I was already formally engaged, as we used to say, to the girl I was going to marry. But still, I sometimes went out on the town with girls of a different sort. And during the very week before the date set for the wedding . . .
“Hey Uncle TJ! Uncle TJ!”
I looked up from my book. “Yes?”
“Hey watch this!”
“I’m watching.”
“Okay, watch!”
“Okay.”
Bart ran to the end of the diving board and jumped, sending up a big splash.
“Hey!” his brother Billy shouted from a float nearby. “He splashed me!”
Bart’s head emerged from the water. He swung his hair to one side. “Uncle TJ, did you see?”
“I did! That was a big splash, Bart.”
“You got me wet, butthead!” Billy complained.
“You’re in the water, moron! You are wet!” Bart bellowed, slapping water in Billy’s direction.
“Hey!”
“Bart, please don’t splash your brother. Billy, maybe you should move your float while Bart is jumping. And both of you, drop the name calling. ”
“I was here first!”
“It’s a very big lake. I’m sure you can work this out.”
. . . out on the town with girls of a different sort. And during the very week before the date set for the wedding, in December, I was in an automobile accident at a time when one of those girls was with me. It was a calamitous thing to have happen . . .
“Dad?”
I looked up from my book. “Yes, dear?”
Lillie held her belly and rolled her eyes. “I’m sta-aa-arving.”
My grandmother raised herself in her chair. “Do you want me to get some lunch for the babies?”
“No Nanny, they are fine, thank you. I’ll go up later to make lunch.” I turned to my daughter. “Lillie, we just had breakfast a little while ago. Why don’t you eat some of the grapes we brought with us?”
“I’m sick of grapes.”
“Well, then you can wait for lunch.”
“Baby, do you want some of these cheese crackers I brought?” Granny reached for her bag.
“Yes! Cheese crackers, cheese crackers!”
“Wait, is she getting cheese crackers?” Bart shouted from the water. “I want some!”
“You just mind your jumping,” Nanny hollered back.
“That’s so unfair!”
“Well, I’m sorry,” Nanny wavered. “But you keep swimming.” She lowered her voice to me as Lillie took the crackers. “That boy just never stops eating. He can’t stand to miss any opportunity to eat some more.”
“Yeah, I’ve noticed.”
“Well,” her head bobbed on her shoulder. She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “He needs to lose weight. That’s why I hid the snacks you got for your babies.”
“Probably a wise idea. You okay now, Lillie?” She nodded.
I looked at Jason floating across the slip on a foam noodle. Collie, wearing a life jacket and grasping another noodle, paddled behind.
“You boys stay on this side of the boat house, okay?”
“Okay, dad,” Jason yelled back.
“Dad, look how far I am!”
“I see, Collie. Just stay where I can see you.”
I watched for a moment longer. Things quieted down. I sipped my can of Miller Lite and returned to reading.
. . . automobile accident at a time when one of those girls was with me. It was a calamitous thing to have happen —not the accident itself, which caused no serious injury to anyone, but the accident plus the presence of that girl.
“Dad, will you swim with me?” Lillie asked. Her face was now sprinkled with orange crumbs.
“Uh, sure.” I put the book down. “Let me adjust your lifejacket, sweetie.”
“You want me to go fix the lunches?” my grandmother asked, beginning to stand.
“No ma’am, that’s all right. I’ll take Lillie up after our swim. You want to help me make lunch, Lillie?”
“Yes, if I can make my own. And Collie’s!”
“Deal. Let’s swim.”
“I don’t mind going,” my grandmother said.
I looked at the fifty-three steps leading uphill from the pier to the house. I looked back to my eighty-two-year-old grandmother.
“No, that’s okay, Nanny. It won’t take us but a minute to do it. Just keep an eye on the boys, okay?”
“Shoot,” she chortled. “If anything happens, all I can do I sit here and holler.”
“That’s about right,” I smiled, holding Lillie’s hands as we stepped into the water.
I didn’t mind making lunch. I had assumed that on this trip, as in previous years, I would be the head chef for my family vacation—that is, if we wanted three squares.
The night before, my brother Frank came over unannounced just as I was starting dinner. He brought two of his three boys.
“Hey TJ!”
“Well hey, Frank,” I smiled as he pulled me into a bear hug. “This is a nice surprise. I didn’t know we’d see you tonight.”
“No, neither did I.” He laughed. “But I got out of work early and so I decided, ‘Well hell, let’s go to the lake and see TJ.’”
“Dad, I’m hungry,” Bart whined.
“Well, get yourself something to eat,” Frank said. “And get me a beer while you’re at it.”
“Are you staying for dinner?” I asked.
“Sure, what are you making?”
“Pasta,” I said, opening a cabinet to trade the pot I had chosen for a bigger one. “Would you put this roast in the fridge and take out a chicken, please?”
I have to grin and bear this part of time with my family: the aversion, among some, to planning ahead.
My life in New York is set by schedules. I have my kids on certain nights and weekends. My work is delegated to overlapping deadlines.
With the time remaining, I plan dates and orgies.
All of these days are set well in advance.
There is very little wiggle room, but I don’t much mind. I like knowing what to expect, so I can plan for it.
I’m not sure how I arrived at this desire for order, but one thing is certain: I did not inherit it.
When my parents bought this lake house a decade ago, they were attracted to the fact that it was a good size to suit their needs and to accommodate the guests that are inevitably drawn to waterside properties.
There was a bedroom for my parents, another for my grandmother and a third for guests. There were two and a half baths, a nice kitchen and a living area large enough for a fold-out sofa.
Perfect for most weekends.
When I came for a visit, my kids went in the guest room. It was assumed I would sleep with my grandmother.
This is a long-standing family tradition. As I am up late, and my grandmother rises early, it makes sense that we share a bed, as we would only be in it together for a couple of hours.
Now, that plan works fine, unless my brothers decide to crash there with their families.
I have never understood why they would do this, as their own homes are only an hour or so away.
But when I visited, it was not at all unusual for the house to bed our entire family for the night.
My parents.
My grandmother.
Me and my three kids—four if Rachel joined us.
My brother Jesse and his two kids.
My brother Frank, his wife Sharon and their three sons.
My brother Lee, his wife Tanya and their daughter.
Nineteen people. Three bedrooms.
We slept on chairs and boats, in sleeping bags and hammocks, on a screened-in porch.
If everyone was staying over, I never knew where I would be sleeping from night to night. Chances were good I wouldn’t know who was staying over until they went to sleep.
Tanya and her daughter go to bed early, so they would take my place in Nanny’s bed.
I would usually tuck my kids into bed early and take whatever was left when everyone else had passed out.
This year was a little different.
Last Autumn, a tornado had damaged part of the house.
The damage was not too severe, and the house was insured. My brother Frank resolved to make good use of the settlement by contracting the repairs himself. In the process, he designed an addition that would add three rooms to the house.
So it was that this year, for the first time, I had my own room.
Or at least, I did until Frank and his boys arrived. When I heard their voices at the door, I immediately wondered if they would take my bed.
“So,” I asked casually, as water boiled and I chopped chicken. “Are y’all staying overnight?”
“I wish I could, man, but I have to work. So the boys will stay, but I can’t.”
“Oh.” I stirred the sauce. “The boys are staying over?”
“Yeah, just for a couple of days. Then Sharon and I will come down too.”
“I see.” This was news to me. I kept my eyes on the sauce. “Well, you know Dad and Mom are working tomorrow and the next day, so Nanny and I will be the only adults.”
“Yeah,” he sipped a Miller Lite. “Is that all right? You know the boys are cool in the water. They are so excited to play with their cousins.”
The names of Frank’s boys all begin with the letter B: Buster, Bart and Billy. They are collectively known as the “Three Bs.”
Aka Brat, Bully and Baby.
No one would ever choose to be trapped with these children. They are wild and insatiable for attention.
But I am Frank’s big brother, and their Uncle TJ.
And I have always hated the way my family considers the grandchildren as extensions of my generation. This fact has never worked in Frank’s favor.
My kids are thought to be geniuses because I got good grades and went to college.
Jesse’s kids are thought to be athletic and socially adept because he was a popular football player.
Lee’s two-year-old girl is treated as a doll because he was the baby of the family.
Frank was a difficult child, always in trouble. This was primarily due to the fact that his ADHD was undiagnosed until late adolescence. He was unhappy and suffering most of childhood.
We didn’t know this at the time. Back then, we just thought he was an asshole.
As a child, Frank fought Jesse and Lee all the time.
I wouldn’t fight him. Fate had assigned me, as the eldest, with the role of peacekeeper.
I would yell at Frank and Jesse for fighting, and grab little Lee away when Frank got too rough.
Among us four boys, that passed for diplomacy.
Now, as an adult, I was having none of this theory that the grandchildren were variations on the four brothers. It annoyed me to see Frank’s boys considered hopelessly out of control, just as it annoyed me to see my own children assumed to be brainiacs.
They are all just kids.
“Sure, man. Leave them. We’ll have fun.”
What else could I say?
Still, the next day at the pier, as my grandmother and I supervised five children under the age of twelve, I made it clear that Uncle TJ is more lifeguard than party animal.
“Uncle TJ, can you give us ride on the Sea-Doo?” Bart begged.
“No, I have to stay on the pier to watch everyone.”
“Can we go out on the boat?”
“Nope, I don’t have a boating license.”
“You mean, we just have to just stay here and swim?”
“That’s right.”
“Gyah! That’s so lame.”
“I know. I’m pretty lame.” I looked at Lillie. “Ready to make some lunches, sweetheart?”
“Yes!”
“Let’s do it.” I lifted my head to shout. “Jason, Collie, come back to the shallow water.” Lillie and I stepped out and collected towels. “Okay Nanny, you’re in charge.”
“Are you sure?” she shifted in her chair. “You don’t need help?”
“No, just yell loud if anyone goes under.”
That night, alone in my room, I finished the story I had tried to read all day, “The Old Forest” by Peter Taylor. It was included in a collection I had given my father twenty years ago, but never read myself.
The story’s narrator looks back on a car accident that occurred forty years earlier, in the Thirties, just days before his wedding. He had been traveling with a young woman who mysteriously vanished from the scene of the accident.
His fiancée joined in the search for the missing woman.
Together, they discover a loosely knit subculture of shop girls who sidestepped the class hierarchy of Memphis society by creating their own support networks.
This allowed them a measure of freedom denied most women in their time and place, as they relied less on caste and wealth, and more on one another.
If they looked out for one another, they reasoned, they could get what they wanted from the men and women who shopped in their stores—and their sons, who took them on dates with no hope of matrimony—to whom they were otherwise interchangeable “girls.”
I closed the book and took my bourbon outside.
I listened to crickets as I took a leak near a tree felled by the tornado. If I had gone inside to the bathroom, I might have disturbed Frank’s boys in the living room.
I settled into a seat on the pier, and watched the stars.
That’s the trick to personal freedom, I thought. Figure out the restrictions and work around them.
You may not be able to change the universe to your liking, but you can certainly create your solar system within it.
You can make your own freedom.
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Peter Taylor
Friday, October 14, 2005
Wednesday, October 12, 2005
Drive South
My children were asleep in their beds, splayed in configurations wildly different from those into which they had originally been tucked.
My parents were asleep in my bed, side-by-side, as they have been every night for over four decades.
It was a little after three in the morning.
I was at my desk, writing.
I was looking forward to spending time with family, but dreading the absolute loss of privacy that had already begun. For the next weeks, I would rarely be alone—and hence, I would have very few opportunities to work.
I couldn’t help myself. I had to squeeze a little more solitude from these few last quiet moments at my desk.
My last moments alone in New York.
Dad awoke shortly after dawn, and made his way to the kitchen. He put on a teakettle for coffee and began to make bacon and pancakes.
He had asked me to supply the utensils and ingredients the night before, so I could sleep in.
I had been awake on the couch since Dad first flipped on the kitchen light.
With breakfast underway, I got up to wake and dress the kids. Mom was watching television in bed, so I kissed her good morning.
I had suggested that Dad double my usual quantity of pancake batter. He was already on the second full platter of pancakes when we sat down, with plenty more to go.
“I think TJ had me make so many pancakes just to keep me busy and out of the way,” he groused playfully from the kitchen.
“I’m just not that smart, Dad,” I said, cutting the kids’ stacks as they poured torrents of syrup. “But it sure did keep you out from underfoot.”
Dad retrieved the car as I washed the breakfast dishes and tended to some final packing. We loaded up and were soon underway.
I volunteered to drive the first leg—just to get us out of the city, I said.
With any luck, I would drive all day. It had been a while since I was behind the wheel.
We were on the turnpike when the kids requested our favorite road song.
Being in the navigator’s seat, Mom was in charge of distributing CDs. She pulled out the requested disk. I cued the song.
The kids were soon scream singing “Stacy’s Mom.”
“Excuse me, but what’s this song about?” my mother asked.
“Oh, they are singing what you think they are singing, Mom.”
“Oo-oo-kay,” she replied, extending her vowels in a querulous tone.
Hopefully, Mom would be napping when they requested “Filthy/Gorgeous.”
Mom was accustomed to the notion that her Yankee grandchildren were a little different that her other grandbabies.
For their part, the kids were prepared for the occasional clash of cultures when we returned to the Deep South.
Their mother had reminded them that south of the Mason-Dixon, it wasn’t kosher to take the Lord’s name in vain. I had already commended my oldest son that morning when an aggravation warranted a “Jeez” rather than a “Jesus Christ.”
The kids ewre beginning to refer to the family as “y’all,” though they did so by waving his fingers in the air as quotation marks.My daughter laughed at Southern accents—she giggled as she loudly sang “Own the Road Aga-yun”—but recognized a particular awesomeness to the landscape of endless pine trees, “Crackle Barrels” and “Wall Marks.”
We asked me to replay “Stacy’s Mom” over and again, with my middle son offering his parody rendition as “Stacy’s Dog.”
“Okay, that’s enough of ‘Stacy’s Mom,’” I finally said, putting down my foot as we crossed into Pennsylvania. “Find other things to do, okay?”
The boys reverted to collecting sightings of states on license plates. Mom pitched in to assist. Dad interviewed my daughter’s dolls, asking their favorite colors, favorite songs, favorite foods, and so on, as their five-year-old agent offered thoughtful answers.
I drove.
The Fountains of Wayne played on.
And the bourbon sits inside me
Right now I’m a puppet in its sway
And it may just be the whiskey talking
But the whiskey says I miss you every day
So I taxi to an all-night party
Park me in the corner in an old chair
Sip my drink and stare out into space
And now you’re leaving New York
For no better place
The Garden State was in my rear view mirror, and beyond that, Manhattan. My life there was on hiatus as I drove South.
Watching the white lines zipping under my hood, I took stock of things back there.
Anna was flipping the on switch again.
Bridget and I had managed a trip together, spending several days on a beach.
Madeline had made a second trip to visit me.
Mitzi was surrendering herself to my domination.
Shelby was going to endure surgery without me.
The clock was winding down on my summer romance with Marcus.
Jesus Christ.
My future was full of possibilities.
Now, I was driving headlong into my past.
I pushed the eject button.
I pushed the eject button. “Hey Mom, would you please pass that John Hiatt CD?”
I didn't say we wouldn't hurt anymore
That's how you learn, you just get burned
But we don't have to feel like dirt anymore
Though love's not earned; baby, it's our turn
We were always looking for true north
With our heads in the clouds, just a little off course
I left the motor running, now if you're feeling down and out
Come on, baby; drive south, with the one you love
Two days later, we were at my parents’ house.
That first night, I fried chicken, mashed potatoes, boiled corn and cut fresh tomatoes.
The kids chased Mom’s puppy, watched television, and went to bed early.
My father and grandmother did dishes as Mom went to bed with the puppy.
A few “good nights” and “I love yous” later, I was alone.
I poured a tall bourbon and walked down to the lake.
I pulled off my shirt and sat on the pier, dangling my feet in the water.
I sipped my bourbon, leaning back on bent elbows.
You forget how many stars there are down here, I thought.
After a while I stood and unzipped my shorts. I kicked them off to one side and stood naked in the moonlight.
I took another sip and put aside my glass.
I stretched.
My dive broke the black stillness.
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Fountains of Wayne
Roy Orbison
My parents were asleep in my bed, side-by-side, as they have been every night for over four decades.
It was a little after three in the morning.
I was at my desk, writing.
I was looking forward to spending time with family, but dreading the absolute loss of privacy that had already begun. For the next weeks, I would rarely be alone—and hence, I would have very few opportunities to work.
I couldn’t help myself. I had to squeeze a little more solitude from these few last quiet moments at my desk.
My last moments alone in New York.
Dad awoke shortly after dawn, and made his way to the kitchen. He put on a teakettle for coffee and began to make bacon and pancakes.
He had asked me to supply the utensils and ingredients the night before, so I could sleep in.
I had been awake on the couch since Dad first flipped on the kitchen light.
With breakfast underway, I got up to wake and dress the kids. Mom was watching television in bed, so I kissed her good morning.
I had suggested that Dad double my usual quantity of pancake batter. He was already on the second full platter of pancakes when we sat down, with plenty more to go.
“I think TJ had me make so many pancakes just to keep me busy and out of the way,” he groused playfully from the kitchen.
“I’m just not that smart, Dad,” I said, cutting the kids’ stacks as they poured torrents of syrup. “But it sure did keep you out from underfoot.”
Dad retrieved the car as I washed the breakfast dishes and tended to some final packing. We loaded up and were soon underway.
I volunteered to drive the first leg—just to get us out of the city, I said.
With any luck, I would drive all day. It had been a while since I was behind the wheel.
We were on the turnpike when the kids requested our favorite road song.
Being in the navigator’s seat, Mom was in charge of distributing CDs. She pulled out the requested disk. I cued the song.
The kids were soon scream singing “Stacy’s Mom.”
“Excuse me, but what’s this song about?” my mother asked.
“Oh, they are singing what you think they are singing, Mom.”
“Oo-oo-kay,” she replied, extending her vowels in a querulous tone.
Hopefully, Mom would be napping when they requested “Filthy/Gorgeous.”
Mom was accustomed to the notion that her Yankee grandchildren were a little different that her other grandbabies.
For their part, the kids were prepared for the occasional clash of cultures when we returned to the Deep South.
Their mother had reminded them that south of the Mason-Dixon, it wasn’t kosher to take the Lord’s name in vain. I had already commended my oldest son that morning when an aggravation warranted a “Jeez” rather than a “Jesus Christ.”
The kids ewre beginning to refer to the family as “y’all,” though they did so by waving his fingers in the air as quotation marks.My daughter laughed at Southern accents—she giggled as she loudly sang “Own the Road Aga-yun”—but recognized a particular awesomeness to the landscape of endless pine trees, “Crackle Barrels” and “Wall Marks.”
We asked me to replay “Stacy’s Mom” over and again, with my middle son offering his parody rendition as “Stacy’s Dog.”
“Okay, that’s enough of ‘Stacy’s Mom,’” I finally said, putting down my foot as we crossed into Pennsylvania. “Find other things to do, okay?”
The boys reverted to collecting sightings of states on license plates. Mom pitched in to assist. Dad interviewed my daughter’s dolls, asking their favorite colors, favorite songs, favorite foods, and so on, as their five-year-old agent offered thoughtful answers.
I drove.
The Fountains of Wayne played on.
And the bourbon sits inside me
Right now I’m a puppet in its sway
And it may just be the whiskey talking
But the whiskey says I miss you every day
So I taxi to an all-night party
Park me in the corner in an old chair
Sip my drink and stare out into space
And now you’re leaving New York
For no better place
The Garden State was in my rear view mirror, and beyond that, Manhattan. My life there was on hiatus as I drove South.
Watching the white lines zipping under my hood, I took stock of things back there.
Anna was flipping the on switch again.
Bridget and I had managed a trip together, spending several days on a beach.
Madeline had made a second trip to visit me.
Mitzi was surrendering herself to my domination.
Shelby was going to endure surgery without me.
The clock was winding down on my summer romance with Marcus.
Jesus Christ.
My future was full of possibilities.
Now, I was driving headlong into my past.
I pushed the eject button.
I pushed the eject button. “Hey Mom, would you please pass that John Hiatt CD?”
I didn't say we wouldn't hurt anymore
That's how you learn, you just get burned
But we don't have to feel like dirt anymore
Though love's not earned; baby, it's our turn
We were always looking for true north
With our heads in the clouds, just a little off course
I left the motor running, now if you're feeling down and out
Come on, baby; drive south, with the one you love
Two days later, we were at my parents’ house.
That first night, I fried chicken, mashed potatoes, boiled corn and cut fresh tomatoes.
The kids chased Mom’s puppy, watched television, and went to bed early.
My father and grandmother did dishes as Mom went to bed with the puppy.
A few “good nights” and “I love yous” later, I was alone.
I poured a tall bourbon and walked down to the lake.
I pulled off my shirt and sat on the pier, dangling my feet in the water.
I sipped my bourbon, leaning back on bent elbows.
You forget how many stars there are down here, I thought.
After a while I stood and unzipped my shorts. I kicked them off to one side and stood naked in the moonlight.
I took another sip and put aside my glass.
I stretched.
My dive broke the black stillness.
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Roy Orbison
Saturday, October 08, 2005
Mrs Rock and Ms Hard Place
“Well hey, y’all!” I hugged Mom.
Dad patted my back. “Howdy, howdy!” I hugged him, kissing his cheek.
I stood back and smiled.
“Y’all look great! Come in, come in . . . how was the drive?”
Within moments of being with my parents, I could already feel my accent thickening.
I was shedding my skin as a New Yorker and becoming Southern again.
My parents had driven to the city over the course of two days in order to keep a family tradition.
Every summer, I take my children down south to visit family. With the expense of my divorce, I wasn’t sure we could afford to fly this year.
(It only salts the wound to think that for the price of flying to my hometown, I could take the kids to Europe.)
I don’t own a car—no need in Manhattan—and so, rather than consider the option of missing this summer, my parents volunteered to drive up to fetch their prodigal son and Yankee grandchildren.
Their arrival signaled the beginning of homecoming.
For the next three weeks, I would put aside my identities as writer, lover and pervert, and take up those of son, brother and uncle.
Even my name changes when I go home.
I was named for my mother’s father, who died suddenly just before my birth. No one was ready for another “Jefferson” just yet, so I was raised by my initials, TJ.
As a teenager, I was convinced by a teacher that it was a shame to waste so unique a name as Jefferson. I took the advice and switched names, glad to be rid of the teasing variations on my initials I had endured since elementary school.
Toe Jam.
Turd Jumper.
Toilet Junk.
Never mind “TJ Hooker.”
To the world I am Jefferson, but to my birth family, I will always be “TJ.”
Mom and Dad were staying with me for a few days. The kids would join us a day before we began to journey south.
I gave my bedroom over to my parents, over their cursory objections. This room has the most comfortable bed, and I can easily sleep on the couch.
Of course, I had previously scoured the bedroom for incriminating evidence.
After all, I had hosted an orgy the night before.
The room was swept clear of condoms and water bottles, the lube and sex toys put away, the porn ejected from the VCR and DVD.
I put out fresh sheets.
I removed a painting of a nude.
I added a vase of flowers.
While Dad parked the car, I wheeled their luggage into my room. Mom covered my pillows with those she brought from home.
I had offered her a glass of water. She set it on the nightstand as she began to unpack a few things.
“Well, flitter, I spilled some,” she said. “I don’t know how, but I got your table wet.”
“No worries,” I said, running a finger through the liquid—yep, it was lube all right—while reaching for a tissue with the other hand.
My eyes scanned for used condoms as I wiped the mess. Did I miss anything else?
“So,” Mom asked, sitting on the bed. “How does Lucy the Bitch feel about you taking the kids home?”
“I don’t know, she doesn’t talk to me, really. I’m sure she will miss the kids terribly.”
“Well, she should have thought of that before she divorced you.”
“I reckon so. Anyway, she just had the kids out to visit her family, and for the same amount of time, so that’s just how it is.”
“And she can’t miss the kids anymore than you do when she has them.”
“That’s right, that’s right.”
There wasn’t much that I cared to add to my mother’s ongoing conversation theme about what a bitch I married, so I changed the subject to dinner plans.
My mother was blessed at birth with an unflinching certainty that anything that makes it from her subconscious to her tongue is gospel truth.
My father long ago learned the value of letting her win every argument, a lesson imparted onto his four sons.
Even as boys, we learned to sagely nod when Mom began to pontificate.
For a while during my teenage years, I indulged in a measure of rebellion once I realized that my mother’s certainty was based more on instinct than facts.
I would argue from the vantage of experts. If a book offered facts contradicting something my mother believed, I thought I should speak up to set the record straight. Even Mom would have to admit that her views were not always right.
Mom made it clear that she did not have to make any such admission.
So I faced facts. I learned to close my ears to her certainty, to keep my nose buried in books, and to mouth my opinions elsewhere.
For this visit, I had already made a mental note to sidestep some particular conversational landmines:
George W. Bush. My Mom believes that her president is doing a fine job. If the facts haven’t dissuaded her of these convictions, then I’m not likely to have any better luck.
Natalee Halloway. The local girl missing in Aruba was not dead, she had been sold into white slavery. She will turn up alive in Venezuela, and her kidnappers brought to justice.
Donald Trump. My Mom is fascinated by the man whose name adorns some of the tackiest real estate in Manhattan. So far as she is aware, I share her high opinion of his business acumen.
If these subjects came up, I would simply keep a civil tongue.
However, there was no avoiding the subject of my divorce from Lucy the Bitch.
My mother and Lucy had never made a secret of the fact that neither held the other in any special esteem. That's difficult enough, but worse still, it had always been important to each of them that I am on her side, not her side.
“Your mother is the stupidest woman alive,” my wife would laugh derisively.
“I know you love her, TJ, but Lucy is a very rude woman,” my mother would sadly note.
In each case, I would nod and wait for the subject to change.
My parents and I spent a very pleasant few days together as they relaxed from their long trip. Finally, Lucy brought the children to the apartment to begin their visit with my family.
The kids were excited to see their grandparents.
Lucy hugged my father and mother in turn.
Convention dictated that she stay for some polite conversation. She declined my offer of a drink and remained standing in the living room.
I busied myself with the children.
“Well, did y’all have a good time with your family?” my mother asked.
“Yes, “ Lucy nodded, her mouth firm. “Yes, we did.”
“That’s nice. Did y’all see your sister? She’s married now, right?”
“Yes, we did. She married in the spring.”
“I recall the children were at the wedding. I don’t guess TJ was?”
“No, just the kids.”
“Well, I’m happy for her. I always liked your sister. You tell her I said hello.”
“Sure, will do.”
I was in the kitchen when I overheard the conversation taking its predictable turn.
My mother had packed her soapbox.
“All I know is, if they had kept better records on those terrorists, the World Trade Center would still be standing.”
“But the goverment can’t just round up all Arabs and assume they are terrorists! That reeks of Big Brother.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that. Tell you what, I think Big Brother was right about something. They should put satellite tracking devices on every baby born in this country. If they did, we’d know where Natalee Halloway is, that’s for sure.”
“Well,” Lucy laughed, heading to the kitchen, “I guess we have to disagree on that!”
She came into the kitchen and grabbed my arm. I flinched instinctively.
“I can not stay in a room with that woman!” she whispered. “She’s crazy!”
“Okay, well, you can go. Do we have everything we need for the kids?”
“Oh yes,” she nodded, eyes wide. “Oh yes. God, how did you come from that woman?”
“The conventional way, I guess. So we’ll call from the road.”
“Fine.” She turned to shout. “Kids! I’m leaving. Come say good bye.”
The kids hugged their mother, and she was gone.
Mom looked surprised. “Well, that was abrupt.”
Dad grimaced and shook his head.
“Yeah, I guess,” I said. “So who wants to go to Patsy’s for dinner?”
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Natalee Halloway
Dad patted my back. “Howdy, howdy!” I hugged him, kissing his cheek.
I stood back and smiled.
“Y’all look great! Come in, come in . . . how was the drive?”
Within moments of being with my parents, I could already feel my accent thickening.
I was shedding my skin as a New Yorker and becoming Southern again.
My parents had driven to the city over the course of two days in order to keep a family tradition.
Every summer, I take my children down south to visit family. With the expense of my divorce, I wasn’t sure we could afford to fly this year.
(It only salts the wound to think that for the price of flying to my hometown, I could take the kids to Europe.)
I don’t own a car—no need in Manhattan—and so, rather than consider the option of missing this summer, my parents volunteered to drive up to fetch their prodigal son and Yankee grandchildren.
Their arrival signaled the beginning of homecoming.
For the next three weeks, I would put aside my identities as writer, lover and pervert, and take up those of son, brother and uncle.
Even my name changes when I go home.
I was named for my mother’s father, who died suddenly just before my birth. No one was ready for another “Jefferson” just yet, so I was raised by my initials, TJ.
As a teenager, I was convinced by a teacher that it was a shame to waste so unique a name as Jefferson. I took the advice and switched names, glad to be rid of the teasing variations on my initials I had endured since elementary school.
Toe Jam.
Turd Jumper.
Toilet Junk.
Never mind “TJ Hooker.”
To the world I am Jefferson, but to my birth family, I will always be “TJ.”
Mom and Dad were staying with me for a few days. The kids would join us a day before we began to journey south.
I gave my bedroom over to my parents, over their cursory objections. This room has the most comfortable bed, and I can easily sleep on the couch.
Of course, I had previously scoured the bedroom for incriminating evidence.
After all, I had hosted an orgy the night before.
The room was swept clear of condoms and water bottles, the lube and sex toys put away, the porn ejected from the VCR and DVD.
I put out fresh sheets.
I removed a painting of a nude.
I added a vase of flowers.
While Dad parked the car, I wheeled their luggage into my room. Mom covered my pillows with those she brought from home.
I had offered her a glass of water. She set it on the nightstand as she began to unpack a few things.
“Well, flitter, I spilled some,” she said. “I don’t know how, but I got your table wet.”
“No worries,” I said, running a finger through the liquid—yep, it was lube all right—while reaching for a tissue with the other hand.
My eyes scanned for used condoms as I wiped the mess. Did I miss anything else?
“So,” Mom asked, sitting on the bed. “How does Lucy the Bitch feel about you taking the kids home?”
“I don’t know, she doesn’t talk to me, really. I’m sure she will miss the kids terribly.”
“Well, she should have thought of that before she divorced you.”
“I reckon so. Anyway, she just had the kids out to visit her family, and for the same amount of time, so that’s just how it is.”
“And she can’t miss the kids anymore than you do when she has them.”
“That’s right, that’s right.”
There wasn’t much that I cared to add to my mother’s ongoing conversation theme about what a bitch I married, so I changed the subject to dinner plans.
My mother was blessed at birth with an unflinching certainty that anything that makes it from her subconscious to her tongue is gospel truth.
My father long ago learned the value of letting her win every argument, a lesson imparted onto his four sons.
Even as boys, we learned to sagely nod when Mom began to pontificate.
For a while during my teenage years, I indulged in a measure of rebellion once I realized that my mother’s certainty was based more on instinct than facts.
I would argue from the vantage of experts. If a book offered facts contradicting something my mother believed, I thought I should speak up to set the record straight. Even Mom would have to admit that her views were not always right.
Mom made it clear that she did not have to make any such admission.
So I faced facts. I learned to close my ears to her certainty, to keep my nose buried in books, and to mouth my opinions elsewhere.
For this visit, I had already made a mental note to sidestep some particular conversational landmines:
George W. Bush. My Mom believes that her president is doing a fine job. If the facts haven’t dissuaded her of these convictions, then I’m not likely to have any better luck.
Natalee Halloway. The local girl missing in Aruba was not dead, she had been sold into white slavery. She will turn up alive in Venezuela, and her kidnappers brought to justice.
Donald Trump. My Mom is fascinated by the man whose name adorns some of the tackiest real estate in Manhattan. So far as she is aware, I share her high opinion of his business acumen.
If these subjects came up, I would simply keep a civil tongue.
However, there was no avoiding the subject of my divorce from Lucy the Bitch.
My mother and Lucy had never made a secret of the fact that neither held the other in any special esteem. That's difficult enough, but worse still, it had always been important to each of them that I am on her side, not her side.
“Your mother is the stupidest woman alive,” my wife would laugh derisively.
“I know you love her, TJ, but Lucy is a very rude woman,” my mother would sadly note.
In each case, I would nod and wait for the subject to change.
My parents and I spent a very pleasant few days together as they relaxed from their long trip. Finally, Lucy brought the children to the apartment to begin their visit with my family.
The kids were excited to see their grandparents.
Lucy hugged my father and mother in turn.
Convention dictated that she stay for some polite conversation. She declined my offer of a drink and remained standing in the living room.
I busied myself with the children.
“Well, did y’all have a good time with your family?” my mother asked.
“Yes, “ Lucy nodded, her mouth firm. “Yes, we did.”
“That’s nice. Did y’all see your sister? She’s married now, right?”
“Yes, we did. She married in the spring.”
“I recall the children were at the wedding. I don’t guess TJ was?”
“No, just the kids.”
“Well, I’m happy for her. I always liked your sister. You tell her I said hello.”
“Sure, will do.”
I was in the kitchen when I overheard the conversation taking its predictable turn.
My mother had packed her soapbox.
“All I know is, if they had kept better records on those terrorists, the World Trade Center would still be standing.”
“But the goverment can’t just round up all Arabs and assume they are terrorists! That reeks of Big Brother.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that. Tell you what, I think Big Brother was right about something. They should put satellite tracking devices on every baby born in this country. If they did, we’d know where Natalee Halloway is, that’s for sure.”
“Well,” Lucy laughed, heading to the kitchen, “I guess we have to disagree on that!”
She came into the kitchen and grabbed my arm. I flinched instinctively.
“I can not stay in a room with that woman!” she whispered. “She’s crazy!”
“Okay, well, you can go. Do we have everything we need for the kids?”
“Oh yes,” she nodded, eyes wide. “Oh yes. God, how did you come from that woman?”
“The conventional way, I guess. So we’ll call from the road.”
“Fine.” She turned to shout. “Kids! I’m leaving. Come say good bye.”
The kids hugged their mother, and she was gone.
Mom looked surprised. “Well, that was abrupt.”
Dad grimaced and shook his head.
“Yeah, I guess,” I said. “So who wants to go to Patsy’s for dinner?”
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Natalee Halloway
Friday, October 07, 2005
Hello, I Must Be Going
It was a bright summer morning.
The sun was shining, the traffic was humming and Meg—dear green-eyed Meg—was sucking my cock.
In the next room, Marcus was fucking two men.
The previous evening’s sex party had not so much ended as been extended.
Eventually, all good things must draw to a close.
Marcus said goodbye to his men.
I fucked Meg, and then she took her leave, her cheeks numb with slaps and kisses.
Marcus lingered, working on his computer.
And then Marcus kissed me goodbye.
On his way out, he passed Bridget in the lobby, on her way in.
Bridget lugged a laptop she was loaning me.
We kissed on my couch.
And then Bridget had to go, taking many goodbye kisses.
I poured another cup of coffee and sat for a moment.
There was a knock at my door.
I took a breath, smiled, and opened the door.
“All right!”
“TJ! Give me some sugar!”
My parents were in Manhattan.
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The sun was shining, the traffic was humming and Meg—dear green-eyed Meg—was sucking my cock.
In the next room, Marcus was fucking two men.
The previous evening’s sex party had not so much ended as been extended.
Eventually, all good things must draw to a close.
Marcus said goodbye to his men.
I fucked Meg, and then she took her leave, her cheeks numb with slaps and kisses.
Marcus lingered, working on his computer.
And then Marcus kissed me goodbye.
On his way out, he passed Bridget in the lobby, on her way in.
Bridget lugged a laptop she was loaning me.
We kissed on my couch.
And then Bridget had to go, taking many goodbye kisses.
I poured another cup of coffee and sat for a moment.
There was a knock at my door.
I took a breath, smiled, and opened the door.
“All right!”
“TJ! Give me some sugar!”
My parents were in Manhattan.
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Thursday, October 06, 2005
Pleasantries
My ex wife, Lucy, sent me an instant message.
To say this was unexpected would be an understatement. I would be less surprised if Amelia Earhart flew by my window with Jimmy Hoffa waving from the passenger seat.
Lucy: Hi Jefferson!
Jefferson: Hey! How’s tricks?
Lucy: Fine. Just about to make dinner for the kids. Ugh.
Jefferson: I share your pain. What’s on?
Lucy: Egg noodles and creamed spinach.
Jefferson: Ah, the “special dinner.”
Lucy: That’s right!
Well, this was pleasant enough.
I waited for the other shoe to drop. Surely she had some agenda, or else she wouldn’t be writing.
Lucy: The kids are outside playing.
Jefferson: Sounds ideal.
Lucy: Pretty much. And here I sit, with no one asking me for anything.
Jefferson: Heavenly.
Lucy: Unusual, that’s for sure. Well, I should go make dinner.
Jefferson: Okay, nice talking with you.
Lucy: Okay.
Well, what do you know? There was no other shoe.
Lucy was just in a mood to chat, and so we exchanged pleasantries.
I honestly couldn’t remember the last time she spoke to me when it was not absolutely necessary. If she addressed me at all, it was purely to convey directions or corrections, always with the same tone of exasperated annoyance.
Perhaps this was a break through.
A little while later, I received an instant message from an unfamiliar screen name.
Scooter: Hey Jefferson.
Jefferson: Hello?
Scooter: Just wanted to say, I had a great time at the party the other night. It was great to meet you.
Jefferson: Thanks. Likewise—glad you enjoyed.
Scooter: It was hot the way you got the party going. Very sexy . . . ;)
Now, who could this be? Oh, of course: Consuela! My partner in jumpstarting the sex.
Jefferson: That was very much my pleasure. I’m glad you enjoyed it too.
Scooter: Yeah, that was smoking.
Jefferson: Just doing my job; happy to oblige.
Scooter: You are too much!
Jefferson: So they say. Hey, I wanted to tell you, I also host a bi party. I think you’d enjoy it.
Scooter: Bi?
Jefferson: Yeah, it’s bi women and bi men. A very nice group.
Scooter: I don’t know if I’d fit in . . .
Jefferson: You might be surprised. It’s very easy going and welcoming.
Scooter: Yeah, but I’m not bi. I don’t want to mislead anyone.
Jefferson: You’re not bi? Pity, you must break some hearts, you sexy thing.
Scooter: Thanks! ;)
Jefferson: Well, think about it. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do at the party, of course—everyone respects limits.
Scooter: Yeah, I don’t think it’s for me.
Jefferson: Okay. Well, I look forward to seeing you at the Nubian parties, at least.
Scooter: Absolutely! I’ll be back for sure, and we can hang out . . . :)
Jefferson: Cool! Contact me anytime you like. I thought you were great fun. I’d certainly be game to meet one on one . . .
Scooter: You mean, just you and me?
Jefferson: Sure.
Scooter: Eh, I don’t think so.
Jefferson: No?
Scooter: No, I wouldn’t be up for that.
Jefferson: Oh . . .
Scooter: But maybe we could hook up with my girlfriend. She liked you, and she’s very hot.
This did not compute.
Why was Conseula so cool to the notion of seeing me unless another woman joined us—especially if she wasn't bi?
And wait, what girlfriend?
Jefferson: That’s nice to hear, but who was your girlfriend?
Scooter: Jen, man. Remember fooling around with her when you were fucking Maria?
D’oph. I wasn’t flirting with Consuela; I was flirting with Luis, a straight boy.
It’s no secret I’m bi, and he didn’t seem to connect that I thought he was someone else, so I let it go and pressed forward.
Jefferson: Oh sure, Jen. Yes, she’s great—you can count me in.
Scooter: Great! We’ll have to set that up.
Jefferson: Super, just let me know. Thanks for the invite.
Scooter: Absolutely. Hey, gotta run. TTYL, sweetheart!
Jefferson: Later!
Wait a minute . . .
Sweetheart?
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To say this was unexpected would be an understatement. I would be less surprised if Amelia Earhart flew by my window with Jimmy Hoffa waving from the passenger seat.
Lucy: Hi Jefferson!
Jefferson: Hey! How’s tricks?
Lucy: Fine. Just about to make dinner for the kids. Ugh.
Jefferson: I share your pain. What’s on?
Lucy: Egg noodles and creamed spinach.
Jefferson: Ah, the “special dinner.”
Lucy: That’s right!
Well, this was pleasant enough.
I waited for the other shoe to drop. Surely she had some agenda, or else she wouldn’t be writing.
Lucy: The kids are outside playing.
Jefferson: Sounds ideal.
Lucy: Pretty much. And here I sit, with no one asking me for anything.
Jefferson: Heavenly.
Lucy: Unusual, that’s for sure. Well, I should go make dinner.
Jefferson: Okay, nice talking with you.
Lucy: Okay.
Well, what do you know? There was no other shoe.
Lucy was just in a mood to chat, and so we exchanged pleasantries.
I honestly couldn’t remember the last time she spoke to me when it was not absolutely necessary. If she addressed me at all, it was purely to convey directions or corrections, always with the same tone of exasperated annoyance.
Perhaps this was a break through.
A little while later, I received an instant message from an unfamiliar screen name.
Scooter: Hey Jefferson.
Jefferson: Hello?
Scooter: Just wanted to say, I had a great time at the party the other night. It was great to meet you.
Jefferson: Thanks. Likewise—glad you enjoyed.
Scooter: It was hot the way you got the party going. Very sexy . . . ;)
Now, who could this be? Oh, of course: Consuela! My partner in jumpstarting the sex.
Jefferson: That was very much my pleasure. I’m glad you enjoyed it too.
Scooter: Yeah, that was smoking.
Jefferson: Just doing my job; happy to oblige.
Scooter: You are too much!
Jefferson: So they say. Hey, I wanted to tell you, I also host a bi party. I think you’d enjoy it.
Scooter: Bi?
Jefferson: Yeah, it’s bi women and bi men. A very nice group.
Scooter: I don’t know if I’d fit in . . .
Jefferson: You might be surprised. It’s very easy going and welcoming.
Scooter: Yeah, but I’m not bi. I don’t want to mislead anyone.
Jefferson: You’re not bi? Pity, you must break some hearts, you sexy thing.
Scooter: Thanks! ;)
Jefferson: Well, think about it. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do at the party, of course—everyone respects limits.
Scooter: Yeah, I don’t think it’s for me.
Jefferson: Okay. Well, I look forward to seeing you at the Nubian parties, at least.
Scooter: Absolutely! I’ll be back for sure, and we can hang out . . . :)
Jefferson: Cool! Contact me anytime you like. I thought you were great fun. I’d certainly be game to meet one on one . . .
Scooter: You mean, just you and me?
Jefferson: Sure.
Scooter: Eh, I don’t think so.
Jefferson: No?
Scooter: No, I wouldn’t be up for that.
Jefferson: Oh . . .
Scooter: But maybe we could hook up with my girlfriend. She liked you, and she’s very hot.
This did not compute.
Why was Conseula so cool to the notion of seeing me unless another woman joined us—especially if she wasn't bi?
And wait, what girlfriend?
Jefferson: That’s nice to hear, but who was your girlfriend?
Scooter: Jen, man. Remember fooling around with her when you were fucking Maria?
D’oph. I wasn’t flirting with Consuela; I was flirting with Luis, a straight boy.
It’s no secret I’m bi, and he didn’t seem to connect that I thought he was someone else, so I let it go and pressed forward.
Jefferson: Oh sure, Jen. Yes, she’s great—you can count me in.
Scooter: Great! We’ll have to set that up.
Jefferson: Super, just let me know. Thanks for the invite.
Scooter: Absolutely. Hey, gotta run. TTYL, sweetheart!
Jefferson: Later!
Wait a minute . . .
Sweetheart?
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Broken
I woke before Shelby.
I kissed her hair away from my face and her neck.
I counted the numbers on my clock—nine thirteen, fourteen, fifteen—before rising to clear the last remnants of the previous evening’s party.
The night before, with the last of the Nubians off to a pre-dawn breakfast, I showered as Shelby put fresh sheets on the bed. I tidied the room before we got under the covers.
We held our nude bodies close, drifting to sleep.
After five weeks apart, our true reunion could wait until we were rested and alone together the next day.
As she slept that morning, I washed dishes and piled laundry, cleared condoms and wrappers, and gathered recycling.
I swept away an orgy to remake my apartment as Shelby’s retreat.
A little after noon, I slipped back into bed.
Before I agreed to co-host Apollo’s party, I had checked in with Shelby to be sure she was comfortable with a couple dozen naked people intruding upon our time together.
“Do what you want,” she said coolly. “But I’m not playing. Straight up, I’m done with group shit for now. I’m fine with you, but that’s it.”
Shelby had not intended to become a one-man woman.
Her body had made that decision for her.
A spate of irregular bleeding had sent her to the doctor. A biopsy followed, with frightening news: Shelby needed surgery to remove cells that might become cancerous.
Shelby registered the diagnosis as most people would—blah blah blah blah blah blah cancer.
Her family history put her at risk, even at so young an age. She concurred with the assessment that surgery was the correct course—a decision supported by her family—even as she dreaded going under the scalpel .
The “c” word scared the hell out of her. Making matters worse, Shelby hates medical procedures. Now she faced a particularly invasive one.
She told me about her fears and anxieties. We talked and I listened, offering support, love and concern—from a distance of many hundred miles.
There are times we might wish for a more conventional romance.
I would not be there to hold her hand during exams. Our friend Meg took that shift, assisted by Mary Poppins.
I would not be there for the procedure itself. Shelby would have to rely on her mom for that.
I was just too far away.
Even if I were closer, I’m not sure that her anxious parents are yet prepared to share a doctor’s waiting room with their daughter’s older lover.
Now, this morning, after an orgy, we were together.
This was how I could offer comfort. My bed was some solace, my kisses some relief.
She woke with my arm draped over her. She opened an eye, squinting to bring me into focus. Her lips curled into a smirk as she extended a leg, twisting her body into a feline stretch.
I kissed her good morning.
She closed her eyes and turned to her other side. I pulled close to spoon her, my arm wrapping her waist, cupping her hands in my palm.
We lay quietly.
“I’m scared about this,” she finally said.
“I know you are. It’s scary.”
She was still. Her shoulders moved against my cheek as she breathed.
“I just feel so . . . broken. I don’t work anymore. I’m diseased and gross.”
I swallowed, unsure of what to say.
I propped up on an elbow, and turned her face to mine.
“You have cells with the potential to become diseased. You are not diseased. You’ll get better.” I kissed her shoulder. “You are beautiful and you have so much life. I love you.”
That morning, we made love.
It had been so long. I was so concerned to be gentle with her.
“Take it slow, okay?” she asked.
“You tell me what you feel,” I said, kissing her neck.
“That’s pretty good.”
“And this?” I took a nipple under my tongue.
“It’s good. Better than, say, this?” She jumped to pinch one of my nipples.
“Ow, ow! Why, you rotten bitch . . . !” I winced.
“Just be gentle, or you’ll get worse.”
My cock was soon entering her, slower that molasses dripping in the snow. When I was fully in her, I asked if she was okay.
“Yeah. You can fuck me, you know. I won’t break.”
I held my torso still next to hers, my weight on my elbows as our hips pressed to one another. We were eye to eye, close even as our bodies fucked a million miles away.
She put a hand between us, fingering her clit. I lifted to give her space, fucking shallow and fast.
She soon arched her back, giving herself over to squeaks and screeches.
I stayed steady, eyes open, as her orgasm reverberated off the walls of my room.
That night, after a day together, we would make love again, just as intense but more physical.
We were fierce, hungry for one another. There were no fears of broken bodies, just us, Shelby and Jefferson, in our bodies, in one another.
Those orgasms filled my ears, echoing so many others.
I had not heard her orgasms during the five weeks we had been apart.
It was very likely I would not hear them again for months.
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I kissed her hair away from my face and her neck.
I counted the numbers on my clock—nine thirteen, fourteen, fifteen—before rising to clear the last remnants of the previous evening’s party.
The night before, with the last of the Nubians off to a pre-dawn breakfast, I showered as Shelby put fresh sheets on the bed. I tidied the room before we got under the covers.
We held our nude bodies close, drifting to sleep.
After five weeks apart, our true reunion could wait until we were rested and alone together the next day.
As she slept that morning, I washed dishes and piled laundry, cleared condoms and wrappers, and gathered recycling.
I swept away an orgy to remake my apartment as Shelby’s retreat.
A little after noon, I slipped back into bed.
Before I agreed to co-host Apollo’s party, I had checked in with Shelby to be sure she was comfortable with a couple dozen naked people intruding upon our time together.
“Do what you want,” she said coolly. “But I’m not playing. Straight up, I’m done with group shit for now. I’m fine with you, but that’s it.”
Shelby had not intended to become a one-man woman.
Her body had made that decision for her.
A spate of irregular bleeding had sent her to the doctor. A biopsy followed, with frightening news: Shelby needed surgery to remove cells that might become cancerous.
Shelby registered the diagnosis as most people would—blah blah blah blah blah blah cancer.
Her family history put her at risk, even at so young an age. She concurred with the assessment that surgery was the correct course—a decision supported by her family—even as she dreaded going under the scalpel .
The “c” word scared the hell out of her. Making matters worse, Shelby hates medical procedures. Now she faced a particularly invasive one.
She told me about her fears and anxieties. We talked and I listened, offering support, love and concern—from a distance of many hundred miles.
There are times we might wish for a more conventional romance.
I would not be there to hold her hand during exams. Our friend Meg took that shift, assisted by Mary Poppins.
I would not be there for the procedure itself. Shelby would have to rely on her mom for that.
I was just too far away.
Even if I were closer, I’m not sure that her anxious parents are yet prepared to share a doctor’s waiting room with their daughter’s older lover.
Now, this morning, after an orgy, we were together.
This was how I could offer comfort. My bed was some solace, my kisses some relief.
She woke with my arm draped over her. She opened an eye, squinting to bring me into focus. Her lips curled into a smirk as she extended a leg, twisting her body into a feline stretch.
I kissed her good morning.
She closed her eyes and turned to her other side. I pulled close to spoon her, my arm wrapping her waist, cupping her hands in my palm.
We lay quietly.
“I’m scared about this,” she finally said.
“I know you are. It’s scary.”
She was still. Her shoulders moved against my cheek as she breathed.
“I just feel so . . . broken. I don’t work anymore. I’m diseased and gross.”
I swallowed, unsure of what to say.
I propped up on an elbow, and turned her face to mine.
“You have cells with the potential to become diseased. You are not diseased. You’ll get better.” I kissed her shoulder. “You are beautiful and you have so much life. I love you.”
That morning, we made love.
It had been so long. I was so concerned to be gentle with her.
“Take it slow, okay?” she asked.
“You tell me what you feel,” I said, kissing her neck.
“That’s pretty good.”
“And this?” I took a nipple under my tongue.
“It’s good. Better than, say, this?” She jumped to pinch one of my nipples.
“Ow, ow! Why, you rotten bitch . . . !” I winced.
“Just be gentle, or you’ll get worse.”
My cock was soon entering her, slower that molasses dripping in the snow. When I was fully in her, I asked if she was okay.
“Yeah. You can fuck me, you know. I won’t break.”
I held my torso still next to hers, my weight on my elbows as our hips pressed to one another. We were eye to eye, close even as our bodies fucked a million miles away.
She put a hand between us, fingering her clit. I lifted to give her space, fucking shallow and fast.
She soon arched her back, giving herself over to squeaks and screeches.
I stayed steady, eyes open, as her orgasm reverberated off the walls of my room.
That night, after a day together, we would make love again, just as intense but more physical.
We were fierce, hungry for one another. There were no fears of broken bodies, just us, Shelby and Jefferson, in our bodies, in one another.
Those orgasms filled my ears, echoing so many others.
I had not heard her orgasms during the five weeks we had been apart.
It was very likely I would not hear them again for months.
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Monday, October 03, 2005
Dances with Nubians
After our performance, Consuela sauntered to the terrace, accompanied by her water and a string of admirers.
My naked skin still flushed from our romp, I took two bottles of water. I offered one to my new acquaintance, Maria.
Maria was dressed casually, but with care: jeans and a sleeveless pullover with a plunging neckline. Her curly shoulder length hair had fresh blonde highlights that complemented her creamy complexion and hazel eyes.
“Warm night, huh?” I asked, taking a drink.
“Yeah. Pretty humid, right?”
“I’ll say. But it’s pleasant enough. So, have you been to many parties like this?”
“A few.” She looked up at me, a little shy. “Not so many.”
“Well, if you have any questions or anything, let me know.” I reached for a notebook on my desk. “Say, I host a few parties. If you are interested in this, I can put you on my list.”
“Oh, I’d like that, thanks.” Maria took the notebook and a pencil, writing her name, telephone number and email address.
She gave the notebook back to me. I looked to be sure it was legible to my eyes.
“Your last name—is that Mexican?”
“Yes. My dad is Mexican, my mom is from Puerto Rico. Me, I’m from Brooklyn.”
“Nice. And this is your screen name—‘shackledpixie78?’”
“Yes.”
“Oh, you are into bondage? Me too.”
She laughed, blushing slightly. “Yeah, I guess you could say I’m into it.”
“Gosh, you meet the nicest people,” I smiled. I took a swig of water. “So, you want to fool around?”
She nodded. “Sure, that would be cool.”
I smiled. “Great.” I screwed the cap on my water and took her hand.
The lamps in the bedroom were all lit, the candles reduced to twinkles. Several couples had congregated and undressed, standing or sitting on the chairs as they kissed.
We made our way to the empty bed.
She sat on the mattress edge. I joined her with kisses and soft touches to her face.
“Let’s get rid of this,” I suggested, tugging at her shirt. She lifted her arms as I stood and raised the shirt over her head.
She unclasped her bra. “Give that to me,” I directed.
She looked up and surrendered the bra.
I dropped the shirt and bra to the floor.
“Good girl.” The look of surrender on her face was getting me hard. “I know you were sneaking looks at my cock. Go ahead. Fill your eyes.”
She lowered her gaze down my body.
I let her look.
“Now fill your hands.”
She took my cock in her hands, gingerly, like it was a small animal she didn’t want to crush.
I let her hold it.
“Now,” I said. “Fill your mouth.”
She locked eyes on mine and took me into her mouth.
I let her suck it.
Her tongue swirled, and her lips flexed. It was a fine blowjob, no question, but it was her submission and eyes that were making my heart race.
“Enough.” I pulled back, then stepped forward, so close her chin grazed my belly. I put my hands on her shoulders, and leaned forward.
“The pants are mine now.” I pressed forward, pushing her back gently.
I kissed her lips
I traced my tongue away from her lip, to her neck.
Her sternum.
Her torso.
Her belly.
Her belt.
Her zipper.
I knelt between her thighs, pulling them up as I devoured the seam of her jeans, pressing it into her clit.
Her hips were pinned, but her upper body writhed as she panted.
I felt eyes on us, all those nude couples, watching as I ate her pants.
I took my time on her denims.
My fingers unclasped her belt as I worked, then unfastened a button.
Eventually, I stood. “These need to come off.” She agreed.
I unzipped her jeans and opened the fly. I peeled them from her hips as she raised her ass, then bared her legs.
The pants were dropped to the floor.
My tugging had brought her panties down, revealing a peek of her trimmed pussy.
“These too,” I said, taking the panties by the soaked crotch. She nodded as I pulled, extending her legs.
I took her feet in my hands, looking at her face as I pushed them gently back and apart.
I kept my eyes on her as I lowered my tongue to her slit.
She moaned as I made contact. “You tease me, you tease me.”
Good to know it affected her. I gently lapped her, wetter and wetter, until she quivered.
My tongue retraced its route to her mouth.
“I want you to move your head to the pillows,” I whispered. “So you can relax as I fuck you.”
“Okay,” she nodded.
I lifted myself from her body, and she squirmed to her place.
I parted her legs, crouched on my haunches and took a condom.
Taking my time as she watched, as others watched, I rolled it on.
I kept my eyes on hers as I guided my head between her labia.
“You ready?”
“Yes.”
I leaned forward, slowly plunging deep into her.
I took her face in my hands. We kissed, our tongues exploring one another as our genitals got acquainted.
I decided that I was pretty much where I wanted to be for the time being.
“Feel good, Maria?”
“Yeah,” she giggled a little. “It does.”
“Good. Tell you what: we’ll be doing this for a while. Sound good?”
“Sounds very good to me.”
Maria signed on for the long haul. So for the next hour and change, I fucked her.
Other couples joined us on the bed, did their business, and left.
A fellow named Luis introduced himself and his girlfriend, Jen. We linked up for a while.
The radio went through song after song, commercial after commercial.
My cock never left her.
Once she gave her up her first orgasm, I knew how to reach for others. I took them greedily.
In time, we had to stop.
I had her hands pinned behind her head.
“Shall we pause and reconvene later?”
“I think so, yeah . . . damn.”
“Feeling good?”
She giggled again. “Oh yeah.”
I had a thought. “Let me ask you: do you like to get slapped?”
“What, you mean, like, while we’re doing it?”
“Yes.”
“Never done it.”
“Want to try?”
“Sure, anything once, right?”
“That’s a good outlook.” I pulled back, keeping myself deep in her. “So I’m going to give you some light, small slaps, then a bigger one. Okay?”
“Uh, okay.” She winced, closing her eyes.
I touched her face, holding her chin steady. “No, no baby, look at me. Relax.”
She opened her eyes.
I popped her cheek lightly, and let it sink in.
“This will sting.”
I popped her cheek several times in succession, and let it sink it.
“And this will hurt.”
I bit my lip and pulled back my hand. I wanted this to look scary.
I slapped her, just a little harder than before.
“Huh . . .”
“Okay, now feel it . . . feel it . . .” I pumped my cock into her gently, slowly.
A moment passed.
“Damn man,” Luis said, looking up from Jen’s pussy.
“Okay, that was intense,” Maria said.
“Ain’t that something?” I kissed her. “Okay, I’m pulling out.”
“Thanks for that.”
“Thank you.”
I kissed her once more, lightly on her reddened cheek, and we rose.
Luis held out a hand as I passed, his tongue deep at work.
I slapped his hand.
Maria turned at the sound and laughed.
I suppose I was feeling my oats.
In the hall, I encountered Evangeline.
“Some party, huh?” I said. “You having fun?”
“Oh yes,” she beamed, twirling on her foot. “I’m playing with girls too, so yeah, I’m happy.”
We traded a few notes about how the hosting of this party was going, and thinking ahead to future parties. As we talked, we had to move aside a few times to let people squeeze passed.
“Here, let’s sit and talk,” I recommended.
We found the back room empty and lay back on the futon. She propped herself on a pillow. I sprawled sideways, taking her nude legs into my lap.
I rubbed her legs as we talked.
We were both pretty excited by how well the evening was going.
“Hey,” I said. “You want to fuck?”
“Yeah,” she smiled. “I’ve barely seen you all night.”
“I’ve been kind of busy,” I shrugged, reaching for a condom.
“Yeah, right.”
I was soon in her and enjoying the moment. I was aroused by Evangeline’s energy and cute demeanor.
Even more, I was enjoying the ease of decadence.
I was fucking my third woman of the evening. I had met none of them before tonight.
In each case, my foreplay had consisted of inviting them to fuck.
Only a moment before, I had finished a very long fuck with Maria, and now here I was, at it again with Evangeline.
I also realized I was easily the most active man here. Most of the other couples were watching. Those who had sex did so with their partners.
I felt like the only boy willing to dance at the junior prom.
My dance card was packed.
Evangeline and I kissed only lightly—her preference—as she focused on pushing back to my thrusts.
She was gyrating fast, ready to let loose, when her tightening pussy shoved me out.
I tried to get back in her, but I was falling soft.
Amateurish mistake: I should have taken a break between rounds.
“I think my cock is out for a bit,” I apologized. “So you are just going to have to fuck my face.”
“Damn, and I wanted to get fucked. But that works too.” She lay back, ready to receive.
“No, baby, I mean, you are going to fuck my face.” I reclined on my back. “Come over here and squat on my mouth.”
“You are sick, man.” She stood up and put her feet on either side of my head. She lowered her cunt to my reaching tongue. I probed a bit, parting her lips, locating her clit.
She was plenty wet, soft and sugary.
I gripped her thighs. “Now ride me hard,” I asked.
She leaned forward and rested on her arms. “If you can take it,” she said. She closed her eyes and flipped a switch somewhere in her body.
I kept my mouth trained on her, finding a repetitive twist that made her push down and on me harder. My hands felt her hips and buttocks moving in staccato.
“This better be it,” I thought. “Because she could break a coconut with this pussy.”
It was it. She drenched me in cocoa butter.
“Damn,” she said, lifting off me. “Damn, damn, damn.”
“No shit, Evangeline. No shit.”
We lay back for a bit.
I decided I liked the Nubians very much.
I found Maria on the terrace, nude and smoking a cigarette. I joined her, propping my naked leg on her lap.
We chatted easily, the ice very well broken.
“Hey yo, Jefferson,” Apollo said, sticking his head through the terrace door. “Hey man, someone to see you.”
Shelby pushed passed him.
“Hey Jefferson,” she grinned.
“Welcome back, baby.” I stood and kissed her.
We had not seen each other in five weeks.
“I missed you,” she said, raising an eyebrow.
“I know, baby,” I said, pulling her close. “I love you.”
“You too,” she said, nuzzling my neck.
I pulled back to take her in. She was fully dressed, in jeans, and holding her new laptop.
“Come out, come out,” I said. “Sit.” I offered her my chair. “This is Maria. Maria, this is my darling Shelby.”
Maria was a little taken aback. She’d just spent the better part of the night fucking darling Shelby’s man.
She hoped that wouldn’t be . . . awkward.
“Oh,” Maria began. “I hope it’s okay, seeing so many people here, like this . . .”
“Meh, I’ve seen worse,” Shelby shrugged, opening her laptop. “Can I borrow your lighter?”
sex
sexblogs
bisexual
erotica
group sex
voyuerism
exhibitionism
My naked skin still flushed from our romp, I took two bottles of water. I offered one to my new acquaintance, Maria.
Maria was dressed casually, but with care: jeans and a sleeveless pullover with a plunging neckline. Her curly shoulder length hair had fresh blonde highlights that complemented her creamy complexion and hazel eyes.
“Warm night, huh?” I asked, taking a drink.
“Yeah. Pretty humid, right?”
“I’ll say. But it’s pleasant enough. So, have you been to many parties like this?”
“A few.” She looked up at me, a little shy. “Not so many.”
“Well, if you have any questions or anything, let me know.” I reached for a notebook on my desk. “Say, I host a few parties. If you are interested in this, I can put you on my list.”
“Oh, I’d like that, thanks.” Maria took the notebook and a pencil, writing her name, telephone number and email address.
She gave the notebook back to me. I looked to be sure it was legible to my eyes.
“Your last name—is that Mexican?”
“Yes. My dad is Mexican, my mom is from Puerto Rico. Me, I’m from Brooklyn.”
“Nice. And this is your screen name—‘shackledpixie78?’”
“Yes.”
“Oh, you are into bondage? Me too.”
She laughed, blushing slightly. “Yeah, I guess you could say I’m into it.”
“Gosh, you meet the nicest people,” I smiled. I took a swig of water. “So, you want to fool around?”
She nodded. “Sure, that would be cool.”
I smiled. “Great.” I screwed the cap on my water and took her hand.
The lamps in the bedroom were all lit, the candles reduced to twinkles. Several couples had congregated and undressed, standing or sitting on the chairs as they kissed.
We made our way to the empty bed.
She sat on the mattress edge. I joined her with kisses and soft touches to her face.
“Let’s get rid of this,” I suggested, tugging at her shirt. She lifted her arms as I stood and raised the shirt over her head.
She unclasped her bra. “Give that to me,” I directed.
She looked up and surrendered the bra.
I dropped the shirt and bra to the floor.
“Good girl.” The look of surrender on her face was getting me hard. “I know you were sneaking looks at my cock. Go ahead. Fill your eyes.”
She lowered her gaze down my body.
I let her look.
“Now fill your hands.”
She took my cock in her hands, gingerly, like it was a small animal she didn’t want to crush.
I let her hold it.
“Now,” I said. “Fill your mouth.”
She locked eyes on mine and took me into her mouth.
I let her suck it.
Her tongue swirled, and her lips flexed. It was a fine blowjob, no question, but it was her submission and eyes that were making my heart race.
“Enough.” I pulled back, then stepped forward, so close her chin grazed my belly. I put my hands on her shoulders, and leaned forward.
“The pants are mine now.” I pressed forward, pushing her back gently.
I kissed her lips
I traced my tongue away from her lip, to her neck.
Her sternum.
Her torso.
Her belly.
Her belt.
Her zipper.
I knelt between her thighs, pulling them up as I devoured the seam of her jeans, pressing it into her clit.
Her hips were pinned, but her upper body writhed as she panted.
I felt eyes on us, all those nude couples, watching as I ate her pants.
I took my time on her denims.
My fingers unclasped her belt as I worked, then unfastened a button.
Eventually, I stood. “These need to come off.” She agreed.
I unzipped her jeans and opened the fly. I peeled them from her hips as she raised her ass, then bared her legs.
The pants were dropped to the floor.
My tugging had brought her panties down, revealing a peek of her trimmed pussy.
“These too,” I said, taking the panties by the soaked crotch. She nodded as I pulled, extending her legs.
I took her feet in my hands, looking at her face as I pushed them gently back and apart.
I kept my eyes on her as I lowered my tongue to her slit.
She moaned as I made contact. “You tease me, you tease me.”
Good to know it affected her. I gently lapped her, wetter and wetter, until she quivered.
My tongue retraced its route to her mouth.
“I want you to move your head to the pillows,” I whispered. “So you can relax as I fuck you.”
“Okay,” she nodded.
I lifted myself from her body, and she squirmed to her place.
I parted her legs, crouched on my haunches and took a condom.
Taking my time as she watched, as others watched, I rolled it on.
I kept my eyes on hers as I guided my head between her labia.
“You ready?”
“Yes.”
I leaned forward, slowly plunging deep into her.
I took her face in my hands. We kissed, our tongues exploring one another as our genitals got acquainted.
I decided that I was pretty much where I wanted to be for the time being.
“Feel good, Maria?”
“Yeah,” she giggled a little. “It does.”
“Good. Tell you what: we’ll be doing this for a while. Sound good?”
“Sounds very good to me.”
Maria signed on for the long haul. So for the next hour and change, I fucked her.
Other couples joined us on the bed, did their business, and left.
A fellow named Luis introduced himself and his girlfriend, Jen. We linked up for a while.
The radio went through song after song, commercial after commercial.
My cock never left her.
Once she gave her up her first orgasm, I knew how to reach for others. I took them greedily.
In time, we had to stop.
I had her hands pinned behind her head.
“Shall we pause and reconvene later?”
“I think so, yeah . . . damn.”
“Feeling good?”
She giggled again. “Oh yeah.”
I had a thought. “Let me ask you: do you like to get slapped?”
“What, you mean, like, while we’re doing it?”
“Yes.”
“Never done it.”
“Want to try?”
“Sure, anything once, right?”
“That’s a good outlook.” I pulled back, keeping myself deep in her. “So I’m going to give you some light, small slaps, then a bigger one. Okay?”
“Uh, okay.” She winced, closing her eyes.
I touched her face, holding her chin steady. “No, no baby, look at me. Relax.”
She opened her eyes.
I popped her cheek lightly, and let it sink in.
“This will sting.”
I popped her cheek several times in succession, and let it sink it.
“And this will hurt.”
I bit my lip and pulled back my hand. I wanted this to look scary.
I slapped her, just a little harder than before.
“Huh . . .”
“Okay, now feel it . . . feel it . . .” I pumped my cock into her gently, slowly.
A moment passed.
“Damn man,” Luis said, looking up from Jen’s pussy.
“Okay, that was intense,” Maria said.
“Ain’t that something?” I kissed her. “Okay, I’m pulling out.”
“Thanks for that.”
“Thank you.”
I kissed her once more, lightly on her reddened cheek, and we rose.
Luis held out a hand as I passed, his tongue deep at work.
I slapped his hand.
Maria turned at the sound and laughed.
I suppose I was feeling my oats.
In the hall, I encountered Evangeline.
“Some party, huh?” I said. “You having fun?”
“Oh yes,” she beamed, twirling on her foot. “I’m playing with girls too, so yeah, I’m happy.”
We traded a few notes about how the hosting of this party was going, and thinking ahead to future parties. As we talked, we had to move aside a few times to let people squeeze passed.
“Here, let’s sit and talk,” I recommended.
We found the back room empty and lay back on the futon. She propped herself on a pillow. I sprawled sideways, taking her nude legs into my lap.
I rubbed her legs as we talked.
We were both pretty excited by how well the evening was going.
“Hey,” I said. “You want to fuck?”
“Yeah,” she smiled. “I’ve barely seen you all night.”
“I’ve been kind of busy,” I shrugged, reaching for a condom.
“Yeah, right.”
I was soon in her and enjoying the moment. I was aroused by Evangeline’s energy and cute demeanor.
Even more, I was enjoying the ease of decadence.
I was fucking my third woman of the evening. I had met none of them before tonight.
In each case, my foreplay had consisted of inviting them to fuck.
Only a moment before, I had finished a very long fuck with Maria, and now here I was, at it again with Evangeline.
I also realized I was easily the most active man here. Most of the other couples were watching. Those who had sex did so with their partners.
I felt like the only boy willing to dance at the junior prom.
My dance card was packed.
Evangeline and I kissed only lightly—her preference—as she focused on pushing back to my thrusts.
She was gyrating fast, ready to let loose, when her tightening pussy shoved me out.
I tried to get back in her, but I was falling soft.
Amateurish mistake: I should have taken a break between rounds.
“I think my cock is out for a bit,” I apologized. “So you are just going to have to fuck my face.”
“Damn, and I wanted to get fucked. But that works too.” She lay back, ready to receive.
“No, baby, I mean, you are going to fuck my face.” I reclined on my back. “Come over here and squat on my mouth.”
“You are sick, man.” She stood up and put her feet on either side of my head. She lowered her cunt to my reaching tongue. I probed a bit, parting her lips, locating her clit.
She was plenty wet, soft and sugary.
I gripped her thighs. “Now ride me hard,” I asked.
She leaned forward and rested on her arms. “If you can take it,” she said. She closed her eyes and flipped a switch somewhere in her body.
I kept my mouth trained on her, finding a repetitive twist that made her push down and on me harder. My hands felt her hips and buttocks moving in staccato.
“This better be it,” I thought. “Because she could break a coconut with this pussy.”
It was it. She drenched me in cocoa butter.
“Damn,” she said, lifting off me. “Damn, damn, damn.”
“No shit, Evangeline. No shit.”
We lay back for a bit.
I decided I liked the Nubians very much.
I found Maria on the terrace, nude and smoking a cigarette. I joined her, propping my naked leg on her lap.
We chatted easily, the ice very well broken.
“Hey yo, Jefferson,” Apollo said, sticking his head through the terrace door. “Hey man, someone to see you.”
Shelby pushed passed him.
“Hey Jefferson,” she grinned.
“Welcome back, baby.” I stood and kissed her.
We had not seen each other in five weeks.
“I missed you,” she said, raising an eyebrow.
“I know, baby,” I said, pulling her close. “I love you.”
“You too,” she said, nuzzling my neck.
I pulled back to take her in. She was fully dressed, in jeans, and holding her new laptop.
“Come out, come out,” I said. “Sit.” I offered her my chair. “This is Maria. Maria, this is my darling Shelby.”
Maria was a little taken aback. She’d just spent the better part of the night fucking darling Shelby’s man.
She hoped that wouldn’t be . . . awkward.
“Oh,” Maria began. “I hope it’s okay, seeing so many people here, like this . . .”
“Meh, I’ve seen worse,” Shelby shrugged, opening her laptop. “Can I borrow your lighter?”
sex
sexblogs
bisexual
erotica
group sex
voyuerism
exhibitionism
Friday, September 30, 2005
Meet the Nubians
Summer brought some benefits for my sex parties, and some detriments.
Happily, Marcus and Meg, who can’t join us during the academic year, were able to attend.
Sadly, a good many regulars were scrambled to the far corners by vacations, school breaks and other commitments.
I might have taken this as a moment to put up a “gone fishing” sign and close up shop for a while.
But I was hesitant to do so. My biweekly bivouac of bisexuals has recently bypassed its second anniversary—we are now bi-annual.
You hate to bilk a bonny binge.
So instead, I took the summer as an opportunity to do some recruiting that would, I hoped, yield like minds and new faces for our ongoing gang.
I reached out to other orgy organizers—I am not the only person in New York City hosting sex parties, you know—to ask that their members be informed about our gatherings.
I dropped a line to Apollo the Sex God.
My parties found a niche by focusing on singles who are bisexual, or at least “bi friendly,” a term essentially meaning that what happens at the parties, stays at the parties.
Apollo’s niche has him organizing parties for black and Latin couples, with a smattering of single women and men. The parties, dubbed “Nubian,” were based in Brooklyn.
Apollo was glad to compare notes, but he wasn’t sure that his crew held many new recruits. He told me that while the women at his parties tended to be bisexual, the men were not.
At least so far as you know, I corrected.
That double standard is pretty typical for couples parties—the women are assumed to be bisexual, and the men must not be bisexual, no matter the reality.
Apollo mentioned that the Nubians were beginning to outgrow his place in Brooklyn, and asked about our accommodations.
I invited him over to take a look.
Apollo—his real name is Doug, “Apollo the Sex God” being his self-styled nom de baiser—is a handsome man in his mid-twenties. He has the build of a high school athlete and a natural smile that he long ago realized would melt knees if flashed at the just the right time.
“Nice place, Jefferson,” he smiled, touring the bedrooms.
“Thanks. For the parties, you know, I put out different bedding, and candles and all that, but you get the idea.”
“Yeah man, this is great, and a good neighborhood.”
“Yep. Close to the subway, and cabs fly by at all hours.”
“Yeah, that’s really great.”
We sat to talk turkey.
He explained that he hosts the parties with his girlfriend, Evangeline. “Evangeline” was not her real name, of course. Nor was she his real girlfriend. She was his playmate; his real girlfriend knew nothing about his recent forays into the “lifestyle,” as he said, because she lived down south.
I’m Southern, so I asked where she lived.
Turns out she lived in my hometown.
We laughed.
“It’s beautiful there, man,” he said. “I really hope to move down there soon, to be with my girl.”
“It’s a great place to be from,” I agreed.
Since we were practically neighbors, we decided to combine forces.
“Why don’t you try throwing your party here?” I invited. “See if it’s a fit.”
“That’s great, man, great,” he nodded. “We’ll do the next one here, if that’s cool.”
I penciled it in.
We shook hands.
A week or two passed. Apollo and I traded emails and phone calls in preparation.
I left the guest list to him. None of my regulars would be invited. I wanted to see what he could produce.
Besides, my gang didn’t fit his demographic.
Not that I did, for that matter.
Apollo and I were fine with that. As a solo white boy, I was prepared to co-host as a fly on the wall.
On the appointed night, Apollo and Evangeline showed up right on time, carrying boxes of supplies.
Evangeline and I kissed in greeting. She was outgoing and dressed to kill in a low black top and high skirt, her breasts pushed up into a womanly cleavage that offset her youthful face.
Apollo had told me she was twenty-two. I’d have bet a good deal younger.
At my behest, the pair made themselves at home.
Candles and incense were lit, refreshments were placed, condoms and lubes strategically arrayed. My stereo was rewired with new equipment and stocked with mix CDs.
“We’re low on ice,” I noted from the kitchen.
“On it,” Apollo replied, popping open his cell. “Yo, Miller, pick up some ice, all right?”
“Better get some bottled water, too—the small bottles.”
“Hey yo, Miller, get those little bottles of water.” Apollo added. “I dunno man, get a lot.”
The supplies arrived, hoisted by the two beefs appointed to security detail.
I liked the way they worked.
I took a bourbon to the terrace to relax as they made final preparations.
The guests began to arrive. I joined Apollo and Evangeline in making greetings. As Apollo had said, he knew his guests well. I was introduced as his friend and co-host. I shook hands and kissed cheeks.
I soon found myself seated with a dark woman sporting a red Mohawk.
She was built like a brick shithouse—and cool as an igloo.
She introduced herself as Consuela.
We chatted as she flipped though photography books on my coffee table. I learned that she was a photographer.
As it happens, I know a thing or two about photography.
We were soon wrapped in conversation.
The cool thawed considerably.
Evangeline is a firm believer in the use of party games to break the ice. She brought out the game Operation and invited everyone to gather around.
“I didn’t come here to play games,” Consuela muttered into her book.
“Games are for kids,” I agreed. “Shall we fuck and get things going?”
“You know,” she looked towards me. “That’s just what I was thinking.”
“Come, then,” I stood. “I know just the place.”
She followed me to my bedroom. We kissed by candlelight.
Her hands were as fast on me as mine were on her.
We paused and stripped with the calm practice of gymnasts, mentally moving ahead to our routines.
I lay back on the bed, stroking my cock.
She crouched over me and took it in her mouth.
She arched and flexed her back as she bobbed her head, producing the desired effect on me as well as the eyes gathering at the door.
I reached for a condom, staring at her.
A moment later, she was lowering her pussy onto me.
And I was in her.
“Consuela?”
“Yeah?”
“Say my name.”
“Jefferson.”
“That’s right, baby.”
I drew her into a kiss.
I pushed up into her in long thrusts, providing an anchor for the undulations of her body. She glowed in the candlelight, clearly aware of how her movements affected gazing eyes.
The dial on my clock radio had been shifted to the far right side of the FM dial. Bumping rhythms covered those filtering in from the living room.
Consuela and I danced back and forth.
No one entered passed the door. Apollo’s rules: couples only in the bedrooms.
Consuela and I were the first couple.
Apollo brought in Evangeline. He stripped and sat in a chair, taking her petite body in his hands. She turned and twisted under his touch as he undressed her.
It was all about the show. We were putting on our best.
Evangeline looked over her shoulder and raised her ass as Apollo sat back. “C’mere, back up that ass,” he ordered. She gave herself to his reach, moaning as he took her to his cock.
I pushed up on Consuela’s shoulders, bringing my mouth up to her breasts.
I opened wide and swallowed a tit.
“Hmmm, yeah, that’s hitting it,” she sighed, undulating her hips rapidly on me.
“Give it,” I murmured through my mouthful of flesh, digging my fingers into her flanks.
Consuela moaned loud and long, giving me the orgasm I sought.
Evangeline answered in her own punctured breaths.
“Shit baby, I need to fuck that ass,” Apollo said, slapping flesh. “Get up.”
She raised herself from his shaft. He had a nice long curve, I noted.
“Lean on the bed, baby.” Evangeline bent over my leg, propped on one elbow as she looked back, offering her ass to Apollo.
“You gonna fuck me?” she teased.
“Shit yeah, you’re getting fucked,” he laughed.
He looked down as his cock vanished into her, then switched his hips into overdrive.
She collapsed over my leg, moaning.
I pulled back a bit to give her more space
Consuela misread my movement. “You leaving me?” she asked, pursing her lips.
“Not on your life,” I said. “Here, let me on top.”
“Yeah, let’s do that.” She raised herself from me, and I lifted myself to my knees.
I looked over my shoulder at the voyeurs at the door. “Here, turn this way,” I suggested, positioning her head towards the opposite wall, near Evangeline’s hips.
I held my cock as I lowered it between her labia.
“There we go,” I said, leaning into her.
“Yeah, that got it.”
“Good, ‘cause here I come.”
I fucked into her fast, aiming my cock up and back.
I nodded howdy to Apollo as we matched pace.
“Yeah man,” he laughed. He called to someone at the door. “Some shit, huh?”
“No shit,” came the reply.
Evangeline looked to the door then up at me.
I fell to kiss Consuela.
The four of us fucked a good show until Evangeline called for a break.
“Yeah, count me in,” Consuela said. “I need some water, bad.”
“Here, let’s go to the terrace and cool off,” I suggested, pulling out.
We sat back, catching a breath.
“Oh very nice!” someone said as we passed among the clothed bodies in the hall. “Very nice, very nice!”
I followed Consuela, watching voyeurs part way as eyes took her in.
A hand caught mine.
“Hey,” I smiled. “Welcome. I’m Jefferson.”
“Hey Jefferson,” a voice replied. She bit a lip as she raised hazel eyes to mine. “I’m Maria.”
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Happily, Marcus and Meg, who can’t join us during the academic year, were able to attend.
Sadly, a good many regulars were scrambled to the far corners by vacations, school breaks and other commitments.
I might have taken this as a moment to put up a “gone fishing” sign and close up shop for a while.
But I was hesitant to do so. My biweekly bivouac of bisexuals has recently bypassed its second anniversary—we are now bi-annual.
You hate to bilk a bonny binge.
So instead, I took the summer as an opportunity to do some recruiting that would, I hoped, yield like minds and new faces for our ongoing gang.
I reached out to other orgy organizers—I am not the only person in New York City hosting sex parties, you know—to ask that their members be informed about our gatherings.
I dropped a line to Apollo the Sex God.
My parties found a niche by focusing on singles who are bisexual, or at least “bi friendly,” a term essentially meaning that what happens at the parties, stays at the parties.
Apollo’s niche has him organizing parties for black and Latin couples, with a smattering of single women and men. The parties, dubbed “Nubian,” were based in Brooklyn.
Apollo was glad to compare notes, but he wasn’t sure that his crew held many new recruits. He told me that while the women at his parties tended to be bisexual, the men were not.
At least so far as you know, I corrected.
That double standard is pretty typical for couples parties—the women are assumed to be bisexual, and the men must not be bisexual, no matter the reality.
Apollo mentioned that the Nubians were beginning to outgrow his place in Brooklyn, and asked about our accommodations.
I invited him over to take a look.
Apollo—his real name is Doug, “Apollo the Sex God” being his self-styled nom de baiser—is a handsome man in his mid-twenties. He has the build of a high school athlete and a natural smile that he long ago realized would melt knees if flashed at the just the right time.
“Nice place, Jefferson,” he smiled, touring the bedrooms.
“Thanks. For the parties, you know, I put out different bedding, and candles and all that, but you get the idea.”
“Yeah man, this is great, and a good neighborhood.”
“Yep. Close to the subway, and cabs fly by at all hours.”
“Yeah, that’s really great.”
We sat to talk turkey.
He explained that he hosts the parties with his girlfriend, Evangeline. “Evangeline” was not her real name, of course. Nor was she his real girlfriend. She was his playmate; his real girlfriend knew nothing about his recent forays into the “lifestyle,” as he said, because she lived down south.
I’m Southern, so I asked where she lived.
Turns out she lived in my hometown.
We laughed.
“It’s beautiful there, man,” he said. “I really hope to move down there soon, to be with my girl.”
“It’s a great place to be from,” I agreed.
Since we were practically neighbors, we decided to combine forces.
“Why don’t you try throwing your party here?” I invited. “See if it’s a fit.”
“That’s great, man, great,” he nodded. “We’ll do the next one here, if that’s cool.”
I penciled it in.
We shook hands.
A week or two passed. Apollo and I traded emails and phone calls in preparation.
I left the guest list to him. None of my regulars would be invited. I wanted to see what he could produce.
Besides, my gang didn’t fit his demographic.
Not that I did, for that matter.
Apollo and I were fine with that. As a solo white boy, I was prepared to co-host as a fly on the wall.
On the appointed night, Apollo and Evangeline showed up right on time, carrying boxes of supplies.
Evangeline and I kissed in greeting. She was outgoing and dressed to kill in a low black top and high skirt, her breasts pushed up into a womanly cleavage that offset her youthful face.
Apollo had told me she was twenty-two. I’d have bet a good deal younger.
At my behest, the pair made themselves at home.
Candles and incense were lit, refreshments were placed, condoms and lubes strategically arrayed. My stereo was rewired with new equipment and stocked with mix CDs.
“We’re low on ice,” I noted from the kitchen.
“On it,” Apollo replied, popping open his cell. “Yo, Miller, pick up some ice, all right?”
“Better get some bottled water, too—the small bottles.”
“Hey yo, Miller, get those little bottles of water.” Apollo added. “I dunno man, get a lot.”
The supplies arrived, hoisted by the two beefs appointed to security detail.
I liked the way they worked.
I took a bourbon to the terrace to relax as they made final preparations.
The guests began to arrive. I joined Apollo and Evangeline in making greetings. As Apollo had said, he knew his guests well. I was introduced as his friend and co-host. I shook hands and kissed cheeks.
I soon found myself seated with a dark woman sporting a red Mohawk.
She was built like a brick shithouse—and cool as an igloo.
She introduced herself as Consuela.
We chatted as she flipped though photography books on my coffee table. I learned that she was a photographer.
As it happens, I know a thing or two about photography.
We were soon wrapped in conversation.
The cool thawed considerably.
Evangeline is a firm believer in the use of party games to break the ice. She brought out the game Operation and invited everyone to gather around.
“I didn’t come here to play games,” Consuela muttered into her book.
“Games are for kids,” I agreed. “Shall we fuck and get things going?”
“You know,” she looked towards me. “That’s just what I was thinking.”
“Come, then,” I stood. “I know just the place.”
She followed me to my bedroom. We kissed by candlelight.
Her hands were as fast on me as mine were on her.
We paused and stripped with the calm practice of gymnasts, mentally moving ahead to our routines.
I lay back on the bed, stroking my cock.
She crouched over me and took it in her mouth.
She arched and flexed her back as she bobbed her head, producing the desired effect on me as well as the eyes gathering at the door.
I reached for a condom, staring at her.
A moment later, she was lowering her pussy onto me.
And I was in her.
“Consuela?”
“Yeah?”
“Say my name.”
“Jefferson.”
“That’s right, baby.”
I drew her into a kiss.
I pushed up into her in long thrusts, providing an anchor for the undulations of her body. She glowed in the candlelight, clearly aware of how her movements affected gazing eyes.
The dial on my clock radio had been shifted to the far right side of the FM dial. Bumping rhythms covered those filtering in from the living room.
Consuela and I danced back and forth.
No one entered passed the door. Apollo’s rules: couples only in the bedrooms.
Consuela and I were the first couple.
Apollo brought in Evangeline. He stripped and sat in a chair, taking her petite body in his hands. She turned and twisted under his touch as he undressed her.
It was all about the show. We were putting on our best.
Evangeline looked over her shoulder and raised her ass as Apollo sat back. “C’mere, back up that ass,” he ordered. She gave herself to his reach, moaning as he took her to his cock.
I pushed up on Consuela’s shoulders, bringing my mouth up to her breasts.
I opened wide and swallowed a tit.
“Hmmm, yeah, that’s hitting it,” she sighed, undulating her hips rapidly on me.
“Give it,” I murmured through my mouthful of flesh, digging my fingers into her flanks.
Consuela moaned loud and long, giving me the orgasm I sought.
Evangeline answered in her own punctured breaths.
“Shit baby, I need to fuck that ass,” Apollo said, slapping flesh. “Get up.”
She raised herself from his shaft. He had a nice long curve, I noted.
“Lean on the bed, baby.” Evangeline bent over my leg, propped on one elbow as she looked back, offering her ass to Apollo.
“You gonna fuck me?” she teased.
“Shit yeah, you’re getting fucked,” he laughed.
He looked down as his cock vanished into her, then switched his hips into overdrive.
She collapsed over my leg, moaning.
I pulled back a bit to give her more space
Consuela misread my movement. “You leaving me?” she asked, pursing her lips.
“Not on your life,” I said. “Here, let me on top.”
“Yeah, let’s do that.” She raised herself from me, and I lifted myself to my knees.
I looked over my shoulder at the voyeurs at the door. “Here, turn this way,” I suggested, positioning her head towards the opposite wall, near Evangeline’s hips.
I held my cock as I lowered it between her labia.
“There we go,” I said, leaning into her.
“Yeah, that got it.”
“Good, ‘cause here I come.”
I fucked into her fast, aiming my cock up and back.
I nodded howdy to Apollo as we matched pace.
“Yeah man,” he laughed. He called to someone at the door. “Some shit, huh?”
“No shit,” came the reply.
Evangeline looked to the door then up at me.
I fell to kiss Consuela.
The four of us fucked a good show until Evangeline called for a break.
“Yeah, count me in,” Consuela said. “I need some water, bad.”
“Here, let’s go to the terrace and cool off,” I suggested, pulling out.
We sat back, catching a breath.
“Oh very nice!” someone said as we passed among the clothed bodies in the hall. “Very nice, very nice!”
I followed Consuela, watching voyeurs part way as eyes took her in.
A hand caught mine.
“Hey,” I smiled. “Welcome. I’m Jefferson.”
“Hey Jefferson,” a voice replied. She bit a lip as she raised hazel eyes to mine. “I’m Maria.”
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Tuesday, September 27, 2005
Hugs and Kisses
I had not heard from Anna since she dumped me—again—in early July.
She had made it clear in her final note to me. If I were unwilling to try a six-week period of monogamy with her, then we were unlikely to have much of a future together, so she was done.
I was unwilling to try this experiment. I was annoyed that she continued to disregard my current disinterest in monogamy—it’s no secret that it’s just not for me right now—and even more annoyed at the blackmail implicit in the experiment: love me, on my terms, or leave me.
I bid her well.
I wanted her in my life somehow, but I was relieved to take a break from our cyclical on again/off again relationship.
Weeks passed, with nothing passing between us.
Then, one day, an instant message.
Anna: Good morning.
Jefferson: Good morning.
Anna: How are you?
Jefferson: Well, and yourself?
Anna: Very good. The kids?
Jefferson: They are fine.
Nice, banal.
I didn’t initiate anything, just responded to her questions in a casual tone.
But I caught the whiff of an agenda.
The beginning of on again.
Anna: So I will be in your neighborhood tomorrow.
Jefferson: Oh?
Anna: Yes, I am being interviewed to volunteer at the medical center.
Jefferson: That’s noble of you. What will you be doing?
I pressed on with questions about her volunteer work.
I let it go that she would be near my place the next day; I didn’t extend an invitation to stop over.
Anna: I’ve been in rehearsals all month for a new performance. It’s a very physical piece—I’ve dropped a dress size from all the activity.
Jefferson: Gosh!
Anna: I guess that’s good though, as I appear on stage nearly nude.
Jefferson: I’m sure you will knock ‘em dead.
Anna: A naked girl on stage. What’s not to love?
Jefferson: Good point.
Anna: The timing is good, as I will look great in a bikini on vacation in a couple of weeks.
Jefferson: Yes, that is good timing.
Anna hurled steak after steak—enough red meat to choke a lion—but I wasn’t biting.
In time, she got back to her job, and I returned to what I was doing.
The next morning, I received another instant message.
Anna: Good morning.
Jefferson: Good morning.
Anna: How are you?
Jefferson: Well, and yourself?
Anna: Very good. The kids?
Jefferson: Good. They are with their mother.
Anna: So a little private time for Dad. I will be in your neighborhood this afternoon. Mind if I stop by?
Jefferson: I’ve got a deadline, but maybe for a little bit. What time?
Anna: Around one?
Jefferson: Okay. I’ll put on some lunch.
Anna: That would be nice. See you then.
She signed out.
I shaved and showered, then got dressed.
I returned to my work.
A little after one, Anna arrived. She did look a little thinner, her hair a little longer.
We kissed hello at the door—a very continental buss, nothing overheated—and she removed her shoes.
I offered her a glass of water. She accepted.
I brought two chill glasses to the sofa.
We talked. I asked her about her decision to be a volunteer. She spoke about her rehearsals, and her upcoming vacation.
She noted with disapproval that I had a book of nude photographs on my coffee table.
“Don’t you have the kids later? You should put that away.”
“Oh, thanks, I will.”
I remained seated.
“So,” she asked. “Meeting any interesting women, Mister Polyamory?”
“I meet all kinds of interesting people.”
“You know, I’ve been reading about polyamory. Did you know that full disclosure is a big part of it?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, if you were truly polyamorous, you would be very open about who you are seeing.”
“Perhaps I am not truly polyamorous. At any rate, I think that tenet would apply to those with whom one shared a polyamorous relationship, not necessarily to those outside of it. I don’t think anyone is required to detail his sex life.”
She frowned. “You are just as circumspect as ever.”
“And you are just as nosey.”
“Huh.” She sat back. “Aren’t you going to ask me if I am seeing anyone?”
“Is there anything you would like to tell me?” I sipped my cold water.
“Well, I’ve been to a couple of cuddle parties, and those were fun.”
“I don’t know what that is.”
“Oh really? And I thought you were Mister Sex. Well, really I take that back, because a cuddle party isn’t about sex. People meet to cuddle—you know, to hug and caress.”
“That sounds like a sweet way to meet people.”
“I’m just there to cuddle. I don’t want to meet people.”
“Ah. And this is all clothed, I assume?”
“Yes, all clothed. The rules are really clear about that.”
“I’m sure they must be. Like, what are the rules?”
“Well, first, the most important rule is that you have to ask permission before you touch. Like this.” She sat up on her knees. “May I hug you?”
“You may.” I opened my arms.
With deliberate care, Anna slowly moved her body to drape over mine, wrapping an arm around my waist.
“See how it works?” she asked.
“I see.”
“Feels nice, right?”
“It does.”
“Now, may I put my hand on your face?”
“You may.”
She did, moving her face close to mine.
I instinctively leaned in to kiss.
“No!” she pulled back. “You forgot to ask permission!”
“Terribly sorry,” I replied. I was losing interest in this game.
She smiled. “Is there anything you want to ask me?”
“Yes. I wanted to know if there was anything you cared to ask me.”
She closed her eyes and pondered. “No, I don’t think so.”
“Very good.”
She stayed in my arms as we talked. She looked away for a moment, then back to me.
“You know, I have reevaluated my earlier statement.”
“Yes?”
“Yes, and now, I do have a question. May I kiss you?”
“Yes, you may.”
She closed her eyes and gently touched her lips to mine.
I received her kiss, parting my lips slightly.
She could feel me growing hard against her ribs. Her kiss became more passionate.
Then her kiss ended.
She looked into my eyes. “Thank you.”
“Thank you,” I said. “And you’re welcome. Now, are you hungry for lunch?”
“No, I’m not hungry.” She sat up. “In fact, I think I should be going.”
“If you like. Want something for the road?”
“What do you have in mind?”
“A sandwich or something? Maybe a bottle of water?”
“Um, sure. Water would be nice.”
“Easily done.” I stood and retrieved a bottle. I remained standing as I gave it to her.
“Thanks.” She took the bottle, then stood and passed me without touching. She walked to her shoes, slipping them on. “Okay. Thanks again for having me.”
“It was a pleasure.”
I opened the door.
She walked quickly out.
I closed and locked the door.
I ate lunch.
A few weeks later, I received a postcard from Anna. She was enjoying her vacation.
“See you soon,” it concluded. “Hugs and kisses, Anna.”
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She had made it clear in her final note to me. If I were unwilling to try a six-week period of monogamy with her, then we were unlikely to have much of a future together, so she was done.
I was unwilling to try this experiment. I was annoyed that she continued to disregard my current disinterest in monogamy—it’s no secret that it’s just not for me right now—and even more annoyed at the blackmail implicit in the experiment: love me, on my terms, or leave me.
I bid her well.
I wanted her in my life somehow, but I was relieved to take a break from our cyclical on again/off again relationship.
Weeks passed, with nothing passing between us.
Then, one day, an instant message.
Anna: Good morning.
Jefferson: Good morning.
Anna: How are you?
Jefferson: Well, and yourself?
Anna: Very good. The kids?
Jefferson: They are fine.
Nice, banal.
I didn’t initiate anything, just responded to her questions in a casual tone.
But I caught the whiff of an agenda.
The beginning of on again.
Anna: So I will be in your neighborhood tomorrow.
Jefferson: Oh?
Anna: Yes, I am being interviewed to volunteer at the medical center.
Jefferson: That’s noble of you. What will you be doing?
I pressed on with questions about her volunteer work.
I let it go that she would be near my place the next day; I didn’t extend an invitation to stop over.
Anna: I’ve been in rehearsals all month for a new performance. It’s a very physical piece—I’ve dropped a dress size from all the activity.
Jefferson: Gosh!
Anna: I guess that’s good though, as I appear on stage nearly nude.
Jefferson: I’m sure you will knock ‘em dead.
Anna: A naked girl on stage. What’s not to love?
Jefferson: Good point.
Anna: The timing is good, as I will look great in a bikini on vacation in a couple of weeks.
Jefferson: Yes, that is good timing.
Anna hurled steak after steak—enough red meat to choke a lion—but I wasn’t biting.
In time, she got back to her job, and I returned to what I was doing.
The next morning, I received another instant message.
Anna: Good morning.
Jefferson: Good morning.
Anna: How are you?
Jefferson: Well, and yourself?
Anna: Very good. The kids?
Jefferson: Good. They are with their mother.
Anna: So a little private time for Dad. I will be in your neighborhood this afternoon. Mind if I stop by?
Jefferson: I’ve got a deadline, but maybe for a little bit. What time?
Anna: Around one?
Jefferson: Okay. I’ll put on some lunch.
Anna: That would be nice. See you then.
She signed out.
I shaved and showered, then got dressed.
I returned to my work.
A little after one, Anna arrived. She did look a little thinner, her hair a little longer.
We kissed hello at the door—a very continental buss, nothing overheated—and she removed her shoes.
I offered her a glass of water. She accepted.
I brought two chill glasses to the sofa.
We talked. I asked her about her decision to be a volunteer. She spoke about her rehearsals, and her upcoming vacation.
She noted with disapproval that I had a book of nude photographs on my coffee table.
“Don’t you have the kids later? You should put that away.”
“Oh, thanks, I will.”
I remained seated.
“So,” she asked. “Meeting any interesting women, Mister Polyamory?”
“I meet all kinds of interesting people.”
“You know, I’ve been reading about polyamory. Did you know that full disclosure is a big part of it?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, if you were truly polyamorous, you would be very open about who you are seeing.”
“Perhaps I am not truly polyamorous. At any rate, I think that tenet would apply to those with whom one shared a polyamorous relationship, not necessarily to those outside of it. I don’t think anyone is required to detail his sex life.”
She frowned. “You are just as circumspect as ever.”
“And you are just as nosey.”
“Huh.” She sat back. “Aren’t you going to ask me if I am seeing anyone?”
“Is there anything you would like to tell me?” I sipped my cold water.
“Well, I’ve been to a couple of cuddle parties, and those were fun.”
“I don’t know what that is.”
“Oh really? And I thought you were Mister Sex. Well, really I take that back, because a cuddle party isn’t about sex. People meet to cuddle—you know, to hug and caress.”
“That sounds like a sweet way to meet people.”
“I’m just there to cuddle. I don’t want to meet people.”
“Ah. And this is all clothed, I assume?”
“Yes, all clothed. The rules are really clear about that.”
“I’m sure they must be. Like, what are the rules?”
“Well, first, the most important rule is that you have to ask permission before you touch. Like this.” She sat up on her knees. “May I hug you?”
“You may.” I opened my arms.
With deliberate care, Anna slowly moved her body to drape over mine, wrapping an arm around my waist.
“See how it works?” she asked.
“I see.”
“Feels nice, right?”
“It does.”
“Now, may I put my hand on your face?”
“You may.”
She did, moving her face close to mine.
I instinctively leaned in to kiss.
“No!” she pulled back. “You forgot to ask permission!”
“Terribly sorry,” I replied. I was losing interest in this game.
She smiled. “Is there anything you want to ask me?”
“Yes. I wanted to know if there was anything you cared to ask me.”
She closed her eyes and pondered. “No, I don’t think so.”
“Very good.”
She stayed in my arms as we talked. She looked away for a moment, then back to me.
“You know, I have reevaluated my earlier statement.”
“Yes?”
“Yes, and now, I do have a question. May I kiss you?”
“Yes, you may.”
She closed her eyes and gently touched her lips to mine.
I received her kiss, parting my lips slightly.
She could feel me growing hard against her ribs. Her kiss became more passionate.
Then her kiss ended.
She looked into my eyes. “Thank you.”
“Thank you,” I said. “And you’re welcome. Now, are you hungry for lunch?”
“No, I’m not hungry.” She sat up. “In fact, I think I should be going.”
“If you like. Want something for the road?”
“What do you have in mind?”
“A sandwich or something? Maybe a bottle of water?”
“Um, sure. Water would be nice.”
“Easily done.” I stood and retrieved a bottle. I remained standing as I gave it to her.
“Thanks.” She took the bottle, then stood and passed me without touching. She walked to her shoes, slipping them on. “Okay. Thanks again for having me.”
“It was a pleasure.”
I opened the door.
She walked quickly out.
I closed and locked the door.
I ate lunch.
A few weeks later, I received a postcard from Anna. She was enjoying her vacation.
“See you soon,” it concluded. “Hugs and kisses, Anna.”
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Monday, September 26, 2005
Mitzi Misbehaves
It was a stupid fight, the same fight we so often have.
Mitzi gets jealous.
I sympathize, I listen, but my tolerance is not high.
I had gone downtown to spend an evening at Mitzi’s, not long after Madeline’s visit.
I really like it at Mitzi’s place; it’s a grown-up prewar apartment, but being there feels a lot like visiting the cool dorm room in college. Mitzi tells great stories and plays rocking tunes. Her pooch sits in my lap and licks my fingers. She keeps a bottle of bourbon for me.
And Mitzi kisses so sweet.
We had drinks and relaxed on her couch, chatting and watching Jon Stewart and Letterman.
It got late. We got drunk.
We fought.
I did not want to fight. I decided to go home.
She calmed down and convinced me to stay. She told me I could sleep on the couch if was too annoyed to sleep with her.
I lay down on the couch, fully dressed, shoes on my feet, and closed my eyes.
I was furious and felt trapped.
I went to sleep mad.
I awoke the next morning to Mitzi’s eyes, gazing at me.
“I am so sorry about last night . . .” she began.
“Forget about it,” I said. “I understand. It’s what we do. It’s over.”
I was no longer angry.
I would put it aside until the next time we had the same fight.
“Will you come to bed now?” she asked.
“Yes.” I rubbed the hangover from my eyes and stood. I followed her to the bed.
I undressed and kissed her.
We fell asleep.
When we awoke, we kissed and made love.
That morning would change our relationship.
Because that morning, Mitzi got religion.
Listen to her testify.
That was a rock bottom kinda fight.
I was mad as hell. You were tired. I was in hysterics, not letting you leave my apartment.
You finally headed to my couch, the same couch whose comfort we had discussed mere hours earlier. You now adjusted the pillows and plopped down fully clothed with shoes on and fell asleep.
I was scared you were going to get up and run the minute I walked away. I went to bed sleeping with my head at the bottom of the bed.
Early in the morning we spoke, and you came back to bed with me. We slept a little while, and then made out.
I went for my Rock Chick.
I got on my tummy and rode it as you pulled at my nipples.
There was very little kissing.
My hips continued to thrust with the Rock Chick inside me stiff and curling up towards my g-spot, the large muffled silicone vibe teasing my clit.
Your naked hand found my ass.
You grabbed tight, looking at me with quiet severity.
You unlatched your palm from my skin, and then brought it down in one hard fat clap.
You began to smack my ass.
I rubbed hard.
One of your hands was on my ass, the other grabbing a fist full of my hair, pulling me close and immobilizing me while you punished me.
I cried. Your face grew fierce as you reddened me.
The smacking abruptly stopped, and the hand holding my hair—and my will—pushed me to your cock.
You shoved it down my throat.
Both of your hands were on my head now, pulling my hair, pressing me down as you thrust your cock deeper down my throat.
I gagged, drooling. You were relentless, barely let me up for air.
When you did, it was just as abrupt as the last switch. You directed me to get on my back.
Kneeling on my bed, you found the condom drawer. Your cock rushed inside me as you fucked me hard, smothering my body.
You pulled back.
Your eyes were steely.
And though you had never done it before, I knew what was coming.
Your hand was raised and flew down, delivering a swift smack across my face.
You thrust harder.
I was ecstatic.
Your hand to my face again, and my ecstasy drew tears.
Both of your hands found my face, smushing it in your palms.
You released me, and the crying felt so good.
You brought your mouth to the warm, wet, tear-strewn cheeks you'd been tanning. You more than kissed my face; you tried to eat it.
When my cheeks were sufficiently healed, you raised yourself and set to fucking me—hard.
You looked at the clock; it was just about ten.
"You see what time it is?" you asked in sips of breath as you continued to pound me. "I'm gonna fuck you until ten thirty, and then I am going to pick up and leave."
I think at this point I realized I had no words left to speak.
You fucked me hard for then next thirty minutes, taking time to stand at the side of my bed, to pound me from that vantage point.
I looked at the clock a few times. You were also keenly aware of the time.
Around ten twenty five, you lowered yourself down on me, and kissed me sweetly. We stayed there a while, your cock still inside me.
"Now, behave, or I will come back here and beat you again!" You kissed me and lifted up.
The clock read ten thirty eight.
You sat on your knees, pulling back slowly withdrawing your dick from me, torturing me until you pulled it all the way out.
I sat up in protest.
"No, look at the clock. I already gave you more time. I’m leaving.”
I had no words.
I lay in my bed as you put on your clothes.
When dressed, you took my pink lace panties from the floor and looked up. You devilishly pocketed my knickers.
You walked to my door and unlocked it.
"No!" was the reflex that popped out of my mouth.
You just looked and smiled, and then walked out, closing the door behind you.
How sad I was, Kreskin, when I found my panties left behind on the floor of my living room.
That morning, Mitzi found religion.
Now, when the devil takes hold, I beat the hell out of her.
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Mitzi gets jealous.
I sympathize, I listen, but my tolerance is not high.
I had gone downtown to spend an evening at Mitzi’s, not long after Madeline’s visit.
I really like it at Mitzi’s place; it’s a grown-up prewar apartment, but being there feels a lot like visiting the cool dorm room in college. Mitzi tells great stories and plays rocking tunes. Her pooch sits in my lap and licks my fingers. She keeps a bottle of bourbon for me.
And Mitzi kisses so sweet.
We had drinks and relaxed on her couch, chatting and watching Jon Stewart and Letterman.
It got late. We got drunk.
We fought.
I did not want to fight. I decided to go home.
She calmed down and convinced me to stay. She told me I could sleep on the couch if was too annoyed to sleep with her.
I lay down on the couch, fully dressed, shoes on my feet, and closed my eyes.
I was furious and felt trapped.
I went to sleep mad.
I awoke the next morning to Mitzi’s eyes, gazing at me.
“I am so sorry about last night . . .” she began.
“Forget about it,” I said. “I understand. It’s what we do. It’s over.”
I was no longer angry.
I would put it aside until the next time we had the same fight.
“Will you come to bed now?” she asked.
“Yes.” I rubbed the hangover from my eyes and stood. I followed her to the bed.
I undressed and kissed her.
We fell asleep.
When we awoke, we kissed and made love.
That morning would change our relationship.
Because that morning, Mitzi got religion.
Listen to her testify.
That was a rock bottom kinda fight.
I was mad as hell. You were tired. I was in hysterics, not letting you leave my apartment.
You finally headed to my couch, the same couch whose comfort we had discussed mere hours earlier. You now adjusted the pillows and plopped down fully clothed with shoes on and fell asleep.
I was scared you were going to get up and run the minute I walked away. I went to bed sleeping with my head at the bottom of the bed.
Early in the morning we spoke, and you came back to bed with me. We slept a little while, and then made out.
I went for my Rock Chick.
I got on my tummy and rode it as you pulled at my nipples.
There was very little kissing.
My hips continued to thrust with the Rock Chick inside me stiff and curling up towards my g-spot, the large muffled silicone vibe teasing my clit.
Your naked hand found my ass.
You grabbed tight, looking at me with quiet severity.
You unlatched your palm from my skin, and then brought it down in one hard fat clap.
You began to smack my ass.
I rubbed hard.
One of your hands was on my ass, the other grabbing a fist full of my hair, pulling me close and immobilizing me while you punished me.
I cried. Your face grew fierce as you reddened me.
The smacking abruptly stopped, and the hand holding my hair—and my will—pushed me to your cock.
You shoved it down my throat.
Both of your hands were on my head now, pulling my hair, pressing me down as you thrust your cock deeper down my throat.
I gagged, drooling. You were relentless, barely let me up for air.
When you did, it was just as abrupt as the last switch. You directed me to get on my back.
Kneeling on my bed, you found the condom drawer. Your cock rushed inside me as you fucked me hard, smothering my body.
You pulled back.
Your eyes were steely.
And though you had never done it before, I knew what was coming.
Your hand was raised and flew down, delivering a swift smack across my face.
You thrust harder.
I was ecstatic.
Your hand to my face again, and my ecstasy drew tears.
Both of your hands found my face, smushing it in your palms.
You released me, and the crying felt so good.
You brought your mouth to the warm, wet, tear-strewn cheeks you'd been tanning. You more than kissed my face; you tried to eat it.
When my cheeks were sufficiently healed, you raised yourself and set to fucking me—hard.
You looked at the clock; it was just about ten.
"You see what time it is?" you asked in sips of breath as you continued to pound me. "I'm gonna fuck you until ten thirty, and then I am going to pick up and leave."
I think at this point I realized I had no words left to speak.
You fucked me hard for then next thirty minutes, taking time to stand at the side of my bed, to pound me from that vantage point.
I looked at the clock a few times. You were also keenly aware of the time.
Around ten twenty five, you lowered yourself down on me, and kissed me sweetly. We stayed there a while, your cock still inside me.
"Now, behave, or I will come back here and beat you again!" You kissed me and lifted up.
The clock read ten thirty eight.
You sat on your knees, pulling back slowly withdrawing your dick from me, torturing me until you pulled it all the way out.
I sat up in protest.
"No, look at the clock. I already gave you more time. I’m leaving.”
I had no words.
I lay in my bed as you put on your clothes.
When dressed, you took my pink lace panties from the floor and looked up. You devilishly pocketed my knickers.
You walked to my door and unlocked it.
"No!" was the reflex that popped out of my mouth.
You just looked and smiled, and then walked out, closing the door behind you.
How sad I was, Kreskin, when I found my panties left behind on the floor of my living room.
That morning, Mitzi found religion.
Now, when the devil takes hold, I beat the hell out of her.
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Friday, September 23, 2005
Verdad
A while back, I decided I wanted a summer boyfriend. I auditioned a few candidates, and while they looked great and the sex was fine, they were unable to supply something essential.
A second date.
About that same time, I got in touch with Marcus and made him pull out his calendar. We coordinated schedules for ourselves, our exes, our children, and our vacations—if this sounds simple, it was not—and found that we had many days we could spend together.
And so it was that my best friend Marcus emerged as my summer boyfriend.
Every week or two, he drove up to New York to spend a few days with me.
Marcus proved to be the perfect boyfriend. He praised my home cooking and picked up the tab when we went out. He enjoyed the music I played and spun his own great tunes. He held me when we slept and kissed me when we woke.
The sex was as good as it gets, despite his unyielding quest to plug my ass with his cock or whatever else may be at hand.
The sex was also never lacking in variety, for when Marcus is around, the skies open and Lord have mercy, its raining men.
Every month, I co-host a male sex party with my pal Jimmy. Jimmy takes care of the guest list; I supply the place and schmooze the newbies.
Marcus loves these parties, and these parties love Marcus. He’s bisexual, and he enjoys sex with women, but I tell you what: you put that boy in a gay orgy, and he is a fish taking to water.
The sun was still setting as guests arrived, filling the apartment with a warm glow. As each man arrived, he spent a few moments with Jimmy, who checked them off his list and directed them to remove their clothes.
The men shook the day off their naked flesh, settling readily into cruising mode.
Brandon was among the fist to arrive. He had picked me from the crowd at the previous party, and we had been joined by Marcus for a threesome that was, for me, the highlight of that night.
But on this night, Brandon seemed a bit withdrawn, disinterested in socializing. He kept his wallflower eyes to the bookcases, hands folded behind his nude buttocks as he perused titles.
I made my hellos and left him to his browsing.
Marcus arrived as the party got underway. He kissed me and was quickly undressed, joining the men who swallowed one another in a glance.
I remained in the living room, still dressed and acting as social director. I was preparing to join the festivities when a new fellow came into room, fresh from Jimmy’s processing and just out of his clothes.
He sat awkwardly on the couch, seemingly unsure what he was supposed to do.
I sat next to him and introduced myself.
His smooth body was pale, with short black hair and deep brown eyes visible through narrow glasses. I couldn’t help but note a slight resemblance to Shelby.
But that may have been my own wishful thinking. I had not seen her in weeks. Now I searched for her in him.
It had been so long, I was looking for that girl everywhere.
Even in this boy, with his discreet nose ring and tattoos in a few different languages—all meant “truth,” he would later explain.
“How are you? I’m Jefferson. This is my place.”
“Nice to meet you,” He bobbed his head in lieu of shaking hands. “I’m Verdad.”
“Verdad? That’s a great name.”
“Thanks, I like it. Yours too.”
“Oh, thanks. I was named for my grandfather.”
“Oh, cool. I picked mine.”
“Really? What’s your birth name?”
“Uh . . . well, it’s nothing. I’m embarrassed to say.” He crossed his arms across his belly.
“Oh, it’s fine,” I lightly touched his thigh, then removed my hand. “You don’t have to say.”
“It’s nothing, just a very lame name.”
“You only make me more curious, but it’s your name.”
Two more men strolled by, smiling to me as they made their way to the bedrooms.
I smiled back.
“You’ve been to a group party before, Verdad?”
“Not really.”
“Is that a ‘not really’ yes, or a ‘not really’ no?”
“No.”
“Well, welcome. It’s a pretty relaxed group of men—there’s no pressure, and everyone is friendly. But if you have any questions or anything, just let me know.”
“Okay, thanks.” He looked at me. “You’re very nice.”
“Thanks, Verdad. I just want everyone to be comfortable and have a good time.”
“Thanks.” He smiled at me.
“Sure.”
A moment lulled.
“So Verdad, do you consider yourself gay, or bi, or what?”
“Oh, I’m bi,” he asserted. “But I’m a virgin. With girls, I mean.”
“Ah, okay. I’m bi too—though not a virgin anymore.” He laughed. “How old are you, Verdad?”
“Twenty.” He brightened. “My birthday was on Gay Pride Day!”
“Oh, happy birthday! Did you go to the parade?” From the back room, I could hear the sounds of sex drowning out the noise of small-screen pornography.
“Yeah,” he sat up. “It was so great, so many hot guys.”
“Yeah, right? It’s great fun. I was there, too.” In fact, the parade had been my most recent date with Shelby. “So have you been with many guys?”
“Not really.”
“Like, ‘not really,’ meaning . . .”
“Well, one. Like, six months ago.”
“I see.”
That was it. I had my project for the evening.
If Verdad was leaping from his first sexual experience to his first orgy, I supposed it fell to me to act as his Sherpa.
“So, Verdad. You want to make out?”
He nodded and looked up into my eyes.
“Sure.”
“Great. Let’s go back the bedroom.”
I stood and took his hand. He rose and followed me.
I ducked a head into one room and found the bed covered with an interlocking stack of men.
I lead Verdad to the next room.
Here, the men stood, touching one another and watching as Brandon fucked a bottom. The futon was uninhabited.
“Lay down here,” I instructed. “Let me get out of these clothes.” He reclined on his elbows, pulling his shoulders up to his neck. He glanced around the room then back to me.
My eyes never left him.
I pulled my shirt over my head, and dropped my shorts.
Nude, I smiled at him.
I stepped to the bed, then crawled over his body in feline strides.
My face met his.
Our noses nearly touched.
“Kiss me, Verdad.”
His lips parted. He closed his eyes.
How sweet, I thought.
I took his mouth in mine.
The innocence of his kiss shot through me, arousing me with a jolt. I put one hand gently on his cheek. His tongue darted between my lips, exploring.
I gave back a little more than he gave. He replied in kind, drawing his breath heavily through is nostrils.
His elbows collapsed and he fell back.
I lowered my body onto his, from belly to chest to shoulders to face, and took his eyes.
I gave him a kiss to remember.
Our cocks were hard against one another. I pulsed gently into him.
His hands woke up, finally, and were raised to touch my sides and back.
“That’s very nice, baby,” I murmured into his mouth, holding him closer.
His heart quickened, like he was unaware one could speak while kissing, and the realization had surprised him.
“Thanks . . .” he ventured, as I kissed him back to silence.
His legs spread as I pressed into him.
“Verdad, when you had sex six months ago, did you get fucked?”
“Sorta.”
“Well, Verdad, I would like to fuck you now.”
“Okay.” His reply was very matter of fact, as if I had offered a cheese platter.
I leaned over his body to fetch a condom and lube.
“Talk to me as I enter you,” I said, unrolling the condom on my shaft. “Let me know how it feels.”
“Okay.”
I lubed him, parting his legs. My thumb massaged his anus, pressing slowly in.
“Okay?”
“Okay.” He looked a little nervous, but focused on my eyes.
I greased my cock.
I pushed his legs back and up, my thumb firm in place.
The head of my cock replaced my thumb. Verdad looked down to watch.
“Eyes up, baby,” I said. “Look at me.”
His eyes met mine.
I entered him.
Slow. Slight.
His mouth opened, but he was silent.
“Okay?”
He nodded quickly.
More.
“Okay?”
“Uh huh . . .” He drew a deep breath.
I leaned forward, holding my body over his.
More.
“Okay?”
“Yes.”
“I’m entirely in you. Kiss me.”
He gave me his mouth.
I fucked him gently.
A crowd had formed to watch.
I looked up and saw the muscular fellow with the baseball cap—the top whose name I have never learned—as he looked on, jerking, a tinge of envy in his eyes.
Marcus was nearby, between sessions with men.
“Marcus, sit, sit.”
“How’s it going, Jefferson?” he smiled, sitting. “Who’s your friend?”
“Verdad, this is Marcus.” I sat back, keeping my cock deep in place. The boy craned his neck to look back.
“Nice to meet you, Marcus.”
“Likewise. So you are getting fucked, huh?”
“Yeah . . .”
“Feel good?”
“It does . . .”
“Yeah, that Jefferson is a good fuck.”
“He’s fucked you?”
“On many occasions.”
“Oh, cool.”
“Hey Marcus,” I interjected. “Not to interrupt, but we are fucking here. Do me a favor—would you please put your cock in his mouth? Verdad’s never had a threesome.”
“You would like that, Verdad?” Marcus rose to his knees.
“Okay.”
“All right, well, here you go, sweetheart.” Marcus lowered his stiffening cock whole into the boy’s mouth.
The man in the baseball cap strained for a better view.
I fucked Verdad a little harder, a little faster.
He moaned into Marcus’s cock.
Marcus fucked his mouth for a while, then noticed a tall blonde fellow watching him. They exchanged smiles.
“You two are very sweet,” he said, leaning forward to kiss me. “But I am going to get my own piece of ass.” He pulled his cock away and slapped Verdad’s cheek playfully.
Verdad registered shock, then recovered. “Oh, well, nice to meet you.”
“Likewise.”
“He seems nice,” Verdad said, after Marcus had left.
“I love him dearly. Now kiss me.”
As we kissed, as we fucked, I held his temples firmly in my hands. He seemed so willing to give himself over to me.
I slipped a hand around his neck.
He drew back, instinctively, and then relaxed.
I squeezed, slightly.
He smiled a little, and surrendered.
He got a nice fucking for that.
We took a break, and I went into the bathroom to wash up. When I opened the door afterwards, he was there, waiting.
“What do you want to do now?” he asked.
“You are one sweet puppy,” I said, taking his hand. “C’mon, let’s look around.”
We watched the men go at it. I wrap an arm around him; we traded whispers about the unfolding scene.
“There’s Marcus,” he pointed.
“That’s right, baby.” Marcus was looming over the blonde, whose legs were bent back. “Let’s move for a better view.”
We crossed the room, I settled into a nearby chair, and pulled Verdad into my lap. I rested my arms across his belly.
“Hello, lovebirds,” Marcus said, looking up. He looked back at the blonde. “Now, first I have to get this testicle into you . . .”
“Oh look, baby,” I said. “Marcus is going to fuck that guy with his balls.”
“Really?” Verdad leaned forward.
“Yep, get a gander.”
A few other men gathered as well.
Marcus folded one testicle into the blonde, then another.
“Now, be still while I get my dick in you . . .”
“Wow,” said Verdad. His hard cock flopped onto my forearm. “He’s really doing it!”
Marcus achieved his objective, and began to fuck furiously.
I stroked Verdad as we watched.
I nibbled on his forearm.
“You are going to make me cum,” he whined. He looked up at the men now watching him.
“Damn straight. Give me what I want.”
He leaned back, suddenly heavy as he involuntarily pushed against my face.
I was unable to see him as his cock pulsed and wet my hand.
Marcus pulled back, sweating. “Okay, that’s how you do it.”
“That’s incredible,” another man said. He was black, very handsome and well built. “But I don’t think that man is finished being fucked.”
“Climb on, cowboy,” the blonde replied. “I was just thinking the same thing.”
“Should I get you off now?” Verdad whispered to me.
“Oh, don’t worry, that’s fine.”
“Are you sure? It doesn’t seem fair—you got me off, I should get you off.”
“You are too sweet, child. Okay, you can suck my cock. Take one of those pillows for your knees—the rug’s a bitch.”
Verdad took the pillow as instructed, and crouched between my thighs. He took my cock.
I sat back to relax and enjoy the show.
He did nice work.
Jimmy popped his head in the room, and then dropped his shoulders in mock exasperation. He came to my chair. “I should’ve known, look for Jefferson, you’ll find him getting blown.”
“How’s it going, Jimmy?”
“Very well, everyone seems to be playing nicely.”
Verdad looked up. “Do you need to talk? Should I stop?”
“No baby,” I said, resting a hand on his head. “You suck that cock while we talk.”
Jimmy and I compared notes on the night. He said the party had dwindled to us—Marcus and the two fellows on the bed, Verdad and me at the chair—so he was cutting out.
“Okay, let me lock up after you,” I said. “Verdad honey, I need my dick for a minute.”
He pulled away from me, and sat back on his knees. “Okay. Should I wait here?”
“No, you go to the other room. I want you to myself for a while.”
“Okay.” He stood and left.
Jimmy shook his head. “You sure train ‘em fast.”
I smiled. “It’s just his nature.”
I kissed Jimmy good night and locked the door. I picked up two bottled waters.
Marcus was fucking his two fellows.
Verdad was alone in a room, sitting on the carpet, waiting.
“Here you go, baby. Now let me think.” I unscrewed a bottle cap and took a drink. “Do I want you to suck me off, or do I want to fuck you?”
“If you want to fuck me, maybe I should go to the bathroom and get ready?”
“Yes, you do that, while I decide.”
I touched his arm as he passed.
Now that he was preparing to be fucked, I decided he would suck me.
I reclined on a bed, knees apart.
“Hey,” Verdad waved as he returned to the room. “So what would you like?”
“How about you suck my cock?”
“Okay.”
He dropped to his knees and, looking up at me, set to it.
What the boy lacked in experience, he made up for with determination.
Marcus appeared in the door.
“You gonna come, Jefferson?”
“Yes, in just a moment . . .”
“No, I mean, you gonna come? We’re going out for dinner.”
“Oh, well, yes . . . just a minute.”
I focused on Verdad’s mouth.
His tongue.
“Okay baby, I’m cumming.” He pulled back and I shot into the air.
Verdad smiled.
“Nice work,” Marcus said. “Now c’mon, we’re starving.”
As we walked the streets, I realized that in all the months I have hosted his party, I have never once socialized afterwards with the men I fucked.
That’s the influence of Marcus.
I took Verdad’s hand in mine, enjoying a warm public display as we listened to Marcus banter with the other fellows.
I finally learned their names. The blonde was Henry. The black guy was Carl.
We ate a burger joint café. The city was still at this hour.
The conversation was sharp and quick. Henry, a former callboy, traded war stories with Marcus. Henry’s tales often involved size queens attracted to his ten-inch dick.
Carl reminded the boys to keep their voices low; there were other diners. We turned the conversation to him; he was off to Paris for school soon.
Look at me, I thought, out past midnight with smart good-looking gay men. Some life.
We all traded contact information as we parted ways. Carl walked north, heading uptown.
I didn’t know it yet, but meeting Carl would later prove most fortuitous.
The rest of us walked south.
At the subway station, I kissed Verdad goodbye.
“Can I see you again?” he asked.
“I’d like that. I had a great time.”
“Cool. Well, thanks.”
“Good night, baby. Have a good trip home.”
A few blocks further, and Henry peeled off.
“Marcus, you can call me anytime,” he kissed my friend. “I had the best time.”
“Me too,” Marcus smiled.
Henry extended his hand. “And you, sir, are a fine, fine host.”
I took his hand. “My great pleasure.”
Henry smiled, and waved as he crossed the street. “Good night, boys!”
Marcus retrieved two small cigars and lit them. I took one.
“Jefferson’s got a boyfriend . . .,” he teased, blowing smoke.
“Yeah, well, five dollars says he flakes a second date.”
“I’m too smart to take that bet. That’s what you get for robbing cradles.”
“Perhaps. But how about you and Henry? I saw sparks there.”
“Sweetie, I have no time for that,” he said, slipping an arm around my waist. “Besides, I already have a boyfriend in New York.”
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A second date.
About that same time, I got in touch with Marcus and made him pull out his calendar. We coordinated schedules for ourselves, our exes, our children, and our vacations—if this sounds simple, it was not—and found that we had many days we could spend together.
And so it was that my best friend Marcus emerged as my summer boyfriend.
Every week or two, he drove up to New York to spend a few days with me.
Marcus proved to be the perfect boyfriend. He praised my home cooking and picked up the tab when we went out. He enjoyed the music I played and spun his own great tunes. He held me when we slept and kissed me when we woke.
The sex was as good as it gets, despite his unyielding quest to plug my ass with his cock or whatever else may be at hand.
The sex was also never lacking in variety, for when Marcus is around, the skies open and Lord have mercy, its raining men.
Every month, I co-host a male sex party with my pal Jimmy. Jimmy takes care of the guest list; I supply the place and schmooze the newbies.
Marcus loves these parties, and these parties love Marcus. He’s bisexual, and he enjoys sex with women, but I tell you what: you put that boy in a gay orgy, and he is a fish taking to water.
The sun was still setting as guests arrived, filling the apartment with a warm glow. As each man arrived, he spent a few moments with Jimmy, who checked them off his list and directed them to remove their clothes.
The men shook the day off their naked flesh, settling readily into cruising mode.
Brandon was among the fist to arrive. He had picked me from the crowd at the previous party, and we had been joined by Marcus for a threesome that was, for me, the highlight of that night.
But on this night, Brandon seemed a bit withdrawn, disinterested in socializing. He kept his wallflower eyes to the bookcases, hands folded behind his nude buttocks as he perused titles.
I made my hellos and left him to his browsing.
Marcus arrived as the party got underway. He kissed me and was quickly undressed, joining the men who swallowed one another in a glance.
I remained in the living room, still dressed and acting as social director. I was preparing to join the festivities when a new fellow came into room, fresh from Jimmy’s processing and just out of his clothes.
He sat awkwardly on the couch, seemingly unsure what he was supposed to do.
I sat next to him and introduced myself.
His smooth body was pale, with short black hair and deep brown eyes visible through narrow glasses. I couldn’t help but note a slight resemblance to Shelby.
But that may have been my own wishful thinking. I had not seen her in weeks. Now I searched for her in him.
It had been so long, I was looking for that girl everywhere.
Even in this boy, with his discreet nose ring and tattoos in a few different languages—all meant “truth,” he would later explain.
“How are you? I’m Jefferson. This is my place.”
“Nice to meet you,” He bobbed his head in lieu of shaking hands. “I’m Verdad.”
“Verdad? That’s a great name.”
“Thanks, I like it. Yours too.”
“Oh, thanks. I was named for my grandfather.”
“Oh, cool. I picked mine.”
“Really? What’s your birth name?”
“Uh . . . well, it’s nothing. I’m embarrassed to say.” He crossed his arms across his belly.
“Oh, it’s fine,” I lightly touched his thigh, then removed my hand. “You don’t have to say.”
“It’s nothing, just a very lame name.”
“You only make me more curious, but it’s your name.”
Two more men strolled by, smiling to me as they made their way to the bedrooms.
I smiled back.
“You’ve been to a group party before, Verdad?”
“Not really.”
“Is that a ‘not really’ yes, or a ‘not really’ no?”
“No.”
“Well, welcome. It’s a pretty relaxed group of men—there’s no pressure, and everyone is friendly. But if you have any questions or anything, just let me know.”
“Okay, thanks.” He looked at me. “You’re very nice.”
“Thanks, Verdad. I just want everyone to be comfortable and have a good time.”
“Thanks.” He smiled at me.
“Sure.”
A moment lulled.
“So Verdad, do you consider yourself gay, or bi, or what?”
“Oh, I’m bi,” he asserted. “But I’m a virgin. With girls, I mean.”
“Ah, okay. I’m bi too—though not a virgin anymore.” He laughed. “How old are you, Verdad?”
“Twenty.” He brightened. “My birthday was on Gay Pride Day!”
“Oh, happy birthday! Did you go to the parade?” From the back room, I could hear the sounds of sex drowning out the noise of small-screen pornography.
“Yeah,” he sat up. “It was so great, so many hot guys.”
“Yeah, right? It’s great fun. I was there, too.” In fact, the parade had been my most recent date with Shelby. “So have you been with many guys?”
“Not really.”
“Like, ‘not really,’ meaning . . .”
“Well, one. Like, six months ago.”
“I see.”
That was it. I had my project for the evening.
If Verdad was leaping from his first sexual experience to his first orgy, I supposed it fell to me to act as his Sherpa.
“So, Verdad. You want to make out?”
He nodded and looked up into my eyes.
“Sure.”
“Great. Let’s go back the bedroom.”
I stood and took his hand. He rose and followed me.
I ducked a head into one room and found the bed covered with an interlocking stack of men.
I lead Verdad to the next room.
Here, the men stood, touching one another and watching as Brandon fucked a bottom. The futon was uninhabited.
“Lay down here,” I instructed. “Let me get out of these clothes.” He reclined on his elbows, pulling his shoulders up to his neck. He glanced around the room then back to me.
My eyes never left him.
I pulled my shirt over my head, and dropped my shorts.
Nude, I smiled at him.
I stepped to the bed, then crawled over his body in feline strides.
My face met his.
Our noses nearly touched.
“Kiss me, Verdad.”
His lips parted. He closed his eyes.
How sweet, I thought.
I took his mouth in mine.
The innocence of his kiss shot through me, arousing me with a jolt. I put one hand gently on his cheek. His tongue darted between my lips, exploring.
I gave back a little more than he gave. He replied in kind, drawing his breath heavily through is nostrils.
His elbows collapsed and he fell back.
I lowered my body onto his, from belly to chest to shoulders to face, and took his eyes.
I gave him a kiss to remember.
Our cocks were hard against one another. I pulsed gently into him.
His hands woke up, finally, and were raised to touch my sides and back.
“That’s very nice, baby,” I murmured into his mouth, holding him closer.
His heart quickened, like he was unaware one could speak while kissing, and the realization had surprised him.
“Thanks . . .” he ventured, as I kissed him back to silence.
His legs spread as I pressed into him.
“Verdad, when you had sex six months ago, did you get fucked?”
“Sorta.”
“Well, Verdad, I would like to fuck you now.”
“Okay.” His reply was very matter of fact, as if I had offered a cheese platter.
I leaned over his body to fetch a condom and lube.
“Talk to me as I enter you,” I said, unrolling the condom on my shaft. “Let me know how it feels.”
“Okay.”
I lubed him, parting his legs. My thumb massaged his anus, pressing slowly in.
“Okay?”
“Okay.” He looked a little nervous, but focused on my eyes.
I greased my cock.
I pushed his legs back and up, my thumb firm in place.
The head of my cock replaced my thumb. Verdad looked down to watch.
“Eyes up, baby,” I said. “Look at me.”
His eyes met mine.
I entered him.
Slow. Slight.
His mouth opened, but he was silent.
“Okay?”
He nodded quickly.
More.
“Okay?”
“Uh huh . . .” He drew a deep breath.
I leaned forward, holding my body over his.
More.
“Okay?”
“Yes.”
“I’m entirely in you. Kiss me.”
He gave me his mouth.
I fucked him gently.
A crowd had formed to watch.
I looked up and saw the muscular fellow with the baseball cap—the top whose name I have never learned—as he looked on, jerking, a tinge of envy in his eyes.
Marcus was nearby, between sessions with men.
“Marcus, sit, sit.”
“How’s it going, Jefferson?” he smiled, sitting. “Who’s your friend?”
“Verdad, this is Marcus.” I sat back, keeping my cock deep in place. The boy craned his neck to look back.
“Nice to meet you, Marcus.”
“Likewise. So you are getting fucked, huh?”
“Yeah . . .”
“Feel good?”
“It does . . .”
“Yeah, that Jefferson is a good fuck.”
“He’s fucked you?”
“On many occasions.”
“Oh, cool.”
“Hey Marcus,” I interjected. “Not to interrupt, but we are fucking here. Do me a favor—would you please put your cock in his mouth? Verdad’s never had a threesome.”
“You would like that, Verdad?” Marcus rose to his knees.
“Okay.”
“All right, well, here you go, sweetheart.” Marcus lowered his stiffening cock whole into the boy’s mouth.
The man in the baseball cap strained for a better view.
I fucked Verdad a little harder, a little faster.
He moaned into Marcus’s cock.
Marcus fucked his mouth for a while, then noticed a tall blonde fellow watching him. They exchanged smiles.
“You two are very sweet,” he said, leaning forward to kiss me. “But I am going to get my own piece of ass.” He pulled his cock away and slapped Verdad’s cheek playfully.
Verdad registered shock, then recovered. “Oh, well, nice to meet you.”
“Likewise.”
“He seems nice,” Verdad said, after Marcus had left.
“I love him dearly. Now kiss me.”
As we kissed, as we fucked, I held his temples firmly in my hands. He seemed so willing to give himself over to me.
I slipped a hand around his neck.
He drew back, instinctively, and then relaxed.
I squeezed, slightly.
He smiled a little, and surrendered.
He got a nice fucking for that.
We took a break, and I went into the bathroom to wash up. When I opened the door afterwards, he was there, waiting.
“What do you want to do now?” he asked.
“You are one sweet puppy,” I said, taking his hand. “C’mon, let’s look around.”
We watched the men go at it. I wrap an arm around him; we traded whispers about the unfolding scene.
“There’s Marcus,” he pointed.
“That’s right, baby.” Marcus was looming over the blonde, whose legs were bent back. “Let’s move for a better view.”
We crossed the room, I settled into a nearby chair, and pulled Verdad into my lap. I rested my arms across his belly.
“Hello, lovebirds,” Marcus said, looking up. He looked back at the blonde. “Now, first I have to get this testicle into you . . .”
“Oh look, baby,” I said. “Marcus is going to fuck that guy with his balls.”
“Really?” Verdad leaned forward.
“Yep, get a gander.”
A few other men gathered as well.
Marcus folded one testicle into the blonde, then another.
“Now, be still while I get my dick in you . . .”
“Wow,” said Verdad. His hard cock flopped onto my forearm. “He’s really doing it!”
Marcus achieved his objective, and began to fuck furiously.
I stroked Verdad as we watched.
I nibbled on his forearm.
“You are going to make me cum,” he whined. He looked up at the men now watching him.
“Damn straight. Give me what I want.”
He leaned back, suddenly heavy as he involuntarily pushed against my face.
I was unable to see him as his cock pulsed and wet my hand.
Marcus pulled back, sweating. “Okay, that’s how you do it.”
“That’s incredible,” another man said. He was black, very handsome and well built. “But I don’t think that man is finished being fucked.”
“Climb on, cowboy,” the blonde replied. “I was just thinking the same thing.”
“Should I get you off now?” Verdad whispered to me.
“Oh, don’t worry, that’s fine.”
“Are you sure? It doesn’t seem fair—you got me off, I should get you off.”
“You are too sweet, child. Okay, you can suck my cock. Take one of those pillows for your knees—the rug’s a bitch.”
Verdad took the pillow as instructed, and crouched between my thighs. He took my cock.
I sat back to relax and enjoy the show.
He did nice work.
Jimmy popped his head in the room, and then dropped his shoulders in mock exasperation. He came to my chair. “I should’ve known, look for Jefferson, you’ll find him getting blown.”
“How’s it going, Jimmy?”
“Very well, everyone seems to be playing nicely.”
Verdad looked up. “Do you need to talk? Should I stop?”
“No baby,” I said, resting a hand on his head. “You suck that cock while we talk.”
Jimmy and I compared notes on the night. He said the party had dwindled to us—Marcus and the two fellows on the bed, Verdad and me at the chair—so he was cutting out.
“Okay, let me lock up after you,” I said. “Verdad honey, I need my dick for a minute.”
He pulled away from me, and sat back on his knees. “Okay. Should I wait here?”
“No, you go to the other room. I want you to myself for a while.”
“Okay.” He stood and left.
Jimmy shook his head. “You sure train ‘em fast.”
I smiled. “It’s just his nature.”
I kissed Jimmy good night and locked the door. I picked up two bottled waters.
Marcus was fucking his two fellows.
Verdad was alone in a room, sitting on the carpet, waiting.
“Here you go, baby. Now let me think.” I unscrewed a bottle cap and took a drink. “Do I want you to suck me off, or do I want to fuck you?”
“If you want to fuck me, maybe I should go to the bathroom and get ready?”
“Yes, you do that, while I decide.”
I touched his arm as he passed.
Now that he was preparing to be fucked, I decided he would suck me.
I reclined on a bed, knees apart.
“Hey,” Verdad waved as he returned to the room. “So what would you like?”
“How about you suck my cock?”
“Okay.”
He dropped to his knees and, looking up at me, set to it.
What the boy lacked in experience, he made up for with determination.
Marcus appeared in the door.
“You gonna come, Jefferson?”
“Yes, in just a moment . . .”
“No, I mean, you gonna come? We’re going out for dinner.”
“Oh, well, yes . . . just a minute.”
I focused on Verdad’s mouth.
His tongue.
“Okay baby, I’m cumming.” He pulled back and I shot into the air.
Verdad smiled.
“Nice work,” Marcus said. “Now c’mon, we’re starving.”
As we walked the streets, I realized that in all the months I have hosted his party, I have never once socialized afterwards with the men I fucked.
That’s the influence of Marcus.
I took Verdad’s hand in mine, enjoying a warm public display as we listened to Marcus banter with the other fellows.
I finally learned their names. The blonde was Henry. The black guy was Carl.
We ate a burger joint café. The city was still at this hour.
The conversation was sharp and quick. Henry, a former callboy, traded war stories with Marcus. Henry’s tales often involved size queens attracted to his ten-inch dick.
Carl reminded the boys to keep their voices low; there were other diners. We turned the conversation to him; he was off to Paris for school soon.
Look at me, I thought, out past midnight with smart good-looking gay men. Some life.
We all traded contact information as we parted ways. Carl walked north, heading uptown.
I didn’t know it yet, but meeting Carl would later prove most fortuitous.
The rest of us walked south.
At the subway station, I kissed Verdad goodbye.
“Can I see you again?” he asked.
“I’d like that. I had a great time.”
“Cool. Well, thanks.”
“Good night, baby. Have a good trip home.”
A few blocks further, and Henry peeled off.
“Marcus, you can call me anytime,” he kissed my friend. “I had the best time.”
“Me too,” Marcus smiled.
Henry extended his hand. “And you, sir, are a fine, fine host.”
I took his hand. “My great pleasure.”
Henry smiled, and waved as he crossed the street. “Good night, boys!”
Marcus retrieved two small cigars and lit them. I took one.
“Jefferson’s got a boyfriend . . .,” he teased, blowing smoke.
“Yeah, well, five dollars says he flakes a second date.”
“I’m too smart to take that bet. That’s what you get for robbing cradles.”
“Perhaps. But how about you and Henry? I saw sparks there.”
“Sweetie, I have no time for that,” he said, slipping an arm around my waist. “Besides, I already have a boyfriend in New York.”
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