Wednesday, January 31, 2007

Tick Tock

It’s January 31, and time is running out. I know you are on seat’s edge, wondering:

Will Jefferson reach his goal of forty-four blowjobs in the month of his birth?

Well, I am here to tell you that . . . I will soon be here to tell you.

For now, I’m reminding you that polls close at midnight tonight (EST) for the Dirtyspoke 2006 Sex Blog Awards. If you haven’t already done so, take a visit with all the nominees and cast your vote for your favorites in each category.

Kudos to Dirtyspoke for dreaming up a fine idea to draw attention to sex blogging.

The clock is ticking in anticipation of the answers to many burning questions . . .

Will Jefferson reach his goal of forty-four blowjobs in one month?

Will Jefferson win any awards, or will he go home empty handed to cry in his bourbon?

Will Nicole leave Jefferson’s bedroom with any virginities intact?

Stay tuned for the answers to these and many more questions on (cue music) One Life, Take Two.



Tuesday, January 30, 2007

Oyster Shells

“All right,” I said, stroking the condom on my cock. “Hop on.”

“Right,” Nicole said. She lifted herself and began dropping her hips to me.

“Wait, wait,” I said, scooting down the bed. “You’re still coming in a little low. See? When you're a bit higher, you can slide right on. Got it?”

She lowered herself fully, so that I was inside her. “Oh yeah, I see what you mean,” she nodded, beginning to gyrate.

“You’re a fast learner,” I smiled. I crossed my arms behind my head. “Now, do it again.”

“Seriously?” she stopped.

“Yes. Show me, and this time, do it yourself.”

A grin emerged on the only part of her face that was visible. “Yes, sir.”

She lifted herself from me, and looked behind her to my cock. She reached between her legs, took my cock, and slowly guided it back into her.

“Nice, nice!” I commended. “Why, soon you won’t need me here at all.”

Her laughter convulsed on my cock.

We had fallen asleep fucking and now we awoke fucking. Our arms and legs had been entangled as we slept.

Without quite meaning to, in a very short time, we had crossed over to a place where our bodies felt out of kilter if they were not conjoined.

As we fucked, she complained that she really had to go to the bathroom.

“Do you remember the last time we left this bed?” I asked.

She tilted her head. “It was sometime last night . . . right?”

“I asked because I can’t recall,” I said, pushing into her.

She fell forward to kiss me.

Later, she reiterated her need to pee.

“I thought you took care of that,” I said, pumping into her.

“I remember meaning to, but I don’t think I ever did.”


We kissed.

Suddenly she pulled back. “No, seriously, I really need to pee.”

“Wait, what are you . . . no, no!” She pulled herself from my cock. I grabbed her wrist. “What can you be thinking?” I asked anxiously.

“God, please, God, you have to let me go,” she laughed. “We are ridiculous.”

“You’ll come back?” I asked, turning my body so that my head fell slightly from the side of the bed. I looked up with pleading eyes. “I won’t have to go looking for you?”

“Of course.” She lowered her face and kissed me, her mouth deep and open. “Right after a cigarette.”

“A cigarette?” I grabbed her thigh and pulled her close to my face. “Can’t you see what those things are doing to you, Nicole? What they are doing to us?”

I pulled her thigh to my mouth to kiss her flesh. I nibbled.

I reached up and took her ass, bringing her pussy to my mouth. I latched on to her clit.

“Oh, that’s very hot, but I really do have to pee.”

“Pleth dowd,” I said, tugging on her hips.


“Pleth dowd. Pleth dowd on die mouf.”

“Press down? Like this?” She squatted slightly, pressing her clit into my tongue. “Unh, yeah, like this, I see.”

“Gweat. Dow, thuck die dick.”

Her hands stepped down my body until her face reached my cock. She took it in her mouth and effortlessly into her throat.

“Hmmph, puh-feck.” I held her hips firm as I burrowed my nose into her cunt, my tongue swirling on her clit. I mused that as she had only just given her first blowjob the night before, then this must be her first time to sixty-nine with a man.

I’d have to remember to ask if she’d ever done it with a girl.

Maybe we should be making a list of all these firsts, I pondered . . .


“Yed?” I tongued her slit.

“Jefferson, I really do need to pee.”

“Do ahead.” I darted my tongue in and out of her body.

“Jefferson.” Her hands stepped back up my torso. “I don’t know that I’m quite ready to urinate in your mouth.”

I looked up and smiled. “Chicken.”

She took my hands from her hips. “I’ll be back. I don’t want me out of bed any more that you do.”

“Buck buck.”

She stopped at the door, looking back to me. “Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets/The muttering retreats/Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels/And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells.”


“T. S. Eliot,” she answered. “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.”

“I should’ve known that one,” I said, flipping onto my belly. “Smart girl.”

“I go to smart school,” she said, turning on the ball of her feet. “And yes, you should’ve.”

I grinned. My eyes followed as she left the doorway, scanning the rosy bite marks on her back, the pink stripes on her ass.

We were vanquishing every virginity we encountered.

As we fucked during the previous evening, just hours after first meeting, I told her I was weary of pussy and wanted to break in her ass.

“I suspected you might,” she smiled. “Obviously, I’ve never done that.”

“Yet many are the asses I’ve deflowered,” I kissed her. “Tell your ass to meet me at the foot of the bed, up in the air, in one moment. I’ll be the guy with the hard on.”

I duly arrived at the appointed destination to find her ass waiting.

“Why, hello, ass,” I smiled as I rolled on a fresh condom. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

She giggled.

I leaned forward to tongue her hole.

“Oh!” she gasped.

Another virginity gone, I supposed. I tongued her deeply to open and relax her, though she seemed perfectly at ease.

As I applied lube generously to her ass and my cock, I explained what she should expect and assured her that we could stop at any time. She nodded into a pillow.

I entered her slowly. “Okay?” I asked.

She breathed, nodding. I pushed in. Instinctively, she pushed back to take me.

“I’m all the way in,” I said quietly. “Are you okay?”

“I’m . . . fine,” she said, getting accustomed to the sensation.

“I’m going to just let you feel this,” I said, leaning forward to kiss her back. I added a new bite to mark the occasion.

I stood. “Okay, now, slowly, I’m going to move inside you.” I moved gently back and forth.

She held up well.

“You’re certainly taking this like a man,” I commended.

“This feels really good,” she said, her voice steady as her mind created a new file marked "anal sex."

I let her have it a little harder. Her breathing went staccato.

I spanked her. She yelped.

I grabbed her hips and fucked her hard. She groaned.

“You’re doing so well, so well,” I breathed.

“Fuck my ass, Jefferson,” she sighed. “Fuck me.”

I stopped. “No.” I pulled out. I tossed the condom aside. “I have designs on your ass. I don’t want it broken on the first night.” I kissed her neck and whispered into her hair. “You are so brave. You take a rough ass fucking so well.”

“Thanks,” she whispered.

“Now, pretty girl, I’m going to spank you.”


“I’m going to do it lightly and, if you don’t ask me to stop, I will do it harder.”


“And if you don’t ask me to stop, I’m going to use a cat o’nine tails, very lightly.”

“Okay.” She squirmed slightly.

“And if you don’t ask me to stop, I’m going to cane you, again, very lightly.”


I kissed her. I opened a door to retrieve my arsenal.

I spanked a pink flush to her cheeks and began.

Twenty minutes later, I put down the cane.

“That’s enough,” I said. “I want you to feel this overnight before we go further.” I lay next to her and pulled her into my arms. I kissed her hair. “You don’t have to do it all at once, you know.”

“I want to do it all, at once,” she said to my shoulder.

The next morning, when she returned from her cigarette, I was waiting with a condom.

“Hello, gorgeous,” I said, raising an eyebrow.

“Ready for more?” she asked.

“I’m not talking to you,” I said with disdain. “The ass and I have an appointment."

“Oh, great!” She climbed on the bed, raising her hips in the air as before.

“Hello, ass,” I said, licking her hole. “Long time, no see.”

“You’re retarded,” she laughed.

“I might have warned you,” I said, entering her.

Half an hour later, she fell forward, her arms still pinned behind her back.

I staggered, wiping the sweat from my face.

Her skin was flushed, highlighting the purple circles on her shoulder.

My ears were numb to all but our overlapping breathing and my pounding heart.

“Shit, son!” she hooted. She laughed.

I sat down, tearing off the condom. “You,” I pointed to her face. “You can go back to college. But you,” I pointed to her ass. “You're not going anywhere.”



Monday, January 29, 2007

To Shine in Use

I led the Stevens girl and her hourglass figure into my bedroom.

“Lay on my bed, pretty girl,” I instructed.

She sat on the bed and brought her long legs to the duvet. She reclined, letting her head rest on the crook of an arm. Her eyes gravitated to my bookshelves.

She glanced back as I undressed. Her eyes took in my body, recording the image of the man she had traveled to meet. She saw me nude before she knew my name.

She removed her glasses, placing them on a nightstand.

She was quiet as I moved to her side. I lowered my mouth to hers. We kissed, my hands getting to know her body, her hands learning the feel of a man’s body.

I moved to cover her with my torso. I opened my mouth to contain hers, to refocus her tongue and teeth from urgency to ardor. My hands held her cheeks firm before pushing her hair back so that I could see her face.

I pulled back for a look, but my mouth drew me back to hers.

My hips pressed into her. She trembled as before.

“I think we should fuck now,” I said, reaching for a condom.

“Yes, please, let’s,” she said. I could tell she meant for that phrase to sound nonchalant, but it came out fast and tinged with nervousness.

“You okay?” I asked.

“I’m very okay,” she smiled. “Come on, let’s fuck.”

I kissed her as I positioned my cock against her cunt. “I should warn you,” she said. “I’m pretty tight.”

“I know this already,” I said, sliding my head between her wet lips.

“I hear that’s often advantageous for the sensations of the male organ,” she smirked.

“I’ve heard that myself,” I nodded, opening a bottle of lube. “That is, once you get the male organ in there. Here, let me lift your legs up.”

I pressed forward, parting her slowly. She gasped. I pushed a little more, edging my way into her.

Her pussy was tighter than a miser’s heart.

I soothed her thighs and breasts, murmuring as I went deeper into her body.

I dropped my body, pressing our bodies together as we kissed. I felt her pulse race against my chest and though my cock.

“You okay?” I whispered.

“Yes,” she nodded. “God, this is good.”

“It is good, isn’t it?” I kissed her neck and began to slowly move inside her.

She began to move back.

Soon, our fucking followed the fervor of our kisses. I grabbed her shoulders, pressing deep as I flipped us.

“Unh!” she groaned, suddenly on top.

“Now, you grind down on me,” I suggested.

“Oh, that’s incredible,” she nodded. Her face was gone again, vanished into her hair. I caressed her slender waist and palmed her firm ass.

She rode me back and forth before, in an epiphany, finding her rhythm.

“Baby, you are so beautiful,” I said softly. “And you are doing so well.”

“This is so incredible,” she repeated, paying close attention to her body’s sensations as she fucked me, closely studying the effect of sex on herself.

She was cerebral, even in her sensuality.

I pinched a nipple. I raised my head to chew on her breast. I bite hard, holding her flesh in my teeth.

She fucked down on me harder.

I let her enjoy herself for a nice long while before we took a break.

“Sex is really great,” she said, then laughed. “Understatement.”

“I’m a big fan.” I said, standing. “Hey, do you mind if I take some pictures? I want to document your body before we fuck it up too much. That bite on your tit is going to be purple soon.”

“It is?” she said, looking to her breast. “I barely noticed that you bit it.”

“Cool, right?” I retrieved my camera. “So, do you mind?”

“Not at all, for your private viewing.”

“Of course.” I adjusted the lighting. “Though, if we get a nice blurry one, I may ask to post it on my blog. Don’t worry, I’d only do that with your approval.”

“Fine. How do you want me?”

“Just act natural,” I said, snapping. “I’ll adjust my angles.”

We talked as I snapped. I told it that I was only now beginning to photograph my friends in bed. “I’m not the brightest bulb,” I said, peering at the viewfinder. “Three years into this life, and I finally realize I should be documenting it in pictures.”

“You’ve got words,” she replied.

We sat to review the images.

“Look at this one,” I said. “You look just like a fifties pin up.”

“Son, I’m hot,” she laughed.

“The camera loves you,” I said, putting the camera aside. “But now, I guess we can no longer delay the inevitable. We need to see how bad your blowjob is.”

“God, I’m sure it’s awful,” she winced. “I’ve never done it.”

“You’ve never sucked cock at all?” I asked, tugging off my condom and reclining in the pillows.

“Nope,” she shook her head. “Never.”

“Well, that won’t do.” I held my cock forward. “Let’s see what you’ve got. Just try it nice and slow, and I’ll talk you though it.”

“Okay, thanks.” She stepped forward on her knees and lowered her face to my cock. She took it in hand and gingerly licked the shaft.

I petted her hair. “That’s so sweet, so nice . . .”

Her tongue caressed my cock, her pale eyes alternating between my eyes and my cock.

I reached for my camera. “Let me document your first blowjob, pretty.” I snapped some photographs as she brought my cock to her lips. “Aw, that’s just lovely,” I clicked. “Okay, now suck my dick, darling.”

She looked up, her eyes on me and my camera. “’He goes to supper: not where he eats, but where he is eaten.’"

“Source?” I asked.

“Shakespeare,” she said into my cock. “Hamlet.”

“Very smart. Now suck my dick.”

She took my head into her mouth.

“Nice, nice . . .” I commended.

She went lower.

“Good, that’s great . . .”

She went lower still, pulling my cock into her throat.

“Whoa, wha wha wha!” I gasped. I dropped my camera to the bed. “Hang on, whoa!”

She started to pull back. “No, I didn’t mean stop,” I said. “Do that again.”

She swallowed me. I pumped slightly. She had all of me.

I rested my cock in her. She continued to hold me in place.

I fucked slowly. She swirled her tongue.

I took her head in my hands and pushed my cock back into her throat. She didn’t hesitate.

“Okay, come up for air,” I panted.

She sat up and wiped her mouth. “Was that okay?”

“Are you kidding?” I said. “You’ve never sucked cock? Never?”

“Nope, never.”

“Kid, you are a born cocksucker. That’s great head. Really, really great. You must have been absent the day they handed out gag reflexes.”

“Thanks,” she smiled. “But I have a question: how do I breath when you’re in my esophagus?”

“Ah, good question. First, take a deep breath before you swallow me. Second, remember, you don’t have to deep throat the whole time. You can tease with your throat before you plunge my cock back. Also, when you are sucking, you don’t need to keep your lips firm the whole time. You can breath through your mouth.”

“Oh, like this?” she asked, taking my cock back in her mouth. She panted around the sides of my shaft. “Hmmph?”

“Perfect,” I said. “You learn fast. Now, get that cock out of your mouth. I’m going to fuck the shit out of you.”

She sat up. “Yes sir, professor,” she grinned.

“Call me that again,” I said, reaching for a condom, “And I’ll fuck you like you’ve never been fucked.”

“I’ve never been fucked . . . professor.”

“All that is past now,” I said. “Hand me that camera and get your ass to the edge of the bed.”

The next break found us actually leaving the bedroom.

“So, now that we’ve fucked, can I know your name, Jefferson?”

“If you’ll give me yours, pretty girl.”

“You don’t buy ‘Esther?’”

“I do not, no.”

“Smart boy. It’s not my name. I borrowed it from Saul Bellow. Esther Fenchel is one of the eponymous character's love interests in The Adventures of Augie March.” She nodded to the books on a side table. “You should read it, if you can tear yourself away from Valley of the Dolls.

I laughed. “I embarrassed to say that I haven’t even started Valley of the Dolls.

“What are you reading?”

“I’m reading this great biography of Bing Crosby . . . ”

“Weren’t you reading that at Christmas?”

I felt a twinge of remorse. “That was just three weeks ago.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“It’s six hundred pages!”

She shrugged. “My name is Nicole,” she said.

I told her my name. “Pleased to meet you, Nicole.”


I poured a bourbon and sat to watch as she pulled out a package of Marlboro Lights.

“I should’ve warned you. I’m a chain smoker.”

“You might’ve warned me of a few things,” I said, sipping.

“There were a few things of which I was unaware,” she rejoindered. “And others you needed to discover.” She lit her cigarette and exhaled.

She looked up, resting the cigarette in her fingers. “’Yet all experience is an arch where through gleams that untraveled world, whose margin fades forever and forever when I move. How dull it is to pause, to make an end, to rust unburnished, not to shine in use.’”

She flicked an ash.

I swallowed the bourbon that rested in my throat.

“Source?” I asked.

“Tennyson,” she answered, drawing a puff. “Ulysses.”

“Impressive that you quote,” I nodded.

“It’s what I do,” she replied, stamping out a dead butt. “It’s how my mind works. I capture language. I can quote Tennyson, Eliot, Shakespeare . . . and your blog.”

“My blog?” I sputtered.

“Yes, of course.” She drew another cigarette. “Remember when you took my panties?”

“Very well,” I smiled, raising my bourbon. I took a sip.

“Do you recall what you said as you took them?” She lit her smoke.

I furrowed my brow. “What I said? Well, no, not exactly.”

Her lighter clicked on the table. “You said, ‘cute panties, did you wear these for me?’”

I looked at her, not following.

“So I provided the next line, ‘I often wear cute underwear for no reason at all.’”

“’The next line?’” I asked, resting my bourbon in a palm.

“That’s exactly what you said to someone else when you first met. So I replied with her response.”

“Wow, are you serious? I said that? And you can quote it?”

She exhaled a plum of smoke. “That’s how my mind works.”

“Incredible. Well, I suppose I need some new material if I’m getting redundant.”

“Yeah, you may want to work on that. Remember in our web cam conversation, when you wrote ‘you didn’t have to be attractive, but it helps?’ That’s what you said to Celia in your first post.” She took a drag. “Well, a paraphrase, but approximately the same.”

“I hope you don’t think I carry a set of stock lines,” I apologized. “I guess my mind just has its limitations.”

She drew a puff and exhaled. “You don’t have any cause for concern. You’re an excellent writer.”

“Thanks. Well, I’m honored to be in your repertoire . . . though a little daunted by the company of Tennyson, Eliot and the Bard.”

“You have one advantage over them,” she said, flicking an ash.

“What’s that?”

She took another drag. “I can’t fuck dead writers.”

I took a sip of my bourbon. “Nicole, finish your cigarette.”

She put it out. “Done.”



Sunday, January 28, 2007


I could feel her eyes on my back.

We had only spent a moment at the door exchanging glances and bussing cheeks before I took her coat.

We had never met. We didn’t know one another’s names.

Yet she had come to New York to spend a weekend with me.

Now, as I turned to hang her coat in a closet, she was giving me the once over. I took my time, allowing her to look. It was only fair; after all, I had the home court advantage.

I closed the closet door and turned to reciprocate her gaze.

She smirked, shifting her weight from one hip to another.

“You might have told me,” I said, reprimanding her.

“What?” she sassed. “And ruin the surprise?”

I liked that. I stepped forward to take her face in my hands. I kissed her deeply.

She had told me her name was Esther, but I assumed that wasn’t true. No one named girls “Esther” nineteen years ago. Nineteen-year-old girls are named “Ashley” or “Jennifer” or “Madison,” the last after that Daryl Hannah movie that had been popular a few years before they were born.

“Esther,” or whomever it was now standing in my apartment, had contacted me after reading my blog. Her introductory note was complimentary and polite, which is always pleasant, but more unusually, it avoided common words when more exact options were possible. The more syllables per word, the better.

This gal is either wicked smart, I thought, or she’s damned handy with a thesaurus. Either way, I was enticed . . . if not inveigled.

We traded notes now and then until she faded from my inbox. She later wrote to apologize, noting that the end of a semester with a double major could be exceedingly onerous.

Our correspondence resumed.

We never traded photographs. She didn’t request one, and I didn’t really care what she looked like. She had me going with wit and a vocabulary that was gorgeous, lavish, luxurious, splendid and sumptuous—that is to say, in a word provided by my thesaurus, impressive.

After a month or so of trading intermittent bon mots, I asked if she had a web cam. Of course she did; she’s nineteen. I suggested that we instant message with cams.

As her image came into view, I was glad to see that she was easy on the eyes. “You didn’t have to be attractive,” I wrote, “But it helps that you are.”

“Likewise,” she wrote back, her lips slightly pursed.

The truth was, though, that I really couldn’t tell much about her appearance. Her camera was trained on her head and the dorm room behind her. Over one unseen shoulder was a well-crammed bookcase; over the other, a white wall bare but for a poster.

She wore a newsboy cap, pushed forward and down, and glasses that were scarcely visible in the forest of dark hair that hung in her face. Only the lower third of her face was unobstructed.

She was evidently pale and had lips. Beyond that, I couldn’t have picked her out of a line up.

No matter, really. I was glad to put face to words, naturally, but I was after other quarry.

I wanted to take her fine-tuned vocabulary for a spin.

As we traded quips—cracks, jests, sallies, drolleries—I soon realized that I was barely keeping up. She parried my every sentence by three, coming back fast with pithy humor and precisely chosen words, each typed without error and burnished—buffed, polished, shined, furbished—to crystalline sheen.

This much was clear: whoever it was behind those glasses, she wasn’t fudging her smarts. She appeared to be the real deal, the sort who could waltz her way across the Mensa ballroom.

Still, I was only seeing the cards she dealt. I was looking right at this person on my screen, but her face was hidden in a disguise of cap, glasses and hair. I was conversing with her, but she hid herself in a thicket of words. All of that was wrapped up and presented under an unlikely name.

After an exchange that had been agreeable, congenial, pleasing and engaging, we signed out. Our correspondence continued without cameras; we had satisfied that curiosity as well as we could.

Still, other curiosities remained.

Finally, I took a step that was perhaps inevitable, ineluctable, ineludible and certain.

“If you are ever in the city, it would be a pleasure to meet,” I wrote.

“I can come during the winter break,” she replied.

“That would be great,” I said. “And, well, if you need a place to stay, I can put you up.”

“You are certainly complaisant,” she responded. I reached for my dictionary before thanking her for the compliment.

Now, she was in my living room, her masks intact but for the one secret she could no longer keep.

As I kissed her, I placed a hand on her hip.

“You act as though you’re ashamed of it,” I whispered.

“Not at all,” she asserted, her voice firm, revealing none of the open passion of her kiss.

I stood back. “Well, may I at least appreciate it?”

She leaned a hand on a bookcase. “Go right ahead.”

She wore a white cotton shirt, so tight that the buttons barely met. Her nipples were hard and clearly visible, for she wore nothing underneath.

“This is a lovely sight,” I said, caressing her shirt. I nuzzled into her neck. “And your clothing smells so fresh. Still, I want to remove this.”

“Go ahead.”

She began to shudder as my fingers moved down the buttons of her shirt. The front opened to reveal flesh, but I averted my eyes to undo her cuffs. When her wrists were free, I removed her shirt and tossed to one side.

“You’re trembling.”

“It’s cold outside.”

“It’s very warm inside. You’re nervous, and that’s fine.” I pressed my body to hers. “It’s alluring, actually.”

I took her mouth back into mine. Her kiss was immediate and slightly clumsy.

I stood back to stroke her torso. I turned her body so that I could look at her back.

“This is very nice,” I said, touching the black skirt that draped to her knees. “But this, too, needs to go.”

“Yes,” she said, a slight frog in her throat.

“So brave,” I whispered.

I unbuttoned the skirt, unzipped its side, and knelt to lower it to the ground. She stepped from the skirt, gently raising her high heels.

I looked up at her, touching her legs and torso. I savored the responses of her trembling flesh.

“Cute panties,” I observed, touching lace. “Did you wear those for me?”

She stopped trembling, resuming her composure. “I often wear cute underwear for no reason at all,” she smiled.

“Yes, well, I’m afraid these also need to vanish.” I lowered her panties slowly, offering a hand to steady her as she lifted her heels. I put the panties aside and allowed my eyes to take her in.

I nuzzled my nose in the soft, sandy blonde pubic hair that gave away another secret—her dark brown hair was a deliberate choice. Perhaps she had become a brunette for effect, to dramatize her smooth pale skin. But now that I was in on the larger secret, I suspected it was a diversionary tactic, intended to make her appear somewhat mousy, like the bookworm she preferred people to see when they looked at her.

Looking up to her face full of hair, I still had no clear sense of the color of her eyes.

I stood and pushed back her hair. She looked at me, now trembling again. Her eyes were pale, limpid aquamarine, the color of a clear sky viewed from underwater.

I traced a finger to her waist. I needed to address the secret she had kept from me.

“You didn’t tell me about this,” I chastised. “You must’ve assumed I would want to know.”

“Now you know,” she said, shrugging. “I have an hourglass figure.”

“Yes, you do have an hourglass figure. That’s the right word for it. I might’ve said you are built like a brick shithouse.”

She laughed. “Ever the Southern gentleman.”

I nodded and leaned to kiss her. My finger moved across the slight curve of her tight belly, and down to her slit.

I toyed with her moistness.

“Wow,” she said, for once at a loss for words.

I kissed her ear lobe.

“It’s . . . it’s been a very long time,” she added.

“Since?” I whispered.

“Since I’ve been with a man,” she said, shaking under my touch.

I placed a steady hand against the base of her spine. “How long?” My tongue traced the curve of her neck.

“Just that one time,” she answered. “When I was fourteen.”

“How old was the boy?” I nibbled her clavicle.

“My age,” she swallowed. “Well, fifteen.”

“An early predilection for older men,” I noted, cupping a firm breast. “And only girls since then?” I took a nipple in my mouth.

“Unh, yeah. Girls.”

I stood to kiss her. That mouth, so adept in forming words, was still learning to kiss.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “I won’t be gentle.”

She held me close. “Who is your favorite modernist poet?” she whispered.

“I go for Frank O’Hara,” I answered, kissing her eyelids each in turn.

She looked into my eyes. “I’m a Stevens girl.”

“We’ll meet at Rilke,” I said, taking her hand. “Now come with me. I want to show you what happens to Stevens girls.”

Friday, January 26, 2007

Fleshbot and Tall Tales

This week’s Sex Blog Roundup at Fleshbot peers inside the skulls of sex bloggers who make good use of their overheated imaginations by dreaming up fantasies of all stripes.

Speaking of imaginative sex bloggers, allow me to introduce the lovely Anna Smash (above), who ‘fesses up at Confessions of an Unmanageable Life. Those of you who enjoy stalking me should skeedaddle over to her site to read about her recent trip to visit me in New York.

It all begins in the one in which we meet. I don’t suppose it would be giving away too much to admit that she landed a very fine addition to my quest for forty-four blowjobs during January, the month of my birth—and still managed to witness a few other contributions to the cause.

How is that going, you may ask? It’s going well, I may answer. I won’t give you the current tally, but please note: we are now in the last week of the month. If you plan to take part in this project, now’s the time to step up! Don’t assume that someone else will do your part—it’s time for you to drop to your knees to make every blowjob count.

Tell your friends!

The end of the month is also the deadline to vote for Dirtyspoke’s Sex Blog Awards.

You’ll find me up for Best Sex Blog, Best Male Sex Blog, and as a team player at Viviane’s Sex Carnival.

Those of you who have first discovered my blog through Dirtyspoke may well wonder: where’s the sex? My apologies. My blog is about my life as a parent and pervert—as stated in my profile—and by chance, the contest hit at a time when I was writing about parenting after an extended digression on perversion.

You might try delving into my archives.

Just to show that I’ve still got my chops, I am once again shifting gears. For the next few posts, you get full throttle smut. It all starts with stories of a visitor to my birthday week of wall-to-wall sex. Nope, not Anna Smash—she’s on that for now. This is another scorcher, one so hot I would doubt it myself if I didn’t have photographs as evidence.

That’s right. Photographs.

Not that you need proof. You know that if I tell a story, it’s true. I write nonfiction, and I am not one to tell tale tales.

I’m not privy to the results in progress, but I do hope the Dirtyspoke award contest is going well. It’s a splendid idea that brings attention to all of the fine folks who write sex blogs.

I’ve exchanged notes with a few of the fellows up for Best Male. There just aren’t that many of us men who blog sex, so naturally we are a convivial bunch. Once the finalists were announced, we patted each other’s asses in the locker room, saying “may the best man win.”

Then we traded blowjobs and hit the showers.

Things are a little more competitive in the Best Sex Blog category, but there again, everyone is on very friendly terms. I’m grateful for that. Frankly, I’ve had enough drama in my life lately.

Like, check this out. The other day I was out running errands, as you do, and as I walked down Third Avenue, I noticed a penny on the sidewalk. I stopped to pick it up. Huh, I grinned—a 1942 wheat penny! I thought the kids would enjoy that.

Just then, I heard a thundering crash. I looked up to see that a bank safe had fallen just inches from where I stood. Why, if I hadn’t stopped to pick up a coin, I might have been crushed by a falling safe! I had found some lucky penny, all right!

I had barely avoided a very bad scrape. But my spirits were lifted by a thoughtful email I found waiting in my inbox.

Practice SAFE sex.


“Wasn’t that nice?” I asked Elle the next day when she stopped by for tea. “Especially after that whole thing with the falling safe and all.”

“Oh my God!” she said, raising a hand to her mouth. “Are you serious? Jefferson, that’s really scary.”

“No kidding, I was really scared. But why would a safe just fall like that . . .”

I was interrupted by the faint click of my broken doorbell. I excused myself to answer the door.

“Oh my!” I exclaimed.

“What is it?” Elle called, running to my side.

There was a small fire burning in the hallway. Acting on instinct and adrenaline, I quickly stomped out the fire with my stocking feet.

“Oh God, what is that smell?” Anna gagged.

“Ugh—that fire was set to a bag of manure!” I said, retching.

“That’s so disgusting,” Anna said. “Who in the world . . . wait, what is this note?”

She pulled a paper from my door.



“Who is Nina?” Elle asked.

“I don’t know,” I asked, scraping my feet. “A fellow jazz fan, I guess. But that can wait . . . my feet are so gross. Help me to the bathroom, would you?”

Elle held my shoulder as I hobbled to the tub to wash up. Afterwards, she helped me back to the couch.

“You rest,” she said. “I’ll refill your tea.”

“Thanks, Elle, you are very sweet.”

Elle came back with a full cup of tea. I sipped it as we talked. I was really enjoying this opportunity to get to know her better.

After a few moments, though, I began to feel woozy. I hated to be rude to my guest, but I didn’t feel very well.

“Would you excuse me?” I said, struggling to stand. “I think I need to go to the restroom.”

“Oh, of course, Jefferson,” Elle smiled. “I’ll be fine.”

I had just made it to the toilet when I began to vomit. It was an awful, burning sensation, but I did feel a little relief.

That’s when my chest began to feel tight. “Ouch, ouch, ouch,” I thought, opening my medicine cabinet. I tore down medicines for colds, fevers and hemorrhoids before finding what I needed: two aspirin and my portable defibrillator.

“Wow, I felt bad for a minute there,” I sighed, dropping to the couch.

“You . . . you’re all right?” Elle asked.

“Yes, I’m fine,” I said, patting her hand. “You’re very nice to be concerned, but I’m sure you have better things to do that look after a sick man. Really, I appreciate it, but please, go out and enjoy your day.”

After Elle left, I had a nap. I woke feeling refreshed, thankfully. I was really looking forward to my date with Ilyana that evening. She’s so hot. I would have hated to cancel.

She was just as alluring in person as I had hoped. Not to be too explicit, but we were soon naked and rolling on my bed. She was over me, I was over her, she shuddered, I trembled . . . it was very intense.

I rolled off her to take a break.

“Wow,” I panted. “That was pretty earth shattering for, you know, casual sex.”

“Casual?” she asked. “Did you say ‘casual?’”

“Yeah,” I laughed. “I mean, I can’t believe we just met.”

Ilyana put her face close to mine. “I’m going to make sure you never forget me,” she said, like she really meant it.

“Oh,” I laughed. “Not much danger of that.”

We went at it again. Eventually, I fell asleep in her arms. When I awoke, she was gone.

I guess she had someplace to be, I thought when I awoke.

I was glad she wasn’t there to see what I found in the kitchen.

Somehow, I had managed to leave a pot of water boiling on the stove. I can be such a ditz! This oversight evidently proved tragic when my sweet pet bunny fell into the pot.

“Poor Pinky!” I cried, turning off the heat. “You always were so curious.”

So, like I said, I had a very dramatic week. I’m just lucky to have so many wonderful friends. I’m glad we all get to share in the excitement of this award contest. Best of luck, pals!

I hope you enjoy the smoldering sex I’m sending your way.

InFocus Girls




Thursday, January 25, 2007

Cheese Pretzels

“ . . . and that was the second day of testing, Dad. Forty-five minutes! I’m glad it’s over.”

“Me too, Collie. You really had to buckle down for that monster. You done good, son.”

“Yeah, I know. Thanks.”

“So what are you doing tonight?”


“I thought so. Can you pass the phone to one of your siblings before you plug your brain into that gizmo?”

“Sure . . . hey wait, Mom wants to talk to you.”

“All right, thanks. I love you, son.”

“Love you, Dad. Here’s Mom. Bye!”

I poured another cup of coffee.

“Hello, Jefferson?”

“Hey, Lucy. How are you?”

“Fine. Did you get my note about Lillie and tennis lessons?”

“Yes, and I think that sounds like a splendid idea. Let’s do it.”

“Good. Maybe it will help her get out some of her aggression. Let me ask you: does she hit you?”

“Hit me? Well, no, never.”

Lucy dropped her voice. “She hits me all the time. She hits me, she yells at me, she refuses to do what I tell her . . . it’s really out of control.”

“Huh. Well, no, we never see that kind of behavior.”

Lucy exhaled. “Lucky me. Okay, I’ll get Jason so you can talk to him. Bye.”

It’s a shame that talking with Lucy is so fraught with submerged hostility. I am always reserved and studiously casual in our conversation, for fear of being dragged into a fight.

If I were more daring, I might have offered some insight into why our daughter is so angry at the mother who struggles to control her while whispering that she’s not as smart as her older brothers. I might have drawn a connection to Lillie’s resentment of Lucy for sending her father away.

Like any child her age, Lillie has ways of asserting herself.

I felt for Lillie. She must be really pissed.

Yesterday, on the walk home from school, Lillie complained that she was hungry.

“We can have a snack when we get home, baby,” I suggested. “How about hot chocolate and popcorn?”

“Do you have any cheese pretzels?” she asked.

“No baby, I don’t even know what those are, really.”

“I do,” Collie chimed. “I have cheese pretzels. Mom packed them for my snack today, but I wasn’t hungry then.”

Lillie turned to him. “Give them to me.”

“No,” Collie smiled. “I’m saving them for my snack tomorrow.”

“Dad! Make him give me the cheese pretzels.”

“No, dear, those are your brother’s cheese pretzels,” I said. One more block until we’re home, I thought, and it’s frigging cold. Please don’t start.

“Ha! I don’t have to share,” Collie smirked, skipping slightly.

“Dad! He’s not sharing and he’s being mean.” Lillie’s eyes welled. I took her hand, both to comfort her and to keep her walking.

“Collie, don’t tease your sister. Lillie, stop begging for the cheese pretzels.”

“It’s not fair,” Lillie cried.

Half a block to go.

“Come on, kids, let’s make the light,” I urged, picking up my step.

“Whee!” Collie called, running ahead.

“Stop running!” Lillie shouted.

I ushered the kids inside, reminding them to kick off their shoes and drop their coats with their packs.

I went to the bathroom and put away my sweater.

When I returned to the living room, Collie was setting up his homework. Lillie stood next to him, growling and glowering.

“Dad, can you please maker her stop?” Collie asked.

“Lillie, come help me make popcorn,” I said. “Come on. Let’s go to the kitchen.”

Lillie didn’t budge. She kept the evil eye trained on her brother.

“Lillie,” I repeated. “Let’s go make popcorn.”

She didn’t move.

“Lillie, you can not bother your brother when he’s doing homework. Now, come on, let’s make popcorn and get you started on your homework.”

Nothing. She was a brick wall.

I leaned forward. “Lillie, this is not acceptable behavior. You must leave your brother alone.”

Her stare never deviated.

There are times I question my abhorrence of corporeal punishment.

“Lillie, I am going to make popcorn. When I return, you and I are having a talk.”

I was in the kitchen when Collie rushed by. Lillie followed, growling.

“Dad, she won’t stop!”

“Lillie, you have gone too far,” I said, calmly but firmly.

This would not end well.

Collie took a seat at the table. His sister leaned against him, growling.

I put a bowl of popcorn on the table. “Okay, now we all have a snack. So let’s calm down and get ready to do homework.”

Lillie took a single piece of popcorn and flicked it at her brother.

“And that’s it,” I said, taking Lillie by the arm. “You can’t be with people right now, so you are getting a time out.”

“No!” she shouted, crying suddenly. “It’s not fair.”

“It’s not fair for you to misbehave,” I corrected. “And when you can be with people, I will come back for you.”

I put her in my room. “No TV. Nothing. You can not behave that way with people.” I closed the door.

Lillie began to wail as I walked away.

“Geez,” I said to Collie, taking a fistful of popcorn.

“She’s like that all the time with Mom,” he said, opening his math notebook.

“That’s annoying,” I said, tossing a piece in my mouth. “I mean, she’s a tad old for tantrums and time out.”

“Yeah, she hates Mom,” Collie said casually, taking up his pencil. “You’re lucky. You can control her.”

“Maybe the secret is in not making her feel controlled,” I said. “Like, she hates it when you tell her what to do, right? But when you want her to do something, you make it seem like a good idea. Right?”

“I guess so,” Collie said.

“At least I have one good child,” I said, scruffing his hair. “You’re my favorite, you know.”

“Yeah, right,” he smiled.

Lillie’s tears subsided. I checked in on her.

She was sound asleep, deep under the covers at the foot of the bed.

Thank God.

That night, after dinner, Lillie asked me to paint her nails. She asked for green glitter on her fingernails and deep purple on her toes.

With her hands spread on newspaper, she was my captive.

“So what happened today, Lillie?” I asked.

“Nothing.” Her eyes watched the brush turning her nails green.

“Not nothing,” I said, blowing. “You were out of control. Was that scary?”

“No.” She blew on her nails.

“I think it is a little scary to be out of control like that,” I said, dipped the brush back in the polish. “When you get like that, and you can’t be with people, you should remember to go someplace quiet to calm down.”

“Collie was being selfish.”

“Well,” I said, holding her pinky still. “Sometimes things will seem unfair, and that’s how it is. But it never helps to be out of control. Right?”

“Yeah, right, whatever.”

“All right.” That was enough for now. “Okay, now let’s see those toes . . . ew, baby, your feet stink.”

She giggled. “Do they? They do not. You’re kidding, right?”

I coughed. “Can’t . . . breath . . .”


After I tucked the kids in bed, I poured a bourbon and sat at my computer. It was my time now. I was ready to clear my head and write until my eyes drooped.


I turned. “Lillie, it’s bedtime.”

“I know, but, Dad? My thumb tastes weird. I can’t sleep.”

“Is it the nail polish?”

“Yes.” She looked at her hands.

“Can you try sucking on a knuckle, like this?” I put a knuckle in my mouth.

She copied me. “It doesn’t work.”

“Can you try sucking on a toe? Like this?” I lifted her into my lap and put her big toe in my mouth.

“Dad!” she giggled. “No, that won’t work. My toes are purple too.”

“All right. Let’s clear that thumb nail.”

“Can we paint it again before school?”

“Of course. Remind me in the morning. Now, come with me to the bathroom.”

Soon, Lillie was back in bed, sucking on her thumb.

“Good night, baby,” I said, kissing her cheek. “You’re my favorite, you know.”

She giggled.

Wednesday, January 24, 2007


The door wasn’t locked. I retrieved my key and turned the knob.

My eyes scanned the living room. Apparently, I had missed some party.

Two pairs of jeans were entwined near the couch. An empty bottle of wine sat on the coffee table, near an empty bottle of champagne. Crumbs were all that remained of a chocolate cake that had missed only a few slices the day before. Two forks rested in the cake platter.

My romance voodoo candles—one in the shape of a man, the other in the shape of a woman—were each burned to the hips.

Empty packages of Polaroid film were strewn about. There was a single photograph propped on a wine bottle; it showed Ray smoking from Rachel’s new pipe as she smiled, holding a wine glass. On the bottom, she had scrawled, “Thanks for the Polaroid, Santa!”

I took off my coat and cleaned the room. I put on coffee and settled in to work.

A couple of hours later, Rachel shuffled from the bedroom.

“Did you kids have a nice evening?” I asked.

“What I remember of it,” she moaned, falling onto the couch.

“That’s generally a good sign. And where’s Ray?”

“He’s spread out on the bed. He was taking up too much room, so I got up.”

“Well, you might want to rouse him,” I said, leaning to kiss her forehead. “I’m making breakfast, and then we have to go shopping before you go to your bus.”

“Oh right,” she yawned. “You are getting me a mystery present. Where are we going?”

“Nice try. Go wake your husband so I can shovel grits into him.”

We only had a few hours left before my daughter and her fiancé returned home. Much I hated for them to leave, I was looking forward to closing my holiday bed and breakfast.

In three weeks, I had slept in my own bed only once. I had been getting by on sex once a week.

I was eager to get my life back.

But first, we had one more outing in the city. I needed to acquire gifts for Rachel’s nineteenth birthday a few days hence.

Rachael Ray ate slowly, showered slowly, and dressed slowly. I kept a steady pour of coffee in their cups.

In the fullness of time, we made our way to the subway. We got off at Canal Street.

“Is my present in Chinatown?” Rachel asked.

“No, baby, it’s in SoHo.”

“There certainly are a lot of shoe stores down here . . . ,” she said, looking around.

“Aren’t there, though?” I smiled.

As we walked along Mercer Street, I stopped dead in my tracks.

“What’s wrong, Dad?” Rachel asked.

“Nothing’s wrong,” I said. “We’re here.”

Rachel looked around. “What’s this place? Babeland?”

“That’s right. Babeland is a great place to get sex toys. You see, it’s owned by these two women, and they decided . . .”

“Oh my God, sex toys? Are you for real?” She pulled open the door and rushed inside.

“I guess she’s interested, huh?” Ray said, squashing a cigarette under his toe.

“Apparently,” I replied, holding the door.

“Well, I sure hope she doesn’t find something to make me obsolete.”

“Never you fear,” I said, patting his back as he walked inside. “Toys can add to the fun. I think your job is secure.”

Rachel stood at the store entrance, looking around, her eyes as big as saucers.

“Oh my God, Dad, this is amazing. How will I know what to look at?”

“I’ve thought of that,” I said, pulling out my phone. “I’ve arranged for you to have a personal shopper.” I pushed a few buttons and handed over the cell.

Rachel held the phone to her ear. “Hello?”

“Hey, darlin’.”

Madeline? Oh my God, is that you, Maddie?”

“Yes ma’am,” Madeline laughed. “How are you, sweetie?”

“I’m fine! Dad brought me to a sex toy store!”

“I know, awesome, right? I’m going to help you find something that works for you. Now, look over at the right-hand side of the store. Do you see that cabinet with the toys on top?”

“Yes . . . how did you know where things are?”

“Oh, trust me. I know Babeland. Okay, so go over to the right . . .”

Rachel walked to the display, Ray close behind. I held back, heading to the magazine rack to look for $pread.

Rachel was in good hands. Besides, I didn’t want her to be self-conscious about looking at sex toys with her father.

I mean, I’m cool and all, but some things are personal.

I was chatting with the store manager when Rachel came over with her selections.

“Maddie says I should get one of these,” she said, holding a Dynamic Duo vibrator. “And she says every girl needs one of these.”

“An Orchid G,” the manager nodded. “A very good choice. Have you used one before?”

“No, I’ve never used any toys,” Rachel laughed nervously.

“Okay, then let me tell you about this toy.”

I took the phone to talk with Madeline as Rachel and Ray were given an introductory lesson on g spots and playing with toys.

Soon, we were outside, Rachel smiling at the pink bag in her hand.

“Thanks, Dad,” she kissed me. “That’s a pretty amazing gift.”

“The gift that keeps on giving,” I smiled. “Enjoy.”

Rachel and her fiancé found their own way to the bus as I left to pick up her siblings.

A few days later, I got an email from Rachel.


I need to thank you again for the toys. Especially my Orchid!! All my friends are so jealous. Ray says he’s going to hide it, because I can’t leave it alone.

I don’t want to give you the idea that all I do is masturbate, but . . . well, I can’t lie!!

I love you.

PS Call me, I have to tell you a story.

You know I hurried to make that call.

On the night that they returned home, Rachel told me, they had been picked up at the bus station by her other father, Bill. On the way home, he was pulled over for driving sixty in a forty-five mile per hour zone.

“It took the cop forever to write the ticket,” Rachel went on. “Ray and me were so scared in the back seat. We were sure we’d have to open our bag, which was full of sex toys, a pot pipe and pornography!”

“Oh my God, that’s a riot,” I laughed. “But wait, what pornography did you have?”

Rachel lowered her voice. “Well, we made a lot of Polaroids that night we had alone . . . ”

I could only laugh in response.

Madeline also laughed when I called to tell her about my smuggler’s brush with the law.

“That little acorn didn’t fall far from the oak,” she teased.

“Can I tell you something? I did not raise that girl. She grew up in another state, raised by her mother and other father.”


“I think this puts to rest the whole debate about nature versus nurture.”

Monday, January 22, 2007

Real Drunk

Here’s an argument for temperance. Perfectly average teenagers get their hands on booze, and mayhem ensues! Best friends become gay lovers! Innocent girls become wanton hussies! And worse: it all happens in front of cameras.

Carrie Nation, sharpen your hatchet!

Real Drunken Girls

Real Drunken Boys

, , , , , , ,

Sunday, January 21, 2007

Table Talk

Sex was seeping in at the edges.

With the kids in tow, I took Rachel and Ray to see the Ron Mueck exhibition at the Brooklyn Museum. Mueck is British sculptor who creates figurative work of eerie verisimilitude, with life-like colors and tones giving reality to bodies that are distorted by odd shifts in scale.

The sculptures seem real enough to startle by suddenly drawing breath, and yet they are impossible creations—such as a Lilliputian adult in a rowboat or a newborn the size of a speedboat—in situations often wrought with psychological disquiet.

It’s grown-up art that would appeal to kids.

As we toured the gallery, we found ourselves face to face with the lap of a seated giant.

“He’s got a weird penis,” Rachel grimaced.

“Well, he’s not circumcised, if that’s what you mean,” I said, looking closely. “As would be the case if he were from some mythic land, or, you know, Great Britain.”

“Big, too,” Ray noted.

“Look at his extremities,” I suggested. “Big hands, big feet . . .”

“Oh, is that a sign?” Rachel laughed. She held Ray’s hand to her own.

“Stop!” Ray said, yanking back his hand and blushing slightly.

“Can you pick me up?” Lillie asked, craning at the giant’s knees. “I want to see.”

The next day, the kids went to their mother’s home. Rachel and Ray would stay with me for the remainder of their visit.

I moved my pillow and quilt from the couch to another bedroom, leaving my own bed to the happy couple.

The next day, we decided to visit the Metropolitan Museum. Rachel wanted Ray to see the period rooms.

“It’s like where women go when they have their periods,” Rachel joked.

“Are you for real?” Ray asked.

“It’s an ancient custom, dating back to the Algonquin,” I nodded sagely. “The women of Manhattan are isolated in museum period rooms for the duration of their menstruation.”

“I think that’s the last place I want to visit,” Ray said, playing along.

I suggested we stop at the Gagosian while we were in the neighborhood. I had yet to see the John Currin exhibition, a much-discussed follow up to his late retrospective at the Whitney.

“I have to warn you,” I said as we walked along Madison Avenue. “I hear it’s pretty raunchy.”

“Too bad I left my fake ID at home,” Rachel said.

Sure enough, a sign at the gallery entrance warned that the exhibition contained “strong sexual content.”

“Last exit,” I said.

“Now, I really want to see it,” Rachel replied.

“Especially seeing how it’s strong,” Ray agreed.

On the gallery’s white walls hung paintings of china, candelabras and small children. Some of the paintings were lascivious.

Others, downright pornographic.

“What is it with penises in art?” Ray asked. “They are all over the art we’ve seen.”

“I blame the tour guide,” Rachel laughed.

“You people just have dirty minds,” I scolded. “Can’t you just appreciate the quality of the painting? The layered washes, the scumbled flesh, the contrasting surface textures . . .”

“. . . the beaver shot . . . ,” Ray continued.

“Fine, fine,” I said. “We’ll have better luck at the Met.”

I suggested we stroll among the European paintings before touring the period rooms.

Rachel stopped in front of classical scene by Lorenzo Lotto.

“Oh my God, is that baby peeing on that lady?”

“Sure looks that way,” Ray nodded.

“The baby is Cupid and the lady is Venus,” I said. “And, uh, yes, he is in fact urinating through her laurel.”

“I don’t know, this is kind of kinky, Dad.” She slapped Ray. “Don’t go getting any ideas.”

“What did I do?” Ray winced.

As we wandered, Ray was drawn to a Courbet.

“Well, here’s one I could get behind. But I guess it’s not good art, ‘cause there’s no penises in it.”

“No, but there is a parrot, and that’s just as well,” I nodded.

In a gallery of Quattrocento Christs, I indicated one in particular. “Isn’t that just about the ugliest Son of God you ever did see?”

“He sure is ugly,” Rachel nodded. “But that’s what it said in the Bible. Isaiah said Jesus wasn’t a ‘comely’ man and ‘He had no beauty that we should desire Him.’”

I looked at her, impressed. “Man, you do stay awake in church. But wasn’t Isaiah in the Old Testament?”

“Yeah, but that’s what the Bible says, so . . .”

“You mean that we know Jesus was fugly because the Old Testament predicted he would be?”

“Pretty much!”

“Huh. Well,” I said. “I’m glad not all artists subscribed to Isaiah, as there are some damned hot Saviors in this gallery.”

“Seriously,” Rachel said, pointing. “I’d do that one.”

“I think it might be a sin to say you’d 'do' Jesus,” Ray said.

“Save it for Mary Magdalene,” I vamped. “Speaking of, let’s skip ahead a century and go find Georges de la Tour . . .”

A few acres of canvas, antique décor and mummies later, we were bushed. We headed home to rest before dinner. Maybe now I could put sex back in its box.

It wouldn’t stay put.

“Oh, there you are,” Bridget smiled as we approached the restaurant.

I kissed her and shook Conrad’s hand. “Nice to see you,” I greeted Bridget’s other boyfriend. “Conrad, this is my daughter Rachel and her fiancé Ray.”

Bridget introduced herself to Ray, and her boyfriend to my teenaged companions.

Bridget had met Rachel last year, around the time my girlfriend had started sleeping with her new boyfriend. Of course, I knew all about Conrad and he knew all about me. Rachel simply knew Bridget as my friend.

Prior to meeting for dinner, Bridget had cleared with me the acceptable subjects for table talk. “Okay, Snooks, so here’s what we’ll say,” she suggested. “You and I are old friends from college . . .”

“. . . although you were not a friend of Rachel’s mother . . .”

“Oh, right. Damn. Does that complicate things?”

“No, I barely knew Rachel’s mother when she got pregnant. We had few friends in common.”

“All right, good, so . . . let’s say we are old friends from college days, though we went to different colleges in the same city, like we always say, and we dated, but now I’m dating Conrad. Does that work?”

“Works for me.”

“Good, then I’ll brief Conrad.”

I almost regretted the subterfuge. In truth, I wouldn’t mind if Rachel knew the full truth about my extraordinary sex life. Rachel would see beyond the ickiness of imagining one’s parents as sexual beings, and might even get a kick out of my escapades. I know she would enjoy reading my blog.

Unfortunately, I have to keep all that under wraps. For while she might enjoy the stories I could tell, it wouldn’t be fair to implicate her in a conspiracy. If she knew, she could tell no one, for if she did, word might snake back to my ex. While I trust her discretion, I don’t want to burden her with keeping my secrets.

When her sister Lillie is eighteen, perhaps I’ll tell Rachel.

For now, I only reveal the faint outlines of my sex life. She knows I’m bisexual, as this is no secret, and she knows I have dated Celia (my daughter had visited during the height of my crush), Emma (I had to tell my daughter I was dating her doppelganger) and Rachel’s frequent correspondent, Madeline.

After we ordered, Bridget slipped her fingers into Conrad’s hand. She nudged my leg under the table.

“So,” I said, smoothing a linen napkin on my lap. “Tell us about your cruise.”

“Y’all went on a cruise?” Rachel grinned. “I’m so jealous.”

“You should be,” Bridget laughed. “It was pretty amazing.” She related the adventures of cruising the Caribbean as Conrad nodded, occasionally interjecting a nod of agreement with Bridget’s tale.

Mostly, he kept his adoring eyes on the woman he loved.

“The ship sailed from Miami, Snooks, but we weren’t able to stay at the hotel you and I visited. There just wasn’t time.”

“Oh, that’s too bad. I liked that place.”

“Wait,” Rachel asked. “You two went to Miami together?”

“Oh, your Dad and I are great travel companions, right, Snooks?”

“Oh yes,” I agreed. “We both like to eat too much and sleep too little. We get along famously.”

“I let you sleep,” Bridget said, feigning injury.

I looked at her.

“Oh, yeah,” she said sheepishly. “I did sorta keep waking you up, didn’t I?”

Rachel and Ray exchanged a glance.

After dinner came dessert—mine in the form of a thick slice of Maker’s Mark—and goodbyes at the door. Bridget said we’d have to come out to see her and Conrad sometime. I kissed her cheek, shook Conrad’s hand, and we parted ways.

We had walked a few steps when Rachel’s curiosity could take no more.

“So wait, Dad—you dated Bridget?”

“Oh yes, we’ve dated,” I answered matter-of-factly.

“Was this before or after you met Madeline?”

“Some before, some after, a good measure of during,” I laughed.

“My Dad the player! I didn’t know you were into the big girls.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t describe myself as a player,” I objected. “I mean, I just have a lot of friends with whom I have a lot of sex. And I don’t know that I would say that I’m ‘into’ or ‘not into’ big girls. I frankly prefer people who are smart and really enjoy awesome sex.”

“Like Bridget?”

“Oh yes, very much like Bridget.” I leaned forward. “Her boy Conrad keeps her very busy.”

“Huh,” she said. “I was thinking last night it was a shame about Lucy, ‘cause she’s still really hot.”

“I can’t really see Lucy as ‘hot,’” I disagreed, apparently on a roll to define sexual slang as applied to my life. “I mean, she is a very attractive woman, no question, and she’s very smart. But she was never into sex. I mean, the whole time we were married, I never got a blowjob.”

Ray looked at Rachel.

“What?” Rachel said. “You get blowjobs.”

“No,” Ray said, taken aback. “I mean, I can’t believe you talk about this with your Dad.”

“I know, me neither,” Rachel laughed. “I don’t know why, but I do.”

“Well, my point isn’t that one must have X number of blowjobs to be content,” I went on. “My point is that if two people commit to monogamy, then each partner takes responsibility for the sexual life of the other. I think that when I was married, I didn’t fully understand that Lucy was ‘cheating’ on our commitment when she was unconcerned with my sexual pleasure. The lack of blowjobs was a symptom I failed to diagnose.”

Ray nodded as he lit a cigarette.

Rachel thought for a moment.

“So, Dad,” she asked. “I have to ask: did you ever sleep with Marcus?”

Ray coughed.

“Of course,” I laughed. “Before my marriage and again after. I think anyone who can sleep with Marcus should sleep with Marcus. It’s an incredible, incredible experience.”

Rachel giggled. “That’s pretty hot, Dad.”

“No shit, sugar.” I stopped and turned to face her. “And now, this is where we part company. This is the one night I am giving you both to have time alone together. I’m sleeping elsewhere.”

“Oh, and we were having such a great conversation!” Rachel complained.

“I know, and we were veering close to the zone of ‘more than you need to know.’ Anyway, I want you both to enjoy some private time.”

“Dad, it’s not like we didn’t have sex when you and the kids were there.”

“See, baby?” I kissed her forehead. “That veers close to ‘more than I need to know.’ Y’all have fun. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“You’re going to get laid, aren’t you, Dad?”

“Fuck yeah, I am,” I laughed, patting Ray on the back. “Tonight, everyone’s getting lucky.”

Friday, January 19, 2007

Barely Evil

In the linked gallery, you'll find more images of this radiant smoker.

Me, I'm all about the curled toes.

Barely Evil

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Wednesday, January 17, 2007


Well, happy birthday to me.

Today is my birthday—thank you very much, Mom and Dad. As I rebounded between birthday blowjobs, I opened my email to discover that I had been nominated for sex blog awards from Dirtyspoke. And not in one category, nor two, but in two-and-one-ninth categories!

I’ve sent my tux to the cleaners and I’m preparing a list of the little people to thank.

But wait—the awards are not yet ready to be claimed. That will come February 1. For now, I look to you—the little people—to vote.

Just click on the graphic above to cast your ballots for yours truly in Best Sex Blog, Best Male Sex Blog, and, under Best Group/Couple Blog, vote for Viviane’s Sex Carnival, where I am one of nine contributors.

Beyond that, I leave you to your own choices. I’m not lobbying for any other candidates, as that deci . . . that deci . . . excuse me, I feel a sneeze coming on . . . ah, ah . . . ah-chelseagirl! Huh, whew. Now, as I was saying, that decision is really yours to make.

I should say a kind word about the other contenders. So let me say it is an honor to be considered among such worthies, some of whom are my dear friends. I very much look forward to seeing their smiling faces in the split screen when I race, tits over ass, to give my acceptance speech.

In other news, I am making some progress in my goal of receiving blowjobs from forty-four individuals during my birthday month—one for every year of my life, plus one to grow on.

In the four days since announcing this goal, I’ve added ten blowjobs to the tally. We are now at twenty-three blowjobs: fifteen for the men, eight for the women.

If I were a younger man, we’d be done. But I am not a younger man. We are just over half way to our goal.

The women held steady as the men surged ahead, in part helped along by the gay men of my boy orgy.

I would like to give special thanks, though, to the straight boys who have arranged private appointments for that rare—or, in some cases, unique—dive to fellate. I appreciate every touch of your trembling fingers, and every enthusiastic gag.

I do want to remind the women that this is not a contest, and it is fine if the men come out ahead in numbers. I mean, everyone knows that women aren’t that into sucking dick, right?

Still, I would like to make a special appeal to Jersey girls. I am new to oral sex in this region, as I moved here when I was in a monogamous relationship that had nothing to do with blowjobs. In the past three years, I have been consistently impressed . . . no wait, astonished, by the Jersey girl blowjob.

I noticed this phenomenon with my jailbait girlfriend Shelby, who gives the best head in North America. (Don’t take my word for it. Ask any of my boyfriends. Or heck, just ask the boys in her high school marching band. She’s blown us all.) Shelby introduced me to her friends Theresa and Meg, and damned if they weren’t talented cocksuckers in their own rights.

And then consider Bridget, who proves the adage that fat girls give the best head (word to the stereotype), and Avah, who would contently break the world’s record for duration, if such a record existed. They, too, are Jersey girls.

So Jersey girls, I encourage you to step forward and drop to your knees. Your blowjobs are the flowers of the garden state.

(By contrast, I don’t know if I’ve every been blown by anyone from Connecticut, male or female, or if oral sex even exists there.)

Now, before you say that getting blown at a gay orgy is about as challenging a task as bumping into a Republican on Wall Street, I have to tell you, it’s still work.

First of all, the recruiting for my boy orgy is done by my co-host, Jimmy. Jimmy knows all the club kids, go go dancers and porn stars in town. So my parties are peopled by some exceedingly hot men, including some who are famed for being exceedingly hot.

I do well for myself, don’t get me wrong, but put me naked next to a muscled nude porn star with a ten-inch dick, and my virtues fade by comparison.

These boys make all the nelly queens go weak in the knees.

But fortunately, I know a secret: the hot guys are also nelly queens. I have no problem fucking someone much hotter than me, and this has worked to my advantage in reaching my goal.

This week, though, I did face yet another obstacle. Randall was at the party.

Randall is a very cute Indian twenty-one-year-old clubber who has taken a shine to me. He sometimes calls me when he wakes up around suppertime to ask if I want to hook up.

I have to keep telling him my life just doesn’t work that way.

“Oh, right,” he yawns. “So, are you going out tonight?”

We always connect at the parties. He’s sweet and incredibly cute, so I’m always glad to swap blowjobs and fuck him real friendly like.

This week, he was one of the first to arrive.

“Hi, sweetheart,” he said, kissing me. “Do you know I haven’t had sex since the last time I was at one of your parties? And that was before Thanksgiving.”

“We’ll have to take care of that,” I smiled, panicking slightly.

Normally, I would like nothing more than to give Randall all my time.

But that would come at some price to my goal.

Randall and I got the party started. He stretched back on a bed, his baseball cap turned backwards, as I sucked his long uncut cock and ran my fingers along his lean, smooth torso.

We switched up, and he blew me, bringing me to fourteen. A crowd had gathered, jerking as Randall’s ass wriggled in the air.

God, if I fuck him, that’s it, I thought. I’ll fuck him and fuck him, and then someone else will want to get fucked, and then I’ll be pounding ass all night. I’ll never get blown.

Luckily, I saw an escape valve.

A cute kid with sideburns, nursing a lump in his underwear.

I squirmed my body to reach his side. With a glance to his eyes, I retrieved his cock and brought it to my mouth. He was thick, filling me as he grew hard.

I liked this. Randall blew me as I went after this new kid, selfishly thinking I might just make him cum.

He stopped just before he blew. He grabbed a condom and made eyes at Randall.

I was off the hook, none the wiser for my sleight of mouth.

I wriggled free and sat back to watch. Soon enough, I was getting blown.

Later, as I stood in a doorway, Dmitri took my cock in his hand and smiled. I nodded, barely looking at him.

He’s a pig. That’s how he likes it.

He kneeled and began to suck me.

I turned and took his head in my hands. I thrust hard and deep, face fucking him like the bitch he wants to be.

Drool ran down my thighs. I heard it splash to the floor.

A hot scene was ending in one room. The boys all filed out, moving on to the next thing.

Dmitri was blocking the doorway, but I held him firm, not allowing him to move. The boys turn to one side, squeezing past us like we were a turnstile.

Now, the whole party knew I meant to get my dick sucked that night.

I thanked Dmitri, and told him to mop up his mess.

My numbers climbed.

I’d like to go on about this, but I’ve gone wall-to-wall this week, so that’s all the time I have.

And you need to go vote.

Gag On My Cock


Oh, sure. Now I find the perfect holiday gift.

Here's the t-shirt I wish I had worn for eXmas, now from our friends at Busted Tees.

Tuesday, January 16, 2007

Z Formation

There are two days I would like to remove from my calendar: New Year’s Eve and Valentine’s Day.

When you date as many people as I do, these holidays are landmines.

We are programmed to believe that on these days we must cuddle with our soul mates to celebrate another year of being loving, caring people. If that midnight kiss or box of chocolates goes missing, the bottom too easily falls from our sense of well being. We dread the gnawing fear that underneath it all, we are actually losers and our loved ones don’t truly care about us at all.

Each year, I cringe in anticipation of these expectations.

I hate to let anyone down, but I also hate to be coerced into fabricating Hallmark moments for my relationships. If you believe that I am generally a thoughtful, caring person, then why do I need to queue up at Godiva each year to prove it? If I lack those qualities, it’s hard to imagine how my failings can be corrected by some pricey candy.

My stance on Valentine's Day echoes those of lushes who dismiss Saint Patrick’s as “amateur night.” I give it up for love, sex and romance three hundred and sixty-five days a year. Paper hearts are for pussies.

And therein lies the problem. Pussies like paper hearts.

For I don’t simply date a lot of people. I date a lot of women.

My feminism usually encourages me to decry gender stereotypes. I am a man, and just as nurturing and sentimental as any woman. I value women who would challenge any presumptions of innate male privilege in matters of logic.

And yet, experience has made me wiser. Just as a man will credit me with incredible sex and never phone again, so too will a woman feel utterly unloved if I fail to ring her phone, and then kick herself for feeling that way.

I don’t pretend to draw deep conclusions from these observations, but it is striking how often we perpetuate the stereotypes we purport to eschew.

Girls will be girls, and boys will be boys.

Logic dictates my view on these holidays, but where these holidays are concerned, a man armed only with logic is ill prepared for battle. Perhaps it is wiser to give in, pony up the paper heart and be done with it.

Or, better: embrace avoidance.

Last year, Valentine’s Day happened to fall on the date of our regularly scheduled bisexual orgy. I thought I had dodged a bullet: obviously, I can’t date any one person if I am to host a party. So, why not date everyone at once?

It wasn’t a bad plan when one is everyone’s boyfriend.

Still, there were some hurt feelings. Some people didn’t want to trade warm intimacy for hot sex, and some of those who did dive into the tangle of bodies wanted to feel like the cherry on top.

I was relieved this year to flip ahead and see that my date for Valentine’s Day is already secure. I will have my kids that night. Merciful Minerva.

This year, I was also relieved to see that I would have the kids on New Year’s Eve. How could one man be so fortunate?

But then Rachel began to make plans to visit. A couple of years ago, she was my date for New Year’s, and we had a really nice evening. I would have hated to deny her a fun night in the city that invented New Year’s Eve.

I had couple of choices. I could arrange for a babysitter so that I could take Rachel and Ray to a party, but that didn’t seem fair to the kids. I asked Lucy if she wanted to have the kids that night, to which she simply scolded, “The children are your responsibility that night, Jefferson!,” meaning, I assumed, that she had plans.

So I chose a better option. We were already a party of six. I would invite over some friends and we would have our own shindig.

The kids liked this idea. They were excited as we cleaned and swept the apartment, hanging lights and putting out candles. I slow cooked a batch of Hoppin’ John and put out sauerkraut for luck. We loaded the CD player with dance music.

After dinner, the apartment swelled with well-dressed adults, many making stops at various parties as they toured their way to midnight. The adults sipped wine and champagne as the children drank apple cider from fancy plastic flues.

Lillie put a flower in her teeth to tango. Collie danced the Hustle. Jason snuck into his room to play Xbox.

Rachel cuddled in Ray’s lap. They took Polaroid snapshots of one another.

At midnight, we watched the ball drop on television, counting backwards as Dick Clark slurred to keep up. Kisses traveled the room as fireworks exploded outside our windows.

Now that they had made it past midnight, the kids were ready to party for real. Lillie told the grown ups to sit and wait for a “show.” Collie requested Scissor Sisters as he ran off.

“Oh, this should be good,” I told everyone. “Jason, I have to DJ, so you are the photographer.” He found my camera and took his position.

“Now, Dad!” Collie called.

I hit play on “Don’t Feel Like Dancin’.”

Collie strutted into the living room wearing a tiny blue bikini.

Lillie followed in a flowing Falcons jersey and boxer shorts.

Everyone laughed. Collie beamed as he pranced and sashayed.

“Oh yeah, oh yeah!” Lillie shouted, taking hip hop poses. “Yo, you know it—oh yeah!”

“This is too hilarious,” Rachel giggled.

“Oh, no you didn’t!” Collie answered, wriggling a finger as he jutted a hip.

“Now I can say I went to New York and saw a drag show,” Ray said.

Jason snapped pictures. Cameras began to appear around the room.

“Let’s go, let’s go,” Collie said, pushing his sister to the wings. “Dad, we’ll be right back. Play ‘Stacy’s Mom!’”

“Yes, sir . . . uh, ma’am,” I replied.

A moment later, the music kicked in and the performers were back. Lillie wore a Colts baseball cap, soccer jersey and camouflage shorts.

Collie wore a denim mini skirt and bikini top.

We clapped and laughed. As Collie worked the room, I wondered where he had picked up such fabulous runway moves.

“You look pretty awesome, son,” I laughed.

Collie turned and strutted to me. “Don’t make me snap my fingers in a Z for-may-shun!” he catted, popping as his fingers carved Zorro’s mark in the air inches from my face.

We guffawed. “What did you say?” I asked.

Collie stood erect and stared at me. Then, again, he flung the gesture and phrase: “Don’t make me snap my fingers in a Z formation!”

I turned to Jason. “Where did he . . . ?”

“I don’t know,” Jason giggled.

“Have you ever heard this phrase?” I asked my friends.

Heads shook as people laughed.

God, I thought. My ten-year-old had coined the queeniest expression I have ever heard.

Lillie tugged Collie away for another costume change.

I put on the Kinks.

Girls will be boys and boys will be girls
It's a mixed up muddled up shook up world except for Lola
La-la-la-la Lola

Collie and Lillie made several more appearances. Collie's costumes were ever more comical. He scored big laughs in purple sparkling tights worn over his sister's panties. Lillie added props in an effort to one up her brother’s drag, shouting her rap and butching her stance.

Then, as the music played, the performers missed a curtain call.

“Collie?” I called. “Lillie?”

They didn’t answer.

I walked back to their dressing room. The floor was covered with piles of clothes. Collie was crying. Lillie sat reading on a bed.

“What’s the matter?” I asked.

“Lillie won’t let me wear her clothes!” Collie wailed.

“Show’s over,” Lillie said, not looking up.

“Lillie, why won’t you let Collie wear your clothes anymore?”

Lillie dropped her book and began to cry. “Because everyone is laughing about Collie, and not me,” she sobbed.

“I only want to do one more time!” Collie argued.

The divas had a meltdown backstage.

“Please explain this to her!” Collie cried. “It’s funny when boys dress like girls. It’s just not that funny when girls wear boys’ clothes.”

“Yes it is!” Lillie shouted back.

“It’s not, Lillie,” Collie asserted, his face red. “It’s not my rule, it just the way it is. Girls always wear boys’ clothes. Boys never wear girls clothes. That’s why it’s funny.”

“Shut up!” Lillie answered.

“Now wait, wait,” I said, sitting on a bed. “Everyone is getting a little too worked up. Maybe we can talk this out. Now, Collie, can you help Lillie to make her outfit funnier?”

“No,” he said. “It’s not fair, Dad, she . . .”

“Wait, wait,” I said, patting the air. “I’m not asking about fair. I just want to know if you will help her choose funny clothes.”

“Fine, whatever.”

“Okay, thanks. Now, Lillie, will you please allow Collie to wear some of your clothes, just one more time?”


“Lillie, now, Collie has said he would help to fix your clothes . . .”

“I don’t want his help,” she said, crossing her arms. “I want it to be funny without him.”

I looked at the clock. “Well, look, it’s getting late and it’s been a long day. You are both stuck, so maybe it’s time for bed.”

“Dad, I just want to do one more,” Collie cried.

“One more?” I asked. “And Lillie, you refuse to play along?”

“No, I won’t,” she said.

“All right.” I stood and left the room.

Lillie scowled at Collie and picked up her book.

A moment later, Rachel came into the dressing room. “Collie, can you come with me please?”

Collie giggled.

“No fair!” Lillie barked.

“You can come, too,” Rachel said.

I was talking with my friends when I heard my cue. I hit play on Beck.

Collie skipped into the living room. His tiny frame was drapped with Rachel's colorful panties, bras and a feather boa.

We laughed. “Oh no, you didn’t,” Collie preened, warming us up for the finale. He turned and gave us his new signature line:

“Don’t make me snap my fingers in a Z formation!”

We applauded.

Lillie watched from the wings.

With the curtain drop, it was time to say goodbye to our guests. Lillie photographed them as they put on coats and bussed cheeks.

I waded through the clothes in the dressing room to put the kids to bed.

Rachel and Ray said goodnight and closed themselves into my bedroom.

I retrieved a pillow and quilt to settle on the couch. I turned out the lamp and lay back.

I heard something bump the wall.

“Ow, my head!” Rachel giggled.

Ray murmured something. She murmured something in response. Then all was quiet.

I smiled and closed my eyes on another year.