I Shot Myself

Argon Noble

HNT

It was a pleasure to meet Eliza and William of Horny Female Pervert when they stopped by to audition their nascent live sex show. I played the unaccustomed role of observer, so I was glad they brought bourbon for me to sip as I sat in my bedroom’s voyeurs’ chair. That made me feel right at home—which, of course, I was.

Eliza and William are exhibitionists in search of an audience. I am an audience of one who happens to maintain a retinue of voyeurs, particularly among the membership of the Bukkake Social Club. The couple reasoned that if I enjoyed their show, they might find a place in the fast-growing niche market for live sex performers on my bed.

Their ardor and passion for one another soon had me stroking along. Eliza’s blog can have that same effect. Congratulations, Eliza and William. You’ve earned a call back.

Blake Mason

Jack and Robbie

Fleshbot and Dumb Ass

This week’s Sex Blog Roundup at Fleshbot tries to fit square pegs into round holes by looking into the near misses and the total wash outs. You can keep pounding away, but some things are too broken to fix.

Those of you who enjoy stalking me will find me the muse for the latest inspiration from Lynsey: Sexed-Up Stickmas cards! Pick up a set for the stick figures on your holiday list.

There’s no guest DJ at the Smut Turntable this weekend, as I want to catch up on your requests. Keep ‘em coming!

Speaking of things being off, I am really quite the dumb ass. Yesterday had me running from meeting to meeting. Around noon, I left a meeting in Harlem to find myself facing a local fried chicken shop. There are many of these in upper Manhattan; many have operated for years under names ripped from KFC, such as Kennedy Fried Chicken and JFK Fried Chicken. You know the chicken is good when it’s served from behind bullet-proof glass.

Now, I happen to make a very fine fried chicken, and so I rarely eat it as fast food. But here I was, with a few moments to spare, staring at a photograph of a lunch special—two pieces, French fries and a drink for five dollars and sixty cents. I mulled it over and decided against it. I wasn’t in the mood for fries, and I just wasn’t that hungry. Anyway, five bucks for two pieces didn’t strike me as such a great deal. I hopped on the subway and headed to midtown for my next meeting, glad to have resisted temptation. Perhaps later I would pick up an apple.

Halfway into the meeting, I was starving. All I could think about was the fried chicken I had left behind in Harlem. Dumb ass.

Afterwards, I had to hurry to pick up Lillie from school. The last leg of that errand would be a long walk. It was a cold afternoon, and I decided to pick up coffee from a Korean deli. As I waited in line to pay, my eyes scanned the steam table, stopping at fried chicken wings. What’s the harm, I thought, in getting a few wings as a snack for my walk? Perhaps it would take my mind off this fixation on chicken. I took a plastic tray and loaded two wings. I walked away before going back for a third. I had lost my place in line, so I moved to the back of the queue.

The total came to three dollars and ninety-four cents. I opened my wallet to find I had no cash. “Do you take debit cards?” I asked.

“Five dollar minimum,” the cashier replied.

I was about a dollar shy of the minimum. I looked around. It might be nice to pick up a treat for Lillie. I decided against it, as I hated to spend money on something just to round up to five dollars. “Is there an ATM?” I asked. The cashier pointed to the corner. As I punched in my number, I noticed a branch of my bank across the street. I could use an ATM there for free, and the one at the deli would have a fee. I decided not to cross the street to save a little money. I was in hurry, and my fried wings were waiting on the counter. The fee was one dollar and ninety-five cents. I hit accept and out came a twenty.

I handed the bill to the cashier. As he counted the change, I realized what I had just done.

I had spent nearly two dollars on a fee, rather than one dollar on a treat.

Worse, I had now spent nearly six dollars for coffee and a few chicken wings—more than the cost of the lunch special I had passed over in Harlem.

Dumb ass.

I wasn’t feel too bright as I walked down the sidewalk, trying to balance a large cup of coffee in the crook of an arm while eating from the plastic tray I held to my chest. My fingers were greasy. All that would do now would be for me to drop the chicken, scalding myself in the process.

I was so focused on my balancing act that I bumped into someone. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” I said, my mouth full.

“No problem,” Alan Alda smiled. He went on his way, reading a book as he strolled. He looked very smart in his glasses.

I licked my fingers and headed on my way. At least I hadn’t offered to shake Alan Alda’s hand.

Abby Winters

Courtney K.

Day Tripper

A suburban mother made another trip to the city. She reports in:

My day of Christmas shopping. (Or at least that is what everyone thinks.)

Gas: $3o (Jesus, these damn gas prices are killing me.)
Parking: $27
Lunch with Jefferson: $30

Fucking Jefferson: Wow, this is my cheapest fuck to date. But boy, was it fucking sweet.

Training of O

Madison Young

Blogoversary

This week marked the third anniversary of One Life, Take Two. I've met most of my closest friends and lovers because one day, Audacia Ray convinced me to start a blog. It just changed my life, that's all.

As I do each year, I'm republishing my first post, which began as an email to Audacia. If you enjoy it, rummage back in the Archive for more.

My Celia

It’s been over a year since the break up.

For most of that year, I have hosted sex parties in Manhattan. I suppose I will need to catch you up on how that transpired. I’ve made great friends and lovers at these parties, and yet I haven’t often had the feeling of falling head over heels for someone.

Until my Celia.

I met Celia at a party at my place last spring. She arrived late with a guy who comes sometimes. The regulars were already naked, well fucked and relaxed.

Celia sat on a bed and chatted with us. She was dressed in jeans and a black t-shirt, worn backwards so that the logo was illegible. As we talked, Jane removed Celia’s clothes, and had soon stripped her naked. Jane kissed her torso as Celia leaned back, opening her thighs; we heard her gasp as Jane’s mouth reached her clit.

Being gracious like she is, Jane soon turned and offered me Celia’s body. I set to licking Jane's drool from Celia's labia.

As we fucked, as we did almost immediately, I decided not to stop fucking her. This is not the best form at a sex party, particularly for the host; one really should offer new guests an opportunity to work the room.

I doubt that Celia cared much for etiquette. She had gorgeous hazel-green eyes, focused intently on mine. I kept her gaze, noticing details at the periphery. Celia had a lovely face: aquiline nose, pre-Raphaelite features, framed in long black hair.

I was soon very curious to know more about the woman I was fucking, and so thought maybe we could take a break to chat.

"I would really like to talk with you," I said, meaning "Maybe we can stop and talk."

"Sure . . . what do you want to talk about?" she replied, as if I meant we should have a conversation while fucking. I was willing.

"So, where did you grow up?," I asked. I learned that she grew up in New England, she is an art student, and she would be working on a farm all summer. Within those first few moments, I gleaned that we had art in common, the sex was great, and I wouldn't be able to see her again for months.

I finally let her have sex with some of the others. Later we kissed, as intently as we had gazed. As she left, she stood in the door, giving me long, hungry kisses, as her date waited for her.

As it happened, she had an art show up, and as it happened, I was in the neighborhood the very next day. I was glad to see her art was good.

The summer passed.

Two weeks ago, I got an email from her, saying she was back in town and wanted to return to the sex parties. Cool!

I suggested we get together, and proposed we go check out the new Museum of Modern Art on opening day, as I had special tickets. It turned out she did too.

Later, we learned that the opening day was free to the public. So much for special access.

We decided to meet at an exhibition by Barbara Nitke at Art@Large gallery, get lunch, and see the museum--which we knew would be hellishly crowded. Nitke’s photos have to do with sadomasochism (SM). While not into SM herself, Nitke has an empathic insight into the lives of those who are. There is a strong sense of intimacy and care in her photographs.

Celia was late for our date, which was fine with me. We saw Nitke's work together. Celia says she knew many of the images, having seen Nitke lecture at the Eulenspeigel Society, a New York based organization for those into SM.

(I catalogued those details—Celia already knew Nitke and the Eulenspeigel Society?)

We lunched, and talked about out first encounter. It was her first sex party, she said, and her moment with Jane was her first encounter with a woman. She liked it, but she was taking downers at the time, which she regretted.

I referred to this as a pretty unusual second date. She agreed: first sex, then a lunch date. We were doing it backwards. She says she is surprised that she feels so shy.

She talked about her gaggle of girlfriends, and how she makes nude films of them, but can't imagine sex with them--though she really wants to be bisexual, as it's hip (it is?) and of course, there are more options for sex if you are bi.

She opines that the MoMA is going to be crazy crowded, and maybe we shouldn't go. This leaves her with two hours to kill before her yoga class . . . what can we do? Well, I suggest, we can go to my place and kiss. She looks at me like she can't believe I suggested this. I can't believe it myself--I am really getting bold.

"Okay," she says, "but I really am feeling shy about this. Is it too early to drink? Do you have any bourbon?"

"A girl after my own heart." I actually said that out loud.

Soon, we are at my place, on my couch, sipping bourbon. Soon, we are kissing. Fully clothed. For a long, sweet time.

Soon we are nude, in my bed, kissing. Touching. For a long, sweet time. She is so into gazing, touching, kissing, and I am melting, melting, melting. As the time passes, and her yoga class approaches, I think it will be wise not to start fucking. But I do go down on her. And she cums. And she cums again as I kiss her and hold her very close.

I should mention that she does intense yoga five times a week. And she is a semi-pro athlete. She has a strong, lean body. When she held me firmly, she knocked the breath out of me. Mind you, I was pretty breathless.

I tell her to go, it's time. She declines to leave. We fuck. Like all the foreplay, it's slow, and intense. At one point, I'm on top of her, holding myself up with my arms at full length. She is about to cum. She sits up, putting her arms around my shoulders. She lifts her ass from the bed. She is clinging to me, hanging from my body in air, pushing herself down on me. She cums. I can scarcely believe she made my body work that way.

We are back to kissing, touching . . . she discovered my sensitive nipples, and slowly tortured them. Exquisitely.

I am laying on top of her, tracing a finger along her nose, her lips, her cheeks. I take a breath. "You are really beautiful," I say. "You don't have to be. I would be nice to you anyway. But it helps that you are."

She looks down at me. "Are you bi?" she asks. I say I am. "I do well with the bi guys," she says. Why is that, you think? "Must be my physique," she says, flexing a bicep that would give pause to Charles Atlas.

She said she was hungry. I went to the kitchen and produced Spanish rice, steamed shrimp, and fresh calamari sauteed in garlic. We eat nude.

As we eat, we talk about the Nitke photos. She mentions liking one in which a man is fully bound to a flotation board, adrift in a pool. I say that there was such a sense of risk in that position. She says she likes the feeling of being bound.

I recall how she came when I was holding her, on top of her, as she pulled me closer to crush her.

"I can bind you," I offer. She produces rope and ankle bracelets from her bag, saying they were intended for a possible film shoot later that night. I dig up handcuffs and other stuff. She is soon strapped to my bed on all fours.

I torture her nipples. I tell her I am going to verbally abuse her. "Yes," she murmurs. I ask her why, with all that we've been doing, she has not sucked my cock? "Are you bad at it or something?" I ask. She opens her mouth, wide. I feed her my cock, and fuck her face hard. She can take it very well, so I commend her. Then I slap her for making me wait for that.

We had already established that she is an ass virgin, and so I take her to task for this. How can I let her fuck my friends if she can't even do anal? So I move around and give her a hard spanking. I lick her hole, and blow air in her. She moans. She can't help but fart. I spank her for this, and do it again. "This will burn, but only for a second," I warn. I take a sip of bourbon, and blow it up her ass. I plug it with my thumb, and then a butt plug.

I fuck her pussy.

"Can you take candle wax?," I ask. Never tried it, she mumbles. I drip wax on her back and ass for a very long time. She squirms until I tell her to be still. (Later she asked: was I making too much noise? I can try to be less responsive. Oh no, I say. You did very well.)

In time, I release her and take her to the shower. I wash her body, and flake off the wax. We go back to bed and it's tender again. She falls asleep. I read.

We woke up entangled, touching . . . her fingers are never still when they can be caressing. We spend the morning in bed. There was a joy in this, so palpable, for me at least, that I had to take care lest blurting out, "I am so in love with you."

I had to remind myself, I really don’t know Celia so well. Not yet.

I make her breakfast—bacon, eggs, and her first helping of grits. We were both very sated. We talk about how she just broke up with her boyfriend, and she had broken with her other two lovers in the last month. I say I am hers, when she wants me. Her eyes fix on mine. “That’s right,” she smiles.

My friend Todd calls. He reminds me that we are going to fuck this woman from Texas that night. I had offered to host, and said I would line up some others to join us. I had invited Thomas, that was easy, but I was so busy with Celia all weekend, I didn’t do much more.

I asked Celia if she wanted to do a group thing that night. She pondered it but declined. She was already well sexed. So was I, really.

Around two or three, I kissed goodbye to my Celia. I had a gang bang in a few hours. I would spend that time in the thrall of my Celia, picking up flecks of candle wax, and writing to my friend Dacia about her.

Abby Winters

Mandy

Fleshbot and Secrets! Conspiracies!

This week’s Sex Blog Roundup at Fleshbot tells all when it uncovers the secrets of sex bloggers. True! Unexpurgated! And entirely entre nous, y’all.

Those of you who enjoy stalking me will find me offering sympathy, receiving a love letter, and cooling my heels in the drunk tank.

“As for my ex, all I can say is that I loved him until I couldn't. I wish I could say more than that, but I can't. I hope I can be forgiven for that.” Eden shows up at my place feeling conflicted upon learning of the accidental death of the man who abused her. Not to draw comparisons, precisely, but I wish I had authored those sentences, Eden.

Wendy calls me a “frood” for forgetting my towel, earning her this week’s award for “Most Proper Use of Geek Vocabulary.” Bone up, Wendy, and you’re a shoo-in for the SATs at Hogwarts.

Jocasta finds herself breathless fucking another man and thinks of me. She goes on to attempt a flow chart of who has fucked whom in our gang. She might just as well hitchhike the galaxy.

Where’s Mark Lombardi when you need him? Our gang would’ve would have been a breeze to graph for the artist who connected the dots between then-Governor George W. Bush and Osama bin Laden prior to the artist’s death in two thousand. You know, before Al Gore or nine eleven. See how simple it was for Lombardi?



George W. Bush, Harken Energy and Jackson Stephens,
circa 1979-90, fifth version, 1999.

Here’s a detail.



Three degrees of money! That's even better than my own five degrees of sex from Elvis—and that’s via Ann-Margret. I'm very proud of that.

Lombardi's work benefits from spy glasses. It's mostly gibberish online, but you get the idea, right? Those who want to follow our gang may want to sharpen your pencils, break out the index cards and cancel plans for graduate school. Better you read Finnegan's Wake and take the easy A.

Those interested in misuses of power will appreciate Anna Smash being carded, considering the circumstances. This was my laugh-out-loud moment of the week.

Or perhaps this was my weekly LOL? Sinclair relates a night in lock up that, for the life of me, I just can’t remember. Thank goodness she was there to witness my get-out-of-jail-free blowjob. That’s what I get for being the wingman to a stud like Mister Sexsmith.

Or was this the one that ached my tickle bone? Lynsey decides that following my example may not be the best way to get laid, and calls for a Plan B that begins by shaking her sticks at nineteen eighty-four at the Pyramid—a place I may have last visited in the aforementioned year. I spent a night there with John Waters around that time; I was young and pretty, and both of us were going straight to hell at a fundraiser for a cum rag of the same name. This before I married, of course.

Moments from back in the day remind me of my Marcus, who sends a well-timed Valentine to my ass. Which he apparently owns.

Stay tuned to the Smut Turntable, where I continue to plug in the spins selected by Tilda. Her playlist was submitted right on time—really, the only thing you can’t beat this girl with is a deadline—but I’ve been too swamped this week to be an effective producer. I swear, my smut keyboards are as tetchy as a neglected cat.

I’ll make it all better, promise. After New Year’s, I’ll tell you what I’ve been up to. You’ll cream.

Thanks to all of you who offered to pitch in for this year’s end to eXmas. Ding, dong, henceforth my children will have two Christmases—sane and mom’s. Story to follow.

For now, since you asked, I’ve started an Amazon wish list for the children. It will develop as I glean info from the kids who have no idea they have so many friends. God bless us pervs, one and all.

One Christmas, Take Two.

HNT and Barbara Nitke

Rascal and Jefferson, 2007

This week my feet take a star turn in the Photo of the Week at the website of Barbara Nitke, photographer to the perverted. She set up a studio at Dark Odyssey in September and kept snapping as campers took turns before her lenses.

I was passing by, innocently making my way to the dungeon, when my new pal Rascal drew me into a photo shoot. I liked Rascal. He didn’t get the memo that I can’t be topped or that my nipples are a no-fly zone, so he simply followed his instincts and made earrings of my ankles. Don’t ask about the nipples. Ain’t he fierce?

Also featured are my new clam diggers, a handover from a girlfriend the memo that my ass is hottest in girl jeans.

Thanks, Barbara!

Abby Winters

Sue Ann

Am I Trustworthy?

"People have to show they can be trusted with little things if they want to be trusted with big ones."

Very good, Eddie.

Fleshbot and Here's Tilda

Beautiful Creature

This week’s Sex Blog Roundup at Fleshbot throws a little pixie dust in the direction of fantasies. Some of them may come true and some already have. Gee, just reading Aliza, I realized a fantasy I didn’t even know I had—namely, watching Aliza orchestrate an orgy. Phew!

Those of you who enjoy stalking me will find me getting my readers laid, watching my stars shake out, and thanked as my secrets are laid bare.

Lily takes good advantage of one lover’s good press to garner another good lover.

Bianca wakes to sex between us, after days of sharing.

Jocasta gets my angle and learns to ignore her mother’s advice.

Shockingly, Wendy is still making moves on my boyfriend. Back off, big girl!

Janie takes my dick out of her mouth long enough to thank me for putting my dick in her mouth. That’s nice, but . . . ahem? My dick?

Bridget is grateful too, giving me credit for many good things in her life. I read one, two, three more posts this week, in wonder as ever in our friendship and love.

Handsome wordsmith Sinclair conjures my first bumper sticker slogan. It may send us both to hell, but we’ll go down as millionaires.

Things get sticky when Lynsey leaves her glasses in place as she explores my nooks and crannies. And so I first learned on the Internet about a freckle the sun never made.

This weekend, we hand the Smut Turntable over to Tilda. Expect a steady groove from the woman who showed up for a sex date in a Joy Division t-shirt and a smile. You should’ve seen the smile when I handed the shirt back to her. I was sore for two days. I was impressed she could still walk.

HNT

Does this ass make my foot look fat?

Fleshbot and Desire

This week’s Sex Blog Roundup at Fleshbot takes a cup of cocoa, props up its feet on a soft ass, and relaxes with comfort sex—though occasionally of the comfort-right-now-dammit variety. Think Barry White on adrenaline.

Those of you who enjoy stalking me will find me looking good in a sweater, making small talk over lunch, and keeping everyone content at an orgy—well, almost everyone.

Lily and I enjoy introducing each other to our friends. She so enjoyed meeting my crush Anna Smash that she agreed to keep Anna’s sexy boyfriend cozy on a business trip to the city.

Wendy thanks me for keeping my clothes on, for a change.

Janie finds that she can put her lunch hour to productive use so long as she is disciplined.

What do you get when sex bloggers orgy? Why, an orgy of sex blogging! Four reported in from the most recent gathering of my sex parties.

Eden finds Boymeat and his single tail whip before taking me to a quiet corner in order to make one hell of a lot of noise. Later, she compiles a list of cherries she has yet to collect. You know, Eden, you might want to get to work on that—you aren’t getting any younger, dear.

Tilda warmly held my hands—inside her body. Repeatedly.

Orgies can be great fun. They can also leave you feeling insecure, as Jocasta found when her high came crashing down.

The elated Lynsey keeps the ink flying with new sexy stick figures. She’s at a loss for words when shit happens, she’s a fly on the wall overhearing the darnedest things, and she pulls out a dictionary to define a few sex terms new to her experience.

This weekend, the DJ booth at the Smut Turntable is manned by Desire, a young rocker, sex rebel and dumpster-diving chef from down D.C. way. I was eager to get her mind between the ‘phones, given that she’s a musician with a fine flair for smut. She's also one for getting her naked self painted, which goes over big around these parts.



Desire

She’s easy on the eyes, sure, but let’s see how she is on the ears.

Speaking of easy, I could use some of that. This has been some week.

I need a vacation.

Abby Winters

Eloise

HNT

I read a lot of sex blogs—heck, it’s my job—and there are certain features common to many that I find amusing. One is “Half-Naked Thursday” (or HNT), in which exhibitionists take the opportunity to show off some flesh.

I’ve never considered participating in that tradition. My life requires me to be guarded about my identity, and anyway, it’s probably more interesting that you don’t know what I look like when you imagine me having sex. I’m surely way hotter in your imagination.

But now and then, I think it’s a shame that I deny you my feet, because my feet are really all that and a bag of nail clippings. Look at those long prehensile toes, that abundant Hallux, that elegant Morton’s toe . . . how can I deny these to you?

If you would care to be photographed with such extraordinary feet, grab your pedicure kit and drop a line.

Training of O

Berlin

Holiday Plans

A few weeks before Halloween, I asked the kids if they wanted to trick or treat in my building or in their mother’s neighborhood in the suburbs. “You’re supposed to be with me that night,” I said. “But if you want to do Halloween at your mom’s, that’s fine by me if she doesn’t mind.”

“Mom hates Halloween,” Lillie said, using her fingers to push carrots onto her fork. “She turns off the lights and pretends she’s not home.”

“I think the candy is better there,” Jason said. “Plus we can go trick or treating with Jim and his dad.”

Collie put down his cup and grimaced “No way is the candy better there, Jason,” he argued. “Think about it. This building is huge. There is so much candy here.”

I picked up my plate and walked to the kitchen for more potatoes. “Well, you kids decide what you want to do and I’ll work it out with your mother.”

The debate raged on for several days before the kids realized they didn’t have to come to an agreement. They had two homes, and there was no rule that they had to be together at the same one. For the first time since the separation, the kids decided to spend a holiday apart from one another. Jason opted to be with his mother, Collie decided to be with me, and Lillie secured an invitation to be with her BFF, Mindy.

“I’m going to be a vampire,” Lillie informed me. “And Mindy’s going to be a pirate. And this is the last year we’re going to trick or treat, because next year, we’ll be fourth graders, and trick or treating will be babyish. We’ll just give out candy and say that babies are so cute. Don’t you think babies are so cute, Dad, dressed up like little pumpkins and ghosts and stuff?”

“Babies are very cute, big girl.” I kissed her head.

Jason planned to use the same costume he wore last year, a Scream mask and black cloak. At thirteen, he wanted a costume that looked like he didn’t care about his costume. Collie ultimately came to the conclusion that he was too old for Halloween, and he would sit it out.

“Are you sure? I asked. “Aren’t you going to regret not having candy?”

“It’s not like there won’t be candy,” he said. “I mean, come on, Jason and Lillie will have too much. I’ll sneak it when they aren’t looking.”

“It’s your call,” I shrugged.

On the afternoon of Halloween, Collie came home from school and announced that he had changed his mind. Some of his friends were trick or treating, so that meant it was still cool.

“It’s a little late to find a costume,” I said. “What will you wear?”

“I’ll wear the Frankenstein mask I wore last year, and a cape. It’s easy.”

That was easy. I keep Halloween costumes from year to year in a bag with make up, masks and such, in a closet with everything else I don’t need but can’t discard. Fibber McGee would feel at home with this closet.

However, as the witching hour approached, I dug into the closet to find that I couldn’t find the bag. “Collie?” I called. “Have you seen the Halloween bag?”

“No. Is it gone?”

“I can’t find it.” I opened a box of dried-out art supplies. “Honestly, I just don’t know what to do with myself,” I muttered.

I found a bag of broken cameras and had an idea. I gathered a few more things together.

“Okay, sweet man. Put on these shorts, this Hawaiian shirt and a baseball cap. You’re going to wear this camera, these sunglasses and shove this map in your pocket.”

Collie cocked his head. “What am I going as?”

I drew myself up and wriggled my fingers. “A tourist,” I creaked in my best Bela Lugosi.

“Ha! Awesome.”

“I only regret I don’t have a fanny pack.”

Collie curled his nose. “That’s too scary.”

He asked me to join him as we toured the building. We carried a list identifying which apartments had signed up to distribute candy.

“This is weird,” Collie said, hesitating at the first door.

“What’s weird?”

“This. Trick or treating. It’s weird. I’m glad no one can see me.”

He rang the bell, recited his line, and took away some Almond Joys. “I’m giving these to you, Dad. I know they’re the only candy you like.”

“Thanks, baby. Okay, let’s go to the next floor.”

We passed some other kids who are Collie’s age. A boy in a cape pointed his scythe at Collie. “That’s a great costume,” he nodded. “Everybody hates tourists.”

“I don’t see the Grim Reaper winning any popularity contests,” I replied.

“Let’s go in the other direction,” Collie whispered. “I don’t want people to see me. It’s humiliating.”

“It’s perfectly fine for an eleven year old to trick or treat,” I said.

“Humiliating.” He pushed the elevator button a few times, hoping to bring it faster.

I patted the shoulder of my middle child, knowing he is in a hurry to grow up, though he doesn’t really want to.

After he counted out his haul—sixty-seven pieces of candy, minus three Almond Joys—we went together to pick up his sister at Mindy’s house. Bridget drove, as we had plans to take Collie, Lillie and Mindy to see the musical Legally Blonde.

“I know the girls will like it,” Bridget said. “But what will Collie think? Is it too girly?”

“Na, he’ll be fine,” I said. “I think.”

Lillie came to the door at Mindy’s. I was shocked. “Oh my God, Lillie—you look so hot! You look like Stevie Nicks!”

“That’s what Mindy’s mom said,” she giggled. “Who’s Stevie Nicks?”

“A famous witch. God, look at you.”

Lillie smiled and stood erect, allowing herself to be looked over. She was in a black velvet skirt, a maroon top with a cinched bodice, black tights and boots. Her red hair fell past her shoulders.

“Your mom found that costume?” I marveled. “It’s just . . . wow.”

She giggled again. “I know, right?”

We returned to Bridget’s car and drove to Times Square. Bridget parked on the street, one block from the theater. A man in a Jaguar gave us a smile. It was an amazing parking space.

“I wish I had my camera,” I marveled.

“What? I just parked,” Bridget said, shrugging it off. “Big deal.”

“You are the luckiest sumbitch I know.”

The girls sat together in the theater, giggling about the Chihuahua they knew to expect on stage. Collie sat between Bridget and me. He looked bored.

“Are you ready to be wowed?” I nudged him. “Singing sororities? Sexy UPS man? Hair salons?”

He rolled his eyes. “Oh, brother.”

His eyes flashed as the curtain rose.

The next day, I was working at my computer as Collie played Halo Three in the next room. He slaughtered monsters singing “Omigod, You Guys!” at the top of his lungs.

Separate holidays may become the norm in our family. A few days later, Lillie asked about Thanksgiving.

“Dad, would it be okay if I spent Thanksgiving with Mom? She’s going to visit her friend Linda in . . . what’s it called?”

“Illinois?”

“Yeah, Illinois. And the boys don’t want to go. Can I go? Linda has a dog and a cat. Plus Terry is my age and one of my best friends. Can I go?”

“This is the first I’ve heard of this,” I said, disguising my annoyance. I have to accept that Lucy makes plans with the children without consulting me, and that I will first hear them from my eight-year-old daughter. Lillie was excited about visiting Linda and her daughter Terry. I was in a position to make that happen or to deny her something she now really wanted, all without any input from me. “Let me call your Mom, beloved.”

I called Lucy.

“Hello?”

“Hi Lucy, it’s Jefferson. So I hear you may be going to Illinois for Thanksgiving?”

“Yes, well, it’s not certain. I haven’t asked Linda yet, but would you mind of I took Lillie? The boys don’t want to go. Can they stay with you? Do you mind?”

“No, I don’t mind having the boys. It’s my Thanksgiving with the kids.”

“Okay, good. I’ll ask Linda. Okay, so now, can we split Christmas?”

“What do you mean?” I knew what she meant.

“I mean, can I have the kids this Christmas Eve, and you get them Christmas Day?”

I hate Lucy. I hate her above all for being so predictable.

As my lawyer drew up our divorce contract, she suggested that we alternate holidays.

“You always have the kids on Thursdays,” she noted. “Now, Thanksgiving is always on a Thursday. So you need to offer her Thanksgivings every other year. Can you do that? “

“I hadn’t thought of that,” I said. “Of course, that’s fair.”

“Good.” She scribbled on her legal pad. “Now, Labor Day, Memorial Day, secular three day weekends, you should alternate those as well. And you’ll gain time with the kids, as she will otherwise have them on Mondays.”

“Okay, fine.”

“Is she observant?”

“You mean, Jewish? Well, her family is ethnically Jewish, but she’s a die-hard atheist.”

“All right, so the High Holy Days aren’t an issue. Easter . . .”

“We don’t really celebrate Easter.”

She lowered her glasses. “What if you remarry someone who does?”

I laughed. “I’m not remarrying.”

She removed her glasses. “You don’t know that.”

I crossed my legs. “Oh, I’m very sure of that.” I crossed my arms.

She looked at me for a moment. “Fine.” She returned her glasses to their perch. “I’ll leave out Easter and the High Holy Days, but note that this can be renegotiated pending future developments. After all, you might marry a Jew.”

“I’m not remarrying,” I repeated.

“Fine. Now, Christmas. You are not really a practicing Christian.”

“No, not really.”

“So I suggest you alternate Christmases.”

“What?” I unfolded my legs. “I wouldn’t have my children on Christmas?”

“Is that a problem?”

“Well, yes, that’s a serious problem. How can I not be with my kids on Christmas? That’s crazy. Anyway, it’s not an issue. We always spend Christmas with Lucy’s family. That’s not changing.”

“Well, you know, Jefferson, that could change.”

“Why? I’m divorcing my wife, not her family. They are my family too.”

She took off her glasses. “And what, you’re going to bring your new wife to Christmas with her family?”

I sighed. “I’m not remarrying. Look, this is about the kids. They need stability, and tradition helps that. Right? So we’ll do Christmas as we’ve always done Christmas. Lucy would agree to that.”

She looked at me. She replaced her glasses. “Let me do this. I will say that you have the kids on Christmas Eve, and then she gets them on noon Christmas Day. The next year, you alternate. And so on. That’s what the agreement will say, but what you decide to actually do is between you and Lucy. How’s that?”

I crossed my arms. “It’s fine. I mean, we’ll do what we do.”

I stood looking out the window with the phone to my ear.

“Jefferson?”

“Yeah, Lucy?”

“So what about Christmas?”

“So, let me get this straight. You’ll have them Christmas Eve, and bring them back to me Christmas Day? And then next year, we switch?”

“Yes, just like in the divorce says. You’re so lucky you don’t have to be with my family for Christmas! I wish I could get out of it. You’re so lucky.”

She was pitching this to me as if she was doing me a favor. Like she didn’t know me. Like I was . . . like I didn’t . . .

“Can I get back to you on this?” I couldn’t say more.

“Yes, yes, of course. Thanks!” She hung up.

I hung up. I already knew the answer.

Just after college, I met Lucy. For a few Christmases, she went to visit her family and I went to mine.

After we moved in together, I stopped going home for the holidays and joined Lucy’s family for Christmas. Lucy’s mother came to make plans with me, as Lucy avoided the holidays. We made gift lists and plotted menus. After the children were born, we were Santas. Lucy was put out by all that.

I kept up the traditions.

Lucy kicked me out of her family. Just now, just like that. She destroyed our family four years ago and now, she has destroyed Christmas.

What else can I say to her request? Of course, I’ll concede. I wonder how I’ll tell the kids, but I'm sure she will first, abruptly, like it doesn’t matter.

This year, for the first time in my life, I’ll spend Christmas Eve without family.

I can’t . . . I can’t even . . . I never saw this coming.

I hate Lucy. I hate it, but God, I hate the mother of my children.

I’ll wake up without my children on Christmas.

I never saw this coming.