, growing hard.
“Now, relax your knees,” Viviane says. Madeline goes limp.
The rope holds.
Dropping down had pushed out Madeline’s ass, making it an irresistible target.
Viviane does not resist. Her palm falls hard on firm flesh.
“Unh!” Madeline sighs.
Another spank follows. Another.
Red prints begin to form on Madeline’s flesh.
Viviane is near to pacing.
“I want the riding crop!” she demands. “Where is it?”
“It’s in the closet, sweetheart,” Jefferson says.
“Oh shit.”
Madeline’s slumped form blocks the door.
“Here, we can get it,” Madeline offers. “Let me help.” She stands up on her toes and steps back. “Can you open the door now?”
“Li’l bit,” Jefferson says, opening the door a crack and reaching. He crouches, tongue on his lips as he visualizes the closet interior.
“Got it!”
“Good, now let me see that,” Viviane says, reaching for the crop. “And close the closet door!”
“Yes, mistress,” Jefferson laughs, moving aside.
“I mean, please.”
“Yes, mistress.”
Madeline returns to position. She receives a succession of steady whacks.
Welts begin to show.
Jefferson watches, amused, aroused.
The crop continues to find its mark.
Madeline moans and squirms in pleasure, her face pressed against the louvered door.
Viviane stands back, surveying her work with satisfaction.
She turns to Jefferson. She catches his eye and looks at his erection.
“So,” Viviane asks, feeling her oats. “You going to fuck her with that thing?”
Jefferson put down his bourbon. “If you can watch where you swing that crop,” he says. “I’d very much like to fuck her ass.”
“Oh, I think I’d like that,” Madeline says.
“I’d like to see that,” Viviane agrees.
Jefferson was already unwrapping a condom. He nods to a bottle of lube. “Get her prepped, if you would be so kind,” he says.
Viviane tosses the crop onto a chair and takes the bottle. She generously lubes Madeline’s hole and cheeks.
“Over here too, if you don’t mind,” Jefferson says. Viviane strokes his cock with lube.
He thanks her.
He takes Madeline’s hip in one hand, his cock in another. He directs the head to her hole.
“Now honey, I’m going to give it to you nice and slow at first,” he says, entering her. “But after that beating you took, I do intend to fuck you like my prison bitch. That all right?”
“Yes, just fuck me, please, you god damned tease.”
“That mouth of yours is going to get you in trouble,” he shoots back, thrusting forward.
His hands push down on her hips as he kicks her feet to the side. She spreads her legs until her ass was the optimal height to take her fucking.
He warms her up, nice and slow, as promised.
Viviane holds Madeline in an embrace, kissing her, fondling her breasts.
In time, Jefferson slaps haunches.
He kicks in.
He gives it. Fierce.
She takes it, pushing back for more, letting forth a guttural moan.
“Good girl,” he commends. He slaps her ass, firm. Short slaps followed, then again, firm.
He grabs the flesh of her ass. Using fists full of her skin as handles, he pulls her back to his volleys.
She now gets fucked on his command.
“Viviane!” he barks.
“Yes?” she says, from her place at Madeline’s face.
“Get your crop. Get it now.”
Madeline watches as Viviane and Jefferson continue. Did we fuck this long, she wonders. It’s been, what, over half an hour.
Fuck, she realizes. That’s like an hour and a half for him, nonstop.
Their faces are red and beaded with sweat.
Viviane looks at her and smiles. Madeline leans her head to one side, smiling back.
Viviane beckons. Madeline stands and comes forward to kiss her.
Viviane returns her kiss, her hand reaching up Madeline thigh.
Madeline stands, lowering her cunt onto Viviane’s fingers.
Finding his lover so close, Jefferson reaches an arm around her shoulder, pulling her mouth to his.
Looking up, Viviane sees the kiss. Her hand feels the tremble of Madeline’s body. Her own pussy is filled by Jefferson.
A completed circuit.
She grunts, cumming loudly.
Madeline pushes down onto Viviane’s hand, pulling away from Jefferson’s mouth.
Her hand rests on his shoulder, keeping the circuit alive.
He pushes shallow and quick at Viviane.
Madeline gasps in orgasm, grasping Viviane’s forearm in support.
“Okay, fuck,” Jefferson says, breaking his silence. “I’m cumming.”
They had fucked until five-thirty in the morning before collapsing.
He’s held out for so long since waking.
Finally, he lets loose in Viviane’s body.
He cums and trembles until he can no longer take her touch.
Madeline falls back into a chair.
Jefferson collapses beside Viviane.
Viviane’s limbs go numb.
They pant, filling their lungs, finally.
Madeline looks at Jefferson. He smiles.
The three feel the morning settling upon them.
Their bodies return to room temperature.
Their pulses are reset to clock ticks.
“So, kids,” Viviane says. “Dim sum?”
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Her face is flushed and shines; her bobbed hair clings to her face with sweat.
Her grey eyes flutter open. She turns to her right.
Cut to her perspective.
Madeline watches the couple next to her as they fuck. The man (JEFFERSON) moves gently into the woman (VIVIANE), caressing her face with his hand. Her mouth is open, her eyes closed.
Madeline props herself on an elbow. Her other hands travels down her hip. She absentmindedly moistens a finger in her pussy, freshly wet from fucking Jefferson for most of the past hour.
She retrieves the finger, her tongue pulling it into her mouth.
Look at him kiss Viviane, she thinks. And the way his body moves.
He’s like another man when he is with her.
She notices he is very quiet. Did he speak when he fucked her? She can’t recall.
It is late on the first of two nights the three friends will spend having sex.
Madeline has stepped out of the bedroom.
Jefferson and Viviane begin to kiss.
He is on her. She pulls him close.
He pulls back, looking down at her. He opens the drawer of a nightstand, and pulls out a condom.
Slowly, gently, he is in her. She gasps.
He fucks her with a repetitive thrust of his hips. Undulating, superficial, light.
She grasps the flesh of his ass, pulling.
He does not alter his motion. He thinks of ripples.
Her body begs for waves. She craves tsunamis.
Jefferson looks up to see Madeline leaning in the doorway, watching. Her hand is between her legs, another cupping a breast.
He smiles at her, unsure if she can see his smile in the candlelight. He looks down at Viviane, poised for more than he has offered.
He will give it to her.
Jefferson leans forward to take a breast in his mouth. He sucks until he finds the mark. He bites.
“Unnh,” Viviane moans. Then: “Okay, okay, okay.”
He relents, pulling his mouth away.
For only a moment.
He lunges to the other breast. He licks flesh. Tasting the spot he seeks, he bites.
Until: “Okay, okay, okay. Shit.”
He pulls back, pulling out as he stands beside the bed.
He reaches forward, taking Viviane’s hips in his hands.
He pulls her toward him, to the edge of the bed.
He pushes back her legs.
He grasps his cock, roughly, as though it belonged to someone else.
He looks down at Viviane’s face, then down to her cunt.
He pushes in.
She exhales, hard, through her nostrils, abruptly inhaling in reaction.
He is standing on the floor, his cock pushing down into her.
She can have her tsunamis.
Jefferson fucks her hard and fast.
When she is pushed back on the bed, he takes her hips and pulls her back to get her fucking.
Madeline watches, masturbating, cumming.
Madeline sits up on the bed, and leans forward. Her fingers vigorously massage her scalp, pulling the hair away from her face. She exhales, blowing up to catch a few errant strands.
She fingers Jefferson’s spine for a moment, then rises, leaving her friends to their sex.
She walks unsteadily to the kitchen, opens the refrigerator, and takes a slug of orange juice straight from the carton.
Her eyes catch sight of the clock.
Damn, she thinks. We didn’t sleep at all.
She lets the cold air of the open refrigerator dry her body, using the door as a fan.
Refreshed by the juice, she pours a tall glass of water, drinking as she walks back to the bedroom.
Her eyes are back to the couple on the bed. Her eyes roam down Jefferson’s legs to his feet.
Last night, in an inspired moment, Madeline had straddled his big toe, fucking it as he fucked Viviane.
Does it still taste like me, she wonders, taking his toes into her mouth.
Madeline opens her hips, giving Viviane more room.
“Does this feel okay?” Viviane asks.
“Yes, honey, that is just right . . .” she says, her voice calm and assuring.
“Good.” Viviane nods, pressing her fingers into Madeline’s cunt.
Jefferson watches, touching and kissing Madeline’s torso.
He nods as he feels her body tense. “Yes, baby,” he whispers. He wet a finger in his mouth. He touches her clit.
Viviane looks up, instinctively prepared to surrender her position.
“No, you are fine,” he says. “Let me join you.”
He moves, crouching behind Viviane, wrapping an arm around her body and pressing close.
His other arm extends alongside Viviane’s, his hand joining hers at Madeline’s body.
Viviane’s two fingers massage inside her friend’s body, as her other hand massages a thigh.
Jefferson’s thumb pushes and swirls Madeline’s clit, flicking it gently.
Madeline’s thigh flinches in Viviane’s palm.
Jefferson’s fingers begin to join Viviane’s inside her body.
Her mind was slipping away. She could make out words, barely audible.
“Yes, like that . . . now, rest your palm in mine . . . good. See that space in your palm? Put your thumb there . . .”
“What are you doing to me?” Madeline moans. “How much? How many?”
“Um . . . “ Jefferson replies. “Let me count . . .”
“Shit!” Viviane answers. “Nine!”
“Well, ten actually,” he corrects. “Counting Viviane’s other thumb. Eleven if you count my thumb in your ass.” He pauses a moment. “Okay, twelve.”
Madeline had stopped listening.
Her hips are in charge now, pushing up and forward.
“Okay, get ready,” Jefferson warns, adjusting his body to brace Viviane. “Stay with her, now.”
He pushes his arm gently; Viviane moves in concert.
Madeline wails, her body twisting.
“Jesus . . .” Viviane marvels, as a torrent streams between her fingers, collecting in her palm.
Madeline stretches as her body convulses.
“Give it, baby,” Jefferson encourages, his voice raspy.
“You are so beautiful now,” Viviane says.
Madeline moans, gone now.
“I’m not sure she can hear us,” Jefferson whispers in Viviane’s ear.
“She knows we are here,” Viviane whispers back.
Having had her fill of Jefferson’s foot twitching in her mouth, Madeleine settles into a chair by the window.
Sunlight filters through the blinds, covering the bed with the stripes of shadows. She watches the naked flesh of her friends, wrapped around one another.
She sips her water, breathing, listening to her breath, listening to their breath, mentally playing with the overlapping rhythms of inhaling, exhaling, gasping.
She measures her breathing, thinking of control.
Her eyes drift to the rope dangling over the door.
“Okay, now I want to tie up Maddie.”
It is late on the second of two nights the three friends will spend having sex.
Viviane is feeling antsy, concerned that time is short and they have neglected opportunities for bondage.
“I’d like that,” Madeline agrees. “But this time, I’d like to be standing.”
“Standing, huh?” Jefferson asked, looking around the room. “Fine by me, but where . . . oh wait.”
Jefferson opens a cabinet, collecting a length of rope. He measures it across the length of his outstretched arms—good, he thinks, three yards ought to do.
He opens the closet, and pushes aside shirts and jackets to expose the metal bar. He lashes the rope to the bar.
“I can’t stand in your closet, darling,” Madeline says. “The bar is too low.”
“You won’t be in my closet, dear.” Jefferson raises the rope over the closet door, closing it in place. “You will hang from the door jam.”
“Aren’t you clever?” she kisses him.
“I am, indeed.”
“Okay kids, but I get to tie her up,” Viviane says, stepping forward.
Jefferson stands aside.
Viviane directs Madeline to stand facing the door.
Madeline complies, raising her hands over her head, her wrists one over the other.
Viviane stands on her toes, securing the crossed wrists.
Jefferson watches, growing hard.
“Now, relax your knees,” Viviane says. Madeline goes limp.
The rope holds.
Dropping down had pushed out Madeline’s ass, making it an irresistible target.
Viviane does not resist. Her palm falls hard on firm flesh.
“Unh!” Madeline sighs.
Another spank follows. Another.
Red prints begin to form on Madeline’s flesh.
Viviane is near to pacing.
“I want the riding crop!” she demands. “Where is it?”
“It’s in the closet, sweetheart,” Jefferson says.
“Oh shit.”
Madeline’s slumped form blocks the door.
“Here, we can get it,” Madeline offers. “Let me help.” She stands up on her toes and steps back. “Can you open the door now?”
“Li’l bit,” Jefferson says, opening the door a crack and reaching. He crouches, tongue on his lips as he visualizes the closet interior.
“Got it!”
“Good, now let me see that,” Viviane says, reaching for the crop. “And close the closet door!”
“Yes, mistress,” Jefferson laughs, moving aside.
“I mean, please.”
“Yes, mistress.”
Madeline returns to position. She receives a succession of steady whacks.
Welts begin to show.
Jefferson watches, amused, aroused.
The crop continues to find its mark.
Madeline moans and squirms in pleasure, her face pressed against the louvered door.
Viviane stands back, surveying her work with satisfaction.
She turns to Jefferson. She catches his eye and looks at his erection.
“So,” Viviane asks, feeling her oats. “You going to fuck her with that thing?”
Jefferson put down his bourbon. “If you can watch where you swing that crop,” he says. “I’d very much like to fuck her ass.”
“Oh, I think I’d like that,” Madeline says.
“I’d like to see that,” Viviane agrees.
Jefferson was already unwrapping a condom. He nods to a bottle of lube. “Get her prepped, if you would be so kind,” he says.
Viviane tosses the crop onto a chair and takes the bottle. She generously lubes Madeline’s hole and cheeks.
“Over here too, if you don’t mind,” Jefferson says. Viviane strokes his cock with lube.
He thanks her.
He takes Madeline’s hip in one hand, his cock in another. He directs the head to her hole.
“Now honey, I’m going to give it to you nice and slow at first,” he says, entering her. “But after that beating you took, I do intend to fuck you like my prison bitch. That all right?”
“Yes, just fuck me, please, you god damned tease.”
“That mouth of yours is going to get you in trouble,” he shoots back, thrusting forward.
His hands push down on her hips as he kicks her feet to the side. She spreads her legs until her ass was the optimal height to take her fucking.
He warms her up, nice and slow, as promised.
Viviane holds Madeline in an embrace, kissing her, fondling her breasts.
In time, Jefferson slaps haunches.
He kicks in.
He gives it. Fierce.
She takes it, pushing back for more, letting forth a guttural moan.
“Good girl,” he commends. He slaps her ass, firm. Short slaps followed, then again, firm.
He grabs the flesh of her ass. Using fists full of her skin as handles, he pulls her back to his volleys.
She now gets fucked on his command.
“Viviane!” he barks.
“Yes?” she says, from her place at Madeline’s face.
“Get your crop. Get it now.”
Madeline watches as Viviane and Jefferson continue. Did we fuck this long, she wonders. It’s been, what, over half an hour.
Fuck, she realizes. That’s like an hour and a half for him, nonstop.
Their faces are red and beaded with sweat.
Viviane looks at her and smiles. Madeline leans her head to one side, smiling back.
Viviane beckons. Madeline stands and comes forward to kiss her.
Viviane returns her kiss, her hand reaching up Madeline thigh.
Madeline stands, lowering her cunt onto Viviane’s fingers.
Finding his lover so close, Jefferson reaches an arm around her shoulder, pulling her mouth to his.
Looking up, Viviane sees the kiss. Her hand feels the tremble of Madeline’s body. Her own pussy is filled by Jefferson.
A completed circuit.
She grunts, cumming loudly.
Madeline pushes down onto Viviane’s hand, pulling away from Jefferson’s mouth.
Her hand rests on his shoulder, keeping the circuit alive.
He pushes shallow and quick at Viviane.
Madeline gasps in orgasm, grasping Viviane’s forearm in support.
“Okay, fuck,” Jefferson says, breaking his silence. “I’m cumming.”
They had fucked until five-thirty in the morning before collapsing.
He’s held out for so long since waking.
Finally, he lets loose in Viviane’s body.
He cums and trembles until he can no longer take her touch.
Madeline falls back into a chair.
Jefferson collapses beside Viviane.
Viviane’s limbs go numb.
They pant, filling their lungs, finally.
Madeline looks at Jefferson. He smiles.
The three feel the morning settling upon them.
Their bodies return to room temperature.
Their pulses are reset to clock ticks.
“So, kids,” Viviane says. “Dim sum?”
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Thursday, September 01, 2005
Cinema Viviane
Scene: A bedroom, early morning. Daylight filters through closed blinds.
Camera enters room, tracking low. Floor is littered with random items—a woman's shoe, a heavy black belt, discarded condoms.
Camera tracks up and turns to a closed closet door, over which a rope dangles.
Camera crosses black chair shared by a bra and a riding crop.
Continues arc of turn to scan top of nightstand, on which rest condom wrappers, two highball glasses—one tainted with bourbon and lipstick—a lamp, and an analog clock reading shortly after nine.
Sounds of passing traffic obscure the quiet voices of two women talking low.
Camera pulls back, continuing arc right to left as it passes over a bed adjacent to the nightstand.
The face and shoulder of a woman (MADELINE) appear. She rests on a pillow, her profile facing left. She nods, listening to a murmuring voice.
Camera pans top the profile of a sleeping man (JEFFERSON), who faces Madeline.
The hand of a woman (VIVIANE) emerges to rest on Jefferson's shoulder. Camera pans to her face as she talks with Madeline.
Camera pulls back to all three in bed, nude and uncovered, limbs entwined.
Jefferson stirs.
The two women look at him.
His arm extends to Madeline's torso.
She smiles at Viviane and turns, allowing him to spoon her body. She undulates her body into his.
Viviane caresses the bodies of Jefferson and Madeline, continuing her conversation, quiet and low.
Nodding, her eyes closing, Madeline's hand moves between her legs. She begins to masturbate.
She is quickly panting and orgasms as Viviane watches.
Jefferson's eyes open to face the back off Madeline’s shoulder. He lifts his head to see that she is masturbating.
He feels Viviane's hands on his hips, and turns to meet her eyes.
He raises his free arm—the one that is not under Madeline's head—and extends it past Viviane. She anticipates his reach and leans back, taking a condom and tearing the package. She hands it to Jefferson, who raises his head forward and rolls the condom onto his cock.
Jefferson lifts himself and turns Madeline’s body so that she rests on her back. She opens her eyes as he opens her legs.
His eyes meet hers.
Wordlessly, he moves her hand aside and enters her. He leaves his body apart, so that she can continue to masturbate. Instead, she pulls him close.
He holds her face in his hands. Their eyes are close on one another. They kiss.
Viviane's hands roam their bodies.
Camera close up on Viviane's face.
Camera pulls back from Viviane's face. She is well dressed and standing at a door.
Viviane adjusts her hair, imagining a mirror.
She knocks.
Jefferson opens the door.
"Hey, Viviane!" he beams.
"Good evening, baby." She busses his check, looking past his shoulder. "Where is she?"
"Happy birthday, Viviane!"
"Madeline!" Viviane extends her arms.
The women draw one another into an embrace, their first.
Viviane pulls back, her hands resting on Madeline's waist. She smiles at the face she has imagined so often since meeting this kindred spirit, this sister, just months ago via a link on a blog.
Madeline is smiling, even prettier than she imagined. Viviane's hands feel loose cotton and firm flesh; Madeline is wearing a light dress, nothing else.
The wine rises to Viviane’s cheeks.
A dinner engagement is behind her, abandoned, as is the cab ride filled with cautious self-rejoinders.
I can just visit, Viviane had told herself.
I am meeting Madeline for the first time. I am having drinks with her and Jefferson. He is a lover of mine. I can have lovers now. I am divorced, for all intents and purposes.
I can meet my lover's lovers.
We don’t have to have sex or anything. Maddie and I are just meeting.
Shit. I am doing this.
Better have an excuse.
Viviane drops her hands. She looks from Madeline to Jefferson, then back again.
"Kids," she announces, dropping her bag. "I am inebriated."
Viviane smiles at the memory as she caresses Jefferson’s back. Madeline moans quietly as he fucks her.
Jefferson looks to Viviane as Madeline cums.
“I thought this might happen.”
Jefferson grins as Viviane removes her bra.
“Shush,” Madeline admonishes. “I am just giving her a massage.”
“Yeah, my shoulders ache,” Viviane says, feigning indignation. “Now, where do you want me, Madeline?”
“Just lay down on the bed.”
Viviane presses her bare torso onto the sheets.
Madeline straddles Viviane’s hips and begins to knead her flesh.
“I’ll take care of your feet,” Jefferson offers. He gently removes her shoes, dropping them to the floor.
He removes his shirt, dropping it to the floor.
He dabs lotion into his palms.
Madeline opens her eyes to see Viviane, her head propped up as she watches.
Jefferson leans forward to kiss the beads of sweat from her forehead. He slows his hips, keeping his cock deep in her.
The three are quiet, touching, not speaking. Madeline keeps her thoughts to herself.
Fill me up, baby. This love. She closes her eyes.
Madeline’s eyes are closed.
Jefferson is in her.
“Shit,” Viviane says. “This is hot, kids.”
She has never seen a couple make love.
Madeline smiles, drifting.
“I want you to see her cum,” Jefferson replies. He pulls his cock from her. “I want you to make her cum.”
He puts two fingers into Madeline’s pussy. Her back arches as his fingers reach up to their mark.
“Press down for me,” he tells Viviane. “Here, just below her belly.”
“Like this?”
“A little firmer.”
Madeline moans.
“Yep, you have it,” Jefferson says. He pressed up inside Madeline, toward Viviane’s hand. “You ready to massage her g-spot?”
“Shit, yes,” Viviane replies, moving closer.
“Not so fast. Go wash your hands.”
“Oh, right.” Viviane scrambles off the bed and trots to the bathroom.
“You’re mean,” Madeline smiles, eyes closed. “When exactly did you last wash your hands?”
“Shh. Recently. Let her be conscientious.”
Viviane returns, her hands moist.
“Okay,” Jefferson nods. “Come sit next to me.”
Viviane sits at his left.
“Now, give me your hand.” Jefferson takes two of Viviane's fingers, and guides then under his own into Madeline's body. “See, in and up, slowly. Follow me now, under my fingers.”
“Okay.” Viviane’s fingers slip in easily. Madeline sighs.
“Now, do you feel where I’m pressing?”
“I do.”
“That’s your spot. And you are ready to solo.” Jefferson removes his fingers.
Viviane had never touched a woman.
Within a few moments, she gives a woman an orgasm.
Madeline has spread her legs wide; Viviane holds one aloft.
Viviane watches as Jefferson’s cock vanishes into Madeline, surfacing only slightly before being submerged again.
Madeline’s face is flushed. She seems beyond reach, under his control.
“Shut up, you are doing as we say!”
Madeline is on her knees, her arms back on her hips.
Jefferson looks up at her, and laughs. “Oh, is that so?” he says, mocking her efforts as a dominatrix.
Viviane pulls the rope tighter on his wrists. “Is that comfortable?” she asks.
“A little too loose,” he says, pulling his hands free. “Are you even trying?”
Madeline spanks his hip. Jefferson laughs.
“Just do it again,” Madeline says, offering encouragement to Viviane. “We’ll wipe that smirk off his face.”
“Cocky bastard,” Viviane scowls. She pulls a knot tight.
“Hey!” Jefferson complains.
“Leave it,” Madeline instructs. “And gag him. He talks too damn much.”
A bandana is tied around Jefferson’s head, cutting into his open mouth.
“Now, let’s see about that ass of his.”
“Mmpff!”
“I think he may be asking for the strap on,” Viviane teased.
“Mmpff mmpff!”
“All things in time,” Madeline says, her fingers stuffing a line of beads into a condom.
Viviane pulls Jefferson’s legs back. She greases his hole with a torrent of lube.
“Think that is enough?” she asks Madeline.
“More than sufficient.” Madeline takes he condom into her fingers and threads it, bead by bead, into Jefferson.
“Mrppmff . . .” Jefferson’s tongue emerges from the gag, pushing it down. “Drat’s nod sro bat.”
“Yeah, take it like a man,” Viviane teases, a hint of malice in her voice.
“I’d rike do zee you drake id rike a nan.”
“I’m sure you would,” Viviane laughs. “Too bad you aren’t in charge right now, huh?”
Jefferson turns to her and glares.
“Now, wait a sec here,” Madeline admonishes.
“Dret de drap od.”
“The strap on?”
“But id ond.”
Madeline reaches for her dildo and harness. “You want me to fuck you, sweetheart?”
“Nob. Doo are doing do nuck Bibiane.”
Madeline smiles.
A look of concern crosses Viviane’s face.
Viviane’s face is soon full of cock.
Viviane is face down and ass up, her pussy filled by Madeline’s thrusts.
Three faces in bliss.
They found their places.
Jefferson slows his thrusts, looking down at Madeline.
The rise and fall of her rib cage is her only motion.
She is spent. He pulls out.
Jefferson smiles at her, like a father who has tucked a baby into bed.
He checks the clock. Nearly ten.
He had fucked Madeline for a little over forty minutes.
He pulls off the condom and tosses it to the floor.
He reaches for another, his eyes turning to Viviane.
He had not uttered a word since waking.
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Camera enters room, tracking low. Floor is littered with random items—a woman's shoe, a heavy black belt, discarded condoms.
Camera tracks up and turns to a closed closet door, over which a rope dangles.
Camera crosses black chair shared by a bra and a riding crop.
Continues arc of turn to scan top of nightstand, on which rest condom wrappers, two highball glasses—one tainted with bourbon and lipstick—a lamp, and an analog clock reading shortly after nine.
Sounds of passing traffic obscure the quiet voices of two women talking low.
Camera pulls back, continuing arc right to left as it passes over a bed adjacent to the nightstand.
The face and shoulder of a woman (MADELINE) appear. She rests on a pillow, her profile facing left. She nods, listening to a murmuring voice.
Camera pans top the profile of a sleeping man (JEFFERSON), who faces Madeline.
The hand of a woman (VIVIANE) emerges to rest on Jefferson's shoulder. Camera pans to her face as she talks with Madeline.
Camera pulls back to all three in bed, nude and uncovered, limbs entwined.
Jefferson stirs.
The two women look at him.
His arm extends to Madeline's torso.
She smiles at Viviane and turns, allowing him to spoon her body. She undulates her body into his.
Viviane caresses the bodies of Jefferson and Madeline, continuing her conversation, quiet and low.
Nodding, her eyes closing, Madeline's hand moves between her legs. She begins to masturbate.
She is quickly panting and orgasms as Viviane watches.
Jefferson's eyes open to face the back off Madeline’s shoulder. He lifts his head to see that she is masturbating.
He feels Viviane's hands on his hips, and turns to meet her eyes.
He raises his free arm—the one that is not under Madeline's head—and extends it past Viviane. She anticipates his reach and leans back, taking a condom and tearing the package. She hands it to Jefferson, who raises his head forward and rolls the condom onto his cock.
Jefferson lifts himself and turns Madeline’s body so that she rests on her back. She opens her eyes as he opens her legs.
His eyes meet hers.
Wordlessly, he moves her hand aside and enters her. He leaves his body apart, so that she can continue to masturbate. Instead, she pulls him close.
He holds her face in his hands. Their eyes are close on one another. They kiss.
Viviane's hands roam their bodies.
Camera close up on Viviane's face.
Camera pulls back from Viviane's face. She is well dressed and standing at a door.
Viviane adjusts her hair, imagining a mirror.
She knocks.
Jefferson opens the door.
"Hey, Viviane!" he beams.
"Good evening, baby." She busses his check, looking past his shoulder. "Where is she?"
"Happy birthday, Viviane!"
"Madeline!" Viviane extends her arms.
The women draw one another into an embrace, their first.
Viviane pulls back, her hands resting on Madeline's waist. She smiles at the face she has imagined so often since meeting this kindred spirit, this sister, just months ago via a link on a blog.
Madeline is smiling, even prettier than she imagined. Viviane's hands feel loose cotton and firm flesh; Madeline is wearing a light dress, nothing else.
The wine rises to Viviane’s cheeks.
A dinner engagement is behind her, abandoned, as is the cab ride filled with cautious self-rejoinders.
I can just visit, Viviane had told herself.
I am meeting Madeline for the first time. I am having drinks with her and Jefferson. He is a lover of mine. I can have lovers now. I am divorced, for all intents and purposes.
I can meet my lover's lovers.
We don’t have to have sex or anything. Maddie and I are just meeting.
Shit. I am doing this.
Better have an excuse.
Viviane drops her hands. She looks from Madeline to Jefferson, then back again.
"Kids," she announces, dropping her bag. "I am inebriated."
Viviane smiles at the memory as she caresses Jefferson’s back. Madeline moans quietly as he fucks her.
Jefferson looks to Viviane as Madeline cums.
“I thought this might happen.”
Jefferson grins as Viviane removes her bra.
“Shush,” Madeline admonishes. “I am just giving her a massage.”
“Yeah, my shoulders ache,” Viviane says, feigning indignation. “Now, where do you want me, Madeline?”
“Just lay down on the bed.”
Viviane presses her bare torso onto the sheets.
Madeline straddles Viviane’s hips and begins to knead her flesh.
“I’ll take care of your feet,” Jefferson offers. He gently removes her shoes, dropping them to the floor.
He removes his shirt, dropping it to the floor.
He dabs lotion into his palms.
Madeline opens her eyes to see Viviane, her head propped up as she watches.
Jefferson leans forward to kiss the beads of sweat from her forehead. He slows his hips, keeping his cock deep in her.
The three are quiet, touching, not speaking. Madeline keeps her thoughts to herself.
Fill me up, baby. This love. She closes her eyes.
Madeline’s eyes are closed.
Jefferson is in her.
“Shit,” Viviane says. “This is hot, kids.”
She has never seen a couple make love.
Madeline smiles, drifting.
“I want you to see her cum,” Jefferson replies. He pulls his cock from her. “I want you to make her cum.”
He puts two fingers into Madeline’s pussy. Her back arches as his fingers reach up to their mark.
“Press down for me,” he tells Viviane. “Here, just below her belly.”
“Like this?”
“A little firmer.”
Madeline moans.
“Yep, you have it,” Jefferson says. He pressed up inside Madeline, toward Viviane’s hand. “You ready to massage her g-spot?”
“Shit, yes,” Viviane replies, moving closer.
“Not so fast. Go wash your hands.”
“Oh, right.” Viviane scrambles off the bed and trots to the bathroom.
“You’re mean,” Madeline smiles, eyes closed. “When exactly did you last wash your hands?”
“Shh. Recently. Let her be conscientious.”
Viviane returns, her hands moist.
“Okay,” Jefferson nods. “Come sit next to me.”
Viviane sits at his left.
“Now, give me your hand.” Jefferson takes two of Viviane's fingers, and guides then under his own into Madeline's body. “See, in and up, slowly. Follow me now, under my fingers.”
“Okay.” Viviane’s fingers slip in easily. Madeline sighs.
“Now, do you feel where I’m pressing?”
“I do.”
“That’s your spot. And you are ready to solo.” Jefferson removes his fingers.
Viviane had never touched a woman.
Within a few moments, she gives a woman an orgasm.
Madeline has spread her legs wide; Viviane holds one aloft.
Viviane watches as Jefferson’s cock vanishes into Madeline, surfacing only slightly before being submerged again.
Madeline’s face is flushed. She seems beyond reach, under his control.
“Shut up, you are doing as we say!”
Madeline is on her knees, her arms back on her hips.
Jefferson looks up at her, and laughs. “Oh, is that so?” he says, mocking her efforts as a dominatrix.
Viviane pulls the rope tighter on his wrists. “Is that comfortable?” she asks.
“A little too loose,” he says, pulling his hands free. “Are you even trying?”
Madeline spanks his hip. Jefferson laughs.
“Just do it again,” Madeline says, offering encouragement to Viviane. “We’ll wipe that smirk off his face.”
“Cocky bastard,” Viviane scowls. She pulls a knot tight.
“Hey!” Jefferson complains.
“Leave it,” Madeline instructs. “And gag him. He talks too damn much.”
A bandana is tied around Jefferson’s head, cutting into his open mouth.
“Now, let’s see about that ass of his.”
“Mmpff!”
“I think he may be asking for the strap on,” Viviane teased.
“Mmpff mmpff!”
“All things in time,” Madeline says, her fingers stuffing a line of beads into a condom.
Viviane pulls Jefferson’s legs back. She greases his hole with a torrent of lube.
“Think that is enough?” she asks Madeline.
“More than sufficient.” Madeline takes he condom into her fingers and threads it, bead by bead, into Jefferson.
“Mrppmff . . .” Jefferson’s tongue emerges from the gag, pushing it down. “Drat’s nod sro bat.”
“Yeah, take it like a man,” Viviane teases, a hint of malice in her voice.
“I’d rike do zee you drake id rike a nan.”
“I’m sure you would,” Viviane laughs. “Too bad you aren’t in charge right now, huh?”
Jefferson turns to her and glares.
“Now, wait a sec here,” Madeline admonishes.
“Dret de drap od.”
“The strap on?”
“But id ond.”
Madeline reaches for her dildo and harness. “You want me to fuck you, sweetheart?”
“Nob. Doo are doing do nuck Bibiane.”
Madeline smiles.
A look of concern crosses Viviane’s face.
Viviane’s face is soon full of cock.
Viviane is face down and ass up, her pussy filled by Madeline’s thrusts.
Three faces in bliss.
They found their places.
Jefferson slows his thrusts, looking down at Madeline.
The rise and fall of her rib cage is her only motion.
She is spent. He pulls out.
Jefferson smiles at her, like a father who has tucked a baby into bed.
He checks the clock. Nearly ten.
He had fucked Madeline for a little over forty minutes.
He pulls off the condom and tosses it to the floor.
He reaches for another, his eyes turning to Viviane.
He had not uttered a word since waking.
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Tan, Fat, Rested
Everywhere I go, people say I look great.
“You should get out more,” they say. “You look good with a little sun.”
My recent vacation was restorative. I feel tan, fat and rested—and eager to return to my pale, skinny, restless self.
I have missed my blog, my beautiful blog. Let me catch you up, gentle reader.
Stay tuned. You need to know what’s going on with Shelby. You need to read the word on Mitzi’s new religion. You need to discover who won the contest to be my summer boyfriend.
I want to take you down south. And I want to introduce you to the Nubians.
But first, let’s return to the story in progress.
Madeline came to New York for a few days. We decided to keep it simple. Just the two of us, picking up where we left off on her first trip.
Nice and easy.
Although, of course we were going to meet Viviane for drinks . . .
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“You should get out more,” they say. “You look good with a little sun.”
My recent vacation was restorative. I feel tan, fat and rested—and eager to return to my pale, skinny, restless self.
I have missed my blog, my beautiful blog. Let me catch you up, gentle reader.
Stay tuned. You need to know what’s going on with Shelby. You need to read the word on Mitzi’s new religion. You need to discover who won the contest to be my summer boyfriend.
I want to take you down south. And I want to introduce you to the Nubians.
But first, let’s return to the story in progress.
Madeline came to New York for a few days. We decided to keep it simple. Just the two of us, picking up where we left off on her first trip.
Nice and easy.
Although, of course we were going to meet Viviane for drinks . . .
sex
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erotica
polyamory
Tuesday, August 16, 2005
Pentecostal
Madeline's eyes were closed as we fucked.
I had hoped it might be like this.
I put kink and such aside for these few days, ready should she want them, but not on the front burner. We had discovered those shared passions in many online conversations, and established a compatibility within them on her previous trip.
This time, I wanted to focus on just being together, just us. To be more a part of what we had as--for lack of a better word--a connection.
That groundwork for that connection had been laid well before Madeline and I first made love in April. Through all the sex and conversation of those few days, with one another and with others, we found that it took hold. It didn't matter what we were doing, or with whom--it only added to the sense that we were building on terra firma.
During those last hours of our final day together last Spring, we were simultaneously at ease and anxious, between wanting more touch and sex and affection from one another, and sated by all that had transpired in short a time. We were at once full and empty, as we prepared for the inevitable longing of being apart.
We were at our closest even as we anticipated distance.
This time, we were just a few days into her visit, with several days ahead.
I wanted to revisit the intensity of that last moment now, well before we had to once again say goodbye.
As we made love that night, I was taking the lead, stubbornly. Frankly, I had an agenda. I wanted to overwhelm her with simplicity.
Her body under mine, my cock in her. Deep, shallow. Long, short. Fevered, easy. Just keep me inside you, I thought, looking at her closed eyes, and let me watch how you respond to what our bodies do.
I smiled when she looked up at me, caressing her cheeks, gentle, soft.
Later, I clenched my teeth as she turned aside, her hair tight in my fists, my hips pounding between her outstretched legs.
I focused on her breathing as she took my cock firm and centered on her g spot, as she drenched me.
I anticipated her needs and toyed with her expectations. At one point, she had given a torrent into my palm. Her body relaxed. I knew she would want a taste of her juices.
I licked my fingers in anticipation of giving them to her. Her eyes were on mine, waiting.
My fingers rested on her lips. Her tongue raced out to take them.
I traced a fingertip onto her tongue, then two, then three.
I soon forced four fingers into her mouth. Clenching her jaw in my palm, I was back in her, holding her face next to mine, holding her hostage as I fucked.
She gave in, surrendering her anticipation of respite. I reminded her that she was safe, she was here with me, and I was firmly in charge of the moment.
She eventually seemed exhausted.
I slowed. I was worn down as well.
"Pull me on top," she asked.
I did.
Her wet body caught the city lights outside my window.
I caressed her hips and waist, looking up. Her face was in silhouette; I couldn't tell if she saw me looking.
My hand cupped a breast. A finger and thumb plucked a nipple and drew it to my mouth.
She moaned and reached back, pulling up on her buttocks. This would tease out another orgasm.
She said something, laughing. I pulled back and smiled.
I didn't hear her well enough to distinguish words, but I got the gist. I wasn't going to ask her to repeat it.
I lay back, pushing her breasts together, squeezing her nipples.
She mumbled something about how good that felt, something about love, something else.
My body was so drained. I relaxed.
My feet fell to their sides.
My knees were slightly tucked, my calves and thighs splayed into bowlegs.
My back was flat, my shoulders back, my head propped on a pillow.
My remaining energies were focused onto her, entering her through my cock and fingertips as she rode me.
She pushed forward and back with her hips, her arms raised her head, or her hands pressed to my chest.
I was the constant, the anchor in her movements. I held secure, trying not to disrupt her, alert as a spotter working with a skilled acrobat. I was there to lend support to her agility and strength.
She continued to speak, her words far from my ears. I strained to identify words.
At best, I made out languages.
English gave way to French--something about les mains, something about la terre, a laugh. She laughed at something in another language I have never studied.
I listened, not comprehending but resolute, going nowhere, as she soaked me in sweat and juice.
In time, she let her body fall onto mine. Like a cyclist pressing forward to diminish resistance.
She pumped her way to a finish line only she could detect. My hands grabbed her ass with well-timed ferocity, only to find she had miles left to go. I let my fingers drift to her spine.
When, finally, she collapsed, I lay under her, just as breathless.
I tucked wet strands of hair behind an ear. "Where did you go, Madeline?" I whispered.
"Shh," she rested her forehead on my shoulder, sobbing quietly. Suddenly, she laughed. "Baby, that was fucking Pentecostal."
I laughed. "Testify!"
She sighed as I caressed her hair. "All that was missing was a box of snakes."
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I had hoped it might be like this.
I put kink and such aside for these few days, ready should she want them, but not on the front burner. We had discovered those shared passions in many online conversations, and established a compatibility within them on her previous trip.
This time, I wanted to focus on just being together, just us. To be more a part of what we had as--for lack of a better word--a connection.
That groundwork for that connection had been laid well before Madeline and I first made love in April. Through all the sex and conversation of those few days, with one another and with others, we found that it took hold. It didn't matter what we were doing, or with whom--it only added to the sense that we were building on terra firma.
During those last hours of our final day together last Spring, we were simultaneously at ease and anxious, between wanting more touch and sex and affection from one another, and sated by all that had transpired in short a time. We were at once full and empty, as we prepared for the inevitable longing of being apart.
We were at our closest even as we anticipated distance.
This time, we were just a few days into her visit, with several days ahead.
I wanted to revisit the intensity of that last moment now, well before we had to once again say goodbye.
As we made love that night, I was taking the lead, stubbornly. Frankly, I had an agenda. I wanted to overwhelm her with simplicity.
Her body under mine, my cock in her. Deep, shallow. Long, short. Fevered, easy. Just keep me inside you, I thought, looking at her closed eyes, and let me watch how you respond to what our bodies do.
I smiled when she looked up at me, caressing her cheeks, gentle, soft.
Later, I clenched my teeth as she turned aside, her hair tight in my fists, my hips pounding between her outstretched legs.
I focused on her breathing as she took my cock firm and centered on her g spot, as she drenched me.
I anticipated her needs and toyed with her expectations. At one point, she had given a torrent into my palm. Her body relaxed. I knew she would want a taste of her juices.
I licked my fingers in anticipation of giving them to her. Her eyes were on mine, waiting.
My fingers rested on her lips. Her tongue raced out to take them.
I traced a fingertip onto her tongue, then two, then three.
I soon forced four fingers into her mouth. Clenching her jaw in my palm, I was back in her, holding her face next to mine, holding her hostage as I fucked.
She gave in, surrendering her anticipation of respite. I reminded her that she was safe, she was here with me, and I was firmly in charge of the moment.
She eventually seemed exhausted.
I slowed. I was worn down as well.
"Pull me on top," she asked.
I did.
Her wet body caught the city lights outside my window.
I caressed her hips and waist, looking up. Her face was in silhouette; I couldn't tell if she saw me looking.
My hand cupped a breast. A finger and thumb plucked a nipple and drew it to my mouth.
She moaned and reached back, pulling up on her buttocks. This would tease out another orgasm.
She said something, laughing. I pulled back and smiled.
I didn't hear her well enough to distinguish words, but I got the gist. I wasn't going to ask her to repeat it.
I lay back, pushing her breasts together, squeezing her nipples.
She mumbled something about how good that felt, something about love, something else.
My body was so drained. I relaxed.
My feet fell to their sides.
My knees were slightly tucked, my calves and thighs splayed into bowlegs.
My back was flat, my shoulders back, my head propped on a pillow.
My remaining energies were focused onto her, entering her through my cock and fingertips as she rode me.
She pushed forward and back with her hips, her arms raised her head, or her hands pressed to my chest.
I was the constant, the anchor in her movements. I held secure, trying not to disrupt her, alert as a spotter working with a skilled acrobat. I was there to lend support to her agility and strength.
She continued to speak, her words far from my ears. I strained to identify words.
At best, I made out languages.
English gave way to French--something about les mains, something about la terre, a laugh. She laughed at something in another language I have never studied.
I listened, not comprehending but resolute, going nowhere, as she soaked me in sweat and juice.
In time, she let her body fall onto mine. Like a cyclist pressing forward to diminish resistance.
She pumped her way to a finish line only she could detect. My hands grabbed her ass with well-timed ferocity, only to find she had miles left to go. I let my fingers drift to her spine.
When, finally, she collapsed, I lay under her, just as breathless.
I tucked wet strands of hair behind an ear. "Where did you go, Madeline?" I whispered.
"Shh," she rested her forehead on my shoulder, sobbing quietly. Suddenly, she laughed. "Baby, that was fucking Pentecostal."
I laughed. "Testify!"
She sighed as I caressed her hair. "All that was missing was a box of snakes."
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Thursday, August 11, 2005
Hungry
We awoke just after dawn the next morning, already talking, already kissing. Hungry.
We made love all day.
And while I had initially given in to our hunger, simultaneously fisting and fucking Madeline's cunt within moments of our reunion, this day had passed with meat-and-potatoes sex. I was usually on top, she was usually below. My eyes were open to her. We kissed our lips raw. She came and sweated profusely under me.
Sex like that works up an appetite.
Madeline had eaten only a few crackers the day before. As the day progressed, I would offer meals, and she would accept, but we never got around to making them. That would have meant leaving bed, and neither of us had the stomach for that.
By dusk, we were famished. I craved a change of venue.
The sun was setting on a very overcast summer evening. The lamps remained dark, and the apartment slumbered in a dim velvet haze.
The phone rang. Marla called with an invitation. Her new boyfriend's friend is a disk jockey and painter, she said, with an opening that night at revered pizza restaurant in the Village. Was I in the mood to look at art, she asked? It meant free pizza and wine, she added, plus the chance to hang out and meet the new guy.
I looked at Madeline, who was slowly getting dressed, a little stoned from sex.
"That sounds fine," I said. "But get this: Madeline is here."
"What, the online girl?" Marla asked.
"The very one."
"You have to bring her! She's really here?"
Madeline was a little hesitant, allowing her good manners to wonder if she would be intruding, or if she was dressed well enough for the event.
Perhaps she was also reluctant to break the spell of our intimacy by meeting another of my lovers.
"It's an art show in a pizza parlor, dear, not the opera," I cajoled. "And it's Marla. She's very cool. Let's go."
She relented.
We arrived to find a long line of patrons waiting to be seated. Marla waved us past, ushering us into a small side room, humid with closely packed bodies.
I kissed her in greeting, indicating Madeline. They said hellos as we followed Marla to the back, where wine was being poured. Pizza was served nearby as it emerged fresh from an open brick oven.
I had only caught a glance of Marla, but enough to see that she was in top form. Her long hair was wavy--somewhere between her natural curls and the straightened version she prefers--and streaked with blonde and pink highlights. She was tan from days on the beach near her home. Her tight shirt and jeans suggested she had lost a little weight, with no ill effect to her voluptuous figure.
When Marla looks this good, she is putting the world on notice: she is sexy as hell, and she knows it. Feminine sensuality is not wasted on this broad.
"Vincent," Marla called to the bartender, her Brooklyn accent rising above the din. "These are my friends, right?"
"Yeah, Marla," Vincent nodded, smiling to us. "Nice to meet you guys."
"This must be the hottest place in New York," I apologized to Madeline as I passed red wine her way, taking another plastic cup for myself.
"Um hmmm," Madeline nodded, sipping, her bobbed hair already wet at the edges.
Marla took a white wine and smiled. "So you're Madeline," she said, rolling her brown eyes toward me. "You came all the way here to see this one?" She slipped an arm around my waist.
"Yes, I suppose so . . . "
"Ooh, looks like it was worth the trip," Marla said, lowering her eyes to the nape of Madeline's neck. My bite the night before had produced a hickey that Madeline was unable to disguise with anything she had packed.
Marla's face turned serious as she pushed aside Madeline's collar for a closer look.
"Damn, Jefferson," she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "You do good work."
"You should see my thigh," Madeline whispered back.
The two women laughed.
It was suddenly as if we three were in on a big secret.
With a few words, we had identified ourselves among the secret society of perverts.
Whatever reservations Madeline may have had about meeting Marla were gone in that moment. They bonded instantly over a hickey.
"Did Jefferson tell you about my new boy? I call him 'Morning Glory,' because I met him after spotting him on my walk to work."
"Of course! Is he here?"
"Over there, by the bar. He works here, he knows everyone." She waved to a slim young man with close cropped hair. He practically blushed as he nodded back.
"Fucking cute," I admired. Madeline had grabbed some slices on paper plates. I sank my teeth into scalding mozzarella.
"No shit," Madeline added, taking a bite. "I'd do him."
"Yeah, right? Isn't he hot?" Marla nodded."I'm tempted to bring him to your parties, Jefferson, but . . . "
" . . . that would reveal your secret life as a slut."
"Well, that, plus he's never done anything like it."
"That's not a problem, of course. But he's not bi?"
She shook her head, taking a bite of pizza. "You kidding?," she chewed. "Total straight boy"
"How unfortunate. Any threesomes?"
She shook her head.
"Ah, an innocent," I nodded, watching as he reached for a stack of plates. "For you to corrupt or to keep as your own."
"Yeah, tough call," she replied. "Oh, but get this Madeline: we were out dancing, and--did Jefferson tell you? It was so hot!--he fucking grabbed my throat and pushed me against a wall to kiss me. He's a choker!"
"Oh my dog!" Madeline covered her mouth with a hand,laughing as she chewed.
"Fuck yeah, I was so wet!" Marla laughed herself into a cough, a slice poised in her hand. "Though he does need work. You know, the other night he asked if, you know, I wouldn't mind maybe going down on him. When you know, what I wanted to hear was . . . "
"Suck my cock, bitch!" Marla and Madeline finished the sentence together, laughing. They were on a roll.
"Seems he can be trained," I smiled.
"Oh, I need to thank you for that," Madeline said, turning to Marla. "You trained Jefferson, but good."
"For selfish reasons," Marla said, raising her cup. "But glad it works for you!"
I had been with lovers who liked it rough before meeting Marla. But she sensed my raw talent and honed it, pulling my fingers to her throat, showing me how to apply pressure, nodding when my cock and my grip were in perfect synch.
Marla likes the rough trade. Bring her unlettered boys with muscles and tattoos and she is in hog heaven. Yet too few of her boys get that the machismo she craves in a man is not just an external pose.
I was surprised when she sought out the brute in me, a skinny fair-haired bookworm. "I don't know why," she told me, when I asked why she picked me as her tough guy. "I trust you. You want to please me, and really, this is what I want."
She said what I had to hear. Of course I wanted to give her what she wanted.
By the time Madeline asked me to slap her, I was prepared to give her what she needed.
The three of us talked and ate with gusto, fueling ourselves on free wine. In time, we moved away from the oven in search of cooler air by an open door.
Madeline was melting away.
Marla's girlfriend clock began to tick, as she cast her eyes about for the boy who was taking her home that night.
I picked up on the shift in tone and suggested that Madeline and I should be going.
Marla and Madeline kissed goodbye, already chums. Marla kissed me.
"Have fun tonight," I told her. "You look very happy."
"I am," she smiled. "You look happy too."
She raised her voice and looked at Madeline. "You two are going to go back to fuck now, huh?"
We shrugged.
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We made love all day.
And while I had initially given in to our hunger, simultaneously fisting and fucking Madeline's cunt within moments of our reunion, this day had passed with meat-and-potatoes sex. I was usually on top, she was usually below. My eyes were open to her. We kissed our lips raw. She came and sweated profusely under me.
Sex like that works up an appetite.
Madeline had eaten only a few crackers the day before. As the day progressed, I would offer meals, and she would accept, but we never got around to making them. That would have meant leaving bed, and neither of us had the stomach for that.
By dusk, we were famished. I craved a change of venue.
The sun was setting on a very overcast summer evening. The lamps remained dark, and the apartment slumbered in a dim velvet haze.
The phone rang. Marla called with an invitation. Her new boyfriend's friend is a disk jockey and painter, she said, with an opening that night at revered pizza restaurant in the Village. Was I in the mood to look at art, she asked? It meant free pizza and wine, she added, plus the chance to hang out and meet the new guy.
I looked at Madeline, who was slowly getting dressed, a little stoned from sex.
"That sounds fine," I said. "But get this: Madeline is here."
"What, the online girl?" Marla asked.
"The very one."
"You have to bring her! She's really here?"
Madeline was a little hesitant, allowing her good manners to wonder if she would be intruding, or if she was dressed well enough for the event.
Perhaps she was also reluctant to break the spell of our intimacy by meeting another of my lovers.
"It's an art show in a pizza parlor, dear, not the opera," I cajoled. "And it's Marla. She's very cool. Let's go."
She relented.
We arrived to find a long line of patrons waiting to be seated. Marla waved us past, ushering us into a small side room, humid with closely packed bodies.
I kissed her in greeting, indicating Madeline. They said hellos as we followed Marla to the back, where wine was being poured. Pizza was served nearby as it emerged fresh from an open brick oven.
I had only caught a glance of Marla, but enough to see that she was in top form. Her long hair was wavy--somewhere between her natural curls and the straightened version she prefers--and streaked with blonde and pink highlights. She was tan from days on the beach near her home. Her tight shirt and jeans suggested she had lost a little weight, with no ill effect to her voluptuous figure.
When Marla looks this good, she is putting the world on notice: she is sexy as hell, and she knows it. Feminine sensuality is not wasted on this broad.
"Vincent," Marla called to the bartender, her Brooklyn accent rising above the din. "These are my friends, right?"
"Yeah, Marla," Vincent nodded, smiling to us. "Nice to meet you guys."
"This must be the hottest place in New York," I apologized to Madeline as I passed red wine her way, taking another plastic cup for myself.
"Um hmmm," Madeline nodded, sipping, her bobbed hair already wet at the edges.
Marla took a white wine and smiled. "So you're Madeline," she said, rolling her brown eyes toward me. "You came all the way here to see this one?" She slipped an arm around my waist.
"Yes, I suppose so . . . "
"Ooh, looks like it was worth the trip," Marla said, lowering her eyes to the nape of Madeline's neck. My bite the night before had produced a hickey that Madeline was unable to disguise with anything she had packed.
Marla's face turned serious as she pushed aside Madeline's collar for a closer look.
"Damn, Jefferson," she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "You do good work."
"You should see my thigh," Madeline whispered back.
The two women laughed.
It was suddenly as if we three were in on a big secret.
With a few words, we had identified ourselves among the secret society of perverts.
Whatever reservations Madeline may have had about meeting Marla were gone in that moment. They bonded instantly over a hickey.
"Did Jefferson tell you about my new boy? I call him 'Morning Glory,' because I met him after spotting him on my walk to work."
"Of course! Is he here?"
"Over there, by the bar. He works here, he knows everyone." She waved to a slim young man with close cropped hair. He practically blushed as he nodded back.
"Fucking cute," I admired. Madeline had grabbed some slices on paper plates. I sank my teeth into scalding mozzarella.
"No shit," Madeline added, taking a bite. "I'd do him."
"Yeah, right? Isn't he hot?" Marla nodded."I'm tempted to bring him to your parties, Jefferson, but . . . "
" . . . that would reveal your secret life as a slut."
"Well, that, plus he's never done anything like it."
"That's not a problem, of course. But he's not bi?"
She shook her head, taking a bite of pizza. "You kidding?," she chewed. "Total straight boy"
"How unfortunate. Any threesomes?"
She shook her head.
"Ah, an innocent," I nodded, watching as he reached for a stack of plates. "For you to corrupt or to keep as your own."
"Yeah, tough call," she replied. "Oh, but get this Madeline: we were out dancing, and--did Jefferson tell you? It was so hot!--he fucking grabbed my throat and pushed me against a wall to kiss me. He's a choker!"
"Oh my dog!" Madeline covered her mouth with a hand,laughing as she chewed.
"Fuck yeah, I was so wet!" Marla laughed herself into a cough, a slice poised in her hand. "Though he does need work. You know, the other night he asked if, you know, I wouldn't mind maybe going down on him. When you know, what I wanted to hear was . . . "
"Suck my cock, bitch!" Marla and Madeline finished the sentence together, laughing. They were on a roll.
"Seems he can be trained," I smiled.
"Oh, I need to thank you for that," Madeline said, turning to Marla. "You trained Jefferson, but good."
"For selfish reasons," Marla said, raising her cup. "But glad it works for you!"
I had been with lovers who liked it rough before meeting Marla. But she sensed my raw talent and honed it, pulling my fingers to her throat, showing me how to apply pressure, nodding when my cock and my grip were in perfect synch.
Marla likes the rough trade. Bring her unlettered boys with muscles and tattoos and she is in hog heaven. Yet too few of her boys get that the machismo she craves in a man is not just an external pose.
I was surprised when she sought out the brute in me, a skinny fair-haired bookworm. "I don't know why," she told me, when I asked why she picked me as her tough guy. "I trust you. You want to please me, and really, this is what I want."
She said what I had to hear. Of course I wanted to give her what she wanted.
By the time Madeline asked me to slap her, I was prepared to give her what she needed.
The three of us talked and ate with gusto, fueling ourselves on free wine. In time, we moved away from the oven in search of cooler air by an open door.
Madeline was melting away.
Marla's girlfriend clock began to tick, as she cast her eyes about for the boy who was taking her home that night.
I picked up on the shift in tone and suggested that Madeline and I should be going.
Marla and Madeline kissed goodbye, already chums. Marla kissed me.
"Have fun tonight," I told her. "You look very happy."
"I am," she smiled. "You look happy too."
She raised her voice and looked at Madeline. "You two are going to go back to fuck now, huh?"
We shrugged.
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Sunday, August 07, 2005
If, Revisited
Editor's note: Madeline's accounts of her trip to New York begin here.
When Madeline made her first visit to New York in April, I pulled out all the stops.
We had met online when she stumbled across my blog and dropped me a note. We had a lot in common, it seemed, in addition to the fact that we were both raising kids and going through divorces.
Of course, there were differences as well. She is in the plains states, adjusting to a new life in her hometown, surrounded by family and distant from the absent father of her children. I am in New York, far from my family and sharing custody with the mother of my children.
High on the list of differences between us was the quantity and variety of sex I now have in my life. She gets hers, mind you, but with kids home most nights and a more limited pool of local talent than that available to big-city sluts like me, she misses a few opportunities.
For my first flesh-and-blood encounter with Madeline, I offered to share some of those opportunities.
She was more than eager to have some adventure. We plotted and schemed, drawing up lists of things she enjoyed, and things she had never tried.
And over the course of her visit, we gave that list a thorough working over.
Marcus joined us for several days, and the three of us developed a warm and easy-going triad--we were the Mod Squad of Sex. Mitzi and Franz joined us for a fivesome, in which Madeline had her first lesbian sex and received the gay male seal of approval for her ass. There were spankings and ropes and sex toys and all manner of shenigans.
It was great fun, but with some unintended side effects.
Despite herself, Mitzi was jealous. Despite himself, Marcus fell for Madeline. Even my Shelby, who shares my love and our love of freedom, found herself looking in the other direction, waiting until it was over.
Things got a little messy.
In the midst of so many fireworks, Madleine and I had established that we like us some wild sex. We also concurred that we did not want to wrek havoc in one another's lives.
During that time, we made time to establish a physical extension of our online relationship, to explore the tenderness between us--just Madeline and Jefferson. When she was gone, that had left me pondering: what if . . . ?
What if I had made different choices earlier in life? What if I had not been resistant to being content with someone sweet and adoring, such as my girlfriend Pablo, in favor of someone so--to choose a kind word--challenging as my ex wife? What if I had resisted whatever I found so alluring about being controlled, and favored someone who took me as I am?
What if I made different choices about my present life? What if I was not so determiend to be single for now? What if I opened my heart a little more, and trusted that sharing my life with someone would not necessarily mean risking my fate, and that of my children, on another person's mercurial temperament?
What if I plotted a different future? What if I knitted together a new family? What if I was more receptive to meeting "the one," or even marrying again?
Pretty heady stuff for a first date.
Even for a first date preceded by so many hours of online dates.
For our second flesh-and-blood date, we were keeping it simple. Just Madeline and Jefferson.
Personally, I wanted to test drive a relationship. No money down, no commitments, no guarantees.
I'm sure to want a long-term relationship one day.
Could I close my eyes and try the steering wheel, imagining that this year's model could go some distance?
We would have more time together than the previous visit--six days as opposed to four--and I was not setting a sexual itinerary.
In fact, my erotic imagination went to other extremes. I fantasized about kisses, and dreamed of missionary positions.
Madeline and I knew we could burn down the barn.
This time around, we wanted a barn raising.
Madeline arrived my place moist from the sweltering streets.
She looked so . . . well, here is the thing about Madeline's physical beauty. It's a little distracting.
When we are talking via webcams or in person, I am sometimes struck by the noble thoughts of a good son: This is the girl your mama wanted you to bring home.
I am also struck by more superficial thoughts: This girl never pays full price for an oil change. This girl gets her sidewalks shoveled for free. This is the girl that other husbands think about when they screw their wives.
I take great pride that I liked her before I laid eyes on her.
We kissed hello near my door, nice and slow, exactly where we had last kissed goodbye.
"I love you, Jefferson."
"I love you, Madeline."
We did that. We expressed love.
It's no big deal. We're cool. We're grown ups. We can love each other without making life crazy.We know how to be passionate We know how to exercise restraint.
I offered water. She accepted. I poured two glasses.
We talked. Our talk moved to my bed.
We kept our clothes on. I had, in fact, dressed in anticipation of her arrival. No nude greeting at the door, no rush of passions, no rending of garments.
Our restraint lasted several minutes. Maybe even so long as eight minutes.
I was naked first. She was fast behind.
Still we talked, slowly and casually.
Her flesh was so wet. She tasted salty.
Our mouths locked.
Her hands sought out my skin.
I gave into my hunger for hers.
Over an hour later, she asked for a break.
Her body was drenched in sweat.
I sat back. I kept my eyes on her turned face, her closed lids.
I pulled my cock from her cunt.
Finger by finger, my hand slowly followed.
"How many fingers?" she whispered.
"My fist," I said, caressing her cheek. "And my cock."
"Fuck," she sighed. "Your fist and your cock? All that time?"
"Yes, for a very long time."
I kissed her belly, welcoming her back to reality.
While she was out, I was her caretaker. She handed me the key and she was gone.
I surveyed her body. Had I been a good caretaker?
Her face was red from my palm. She requested those slaps. They would fade.
Her clit was swollen. It would subside.
One hickey on her shoulder. Exactly the spot she asked me to bite her in April, revisted in an inspired moment.
Such restraint we exercise.
"You want more water?" I asked.
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When Madeline made her first visit to New York in April, I pulled out all the stops.
We had met online when she stumbled across my blog and dropped me a note. We had a lot in common, it seemed, in addition to the fact that we were both raising kids and going through divorces.
Of course, there were differences as well. She is in the plains states, adjusting to a new life in her hometown, surrounded by family and distant from the absent father of her children. I am in New York, far from my family and sharing custody with the mother of my children.
High on the list of differences between us was the quantity and variety of sex I now have in my life. She gets hers, mind you, but with kids home most nights and a more limited pool of local talent than that available to big-city sluts like me, she misses a few opportunities.
For my first flesh-and-blood encounter with Madeline, I offered to share some of those opportunities.
She was more than eager to have some adventure. We plotted and schemed, drawing up lists of things she enjoyed, and things she had never tried.
And over the course of her visit, we gave that list a thorough working over.
Marcus joined us for several days, and the three of us developed a warm and easy-going triad--we were the Mod Squad of Sex. Mitzi and Franz joined us for a fivesome, in which Madeline had her first lesbian sex and received the gay male seal of approval for her ass. There were spankings and ropes and sex toys and all manner of shenigans.
It was great fun, but with some unintended side effects.
Despite herself, Mitzi was jealous. Despite himself, Marcus fell for Madeline. Even my Shelby, who shares my love and our love of freedom, found herself looking in the other direction, waiting until it was over.
Things got a little messy.
In the midst of so many fireworks, Madleine and I had established that we like us some wild sex. We also concurred that we did not want to wrek havoc in one another's lives.
During that time, we made time to establish a physical extension of our online relationship, to explore the tenderness between us--just Madeline and Jefferson. When she was gone, that had left me pondering: what if . . . ?
What if I had made different choices earlier in life? What if I had not been resistant to being content with someone sweet and adoring, such as my girlfriend Pablo, in favor of someone so--to choose a kind word--challenging as my ex wife? What if I had resisted whatever I found so alluring about being controlled, and favored someone who took me as I am?
What if I made different choices about my present life? What if I was not so determiend to be single for now? What if I opened my heart a little more, and trusted that sharing my life with someone would not necessarily mean risking my fate, and that of my children, on another person's mercurial temperament?
What if I plotted a different future? What if I knitted together a new family? What if I was more receptive to meeting "the one," or even marrying again?
Pretty heady stuff for a first date.
Even for a first date preceded by so many hours of online dates.
For our second flesh-and-blood date, we were keeping it simple. Just Madeline and Jefferson.
Personally, I wanted to test drive a relationship. No money down, no commitments, no guarantees.
I'm sure to want a long-term relationship one day.
Could I close my eyes and try the steering wheel, imagining that this year's model could go some distance?
We would have more time together than the previous visit--six days as opposed to four--and I was not setting a sexual itinerary.
In fact, my erotic imagination went to other extremes. I fantasized about kisses, and dreamed of missionary positions.
Madeline and I knew we could burn down the barn.
This time around, we wanted a barn raising.
Madeline arrived my place moist from the sweltering streets.
She looked so . . . well, here is the thing about Madeline's physical beauty. It's a little distracting.
When we are talking via webcams or in person, I am sometimes struck by the noble thoughts of a good son: This is the girl your mama wanted you to bring home.
I am also struck by more superficial thoughts: This girl never pays full price for an oil change. This girl gets her sidewalks shoveled for free. This is the girl that other husbands think about when they screw their wives.
I take great pride that I liked her before I laid eyes on her.
We kissed hello near my door, nice and slow, exactly where we had last kissed goodbye.
"I love you, Jefferson."
"I love you, Madeline."
We did that. We expressed love.
It's no big deal. We're cool. We're grown ups. We can love each other without making life crazy.We know how to be passionate We know how to exercise restraint.
I offered water. She accepted. I poured two glasses.
We talked. Our talk moved to my bed.
We kept our clothes on. I had, in fact, dressed in anticipation of her arrival. No nude greeting at the door, no rush of passions, no rending of garments.
Our restraint lasted several minutes. Maybe even so long as eight minutes.
I was naked first. She was fast behind.
Still we talked, slowly and casually.
Her flesh was so wet. She tasted salty.
Our mouths locked.
Her hands sought out my skin.
I gave into my hunger for hers.
Over an hour later, she asked for a break.
Her body was drenched in sweat.
I sat back. I kept my eyes on her turned face, her closed lids.
I pulled my cock from her cunt.
Finger by finger, my hand slowly followed.
"How many fingers?" she whispered.
"My fist," I said, caressing her cheek. "And my cock."
"Fuck," she sighed. "Your fist and your cock? All that time?"
"Yes, for a very long time."
I kissed her belly, welcoming her back to reality.
While she was out, I was her caretaker. She handed me the key and she was gone.
I surveyed her body. Had I been a good caretaker?
Her face was red from my palm. She requested those slaps. They would fade.
Her clit was swollen. It would subside.
One hickey on her shoulder. Exactly the spot she asked me to bite her in April, revisted in an inspired moment.
Such restraint we exercise.
"You want more water?" I asked.
sex
sexblogs
bisexual
erotica
polyamory
fisting
Thursday, August 04, 2005
Fuck House
Editor’s note: Much as I hate to break the narrative thread by posting out of sequence, I have to report on breaking news. The next post will be back to the story, cross my heart.
Last night was our biweekly sex party.
I awoke this morning in bed with Meg.
Her green eyes were open, looking at me.
I closed my eyes, and pulled her head to my shoulder. I stroked her red hair, brushing it with my cheek.
Pretty girl, morning wood—a sure fire cocktail for a lazy dom to want to get his rocks off.
I grabbed her hair.
“Suck my cock,” I ordered, pushing her head down, my eyes still closed.
She adjusted her body to comply. I stretched back to enjoy her mouth.
She took my cock in her hand, and put her lips to it.
“Jefferson?”
I opened my eyes and looked down at Meg’s face. She grinned and lowered her eyes.
That’s when I saw it.
Written on my cock, in bold black ink, was the word “SLUT.”
Like an old-time advertisement on a farm silo.
Marcus!
“That rat bastard.”
“He told me I had to be sure you saw it.”
I grimaced, rubbing the word.
Sharpie marker. Permanent ink.
“Very funny. Now suck that dick, comedian.”
Meg took me in her mouth.
I watched as she worked the “S.”
I wanted her to swallow the “T.”
When will I learn that I shouldn’t sleep until Marcus is out cold?
And after all I do for him . . .
The evening before, after so much arm twisting, Marcus had finally relented and started his own blog.
Viviane raced over to offer technical support.
Madeline had cranked up her cam to lend moral support.
Meg helped too, until Jake showed up early for the party.
Jake knew enough to know at a glance that we had the situation under control.
So he took Meg to the next room to give her some righteous orgasms—and a few memorable bruises.
We talked over their sex as we launched his sex blog.
“Is Meg always this noisy?” Viviane asked, typing as Marcus contemplated templates.
“She’s keeping it quiet as we work,” I said.
“This one looks too much like a china pattern,” Marcus said, clicking the mouse, focused on his task.
Madeline: Let me know when you are ready for comments!
We did it.
We launched Marcus’s blog.
The Fuck House.
We tinkered as Jake and Meg came back in towels to see our work and to say howdy to Madeline.
Madline showed her tits to Jake.
In return, she got a gander at what lurks under his towel.
There was so much good feeling. Such joy at Marcus joining the bloggers.
Then, ten hours and a sex party later, I woke to the receiving end of his more sophomoric scribes.
Meg got the receiving end of my critique of his efforts.
A good firm blowjob, and I was merely a “LUT.”
I fucked myself down to “UT” before shooting on her belly.
A shower scrubbed his cleverness to oblivion.
Did Marcus care? That fucker?
Fuck no.
He was breakfasting with the boys he had picked up online after Meg and I dozed off at five in the morning.
He was still out as I signed on after my shower.
Viviane: Nice pic!
Madeline: You ARE a slut!
Shelby: I miss all the fun!
That rat bastard takes pictures.
And he spreads them around.
My dick was the morning's headline news.
sex
sexblogs
bisexual
erotica
polyamory
Last night was our biweekly sex party.
I awoke this morning in bed with Meg.
Her green eyes were open, looking at me.
I closed my eyes, and pulled her head to my shoulder. I stroked her red hair, brushing it with my cheek.
Pretty girl, morning wood—a sure fire cocktail for a lazy dom to want to get his rocks off.
I grabbed her hair.
“Suck my cock,” I ordered, pushing her head down, my eyes still closed.
She adjusted her body to comply. I stretched back to enjoy her mouth.
She took my cock in her hand, and put her lips to it.
“Jefferson?”
I opened my eyes and looked down at Meg’s face. She grinned and lowered her eyes.
That’s when I saw it.
Written on my cock, in bold black ink, was the word “SLUT.”
Like an old-time advertisement on a farm silo.
Marcus!
“That rat bastard.”
“He told me I had to be sure you saw it.”
I grimaced, rubbing the word.
Sharpie marker. Permanent ink.
“Very funny. Now suck that dick, comedian.”
Meg took me in her mouth.
I watched as she worked the “S.”
I wanted her to swallow the “T.”
When will I learn that I shouldn’t sleep until Marcus is out cold?
And after all I do for him . . .
The evening before, after so much arm twisting, Marcus had finally relented and started his own blog.
Viviane raced over to offer technical support.
Madeline had cranked up her cam to lend moral support.
Meg helped too, until Jake showed up early for the party.
Jake knew enough to know at a glance that we had the situation under control.
So he took Meg to the next room to give her some righteous orgasms—and a few memorable bruises.
We talked over their sex as we launched his sex blog.
“Is Meg always this noisy?” Viviane asked, typing as Marcus contemplated templates.
“She’s keeping it quiet as we work,” I said.
“This one looks too much like a china pattern,” Marcus said, clicking the mouse, focused on his task.
Madeline: Let me know when you are ready for comments!
We did it.
We launched Marcus’s blog.
The Fuck House.
We tinkered as Jake and Meg came back in towels to see our work and to say howdy to Madeline.
Madline showed her tits to Jake.
In return, she got a gander at what lurks under his towel.
There was so much good feeling. Such joy at Marcus joining the bloggers.
Then, ten hours and a sex party later, I woke to the receiving end of his more sophomoric scribes.
Meg got the receiving end of my critique of his efforts.
A good firm blowjob, and I was merely a “LUT.”
I fucked myself down to “UT” before shooting on her belly.
A shower scrubbed his cleverness to oblivion.
Did Marcus care? That fucker?
Fuck no.
He was breakfasting with the boys he had picked up online after Meg and I dozed off at five in the morning.
He was still out as I signed on after my shower.
Viviane: Nice pic!
Madeline: You ARE a slut!
Shelby: I miss all the fun!
That rat bastard takes pictures.
And he spreads them around.
My dick was the morning's headline news.
sex
sexblogs
bisexual
erotica
polyamory
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