Bukkake Social Club

Leah was my secret. I didn’t talk about her, or blog about her, or invite her to meet my friends at my orgies. We saw each other regularly, and I liked that it was just between us. We drank bourbon, we talked about smart things, we had brilliant sex. Wild horses couldn’t have dragged a word from me about any of it.

She seemed just as content with our discretion. In public, my bite marks were hidden underneath her clothes, the welts from my cane readily felt and easily disguised. In private, she never refused me any request and relished being told what to do.

Leah had a way of compartmentalizing to keep our relationship tidy, maintaining a cool reserve that didn’t interfere with our measured intimacy. She kept a few things at my place—ear plugs to block my snoring, a speculum that we kept forgetting to use—but she always traveled with her own toothbrush.

She knew about my blog, although we didn’t talk about it much. I wasn’t even sure she read it. She also knew about my orgies, but she didn’t ask to attend. I might have assumed she simply wasn’t interested had I not also known that she was, first and foremost, exceptionally well mannered. She would never pry or ask for an invitation to anything.

Being beautiful also worked in her favor. Life had taught her that any invitation she wanted was likely to come to her.

This dame was a class act. Just watching her hold a glass as she talked, resting it in the palm of one hand as she held it between the manicured fingers of the other, I inevitably thought of the word “poise.”

Her innate composure held the same intrigue for me as a house of cards holds for a cat. I was compelled to comprehend it even at the risk of scattering it to pieces.

One evening, I extended an invitation.“Would you like,” I said, resting my bourbon glass on my knee, “to be my guest for the Bukkake Social Club?”

She didn’t miss a beat. “Why, thank you for the charming invitation, but what is that?”

I explained. “Well, as you know, Leah, I host a few orgies each month. One of these is a mixed party of bisexual men and women. It’s very popular, and there are always new men who want to be invited. This puts me in a bind, as we want a good gender ratio. If I add a male, I like to add a female.”

“Naturally. You’re a good host.”

“I do my level best,” I smiled. “So this imbalance finds me in a quandary. I am left with a group of men who are all perfectly satisfactory—attractive, polite and bisexual, or at least bi-friendly—and nothing to do with them. So I was struck by the thought that perhaps I could start a new event for them. And thus was born the Bukkake Social Club.

“The Bukkake Social Club meets every couple of weeks. At each session, I present a different female guest. The gentleman undress and I undress our guest. They then watch as our guest and I have sex. The gentlemen are not permitted to touch our guest, though they are invited to interact with one another if they choose. At the meeting’s end, the gentleman cum on our guest and then leave.” I took another sip. “And then, you know, we keep fucking.”

Leah laughed. “I’m in. How can I resist an opportunity to be the center of attention?”

“Cheers.” I raised my glass. “And can I tell you something funny about the Bukkake Social Club? I don’t impose a time limit, but a meeting has never once gone over forty-five minutes. One boy will announce that he’s going to cum, and once he does, it’s a chain reaction. They all cum.”

“That’s interesting,” she nodded. “Sort of a tribal male ritual?”

“That, or the porn effect,” I shrugged. “They all know their roles, having seen it often enough in bukkake porn. Either way, they are going to really enjoy making a mess of you.”

“You say the sweetest things,” Leah said, extending a leg to press her toes against my groin.”

I put down my glass and extended a hand.

The next day, Leah emailed two pictures for me to forward to the gentlemen. One showed her body as she lay flat on crisp white sheets. The other was shot in a mirror, the camera obscuring her face but revealing her large breasts and slender waist.

The gentlemen responded with terrific enthusiasm.

On the evening the Bukkake Social Club next convened, Leah was late to leave work. Several of the gentlemen had already arrived when I opened the door for her. They stood as one when I introduced her to the room.

“Gentlemen, this is Leah. Leah, may I introduce Timothy, Bill, Jeremy, Max, Chris, Philip, Eric . . .”

Leah raised a hand. “Oh, I’m sorry, I’ll never remember names,” she said. “Unless I have to, and I’d rather not.”

The men laughed nervously. Although many of them had been members of the Bukkake Social Club for a while, the first moments of each session still felt awkward for some.

“Not at all,” I said. “Drink?”

“Yes, please.” Leah looked to the couch. One of the gentlemen moved aside to make room. “Thanks,” she said, sitting at the vacated space near one end.

Leah was chatting with the gentlemen when I returned with her vodka and seltzer. (I had learned that she couldn’t tolerate the quinine of tonic water, and so I kept seltzer for her.) She was a natural, I observed. She could manage any cocktail party with aplomb, even one such as this.

Typically, I preferred that the guest arrive before the gentlemen so that the two of us would have time to get in the right frame of mind. Now, that would just have to happen in a group setting. But it would need to happen reasonably soon, as some of the men needed to get home to dinner with their wives or girlfriends.

There was a knock at the door. “This fellow is late, but he’s lucky we’re off to a late start tonight,” I said, standing. I opened the door to find one of the new guys.

“Hey, Jefferson? Jacob, man. Sorry I’m late.”

“No worries, Jacob. We’re off to a late start.” I took his hand. “Come in, I’ll introduce you.”

He smiled. I closed the door behind him.

My mind flipped through its Rolodex of club applicants. Jacob was bisexual, right? I would need to look back into that. For in that moment at the door, I had catalogued his lips, his smile, and the way he said my name. I was beginning to assemble the necessary ingredients for a hearty crush.

I introduced Jacob to the room. Seating positions were adjusted and the late arrival sat next to the guest of honor.

“So you’re Leah?” he said, offering a hand. “I’m Jacob.” He chuckled as they shook hands. “Interesting way to meet, huh?”

“Oh yes, but how else do you meet the most interesting people?”

“I suppose so,” Jacob nodded. “So how do you know Jefferson?”

“Craig’s List, though that seems a long time ago. How do you know him?”

“Craig’s List, too, but kind of indirectly. I know someone who came to this bukkake thing and he told me I had to check it out. So I’m checking it out.”

“Oh right, Robby,” I recalled. “How’s he doing?”

“I guess he’s okay,” Jacob said. “He said hey, sorry he can’t make it.”

“Send him my regards.” Robby was a cute twink who tended to cling to the walls at our events. I pictured Jacob and him naked together, wondering if that’s how they knew one another.

“Hey, Leah, can I ask you a question?” Jacob said. “Do you work in midtown?”

Leah moved her glass to her palm. “Yes. Why?”

Jacob ran a hand through his hair. He asked if she worked in a particular building. She did. He asked if she worked for a particular company. She did.“Yeah, well, so do I. I’ve seen you in the elevators. I thought that was you.”

I cringed. Leah was content with our discretion and now I had brought in a co-worker to watch us fuck.

The two passed a volley of company gossip. I watched the faces of the other gentlemen. This was unprecedented in our social club, and it threatened to upset our decorum. I needed to address this.

“Leah, sorry to interrupt,” I began. “But are you comfortable having Jacob here? I mean, if it’s a problem, we can just have him back another time when you won’t be our guest.”

“Oh no, I can totally have him fired.”

“It’s true, she can so fire my ass.”

The men laughed. “Well, if that is resolved,” I said, standing. “Then I would like to officially open this session of the Bukkake Social Club. Gentlemen?”

The gentlemen stood and began to remove their clothes. Jacob looked around and began to do the same. I remained clothed for now.

Leah sat back with her drink. “Hmm, I’m enjoying this.”

“All for you, pretty,” I smiled, waving a hand to the assembly.

A moment before, there had been a group of guys sitting around, chatting nervously. Now they were gone, replaced by virile bodies, handsome faces and cocks that were filling with anticipation. Leah slowly sipped her drink, letting her eyes take in the men who would soon be so intent on looking at her.

I watched Jacob’s body emerge from his clothes. He pulled off a black t-shirt to reveal a lean torso decorated by old-school tattoos that had no immediately discernable relationship to one another. A Star of David hung from his neck.

“A fellow Jew with tattoos,” Leah smiled approvingly. She raised a fist in the air. “Huzzah!”

“Oh yeah?” Jacob replied, unfastening his wide belt. “You too?” His pants lowered with the jangle of the chain that connected his wallet to a belt loop.

“You’ll see soon enough,” Leah said, lowering her eyes as she first saw Jacob’s thick cock.

I glanced at Jacob’s body, surreptitiously cataloguing. Certainly, there was nothing about his appearance that would quell the threat of an incipient crush.

Physically, he was just little slighter than me. I imagined unzipping my skin and wrapping him in it; the fit would be just right.

Jacob looked around at the other nude men. He brought his palms together with a clap. “Okay,” he said, involuntarily.

“Gentlemen, I recommend that we adjourn to the bedroom.” I took Leah’s hand. “Shall we?”

“You lead, I follow,” she said.

When she stood, I turned her to face the men. I moved her hair to kiss the back of her neck, inhaling deeply. I took her arms behind her back and wrapped them in my right arm. I twirled her suddenly to face the other direction. “Actually,” I said, “Why don’t you lead?”

She stepped forward haltingly, unable to move beyond my restrictions on her body. I pressed myself against her back and turned her to enter the bedroom. The gentlemen followed, forming a semi-circle around the bed.

I released Leah and turned her. I lowered my lips to hers. My hands moved down her body. I pulled her top up and over her head. I kept my eyes on her as I spoke. “Gentlemen, let’s take a moment to revisit the club rules. You are welcome to watch and jerk off. If you want to touch another fellow, make sure it’s okay before you touch. You aren’t to touch Leah . . .”

“It’s okay above the waist,” Leah interjected.

“A fortunate revision, gentlemen.” I turned Leah to face the assembly. I unfastened her bra.“Whoa,” Timothy said.

Leah smiled. “Before anyone asks: yes, they are real.”

My hands cupped her breasts from behind. “Hmmm, and spectacular.” I lowered my teeth to her shoulder.

“Unnnh,” Leah squirmed, closing her eyes. I pinched a nipple.

I stood back and reached around to unfasten her pants. She raised her legs to step from them. I kicked them aside. I ran my hands along her hips, fingering her thong panties, caressing her flat belly, watching over her shoulder as the men gazed at her body. No one was looking at me; I was merely the barker showcasing the main attraction.

I ran a cheek across Leah’s shoulders, a private gesture between us. Her breathing accelerated. My eyes were closed, savoring her scent and touch. When I opened my eyes, I saw Jacob looking at me. I closed my eyes again, smiling inwardly, growing hard in my clothes.

I slipped my hands into the strands of her thong. “Gentlemen, also please recall that you are not to cum in Leah’s face or in her mouth.” I crouched, lowering Leah’s panties as I sank. “That said, we want to give her a good soaking, so when you do cum, please be sure you cover her.” I stood, wrapping my arms around her. “May I suggest you consider her tits as your target?”

“Shit,” Eric said, stroking fast. He looked as if he were ready to explode.

I turned Leah to face me. I undressed and put my hands to her face. “It’s me,” I whispered. “And you.”

Leah nodded. I lead her to the bed and lay her back. I spread her thighs and ran a finger along her slit. “Wet,” I assessed. “Very nice.” I lowered my face to taste her, burrowing my nose into her smooth, soft pubis. She twisted, breathing fast. Her eyes were closed. I knew they would remain closed until I told her to open them.

The men pressed close. Eric knelt on the bed over her body. He raised a hand, but halted. “I can touch you?” he asked. Leah sucked a deep breath and nodded.

Eric’s hand shook slightly as he caressed a breast. Other hands joined his on her. I soon felt Leah quiver in my mouth. I flicked her clit steadily, prepared for her orgasm.I

t came quietly as her body bucked, her soft high wail filling my ears. “Fuck, that’s hot,” Chris admired. He looked to another man. “God, she’s so hot.”

“Yes, isn’t she?” I agreed. I took a condom and tore the package. I pulled her to the bed’s edge. She moaned as I entered her. I stood with her legs against my chest, exposing her body to the eyes and hands of the gentlemen. This was a show; they wanted to see her, not merely watch my back humping over her. I had cast myself as a supporting actor.

Leah’s hands went back over her head. I recognized this as a sign of her surrender. Often, I pinned her back as I fucked her. “Jacob, do me a favor,” I asked. “Hold Leah’s arms back, please.”

“Sure.” Jacob dropped his cock and knelt on the bed behind Leah’s head. She crossed her forearms as he took him in his grip. She squirmed against his hold. Jacob held firm.

“Good boy. Thanks.” I pressed back on Leah’s thighs and fucked into her with deep thrusts. She responded by cumming again. As she came, I saw that she held Jacob’s cock in her confined hands.

As her wail subsided, I nodded at Jacob, gesturing that he should release her arms. He did, and her hands fell away from his cock. I leaned forward and took Leah’s jaw in my right hand. I roughly turned her to face me.“Open your eyes, Leah.” She opened her eyes, nodding as best she could in my grip. “Come here, Jacob.” I turned my eyes to direct him to kneel at her side. I turned Leah’s face in his direction. “Take a look at Jacob. Isn’t he beautiful?”

She nodded.

“Look at his hair, his face, his body.” Leah’s eyes lowered. “Look at that cock. Don’t you want it?”

She nodded.

“Leah, we have a rule at the Bukkake Social Club. You don’t get to blow the boys. Do you understand that rule?”

She nodded. I could hear the men breathing heavily around me, but I kept my eyes on Leah. I shifted her face from my right hand to my left.

“But Leah,” I continued. “That rule does not apply to me.” I turned my face and took Jacob’s cock in my hand. My eyes locked on his as I took it in my mouth. He nodded as I swallowed him, shoving him in and out of my mouth.

I moved the fingers of my left hand into her mouth, pressing to the back of her tongue as I sucked Jacob’s cock. I pressed deeper into her cunt, keeping her full.I knew her eyes were open, as I had instructed.I pulled back and looked at her. I took Jacob’s cock in my hand and guided him a few steps to one side. I leaned over Leah and kissed her. I moved my face back slightly and once again took Jacob in my mouth. His cock brushed lightly over her lips as I sucked him.

Leah opened her mouth to taste him. I pulled her hair with my free hand. She yelped.I dropped the cock from my mouth, drool running into her face. “You are such a slut, Leah.” I pulled out of her. “Turn over.”

Leah weakly turned on her front, then up on her knees. I lubed her ass and slid into her. She groaned and fell forward slightly.

“No, Leah, you must remain upright.” I grabbed her shoulder and fucked into her hard. “Godammit, you are hopeless. Jacob, I’m sorry, but can you lend another hand?”

He came to my side. “What can I do?”

I slapped Leah’s ass. She sighed. “I give up. She’s a slut and there’s nothing to be done about it. Go put your cock in her mouth, please.”

Leah looked back at me. "Yes, please, please put your cock in my mouth!"

Jacob smiled. “Sure, Jefferson, anything you say.”“

Fucking hot,” Philip said.Jacob positioned himself in front of Leah’s face, spreading his legs wide to accommodate her elbows. She lowered her mouth to his cock tentatively.

“No Leah, you wanted that cock, you take it.” I grabbed her hair and pushed her up and down Jacob’s shaft. He rested a hand on the back of her neck, so I could focus on her ass. I grabbed her hips and stood back to push into her hard and fast.

“Damn,” Chris said.

“Yeah, with this one, you have to be sure she feels it.” I spanked her, alternating buttocks as if galloping her onward. “How’s that cocksucking, Jacob?”

Jacob looked up, his hands on Leah’s temples. “Feels awesome,” he said, laughing.

“Hold ‘er steady, then, we’re taking ‘er home.” I was having a hell of a good time. I knew Leah had gone pretty far into herself, but we’d get her back in time. As for Jacob, he was a natural wingman.

After an eternity of fucking Leah’s ass at my top speed, I slowed up. “Whew, man, I’m exhausted,” I said, pulling out. “Jacob, drop the blowjob for a second.” I grabbed Leah’s hair and pulled her head back. Jacob retrieved his cock and scooted over the bed’s edge.

I grabbed Leah’s hips and flipped her over. “Get a condom, Jacob. I need a break, so you’re taking over.”

“You’re serious?” Jacob looked from me to Leah.

“Yeah, I’m serious. Seriously beat. Thanks for pitching in.” I tugged the condom from my cock and threw it on the floor. It landed with a thwack.

Jacob opened a condom as I leaned in to Leah’s ear. “You don’t mind if the cute boy fucks you a little bit, do you, Leah?”

She shook her head, eyes closed. “Thank you for the cute boy,” she whispered. I kissed her hair.

I wrapped a forearm around Leah’s head as Jacob spread her legs. He leaned forward on his extended arms and began to jackhammer.

The gentlemen moved closer to watch. I intended to give my cock a break, but I could resist touching myself as he fucked her. Here were two gorgeous people who had just met, fucking in a circle of aroused naked men. And why?

Because I made it happen.

That realization filled me. If I had pockets at that moment, they might have been filled with Zuzu’s petals.

After a time, I checked the clock. We needed to wrap this up to keep on schedule.“Okay, Jacob, I’m tapping you out.” I kissed Leah’s forehead and stood. “Let’s finish this.”

Jacob slowed his thrusts. “Oh, okay, you want me to stop?”

“Yes, but stay nearby,” I instructed, lubing a new condom. “Leah honey, stay with me.” She nodded, eyes closed, as I pushed into her. I stood with my knees apart and spread back her limber legs. “How’s that view, Eric?”

“Fuck man, that’s fucking hot.” Eric moved closer, tugging fast on his cock.“You ready to soak her, man?” I asked, rocking back and forth in her.

“Yeah, you want me too?”

“Yeah, man, get it started.”

“Okay, man, I’ve going to pop.” Eric leaned over Leah’s breasts and beat himself furiously, watching Leah watch him. “Shit, shit, shit,” he moaned, spraying Leah’s right breast and neck.

“Shit man, I going to cum,” Chris panted, pressing forward.

I smiled at Jacob. Like clockwork, I thought, as Chris unloaded on Leah’s ribcage.

Timothy and Jeremy were almost simultaneous. The others lined up to make their contributions. Bill kept us waiting for a bit as we offered encouragement.

“C’mon man, bust that nut,” Timothy said, his eyes on Bill’s cock.

“Yeah, I’m gonna cover her . . .” I realized this was the first thing Bill had said all night.

“Do it man, give that slut what she needs.”

Bill pressed his hips forward and grunted. His heavy drops splashed like petals landing in the puddle on Leah’s body.

“Fucking a’, dude,” Eric laughed. “That’s too damn hot.”

“Okay gentlemen, nicely done.” I pulled out and walked around to Leah’s face. I kissed her cheek. “You did very well, pretty. Now I’m going to clean you up. Don’t move.”

I left to retrieve a warm washcloth. The gentlemen tidied up with tissues. Jacob stood watching. He started to remove the condom still on his cock.

I looked up from washing Leah. “Hey, why don’t you fuck her, very gently? That would be nice.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, let’s treat her sweetly. She’s worked very hard.”

“As I said, such a good host.” Leah grinned as she gave me a thumbs up.

Jacob nodded and slowly entered her. Leah moaned softly, as if she now felt him for the first time.

Leah’s belly glistened with the sheen of drying semen. The gentlemen each took a moment to thank Leah.

She was alert now, eyes wide open. “Well, thank you, guys. That was really nice.”

“’Nice’ doesn’t begin to describe it,” Eric marveled. “You are smoking.”

“Thanks.” Leah smiled and turned her attention to Jacob. “I especially like this one.”

“Me too.” I put my arm on Jacob’s waist and kissed his neck. “You two take care; I’m going to show out the fellows.” I grabbed my clothes and went to join the men in the living room.

When I returned to the bedroom, Leah and Jacob were stretched out on the bed. They laughed as they talked.

I took off my shirt. “Did you notice the time? We broke the forty-five minute mark, but just barely.”

Jacob looked at the clock. “Are you serious? That wasn’t even an hour, huh?”

“Like clockwork,” Leah nodded.

“Yeah, like clockwork.” I pulled off my shorts. “So what do you think? You two want to break and have drinks, or should we just fuck some more?”

Leah looked to Jacob, then back to me. “Can’t you just make the decisions?”

“Yeah, whatever you want,” Jacob agreed.

I smiled.

Independence

I moved out on Independence Day.

Eight years ago today, I left the suburban home my wife and I had purchased three years earlier. She had not spoken to me since April, when I departed for a business trip she strenuously opposed. I had been offered an opportunity to write two related stories—one for a magazine to which I frequently contributed, the second for The New York Times—requiring a stay in Dubai.

I regarded these assignments as steps forward in my career. She regarded my consideration of them as idiocy. The invasion of Iraq was then underway, she argued; it was a dangerous time for Americans to travel anywhere in the world, much less to the Persian Gulf. I argued that I wouldn’t be remotely in harm’s way. She countered that I would be a “big dumb blond walking target” for “them,” all of whom “hate us.” If I went on the trip, she threatened, we were “finished.”

I had heard that threat before. By and large, I ceded to her preferences on day-to-day matters. I had learned that it was simpler to give way than to argue over the picayune. Yet now and then, I had strong opinions on matters, particularly those affecting my career. When I was accepted to graduate school, which she felt we could not afford, I was told that we were “finished.” When I took a job that paid more and demanded more time, she asserted we were “finished.” We had been “finished” so many times already, I felt I could write these articles and deal with the fallout later.

The trip was uneventful. The articles went over well and I was assigned more. My wife stopped speaking to me. She refused to acknowledge my presence. She constantly muttered to herself about the “asshole” she had married, never minding the listening ears of our three children. Her rage had surpassed concerns for putting forward any fronts. She fucking hated that “asshole” and made sure everyone knew it.

Her father came forward with a solution that he hoped would placate Lucy’s rage. He owned an apartment in the city that had gone unused since Lucy and I lived there with the children some years earlier. He urged me to move there, at least temporarily, until Lucy’s anger blew over. If Lucy has a problem with me, I said, perhaps she should move there. I saw no reason to leave my home. “She’ll never do that,” he said. “It’s up to you to create some peace in that house. Give her some time to get over this; she can’t be angry forever.”

When the school year ended, Lucy took the children on a trip. It was agreed that I would pack up some things and move to the apartment. I packed my car with the clothes I would need for work, a box of files and the iMac I used to write my articles, and drove off. I saw no reason to take more; Lucy’s rage would burn itself out, as it invariably did.

In the weeks leading up to my departure, as Lucy fumed, I confided in very few friends that I feared my marriage was ending. Dacia expressed sympathy, yet wondered if it might be for the best. Despite my efforts to keep my family intact, I was, she knew, exhausted by arguments and bitter silences. My long-time friend Marcus, himself recently divorced, encouraged me to look at the positive aspects of creating a new life. He still had conflicts with his ex-wife, he acknowledged, particularly over their children, but he was personally happier than he had been in years. “And then there’s the sex,” Marcus added. “Let me ask you a personal question: are you satisfied with your sex life with Lucy?”

“There’s no such animal.” It felt sad to acknowledge this out loud, as if confessing my shame at our utter lack of intimacy. “We’ve been through therapy and all, but she’s just not that interested in sex.”

“Are you?”

“From what I recall of it, yes.”

“Lucy’s giving you a gift,” Marcus said. “If she’s insisting on a separation, if she’s asking for divorce, she’s giving you freedom. Use it. Go get laid. See what freedom tastes like.”

I unpacked my car at the apartment I had once shared with my young family. I hung my shirts in a closet and set the rest of my clothes in half an empty drawer. My work files rested on a stack of boxes storing the remains of my father-in-law’s former office. I reset the clock radio next to the bed in which Lucy and I had conceived each of our three children. Dust covered its dark duvet.

I poured a bourbon and sat on the couch. Dusk settled. Two bourbons later, I picked up the iMac and put it on the dining table. I plugged the cord into an outlet, detached a nearby phone and ran the line to the computer. Before long, the modem’s familiar whines and belches echoed in the near empty room. I had mail. Ignoring that, I followed Marcus’s road map to chat rooms. ("It takes time to meet women," he had told me, "but hooking up with guys is easy.") It took a drink or two and several failed attempts, but I finally got into a chat entitled “M4MNYC.” Instant messages littered my screen with nonsensical terms:

sup

Pics?

Loc?

a/s/l?

Stats? Into?

I watched messages pile up in the main chat. I finally typed in one of my own.

My marriage ended today. I was exiled to an empty apartment. How does this begin?

An answer swiftly came. Wow, that’s hard. I’m sorry to hear about that.

Me too, I thought. Me too. What’s your name? I’m Jefferson.

Jim. Nice to meet you. Do you want company?

I twirled my glass and took a sip. Yes, please. Thirty minutes later, he was at my door. Jim was handsome, resembling Matthew Broderick. I offered him a drink.

“Can I have a kiss instead?”

I nodded and he came forward. Jim’s kiss was so warm, so inviting and so necessary. I had not felt desired in years. He tugged at my clothes. I tugged at his. “Where’s your bed?” he murmured into my mouth. I walked backwards, not daring to take my lips from his. We fell backward on the bed, sending up clouds of dust.

Sex, as it turned out, was much easier outside my marriage than it had been within. I knew that Lucy would eventually come around and I’d be invited back home. We would work it out and sustain a truce until the next time we were “finished.” There would remain this void in our marriage—one month, two, four—that we would refrain from discussing. She had given me this freedom, as Marcus pointed out, however temporarily. I had not been the one to put the brakes on our monogamy, but I intended to make the most of my freedom before being called back.

I was stunned when the divorce papers arrived.

The divorce was nasty and unnecessarily protracted. Not long after it was finalized, Lucy—stoned and drunk—proposed we get back together. By then, it was too late. Independence had taken hold. I had already begun to write about it here.

Years later, Lucy would discover my blog and sue for custody of our children. She shared my blog with her family, who read, in as much detail as they pleased, of my experience of Lucy’s mental illness, her problems with intimacy, and the impulsivity with which she ended our fifteen-year relationship. Lucy described the contents of my blog to our children, telling them that their father was bisexual and a bad man. A few months ago, Lucy took it onto herself to out me to my birth family.

If I enjoyed a new sex life, partly led in public, Lucy ensured that my public would include those I had chosen not to tell. It was a fitting punishment for my happiness without her, for abandoning her when she pushed me out the door.

But her rash behavior, as ever, backfired. No one really seems to care that I have a pretty great sex life. No one seems to care that the husband who loved her went on to love others. Her loneliness and rage weren’t mitigated by her destruction of my privacy. If anything, her outings only cleared my path to greater freedom. After all, who does she have left to tell?

Eight years ago today, Lucy sent me out the edge of the Earth, hoping I’d fall over. Instead, I found freedoms beyond her reach.

Biochemistry

When I began organizing sex parties eight years ago, part of my impetus for doing so came from the necessity of filling a void. To the best of my knowledge, there were no ongoing parties welcoming of bisexual men. Most events for men and women held to a rigid double standard: women were presumed to be bisexual, whether or not they were, and men were prohibited from touching other men. My friends and I wanted a space where we could be open about our sexuality and so we created a space of our own.

Now, the good folks behind Chemistry have started Biochemistry, a party for bisexual/bi-curious men and the women who love them. I plan to be a regular and I’m talking it up with my friends.

Come join us! You need to be a Chemistry member to attend. Fill out the form below and submit it to thelist@chemistry-nyc.com. Do so now and perhaps I’ll see you at the next party.

Tell ‘em Jefferson sent you.

Thanks for your interest in Chemistry! Chemistry is a private membership club. We'd like to get to know a bit about you. Please answer the following questions thoughtfully. Your responses will not be shared with anyone. Note that each individual must submit an application.


What is your first name?


What decade were you born in?


If you are single, tell us how you feel about that. If you are in a committed relationship, tell us about it.


Do you plan on attending your first Chemistry party with a date? If so, please give his/her first name and email address.


Tell us about yourself (work, goals, interests, dreams, etc.). How would you describe your personality?


What is your favorite non-sexual hobby, past or present? Why?


What is your philosophy on sex? What role does sexuality play in your life?


Have you been to on-premise erotic parties before? If so, which one(s), and what did you like/dislike about them? If not, what is motivating you to attend one now?


What elements and characteristics would make a perfect night at Chemistry for you?


How did you find out about Chemistry? Please be specific (i.e., which friend, article, etc.). Jefferson's "One Life, Take Two" blog


Would you like to receive invites to our New York parties, our Philadelphia parties, or both?


Please send a G-rated photo.

HNT

Scout wrote to ask if I’d like to have a girlfriend tie him up and watch as he sucked my dick. Lori was all about that. Here’s her rope handiwork just prior to the realization of the second part of Scout’s proposal.

Yesterday was Lori’s birthday. Show her some love at Kinky Sticks.

Psychotherapy Live!

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

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

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

Part One



Part Two



Part Three

Blogoversary

Today is the fifth anniversary of my blog.

Five years ago this week, I had a date with Celia. I had fostered a serious crush on her since the night, months before, she had showed up at my orgy on the arm of a guy I liked. Celia and I planned to go to a gallery and have lunch before her daily yoga class. She never made it to yoga. The date lasted all weekend.

As was my habit in those days, I described our date in a long email to my friend Dacia. The demise of my marriage was fresh, and after fifteen years of generally abstinent monogamy, dating and sex were wholly alien to me. It helped to share my experiences with someone who could relate to the wonder and surreality I felt in being with new partners. I was now free to desire others and, more astonishingly to me, others desired me in kind.

After reading this particular story, Dacia diagnosed me with “blog envy” and suggested I start my own blog. I had little notion of what a blog was; this was two-thousand and four, back when “weblogs” were novel and Facebook and Twitter mere twinkles in the eyes of entrepreneurial undergraduates. Dacia offered to help me get started. One evening over bourbon and conversation, she showed me how to start a blogger account. My email to Dacia about a weekend with Celia became my first post.

When I started blogging, I imagined I was writing into a void. No one I knew read blogs, much less blogs about sex. I was aware of only a few sex blogs and of those, none were by parents, none were by men and none by anyone over thirty. None were primarily focused on nonfiction erotica. I didn’t imagine that I had discovered a niche; rather, I felt like an interloper in an arena in which bespectacled twenty-something women offered sex advice to one another while waiting for the inevitable book deal. I contented myself by regarding my blog as a kind of safe deposit box. I now had a place where I could store the stories of my new life.

It wasn’t long before that perception changed. A reader began to correspond with me and, before long, we had a date. That date lead to love, a sexual relationship lasting nearly two years, and a friendship that endures to this day. Another newly-divorced parent found my blog, started her own, and, despite the twelve-hundred miles between us, we fell in love. People who read my blog also became bloggers. Other bloggers came my way as correspondents and sex partners. Within a year of my first post, I found that the void into which I had written had transformed into a community of friends, lovers and fellow smutmongers.

My writing as “Jefferson” soon became a second career, an adjunct to the work done under my real name. My blog drew media interest and offers to publish elsewhere. I began to teach at public events. Eventually, publicity led to catastrophe. My ex-wife discovered my blog and, asserting that my sexuality as described herein put our children in immediate danger, she sued for full custody. I took down my blog as that case went to court. Adding to my difficulties, covetous bloggers saw my curtailed online presence as an opportunity to promote themselves at my expense. For nearly a year, I kept my life offline as my ex-wife sought to dismember my family and others sought to capitalize on my misfortune.

In the end, I prevailed in my custody case. The State of New York did not concur with my ex-wife’s cynical assertions that my sexuality was in any way detrimental to our children. My family remained intact.

My blog returned and, to the dismay of malicious wags, it continued to attract a wide readership. In seeking to bury me with gossip, they only succeeded in making my story that much more interesting to readers.

Throughout these hardships, I was reminded over and again of the many good things that have happened because I began to put my life online in this blog. My struggle in the custody case was aided by Lambda Legal, The National Coalition for Sexual Freedom and The Sexual Freedom Legal Defense and Education Fund. Throughout my interactions with these organizations, I was supported in the free expression of my sexuality. I was offered daily encouragement by friends I met though this blog, including those who formed The Friends of Jefferson to aid in raising awareness and funds. Readers offered supportive notes and made financial contributions to my legal defense fund; as these donations were anonymous, I can’t thank contributors directly except by offering my gratitude here. The legal defense fund was instrumental in the preservation of my family. Thank you.

Being online and open about my relationships, my parenting and my sexuality is not a decision I’ve made lightly. I am aware of the challenges I risk because I choose to do so. Still, it would be wrong to stop writing merely to avoid conflict with my ex wife—she’s made it plain that she will continue to offer conflict, blog or no blog—or to cede to the bullying of online detractors. It’s gratifying to hear that my blog entertains. It’s inspiring to hear that it encourages others in their own lives.

Each year on my blogoversary, I reprint my original post. (This was unfortunately not possible last year, when I was obliged to keep my sex life offline.) If you enjoy this story, you’re welcome to root around in my Archives for more.

Enjoy. And Celia, I know you’re reading: happy anniversary.

My Celia

It’s been over a year since the break up.

For most of that year, I have hosted sex parties in Manhattan. I suppose I will need to catch you up on how that transpired. I’ve made great friends and lovers at these parties, and yet I haven’t often had the feeling of falling head over heels for someone.

Until my Celia.

I met Celia at a party at my place last spring. She arrived late with a guy who comes sometimes. The regulars were already naked, well fucked and relaxed.

Celia sat on a bed and chatted with us. She was dressed in jeans and a black t-shirt, worn backwards so that the logo was illegible. As we talked, Jane removed Celia’s clothes, and had soon stripped her naked. Jane kissed her torso as Celia leaned back, opening her thighs; we heard her gasp as Jane’s mouth reached her clit.

Being gracious like she is, Jane soon turned and offered me Celia’s body. I set to licking Jane's drool from Celia's labia.

As we fucked, as we did almost immediately, I decided not to stop fucking her. This is not the best form at a sex party, particularly for the host; one really should offer new guests an opportunity to work the room.

I doubt that Celia cared much for etiquette. She had gorgeous hazel-green eyes, focused intently on mine. I kept her gaze, noticing details at the periphery. Celia had a lovely face: aquiline nose, pre-Raphaelite features, framed in long black hair.

I was soon very curious to know more about the woman I was fucking, and so thought maybe we could take a break to chat.

"I would really like to talk with you," I said, meaning "Maybe we can stop and talk."

"Sure . . . what do you want to talk about?" she replied, as if I meant we should have a conversation while fucking. I was willing.

"So, where did you grow up?," I asked. I learned that she grew up in New England, she is an art student, and she would be working on a farm all summer. Within those first few moments, I gleaned that we had art in common, the sex was great, and I wouldn't be able to see her again for months.

I finally let her have sex with some of the others. Later we kissed, as intently as we had gazed. As she left, she stood in the door, giving me long, hungry kisses, as her date waited for her.

As it happened, she had an art show up, and as it happened, I was in the neighborhood the very next day. I was glad to see her art was good.

The summer passed.

Two weeks ago, I got an email from her, saying she was back in town and wanted to return to the sex parties. Cool!

I suggested we get together, and proposed we go check out the new Museum of Modern Art on opening day, as I had special tickets. It turned out she did too.

Later, we learned that the opening day was free to the public. So much for special access.

We decided to meet at an exhibition by Barbara Nitke at Art@Large gallery, get lunch, and see the museum--which we knew would be hellishly crowded. Nitke’s photos have to do with sadomasochism (SM). While not into SM herself, Nitke has an empathic insight into the lives of those who are. There is a strong sense of intimacy and care in her photographs.

Celia was late for our date, which was fine with me. We saw Nitke's work together. Celia says she knew many of the images, having seen Nitke lecture at the Eulenspeigel Society, a New York based organization for those into SM.

(I catalogued those details—Celia already knew Nitke and the Eulenspeigel Society?)

We lunched, and talked about out first encounter. It was her first sex party, she said, and her moment with Jane was her first encounter with a woman. She liked it, but she was taking downers at the time, which she regretted.

I referred to this as a pretty unusual second date. She agreed: first sex, then a lunch date. We were doing it backwards. She says she is surprised that she feels so shy.

She talked about her gaggle of girlfriends, and how she makes nude films of them, but can't imagine sex with them--though she really wants to be bisexual, as it's hip (it is?) and of course, there are more options for sex if you are bi.

She opines that the MoMA is going to be crazy crowded, and maybe we shouldn't go. This leaves her with two hours to kill before her yoga class . . . what can we do? Well, I suggest, we can go to my place and kiss. She looks at me like she can't believe I suggested this. I can't believe it myself--I am really getting bold.

"Okay," she says, "but I really am feeling shy about this. Is it too early to drink? Do you have any bourbon?"

"A girl after my own heart." I actually said that out loud.

Soon, we are at my place, on my couch, sipping bourbon. Soon, we are kissing. Fully clothed. For a long, sweet time.

Soon we are nude, in my bed, kissing. Touching. For a long, sweet time. She is so into gazing, touching, kissing, and I am melting, melting, melting. As the time passes, and her yoga class approaches, I think it will be wise not to start fucking. But I do go down on her. And she cums. And she cums again as I kiss her and hold her very close.

I should mention that she does intense yoga five times a week. And she is a semi-pro athlete. She has a strong, lean body. When she held me firmly, she knocked the breath out of me. Mind you, I was pretty breathless.

I tell her to go, it's time. She declines to leave. We fuck. Like all the foreplay, it's slow, and intense. At one point, I'm on top of her, holding myself up with my arms at full length. She is about to cum. She sits up, putting her arms around my shoulders. She lifts her ass from the bed. She is clinging to me, hanging from my body in air, pushing herself down on me. She cums. I can scarcely believe she made my body work that way.

We are back to kissing, touching . . . she discovered my sensitive nipples, and slowly tortured them. Exquisitely.

I am laying on top of her, tracing a finger along her nose, her lips, her cheeks. I take a breath. "You are really beautiful," I say. "You don't have to be. I would be nice to you anyway. But it helps that you are."

She looks down at me. "Are you bi?" she asks. I say I am. "I do well with the bi guys," she says. Why is that, you think? "Must be my physique," she says, flexing a bicep that would give pause to Charles Atlas.

She said she was hungry. I went to the kitchen and produced Spanish rice, steamed shrimp, and fresh calamari sauteed in garlic. We eat nude.

As we eat, we talk about the Nitke photos. She mentions liking one in which a man is fully bound to a flotation board, adrift in a pool. I say that there was such a sense of risk in that position. She says she likes the feeling of being bound.

I recall how she came when I was holding her, on top of her, as she pulled me closer to crush her.

"I can bind you," I offer. She produces rope and ankle bracelets from her bag, saying they were intended for a possible film shoot later that night. I dig up handcuffs and other stuff. She is soon strapped to my bed on all fours.

I torture her nipples. I tell her I am going to verbally abuse her. "Yes," she murmurs. I ask her why, with all that we've been doing, she has not sucked my cock? "Are you bad at it or something?" I ask. She opens her mouth, wide. I feed her my cock, and fuck her face hard. She can take it very well, so I commend her. Then I slap her for making me wait for that.

We had already established that she is an ass virgin, and so I take her to task for this. How can I let her fuck my friends if she can't even do anal? So I move around and give her a hard spanking. I lick her hole, and blow air in her. She moans. She can't help but fart. I spank her for this, and do it again. "This will burn, but only for a second," I warn. I take a sip of bourbon, and blow it up her ass. I plug it with my thumb, and then a butt plug.

I fuck her pussy.

"Can you take candle wax?," I ask. Never tried it, she mumbles. I drip wax on her back and ass for a very long time. She squirms until I tell her to be still. (Later she asked: was I making too much noise? I can try to be less responsive. Oh no, I say. You did very well.)

In time, I release her and take her to the shower. I wash her body, and flake off the wax. We go back to bed and it's tender again. She falls asleep. I read.

We woke up entangled, touching . . . her fingers are never still when they can be caressing. We spend the morning in bed. There was a joy in this, so palpable, for me at least, that I had to take care lest blurting out, "I am so in love with you."

I had to remind myself, I really don’t know Celia so well. Not yet.

I make her breakfast—bacon, eggs, and her first helping of grits. We were both very sated. We talk about how she just broke up with her boyfriend, and she had broken with her other two lovers in the last month. I say I am hers, when she wants me. Her eyes fix on mine. “That’s right,” she smiles.

My friend Todd calls. He reminds me that we are going to fuck this woman from Texas that night. I had offered to host, and said I would line up some others to join us. I had invited Thomas, that was easy, but I was so busy with Celia all weekend, I didn’t do much more.

I asked Celia if she wanted to do a group thing that night. She pondered it but declined. She was already well sexed. So was I, really.

Around two or three, I kissed goodbye to my Celia. I had a gang bang in a few hours. I would spend that time in the thrall of my Celia, picking up flecks of candle wax, and writing to my friend Dacia about her.

Tess's Obsession

On a warm summer evening, Tess joined friends at Bryant Park to watch a free movie. Onscreen was Harold and Maude, a film about a poor little rich boy who falls in love with an eccentric seventy-nine-year-old anarchist. Completely comfortable with her advanced age, the older lover offers a peculiar kind of love and wisdom well tailored to the needs of her twenty-year-old suitor, who had previously staged suicide attempts to get attention.

Tess’s company that night was comprised of women a decade or two or three younger than she was. She had met most of them a year before, when she made a dramatic and ambitious effort to recast her social circles. It was the biggest change to her life since she had started having sex outside her marriage and blogging about it. Tess’s blog was primarily concerned with a dominant lover she called Victor. The lover made her happy. Better still, the blog got her attention.

Now, sadly, she knew that the relationship with her lover was ending. The night after Harold and Maude, Tess had a date with Victor. She showed him a story she had written about him. They made love for what would be the final time.

A couple of days later, Tess was depressed about the loss of her lover. She moped through her workday. Normally eager to Twitter about her outfits and lunches, she managed only to write a sorrowful “life goes on.”

That evening, Tess eased her pain by doing something that had long brought her pleasure. She anonymously attacked me online.

I’m not exactly sure when I became Tess’s obsession, but it seems to have begun shortly after we met. My friend Viviane had decided to bring together sex bloggers based in New York City for monthly tea parties. Tess and I were among those invited. Never having read Tess’s blog, I checked it out. The prose was deep purple, for my taste a little too steeped in a “give to me your leather, take from me my lace” sensibility. Still, she had a good story to tell about discovering herself as a sexual submissive in middle age. I could identify with a narrative about reasserting your sexuality in adulthood.

The blog may not have been my cup of tea, but upon meeting Tess, I found I liked her enormously. She was funny in a catty kind of way, and her vanity was pure camp. She kept her graying hair dyed red and pushed her plump tits forward with the shameless aplomb of a drag queen. She flirted constantly and despite her diminutive stature, she could easily drink me under a table. If I were to open a saloon in the Wild West, I’d have hired her to keep the cowhands happy and buying rotgut.

The feeling seemed to be mutual. She even arranged a date for me with a woman she referred to as one of her “bitches.” The woman and I saw quite a bit of each other for a while, and I thanked Tess for making the connection. It’s nice when friends do things like that for one another.

Some things came to be traditions with Tess. After a few drinks at Viviane’s parties, Tess could be counted on to stand up and loudly ask the room, “Am I the only woman here who hasn’t fucked Jefferson?” I would always laugh, but nervously, aware that the question hung uneasily in the air. I had, in fact, had sex with nearly all the women in that circle, but not all of them wanted this known or wanted to contemplate specifics about my other partners. For Tess, though, her question was a way of distinguishing herself from the group, which she apparently saw, at least in part, in terms of each person’s relationship with me.

Tess enjoyed gossiping with Viviane and between the two of them, it seemed they knew everything about everyone who had a sex blog. They talked about me a lot, but I suppose I did generate a good deal of stories worth gossiping about.

Over lunch one day, a fellow sex blogger warned me to be careful of Tess. “She’s a viper,” I was told. “I’ve only had conflicts with two sex bloggers and with Tess, it got personal and nasty very quickly. Things I had told her in confidence were being spread everywhere. And it was all over some ridiculous competition in her mind: she was interested in some guy who was interested in me. I didn’t care about him—she could have him, so far as I was concerned—but she seemed to need to destroy a competitor. It was all very primal and, frankly, unnecessary.”

I nodded along politely, thinking my friend was being overly dramatic. I liked Tess. Anyway, it wasn’t like Tess and I would ever be in competition over some guy.

One day, I was contacted by an unhappily married woman who read my blog and wanted to get together for sex. This happens in my life now and then, and after some preliminaries, we met. We had fun and she wanted to continue seeing me. For our second date, she proposed flying me to the Bahamas so she could sneak away from a family vacation to have a few hours of sex. That actually doesn’t happen to me often, and being game for adventure, I accepted.

My new girlfriend began reading other sex blogs and soon asked me about Tess. “I really feel like I have a lot in common with her,” she said. “Do you think it would be okay for me to write to her?”

“Of course,” I said. “Tess is great and she’s approachable. Mention that you know me. That should open the door.” They did seem to have things in common. Both were middle-aged suburban moms who were cheating on their husbands. I was pretty sure Tess’s husband knew about her affairs, but, like most cheaters, my new friend Dee was lying to hers. I thought perhaps Dee might benefit from Tess’s experience.

My girlfriend sent an email to Tess, who immediately responded that they should instant message. Dee didn’t know how to do that—she had only discovered the Internet a few months before—so Tess walked her through it. That very night, the two of them messaged until nearly three in the morning. “I love Tess,” Dee wrote to me. “It’s like she completes me. I can’t imagine not knowing her.” That’s great, I replied, glad that they had hit it off so well, and so quickly.

My trip to the Bahamas was to be brief. I would arrive one day, see Dee on the second day, and then head back on the third. Unfortunately, I missed the flight—I made the mistake of taking the A train to JFK, unaware that it was making all local stops. By the time I got to the airport, there was no time to make it through security. I texted Dee with the news. She was understandably upset but decided to compensate by booking me on a cruise two months later. This was also pretty rare for me, so I accepted.

I did regret that I wouldn’t be able to say, “I suppose the first date was a hit, because she took me to the Caribbean for the second.” Instead, I would have to wait until the fourth or fifth date. That’s still a good story, but it doesn’t have quite the same panache.

Tess told my girlfriend that she was making a mistake by taking a vacation with me. She would do better to use Craig’s List to find another man to take on a cruise. My girlfriend had never heard of Craig’s List so Tess sent her a link and instructions on posting.

The next time Viviane had a party, my girlfriend told me to pick up a bottle of Patron tequila to give to Tess. “Tess has been just so great to me,” Dee said. “She stood by me when you missed that flight. She knew all the right things to say.”

I obliged, sending Dee a photograph of Tess receiving her gift. I thought it was a little odd that Tess had recommended that a woman she had never met was better off taking a vacation with a random stranger than with a friend of hers, but, you know, people are sometimes funny like that.

Dee and I settled into a routine. We would meet regularly for sex and afterward we would head to a local diner for cheeseburgers. She picked up the tab. We then went on the cruise she had arranged. It was a Disney Cruise and included a day at Disney World. When she told me how much the trip cost, I said, “You know, for that kind of money, we could go to Amsterdam or Paris or San Francisco. You know, some place real.”

“No, we have to do Disney,” my girlfriend said. “I don’t go anywhere else.”

It was her dime, so I didn’t complain. Anyway, we had a nice time. I hadn’t been to Disney World since I was fourteen. Dee knew the park’s best restaurants. In one, we sat in a booth that looked like a car and ate sandwiches while watching a Fifties science fiction movie, just like a drive-in but indoors and fake. The waiter was nice and kept trying to sell us dessert.

Not long before our cruise, my girlfriend met Tess in person for the first time, after a few months of constant instant messages. They went to a reading by other sex bloggers, most of them friends from Viviane’s party. I was with my kids that night, so I stayed home. It was a fun girls night out for Dee. She was excited to meet so many people. That night, she also braved her first time alone on a subway and her first taste of Thai food.

Tess suggested that my girlfriend start her own blog to write about her sex life with me. Tess showed her how to start a blog and gave it a snazzy alliterative name. “Only, God, don’t make him sound so great,” Tess said of me. “Seriously, I read all these blogs about him and I want to barf.” My girlfriend laughed. She promised to make fun of me.

My girlfriend talked about Tess all the time. One day, as we were lounging in bed after sex, Dee said, “I think the most important thing to happen to me in years was meeting Tess. She’s changed my life.”

“That’s nice,” I nodded.

“I mean, I think meeting you was really only so I could meet her.”

“I’m glad you’re both such good friends,” I said, making a mental note that one day, I should tell her that it’s poor pillow talk to tell a lover that his main contribution to your life was introducing you to someone else.

She turned to me. “Tess likes you. She really does like you. She thinks you’re funny.”

“Aw, that’s nice,” I smiled. “I like Tess, too. She’s certainly funny.”

My girlfriend laughed at a memory. “She is so funny. She knew I was seeing you today so she told me last night that I need to have sex with someone else.”

I filed away another pillow-talk conversation for a later time. “Does she have anyone in mind?”

“Doesn’t matter. Some other man.”

“You mean, instead of me or in addition to me?”

“Tess says she’s going to find me a second lover, a real man like the ones she likes.”

I turned to her. “Dear, you are a married woman who is cheating on her husband. Your life seems plenty complicated already. Do you really think you need to add another layer of complexity?”

“I’m not really going to do it. I’m just telling you what Tess says. She wants me to have sex with someone else. Because then I would know that the sex we have isn’t so great.”

“Oh.” I mulled that over. “Wait, Tess wants you to understand that we don’t have good sex? Do we not have good sex?”

“How would I know if we do? I’ve been married to my asshat husband for twenty years. I’ve never had good sex.”

I caught that Dee now used the word “asshat.” That was a word Tess liked. “You don’t know when you’re having good sex? Well, I think we have pretty good sex. And I’m an expert, you know, so my opinion matters.”

She patted my leg. “Tess thinks you’re overrated.”

“Considering I write my own press releases, that’s entirely possible. But how would she know? Tess and I have never had sex.”

“I know. You’re never having sex with her. She told me the reason, too.”

“Lack of interest, I assume. We’ve never talked about having sex. She’s really into that guy she dates.”

“No, she won’t have sex with you because you’re bisexual. She says that’s disgusting.”

I winced. “Um, last time I checked, Tess was bisexual.”

“Tess says that’s different. Men want women to be bisexual. But no woman wants a man to be bisexual. She says it’s like sex with a gay guy. There's not enough attention on the woman.”

“But that’s . . . “ I stopped at the word “hypocrisy.” I didn’t want to color my girlfriend’s impression of her new friend. “Well, I can assure you that a lot of women do in fact like bisexual men. I meet plenty of women who like that I also see men.”

“Yeah, but you fuck young girls. They don’t know what they want. Tess is talking about grown women, like me. She says you fuck women half your age because they’re easy to get your way with. She says you’re afraid of strong women.”

I sat up on my pillow. “Actually, for the most part, my partners find me. I never need to ‘get my way’ with anyone. And I don’t consider my partners to be lacking in strength.” My girlfriend seemed to be harboring plenty of negative thoughts about me. “Hey, wait a minute. Tess always talks about the twenty-six-year-old man she screws, the guy with the six-pack abs. Isn’t she fifty-two or something?”

“No, she’s fifty-one.”

“Oh, that’s better. For a minute, I thought she slept with men half her age.”

My girlfriend laughed. “It’s different with younger women. Tess says you’re taking advantage of them. But younger men are lucky to be with an experienced woman like Tess.”

“I really fail to see the distinction.”

My girlfriend laughed again. She seemed to enjoy getting a rise out of me. “Come on, you know what she means. Men don’t take younger women seriously. They just use them for sex. Tess screwing a twenty-six-year-old guy, you know that’s great for him.”

I could feel my head starting to ache. “You just said the same thing over again. Basically, if I have sex with a younger woman, I’m exploiting her. If Tess has sex with a younger man, she’s doing him a great favor. And this is true . . . why? Because she’s a woman and I’m a man? Just like her objection to my bisexuality? It’s cool for her to be bi, it’s disgusting for me to be?”

She turned to look at me. “You don’t get it. Maybe Tess can explain it. She’s good at explaining things.”

“Maybe I’ll ask her one day,” I said, not really meaning it. I’d heard all this before; it was typical of glib double standards about gender, bisexuality and age. Those points of view were pretty common among suburban swingers. Anyway, it wasn’t like I really knew Tess. She was just someone I saw socially now and then, someone who now spent an awful lot of time instant messaging a woman I was dating.

My girlfriend and I had sex again before lunch. As sometimes happened, I came on her face. “Oh my God, hand me my phone,” she exclaimed, waving her hand toward her handbag. Still woozy from orgasm, I clambered off the bed to my desk. I handed over the phone. My girlfriend held the phone over her face and snapped a photo. “I have to send this to Tess,” she smiled. “She’ll love the new pearl necklace you gave me!”

“Yeah, that’s funny,” I nodded. I took a few tissues to clean up.

A moment later, my girlfriend burst into laughter. “Ha ha! Tess says ‘Typical, a cheap present from Jefferson.’”

“Cute,” I said.

Dee replied to Tess’s text and waited for a response. I pulled on a t-shirt. “Okay, now she says, ‘Next comes the big spender’s lunch. Both the jism and burgers are on you.’ Isn’t she funny?”

“Yeah, that’s great,” I said. “Can I get you a washcloth or something?”

“Yeah, would you do that? Thanks, babe.” She stared at her phone, typing a reply to Tess as my semen dried on her cheeks.

I returned with a warm washcloth and cleaned her face. My girlfriend looked a bit cross. “Tess says I shouldn’t pay for lunch anymore,” she said. “She said that men are supposed to pick up the check. She’s right.”

I stood back. “Men are supposed to pick up the check? Gee, I must’ve missed that lesson in my gender studies classes.”

“No, I’m being serious.” She stood from the bed and took her bra from a chair. “Come on, you pay for lunch today. It’s just cheeseburgers. I want to tell Tess you did it.”

“Tess is certainly interested in our lunch plans.” I reached for my jeans. “I thought you didn’t mind paying. You have more disposable income than I do. Anyway, we don’t need to go out. I can make something here.”

“No, let’s go out.” She crossed to press her body to my back. “Come on. Do it for me. I want a cheeseburger. I want you to pay for it. I want Tess to see that you’re a good boyfriend.”

“Okay, whatever,” I said. “It’s just cheeseburgers.” That afternoon, lunch was on me. My girlfriend blogged that I paid for lunch. After that, she went back to paying for our cheeseburgers.

A few months later, I took my children on vacation to visit family. When I returned, my ex-wife filed for full custody of our children. She had discovered my blog and now claimed that my writing and sexuality put the children in immediate danger.

It was an awful moment. I responded as best I could, looking for an attorney and making calls to see what resources were available. Lambda Legal offered pro bono research. The Sexual Freedom Legal Defense and Education Fund reviewed the motion against me and, as it was entirely concerned with my sexuality as described in this blog, established a legal defense fund for my case. The National Campaign for Sexual Freedom offered guidance and advice. “Above all, you want to keep this case out of the media,” Susan Wright of NCSF told me. “This kind of thing attracts a lot of attention and it won’t help you if that happens. Your only goal can be winning.”

That made sense to me. As my blog was the basis of my ex-wife’s complaint, I took it offline. I asked bloggers not to write about me or my case. My friends complied, expressing their concern for me and my children. By drawing the curtains online, I was able to focus on the more immediate concerns of real life.

Where most saw a family’s private crisis, Tess saw an opportunity for personal gain. She had long coveted what I had, feeling it incredibly unfair that writing and popularity seemed to come so effortlessly to me. With my blog now gone dark, Tess felt that she could displace my popularity and claim some for herself. Even better, with Viviane among those concerned about my situation, Tess could take her down a peg as well. With Jefferson and Viviane down for the count, Tess could position herself as Queen Bee of the New York sex blog scene.

Tess’s simmering obsession with me became a full-time campaign. On her own blog Tess feigned indifference to me, but in reality, she was consumed with destroying my reputation. Every lunch, every meeting for drinks, every day sending instant messages at her boring job . . . all offered opportunities to gather and disseminate gossip about me. Her greatest resource for information was Dee, who was now my ex-girlfriend, having finally heeded Tess’s insistence that she break up with me. No information was deemed too personal or unimportant to share with anyone who cared to listen. Tess gossiped about my sex life, my appearance, my family, my career and my income, twisting everything to depict me in a poor light. She outed me casually, hoping that connecting my personal life to my online life would help to further the impact of her slander. She waded through all the positive things people said about me, her ears listening carefully for anything remotely negative that she could collect and use.

Tess’s behavior cost her friendships, but those she dismissed. Anyone who wouldn’t talk trash about me was too loyal to be of use to her. Instead, she worked on assembling new acquaintances who didn’t know me, or didn’t know me well. She contacted people we knew in common, spreading the word that if they had any grievances against me, she was all ears. Those with blogs were encouraged to post anything negative they could possibly recall, or even dream up. Tess followed the blogs closely, adding comments under her pseudonym or anonymously, egging on others to keep the drama rolling.

I was astonished by Tess’s vehemence. I had considered Tess a friend. We had never been anything but cordial to one another in person. I had considered her conversations with Dee to be simply catty fun. Only now was it clear that Tess was driven by an obsession so intense that it might be considered erotic.

I recalled the warning about Tess that my friend had offered. Apparently, she was right: Tess wanted something I had, and in order to get it, she felt that she needed to eliminate the competition.

Like my friend, I was unaware of any competition between us. If my blog was popular, that was because I worked on writing to the best of my abilities. Tess could have what I had simply by applying herself as a writer. Similarly, if Tess wanted the social position that accrued to Viviane, she could follow her example. Viviane had become a well-regarded figure in the community because she spent so much effort helping others. There was nothing too difficult in doing what Viviane and I had done. We just had to work and care about others. Instead, Tess seemed motivated by covetousness. We had things Tess wanted, so she would take them away from us.

Tess sought out my friends to further two main objectives of her campaign: to collect information to use as gossip and to do anything she could to disrupt my relationships. For many, the effort was comical. Here was Tess suddenly taking an interest in people she didn’t know only to suggest that they end a friendship with someone they did know. But for others, the effort was painful. One friend told Tess intimate details about our relationship and now found, within a day or so, that these details were widely spread among gossipers. Another friend told Tess something she had told no one else in our circle, including me. When we heard it repeated as gossip, it was clear that only Tess could have been the source.

“This is like a sick game of telephone,” I marveled. “If a kitten was killed every time Tess betrayed a confidence, heaven would collapse from the mewing.”

In her blog, Tess described her encounter with a friend of mine.

“I recently met a young woman that has been involved in Jefferson's life for a few years, meeting him at twenty, and has suffered a lot at his hands," Tess wrote. "This young woman was troubled when he met her and had been for many years, as an older person, as the person who held power in their relationship, he should have been seeking to help her and not have a sexual relationship with this beautiful, bright but troubled girl.”

Tess had not simply “met” this young woman. She had sought her out, taken her out for drinks and then presented a carefully rehearsed conversation designed to elicit personal information and to turn my friend against me. Tess began their meeting by speaking in a giddy Valley Girl lingo, apparently believing this would help her to appear youthful. My friend—a brainy punk with an aversion to pretense—asked for Tess’s real name. “Oh, that doesn’t matter!” Tess giggled. “I’m more Tess than that anyway.”

“I’m not calling you ‘Tess,’” my friend said. “That’s ridiculous.” Tess reluctantly relinquished her actual name, dropping the cutesy patter as well. Apparently, my friend wasn’t going to pick up the carefully laid sweets that led into Tess’s trap. Tess adapted. Six rounds of drinks later, Tess had what she wanted. My friend, drunk and in tears, called me from the ladies’ room. “I’m actually hiding in here,” she sniffled. “I don’t know what she wants from me.”

My friend was worried when they parted company, as Tess was unable to walk straight. Tess suggested they meet again soon. My friend would need to meet Dee, Tess slurred, and definitely Dacia, as she was smart like my friend. “You don’t need that dickhead,” Tess assured her. “We can be your new friends.”

The gossip began immediately. My friend was upset to have her intimacies spread, and disgusted by Tess’s self-congratulatory description of their meeting. “Who the fuck is she to say I’m ‘bright but troubled?” my friend fumed. “Well then, I say she is ‘old and fat.’”

Tess’s tawdry betrayal was awful at the time, though we laugh about it now. My friend will complain about suffering a lot at my hands, and I will say that just how it goes when I have all the power in our relationship.

As for Tess’s professed concern for “this beautiful, bright but troubled girl,” that faded with the next day’s hangover. Tess had no further use for her. Tess’s interest in my friends waned once they had been pumped for potential gossip.

Destroying me was an exercise for Tess, her way to bigger things. Tess felt that gossip about me was her entrée into the big leagues. If she hurt someone I cared about, that’s was just collateral damage; she didn’t care about these people. She wanted to be at the table with the cool kids, the young women who dressed well, wrote snarky blogs and knew where the good parties were. If she attained my popularity or Viviane’s connections, she wouldn’t waste her time as we had on little people. She would aspire to schmooze with the A list of online sex. Tess felt that gossip would get her past the velvet ropes, and gossiping was an awful lot easier than writing.

For one red-hot season, Tess could see it all on the horizon. My blog was gone, Viviane was distracted and Tess was drinking martinis with women who wore awesome shoes. Tess could just smell the attention waiting for her. But then she found her spotlight fading. Viviane kept showing up at the parties Tess attended, and people still gravitated to her. My custody case ended and my blog returned. Evidently, I was still friends with all the people she thought she had turned against me. All of her gossip had failed to destroy her obsession. It was all too much.

Tess fumed about me on Twitter, “Anyone who follows that dickhead can’t also follow me.” She was the center of attention, God damn it, and some popular fucking dickhead couldn’t take that away from her. People would have to choose: it was either her or me.

By that time, Tess’s online presence beyond Twitter was mostly limited to videotaped sex toy reviews and pictures of her breasts in different bars. Still, she wanted to defend her turf. She was the Queen Bee of sex bloggers and she wanted everyone to acknowledge that.

As for me, I really didn’t care if my readers also read Tess’s Twitter. I mean, who cares about that stuff?

Tess had only ever been an incidental figure in my life, and by that time, she was just someone I used to know. Her behavior had made her unwelcome at the private parties I attended. I rarely made it to the bar parties she frequented, as they were on nights I spent with family. I hadn’t seen her in well over a year when one summer evening, following Harold and Maude and her break up with Victor, she attacked me yet again.

Tess chose a website where women anonymously complained about former boyfriends. There, she posted the shopworn narrative she had honed in her gossip over countless lunches and cocktails: Jefferson is a Svengali who uses his charm to prey on feeble-minded young women, leading them into lives of white slavery. It was a story rooted in the melodrama that apparently informed all her writing.

The difference this time was that Tess had posted a photograph of my face. Outing me to acquaintances was no longer enough. Now, she needed to out me online. It was as if attacking me was a drug, and she needed to increase the dose to chase the high.

For the first time, my face was online and associated with my blog.

I read Tess’s post, wondering at my impact in the life of someone I barely knew. Apparently, she could not get me out of her mind. After breaking up with a lover who meant so much to her, Tess could think of no better solace than trying to hurt me so I would also feel pain.

But I felt no pain. I’m watching my children grow into the most wonderful people I’ve ever known. My life is filled with loving friends. My writing continues to satisfy my creativity. I’m content.

Tess could take consolation in one victory in her private campaign against me. Dee had been mine, but now Dee was hers. If Tess envied that I had a girlfriend who took me on trips and bought me cheeseburgers, she might have gone out and found her own. Instead, she took mine. Now Tess gets the subsidized trips and lunches that might have been mine.

Of course, Tess also gets the persistent neediness of a high-maintenance sidekick who can’t seem to stop talking about me. Perhaps Tess considers that trade-off every time she picks up a menu and makes a point of ordering the most expensive entrée, privately gloating that her filet mignon is another cheeseburger she has denied to me.

Custody Crisis Tuesdays

On a cool Tuesday evening last April, I went with a friend to see John Waters in conversation with curator Robert Storr at the Ninety-second Street Y. This was a nice reunion for me, as I used to work with Robert Storr and John Waters and I have long been friendly.

(By “work with,” I mean that Robert Storr may have noticed me occasionally stalking him at museum openings. By “friendly,” I meant that I can recite every conversation I’ve had with John Waters since nineteen eighty-four; with prodding, he might politely pretend to remember me before inching away.)

My friend and I went back to her apartment afterward. She went to the kitchen to open a bottle of wine. I sat at her desk to check my email. “Ah, the Tuesday tradition continues,” I called.

“You’re kidding,” she said, looking around the corner. “Please tell me you’re kidding.”

“Nope. She wouldn’t miss a Tuesday. This time she had Collie do it.” I read the email aloud.

Hi dad it's Collie and Lillie,

The new schedule began this Monday. This means that your five days in a row starts Wednesday, April 8th. This week so far has been mom's nine days in a row which ends Tuesday April 7th. To make it so Jason, Lillie, and I have the same weekends together we were wondering if it was O.K. if Jason spent this weekend with you, like normal, and then next weekend with you and Lillie and I.

Thanks.

Love,
Lillie and Collie
P.S. tomorrow ours field trip to the farm house!!!! 9:15 at the lobby!

“What new schedule?” my friend asked. “Is this referring to the schedule Lucy proposed in January? The one that everyone rejected as unnecessary?”

“I suppose,” I said, rereading the email. “I honestly had a hard time understanding Lucy’s scheme then. It was so complicated. Yet, by some miracle, my twelve-year-old son has conceived of the exact same plan and, by fiat, declared it in effect as of yesterday.”

“Oh, please,” my friend said, handing me a glass. “Lucy is obviously behind this email.”

I took the glass, shaking my head. “No, that can’t be. We were told not to discuss specific custody proposals with the children. Lucy would never disobey a judge’s directions, or manipulate the children.” My friend chortled. “No, I’m serious,” I continued. “No caring parent would ever put a child in such an awful position. Lucy is a caring parent. Therefore, the only possibility is that Collie was somehow, miraculously, possessed of precisely the same notion that preoccupied his mother a couple of months ago. It must’ve been a part of the collective unconsciousness. You know, just something in the air.”

“Yes, and somehow, he came up with the same plan, excluding his older brother . . .”

“ . . . thereby dividing the children, further hacking up the family. That didn’t fly when Lucy proposed it. It was clear then that Jason simply wanted nothing to do with her scheme. But now than this idea has miraculously returned . . . well, the only possible explanation is that Jason missed the Rapture.”

She leaned forward, staring at the screen. “Wait, look at that last sentence again.”

I read it over. “Right. This refers to a field trip I’m joining tomorrow morning with Lillie’s class. I mentioned it to you. She’s very excited about it.”

“Right, I remember. I’m sure she’s excited that you’ll be there. But look. The sentence reads, ‘lower-case “t” tomorrow ours, with an “s,” field trip to the farmhouse, two words, quadruple exclamation points. Nine fifteen at, not in, the lobby, exclamation point.’”

I nodded. “Sure, that’s how kids type.”

“I’m sure it is,” she agreed. “Read the paragraph above. It describes a complicated idea, with specific dates. Collie tells you, his father, that he, your child, has changed the custody agreement, effective immediately.”

“Right.”

She pointed at the screen. “This was not written by a twelve-year-old child. Not without help.”

“Oh, I’ve noticed that discrepancy in earlier emails from Collie that curiously echo his mother’s positions. Collie swears that his mother doesn’t write these notes. Lillie says her mom just ‘puts the words in them.’”

“Never mind that his mother has been trying change the custody agreement to her advantage for—what? ten months?—to no avail. He just decided it, purportedly on his own.”

“Right.”

“This is awful.” She shook her head. “What a mean, cruel thing she’s doing to her children.”

“Kidding aside,” I nodded, “It really is awful.”

Mean, cruel, awful. Yet wholly predictable.

When Lucy discovered this blog in March of last year, surprise quickly gave way to opportunism. At last, she felt she had the means to finally win the one-sided battle she had waged against me since she ended our marriage five years before. At the time of her discovery, Lucy was pushing to have my family removed from an apartment her father owned. Once that was accomplished, she planned to land the coup de grace: with the help of her family’s money and the high-profile legal team it bought her, she would sue for full custody. She had done so in the original divorce, and remained bitter that we shared joint custody.

Surely, she felt, my blog changed everything. My writing about my sexuality would give her what she needed to deny me our children. Not only would the court grant her full custody, she was sure, but I would also be ordered to shut down my blog and instructed to never again to write about the children.

While my right to keep a blog would seem to be protected by the First Amendment, parents often have their constitutional rights curtailed in custody cases, where the legal standard is expanded to include the best interests of the child. As I would later learn, this dual standard has led to contradictory rulings. Parents have been ordered to prevent their children from hunting; parents have been ordered to provide shooting instruction to their children. Parents have been ordered to provide their children with religious instruction; parents have been restricted from taking their children to certain churches. Gay parents have been forced to come out to their children; gay parents have been prohibited from coming out to their children. Run through the Bill of Rights and it’s not hard to find a custody case in which some parents have had their constitutional rights curtailed.

To up the ante, Lucy made sure the filing was made on an emergency basis, so that I would be forced to scurry for money and representation with little notice. If I failed to accomplish that, she felt, her court case would be quick work.

Lucy’s plan was upset when I showed up to court with an attorney experienced in custody cases concerning sexuality. Following a hearing in which our children were not immediately yanked from me and put into her protective care, Lucy banged her hand on the table, repeating, “No, no, no!” As she exited the courtroom, she fell into a violent tantrum. Her lawyers rushed her into a disused pay phone vestibule, frantic to hide her tantrum from view. Still, her shouting could be heard, echoing along marble hallways to reverberate in the courthouse’s domed entryway.

“Wow,” my lawyer said. “Never seen anything like that. Have you?”

The children’s law guardian stared at the vestibule, stunned. “Let’s give them a moment,” she managed.

As the case progressed, Lucy’s anger and anxiety deepened. Her entire case against me rested on my sexuality as described in this blog. To her chagrin, she saw little traction where she had expected a steamroller to crush me. The State of New York didn’t seem too concerned that my sex life had become more interesting after our divorce. Judging from the case evidence supplied pro bono by Lambda Legal, the State had heard such arguments before. Despite her expensive legal team, Lucy seemed unaware of such precedents.

Lucy’s legal team requested that I undergo a psychiatric evaluation. Bisexuality has not been considered a potential sign of mental illness for over thirty years, but involvement in BDSM remains listed as a possible symptom of paraphilia in the current edition of the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM-IV). Given this, a psychiatric evaluation was ordered for me, and also for each member of our family.

As our sessions with the psychiatrist loomed, Lucy saw a final chance to gain advantage. She was already in the hole over one hundred thousand dollars, with nothing to show other than the court’s apparent satisfaction that I am a good father. On top of that, the economy had tanked without warning, diminishing her family’s ability to fund her second custody battle. In her heart, Lucy knew there was no reason to question my mental health. She worried about her own evaluation, given that she was diagnosed and treated for generalized anxiety disorder and depression. Having been in therapy more or less continuously since adolescence, she worried about her files being pulled and her own mental health and competence being called into question.

Given the failure of her legal team’s plan to this point, Lucy took matters into her own hands. She resorted to manipulating the children.

I took care to avoid putting the children in the middle of our conflict. It is not in a child’s best interest to be used by one parent against another. Never mind that it is a foolish strategy: there are no tricks that haven’t already been tried in custody cases. The manipulation of children is routinely detected by courts, legal guardians and psychiatrists.

Lucy surely knew this. Yet apparently, in her state of mind, she couldn’t help herself.

Lucy now alleged that the children were frightened of me, as I could not control my anger. She alleged that I routinely lost my temper and used expletives in front of the children. “This is cut from whole cloth,” I complained to my attorney. “I put up with Lucy’s rage and abuse for fifteen years and I never responded in kind. How can she make such an assertion? It’s like she is attributing her own anger to me. If I have such a problem, then why wasn’t it noted in the original motion just a few months ago?”

Soon, I saw what Lucy was doing. On the eve of the psychiatric evaluations, ordered because of my involvement with BDSM, Lucy was trying to depict me as someone unable to control an essentially violent nature. If I hit people with flogs or canes, as I had written in my blog, then surely I was capable of hitting my children.

This depiction required a crude leap of logic, in which BDSM play among consenting adults is equivalent to child abuse. But more, selling this depiction required deep cynicism. Lucy knew for a fact that there was no cause for concern that the children were in any physical danger in my care. If she had any cause for actual concern, she could have brought these concerns before the court. The court would have assuredly taken such allegations seriously and investigated accordingly. If Lucy had any evidence whatsoever of abuse—photographs, testimony, witnesses, medical records, or any signs of ill effect on the children’s behavior—she would have offered it in building a case for her full custody.

Lucy had no such evidence, as no such evidence existed. She was fully aware that the children were safe with their father. Yet this truth had little to do with the story she needed others to believe. She needed others to fall back on facile stereotypes about BDSM. Someone who would flog or cane another person must be deeply disturbed, no doubt acting on uncontrollable psychosis. Lucy could conjure stereotypes, but she could not conjure evidence. As there was no abuse, there were no photographs, testimonies, witnesses, medical records or behavioral issues.

Only on the final item—the children’s behavior—could Lucy hope to gain influence.

Suddenly, our youngest daughter began to express anxiety about being in our home. This anxiety would only be manifest when she was coming from an extended stay with her mother, never when she was coming home to me after school.

It turned out that Lucy had told her stories about me, stories designed to scare our daughter, stories that left our brave and vivacious nine-year-old child in tears on her mother’s bedroom floor. Lucy told her daughter not to repeat these stories to me. On this and other matters, our daughter would later reveal, Lucy instructed our child to lie to her father.

Suddenly, our twelve-year-old son became anxious about being away from his mother. Lucy had long referred to him as her “rock,” the anchor of her emotional wellbeing. To the law guardian, she repeatedly referred to our son as having the maturity of a “forty-five-year-old man,” attributing to a boy the precise age of her ex-husband. Lucy had long ago stopped dealing with me as co-parent of our children. She refused to speak to me, preferring to have Jason act as our go-between. Now that Jason had declined to support her goal of seeking full custody, she discarded him in favor her “rock.” She knew she could count on Collie to take care of her.

I felt for Collie. I used to have his job. As Lucy’s husband, I knew that she was always to be placated. When Lucy is unhappy with life, people around her are supposed to change life until it suits her. Her family had raised her to expect that. Her family placated her in the usual way, by writing checks, but I no longer fulfilled my role, as I declined to roll over and surrender our children. Lucy turned to Collie. He was her rock, her more reliable forty-five-year-old husband. On this and other matters, our son would later reveal, Lucy encouraged our child to do what she needed him to do to recast life to her liking.

As the two children began to exhibit signs of Lucy’s manipulation, my attorney sat me down. “If it becomes necessary,” she asked, “Are you prepared to take full custody of the children?”

I wasn’t expecting her question, but I wasn’t entirely surprised, either. “I want joint custody to work,” I answered.

“I know, and if that’s how you feel, then that’s our goal,” she answered. “Still, I’ve never seen anything so blatant. Lucille is really out of control and the children are suffering as a result. The court may direct you to take full custody. I’ve seen it happen before. Are you ready for that?”

“Yes, of course,” I nodded. “I want what’s best for the kids. Lucy was abusive when we were together, but now she’s on medication and getting treatment, so I want to be optimistic.” We sat quietly for a moment. “Anyway, this assumes Lucy can keep it together while we’re in court.”

My attorney looked at me for a moment. “Well yes, it does. Let’s see if she can.” She paused. “Look, I have to say this: manipulating children in this way is abusive. I’m your lawyer and we’ll stay this course if you want. But it’s pretty clear to anyone observing that Lucy is out of control. You aren’t still worried that she can hurt you, right?”

“No, that’s not it. I just . . . look, the kids have been through a lot. This custody thing is awful on everyone. I’d rather be optimistic and hope Lucy calms down when it ends.”

“Then let’s hope it ends soon,” my attorney said. “In the meantime, I’m investigating psychological abuse in custody cases.”

My attorney researched the free speech restrictions requested by Lucy’s legal team. To the best of my attorney’s knowledge, this was an instance of “first impression,” meaning that no other case had previously presented this mix of parental custody, sexuality and the First Amendment. If the court ruled to censor my blog, I would be able to appeal. As this was a constitutional issue of first impression, my attorney told me, it could ultimately be appealed to the U.S. Supreme Court.

“Heady stuff!” I replied. “Well, my activist side says, ‘bring it.’ But as a parent, I really, really hope it doesn’t go that way. I won’t be bullied by my ex-wife but still, appeals would take so much time. So I can only hope Lucy develops some liberal shame about being so fixated on my sexuality and speech.”

“Then let’s count on Lucy’s shame,” my attorney said. “In the meantime, I’m renewing my credentials to appear before the Supreme Court.”

By this point, I felt that the writing was already on the wall. I was eager for life to return to normal for my family. I didn’t want anything to prolong the case.

Lucy, however, felt differently. She had come to fear that she had little hope of winning full custody due to my sexuality or my writing. In her desperation to win something, Lucy grasped at straws, doing what she could to turn the kids against me while making scattershot accusations.

Lucy alleged that I was unable to control my anger. She was unable to provide any evidence to that effect. The psychiatrist did not concur. It was a dead letter.

Lucy alleged that I did not care about the children’s academics. School records were offered, showing that the children were thriving in school. All had perfect homework completion records, regardless of which parent had them on the previous night. Our eldest son had recently taken the PSATs, scoring very high among college-bound students a grade above him.

Lucy compiled complaints from the children, whom she bribed to give her reports on me. She asserted that I did not do laundry often enough. I sometimes ran out of fruit juice. I failed to change the cat litter with satisfactory frequency.

We sat with the children’s law guardian. Lucy listed her complaints. I offered to try to be a more perfect housekeeper. We had come a long way, I noted, from Lucy’s original motion. She had brought me to court on an emergency basis claiming that my sexuality and writing were an immediate danger to our children. Now, we were sitting in an office in midtown Manhattan paying a lawyer six hundred dollars an hour to mediate a discussion about cat litter.

In time, the case was resolved. The law guardian was satisfied that the children were well and content at home with each parent. The court saw no reason to modify joint custody or to censor my writing. Life should have gone back to normal.

By the terms of our custody agreement, the children come to me on Wednesdays after school. After the court reached its decision, Lucy began to contact me every Tuesday with some reason why she should have the kids the following day. None of these reasons was pressing. She might have contacted me well in advance of Tuesday nights. I generally pointed this out and each week, the children came to me as usual. Her efforts were so predictable that my attorney and I began to refer to her “Custody Crisis Tuesdays.”

Finally, Lucy turned to Collie. She knew her rock wanted her to be happy. He knew that he could take care of her, so that she wasn’t so unhappy all the time. So when she told him that she wanted him and his sister to spend weekdays with her, she knew he would take care of her. Maybe he could give her what I did not. Maybe he could give her what the State of New York did not.

So it was that on a Tuesday night in April, my son’s email arrived in place of my ex-wife’s, using the words that his mother had “put in.”

I replied to Collie that his note confused me and we would talk about it the next day. I looked at the time. It was not yet ten thirty. The children would be up until eleven. “Hey, do you mind if I make a quick call?” I asked my friend. “I want to straighten out plans for tomorrow.”

“Sure,” she said. “Do you want me to leave the room?”

“No, that’s cool,” I said, opening my cell. “This won’t be long.”

For the next three hours, my friend sat nearby, her expression changing from disbelief, to shock, to dismay.

When Lucy answered, I explained that I was calling to clarify the confusion in Collie’s email. There was no change to custody, I reminded her; the court had already ruled on that. It was unfair to confuse the children by suggesting otherwise.

“It’s not me, Jefferson,” Lucy said. “It’s the kids. They really want this.”

“And Jason? He’s not included among the kids anymore?”

“Jason . . . I can’t deal with Jason anymore. He won’t do what I say. He lies to me. Did you know what a liar he is now?”

“No, I haven’t encountered that. And I don’t believe the children have suddenly generated a sui generis preference in custody—particularly one that just so happens to echo your own previous proposal.”

“It’s true, Jefferson. It’s true.” Her voice dropped to a whisper as she walked into the backyard. “I tried so hard. You have to believe me. I sat the kids down and begged them not to do this. I told them to consider your feelings; I said, ‘This is really going to hurt your father’s feelings.’ They wouldn’t listen. They didn’t care. They are scared of you, Jefferson. They are so scared of you. You don’t see that, but I do.”

“Right. I think we covered this back in the ‘Jefferson can’t control his anger’ days. Anyway, we need to clarify the plan for tomorrow. The existing plan is that I pick up the kids from school . . .”

“They won’t go with you,” she interrupted. “They’ll run away. You won’t be able to catch them. They’re fast. They will run away from you.”

“They’ll run away from me?” I looked at my friend. Her jaw hung open. “You’re saying that Collie and Lillie will run away when I pick them up at school? Why? Nothing like that has ever happened before.”

“I wouldn’t try it if I were you,” Lucy warned.

“Collie and Lillie are scared of me that they will run away, you say. But Jason isn’t scared?”

“Poor Jason,” Lucy sighed.

“Why do you say, ‘poor Jason?’ I don’t get that.”

“Poor Jason,” she repeated.

Lucy was luring me into some circular reasoning that I could not follow. It was after ten, so it was possible she was pretty stoned. I wasn’t getting anywhere with her. “Lucy, let me speak with Collie, please.”

I heard a drag on a cigarette. “He doesn’t want to talk to you.”

“He’s never refused a conversation with me before. Can you give him the phone, please?”

“I can try, but I’m telling you, he doesn’t want to talk to you.”

“Thanks for trying.” I heard the phone land on metal, presumably the wrought iron bench in the backyard. We had inherited lawn furniture from Lucy's late grandmother. When we moved into the house, I sanded the set and repainted it white.

“What’s she doing?” my friend asked.

“She’s getting Collie,” I said. "Well, she says she's getting Collie."

“Is this normal?”

“Normal is relative,” I said.

She offered me my wine, but I waved it off. A long time passed. Finally, Lucy returned to the phone. “I told you, he doesn’t want to talk to you.”

“You told him I was on the phone? What did he say?”

“He said, ‘I don’t want to talk to Dad.’”

“I see. Well, may I speak to Lillie?”

Lucy returned to her cigarette. “She doesn’t want to talk to you. None of the children want to talk to you. They are scared of you.”

“Do you mind asking, please?”

“It won’t work.”

“Please.”

“Fine.” Once more, the phone was placed on the wrought iron bench. Once more, an inordinate amount of time passed. Lucy picked up the phone. “It’s like I said. She doesn’t want to talk to you.”

“Just to reiterate,” I said. I motioned for my friend to pass a pen and paper. “You are saying that the children are awake at, um, eleven eighteen, and they each refuse to speak with me.”

“Yes. That is correct.”

“Okay. Well, this creates a conundrum. They are supposed to come home with me tomorrow after school . . .”

“They won’t.”

“ . . . and it is your responsibility to be sure the children are returned on my custodial days.”

“I have no control over the children, Jefferson.”

I took notes. “Are you saying you have no control over our two youngest children?”

“None of them, Jefferson,” she sighed. “Not one. Jason lies to me. Collie and Lillie do nothing I say. I have to pay them to do their homework. They don’t do anything.”

I shook my head, bent over the notepad. “I have a very hard time believing that. Now, tomorrow, you have time to talk with them as you drive to school. You can explain that they are going home with me that afternoon, as usual.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not, Lucy?”

“They don’t listen to me. I’ve told you. I was practically on my hands and knees begging them to go home with you tomorrow. They just refused. They don’t like you, Jefferson. They don’t. They don’t want to stay with you. They are scared of you.”

I drew a breath. I was not taking Lucy’s bait. I circled her main points on my friend’s notepad. “Okay, so to reiterate . . . you contend that Collie and Lillie refuse to come home with me, per usual, because they are scared of me. They will run away if I pick them up at school. Meanwhile, Jason is fine with coming home to our apartment. Also, Jason is a liar, you have no control over the children and you have to offer bribes to get them to do homework. Is that all correct?”

“Yes.” She exhaled, sarcasm in her voice. “That is all correct.”

“Okay. Well, it’s late and I don’t see any other solution. You should take Collie and Lillie tomorrow. We’ll talk after school and work this out. Okay?”

“Thanks. Maybe they’ll feel better about you tomorrow.”

“We can hope. Well, I guess we’ll talk then . . .”

“It’s just so sad they feel this way, Jefferson,” Lucy went on. “I think you are a really good dad. I really do.”

“Oh,” I replied. “Well, thanks. It’s nice to hear you say that.” I caught my friend’s eye. “What?,” she mouthed. I held up a finger.

“This has just been a really bad year, hasn’t it? Just so hard.”

“That’s right, it’s been a very bad year.” I held back my thoughts: it’s been a bad year because you dragged us all into court, my mind wanted to shout. But I sat, listening, responding only to what she said.

Lucy rambled on. Her tone became accusatory, then, on a dime, nostalgic. She laughed about the way Jason used to chase Collie around the coffee table when the baby was learning to walk. Did I remember that, she asked? I did, I said. I remembered it all. We shared other memories.

“What happened to you?” she asked finally. “You used to be so different.”

“I’m still me,” I said.

“No, you’re not. The old you wouldn’t have watched porn with your daughter.”

“Lillie?” I winced. “Lucy, I’ve never watched porn with Lillie.”

“No, I mean Rachel. You watched porn with her when she was seventeen.”

“No, I didn’t. I’ve never watched porn with Rachel. What makes you say that?”

She sighed. “It was in your blog.”

Now I was really confused. My blog is nonfiction and I only write actual events in it. “That’s not possible,” I replied. “Why would I write something that didn’t happen?”

“It was before her birthday. She was coming to visit you and she said you were going to smoke cigarettes and watch porn.”

“But I’ve never been a smoker . . . ” I began before recalling an email from Rachel that I had posted. “Oh geez, now I remember. Lucy, that was a joke. Rachel was joking. She was referring to things that she would be able to do legally once she was eighteen. She wasn’t saying we did those things together.”

“Yeah, right,” Lucy said facetiously. “Sure.”

I coughed back a laugh. “I suggest you reread that. Rachel is clearly joking. If you don’t believe me, you can ask her. I can’t believe you couldn’t see that.”

“I’m not talking to Rachel, no way,” Lucy said. She drew on her cigarette and exhaled. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. Your blog is useless. Apparently I can’t get you on sex unless you rape the children.”

I caught my breath. “What?”

“It’s true. I can’t get you on sex unless you rape the children.”

I gripped my chair rail. “Are you insinuating . . . ?”

“No, of course not.” She drew another puff. “No one is saying you rape the children.”

“You sound almost disappointed.” I paused. “Actually, this sounds like something you’ve said before, the way you say it so easily. Is that true? Is that something you say to people?”

“So what? So what if I’ve said it? Look, it’s a joke, okay? Sorry I mentioned it.”

“It’s grotesque, Lucy. Really awful. Never mind that you think sex is something you can use to ‘get’ me, like you hope you can find something to ‘get’ me one day.”

Lucy was silent. “I didn’t mean to say that, that thing about ‘getting’ you.” She seemed to feel she had revealed too much. She changed the topic. “Look, here’s the thing. I read your blog and I think, why now? Why couldn’t we do fun things when we were married? I like to be touched. I like sex.”

I stared at a blank wall. I couldn’t process this.

“Plus, why do you write that I’m ‘miserable?’ I’m not miserable. Look, I’ve got a house and a car. I’ve got a full-time job and a four-oh-one-k. I’m happy. You’re the one who should be miserable. You don’t have anything.”

I started to answer that I had a nice Toyota, but that seemed beside the point. “I’m not really sure how to answer that, Lucy. Look, it’s late. It’s after one. Are the kids still up?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, I need to get to bed. We’ll talk tomorrow. Good luck with the kids tomorrow. We’ll talk.”

“Okay.” She waited. I had nothing to add. “Okay, then.” She exhaled. “I guess that’s it. Good night.”

“Night.” I closed my phone.

“Oh my God,” my friend said. I’d almost forgotten she was in the room. She sat on the couch, her knees pulled up under her chin. Her face was stricken. “Are you okay?”

The phone was limp in my hand. “If I didn’t know better,” I said, “I’d swear Lucy was expecting me to end that conversation by saying ‘I love you.’”