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!

Wednesday, April 27, 2005


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.

Tuesday, April 26, 2005


“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.


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.

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 . . .

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.



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.

Saturday, April 23, 2005

Consenting Adults

Another business trip, another beachfront hotel room.

I get paid for doing this?

This trip is short, an overnight stay a few states down the Atlantic coast. I am giving a talk and attending a reception. I’ve checked into my room and showered; now I’ve got about an hour to kill before leaving for the event.

I pour a bourbon and sit on the balcony in my boxers, feeling the cool ocean breeze on my skin, watching the waves as the late afternoon sun casts long shadows on the beach below.

My thoughts drifted to last night’s news about next weekend, when Marcus and Madeline will tryst in her hometown.

My long weekend with Madeline ended when I left town on my previous business trip. That time, I was on the other side of the planet, unable to use my cell phone or to check my email frequently.

That was tough, as so much had transpired over that weekend with Madeline. It would have been nice to process that in conversations.

Marcus and Madeline felt the same way. But unlike me, they were in a position to do something about it.

He called her every day while I was away. Three or four times a day. They talked until all hours of the night.

Soon after I returned home, I found Madeline online. We traded instant messages, caught up, revisited the weekend.

At one point she asked: have you talked to Marcus?

Not yet, but I will, I said.

You need to talk to Marcus, she replied.

Marcus is never online. We talk the old-fashioned way, by telephone.

I have a horrible aversion to telephones. To me, they are nasty contraptions to be used only when ordering Chinese food or summoning ambulances.

But for Marcus, I make an exception.

After days of trying, Marcus and I finally found one another on the telephone. We caught up a bit, then began to talk about Madeline.

Marcus told me that during their long conversations, he had decided that there was something between them that he wanted to pursue.

He tried to resist it. He knew going into our weekend together that this was supposed to be a fun romp, nothing more. But at some point during that weekend, he had sensed a spark between them. Something special.

He recalled that he had once had a lover that meant a great deal to him. He had neglected to act at a critical moment, and lost her to another. It remains a great regret in his life. How could he not act now?

He reminded me that there is no reason why we need to be conventional about this. This story might end with Jefferson and Madeline living happily ever after. This story might end with the three of us living happily ever after. Who knows? But none of us has a stab at happiness if we don’t take chances.

He wanted to take a chance with Madeline. But he would only do it if I consented. He wouldn’t want to hurt me.

Well, what could I say?

I love Marcus, and I’m not going to stand in the way of him having some fun with Madeline, or even pursuing his stab at happiness with her.

I’d like to think about this, I said. But on first blush, I think I would not want to prevent you from seeing someone for whom you felt such attraction.

I reserved the right to later regret that decision.

I chatted with Madeline a little later. That boy seems to have it bad, I said.

So it seems, she replied. How do you feel about that?

I told her what I had told Marcus.

She said that she was glad that Marcus was so interested in spending time with her. The phone calls, she said, have been great. When the phone rings, her children now ask “Is that Marcus?” just the way that when she is online, they ask “Is that Jefferson?”

She assured me that whatever something we seem to have is pretty unique. She doesn’t want to risk losing that. So while she thought it would be fun to see where things were going with Marcus, she would only do so if I consented. She wouldn’t want to hurt me.

Well, what could I say?

I reserved the right to later regret that decision.

I must say, I was a little surprised that Marcus then made plans to visit her so quickly. But not too surprised. That boy is one for acting on his impulses.

The sun is taking its sweet time about setting today.

The phone rings. My ride is ready to take me to tonight’s event. I quickly dress and brush my teeth.

I’ve got an empty hotel room on the beach awaiting my return.

No Comments

Apparently the comment board for the previous post is inaccessible. Here are the comments to date:

Wow. No surprise perhaps but how does it feel?

Posted by Collette to One Life, Take Two at 4/22/2005 08:19:27 AM

Is he bringing the Leather Mask?

Posted by Mitzi to One Life, Take Two at 4/22/2005 08:30:20 AM

delurking ...
i had to
i had to say
damn it

Posted by SN to One Life, Take Two at 4/22/2005 10:03:14 AM



Posted by Anonymous to One Life, Take Two at 4/22/2005 10:58:50 AM

shit, i feel like i should write i'm sorry. ??

Posted by Marla to One Life, Take Two at 4/22/2005 02:55:36 PM

C'est la vie.... Who will you be spending you time with? I think that decision is more interesting.

Posted by Anonymous to One Life, Take Two at 4/22/2005 04:17:35 PM

Friday, April 22, 2005

No Surprise

I suppose this comes as no surprise.

Next week, Marcus is flying out to spend a weekend alone with Madeline.

Thursday, April 21, 2005


I tucked in the kids and kissed them good night. I made my bed with fresh sheets, and started to do the dishes. After finishing the dishes, I pour a bourbon, and sign online.

I have a date with Madeline, my online girlfriend.

Just as we get the webcams cranking, up pop an instant message from May, my former steady who now lives in California.

May: I hear you are divorced.

Jefferson: Good evening. Well, it’s not official yet, but the papers were filed two days ago. News travels fast!

May: I heard it from Jen. She heard it from Whitman.

Oh yes, Whitman—my former professor. He and May know a lot of people in common.

Jefferson: Yeah, Whitman was up here last weekend as this transpired.

May: Can you imagine how humiliated I was to hear it second hand? Jen was so embarrassed that I didn’t already know. Why didn’t you call me?

Here we go.

Jefferson: Sorry. I haven’t been burning the phone lines with the announcement. I haven’t even told my parents yet.

May: I’m not your parents. I think you owe me that courtesy.

And so we fell into a recurring theme of our now-defunct relationship: her extreme disappointment that I fail to put her at the center of my life. This disappointment overwhelms everything else between us, leaving her morose and dejected.

I know what I am supposed to do. I am supposed to be abjectly regretful that she was put in the humiliating position of hearing second hand that my divorce had been filed.

But you know, it galls me to go that route.

It annoys me that the news about my divorce—my divorce!—has been turned into a discussion of my failure to meet an obligation to her. Her morbidity prevents her from asking how I feel about the filing. This discussion would be framed entirely by my failure to call her with the news.

I should mention that May battles depression. I should also mention that my ex Lucy does as well.

When Lucy and I first started dating, I noticed that she would sometimes vanish for a couple of days. I didn’t think much of it; she seemed to be a fairly private person.

She let me into her depression when it became apparent. I woke up one morning and found her collapsed on the bathroom floor, nude, staring at a tray of kitty litter.

I helped her back to bed. She lay there, eyes open, unable to speak. I asked if she needed to see a doctor. She nodded, slightly.

I called in sick to work. I got Lucy dressed and we took a cab to her doctor.

She was with the doctor for a while. When she returned to the waiting room, she was groggy and lethargic, but functioning. She was to go home and rest. I stayed with her, watching movies in her bed.

When she came out of it the next day, she was very embarrassed that I had found her.

Don’t be embarrassed, I said. It’s part of who you are. I love you, and I want to help.

When she was overcome, I would cancel everything to be nursemaid.

When we had our first child, she got serious about tackling her depression. She finally found medication that works.

I had plenty of experience with Lucy’s depression, so I recognized the signs in May’s behavior early in our relationship. And like Lucy, May was drawn to me in part because I keep a pretty even keel—I could be counted on to help with the rough spots.

Only problem was, I also knew better than to succumb to the demands of a depressive personality.

While I was dating May, I had a very rare weekend to myself. She missed me, and asked if I could come to see her.

I couldn’t, I said. I had writing to do, and a reception to attend.

You can do your writing at my place, she countered. And that reception can go on without you. Or I can come and go with you.

I stuck to my guns. I had made plans, I would be seeing her soon . . . there was no need to cancel my plans to rush to her side.

“Are you saying that reception is more important to you than I am?” she cried.

“No,” I said. “I am saying that I care about you. I saw you last week, and I will see you next week. I am taking this weekend to myself to do other things.”

“You don’t love me!” she wailed.

I repeated myself, staying calm. I refused to be drawn into her mood.

So last night, I knew to resist her cry for attention. I was not going to be drawn into a conversation about my failure to call her with the news about my divorce filing.

Jefferson: I am sorry you are upset to hear the news second hand. I have other things to do now, and I’m tired. So I am ending this chat.

May: Why didn’t you call me?!

Jefferson: Good night. Talk to you soon.

I signed out.

I talked to Madeline for a while. We shot the shit, unwound from the day. Very normal, very relaxed.

Wednesday, April 20, 2005


In the laundry room, I ran into a new neighbor who had acquired her apartment as many of my neighbors have—she inherited it at the death of her grandparents.

She was folding sheets.

“Those are beautiful sheets,” I admired. They were crisp and white, with embroidered details.

“Aren’t they?” she smiled. “Let me tell you about these sheets.”

My neighbor had cared for her grandmother in her final years; her grandfather had died a few years before.

One afternoon, her grandmother asked to be helped from her bed so that the sheets could be washed. She wanted to sit in the living room until the sheets were clean and the bed made again.

“Wouldn’t you be more comfortable in the bed?” her granddaughter asked. “I can make the bed with other sheets.”

“Oh no,” the grandmother replied. “I don’t have any other sheets.”

She told her granddaughter that when she and her husband fled Germany during the war, they carried only one trunk.

Among the contents were the sheets on her bed. The sheets my neighbor was now folding.

“So for fifty plus years of marriage, they had only one set of sheets?” I asked.

“That’s right,” my neighbor nodded. “My mother was conceived in these sheets. And now I sleep in them.”


I hoped that my neighbor had not noticed my own wash.

As we talked, I had folded two loads comprised entirely of sheets. Sheets for my kids beds, sheets for my bed, sheets for my sex parties.

So many sheets.

Story of Harold

All this talk about fisting sends me to my bookshelves.

The Story of Harold is the fictional diary of a bisexual pervert and author of children’s books, recounting his life in New York in 1968. Originally published in 1974, the book is usually out of print. (My Depraved Librarian confirms this is currently the case.)

It was written by Terry Andrews, the pseudonym of George Selden, author of the classic children’s book,
The Cricket in Times Square. Like the best sex fiction, it is drawn from the author's life.

A Manhattan writer using a pseudonym to relate a double life, divided between children on the one hand, bisexuality and sadism on the other. Are such things possible?

The narrator’s most adored lover is a married surgeon named Jim. In this passage, Terry fists Jim for the first time.

After endless love-making—drinking, whipping, popping poppers, fucking, not coming—I had been turned into a kind of phallic Frankenstein. (The monster, I mean, not the doctor.) Pure cock from head to toe, with somewhere inside my head a tiny little inventive mind that was thinking and thinking up things.

Now for instance—rimming! I does it, says I, very modestly—but not very often—the last was that hooker last fall—and not with much pleasure. But last night what Jim was sitting on seemed like the sweetmeat of the world. I had flogged it enough to satisfy pride, so I decided—oh neophyte, why not worship a while? The altar: flat on his belly—the priest: on my knees—the host: somewhere between his cheeks. I hadn’t done it before, like that, with Jim, with his voice, disbelieved. But with his ass, that levitated into my tongue, in a while he had no doubts at all.

Perhaps we had a recall of the hash. Without his visciousness. But we got to that planet—Jupiter—if sopranos sing on Jupiter, they sound like Flagstad—where every gesture is ten times larger.

“Don’t come!”—me.

Jim—“I won’t.”

And that curious angel prompted me. I was slavering like some rabid dog, licking my spit and the sweat of his ass off my lips. I smacked his tail, hard.

“Hey!” (He has a threatening baritone that he uses when one goes a little too far: the kind of a sound—“Hey!”—that I’m sure he believes that a sergeant might growl to pull up a recruit.)

“You think you’re an adventurer!” But I too had my own challenges. “You’re a tame cocksucker—a Riverdale fuck—that’s what you are.”

“You want to strap my ass again?” His curiosity—un-Jimlike—would have made me laugh, if I hadn’t known what I meant to propose.

“No.” And my nonchalance was about as ordinary as Elizabeth Taylor’s latest diamond. “You’re pretty proud of that ass of yours, aren’t you?”

“It’s made a lot of people happy.”

“How about we please your tail, for a while?” (The lure of words is pornography.)

“You want to fuck?”

“Not with my prick.”

“Got a dildo?”

“Yes. And it’s growing at the end of my arm.”

“Come on!” In disbelief. But the lower half of his body strengthened. In fear? In excitement? (In words—?)

I challenged, “Big swinger! Big quester after sexual adventures! You’re a Riverdale fuck!”

“It can’t be done—“

“Doctor—I’m certain you know that it can.”

“When I was an intern, a guy came into the hospital with a flashlight stuck up his ass. He almost bled to death.”

“One does well to stay away from amateurs and fetishists.” True, true. My increasingly nervous voyeurs—or is that jitteriness something else?—when you read in the paper that a handsome bachelor has died of “internal hemorrhages,” it may only mean that he had the wrong fist, flashlight—or crowbar for that matter—shoved up his ass.

“And you’re not an amateur, I suppose?”

“No complaints yet, Or deaths,” I met him reportorially. “It depends on the person. If he has the guts for it. And I’m speaking literally.” Was he near the idea emotionally?—intellectually?—an insane speculation? Quietness was requisite. “Surely, doctor, you’ve performed more than one sigmoidoscopy yourself.”

“In my office. With the right equipment.”

“This bed is an office,” I truthfully said. “And the equipment’s in the bathroom. And right here.” I spread out five fingers on the top of his back, and began to caress his spine, up and down his vertebrae, like silent notes.

He lifted his hands, palms flat on the mattress, aligned beside his head. He was shivering—the nerves’ giddiness before the unknown—like a colt. “Will you hurt me?” The instant of commitment.

“No.” But I wondered whether love or hatred would manipulate my puppet’s hand. One thing I knew: I would have no part of it. “I won’t hurt you,” I quietly promised, and lied again.

“Okay.” His head swung from side to side: abandoned—an animal in heat. “I’ve got to take an enema.”

“I dislike that word. Say ‘douche.’ There’s a bag in the medicine chest in the bathroom. Go do your duty.”

He was too far out now in willingness. “You wouldn’t like to do that too—”

I sensed a huge advantage in this area of untapped sensuality. “We’ll save some experiments for another time—shall we?”

“Yes, sir.”

He was in the john for quite some long time. I got the couch ready: a pillow for him to lie prone on—four towels—a jar of cold cream, by far the best lubricant—

My witnesses, cool off now—do!
This is going to happen to Jim, not you.

—and three inhalers loaded with fresh amyl nitrite.

He came back sheepish, with reservations. “This isn’t going to work.”

“Lie down.”

“Will you stop if it hurts?”

“No. I’ll press right on till you feel my fist in your throat.”

“Look, Terry—”

“Don’t worry. I won’t get pleasure unless you do.”

And Please, God, I added—“Lie down”—let that be true.

“On your knees now, Doctor. Right shoulder down.”

“I can’t—hey!”

“Shut up”—affectionately. “Put your right shoulder down on the mattress. That’s right. You’ll see stars, love bug!”

“No, Terry—“ he tried to harden his voice into fact. “—I can’t—”

“You already have. The last problem we had were my knuckles. Relax.”

“Are you there—?”

“No. But there’s no more problems. This is where you begin to enjoy it.” My hand, with the hot wet pressure of flesh around it, seemed to seed itself with brain cells. “Now say it, Jimmy—” I called him “Jimmy”—an affectionate verbal gesture—

A lovely touch, gentle feelers, that.
When I had my fist—
Yes, up to the wrist—
Into Dr. Andrews, you know what!

“—you like it. Out loud, Jimmy. Say it!”

“I like it. Yes sir.”

“My boy—you are a natural!”

I will not try to write his groans. “Oh!”—“Ah!”—seem very inadequate, when describing pain or ecstasy. He did make sounds, though, that are far beyond words.

“Kneel up. Kneel up!”

“I can’t—”

“Yes you can.” I gently propelled him toward the wall. And finger by finger, he inched his way up. And achieved another world: unbelievable verticality.

“Oh Christ—I’m going to pass out—”

“No you’re not. You fell that corner there—?”

“Terry, don’t—”

“I will pass out—”

“No you won’t. You’ll come. Throw your shoulders back.”

He is six feet two, remember—“I can’t!”—and has a back that proves the primates were right.

“I said!—throw your shoulders back! Be a king on your knees!” And then—

“You could kill him,” someone whispered to me.
(Unwritten moans.)
“Do you feel that pulse, that artery—?”
(Unwritten groans.)

“Just pluck it. Pluck it hard. And wait.
He’ll bleed to death around your hand:
Warm love, wet love, red love, yes, and
Commensurate with all your hate.”

His pulse went quick; his delirium fluttered at the tips of my fingers and affirmed itself, tightened around my wrist. I gauged the time—a disbelieved affinity for him—by the length and depth of his breathing. Then said, in a different voice, “Now easily, easily down now again.”

“You’re still inside me—“

“That’s all right. You have to help me. Help me now—”

“You’ll kill me—!”

Ah! . . . But: “No. It’s okay. I’m out.”

“Is there blood?”

“No.” There wasn’t. If there had been, a couple of drops or two, I’d have lied. (Of course, if his life had gushed out, these pages would have ended here—you’d all be free—and [my housekeeper] would have found us both.)

“Did that happen? My God—” He sprawled before me, prone, still floating in an unreal space. Like someone safe, already on the ground, I had to guide this blind pilot down. “—I’m a doctor.”

I gathered him in, a male harvest in my arms. And I felt him drifting, sinking back, out of madness and into the practical world. It was time to make him laugh. “As far as that goes, I thin that for an unregistered nurse my technique has been proved to be quite adequate too.”

An arm circled my waist, he chuckled, and landed, upright in reality. Alive, alas. “My guts are readjusting themselves.”

“Nature’s way, baby.” Any banality—words—to make it all seem possible.

The Story of Harold
Terry Andrews
George Selden

Tuesday, April 19, 2005

Rocks, Papers, Scissors

Viviane poured two stiff bourbons, on the rocks. “Okay, show me your driver’s license,” she said.

I pulled out my wallet.

“Okay, good. Now take this,” she said, handing me a pen. “And this,” she added, handing me my drink. “Cheers.”

“Cheers.” I took a belt, opened the pen, and changed the course of my life.

My lawyer had given me very clear instructions.

There were five copies of the final divorce agreement. Lucy and I needed to initial every page on all copies—there were over two hundred pages involved—and sign each copy in the presence of a notary public.

Lucy signed the papers at the end of the day on Friday and brought them to me. I had to have the signed agreements at her lawyer’s office before nine on Monday morning; they were being filed with the court at ten.

I had to find a notary over the weekend. I thought immediately of Viviane.

Viviane is also going through a divorce. We’ve met a few times over drinks to discuss life, art and the beginnings of our new lives. We’ve kissed, which was sweet and passionate.

I once left two hickeys on her bosom to remember me by.

She agreed to notarize my signature, but at a cost. She had gone without sex in the two years since her break up. She wanted me to break that streak of bad luck.

She drove a hard bargain. But what could I do? I needed a notary. So I agreed to emboss the sheets of this smart and attractive notary public.

“Now,” she instructed. “Sign here.”

I did. She countersigned, stamped the page and attached her seal.

“Again, here.” I held her hand as she left her stamp.

“Again.” I ran a hand along her leg.

“Again.” My hand on her back.

“And once more.” A kiss.

And so easily as that, my marriage ended.

If there is a God, the Lord spends too much time on irony. As I kissed Viviane, her stereo was playing Frank Sinatra singing "I Love My Wife."

She took me to her bedroom. We undressed, kissing. Her kisses grew hungry, awakening my mouth.

My mouth traveled all over her body, leaving kisses, nibbles, bites.

We went at it passionately.

When I left, my divorce was signed, sealed and ready for delivery. Viviane was covered in hickeys, her streak broken beyond repair.

Feeling light headed and giddy, I went to meet a friend for dinner and theatre. He is a former professor of mine. He served as the best man at my wedding. His signature witnessed my marriage certificate.

He was visiting me for the weekend, along with his husband of eighteen years.

“Well,” I announced, “I’m pretty much divorced.”

“Rather ironic, given what we are seeing tonight,” he laughed. They were taking me to see “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?”

But first, we were having dinner with another former student of his. The former student brought his boyfriend. His boyfriend is Jake Shears, lead singer for the Scissor Sisters. They joined us at the play and for drinks afterwards.

Throughout the evening, I reflected on the loving affection of the two young men and the longevity and commitment of my professor’s relationship.

Perhaps I will find those things as well.

But as George and Martha bickered on stage, I took solace that at least those days were behind me.


Frank Sinatra
Whos Afraid of Virginia Woolf?
Scissor Sisters


I missed my kids the way drowning lungs miss oxygen.

They were with my ex for a few days more after I returned from my business trip. It was a warm sunny afternoon when I walked across the park to pick them up.

I was in a spirited mood, and planning a large supper. Lucy met me.

“Hey,” I said. “You got a haircut.”

She shielded her eyes to the sun and glared.

“Uh huh. You have no idea. This is bullshit.”

“What . . . ?”

“Your son is lying about his homework. He is now behind on a project due in two days. You have to make sure he does this! If he doesn’t do his homework, he will get bad grades, and we won’t be able to get him into a good high school. He will wind up in a school with ruffians. Do you want that?”

“No, of course not, but what . . .”

“He is a liar. I’m sick of it.”

“Okay . . .”

She shook her head. “This is bullshit. We have shared custody and I’ve had the kids all week.”

“I’m sorry, I was away. But you agreed to take them. I mean . . .”

“I am getting screwed on custody, I am getting screwed about money, and that is bullshit.”

“I know, the divorce sucks. Everyone is getting screwed, especially the kids.” Where was all this vitriol coming from?

“You know, I tried everything to make this work. Everything. This is your fault too, you know. It’s not just me.”

This came from nowhere. This was going nowhere.

“Okay,” I replied. I was calm, not having anticipated such an onslaught. “So what is this about homework?”

Lucy stood, glaring at me. Then she explained the homework assignment, turned on her heels, and stormed off.

What was all that about?

I got my answer at home. My lawyer had sent me an email.

Lucy was scheduled to sign our divorce agreement on Friday. No wonder she was in a foul mood.

It was almost over.


Monday, April 18, 2005


As I planned the next sex party, my new social secretary, Mr. Ockham, sat at my elbow.

“Keep it simple,” he intoned. “Invite only those who pass muster. No undue complexities ; strive to simplicity.”

Good advice, sir.

The previous party had marked a farewell to my friend Raven, who made her last appearance before returning home to the West Coast. She had come to New York for school, and while she remained open to staying in the city—provided she fell in love and got a great job—she had left her heart in another town.

Providence drew her back toward the sunset.

For her final party, Raven invited a slew of folks eager to get their hands on her tattoos just one last time before she was gone.

I chastised her for inviting people I had not met—that’s outside protocol, I reprimanded her—but how could I deny her the party she wanted?

I made the margaritas she requested.

I lashed her to the bed for one last gangbang.

And I provided Sharpie markers so we could all sign her naked flesh like a yearbook. My inscription hewed to yearbook cliches, masking my sadness in irony: “The end of an era! Thanks for the memories.”

I kissed her goodbye at the evening’s end. As I hugged her, I wept into her neck.

“This is what I was afraid of,” she sniffled.

We had been having sex together and side-by-side for the better part of a year. Whatever comes next for each of us, that was ending.

After such a large and emotionally charged party, I wanted something smaller, more intimate. This time I wanted only those with whom I really enjoy spending time.

An era had ended with Raven’s departure. Perhaps a new one is due.

Lars was among those on my short guest list. He has had a standing invitation for some time, but it never seemed to work out.

Lars is a straight boy who likes to suck cock.

He’s smart and cute—dark hair, lean, 26—with a great sense of humor. He’s a film geek, like a number of us.

And did I mention that he sucks cock? Let me reiterate: this boy gives the best head in Manhattan. Women and men alike are wowed by his prowess.

He’s also in a wheelchair, paralyzed from the waist down.

I dropped him a line; he was available to join us for what would be his first sex party.

I invited someone else new to group sex, Theresa, the best friend of my jailbait girlfriend. The two of them have been friends since seventh grade, but only recently have they each discovered that that the other is a pervert.

Turns out they share an affinity for bisexuality and bondage. And that affinity leads them to my welcome mat.

Theresa and I get along well, so with the blessing of our adored mutual friend, we were game to introducing sex into things. Good thing, because our shared friend insisted on it.

Theresa is a Renaissance beauty: twenty-one and fair, with long wavy blonde hair, blue eyes, and lovely white teeth.

Jake could not make it to the party, but he and my jailbait girlfriend were eager to fuck one another—it had been weeks since the last time!—so he stopped by before the party.

As we watched them go at it, Theresa massaged my feet and hands. I was nude, having warmed up her friend as she watched. Tanya stayed dressed. No reason to rush.

Jake left behind a very well-fucked girl; she rested in my arms as I availed myself of Theresa’s skillful cocksucking.

The sun set, the room grew dark . . . she might have taken me all night.

But we had a party to tend. We dressed. I promised her a sound fucking later. We kissed. Deep.

The candles were lit. Music played.

Todd brought the makings of margaritas, eager to get his mind off taxes. I tended bar as guests arrived.

Mr. Ockham pulled me aside. Had I invited Chas?

No, and yet here he was, at the door.

Chas came to our parties via a posting. We tried him out for a few, but there was a general feeling that he was not our kind—too indiscreet to be trusted. A few of our gang had suggested he not be invited to return.

These parties have occurred every two weeks, on the same weeknight, like clockwork, for close to two years. Incredibly, for a group of people who are having sex with one another, there is no squabbling, no backbiting, no drama.

For that to be true, we need to trust one another. If someone violates that trust, or doesn’t understand it, Mr. Ockham and I prepare walking papers.

“No point in unnecessary complications,” Mr. Ockham grimaces as he stamps exit visas.

I don’t think Chas meant to crash the party. He simply knew it was going on—it’s a given on that night of the week.

Glances were exchanged among a few folks when he arrived.

As folks chatted, I discreetly took Chas aside and explained that he would not be able to stay tonight.

He apologized for showing up unannounced. I expressed my regret that I had not explained this in advance.

He stayed a bit longer, to save face, then made his excuses and left.

It was very gentlemanly. As it should be.

We would clear the air the next day.

By the time Chas departed, Lars had taken Reese onto his lap and wheeled her to a bedroom. His first party, and he got the action underway. Another mark in favor of Lars.

Dacia, Todd and Tevin were going at it in another room, lights ablaze.

The rest of us shed our clothes and joined the fray.

Reese was reclined over Lars’s legs, moaning softly and caressing her breasts as he tongued her pussy.

“Best head in Manhattan?” I asked her.

She opened her eyes wide. “Uh huh,” she sighed.

I thought it was time to address unfinished business with Theresa. We kissed as I fucked her on the futon.

Tevin stood nearby, glowing in candle light. I waved him over so that Theresa and I could suck his cock. We traded it back and forth. His cock is long, so that she could focus on its head as I licked the shaft.

I watched her face as we shared his cock; her eyes were closed in concentration, as they had been when she sucked me.

I rose to my knees to concentrate on fucking her. Tevin moved to kneel over her chest, feeding his cock into her mouth.

Another couple fucked next to us.

I watched Tevin’s tempo, regulating my own to complement it. He picked up pace; I followed suite, my hands on his slender hips.

He came, covering her chest and neck. She gasped.

He looked at her, then back at me. “Wow, I really need to fuck you, Theresa. Okay with you, Jefferson?”

Tevin sure has stamina.

I moved aside to watch them fuck. He went at it fast, never mind that he had cum just a moment earlier. It was as if his orgasm had cleared his throat before delivering the main address.

I would have Theresa to myself soon enough.

I was tidying my room as my guests conversed in the living room. Theresa walked by my door.

“Hey you,” I called. “Come here.”

She obeyed. We kissed deeply, falling onto the bed.

Once I was inside her, I reached below my bed and retrieved a rope. I secured her wrists.

She smiled at me, knowing where this was leading. She reads my blog. We chat. She has told me what moves her.

I want to move her.

I fucked her in strong thrusts, holding back her legs, spanking her thighs and ass.

Her eyes were locked on me, adoringly. I liked that, and rewarded her by pulling her hair down, sucking on her sensitive nipples.

She took a strong rough fucking out of me before we fell apart to rest. “I think we are going to get along famously,” I smiled.

“Oh, I think so too,” she smiled back.

We kissed. She seems as fond of kissing as I am.

I went back to check on everyone. The back room was pitch black; the candles had flickered out. I retrieved more.

The bodies emerged from the shadows as I lit candles.

On one bed, Dacia and Tevin, entwined. On the floor, Reese on all fours as Todd fucked her. On another bed, Lars caressing Alice as she fucked John.

Nice. A very lovely set piece.

“Jefferson, I have to tell you,” Lars said. “This is even better than I anticipated. This is a fine party.”

“Thanks Lars. Thanks for finally joining us.”

“He has to come back,” Reese said over her shoulder, as she was fucked. “That boy gives the best head.”

“And I thought you liked me for my personality,” Lars replied, sitting up. “You guys are very cool—it’s been great meeting you, but I’ve got to get home. Hey Jefferson, give me a hand getting back into the chair.”

I lifted Lars into his wheelchair. His shoes were under the bed; I slipped them on his feet, then tossed him his shirt.

John and Alice began to dress as well. Reese and Todd disengaged. The party was winding down.

Or not.

Most of the goodbyes had been made and the candles extinguished. I poured a bourbon and lay in bed with Theresa and Todd.

Todd was talking about his fascination with a pornographic animated Japanese film, Oni-Tensei. He proposed a viewing.

It was after two.

I watched the opening scenes, feeling the night and my jet lag catch up with me. My eyes drooped.

“Go to sleep,” Mr. Ockham suggested. “You don’t have to take care of them. They can take care of themselves.”

I fell asleep as Theresa and Todd began to fuck.

Todd let himself out around five.

Theresa and our mutual friend slept late.

group sex

William Ockham
Occams Razor
Oni Tensei

Sunday, April 17, 2005

Ockham's Dawn

It is just past four thirty in the morning, and I am on the other side of the planet.

I am listening as the imam—or more likely, a tape recording of the imam’s voice—chants the call to morning prayer.

The mosque is about five miles away; there is a grove and a stretch of beach between it and my hotel. The chants reverberate off every vertical surface, bouncing back in echoes, layering the imam’s voice to fill the still-dark sky.

I am awake, waiting for the sun.

I managed to arrive without jet lag, thanks to Marcus’s sage advice that I adjust to my new time zone during the fourteen-hour flight. He and I have shared this route before; his advice worked then, and it works now.

From my bed, I look out over my balcony to see the stars fading over the gulf.

I sleep with the balcony doors open. I am lulled by the sound of waves and the occasional taxi. And before dawn each morning, I hear the iman’s call.

It grows louder, longer in its syllables. Another voice joins in. Another. The voices mix and meld, crash against the waves, gently waking everyone who hears, calling us away from dreams.

The faithful rise to pray. I linger under the blankets.

Work has brought me here. I took care of work rather quickly on this trip, allowing a few days to myself.

I have chosen to spend those days alone, pretty much.

I have attended functions and networked, as I should, but by and large, I am taking advantage of being in a place where sun, food and sleep are available in as great a quantity as one wants, a place where sex is unlikely and booze prohibited by Sharia, the Islamic code governing how life should lived.

No bacon either, for that matter.

I have time, in this other extreme of life, to be alone with myself, away from my children, my friends, my lovers, my city, and the attendant cares of those people and that place I care so much about.

Wake early, rest in the afternoon, stay up late. My circadian rhythm was easily reset to local time. Never miss a sunrise, never miss a sunset.

In bed this morning, I am lucid and calm as I mentally sharpen Occam’s Razor.

William Ockham was an English philosopher with a simple proposition: given the choice between two viable theorems, the less complex one is preferred.

His philosophical Razor trims away the excess.

His Razor can be applied to life.

I have had ample time to reflect on the quality of the time with Madeline and Marcus. I have blogged about the sex—this is a sexblog, after all—but there is more at play.

The relationship I share with Marcus is clearly ‘til death do we part. We’ve loved each other for a couple of decades; we can manage a few more before crossing the finish line. He is a secure guide wire to the best of my past, the certainty of my future.

Meeting Madeline, both online and then in person, was entirely unexpected. Our long conversations established a mental connection; now, easily, our bodies follow suite.

This leads me to wonder if perhaps one day I will prefer to relinquish the new-found freedoms of living by my own dictates in order to share life with someone else.

This future happens no time soon, I’m sure, if ever. I am still too bruised by having so many years of monogamy, love and compromise squandered by my ex’s impulsivity.

I am not already planning a future with someone I have only just met. But the what ifs? are a novel sensation after a year and half of locking doors and latching shutters as I shut down the home of my marriage.

A spark of optimism is rekindled.

The experience also raised the bar.

My life is generally open and expansive. If my life were a meal, it would be a buffet, served family style. Everybody eats when they come to my house.

But after the banquet, some people should go home. Others are invited to linger. For them, I pull out the private stock of aperitifs and dessert wines.

Those who enjoy the buffet and commend the chef may find themselves invited to the inner sanctum. It’s not an exclusive club, just . . . selective.

Pity those who ungraciously pick at the buffet, making undue demands on the chef’s generosity. Can this be made with fewer spices? Are these sneeze guards secure? Can I get a doggy bag?

These boorish few may find themselves shown to the door, where Mr. Ockham stands by, ready to roll up the red carpet and click the velvet rope into place.

Spending time with friends of such caliber as my oldest Marcus and my newest Madeline challenges me to look again at those at the periphery, to keep in check the demands they make of me.

I am the most nurturing of men. I want to take care of the needs of others to the extent of my ability.

But when that desire to nurture is abused, Mr. Ockham intervenes. Take care, he warns me; you are too easily drawn into the wells of other people’s needs.

Far better, he suggests, to take care of those who can take care of themselves. They give as much as they take. They eat their fill from the buffet, and yet it is instantly replenished.

They take care of me.

The rising sun clears the tops of buildings across the way, filling my room with bright orange light.

I sit up, then stand, nude as I stretch in the light.

I dress for a walk on the beach before breakfast.

William Ockham
Occams Razor

Saturday, April 16, 2005

What If

Marcus called as I was approaching the security check on my way to the gate.

“Can you talk? Do you have a minute?”

“I will in a few, once I get past security. I’ll call you back in a sec.” I hung up and dropped my phone, shoes and belt into a plastic tray. All were x-rayed as I crossed through the metal detector.

The phone was ringing as it came out of the scanner.


“What did you say?”

“I said I would call you back. Can you give me a moment to get my shoes on?” I closed the phone. I slipped on my shoes, put my belt through its loops, put on my jacket, and hoisted my bag to my shoulder.

The phone rang.

“Marcus . . .”

“Why do you keep hanging up on me?”

“Marcus, I’m not hanging up on you, I’m . . . oh, fuck it, let’s talk.”

“Is now a good time?”

“As good as any, until my plane leaves.”

“Okay, good. So what did you think?”

“Wow, it was pretty amazing Marcus. I mean, you saw what it was like when you were there . . .”

“And that was okay? You’re sure I wasn’t interfering, or being too intense, or . . .”

“You were fine, Marcus. She thought so too. We talked about it a lot today.”

“You did? What did she say about me?”

“She likes it that you and I are so loving with one another. And she thought that we are one hot threesome.”

“We are. But that’s about us. What did she say about me?”

“About you specifically? Oh, I don’t know . . . she thought you were very sexy, very funny.”

“Okay, good. You know I need to make this about me! Now what about you? What are you feeling?”

“Um . . . very content, very relieved, very excited about this.”

“Where do you think it will go?”

“I have no idea. I mean, I can try to be content if this was a unique encounter, or if we meet every now and then, as time and money allow . . .”

“But is that what you want?”

“Well, no, I don’t want it to be a unique event. I want to see more of her, you know, in the flesh, not just on web cams. If we lived in the same town, we would definitely be dating. No question.”

“Do you see a future with her?”

“You mean a ‘future’ future? Marcus, it’s premature to even think along those lines.

“But of course, I have been.

“I mean, yes, it is conceivable that we could wind up together. I mean, logistically conceivable. I can’t leave New York, as my kids need to be near their mother. She likes living where she lives, but she is not bound there by a custody agreement. So if it came to that, I suppose, yes, it might be possible for us to be together if she could move to New York with her kids. In theory.”

“Is that what you want?”

“What I want is to be able to process my thoughts about this weekend without you asking me to make wedding arrangements, please.”

“I’d be the best man, though, right?”

“Yes, and we’d take you on the honeymoon too.”

“Of course! I know you don’t know much now, I just wanted to see what kind of future you see.”

“I see myself getting on to a plane in twenty minutes. Beyond that, who knows?”

“Now, here’s my follow up. Let me ask you something.”


“What happens if I fall in love with her first?”

“Marcus . . .”

“Now, hear me out. You know, you don’t meet someone like her very often. I know I don’t. She is really unique.”

“That she is. But sweetie, you’ve only known her for twenty-four hours!”

“Well, forty eight, since I left you guys yesterday. Plus the time I spent reading her blog, I think you have to count that.

“All in all, it was a pretty intense immersion, and it just felt so comfortable, right from the beginning. You had had time to get to know her a bit, and of course you and I have a long history, and that helped for the three of us to gel . . . but I don’t know, I think she and I connected as well.”

“I’m sure you did. You both hit it off really well.”

“Did that bother you?”

“No, no. I don’t mean to say that sparks flew between you like that. It’s just that you got along well, as I hoped you would. I don’t see it as a problem in my relationship with her.”

“Am I being ridiculous about being attracted to her?”

“If you weren’t attracted to her, I’d call the morgue to pick you up. Because you would have to be dead.”

“So what am I supposed to do?”

“Well, by all means, keep in touch with her. It’s cool if you have both found a new friendship in one another. But I think that after a few days, and a few cold showers, you’ll come to your senses. This was one hell of a hot weekend—I really hope we do it again. But I don’t think you are in real danger of falling in love with my online girlfriend.”

“I guess you’re right. It was one hot weekend. Thanks again for making me a part of it.”

“Thanks for coming up, honey. It was good to see you, in addition to all the fine sex.”

“You too baby. Get on your plane. I love you.”

“I love you, Marcus. Let’s talk when I’m back.”

Time for one quick call.

“Hi Madeline.”

“Hi baby. Are you on your way?”

“Almost. Just wanted to check in with you again. I can’t believe this was real.”

“It was real.”

“It was really real.”

“You said some very sweet things to me last night. I was just trying to recall them all.”

“Don’t strain your brain too much. I’ll probably repeat them at some point. I’m a little redundant at times.”

“Me too. So keep in touch as best you can when you are away.”

“I’ll do what I can, and we’ll talk more when I return.”

We paused, anticipating that we were soon back to our relationship of web cams, cell phones and blogs.

“How the hell am I going to blog this?”

“Beats me. My mind is reeling.”

We were quiet for a moment. One day, this might be the part of a conversation where we would routinely swap “I love you.” But we know better than to rush that.

She reverted to the next best thing.

“You hang up first.”

“No, you hang up first.”

“I said it first.”

“That doesn’t mean I have to do it first!”

“Yes it does. That’s how it works.”

“Okay, fine! One . . . two . . .”



Friday, April 15, 2005

Leaving New York

We awoke making love.

It was our last day together. Later that evening, I would leave town on a business trip. Madeline would stay in my apartment for a few days more, on her own.

Our last day was the first sunny day of our long weekend together. Madeline smiled as the sun reached her cheeks through my bedroom window, warming her as we fucked.

The night before, I had served up a late dinner sometime around midnight. Afterwards, I had sex with Mitzi on the couch as Madeline took up with Marcus in the shower.

We were saying goodbye to our company. They left sometime around two.

We retired to bed, happy with the course of the day, sad that we had given away precious time we might have spent alone. Such contradictions played at our emotions.

“Something’s happening here.” My voice cracked as I whispered, holding her close.

She nodded into my neck.

We began to make love, tender and slow. God knows how many times we had been at it that day. This was the first time since yesterday it had been just us.

Madeline and me, in the middle of the night.

I whispered how much I would miss holding her close. I whispered how much I would miss being with her when we talked. I whispered that I wanted to know her boys, that I wanted her to know my children.

She fell to dreams as we made love, speaking softly to another me somewhere in her subconscious. I pulled out and held her, leaving her alone with her dream lover.

The next morning, we picked up where we left off.

That afternoon, we wanted to walk in the park. I had some work to do before my trip, including a final review of my divorce settlement. Each time I reached a good stopping point, I would find that she had nodded off. When she roused, I would be deep in work or in discussions with my lawyer.

We finally got our body clocks in synch. We dressed and walked to the park in the late afternoon sun.

We strolled toward the band shell, turning north to Bethesda Fountain, across Bow Bridge and into the Ramble. We held hands and talked, about the sights, about the weekend, about nothing in particular.

My heart was full. She told me she felt submerged in us, unable, or unwilling, to swim to the surface of her own reality.

We had not eaten all day. I craved comfort food. We sat in my local diner for cheeseburgers. She laughed when she ordered a Coke—so unlike me, she said. The carbonated bubbles made her laugh again.

I packed when we got home. When my bag was waiting by the door, we undressed and kissed on my bed. We were tender.

My hands traveled her body, leading to her wetness. I needed a last taste; she was soon cumming to my mouth and fingers.

“Thank you baby, that was what I needed,” she said. “Now your turn.”

She went down on me, but my cock was soft and disinterested. “Is there anything I can do for you?” she asked, looking up.

“Just hold me until I have to go. I’m stressed, I think, and sad.”

We lay in one another’s arms, talking. She cried. I kissed her tears, tasting my own in the back of my throat.

We knew this part might hurt.

As we lay in my broken bed, we heard a crack below. We laughed that after all the action of the weekend, we had caused another break in the bed frame while laying still.

“The bed can’t bear the weight of our heavy hearts,” I said.

We are quiet for a moment. We giggle.

“Good line,” she laughed. “Which of us will blog it first?”

I got up and dressed. She pulled on her slip to show me out. We embraced at the door, long and slow. I forget what we said. Doesn’t matter.

I left. She stayed. She would be gone when I returned.

My eyes would well later, on the plane. The levee broke as I listened to a band I used to like, thinking of her sleeping alone in my bed.

It’s easier to leave than to be left behind.

Central Park


Early in the evening, just after Mitzi’s arrival but before that of Franz, Marcus took inventory of the bruises on Madeline’s ass and legs.

“Jefferson, let me ask you something.” He motioned for me to sit near him on the bed. “I want you to spank me on my thigh the way you spank Madeline.”

“You want me to slap your thigh?”

“I want you to give me one spanking, yes.”

I let him have it.

“No, now you see, that’s too hard. That why Madeline has these hematomas. Can I offer you some advice?”

“Of course.”

“Madeline, let me borrow your ass,” he requested.

“Certainly, Marcus,” she replied, backing up on all fours. She arched her back and shook her ass coquettishly before Marcus.

Mitzi, still dressed at this point, cut a glance to me as she watched. She liked where this was going.

“Now, pay attention Jefferson,” Marcus instructed. “You need to do more to bring blood to the surface of the skin before you deliver a hard spanking. There are probably many ways to do that, but this works for me.”

With that, he delivered a quick succession of light but firm spankings to Madeline’s right buttock.

“You see what I mean? Watch again.” Again, his palm whacked away, rapidly but not too hard.

“You mean, like this?” I imitated his spankings on her left buttock. Madeline wriggled and smiled at me.

“Exactly. That way you prepare her flesh for harder slaps. Like this.” He gave her a firm wallop.

“I see. Like this?” I copied him.

“Good! You are a fast learner.” I was about to suggest that Mitzi take a practice run on Madeline’s ass, but something interfered—namely, Marcus burying his face in our target range.

Later, after Franz joined us, came time to put the lesson into practice.

“I think it’s time you fucked me in the ass,” Madeline said, bending over the bed. She just happened to be bending over Mitzi.

I took her up on the offer, putting on a condom and lubing her ass. I was in her and soon going strong, grabbing her hips for more leverage.

“Oh yes, you are fucking me well,” she said.

“You sure talk a lot for someone with a face full of pussy,” I chastised her, pushing her face down between Mitzi’s spread legs.

Mitzi gasped as Madeline got to work. Marcus began to suck Mitzi’s tits, until Franz’s mouth took him away.

I released Madeline’s hips from my grasp. I fucked with my arms dangling at my side.

Yeah, I needed to spank her.

My right hand took to her left buttock in a rapid-fire sequence of blows. I was firm but light, as Marcus had instructed. I gave her right buttock the same.

I kept at it, tenderizing her flesh for what was to come.

She looked back at me. “Now.”

I let loose with hard whacks. Noisy pops echoed in the bedroom. If she pulled back, I pushed down on her neck, telling her to eat that pussy.

She laughed as I spanked her; a prelude to her orgasm.

I chalked one up to expert advice.



When Marcus agreed to come up for part of the weekend, he asked if Franz could possibly join us.

Marcus met Franz at one of my gatherings last summer. The two of them hit it off royally, seemingly unable to stop fucking one another. They were great to watch, Marcus with his dark hair and lean body, Franz with his stunning Aryan good looks.

Franz has been unable to join our gatherings for a while, having retreated into monogamy with a new boyfriend. When that relationship ended, he contacted me with the good news/bad news that he was single again, and eager to return to our parties.

Franz was happy to see Marcus and me again, and planned to join us on Sunday evening.

We were dressed when Mitzi arrived, thinking it might be rude to start off nude. Our show of good manners lasted only a few moments. Mitzi watched as the three of us undressed, joking and touching each other familiarly.

She took stock of our easy camaraderie. “It’s like you three just got back from summer camp,” she said.

Mitzi soon lay beside me, and we felt the comfortable familiarity that she and I have. She undressed as we kissed. Madeline joined us there.

Marcus answered the door when Franz arrived. Franz stood clothed in the doorway of my bedroom. “Hello, everyone,” he waved.

“Hi Franz!” I exclaimed from my position under Madeline and next to Mitzi. I made introductions; the women waved hello. I got up to kiss him as he undressed. I had genuinely missed him during his months of monogamy.

Marcus had missed him too. “I really need to fuck you,” he told Franz by way of greeting. Franz was happy to have so direct an invitation. He lay back on the bed. Marcus entered him and was soon pumping away.

Madeline was propped on an elbow, watching them. I stood next to Mitzi’s chair and pulled her face up to suck my cock.

I fucked her as she lay back in the chair. Madeline repositioned herself to watch us as well.

I was eager to try out my new silver bullet, with its two vibrating eggs. I pulled out of Mitzi, threw a pillow on the floor, and kneeled before her.

“What are you going to do, Mister J?” Mitzi cooed.

“I’m going to put a vibrator in your ass and another in your cooch as I eat your clit,” I replied.

“Ooh, thank you, that would be nice.”

I proceeded to do just that. Madeline leaned over the side of the bed, watching as I put condoms on the new sex toys.

Madeline had never been with a woman before. She had never been in a threesome with a woman.

Mitzi writhed with the sensation. I sucked her clit, then stopped for a moment.

“Hmmm, Madeline, can you help me out here? My jaw is aching something fierce,” I lied. “I’m just not sure I can finish the job. Can you give me an assist?”

I adjusted the duvet underneath me to make room for her knees.

“Well,” she said. “We can’t leave Mitzi dangling.” Madeline lowered herself to the floor, and put her lips to Mitzi, taking her first taste of another woman.

“Ummmf,” Mitzi moaned. “It’s so nice to see such a pretty girl down there.” Being with a woman is still new to Mitzi as well.

I kissed and massaged Mitzi’s body, looking up to see that Franz was now fucking Marcus. That’s right boys, I thought. Get it out of your system and come help me with the girls.

Madeline’s body was just too tempting to resist. I lay on the floor and, like a mechanic, scooted underneath to get a look at her chassis. I licked and sucked her pussy as she did the same to Mitzi.

When Madeline had cum, I emerged to find Marcus kneeling on the bed, Franz standing behind, about to enter him again. Marcus’s eyes were closed in ecstasy as he leaned his head back on Franz’s shoulder. He was hard.

I lay back on the bed, taking Marcus in my mouth. He fell forward to reciprocate in sucking my cock. From my intimate vantage, I watched as Franz’s cock went into Marcus.

As they fucked above my eyes, Marcus’s balls jostled on my face, Franz’s balls bouncing on his.

I could hear the women’s excitement as they watched us.

We adjusted positions after a while. I thought surely now the boys will join me with Madeline and Mitzi. Nothing doing—they were soon back at their game of tag team ass fucking.

God, I thought. Get a room, boys.

I resigned myself to taking care of the two women.

I fucked Madeline as Mitzi sucked her tits. When she was nearing orgasm, I pulled out to manipulate her g spot with my fingers. I pressed with two fingers, then three. “More,” she moaned. I lubed and three fingers became four. Four became my fist.

Mitzi’s eyes were wide as I fisted Madeline. This was not something we had done.

Of course, she had to try it herself.

When I pulled out of Madeline, I uncorked a rich flow of girl juice. I smeared it on her torso and triumphantly splashed it in the air.

Later, as Madeline put her mouth to work on the boys, Mitzi put her hand to work on Madeline. I watched from a chair as Mitzi’s fingers became acquainted with Madeline’s innards.

Her face lit up as her fist made it in.

“Look at what I’m doing!” she exclaimed. I looked: she was up to her wrist in Madeline.

“Nicely done, Mitzi,” I commended her.

This turned her on tremendously. She retrieved her hand and set to fucking me.

Madeline decided to bring the mountain to Mohammed. She joined the boys as they fucked. Soon she had Franz in her ass.

He came as he fucked her.

When he went to wash up, Madeline gloated, “I got the gay boy to cum with my ass!” She got a high five on that.

Franz showered and dressed. Marcus was eating Madeline when he returned to say goodbye. He looked nice, as if he had a dinner engagement.

Marcus stood and kissed Franz on the cheek, giving him a nice cologne of pussy. The poor fellow went back to wash his face before departing.

With Franz gone, Marcus could return to the rest of us. He was impressed by the fisting action. He held his hand up to Mitzi’s and noted how much smaller her hand was than his. He held a hand to Madeline’s.

“Madeline,” he asked sweetly. “Will you fist me?” The tone in his voice suggested he might well drop to one knee to propose.

“Of course. I’d be honored.” It was a first for each of them. Another in a series of firsts.

I caressed Marcus and held him as she set to work, lubing a hand and working her fingers into him. Mitzi joined me in touching him.

Soon Madeline had her fist in him, pumping gently as he rocked to her motion, moaning.

I caught her eye. Somehow I had felt she was watching me. We smiled at one another.

group sex

Thursday, April 14, 2005

Three's Company

Sunday morning, I woke as Madeline tried to wriggle out of the bed without waking Marcus or me.

The three of us had fallen asleep, nude, side by side, without covers, Madeline in the middle.

“Shhh, go back to sleep,” she whispered. “I’m just going to the bathroom.”

I looked at Marcus. He was out cold, his mouth open. My body was stiff and elongated.

I needed to curl up, which was impossible in bed with two other adults. I decided to move to another bed. Madeline came to me there.

“I’m going to sleep here to allow more room for you both in the other bed,” I said. “I’m fine, just get some sleep.” She kissed me before heading back to bed.

I fell back to sleep. I awoke to voices in the next room.

“We have to wake him. It’s a rule.”

“You wake him, then. I want to fuck.”

“I can’t wake him. I’m a little indisposed, in case you haven’t noticed.”

“Just shout. Like this: Jefferson! Jeff-er-son!

I stumbled into the next room. “Good morning, baby,” Madeline smiled.

Her ankles were bound and held aloft by a restraint secured behind her neck. Marcus crouched at her bottom, his cock sheathed and hard near her pussy.

“Oh good, you’re awake,” he said. At that, he plunged his cock into her.

“Good morning, sugar,” I kissed her. “Thanks for remembering the rule.”

We had agreed that she wouldn’t have sex with Marcus without me present—not because I was jealous or possessive, but because he would surely tease me that anything I missed was the hottest sex ever.

That’s just his way. I had to be alert to avoid being ribbed.

“Of course, baby,” she said, as Marcus fucked her. “A rule’s a rule.”

“That’s right, dear,” I agreed, dropping my cock into her mouth.

After a morning of sex, I was willing to venture another outing into the city. I had a hankering for dim sum in Chinatown.

“Should I invite Mitzi to join us?” I asked.

Madeline agreed, a little hesitant. I understood why: the three of us were in a place of our own creation. Would the addition of another person upset the balance we had found?

I decided to risk it. Mitzi was keen to meet the two of them, and besides, she had left her favorite barrette at my place. She was bereft without her barrette. I needed to return it.

Mitzi agreed to meet us for dim sum.

We had the devil’s time getting to the restaurant. The F train was running on alternate tracks, unbeknownst to us, so we overshot Chinatown, finding ourselves in Brooklyn. A few subway corrections later, we bagged the trains in favor of a cab.

Mitzi smiled when she saw us. She knew what we had been up to.

We sat at a large table, Madeline and Marcus snuggling at one side, Mitzi and I at another. We talked and gorged ourselves, selecting a variety of delicacies from the passing carts. Turns out that Mitzi is something of a dim sum expert.

At one point, Mitzi leaned over and whispered in my ear. “They are really spectacular people,” she purred. “I want to come over and have sex too.”

“Then let’s make that happen,” I said.

After lunch—Marcus’s treat again!—we headed over to Toys in Babeland. My silver bullet was busted, and we needed a replacement.

I darted ahead with Mitzi as we navigated the crowds on Canal Street. Madeline lagged a bit, her lower extremities sore from so much exertion. She glowed as Marcus walked with his arms around her waist.

As we toured the shop, I found myself with each of my friends at different times, looking at the various sex toys. We kissed and fondled as we stood there. We were all alive to the sex in air.

When I had a moment alone with Marcus, I asked if he would mind if Mitzi joined us. He agreed. I asked Madeline, who also thought that would be fine. I told Mitzi the good news.

If this was going to be a late night—as seemed likely—she needed to make a sidetrip home to walk her dog. She offered to meet us later at my place. “Don’t get started without me!” she pleaded.

We made our purchases and ran a few other errands. We hailed a cab for the ride home, having had enough of subway adventures for one day.

As we settled into the cab, I looked at Marcus and Madeline. “Damn, you two are hot,” I said. I couldn’t seem to get over that.

“The three of us are so hot together,” Madeline agreed.

By this point in the weekend, our vocabularies were becoming increasingly diminished, as if all the blood had rushed to our libidos, leaving our intellects pale and shivering. “Hot” had become a favored catch-all adjective, occasionally modified to “so hot” for added emphasis.

Marcus returned calls to clients as we rode home in heavy traffic. I was hard in anticipation of returning to our naked bedroom. Madeline massaged my erection through my jeans.

Not missing a beat in his phone conversation, Marcus pulled out his cock. Madeline jerked him as well, leaning into my ear to mimic his well-rehearsed spiel.

Needless to say, we got started without Mitzi.

Mod Squad

My memory of what follows is unreliable.

When Madeline was finally in New York, finally in my arms, my mind was awake and jotting notes, not wanting to miss a moment that I would later want to revisit.

When Marcus joined us, my mind simply couldn’t keep pace with our bodies. It finally gave up, throwing down its notebook to join the fray.

After lunch, we undressed in my bedroom. I kissed Madeline. But the presence of such a beautiful nude woman meant, perversely, that Marcus and I should make out. She would have to wait to feel the desire she caused in us. We would savor her patience, and the feel of her eyes on us.

This would be her first threesome. This would be the first time she saw two men make love.

I lay back on my bed. Marcus crawled over me, his long limbs lowering his lips to mine. I touched his face as we kissed, combing his hair with my fingers.

“I love you, sweetie,” he said, his white teeth gleaming.

“I love you, baby.” My eyes met his.

Madeline lay beside me. She parted her knees and touched herself.

Marcus’s mouth moved around my torso. My back arched involuntarily as he took my cock in his mouth.

As he sucked me, I watched as Madeline fingered her clit, listening to the already familiar sounds of her orgasm.

I thought, she finds this so hot? This is so simple.

The three of us made love all that grey, rainy afternoon, and into the evening. Madeline’s list of “firsts” grew longer.

She watched as I fucked Marcus.

Marcus fucked her, tucking his balls into her cunt for good measure.

She sucked cock as she was fucked. She sucked two cocks at once.

We washed and a quick shower turned golden when we pissed on her.

At one point, she was blowing Marcus, his head at the bed’s edge as he sucked me. He asked to eat her pussy. Never leaving his cock, she moved her body to comply with his request, giving it to him as she lay across his body.

I saw the opportunity to indulge in my very favorite position.

I slipped on a condom and entered her pussy. My cock slid across Marcus’s face as I went in and out of her. His face was full of our fucking. He licked and moaned with pleasure. I crouched a little to suffocate him with our sex.

Madeline came. Her body undulated and released a mouthful of juice onto Marcus’s face. He came almost immediately afterwards.

Later, we dressed and walked to an Indian restaurant. Marcus’s treat. We felt drugged and naked as we sat clothed, away from our cocoon. We hurried back home for more.

The next day, we would venture out again. As we walked the city streets, I was struck by how well synched we were. And how hot we all looked together.

We were like the fucking Mod Squad.

Mod Squad

Wednesday, April 13, 2005


“Can you talk?”

“Yes, I’m at the store, getting stuff for lunch. Madeline is back at the apartment.”


“Marcus, she is . . . it’s just . . . even better than I had hoped.”

“Wow. Wow, that’s great. And it’s cool that I am coming?”

“Yes. Where are you?”

“About an hour away.”

“Yes, we are fine. She is eager to meet you, and, I dunno . . . we are just in a very nice place together right now. I think this will be fine.”

“You’re sure?”

“See you in an hour.”

It was drizzling as I walked home, carrying a few bags of groceries. I checked the laundry, where I had sheets in the dryer. Madeline’s sweat and gushing, and my cum, cost us two loads of laundry in our first twenty-four hours together.

I kissed her hello. She was nude under a light slip, drinking water and relaxing.

In the kitchen, I unpacked juice. We had to stay hydrated.

We also had to stay nourished. I planned a large midday supper, not quite confident that dinner would happen. I stuffed a chicken, seasoning it in herbs and olive oil. I peeled potatoes and boiled them to mash. I chopped onions and soaked raisins for a sweet Moroccan carrot dish.

As the pots simmered, I collected the sheets and re-made the bed. Madeline lent a hand. “Can I do anything else?” she asked.

“You can stay out of my kitchen and enjoy your vacation.”

Instead, she stayed in my kitchen and enjoyed doing my dishes.

We were talking on the couch, when suddenly at the door there was a knocking . . . then a pounding . . . then a kicking, followed by a desperate voice pleading, “Let me in! Let me in!”

All in the few moments it took for me to cross the room to open the door.

Marcus had arrived.

I kissed him hello and introduced him to Madeline. Their conversation was easy. They have a lot in common, including having lived overseas in the same country.

But more, their demeanors and humors are well matched. Never mind how attractive they each are. I silently commended myself for being such a yenta when it comes to introducing my lovers to one another.

We sat to eat, as Marcus and Madeline compared notes on massage. She is a bonafide massage therapist; he has a talented set of hands that provide a front for his sex work. Asked about this, he explained to her how he cautiously screens new clients, in part using a carefully crafted script in response to callers.

He picked up a banana, answering a call. Madeline picked up another, posing as a client. He walked her through the booking of an appointment in words we would later hear him use again and again with actual callers. By the next day, we could all do Marcus’s spiel cold.

In the meantime, we kept Madeline’s appointment with Marcus. He had booked her for right now, in the bedroom.


She was already awake, staring at my face. She smiled as my eyes fluttered open. I instinctively glanced at the clock—it was not yet six in the morning.

Was I snoring? I asked, closing my eyes to the sunlight behind her face.

No, you were sleeping, she smiled, touching my face. I moved my face to her hand.

We talked, soon gravitating to the subjects of punctuation and book indexes—topics guaranteed to spark the flames of arousal.

She asked me to bite her, showing me the precise shoulder muscle she wanted to give over to pressure of my teeth.

I complied, biting slowly, firmly, taking care not to tear the skin. My jaws ached, but I would not relent until she had what she needed.

When she had enough, she had two curved welts that would last for days. She joked about having it tattooed in place.

We made love.

We fell asleep, entangled. I left my arm under her head; she kept it as her pillow.

As we slept, Martha Stewart came to me in a dream.

Martha Stewart invited me to bring Lucy and the kids to a small house she had rented in Connecticut. A century before, this area had been an artists’ colony; now it was a community of mansions. Martha Stewart had chosen the authentic over the ostentatious in renting such a ramshackle house in this wealthy enclave.

Martha Stewart made sure that we were settled before a warm fire. We were very content.

“Jefferson,” she asked. “Can you help me deliver a few paintings?” In this dream, Martha Stewart was an amateur painter. We put her canvases into the back seat of a convertible Saab.

I was stationed in the back with the paintings “Hold them down,” she directed over her shoulder as she started the car.

I extended an arm over the canvases. When we arrived, my forearm was smeared with blue paint. The paintings were fresh and still wet.

I was afraid that I had ruined the art, but the paintings were intact. Only my arm was smudged.

Martha Stewart parked at a local arts center. I helped her unload the canvases.

The arts center was bustling with activity. There were dozens of women, each well-coifed and wearing smocks at easels. A few helped sickly children who were engaged in art therapy.

A woman with dark hair and a blue smock came to Martha Stewart and me. “Where did you find him?” she asked Martha Stewart, nodding in my direction. “He’s hunky!” With that, she touched my chest and bicep, holding them firmly.

I felt aroused, and thought, wow, I am hunky.

“Now, none of that,” Martha Stewart scolded the woman. “We have paintings to deliver.”

Martha Stewart set to work, and I wandered deeper into the arts center.

Some artists were painting from nude models. Many of the artists were also in stages of undress. I ran into Madeline.

“Are you painting today?” she asked, kissing me in greeting.

“No, I’m just helping Martha Stewart run some errands. Lucy and the kids are back at her place.”

The woman in the blue smock interrupted us. “I think he should model for us, don’t you?” she leered to Madeline.

“I don’t mind modeling,” I said, “if you are paying.”

The rate was ten dollars an hour, which is what I was paid when I was a nude model in college. I agreed and undressed. As I stepped on to a platform to pose, I saw that Madeline was stripped to her waist. “In solidarity,” she said, sketching.

We mingled with the artists. Some were self-consciously bohemian, playing instruments or talking insistently, as if art were the most important thing in the world. Madeline and I held hands, serene and nude among them.

We were outside. She phoned her kids. I phoned mine.

When we awoke again, I told Madeline about the dream, a little embarrassed that it seemed so transparent.

Martha Stewart, the goddess of domesticity, had led me from a domicile where art was a relic to a vibrant place where art was being created. She led me from a place of the past to a place of the moment. She led me from the warm contentedness of the hearth to the white-hot excitement of art and sex.

Martha Stewart led me from Lucy to Madeline.

And thus did Martha Stewart sanction my relationship with Madeline.

Martha Stewart

Tuesday, April 12, 2005


I made dinner. As we ate, her face was lit by a faint light on her right, a candle on her left.

“You know what I’m thinking?” I asked.

“I look like my web cam right now, don’t I?”

“In this light, exactly right.” I was accustomed to seeing her via web cam, in the light of a lamp on her desk. This lighting mimicked that.

“Hey darling, it’s me.”

“And here we are.”

We had spent the day nude or in pajamas, acclimating ourselves to the three-dimensional versions of the lovers we had become via computer screens. We measured this novel reality—tactile and present—against all those words and all that longing.

I suggested that we do something mundane, like watch a movie in bed. She liked the idea, and so we made popcorn, lit candles, poured bourbon and cozied up to Secretary. It is a favorite of Madeline’s. This was my first viewing.

The film is the story of a mousy young woman (Maggie Gyllenhaal, who is, Madeline tells me, the real-life love interest of Peter Sarsgaard—Madeline suggests we add double “a”s to our last names if we hope to lure the actor) who takes her first job as secretary to an eccentric lawyer (James Spader).

The lawyer must have things done in particular ways, and she strives to perform as perfectly as possible. His corrections of her mistakes lead to spankings delivered as she bends over his desk. His spankings lead to her falling in love with him.

How apropos to our moment, I thought.

As we talked after the movie, I said, “You will have to let me know when you want me to beat you.”

“I want you to beat me now,” she said, eyes on mine.

“Fair enough,” I replied.

I instructed Madeline to lay face down on the bed. I bound her wrists and secured them to the bed frame. I left her legs free, not sure how long I would want her on her belly.

My hands caressed her back, her legs, her buttocks. Her body moved and turned to my touch.

My hands gravitated to her ass, those finally shaped orbs, those hips offset by her waist. I opened her ass to study the dewlap of flesh at her anus. I had to feel that tag of skin on my tongue, just for a moment . . .

I slapped her ass, hard. She squirmed. I gave her two more, hard, on the opposite cheek. She giggled into the mattress.

She had warned me that she laughs aloud when aroused.

Awakening my capacity to strike takes an act of transference. When I am this aroused, my mouth is on fire. In those moments, I fight a cannibalistic urge to consume the flesh I want, to digest its power over my desires.

To strike her as she wants, I have to fight the urge to taste, to bite, to devour.

I spank her with that hunger. She writhes in pleasure.

She bears the imprint of my hands, many times over.

I must have a taste. I can’t stop it any longer. I bite, slowly, carefully, not wanting to tear flesh, just to taste . . . I make a buffet of her buttocks, the backs of her thighs and, when I see that this is a very tender place, her strong calves.

The next day, she would mention in passing that when she dies, she will leave her body to science.

“Lucky science,” I replied. “Leave it to me instead. I will eat course after course, then make stock from your bones.”

My hunger is sated. But she needs more. I take a length of rope. It whirls around my head, building momentum before it lashes her tenderized bottom.

When I am done, she is crossed in welts. I untie her, and kiss away her tears.

“Did that do it, baby?” I asked.

She smiled at me. “L’il bit,” she drawled.

Maggie Gyllenhaal