Friday, July 29, 2005


For almost half a year, Shelby and I have been using the word “love” to describe our feelings for one another.

It fits. It feels right.

In her case, this is fairly novel. It’s not a word often used in her family, nor in her previous relationships.

Love was openly expressed in my home as a child, usually to signal a transition or departure. “I love you,” we said at bedtime. “I love you,” we said when ending a phone conversation. “I love you,” we would holler when heading out the door.

That carries over to my generation. My kids are told they are loved when they go to bed and when they go to school. They hear it when they go off to their mom’s and when we talk on the phone.

Sometimes I throw it out there when they don’t see it coming.

Just to keep ‘em guessing.

I grew up to consider love a very powerful thing, expressed by an elastic word that varies according to need, yet always remains true to its meaning.

It can be solid as bedrock, or diaphanous as mist. It can provide links to the past, reassure in tremulous moments, and offer hope for the future.

I used the search bar at the top of this page to look for moments I have written about love in this blog.

I love Dacia. I tell her this now and then, and not just because it’s a kick to watch a smutmonger blush. I tell so she knows that year after year, it has been great to have her in my life, and I look forward to remaining in hers for years to come.

I love Marcus. He’s a great friend, a trusted confident and a white-hot lover. As our relationship has evolved over two decades, we’ve been many things to one another. We have a few decades left to see what more we can do with love.

I love Lucy, my ex wife. I can’t manage to erase all the years we put into creating our marriage. In most respects, I suppose that love is somewhat finite in its potential, rather like a project that was undertaken, executed and filed away. It remains intact and unchanging, but that lack of change is restrictive.

I once loved May, my ex girlfriend. Our break up was finalized by her move out west. I can hold a candle with the best of them. But we don’t speak, as she needs to put this all behind her, and communication keeps fresh the wounds of our separation. And so the candle is extinguished and put aside.

I love Shelby. It’s a good old-fashioned romantic love. It includes a healthy dose of longing, as we pine for each other when we are apart. When we are together, we pull out our love and look at it and pass it back and forth, still impressed by its comfort and intensity.

This love makes me very optimistic about life.

And, as we often think, it may not be so bad that geography keeps us so often apart. If we were always together, it might just be a bit much. We take this as it comes, and take care in doing so. It feels resilient, yet neither of us wants to see it damaged or challenged.

I want to be sure it is there when the dust settles—you know, if the dust ever settles.

So love abounds, yet I can see the limitations I place around it.

Just two years out of my marriage, I don’t seek someone who is with me day in and day out, laying claim to all the love I can generate.

Most of that energy, I reserve for now. My kids may get extra helpings as a result.

Still, love assumes many forms. It can seep out of the boxes we create to contain it.

And so it was that I found myself talking about love with my online girlfriend Madeline.

Much of our conversation occurs as though we are neighbors, trading notes on children and divorce, music and books, and just keeping track of one another’s daily lives.

We take comfort in each having found a friend who can understand our lives now, who can be there for one another in an ongoing way.

Because parenting alone can be tedious and lonely.

Of course, we aren’t neighbors. We are separated by twelve-hundred miles.

And while we may be great online chums, we also knew from our first and only weekend together that there is a strong sexual connection as well.

Once we started to talk about love within the context of our friendship, it was only a matter of time before we thought about meeting again for more of the fine sex we had.

Because single parents can have great appetites for romance.

We made plans.

We agreed to keep things simple. We didn’t want to interfere with the relationships we are building in our “real” lives.

Or to mess up our relationships with our shared boyfriend, Marcus.

We wanted it to be easy.

Thursday, July 28, 2005


The hurricane passed, taking with it every cloud in the sky.

The water was cool and calm.

Bridget and I bobbed in the waves.

She bent her knees slightly, allowing her shoulders to move back and forth as the waves passed.

I rested an arm around her shoulder, and lifted my legs.

I floated as we embraced.

We talked quietly, enjoying the sun, the waves and one another’s company.

I released her shoulder, leaning back. I floated free, allowing the current to carry me off.

I smiled back at Bridget, and glanced at the people and umbrellas on the beach.

I turned the other way, facing out to sea.

I closed my eyes.

I was thinking of Shelby.

We had not seen each other in weeks.

During the spring, we looked ahead to summer—Shelby’s favorite season—anticipating that we would see more of each other.

But fate intervened in the form of Shelby’s new job. She was locked up on weekdays, and my weekends were booked for over a month.

We resigned ourselves to the fact that we would be apart for a while.

Before she started her job, she spent several days with me at the end of June. We settled into a very relaxed groove, mixing sex with down time.

We traveled around the city, taking in the Mermaid Parade in Coney Island, and the Gay Pride Parade on Fifth Avenue.

I see the familiar fresh through her eyes.

We were ebullient at the beginning of the week, growing quieter as we faced what would be, for a while, our final hours together.

Now we were making do with emails, instant messages and memories.

I missed her, bad. I missed our loving friendship.

I used to think it inevitable that Shelby would eventually tire of having an older lover so far away, and find someone closer to her in age and geography.

I don’t think that anymore. I mean, that may in fact happen, but we are just too solid now to let that be the end of us.

Now, I envision her explaining to a future spouse the nature of our “special” friendship.

It just endures. It just is.

It floats.

The current carried me a bit further than I intended. I turned and kicked a few yards.

Back to Bridget’s shoulder.

Wednesday, July 27, 2005



“Jefferson? It’s Marcus. How are you, baby?”


“Where are you?”


“And where’s Bridget? Is she there with you?”


“How’s it going? Are you doing okay? I know you were anxious about having so little privacy lately . . . is it okay, being with her?”


“What, can’t you talk? Can she hear? Well, if things are good, say something about the weather. If not, talk about something else.”

“It’s very sunny.”

“Okay, good, good! So did you go to the sex club? How was it?”

“The sex club was good.” My voice wavered.

Bridget laughed. “Yes, like you remember anything! Is that Marcus? Tell him about how you couldn’t keep your towel on.”

“I have slender hips . . .”

“That you do, snookums.”

Marcus interrupted. “Is that Bridget? Let me talk to her. I’m getting nothing out of you.”

“Here.” I passed the phone to Bridget. “You tell him about my towel.”

I adjusted my sunglasses , returning my eyes to the blonde Brit sunning nearby.

She looked like Nicole Kidman—paler than me, covered in oil and wearing only a slim bikini bottom.

She would remain uncovered all afternoon, never showing a hint of color on her bare ivory breasts.

I sat under an umbrella, slathered in sunscreen.

By day’s end, I would have a sunburn.

“Marcus? It’s Bridget. Jefferson can’t talk. He’s got a hangover.”

I put a finger to my lips. “Must you shout?”

“God, I can imagine. A sex club and booze—that’s so Jefferson. So details! How was the club?”

“Ah, it was okay. It’s called Miami Velvet, and it’s huge. There are two bars, a dance floor and lots and lots of rooms for boinking. We went because it was bi night, and I wanted to see snookums with some cute boy.”

“Nice. And did you?”

“No. Two reasons. First, they seem to use the word ‘bi’ to mean only girls. None of the guys were doing anything.”

“Don’t you hate that!”

“Well, yeah, because I don’t like girls, but I like watching guys.”

“And the other reason?”

“Oh, the other reason is that snookums fell asleep in my lap.”

“It was late,” I complained. “And boring!”

And okay, I was in my cups.

“He fell asleep at a sex club?!”

“Yes. Twice. Once with his head in my lap, another time when I was blowing him.” She patted my hand. “Snookums should’ve had a nap!”

As Bridget had napped during the afternoon, I wrote and had a drink. The writing went well, and the drink went too fast. I had another.

As we fortified ourselves on lobster and oysters, I had another. And wine.

I was pretty loopy by the time we got a cab to the club.

Never mind that Bridget had packed my flask.

We held hands as we explored the club. No one seemed to be doing anything. The club allowed single men, and lots of them. They oogled us as we walked.

The vast space seemed empty to me. Bridget estimates there were one hundred and fifty people there.

We danced.

I kissed Bridget’s cheek as she sang Debbie Gibson in my ear.

“You’re wobbly, snookums.”

“I’m a little lit. How did that happen?”

“At least you are a sweet drunk.” She laughed. “You remember our rule? No girls for you tonight, except the one you are dancing with. Boys are okay so long as they are cute.”

“One name on my dance card,” I nodded. “Got it. And no boys either, unless they are hiding the cute ones someplace.”

It was well after one. Couples began to head to a locker room to switch into towels. Single men followed, hot on the trail of voyeurism.

We followed along. Soon we were in towels and of even more interest to hungry eyes.

“These guys don’t look bi to me,” I complained. The men followed couples from place to place, or watched porn, with no interaction—not even conversation—between themselves.

“Perhaps they are too distracted by my beauty to notice you,” she suggested.

“Perhaps, but I am way hot. And I feel invisible.”

We saw a cluster of men peering into a window and jerking off.

We looked and saw a room in which three couples were fucking. A sign on an adjacent door warned that this room was for couples only, and detailed a long list of rules my blurry eyes could not follow.

“Let’s go in here,” I said, tugging Bridget’s hand.

“Okay, follow me.” Bridget pushed her way through the wankers, pulling me with her.

Inside, the floor was covered with vinyl mats. There was no additional furniture. The window was mirrored, keeping the wankers' faces hidden from view.

The three couples fucked in a far corner, keeping an arm’s length between their pairings.

“Let’s go over there,” I said.

“No, no. I don’t want to be in the line of view of that window. Let’s go over here.”

We lay on the matt, far from others, and kissed.

The combination of drink and sleep deprivation was getting the better of me. The matt felt very good under my back.

As Bridget sucked my cock, I drifted off.

My eyes opened as another couple plopped next to us.

I smiled at the woman. She smiled back.

I caressed her calf by way of saying hello, just I would do at my parties. Like, hey, isn’t this fun?

Bridget looked up and saw that the boyfriend was not keen that I touched the woman he was fucking. Bridget retrieved my hand, never missing a beat in her blowjob.

That sealed it for me.

I was getting bummed.

The territorial attitude, the lack of conversation, the oogling wankers . . . this place was loserville compared to my gatherings.

Bridget was fun, though.

We found our way back to the dance floor. The DJ was playing “When Doves Cry.”

“I guess they haven’t been to the record store since 1988,” I said as we danced in our towels.

“Oh, I don’t mind,” Bridget said. “It allows me to indulge my fantasy that we met in college.”

We giggled as Prince warbled.

“You are muh drunk boy-freeeeen,” she laughed.

“Yes, I am yo’ drunk boy-freeeeen,” I agreed, allowing my towel to drop to the floor.

Tuesday, July 26, 2005

Josh Joins In

“Welcome back—sorry about the weather. It should improve tomorrow.”

The doorman, like everyone on the hotel staff, seems to take personal responsibility for the passing hurricane.

“Oh thanks,” Bridget said. “But it’s not your fault!”

“Thank you. I hope you and your husband have a pleasant stay.”

We smiled.

In the elevator, Bridget pulled me close. “What, no smooches? On our honeymoon?”

“I didn’t realize the doorman was a justice of the peace,” I smiled, kissing her.

We had slept in late on our first full day in Miami, recuperating from the travel and a long night of sex. Now, after a late afternoon brunch, we were back in the room.

I looked out the window at the coconut trees bending in the wind. The waves were choppy and the beach largely abandoned. The red flags at the lifeguard stands were bright by contrast to the gray atmosphere.

I was tired. Life had been pretty active in the preceding weeks, with so many people coming and going at my place. Before the trip, I realized—with some horror—that my schedule was so packed with children, sleepovers and visitors that I would not have a night to myself for well over a month.

Now, on vacation in Miami, my circadian clock was skewed.

And I was with Bridget, among the most nocturnal of the Lord’s creatures.

“Another rainy afternoon,” she said. “Any thoughts on how to pass the time—she asked, batting her eyes?”

She asked, batting her eyes.

I had a few thoughts.

We fell to kissing. Our clothes fell away.

She pointed to her lips and I scrambled to sit on her chest, feeding my cock to her insatiable mouth.

She moaned deep in her throat, her eyes looking up. I ran my hands over her face, and held her cheeks.

Her legs squirmed, her hip turned.

My fingers confirmed what I knew. She was wet.

I raised an eyebrow. My cock still in her mouth, I leaned to the nightstand and opened the drawer.

I held up a condom. I held up Josh.

She gave a gutteral moan.

“Josh” is the name Bridget gave to the new purple vibrator that joined us on the trip south. It is named for singer/songwriter Josh Rouse, on the short list of men for whom Bridget would toss me in a New York minute.

I twisted Josh’s base, watching her eyes as it whirred through different settings.

“Hmm-hmmrph,” she moaned.

“That one, huh?” I took my cock from her mouth and turned my body.

“God yes. Do me. Do me!”

“You are too damn loud,” I chastised her, turning. My cock soon had her gagged again.

I now faced down her body.

Josh trailed down her flesh, finding her slit.

She writhed as Josh entered her.

I sank my teeth into her lower abdomen.

I wasn’t fooling around. I was mining for orgasms.

Josh directed his head up as I pressed down. Together, we collected a few orgasms in short order.

I kept my cock moving in her mouth, holding it deep for long stretches.

Enough of Josh, I decided. He exited her body slowly, reluctantly.


“Time for me to fuck you, Bridget.” I pulled out of her mouth.

“God yes,” she gasped for air. “Please fuck me!”

She is so loud.

I am so quiet.

I opened the package and rolled the condom onto my cock. I crouched between her legs, guiding myself into her.

“Higher,” she directed. “Higher . . . oh yes, God, that’s it! Fuck me!”

Bridget is a big girl with a very tight pussy. I leaned forward, easing my way deep into her.

I offered a few slow thrusts.

She came.

I took her nipples into firm pinching fingers. They are very sensitive, and as I pressed, her moans became howls.

I sank my teeth into a breast.

“Oh yes, mark me! Own me!”

I pulled up. I plunged my teeth into more flesh.

“Jefferson!” she shouted. “You own me! Own meeeee!”

Better we are doing this in the afternoon than the night. At this early hour, Bridget can open up and shout it out.

I pulled out my cock.

“Don’t stop, please!”

“I’m not stopping,” I said. “I’m changing. Look at me.”

Her eyes met mine as two of my fingers met her g-spot.

“Jefferson! Jefferson!”

I watched her face as her body twisted through orgasms. She cums so easily, I thought, smiling. That is so very hot.

It’s also hot when I cum.

We were back to the blowjob, previously in progress.

When we mean business, we like it when she is on her side as I fuck her face.

I hold her head tight and go hard.

She gloated when business was concluded.

I held her in my arms afterwards. I was spent.

In time, her body began to go limp.

“All done?” I asked. She nodded, faintly.

I pulled back, resting on my heels. I leaned forward to kiss her belly. I nibbled.

I stood, heading to the bathroom to wash.

She had already succumbed to snores when I returned.

Bridget has an odd relationship to sleep. It takes her over when the sensations mount.

I sat for a few moments, watching her sleep.

I was tired. I contemplated a nap. It was nearly six.

Eh, I thought. If I have a moment to myself, I’d rather write. I opened the laptop and poured a bourbon.

I would only write for a bit, I thought, taking a sip.

We had big plans ahead.

That night, we were going to a sex club.

Monday, July 25, 2005

Nine and a Half Weeks

“The first time we were in bed together, he held my hands pinned down above my head.”

A promising start.

It had been a long day. The alarm went off early so that I could make my flight. There was a hurricane swirling its way into the Gulf of Mexico, casting doubts onto all flights into Miami.

Thankfully, the flight was uneventful. The hotel check in went quickly.

An early dinner sent me into a nap. The nap left me refreshed and relaxed—and awake just after midnight.

A reasonable hour to take in the nightlife of South Beach.

I looked out the window at the white caps of the waves in the dark sea. I could see the shoreline from my bed.

I preferred to stay in.

I poured a bourbon and glanced at the nightstand. I had made some headway on the De Kooning biography during the flight. I could dig back into his life for a few hours.

Or I could read Elizabeth McNeill’s Nine and a Half Weeks: A Memoir of a Love Affair.

I had seen the film version back in the day. But as I read past the first line and into the first pages, I realized that it was a pale imitation of the text.

The memoir is the story of a successful New York woman who finds herself drawn into a sadomasochistic relationship with a man she encounters by chance. For nearly three months—nine and a half weeks, to be precise—her life is riven into two parts: her days as a capable businesswoman, and her nights as the man’s submissive.

She gives herself over totally. He baths her. He feeds her. She fulfills any request, going so far as to mug someone as his behest.

What made the book so shocking in its time—1978—was this convergence of an accomplished woman who would, so readily, give herself over to being dominated by a man. Wasn’t submission a contradiction of feminism?

As I read it, I was primarily taken by the language. McNeill writes in matter-of-fact style that would have pleased E. B. White. The clarity of the text heightens the reality of the narrative, lending plausibility to extraordinary events.

McNeill is a pseudonym. Without revealing her identity or my own, I can say that I went to high school with her daughter. Back then, I was taken by this proximity to an extreme; all of this actually happened to a real person who was not all that different than anyone else.

That remains a rather thrilling thought—that real people can take one another to such places. That someone can take such pleasure in moments at the other end of their daily lives.

For McNeil, as for some others with demanding lives, there is an appeal to the notion of surrendering control.

I turned the page.

“This is good,” I said. “Have you read it?”

Bridget grunted.

I lowered the book.

“No baby, that’s not right.” She had my entire cock in her mouth, very hard and very deep.

Her brown eyes looked at me questioningly.

“I can still see some of the base of my cock,” I corrected her.

I took her head in my hand, and pushed her mouth further down my shaft. Now I couldn’t see my cock at all.

Drool puddled in my pubic hair.

“Better.” I took a sip of bourbon and returned to the book.

“Just fifty more pages or so.”

I stroked her hair as I read.

Saturday, July 23, 2005


We were a threesome mill.

Farahnaz and I have evolved into the Wonder Twins of Sex. Each of us is good. Together, can’t nobody stop us.

Our combined powers are rooted in a mutual respect for one another’s singular abilities. She professes to admire my prowess. I am taken by her beauty, humor and astonishing endurance.

At the sex party, Farahnaz and I set up camp on the taco futon of death. We made love with ferocious tenderness, cool ease contrasted by heated passion.

Anyone who came near us risked being drawn into our swirling vortex.

One by one, we drew in man after man. One after one, they were spent and consumed, each to be replaced by the next.

Throughout, we peppered one another with smiles and kisses, long glances and sensuous words.

A couple of days later, I dropped a line saying how nice it was to spend time with her at the party.

She replied by asking when we might try meeting one on one.

This girl is an incorrigible flirt—as is this boy.

Anytime you like, I replied.

Anytime? she ventured. Anytime? As in now?

It was ten in the morning.

I could see you now, I said, but only for a couple of hours. Would you prefer to meet at my place or yours?

Come to my place, she invited. You have never been to Farahnazville.

I scribbled the address and put on my shoes.

It rained as I strolled under my umbrella.

On impulse, I brought flowers.

“You are soaked to the skin!” she exclaimed at the door. She leaned to kiss my cheeks, as if to avoid contact with my clothes—which were scarcely wet.

“Oh, and these are for me?” She took the flowers. “There was no need.”

“Never any harm in bringing flowers to a beautiful woman,” I said, kissing each of her cheeks in turn.

“Your mother must be very proud.”

I left my umbrella open near her door, and crouched to remove my shoes. She was barefooted and wearing one of the Audrey Hepburn dresses she favors.

Elegant casual at home on a weekday morning. Ravishing, as ever.

Farahnaz talked as she tied the flowers I brought. Stepping over her sofa, she hung the flowers upside down from a curtain rod.

I noticed dried flower arrangements similarly hung on every wall of her studio apartment.

So many suitors, I thought.

She walked across her bed towards me. “May I offer you water, or juice, or coffee?”

“I’m fine, thank you. I’ve just had coffee.”

“Good, you are no bother at all. Sit. I am glad to have this opportunity to talk and get to know one another better.”

Of course, my head was abuzz with curiosity about my new transsexual lover.

Still, I thought it forward to ask the most obvious questions: When did you leave Iran? How long have you been a woman?

All things in time. She can reveal her autobiography at her own pace.

For now, I was happy to savor her mysteries.

“One thing I wanted to ask you about,” she began. “Your divorce. I hope you don’t mind my prying, but I am beginning my own divorce, and it is very confusing.”

“It is confusing, and I don’t mind at all. Anything I can offer by way of advice, I am happy to do so.”

Was she married as a woman to a man, I wondered? Or prior to that, as a man to a woman? If the latter, was she still married to a woman—and thus in a same-sex marriage?

All of that would be outside my own experience.

“You are very kind.” She put a hand on mine, gazing in my eyes. She withdrew her hand. “It’s not a very complicated matter. My husband and I are on friendly terms, but it is just over between us. We hope we can do this simply and easily. “ She paused. “Would you like to see a picture of my husband?”

“Yes, please.” One question answered.

She stood and crossed the room to a bookshelf. Among the books were dozens of videos of Dean Martin roasts. She lifted a frame that was face down on the top shelf. She looked at the photograph for a moment before passing it to me.

“He is nowhere near as handsome as you, of course,” she said, “But in my way, I loved him.”

The photograph showed Farahnaz with a blonde man, each well dressed and smiling in a nondescript room.

“You married at the courthouse?”

“Yes, with my mother as the witness. Just a few years ago, but it seems ages.”

“You both look very happy in the photograph,” I said, handing it to her.

“We were.” She glanced at the picture again before returning it, face down, to her shelf. “But that was then, and this is now.”

She sat next to me on the sofa. “So.”


“So tell me about your divorce. If you don’t mind.”

I began to talk through the basics—how we broke up, the emotional upheavals, the legal travails—that constitute the conversational level of my divorce. Ask the right questions, and I will take you deeper.

“It’s awful,” she said. “And nothing like mine.”

“I suppose not. Different issues entirely. How are you transitioning to dating, and so on?”

“Well, dating, you know, that is an easy thing. I have someone who is very fond of me, and we go out. Of course, I have other friends. And I am very happy to have met you, and Todd, and everyone at your party.”

“Likewise, dear. But you have no immediate plans to find Mister Right?”

She smiled. “If Mister Right is looking, I am here. I mean, look at me.” She raised her hands and looked down. “Am I not, if you will forgive my immodesty, extraordinary?”

“You are certainly that.” She was boxing me into a corner, prepared to toy with me as she might any man enamored of her beauty.

I think she knows that, with me, is not necessary to do so. But I played along.

“You are very sweet. As I know.” She stood. “Shall we do something about getting you out of those wet clothes?”

“If you don’t mind, please.” My clothes were perfectly dry. For show, I removed my socks.

She rubbed my thigh. “Where did you get these pants?”

“Someone bought them for me. Said they made my ass look good. Why?”

“If I were to buy you clothes, they would be much nicer.”

“If you were to buy me clothes, “ I replied, “You would find me very grateful.”

She smiled. “Mister Jefferson, we are going to get into great trouble together, you and I.”

I touched her cheek and pulled her face to mine. We kissed, soft and sure.

“Sign me up for all the trouble you have to offer.”

As I undressed, Farahnaz stepped across her bed to close the blinds, disappointing floors of office workers across the way.

She unzipped the back of her dress, and pulled the shoulders forward. She lifted the dress over her head, tossing it onto her sofa.

She stood before me in black thong panties, her dark and lithe body as I remembered it.

I removed my pants.

As we made love, my eyes were well aware that we were, for the first time, in a brightly lit space. I soaked in her familiar beauty, looking for new details in her cuticles, her toes, her skin.

Curves, bones, childhood scars—all were inventoried for future reference.

Her eyes were open too, as if we were evaluating one another.

As we went one on one for the first time, we rehearsed things we already knew about one another from sex parties, and introduced things we reserved for more intimate moments.

I was letting her know that beyond the sex party stud, there was me—gentle, easy, romantic.

She had never seen me cum. I rarely do at parties.

In time, as she pulled me close, as our eyes locked, as I breathed her, I came.

She ran her hands through my hair as I convulsed. “Jefferson, Jefferson,” she said. “That was so beautiful.”

I kissed her in response, too breathless for more words.

She held me as we relaxed afterwards. Our eyes gravitated to the television muted at the foot of her bed.

It was tuned to “Dynasty.”

“Joan Collins,” she said, admiringly. “Now there was a real woman.”

I laughed.

“Minus the shoulder pads, of course.”

I could not stop laughing.

Friday, July 22, 2005


With Meg in town overnight, Mitzi reminded me that we had unfinished business.

“You know, Jefferson, you still owe us a threesome. You fell asleep the last time we tried this, old man—think you can manage if we try again during the afternoon?”

I pledged to eat my Wheaties and rest up.

Mitzi joined us in the mid-afternoon, before the evening’s sex party, to find a very mellow household.

Meg and I were taking a load off on the couch. Marcus was working the phones and his computer, this being his first free hours to do so after several days with his kids. He had a lot of catching up to do.

He also taking care of a bandaged right hand swollen by an infection.

“How did you get an infection?” I asked.

“I dunno,” he said, wearily. “Too little sleep, too much activity. It can’t help that I’ve had sex with thirty people in the past week.”

Marcus’s doctor prescribed that his hand be kept elevated. He tried ever more inventive ways to comply, resting it casually on his head, his shoulder, and available door jams.

Meg suggested he try props, like hoisting portable electronics on his head, to make it look natural.

“Why don’t you rest it on my shoulder?” I teased. “You know, like you care about me? Like I mean something to you?”

He grinned and wrapped an arm around my neck.

“How am I going to have sex with this thing?” he fretted about the bandage. “That’s my ‘clean’ hand, you know.”

Marcus has adopted, as I have, the Muslim practice of designating the right hand for clean activities (traditionally eating; in our case, genital play), the left for dirty activities (traditionally ass wiping; in our case, anal play).

This helps to keep things clear when one is going at it.

Now Marcus worried that his bearings would be off.

Mitzi arrived with a carrot cake, established as a shared favorite when we plotted our original threesome.

As Marcus worked, Mtizi joined Meg and me on the couch, getting acquainted and catching up as we had done on our previous attempt at a threesome.

There were occasional lulls in the conversation. Mitzi or Meg would look at me a little expectantly, as if asking if this was where we got naked—or do we have more to talk about?

I wondered if either of them would initiate the move to sex if given the opportunity.

It was clear that we were all interested. That was established. Was it primarily up to me—as the man or as the host—to get things going?

Apparently, it was.

In time, I stood and announced that it was time for sex.

Mitzi and Meg were raring to go. Marcus continued typing and told us to have fun.

Mitzi and I lay on the bed, talking and kissing. Meg settled into a chair, responding when we address her, but slipping into a quiet mode.

She was preparing to watch.

Mitzi takes her kisses tenderly, with great ardor. Her eyes flash as my lips meet hers. Her body arches and twists.

She likes to be watched.

My kisses traveled down her neck, to her clavicle, to her breasts. She gasped quietly, her breathing becoming heavy.

She gives herself over to romance.

She gives herself over to being ravished.

I removed her shirt and bra. I sucked her breast softly and tenaciously, as she likes.

Meg watched, silently. My view of her lap was obscured—was she masturbating?

“Meg, help me out here. I want to lick Mitzi’s pussy. Can you take over on her breasts?”

Mitzi gasped, more audibly than before.

“Sure!” Meg crossed to the other side of the bed as I removed Mitzi’s panties.

“Suck them firmly now, like I showed you,” I instructed. My mouth would soon be too busy to offer further directions.

My tongue found Mitzi’s swollen clit. My mouth latched on, my fingers massaging her labia. I kept my attentions soft and gentle, teasing her.

Meg sucked a nipple long and hard before her tongue wandered to the other breast.

Mitzi was ecstatic.

“Jefferson, please, fuck me—please!”

Meg’s lips curled into a smile as she suckled.

I reached for a condom. I tore the package carefully, hoping Mitzi could hear the prolonged ripping.

I rolled it onto my cock with slow deliberation.

Mitzi squirmed in anticipation.

I raised her legs, looking her in the eyes.

“Please . . .” she breathed.

I took my cock in hand, and directed it into her. Gently, slowly.

Meg sat back to watch.

When I was deep in her, I leaned forward to kiss her. My kisses were now more forceful.

I wanted to melt Mitzi.

She was edging closer to orgasm.

“I want to be on top, please, please,” she moaned.

“Hold onto my neck, then.” I took her wrists in my hands. “Ready?” She nodded.

I pulled her up towards me and fell back. Now she was on top.

She came fast and furious.

I flipped her back and fucked hard. I focused on her eyes. She had told me she likes my “mean fuck face” when we are going at it intently.

She got that face.

As Meg watched us, I thought I should do something more to get her involved. But she seemed more than content to watch, and to record with her mind’s camera.

I gave as much as I could before tumbling to Mitzi’s side.

We lay together, catching our breath.

“Wow,” Meg said.

“Yeah, wow.” I slung a leg over her hip.

“Ew, you are getting my skirt sweaty.”

“Ditch the skirt, then.”

Meg agreed that was a fine solution. Now my leg rested on bare flesh as I caressed contented Mitzi.

Marcus had wandered in and out of the room as we fucked. Feeling caught up on his work, he now joined us.

We talked as he rummaged through my box of sex toys.

“What’s this?” he asked, holding aloft an aneros plug, still in the original packaging. “Oh wait, you have two?”

“Yep, large and small. Recent gifts from Bridget. Supposed to be a butt plug with great prostate stimulation.”

“Uh huh,” Marcus nodded, reading. He tore the package open. “Well, I have to try this.”

I noticed the time. “Shit, I have to run some errands before the party.” I stood and pulled on clothes as Marcus stripped his. “I’ll be back in a few.”

I kissed Mitzi and Meg goodbye. Meg was already a little distracted by Marcus’s fascination with the new toy.

My errands took me to the grocery store and the liquor store.

I found hamburger meat on sale. I realized I was starving, and picked up some buns.

When I returned home, Jake was nude on my bed, laying on one side. Marcus was also nude, lubing Jake’s ass and holding the smaller aneros plug.

“Hey Jake, you’re early.”

“Yes, not much going on at work,” he replied in his calm voice.

I peered over Marcus’s shoulder. “So where is the other plug?”

“In Marcus,” Mitzi said, pointing to his ass.

“Now, be still,” Marcus instructed Jake. “Here it comes—okay, it’s in.”

“Nice,” Jake said.

“Looks snug,” I observed. “Hey, I’m making burgers. Anyone hungry?”

“I’m fine,” Jake replied. I took orders from Mitzi and Meg.

Mitzi joined me in the kitchen.

“You missed it,” she reported. “Meg and I blew Marcus as he used the butt plug.”

“Well, that’s nice,” I said, firing the grill. “Was it hot?”

“Uh huh. We took turns sucking him. Then Meg tortured his balls.”

I seasoned the patties. “That boy loves to have his balls tortured.”

“You need a hand?” she asked. “I mean, cooking?”

“Yes, you can kiss me.” She did.

The meat sizzled.

Jake joined us in the kitchen. I asked about the butt plug.

“It rocks.”

“Where is it?” Mitzi asked.

“Oh, here,” Jake said, turning. He bent over to reveal the plug in his ass.

“There’s an appetizing sight,” I laughed, flipping the burgers.

“Indeed,” Mitzi agreed, patting Jake’s cheeks.

“I like it,” he said.

We decided to eat on the terrace, which meant that a few of us needed to get dressed. I plated burgers, carrots, watermelon and carrot cake.

After dinner, Mitzi lit a cigarette. “My last,” she said. “Then I should get going.”

Mitzi didn’t care to stay for the sex party. She had enjoyed her fill of group activities for the day.

I kissed her goodbye at the door.

“Are we still on for tomorrow night?” she asked.

“Yep,” I smiled. “A sleepover.”

“I like that.” She nuzzled into my neck, then pulled back. “Have fun tonight. Kiss Farahnaz for me.”

“I shall.”

She left.

The next night, we would have a very cozy and romantic stay in her crisp clean sheets.

That night, the gang would be mussing up my sex sheets.

Thursday, July 21, 2005


There sat Meg on the couch, leaning on one thigh so as to avoid putting weight on the fresh scratches and bruises that marred her ass.

There sat Todd on the terrace, eyes closed and dressed head to toe in black, stoned and zoned out to his MP3 player.

There stood Marcus, near my desk, his hand bandaged, his face frozen in a smile.

For here was my ex, Lucy, with whom he had not spoken in two years.

With Lucy came my children, now eating watermelon at the dining table and playing magic tricks on one another.

My universe had collapsed upon itself.

That morning, my phone had rung as I made bacon in the kitchen.

Marcus and Meg were also making bacon. In my bed. Loudly.


“Hey Jason, how are you?”

“Fine. Mom wanted me to call to ask you something.”

“Sure, what’s that?”

“How many times did I fuck you last night?” Marcus barked.

“Unh!” Meg moaned. “Unh, I don’t, unh . .”

“Tell me!”

“Twice! You fucked me twice!”


“I’m sorry, Jason, what was that you said?” I turned the bacon and put a finger in my free ear.

“I said, Mom wants to know what you are doing today.”

“Not much. Why?”

“Well, you know that we are going camping tomorrow with Mom, and we’ll be gone for a week, and it is Collie’s birthday tomorrow, and so she wanted to know if . . . wait, what, Mom?”


I tucked the phone between my neck and shoulder, and removed the bacon to a paper towel on a plate. Six fresh strips hit the griddle.

“You like it hard up your ass, don’t you?”

“Unh, yes, I . . . unh . . .”


“Yes, Jason?”

“Mom wants to know if you can make dinner for us all tonight.”

“What, at my place? Well, actually, I have plans tonight. Why does she ask that? Can she talk?”

“No, she is busy, she’s . . . what, Mom?”


“Hang on . . .”

I turned the bacon.

“Mom wants to know if we can come over today to collect gifts for Collie.”

“Well, we planned to do that when you returned.”

“I know, but now . . . hang on, what, Mom? Oh wait, she’s coming to the phone.”

“Jefferson!” Marcus hollered.


“When is breakfast?”

“Just a few minutes.” I turned the bacon and slung bread slices into the toaster oven.


“Hi Lucy.”

“Look, can we please come over today? The kids are driving me crazy, and I need to get away from all this packing I’m doing. It would be so much better for me if Collie had some gifts from you before we leave tomorrow, so it seems like he is having a bigger birthday. I feel so sorry for him that we are driving eight hours on his birthday. Don’t you?”

“That is a long drive. Where are you going? You haven’t really told me where you will be with the kids next week.”

“Maine. So is it okay if we come over? For a while?”

Lucy never asks to come over with the kids. If I had no plans, I would be more than happy to make dinner for the family. It would be great to share that time, all together.

But of course I have plans. I book my life in advance, never expecting the unexpected.

“Sure, it’s okay. I can’t do anything about tonight. But this afternoon is fine—though I will have friends over. Including Marcus.”


“He is staying with me for a few days. The kids saw him the other day, so they know this.”

“Oh. Well, okay. We will come over about three.”

“You are okay with this?”

“Yes. Bye.”


I closed the phone. “Bye.”

I pulled the bacon off the griddle, and drained the extra grease. I gave the eggs one last whisk and drizzled them into the heat.

“Marcus! Meg! Breakfast!”

“About time! Damn.” Marcus bellowed. A moment later, Meg giggled.

They strolled into the dining area like two cowboys with a secret.

Meg lowered herself onto a pillow as she settled at the table.

Meg had slept over the night before, after her first sex party at my place.

Well, “first” is a relative designation. Meg has had few adventures in my apartment—including a threesome here, a fivesome there.

But this had been her first bonafide, regularly scheduled, get-to-know-the-gang gathering.

She made a very fine debut. Never mind the afternoon before the party, when things got going a little early.

As we ate breakfast, I went over the day’s agenda, noting that I now had to do some shopping for Collie. They opted to join me.

Meg and I shopped for children’s books. Among a few others, I picked out 1000 Jokes for Kids.

“For the long drive,” I said, showing the book to Meg. “Think it will drive their mom nuts?”

“Cruel bastard,” she smiled.

At the register, Meg lent me her teacher’s discount.

As we looked over the magic tricks at Ricky’s, I fielded calls from Todd, who had been at the party and was now coming uptown to spend the afternoon with us.

Back at home, Meg and Marcus wrapped gifts as I cleaned up from the previous evening’s debauchery. I needed to hide any evidence.

I told Todd that my kids were going to be over for a little while. He registered this news and decided to check out from the situation by “meditating” on the terrace.

He was out cold in a moment.

Todd was understandably reluctant to be drawn into family time.

Meg was happy to be meeting my kids, and more than a little curious about my ex.

Marcus was a little nervous about seeing Lucy.

Marcus and Lucy have known each other nearly as long as I have known either of them.

Their falling out dates to the argument that ended my marriage.

Two years ago, I was going on a business trip to the Middle East. Lucy did not approve.

US-led forces were then launching the invasion of Iraq. This was no time to be in the region, she told me.

When she made no headway in trying to convince me that I was an idiot to consider the trip, arguing that “they hate us” there and I am a “walking blonde target,” she fell back to the tried-and-true practice of rallying the troops to her side.

Her mother called to warn me against the trip.

Her father called to warn me against the trip.

My father called to warn me against the trip.

My mother called to warn me against the trip.

When these appeals had no effect—other than to annoy me—Lucy moved on to friends. She called Marcus.

Marcus has traveled a good deal. He used to live in the Middle East.

Lucy discovered that in the course of preparing for the trip, I had spoken to Marcus.

She found that Marcus agreed with me. The trip was fine. It was safe. There was no cause for alarm.

Lucy hung up on Marcus, furious.

When Marcus wound up joining me on the trip, he was reduced to persona non grata in her book.

Lucy’s fury led her to immolate our marriage. She tossed her friendship with Marcus onto the flames for good measure.

Lucy succumbed to an impulse that too often guides frustrated ex’s and angry kindergarteners—if you are his friend, you can’t be my friend too.

It’s a wicked impulse that rarely works out as one might hope. For as it happens, people generally don’t like being told who they may or may not have as friends.

Most often, giving into the impulse means you will lose friends now, and possibly eat crow later.

Lucy does not savor the flavor of crow.

I can only imagine what Lucy thought as she followed the kids into my apartment.

Here I was with my best friend, a twenty-something redhead, and a sleeping vampire.

Her mind whirred as she tried to put this together.

She smiled wanly at Marcus, who was fending hugs from Lillie.

“So,” she nodded to him, her body wound in a bouncing stance. “How you been?”

“Pretty good, can’t complain. And you? What you been up to?”

“Not much. Packing for this camping trip. Hey, what’s wrong with your hand?”

“Oh, nothing,” he said, holding it aloft. “An infection.”

She nodded though his response, not really listening.

“Dad, can I open these presents?”

“Sure Collie, go to it. Let Lillie help.”

They kids opened the gifts, showing each to the grown ups, who oohed and aahed in kind.

Lucy sat on the couch between Meg and Marcus, never altering her smile.

With the gifts open, Lucy suddenly asked if she could leave the kids with me for a while to run some errands. Of course, I agreed. She said goodbye to the kids and was quickly off.

The kids were too absorbed in the new gifts to notice.

“What was that?” asked Marcus.

“Awkward social situation,” I guessed. “She wanted to remove herself rather than face it.”

“But why did she want to come here if . . .”

“I’m still not sure. I think maybe she really did want a break from the kids, and she wasn’t expecting this. Are you okay?”

“Yeah, but it was pretty awkward.”

We played with Lillie and Collie, as Jason gravitated to the Game Cube.

In time, Lucy returned from her “errands,” no packages in arm. I offered coffee or a drink; she declined.

She soon gathered the kids to go. I kissed the children, saying I would miss them in the coming week.

“I love you,” I told each of them, whispering, “You are my favorite.”

Lucy and I exchanged smiles at the door.

“Have a nice trip. Good luck.”

“Thanks. Bye.”


I closed the door.

“She’s pretty,” Meg observed.

“Yeah,” Marcus laughed, braying. “She’s hot. I’d do her.”

“Have at it,” I replied. “But be forewarned: she’s okay for the first fifteen years or so.

“After that, things can get weird.”

Monday, July 18, 2005

Brandon's Eyes

Around seven thirty on a Monday evening, there was a knock on my door.

“Hey baby, how are you?” Marcus shifted his shoulder bag as he kissed me.

“Hey hon. You’re traveling light.”

“You think? I’m only going to be here for a few days. Where should I put my bag?”

“Drop it in my room; you’ll be sleeping with me.”

“Yeah? What’s in your wallet?” He grinned and ambled back to my room.

He found six naked men waiting.

“Hey guys, how’s it going?” he greeted them.

A few of the men nodded, a few others were already busy sucking cock. Marcus put his bag in a corner and smiled again on his way out of the room.

He found me in the kitchen.

“Jefferson, did you know there are naked men having sex in your bedroom?”

“Yes baby, the party started right on time.”

Marcus has arranged his schedule to attend some of this summer’s sex parties at my place.

First up: the monthly all-male orgy, on the last Monday in June, the day after Gay Pride.

I introduced him to Jimmy, who organizes the event.

“Nice to meet you, doll. Jefferson has told me all about you.”

“Same here,” Marcus fibbed. “It’s great to finally meet you. Fuck, those guys are so quiet! I thought no one was here until I saw them all.”

“It’s a quiet group,” I agreed.

“What do they have to talk about?” Jimmy rolled his eyes. “They are naked horny boys. What else do they need to know?

“I was just telling Jefferson about the blonde bottom,” he continued. “I told him all about our favorite quiet dom, Jefferson. So be sure to give him the magic touch.”

“Thanks Jimmy, you are such a yenta.”

“Which one is he?” Marcus asked.

“Um, kinda buff, blonde, goatee,” Jimmy said. He looked at the pile of garbage bags against the wall, each marked with the name of the man whose clothes it contained. “His name is . . . Rob. You can’t miss him.”

“Yeah?” Marcus looked at me. “Let’s go check him out.”

“All right, let’s.” I hopped down from the counter.

“Have fun, boys,” Jimmy smiled, shooing us off.

Marcus and I undressed in my bedroom. The main action had shifted to the other bedroom.

He kissed me again now that we were nude.

“It’s so good to see you!” he said, smiling.

I hugged him, pressing close. “I’m so glad to have you here. Now, let’s go check out the bottom.”

Men were gathered in the back room, jerking, touching and watching as a muscular older man fucked someone bent over the taco futon.

My eyes were drawn to the fucking that captivated the room. Marcus checked out the men and leaned to me. “That’s Rob the bottom getting fucked.”

“He looks busy. Bad timing for us.”

Marcus moved among the men. I settled back on bed to watch the action.

My cock was getting hard.

Marcus said a few words to Rob and the guy fucking him. Whatever Rob said in reply made Marcus laugh.

Marcus crouched on the floor and reached between the top’s legs. He took Rob’s balls in hand and set to work.

Rob squirmed and moaned as he was worked by Marcus and the top.

In time, the top stood aside. Marcus took a condom and whispered a few more words to Rob.

Marcus entered him, slowly, holding Rob steady with a hand on his lower spine.

Rob soon got Marcus at fill throttle.

I thought I might join Marcus at his task, but I was soon distracted by a familiar cock sucker .

I caught up with Marcus again as he washed up in the bathroom.

I stood in the hallway, talking to him through the door.

“How was Rob?” I asked.

“Pretty good,” he shurgged, rubbing a washcloth on his cock. “Not much reaction. You know. So how many men do you know here?”

I looked to one side, cataloguing the faces in my memory. “Well, I have seen about, let’s say, two thirds of them before. The best ones I know for us are the long-haired tall guy—he’s cute and likes a tough fuck—and the guy with the shaved head—he’s a dynamite cock sucker who gets fucked well. Lots of eye contact.”

“Good to know,” he said, joining me in the hall doorway.

As we talked, someone brushed by, squeezing my cock as he passed.

At a gay orgy, I guess that is the equivalent of getting pinned.

I turned to look at him. He looked back at me—young, with dark hair, side burns and eyes that bored into mine. His body was naturally tan and lithe.

He flashed a smile as the walked into my bedroom.

“Huh!” Marcus said. “You know him?”

“Not like I soon will.”

I followed the boy into my room. He had settled onto my empty bed.

Everyone else in the room was standing about or settled in chairs.

I glanced at the group as I made my way to the bed. The hazel-eyed boy and I leaned against the pillows, side by side.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey there.”

“So this is your place?”

“Yeah. Welcome.”

“Thanks. I’m Brandon.” His hand reached over to my cock in greeting.

“Jefferson. Nice to meet you.”

Brandon kissed me.

I kissed Brandon, and took his cock in my hand.

Men standing around gathered closer to watch, tugging their cocks.

One fellow kneeled next to me, jerking near my hips. I looked up. It was what’s-his-name, that guy with the cute face and bubble butt.

Brandon moved to suck my cock. He soon alternated between mine and the other one being offered.

With one hand, I held our cocks to Brandon’s mouth as my other hand rubbed his slender muscled body.

I looked up to see Marcus’s hands on Brandon’s legs and dick. He lifted Brandon’s legs up, which pushed his ass back and up.

“You know, Brandon,” Marcus offered, looking down at the boy folded under him. “I can fuck you with my balls.”

Brandon took my cock from his mouth, still gripping the other fellow’s. “That would be a first,” he replied, calmly. “How does it work?”

“Simple. I put my balls in you, one at a time, and then I put my cock in you. And then, you know, I fuck you.”

“I’ve seen it done,” I said by way of recommendation. “He’s good.”

“Cool, then, let’s do it.”

Brandon smiled at the other guy, relieving him of duty. He fell back among the other wankers, who had circled in for a closer look.

“Okay. Jefferson, could you hand me that lube, and hold Brandon’s leg up?”

“May I hold the other?” a wanker asked.

“That would be helpful, thanks.” He gave Brandon’s leg over. He looked down. “Brandon, you ready? Relaxed?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”

“Okay, good. Good!” Marcus had put on a condom, lubing his shaft and balls. He positioned himself over Brandon’s ass, leaning in slightly.

He lowered his left nut to the waiting sphincter. He pressed it into Brandon.

He opened Brandon’s hole with a finger, then replaced the finger with his right nut.

“Now, my balls are in you.”

Brandon craned his neck to see. “Wow, that’s cool.”

“Here comes the amazing part,” I said.

Marcus leaned back on his heels, slightly shifting his angle. This tugged his sack just a bit, without disturbing the placement of his balls.

He folded his semi-erect cock over on itself.

He guided his cock into Brandon, leaning forward as he entered him.

He shifted, pushing his weight down and onto Brandon, sealing his cock and balls into place.

“That’s it, I’m in you.”

“That’s impressive,” Brandon admired.

“Thanks. I’ll take that now,” Marcus said, taking the leg from the helpful wanker.

Marcus thrust, hard.

Brandon gasped.

And just like that, Marcus was fucking Brandon.

I held the other leg and turned so that I was feeding Brandon as Marcus fucked him.

As Marcus fucked him, Brandon’s body went limp as a rag doll. Marcus toughed up on his ass. I did the same on his mouth.

Brandon’s eyes moved back and forth between us, expectantly.

We got rougher, fucking his holes harder, cruder. We talked as though he wasn’t there.

“You are giving it to him good, Marcus.”

“Unh, yeah.”

“Nice ass?”

“Yeah, how’s his face hole?”

The wankers around us enjoyed the show. Brandon played his part well, his eyes expressive, his throat full of gutteral moans.

After a sound pounding, Marcus slowed to shift his weight.

“Hey, can I fuck him now, Marcus?” I asked.

“No,” he scoffed. He thought for a moment, then pulled out. “Sure, take some.”

I took my cock from Brandon’s mouth. We turned his body as though he were on a lazy Susan. It would have been easier, I suppose, to simply switch positions. But instinct told us otherwise, and I liked this: it reinforced the notion that Brandon’s personality was vacated from his body.

He was just meat for us to fuck.

He liked it too. As I entered him, he set his eyes on mine. His face was intense, yet smiling.

Marcus scruffed Brandon’s hair and kissed him goodbye. He was off to scrub up and fuck other men.

Marcus had worked Brandon over with rough, rapid thrusts. I thought I might try a different tact, going deep and long.

Brandon is a kisser. I wanted to take advantage of that.

I held him close, kissing him and holding his face as we fucked. His lean body sweated under me, his hands holding me close.

His romantic gaze, with his deep brown eyes, was a great turn on.

I pulled up to look at him, and in spite of my intentions otherwise, I was fucking him hard and deep.

His jerked his cock, his mouth open for air.

His eyes never left mine, as he came.

He convulsed, my cock in him as he shot over his torso.

As he panted his release, I leaned over to kiss him, with all the ardor of our earlier kisses.

Beside us, one of the wankers came.

We disengaged and walked to the bathroom to clean up. The wankers dispersed in search of other visuals.

We rinsed at the sink. Brandon was soaked in cum and sweat. I offered him the shower and a fresh towel.

He said he would like that. I turned on the water and readied his shower.

After that romantic eye contact, I would have made him a bath of milk and rose petals.

But this was a party pick up.

We had just had some damned fine crowd-pleasing sex, exchanging only a few words in the process.

In this context, that’s a nice how-do-you-do, nothing more.

Who knew if we would, you know, actually enjoy getting acquainted.

There was no obligation to do more. Still, we chatted as he showered and toweled. Our conversation followed us into the living room.

On the couch, I learned he was an artist. We were soon talking about art schools and galleries . Our nudity and the sex party around us fell away just a little.

“You are an artist. So what do you do for a living?” I asked.

“The usual stuff to get by,” he said. “And make some porn.”

Marcus soon joined us. He also liked it that Brandon, the meat we had fucked, was so cool and conversant.

“Isn’t that funny, Jefferson?” he said. “At the mixed party you host, everyone talks for a while and then has sex. At this one, you have sex, and then maybe talk.”

“Gay men and girls, I guess. Different strokes.”

“You do other parties?” Brandon asked.

I told him about our usual gang. I invited him to check it out.

“That would be nice,” he said. “I’ve never been with a girl—curious about it, though.”

We traded contacts.

“I do have a super-secret sex blog,” I mentioned. “You’re hot, and I’d like to write about meeting you. Do you want me to use a pseudonym, or your real porn name?”

“You can use my name, that’s fine. Use my picture if you want.”

He was soon off to meet friends.

It was just a little before nine.

Our threesome with Brandon had made popular tops of Marcus and me. For the rest of the evening, we were in high demand.

We traded a few bottoms back and forth.

We fucked other subs on our own.

But that night, as we traded notes over a late supper, our conversation kept coming back to Brandon Aguilar.

Saturday, July 16, 2005

Always a Bride

A few months ago, Lillie served as flower girl in her aunt’s wedding. (I was conspicuously not invited; despite my good relations with my ex’s sister, Lucy had blackballed me from the joyous occasion.)

Since then, wedding bells have been ringing in Lillie’s ears.

She recently arrayed her dolls and stuffed animals on a picnic blanket, each matched to a suitable partner. Kitty joined Rabbit, Barbie joined Woody, Bear joined Beary, among many couples, in a large circle.

In front of each couple, she placed an index card on which she had carefully enclosed the word “love” in a hand-drawn heart.

She went from pair to pair, conducting a mass wedding. Reverend Moon would have been impressed with her efficiency.

“Do you, Kitty, take Rabbit to be your lovely wedding husband? I do. Do you, Rabbit, take Kitty to be your lovely wedding wife? I do. You may kiss the bride.”

When the assembled menagerie was hitched one to the other, she sent them all on honeymoon by ignoring them until dinner.

The other day, she brought me a jar of dill pickles to open. As she took a pickle, she wet her hand in brine and sucked it clean.

She stuck her fingers back in the jar for more “pickle juice.”

“Lillie! Please don’t put your yucky fingers in the pickle jar!”

“I can’t help it,” she giggled. “I love pickles so much!” She bit into her pickle and ran off a few steps. She stopped in her tracks and looked back at me. “I know what you are going to say,” she grinned. “’If you love pickles so much, why don’t you marry them?’ Well, maybe I will!”

She walked back to the pickle jar. “Do you, pickle jar, take me to be your lovely wedding wife?” She nodded. “I do. And do I, Lillie, take you, pickle jar, to be my lovely wedding husband? I do. You may kiss the bride.”

She kissed the jar.

“I’m married to the pickle jar!” she giggled, racing off.

Later, she found me reading on the terrace.

“You know, when say ‘I do’ in a wedding, you are really saying ‘I do’ to fighting. And to kissing! You and Mom said ‘I do,’ and you fighted. Aunt Jill and Uncle Aaron said ‘I do,’ and they fighted. When we see them this summer, I am going to watch them. And if they fight, I will tell them they said ‘I do’ to fighting. And if they kiss, well, I am going to look in the other direction!”

I sat with my book lowered to my lap.

“Lillie, do you remember your mom and dad fighting often?”

“Okay, I am outta here!” She ran back inside.

She was in a mood for pithy observations, not extended conversation.

I went back to my book.

Heck. We had thought were doing a good job of hiding our fights.

Friday, July 15, 2005

First Date 'Eighty Eight

Summer has three significant anniversaries in my relationship with my ex, Lucy. This year, like last year and the year before, all will go unacknowledged between us.

First up on the calendar is the anniversary of the end of our cohabitation, Independence Day.

Next month will come our wedding anniversary.

Today marks the anniversary that she would never recall, the one that I would always surprised her by remembering: our first date.

“How do you remember the exact day?” she would ask every year when I reminded her. “That’s too much!”

“Easy,” I would kiss her. “It’s exactly one month and three years before we got married. You do remember the date itself, don’t you?”

“Yes, I do remember that.”

Lucy and I met in the middle of my senior year of college. I was assistant manager at a book store, and she had been hired to help with the Christmas rush.

She had finished college the preceding spring, and was enjoying the freedom of being out in the world.

She worked out for the holiday season, and so she was asked to stay on.

It was, we would later joke, the last time I was the boss in our relationship.

For months, we were co-workers, but that was really the extent of things. I was busy with school and tending to my own social circle. She was much more relaxed, socializing with the crowd at our bookstore.

Our first impressions of one another were friendly enough.

She chain-smoked as she sat in the back of the store, receiving books and talking politics. She was wiry and acerbic, wound tight with nervous energy.

I thought she was a Commie lesbian.

I gravitated to the front of the store, taking orders and directing customers to titles they half remembered from reviews. I read reviews diligently, to fake a greater knowledge of books than I actually possessed.

With my long hair and art school association, Lucy took me for a spacey art fag.

She wasn’t far wrong. I was mentally preparing to resume my life as a bisexual after graduation.

My school was small and something of a fishbowl. Everyone knew one another’s business. The prevailing aesthetic code was set by Dischord records. Everyone was in a band or knew someone in a band. Straight edge punk was the order of the day.

This never quite fit me.

I was a vegetarian, but that wasn’t strict enough for the vegans.

I didn’t do drugs, but I drank, which was just as bad in many eyes.

I had sex. Fuck that, I was bisexual. A lesbian girlfriend, Lisa, took me aside to explain how that was a challenge for some in our crowd to accept. When Guy Picciotto had confided his bisexuality, she told me, it damn near caused a riot.

Gay was scarce enough in the mosh pit. Bisexuality was elbowed further aside, being neither black nor white, the preferred color spectrum of the straight edge set.

So I tended to play my cards close, waiting until graduation to relax my sexuality. Meanwhile, I drank beer at shows, listened to Husker Du and the Replacements at home, and fucked my straight roommate.

Shortly after graduation, my roommate and I gave up our apartment. He moved home to save money. I moved into a group house.

About that time, Gabriel came to work at my bookstore.

Gabriel was a preppy Catholic boy, with owlish glasses, wavy brown hair and a penchant for chino shorts. He cared not a whit for straight edge. He gravitated to New Order, Roy Orbison and house music.

How refreshing, I thought.

He lived with his girlfriend. They were caretakers for a gay bed and breakfast. I stopped by to visit on many occasions, flipping through the issues of Bear and Inches on their coffee table.

Gabriel called me all the time. At work, he followed me through my various tasks, laughing at my jokes, picking up my slang, happy when I listened to music he recommended.

Lesbian Lisa diagnosed a crush.

“No way,” I said, pulling my hair into a ponytail. “He’s straight. Got a girlfriend and everything.”

“Whatever you say,” she smirked.

Did he have a crush on me? I wondered. He was cute . . .

With my roommate no longer available for regular sex, my eyes were open for something new.

I fooled around with Marcus.

Marcus was so sexy. Funny, handsome and living in a cool studio apartment decorated with tribal art and a toilet he had transformed into a fishbowl.

But Marcus had a girlfriend of some sort, so he wasn’t really available.

I fooled around with Marcus’s friend Curt.

Curt was gay and wry. He had curly blonde hair, a quick smile and he smoked like an old lady. Unfortunately, he also had sex like an old lady, taking care not to undress fully, or to kiss too much.

He also had an odd symbiotic relationship with a guy who was not his boyfriend, but territorial nonetheless. I saw too many red flags on that.

And Gabriel was cute . . .

He confided in me that things were not going well with his girlfriend. They got into screaming fights. He was scared they would be asked to leave their caretaker’s job at the bed and breakfast due to the racket.

“Screaming is not cool,” I agreed. “You really can’t do that. When things are that bad, just come crash at my place.”

“Really, you mean it?”

“Of course, Gabriel. No fight is so bad you can’t make up later. But screaming is just so out of control.”

“Thanks, Jefferson, that could really help.”

Not long afterwards, I got the call at work.

“Jefferson, she is really angry at me and swearing all kinds of things. I can’t stay here.”

“Gabriel, go to my place.”

“You’re sure?”

“The back door is unlocked. Go. I’ll be home after my shift, and you can tell me about it.”

“Okay, Jefferson, I’ll see you after work.”

Weeks later, he was still living in my room.

He had gone back to the bed and breakfast to collect clothes, CDs and his word processor. He broke up with his girlfriend.

Staying with me was clearly a preferred option. Even if things had gone south with his girlfriend, Gabriel had a room waiting at his parents’ house in the suburbs.

He wanted to be with me.

Every night, we slept in the same bed.

I usually slept nude, but I wore boxers to accommodate the new arrangement. We would listen to Wire and talk until all hours, our voices humming under the sound of the fan.

It was soon out at work that Gabriel was shacking up with me.

“That didn’t take long,” Lisa teased.

“We aren’t sleeping together. I mean, we are sleeping together, but not like that.”

“All things in time.”

“He’s straight, Lisa.”

“Yeah. So was your roommate.”

Well, she had a point there.

One night, as we lay in bed, no longer talking, drifting to sleep, I summoned all my courage.

It took an eternity.

But I did it.

In the warm still night, under the covers of the bed we shared, faint lights tracing shadows on my ceiling, Wire playing low, I allowed my hand to touch his.

He recoiled as if a snake had bitten him.

“Jefferson, gross!”

“Sorry, Gabriel. I didn’t mean . . .”

“It’s okay, it’s okay, let’s just . . .”

“Okay, it’s cool.”

“I’m sorry, I like you and all, but as friends . . .”

“It’s okay.”

We lay in silence as the album played out.

I pretended to be asleep, and eventually, I was asleep.

“He’s not into me like that,” I told Lisa.

“How can you be sure? He is such a puppy dog to you . . .”

“Trust me, I know.”

“Closet case.”

“Whatever. Case closed.”

Not quite.

A few nights later, I walked home from work, picking up a six pack a few blocks from my house. It was around midnight.

When I reached the front porch, I saw Gabriel sitting with Lucy.

“Welcome home, Jefferson,” he grinned.

“Hi Jefferson,” she smiled.

“Here’s a pleasant surprise,” I smiled back.

It was anything but.

I wasn’t sure what was going on with Gabriel and me, but I knew one thing for certain.

He wasn’t bringing girls over to my place.

I was not sleeping in the living room so he could get laid in my bed.

“Want a beer?” I put down my bag and handed them each a sweating bottle.

“Thanks,” Lucy said, twisting the top.

Makes sense, I thought. Here’s how Gabriel asserts that he is straight—he brings home a girl. How fucking awkward.

Gabriel had a shit-eating grin.

The three of us went up to my room. We sat on my bed.

I turned on a fan and a lamp, and put on a Meat Puppets album.

Lucy pulled out some grass and papers. We got high.

We opened more beer.

We were talking, giddy and fun.

After a while, Lucy reached across my bed to pick up a deck of cards on my bookshelf. She laughingly suggested we play strip poker.

I thought she was kidding, but she was dead set on the game. She shuffled the deck as Gabriel giggled and re-lit the joint.

I was not at all sure where this was going, but I did know the first rule of strip poker: lose quickly. The sooner everyone is nude, the sooner things get more interesting.

I kept getting winning hands.

Gabriel was soon down to his boxers. He lost them, fair and square, but he was reluctant to doff them.

“Oh come on, that’s not fair!” Lucy complained. She was down to panties and a tank top.

“You lost, sucker. Lose the boxers,” I said, sitting shirtless.

“I can’t,” he blushed. “I’m shy.”

“Lame. Okay, you are out of this hand,” Lucy said, dealing the cards. “You and me, Jefferson.”

I put two back. I had one pair of tens in my hand and one pair of shorts to bet.

Lucy took one card. The tank top was at stake.

The game was down to the wire. Tits if she loses, cock if she wins.


I put down my pair.

She put down two pair.

“You lose, I win,” she laughed.

“Okay, then, I’m ditching the shorts.”

“Lose them, loser!”

“I will!”

“You sure talk a lot, loser.”

I stood up and unbuttoned my shorts. “Here goes!”

“Put up or shut up,” she giggled.

Gabriel sat, eyes on our interaction.

I unzipped and dropped my shorts. I kicked them across the floor.

I was naked in front of my friends. My cock was swelling.

“Get an eye full,” I said, raising my arms. Lucy and Gabriel convulsed in laughter, smoke snorting from Lucy’s nose.

“You have nerve,” I taunted Gabriel. “This should be you standing here.”

“No, no way, I can’t,” he waved his hand.

“Shit Gabriel, you are such a coward,” Lucy said. She tugged the tank top over her head.

Her breasts were small and firm, her nipples dark and full.

“Your nipples look like erasers,” Gabriel observed.

“Okay, loser, you’re next.” I lunged and wrestled him to the bed. I lay over him, holding his arms back. He squirmed, his eyes nervous and aroused. “I’ve got him, Lucy. Take the shorts!”

She gave Gabriel a mischievous glance, and stood.

“No, wait, wait!” he squealed, crossing his ankles.

“We waited,” I said. “Now you give.”

I was getting harder.

Lucy took the waistband of his boxers and tugged them to his thighs. His cock leapt out, hard and throbbing.

“Oh come on, move your ankles,” Lucy said.

He went limp under me and did as she directed.

I released him.

Well, I thought. Now what?

Lucy rolled another joint.

I flipped the album and dropped the needle on “Mirage.”

Gabriel relaxed, laying on the bed, his cock flopped on his hip as he watched Lucy. His eyes were on her breasts.

We decided to take the joint up to the roof. This was accessible from a ladder in the sleeping porch adjacent to my room.

The roof was much cooler. The sky was clear and filled with the chatter of animals from the zoo across the street.

We passed the joint.

I kissed Lucy.

Lucy kissed me.

Gabriel rubbed Lucy’s back as we kissed. She turned and gave him a little peck.

I removed Lucy’s panties.

We rolled on the rough shingles. I took care not to touch Gabriel and to give Lucy time with him. I was, I thought, crashing on their date.

Thing was, though, she wasn’t interested in him.

She kept reaching for me.

After a while, she turned to Gabriel and asked him to let us be alone.

“Really?” he asked.

“Yeah, really. Do you mind?”

“Well, no, I guess not.” He stood and crouch-walked over to the ladder. His cock was still hard. “See you guys downstairs.”

“See ya,” I said, surprised by Lucy’s bluntness. “You aren’t here to see Gabriel?”

“No,” Lucy said, averting her eyes. “I came here to see you.”

“I had no idea you were . . .”

“I am, now, as of last week.”

The previous weekend, we had been at a party hosted by one of our co-workers. I remembered talking with Lucy there. At the time, I didn’t think anything of it—we were two friends talking.

But, it seems, she had suddenly seen me in a new light.

She had taken note of my tight black jeans with rhinestone studs.

She had liked the way the bare bulb on the porch haloed my hair from behind.

She noticed, all at once, that I was hot. But what she didn’t know was this: what’s Jefferson’s story?

Earlier this evening, she had asked Gabriel to join her for a beer after work.

Once they had downed half a beer, she cut to the chase.

“So, what’s up with you and Jefferson? Are you guys lovers or what?”

“No, no,” he said, shocked. “No way. We’re straight.”

“You sure?”

“Sure I’m sure. Wha . . . why do you ask?”

“Well,” she said. “I think he’s hot. Is he seeing anyone or what?”

“No, no.” Gabriel smiled. “This is great. You have to tell him. Let’s tell him tonight.”

“Tonight? But how . . .”

“Just come to our place! Let’s get some more beer. He’s going to be glad to hear this!”

And so it was, when I got home from work, Gabriel and Lucy were on my porch, waiting.

And so it was, hours later, that Lucy and I were nude on my roof, under the stars.

“You thought I was hot?” I said, a little shocked.

She kissed me in response.

I licked her body in gratitude, tasting her for the first time.

“Hey, you know, the roof is a little rough,” she said as I sucked her clit. “Let’s go back to your room.”

“Good idea. My knees are shredded.”

We climbed down the ladder. I went first to help her down, holding her slender waist—unnecessary, but allowing me to touch her, to be a gentleman.

We found Gabriel sleeping on my bed, flat on his back. His arms and legs were extended to the corners, leaving no space untouched. His cock was still hard.

“Faker,” I whispered.

“Where else can we go?” she whispered.

“One of my housemates is gone. He would hate for us to be in his room, but . . .”

“. . . what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

We crossed the hall.

Lucy latched the door behind us. “Gabriel is a pest,” she said, walking into my arms.

We kissed in my housemate’s room. His walls were covered in Grateful Dead posters, his floor supporting methodically organized shelves of paperbacks and concert tapes.

We lay on his pallet on the floor.

We made love for the first time.

We made love and talked as the sun came up.

We made love.

We fell in love.

Thursday, July 14, 2005


“I’m terrible with names,” Tina whispered, leaning close to my ear. “Can you help me out?”

“Yes, of course.”

“The fellow to the right, who looks like Christian Bale?”

“That’s Mark”

“And the one sitting next to him, the Alan Cummings lookalike?”

“That’s John.”

“Okay. And John is talking to Theresa, and Theresa is next to Shelby. Right?”


“Okay. Mark, John, Theresa, Shelby.”

“You got it.”

“And I’m Todd,” smiled Todd. Tina sat between us on the couch.

“Oh, I remember you, Todd,” she squeezed his thigh. “I remember you very well.”

It has been a few months since Tina was at my place.

She had caught wind of our parties, and sent regrets that her job prevented her from attending on the usual nights. After we corresponded for a while, I offered to arrange a little dinner party so she could meet our gang.

She had been very impressed.

The feeling had been mutual.

Now she was back for more.

Tina must do well in most social situations. She is naturally curious about people, and an easy conversationalist. She’s attractive—athletic, brunette, late thirties—and successful in a high-stakes field that requires a good mix of smarts, charm and diplomacy.

Attributes that carry over well to sex parties.

“Todd, Jefferson,” Tina began, her voice low and conspiratorial. “I want to tell about this fantasy of mine, because it involves both of you.”

Any confession that begins with that sentence can only go well.

She had our attention.

“I have this pseudo-boyfriend, and I like him. He’s not bad at all. But he’s just a little . . . possessive. He know I am free to see anyone I want, and he accepts that. But he clearly wants me all to himself.’

“That can be a problem,” Todd agreed.

“Been there myself,” I nodded sympathetically.

“So I have this fantasy. He knows about it, and he wants to see it happen. See, the idea is to have a gangbang. I would invite a few guys I have dated or had sex with, and he will be forced to watch as these men have sex with me. Then afterwards, when all the men are gone, he will be allowed to have sex with me too.

“The idea is to show him that I can have any man I want—and he knows this—but I choose to be with him.”

“That’s pretty hot,” I said. “A little cuckoldry. Would he be tied to his seat as he watched?”

“Ropes might be a good thing,” Todd acknowledged. “But I think the biggest thing would be him seeing how each of these men knows how to get you off. He might learn some things about what you like.”

“See,” she nodded, sipping her wine. “I knew you two would understand the spirit of this thing. And you contribute good ideas.”

“Well, we have done this a few times,” Todd laughed.

“Yeah, gangbangs-r-us,” I admitted. “Looks like we are in.”

“Good,” she said. “It’s a lot of schedules to coordinate, but I will try to arrange this soon.”

“Cool,” Todd said. “Maybe we should try it out now?”

“I was just thinking the same thing,” she said. He stood and took her hand. I nodded to Shelby as I followed them to my bedroom.

The last light of evening filled the room, cool and gray against the candlelight.

It was the summer solstice, the end of the longest day of the year.

It was a warm night.

Todd and Tina kissed as he undressed her.

I removed my shirt and stood at her back, pressing her between Todd and me, lifting her hair to kiss the nape of her neck.

I removed her bra. One breast was in my mouth, another in Todd’s lips.

She sat back on the bed, looking up at Todd as he removed his pants. Her eyes lowered to his cock. He offered it to her mouth.

I lost my pants and busied myself with kissing her breasts, her arms, her legs. Her legs are long for her frame, and strong from running and scuba. I extended them to admire her musculature.

She leaned back on the bed to focus on blowing Todd. His moans had her excited; she spread her legs to my mouth.

I tasted the red lace of her panties. They were soaked.

I kissed and licked, moving the panties aside as I maneuvered to the smooth flesh of her labia. I recalled that her g spot was newly discovered at the last dinner party. I wanted to get reacquainted with that—after renewing my taste for her easy clitoral response.

With my mouth on her clit, and Todd in her mouth, Tina panted into her first orgasm of the night.

She’s loud, I remembered.

“Hmmm,” she sat forward to kiss me. “May I return the favor?”

“You may indeed,” I smiled, kissing her lips, her cheeks, her eyes.

“You really are a sweet one,” she murmured.

“That’s right,” I whispered into her ear. “Now suck my cock.”

I scooted myself to the top of the bed, and lay back in the pillows. Tina turned and crawled forward to bring her mouth to my dick.

She looked at my eyes as she swallowed me whole.

She raised her ass to Todd, who stroked himself hard. A condom later, he was in her.

The three of us had fucked for the first time months earlier. Now we were back at it, so easily, as if we had worked out every movement in advance.

This is why, I thought, sex is fun with people who know what they are doing.

Shelby joined us, followed by Mark and John. She plopped herself into a chair and smiled at me. She was still dressed.

“How often do I get to watch you start a party?” she teased.

“A first for everything.” I bit my lip, my voice fading as I responded to her.

“This is so fucking hot,” Shelby said.

“You enjoy the show, baby.”

Todd concurred. “You never get to watch—you are usually too busy fucking. Enjoy!” He spanked Tina’s ass for emphasis.

Tina got the best we had to offer.

Mark and John were nude, jerking one another as they watched.

Todd decided he needed a break. Shelby decided to avail herself of Todd’s availability.

They were soon off.

Tina took my cock from her mouth and surveyed the room. “Is that Mark?” she asked.

“’Tis I,” Mark replied.

“Can you fuck me, please?” Tina remained where Todd had left her, ass high in the air.

“Happy to oblige.” He stepped to my nightstand to fetch a condom.

“Why aren’t you sucking cock?” I asked Tina. She returned to her task.

I stroked her hair as Mark mounted her from behind, just as Todd had done.

Like Tina, Mark is an athlete and very limber. In a few moments, they had found a strong forceful rhythm that worked for both of them.

Tina grunted and sighed as he pushed her forward and back.

It was all I could do to keep my dick deep in her mouth.

Mark began to move rapidly. Tina pressed back into him, her strong body matching his, thrust for thrust.

I pressed my palms to her head, holding her on me, my grip light but firm.

“Fuck,” she shouted into my cock. “Gah dab id!” Her body convulsed in orgasm.

“Nice, nice!” I commended, releasing her, petting her.

Mark’s eyes were on me.

“I’m cumming too,” he announced. He pushed forward and back, rapidly pulsing his thrusts as he came inside her.

“God damn,” Tina panted as he pulled out, her face sweaty and resting on my pubic hair. “That was so fucking hot.”

We were so worked up. Our vocabularies were spent. Our educations meant nothing, our bodies were in command. “God damn” and “fucking hot” would have to suffice.

Mark stood and kissed her face. “I’ll see you in a bit,” he said. “I need to clean up.”

“Uh huh,” she gasped. “Later.”

We were alone in my bedroom. I stroked Tina’s hair, pulling it from the sweat on her brow. She smiled in appreciation.

She works so hard, I thought. She handles huge accounts all day, dealing with difficult situations and other people’s money, for a company that owns you during working hours.

She had managed to leave that behind just now, to be in her own body.

“Feels good to be in charge of yourself, huh?” I whispered.

She looked up at me.

She wasn’t done yet.

“I think you need to fuck me,” she said.

“I know, I do.” She rolled off me onto her back, pulling her hair back with her hands. She palmed the sweat from her torso as I pulled on a condom. She looked about before wiping her palms on the sheets.

“Sorry, I’m just soaked.”

I wiped her brow with a tissue. “Sweat all you want. They are just sheets. You ready?”

She nodded.

I lifted her legs back and entered her.

She relaxed as I held back her hands.

After the strong fuckings she had taken from Todd and Mark, I was giving it to her easy.

But I knew she wanted me in charge.

I kept my cock low, pushing up as I entered her. If her g spot is still a novelty, I wanted to explore it.

“Unh, what are you doing?” she asked.

“Does it feel good?”

“God, yes.”

I pushed her legs further back, keeping my cock shallow and aiming upward with my thrusts.

“Like this?”

“Don’t stop, please . . .”

I kept at it, teasing her with variations.

When she was poised to cum, I kept it steady and sure.

She gave up a noisy orgasm, her body twisting under my firm grip.

“God, Jefferson,” she breathed as she caught her breath. “Thank you.”

“Thank you, Tina. It is such a privilege to please you.”

“Sweet man, I want to give you pleasure too.”

I had no intention of cumming so soon into the party. Shelby and I had a date with Mark for later; she had yet to be with the boy we all favor. While Mark can cum and cum again, I can typically rely only on one big release. I needed to hold out.

Still, I was happy to give Tina another run.

We sprinted fast and furious until she called a break.

“I am just too damn sweaty,” she said. “I need to pause.”

“Damn, what is with you? Three men give you a tough fucking, and you have to quit?” I teased. “How will you handle a gangbang?”

“Believe me, you boys are more than a gangbang of ten men.” She looked towards the door. “Can I add Mark to my request from your group? I want him in my gangbang”

“I’ll see if he is game.”

“Thanks! And, uh, can I owe you that orgasm for now?”

“It’s on your tab. Plus, I have something special for you.”


“Meet me in the kitchen.”

I pulled out. She tugged on her panties and followed me.

“What’s the surprise?” she smiled, her eyebrows raised.

“Voila.” I opened my freezer.

I had an array of frozen Flav-R-Ice.

“You are shitting me!” she gasped.

“Help yourself!”

She took the flavor “green.” I snipped the plastic tip with scissors.

We joined Mark and Todd on the terrace. There was warm breeze.

We talked and had drinks as Tina sucked her frozen ice.

“Can I tell you boys a secret?” she asked.

“Yeah?” Todd replied.

“I can see my boyfriend’s apartment from here. That’s where we will have my gangbang.”

We laughed.

I asked her to indicate the building and count up the floors so I knew which apartment was that of her boyfriend.

After a while, Shelby poked her head outside.

“Mark? Jefferson? Can I see you in here?”