Belle gets to nap a little longer.
When last we heard from Jen, she had some rules to obey. At my direction, she was to be denied hard candy on Tuesday. She was to eat lots of hard candy on Wednesday. And she was to submit a report to me by close of business on Thursday.
You know why if you read Hard Candy Haiku.
At 4:47 on Thursday, Jen’s report was dropped over my transom. It reads as follows:
Jefferson: Below is my account of my two days of hard
candy. This was definitely an interesting and eye
opening experience. I believe that I learned a lot
about myself in the last two days.
Thank you very much. I hope you are pleased with what
I did.
Tuesday, May 10
Today I begin gathering hard candy.
10:30 AM – Visit receptionist desk in my office. Find
that candy dish has been recently filled. Take a
handful of peppermints and place in pocket. Receive
dirty look from receptionist. Inform receptionist “I
love me some hard candy!” Receptionist looks
irritated and puzzled.
12:05 PM – Visit local pharmacy. Ask clerk, “could
you please tell me where I would find the hard candy
section?” Directed to appropriate aisle. Tell clerk
“I just can’t get enough hard candy lately”. No
reaction whatsoever from clerk. Purchase bag of
butterscotch candies.
1:30 PM – Visit gas station/convenience store to
purchase gas. Ask clerk “where are the hard candies?”
– despite already knowing where the hard candies are
located. Pick up bag of starlight mints. See
co-worker in checkout line and say “I love me some
hard candy!” while showing her my bag of starlight
peppermints. She gives me a strange look, but makes
no comment.
3:00 PM – Visit candy dish at receptionist desk again.
Take three more mints. Receptionist says
“contributions are always welcome to keep the candy
dish filled” (I work for the government – hence the
receptionist buys the mints for the candy dish – not
the company)
6:00 PM – Find bag of Werthers Original candies left
over from Christmas. Add them to my collection. Tell
girlfriend “You know what I have been craving lately?
- Hard candy – peppermints, butterscotch, etc” She
tells me that she had a peppermint just last night at
the local bar. (There is a candy dish at the
bouncer’s stand in the doorway). I ask her if she
brought me one. She says no.
8:10 PM Waiting in line to enter Kasabian concert at
“The Loft” with girlfriend. Make idle chat and
mention again that I have really been craving hard
candy a lot lately. I tell her “I love me some hard
candy”.
Day 1 mission accomplished. I have gathered a stash
of hard candy for tomorrow. However, I do not eat
even one piece of hard candy. I have made a lot of
people wonder if I am losing my mind. Office smelled
like peppermint all day. By the end of the day I
truly am craving hard candy.
Wednesday May 11
Today is my day to eat hard candy. All day. Since
Jefferson did not tell me what other foods I was to
consume today, and since I want to exceed his
expectations – rather than simply meet them – I decide
that I will eat ONLY hard candy today – from midnight
Tuesday night to midnight Wednesday night. Well, that
plus water, diet soda, my morning coffee – and maybe a
few beers after work.
6:30 AM – Alarm goes off. I get out of bed and head
downstairs to let the dogs out. But before I do that
– and before I pee, brush my teeth or take a shower I
eat my first piece of hard candy – a starlight mint.
While I am showering and getting dressed, I have two
more.
8:30 AM – Driving to work I have two butterscotch
candies.
9:00 AM – Place dish of starlight mints on my desk.
Offer them to anyone who comes near my cubicle. Tell
everyone that I just can’t get enough hard candy
lately. My co-workers are surely beginning to think
that I have lost my mind.
10:30 AM – Morning coffee – plus a starlight mint.
Have also had two Werthers candies since arriving at
work. Took pile of candy to meeting earlier and
offered candy to everyone. I remark “I love me some
hard candy!”. Nobody takes me up on the candy, but
several people give me strange looks. I eat three
candies during the two hour meeting. Could have had
more – but at this point the thought of peppermint,
butterscotch and (very stale) Werthers candies are
making me slightly nauseous. Plus – I think I have
had too much sugar today.
1:30 PM – At home for “lunch”. Ate two starlight
mints on the way home. Today, lunch is – you guessed
it – more hard candy. I find a box of sugar free
lemon drops in the kitchen. This is good for two
reasons – First, I can’t eat one more peppermint,
butterscotch or Werthers candy – and I do not need any
more sugar. Consume two lemon drops for lunch and
compose an email to Jefferson giving him a quick
update. Basically, that I am hungry, on sugar
overload and sick of hard candy. But also that I have
been in a constant state of arousal all day. When I
feel hungry or can’t stand the thought of another hard
candy – IT ACTUALLY IS A TURN ON FOR ME. There is
absolutely nothing sexual about what I am doing today.
Yet the thought of doing what Jefferson has told me
to do is very exciting – even though I have never met
him - or even talked to him on the phone. I begin to
realize that I am a total freak – (not that there’s
anything wrong with that).
2:30 PM – Back at the office. Ate two more lemon
drops on the way back to work. Now sick of lemon
drops too. And very hungry. Not surprisingly, hard
candy is not very filling.
5:30 PM – Leaving work. Ate three more hard candies
after returning to the office. Revert back to
Werthers candies after becoming sick of lemon drops.
6:00 PM – Home from work. Ate no hard candies on way
home from work. Just couldn’t do it.
7:00 PM – Dinner and drinks with friends. Elect to
drink beer instead of eating dinner. (This is not
unusual for me). Also consume two mints from the
candy dish at the restaurant. I have placed a pile
of them on our table. Tell friends that “I just can’t
seem to get enough hard candy lately”. Do not have as
many mints as I intend to – as mints do not go well
with beer.
11:00 PM – Home and going to bed. Had no mints on
trip home. However, I did chew cinnamon gum. Plan to
have big breakfast tomorrow morning. And not to
consume any hard candy.
Final Analysis:
- Consumed 20 hard candies - and one piece of
cinnamon gum. Thought it would be a lot more than
that, but those little buggers take a long time to
eat! Plus, they don’t go well with beer.
- My co-workers are probably convinced that I have
become unhinged.
Jen, I am very impressed. You have indeed exceeded my expectations.
I have shared your report with Madeline, who originally inspired me to put hard candy into your mouth. She writes:
While I am appreciative of Jen's accounts of the amassing and subsequent consuming of hard candy, I am a bit disappointed by one thing.
I want to know what it is like for her to be in a "constant state of arousal:" is her stomach flipping? Is her heart bursting? Are her nipples hard?
Or is she like me and will find any excuse to cross her legs and press into her throbbing clit without looking obvious? Grinding her pussy into the driver's seat on the way to work? Until she gets to the restroom and lets loose with the left hand . . . while visions of Starlight Mints dance in her head?
Did she try tongue calesthenics with two or three hard candies at once? Manipulating and flipping them? shoving them over to one side of her mouth and then the other? Did she think about sucking cock while she sucked hard candy?
You impress me, but you disappoint Madeline. I can not have Madeline disappointed.
In the comments below, I want you to rectify this problem you have created.
Please do so promptly, as I want this project completed and recounted in your blog this weekend.
Meanwhile, I’ll check in on Belle.
sex
sexblogs
discipline
hard candy
Friday, May 13, 2005
Wednesday, May 11, 2005
Program Notes
A good many readers have recently joined this blog, so let me take a moment to say welcome—welcome!—and to offer some pointers on keeping up with blogs related to this one.
Understanding the connections between these blogs may be helped with a little history of their genesis.
In the beginning, Dacia created her blog. And it was good.
In its earliest days, she kept talking about the blog—oh my blog, my wonderful blog, how I love my blog.
Our friend Jane liked it so much, she started her own. And then she got into the act, talking all about her blog.
I had never read a blog. I nodded politely and promised to read theirs someday.
One day, I wrote Dacia about a particularly great weekend of sex. She told me it was blogworthy, and suggested I start a blog of my own. She held my hand as I started this blog.
My note to her was adapted to become my first post.
So there are overlaps between these three blogs—Jane, Dacia, Jefferson. Dacia is a regular at my gatherings, and posts faster than I do, so you can often read her accounts first.
I sometimes wind up in the blogs of my friends Marla (aka Jo) and Viviane. You may recall that Marla teaches me about rough sex and shares my fondness for performing live sex shows. Viviane notarized my signature on my divorce, after which we drank bourbon and had splendid sex.
My beloved jailbait girlfriend Shelby has been blogging since the dawn of time. She has recently started a blog related to our relationship. She’s also a fast-writing regular, so you will find accounts of the gatherings there as well.
She shares me with her best friends, Theresa and Meg, so I often wind up in their arms and thence to their sex blogs.
My online girlfriend Madeline has a blog that also deals with the life of a parent and pervert. At this moment, she is blogging about the weekend she spent with our shared boyfriend Marcus.
Confused? Just wait.
Madeline’s friend Colton liked our blogs so much, he started his own. I’ve never met Colton, but he spends a lot of time writing about how much he wants me to suck his cock, so I guess he is related.
Shelby’s friend Meg likes Madeline’s friend Colton’s blog so much, she linked him and he linked her.
Marla, who is Jo, is also a favorite of Colton, and Marla, who is Jo, also likes Meg. Mitzi also likes Meg, but Mitzi doesn’t blog, so there’s no extra reading there.
Viviane flirts with Marcus on Madeline’s blog, while Marcus flirts with Colton on Colton’s blog, though Colton is straight—I mean, despite his fascination with the thought of me sucking his cock.
Colton, I mean, not Marcus. I do suck Marcus’s cock.
And then there’s Todd, who doesn’t have a blog, but appears in just about everyone’s, because, well, he’s been in just about everyone.
Anytime this becomes confusing, take a peek at the Cast of Characters at the top of my blogroll. There you will find mini-bios and links to those people with blogs of their own.
I hope this clears up things.
By the way, for those who keep track of such things, the next post will be my 200th since beginning this blog in November.
That’s a lot of writing—and a lot of sex!
Speaking of numbers and sex, let’s wake up Belle, shall we?
sex
sexblogs
Understanding the connections between these blogs may be helped with a little history of their genesis.
In the beginning, Dacia created her blog. And it was good.
In its earliest days, she kept talking about the blog—oh my blog, my wonderful blog, how I love my blog.
Our friend Jane liked it so much, she started her own. And then she got into the act, talking all about her blog.
I had never read a blog. I nodded politely and promised to read theirs someday.
One day, I wrote Dacia about a particularly great weekend of sex. She told me it was blogworthy, and suggested I start a blog of my own. She held my hand as I started this blog.
My note to her was adapted to become my first post.
So there are overlaps between these three blogs—Jane, Dacia, Jefferson. Dacia is a regular at my gatherings, and posts faster than I do, so you can often read her accounts first.
I sometimes wind up in the blogs of my friends Marla (aka Jo) and Viviane. You may recall that Marla teaches me about rough sex and shares my fondness for performing live sex shows. Viviane notarized my signature on my divorce, after which we drank bourbon and had splendid sex.
My beloved jailbait girlfriend Shelby has been blogging since the dawn of time. She has recently started a blog related to our relationship. She’s also a fast-writing regular, so you will find accounts of the gatherings there as well.
She shares me with her best friends, Theresa and Meg, so I often wind up in their arms and thence to their sex blogs.
My online girlfriend Madeline has a blog that also deals with the life of a parent and pervert. At this moment, she is blogging about the weekend she spent with our shared boyfriend Marcus.
Confused? Just wait.
Madeline’s friend Colton liked our blogs so much, he started his own. I’ve never met Colton, but he spends a lot of time writing about how much he wants me to suck his cock, so I guess he is related.
Shelby’s friend Meg likes Madeline’s friend Colton’s blog so much, she linked him and he linked her.
Marla, who is Jo, is also a favorite of Colton, and Marla, who is Jo, also likes Meg. Mitzi also likes Meg, but Mitzi doesn’t blog, so there’s no extra reading there.
Viviane flirts with Marcus on Madeline’s blog, while Marcus flirts with Colton on Colton’s blog, though Colton is straight—I mean, despite his fascination with the thought of me sucking his cock.
Colton, I mean, not Marcus. I do suck Marcus’s cock.
And then there’s Todd, who doesn’t have a blog, but appears in just about everyone’s, because, well, he’s been in just about everyone.
Anytime this becomes confusing, take a peek at the Cast of Characters at the top of my blogroll. There you will find mini-bios and links to those people with blogs of their own.
I hope this clears up things.
By the way, for those who keep track of such things, the next post will be my 200th since beginning this blog in November.
That’s a lot of writing—and a lot of sex!
Speaking of numbers and sex, let’s wake up Belle, shall we?
sex
sexblogs
Sunday, May 08, 2005
Nine
Around noon on Saturday, there was a light rap at my door.
“You don’t have to knock down my door, you know.”
“Sorry.” Belle smiled hello. She came in and set down her bag.
I kissed her. She stood, kissing me back. Wet, open and warm.
For the next forty-eight hours, I was responsible for keeping her kisser happy.
I wasn’t worried. We had planned well.
There were a few kinks in the plan. Top of the list: Belle was tuckered after a late night and an early flight—not an auspicious beginning for a weekend of sexing it up.
“How do you feel? Do you want to rest now, or should I offer coffee?”
“Coffee would be great,” she said, sitting at my table. “I can rest later.”
It was so Southern of her to sit at the table. Other folks would sit on the couch and rest their cups on the coffee table. Our people sit at a table, leaning on elbows over coffee when chewing the fat.
She poured a healthy stream of sugar into her coffee.
Yes sir, she’s a cracker, all right.
Belle is an easy conversationalist. We had a pleasant back and forth over our cups.
She was a little nervous about her weekend, she confessed, but as we talked, she was increasingly at ease.
It’s one of those things, we discussed. Sexual adventure seems so extraordinary and unusual when you fantasize about it, but when you are in the midst of it, it is surprising that what happens can be so normal. One breath after the next.
“At any rate,” she said, taking a sip. “I am in good hands.”
“Yes, you soon will be,” I replied. “You know, I was glad when you found your local talent. But when he became your eighth man, I saw the window closing on my opportunity to be among the select few in your single digits.”
“Looks like you are squeaking in at number nine,” she laughed.
“Number nine . . . number nine . . . number nine,” I geeked, in my best Liverpool accent. “So let’s log that number, shall we?”
“By all means.” She stood.
I prepared two glasses of water and led her to my bedroom.
She surveyed my room, which looked as it does when I am not having sex parties, like the last time she had been there. No candles, muted porn or the sounds of sex and music spilling from the other rooms.
Just her and me, and a bed with a crisp white duvet and freshly laundered sheets.
“So how do we do this?” she said, flapping an arm.
“You kiss me,” I said, stepping closer and kissing her. “And then we lose the clothes.”
“Gotcha.”
We chatted as we undressed. I nearly halted her at her panties. Horizontal candy-colored stripes, in a hot pants style, so perfect for her frame.
On a longer date, I would want a nice long time with her in panties. To touch them, to finger the elastic, to lick the cotton wet. To wish them away.
I daydreamed of her in a swimsuit. All day, on a beach, admiring those hot pants, those hips and long legs . . .
But for now, on our schedule, nudity would have to suffice.
I stripped and lay on the bed. She was nude, climbing on hands and knees across the bed, climbing over my body, her lips making a beeline for mine.
Her kiss landed on me, exploding neurons, kicking off power chords.
I took her kiss and gave back into it. She was there to volley it back to me.
“I like kissing,” she smiled. “You too, huh?”
“Shut up and kiss me.” My hands were on her cheeks, mussing her hair.
Forget the time to worship her panties.
I wanted to date her in high school.
I wanted to make out behind the bleachers. I wanted to linger months at first base wondering if we would ever make it to second.
“Would you like me to go down on you?” she asked.
“Yes please.”
As her mouth ventured south on my body, I took note. Among my responsibilities for this weekend was to offer pointers on the improvement of her cocksucking.
Apparently, the local talent has complained that her teeth get involved when she blows him. And her gag reflex has thus far prevented her from a accomplishing a successful deep throat.
Of course, she said, his cock is “ginormous” and he is not very patient.
She took me into her mouth. I observed, thinking patient thoughts, trying not to have too large a dick.
She had enthusiasm. No problem with teeth . . . it was a smashing good blowjob.
I would suggest more eye contact.
And work on going deeper. She did tend to give head, as we say, “like a girl,” meaning that she held the base of my cock in her hands. This allows a nice handjob motion, but it’s also a ploy—the hand prevents the mouth from going lower.
She came up for air. “Pretty good?”
“Pretty great. Very nice blowjob, Belle.”
“How do I go deeper, though?”
“Well, it helps to relax, of course. And experience with the guy matters for that. But sometimes positions help. Let’s try something.” I took her hand from my cock, pushed back and stood next to the bed.
“Now, lay back so that you head is over the edge of the bed.” She turned her body and scooted over.
“Like this?” She looked at me.
“Yes. Now feel this as I feed you my cock.”
I gave my cock to her inverted mouth, slowly, then deeper. Much deeper than before.
She relaxed into a bit. I fucked her throat.
“See?”
“Yes, but I can’t do it for long. It’s hard to breath.”
“Practice this with the local talent, if it’s comfortable.”
“I will. Can you eat me now?”
“Be glad to.”
She twisted around and back into the pillows. “This bed is fucking comfortable!”
“Isn’t it though?” I caressed her legs as they opened.
Belle keeps a closely cropped pubic region, blonde and pink. Our hairs are the same honey color.
I licked the sap of her wet cunt, savoring how much she gave me. I could content myself face down in her pussy for the duration of high school and well into college.
I slipped in a finger as I sucked her clit. She was tighter than a pensioner’s wallet.
“That’s so nice, but you know, you’re going to have to fuck me real soon.”
Belle likes her oral sex just fine, I learned, but she sees it primarily as a prelude to the overture. And this girl likes her trumpets and kettle drums kicking out loud. Not much time for the trill of flutes.
I reluctantly retracted my eager tongue from her well, and reached for a condom.
I leaned back on my heels to roll it on my cock. “Now, you have to tell me what works. I want to know your body, and I need a crash course.”
“Hold me close, you’ll see.”
I entered her, and pressed down, holding her body close to mine.
“You are, uh, mighty tight.”
“So I hear. Now, stay inside real close and hold me.”
I did.
I fucked her deep, in short thrusts, pushing against her clit. She clenched my shoulders as she came.
“Oh yes,” she panted. “You are going to know my body just fine.”
I repeated what we had done, and she came again. She had handed me the key to her orgasm.
I wanted more. I was very satisfied to keep pleasuring her.
At one point she asked, “What do I need to do to make you cum?”
I smiled. “I have no intention of cumming. I am fucking you all day.”
“In that case, I may need to take that nap now.”
“Go ahead.”
“Yeah, but we may need to stop fucking for that to happen.”
“Ya think?”
“I think fucking you will keep me awake, yes.”
“Even if I’m quiet as a church mouse?”
“Even if.”
I pulled out and kissed her, caressing her face.
“See, that’s going to make me want to fuck, not sleep.”
“Oh, right.” I stood and closed the blinds, darkening the bedroom. I returned and kissed her forehead.
“Enjoy your rest,” I whispered.
“You have about an hour before clocking number ten.”
sex
sexblogs
panties
kissing
“You don’t have to knock down my door, you know.”
“Sorry.” Belle smiled hello. She came in and set down her bag.
I kissed her. She stood, kissing me back. Wet, open and warm.
For the next forty-eight hours, I was responsible for keeping her kisser happy.
I wasn’t worried. We had planned well.
There were a few kinks in the plan. Top of the list: Belle was tuckered after a late night and an early flight—not an auspicious beginning for a weekend of sexing it up.
“How do you feel? Do you want to rest now, or should I offer coffee?”
“Coffee would be great,” she said, sitting at my table. “I can rest later.”
It was so Southern of her to sit at the table. Other folks would sit on the couch and rest their cups on the coffee table. Our people sit at a table, leaning on elbows over coffee when chewing the fat.
She poured a healthy stream of sugar into her coffee.
Yes sir, she’s a cracker, all right.
Belle is an easy conversationalist. We had a pleasant back and forth over our cups.
She was a little nervous about her weekend, she confessed, but as we talked, she was increasingly at ease.
It’s one of those things, we discussed. Sexual adventure seems so extraordinary and unusual when you fantasize about it, but when you are in the midst of it, it is surprising that what happens can be so normal. One breath after the next.
“At any rate,” she said, taking a sip. “I am in good hands.”
“Yes, you soon will be,” I replied. “You know, I was glad when you found your local talent. But when he became your eighth man, I saw the window closing on my opportunity to be among the select few in your single digits.”
“Looks like you are squeaking in at number nine,” she laughed.
“Number nine . . . number nine . . . number nine,” I geeked, in my best Liverpool accent. “So let’s log that number, shall we?”
“By all means.” She stood.
I prepared two glasses of water and led her to my bedroom.
She surveyed my room, which looked as it does when I am not having sex parties, like the last time she had been there. No candles, muted porn or the sounds of sex and music spilling from the other rooms.
Just her and me, and a bed with a crisp white duvet and freshly laundered sheets.
“So how do we do this?” she said, flapping an arm.
“You kiss me,” I said, stepping closer and kissing her. “And then we lose the clothes.”
“Gotcha.”
We chatted as we undressed. I nearly halted her at her panties. Horizontal candy-colored stripes, in a hot pants style, so perfect for her frame.
On a longer date, I would want a nice long time with her in panties. To touch them, to finger the elastic, to lick the cotton wet. To wish them away.
I daydreamed of her in a swimsuit. All day, on a beach, admiring those hot pants, those hips and long legs . . .
But for now, on our schedule, nudity would have to suffice.
I stripped and lay on the bed. She was nude, climbing on hands and knees across the bed, climbing over my body, her lips making a beeline for mine.
Her kiss landed on me, exploding neurons, kicking off power chords.
I took her kiss and gave back into it. She was there to volley it back to me.
“I like kissing,” she smiled. “You too, huh?”
“Shut up and kiss me.” My hands were on her cheeks, mussing her hair.
Forget the time to worship her panties.
I wanted to date her in high school.
I wanted to make out behind the bleachers. I wanted to linger months at first base wondering if we would ever make it to second.
“Would you like me to go down on you?” she asked.
“Yes please.”
As her mouth ventured south on my body, I took note. Among my responsibilities for this weekend was to offer pointers on the improvement of her cocksucking.
Apparently, the local talent has complained that her teeth get involved when she blows him. And her gag reflex has thus far prevented her from a accomplishing a successful deep throat.
Of course, she said, his cock is “ginormous” and he is not very patient.
She took me into her mouth. I observed, thinking patient thoughts, trying not to have too large a dick.
She had enthusiasm. No problem with teeth . . . it was a smashing good blowjob.
I would suggest more eye contact.
And work on going deeper. She did tend to give head, as we say, “like a girl,” meaning that she held the base of my cock in her hands. This allows a nice handjob motion, but it’s also a ploy—the hand prevents the mouth from going lower.
She came up for air. “Pretty good?”
“Pretty great. Very nice blowjob, Belle.”
“How do I go deeper, though?”
“Well, it helps to relax, of course. And experience with the guy matters for that. But sometimes positions help. Let’s try something.” I took her hand from my cock, pushed back and stood next to the bed.
“Now, lay back so that you head is over the edge of the bed.” She turned her body and scooted over.
“Like this?” She looked at me.
“Yes. Now feel this as I feed you my cock.”
I gave my cock to her inverted mouth, slowly, then deeper. Much deeper than before.
She relaxed into a bit. I fucked her throat.
“See?”
“Yes, but I can’t do it for long. It’s hard to breath.”
“Practice this with the local talent, if it’s comfortable.”
“I will. Can you eat me now?”
“Be glad to.”
She twisted around and back into the pillows. “This bed is fucking comfortable!”
“Isn’t it though?” I caressed her legs as they opened.
Belle keeps a closely cropped pubic region, blonde and pink. Our hairs are the same honey color.
I licked the sap of her wet cunt, savoring how much she gave me. I could content myself face down in her pussy for the duration of high school and well into college.
I slipped in a finger as I sucked her clit. She was tighter than a pensioner’s wallet.
“That’s so nice, but you know, you’re going to have to fuck me real soon.”
Belle likes her oral sex just fine, I learned, but she sees it primarily as a prelude to the overture. And this girl likes her trumpets and kettle drums kicking out loud. Not much time for the trill of flutes.
I reluctantly retracted my eager tongue from her well, and reached for a condom.
I leaned back on my heels to roll it on my cock. “Now, you have to tell me what works. I want to know your body, and I need a crash course.”
“Hold me close, you’ll see.”
I entered her, and pressed down, holding her body close to mine.
“You are, uh, mighty tight.”
“So I hear. Now, stay inside real close and hold me.”
I did.
I fucked her deep, in short thrusts, pushing against her clit. She clenched my shoulders as she came.
“Oh yes,” she panted. “You are going to know my body just fine.”
I repeated what we had done, and she came again. She had handed me the key to her orgasm.
I wanted more. I was very satisfied to keep pleasuring her.
At one point she asked, “What do I need to do to make you cum?”
I smiled. “I have no intention of cumming. I am fucking you all day.”
“In that case, I may need to take that nap now.”
“Go ahead.”
“Yeah, but we may need to stop fucking for that to happen.”
“Ya think?”
“I think fucking you will keep me awake, yes.”
“Even if I’m quiet as a church mouse?”
“Even if.”
I pulled out and kissed her, caressing her face.
“See, that’s going to make me want to fuck, not sleep.”
“Oh, right.” I stood and closed the blinds, darkening the bedroom. I returned and kissed her forehead.
“Enjoy your rest,” I whispered.
“You have about an hour before clocking number ten.”
sex
sexblogs
panties
kissing
Saturday, May 07, 2005
Package Tour
Two months ago, Dacia brought her friend Belle to one of our gatherings.
Belle and Dacia had been classmates in college before Belle transferred to a university in the Deep South. They had reconnected when Belle happened across Dacia’s blog.
This, in turn, led Belle to my own blog. A few clicks of her mouse, and Belle had learned a lot about her pal Dacia.
Belle was going to be in New York on business, so she asked to accompany Dacia to our sex party.
You see, she needed some sex. It had been a while.
Belle’s marriage had ended when her husband decided that he would prefer to trade in his gender to live as a woman.
As Belle lent her support to her spouse’s transformation from hubby Patrick to best friend Patricia, she discovered that she had left her own libido in limbo.
By the time she showed up at my door, Belle was fourteen months distant from her most recent shagging. A long time in the sexual life of a twenty six year old coming out of a monogamous marriage.
That night, Jake put an end to her fast. In doing so, he became the seventh man she had ever fucked.
We all kept in touch with Belle after she returned to the South. We celebrated when she found some worthy local talent, bumping her pussy’s odometer to eight.
Still, our sex buffet seared at her memory, even as frequent flyer miles burned in her pocket.
One day she asked: if she came back to New York, could I arrange a sex itinerary for her?
What do you have in mind? I asked.
She wanted to up her numbers with some fine quality sex.
She wanted to see Jake again, and to get her hands on Todd, who she met at the party but neglected to fuck. It was to be assumed she would sleep with me. Maybe I could add a few more boys to that mix?
You want a gang bang? I asked.
Oh no. More like a sequence of dates. A parade of men.
We crunched numbers and decided to aim for five men in two days.
Any flavors appeal to you? I asked.
I like geeky white boys. And sorry, girls don’t do it for me.
I had my charge.
Belle is a young woman with a sharp mind. She’s pale and thin, with short strawberry blonde hair, long limbs and large breasts.
She’s geek through and through, with a stripper’s physique.
I only wish this task were harder, I complained.
I activated the sex crew.
sex
sexblogs
group sex
Belle and Dacia had been classmates in college before Belle transferred to a university in the Deep South. They had reconnected when Belle happened across Dacia’s blog.
This, in turn, led Belle to my own blog. A few clicks of her mouse, and Belle had learned a lot about her pal Dacia.
Belle was going to be in New York on business, so she asked to accompany Dacia to our sex party.
You see, she needed some sex. It had been a while.
Belle’s marriage had ended when her husband decided that he would prefer to trade in his gender to live as a woman.
As Belle lent her support to her spouse’s transformation from hubby Patrick to best friend Patricia, she discovered that she had left her own libido in limbo.
By the time she showed up at my door, Belle was fourteen months distant from her most recent shagging. A long time in the sexual life of a twenty six year old coming out of a monogamous marriage.
That night, Jake put an end to her fast. In doing so, he became the seventh man she had ever fucked.
We all kept in touch with Belle after she returned to the South. We celebrated when she found some worthy local talent, bumping her pussy’s odometer to eight.
Still, our sex buffet seared at her memory, even as frequent flyer miles burned in her pocket.
One day she asked: if she came back to New York, could I arrange a sex itinerary for her?
What do you have in mind? I asked.
She wanted to up her numbers with some fine quality sex.
She wanted to see Jake again, and to get her hands on Todd, who she met at the party but neglected to fuck. It was to be assumed she would sleep with me. Maybe I could add a few more boys to that mix?
You want a gang bang? I asked.
Oh no. More like a sequence of dates. A parade of men.
We crunched numbers and decided to aim for five men in two days.
Any flavors appeal to you? I asked.
I like geeky white boys. And sorry, girls don’t do it for me.
I had my charge.
Belle is a young woman with a sharp mind. She’s pale and thin, with short strawberry blonde hair, long limbs and large breasts.
She’s geek through and through, with a stripper’s physique.
I only wish this task were harder, I complained.
I activated the sex crew.
sex
sexblogs
group sex
Friday, May 06, 2005
Hard Candy Haiku
In the comments to the posting Rules, J hinted that she might enjoy having a rule imposed on her.
I told her she could earn a rule by writing a haiku designed to make me hot, based on themes within my blog.
This afternoon around one, she submitted the following haiku:
Brutal yet thoughtful
Boyish look; a master's mind
I long to please him
I liked this. She said it was about me, which was very sweet and an added bonus.
But was it hot enough?
I thought she could do better. I suggested she try again, and submit another by three.
Within a half hour, this was in my inbox:
My mouth. Your cock-Hard
Tasting, Licking, Sucking you
Then: white - spilling down my throat
Okay, now that is hot. And she did a good job of finding a blog theme—I do like blowjobs!
But . . . it seems too concrete for a haiku. It lacked poetry.
I told J she had one hour and fifteen minutes remaining to try again.
I soon had this missive:
I was bad, you said
You slap me. Hard. Then again.
I cry - yet crave more
Bingo. It’s hot, it’s haiku, and it responds to a blog theme.
J has earned a rule.
We have never met, but we agree it might be nice to meet.
I also know that she is striving to give better blowjobs.
So we need a rule that is about desire (as we would like to meet) and gratification (as perhaps we will). All the better if the rule is centered on her mouth.
J, on Tuesday of next week, you will crave hard candies, such as peppermint and butterscotch. You will say to people, “Wow, I could really go for a hard candy.”
If you are offered any, you will put it in your pocket. If anyone is off to do errands, ask them to pick up hard candies for you.
You may want to stop at a bank to collect their hard candies. If none are available, you will ask the teller where they are.
If you put gas in your car, ask the clerk if hard candies are for sale.
If you go to a restaurant that has hard candies by the cashier, take more than you should.
Under no circumstances are you to eat a hard candy on Tuesday.
On Wednesday, I want your mouth busy with hard candies. When one is gone, pop another. If you work at a desk, have a bowl to share. Offer them to people, saying, “I love me some hard candy!”
When you are alone, driving or what have you, stuff a few in your mouth.
Keep count of how many you consume on Wednesday.
I want a full report of what transpires in my inbox by close of business Thursday.
sex
sexblogs
haiku
hard candy
discipline
I told her she could earn a rule by writing a haiku designed to make me hot, based on themes within my blog.
This afternoon around one, she submitted the following haiku:
Brutal yet thoughtful
Boyish look; a master's mind
I long to please him
I liked this. She said it was about me, which was very sweet and an added bonus.
But was it hot enough?
I thought she could do better. I suggested she try again, and submit another by three.
Within a half hour, this was in my inbox:
My mouth. Your cock-Hard
Tasting, Licking, Sucking you
Then: white - spilling down my throat
Okay, now that is hot. And she did a good job of finding a blog theme—I do like blowjobs!
But . . . it seems too concrete for a haiku. It lacked poetry.
I told J she had one hour and fifteen minutes remaining to try again.
I soon had this missive:
I was bad, you said
You slap me. Hard. Then again.
I cry - yet crave more
Bingo. It’s hot, it’s haiku, and it responds to a blog theme.
J has earned a rule.
We have never met, but we agree it might be nice to meet.
I also know that she is striving to give better blowjobs.
So we need a rule that is about desire (as we would like to meet) and gratification (as perhaps we will). All the better if the rule is centered on her mouth.
J, on Tuesday of next week, you will crave hard candies, such as peppermint and butterscotch. You will say to people, “Wow, I could really go for a hard candy.”
If you are offered any, you will put it in your pocket. If anyone is off to do errands, ask them to pick up hard candies for you.
You may want to stop at a bank to collect their hard candies. If none are available, you will ask the teller where they are.
If you put gas in your car, ask the clerk if hard candies are for sale.
If you go to a restaurant that has hard candies by the cashier, take more than you should.
Under no circumstances are you to eat a hard candy on Tuesday.
On Wednesday, I want your mouth busy with hard candies. When one is gone, pop another. If you work at a desk, have a bowl to share. Offer them to people, saying, “I love me some hard candy!”
When you are alone, driving or what have you, stuff a few in your mouth.
Keep count of how many you consume on Wednesday.
I want a full report of what transpires in my inbox by close of business Thursday.
sex
sexblogs
haiku
hard candy
discipline
Thursday, May 05, 2005
Switch
“Are those fingerprints on your ceiling?”
Anna and I were laying on my bed, recovering from a fine round of sex.
“Huh. I suppose so,” I answered, offering nothing more.
“Hmmm.” She logged this detail.
Anna was raised by scientists . She has an inquisitive mind.
Anna knows that I am bisexual and that I am sexually active with other people. I don’t offer details beyond that. She would spend her energies worrying that I might like someone better than her.
I knew better than to explain that the fingerprints were due to my using the ceiling as a brace when standing to feed my cock to hungry mouths.
I certainly wasn’t going to volunteer that mine are not the only fingerprints to be found on my ceiling.
She knows my penchant for honesty as well as I know the limits of what she truly wants to hear about my life.
My reticence does not stop her from prying.
She recently opened a drawer to get a condom, and asked, “Who is Mitzi?”
“Why do you ask?”
“She wrote you this note—‘Thanks for the lovely evening. I didn’t mind the snoring! Kisses, Mitzi.’”
“Mitzi is someone who writes notes. You want to review my correspondence or do you want to have sex?”
She closed the drawer. “You should do a better job of hiding the evidence.”
“You shouldn’t read notes in other people’s drawers.”
Another time, she found an unfamiliar bundle of rope in my cabinet.
“New rope? Is this for anyone special?”
“Yes, it is new rope.”
“Anyone special?”
“I have new rope.”
This is a delicate game we have been playing for a while. For a year, in fact: our on again/off again relationship has just passed its first anniversary.
We had a date to commemorate the occasion. Dinner and bondage. On the menu: my submission.
She wanted to take a turn at dominating me.
Anna had once rebuffed the encroachments of kink into our sex, and that was fine with me—the vanilla sex is plenty good.
But then, she missed the ropes.
Once the ropes were in place, a spanking ensued. She came hard as I fucked her, slapping her ass and thighs.
She treasured the welts that resulted, sending me snapshots of them two days later. The photos were delivered in an email entitled “remembering you.”
She brought thigh-high hose and vintage black pumps to our next encounter.
As we ate our anniversary dinner, she revealed that she had been doing a little research about kink—or rather, BDSM, as she said, using the current preferred term for “bondage/discipline/sadomasosochism.”
I took the fork from my mouth. “You have?” I chewed.
Of course she has. It is very in keeping with her character that she would apply herself to this new subject as a diligent student.
“What do you think of role play?” she asked.
“No interest. I think that’s more for people who like Dungeons and Dragons.”
“I didn’t think you would be into that kind of play,” she said.
“I don’t even like the use of the word ‘play.’ That whole West Coast sexpert lingo—where sex is ‘play’ and fuck buddies are ‘friends with benefits’—is an adulteration. There are perfectly good words for all of that. There’s no need for neologisms.”
“You’ve given this some thought.”
“Thinking is what I do best.”
“And safe words?”
“I’m all for that. You have to communicate, and respect boundaries. But ugh, please, talk about it in a common language.”
She put a shrimp on my plate. “And what will be your safe word when I spank you tonight?”
“It will be the phrase ‘quit it.’”
“Not much imagination.”
“It will get the job done.”
Back at her place, I poured a bourbon as she repaired to the bathroom.
“Oh no,” she said upon her return, taking the glass from my hand. “The book said no liquor during play . . . I mean, bondage.”
“Did it? Well, it’s your show.”
Those helpful, useful books. Sometimes, I tell you, the advice of sexperts has as much to do with fucking as rock criticism has to do with a Metallica concert. It has its place, but when it comes right down to it, I’d rather be banging my head in the mosh pit.
Apollo pisses on Dionysus's fire.
Tonight, I undressed and rested my head on her bed.
She put my arms over my head. “Now let me know if this is too tight,” she said, binding my wrists.
“That’s fine.”
“Okay, and now this . . .” she said, slipping a blindfold over my eyes. “Can you see anything?”
“Nope.”
“Nervous?”
“Nope.”
“Good.”
Actually, as I lay there naked and exposed, my arms lashed behind my head, my eyes blinded, unsure of what to expect, I felt . . . bored.
I might have to fake this for Anna. I just wasn’t into being submissive.
I felt her bare legs across my chest. She raised them one at a time, covering each of them in stockings.
She rubbed her strong calves across my chest, focusing the nylon on my sensitive nipples.
This I liked. My cock responded, throbbing in air.
Her legs vanished from my chest.
Her mouth was on my cock. I could hear the wetness of it as she drew her head up and down my shaft.
Her fingers found my nipples. My body twisted involuntarily.
There was a sharp tug on my right nipple—she had fastened a clamp to it.
“Unh!” I would have balked if I weren’t blind.
“Okay?”
“God yes. That’s so good!”
“Good. Now turn over.”
I did as my mistress instructed. Maybe I could get into this.
Her fingers caressed my ass in anticipation of my spanking.
The first slap came, quickly followed by two more. I moaned into the pillow. More slaps followed.
My dick grew limp.
As the stinging of each slap subsided, I felt annoyance. She was doing a yeoman’s job on my ass. But getting spanked hurt and just felt ridiculous. Still, I was ready to ride it out to please her.
“Okay,” she said after a few moments. “I’m done.”
“You’re done?”
“Yes . . . unless you want more?”
“No, no, I’m fine.”
“Did you enjoy that?” she asked, untying my wrists.
“Not so much. It was okay,” I pulled off the blindfold. “Did that get you going?”
“I liked sucking your cock.”
“Then do it again.”
“You can have your bourbon now, too.”
“That can wait. Suck my cock.”
“Yes.”
A couple of hours later, she admired her ass in the mirror. “I think these marks are going to be redder than the last time you spanked me,” she smiled.
“Damn straight,” I said, sipping my bourbon.
sex
sexblogs
BDSM
Sadomasochism
sex advice
Metallica
bourbon
Anna and I were laying on my bed, recovering from a fine round of sex.
“Huh. I suppose so,” I answered, offering nothing more.
“Hmmm.” She logged this detail.
Anna was raised by scientists . She has an inquisitive mind.
Anna knows that I am bisexual and that I am sexually active with other people. I don’t offer details beyond that. She would spend her energies worrying that I might like someone better than her.
I knew better than to explain that the fingerprints were due to my using the ceiling as a brace when standing to feed my cock to hungry mouths.
I certainly wasn’t going to volunteer that mine are not the only fingerprints to be found on my ceiling.
She knows my penchant for honesty as well as I know the limits of what she truly wants to hear about my life.
My reticence does not stop her from prying.
She recently opened a drawer to get a condom, and asked, “Who is Mitzi?”
“Why do you ask?”
“She wrote you this note—‘Thanks for the lovely evening. I didn’t mind the snoring! Kisses, Mitzi.’”
“Mitzi is someone who writes notes. You want to review my correspondence or do you want to have sex?”
She closed the drawer. “You should do a better job of hiding the evidence.”
“You shouldn’t read notes in other people’s drawers.”
Another time, she found an unfamiliar bundle of rope in my cabinet.
“New rope? Is this for anyone special?”
“Yes, it is new rope.”
“Anyone special?”
“I have new rope.”
This is a delicate game we have been playing for a while. For a year, in fact: our on again/off again relationship has just passed its first anniversary.
We had a date to commemorate the occasion. Dinner and bondage. On the menu: my submission.
She wanted to take a turn at dominating me.
Anna had once rebuffed the encroachments of kink into our sex, and that was fine with me—the vanilla sex is plenty good.
But then, she missed the ropes.
Once the ropes were in place, a spanking ensued. She came hard as I fucked her, slapping her ass and thighs.
She treasured the welts that resulted, sending me snapshots of them two days later. The photos were delivered in an email entitled “remembering you.”
She brought thigh-high hose and vintage black pumps to our next encounter.
As we ate our anniversary dinner, she revealed that she had been doing a little research about kink—or rather, BDSM, as she said, using the current preferred term for “bondage/discipline/sadomasosochism.”
I took the fork from my mouth. “You have?” I chewed.
Of course she has. It is very in keeping with her character that she would apply herself to this new subject as a diligent student.
“What do you think of role play?” she asked.
“No interest. I think that’s more for people who like Dungeons and Dragons.”
“I didn’t think you would be into that kind of play,” she said.
“I don’t even like the use of the word ‘play.’ That whole West Coast sexpert lingo—where sex is ‘play’ and fuck buddies are ‘friends with benefits’—is an adulteration. There are perfectly good words for all of that. There’s no need for neologisms.”
“You’ve given this some thought.”
“Thinking is what I do best.”
“And safe words?”
“I’m all for that. You have to communicate, and respect boundaries. But ugh, please, talk about it in a common language.”
She put a shrimp on my plate. “And what will be your safe word when I spank you tonight?”
“It will be the phrase ‘quit it.’”
“Not much imagination.”
“It will get the job done.”
Back at her place, I poured a bourbon as she repaired to the bathroom.
“Oh no,” she said upon her return, taking the glass from my hand. “The book said no liquor during play . . . I mean, bondage.”
“Did it? Well, it’s your show.”
Those helpful, useful books. Sometimes, I tell you, the advice of sexperts has as much to do with fucking as rock criticism has to do with a Metallica concert. It has its place, but when it comes right down to it, I’d rather be banging my head in the mosh pit.
Apollo pisses on Dionysus's fire.
Tonight, I undressed and rested my head on her bed.
She put my arms over my head. “Now let me know if this is too tight,” she said, binding my wrists.
“That’s fine.”
“Okay, and now this . . .” she said, slipping a blindfold over my eyes. “Can you see anything?”
“Nope.”
“Nervous?”
“Nope.”
“Good.”
Actually, as I lay there naked and exposed, my arms lashed behind my head, my eyes blinded, unsure of what to expect, I felt . . . bored.
I might have to fake this for Anna. I just wasn’t into being submissive.
I felt her bare legs across my chest. She raised them one at a time, covering each of them in stockings.
She rubbed her strong calves across my chest, focusing the nylon on my sensitive nipples.
This I liked. My cock responded, throbbing in air.
Her legs vanished from my chest.
Her mouth was on my cock. I could hear the wetness of it as she drew her head up and down my shaft.
Her fingers found my nipples. My body twisted involuntarily.
There was a sharp tug on my right nipple—she had fastened a clamp to it.
“Unh!” I would have balked if I weren’t blind.
“Okay?”
“God yes. That’s so good!”
“Good. Now turn over.”
I did as my mistress instructed. Maybe I could get into this.
Her fingers caressed my ass in anticipation of my spanking.
The first slap came, quickly followed by two more. I moaned into the pillow. More slaps followed.
My dick grew limp.
As the stinging of each slap subsided, I felt annoyance. She was doing a yeoman’s job on my ass. But getting spanked hurt and just felt ridiculous. Still, I was ready to ride it out to please her.
“Okay,” she said after a few moments. “I’m done.”
“You’re done?”
“Yes . . . unless you want more?”
“No, no, I’m fine.”
“Did you enjoy that?” she asked, untying my wrists.
“Not so much. It was okay,” I pulled off the blindfold. “Did that get you going?”
“I liked sucking your cock.”
“Then do it again.”
“You can have your bourbon now, too.”
“That can wait. Suck my cock.”
“Yes.”
A couple of hours later, she admired her ass in the mirror. “I think these marks are going to be redder than the last time you spanked me,” she smiled.
“Damn straight,” I said, sipping my bourbon.
sex
sexblogs
BDSM
Sadomasochism
sex advice
Metallica
bourbon
Wednesday, May 04, 2005
Rules
With the kids in bed, I poured a bourbon and settled in for a date with my online girlfriend, Madeline.
Marcus would be arriving at her place the following night for a long weekend with her.
Jefferson: Are you prepared for the arrival of your guest?
Madeline: Mostly. Still a lot of running around to do tomorrow. I have a list of things to do.
Jefferson: Your list is about to get longer. I have prepared a set of rules that you must follow this weekend.
Madeline: Oh good!
My best friend was going to spend the weekend with my online girlfriend—surely you didn’t think I was going to let that alone?
I imposed my regulations after great care and deliberation. Madeline was duty bound to adhere to them.
In deciding what these rules would be, I immediately dismissed any regulation of their sexual activities.
I might have insisted that they curtail kissing, for example, or anal sex, or what have you, reserving certain acts for times when I was present. But imposing such a limitation would lack imagination, and seem designed primarily to annoy.
I did not want to limit what they could do. I just wanted to be sure my presence was felt throughout the weekend. Madeline’s obedience would ensure that—if I could formulate the correct rules.
Ultimately, my regulations would be divided into three categories.
First, her body would be marked according to my direction. This would cause her to think of me when she saw that mark.
This would be her way of saying, “I’m thinking of you.”
Second, the two of them would be denied a convenience. This would underscore a sense that something is missing.
This would be her way of saying, “I miss you.”
Third, she must regularly articulate that she regrets my absence.
This would her way of saying, “Wish you were here.”
For the first rule—wearing my mark—I wanted something subtle, something Marcus might not even notice. It would be too crude and amateurish to have her write “Property of Jefferson” on her ass.
Jefferson: You need to paint your fingernails and toenails for me.
Madeline: Of course. What color?
I held a glass of bourbon to the web cam.
Jefferson: This color.
Madeline: Yes.
The next day, as she ran her final errands, she picked up a copper nail polish, the closest she could find. That evening, as she awaited Marcus’s arrival, she held her fingers in front of her web cam.
Madeline: Does this satisfy?
Jefferson: Very much. Thank you.
She also volunteered to move her wristwatch from her left arm to her right. That way, when she instinctively looked to her left wrist to see the time, she would find her watch missing and remember me.
Good: she understood the spirit of my edicts.
For the second rule—the denial of a convenience—I had a few suggestions.
Jefferson: What we want is something that isn’t essential , but makes life easier. Like, a toaster or a microwave that doesn’t work, or an icemaker that is out of commission.
Madeline: I have a toaster. Can we pick that?
Jefferson: Perfect! Your toaster is now broken. And so you must buy bread and crave toast.
Madeline: I love toast.
The next evening, I inquired about the toaster.
She had taken it to her parking lot that afternoon and smashed it to bits.
Madeline: I fucking hated that toaster.
Jefferson: And you are stocked for bread?
Madeline: Beautiful bread for toasting.
Jefferson: Good. No easy toast for you.
For my final rule—the noting of my absence—she had a simple requirement. At least four times a day, she must say of some activity, “You know, this would be so much more fun if Jefferson were with us.”
She was to document those moments and send me the record.
I also insisted that she withhold two things from Marcus on this first visit. She was not to take him to the river, where she sometimes sits when she calls me. And he was not to meet her children.
She agreed.
With that, I was content. I could wish her an enjoyable weekend with Marcus.
I mean, it wasn’t as if I lacked for weekend plans of my own.
As fate would have it, she would break one of her promises.
sex
sexblogs
threesome
polyamory
discipline
Marcus would be arriving at her place the following night for a long weekend with her.
Jefferson: Are you prepared for the arrival of your guest?
Madeline: Mostly. Still a lot of running around to do tomorrow. I have a list of things to do.
Jefferson: Your list is about to get longer. I have prepared a set of rules that you must follow this weekend.
Madeline: Oh good!
My best friend was going to spend the weekend with my online girlfriend—surely you didn’t think I was going to let that alone?
I imposed my regulations after great care and deliberation. Madeline was duty bound to adhere to them.
In deciding what these rules would be, I immediately dismissed any regulation of their sexual activities.
I might have insisted that they curtail kissing, for example, or anal sex, or what have you, reserving certain acts for times when I was present. But imposing such a limitation would lack imagination, and seem designed primarily to annoy.
I did not want to limit what they could do. I just wanted to be sure my presence was felt throughout the weekend. Madeline’s obedience would ensure that—if I could formulate the correct rules.
Ultimately, my regulations would be divided into three categories.
First, her body would be marked according to my direction. This would cause her to think of me when she saw that mark.
This would be her way of saying, “I’m thinking of you.”
Second, the two of them would be denied a convenience. This would underscore a sense that something is missing.
This would be her way of saying, “I miss you.”
Third, she must regularly articulate that she regrets my absence.
This would her way of saying, “Wish you were here.”
For the first rule—wearing my mark—I wanted something subtle, something Marcus might not even notice. It would be too crude and amateurish to have her write “Property of Jefferson” on her ass.
Jefferson: You need to paint your fingernails and toenails for me.
Madeline: Of course. What color?
I held a glass of bourbon to the web cam.
Jefferson: This color.
Madeline: Yes.
The next day, as she ran her final errands, she picked up a copper nail polish, the closest she could find. That evening, as she awaited Marcus’s arrival, she held her fingers in front of her web cam.
Madeline: Does this satisfy?
Jefferson: Very much. Thank you.
She also volunteered to move her wristwatch from her left arm to her right. That way, when she instinctively looked to her left wrist to see the time, she would find her watch missing and remember me.
Good: she understood the spirit of my edicts.
For the second rule—the denial of a convenience—I had a few suggestions.
Jefferson: What we want is something that isn’t essential , but makes life easier. Like, a toaster or a microwave that doesn’t work, or an icemaker that is out of commission.
Madeline: I have a toaster. Can we pick that?
Jefferson: Perfect! Your toaster is now broken. And so you must buy bread and crave toast.
Madeline: I love toast.
The next evening, I inquired about the toaster.
She had taken it to her parking lot that afternoon and smashed it to bits.
Madeline: I fucking hated that toaster.
Jefferson: And you are stocked for bread?
Madeline: Beautiful bread for toasting.
Jefferson: Good. No easy toast for you.
For my final rule—the noting of my absence—she had a simple requirement. At least four times a day, she must say of some activity, “You know, this would be so much more fun if Jefferson were with us.”
She was to document those moments and send me the record.
I also insisted that she withhold two things from Marcus on this first visit. She was not to take him to the river, where she sometimes sits when she calls me. And he was not to meet her children.
She agreed.
With that, I was content. I could wish her an enjoyable weekend with Marcus.
I mean, it wasn’t as if I lacked for weekend plans of my own.
As fate would have it, she would break one of her promises.
sex
sexblogs
threesome
polyamory
discipline
Little Acorns
Take all your problems
And rip ‘em apart
Carry them off
In a shopping cart
And another thing you
Should’ve known from the start
The problems in hand
Are lighter than at heart
Collie was listening to the White Stripes, a little too loudly, reading the lyric sheet as he sang along.
Lillie was in the hallway, playing stuffed animals with our neighbor Holly.
Jason and I were cooking dinner.
Earlier, as Collie and Lillie read Pickles over Pittsburgh, Jason was inspired to cook chicken and dumplings. So now, as the chicken simmered in stock, he chopped celery as I chopped onions.
“Dad, you are a very good cook, so don’t take this the wrong way,” he ventured, “but if you were going to open a restaurant, you would need to know how to make more things.”
“Well, thank you for the compliment. I don’t plan to open a restaurant, but you are right: it would be good to know how to make more things if I were a professional chef.”
“Right! Like you make good fried chicken, and good burritos, and good hamburgers . . .”
“. . . and a killer Thanksgiving dinner, thank you very much.”
“Yes! And that barbecued chicken, the one you wrap in bacon, that’s very good. But a restaurant needs to have, like, seven pages on a menu, and you only have, like, four or five.”
“True. I wonder what I would like to learn to make? I don’t know how to cook Indian, that would be good to learn.”
“I like Indian, but we can go out for that. Is this enough celery?”
“Uh, yes. Toss it in the pot.”
“Okay.”
I gave him some carrots to chop. He focused on cutting them for a while. Then he mused, “I wonder what I will do when I am seventeen.”
“You mean, like Rachel?” His half sister Rachel is seventeen, and newly graduated from high school.
“Yeah. I think I would take off a year too. I mean, I’m also going to be seventeen when I finish high school, and that’s younger than most people in college.”
Rachel has decided to work and save money, at least for a semester.
I had lobbied for her to go directly into college, but she prefers to wait until she is eighteen. Besides, as she reminded me, I had taken some time after high school to save money and apply to better colleges.
Her mother’s family doesn’t have money, and with my divorce, I am struggling. It’s hard for me to argue that she should race into college with no financial backing.
“What would you do for a year?” I asked Jason. “Oh, and cut those carrots smaller. Remember, they have to go on your spoon.”
“Well, maybe I would cook. In a restaurant.”
“You do like to cook.”
“Yeah. And if you opened a restaurant, I could manage it.”
“But I’m not opening a restaurant. And I thought you wanted to cook?”
“Dad, you have to hire people to help you. You can’t do it all by yourself. You might be the cook, but someone has to hire people. That can be my job.”
Lillie was sneaking a small box of Cheerios to share with Holly. “When I am in college, I will be rich!” she said.
“I hope so!” I smiled at her. “Then you can give me money.”
“Only if you pay me back!”
“Lillie, no one has money in college,” Jason interjected. “You have to work all the time.”
“Here, cut some more carrots.” I said. “Those are ready for the pot.”
Later, Lillie helped us to form dumplings. She picked up dough in her freshly-washed hands, and rolled out marble-sized balls that Jason dropped into the broth.
“Dad, can I work in your restaurant too?” she asked.
I pointed a thumb at Jason.
“You’ll have to ask the boss.”
parenting
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White Stripes
And rip ‘em apart
Carry them off
In a shopping cart
And another thing you
Should’ve known from the start
The problems in hand
Are lighter than at heart
Collie was listening to the White Stripes, a little too loudly, reading the lyric sheet as he sang along.
Lillie was in the hallway, playing stuffed animals with our neighbor Holly.
Jason and I were cooking dinner.
Earlier, as Collie and Lillie read Pickles over Pittsburgh, Jason was inspired to cook chicken and dumplings. So now, as the chicken simmered in stock, he chopped celery as I chopped onions.
“Dad, you are a very good cook, so don’t take this the wrong way,” he ventured, “but if you were going to open a restaurant, you would need to know how to make more things.”
“Well, thank you for the compliment. I don’t plan to open a restaurant, but you are right: it would be good to know how to make more things if I were a professional chef.”
“Right! Like you make good fried chicken, and good burritos, and good hamburgers . . .”
“. . . and a killer Thanksgiving dinner, thank you very much.”
“Yes! And that barbecued chicken, the one you wrap in bacon, that’s very good. But a restaurant needs to have, like, seven pages on a menu, and you only have, like, four or five.”
“True. I wonder what I would like to learn to make? I don’t know how to cook Indian, that would be good to learn.”
“I like Indian, but we can go out for that. Is this enough celery?”
“Uh, yes. Toss it in the pot.”
“Okay.”
I gave him some carrots to chop. He focused on cutting them for a while. Then he mused, “I wonder what I will do when I am seventeen.”
“You mean, like Rachel?” His half sister Rachel is seventeen, and newly graduated from high school.
“Yeah. I think I would take off a year too. I mean, I’m also going to be seventeen when I finish high school, and that’s younger than most people in college.”
Rachel has decided to work and save money, at least for a semester.
I had lobbied for her to go directly into college, but she prefers to wait until she is eighteen. Besides, as she reminded me, I had taken some time after high school to save money and apply to better colleges.
Her mother’s family doesn’t have money, and with my divorce, I am struggling. It’s hard for me to argue that she should race into college with no financial backing.
“What would you do for a year?” I asked Jason. “Oh, and cut those carrots smaller. Remember, they have to go on your spoon.”
“Well, maybe I would cook. In a restaurant.”
“You do like to cook.”
“Yeah. And if you opened a restaurant, I could manage it.”
“But I’m not opening a restaurant. And I thought you wanted to cook?”
“Dad, you have to hire people to help you. You can’t do it all by yourself. You might be the cook, but someone has to hire people. That can be my job.”
Lillie was sneaking a small box of Cheerios to share with Holly. “When I am in college, I will be rich!” she said.
“I hope so!” I smiled at her. “Then you can give me money.”
“Only if you pay me back!”
“Lillie, no one has money in college,” Jason interjected. “You have to work all the time.”
“Here, cut some more carrots.” I said. “Those are ready for the pot.”
Later, Lillie helped us to form dumplings. She picked up dough in her freshly-washed hands, and rolled out marble-sized balls that Jason dropped into the broth.
“Dad, can I work in your restaurant too?” she asked.
I pointed a thumb at Jason.
“You’ll have to ask the boss.”
parenting
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White Stripes
Please Respond
Lucy called.
“How is everything?” she asked.
“Nice! We spent the day in the park with Trish and Holly. There was an awful wind at the park . . .”
“Can I talk to one of the kids?”
“Uh, sure, just a sec. Here’s Jason.”
The phone worked its way through the children’s ears.
After a while, Lillie handed the phone back to me.
“Anything else?” I asked.
It was dead.
Collie came into the living room and sat on the couch, limp.
“What’s up?” I asked.
“Nothing,” he replied.
“You look sad.”
He shrugged.
“You want to talk about it?”
He shook his head.
“Are you still worried about the wind?”
He shook his head.
“Do you miss your mom?”
He shrugged.
“We can’t talk about it if you aren’t talking.”
He shrugged. “I’m going to play Game Cube.”
“Okay . . . let’s talk later if you want.”
He headed to his bedroom.
A few moments later, Lillie rushed into the living room. “Special delivery from Collie!” she shouted, waving a piece of paper.
It read: “I don’t know what’s wrong with me do you? (Please respond!)”
When Collie was five, he was upset about something and closed himself in his room. He did not want to talk. After a while, Lucy and I knocked on his door. He told us to go away.
We sat on the floor next to his door and wrote a note saying “We love you? Are you okay?” We passed it under the door and knocked. “Special delivery!”
He picked up the note and took it to his desk. He passed it back with his own addition: “Jason is bad.”
We passed him another note. He wrote a response. Soon the door was open and he was over his anger.
Since that time, Collie has often preferred to pass notes when he is upset.
I knocked on his door.
“No,” he said. “You are supposed to write a note!”
“I know, but I want to talk with you on my lap. Is that okay this time?”
He nodded. I took him in my lap.
“I know you can be sad when you miss your mom, or when you miss me. It’s hard to be away from your mom or dad. But you know we love you, right?”
He nodded.
“And you know you will see your mom soon, right?”
He nodded.
I showed him his note. “I think that is what is wrong with you right now. Talking to your mom reminded you that you miss her. You might feel better if you just think about seeing her soon. Can you try that?”
He nodded, smiling. I kissed his head, and left him to play a video game.
He was working the controls when Lillie came into his room waving a piece of paper. “Special delivery from dad!”
Collie took the paper and read it.
“You are a special boy and I love you. Dad.”
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“How is everything?” she asked.
“Nice! We spent the day in the park with Trish and Holly. There was an awful wind at the park . . .”
“Can I talk to one of the kids?”
“Uh, sure, just a sec. Here’s Jason.”
The phone worked its way through the children’s ears.
After a while, Lillie handed the phone back to me.
“Anything else?” I asked.
It was dead.
Collie came into the living room and sat on the couch, limp.
“What’s up?” I asked.
“Nothing,” he replied.
“You look sad.”
He shrugged.
“You want to talk about it?”
He shook his head.
“Are you still worried about the wind?”
He shook his head.
“Do you miss your mom?”
He shrugged.
“We can’t talk about it if you aren’t talking.”
He shrugged. “I’m going to play Game Cube.”
“Okay . . . let’s talk later if you want.”
He headed to his bedroom.
A few moments later, Lillie rushed into the living room. “Special delivery from Collie!” she shouted, waving a piece of paper.
It read: “I don’t know what’s wrong with me do you? (Please respond!)”
When Collie was five, he was upset about something and closed himself in his room. He did not want to talk. After a while, Lucy and I knocked on his door. He told us to go away.
We sat on the floor next to his door and wrote a note saying “We love you? Are you okay?” We passed it under the door and knocked. “Special delivery!”
He picked up the note and took it to his desk. He passed it back with his own addition: “Jason is bad.”
We passed him another note. He wrote a response. Soon the door was open and he was over his anger.
Since that time, Collie has often preferred to pass notes when he is upset.
I knocked on his door.
“No,” he said. “You are supposed to write a note!”
“I know, but I want to talk with you on my lap. Is that okay this time?”
He nodded. I took him in my lap.
“I know you can be sad when you miss your mom, or when you miss me. It’s hard to be away from your mom or dad. But you know we love you, right?”
He nodded.
“And you know you will see your mom soon, right?”
He nodded.
I showed him his note. “I think that is what is wrong with you right now. Talking to your mom reminded you that you miss her. You might feel better if you just think about seeing her soon. Can you try that?”
He nodded, smiling. I kissed his head, and left him to play a video game.
He was working the controls when Lillie came into his room waving a piece of paper. “Special delivery from dad!”
Collie took the paper and read it.
“You are a special boy and I love you. Dad.”
parenting
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Blustery Day
Lillie knocked on door of her new plaything, our three-year-old-neighbor Holly.
Holly’s mom Trish answered.
“We are going to the park,” Lillie asked, looking up at her friend’s mom. “Can Holly come?”
“We are going to the park, too!” Trish beamed. “If it is okay with your dad, let’s all go together.”
“Hey Dad, Dad!” Lillie shouted, running back through our open door. “Holly can come with us!”
“Jefferson?” Trish knocked, standing in the doorway.
“Oh hi, Trish.” I was shirtless in pajama bottoms, just out of the shower. What does one do when unexpectedly found half naked in the presence of a neighbor? I pulled Jason close and hugged him in front of my exposed torso.
“Lillie says you are going to the park? So are we!”
“That’s great!” I replied. “We’ll get dressed and meet you in the hall in a jiffy.”
Trish is an at-home mom, mothering her daughter and a new baby son.
This week, I am an at-home dad, fathering my kids on spring break.
The children are happy for spring break, in part because it allows a reprieve for a month-long ban on television and video games. The ban was imposed by their mother—and supported, with a heavy heart, by their father—due to problems Jason and Collie were having in keeping their homework organized.
The ban has been an annoyance at times. How much easier my life as a single dad can be when I have Cartoon Network on my side. But it has had a few happen consequences. The kids are playing together well, resorting to toys and board games in the absence of Mario Brothers.
And Collie and Lillie have adopted little Holly as their own.
Holly, of course, is delighted for the attention. Her new baby brother is still an interloper in her world. It helps that she has “big girl” friends to distract her from her mother’s new distraction.
Trish, in turn, is glad to have my kids about to keep Holly occupied. I’m glad to have them at her place now and then, allowing moments alone with Jason, and providing a breather from the constant refrains of “Hey Dad!”
This is the first time we have gone to the park together. Trish carries her son in a snuggly, pushing Holly in a stroller. Lillie walks close by, holding Holly’s hand. Collie holds my hand, and Jason walks ahead, dribbling a basketball.
The old folks smile as we walk by.
They must assume that we are one large happy family. Trish has red hair, like my daughter Lillie. I have blond hair, like her daughter Holly. We present a plausible ensemble.
Where do they live with five young children? the old folks must wonder, mentally calculating the market price of nearby brownstones, the most likely residences for so large a Manhattan family.
We split up at the park, Trish taking the younger children into a playground, Jason and I heading to the basketball courts.
Already this is much easier than solo parenting. If I were the only adult, we would have chosen one activity and done it as a family. I would be fending complaints from Jason if we were at the playground (“This is so babyish!”) or from Lillie if we were at the courts (“This is so boring! Can we play invisible house?”).
Jason challenges me to a game of One-on-One.
For the first ten years of Jason’s life, I managed to keep him unaware of the fact that his father is no great shakes as an athlete. Now that he is eleven, he has caught on.
His shots hit every time. Nothing but net. Mine hit every other time, at best.
My only advantages on the court are my greater height—and my scathing intimidation.
“C’mon, you want a piece of me?” I scowl, as Jason soundly takes the ball I was just dribbling.
“You gonna take that shot, or is the defense too brutal?” I scorn, as he shoots over my arms for two more points.
He beat me, twelve to six, fair and square.
A boy Jason’s age, having watched this sorry spectacle, took pity and challenged him to a game. They were soon joined by two other boys, whose father was a very good coach.
Sidelined, I strolled to the playground to check on Trish and the kids.
Collie and Lillie were pushing Holly in a swing as Trish talked to another mom. I was introduced; we talked about the things parents talk about in the park—fresh produce, nanny gossip, tag-team parenting.
Tag-team parenting. When one parent takes over for the other, allowing each some down time to hit the gym, shop or whatever.
I remember that.
An ominous cloud was coming in from over the Hudson River. Nannies and parents gathered their charges into strollers to beat the rain home.
“Do you think . . . ?” Trish asked.
“We should,” I answered.
She put Holly and her son into her double stroller as Collie and I went to collect Jason. He scored another basket before Trish joined us.
A strong wind blew in as the sun vanished. Large droplets of rain plunked around us. A tree branch groaned overhead.
“Come on, Lillie, let’s walk quickly!” Trish encouraged.
We stood exposed on a corner when the gusts picked up. It was suddenly a windstorm.
“Jefferson!” Trish shouted. “I need help with the stroller!” It tilted in the wind as she leaned against it with her full weight.
Collie burst into tears.
“Hold my hand, Collie! I’ve got you!” I shouted, holding the stroller with my other hand. Jason ran to hold Lillie’s arm.
Huddled over, linked by hands, we crossed the street. Holly’s ball was blown from the stroller, vanishing across the street. Collie saw it bounce away; no one else noticed.
We made it to the next corner and turned, so that a building shielded us from the wind.
“Whew! That was something!” Trish said, shaking her hair, composing herself.
Collie was still shaken. I knelt in front of him.
“That was scary, huh? But we are okay now,” I said, adjusting the hood of his windbreaker.
“I was afraid I would blow away,” he sniffled. “I’m not that big, you know.”
The way he said it reminded me of a worried Piglet. What would Christopher Robin say?
“If the winds were blustery,” I replied. “I would tie a string to you and fly you like a kite. And then I would reel you back”
He smiled, his eyes still teary.
Lillie reassured Holly, who seemed unfazed.
We avoided cross streets, and cross winds, all the way home. We found the building lobby filled with strollers and moms and nannies with stories to share.
Trish lingered to compare tales. Everyone checked on each other’s babies.
I was the only dad. Jason, Collie and I hung out, waiting. “C’mon, let’s go up,” I finally said. Lillie opted to stay with Trish and Holly.
For about a week, Lillie had been looking forward to this evening. Trish had promised a pizza party with Holly at six o’clock prompt.
“Dad?” Collie asked, once we were upstairs. “Can we make brownies for the pizza party?”
I was just sitting down to check my email. “Great idea!” I stood to preheat the oven. “Can you get the ingredients, and I will join you in a minute?”
I replied to a few notes as Collie pulled out a mix and a measuring cup, a bowl, an egg and vegetable oil.
“Ready!”
He mixed the brownies, cracking the egg by himself. I gave the mix a final whisk, and we spooned it into a pan. I put the pan into the oven.
When they came out, Collie decorated the brownies with M&Ms. We had a nice offering for the party.
Trish ordered a pizza and we convened in her living room. Holly wore a bib as she chewed on a sliver of pizza. My children balanced plates on their knees.
Trish’s stereo played Laurie Berkner. Her bookcases were stacked with Dr. Seuss and Marc Brown. Her infant son looked out at us, unblinking and fists clenched, still alert in the snuggly on his mother’s chest.
I remembered when my home was like Trish’s. Two parents, two babies, two bedrooms and one future together.
“Your kids are so polite and easy to get along with!” Trish said. “I hope mine do as well.”
This raised our “with the children” conversation topic: raising good children.
She said that she hoped to have one more child in about three years. She liked the spacing of mine—Lucy and I had planned our children a little over two years apart—but she wanted more time between her son and her future baby.
“I guess we’ll have to leave Manhattan then. No one can afford three kids in Manhattan, right? How did you find your house in the suburbs?”
I answered her questions, wanting to offer good advice. I have led the life she now plans. It didn’t turn out as I planned. But I know this stuff.
School districts, real estate, mortgages, tuition savings . . . it seems so long ago.
A young mother from down the hall stopped by. She is due any minute with her second. Could Trish watch her Sam for a few? She had a call to make and she had to pee in the worst way.
Sam toddled in.
Jason and I exchanged glances. “Maybe we will get back to our place,” I offered, my hand on Jason’s shoulder as if to suggest he was weary of baby talk.
“Oh sure,” Trish smiled. “You boys have fun.”
Jason had fun by settling on the couch with Jon Stewart’s America. I had fun by typing an outline for work, thinking of anything but what I was doing.
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Holly’s mom Trish answered.
“We are going to the park,” Lillie asked, looking up at her friend’s mom. “Can Holly come?”
“We are going to the park, too!” Trish beamed. “If it is okay with your dad, let’s all go together.”
“Hey Dad, Dad!” Lillie shouted, running back through our open door. “Holly can come with us!”
“Jefferson?” Trish knocked, standing in the doorway.
“Oh hi, Trish.” I was shirtless in pajama bottoms, just out of the shower. What does one do when unexpectedly found half naked in the presence of a neighbor? I pulled Jason close and hugged him in front of my exposed torso.
“Lillie says you are going to the park? So are we!”
“That’s great!” I replied. “We’ll get dressed and meet you in the hall in a jiffy.”
Trish is an at-home mom, mothering her daughter and a new baby son.
This week, I am an at-home dad, fathering my kids on spring break.
The children are happy for spring break, in part because it allows a reprieve for a month-long ban on television and video games. The ban was imposed by their mother—and supported, with a heavy heart, by their father—due to problems Jason and Collie were having in keeping their homework organized.
The ban has been an annoyance at times. How much easier my life as a single dad can be when I have Cartoon Network on my side. But it has had a few happen consequences. The kids are playing together well, resorting to toys and board games in the absence of Mario Brothers.
And Collie and Lillie have adopted little Holly as their own.
Holly, of course, is delighted for the attention. Her new baby brother is still an interloper in her world. It helps that she has “big girl” friends to distract her from her mother’s new distraction.
Trish, in turn, is glad to have my kids about to keep Holly occupied. I’m glad to have them at her place now and then, allowing moments alone with Jason, and providing a breather from the constant refrains of “Hey Dad!”
This is the first time we have gone to the park together. Trish carries her son in a snuggly, pushing Holly in a stroller. Lillie walks close by, holding Holly’s hand. Collie holds my hand, and Jason walks ahead, dribbling a basketball.
The old folks smile as we walk by.
They must assume that we are one large happy family. Trish has red hair, like my daughter Lillie. I have blond hair, like her daughter Holly. We present a plausible ensemble.
Where do they live with five young children? the old folks must wonder, mentally calculating the market price of nearby brownstones, the most likely residences for so large a Manhattan family.
We split up at the park, Trish taking the younger children into a playground, Jason and I heading to the basketball courts.
Already this is much easier than solo parenting. If I were the only adult, we would have chosen one activity and done it as a family. I would be fending complaints from Jason if we were at the playground (“This is so babyish!”) or from Lillie if we were at the courts (“This is so boring! Can we play invisible house?”).
Jason challenges me to a game of One-on-One.
For the first ten years of Jason’s life, I managed to keep him unaware of the fact that his father is no great shakes as an athlete. Now that he is eleven, he has caught on.
His shots hit every time. Nothing but net. Mine hit every other time, at best.
My only advantages on the court are my greater height—and my scathing intimidation.
“C’mon, you want a piece of me?” I scowl, as Jason soundly takes the ball I was just dribbling.
“You gonna take that shot, or is the defense too brutal?” I scorn, as he shoots over my arms for two more points.
He beat me, twelve to six, fair and square.
A boy Jason’s age, having watched this sorry spectacle, took pity and challenged him to a game. They were soon joined by two other boys, whose father was a very good coach.
Sidelined, I strolled to the playground to check on Trish and the kids.
Collie and Lillie were pushing Holly in a swing as Trish talked to another mom. I was introduced; we talked about the things parents talk about in the park—fresh produce, nanny gossip, tag-team parenting.
Tag-team parenting. When one parent takes over for the other, allowing each some down time to hit the gym, shop or whatever.
I remember that.
An ominous cloud was coming in from over the Hudson River. Nannies and parents gathered their charges into strollers to beat the rain home.
“Do you think . . . ?” Trish asked.
“We should,” I answered.
She put Holly and her son into her double stroller as Collie and I went to collect Jason. He scored another basket before Trish joined us.
A strong wind blew in as the sun vanished. Large droplets of rain plunked around us. A tree branch groaned overhead.
“Come on, Lillie, let’s walk quickly!” Trish encouraged.
We stood exposed on a corner when the gusts picked up. It was suddenly a windstorm.
“Jefferson!” Trish shouted. “I need help with the stroller!” It tilted in the wind as she leaned against it with her full weight.
Collie burst into tears.
“Hold my hand, Collie! I’ve got you!” I shouted, holding the stroller with my other hand. Jason ran to hold Lillie’s arm.
Huddled over, linked by hands, we crossed the street. Holly’s ball was blown from the stroller, vanishing across the street. Collie saw it bounce away; no one else noticed.
We made it to the next corner and turned, so that a building shielded us from the wind.
“Whew! That was something!” Trish said, shaking her hair, composing herself.
Collie was still shaken. I knelt in front of him.
“That was scary, huh? But we are okay now,” I said, adjusting the hood of his windbreaker.
“I was afraid I would blow away,” he sniffled. “I’m not that big, you know.”
The way he said it reminded me of a worried Piglet. What would Christopher Robin say?
“If the winds were blustery,” I replied. “I would tie a string to you and fly you like a kite. And then I would reel you back”
He smiled, his eyes still teary.
Lillie reassured Holly, who seemed unfazed.
We avoided cross streets, and cross winds, all the way home. We found the building lobby filled with strollers and moms and nannies with stories to share.
Trish lingered to compare tales. Everyone checked on each other’s babies.
I was the only dad. Jason, Collie and I hung out, waiting. “C’mon, let’s go up,” I finally said. Lillie opted to stay with Trish and Holly.
For about a week, Lillie had been looking forward to this evening. Trish had promised a pizza party with Holly at six o’clock prompt.
“Dad?” Collie asked, once we were upstairs. “Can we make brownies for the pizza party?”
I was just sitting down to check my email. “Great idea!” I stood to preheat the oven. “Can you get the ingredients, and I will join you in a minute?”
I replied to a few notes as Collie pulled out a mix and a measuring cup, a bowl, an egg and vegetable oil.
“Ready!”
He mixed the brownies, cracking the egg by himself. I gave the mix a final whisk, and we spooned it into a pan. I put the pan into the oven.
When they came out, Collie decorated the brownies with M&Ms. We had a nice offering for the party.
Trish ordered a pizza and we convened in her living room. Holly wore a bib as she chewed on a sliver of pizza. My children balanced plates on their knees.
Trish’s stereo played Laurie Berkner. Her bookcases were stacked with Dr. Seuss and Marc Brown. Her infant son looked out at us, unblinking and fists clenched, still alert in the snuggly on his mother’s chest.
I remembered when my home was like Trish’s. Two parents, two babies, two bedrooms and one future together.
“Your kids are so polite and easy to get along with!” Trish said. “I hope mine do as well.”
This raised our “with the children” conversation topic: raising good children.
She said that she hoped to have one more child in about three years. She liked the spacing of mine—Lucy and I had planned our children a little over two years apart—but she wanted more time between her son and her future baby.
“I guess we’ll have to leave Manhattan then. No one can afford three kids in Manhattan, right? How did you find your house in the suburbs?”
I answered her questions, wanting to offer good advice. I have led the life she now plans. It didn’t turn out as I planned. But I know this stuff.
School districts, real estate, mortgages, tuition savings . . . it seems so long ago.
A young mother from down the hall stopped by. She is due any minute with her second. Could Trish watch her Sam for a few? She had a call to make and she had to pee in the worst way.
Sam toddled in.
Jason and I exchanged glances. “Maybe we will get back to our place,” I offered, my hand on Jason’s shoulder as if to suggest he was weary of baby talk.
“Oh sure,” Trish smiled. “You boys have fun.”
Jason had fun by settling on the couch with Jon Stewart’s America. I had fun by typing an outline for work, thinking of anything but what I was doing.
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Tuesday, May 03, 2005
Piles and Heaps
Dacia sat outside my door, her bag by her side.
“I told the girls you would be on time,” I apologized. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”
“It’s cool. So Shelby and Theresa are here?”
“Yes,” I kissed her hello and unlocked the door. “We just ate at a diner they wanted to try. They are picking up provisions while I set up for the party.”
“Very good,” Dacia dropped her bag and removed her shoes. I hung my jacket and kicked off my shoes. We chatted as I set to cleaning up from the afternoon’s project—sorting Jefferson’s mail.
Between rounds of sex that afternoon, Theresa had noticed the pile of papers that stretched across two counters. “What’s this?” she asked.
“That’s his mail,” scoffed Shelby. “He gets a ton of it and never reads it.”
“It’s mostly unsolicited press releases,” I offered as a weak excuse. “I should sort it . . .”
“Oh, may I sort it for you?” Theresa asked.
“Really? Well, sure, be my guest.”
“Thanks! I love sorting mail.” Theresa is a compulsive organizer. She once went into my very clean and orderly kitchen and found an hour’s worth of work to do.
I should check—I’d bet my spice rack is now in alphabetical order.
“Then I will make your day,” I said. I opened a cabinet and produced four more bags of unopened mail.
“Ooh, this is fun!” Shelby clapped, gathering her kimono to squat on the floor with Theresa.
They sorted, disposing of three large garbage bags of junk. In the process, they excavated an unopened Christmas card, three checks and a letter dated September 2001.
We felt that we had earned some more sex. And then dinner. But in our self-congratulations, we had left the floor a mess.
Shelby and Theresa returned from the store. “What are you doing to our piles?!” Shelby complained.
“Sorry, baby, I just have to clean up . . .”
“Ignore him. Talk to me,” Dacia demanded.
They were happy to comply, wanting Dacia to see the chocolate cake they had purchased to celebrate her twenty-fifth birthday. I busied myself with preparations.
A good crew was soon assembled in my living room, about ten people, evenly matched by gender. All were regulars but for Todd’s new friend, Farahnaz.
Farahnaz stepped out of her high-heeled strap-ons at the door, but retained her height. She is elegant and slender, with her brown hair long and styled like a 1940s movie star. She was soon regaling Mitzi with conversation about jewelry and travel, as a corner of the room listened in.
She’s the sort of young woman who loves being feminine, and rightly so, as she chose to be a woman.
Farahnaz is a post-op transsexual.
It’s hard to imagine that woman was ever trapped inside a man’s body.
Thomas arrived on the late side. He knew everyone else in the room, so I introduced him to Farahnaz.
“Oh,” he stammered. “We’ve met.”
Of course they had met. Thomas the bisexual straight boy has a thing for trannies.
Only Farahnaz, Todd, Thomas and I were aware she was not born to her chosen gender.
Farahnaz asked Todd when people would begin to get undressed. “I think now,” he replied, taking her by the hand as he stood. She stood next to him, and they walked to the bedroom. We followed suit, dividing into different combinations.
Theresa and Thomas found a quiet place to kiss and slowly undress. But most preferred the heap on my bed.
Farahnaz sat up among the entangled, kissing bodies. “I thought we were going to undress. I don’t want to have to be first.” Everyone dutifully tugged at buttons and zippers. “Okay, so I don’t mind being first.” She pulled her dress up over her head, revealing her nude body.
There were audible gasps, just short of applause. She was stunning.
Nudity was soon the standard rather than the exception.
But not for Dacia, who sat watching from a chair, dressed all in black like Johnny Cash, not altogether sure she was ready for a full onslaught of group sex after her recent illness.
Mitzi kneeled before her. “May we at least see your feet?” she asked.
Dacia allowed that. Mitzi removed a sock to reveal a bare foot with bright red nails.
“Can we see that again, but slower, with the other foot?” I asked, as I twirled Mark’s chest hair.
Mitzi tossed back a shoulder and slowly, slinkily removed the remaining sock. She took Dacia’s toes in her mouth, her eyes locked on mine.
“That is a wrap,” I said. “Nice work, Mitzi!”
“And . . . scene!” Mitzi smiled at me.
Mitzi’s eyes were often on mine. She peered at me from under Todd’s ass as she licked his balls. She glanced at me as Mark licked her pussy. She looked up at me as she sucked my cock.
I enjoyed the connection.
As we lay in the tangle, my arm around Mitzi, my head against Farahnaz, who was getting fucked by Mark, Donny came looking for me. He plopped himself on the heap, squeezing into the bed next to me.
“Hello Mitzi. Hello Jefferson,” he said, massaging my cock.
“Hi Donny. What are you doing to Jefferson’s cock?”
“Getting it ready to fuck me.”
“Oh, I would very much like to see that,” Mitzi cooed. She had, in fact, asked me to fuck a boy that night, as she had never seen this. “May I be of some assistance?”
“Yes, you could suck his cock. That would be nice.”
“Oh, gladly.” She glanced at me as she set to her task.
Donny lubed his ass and opened a condom. “He looks plenty hard to me, Mitzi.”
“Oh he is hard, Donny. Are you ready for him to fuck you?”
“Yeah, just as soon as I get this condom on him.”
I rather enjoyed the way they talked about me as though I were not present. I was just the life support system for the cock they shared.
Donny lowered himself onto me. My hands held his slender hips, then caressed his tanned, muscular body. He kissed Mitzi as he rode me, fondling her breasts.
“Okay, I want on top,” I said. Donny pulled off me, and I struggled my way out of the tangle of bodies.
Donny lay on his back near the bed’s edge. I pulled him closer to the edge, pushed his legs back and entered him. I stood on the floor, legs apart for greater depth.
“Wow,” Mitzi smiled.
“This is something nice to see!” Farahnaz agreed. She maneuvered her body to kiss Donny as she was getting fucked on all fours.
Her hair fell in his face; his hand reached to caress her cheeks.
I was slow at first but moved fast into a higher gear. I grabbed his gorgeous tits and squeezed.
I fucked him hard, spanking him, stroking his cock until he was near orgasm, when he would stop me. “Not yet,” he whispered. “Not yet.”
I was fucking to the limits of my ability, fast and hard for a long time. Sweat from my brow fell unto his taunt belly.
He finally relented—“Enough, I’m good, I’m good.”
“Let me know when you want more.” I pulled out, full of swagger, barely able to stand.
We washed up in the restroom.
“When did you start spanking?” he asked, rubbing his torso with a washcloth. “That was new.”
“Got some new tricks, I guess,” I said, adjusting water temperature for a shower.
“Not usually my thing, but that worked.”
“Always innovating.” I soaped myself, admiring the body of the straight boy I fuck.
Cleaned and restored by bourbon, I reclined on the bed. Todd lay next to me, Farahnaz poised on his hips.
“So are you done, or do you have another fuck in you?” Todd asked her.
“Well, let’s see,” she put a finger to her mouth. “I have fucked you, and Mark, and Jake . . . but I have not fucked this one.” She put her hand on my cock.
“Ready for more, Jefferson?” Todd asked.
“I believe I have room on my dance card, yes,” I replied.
“Good, whatever that means,” Farahnaz smiled. “Now, I liked the way you did that boy. I want that too.”
“I think I have it in me,” I said, rising. At least, I hoped I did.
Farahnaz’s mouth had me instantly hard. Some lube and a condom, and I was in her, again standing beside the bed as I pushed in.
She rested her long legs on my torso. I licked her ankles, tracing my mouth to her toes. I sucked an ensemble of long toes.
Donny licked her large breasts.
“Harder, you can fuck me harder,” Farahnaz moaned. “I know I’m tiny but I won’t break.”
Her foot in my mouth, I grabbed her legs and kicked up the speed.
“That’s what I want . . . you are doing it just right . . .” She moved her head left and right.
I enjoyed the vision of this lovely woman giving herself over to pleasure.
She opened her eyes and looked at me. “I want you to bite me,” she said, “Here.” She pointed to the muscle of her right shoulder. “Bite me slowly, but make it hard.”
“Yes.” I lowered her legs and bent forward, taking her soft skin into my wet mouth. My tongue found the right spot. My teeth bit in—gentle, slow, but unrelenting.
“You have it,” she moaned. “Now fuck me hard.”
I gave it to her.
“Enough,” she said. I released her from my mouth. My teeth were etched deep into her skin, but never close to breaking the epidermis. “You know how to bite,” she smiled.
“I like to bite,” I said, my face revealing my hunger. “I want more.”
“Nice. Then you may bite me here,” she said, pointing to her other shoulder.
I took her flesh in my mouth again, fucking her hard in gratitude.
“Enough.”
“More.”
I was panting.
“Here.” She offered me her forearm. I took it as a hungry dog takes a bone.
“More.”
“Here.” The other forearm.
“More.”
“No. Now you fuck me.”
Denied the flesh I craved, I gave her a sound fucking. She drew Donny’s cock into her mouth, moaning. I held her tiny waist as I fucked.
When the three of us fell apart, it was like waking from a dream.
“I will bite you again,” I said.
“Oh, I want to be bitten by you again and again,” she smiled, kissing me.
It was, all told, as fine a night as one could hope.
Or was it?
Mitzi had misgivings.
We spoke as she left. She really enjoyed seeing me with Donny, and she liked Farahnaz. The parties, she felt, are great.
But given recent events, she wondered: was she cut out for this? Can she really share part of her life with a man who shares his with so many?
What if, she fretted, she really liked me?
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“I told the girls you would be on time,” I apologized. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”
“It’s cool. So Shelby and Theresa are here?”
“Yes,” I kissed her hello and unlocked the door. “We just ate at a diner they wanted to try. They are picking up provisions while I set up for the party.”
“Very good,” Dacia dropped her bag and removed her shoes. I hung my jacket and kicked off my shoes. We chatted as I set to cleaning up from the afternoon’s project—sorting Jefferson’s mail.
Between rounds of sex that afternoon, Theresa had noticed the pile of papers that stretched across two counters. “What’s this?” she asked.
“That’s his mail,” scoffed Shelby. “He gets a ton of it and never reads it.”
“It’s mostly unsolicited press releases,” I offered as a weak excuse. “I should sort it . . .”
“Oh, may I sort it for you?” Theresa asked.
“Really? Well, sure, be my guest.”
“Thanks! I love sorting mail.” Theresa is a compulsive organizer. She once went into my very clean and orderly kitchen and found an hour’s worth of work to do.
I should check—I’d bet my spice rack is now in alphabetical order.
“Then I will make your day,” I said. I opened a cabinet and produced four more bags of unopened mail.
“Ooh, this is fun!” Shelby clapped, gathering her kimono to squat on the floor with Theresa.
They sorted, disposing of three large garbage bags of junk. In the process, they excavated an unopened Christmas card, three checks and a letter dated September 2001.
We felt that we had earned some more sex. And then dinner. But in our self-congratulations, we had left the floor a mess.
Shelby and Theresa returned from the store. “What are you doing to our piles?!” Shelby complained.
“Sorry, baby, I just have to clean up . . .”
“Ignore him. Talk to me,” Dacia demanded.
They were happy to comply, wanting Dacia to see the chocolate cake they had purchased to celebrate her twenty-fifth birthday. I busied myself with preparations.
A good crew was soon assembled in my living room, about ten people, evenly matched by gender. All were regulars but for Todd’s new friend, Farahnaz.
Farahnaz stepped out of her high-heeled strap-ons at the door, but retained her height. She is elegant and slender, with her brown hair long and styled like a 1940s movie star. She was soon regaling Mitzi with conversation about jewelry and travel, as a corner of the room listened in.
She’s the sort of young woman who loves being feminine, and rightly so, as she chose to be a woman.
Farahnaz is a post-op transsexual.
It’s hard to imagine that woman was ever trapped inside a man’s body.
Thomas arrived on the late side. He knew everyone else in the room, so I introduced him to Farahnaz.
“Oh,” he stammered. “We’ve met.”
Of course they had met. Thomas the bisexual straight boy has a thing for trannies.
Only Farahnaz, Todd, Thomas and I were aware she was not born to her chosen gender.
Farahnaz asked Todd when people would begin to get undressed. “I think now,” he replied, taking her by the hand as he stood. She stood next to him, and they walked to the bedroom. We followed suit, dividing into different combinations.
Theresa and Thomas found a quiet place to kiss and slowly undress. But most preferred the heap on my bed.
Farahnaz sat up among the entangled, kissing bodies. “I thought we were going to undress. I don’t want to have to be first.” Everyone dutifully tugged at buttons and zippers. “Okay, so I don’t mind being first.” She pulled her dress up over her head, revealing her nude body.
There were audible gasps, just short of applause. She was stunning.
Nudity was soon the standard rather than the exception.
But not for Dacia, who sat watching from a chair, dressed all in black like Johnny Cash, not altogether sure she was ready for a full onslaught of group sex after her recent illness.
Mitzi kneeled before her. “May we at least see your feet?” she asked.
Dacia allowed that. Mitzi removed a sock to reveal a bare foot with bright red nails.
“Can we see that again, but slower, with the other foot?” I asked, as I twirled Mark’s chest hair.
Mitzi tossed back a shoulder and slowly, slinkily removed the remaining sock. She took Dacia’s toes in her mouth, her eyes locked on mine.
“That is a wrap,” I said. “Nice work, Mitzi!”
“And . . . scene!” Mitzi smiled at me.
Mitzi’s eyes were often on mine. She peered at me from under Todd’s ass as she licked his balls. She glanced at me as Mark licked her pussy. She looked up at me as she sucked my cock.
I enjoyed the connection.
As we lay in the tangle, my arm around Mitzi, my head against Farahnaz, who was getting fucked by Mark, Donny came looking for me. He plopped himself on the heap, squeezing into the bed next to me.
“Hello Mitzi. Hello Jefferson,” he said, massaging my cock.
“Hi Donny. What are you doing to Jefferson’s cock?”
“Getting it ready to fuck me.”
“Oh, I would very much like to see that,” Mitzi cooed. She had, in fact, asked me to fuck a boy that night, as she had never seen this. “May I be of some assistance?”
“Yes, you could suck his cock. That would be nice.”
“Oh, gladly.” She glanced at me as she set to her task.
Donny lubed his ass and opened a condom. “He looks plenty hard to me, Mitzi.”
“Oh he is hard, Donny. Are you ready for him to fuck you?”
“Yeah, just as soon as I get this condom on him.”
I rather enjoyed the way they talked about me as though I were not present. I was just the life support system for the cock they shared.
Donny lowered himself onto me. My hands held his slender hips, then caressed his tanned, muscular body. He kissed Mitzi as he rode me, fondling her breasts.
“Okay, I want on top,” I said. Donny pulled off me, and I struggled my way out of the tangle of bodies.
Donny lay on his back near the bed’s edge. I pulled him closer to the edge, pushed his legs back and entered him. I stood on the floor, legs apart for greater depth.
“Wow,” Mitzi smiled.
“This is something nice to see!” Farahnaz agreed. She maneuvered her body to kiss Donny as she was getting fucked on all fours.
Her hair fell in his face; his hand reached to caress her cheeks.
I was slow at first but moved fast into a higher gear. I grabbed his gorgeous tits and squeezed.
I fucked him hard, spanking him, stroking his cock until he was near orgasm, when he would stop me. “Not yet,” he whispered. “Not yet.”
I was fucking to the limits of my ability, fast and hard for a long time. Sweat from my brow fell unto his taunt belly.
He finally relented—“Enough, I’m good, I’m good.”
“Let me know when you want more.” I pulled out, full of swagger, barely able to stand.
We washed up in the restroom.
“When did you start spanking?” he asked, rubbing his torso with a washcloth. “That was new.”
“Got some new tricks, I guess,” I said, adjusting water temperature for a shower.
“Not usually my thing, but that worked.”
“Always innovating.” I soaped myself, admiring the body of the straight boy I fuck.
Cleaned and restored by bourbon, I reclined on the bed. Todd lay next to me, Farahnaz poised on his hips.
“So are you done, or do you have another fuck in you?” Todd asked her.
“Well, let’s see,” she put a finger to her mouth. “I have fucked you, and Mark, and Jake . . . but I have not fucked this one.” She put her hand on my cock.
“Ready for more, Jefferson?” Todd asked.
“I believe I have room on my dance card, yes,” I replied.
“Good, whatever that means,” Farahnaz smiled. “Now, I liked the way you did that boy. I want that too.”
“I think I have it in me,” I said, rising. At least, I hoped I did.
Farahnaz’s mouth had me instantly hard. Some lube and a condom, and I was in her, again standing beside the bed as I pushed in.
She rested her long legs on my torso. I licked her ankles, tracing my mouth to her toes. I sucked an ensemble of long toes.
Donny licked her large breasts.
“Harder, you can fuck me harder,” Farahnaz moaned. “I know I’m tiny but I won’t break.”
Her foot in my mouth, I grabbed her legs and kicked up the speed.
“That’s what I want . . . you are doing it just right . . .” She moved her head left and right.
I enjoyed the vision of this lovely woman giving herself over to pleasure.
She opened her eyes and looked at me. “I want you to bite me,” she said, “Here.” She pointed to the muscle of her right shoulder. “Bite me slowly, but make it hard.”
“Yes.” I lowered her legs and bent forward, taking her soft skin into my wet mouth. My tongue found the right spot. My teeth bit in—gentle, slow, but unrelenting.
“You have it,” she moaned. “Now fuck me hard.”
I gave it to her.
“Enough,” she said. I released her from my mouth. My teeth were etched deep into her skin, but never close to breaking the epidermis. “You know how to bite,” she smiled.
“I like to bite,” I said, my face revealing my hunger. “I want more.”
“Nice. Then you may bite me here,” she said, pointing to her other shoulder.
I took her flesh in my mouth again, fucking her hard in gratitude.
“Enough.”
“More.”
I was panting.
“Here.” She offered me her forearm. I took it as a hungry dog takes a bone.
“More.”
“Here.” The other forearm.
“More.”
“No. Now you fuck me.”
Denied the flesh I craved, I gave her a sound fucking. She drew Donny’s cock into her mouth, moaning. I held her tiny waist as I fucked.
When the three of us fell apart, it was like waking from a dream.
“I will bite you again,” I said.
“Oh, I want to be bitten by you again and again,” she smiled, kissing me.
It was, all told, as fine a night as one could hope.
Or was it?
Mitzi had misgivings.
We spoke as she left. She really enjoyed seeing me with Donny, and she liked Farahnaz. The parties, she felt, are great.
But given recent events, she wondered: was she cut out for this? Can she really share part of her life with a man who shares his with so many?
What if, she fretted, she really liked me?
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Undead
I had to murder Shelby. But the body won’t stay buried.
You may recall that I stopped writing about Shelby a few weeks back, after her mother had read her blog and my own. That, compounded with many other things, led to a very big argument between mother and daughter.
Shelby tells me that things are much better now. She and her mother have arrived at a détente. I won’t go into the details—not my place to do so—but things are much, much better.
Shelby tells me to put her back in the blog or she will kick my ass. It took her some convincing, but . . . I relent. I don’t want my ass kicked.
To bring you up to speed:
After our Valentine’s Day threesome with Meg, Shelby decided that she was going to share me with her friends. So she introduced me to Theresa as well.
Theresa and Shelby are now regulars at my gatherings.
And you remember how sweet Shelby enjoyed being dominated? Well, turns out she’s got a strong streak as a dominatrix.
It emerged as we teamed up on Meg one afternoon. Shelby’s eyes gleamed as she whipped her friend, who was bound and stuffed full of cock and sex toys.
Two nights later, she hogtied Meg and Theresa and gave them what for, all by herself. Meg sent me photos. Gosh, was I proud of my sweet honey and her handiwork.
We do a pretty good job of finding time to be alone together as well. And yeah, we still use the L word.
sex
sexblogs
You may recall that I stopped writing about Shelby a few weeks back, after her mother had read her blog and my own. That, compounded with many other things, led to a very big argument between mother and daughter.
Shelby tells me that things are much better now. She and her mother have arrived at a détente. I won’t go into the details—not my place to do so—but things are much, much better.
Shelby tells me to put her back in the blog or she will kick my ass. It took her some convincing, but . . . I relent. I don’t want my ass kicked.
To bring you up to speed:
After our Valentine’s Day threesome with Meg, Shelby decided that she was going to share me with her friends. So she introduced me to Theresa as well.
Theresa and Shelby are now regulars at my gatherings.
And you remember how sweet Shelby enjoyed being dominated? Well, turns out she’s got a strong streak as a dominatrix.
It emerged as we teamed up on Meg one afternoon. Shelby’s eyes gleamed as she whipped her friend, who was bound and stuffed full of cock and sex toys.
Two nights later, she hogtied Meg and Theresa and gave them what for, all by herself. Meg sent me photos. Gosh, was I proud of my sweet honey and her handiwork.
We do a pretty good job of finding time to be alone together as well. And yeah, we still use the L word.
sex
sexblogs
Monday, May 02, 2005
Jitters
Jimmy always says he will be early. He is always late.
This gives me a little more time to pick up toys and laundry, sweep up crumbs and make the beds with sex sheets.
Lucy picked up the kids a couple of hours ago.
It is the evening of the first of the week’s two orgies.
Jimmy organizes everything for the male party. I co-host, an easy enough responsibility provided that I can get the apartment clean in a timely fashion once the kids are gone.
I scrub the blue toothpaste from the bathroom sink, stuff coloring books and Hello Kitty stickers into cabinets, and wash cereal bowls. I have an arm full of stuffed animals when Jimmy arrives.
“Hello, love,” he air kisses me. “Sorry I’m late. It’s just that ferry from friggin’ Staten Island. I just missed one and had to wait fifteen minutes for the next . . .”
“No worries,” I assure him, as he begins to unpack his bags. He has brought sodas, condoms, lube and the garbage bags he will issue for the safekeeping of each man’s belongings. “I’m going to finish tidying.”
“Go, go, I’m fine, I’m fine . . . just need to make some calls . . .”
The apartment is sufficiently presentable. I put out condoms and candles, load up the CD player, make a last tour. I replace the toilet paper with a fresh roll. Done.
As the men arrive, Jimmy checks them off his list. Their clothes go into assigned bags which are labeled and sealed.
It’s my place, so I don’t check my clothes. I am soon sitting in my living room in jeans and a black t-shirt, making small talk with a handful of naked men.
The days are longer now, so the sun has still not set. The apartment is filled with light.
The first to arrive are generally the new men, the ones who have never been to one of Jimmy’s parties, if any group sex situation at all. As we talk, I try to put them at ease, letting them know what to expect, answering any questions they may have.
As I chat with a young actor, I wonder how many times have I uttered the phrase, “it’s a very relaxed atmosphere—just take things at your own pace.”
I am relieved of this duty as the regulars arrive. They undress while chatting, like friends meeting after work in a gym locker room. They smile at the new men on my couch as they stroll nude to my bedroom.
I sat on a kitchen counter talking with Jimmy as he processed Phil. He’s a tall well-built man in his late twenties, with close-cropped hair, goatee and glasses, the sort of fellow who gets the once-over on Eighth Avenue. He’s new to Jimmy’s parties.
He’s as nervous as a closet case at the Chelsea Y.
“I’m really new to this, so I hope I’m not . . . you know, that everyone is cool with that.”
Jimmy looks at him blankly. “You will be fine, love. Its just a sex party.”
“Just try not to block the camera shots,” I tease.
“There are cameras?” His hands froze as he unraveled his tie.
“No, no, I was kidding. Kidding! Look, it’s a very relaxed atmosphere. Take things at your own pace. These guys are cool, and it is fine if you just want to watch tonight.”
“That’s okay? If I just watch?” His tie went into his bag.
“Of course. Do what you like. And if you have any questions, talk to me.”
“How will I know if anyone, you know, is interested in me?” His shirt was off, and his t-shirt joined it in the bag.
He had trimmed the hair on his massive chest. His back rippled as he bent to remove his trousers.
Is he for real?
I looked—no wedding ring.
“Honey, you are going to do just fine,” Jimmy laughs. Philip smiles warily.
“You’ll know,” I say, soothingly. “It will be in a glance”—I give him the eye—“or a touch,” as I brush his arm. I hopped of the counter and took his hand. “C’mon, I’ll show you around.”
A cluster of men stand inside the doorway of my room, gazing at one another’s eyes, roaming their hands along one another’s bodies. They smile appreciatively at Philip’s arrival.
“See, they like you,” I whisper. “You can tell, right?”
“Yeah,” Philip smiles, moving toward them. He had kept his briefs on; he now pulled his hard cock out to show to the other men.
My work here is done.
I light candles as the room slowly faded to darkness. I have porn ready to play, but this is nicer—a calm, quiet room, the stillness broken by the sounds of breathing, of mouths on flesh, of whispers followed by gentle laughs.
The young actor is getting his cock sucked; we smile at one another.
I undress. I am among the nude men.
sex
sexblogs
group sex
gay
bisexuality
This gives me a little more time to pick up toys and laundry, sweep up crumbs and make the beds with sex sheets.
Lucy picked up the kids a couple of hours ago.
It is the evening of the first of the week’s two orgies.
Jimmy organizes everything for the male party. I co-host, an easy enough responsibility provided that I can get the apartment clean in a timely fashion once the kids are gone.
I scrub the blue toothpaste from the bathroom sink, stuff coloring books and Hello Kitty stickers into cabinets, and wash cereal bowls. I have an arm full of stuffed animals when Jimmy arrives.
“Hello, love,” he air kisses me. “Sorry I’m late. It’s just that ferry from friggin’ Staten Island. I just missed one and had to wait fifteen minutes for the next . . .”
“No worries,” I assure him, as he begins to unpack his bags. He has brought sodas, condoms, lube and the garbage bags he will issue for the safekeeping of each man’s belongings. “I’m going to finish tidying.”
“Go, go, I’m fine, I’m fine . . . just need to make some calls . . .”
The apartment is sufficiently presentable. I put out condoms and candles, load up the CD player, make a last tour. I replace the toilet paper with a fresh roll. Done.
As the men arrive, Jimmy checks them off his list. Their clothes go into assigned bags which are labeled and sealed.
It’s my place, so I don’t check my clothes. I am soon sitting in my living room in jeans and a black t-shirt, making small talk with a handful of naked men.
The days are longer now, so the sun has still not set. The apartment is filled with light.
The first to arrive are generally the new men, the ones who have never been to one of Jimmy’s parties, if any group sex situation at all. As we talk, I try to put them at ease, letting them know what to expect, answering any questions they may have.
As I chat with a young actor, I wonder how many times have I uttered the phrase, “it’s a very relaxed atmosphere—just take things at your own pace.”
I am relieved of this duty as the regulars arrive. They undress while chatting, like friends meeting after work in a gym locker room. They smile at the new men on my couch as they stroll nude to my bedroom.
I sat on a kitchen counter talking with Jimmy as he processed Phil. He’s a tall well-built man in his late twenties, with close-cropped hair, goatee and glasses, the sort of fellow who gets the once-over on Eighth Avenue. He’s new to Jimmy’s parties.
He’s as nervous as a closet case at the Chelsea Y.
“I’m really new to this, so I hope I’m not . . . you know, that everyone is cool with that.”
Jimmy looks at him blankly. “You will be fine, love. Its just a sex party.”
“Just try not to block the camera shots,” I tease.
“There are cameras?” His hands froze as he unraveled his tie.
“No, no, I was kidding. Kidding! Look, it’s a very relaxed atmosphere. Take things at your own pace. These guys are cool, and it is fine if you just want to watch tonight.”
“That’s okay? If I just watch?” His tie went into his bag.
“Of course. Do what you like. And if you have any questions, talk to me.”
“How will I know if anyone, you know, is interested in me?” His shirt was off, and his t-shirt joined it in the bag.
He had trimmed the hair on his massive chest. His back rippled as he bent to remove his trousers.
Is he for real?
I looked—no wedding ring.
“Honey, you are going to do just fine,” Jimmy laughs. Philip smiles warily.
“You’ll know,” I say, soothingly. “It will be in a glance”—I give him the eye—“or a touch,” as I brush his arm. I hopped of the counter and took his hand. “C’mon, I’ll show you around.”
A cluster of men stand inside the doorway of my room, gazing at one another’s eyes, roaming their hands along one another’s bodies. They smile appreciatively at Philip’s arrival.
“See, they like you,” I whisper. “You can tell, right?”
“Yeah,” Philip smiles, moving toward them. He had kept his briefs on; he now pulled his hard cock out to show to the other men.
My work here is done.
I light candles as the room slowly faded to darkness. I have porn ready to play, but this is nicer—a calm, quiet room, the stillness broken by the sounds of breathing, of mouths on flesh, of whispers followed by gentle laughs.
The young actor is getting his cock sucked; we smile at one another.
I undress. I am among the nude men.
sex
sexblogs
group sex
gay
bisexuality
Sunday, May 01, 2005
Extrapolations
Thanks to everyone who participated in this week’s poll, and especially to those who went the extra step to make comments or send email. It really helps to know who is reading!
As the number of respondents approaches half the number of regular readers (roughly 200 regulars, and 95 responses to date), I will take a stab at extrapolating my reading of the results. The poll is still active—feel free to continue responding.
The numbers I use below are accurate as of midday on Sunday May 1, after three days of open polling. Numbers have been generally consistent after the first twenty or so respondents.
The emails and comments I receive suggested that the readership was largely comprised of young women. The poll confirmed this.
Gender
53% female
44% male
3% transgender
There was an early surge of female respondents, suggesting that they may be among the most diligent readers. The age breakdown is:
Age
Under 18 (0%)
18-21 (9%)
21-30 (50%)
31-40 (27%)
41-50 (11%)
51-60 (0%)
Over 60 (1%)
How about that? Not one reader under 18. Man, this is one above-board sex blog! Still, readers tend to be on the young side—I was impressed by the hefty percentage of you in the few years between 18 and 21.
It seems a sizable number of you are bisexual, as is your humble narrator, but the majority are hetero—and I’m just not drawing much of a gay, lesbian or transgender readership.
Sexual Identification
Heterosexual (67%)
Bisexual (22%)
None of your beeswax (5%)
Gay (2%)
Lesbian (1%)
Transgender (1%)
Readers seem to be evenly matched between those in committed relationship and those flying solo or involved with several partners:
Relationship Status
Single (26%)
Married (26%)
Monogamous Relationship (25%)
Multiple Partners (10%)
Polyamorous (9%)
No surprise to learn how many wankers are in your midst! But gosh, it also seems that many of you are keeping busy with partners, while others are not at it so often.
Frequency of Masturbation, Per Week
Never (4%)
1-2 times (16%)
2-5 times (47%)
Daily (14%)
Several times daily (14%)
How do you turn this thing off? (3%)
Frequency of Sex With Partner
Virgin (3%)
It's been a year or more (7%)
Once a month or so (12%)
Biweekly (11%)
Weekly (15%)
2-3 times a week (32%)
Daily or thereabouts (11%)
How do you turn this thing off? (5%)
But enough about you. Let’s talk about his blog you read.
It seems that many of you read other blogs, but that this one may be on a short list of those you return to frequently. Thanks!
Blogs Followed
Only this blog (5%)
1-5 blogs (38%)
5-10 blogs (21%)
10-15 blogs (17%)
More than 20 blogs (12%)
The majority of you keep track by checking in daily. While I appreciate your obsession—and I do post often, so obsession is rewarded—you may want to avail yourself of a subscription via the Bloglet link at the left.
The 3% of you who do so get email notifications when there is something new to read, thus saving yourself the frustration of finding nothing new since the last time you checked five minutes ago.
I was very curious to find out what sexual themes and acts covered in the blog most appealed to you. You sure like that group sex . . .
Sexual Themes
Group sex (21%)
Threesomes (20%)
One-on-one Male/Female (19%)
One-on-one Male/Male (11%)
Masturbation (9%)
Fetish (8%)
Sadomasochism (8%)
. . . but I’ll be darned if you don’t gravitate to the vanilla!
Sexual Acts
Oral/genital on a female (12%)
Vaginal intercourse (12%)
Kissing (9%)
Sex toys (9%)
Touching (9%)
Oral/genital on a male (8%)
Oral/anal on a female (8%)
Anal penetration on a female (8%)
Masturbation (8%)
Oral/anal on a male (6%)
Anal penetration on a male (6%)
I was very happy to see kissing and touching rank so high. I will happily write more on that! But c’mon—do you really prefer my writing on masturbation to that on bondage and sadomasochism?
The kinky stuff is new to me, but I’ve been at masturbation a long time—you want more on that, you got it.
The most controversial question—at least, among my friends—was “If you were going to have drinks with one of the people who frequently recur in this blog, who would you chose?”
Jake (3%) asks “So who is winning the popularity contest?” Dacia (16%) commends herself for being my most popular friend.
Now, a popularity contest was not my intention. I wanted to find out with whom readers most identified. When I saw the results, I learned something else—you don’t read the Archives!
The high points for Mitzi (13%), Madeline (11%) and Marcus (11%) suggest that you enjoyed The Madeline Cycle: An Epic Romance of Two—Make That Three—Perverted Parents Riven By Geography, which begins (in earnest) with this post.
But the lower ratings for Shelby (4%) and Marla, aka Jo (3%) suggest that you don’t recognize these names, as they have not been in recent posts. They are fine drinking partners! You can get to know Shelby and Marla better through these tales.
And why do Jake, Todd (4%) and Raven (2%) rate so low? Why, you missed them in the crowd at my gatherings! Perhaps I should let you get to know the orgy-istas a bit better.
As for Dacia’s popularity, well, I dismissed that as a fluke. No surprise you like her, as 35% of you read her blog as well as mine. I guess you figured that as long as Jefferson was buying, you may as well get drinks with Dacia.
Oh, and you are kind for including my kids among those you would like to know better.
Thanks for indulging me this exercise. I may tax your patience by asking you to do this again someday, but for now, this helps!
But for now, it’s Sunday night. I have a bourbon and I am listening to The Big Broadcast. Halfway across the continent, 1200 miles to my left, Madeline and Marcus are fucking.
Let me fill you in on my week.
sex
sexblogs
sex poll
As the number of respondents approaches half the number of regular readers (roughly 200 regulars, and 95 responses to date), I will take a stab at extrapolating my reading of the results. The poll is still active—feel free to continue responding.
The numbers I use below are accurate as of midday on Sunday May 1, after three days of open polling. Numbers have been generally consistent after the first twenty or so respondents.
The emails and comments I receive suggested that the readership was largely comprised of young women. The poll confirmed this.
Gender
53% female
44% male
3% transgender
There was an early surge of female respondents, suggesting that they may be among the most diligent readers. The age breakdown is:
Age
Under 18 (0%)
18-21 (9%)
21-30 (50%)
31-40 (27%)
41-50 (11%)
51-60 (0%)
Over 60 (1%)
How about that? Not one reader under 18. Man, this is one above-board sex blog! Still, readers tend to be on the young side—I was impressed by the hefty percentage of you in the few years between 18 and 21.
It seems a sizable number of you are bisexual, as is your humble narrator, but the majority are hetero—and I’m just not drawing much of a gay, lesbian or transgender readership.
Sexual Identification
Heterosexual (67%)
Bisexual (22%)
None of your beeswax (5%)
Gay (2%)
Lesbian (1%)
Transgender (1%)
Readers seem to be evenly matched between those in committed relationship and those flying solo or involved with several partners:
Relationship Status
Single (26%)
Married (26%)
Monogamous Relationship (25%)
Multiple Partners (10%)
Polyamorous (9%)
No surprise to learn how many wankers are in your midst! But gosh, it also seems that many of you are keeping busy with partners, while others are not at it so often.
Frequency of Masturbation, Per Week
Never (4%)
1-2 times (16%)
2-5 times (47%)
Daily (14%)
Several times daily (14%)
How do you turn this thing off? (3%)
Frequency of Sex With Partner
Virgin (3%)
It's been a year or more (7%)
Once a month or so (12%)
Biweekly (11%)
Weekly (15%)
2-3 times a week (32%)
Daily or thereabouts (11%)
How do you turn this thing off? (5%)
But enough about you. Let’s talk about his blog you read.
It seems that many of you read other blogs, but that this one may be on a short list of those you return to frequently. Thanks!
Blogs Followed
Only this blog (5%)
1-5 blogs (38%)
5-10 blogs (21%)
10-15 blogs (17%)
More than 20 blogs (12%)
The majority of you keep track by checking in daily. While I appreciate your obsession—and I do post often, so obsession is rewarded—you may want to avail yourself of a subscription via the Bloglet link at the left.
The 3% of you who do so get email notifications when there is something new to read, thus saving yourself the frustration of finding nothing new since the last time you checked five minutes ago.
I was very curious to find out what sexual themes and acts covered in the blog most appealed to you. You sure like that group sex . . .
Sexual Themes
Group sex (21%)
Threesomes (20%)
One-on-one Male/Female (19%)
One-on-one Male/Male (11%)
Masturbation (9%)
Fetish (8%)
Sadomasochism (8%)
. . . but I’ll be darned if you don’t gravitate to the vanilla!
Sexual Acts
Oral/genital on a female (12%)
Vaginal intercourse (12%)
Kissing (9%)
Sex toys (9%)
Touching (9%)
Oral/genital on a male (8%)
Oral/anal on a female (8%)
Anal penetration on a female (8%)
Masturbation (8%)
Oral/anal on a male (6%)
Anal penetration on a male (6%)
I was very happy to see kissing and touching rank so high. I will happily write more on that! But c’mon—do you really prefer my writing on masturbation to that on bondage and sadomasochism?
The kinky stuff is new to me, but I’ve been at masturbation a long time—you want more on that, you got it.
The most controversial question—at least, among my friends—was “If you were going to have drinks with one of the people who frequently recur in this blog, who would you chose?”
Jake (3%) asks “So who is winning the popularity contest?” Dacia (16%) commends herself for being my most popular friend.
Now, a popularity contest was not my intention. I wanted to find out with whom readers most identified. When I saw the results, I learned something else—you don’t read the Archives!
The high points for Mitzi (13%), Madeline (11%) and Marcus (11%) suggest that you enjoyed The Madeline Cycle: An Epic Romance of Two—Make That Three—Perverted Parents Riven By Geography, which begins (in earnest) with this post.
But the lower ratings for Shelby (4%) and Marla, aka Jo (3%) suggest that you don’t recognize these names, as they have not been in recent posts. They are fine drinking partners! You can get to know Shelby and Marla better through these tales.
And why do Jake, Todd (4%) and Raven (2%) rate so low? Why, you missed them in the crowd at my gatherings! Perhaps I should let you get to know the orgy-istas a bit better.
As for Dacia’s popularity, well, I dismissed that as a fluke. No surprise you like her, as 35% of you read her blog as well as mine. I guess you figured that as long as Jefferson was buying, you may as well get drinks with Dacia.
Oh, and you are kind for including my kids among those you would like to know better.
Thanks for indulging me this exercise. I may tax your patience by asking you to do this again someday, but for now, this helps!
But for now, it’s Sunday night. I have a bourbon and I am listening to The Big Broadcast. Halfway across the continent, 1200 miles to my left, Madeline and Marcus are fucking.
Let me fill you in on my week.
sex
sexblogs
sex poll
Thursday, April 28, 2005
Tell me
It’s a beautiful day in the city—crisp, clear and sunny, nary a cloud in the sky.
The kids and I are off to shoot some hoops at the park. I will soon fill you in on recent developments. But in the meantime, do me a favor, huh? Tell me a little about yourself.
I know that there are around two hundred readers who follow this blog regularly, but I know very little about who you are, or why this blog keeps you coming back.
Below you will find a quick poll. Let me know what’s what!
Tell Jefferson
If you want to read results without voting, you can do so here:
Results: Tell Jefferson
And keep those comments and emails coming.
Meanwhile, see you at the playground!
sex
sexblogs
sex poll
The kids and I are off to shoot some hoops at the park. I will soon fill you in on recent developments. But in the meantime, do me a favor, huh? Tell me a little about yourself.
I know that there are around two hundred readers who follow this blog regularly, but I know very little about who you are, or why this blog keeps you coming back.
Below you will find a quick poll. Let me know what’s what!
Tell Jefferson
If you want to read results without voting, you can do so here:
Results: Tell Jefferson
And keep those comments and emails coming.
Meanwhile, see you at the playground!
sex
sexblogs
sex poll
Wednesday, April 27, 2005
Clarifications
I’ve been asked to clarify a few things.
First of all, there is a hustler in New York who goes by the name Jefferson. This fellow is not me. Thank you, Marcus, for bringing this to my attention.
Secondly, I have not fucked Ann Coulter up the ass, hard. And I am not the author of a blog claiming to have done so. Tell you what, though: I would fuck Ann Coulter or any other spawn of Satan to be quite so clever as this individual. Thanks, Jake, for sharing the good stuff.
sex
sexblogs
hustler
Ann Coulter
First of all, there is a hustler in New York who goes by the name Jefferson. This fellow is not me. Thank you, Marcus, for bringing this to my attention.
Secondly, I have not fucked Ann Coulter up the ass, hard. And I am not the author of a blog claiming to have done so. Tell you what, though: I would fuck Ann Coulter or any other spawn of Satan to be quite so clever as this individual. Thanks, Jake, for sharing the good stuff.
sex
sexblogs
hustler
Ann Coulter
Tuesday, April 26, 2005
Predictions
“Hey Dad, you need a haircut.”
“I know I do, Lillie. I am looking very shaggy.”
“Can I cut your hair?”
“No, you aren’t supposed to cut hair. Remember how sad I was when you cut your hair?”
Lillie lowers her voice to a whisper. “It’s pretend, Dad.”
“Oh, then yes, I would very much like a haircut.”
Lillie races off and returns with wet hands and a comb. She soaks my hair and combs it forward. I look like a wet Sting.
Lillie steps back and assesses her work.
“Now you are handsome, and Mom will marry you again.”
It’s spring break. The kids are home.
Jason is spending the night with a friend, so Collie is able to relax his big boy stance and play in the universe of stuffed animals he shares with Lillie.
All the animals have names and distinct personalities. They are all assigned specific places to sleep. Each night, a privileged few get “cuddle time,” allowing them to sleep in bed with their respective child.
That night, as I tuck in Collie, I toss his SpongeBob Squarepants blanket on top of his covers.
“No Dad, the other way,” he says, flipping the blanket. “See, this is how I tell fortunes.”
“Oh? You can tell fortunes?”
He nods. “Uh huh. Beary helps me.” He placed his stuffed bear at the edge of SpongeBob’s blue eye. Beary peered into the vast flat iris.
“Can you tell my fortune, Collie?” I asked.
“Yes.”
He held Beary so that the medium’s nose poked SpongeBob’s eye. “Your children will have many children and grandchildren. Your family will continue until the sun burns up the earth.”
“What a beautiful thought, Collie.”
Lillie looked nervous.
“Don’t worry,” I added. “The sun isn’t going to burn the earth in your lifetime.”
Lillie chewed a finger, thinking of her grandchildren in a conflagration.
parenting
sexblogs
“I know I do, Lillie. I am looking very shaggy.”
“Can I cut your hair?”
“No, you aren’t supposed to cut hair. Remember how sad I was when you cut your hair?”
Lillie lowers her voice to a whisper. “It’s pretend, Dad.”
“Oh, then yes, I would very much like a haircut.”
Lillie races off and returns with wet hands and a comb. She soaks my hair and combs it forward. I look like a wet Sting.
Lillie steps back and assesses her work.
“Now you are handsome, and Mom will marry you again.”
It’s spring break. The kids are home.
Jason is spending the night with a friend, so Collie is able to relax his big boy stance and play in the universe of stuffed animals he shares with Lillie.
All the animals have names and distinct personalities. They are all assigned specific places to sleep. Each night, a privileged few get “cuddle time,” allowing them to sleep in bed with their respective child.
That night, as I tuck in Collie, I toss his SpongeBob Squarepants blanket on top of his covers.
“No Dad, the other way,” he says, flipping the blanket. “See, this is how I tell fortunes.”
“Oh? You can tell fortunes?”
He nods. “Uh huh. Beary helps me.” He placed his stuffed bear at the edge of SpongeBob’s blue eye. Beary peered into the vast flat iris.
“Can you tell my fortune, Collie?” I asked.
“Yes.”
He held Beary so that the medium’s nose poked SpongeBob’s eye. “Your children will have many children and grandchildren. Your family will continue until the sun burns up the earth.”
“What a beautiful thought, Collie.”
Lillie looked nervous.
“Don’t worry,” I added. “The sun isn’t going to burn the earth in your lifetime.”
Lillie chewed a finger, thinking of her grandchildren in a conflagration.
parenting
sexblogs
Sunday, April 24, 2005
The Mind of Marla
My friend Marla has been busy. Thinking. And writing.
She was over a few weeks ago for drinks and snuggles, and talking about this new dilemma in her life. She had met a man she liked a lot, which led her to question if perhaps this wasn’t a good time to curtail her propensity for casual sex.
Problem is, she really likes sex.
So her plan was to cut her cadre of lovers down to a core few (I made the cut, thank God) and give serious thought to what she wants.
Of course, then she took a job that surrounds her with the tattooed muscle boys that she loves. Temptations abound.
She is an insightful storyteller—you know, a people person—so I suggested she blog all that.
She is going gangbusters over at Eternal Pleasure/Internal Pain. Drop her a line, won’t you? Tell her Jefferson sent you.
Oh, and she has changed her name to Jo. Guess I’ll have to call her Marla Jo . . .
sex
sexblogs
She was over a few weeks ago for drinks and snuggles, and talking about this new dilemma in her life. She had met a man she liked a lot, which led her to question if perhaps this wasn’t a good time to curtail her propensity for casual sex.
Problem is, she really likes sex.
So her plan was to cut her cadre of lovers down to a core few (I made the cut, thank God) and give serious thought to what she wants.
Of course, then she took a job that surrounds her with the tattooed muscle boys that she loves. Temptations abound.
She is an insightful storyteller—you know, a people person—so I suggested she blog all that.
She is going gangbusters over at Eternal Pleasure/Internal Pain. Drop her a line, won’t you? Tell her Jefferson sent you.
Oh, and she has changed her name to Jo. Guess I’ll have to call her Marla Jo . . .
sex
sexblogs
Name Brand
While out of town the other day, I perused the stock of a liquor store near my hotel.
When what to my wandering eyes should appear, but . . . a bourbon with my name on it! Jefferson’s Reserve.
I tell you, if this weren’t real life, I wouldn’t believe it myself.
First person to send me a case of this stuff gets a full body massage—with a happy ending.
sex
sexblogs
bourbon
When what to my wandering eyes should appear, but . . . a bourbon with my name on it! Jefferson’s Reserve.
I tell you, if this weren’t real life, I wouldn’t believe it myself.
First person to send me a case of this stuff gets a full body massage—with a happy ending.
sex
sexblogs
bourbon
Restraint
The reception is a swank affair in a fine regional museum. The crowd is already filling out when I arrive, drinking wine and nibbling at the hors d’oeuvres.
I make conversation with Nora, who is my co-presenter at tonight’s event. She and I are a collegial mutual admiration society. Prior to working together on this project, we only knew one another by reputation. But we liked those reputations and now, as it happens, we like one another as well.
Tonight, I am meeting her family for the first time. She has an adorable seventeen-month-old daughter, and her husband is a very nice fellow. Nick is darned handsome too; tall, dark hair with the first flecks of gray, and a radiant smile. They dote on one another endearingly.
And that baby! That blue-eyed cherub who took a quick shining to me. Most babies that age are wary of strangers, so I knew to approach her gingerly. She was soon very happy to be in my arms. And I am very happy to hold babies.
Particularly when you get to give them back.
As the evening got underway, Nick told me that they had enjoyed drinks at a new and very posh restaurant near our hotel. Perhaps I would join them there for dinner after the event?
Of course, I accepted.
A bell sounded, and we were all herded into an auditorium. Nora and I gave our presentation. There were the usual accolades afterward.
As the reception resumed, I found myself in conversation with a young artist, a cute gay man who introduced himself as a fan of my writing. Thanks, I said, returning the compliment, as I think his art is pretty great too.
He then talked very knowingly about things I had written. Oh, wow, I thought, he wasn’t just blowing smoke. He actually did know my writing.
You know, I am pretty easy. I don’t require much foreplay. But a cute thing who thinks I am smart? I was beginning to regret my dinner plans, and wondering how I could casually drop my room number into the conversation.
I tried not to drool when he introduced me to his father and grandmother.
Alas, at such functions, you really do have to respond to the tugs on your elbow. I was pulled away—although not before giving him my email address.
The evening wound down. I piled into the backseat of Nick and Nora’s car, playing fingers with their baby as the adults talked about the reception.
The restaurant was posh. And it was trying hard—it was part of four-star hotel chain and only days old. It was staffed to the gills; it seemed that every staffer to come in contact with diners was observed by at least two executives.
Babies drop things. Every time that baby dropped a spoon, there was someone at the ready to be sure she had another before the first one had bounced. She turned it into a game.
My kinda gal.
I decided to let Nick and Nora order. Smart idea. They started us off with martinis, then oysters and salads, then a nice taster’s sampling of entrees, all backed by a fine pinot.
The conversation was kick ass. And when the bill came, they declared that my money was no good.
Did I mention that I am easy?
After dinner, we took a walk on the beach. I removed my shoes, tucked my socks into my jacket pocket, and rolled up my trousers. Nick and I passed the baby back and forth as she pointed at the waves and stars, asking “Da? Da?”
Nora announced that it was time to get the baby to bed.
Nick was still stargazing. “Good idea. While you do, I think I will stop by Jefferson’s room for a cigarette.”
“Oh, but you quit,” Nora disparaged. “For shame.”
“I did, and I don’t even have any smokes,” Nick said. “But if Jefferson doesn’t mind . . .”
“I don’t mind, but I don’t smoke,” I said. “For you though, I will get a pack.”
“Then we have a date,” he smiled.
The family went up to their room to get their baby settled. I crossed the street to buy some Camels.
“Do you have matches?” I asked the clerk.
“Nope,” he said, pointing at a display of lighters. Oh, so that is how it’s going to be? I plunked down an extra $1.50 for a lighter. It would be seized the next morning by airport security.
I went back to my room and filled the ice bucket.
Nick knocked at my door. I offered him a bourbon and we sat on the balcony to listen to the waves. We smoked as we drank. One cigarette. Two. Three.
We talked about art, marriage and parenting. As we chatted, a busload of high school students converged on the boardwalk outside my balcony. We watched as they raced to the shoreline, cavorted on the beach, and made their way back into the hotel.
They popped their heads out on their own balconies, talking to one another across floors. We joined in for a bit, laughing that this was a bit like “Rowan and Martin’s Laugh-In”—an ancient reference we kept from the kids.
We talked a bit more before Nick said he needed to get to bed.
At my door, he hugged me. As he did, I held his face and kissed his cheek.
“Night, Jefferson.”
“Sleep tight, Nick.”
He opened the door and left to sleep with his wife and child. I closed the door behind him.
I left the balcony door open. I wanted to fall asleep to the breeze, the sound of waves and flirtatious teenagers.
As I stripped for bed, I commended myself. I had not offered Nick a blowjob.
Such restraint.
sex
sexblogs
bisexuality
oral sex
I make conversation with Nora, who is my co-presenter at tonight’s event. She and I are a collegial mutual admiration society. Prior to working together on this project, we only knew one another by reputation. But we liked those reputations and now, as it happens, we like one another as well.
Tonight, I am meeting her family for the first time. She has an adorable seventeen-month-old daughter, and her husband is a very nice fellow. Nick is darned handsome too; tall, dark hair with the first flecks of gray, and a radiant smile. They dote on one another endearingly.
And that baby! That blue-eyed cherub who took a quick shining to me. Most babies that age are wary of strangers, so I knew to approach her gingerly. She was soon very happy to be in my arms. And I am very happy to hold babies.
Particularly when you get to give them back.
As the evening got underway, Nick told me that they had enjoyed drinks at a new and very posh restaurant near our hotel. Perhaps I would join them there for dinner after the event?
Of course, I accepted.
A bell sounded, and we were all herded into an auditorium. Nora and I gave our presentation. There were the usual accolades afterward.
As the reception resumed, I found myself in conversation with a young artist, a cute gay man who introduced himself as a fan of my writing. Thanks, I said, returning the compliment, as I think his art is pretty great too.
He then talked very knowingly about things I had written. Oh, wow, I thought, he wasn’t just blowing smoke. He actually did know my writing.
You know, I am pretty easy. I don’t require much foreplay. But a cute thing who thinks I am smart? I was beginning to regret my dinner plans, and wondering how I could casually drop my room number into the conversation.
I tried not to drool when he introduced me to his father and grandmother.
Alas, at such functions, you really do have to respond to the tugs on your elbow. I was pulled away—although not before giving him my email address.
The evening wound down. I piled into the backseat of Nick and Nora’s car, playing fingers with their baby as the adults talked about the reception.
The restaurant was posh. And it was trying hard—it was part of four-star hotel chain and only days old. It was staffed to the gills; it seemed that every staffer to come in contact with diners was observed by at least two executives.
Babies drop things. Every time that baby dropped a spoon, there was someone at the ready to be sure she had another before the first one had bounced. She turned it into a game.
My kinda gal.
I decided to let Nick and Nora order. Smart idea. They started us off with martinis, then oysters and salads, then a nice taster’s sampling of entrees, all backed by a fine pinot.
The conversation was kick ass. And when the bill came, they declared that my money was no good.
Did I mention that I am easy?
After dinner, we took a walk on the beach. I removed my shoes, tucked my socks into my jacket pocket, and rolled up my trousers. Nick and I passed the baby back and forth as she pointed at the waves and stars, asking “Da? Da?”
Nora announced that it was time to get the baby to bed.
Nick was still stargazing. “Good idea. While you do, I think I will stop by Jefferson’s room for a cigarette.”
“Oh, but you quit,” Nora disparaged. “For shame.”
“I did, and I don’t even have any smokes,” Nick said. “But if Jefferson doesn’t mind . . .”
“I don’t mind, but I don’t smoke,” I said. “For you though, I will get a pack.”
“Then we have a date,” he smiled.
The family went up to their room to get their baby settled. I crossed the street to buy some Camels.
“Do you have matches?” I asked the clerk.
“Nope,” he said, pointing at a display of lighters. Oh, so that is how it’s going to be? I plunked down an extra $1.50 for a lighter. It would be seized the next morning by airport security.
I went back to my room and filled the ice bucket.
Nick knocked at my door. I offered him a bourbon and we sat on the balcony to listen to the waves. We smoked as we drank. One cigarette. Two. Three.
We talked about art, marriage and parenting. As we chatted, a busload of high school students converged on the boardwalk outside my balcony. We watched as they raced to the shoreline, cavorted on the beach, and made their way back into the hotel.
They popped their heads out on their own balconies, talking to one another across floors. We joined in for a bit, laughing that this was a bit like “Rowan and Martin’s Laugh-In”—an ancient reference we kept from the kids.
We talked a bit more before Nick said he needed to get to bed.
At my door, he hugged me. As he did, I held his face and kissed his cheek.
“Night, Jefferson.”
“Sleep tight, Nick.”
He opened the door and left to sleep with his wife and child. I closed the door behind him.
I left the balcony door open. I wanted to fall asleep to the breeze, the sound of waves and flirtatious teenagers.
As I stripped for bed, I commended myself. I had not offered Nick a blowjob.
Such restraint.
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