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Preparing to take the stage at the Highline Ballroom for last night's Moth GrandSlam, I was nervous that I had chosen a story too awful for the given theme, “the point of no return.”

This was my first time to make it to the Moth’s championship round of storytelling competition. Like the nine other storytellers on the bill, I had won a previous StorySlam before moving to the GrandSlam. Competitors had been provided with the evening’s theme about two weeks prior to the event. Given the five-minute time limit and what I’ve so far ascertained about the audience’s familiarity with subjects I generally address as “Jefferson,” I felt a keen awareness of the challenges in choosing a story and telling it well.

A few days prior to the GrandSlam, I scrapped the story I had chosen in favor of something much more raw. The story went back two decades and yet its new revelations were only days old. As I told my story, I found myself shaking with a mix of emotions—fear, rage, numbness—and the audience’s dead silence as my only feedback.

I came in second place.

It’s not a story I anticipate telling on this blog, so to those who heard it live, thanks for allowing me to share it even as I’m not sure what happens next.

Welcome to those who found me through the Moth. By way of introduction, be aware that my blog isn’t safe for work, as I write graphically about sex. I also write about parenting, dating and relationships—our secret, but these are the real subjects of my sex blog—and each Thursday, you’ll keep up with the ongoing adventures of my right foot.

If your heart aches for stories of love and loss, you might start by reading Old Roads. If hot sex is more to your liking, that all began with my first post nearly six years ago. To keep up with my day-to-day meanderings, follow me on Twitter.

Enjoy.

Training of O

Training of O

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Remains of a spontaneous summer night: depleted condoms, shredded panties, leftover limes, empty tonic and one-third of the feet implicated.

Psychotherapy Live!

For several years, Lisa Levy has performed Psychotherapy Live!, in which guests are invited to take part in a therapy session before an audience. She also films sessions for broadcast.

I recently found myself on her couch. I talked about parenting, divorce, sexuality, BDSM and more. Because I’m not keen on having my face publicized, my identity is obscured. This put me in the interesting position of talking about being out while disguised.

Get mental with me by watching the broadcast, divided into three parts:

Part One



Part Two



Part Three

Moth GrandSlam

I recently told a story at The Moth, the competitive storytelling event you know from NPR and podcasts. And, as it happens, I won! That means I advance to the next Moth GrandSlam on July twenty-eighth.

Want to join my pervy pals in cheering me on? I have the inside skinny. Tickets are on sale now at the Highline Ballroom. This is an early announcement for the storytellers and their friends. Moth members will be notified this afternoon. The general public will be notified tomorrow. It will promptly sell out with the general announcement, so get your tickets now. You can save the online surcharge by buying them at the Highline.

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Tan lines.

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Kay and I watching the sunset in advance of the fireworks display on Independence Day. The photo is a little blurry, but then, so were we.

Our search for a small town in which to celebrate the Fourth took us to the lovely harbor town of Port Jefferson—the friendliness of the village’s name being an additional lure. There, we saw fireworks, watched a parade and fucked in the back of a Hummer. I love this country.

Independence Day is a special holiday for me, in that it the anniversary of the end of my marriage. Following a disagreement about a business trip I made, and after months of bitter feuding and vast silences, my ex wife exiled me to an apartment owned by her father. He encouraged me to go, saying his daughter would never calm down until she had time to get over her rage. I moved out on Independence Day. That was seven years and two custody cases ago. Perhaps, one day, my ex wife get past her rage. Perhaps, by that time, she’ll see that it no longer impresses me.

Kay and I talked about this anniversary as the sun set. “I know the divorce was hard,” she said, “But I’m lucky your ex wife wasted your marriage.”

“Me too, honey,” I smiled. "Independence ain't bad."

Abby Wiinters

Nadja

I happen to like this photo. It's merely coincidence I spent the morning on the phone with blue-eyed, black-banged Madeline.

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Not content merely to have sex at our parties, my friends and I recently put together a party at which our fellow orgy-enthusiasts could also make art. Amidst all the drawing, cutting and gluing, I took beautiful Kay outdoors to cover her in hot wax. This photo shows the lower part of her torso; that’s her bare pussy coated in layers of color.

I also built a structure from matt board, providing surfaces for others to paint and collage. Because our cohort includes many “burners” (those who attend the annual Burning Man festival), and because burners burn things, my sculpture was set to flames as we looked on.