Fleshbot and Holed Up

This week’s Sex Blog Roundup at Fleshbot offers a little something for everyone, as Always Aroused Girl and I team up to offer you a grab bag selection of holiday hotness. No need to get us anything; your unfailing admiration is gift enough. (Although they do say erotic self-portraits make nice stocking stuffers.)

Those of you who enjoy stalking me will find me touching skin, polishing nails and managing to breath.

Eden takes a turn on top and teaches me to breathe through the pain. I listened, knowing that she was also teaching me something about herself.

Bridget has really been underfoot these days, making an utter nuisance of herself in her determination that my children have a fine holiday. You’ll find her musing about me now and then as she ponders things that whir and people who warble. I am but a bit player in the story of how she introduced my third-grader to the joys of such girlish pleasures as manis, pedis, and, uh, things that whir.

If you are stalking me, do try to do a thorough job of it. Tom Paine ponders living life as I do, or in an approximate manner suitable to the interests of himself and his wife. Along the way, he conjectures reasons why women may be attracted to me. Part of the explanation, he reasons, may be that most of these women are very young and therefore guided by irrational hormones.

I hear this now and then. While I appreciate Brother Tom’s overall sentiments, I must take issue to this assertion on two grounds. First, it is factually inaccurate. If you knit together my sex partners by blogs alone—and it would be foolish to assume that the blogs offer anything like a complete assessment—then you find that many, if not most, of the women who have written about me are over thirty. I did write a series of posts last year about meeting younger women, and another series about first dates. A superficial reading might understandably lead you to surmise that my sex life is primarily driven by one-night stands with young women. This is not the case.

My second objection is less about facts than perceptions. Why assume that younger people are incapable of making sound judgments in choosing sexual partners? It is dismissive and patronizing for older people to assert that younger adults are denied some special agency concerning sex that comes only with advanced maturity. The younger women in the blogs linked here have been meeting me for months and even years, so they are certainly engaged in relationships guided by factors other than mere hormonal spikes.

Here’s a related sidebar. I was recently contacted by a woman who wrote that she was intrigued by the possibility of meeting me, and regretted that I was attracted only to younger women. I denied any such bias, and we met. When she subsequently blogged about our liaisons, one commenter warned that I was “using” her for sex. My new friend laughed. “I contacted you for sex,” she wrote. “We met at your place, and I wrote that I enjoyed it. So in what way are you using me? If anything, I’m using you.”

That’s part of the blogging game. Many readers are guided not by what they read, but by what they already believed prior to reading it. And if reason must be found as to why anyone is attracted to me—or why anyone is attracted to anyone, really—then I would hope that it be based on valuing people’s reported experiences rather than relying on forgone assumptions about gender, age, appearances, or what have you.

If you ask me, I’m popular because I put out. Being a good time worked for me in high school, and it’s still working today.

And boy, do I work, as I thought while cleaning house last week in preparation for the seasonal onslaught of family.

Now that the holidays are upon us, I am simultaneously hunkered down and on the lam. The season began for me with the arrival this week of my ex father-in-law, who planned to stay at my place for a few days before heading off to the eXmas that excluded me. We were with the children two nights and left alone for a third. Rather than endure an awkward night of conversation about my ex and my life (to be potentially reported to my ex’s family in my absence), I elected to pack up my laptop and hole up elsewhere.

I am presently one hour north of the city in snowy New England, encamped in a hotel with a king-sized bed. The refrigerator is stocked with water. My desk is decorated with a bottle of twenty-year old bourbon. Every now and then, a local married woman tells her family that she is off to do some last minute shopping; instead, her car brings her to me for sex and conversation.

Outside, my own car is filled with contraband.

After my ex-father-law leaves, I will enjoy the eye of the storm before the return of my children, followed once more by their grandfather. After he leaves, my eldest daughter and son-in-law will be up for her annual New Year’s Eve in New York. I hear she is bringing a couple of friends.

With all this traffic, I wanted to be sure my apartment was scrubbed clean of dirt, grime and smut. I put my back into mopping. I scoured tiles and dusted shelves. Laundry was washed and put away. My supply of sheets and towels was replenished to its maximum capacity.

But what to do with the smut? Naturally, as a parent, I keep the accoutrements of my sex life very discreet. My computer is locked down by multiple passwords, with special accounts created for each child and visitors. The physical objects are a bit trickier to hide. Flogs, canes, ropes, whips and paddles are tucked on hooks inside a closet. Nearby is a sizable collection of panties and a sizable pair of fuck-me heels. Condoms are convenient in a bedside drawer, with several gross of extras stored in the top of a closet. (And no, they don’t expire unused.) A bottle of lube shares the drawer, with its many companions tucked into a hidden cabinet. In this cabinet, one would also find boxes of sex toys, poppers, latex gloves and shelves of porn in VHS and DVD, gay and straight, with a substantial collection from Joe Gallant’s Black Mirror Productions, including my favored Bong Water Butt Babes, which features an ingenious bong-cum-butt-plug that makes good use of enemas.

Not wanting to leave anything to chance discovery, I decided that for the duration of the holidays, all evidence of perversion should be relegated to off-site storage. My car’s trunk offered a convenient place to stow it all.

I had my servant girl Eden pack away the porn as I put away the implements of sadism. She’s not allowed to wear clothes in my home, and so it was distracting to pack canes as she climbed on a stepladder to reach the highest shelves, her ass at eye level and striking distance.

Avah helped me to load the trunk. It took a few trips to get everything. I was surprised to find that the trunk was completely filled. I mean, I’m not particularly acquisitive about sex products—mostly, you know, I just make do with what the good Lord gave me—but there it was, a trunk full of evidence that daddy is, well, “daddy.”

I marveled at this accumulation to Bridget. She offered to babysit the porn so my trunk would not be so burdened. I hope she finds room for it, given her own accumulation of fucking machines.

More to come, but I need to run. Room service is knocking.