Saturday, March 29, 2008

Abby Winters


Fleshbot and Cougars

This week’s Sex Blog Roundup at Fleshbot holds a few surprises. Go look and see—but remember, you were warned.

Those of you who enjoy stalking me will find me arranging a special delivery at a sex event I didn’t attend, courtesy of our troops, for Tilda’s birthday.

Avah wonders if I’m "really poly." We’ll file that with the queries about whether I’m “really bi” or “really dom.” I promise I’ll get to those, dear readers, when I’m not busy juggling multiple relationships, having sex with men and women, and generally whupping ass.

Speaking of sex, I learned a new sex term this week from an unlikely source—my eleven-year-old son, Collie. I overheard him talking to his brother about a teacher at his school, whom he described as a “cougar.”

“What does that mean?” I asked. “Is she tough?”

The boys looked at me for a moment. Collie laughed. “Uh, no, Dad. Do you really not know what that means?”

I felt myself being drawn deeper. “Should I be afraid to ask?”

Jason shook his head. “It means, like, a hot old lady.”

“Really?” I scanned my brain. “Huh, I wonder why that word is used . . .”

The boys listened expectantly. I caught them watching me.

“Oh, well, carry on!” I said, leaving the room. I could save my questions for Google.

Training of O

Harmony Rose

Thursday, March 27, 2008


Sawyer investigates the island's mysterious giant foot.

Friday, March 21, 2008

Fleshbot and Be Prepared

This week’s Sex Blog Roundup at Fleshbot admires those who are prepared for anything—because anything can happen. Anything happens all the damned time.

Those of you who enjoy stalking me will find me surpassed, distracted, misunderstood and missing in action.

Bridget enjoys the rapture of loving a man who does even better than her best hopes. I wonder what’s next for these lovebirds?

Jocasta once more features my feet (and knees, my friends—knees!) while fretting after two weeks that I had breezily characterized her thighs as “pasty white.” Jocasta baby, that comment referred to my own pasty whites. Your thighs are ivory smooth and silky soft. And they make cozy earmuffs.

(Such narcissism; imagining that my comment was all about her, when it was all about me, me, me.)

Lynsey also pays homage to my feet (or, more accurately, foot) before heading off to lose her sex convention virginity. Don’t fret for her, as she already has a badge and a coterie to help her along. (Lynsey, when it’s all a bit too much, there’s a liquor store across the street and a secret bottle in Tilda’s room.)

As Bianca reminds us, anything can happen in Tilda's room.

Speaking of anything happening, my current housing crisis has led me to do what all captains in distress must do. Ballast has been dumped, and oh, it was painful. Already cut off as work cut into my sexual availability, I had looked forward to Winter Fire as a chance to catch up with friends. Alas, my house on fire needed attention, and so I stayed in the city this weekend to attend to family matters. My apologies to those I had hoped to see, and my appreciation to all who understand this urgent priority.

Training of O

Dana De'Armond

Thursday, March 20, 2008


Procrastinating podiaphile packrat ponders packing.

Thursday, March 13, 2008


Have you ever encountered tits that were just begging for trouble?

Saturday, March 08, 2008

Postwar Architecture

Tilda and I were discussing Isamu Noguchi when the caviar arrived.

“I haven’t been to his museum since the renovations,” Tilda said, reaching for her glass. “Hmmm, I don’t know what I was thinking, ordering a gin martini. How’s the vodka?”

“Very good. Nicely balanced.” I took a sip. “Why not correct an error? Let’s finish these and order a round of vodka martinis. After all, we are having caviar.”

Tilda smiled and raised a finger. “I like the way you think, sir.” She turned up her glass, and I raised mine. The stems hit the tablecloth at the same moment. I kissed her cheek and waved for the server.

“Yes? How is everything?”

“Very good,” Tilda said. “But may we bother you for another round? Except this time, we both want vodka martinis.”

“Generous with the olives,” I added.

“I love olives,” Tilda agreed, her eyes widening.

“Of course,” the server smiled, taking the glasses. “Generous olives all around. Anything else?”

Tilda looked at me. I shook my head. “No, that will be all,” she said.

“Very good. I’ll be right back with the martinis. Enjoy.”

Tilda watched her walk away. “She’s cute. She has glasses.”

“And hips,” I said, reaching for the brioche. “You don’t often see hips on servers in posh Manhattan joints.”

Tilda took a bite of caviar. “Um, oh my God,” she chewed. “I think my mouth just had an orgasm.” I was reminded of the device resting under my dinner napkin. I flipped a switch. Tilda’s back stiffened. “And speaking of orgasms . . .” She closed her eyes and focused on the buzzing against her cervix. I took another brioche, smiling as the server set down our drinks.

“Enjoy,” she smiled. Tilda giggled.

As her birthday gift to me, Tilda proposed a night of high modernism. She wanted to take me out to dinner at the Lever House Restaurant, the sleekly designed eaterie within the Lever House on Park Avenue. Afterwards, I would get her off outside the Seagram building before going to my place to fuck while watching The Fountainhead.

See, Tilda is a slut for architecture.

After a few sips of my martini, I flicked off the remote vibrator deep in Tilda’s pussy. Her back relaxed. “Oh, my,” she said, exhaling. “That’s pretty intense.”

“Another good idea, smart girl.”

The vibrator had indeed been a touch of brilliance on Tilda’s part. She already had it in place when I picked her up at her midtown office. “There’s an antenna poking out of my vagina,” she had giggled, kissing my cheek in greeting.

“Isn’t this an amazing interior?” Tilda asked, reaching for her drink. “I adore Gordon Bunshaft; he’s an absolute genius. And the restoration of this building was so true to his vision.”

I nodded. “It’s amazing that he anticipated the set design of ‘Battlestar Galactica.’”

Tilda put a hand to her mouth. “I think that line of influence went in the opposite direction,” she laughed.

As an entrée, we ordered a prime dry-aged cote de boeuf for two. Tilda consulted with the sommelier in choosing a wine. They settled on a two thousand and five Volnay Primiere Cru, Ronceret, Domaine Nicolas Rossignol. The beef was going to take forty-five minutes to prepare, our server told us. We were fine so long as the martinis kept coming, we replied.

The beef arrived rare. By that time, we were pretty rare ourselves.

Throughout the meal, I teased Tilda’s pussy with each new taste on her palate, each smart turn in the conversation, pushing her to synesthesia, a confusion of the senses. I could visualize the wetness seeping from her. I recalled the way she orgasms as she sucks my cock. Once, an hour into a blowjob, she paused and stood. “This is ridiculous,” she said, parting her legs. A viscous web clung to her thighs, nearly to her knees. I pushed her down and splashed one hand into her body, reaching for a condom with the other.

“What do you think of the meat?” I asked.

“I’m thinking . . . I’m thinking that you’re going to have to fuck me very hard after what you’ve done to me during this meal.” Tilda’s head nodded as the whirring resumed in her body. I turned off the machine.

“Eat,” I said. “Drink. Then we fuck.”

Our server checked in on us. “How is everything? The beef is amazing, right?” Her smile beamed under her glasses.

“Really, really amazing,” Tilda said. I turned on the device. Her back went rigid. She continued to converse with the server as her stockings grew wetter.

“I think we’ve done all the damage we can do,” I interjected. “Can we get it wrapped to go?”

The server's brow crinkled with maternal concern. “Of course,” she said. “I’ll have the plate collected and be back right away with the dessert menu.” She turned on a heel and casually walked away. She seemed so at ease, as if we were in her dining room and not a top restaurant.

I turned back to my plate, cutting another bite of meat. “The waitress and I want to fuck you.”

“Oh, you’re mean.” Tilda shifted in her seat.

“First, we’re tying you up,” I said, bringing the fork to my mouth. “And you’re going watch me fuck her.” I took a bite. “I’m going to enjoy that, because she’s so sensuous.” I chewed. “You’ve seen the way she walks. Can you imagine that body on the end of my cock?” I swallowed.

“You’re a terrible man,” Tilda groaned, squirming.

“I bet she’s a noisy fuck,” I added, cutting another bite. “I’m going to take my time enjoying that. You’ll just have to wait until I’m sated with this one.” I put the fork in my mouth. Tilda reached for her wine, then decided on the remains of her martini. “Try an olive,” I suggested. She popped an olive in her mouth and sighed.

“Then, she’ll get her strap-on as I move you onto the bed,” I chewed. “I’ll set you up on your knees, your face down on the bed. Then she and I will fuck your ass, double-teaming you, for hours. Ignoring your poor pussy.”

“Unh.” Tilda closed her eyes.

“When we’re done with you, we’ll just roll you on the floor. I’ll bring drinks for her and myself. We’ll talk and laugh. You’ll hear us fucking as you lay beside the bed.” I swallowed.

“You are killing me,” she laughed.

“We’d likely use you again in the morning . . . ,”

“Where is she?” Tilda complained. “I need to get fucked, and now.”

I turned off the device.

We shared cake, settled the bill and stood to leave. “Have a really great night,” the server smiled.

“Thank you so much,” Tilda said. “You were so wonderful. Really, I mean it, just amazing!” The server laughed. I took Tilda’s elbow.

“Come along before you drool on the nice lady,” I whispered gruffly.

We walked to the Seagram’s building. We talked about Mies and Philip Johnson, the vibrator buzzing inside her. “You know, I fuck a woman whose husband works here,” I said casually.

“Please, we have to go,” Tilda suddenly whined.

“It’s late,” I noted. “And you do have work in the morning. I would understand if you preferred to say good night here.”

Tilda looked up. “Let me think about that . . .” Her eyes dropped to mine. “Um, no. Let’s fuck.”

We started in the cab.

At my place, she ran to the bathroom to remove the vibrator. I kept it buzzing the entire time. She returned with a need to fuck as urgent as the need to piss after drinking too much coffee on too long a road trip. She was already halfway on the road to stupid.

I drove her home.

Ever helpful, I provide a link to a remote vibrator for those interested in enhanced dining. Reservations at the Lever House Restaurant can be made at 212/888-2700. Ask for a booth.

Velvet Touch Remote Egg

Training of O

Adrianna Nicole

Friday, March 07, 2008

Fleshbot and Correspondents

This week’s Sex Blog Roundup at Fleshbot clears away the stench of scotch and cigars to listen in on the men who blog sex. Men are the woeful minority in this genre, particularly our straight brothers—though, to be fair, who the fuck is straight these days? Didn’t gender exclusivity go out with Farrah Fawcett wings and the dry look?

(Thanks to A Bad Man in a Bad Place for inspiring the theme.)

Those of you who enjoy stalking me will find me inspiring threesomes, dreams and helpful sticks. Along the way, I get laid now and then.

It was a year ago this month that Lily recommended me to her friend Wendy for some post-break up sex. (Lily’s motto: after a break up, get laid fast and frequently. Worked for me, too.) Wendy celebrates by organizing her very own threesome with two hot bi boys. My goodness, they grow up so fast.

Jocasta goes long on the blowjobs and gets a long-distance run of her own. If that’s not enough, she offers a picture to please cleavage divers and all fans of pasty white thighs.

Thankfully, Lynsey appreciates my advice. In fact she sees me as a kind of helpline for the newly perverse. Ring, ring! And keep on fuckin’.

This weekend’s Guest DJ on the Smut Turntable is Meg. Meg! The teacher and slut you love whose blog went quiet a while back. You want the latest? Tune into the Smut Turntable, bitches, and follow the bouncing balls.

File under “you meet the most interesting people.” Among my new correspondents is a fellow who runs a sex cam site called Cam2Sex. It’s a good portal for looking at sex online, so pay a visit. He also keeps a sex blog in which he gets together with prostitutes and his inflatable girlfriend, Suzy. Now, he’s looking for a sex cam girl in New York. Seems he wants to hire her to fuck me as he watches online. Just when you think you’ve done it all . . .

Speaking of correspondents, thanks to all the new readers who are writing to me. I do try to respond to each note, and I apologize if my replies are brief—my inbox is jumping quite a bit this week. May I make a few requests?

Please tell me about yourself, and let me know what specifically interests you. Here are some insights to let you know about me.

If you’re dating, I can offer advice, but be forewarned that I've never actually dated in my life. In high school and college, I fucked my friends, male and female. Then I was married and monogamous for-fucking-ever. Now, I host orgies and write a sex blog, each of which leads people my way. I’ve never worried about things like first dates, bar pickups or getting lucky. Still, I’m glad to do what I can to make that love connection for you.

You want to talk about relationships? Meet the master. What my Dad didn’t teach me, I learned along the way. I’ll keep saying the same thing: listen, be nice, tell the truth and cook well. And by the way, your partner’s orgasm is more important than your own.

If you’re a straight boy looking to get laid, there may not be much I can do for you. I’m not a girl and I’m not a pimp. That said, go ahead and tell me what you have in mind. I really, truly reject the prevailing notion that “single men” are not to be taken seriously. In my sex positive worldview, you rock.

If you’re a woman looking for adventure . . . hang on one second, let me brush the crumbs from my bed . . . okay. Basically, the more you want to try, the more I’m going to offer. I’m a kickass rocking lot of fun. But never in the time that you know me will I veer from these basics: I’m nonmonogamous, I’m bisexual, and I don’t want a stepmother for my children.

Bi-curious and bisexual males and females, you are my brethren. Girls, get ready. Boys, it would be really considerate if you proved capable of a second date.

If you want kink, orgies, poly, BDSM or anything else . . . well, catch my ear. Whisper your fantasies, shout your desires or maybe I can tease them out of you. But I can’t do anything until you try to be honest.

Finally, that’s it. Feed my fetish for honesty. Tell me your truth, read mine, and maybe we can make things happen.

Sex and Submission

Sex and Submission

Thursday, March 06, 2008


Rope practice. Just look at that slippage on the right. Tsk. Still so much to learn.

Wednesday, March 05, 2008

Abby Winters


Secret Lives

The current issue of Time Out New York features the “secret lives” of New Yorkers who lead double existences. Meet the lawyer who is also a go-go dancer, the doctor who is a pothead, the cabbie who is a financial analyst . . . and a certain parent who is a pervert.

I am . . . A Family Guy/Orgy Enthusiast

Check it out: I'm referenced on the cover as "an orgy-loving dad." I sure hope my ex doesn't have a dentist appointment this week.

Although it’s written as first person narrative, I didn’t actually pen the article. As you’ll read, I had my hands full at the time.

Tuesday, March 04, 2008


I received flowers today. The occasion? There is none. How sweet is that?

Thank you, kind paramour.

Here, you can enjoy them with me. I did my best in photographing a floral subject, though I'm no Always Aroused Girl.

Abby Winters


Monday, March 03, 2008


The annual sex issue of Time Out New York mentioned the Bukkake Social Club I host. Not surprisingly, I received a number of emails from people interested in meeting me or joining the club. The following caught my eye:

I read about you in Time Out and I am interested in attending the next gathering.

I'm thirty-one, bi, African American and female. Is there anything else you need? Here's a pic as confirmation that I am of age. I've never done anything like this before.

Take care,

Attached was a snapshot of a smiling face, partially obscured by a flash reflected in a mirror. I noticed the email address Bijou had used to contact me. It included her last name and her place of employment. First name, surname, workplace, photograph—I now had all the information I needed to stalk her and possibly get her fired.

At least, that’s what a bad person might do. Fortunately for Bijou, I am not a bad person. I fuck people and I write smut. I’m a good person.

I thanked Bijou for her note and asked why the club appealed to her. Each club meeting features a female special guest of honor whom I fuck as club members watch and jerk off, ultimately dousing her in jism. Did she want to attend as a voyeur or as a guest of honor?

She was interested in watching. Her attraction to voyeurism was new and she wanted to pursue it.

To be honest, I told her, most of the club members are men. But we welcome women, and there are some female regulars. She was interested in knowing more, so we agreed to meet after work. I offered my place, but after reading my blog, she was wary of stepping into my iniquitous den sight unseen. I suggested that we meet in a park. We set a time and place. She gave me her number. I added that to all the information that she had given me, reckoning I now had enough to find her home address, her mother’s maiden name and her credit rating—but only if I knew how to use Google.

The sun was dipping below the tree line as she approached my park bench. I waved, knowing that all she had ever seen of me is my mouth, two fingers and a thumb. She smiled and waved back. I stood and reached up to kiss her cheek. I rested a hand briefly on her braided hair.

“Jefferson! I feel like I know so much about you from your blog.”

“And there you have me at a disadvantage, Bijou. I know nothing about you. Let’s go sit on the grass and fix that.”

“Oh, that’s right, I’m just someone who sent you an email, right? I bet that happens all the time.” We walked toward a knoll shaded from the setting sun.

“I like mail. So, what made you write?”

“Hmmm, I guess that’s a complicated thing,” she began. “I just haven’t had that many experiences and I think it’s time to change that. I mean, I’m over thirty and it’s like I’m still waiting to discover what sex is all about. So maybe I’ll know more if I stop waiting and do something.” She paused. “Oh, and hello!” she laughed. “I don’t know you and I’m telling you all this stuff. Sorry.”

“No, it’s fine, really. That part I’m used to. Strangers often tell me all about their sexuality. It’s like ‘howtcha do’ to me.” We found a place to sit. As we watched shirtless men play Frisbee, she began to interview me about my blog. I’m comfortable talking about that, so I answered questions about its origins, my orgies, and how I manage to stay sane with so many lovers.

“I’m envious,” she said. “I don’t think I could ever do any of that. It’s something I’d like in some ways, I think . . . though, you know, on a more human scale.” I laughed. “But it’s not like I’d do anything about it. I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”

“Well, you wrote to me, and that’s doing something.”

“Yeah, but please. I’m over thirty and I’ve only been with, like, three people.”

“That must’ve been some night,” I exclaimed.

“No,” she laughed. “It wasn’t all at once.”

“So how many years were with your poly foursome?”

“No, no.” Her laugh gave over to a smile. “No, I mean, I’ve only been with three people, ever. At different times.”

“Oh, now I get it.” I smiled. I watched as a long-haired fellow jumped to catch a Frisbee. He hurled it back before landing on his feet. “Well, if you had good experiences with your three lovers, that’s great. It’s not about accumulating numbers or anything. It’s about what you enjoy.”

Her eyes followed mine. A girl in a bikini jumped to catch the toss. “Yeah, I enjoyed it. I mean, they were women I liked. I just wish I had known more about how to please them.”

I turned to her. “Your three people were all women?”

She nodded. “Yeah.”

“That’s cool,” I nodded. “But in your note, you said you were bi. If your experience is with women, why don’t you identify as lesbian?”

She shifted, turning to me and folding her legs. “See, that’s just it. I know I’m attracted to men. I’m curious about it. But I’ve just never really had the opportunity to do anything about it. Women, though, you know, that’s easier.”

I faced her. “Okay, so at present, you’re a bi-curious lesbian-oriented bisexual virgin?”

She laughed. “I guess you could say that.”

My face grew solemn. “You must say that,” I intoned. “Labels are very, very important.” She laughed again. “I’m serious,” I went on. “If you don’t wear your sexuality as a badge, how can you know who you are?”

She grinned. “Funny. But yeah, I’m not worried about who I am.”

“In all seriousness, that’s pretty clear.” I looked back the Frisbee players. “Virgin, huh?”

She picked up a stone and tossed it. “I’m not having sex with you.”

“You’re rather presumptuous,” I chided. “Who says I’m interested?”

“What?” she pouted. “I’m not pretty enough for you?”

“Are you kidding?” I looked at her. “You’re hot. You know that, don’t you?”

“I guess. I mean, I hear that. People say it. I guess I could have sex if I wanted to, but, I don’t know, I haven’t met a guy that makes me want to. Plus, I’m just not that turned on by the thought of penetration.”

“So you’d want a guy, but not necessarily to fuck? There’s so much you can do that doesn’t include that, but it’s true, most guys won’t get that right off.”

“That’s true.” She hugged her knees to her chest. “I mean, who knows, I might find I like it more than I expect. What do I know? I wouldn’t know what to do, probably. I’ve never even seen a penis.”


“Nope. I mean, I’ve seen pictures and porn, but not in person.”

“Never? As it, not once? No brothers or cousins or high school romance, or . . .”

“Nope. Never.”

“Wow,” I nodded. “You’ve got so many cherries, it’s like a grove of virginities.”

“Right? That’s what I mean. I’d better get on that. So tell me more about this bukkake thing?”

I lay back on my elbows and told her a few anecdotes from past sessions. She listened intently as I described how an event usually transpired, and the times we make exceptions to the rules, as when I put on show with two women, or the time Leah decided to bring Jacob into the show.

After a while, she turned to watch the Frisbee players as I told her a story of sex she had only seen in porn. “That’s incredible,” she said. “And I can’t believe that was really you. I mean, you seem so normal.”

“Sex is pretty normal,” I shrugged.

“Yeah, but not everyone has sex for an audience.”

“True enough,” I conceded.

She nodded and we fell silent. After a moment, she pulled out her phone. “Hmmm, five forty . . . do you live near here?”

I glanced at her. “I do.”

“I have a class at seven, but I would kind of like to see your place. Can we go over there?”

“Sure, it’s close.” I stood and offered my hand. “Let’s go.”

She took my hand. “I’m not having sex with you,” she reiterated.

“That’s established,” I said. “Anyway, if you ever decided to give me your virginity, we’d need more than a quickie. I’d want that to be a good, long time.”

“Ha, that’s sweet.” We began to walk. “It’s not happening, but that’s nice of you to say.”

As we walked, I surmised correctly that this was the first time she had met anyone online. I encouraged her to be more careful in revealing her personal information, and to get a separate email account that didn’t include her name or workplace. She thanked me for the advice, adding that she really did have a lot to learn.

I unlocked the door at my place, and gestured for her to enter. She stepped in and looked around my living room. “Nice place,” she said. “Huh, you’ve got a lot of books.”

“Just props to impress girls,” I smiled. “Care for the full tour?” I showed her around, relating rooms and furnishings to stories on my blog—the bed that replaced the most recent one broken, the voyeur’s chair, the folding taco futon of death. We returned to the living room to talk.

“It’s so surreal,” she said, her eyes on a vase of flowers. “It’s just so . . . normal. You’re normal, your place is normal.” She paused and looked at me. “And you have so much sex!”

“Yeah, a regular rabbit in sheep’s clothing, that’s me.”

We continued to talk about sex. She asked me questions which I typically answered with examples and stories. Mindful of her class, I kept an eye on the clock. At six thirty, I let her know the time and suggested she may need to be on her way.

She agreed and stood to leave. I sat forward, preparing to walk her to the door. She turned and said, suddenly, “I’m not having sex with you.”

“Obviously,” I said. “There’s no time.”

“I know, but . . . look.” She sat down. “Can I please see your penis?”

I laughed. “Seriously?”

“Did that sound weird?” She laughed. “I know, of course it did. But I thought, well, I’m here, you’re here, and, well . . . I’ve never seen one. Do you mind?”

I patted her hand. “Not a problem. One cherry, gone, that easily.” I stood and posed facing her. I pulled off my t-shirt and tossed it to a chair. Her eyes fell to my torso. I placed my feet squarely under my shoulders and unbuttoned my shorts. Her eyes watched my fingers closely. I dropped my hands. “Oh, I’m not sure you really want to see this penis,” I teased.

“Oh, come on!” she laughed nervously. “Please, that’s mean.”

“Okay, okay. No more jokes. Just penis.” I unzipped my shorts. They dropped to the floor. I stepped free of them, moving slightly closer to her. I put my hands on my hips and let her get an eye full.

“God. Wow.” She sat on the edge of her seat. “Thanks, that’s just . . . wow.”

“So glad you like. May I sit down?”

“Oh, sure,” she said, her eyes never leaving my cock. I moved to the couch and sat an arm’s length from her. I leaned back to give her an unobstructed view, folding my arms behind my head. Moments passed. “Wow,” she finally exhaled. “It’s amazing that it’s just . . . there.”

“Yeah, how about that?” I said, looking down. “Naked dick is awesome.”

She leaned forward. “Do you think . . . would you mind if I touched it?”

“I wish you would,” I smiled. “I’d like that.”

She looked up at my face. “Do you have a condom?”

I laughed. “You want me to wear a condom for a handjob?”

Her face flushed. “Oh, it’s just . . . well, I don’t know you, and . . .”

I patted her hand again. “No, it’s cool. I don’t mind. I’ll be back in a second.” I went to my bedroom and returned with a condom foil. I sat again, this time a little closer to her. “Now, you may not realize this, but it’s difficult to get a condom on a flaccid penis. Do you mind if I stroke myself to get hard?”

She smiled. “Seriously? That would be hot. I can watch?”

I nodded. “Yeah, that’s hot for me, too.” I began to tug on my cock, feeling it begin to react. “Say, it would also help if we kissed . . .”

“Oh, no,” she said, pulling back. “I can only do that if I love someone.”

“This isn’t love?” I joked. “I feel so used . . .”

“Yeah, like you don’t like that,” she laughed. I smiled and returned to the task at hand. Knowing that this was her initiation in cock was enough to get me hard quickly. It was also arousing to think of the way she valued her kisses. I looked up to her soft, full lips. She didn’t notice; her gaze was entirely ensnared by my hand twisting up and down my shaft.

“Right.” I sighed quietly. “Now comes the condom. Watch carefully.” I scarcely needed to encourage her. She seemed hesitant to blink. I demonstrated how to roll on a condom, and gave myself some more long, slow strokes. “Okay,” I offered, removing my hand. “Enjoy yourself.”

“Wow. Okay.” She moved forward. “It’s just amazing. It really did get bigger.”

“Uh huh.” I returned my palms to the back of my head.

“So much bigger.” She slowly reached out, stopping just before she touched me. “Really? You don’t mind?”

“It’s my pleasure,” I smiled.

She laughed slightly, drew a breath, and touched my cock. Her fingers moved around the condom, shifting the flesh underneath. “Look, it’s like, soft. The skin is soft, even though you’re hard.”

“That’s right. And here, check this out.” I lead her finger to my cock’s center and bottom. “Feel how soft that is? Now feel either side.”

She followed my guiding fingers. “Wow, is that . . . it's not really bone, is it?”

“Nope, not bone. It’s more like a sponge that gets rigid when filled with blood. That softer part in the middle is the urethra.”

She nodded, paying more attention to her fingers than my words. I dropped my hand from hers as she continued to touch and explore. After delicately fingering me for some time, she looked at me and began to imitate my strokes. “Does this feel good?” she asked. “Like this?”

“That feels great. Let me show you something.” I took her index finger and placed if under the head. “Feel this part right here? That’s the most sensitive part and, on most men, stimulating that is going to trigger an orgasm.” I led her finger to the head. “This part? It’s very sensitive. When I’m aroused, it’s almost too sensitive. So when you stroke, focus on the bit under the head, and avoid too much attention to the head itself.” I released her finger. She returned to jerking me.

“Like this?” she asked.

“Just like that. A little less pressure . . . okay. Now that’s perfect.” I sat back and let her give her first handjob.

I sighed softly. “Are you going to cum?” she asked.

“Um, no, I’m not. The condom reduces sensation, so I’m not sure if I can cum from a handjob when I’m wearing one. Anyway, I’ve got a date tonight, so I need to hold off.”

“Oh.” She stroked me with a lighter touch. “So if you came now, you wouldn't be able to later?”

“Different with different guys. With me, yeah, it would be harder to do it again later.”

“Oh.” She watched my cock move in her hand. “That’s too bad. I’d really like to see you cum.”

“Then you’ll have to come back,” I nodded.

“Yeah, come back,” she murmured.

I gave her some more time with my cock before reminding her of her class. “Yeah . . .” she replied. She sat back suddenly. “Oh yeah, I need to go.” She quickly removed her hand, leaving my cock to flop like a metronome. She stood and looked around, as if coming out of a spell. She looked at her hand. “Hey, do you have a bathroom?”

“I do. It’s down the hall.” She hurried away. I heard the sound of running water as she washed her hands vigorously. I stood and dressed. She returned and I showed her to the door. I kissed her cheek and held out my hand. “Nice to meet you. Let’s do it again soon.”

She looked at my hand. “Soon, yeah. Um, do you mind if we don’t shake hands? I just . . .”

“Understood.” I opened the door. “Enjoy your next class.”

“Thanks.” She smiled wanly as she rushed out the door.

A few weeks later, my doorbell rang. “Holy hell,” I said. I stopped what I was doing, walked to the door and glanced through the peephole. I stood behind the door as I opened it. “You’re late,” I scolded.

“I’m sorry,” Bijou apologized. “Is it too late?”

I held up my hands. “What do you think?”

She looked down and laughed. I was nude but for the condom on my erection. “Just like I remembered you,” she giggled.

“Funny. All right, come along.” I led her down the hall to my bedroom. I entered the room just ahead of her. “Everyone, this is Bijou. Bijou, welcome to the club.”

She looked around. There were six naked men jerking off. They looked over the fully dressed woman at the door. “Uh . . . hi, everyone,” she said, waving slightly.

“Nice to meet you,” Ted replied, dropping his cock to wave back.

The woman on the bed raised her head. “Hey, how are you?” she asked.

“I’m good,” Bijou replied, staring as the first cock she had ever seen vanished into the body of a woman she had just met.

“I’m good, too,” the woman said. “Hey, we’ll talk later. I’m kind of getting fucked now. Nice to meet you, though.”

“You too . . . ,” Bijou began. Her voice trailed off as she took a seat in the voyeur’s chair, her eyes unblinking.

Saturday, March 01, 2008

Training of O

Amber Rayne

Fleshbot and Lost References

This week’s Sex Blog Roundup at Fleshbot does all the things that you’d never, ever do. Not in a million yea . . . oh, you did? Really?

Those of you who enjoy stalking me will find Eden delivering some unsettling news, Jocasta hankering for a threesome that hasn’t happened—at least, not yet—and Lynsey writing poems in which I don’t kill her—at least, not yet.

With the acquisition of a new computer a few months ago, I gained the capability to burn CDs. This lead me to begin learning to use iTunes. Yes, finally—like the survivors of Flight Eight-Fifteen I’m stuck in two thousand four. (Stuck in time . . . or are they?) Madeline pushed me along by giving me Senuti, which allows me to upload music from iPods.

I’ve let my friends know that I’m building my music library and they are stopping by to plug in their tunes. (Join the fun! Come over with your iPod. You can suck my dick as I rip your music.)

Now, one thing that’s cool about having friends and lovers in a wide range of ages is that I’m exposed to all kinds of music. That’s often reciprocal; for example, Cody turned me on to Eisley, and I introduced her to Carole King. My multigenerational friendships, and the fact that I’m a parent, make me wicked wise in pop culture references. It’s not everyone who can sing along to Grand Funk Railroad, Vampire Weekend and Hannah Montana.

When it comes to age, I’m the middle child. I pedal after the big kids, but I still enjoy the sand box.

Unfortunately, this breadth of pop culture trivia doesn’t always translate with the younger people in my life. I recently saw a funny mash up of ”Gilligan’s Island” and “Lost” and suggested that my son Jason take a look. “What’s ‘Gilligan’s Island?’” he asked. I realized that my boy probably couldn’t pick Mary Tyler Moore out of a line up.

A girlfriend was showing me photos of her friends on Facebook and pointed to a picture of a girl in front of a poster. “This is Heather in front of a totally random picture of some space alien.”

I looked closer. “Honey, that’s Miles Davis.”

“Huh,” she said. “I never knew what he looked like.”

Recently, two women came over for a threesome. We were having dinner preliminary to getting naked, as you do, and two of us were trying to describe a mutual friend to the third, who hadn’t met him.

“He’s pretty buff,” I said, “And cute, in a Penny Marshall kind of way.”

They looked at me blankly. “Who’s that?” one asked.

“Penny Marshall. Laverne.” Nothing. “‘Laverne and Shirley?’ Cursive L sweaters? Directed the movie about women playing baseball?”

The other touched my hand. “You’re showing your age, Jefferson.”

I guess that’s why I was gladdened when Lynsey mentioned that she had read a Dick Cavett piece on Bobby Fisher in today’s Times. Like, dude, I know who those guys are, too! Maybe we can discuss it the next time we’re listening to Mott the Hoople or playing Mass Effect.

Still, now and then, there’s an unexpected connection. The other day I came across Jason playing a game on the new computer. I heard a sound that pinged in the remnants of my long-term memory.

“Dude,” I asked. “Are you playing Pong?”

He moved the mouse to stop a volley. “Yeah!” he cheered facetiously. “Pong is only like the bestest game, ev-errr.”

“Totally, man,” I agreed. “Meet me in the den circa nineteen seventy-eight and I’ll deliver your butt kicking.”

Jason held up a hand. We high-fived.