Abby Winters

Tamika

Fleshbotless

Sorry folks, no Sex Blog Roundup this week. I was running late and Fleshbot headquarters closed early. I must get accustomed to sex’s summer schedule. Please pass my white loafers.

Still, those of you who enjoy stalking me will find plenty to read.

Mariella ponders the new reality of sucking her first real live dick, trying to navigate the boundaries between “just right” and “lap full of puke.”

Bianca, craving romance within a relationship, puts aside other opportunities for sex—although she does grandfather Tilda and me into her contract.

Wendy runs into me at a party as she contemplates anal sex and brass balls.

Alice flunks a test I insisted she take, to her confused relief.

Bridget tells us more about daily life with her fine husband, wondering at his friendship with me.

While in Chicago for Shibaricon, I met a long-time reader of our blogs. We wound up taking Mariel back to our hotel room for tits—in the flesh, not on the radio—and lacings.

In other stalking news, my experiment with Twitter goes much as expected. I’ve been chided for Twittering when I had not first answered email, seen my cock blogged in real time, and read along with Rachel Kramer Bussel’s every cupcake. Next: live webcam feeds as I brush my teeth, twice daily.

This week, I read Bridget Jones’s Diary, which I found collecting dust as I was packing for my recent move. I had never read it, nor have I seen the movie, much less the sequels. Not my cuppa, really, but still, v.g. for riding the tube. Durr!

Putting the book away, I squeezed it into place on my fiction shelves, which are arranged alphabetically by author. Just as Bridget bounces between Daniel Cleaver and Mark Darcy, perhaps Helen Fielding will keep things light between William Faulkner and Jonathan Franzan. Sort of like Abby Lee and Stan Lee are cutting it up in the middle of nonfiction.

Male Bisexuality on the Scene

Male bisexuality faces a double standard within kink communities. Whereas female bisexuality is encouraged—indeed, presumed—male bisexuality is often denied or suppressed.

A couple of years ago, I started teaching a class on the place of male bisexuality within alternative sex cultures. Next Tuesday, June 3, I’m teaching it in New York for the first time, at TES. Expect an open and wide-ranging discussion as participants speak from their experiences.

Find out more at the TES website. The class is open to all. Drop me a line if you plan to attend.

Hogtied

Hogtied

I could do this. I think I could do this. But I need to practice . . . any volunteers?

Fleshbot and Ropes

This week's Sex Blog Roundup at Fleshbot asks the question that dogs all: what if?

Those of you who enjoy stalking me will find Mariella comparing me favorably to carnage, Tilda examining the carnage my belt did to her thighs, and Wendy enjoying the carnal delights of fisting the new boy at my orgy.

Those you who truly can't get enough of stalking me will find I've made it dirt simple by signing on to Twitter. You can sign up to follow me by subscribing. Now you can read what I am doing (or least, what I'll tell you I'm doing), just when I tell it, one hundred and forty characters at a time.

Just another sliver of my privacy, tweeted to you, dear readers.

Meanwhile, in that spirit, I'll tell you exactly where I am at this moment. I am in Chicago for Shibaricon, where I am learning to be more awesome with ropes. The classes are going well, and darned if I'm not teachable. I'm making good use of my Venus Ropes.

Training of O

Adrianna Nicole

Abby Winters

Natasha M.

Fleshbot and Catching Up

This week’s Sex Blog Roundup at Fleshbot breaks a sweat by working out with the sex bloggers who keep us panting.

Last week’s Sex Blog Roundup—in case you missed it, as I missed you—rode the thrills, chills and spills of sex on the adventurous side.

The previous week’s Sex Blog Roundup—did I mention that I missed you? You got the flowers, right?—takes solace when the best laid plans go awry, though not without someone getting laid.

Those of you who enjoy stalking me have some catching up to do, as I catch up with friends when not moving or settling in.

Jocasta finds alien panties and wonders from whence they came. Welcome to my world, sister.

Kansas puts me in the good company of her favorite “boy blog crushes.” I can’t speak for her other boys, but for this one at least, the road to reciprocity is well mapped.

Lynsey discovers the hazards of serving biscuits and sees a grown man cry over spilled bourbon.

Meanwhile, Janie ends an experiment with abstinence and sees a grown man slumber after the administration of much bourbon, barbeque and blowjobs. (Warning: this post may elicit marriage proposals for our late bloomer. Don’t share with those seeking green cards or stationed in lonely outposts.)

Newlywed Bridget takes us on a honeymoon, leaving my family well-danced.

And just as Bridget goes bridal comes a new knock on my door. Mariella arrived bearing daisies. She left without her daisies, her panties or her virginity.

Those of you who prefer to stalk in person will find me joining my rope pals at ShabiriCon next weekend. This is a great learning opportunity for me, the perverted perpetual student still challenged by tying his shoes.

More to come. For now, I’m back to unpacking and pondering: how can a man own so many books and so few matching socks?

Sex and Submission

Sex and Submission

The pose, the expression, the perilous situation: this is classic John Willie.

HNT

By Tuesday of this week, I had made great progress in settling into my new apartment. As a reward for my efforts, I ventured downtown to celebrate the release of Tristan Taormino’s new book on polyamory, Opening Up: A Guide to Creating and Sustaining Open Relationships. She interviewed me for the book, so I thought I should show up and get a copy if only to, you know, flip through the pages to see if I’m in it.

Never mind that Tristan is to sex writing as Hannah Montana is to backless gowns. Which is to say, a bigger deal than we remember to remember.

I was uncharacteristically early, and found a long line waiting to get into the event. Gift bags were promised to the first two hundred attendees. The event was so well attended that even by queuing for a nice long while, I didn’t score freebies—no surprise, I guess, for a party celebrating a poly book. Everyone who came was sure to bring a few dates.

I settled into a banquette with friends. Not long afterwards, a burlesque performer danced until she was well past naked. I gave her a dollar and she shoved her discarded panties under my nose. They smelled like lavender. I didn’t get her name more than once or twice. I remember asking and being grateful each time she said it.

I caught up with friends. The bar, Happy Endings Lounge, was established on the site of a former massage parlor. A sauna was converted into a sitting area. As the evening went on and rounds were exchanged, Tilda decided she really, really liked my leather belt. Lynsey liked how much Tilda liked my belt. So as Lynsey perched on a tile bench to watch, I removed my belt to beat Tilda. A crowd formed, as might happen when you thrash someone in public as a stick artist grows googly eyes.

Tilda took a solid whooping. Lynsey took a solid eyeful.

I wouldn’t know beans about beating if Lolita didn’t take care in educating me. That night, Lolita took this photo of my foot out in public. Ace of Hearts likes to tickle, so here, he gives my sole a soulful wiggle. Not so much into the boys, our Ace, but as you see, soul brothers is soul brothers.

Abby Winters

Corelle

HNT

With my camera not functioning and my feet otherwise occupied, my left hand makes its HNT debut with this image from my files.

That's right, my left . . . none other than Rosie Palms.

HNT

It’s moving day.

Most of my life is neatly boxed into a mausoleum of sequestered belongings, each crypt marked with scribbled legends of the bones within. This is the stuff that follows me from my family’s first home after divorce, some of it mine for decades—my once impressive comic book collection now diminished to a few essentials boasting “still only twenty cents!”—but most of these things are recent acquisitions. When I left my marriage, I took nothing that my wife and I shared. Every fork, corkscrew and paper clip was too freighted with histories of gifts, purchases and compromises to be cleanly divided as marital property. I left it all behind.

Now, when I pick up something, I can know it’s mine. No one’s rash decisions or furious arguments will take these things away.

Moving from this apartment controlled by my ex’s family is another step in securing a future less trammeled by the past. Sorting and packing has been a chore, but when I unpack, it will be in a place my children and I can call home without anxiety about what their mother might do to compromise it.

Home will feel just that much safer.

I’m likely to be offline for a few days as I move and get settled. I’ll leave you for now with a happy memory from the past year: a photograph of the orgy debut of my boss boots. I have great memories of the brief time I lived in this temporary shelter from divorce. Those memories, like my boxed belongings, are secured to follow into what comes next.