Saturday, December 30, 2006

Canuck Canoodle

Bianca is A Curious Girl.

One day, her curiosity got the better of her. When she just couldn’t stand it anymore, Bianca got in her car and drove. She headed south, crossed the border, and drove some more.

Fourteen hours later, she arrived at my door.

I gave her chicken salad and a massage. In between, my friends and I gave her a full night of our best sex.

She napped and then was off the next morning, her car logging more miles as her mind sorted out the memories of her first orgy.

Visit her blog to read about the detour that got her naked with yours truly.

But don't go before you enjoy the self-portraits of this twenty-one-year-old raven-haired zaftig cutie who sits on an open invitation back to Gotham.

She asked me to wish y'all a bonne année, with a special nod to the foot fetishists out there.

Friday, December 29, 2006

Barely Evil
Free Pic of the Day

Fleshbot and New Reading

This week’s Sex Blog Roundup at Fleshbot kicks off the New Year by getting acquainted with toys accumulated over the holiday season—including a few toys of the living and breathing variety. Have fun, kids, before the new wears off.

My thanks to the ever-shining brilliance of Madeline for the inspiration.

And speaking of new, I’ve got some new reading material for you.

First of all, I’ve compiled my posts on Dark Odyssey (a.k.a. “sex camp”) so that you can read them straight through as one continuous narrative. That’s right: all twenty-one posts, every last leaf of two-hundred-and-forty-seven pages of first-person smut, gathered under one cover. You’ll find it just a click away at:

Sex Camp

Catchy title, right? No need to thank me—this is what I do.

Now, as if that wasn’t enough, may I introduce another writer? Lily is an aspiring novelist who recently decided that she could use a bit more zip in her sex life. So she began to recruit a posse of men to help her along in her new undertaking.

I could relate to that. I met her over drinks to hear all about it. I was instantly taken in.

“You’re charming, smart and adorable,” I said, sizing her up as I sipped my Bass. “You’ll do well with this project of yours. You should blog about it.”

“Oh,” she smiled, stirring her third gin and tonic. “I already do.”

Living Somewhat Dangerously

Of course I fucked her. How could I do otherwise?

You’ll find me lurking in her accounts of sex by the numbers.

Ah, sex. I remember sex. I used to really enjoy it. Now, with family coming and going, I just can’t get it the way I would like. Why, this past week, I went six days without sex. Six days! Dang, with a dry spell like that, I might just as well be married.

Mind you, I did manage to sneak in a quickie before hitting the dreaded benchmark of a fuckless week. I’m smart, so I planned ahead for the holidays. I’ve tucked booty calls all over this town, the way a drunk hides his bottles.

When the lack of loving gets to me, I can also keep my eye on the prize of next month’s annual birthday week of wall-to-wall sex.

Which reminds me: thanks to everyone who sent gifts for the holidays. It really meant a lot to me, and I’ll think of you as I read, watch films and dance.

I’ve left in place the Amazon wish list for those of you who want to share the love for my birthday. If, for example, you thought that there should be more Bing in my life—for example.

Now to apply myself to house cleaning. I’ve sent one guest packing, and two more are presently in a cab on the way to my door.

Hmm, maybe I should’ve hidden a few bottles as well.

My Wish List

Thursday, December 28, 2006

Binding Lights

Holidays got you tied up? Well then, you should appreciate this selection of self-portraits that give a seasonal tangle to classic bondage photographs.

These images are presented without attribution at the request of the photographer/model, who asks that they simply be identified as “a new step in the exhibitionist tendencies of a nineteen-year-old photography student in Tennessee.”

We’ll dub this the Tennessee New Step. The photographer has no blog or email address to offer, so if you love ‘em, you’ll just have to say so in the comments below.

View Trailer

Wednesday, December 27, 2006


Lillie was breathless as she ran into the room.

“Dad! Dad! Mom is tying the legs back—to push up the breast!

I set aside my book. “I do hope you are talking about the turkey.”

Lillie giggled. “It has legs and a breast. Isn’t that so funny?”

“I think you’re funny, chicken. Come here!” I grabbed Lillie into my lap and tickled her, releasing sonic giggles.

She was having a blast.

That morning, she had opened all of her twenty-three gifts as her brothers tore into theirs. Each newly exposed gift was held aloft with a giddy (if obligatory) “wow, thanks!,” before the recipent dove back under the tree.

Star Wars toys accumulated around Collie. Lillie was surrounded by Hello Kitty. Jason had fewer boxes filled with more complicated gizmos.

Faced with such bounty, Lillie put aside her doubts about Santa. But I knew her secret: on Christmas Eve, she had ventured into the forbidden basement to discover Santa’s workshop. She ran to her room, opened the pink Hello Kitty diary that served as her Christmas journal, and smugly recorded:

I am getting a Big Cat. Santa is not reall.

I had stumbled across this as we plotted Lillie’s revenge against her mother.

“Oh no, what is this!” I gasped as I picked up the open diary. “Baby, no, you have to hide this, fast, before Santa sees it!”

“Dad, I know there is no Santa.”

“Shh!” I whispered. “I don’t want him to think I don’t believe.”

“Dad!” she laughed.

The kids had to be patient before opening gifts, as—by tradition—the adults all gather to watch them tear into their presents.

This is something of an annual hassle, as the kids wake with the sun, excited and raring to go. Lucy’s siblings prefer not to wake very early, and once arisen, they insist on showers and cups of tea or coffee before gathering by the tree.

Every Christmas Eve includes negotiations between the tortoises and the hares.

I let Lucy argue for the hares. It is ridiculous that adults require shower privileges before allowing children to open presents. I can trust Lucy to point out the absurdity of that position.

On the other side, the tortoises maintain that if they are to settle in as witnesses to chaos, they want to at least feel refreshed.

“The kids will be ready to go by seven thirty, at the latest,” Lucy pointed out. “Can you please be ready by eight?”

“In the morning?” Julia frowned. “How about nine?”

“Or nine thirty?” Aaron suggested.

“No, that’s asking too much of the kids,” Richard said. “Let’s settle on eight thirty.”

Lucy rolled her eyes. “I’m not promising anything. I can’t have them wait for you to do your hair.”

“I think eight thirty is fair,” Richard maintained.

Lucy threw up her hands and walked away.

On Christmas morning, Lucy waited only so long as it took the adults to assemble. She heard them chatting in the kitchen, stirring cups and comparing notes about their sleep and the shower pressure.

She was not going to wait for their conversation to end.

The tortoises arrived to find chaos underway in the living room.

“Here, Mom,” Lillie said, dropping a gift in her mother’s lap. “This is to you from Santa.”

Lillie glanced at me. I winked.

“From Santa, huh?” Lucy said, tearing the tiny package. “Let me see what this could be . . . oh, look! A lump of coal!”

“April fool!” Lillie giggled. “That’s because you were bad and teased me.”

“Well, I guess I deserved that,” Lucy smiled. She pulled Lillie into a hug. “I’m sorry I teased you about the snow.”

“That’s okay, but now you have to eat some coal. April fool!”

“Well, I’m glad I saw that, at least,” Richard said, settling in next to his sister.

“It’s eight thirty,” Lucy said, pointing to her watch. “Too bad for you. But at least you smell good.”

“Thanks.” Richard was startled as Collie dropped a gift in his lap and raced back to the tree.

“Merry Christmas, Uncle Richard!” Collie laughed.

Things calmed after the mad rush to open gifts, and the subsequent inventory of acquisitions. (My take was two sweaters—pale blue and gray, to match my eyes—a requested Brita water filter, and a fanciful grater that Lucy regifted my way.) Lucy took a “walk” as Richard sat to help Jason assemble and program a robot, a gift that had been the inspired suggestion of a woman I beat up.

I took the opportunity to shower. I made it quick and efficient. I dried off and stood nude as I brushed my teeth, savoring the moment alone. I had given myself about ten minutes, start to finish; only Lucy knew I had sneaked away.

My eyes rested on Lucy’s prescription bottle of Effexor.

If only that been a familiar sight during my marriage. "You're a tad late on the scene, little fella," I thought, spitting into the sink.

Newly scrubbed, I settled in with Bing.

By mid afternoon, holiday ennui was settling in.

“Mom, I’m bored,” Collie whined. “Can we please go home?”

“I wish,” Lucy answered. “We are stuck here until tomorrow morning. We’ll leave very early, I promise.”

“Is Uncle Richard riding with us?”

“No, he’s a bee-yotch. Did you catch wind of this, Jefferson?”

I lowered my book. “What’s that?”

“Richard was annoyed that the kids opened presents before he was there to watch.”

“Yeah, the same thing happened last year.”

“It did?”


“Huh. He said I didn’t ‘honor his traditions,’ and told me I needed to do a better job teaching the kids to respect family. So I told him to fuck off.”

“Mom,” Collie said. “Uncle Richard can’t be a ‘bee-yotch’ if he’s a man.”

“Oh, yes he can,” Lucy laughed. “He’s a total bee-yotch.” She turned back to me. “I mean, who says that to a mother?”

I grimaced. “It’s a conundrum, all right.”

“Yeah.” Lucy looked at Collie, then back at me. “So no way is he riding with us tomorrow. Do you want a ride, Jefferson?”

“Sure, thanks. But Richard . . . ?”

“He can go to hell. He can ride with Julia, or just go to hell.”

“Yay, Daddy’s riding with us!” Collie danced. He ran from the room. “Hey Jason, Jason! Dad’s riding with us.”

I dropped the conversation by returning to my book. It seemed that Lucy was too busy arguing with family to worry with me. I pitied the sacrificial lambs, but I was glad to be spared.

“Why on earth are you reading about Bing Crosby, anyway?” Lucy asked suddenly. “He’s so old.”

“Well, he’s beyond old; he’s seriously dead,” I replied, not looking up. “But in his time, he invented cool. Bing rocks.”

Lucy shook her head and took up her novel.

That night, I carved the turkey Lucy had roasted. Bernard opened a case of cabernet. We all toasted to yet another eXmas.

Richard went to bed after the kids were tucked in.

A few of us sat with our wine, staring into the last embers of a once-roaring fire. Bucky had moved on to vodka.

“So,” Bucky began. “I hear you had an altercation with your brother?”

“I don’t want to talk about it, Mom,” Lucy said.

“You don’t have to tell me—I’m the one who hasn’t spoken to her brother in years.”

“I didn’t even know you had a brother,” Aaron said, surprised.

Bucky looked at him. “Of course I have a brother,” she said. “He’s a very, very accomplished man. But we don’t get along. I’m sure it’s my fault, but we don’t talk.”

“Didn’t you once force him to drink cleaning fluid?” Lucy asked.

Bucky creased her brow. “Now, wait a minute, I never did that.”

“It’s a story you used to tell when we were kids,” Lucy said. “Whenever Richard and I argued, you would tell about the time you made your brother drink cleaning fluid.”

“No, that’s preposterous,” Bucky said, shaking her head. “I mean, I was not a nice sister, but I never tried to kill him.” She laughed at the thought, and then looked back to the dying coals.

“I’m sure it’s my fault,” she continued. “Or my mother’s. She was an awful person.” She sipped her vodka. “I mean, I’m sure there was abuse, including sexual abuse, against me and my brother, though those memories are thankfully long since repressed.”

Julia caught my eye. This was news to us.

“I never heard that, Mom,” Lucy said quietly.

“It may not even be true,” Bucky said, laughing slightly. “But God, how else do you explain everything? I mean, I’m seventy-five years old, so there’s nothing to be done about it now. That’s the way of things. Things were different then.”

We were silent as the embers burned.

“Well, I didn’t mean to bring everyone down,” Bucky said, standing. “I think I’ll go up to bed.”

We wished her good night. I went to the kitchen to pour myself a bourbon.

When I returned, the lights were out and everyone was gone.

I flipped on a lamp and spent some time with Bing.

We were on the road by ten the next morning.

“Good riddance to another Christmas,” Lucy told the kids.

I sat in the back with my cell phone, texting Viviane and Madeline.

War is over, if you want it. And so this is eXmas.

Santa's Helper

Here’s one for the MILF file: meet mama Miss E of Educating Erica.

Readers of her nascent blog will delve into the mind of a young mother as she balances the demands of work, family and a man who takes his fetish on the rubber side.

Santa has come and gone, but there are gifts yet to be opened, as readers continue to submit sexy holiday-themed photos. So here’s an epiphany—I will continue to post your offerings through the Twelve Days of Christmas.

Tuesday, December 26, 2006


I had just undressed her when she suddenly vanished. I had only turned my head for a moment, to speak with a couple to my left. When I looked back, she was gone.

I figured she would be back. The room was small and crowded, and she had no clothes.

Meanwhile, I would fuck the other woman. She had long, straight chestnut hair and she came fast and loud. Afterwards, we talked, and I offered to trade contact information with her and her boyfriend.

I searched for my cards, but they were gone. I found paper and pencil, but I could not remember my telephone number or email address. The pencil felt sluggish in my limp hand.

I heard my ex wife’s voice. “I’m sorry they are being so loud, Jefferson,” Lucy said loudly. “I told them to be quiet, but they can’t.”

I opened my eyes. Lucy walked away, the heels of her black boots solid on the hardwood floor.

I squinted and picked up my cell phone. Seven thirty four, December twenty four.

From another room wafted the voices of my ex mother in law, Bucky, and my ex father in law, Bernard. Lucy’s parents separated when Lucy was four but to this day, four decades later, they still reunite for the holidays. I also caught the sound of my ex brother in law, Richard; this year, he would not be joined by his ex boyfriend, Paul.

My ex wife and my ex in laws were up early.

It was the first full day of eXmas.

I propped myself on my elbows, preparing to join them as soon as my erection subsided. It didn’t take long.

I poured coffee and sat among the grown ups.

The previous evening had gone smoothly, as everyone arrived in time for our first meal together. Lucy and the kids had met her brother at the airport before driving to her mother’s house. Bernard had been driven out by Lucy’s sister Julia and Julia’s husband, Aaron.

(Having married this past year, Julia and Aaron are the only couple in Lucy’s family. The wedding party had included all four of my children—Rachel had been brought up to complete that generation—although I had been excluded at Lucy’s insistence.)

Somehow, there had been no room for me in either vehicle that made the trip to grandmother’s house. I ignored the vacant seat in Julia’s car as I made reservations to take the bus.

I read about Bing on the bus ride. I learned that while Bing didn’t let things get to him, he never forgot a slight.

Frankly, I was glad that the ride afforded me some time alone. I didn’t know what to expect from Lucy. Bernard had warned that Lucy and her mother were already feuding, as Bucky had wanted Lucy to bring out the kids a day early, while Lucy felt three days of eXmas was more than enough. Lucy was in the driver’s seat, so Lucy won the battle.

That evening, Lucy, Aaron and Julia took a “walk” to smoke cigarettes and get high while passing a one hit. Every couple of hours for the next few days, Lucy would suggest that a “walk” was in order.

That night at dinner, I carved the leg of lamb. After the kids went to bed, exhausted, the adults sipped a good single-malt scotch. Lucy slipped away for a final walk before vanishing into her bedroom.

I retired to the study, turning in with Bing’s bottle-blonde bride, Dixie Lee. She delivered twins as I held her in my arms.

The next morning, the kids woke and came downstairs in a group. I made bagels as they sat waiting at the dining room table, extended with a wide leaf to accomodate the entire clan.

“Now, tomorrow, Lillie, you can’t get up too early,” Collie scolded.

Lillie took her thumb from her mouth. “What time is okay?” she asked.

“Seven is okay,” Jason suggested.

“Seven thirty,” Collie corrected.

“You boys can’t be serious,” I interjected. “Since when does Lillie wake up first? You sleep like a log, don’t you, girl?”

“Not on Christmas!” she smiled. “I want presents. Santa is coming.”

Collie exchanged a knowing look with Jason.

“Boys . . .” I began.

“What?” Collie said, raising his hands. “I didn’t say anything!”

“Let’s keep it that way,” I admonished.

Collie was already on edge about Christmas, the first in which he was fully “in” on Santa’s Big Secret. But he was mostly concerned about unpleasant encounters with the “bee-yotch,” as Lucy privately referred to her mother with our children.

“I don’t want to spend so many days with the bee-yotch,” he complained.

“Collie, could you please not use that word in your grandmother’s house?” I asked. “Please? It’s very rude.”

“But Mom says . . .”

“Not in the house,” I repeated. “There are too many people here, and sound carries. Be smart about it, okay?”

My mother would’ve slapped my mouth if I had said such things at age ten. Yet I could scarcely admonish the boy for blandishing insults his own mother encouraged him to use. At best, I could help him to avoid hurting his grandmother’s feelings.

Lucy, though, was on her own. I wouldn’t clean up her messes.

Although I would sweep at the edges.

Lillie saw her mother and uncle preparing for a “walk,” and asked to join. Lucy refused, on the grounds that Lillie had forgotten to bring her winter’s coat on the trip. Lillie argued that it wasn’t even cold outside, and anyway, Uncle Aaron wasn’t wearing a coat either. Her mother refused, saying it was a shame that Lillie would just have to stay inside all weekend.

Shortly after her mother and uncle departed, Lillie found me reading Bing. Of course, I had heard her mother’s admonishment about the forgotten coat—sound carries—but since I wasn’t a part of the conversation, I wasn’t beholden to it.

“Dad,” she asked quietly. “Can we go on a walk?”

“Why, I think that’s a fine idea,” I nodded, reaching for my bookmark. “Simply marvelous. Put on your hoodie while I get my shoes.”

We had a fine walk. Simply marvelous.

When we returned, Lillie and I stacked her presents once more. The pile was as high as her chest.

“Still twenty-three presents?” I asked.

“Yep, twenty three! Plus Santa.” She paused and leaned forward conspiratorially. “There’s no such thing as Santa, Dad," she whispered.

I held a finger to my lips. “Let’s hope he didn’t hear that,” I whispered back.

“Dad!” she laughed.

“Shhh!” I shushed, putting fingers in my ears. “La la la la la! I can’t hear you.”

Later on, Lucy and her mother ran errands to pick up a few things for dinner. I was the chef for eXmas Eve, responsible for producing the traditional chicken burritos and White Trash Margaritas—a tradition I had introduced when the family outgrew the the earlier (and now, prohibitively expensive) tradition of lobsters and champagne.

Lucy busied herself with me in the kitchen, not speaking as she moved things from place to place. I got the sense that she was hiding out.

Her mother came into kitchen, removing her glasses as she walked. “Now, how many tacos . . . not tacos, but . . . damn it . . .”

“Burritos?” I suggested.

“Yes . . . no, the . . . tortilla," she struggled. "How many do we have? I got twenty. Is that enough?”

“Mom, there are ten of us, counting the kids,” Lucy sighed. “Do the math.”

Bucky stopped in the center of the room. “Look, Lucy, you are going to have to be nicer to me,” she said, pointing her folded glasses at her daughter.

“What did I say?” Lucy said, looking at me. I turned back to the stove. I no longer had a dog in this fight.

“It’s your tone,” Bucky continued. “You need to be nicer. Plus in the store—you referred to me in the third person, while I was standing right there, in public. You know that’s rude.”

“Well, I’m sorry it bothered you, Mom,” Lucy said.

“Well, that’s not exactly an apology, but I don’t need one.” Bucky dropped packages of tortilla on the counter. “Just please try to be nicer.”

“Fine, Mom, okay.” Lucy looked around for a moment before she quickly opened a silverware drawer, counted out ten forks and departed for the dining room.

I chopped cilantro for the tomatoes.

After dinner, Richard built a fire in anticipation of the evening’s tradition. Each Christmas Eve since Jason was a baby, we have gathered by the fire to sing “The Twelve Days of Christmas” and to read ’Twas the Night Before Christmas. This had not gone very smoothly last year, when Lucy had been reluctant to join us.

Recalling that, Richard seemed ready to press on without waiting for stragglers.

Lucy returned from a post-dinner “walk” to sit near the fire.

“Is Aaron coming back, too?” Richard asked.

“He’s boycotting,” Julia said.

“He’s being Jewish instead?” I asked. She nodded.

“Uncle Aaron doesn’t have to come?” Lillie asked. “Can I go, too?”

“No, young lady,” I said sternly, a cruel squint in my eye. “You will sit right there and revel in your family's love. Don’t make me take off this belt.”

Lillie giggled.

“Oh, whatever, you can go play pool with Aaron,” Lucy said.

“Cool, Mom, thanks!” Lillie jumped from the couch and bolted upstairs.

“Mom, that’s not fair,” Collie whined. He sat holding a copy of ’Twas the Night Before Christmas. It was the first year he would replace Jason in reading it aloud.

“Collie, it’s fine,” his mother said. “You can read it for the grown ups. I just don’t want to listen to her complaining.” She turned to me. “She’s so much like m-o-m,” she spelled, as if no one could follow the breakdown of those three letters. “Have you noticed? So thin skinned.”

I looked around the room. I hadn’t realized Bucky wasn’t with us yet. Jason was looking at me.

“So Jason, you’re the maestro, music man,” I deflected. “Ready?”

“Yeah.” He held up the trumpet he had been practicing all afternoon. “So I’ll play the first round and then we’ll just sing it. Is that okay?”

“I’m so impressed, Jason,” Richard said. “Let’s hear it.”

Bucky joined us with the first trumpet notes.

I saw Lillie watching from the stairs, sucking her thumb and holding her Boo Boo blanket.

Jason took us into twelve rounds of gift giving. Richard added a comic melisma to each golden ri-ii-ii-ing, as he does every year. I hugged a lower octave, and gave a “bu bu bu” to the milkmaids.

Collie nailed his reading, despite an irrepressible grin at the “breast of new-fallen snow.” I clutched his knee as he suppressed a giggle.

As we applauded the end, Lillie returned to the room and stood next to her mother.

“Is it Christmas now?” she asked.

“Yes,” Lucy said. She pointed at a window. “And look, it’s snowing!”

“It is?” Lillie ran to the window. We all laughed.

She turned to us and reddened. “It’s not funny!” she said, her voice cracking into tears. She ran to the staircase and tromped upstairs.

We watched her go.

“See?” Lucy said to me. “Thin skinned.”

“Hmmm.” I nodded.

“You should go after her in a minute,” Lucy said, waving a hand. “I’ll only make it worse.”

“Maybe I’ll go now,” I said, standing. “Nice job, fellas,” I said to the boys. "Thoroughly top notch."

“Thanks, Dad,” Collie grinned.

I walked upstairs and knocked on the door to the room the children shared. I opened the door. “Lillie?”

Lillie was sobbing under a blanket.

I lay next to her.

“Lillie?” I pulled back the cover.

She looked at me, her eyes drowning in tears. “Everybody made fun of me!” she sobbed. “You laughed at me, too.”

“I’m sorry, baby,” I aid, pulling the hair from her red cheeks. “We thought it was a joke.”

“It wasn’t funny!” she cried. “It was making fun of me.”

“I know that you feel that way now. No one wanted to hurt your feelings.”

“Mom did!” Lillie said. “She made fun of me on purpose. She’s a bee-yotch!” She began to sob again.

“I think she just meant it as a prank,” I said. I looked at the ceiling. “Hmmm, maybe we can prank your mom in retaliation . . .”

Lillie stopped sobbing and looked at me. She sat up.

“Can we put red pepper in her egg nog?”

I laughed. “Oh gosh, where did you get that idea?”

“Mom said it. Can we do it?” She was breathless in anticipation of revenge.

I stroked my chin. “I like your idea, but what if she doesn’t drink it? I’ve got another idea. Want to hear it?”

Lillie nodded.

A few moments later, everyone in the living room looked up as I walked downstairs.

“Well?” Bernard asked.

“Lovely night for a stroll, wouldn’t you say?” I asked as I passed.

I returned shortly and headed back upstairs. Jason noticed the wrapping paper in my hand.

“What are you doing, Dad?” he asked.

“Let me see if Lillie is ready to rejoin us,” I demurred.

Soon, Lillie and I came downstairs. She wore a giant grin and held her Boo Boo blanket close.

I sat on the sofa, pulling Lillie into my lap.

Lucy looked at us. “Okay, you two, I’m glad that Lillie is happy again,” she said warily. “But it’s time for bed, so let’s go back upstairs.”

“Yes, it’s bed time,” I said. “But first: Lillie, why don’t you and Boo Boo go count your presents one last time?”

“Okay, Dad,” she giggled. She hopped from my lap and went to the tree.

Collie looked at me quizzically. “Dad . . .”

“You did a fine job reading tonight, son. Simply marvelous.”

He laughed, already hep to my new old lingo. “Dad!”

Lillie ran back from the tree, giggling.

“How many presents, girl?”

“Twenty three, plus one more,” she smiled.

“Nice. Now let’s go to bed.”

Lillie bounced on her bed as Jason and Collie put on pajamas.

She was laughing.

Saturday, December 23, 2006

Fleshbot and Be the Bing

This week’s Sex Blog Roundup at Fleshbot gives it up for the money shot, in honor of Friday’s Global Orgasm for Peace.

I was able to take part in the global O after all. In the process, I gained a newfound appreciation for booty calls. Thank you, caller.

Speaking of finales, my previous post concludes my series on sex camp. That’s right, friends—three months later, I’ve finished my tale about a weekend in September. I hope you enjoyed the ride.

Yesterday, Bridget came over. We gossiped and wrapped a bajillion presents for the kids. My bags are packed and now, I am off to eXmas.

Wish me luck.

I’ve packed a small gift for my ex. It was tough to decide what I should give her, if anything. Even when we were married, we had an agreement not to trade presents so we could focus our resources on the kids.

Each year, I broke my promise by giving her jewelry. Each year, she stayed true to her word, giving me nothing in return.

Now, it just seems too pointed that I not have a gift for her. The trick is: what to give? I don’t want to give anything too expensive, as she is just as likely to throw it out. I don’t want to give anything that may be construed as conveying a message, as she would just as likely throw it in my face.

I decided to give her the book Overheard in New York. She might refuse to read something weightier, but how can she refuse such a funny, slender volume?

The gift is packed, but my suitcase is lighter for the omission of one item.

Two years ago, I was surprised when my ex and I had sex at Christmas.

Last year, I packed condoms in the unlikely event that history would repeat itself.

This year, I wouldn’t fuck that jerk if my dick was on fire and her cunt was filled with sand.

Time is funny like that.

Now, as I face eXmas, I am resolved to remain cool and unflappable. I won’t let anything get to me. In short, I will Be the Bing.

Sixty-four years ago next week, Bing Crosby’s house burned to the ground. No one was hurt, but he lost everything. When called with the news, he was quiet for a moment, and then asked:

“Were they able to save my tuxedo?”

Really, given the situation, what else could one possibly say?

I’ll keep that phrase in mind this week. I’ve got a few other mantras tucked away.

I know that in the upcoming days, I will feel things that, in the interest of keeping the peace, I really shouldn’t express. I’ll feel sorry for myself. I’ll feel angry about sitting nice in the face of bullshit. I’ll be horny.

To help me stay strong, I’ll think of Betty Boop, chicken salad and the Masked Man. I’ll repeat to myself these simple phrases:

One: You're not so sweet to me.

Two: I want you to hold it between your knees.

Three: Wash him up and get him ready.

I would like to leave these mantras for you in the form of a personal film festival. It is impossible for me to despair when these clips play in my mind’s Cineplex.

Happy Holidays, all.


Breaking Camp

“Okay, everyone . . . everyone, please settle down,” Tristan announced from the platform. “All right, thank you for your attention . . . and thank you for a great weekend at Dark Odyssey!”

Tristan’s newly won silence gave way to hoots and cheers.

Selina leaned to me. “Where’s Marcus?”

I shrugged. We had nearly finished dinner with no sign of my boyfriend.

He had seemed so blue that afternoon as he pondered going home early. His knee injury really had him down.

“Okay,” Tristan continued, pushing her glasses up on her nose. “Keep eating if you want. If you don’t, that’s fine too, but remember, don’t blame me—I’m not the chef. I’m here to announce the winners of this year’s Dark Odyssey awards!” We applauded again. “Now, the judges had some tough choices to make . . .”

“I won’t get an award,” Lolita whispered. “I was named ‘Play Slut of the Year’ last time, and I think that bars me from winning this year.”

“Your Play Slut crown will always shine for me,” I said, patting her hand.

“Okay, so the award for ‘Person Most Likely to be Nude’ was, again, tough to decide, as, well, so many of you are so likely to be nude,” Tristan said. “But after considering the possible candidates, we knew the award just had to go to someone who must have packed light, because no one here can recall ever seeing him dressed. Of course, I’m referring to Always Naked Andy. Can he please come forward?”

I spun my head as I clapped hands to catch sight of the winner in the crowd. I had noticed him around. His only accessory was the occasional erection.

He strode to the platform, wearing only a smile.

Tristan handed him a ribbon. “I don’t know where you’re going to pin it, but . . .”

We cheered.

Selina leaned to me again. “You know, if they had an award for bravery, I’d nominate you,” she said. “I’m so impressed that you surrendered to Lolita that way this morning. It was really, really brave.”

“Ah, thanks,” I said, kissing her cheek. “You’re very sweet to say so.” I fingered my pink string choker and smiled.

Lolita caught my eye and grinned.

Selina was really feeling the love for me. Following Lolita’s lesson on wax and fire play, Selina had taken me into a long hug, holding me close and saying nothing. I didn’t move to end the hug at any time. Nor did she. The hug lingered and lingered.

“Thanks,” I said as she finally released me. “What was that for?”

“That was for taking a risk,” she said, looking deep into my eyes. “That was for letting Lolita be the one in charge.”

“Well, thanks. But I never felt at risk. Lolita knows what she’s doing.”

“Yes, but for you to allow it . . . to allow yourself to submit to her . . . well, I’m very proud of you. You were very brave.”

I rubbed her arms. “Thanks, Selina. That means a lot to me.”

It seemed that Selina had decided that she liked me.

Not that it was much in question. She had liked me since we first met. Still, her feelings about me were always mixed. On the one hand, I was a nice person who could keep up my end of a brainy conversation. On the other hand, I slept with girls barely out of their teens, even beating up on some of them.

The latter would understandably rankle feminists of a certain age (which is to say “my age,” as Selina and I are just a few birthdays apart). To some, it’s obvious that men who sleep with so many women—much less those half their age—are burying their insecurities in an imbalanced power dynamic designed to reduce women to sex objects. Obviously.

This was an idea in Selina’s mind that often seemed reinforced by her reading of my blog. That discolored the favorable impression of me as a person, causing her to wonder at times who the real “Jefferson” could be—the polite funny Southerner, or the dominant omnivore who fucked a swathe through the city.

Over the course of our weekend together, Selina began to reassemble the contradictory pieces of my personality to construct a version of “Jefferson” that, ultimately, she liked. She could now understand that I really had no interest in using anyone in a callous way, and that my concern for the people in my life was genuine.

The epiphany in that paradigm shift had been my infatuation with Lolita, a strong woman of our generation who could more than hold her own against the likes of me.

It didn’t hurt that my infatuation was so clearly reciprocated.

The weekend together had been good for my relationship with Selina. We trusted each other.

As Tristan announced the winner of the “Best Dressed” award—an honor taken by Anon, the host of our evening among the vampires—Viviane nudged my arm. I looked over to see Marcus limping into the dining hall, still wearing only his Speedo and crutches. Some people stood to help him to the buffet.

“ . . . and this year, the award for ‘Happy Camper’ goes to . . . Lolita!”

“Hey!” I shouted. “You did win something!”

Lolita grinned at me as she stood to collect her prize.

I felt a swell of pride, like my child had won a trophy. It felt silly that to feel that way, but it felt good to feel it.

“Let me see, let me see,” I begged as Lolita returned with her ribbon. She handed it to me as I kissed her.

“You done so good,” I said. “Being so happy and camping and all.”

“I’m a Happy Camper Play Slut,” she smiled.

“So cute,” I said, chucking her chin.

“There was one person this year who really stood out, in so many ways,” Tristan began, introducing the next award. “He was always an eager participant and, very often, a ringleader. Whenever something interesting was going on, you could never fail but to find him in the midst of it. When he was faced with adversity, he pressed on, letting nothing hold him back. And so this year, we’ve created a new award. The first annual award for ‘Perseverance’ goes to . . . Marcus!”

A cheer went up. I stood and clapped.

Marcus looked up from the salad bar and grinned.

“Come on up here, Marcus, and get your ribbon!” Tristan called.

Spectators cleared a path to make way. As Marcus passed, his back was slapped by many hands. He was a conquering hero among the perverts.

Tristan kissed Marcus’s cheek as she presented his ribbon.

Marcus returned to sit with us.

“Congratulations, sweetie,” Viviane smiled.

“Justly deserved,” Selina nodded.

“That’s cute, right?” Marcus said, pining the ribbon to his Speedo.

Others pressed forward to congratulate my boyfriend.

Femcar kissed him and then offered to bring his dinner. She served him, staying close to act as his personal waitress.

A stream of well-wishers left Marcus with little opportunity to chew.

A blonde woman rushed over to hug his neck. “This is that hot girl I told you about,” Marcus said to me by way of introduction. “Little Julie? The call girl? The one I met at the blowjob class?”

I couldn’t recall his mention of her, but Little Julie was indeed attractive. I shook her hand. She had a very nice smile.

Carin slinked close to kiss Marcus.

The cute artist I had admired from a distance all weekend staked out a seat beside Marcus, leaning close as he exchanged words with his admirers.

Marcus said something to the artist. She sat up and pulled off her shirt. Marcus began to rub her shoulders as she sat bare-chested at the table.

I smiled at her, willing my eyes away from her rosebud nipples.

Without missing a beat in his various conversations, Marcus asked for olive oil from the kitchen staff. He took a small bowlful and rubbed palms of oil onto the artist’s back and breasts. Her olive complexion glowed with his touch.

“Marcus is like a prince,” Viviane said.

“A prince among his subjects,” I nodded.

After dinner and the awards, we returned to the cabin to pack. Camp would continue for one last night, but Viviane, Selina and I had to return to the city. The next morning, we would awake in our respective beds to once more face the real world.

“You know,” Marcus said. “Maybe I will stay one more night.”

“Surprise, surprise,” I laughed. “Man, you’d be a fool to leave all this admiration. And your mama didn’t raise no fools.”

Neil and Windsor lingered outside our cabin, each hoping for final moments with Selina. Lolita and Selina talked as I pressed the men into service to help load our car.

“Hey, I think I fucked your sister last night,” I teased Windsor.

He blinked, not getting my joke.

Viviane made a final pass through the cabin, cleaning and collecting loose items. Lolita and I stood outside, saying goodbye under a tree.

“Well, uh, I really liked meeting you, Jefferson,” Lolita said shyly.

“Likewise,” I smiled, leaning to kiss her cheek. “I mean, yeah, let’s trade some understatements, why don’t we?”

She laughed. “I know, I know. Well, the thing is, I’d like to see you in New York, but I would understand if you don’t want to.”

I furrowed my brow. “Why wouldn’t I want to? You’re awesome.”

“Yeah, I’m awesome, you’re awesome, but I’ve got a life and you’ve got a life. I understand how these camp things are. We can just let it be what it is. That’s okay with me.”

I leaned close and scowled. “Are you breaking up with me, Lolita Wolf?”

“No, no,” she laughed. “I’m just saying . . . you know, this was nice.”

“This was very nice,” I took her hand. “Thanks for everything, Lolita. Really.”

We kissed.

A golf cart whizzed by. “Lolita made a love connection,” someone shouted. Another voice oinked.

Lolita pulled back and smiled. “Goodbye,” she said. With that, she turned and walked away.

“Later, Lolita,” I called after her.

Marcus was balanced on his crutches near the Jacuzzi, talking with two women.

“Jefferson, did you meet Amanda? She has the sweetest pussy.”

“Hi, Amanda. I believe we met briefly.”

Amanda touched my arm. “Yes, nice to finally talk.”

The other woman held out her hand. “I’m Ginger.”

“Right, Ginger,” Marcus said. “I was trying to remember your name. I didn’t want to just say ‘the girl who gives good head.’”

“Whatever works,” Ginger grinned.

“Marcus, baby, we’re off,” I said. “I see you are in good hands.”

“Come here, sweetheart.” I stepped forward to kiss my boyfriend. He opened his mouth to my lips. I held him close as our mouths embraced, our scruffy chins scraping one another.

“Aw, that’s so sweet,” Amanda said.

I pulled back, my eyes on Marcus’s. “Take good care of my baby,” I told the women.

“Don’t you worry,” Ginger said.

“I love you, Jefferson,” Marcus smiled.

“As I love you, Marcus,” I answered.

Selina and Viviane were at the car when I returned.

I looked back at Marcus as we drove off. He waved and then turned away, ambling on his crutches as the women rested their hands on his back.

“Care to make a wager?” I asked.

Viviane turned to me. “What’s that?”

“No matter what else has happened this weekend, Marcus will claim that tonight we missed the best sex ever.

“Ha!” Viviane replied. “No thanks, that’s guaranteed.”

Sure enough, Marcus would tell a couple of stories about sex camp. They primarily concerned events after we departed—and his time with Lolita.

Somewhere along the New Jersey Turnpike, I untied the pink string choker from my neck.

Back home, I put it in my nightstand for safekeeping.

I might need it again.

Friday, December 22, 2006


I often commend my readers for being the hottest smuthounds about. (Hey, don’t take my word for it: just take a gander at the friends at my MySpace profile, the mere mention of which always gets me laid.)

I often shout out to my hot readers, but I should give special attention to the artists in the crowd. Here’s Nix to make the case for the art crowd with a red-hot portfolio of self-portraits with strands of glowing lights.

The photograph at top is a real beaut. Take another look at it after looking at the ones below—that is, unless you get distracted. I would understand if you did.


Jingle Belles

The solstice is upon us, Santa hits the chimney in a couple of nights, and that last candle on the menorah needs a light. As if that’s not enough, the powers that be have snuck yet another holiday upon us with today’s Global Orgasm Celebration.

You may ask: how will Jefferson participate in this cosmic orgy?

Don’t ask.

I’ve got no time for the Big O. I’m already up to my eyeballs in family.

This morning my ex father in law woke early—being older and perpetually jet lagged, he never misses the dawn—and broke my coffee pot. The boys were with their mother last night, so Granddad proposed to escort Lillie to school as a special treat. Lillie refused to go without me—as you can imagine, those retarded girls can be a handful—so off we all went.

Now I’m barely fueled on a single cup of store-bought joe and making a list of last minute gifts that need to be procured. I need to buy books and music for my ex family, mostly people I haven’t spoken with since the last time I bought them books and music.

Fucking eXmas.

In about twenty-four hours, I’ll jump offline and dive into the icy waters of Christmas with Lucy.

Oh, how I wish I would get a booty call today. Someone ringing with the offer of tall bourbon, a long, slow blowjob and a bottom that needs a sound spanking. I’d be more than glad to fuck a fresh tear into this annual excuse for the New Agers to get laid.

Alas, I’ll have to take a rain check.

Luckily, my inbox is jingling with belles.

Here’s a nice present from Marie, who regularly shares her many gifts at Viewing Pleasures .

Thanks, Marie. I feel better all ready.

Marie’s a bold one. I’m also touched that a shy reader came forward with her forays into sexy self-portraiture.

Where’s the holiday theme, you ask? What, you didn’t notice the green panties?

Thanks, pretty girl, for sharing.

Now, can I get a refill on this coffee?

View Trailer

Thursday, December 21, 2006

Naked Noel

You say you like your nudity with a public edge? My friends, meet NakedGuyNYC. I’ve never seen him in clothes.

Nor has the Christmas tree at the new Bloomberg building. And yeah, the landlord is the city's mayor.

Mistletoe Maidel

The evah-lovin’ Avah graces us with this seasonal striptease.

She left her dorm room behind to make these holiday photographs around the Yule decorations at home.

“That’s a lot of spruce for a maidel,” I noted.

Magilla,” she said.

Azoy gait es!

Naked Avah is brought to you by her favorite pornographers, CyberDyke.

Wednesday, December 20, 2006


Here’s a holiday self-portrait sure to please all the Whos in Who-ville, courtesy of Erika of Why Me?

Which leads me to wonder, “why not me?” With Erika-Lou Who being so generous, it isn’t just my heart that’s growing three sizes.

Mark of Defending the Raven was also good enough to lend us a peek the dazzling Tannenbaum between his legs.

Keep those photographs coming in, readers!

View Trailer

Monday, December 18, 2006

More Li'l

Li’l Bit is at it again.

My offer to post sexy holiday-themed photographs of readers began after she sent pics of her raw romp with the girls.

I posted one of those photos, but evidently, that only inspired Li’l Bit and her lezzies to make more—many of them too revealing and risqué for this blog, but much appreciated by my eyes.

Gee, I wonder what they’ll do now that I’ve posted these?

Get your entries in, readers. Times a-wastin'.

Sunday, December 17, 2006


My high lasted all afternoon.

As I wandered camp—smiling at the naked lesbians, nodding at the school girls, waving to the copulating couples—I would absentmindedly finger the string around my neck and remember how it felt when Lolita had me dangling in midair, my cock sailing in and out of her laughing mouth.

“Where did you get the gay necklace?” Marcus asked.

“Girl give it to me,” I gushed.

“You’ve got a crush,” my boyfriend teased.

“So what if I do, li'l bit?” I said.

By this time, Marcus had gone native. He no longer wore clothes, just a Speedo and his crutches.

I would never wear a Speedo. I think they look ridiculous on most men. But Speedos were designed for men like Marcus. His long, lean body carried off the swimsuit with considerable panache—not to mention the swimsuit’s accentuation of the considerable panache within.

“I’m going to finally see Lolita teach this afternoon,” I said. “You want to join me?”

“No, thanks,” he said. “Actually, I’m kinda bumming about my leg. Are you guys still leaving tonight? Maybe I’ll go home too.”

“We’re leaving after the awards presentation,” I said. “Are you hurting?”

“Nah, I’m just bummed. Don’t worry. Go have fun at class.”

“Okay, sugar.” I kissed him. “Send for me if you need me. Okay?”

“Thanks.” Marcus turned and began to head to the pool, slumping slightly in his crutches.

I watched him go, then turned to head back to the dungeon.

Lolita was going to teach us how to set people on fire.

I fingered my string, humming the Kinks. El oh el ay, Lo-oh-laa.

Viviane and I sat in the front row. Selina sat behind us with Neil, a handsome fellow she had met the night before at the Garden. He had be impressed by her treatment of Windsorina. She had been impressed by his huge cock as he fucked another woman or two.

That, and a conversation about Marc Bolan, was about all the aphrodisiac Selina required.

Lolita had set up her class in a dark corner of the dungeon. A long table was covered with plastic sheeting and absorbent pads. Lolita was busy at another table covered with her materials, all neatly arrayed for easy access.

“God, I’m schvitzing,” she said turning the class. She began to lift her shirt. “It’s really hot, so I think I’ll make this class ‘clothing optional,’ if no one minds.”

“Lolita, the whole camp is clothing optional,” said the naked woman to my right.

“Right, well, today the instructor is naked too,” Lolita said, unfastening her bra. As it fell forward on her arms, I could see that my bite on her breast was bruising nicely.

Viviane nudged me. “Take off your shirt, sweetie.”

“Yes, let’s,” I replied.

A moment later, Viviane and I were topless. She circulated the air around us with her omnipresent fan.

The pink string remained on my neck.

“Okay, okay, okay,” Lolita muttered, collecting her thoughts. “Okay! We’re ready. Hello, everyone, I’m Lolita Wolf . . .”

“Hello, Lolita,” someone called.

“Hello,” she curtsied. “I’m teaching this class on fire and wax play. Of course, I need someone to play with, and so I’ve got permission to play with Tatsumi.” She indicated a pretty woman wearing shorts and a t-shirt. Tatsumi smiled and said hello in a bubbly voice.

“She’s cute,” Viviane whispered.

“Yeah, adorable,” I nodded.

“Tatsumi’s daddy is a real sadist, just the meanest ever,” Lolita went on. “So I know she can take whatever I dish out.”

Tatsumi smiled and nodded enthusiastically. We laughed.

“So, why don’t we begin with fire?” Lolita said. “Tatsumi, you should undress and get up here on the table, face up.”

“Okay, sure,” Tatsumi said. She pulled off her shirt and lowered her shorts. When she was nude, she pulled back her long hair and then put out her arms as if to say “ta da!”

The adorable girl was gone.

In her place was a work of art.

Tatsumi has been in BDSM for most of her young life. By trade, she’s a fetish model and professional dominatrix. By nature, she is endowed with the type of perfectly proportioned body that would have kept her very much in demand in art academies once upon a time.

Gerome would have drooled.

Jean-Léon Gérôme, The Slave Market, 1866.

“Did you just get hard, Jefferson?” Viviane whispered.

“Quiet,” I answered. “I’m trying to stare.”

“She’s so . . .”

“I know.”

My brain scanned sensory memories to imagine the feel of her skin, even as my mind was casting her in bronze.

Oh, to fuck her in her simple beauty.

Or to have merely replicated that beauty in a fountain a century ago . . . I would have repeated her body three times as dancing fauns in diaphanous clinging drapes, frolicking in a pond as sprinkles rained from enthusiastic spouts . . . the results would have made her an instant celebrity . . . she might have toured vaudeville as the famed “fountain dancer” as I made the Grand Tour to collect my Prix de Rome . . . we would have been universally celebrated, meeting now and then in Paris or St Louis or the Ritz-Carlton to make love and toast champagne glasses to our eternal connection realized as the century’s most touted public art . . . until we were each knocked from our pedestals, she by the advent of sound in moving pictures, me by the intrusion of modernism in art . . .

“Hey, pay attention,” Viviane nudged.

“Oh, sorry,” I said, sitting up.

Tatsumi turned her back to the table, rested her hands on its edges, and pulled herself up. She sat, then turned to recline.

“Like this?” she asked Lolita.

Precisely like that, I thought.

“Yeah, that’s great,” Lolita smiled. “Hmmm, you are scrumptious.” Lolita rubbed her hands on Tatsumi’s torso, acquainting her assistant with her touch.

Those hands that had so prepared me just a few hours earlier.

Lolita talked us through fire play as she torched Tatsumi. It was a great effect, but as she broke down the steps, it looked simple enough. I had been torched for the first time the night before. It was an exhilarating experience. I thought this would be a grand skill to add to my bag of tricks.

I came to the class to see Lolita work. I knew nothing about fire play, so I assumed that the fire lesson would be the main attraction.

I hadn’t figured on Tatsumi’s beauty, so I couldn’t have imagined the effect she would have on my connoisseurship.

“Now we’re going to play with wax,” Lolita said. “I make my own wax, and my own candles, so that gives me some flexibility about sensation—for you, Tatsumi—and also about how it looks.”

Lolita talked as she rubbed Tatsumi’s body in baby oil, explaining that this would help to remove the wax later. She also pointed out that it was a sensuous experience in its own right.

A century before, I had used olive oil on Tatsumi. Just like this day, she had shimmered in candlelight, undulating to my touch just as she now moved to Lolita’s hands.

Lolita told us to avoid tapers. Wide candles produce more wax, allowing more to use as it allowed more control in dropping it on flesh.

The first splashes hit Tatsumi’s body. She writhed and laughed.

Lolita raised and lowered the candle over Tatsumi, alternating the heat of wax as it impacted on flesh. At least, that was the emphasis of Lolita’s lesson.

I could see that she was also alternating splatter patterns.

Lolita traded one candle for another. She talked as wax splashed.

Tatsumi writhed, trying so hard to be still and yet so clearly enjoying the sensation as wax fired her skin, then quickly cooled as it dripped to dead ends on her body.

Lolita explained about having used a double broiler to heat wax before she decided a fondue simply worked better. She pulled a glass of wax from a pot and reached for a small ladle.

Green wax streaked across Tatsumi. She yowled.

Lolita spoke to Tatsumi as she returned the green wax to the fondue and reached for a vial of blue.

Lolita never lost her train of thought, never veered from her lesson, as once more, she splashed Tatsumi.

Blue went to red. Red to yellow.

I watched as the ideal artist’s model gave herself over to an ideal artist. I watched as the woman who had hoisted me into elation took another person into her genius.

I was aroused by the image of Lolita as an artist.

Was I the only person in the room conjuring Jackson Pollock as Lolita buried a canvas of flesh under loops and skeins of color?

Given the shimmering sight of Tatsumi’s beauty, I was given to minor inspirations. I could fuck her, or I could turn her into an obsolete fountain in a minor park.

I would have wasted a stellar muse.

Lolita’s imagination was not so restricted. Her skills put her into another realm entirely.

Ladles of wax piled one on to another.

Tatsumi grew still.

Her body was sweating. We were all glistening in the summer heat, but she was the person on stage, enduring the impact of dripping wax.

The wax caked and pulled from her oiled and glistening body.

Lolita took up a smaller candle. She put flame to the bottom, loosening wax. She planted it on Tatsumi’s chest.

She lit the candle. An open flame burned over Tatsumi’s wax-covered body.

She repeated this again and again with other small candles, lighting each in turn.

Tatsumi soon resembled a birthday cake that might have graced Stanford White’s table. Lolita’s bare skin glowed above as she dripped more icing on her creation.

“Okay, well, I think that’s that,” Lolita said, dropping her ladle into a glass. “I mean, I’m just dripping wax on wax at this point. She can’t feel it. Come on up if you want to look closer.”

We stood as a class and stood to examine Lolita’s work.

There was a close press, as might be expected. We had been invited to look at a pretty girl lying naked on a table.

The aesthete in me was politely perturbed. I felt the familiar impatience of attending a museum blockbuster. Yes, yes, it was genius at work. Yes, yes, adoring philistines, push in and then get to the gift shop.

The experienced aesthete in me was smart. I took a position to appreciate the colors that had caked on the canvas’s belly, and those that had overlapped on her sides, braiding in her crevices.

Tatsumi was buried under layers of wax and numb nerve endings. She was quiet, her writhing now quiet.

Her mind and cunt were entirely enclosed.

I looked to Lolita. She smiled. I didn’t want to distract her from her lesson, so I melted into the crowd as best I could. I was just another admirer. She had done great work.

Our “scene” that morning had been ours, an experience between two participants. Despite the witnesses and flashes, it was private.

But even this public lesson had sent Tatsumi into bliss.

Lolita saw me fingering the collar on my neck. She grinned. I smiled back.

Lolita pulled out a long blade. It was a dull edge, she explained, before she began to whittle away at the colors layered on Tatsumi.

“It’s all about the mind fuck,” she teased, brandishing her weapon against Tatsumi’s torso. Layers of wax piled at Tatsumi’s feet as Lolita sculpted her model back into reality.

When it was over, I commended Tatsumi on a job well done. She told me she liked my blog, saying she had been moved by my post on Allan, Sketchpad.

We talked about art.

I was polite, if a bit reserved.

There are times when the appreciation of art can leave you feeling acquisitive. You can’t bear the thought of walking away to leave a splendid canvas on a bare white wall. You want to bring it home and just stare at it forever.

I had just been witness to Tatsumi’s transformation into an object of transcendent beauty, shimmering in ecstasy under layers of color and light.

As we spoke, each so nice and smart, some part of me wanted to whisper an invitation to walk with me nude into the woods, to shut out the busy noise of the world for a while, to make love and kiss and talk as we had a century before, before modernity took away the elementary magic we possessed.

But of course, one doesn’t say such things.

I shook her hand and thanked her for her kind words about my writing.

I wondered if I would ever see her again. I knew that, in my mind’s eye, I would always see her, floating as a glowing canvas. No matter how transient the art, I would keep the memory.

I delighted that the artist had taken a shine to me.

Visit Jefferson’s holiday wish list at Amazon, brought to you by candlelight.

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