Fleshbot and Summer Vacation

This week’s Sex Blog Roundup at Fleshbot gets it up for cock. Reading these stories, you realize that dick is not always a simple animal.

Those of you who enjoy stalking me will find me imitated, inspirational and frustrating.

Sakura and I enjoy being girls on a date that soon has our feet in the air.

Janie and I want to share a submissive boy. Candidates may apply to either blog.

Lynsey wakes up with a hangover and fewer cherries than when I last left her side.

Eden looks up from her sidewalk whipping post to smile at me.

Mariella polishes off her first knob polishing. I’m more of a blowjob man myself, so I brought in an extra cock for the occasion.

Bridget keeps it real.

Adam gives me a blowjob, or rather, he sends one my way. It was interrupted and remains unfinished, come to think of it, with a raincheck pending.

Reversing earlier denials, Avah comes clean to admit that she anonymously harassed another woman for over six months, and regrets that this adversely affected our relationship. She chalks it up to her youth, and there may be something to that—though I’ve seen people twice her age acting out no less viciously, with no more cause. I’m chalking it up to the consequences of living one’s intimate life in so public a forum as blogging. It’s just too easy to gain momentary satisfaction by venting anxieties better addressed in private, and neglecting how such actions may harm real people.

Not to dangle meat over the sharks who stalk, but that’s pretty much all you’ll read about it here. There’ll be no brutal tit-for-tat, no excruciating he-said-she-said, as our relationship is dissected for your entertainment. This may disappoint the hens who use my life and blog for gossip, as well as the bottom feeders who troll my life and blog for sex partners. Over on this side of the screen, there are two real people who blog as Avah and Jefferson. They care about each other, and they want to take care of that offline.

But for now, they are each on vacation. Avah is off on a long-anticipated month in France. I’m down south for my annual visit with family, collecting freckles and reminding my folks what their Yankee grandchildren look like.

Today my father asked, “Now, what are you going to do down here for all this time, with no women anywhere around?”

“You’ll never manage,” my brother agreed.

“Frankly,” I said, “I can use the vacation from that.”

My father laughed. My brother said, “Tell me all about it. I want to live vicariously through you.” He doesn’t know about this blog, of course, so I didn’t add that I think I’ll also enjoy the vacation from being vicariously lived through. For now, I’ll just live, and enjoy a fresh breath away from drama.

If life cooperates.

By the end of my first day back home, I’ve learned the following.

My mother’s empty nest has been filled with Maltese dogs. Nine of them.

My seventeen-year-old nephew is planning a shotgun wedding with the eighteen-year-old girlfriend he knocked up. He also wants to adopt her first baby by another man—boy?—even as he seeks visitation rights with the son he had last year with his sixteen-year-old ex-girlfriend.

My daughter, the teenage bride, hasn’t spoken with her husband in two months.

Already, New York is looking much more relaxing.

Fleshbot and Pride Weekend

This week’s Sex Blog Roundup at Fleshbot gleams with the sweat of summer lovers, those flings and obsessions who may or may not be kicking your leaves come autumn.

My colleague Jonno at Fleshbot added his own contribution with the trailer to the soft-core treat Summer Lovers. When this film came out, I had just graduated high school and worked as an usher in a movie theater. I quickly timed all the right moments to pop in for views of Peter Gallagher, Daryl Hannah and Valérie Quennessen sunning naked and “making love” (a once-popular phrase for sex). This pop-culture primer on polyamory taught me that triads are peachy so long as everyone is gorgeous and at least one partner is French.

Those of you who enjoy stalking me will find me listed and bruising.

Mariella takes markers to mirror to document her first hickey.

Jocasta surveys a busy month and inventories me among things recently done.

If you prefer stalking me in the flesh, you’re in luck, as this is a busy weekend for New York City perverts. Today finds me at Coney Island for the Mermaid Parade, ever a supporter of the public display of naked painted breasts. Tonight, I’m volunteering at Leather Pride Night, moving among the bears and daddys, looking like a vegan at a luau. Tomorrow finds me at Folsom Street East.

Planning ahead, you can stalk me in August at Floating World, where I am teaching three classes, described below. I am recruiting female and male volunteers to bite or be bitten and/or to be poked in public. I don’t require demo bottoms for the class on male bisexuality, but if you are a bisexualish bottom, hell, it can’t hurt to drop a line.

Well, it might hurt a little.

Jefferson’s Floating World Classes

G-Spot and P-Spot, Thrills and Spills
Some deny its existence. Others swear by it. In recent years, the female G Spot has ignited storms of controversy-even as it has been stimulated to countless orgasms. Stimulating the P Spot, or prostate, can bring many men to extreme arousal. This hands-on (or rather, hands-in) session cuts past the verbiage to get down to business. Learn how to locate your own spot and that of your partner, as well as techniques to make the most of this erogenous zone. Please note that this session will include nudity and sexual activity, as well as opportunities for audience participation.

Odd Man In: Male Bisexuality on the Scene
In the sexually open scenes that overlap within the Floating World community, there remain conflicting and contradictory attitudes concerning male bisexuality, as a form of self-identification and in sexual practice. These attitudes particularly affect anyone who identifies as male, or is in a relationship with someone who identifies as male. This open and frank session addresses prevalent notions and offers strategies to bring male bisexuality into play, within scenes, within relationships, and within personal lives. The session draws on academic studies, personal experience and world travel. This workshop is open to all.

Chewtoy: Erotic Biting
If a nibble on the neck sends shivers down your spine, you’re already aware of the sensuous appeal of being bitten. Likewise, if kissing leads you to nip and tug on your lover’s lips, you may be ready to unleash your inner gnasher. Erotic biting brings a primal urge into play that can be directed to a variety of controlled sensations, and even into decorative temporary body modifications through determined marks and bruises. Learn how to safely and effective bite and/or be bitten and discuss how erotic biting can be applied to your favorite activities.

Fleshbot and Father's Day

This week’s Sex Blog Roundup at Fleshbot chases the superstitions from a Friday the thirteenth weekend by dropping in on those who get lucky. Apparently all it takes is planning, perseverance and, well, luck.

Those of you who enjoy stalking me will find me sharing and being shared, as you do.

The deflowering of Mariella continues with her first public display of affection and her first threesome with the first woman she ever touched, kissed, tasted, and all those fine ways one says howdy to a new friend.

If Janie has anything to say about it, this is the launch of a mutual admiration society—and to think it all began with the passing of notes and cock.

I’m enjoying a fine Father’s Day weekend with the kids. Today we are all hungover from a day at Six Flags with Bridget. She organized the day–long outing and proposed that we attack the park in two groups: she would mind Collie and Lillie, leaving Jason and me to focus on the roller coasters. We would regroup for lunch and rides we could all enjoy together.

Now, as a single dad, I really appreciated the genius of her plan. Without Bridget, the alternative plan might have been to allow Jason to bring a friend so that he could ride the coasters. We would’ve parted company in the morning and regrouped when the park closed. That’s what solo parents do as their kids grow up.

Instead, we big boys were set loose on the park. Jason determined that we should not only ride the coasters, but also ride them in the front seat. This gave us the shared experience of screaming in terror repeatedly, and hours of talking as we stood in lines. Time with a child is my kind of Father’s Day gift.

Even if I wonder what one does when a dreamy teenager jokes about his mother’s pot smoking.

Bridget also had her share of spills and chills with “our” kids.

I’d tell you more now, but Father’s Day calls for a special brunch. And since the kids are calling for food, I’m off to the kitchen.

Fleshbot and Hydrants

This week’s Sex Blog Roundup at Fleshbot goes calling on committed couples, finding that for some, company is always welcome.

Those of you who enjoy stalking me will find my parts left to those in need,. The aged and lurid Lynsey gets dibs. Her blog is now open by invitation only; you can request access at sticksy@mac.com. Tell her an organ donor sent you.

Mariella is introduced to her second cock and finds that while she may be a neophyte, she’s already a marathon runner.

It’s ninety-four degrees in New York today. Firefighters have opened the hydrant at the corner, and children are stripped to their underwear to play in the stream. Salsa music wafts through my open window, where I sit, naked and waiting for breezes.

Sometimes, New York is so much like itself.

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.

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.

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?

Fleshbot and Fritz

This week’s Sex Blog Roundup at Fleshbot finds those turning points that set us off in new directions. Sometimes it’s as simple as wearing something different; sometimes it’s all about treating the same old lover in entirely new ways.

Those of you who enjoy stalking me will find me watching the clock, wondering after the arrival of Tilda’s second gangbang of the day. What finally arrives proves worth the wait.

There’s also a new blog to stalk. You may recall the young woman who wrote to Time Out New York to thank the magazine for leading her to someone who could help her to orgasm. Now Alice has gone off to start her own sex blog. You can read about our first encounter and stick around for more, as the girl gets around.

Speaking of new things, this is my last week in my current apartment. Next week will find me in different digs and, more than likely, offline for a few days.

This week the kids enjoyed spring break, which included their last night in the apartment. While they are at their mother’s home, I’ll finish packing and move. When they next come home to Dad’s place, it will be at a new address.

It was the last time we will all live in the place in which each of the three children was conceived. I didn’t put too fine a point on that fact—though, I confess, it had me feeling sentimental. We declared our final night to be a party. We ordered in pesto pizza drizzled in corn, mozzarella sticks and Greek salads, poured rivers of fruit punch, and remembered some of our favorite moments in the place we know so well. The kids say they are happy to be moving on; I’m crossing my fingers and hoping for a smooth transition.

This being a busy time, of course things are bound to go wrong. First my camera went on the fritz. I suppose it must’ve been jostled or dropped as the kids documented Bridget’s wedding, or maybe it just grew weary of the weekly sight of my feet. Alas, the move will go undocumented in photographs.

Then, on the morning after our family farewell party, I awoke to find Lillie passed out on my bed. On my way to make coffee, I found my desk littered by two empty water bottles, a wad of paper towels and a keyboard that no longer worked. That’s funny, I thought. Everything was just fine when the boys and I gathered to watch “Lost,” leaving the computer to Lillie.

I can’t do without a keyboard, so when the boys awoke, I made a quick trip to pick up a replacement. I junked the old keyboard, installed the new one and downloaded its software, all before Lillie rustled from her slumber.

When I heard her giggling with the boys, I joined the kids. “Good morning, Lillie,” I smiled. “You must’ve been up late last night. Did you sneak to the computer when I was asleep?”

“Yes,” she giggled. “It’s spring break.”

“I know!” I nodded. “So, did anything unusual happen with the computer?”

Her brow furrowed. “No . . .” she began, before catching my drift. She giggled again. “Um, okay, yes.”

I bit my lip. “Something to do with water, maybe?”

“Dad, you already know!” she laughed. She paused and asked, “Is it broken?”

I nodded. “I’m afraid so. Computers don’t like water. But luckily, it was just the keyboard and I’ve got a new one now. But can we have a rule? No more drinking at the desk.”

She agreed. Later, as she visited her favorite websites, she kept a cup of water on a table across the room. She would type, leave the desk to take a sip, and return to the computer. I thanked her for obeying the rule. She told me she liked the new keyboard much better than the older one. “That’s a nice spin,” I said, “But let’s try to make this one last.”

Now, only Daddy is allowed to drink as he writes. Such are the vagaries of the bourbon-sipping smut monger.

Back to packing.

Fleshbot and Networking

This week’s Sex Blog Roundup at Fleshbot enjoys the new season’s opportunities for sex outside the bedroom. Stay creative by considering your options, such as a shaded country lane, an arena parking lot or a reeking Port-a-John.

Those of you who enjoy stalking me will find Bridget reporting the bride’s-eye view of her perfect wedding. Keep an eye on the dance floor: you may recognize a few flying feet.

Stalkers now have additional ways to find me, via Fetlife. Links are provided here and at right. Click along and add me to your network.

You won’t find me at Twitter, the allure of which continues to elude me. Apparently, the site’s purpose is to allow users to report on their activities and whereabouts at any given time. Who invented this? My mother? If I want you to know where I am right now, you already know. Otherwise, it’s none of your business—though you probably know anyway.

Now I need to run. Lillie’s packing and I should try to keep up.

Fleshbot and Girl Talk

This week’s Sex Blog Roundup at Fleshbot ties down submissives to get an earful from the bottom. Ball gags off, please.

Those of you who enjoy stalking me will find me with some of the birthday girls—and still one to go!—wondering what’s with all the Aries in my life?

Tilda decided she would like a gangbang for her birthday, and asked me to invite one man for every year of her life. Did I mention she turned thirty-six?

A little while ago, Sinclair of Sugarbutch Chronicles asked me to participate in a contest. She invited eleven bloggers to submit erotic scenarios that she would elaborate into salacious sex tales. (I was the only biological male she asked, more evidence in support of my contention that I’m the last stop on the road to lesbian, and the first exit on the return.)

Now that Sinclair has concluded her series, it’s time for readers to vote—who will be the next Sugarbutch Star? This button will take you to a page where you can vote for your choice. You can also read the complete series.



Here’s an update on my family crisis: it seems to be coming to a resolution, as this weekend, I signed a lease on a new place. I’ve certainly learned a good deal about New York real estate in the process of searching for a home. I can’t wait to forget it all. Thanks so much to those of you who helped to make this possible, and who have inquired after my family. Stay tuned for more.

Speaking of tuned, my daughter Lillie enjoys tuning in on anything any girls are doing anywhere. She’s surrounded herself with a clique of girls in school, anointing one her BFF and the rest her “special friends.” The gang allows one boy to be around, she tells me, “but only because it’s fun to rub your hands on his hair.”

One afternoon, as we rode the bus home after school, Lillie fell quiet and eavesdropped on two teenage girls gossiping in the seat behind us.

“Yeah, but she was already with that one guy and then she hooked up with that other guy. She’s a slut, if you ask me.”

“No, she’s not,” her friend said, her voice rising in disagreement. “That dude was gone. He didn’t even live anywhere near her. That shit was over.”

“I don’t care about that,” the first teen argued. “If you say you’re with somebody, you don’t just go off and hook up with someone else. That’s just two timing.”

“What was she supposed to do? Just sit around, doing nothing? When it’s over, it’s over. End of story. She got herself a new man.” She sat back. “I’d have done the same damn thing.”

“Oh yeah?” her friend laughed. “What, would you get knocked up, too, like she did?”

“No! I’m not stupid. I’d use protection. But no way am I sitting around waiting on some boy to call.”

“Yeah, me too,” the first girl agreed. “She just should’ve told him it was over before she hooked up with the other guy. That’s what she should’ve done.”

“Yeah,” her friend nodded. “That shit’s fucked up.”

The girls paused, looking out the window. Lillie smiled up at me, excited to have been privy to such salacious adolescent gossip. I bobbed my head, pretending we weren’t listening.

“Anyway,” the first said. “What’s up with her name?”

“I know!” her friend laughed. “She’s got such an old lady name.”

“’Hester.’ Who names anyone that?”

“It’s like an old lady name.”

“It makes me think of a rat.”

“A baggy old lady with wrinkles.”

“A baggy old lady rat with wrinkles.” The girls giggled.

“Seriously.” The first girl stared out the window. “’Hester Prynne.’ What an effed-up name.”

After we left the bus, Lillie watched the teens walk off in another direction. “Those girls are so mean to their friend,” she said, almost admiringly.

I took her hand as we crossed the street. “Sweetie, I think they were talking about a character in a book, not a real person.”

She look up and rolled her eyes. “Dad, that was real.” She looked over her shoulder at the teenagers. “That’s what girls talk about—real stuff.”

Fleshbot and Good

This week’s Sex Blog Roundup at Fleshbot holds its nose and makes do with the man who’s available. He may not be Mister Right, but at least he’s Mister Right Now.

Those of you who enjoy stalking me will find me spinning tunes, getting fed and dancing with the bride.

Janie takes a listen to my tunes and is reminded of a past queer romance.

Bridget swallows hard and breaks some difficult news to my children—she will not be marrying their father because she is marrying another man. I think she actually shocked them.

This weekend, my family was part of the ceremony as she and Connor married. It was really, truly beautiful to see my sweet Bridget jump the broom with her handsome groom. I tell you, when Bridget gave up our sexual relationship to be with Connor, she totally traded up. That man is superfine. He’s so adoring of her, and—as readers of her blog know—perfectly kinky and sexy. They’ve got the hot monogamy game down pat.

As we danced at the reception, we were surrounded by people who love my friend and rejoice in her happiness. When good things happen to good people, it’s a good reminder that being good to people is . . . good. It comes back in goodness.

And that’s all to the good.

As my recent life has become fraught with challenges, I’ve been thinking about goodness. I always want to be someone people feel they can count on, and now, as I’m in a bad way, I’m grateful for the good people in my life. Bridget and Connor, for example—even in the midst of planning a wedding, they’ve been concerned for my family and our current situation. Honest to goodness, she was nearly apologetic about the timing of her honeymoon.

Compare that to this. Now and then, I’ll get an email from someone upset that I’m not available to fuck or hang out. And I think: really? Do I have to put out in order to maintain this relationship? That’s not good.

I’m glad to be a good lay, but these days, I can only satisfy people who are good enough to be good.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Fleshbot and Pop Memoirs

This week’s Sex Blog Roundup at Fleshbot draws a deep breath before plunging in with those who take risks.

Those of you who enjoy stalking me will find Jocasta has some fun dressing me up before showing me what’s under her dress.

Bridget offers a helping hand to my sickly self by picking up my daughter at school. There, for the first time, she encounters . . . my ex wife!

Speaking of fun, I’m having loads of it this week. The kids are on break from school. It’s too cold to go out unless absolutely necessary, so we huddle close at home, warmed by the constantly buzzing Xbox. It’s tough for me to get things done when the kids are home—I swear to God, it’s like they require feeding every five hours or so—but I am at my computer as often as I can be. A large family made me and I made a large family, so I’m good at tuning out noise when concentrating.

Yesterday, though, I was distracted by Lillie and Collie giggling. I listened and heard Lillie shout, “That’s the beauty of alcohol! If you can’t remember it, it didn’t happen!”

“Hmmm,” I thought. “That’s not appropriate.” I went to investigate.

Lillie was bouncing on my bed reading Tucker Max to her brother.

“Lillie, Lillie, Lillie,” I clucked, taking away the book. “Now, this is not something for you to read.”

“You’re reading a book about beer!” she giggled. “And alcohol!”

“I know, it’s so bad!” I agreed.

“So why are you reading it, Dad?” Collie asked.

I put the book on a high shelf. “I had heard it was funny.”

“It’s funny if it’s about beer,” Lillie laughed. “Beer is funny. Beer!”

“There are those who would agree,” I nodded. “For some people, that’s all it takes.”

Near as I can tell, Tucker Max is one of those people. I’m currently reading popular recent memoirs, and so my friend Janie suggested I take a look at I Hope They Serve Beer In Hell. It’s the memoir of a self-described asshole who drinks with his buddies, picks up women for casual sex and tells all in a blog. Sounds right up my alley, I thought.

I liked that the book is popular. So popular, in fact, that I bought it not at a bookstore, but at Urban Outfitters. It was stacked near clothing and furniture, all part of the décor of the well-outfitted urban dweller.

My memoir reading list also includes Elizabeth Gilbert’s Eat, Pray, Love, which I bought in an airport. I asked the cashier where to find the book, which I misremembered as titled “Eat, Pray, Live.”

“Love,” she corrected, taking the book from a large pile behind the counter.

“Oh, thanks,” I smiled. “I guess you sell a lot of these, huh?”

“Tons,” she said. “I don’t usually care what Oprah says, but she’s right about this one.” A woman standing to my side nodded vigorously.

“Oh, you’ve read it, too?” I asked.

“It changed my life,” she smiled.

These were shining endorsements. I plunked down fifteen dollars and started the book on the plane. I could quickly see why the book resonated with so many readers, especially Oprah’s viewers. Gilbert’s memoir opens with her divorce in New York State—hey, I’ve had one of those!—and her plucky decision to spend the next year in pursuit of happiness. Gosh, I did that too! However, my identification with her could end there, as she makes the decision to go about it as a celibate. (Well, to finish the comparisons, we’re both skinny blondes.)

Gilbert travels to Italy in pursuit of pleasure through food, to India in pursuit of spiritual bliss, and to Indonesia where she hopes to unify body and spirit. Now, these are not the kinds of things your real best girlfriend does, but throughout, Gilbert writes in such an endearing, ingratiating tone that you can’t help but think, over and again, “You go girl! That’s just what I would do, too!”

With that memoir still warming my girlish heart, I picked up Tucker Max. I was truly stoked to be spending time with a dude who promises, on the book jacket, that he is a real jerk whose only value is his willingness to tell us about his amazing acts of debauchery on his blog and now, his book. We’re promised raucous drinking, piss-poor behavior and misogynous sex.

Now, this may not sound like someone you’d want to have around, but if he’s as bad as he promises, this could be a lot of fun to read about.

It’s not. It’s boring.

Max tells us, over and again, that he is a funny writer with funny stories to tell. “Hilarity ensues” is his favored cliché, usually preceding a story that never gets very funny. The problem may be that he is too impressed with his outlandishness to get the joke across.

For example, in one outing, he brags to his friends that he could fuck a girl met through his blog. (Apparently, people do such things.) His friends dare him to do so, and not one to pass on a dare, Max meets up with a woman who likes his blog. The woman is pleasant, we’re told, but there’s a problem—she’s fat. Undaunted, Max has sex with her. Afterwards, he’s mean to her, throwing her clothes out a window and telling her to go find them.

Now, this is cruel, no question. Max convinces us that he’s an asshole. But the second condition—that he’s funny—doesn’t come to fruition. Because the joke is simply this: he fucked a fat girl and he was mean to her. Get it?

I don’t require comedy writers to be kind or moral, and I think good comedy can be written about anything. But there are no laughs in the posture that cruelty and boorishness are so funny in and of themselves that a writer needn’t be concerned with timing, language or any other elements of comedic storytelling. If Max wants us to hate him, I’m game. But if he wants us to laugh along, he needs to be funnier. Otherwise, he’s just another drunk asshole.

Maybe he could use a better editor. The book reads like he hit “print” on his blog. Characters are reintroduced in pretty much the same words each time, and there’s poor flow from tale to tale.

Still, as Lillie knows, some people will just find beer funny. Apparently a lot of people—Max’s book, like Gilbert’s, is a best seller. We can only imagine that like Gilbert, Max is changing lives.

Here’s a sidebar on fate. As I paid for Max’s book, Madeline looked over and asked, “Are you seriously buying that?”

“Yeah,” I said, reaching for my wallet. “It’s popular, it’s a memoir, I’m reading it. Why?”

“No reason.” She looked casually at earrings. “I’m glad I didn’t fuck him.”

I was taken aback. “You were going to fuck Tucker Max? When was this?”

“Oh, a while ago. I saw that he fucks women he meets through his blog, so I thought, hey, why not?”

“Well,” I asked. “Why didn’t you?”

“Because I found your blog, silly,” she laughed.

Fleshbot and Winter Fire

This week’s Sex Blog Roundup at Fleshbot gives ‘em what they want, but only because they know how to ask for it. Or better, to demand it.

Those of you who enjoy stalking me will find me in the woods with Lynsey, surviving on tits and biscuits with a side of mouse head.

Jocasta commends my fingers and shows us how to tie a cock in place.

Lily looks back on a year of living somewhat dangerously, and finds I am more fun than a box of matches.

Speaking of stalking, those of you who are really devoted to chasing me can get a running start by registering for Winter Fire, which takes place in Washington, DC March 21-23. I’ll be there along with a number of my friends. This is the city mouse cousin of the country mouse sex camp Dark Odyssey, with great classes, awesome vendors and cool perverts. And folks, if you haven’t seen a hotel conference area transformed into a dungeon, well goodness, you haven’t experienced surreal décor.

If you have any questions about attending, feel free to drop a line.

Fleshbot and Comfort Socks

This week’s Sex Blog Roundup at Fleshbot shakes a tail feather for ass, glorious ass.

Those of you who enjoy stalking me will find me rocking Wendy. Bridget finds that I’m ready for my close up and realizes that love can take many different directions.

Ass and love . . . now, that reminds me of the best deal I ever made. About twenty years ago, I made an offer to my girlfriend Pablo. I suggested that we swap socks. I would give her my favorite pair, and she would give me hers. She liked this idea, and we fucked on it.

I’m afraid I came out well ahead in the trade. Pablo got a nice pair of socks, and they were indeed my favorites. But the pair I got were like no socks I had ever seen. They were long and thick and had no heel. They were each much larger than any human foot. Anyone who wore these socks would vanish into them.

This week, I have the flu that’s going around. I’m with my kids, which you might think would be hard, but actually, it’s for the best, as I’m not very good at being sick and having them around keeps me from moping. Plus, my son Jason had the bright idea of borrowing season one of Heroes from a friend and we’re hooked. I keep a lid on the kinky applications of superpowers concocted by my fevered mind, though they are nothing special, really—I mean, I can’t be the only viewer who wants to drop the lash to the indestructible cheerleader, can I?

As we watch, I curl up in bed in my official sick clothes—pajama bottoms, an oversized t-shirt and Pablo’s old socks. Pablo and I lost touch years ago; she never forgave me for marrying Lucy. Still, I think she’d be amused that all these years later, her socks still have the power to heal.

Fleshbot and Shhh

This week’s Sex Blog Roundup at Fleshbot crunches numbers and squishes a few folks by throwing even more flesh into the fray.

Those of you who enjoy stalking me will find me ever open to new things.

Eden looks up at me mid-sex to ask if I’ve developed something of a foot fetish. I remove her toes from my mouth and sheepishly confess it to be so.

Jocasta stops by with rope, sex toys and a timid ass in need of reassurance.

Bridget . . . well, Bridget makes Muppets sing.

Erotic romance author Celia Kyle offers a review of this blog at A Cheeky Changeling, kindly saying that yours truly “writes damned well about the damned sex. Damnit.” Thanks for that, Celia, and beware of low-flying unicorns.

February has arrived and with it comes the official close of my birthday month offer to get off forty-five people. This final week pushed us well over the finish line with the help of the good members of the Bukkake Social Club. Eliza and William dreamed of putting on a live sex show for an audience of naked men. As it happens, I know many naked men, so I called together ten to watch and stroke as our exhibitionist couple “yummed” and “yes, babied” their way through a steamy turn in my overheated bedroom. Eliza, dear Eliza, took a terrible drenching at the dénouement.

There were some participants whose birthday month requests will be realized in coming weeks. Never fear, the fun continues—we’ll just go overtime and surpass projections, that’s all.

Now, it may seem odd to say this after acknowledging that I’ve seen to the sexual pleasure of over forty-five people this month, but I’ve been enjoying some solitude lately. My city refuses to come out from under gray overcast skies, and groundhogs report more to come, but for now, that’s no special bother to me. I’m content to wear black, drop the volume and muse, allowing space for winter’s melancholy to settle while reaching for the cigarettes I don’t smoke. As long as I’m not actually smoking, might as well make them Gauloises for effect. Filterless. In black and white.

Hang on one moment while I turn off the pop radio and put on some Leonard Cohen.

Brooding doesn’t come easily to me. However, solitude does, though in my life, I must make an effort to create it. Part of that comes in knowing how to make time to be alone and passing on offers of company, but more so, for me, in taking care about the company I seek when I am not alone, and in what I choose to do with others. Plenty of people require much from me as a lover, listener or actor in their personal dramas. Normally, this suits me—I would like to assert my abiding aversion to interpersonal drama, but it shows up enough for me to accept that I allow more than I believe I want. It’s as if my stomach constantly complains of lactose intolerance as my hands shovel in spoonfuls of ice cream. If drama truly made me sick, I’d be less indulgent of it. But I want to be someone who can sort through conflicts and make sense of them, to resolve them. And in order to do that, I must allow conflict to be presented.

Still, at times like these, I need to show the drama queens to the door. They can come back. I’m not changing the locks. But I do need to listen to my own voice for a time, and my own voice can be rather quiet by contrast to those around me.

This attitude plays out in curious allowances and changes. For example, I am more selective about what I will permit as concerns. My ears are willed to close on certain cues. Ask me now, and I can tell you that I know nothing at all about Tom Brady’s ankles, and I won’t check to be sure I correctly spell “Hukabee.” I know that these things won’t matter in a few days or weeks, and so I won’t be bothered by the shrill anxiety around them. Ephemera wash away. Likewise, I parse carefully on personal matters, asking more frequently, “Is this really a concern for me right now? And if so, do I really need to address it on anyone else’s timetable?” I recognize that taking on someone else’s priorities comes at the expense of time for my own, and for now, I’m a tad selfish of my resources.

Fleshbot and Boogers

This week’s Sex Blog Roundup at Fleshbot puts on smiles as we head off to the happy places sex bloggers go. Merrily, merrily, y’all.

Those of you who enjoy stalking me will find me compared to other men, biting kittens, and helping with your homework.

Fed up with poor grammar in sex blogs, Chelsea Girl shows that proper punctuation can be to smut what lube is to anal sex, which is to say, painful when absent. She uses me in one of her examples, finding a teaching moment in one of my deepest regrets.

Lynsey passes notes in class, but I’m watching.

Eris writes that in the coming year, she would like to fuck me or to be tied up by Monk. Only “or,” Eris? Why not “and?” Dream large, girlfriend.

Eden remembers a forgettable boy while pissing at my orgy.

Cody breaks up with a boyfriend and feels frustrated that the intimacy with him is gone, while the intimacy with me is mitigated by what she reads on other blogs.

Wendy tries topping from the bottom, which only gets her smacked around.

Jocasta has a tight pussy, and you can quote me on that. In fact, she has done just that.

You know what else is hot? Bookshelves. A friend encouraged me to sign up for Goodreads, an online social network that links you to other readers. You can join me using the link on the upper right hand side of this blog, under “Contact,” or simply by clicking here. I’m not adding titles retroactively—it’s tempting, but seriously, I’d rather be reading—but you can keep track of what I’m reading now. My eyes are currently straining to Saul Bellow, Charlie Brown and chick lit.

My birthday project of getting off forty-five people is entering its final week. If there’s something I can do to get you off, drop a line; I can’t get you off if you don’t take the first step. Thanks to the lurkers who have come forward in the past few weeks. A submissive man served me and a girlfriend. Public sex was had. Lesbianism was forced. And then, there was mud. So much mud.

Here’s a joke. What the difference between broccoli and boogers?

Kids don’t eat broccoli.

Funny, right? I saved this joke to tell Lillie when I picked her up from school one day. I thought she might like telling it to her friends.

She scrunched her nose. “Why is that funny?

“Because kids don’t eat broccoli. Get it?”

“Dad, I eat broccoli. All my friends eat broccoli. Every girl in school likes broccoli.” She rolled her eyes at my ignorance.

“Hmm, well, how about if we changed the joke? Like, ‘what’s the difference between liver and boogers?’ Do your friends like liver?”

“I don’t know.” She thought for a moment. “Do I like liver? What is it?”

“It’s a kind of meat. I think it tastes like lint.”

“What’s lint?”

“Oh, that’s what is left in the dryer when you do the laundry.”

She grimaced. “Why did you eat laundry, Dad?”

“I didn’t eat laundry. I’ve never really eaten lint, but I’ve imagined . . . anyway, back to the joke. What’s a food you don’t like?”

“Burritos.”

I slapped my forehead. “Will you please stop pretending you don’t like burritos? You do like them.”

“No, I hate them. And tacos. I hate them, too.”

“Honey, come on. Nobody hates tacos. Tacos are, like, perfect food.”

“I do. I hate tacos and burritos.”

“But that won’t work in the joke, because normal kids like tacos and burritos.” I poked her shoulder. “Why can’t you be a normal kid? Huh? Why?”

“Dad, I am normal. You’re just . . . bald.” She laughed at her own brand of insult comedy.

“Oh, no you didn’t!” I said.

“And fat,” she giggled.

“Ugh, I give up. You’re just a mean, mean girl.”

“All the girls at school are mean. It’s funny.”

When we got home, Lillie dropped her book bag, took off her coat and ran to find her brother.

“Hey, Jason,” she called. “Why aren’t boogers the same thing that broccoli is?”

Jason looked up. “Um, why?”

“Because kids eat boogers.” She waited for him to laugh.

Jason shook his head. “I don’t get it.”

“Me either,” she shrugged. “Dad thinks it’s funny. Whatever.”

That night, I made broccoli for dinner.