Dream

Here’s a dream from last night.

I’ve acquired an antique glass terrarium of sorts, octagonal with multi-faceted panes, about the size of a large platter. At some point it was fitted as a diorama, with dinosaurs fixed in one corner and, opposite, suspended from the top, two figures and a small dog. I understand the narrative to be that the dinosaurs were going to attack but these godlike anime figures appeared inverted from the sky and stopped them; they all remained forever frozen in a standoff. I consider donating the terrarium to the museum that employs me, but I wonder if anyone will appreciate it as I do.

Walking through the museum, I find a new wing has incorporated the terrarium, now enlarged to a courtyard. This seems sudden and unwise; when was this decision made? Others have also wandered into this space, which isn’t cleaned or equipped for visitors. The dinosaurs are in the far end, the inverted figures overhead, still locked in their standoff. I notice an ice cream parlor to the right. I’m worried that this indicates more rushed decisions. Entering the parlor, I see that the tables are occupied by mannequins as a life-sized diorama. This puts my mind more at ease.

A figure darts through the parlor. I follow him upstairs into a hidden area. I lose track of him and wander early twentieth century period rooms that seem lived in, with scattered clothes and unmade beds. I notice a young man in a loft bed. He’s nude, blonde and angelic. I’m very aroused by him. He has an erection. I invite him to come from the loft to join me. We begin to kiss. He pulls back, angrily, to say he’s waiting for his boyfriend. We return to kissing. He recoils again and repeats that he’s waiting for his boyfriend. I pull back and suggest that he return to his loft to wait, which he does.

In another room, I encounter two women waking in beds. One is dressing for her job as an usher. The other is buried in bedclothes. She stretches free; I see she’s nude, with long red hair. Her roommate chides her to hurry or they’ll be late. The nude woman complains that she’s “too itchy from desire” as she wriggles uncomfortably. I offer to rub her body. She thanks me. As I do so, I cup her genitals, rubbing gently. She responds pushing against my hand and orgasms. She thanks me and vanishes back into the covers. I realized as I touched her that she was waxy. I now know these people are Edwardian automatons. I feel protective of them. I don’t want them to be bothered. I also realize they are programmed to behave in these ways: the boy in the loft waits, the roommate readies for work, the redhead needs to get off.

I come across a child’s birthday party. I know the children are also automatons. A one-man band has arrived to entertain them. I can see that he’s human, like me, so I’m concerned that he’ll disrupt things. I stay for a moment. When I see that he’s taking care of the children, I move on. I come across a meeting of concerned citizens discussing life now that they are attached to the museum. I’m aware that their concern is also programmed and superficial, but determine that while pointless, it is of no harm.

An interloper runs through the space. I follow chasing him. He dives under a bed and tries to vanish under the covers. I pull him back. One arm and part of his head had vanished into a hidden well. When I retrieved him, those body parts were missing. I realize he won’t be whole unless I allow him to escape. As he does, I see that he’s become an animated figure descending a beanstalk. I capture the well and bring it outside with the intention of preserving it as a possible escape route for the automatons.

HNT

For a few years now, he’s been one of my go-to boys for threesomes. We were comparing notes about unmet fantasies when he offered one of his own. He had once blindfolded his girlfriend and had a friend of his come over to fuck her. Afterward, the friend left; she never saw his face or knew his name. He wondered: what must it be like to be in her position?

I offered to help him find out. I have a girlfriend he had never met. I told him he would get no photos or descriptions of her in advance of the blindfold date.

For good measure, I also declined to give her photos or descriptions of him. In fact, I neglected to tell her would be expecting a guest.

When he rang, my girlfriend expressed surprise. “My, who could that be?” I wondered.

“Oh, we’re playing that game, huh?” She jumped from the bed. “I’ll be in the bathroom.”

He undressed on arrival, per usual. I blindfolded him. My girlfriend came into the room, already nude. For the next few hours, we three went at it.

Afterward, we lay in each other’s arms. He remained blindfolded, as he would until leaving; he never saw her or learned her name. We asked him how the experience felt.

“For one thing,” he said. “I couldn’t tell your hands apart.” He sat up, clumsily. “Here, both of you: take my fingers and put them in your palms. Your left palms.” We did as he asked. He moved his fingerpads in a slow circle. “See, I can’t tell you apart.” He moved his fingers to explore our hands. “Okay, so this is Jefferson, obviously,” he said, lifting my hand. “His are bigger.”

“But just as soft?” she asked.

“Well, that hand has an advantage,” I said. “I jerk off with my left hand, so it has enjoyed a lifetime of lotion.”

He reached toward us. “Hey, can I touch your hair, um . . . female person?”

“Sure.” She guided his hand to her head.

He ran his fingers through her hair. “Hmmm, your hair is fine . . . not too curly . . . so you’re blond. Maybe redhead.”

She looked at me, smiling. “Yeah? What else can you tell about me?”

He ran a finger down her torso. “Your skin is really soft, so you’re not Russian . . .”

We laughed. “Are you really trying to guess her nationality by the texture of her skin?” I asked. “Do no Russian women have soft skin?”

“Well, you know Russian literature,” he said. “You’d expect coarse skin.”

“From working in the potato fields,” she nodded.

“Peasant stock,” I concurred. “The literature is definitive.”

“And here,” his fingers reached her mons pubis. “I felt your pubic hair earlier and thought, ‘she’s not Jewish . . .’”

“I’m not?” she laughed.

“Are you?” He wrinkled his brow. “I had a Jewish girlfriend and her pubic hair was very curly. Yours isn’t.”

“I’m going to question the depth of your research on that observation,” I challenged.

“Am I right at all?” he asked her.

“I have fine hair,” she smiled. “And soft skin and straight pubic hair. I’m not saying more than that.”

“I guess I’d never recognize you on the street,” he grinned, lowering his nose to nuzzle her breast.

“No, but I’d know you,” she answered. “So don’t be surprised if a blond stranger tells you you’ve got a hot body.” He moaned in her nipple. I prepared another condom to roll onto his cock.

Later, I helped him to dress and walked him to the door. He removed the blindfold. “Maybe next time, we can blindfold her,” he suggested.

“We’ll see,” I replied. “I may have to do some casting to match your vision of the woman you just fucked.”

I took a few photos. Here’s a blurry one of the confused boy in the blindfold.

Close Call

I sat watching as Halo and her boy Luke topped my girlfriend Kay. Or rather, our girlfriend, as Kay is Halo’s girlfriend, too. Halo is my protégé. Luke is Halo’s submissive. He is not our submissive. Luke bottoms only to Halo, and he is otherwise dominant. I was watching to observe Halo in action as she led Luke with a submissive very familiar to each of us but unfamiliar to her boy.

Halo’s emergent style as a dominant is one of continuous communication—“Does this feel good? May I do this?”—which of course I encourage, though my own style is less verbal. Halo’s style suits her well. She is straight–edge on consent and control in a scene, and therefore very particular about choosing play partners. In this, I feel we are really teaching each other. Halo reminds me that I can afford to be selective.

Halo enjoys creating simple games, as she now did with Kay. Our girlfriend was to keep her eyes closed and to respond when asked questions. If Kay did well, she would be rewarded with pleasure. If she did not, she would be punished with sensation.

Halo delivers great sensations, and Kay responds excitedly to them. Kay wants to be obedient even though in her desires, reward and punishment are equally welcome. That’s a good way to top Kay, I thought, but it would be a hell of a confusing way to train a dog.

Luke lightly fingered Kay’s labia, teasing her, his eyes on her face. “Do you like how he’s touching you?” Halo asked, trailing the weight of a small chain around Kay’s neck. Our girlfriend nodded. “You need to answer with words, Kay, as I instructed.”

“Yes, it feels so good.” Her voice cracked.

“Good, that’s good to hear you say.” Halo trailed the chain down Kay’s chest, alternating from one breast to the other. “These are fresh bruises, aren’t they, Jefferson?” she asked.

“Yes,” I replied from my chair. “Little mementos from earlier this evening.”

“Very pretty colors, Jefferson . . .” she began. “Wait, Kay: did you just open your eyes?”

“Yes, Halo,” Luke confirmed. “She did.”

“I did, I’m sorry,” Kay apologized. “You said Jefferson’s name and I wanted to see him.”

“He’s here to see you,” Halo reprimanded. “You are not here to see him. You are here to obey me. Do you understand?”

“Yes.” Kay closed her eyes, nodding. “I do understand.”

“Good, but now, because you disobeyed, you’ll have be punished. Turn over.” Kay again apologized and turned as instructed. “Crouch on your elbows and knees,” Halo commanded. “Raise your ass a bit.” She ran her hand along Kay’s spine to indicate the position. Kay complied. “Luke, I want you spank Kay for being disobedient. Use the flat of your hand, like I showed you.” She leaned forward to Kay’s ear. “Luke has very big hands, and I don’t want him to hurt you.”

“You’re so nice to me,” Kay said, giggling nervously.

“I can be very nice, but now I have to be very mean to you,” Halo said. “You didn’t follow my orders.” Halo reached for two small knives I had placed at her disposal. Taking one knife in each hand, Halo traced lightly across Kay’s back.

I leaned forward to watch Halo’s blades cross over the marks I’d earlier left on Kay’s back with a single-tail whip.

Two others watched quietly. We were in the room designated for BDSM at a party otherwise primarily directed to sex. The sounds of moans and laughter came from another room, as in our space, the Velvet Underground sang of boots of shiny, shiny leather, tasting whips and pleading.

I took mental notes of Halo’s deliberateness, Luke’s measured strokes and, as they collaborated, their attentions to one another and Kay’s responses. My brain buzzed, tamping down suggestions that the pair try other things I know Kay enjoys, taking stock of the ways they treated her that differed from my own.

As my mind stored observations to churn into memories, I realized my cock had gone limp. I had become aware of a cycle of responses in my own body throughout this scene. When Halo directed punishment, I focused with my mind, analyzing and recording. When she directed pleasure, my body took over. Some time ago, I developed a Pavlovian reaction to Kay’s arousal. When she is turned on, I get hard. This is true whether I am touching her, watching someone else touch her, or overhearing her orgasms from another room.

“Now, you have been punished,” Halo said. She grabbed a fistful of Kay’s hair. “Now, you will turn over and we’ll reward you with pleasure.”

Kay grunted as her hair was tugged. “May I make a request, please?”

“Yes, you may,” Halo answered. “Thank you for asking first. What is your request?”

“May I please suck Jefferson’s dick? He looks so hot watching, and he’s so hard.”

Halo looked at me. She saw that I wasn’t hard. “What do you say, Luke?” she asked of her collaborator. “Shall we allow Kay to suck her boyfriend’s cock?”

Luke pondered the request, rubbing Kay’s lower back with his massive hands. Finally, he answered. “Yes,” he said with care. “Yes, Halo, I concur if you’ll allow.”

“Thank you for giving that such careful consideration,” Halo smiled. She turned back to me. “Jefferson, would you be so kind as to join us on the bed?”

“Thank you,” I said standing. “Halo, Luke, thank you for allowing me to join your scene with my girlfriend.” I sat at the head of the bed, positioning myself so that Kay’s face hovered over my dick. I leaned forward and kissed each of her eyes, flicking my tongue lightly over the tightly closes lids. “You’re sucking your man’s cock,” I whispered. “But Halo is still the boss.”

“I understand,” she smiled.

“Good girl.” I placed a palm on the back of her neck and lowered her face to my body. Her mouth rooted until it found my limp dick. She swallowed me, moaning. Pavlov took care of the rest. Kay kept her lips tight around the base of my cock, coughing spittle as I grew into her throat. “Good, good,” I whispered.

“That’s so beautiful,” Halo admired. She stood to one side, stroking the strap-on cock she wore. I knew it well; her Feeldoe is never far when we are co-topping. “You see Luke, that’s how I’d like you to learn to suck my dick.”

“I only wish I were so good as Kay,” Luke admired.

“You’ll learn,” Halo nodded. She placed a hand on Kay’s back. “Jefferson, do you mind if I fuck your girlfriend? She just looks so lovely on her knees.”

“I’m a guest in your scene, Halo,” I replied. I stroked Kay’s hair. “Honey, you don’t mind if my protégé fucks you, do you?” She gurgled onto my cock and slightly shook her head. “That’s ‘no, you don’t mind,’ or ‘no, you’d rather not?’”

Kay pulled back her face. Streams of spittle connected her lips to my cock. “Oh please, fuck me, someone, please!” she laughed. She gasped two gulps of air before taking me back inside her.

“Sound definitive!” I smiled, giving a thumbs-up to Halo. “Fuck away, dude.”

“Dude!” She laughed and held up her palm. “It’s so fun being a guy with you, Jefferson.” I gave back a resounding high-five. Halo positioned herself behind Kay. The grunt on my cock told me another was inside her.

I sat back, hands behind my head, surveying the scene. Kay held her hair in a bundle, her face flush from exertion. Halo fucked her in what was, between my protégé and I, a favored posture—each of us on either side of a body that we regard as our shared “angel.” Luke leaned against a wall, his long lean frame taut as he fingered his thick cock. Nearby, a straight dom who had been eying Kay all night jerked off next to a cute twink I’d be eying all night. I had caught the twink’s name right away: Leo.

“I have an idea,” Halo said after a while. “Something I’ve wanted to do for a long time.” She caught my eye. “Can we do a double penetration?”

“Smashing idea!” I replied. “And I know just the position. Here, let’s all pull out of Kay.” Halo and I backed away.

“Wait, what happened to the cocks?” Kay complained.

“Don’t worry your pretty head,” I said, patting her indifferently. “Okay, let’s do this? Halo, you lay on your back. When she does, Kay, you ride her cock.” I stepped out of the way as they got into position.

“This feels so good!” Halo smiled, as Kay’s body pushed the Feeldoe in and out of her own.

“Right? Okay, that’s great. Hang on, I’ll get into position . . .” I stood on the bed, one foot on either side of Halo’s shoulders. I lifted Kay’s chin. “Here, girl. You suck my cock. If you’re taking two dicks, you may as well have three.” Kay looked up and took my cock in her mouth. Her lips smiled slightly as she caught my eyes. “Good girl! Okay, now Luke, you’re up. Let’s get you in her pussy with Halo, her from the front, you from the back.”

“Is that possible?” Luke asked, reaching for a condom.

“Trust me, I’m a professional.” I gathered Kay’s hair in a fist. “You two doing all right?”

Kay gurgled. “Oh, we’re just fine,” Halo smiled.

“Everybody, think: teamwork,” I encouraged. Luke took his position behind Kay. His eyes were down as he tried to guide his cock into Kay’s pussy.

“Hmmm,” He murmured.

“Don’t rush, just take your time,” I encouraged. I fucked Kay’s mouth harder to keep her mind focused and blank.

“Jesus, that’s fucking hot,” Leo said. He spat into his palm and rubbed his cock.

Halo watched Leo’s erection take form. “Okay, now I want to suck cock, too,” she said.

“We can do that!” I exclaimed. I looked around. How would we do that? “We can do that . . . okay, look. Kay, sit back slightly . . .”

“Oh yes, do!” Halo laughed, as the Feeldoe was pushed inside her.

“ . . . Okay, now I’ll step forward . . .” I eased my cock back into Kay’s mouth. “Now you, Leo, you straddle Halo’s face.” I leaned forward to allow him into position. “ . . . and I can rest my back on yours.” The position worked, and worked all the better I was leaning on a cute boy. The only step remaining was to add Luke’s cock to Kay’s pussy.

“I don’t know, this isn’t working,” Luke said, sitting back on his knees. “I just can’t get in there.”

“Let’s get a look at that,” I said. I leaned forward, pulling out of Kay’s mouth. I kissed her hair. “Hang on, I’ll be back.”

“Take your time,” she gasped. “I could use some air.” She noticed Leo sitting on Halo’s face. “Oh, that’s hot,” she sighed, and began to finger herself.

“Now, this could be one of a few problems,” I said to Luke in my best auto-mechanic tone. I spread Kay’s ass. “Might be that she’s low on lube.” I ran a finger along the Feeldoe’s shaft. “Nope, that’s nice and slick. Could be that she’s in an awkward position. If she lowered her shoulders, you might be able to enter more easily. Or, it could be . . .” I patted Luke’s shoulder. “ . . . that your giant dick isn’t going to fit.”

Luke looked at the behemoth resting in his vast palm. “I thought that may have been the problem,” he said quietly. “But I didn’t want to say anything.”

I rubbed his back. “It’s not a problem, son. There’s a place in this world for big dicks, too.”

“I know a place,” Halo said. “My mouth! I want two dicks.”

“There you go, Luke,” I smiled. “Always a solution.”

As Luke moved away, I fingered Kay lightly. I tried inserting a finger, wondering if my cock might do the job. “Oh, that’s a bit much,” she winced.

I took back my hand. “Yeah, it’s Halo’s dick that’s mucking up the works. See, it’s pretty big. Plus, it’s not malleable, so unlike bio cock, it has less give . . .”

“Okay, you be the teacher,” Kay said, rising. “I think I need a little break.”

“Would you like a spanking or anything?” offered the observant dom, still stroking his cock.

“No, thanks,” smiled Kay. “I’m going to get some water . . .”

“Oh, you stay here,” he interrupted. “I’ll bring the water to you.” He hurried off in the direction of the kitchen.

Kay thanked him and settled next to me. “Pretty girls don’t fetch water at sex parties,” I whispered.

“I can see that,” she said, kissing my shoulder. We turned to watch Halo blow two boys, her giant Luke and the slight twink Leo. I began to absentmindedly stroke her Feeldoe.

Halo looked up from her cocks. “Oh, keep doing that,” she sighed. “Just like that. That feels so amazing!”

I continued stroked her gently. Her hips pushed up as I gently pushed down. I could only see a bit of her face between the bodies of the two boys she was sucking, so I listened for her contented gurgles.

“Jefferson!” Halo suddenly cried out. “Jefferson, for the love of all that is Holy, fuck me!”

“Fuck you?” I grinned at Kay. “Why, I’d like nothing better.” Kay reached to the night stand for a condom. My erection bobbed as I worked to remove the harness holding Halo’s cock in place. Kay put an unwrapped condom in my hand as the other slowly eased the Feeldoe from Halo’s body.

Halo looked up from her cocks. “Wait, what are you doing, Jefferson?”

I held up the condom. “Making way to fuck you, dear.”

Halo smiled and shook her head. “No, Jefferson,” she softly explained. “I meant ‘fuck me,’ as in ‘fuck my cock, you dirty slut.’”

“Oh! Whew, that was a close call—I nearly obeyed the wrong ‘fuck me.’” I eased the Feeldoe back into place. “That’s a horse dick of different color. You want to put this monster in my ass . . .” I replaced the harness, palming the condom as I refastened a strap. “Well, I suppose we can do that . . .”

“I’ll do it if you don’t want to,” Leo offered. Kay and I had watched Leo take a dildo attached to a power-tool jackhammer; Halo’s Feeldoe would be simple mechanics by comparison.

“Now, that would be hot,” Kay nodded, smiling.

“Uh-huh,” I agreed. “Well, I’ve got the condom here, if you can find the lube . . .”

“Wait, first I need to go to the bathroom,” Leo said. He turned and brushed past me on the bed. “Be right back, guys.”

Halo sat up. “You know, I need to got the bathroom, too.”

Luke kissed her shoulder. “I’ll come keep your company,” he said. “Sounds like there could be a line.”

Kay and I were left alone on the bed. I held forward the condom and shrugged. She shrugged and threw up her hands. We were fucking when the dom returned with a single cup of water.

“I ran into Leo in line for the bathroom,” he nodded. “Sounds like a hot scene coming up! I’ll get a good seat.”

“Oh, that scene is over,” I said, squeezing Kay's breasts as we fucked. “They won’t be back. There are too many distractions between here and the bathroom.”

The next time Kay and I encountered Halo and Luke, they were making out in the shower.



Feeldoe

HNT

Christopher blew me before rehearsals. If he performs as well as he sucks cock, the show will be a barn burner.

Fuckhouse

Do you know Marcus? He’s one of my oldest friends. He’s also the person I point to when people say no one is sluttier than me.

For a while, he blogged. Then he stopped. Friends, he’s back.

Welcome to the Fuckhouse

HNT

It was beautifully timed. A few hours into our threesome, a boy was to arrive. The girls were excited to add him to our mix.

But then events conspired against us. Stupid stuff, really: he was at the door, lacking the right buzzer number. He had been to the address before, so we thought it was set. This time, he didn't have the right information at hand. He tried our numbers, our texts, our emails, but we were fucking and missed it all. He went away and, by the time we reconnected, he was lost to his other plans for the evening.

It was unfortunate news, but still, we kept fucking. Eventually, the girls got tired of me. "Seriously, Jefferson," Anna complained. "I didn't come to New York to fuck just one cock."

"You're a bad host," Kay nodded. "No extra cock? That's like running out of dip."

"I feel really bad," I apologized. "Not to mention we're nearly out of bourbon. Let me see what I can do."

I made a call. An hour or so later, a boy showed up with a cock and a bottle. The girls were well pleased. "It's New York," I reassured Anna. "You can get anything delivered."

Anna, true to form, delivered me a finger.

Tally

January is the month of my birthday and each year, I celebrate by giving out orgasms. My goal is to give away one orgasm for each year of my life, plus one to grow on. This year, I hoped to give away forty-seven wet spots.

I wound up giving away two hundred and forty-six.

How disappointing to be one shy of two hundred over target! In truth, there were more orgasms delivered, but I misplaced a few: at an orgy I had the bright idea of marking my tally on my forearm with a pen, not realizing I used water-soluble ink. Those orgasms washed away in the hot tub.

Other than this mistake, I endeavored to make an honest accounting. Wisely, I asked my partners to keep track and report their own orgasms. This proved a learning experience, as I discovered a few things about my partners and really, the nature of orgasms.

One woman reported three-and-a-half orgasms; I rounded that down to three, as I wasn’t sure I could explain a half orgasm to skeptics. Still, if she reports it as such, who are we to doubt it?

After one man came, I thanked him for the orgasm. He replied that he had actually had three, but had only ejaculated on the final one. I occasionally have such multiple orgasms as well, though rarely. Apparently, in his case, they are common.

One woman is very vocal throughout intercourse, though in fact, infrequently orgasms from penetration. In having sex with her, I can’t always distinguish an orgasm from the general array of fireworks. Having her report helped me to understand what gets her over the edge.

Another, a partner for several years, revealed something I had not realized. I had assumed that her noisy and vibrant orgasms were of long duration, but in fact, she has multiple orgasms in quick succession. I had never realized that, as I had never thought to ask.

During the course of the month, a reader wrote to say that at age twenty-six, she has yet to experience an orgasm, either alone or with a partner. Therefore, though she gets pleasure from masturbation and sex, she doubts the existence of the female orgasm. Distance prevents us from further study on the matter.

As the orgasms began to pile up, I resolved that I wouldn’t do anything out of the ordinary in their pursuit. I didn’t stage an orgasm assembly line, for example, nor did I increase my number of dates or partners beyond the usual. I don’t typically track numbers, so I thought this could become a snapshot of a month in my current sex life.

My protégé Halo is a statistician. She pointed out that all this raw data could be represented graphically. I’ll avoid the obvious pun and go straight to the charts she so thoughtfully provided.



In January, I had sex with thirteen partners. Two were new to me and eleven were recurring. Three were men and ten were women. (NB: Due to an error in my reporting, the first column is inaccurate: it should indicate eleven recurring partners, not eight.)



The majority of my sexual encounters these days are with one partner per session. This month, thirteen percent of my sexual encounters were in group situations, defined as two or more partners in addition to myself. This does not reflect the percentage of orgasms per single or group situations; that data were not collected.




Of the two hundred and forty-six orgasms delivered in January, one hundred and twenty-six were claimed by my girlfriend smalls. There are three reasons for her taking nearly half of those given. One, we have sex frequently. Two, she has multiple orgasms. Three, I am sadistic enough to keep going even after she is exhausted—fortunately, she is piggy enough to favor pleasure to respite.

Along the way, I also had sex in Staten Island, filling a lamented gap in my sex map: I’ve now had sex in all five boroughs. Now I can focus on filling in states, nations and continents. I’m only missing two continents, actually. South America should be easy enough, but Antarctica?

HNT

He wrote me the nicest letter.

I first started reading your blog three or four years ago as a young dumb kid in a far-away place. I suppose you already know that you have a transcontinental as well as a transgender following?

Anyway, as I said, I was a young dumb kid in a fairly small conservative backwater. I wasn't gay, I wasn't straight. I'd heard of the Kinsey scale but it was always lobbed in as some kind of theoretical hand grenade that had no real world application. The idea of violence and power in sexuality I only knew as a limited series of repulsive heteronormative acts or the cartoon-like antics of middle-aged S&M swinger couples. As soon as I read your blog, it made sense. It was great sex, incredible writing—and totally fucking hot.

I'll try not to ramble and be too fanboyish about it all. I’ll soon be in New York for the first time, and while images from Woody Allen, Spike Lee, Mad Men and Jack Kerouac all tousled in my head, I thought I'd finally get around to writing. I just wanted to offer my sincere thanks for everything you've written about. You and your blog are an ongoing source of comfort and inspiration, not to mention the fact that sharing your writing can be directly credited with having got me laid on more than one occasion. I wasn't able to help financially when you were having troubles with your family—and I hope for your sake that I never get that chance again—but I'll happily buy you a bourbon some time in gratitude.

As it happened, this time it was his own writing that got him laid.

I Kissed A Boy

I Kissed A Boy

I Kissed A Boy is a new anthology of stories about first encounters between men. I contributed a true story about the last kiss I shared with the first boy I kissed. It’s a story about two straight boys in love, and how a love that confused us as teenagers would endear us to one another for life. We were open about loving one another—even now, this strikes me as remarkable, given when and where we grew up—and, as the story relates, our affection was always noted by our friends and families, and even by our future spouses. You'll need to get out your hankies for this one.

The stories in I Kissed A Boy are by turns arousing and moving, and include some great romantic writing. Enjoy!

Blake Mason

Dave and Jake

Hot Dads: The DILF Anthology

Hot Dads: The DILF Anthology

Apparently, I was one before I knew what they were.

I was once having a snack with my daughter, listening as she gabbed away about her best friends in school, when I became aware of the woman at the next table listening in. She grinned to hear my daughter talk and laughed along at my responses. As I paid the check and we prepared to go, she leaned forward to touch my arm. “Can I just say, the two of you are simply adorable?”

“Oh! Well, thanks!” I stammered. “That’s very nice.” I smiled back. She continued to smile, still touching my arm and saying nothing more. “Okay, well, I suppose we should get going . . .” I stood and held my hand out to my daughter, who had watched the exchange intently.

“Who was that?” she asked as we walked out.

“A nice lady,” I shrugged. “Evidently, a very nice lady.”

I later related this to a friend. “Was that just a ‘nice lady,’ or do you think she was . . . I dunno, saying something?”

“Of course she was saying something,” she replied. “You’re attractive, you’re nice to your kids and you don’t wear a wedding ring. That makes you a DILF.”

“A ‘DILF?’”

“You’re so clueless,” she sighed. “You know what a MILF is—a mother I’d like to fuck. Well, a DILF is the daddy equivalent.”

“Oooh. That’s a new one to me.” I sat back and put my hands behind my head. “Gee, this sheds a whole new light on all the nice ladies at the playground . . .”

She shook her head. “Incorrigible.”

Well, incorrigible or not, I am now an anthologized DILF, thanks to editor Lori Perkins at Ravenous Romance. Hot Dads: The DILF Anthology includes my story “Not This Time, Daddy.” It won’t be appearing on my site, so you’ll need to drop in on Ravenous Romance to read this tale of obtuse romance.

You’ll also get stories from a dozen other contributors. As the advertising copy suggests, you’ll read about dads who are “gay and straight and even bi. You'll find thirteen stories of hot dads in these sizzling pages, from spy dads to a dad who has a thing for orgies!”

Even bi? Scorch!

Her Angel

We were both trying not to stare.

We were finally meeting, our neglected breakfasts between us as we talked. She had been reading my blog for a couple of years; we had been corresponding for nearly that long. Now that we were finally meeting in person, we had an opportunity to match words to voices, nuances to faces. I didn’t want to make too big a deal about her beauty—I’d already been a bit effusive about the photos she had long ago sent to me—and I understood that she was understandably curious about matching me to “Jefferson.” Now and then, our eyes met and our easy conversation would still for a moment. Her expression seemed to ask, is that really you? I was sure mine replied, yours for the asking.

She had apologized for dressing like such a slob, in paint-splattered jeans and an oversized Ivy-league sweatshirt, but the cold snap had taken her by surprise. She had only packed summer clothes. I chided her for not having her hair done, at the very least, wondering if I had ever blogged about the effect that tomboys have forever had on my queer equilibrium.

Her eyes were a blue so clear that my own were like dull silver in bad need of burnishing. She is not peering into my bare soul, I reminded myself. That’s just what people think about eyes like those.

We fell to talking about conceptual art. Sex leaked into our discussion of identity without leading us to become too personal too soon. She asked how I first became interested in art. “As a kid,” I replied, dragging a fork through egg yolk. “I’m afraid I’ve fallen far from my true calling. I was destined to be a comic book artist for Marvel.”

“I don’t know much about superhero comics,” she averred. “Just the old stuff I read in my dad’s library, Marvel from the sixties and seventies.”

I looked up, wondering if my soul was buttoned a little too revealingly. “Like what?”

“Oh, the usual stuff. Fantastic Four, Spiderman, Avengers . . . I sort of lose track after a certain point. Like, I never read the new X-Men or anything.”

I put down my fork. “By ‘new X-Men,’ are you referring to the Chris Claremont days, like the early eighties?”

She nodded. “Totally lose track by then.”

“Yeah, me too. By then I was busier with life than with comics.” I was mindful that she would not yet have begun life when I put aside comic books. “I gather that most of the original characters have since had their powers so revamped that we’d hardly recognize them.” I sipped my coffee. “I guess that was necessary since, let’s face it, some of the original powers were kind of limited.”

“Like Warren Worthington III,” she agreed.

I risked her eyes. “You recall the name of the Angel, just like that?”

“Well, I had a bit of crush on the Angel. The blonde hair, the blue eyes, the naked chest and of course, the wings . . .” She gazed at me again, as if casting me in a new role. “He was so mixed up, though he always had girls chasing him and drove around in roadsters. A poor little rich boy.”

“Wasn’t it true that his role in the team was largely supportive? I seem to remember he generally just lifted the more powerful X-Men into the air so they could attack from above.”

“Well, there’s that, but he also had to hide his power,” she noted. “He always had to wear a harness over his wings and hide them under a suit. It seemed to me that must’ve hurt.”

I raised my coffee cup. “Sensitive reader.”

She grinned. “Yeah, but only to a point. He was also always getting captured and tied up. I really liked that.”

“Ha! That’s right. He had that whole ‘damsel in distress’ thing. He would get captured and the others would have to rescue him.”



“That’s right,” she nodded. She sat forward. “I used to imagine capturing Warren Worthington III and making him my bitch.”

I laughed. “So the truth comes out.”

“Warren Worthington III was my kinky fantasy,” she confessed. She put her hand across the table. I took it. She looked down at our hands and then back to my eyes. “I wanted that blonde angel.”

I held her gaze, gulping slowly. “I see,” I eventually managed.

The waitress interrupted us, offering more coffee. She released my hand and I placed it in my lap. We returned to talking about art and came back to sex, only this time, her Angel was unhindered.

She had an appointment to keep. We paid the bill and retrieved our umbrellas. I offered to walk her to the subway. We talked casually as we walked.

Our first goodbye was also our first kiss. She nibbled on my lower lip. We pushed back our umbrellas, feeling rain drizzle on our faces. I surrendered my mouth to her. “I’m getting wet,” she said, looking up. “In more ways than one.”

“You’ll send me away, walking crooked,” I smiled.

I emailed her later. “Wow.”

“Likewise,” she replied.

She left New York. A few days later, she sent me a cartoon. In place of the breakfast table between us, she now shared her Angel with me.

Groomer

There are two things a right-thinking fellow shouldn’t have to pay for in New York City: blowjobs and haircuts. In this town, there are simply so many people so gifted in these practices—and so eager to practice them—that a resourceful fellow soon realizes that there must be barbers and cocksuckers who go wanting. How sad they must be, unable to ply their trades in a market so glutted with competitors. How grateful, then, when offered the opportunity to demonstrate their expertise!

I decided to provide such opportunities. Not merely because I am by nature a generous man, but also because I know myself to be an appreciative and yet discerning recipient of blowjobs and haircuts alike. I may be a challenging customer at times, but when a job is well done, my barbers and cocksuckers know they have impressed a connoisseur.

At first, I thought I might combine these opportunities by finding a cocksucker who wanted to cut hair: a barber to take care of my barber-poling, if you will. But the more I considered it, the more I realized that while gifted cocksuckers frequent my life, I’ve actually given my head over to relatively few good barbers.

My mother was my first barber. (To anticipate your follow-up question: no, what must you be thinking?) She had trained as a beautician and occasionally worked in beauty shops when I was a young child. She would usually come back from a shift with her own hair streaked and piled high, looking far more glamorous than the harried young mother who had left home that morning after breakfast. I remember accompanying her on a summer evening walk, shouting to the neighbors, “Do you know who this is? It’s my mom!”

As my brothers came along, she had less time to work. Her customers were limited to five: her husband and four sons. Whenever she decided it was time for haircuts, she assembled her clippers and called to her boys. I was always the first in the chair, as I put up the least resistance and it reassured the younger boys to watch what would soon happen to them. As it was the seventies, I always requested that my hair be cut long to hide my ears. As she was my mother, she cut my hair as she saw fit.

I complained after my hair had been cut too short, though, of course, it was too late by then. Because I was the first in the chair and my mother’s skills had rusted since she last held scissors, my hair was frequently cut unevenly. “Your hair is straight and your ear lobes are crooked,” Mom would reply. “Get back up in the chair.” Down would hop a brother, his wet bangs half trimmed, and up I would go, submitting my already over-shorn head to more clips. I winced as each new quarter inch fell past my eyes. By the time I got back to the mirror, my ears were shown in all their pokey glory. “Don’t worry,” my mom would called as she snipped a perfect cover for a brother’s ear. “It'll grow back.”

After graduating high school, I moved away from home and my mother’s scissors. I gravitated to the rockers and artists, far from anyone who might compromise our locks. “Oh, son, look at what a mess your hair is, all broken at the ends,” my mother would lament. “At least let me even it out, or maybe some layers to make it look fuller. . .” I would politely thank her, but I liked my hair fine just as it grew out of my head.

By the time I rediscovered careful grooming, I had fewer hairs growing from my head. I found that what looks best on my adult head is just the haircut pushed on me in my elementary school years—conservative, short in back, with all-access ears—just as Mom was taught to cut men’s hair during Camelot.

When visiting home each summer, I sit on a chair in my mother’s kitchen, the prodigal customer in her all-boy beauty salon. For the rest of the year, I look for a barber to keep her haircut maintained, always instructing, “Same thing, just the way it looked two months ago.” For a long time, I’ve relied on the proprietor of the Lucky Star Beauty Salon in Chinatown, who gets it just right for ten dollars, inclusive of my three-dollar tip. I tell him he may be my lucky star but I am the luckiest by far. He smiles and shakes my hand.

Soon after coming to my calling to provide opportunities for neglected barbers and cocksuckers, I realized that while I can teach someone to suck my cock as I like, I may not be able to teach someone how to cut my hair as I like. I’ve just had too few good barbers. Naturally, I couldn’t propose that my man at the Lucky Star throw in an extra service. (To anticipate your next question: no, what must you be thinking?) For now, I decided I would keep barbering apart from cocksucking. I set out to find someone for whom cutting my hair would be pleasure enough to do so.

I found just such a barber. “Whatever you require of me, I will do my best to provide,” he assured me. “I know that a handsome man needs to look his very best. He owes it to people, I think.” He understood perfectly. We worked out details in advance of our first meeting.

He undressed after greeting me. I asked him to turn for me so that I could become acquainted with his appearance. He was a little older than me, with a short salt-and-pepper beard and closely cropped hair. I appreciated that he was well tended.

I invited him to undress me. His fingers trembled as he undid my shirt buttons and gently eased my arms from their sleeves. He bent on one knee to untie first one shoe and then the other, removed one shoe and then the other, remove one sock and then the other. He remained on his knees to unbuckle my belt, unzip and lower my jeans. He averred his eyes as he held first one cuff and then the other so that I could step free. With my jeans folded at this side, his eyes gazed upward. “Oh, Sir . . .” he began.

“Yes?” I planted my fists on my hips.

“Sir, you are the most beautiful man I have ever seen. May I . . . admire you?”

“Yes, but only for a moment.” I closed my eyes and turned away. He could now look at me without the distraction of my gaze. He could only use his eyes to admire me. I had been clear in my instruction.

In my mind’s eye, I pictured the Archaic Torso of Apollo. I wasn’t comparing my body to that of the Greek statue. Rather, I was comparing our situations: we were both to be admired. I pictured Apollo as I adopted his role.

Apollo has his flaws—he is headless and misses extremities—and I certainly have mine. But despite our incompleteness, we may be admired for the beauty that is beheld, rather than the beauty that simply is. When admired, we are completed in an admirer’s gaze.

I thought of that statue and remembered Ranier Maria Rilke’s poem about admiring it. I don’t know this poem by heart, so don’t ask for a recitation when you see me, but I certainly walk around with the final line.

We cannot know his legendary head
with eyes like ripening fruit. And yet his torso
is still suffused with brilliance from inside,
like a lamp, in which his gaze, now turned to low,

gleams in all its power. Otherwise
the curved breast could not dazzle you so, nor could
a smile run through the placid hips and thighs
to that dark center where procreation flared.

Otherwise this stone would seem defaced
beneath the translucent cascade of the shoulders
and would not glisten like a wild beast's fur:

would not, from all the borders of itself,
burst like a star: for here there is no place
that does not see you. You must change your life.

I opened my eyes and looked at my admirer. ““Same thing,” I ordered. “Just the way it looked two months ago.”

He nodded and stood. I sat in a chair in the kitchen. My eyes were closed as hair tumbled over my face and shoulders. My upturned palms caught the clippings that fell into my lap, some getting caught in my pubic hair.

I looked into a mirror. “Shorter in the back,” I ordered.

“Yes, Sir, of course.” Again the base of my skull tingled, humming loudest in the left ear and then back in the right. “You know, Sir, and this is just a suggestion, but if I may, you may want to consider a buzz cut.”

I opened my eyes. “Really?”

“I think you have a lovely skull, Sir. And we’d leave enough blond showing so that the effect would glimmer.”

I scratched my ear lobe. “Hmmm, I’ll consider that suggestion. I’ve never done that, so clearly, I won’t do it on a first date.”

“Yes, Sir,” he chuckled. “You can’t give away everything on a first date.”

He cut and returned the mirror to me. “Very good.” I commended. I closed my eyes and looked away so that he could admire his affect on my appearance.

“And this, Sir?” He waved a hand near my body. “Would you care to have your body trimmed?”

I nodded. “Yes, let’s do that.” I moved forward to the end of the seat, extending my body to allow fuller access to his clippers. I closed my eyes. He could look and admire, touching me only with his utensil and, when necessary, the fingers of one hand. I resisted flinches when he trimmed near my nipples, the base of my cock and the flesh of my scrotum. I rested my hands on my head so that he could reduce the hairs under my arm to mere wisps.

He lightly touched my stomach. “And this, Sir? The hair on your belly is very . . . luxurious. But would Sir consider trimming it?”

I opened my eyes. “Really? Well, I hadn’t thought to do that.”

“It’s very masculine, Sir, don’t get me wrong. Still, you might care to try it, to see if you like it trimmed. If not, of course it will grow back.”

I had heard those words before. Still, warmer weather was coming, and I thought, well, why not expose a little more skin. “Sure,” I said, closing my eyes. “Let’s see what you can do.” I sat back as an unfamiliar sensation tickled its way down and across my torso.

“Sir, if you approve, I believe I am finished.” I stood and brushed away the loose hairs. I walked to a full-mirror. “Is Sir pleased?”

“I’m very pleased.” I turned left and right, looking at my reflection. “It looks like the body of another man.” I shifted again. “A thinner man.”

“Sir, you are perfect. May I please shower you? You mentioned liking the scent of eucalyptus and I have that oil for you.” I followed and watched as he prepared the water. He held back the curtain and I stepped inside. “May I join you, Sir, or should I wash you from where I stand?”

I looked down. “You’ll only make a mess of the floor. Step inside, please.”

I closed my eyes, absenting myself into my head. I raised my arms, making them vanish from my torso. I stood contrapposto, legs askance to his washings. He rinsed me for a long time, watching as the water he directed ran over the body he had shaped. Once my skin began to redden in streams, he turned off the water and toweled my body. He dusted me with a fine white powder. I opened my eyes and watched as he combed my hair.

“Sir, if I may ask: do you have a date tonight?”

I nodded. “I do, in fact.”

“She’s a very lucky girl, Sir. May I ask something else, Sir?”

I turned my head. “Yes, you may ask.”

“Sir, may I hold you? In my arms?”

I took his hands in mine. “You’ve done very well. Yes, you may hold me in your arms.” I pulled him close and wrapped his arms around my waist. I put my own arms on his shoulders. I held him, his face against my chest. I held him and felt his warmth and let him feel mine. Finally, he pulled back. “Thank you, Sir. You’ve been very good to me. One moment, please; I have something for you.” He left the bathroom and stepped into the kitchen. “It’s a little something, I thought you might want to share it with your date.”

He handed me a bag. I reached inside to pull out a bottle. “Scotch!” I said. “Twelve-year-old scotch?”

“I know you prefer bourbon, Sir, and I am sorry. But if you care to try this, I’m sure you’ll like it. If not, I’ll be sure it’s bourbon from now on.”

I stepped forward, putting my face to his. “I told you how I wanted my hair and yet you thought to suggest otherwise. I didn’t ask you to trim my belly and yet you thought to suggest it. You know I prefer bourbon and yet you thought to suggest scotch. I haven’t asked you to make suggestions. I was expecting you to take directions.”

He lowered his eyes. “I’m very sorry, Sir. I’ll try to do better, if you will allow me to serve you again.”

I turned my head and kissed his nose. “You make assumptions, but I am a reasonable person. Let me see how your suggestions grow on me.”

“You are kind, Sir.” He squeezed my hand. “I’ll go now to lay out your clothes.”

On my date that night, a cocksucker did not go wanting. My fresh grooming was nicely received. The scotch had a smoky, burning finish.

The next morning, I sent a note to my new personal groomer. “Well done. See you next month.”

"Mary Alice Gummer"

My ex’s motion claims that she first learned of my bisexuality and interest in multiple sex partners in my blog, and that this revelation came as a great surprise—so much so that it warranted a reevaluation of our original divorce settlement. If I had withheld my true sexual orientation in our marriage, so goes this argument, then perhaps that settlement might reasonably be questioned.

I have repeatedly asserted basic facts in this blog—facts that I had never written with my ex wife in mind as a reader, nor with any forethought that she would have reason to deny my bisexuality or interest in group sex. I first had sex with a female at age fifteen. I first had sex with a male at age sixteen. I engaged in group sex activities in my teens. I came out as bisexual once I encountered the word “bisexual” at age nineteen, in a conversation about David Bowie while listening to “The Man Who Sold The World.” My first dates with Lucy—my future ex-wife—involved nudity, sex, another man, another couple and a video camera.

I was monogamous in my marriage to Lucy, who is female. I can see why anyone outside our marriage might assume I was heterosexual. But I continued to identify as bisexual, for personal and political reasons, to anyone who might care to know. During our marriage, Lucy and I engaged in couples therapy in which my sexuality was routinely discussed. I volunteered for an organization that did outreach to GLBT youth. I took Lucy to march in gay pride parades and ACT UP events, my camera often in tow. My high school boyfriend succumbed to AIDS and I was one of his primary caregivers.

Lucy knows I remain friends with my dearest friends, some for decades by this time. My wife didn’t know I was bisexual? Please, Mary. And speaking of Mary . . .

To Whom it May Concern,

I have known the man behind “Jefferson” for over twenty-five years. When I first met him in nineteen eighty-three, he was introduced to me by our mutual friend, Donnie. I knew that Donnie and Jefferson had been a romantic item in high school and that Jefferson was currently seeing a woman, so it was made clear that Jefferson was bisexual. When Jefferson was engaged to Lucy, they joked that although they had agreed to fidelity within their marriage, each held out exception for the object of their greatest desire. Jefferson’s dream dalliance was Iggy Pop. What I mean to say is, this side of his sexuality was never cryptic or cloaked in shame. That said, I never saw anyone happier to be married than Jefferson, and I was inspired by how seriously he took his commitment to Lucy and their life together. Jefferson adores his children with every fiber of his being. He would rather die than do say or even intimate anything that could hurt those children in any way whatsoever.

Further, Jefferson has always been a steady, reliable, compassionate and principled person in my life. When Donnie was stricken with AIDS in 1990, Jefferson and I took over all major health decisions as he suffered rapid deterioration from HIV dementia and multiple physical complications, including the loss of the use of his legs. Together, we had to oversee his hospitalizations, medications, state services, eventual move to hospice care and, after he passed away, his funeral and the packing and shipping of his possessions. I honestly do not know what I would have done without Jefferson by my side through all the hard work and sadness that was involved in this ordeal. He was so steady, thoughtful and unwavering, even in the most daunting moments of this ongoing crisis.

I have since moved away from NYC and live in Southern California, am married and have a young son. I run all the outreach programs at my church. I often think that if Jefferson were here he would probably involve himself and his kids in all the good works we do, a great deal of which is outreach to kids living in shelters. I would trust my life to Jefferson and that of my child or anyone else’s child. I think the decisions he has made in how he expresses himself in his private sexual life do not impact how he moves through the world of friends, work and parenting. I have always found his behavior to be kind, intelligent and respectful.

Finally, I will say that it has been years since I have seen or spoken to Lucy. I always enjoyed her company—she was such a lovely, interesting, thoughtful woman. I hold no animosity towards her whatsoever, just wish there were a way she could see this situation more clearly and rethink this lawsuit, which I believe with all my heart and soul is based on concerns that are not founded. I would beg Lucy to simply realize she has gone down a bad road and to drop the case. Jefferson loves his children and is an excellent father. This is all I know.

I thank you for taking the time to consider my concerns on this matter.

Sincerely,

"Mary Alice Gummer"

Make an ANONYMOUS, TAX-DEDUCTIBLE contribution to Jefferson’s legal defense by visiting the Sexual Freedom Defense and Education Fund at:

Sexual Freedom Legal Defense and Education Fund
Please remember to specify that your donation is earmarked for the Jefferson Legal Defense Fund. The Sexual Freedom Legal Defense and Education Fund affirms that these earmarked donations are tax deductible.

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.

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.

Poor Connection

We were in bed enjoying post-coital bourbons when she began to muse on her desire to be dominant. “Don’t get me wrong, I really enjoy how submissive I feel with you,” she said, touching my forearm. “But I also wonder what it would be like to be the one in charge. I think I’d like having someone bowing in front of me, kissing my boots as I whipped him.” She rested her glass in her bare sternum. “I know, that sounds incredibly clichéd.”

“Why should that be cliché?” I asked. “That’s a perfectly fine fantasy, and perfectly realizable. But you’ve never done anything like that, have you?”

She took a sip. “No,” she swallowed. “No, the most I’ve done is like this, being submissive. Maybe a little bit of bossing men around in bed, but nothing very extreme.” She took another sip. “I’ve certainly never whipped anyone. I wouldn’t know how.”

“It’s something you can learn,” I said. “I didn’t know anything either until I started learning.”

She turned to me. “You could teach me that, couldn’t you?”

“Well, there are more experienced teachers,” I demurred. “But yes, I know enough to get you started.” I sipped my drink and thought for a moment. “You know what we need? We need a submissive to work on together. A teaching submissive.”

“Really?” she sat up. “Really? Because that would be perfect. Wouldn’t it? We could team up and really work holy hell on someone. I’d learn a lot from that.”

I turned and leaned on an elbow. “Yeah, let’s think that through. I’d really enjoy doing this with you. We’re having a great time together. This would be a fun project for us.”

“Yeah! Let’s do it.” She raised her glass. I clinked mine to hers and leaned to kiss her cheek. I fucked her ass to seal the deal.

That night we drew up a wish list for our submissive. I suggested that we start by looking for someone with whom neither of us had a preexisting history. That way, we could find a recruit who was dedicated to serving us equally, without interfering with our other relationships. She agreed and added that she would prefer a man if possible, as she wasn’t sure she felt ready to dominate a woman. Fine by me, I said—even better if he’s someone we can “force” to be bisexual. Hot! she exclaimed. Hell yeah, I nodded. We decided to see what might come our way online.

She sat on my lap as we composed an ad.

Attractive, creative, educated couple seeks submissive boy for our shared use.

“Nice,” she said, squeezing my cock. I kissed her shoulder blade and continued typing.

You will be expected to serve us together, as a servant to the pleasure we already share. You can expect to be our sexual plaything at our discretion, or you may simply be ignored as we enjoy one another’s company. You will take care of our basic needs, such as refilling our drinks, changing our sheets and generally proving useful. He will use your flesh to teach her to flog, cane and whip, so you must be willing to submit to the lash.

I squeezed her breast. “Anything else?” She leaned forward to type.

Enthusiasm more important than experience.

“Right,” I nodded. “Oh, and one more thing.” I reached for the keyboard.

Some domestic duties required.

“Really?” she asked.

“My bathroom doesn’t scrub itself, you know.” I hit send and patted her hips. “Come on, let’s get back to drinking and screwing. We can check responses tomorrow.”

The next morning, I made coffee as she stayed in bed. Although we awoke to sex, she had decided to forego a shower, preferring to head to her office smelling of us. I stroked semen from her hair as we kissed goodbye at the door.

As expected, there were dozens of responses waiting when I signed on. I poured a second cup of coffee and began to weed through my inbox. By the time I returned for my third cup, my trash was filled with men who expressed a readiness to fuck my “wife,” men who weren’t interested in being submissive but hoped we would forego that requirement after considering photographs of their cocks, and one-line replies asking ‘sup, are you for real, how about tonight. Such is the white noise of trash when a woman is mentioned in the mix.

I was left with a few contenders. I asked a muscular young man to tell us more about his oral fixation. A graduate student alluded to his quest to serve smart people. An artist asked if he could show his devotion by sketching us as he waited in service.

One man wrote simply, “Can we talk on the phone? I have a few specific questions that are better discussed that way.”

He had no way to know of my own peculiar aversion to telephones, which I regard with a wariness reserved for traps waiting to be sprung. Once I’m on a phone call, manners preclude me from rushing it to a conclusion. If we spoke, I would be stuck until this stranger had his say. It was just after nine. I had work waiting. I sent a quick reply.

Thank you for your response. I don’t have time for a phone call this morning. Please tell us more about your interests and experiences. Also, we require a photograph.

He replied quickly.

I can’t send a pic. I must be discreet. I have an important job. Please, a call will just take a moment. I will know quickly if this is a good match.

“Discreet.” I supposed this meant he was married. This wasn’t an issue for me, but I knew it was a deal breaker for my friend. I took another sip of coffee and steeled my dom manner.

We appreciate your need for discretion. You should respect our wishes. I can not waste time on phone calls this morning. I asked simple questions you can answer via email. Now I add another: are you married? That doesn’t work for us.

Again, his reply was instant.

Sir, please. I promise our conversation will be brief.

“Sir.” Another strike—why should he presume to address me as “sir?” I finished my coffee and opened my work. The prospective submissive could wait until I had time for him.

Another email swiftly followed.

Sir, my questions are few. I can only talk for a moment. May I please call you?

Call me? No one calls me. Everyone knows my phone works in one direction only. I drew a breath and exhaled. Maybe I should just get this over with and get on with the day.

I’ll give you five minutes. What’s your number?

He answered in a moment.

Sir, I can’t receive calls. I am at my office. Please give me your number and I will call you.

I didn’t like this at all. But I had taken on the task of recruiting a submissive, and that meant taking the time to vet applicants. I relented, and gave him my number, along with instructions that he was never to call without permission. My cell rang instantly. The caller id read “private caller.” He had blocked his number, which further irritated me. He had insisted on taking information from me, and I had none in return.

“Yes?” I answered. My ear was immediately filled with an electronic squall. His voice hid somewhere in its center.

“Thank you for allowing me to call, sir.” I strained to hear him over the poor connection. His voice was deep and accented. He spoke in a hush.

“This will be short,” I said tersely. “And you’ll have to speak up.”

“Thank you, sir. I promise, I only have a few questions." His voice remained low. "I know specifically what I need to make this work for me. I’m sure it will be better if we are all clear about these things from the beginning. Otherwise, it can’t work. If it doesn’t work for me, I lose interest. That’s no good for me.”

“You’re wasting my time,” I said impatiently, already regretting that I had agreed to this call. “Ask your questions.”

“Thank you, sir. I know what will work for me. I hope you will accept my needs. You are a couple, is that correct?”

“The ad stated that,” I reminded him.

“Uh huh, I see. Is she you wife?”

“No.”

“Uh huh, I see. Is she your mistress?”

“Why are you so concerned about the nature of our relationship?”

“Sir, I need to know that you are a real couple. That’s important to me if I am to stay interested.”

I nestled the phone against my shoulder and returned to my email. “We are a real couple. Any more questions?”

“Yes, sir, thank you.” A spike in the surface noise made me wince. “When you meet with a submissive, are you nude? Or do you wear clothes?”

I opened another email and read it. “We dress as we choose,” I replied absentmindedly.

“So you do wear clothes?”

“Or we are nude. This is our choice.”

“Oh, well, you see, that wouldn’t work for me. It’s very important that only I am nude. I don’t like to see other people’s genitals. It’s . . .” He said something I couldn’t hear. I didn’t bother asking him to repeat it.

“Fine then, we can wear clothes.” I sent an email and opened another.

“Thank you, sir. Do you have uniforms, or do you wear street clothes?”

“Uniforms?” My ear was numb. I transferred the phone to another shoulder. “No, we don’t have uniforms.”

“Oh, you see, that wouldn’t work for me. I prefer uniforms.”

“I suppose this isn’t a good match then,” I said impatiently.

“No, wait, perhaps we can make it work. Do you own black clothes?”

“This is New York. Of course we own black clothes.”

“Do you have them in leather, or rubber?”

“Neither. But we wouldn’t be averse to you providing them as gifts.”

“Oh, you see, that wouldn’t work for me. You would need to have the clothes on when I arrived.” He paused. Something scratched the microphone of his receiver. “Do you have black pants and a shirt? What would she wear?”

“I have those things, yes.” Another email sent. “I know she has a black dress.”

“No, a dress won’t work. I can’t have a dress in the room. She would need to wear slacks, or I would lose interest.”

“Okay.” My voice indicated that I had already lost interest.

“Is that acceptable, sir? That she could wear slacks?”

“I’ll ask her. Are you finished with your questions?”

“No sir, thank you, just a few more, please. Now, my master and mistress would be dressed, and I would be nude. Would you ignore my genitals, or touch them?”

“That would be up to our discretion.”

“But sir, what do you think would happen? Would you ignore my genitals, or touch them, or maybe torture them?”

I had run out of emails to answer. “I suppose we would torture them.”

“Oh sir, that wouldn’t work for me. It’s very important that you both ignore my genitals. My problem is that I’m a premature ejaculator. If you touch me, it’s over for me, and I lose interest.”

“Understood.”

“Of course, you can touch me at the end. That would be acceptable.”

“Understood.” I stood and paced. “Your five minutes are over. Any more questions?”

“Just a few, thank you sir. Now, your wife, or your mistress . . . is she slender or heavy?”

“My partner is slender.”

“Oh, see, that wouldn’t work for me. I prefer a heavy woman, a thick woman.”

I stopped pacing. I could accommodate many requests, but I couldn’t alter my friend’s body to suit him. “Why didn’t you simply say so at the beginning?” I said, clearly irritated. “Why ask me question after question if you have a specific preference? Why not just tell me what you have in mind?”

“Oh sir, but you see, this way I get the truth. You tell me the correct answer rather than what you think I want to hear.”

“I have no reason to lie to you.”

“I have to be careful,” he went on. “I can’t take risks. I’m a rabbi and my wife is unaware of this. I trust you can host?”

“Wait, what?” I pinched my brow. “You’re a rabbi?”

He paused. “This is a problem?” His receiver rustled again. I realized he was using it to scratch his beard.

I shook my head. “We prefer not to have a dress code imposed on us. We do not own uniforms. My partner doesn’t want married men and she’s not your preferred body type. We specifically requested a submissive for sexual use and you can’t provide that.”

“Please, there are compromises, sir . . .”

“I gave you five minutes and I answered your questions. This is clearly not a match. This concludes our telephone call. Do not call this number again. Good bye.” I hung up. My ears still rung from the background buzz of his connection.

I needed to clear my head. I took a short shower, washing away the sweet scent of morning sex and the cloying desperation of a submissive rabbi.

A new email was waiting when I returned to my computer.

It sounds like you don’t want to meet.

Initiation

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,
Bijou

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.”

“Never?”

“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.