My Celia

One Life, Take Two began on November twenty-eight, two thousand-four, thirteen years ago today, with this post. Enjoy!

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.

Heard, Not Seen

“ . . . and that’s when Charlie returned the everlasting gobstopper.” I paused for a moment before stepping away from the microphone. That was my story.

Scattered claps gave sway to noisy applause and hoots. I smiled, nodding my head in appreciation.

I returned to the microphone to introduce the next storyteller. I shook her hand as she approached, surrendering the stage.

I made my way through the crowd to join those standing in the rear. People smiled and patted me on my back. I nodded thanks as my mind rehearsed my just-finished performance.

I remembered that I had left out a detail. Once we started talking, Charlie told me that she had been understandably nervous about our first date. She said that when she opened the door nude, she had very nearly closed it again. “Why?” I asked. “Shy?”

“No, because you’re short. Your profile said you’re five nine.”

“I am five nine!” I protested. “It says so on my driver’s license.”

“You’re not five nine,” she insisted. “I’m five nine. You’re five eight, tops. I figured if he’s lying about that, what else might he have faked?”

Taking umbrage at having my honesty called into doubt, I insisted on being measured. I’m five eight. 

It’s a funny anecdote, but I hadn’t been able to fit into my story. I needed to tell it in about five minutes. You learn to let go of some byways.

(Much later, when she first heard me tell the story onstage, Charlie challenged one detail. I had reached out to her after our break, not the reverse. Funny that I remembered it otherwise.)

I had been coming to town each month for nearly a year. Since the summer, I had featured stories of my ongoing struggle as my girlfriend included another man in our relationship. Suddenly, I was dumped in his favor. By this time, my stories had stockpiled into nearly an hour of heartbreak and woe I could refer to as my polyamorous country album. Now, for the first time in months, I had told a story that sounded hopeful about moving on.  

A woman tapped me on the shoulder. “I wanted to say something about your story,” she began.

“Thanks, glad you liked it,” I whispered, pointing to the stage. “But I’m trying to hear this person now.”

“No, I didn’t like it, not at all,” she whispered back. “I think it’s misogynist. My heart went out to that poor woman you silenced.”

“Oh, okay, but can we talk about this later?” I turned back to the show before realizing I might be seen as silencing her. “I do value your input,” I added. “I just need to focus on the storyteller on stage.”

“I understand.” She smiled, again patting my shoulder. “Great show. My first time.” 

I nodded. “Welcome.” Laughter summoned me back to the storyteller on stage.

After closing out the show, I stood by the door to say goodbye and to thank everyone for coming. A sizeable group was heading down the street to a private after-party. I would join them after settling up at the venue.

That task complete, I collected my travel bag and headed to the party. I signed in with the doorman and took the elevator upstairs.  I was greeted with a round of hellos as I removed my shoes. I checked in with people as I poured a whiskey, looking around for my naysayer.

I found her sitting next to a couch, watching as one woman hogtied another on the floor. Both the dominant and the submissive were fully clothed. The dominant was bossy. “Do you like this? I can do anything with you.” Her gagged submissive nodded assent, eyes welling.

“Hey,” I said, squatting nearby. “Thanks again for reaching out to me after my story. What was it you wanted to say?”

She looked over and shushed me. “Please, I need to watch this scene. We can talk after.”

“Sorry.” I stood and pointed toward to the patio. “See you there,” I mouthed. She waved me on.

I was mingling with the smokers when she found me. “Sorry we keep missing each other,” she smiled.

“We meet at last. Sorry to interrupt before, I didn’t get that you were a part of that scene.”

“I wasn’t. I just like to watch.” She paused. “I mean, I watch scenes to be sure they’re safe and consensual. So, anyway, back to your story . . .”

“Yes.” I stood erect. “I’m ready for your critique.”

“Well, like I said, the whole thing just struck me as misogynist.”

“So you said. Why is that?”

“It was just so . . . I don’t know, typical. The man is dominant, the woman is submissive. That situation is so cliché, so inherently patriarchal and demeaning.”

I nodded. “Well, okay, I can hear that. Although it’s not meant as a parable. It’s a true story. It really happened between me and my girlfriend on our first date.”

“I know, I get that. Which is why I’m glad you’re receptive to learning to do better.” She smiled. “It just feels like a lost opportunity, you know?  Here were all these people, listening, and you didn’t say very much about negotiation or consent. Which is so crucial.”

“I’m pretty sure I mentioned that we negotiated everything previously via email. Did I miss that part?”

“No, you did say it, but you didn’t emphasize it enough. You went into it all as a sexy scene, so all these people think that cliché is all there is to BDSM. Man gets what he wants, selfishly, while women are silenced, yet again.”

“Yeah, but, as I said, this scene came from our negotiation. This was what we both wanted.” I explained that communication is very much a part of our respective lives. I’m a storyteller, always sending out words. She’s a psychotherapist, always listening. Silence in our initial scenes became our way of communicating without the continuous presence of talk, and ultimately, it broke down into conversation.

“I understand, but is that really the message you want to give all these people?” she went on. “You had an opportunity to frame this differently and to empower her voice.”

“If this was a class on kink, of course, I might have emphasized the role of negotiation. Now, a good class is generally an hour or ninety minutes. A good story needs the teller to get through a beginning, middle and end in five or so minutes.” I felt like a comedian required to explain why a joke is actually funny. I returned to the central plot of my story. “Anyway, yes, I get that more can be said on the subject of negotiation and consent in kink. In this story, I was concerned with the relationship of two people, myself and my girlfriend. I certainly didn’t mean to diminish her in any way. I hope she comes off insightful and smart, because she is.”

“You say you admire her. Good! If she is so capable, why not let her speak for herself?” She jabbed a finger against my chest. “Give her a voice in her own story. Silencing her is an act of misogyny.”

Someone tugged at my elbow. I took this as an opportunity to extricate myself. “All food for thought. Thanks. I really appreciate you taking the time to share with me.”

“Of course,” she smiled. “We share an educator’s instinct. Let’s all do better.” 

“Thanks again,” I said, turning to my next conversation. “And put your name in the hat next time!”

“Oh, no, that’s not for me,” she laughed. “My private life is private.”

I reflected on our conversation the next afternoon as I took the bus back to New York. The show had gone well. It had felt good to move my monthly stories beyond the installments on hurt and heartbreak to this new direction. I heard good feedback from the regulars, who seemed genuinely happy to see me feeling optimistic. Still, this woman’s feedback bothered me.

Perhaps we might’ve talked more about words and their meanings. I didn’t know her personal background in BDSM—and anyway, as she said, her personal life is personal—but at some level, we had a conversation about words that we may understand differently. I’ve learned to speak in an inherited vocabulary of kink. For example, I initially rejected the commonly used word “play” as entirely too general and infantile.

“Do you want to play?”

“No, I want you to beat my ass until my face is covered in snot and then skull fuck me. I’m not playing. I’m real.”

But over time, I’ve accepted “play” as the word others have chosen for what we all do. I just have to define how I mean it in each instance.

People may want to call me “Sir” or “Daddy” or whatever, and I can either refuse to play along, or I can accept such terms as intended: honorifics that define my role as others understand it. I may be a male “dominant” and my partner a female “submissive,” but this doesn’t mean we accept or rehearse ascribed positions within a cultural patriarchy. These are just the unfortunate words we’re given to describe what we like to do. My partner and I know this. Our understanding of these terms may not be clear to those outside the kink community, or to many within it, but they are clear to us as the primary participants in our own relationship.

It stung to have my story defined as “misogynist.” That’s a strong word. I felt cornered into a defensive posture. If I could just explain what I meant, how my girlfriend and I respected one another, then my naysayer would retract that awful accusation. It mattered to me that she understand my meaning.

I had considered the word “misogyny” to define a fact, as a condition of fixed meaning. A thing either is or is not misogynous according to clearly understood attributes—no ifs, ands or buts.

But in fact, as her use made clear, it is also a matter of opinion. She believed our scene to be misogynous. Charlie and I do not share that opinion.  She was firm and unshakeable in her view. Our shared intimacy is no match for her certitude.

When asked about my shows or my stories, she may dismiss them as misogynous, carrying forward her opinion to be repeated by others until some hear it without question. “Oh, Jefferson? Never heard his stories, but he’s a misogynist.” Hearsay and opinion are readily churned into fact.

Of course, it nettled. People are supposed to like my stories.

I was still pretty thin skinned about bad reviews. 

Seen, Not Heard

She opened the door, nude, my drink in hand—bourbon, three fingers, neat. As instructed. Good. She was a knock out, but that was beside the point. I wasn’t there to judge a beauty contest.

Turning forty had led her to consider the crossroads of approaching middle age, between the vicissitudes of the past and the potentials and limitations of the future. It had been a while since her previous long-term relationship; she had preferred a measured solitude in ordering her life from the relative chaos of her youth. She marked this transition in life’s passage with an elaborate tattoo empathizing an elemental grounding. Now, with her body artfully manifesting years of cerebral reflection, her mind moved to sex, and specifically, to kink. That’s where she found me.

I took the cup from her hand, closing the door behind me. Sipping bourbon, I kept my eyes on her face as my right hand caressed her body, cupping a breast, touching a nipple, tracing her waist to her hip and thigh. My fingers found her wet. I slipped a finger into her, then a second, then a third. Three fingers, neat. I lifted her to her toes. She swallowed a gasp as I walked her, backward, into her home. 

We had worked out the details of this first meeting via email. She had access to this blog and to photographs of me. I knew only what she told me. I asked that she send me no photographs and keep her name to herself. One so rarely has an opportunity for anonymity, I said; let’s enjoy it while we can. In fact, I suggested, let’s conduct the date without words. I reserved the option to give direction, but she was prohibited from speaking—although, obviously, she could disregard that prohibition if needed. She liked the imposition of silence.

I hadn’t anticipated that her silence might accompany the absence of quiet. She had installed a noise machine near her front door, to prevent our sounds from reaching the neighbors. More privacy was afforded by a wall of sound: Tom Petty, cranked loud. She was an American girl, currently perched on the hook of my hand.

I took another sip of bourbon as I scanned the room. Removing my coat would require removing my fingers from her body.  Instead, I stepped from my shoes and guided us into her living room. I sat in a cushioned chair. I placed the cup on the floor, and, with my free left hand, loosened my belt and unzipped. She got the idea and reached for my cock. I retrieved my fingers as she slid my pants from my body, one leg at a time. “Let’s not neglect the socks,” I suggested. My socks were folded and placed on my pants, also neatly folded.

I offered her my coat. She took it, looking around for a moment before vanishing back toward the entry. I could hear a door open and the rattling of clothes hangers. Resourceful, I thought, adding my shirt to her neat laundry pile.

She returned to find me nude and waiting, nodding to the beat. I suggested she crawl to suck my cock. She lowered herself to her knees and slinked toward me, her eyes on her prey. She took my cock curiously, and then, hungrily.

My eyes lighted on a clock. We can spend an hour at this, I decided, reaching for my bourbon. Tom Petty has a deep catalogue.

She no doubt wondered how long she would be sucking cock. I offered no time frame for the first half hour, and then observed, “You should plan on cocksucking that duration of time again.” Her brow furrowed as she calculated her endurance. Her hips swayed to the music. I propped a leg on her wagging back, giving myself to her attentions. Her body fell still. Only her head moved as she took me.  

The hour passed. I raised my empty cup. She sat back on her haunches, confused before understanding my unspoken order. She raised herself on uncertain legs before disappearing back to the entry.

When she returned, I took the cup from her hand and filled my mouth. I put down the cup.

A moment later, she was on the floor in hand cuffs. I bent her hips firmly back as we fucked.

When we were spent, I swallowed my drink, dressed and left. I sent her an email commending our first date and offering to meet for more. She readily accepted.

On my next visit, she opened the door, nude, my drink in hand—bourbon, three fingers, neat. I moistened my fingers and slid them inside her, leading her backwards to the designated blowjob chair. Prince had replaced Tom Petty. Otherwise, our itinerary remained unchanged.

And so it went, as winter passed into spring. Same rules, same time frame, same wordlessness. Sometimes I brought a cane, sometimes a flogger. She always had bourbon and she always chose a single artist’s playlist.

One day, my offer of a date received this reply:

Hello-

I’m really unsure about seeing you again . . .  

I’m clear about what I will not be and that is only an objectified sexual plaything. More unclear about what I am willing to be, but have a sense of wanting someone who can take in the whole of me and who is open to a deeper level of connection and sharing.

A reflection on our time together; I was longing for someone to show up . . . getting glimpses, but mostly felt in the presence of a detached artist, who is absolutely fantastic at his craft but completely unaware of his medium.      

My hope is that you’re open to a conversation/negotiation around what I’ve mentioned here, where your willingness lays and the possibility of meeting again.  

I look forward to your response . . .

xo

I replied in the moment:

Very good response! Thank you for saying what you think. This is like the moment Charlie returned Wonka’s  everlasting gobstopper.

By all means, let’s talk.

Jefferson

I went on to write that I was glad that she enjoyed touring my chocolate factory, and yes, it is the showcase that most people expect. If she was offering to get to know me in a real sense—to pay attention to the man behind the curtain, to mix childhood stories—then she was asking a golden ticket I was prepared to surrender. After all the sex, texts and silence, perhaps we could get to know one another.

And yet, we did not.

I continued to arrive to find her nude, my drink in hand—bourbon, three fingers, neat. The Stones, The Police, The Pixies. Sex, spankings, silence. Abrupt departures, no words.

Perhaps we were in a rut. But this worked and anything else would be a change.

Finally, she wrote to call it quits This had been fun, she said, and no hard feelings, but it wasn’t what she wanted now. Besides, her work schedule was going to blow up soon, and she thought solitude might be better for her. I replied with my good wishes and suggested we stay in touch.

Despite my intentions to comply with her request, to reveal more of myself and to get to know her, I was, in that moment, feeling my self slip away. The edifice of the chocolate factory no longer held. Reality, in all its brutality, was crashing everything to the ground.

She followed me on social media. She saw that I was melting, melting. She contacted me to ask if I was okay. I replied that I was the opposite of okay. She said that if I wanted to talk about it, she would be glad to listen. I said I’d be at her place shortly.

She opened the door, fully clothed. There was no music. I had to ask for a drink.

We sat on her couch and she sat back, listening. I relayed the narrative of my girlfriend’s decision to dump me for another guy, a friend of mine. It’s a long story, and I didn’t yet know how to tell it concisely. Too much was happening. It was all happening too fast. It was still happening.  

She nodded as I spoke. When I had exhausted my supply of words, she said, “You’ve told me what’s happening but not how you feel about it. How do you feel now?”

“I have no idea how to feel anything,” I said, finishing my drink. I laughed. “So, that’s what’s new with me. What’s your story?”

“This is the first time you’ve asked about me,” she replied, a bit surprised. She either didn’t notice or chose to ignore my empty cup as she began. She was raised upstate, on the edge of the Adirondacks. When she was nineteen, she was diagnosed with cancer. While she was sick, her five-year-old brother died of cancer. She survived. Her early twenties were a blur, “just really fucked up,” she said. She found her way out of that and arrived in New York, where she is now a psychotherapist and a practicing Buddhist seeking ordination. She recently turned forty. After that, who knows?

She folded her hands in her lap. That was her story.

I sat silently. “You are so much more interesting than me,” I said.

“You’re pretty interesting,” she smiled. “But yeah, that’s me.”

“You survived cancer. Your baby brother died of cancer.” I nodded. “But I’ve had my heart broken! You don’t know what real pain is!”

“That’s one competition you’re welcome to win,” she laughed, pushing imaginary chips my way.

She had expressed such profound loss and tragedy so matter-of-factly, offering a considered assessment of her life to date. Of course I turned it into a joke.

I could not listen beyond my surface noise. I struggled to regurgitate barely digested hurt. 

“I was surprised by your posts about heartbreak,” she went on. “I didn’t even realize you had a girlfriend.”

“Oh, I’m sorry!” I exclaimed. “I guess we never talked about it because we never talked, but I thought you knew. It’s in my blog and so on. I didn’t mean to mislead you.”

“It’s not that. I mean, I figured you must be seeing someone. It’s just . . .” she paused. “I had no idea that you have the capacity for human emotion.”

That’s when Charlie returned the everlasting gobstopper.

Meet Linda Lovelace

When I was twelve, my father did something I’d never known him to do: he acquired a best friend. This is not to say my father was not friendly or personable. In fact, I’d wager my father is the friendliest person produced by the American South in the twentieth century. But at that time, in his early thirties, he was busy with a wife, four boys, two jobs and a mortgage. Dad had no time to cultivate a buddy.

That changed when the bachelor came to work at Dad’s car dealership. The bachelor, with no family or obligations of his own, was soon spending weekends at our place helping Dad with various projects. The two of them built an extended back porch, put in a pool and transformed a perfectly good two-car garage into a den, complete with a brick fireplace—rarely necessary in Alabama—and an eight-foot wet bar, in which my teetotaler father stored the unopened liquor bottles he had received as gifts over the years. Soon, the bachelor had Dad drinking Miller Lite. It was really something.

Soon, the bachelor decided to upgrade his home entertainment system with a video disc player. My father acquired his now obsolete VCR, our initial foray into video technology. It came with three tapes. The first was Smokey and The Bandit, which became the first movie my brothers and I watched repeatedly. To this day, we can recite whole swaths of dialogue and sing every Jerry Reed song. The second was National Lampoon’s Disco Beaver From Outer Space, an unsuccessful follow-up to Animal House. The third was Deep Throat.

As the oldest son, I was afforded the privilege of a later bedtime than “the kids,” as I referred to my younger siblings. After they groused off to bed on school nights, I settled in with Mom and Dad to watch the television shows denied to children. I delighted in recounting Mission Impossible plots over breakfast as the kids sulked into their corn flakes.

We were watching television one night when my mother suggested looking at the third video tape. Neither of my parents had watched Deep Throat. They knew it was racy, possibly even naughty, but I was a mature young teen who enjoyed adult fare like National Lampoon, so why not try it out?

“Deep Throat” opens with Linda Lovelace in sunglasses, driving though Miami to the movie’s bouncy theme music. She drives and drives as the credits roll, then drives and drives more as the music plays on. She’s on her way to see her doctor with a very heavy concern: she’s never had an orgasm. She weeps her sorrow to the doctor, played by Geraldo Rivera. (The role was actually played by Harry Reems, but to my young eyes, the actor was presumably the guy on television with a bushy moustache.)

Doctor Geraldo Rivera gave Linda Lovelace a quick examination and made a shocking discovery. Many women orgasm from stimulation of the “glitterus”—or so the word sounded to my young ears—and by some abnormality, her glitterus was located deep in her throat. The only way she could achieve orgasm, he diagnosed, was by sucking a cock at least nine inches long. Linda Lovelace wept. It was hopeless. She would never have an orgasm, for where-oh-where would she find someone with a nine-inch cock?

Doctor Geraldo Rivera unzipped. Bow chicka bow bow! Ecstatically, Linda Lovelace set herself to the task of swallowing the good doctor’s cure.

I sat between my parents, watching. I looked neither left nor right. No one said a word.

We sat frozen for the duration of Deep Throat.

After the movie ended, my mother got up to turn off the television. “Okay, time for bed!” she ordered. I put up no disagreement, hurriedly mumbling “Good night, I love you,” as I rushed to my room, eyes averted.

One may think my parents were freethinkers for watching porn with their eldest child, but in fact, we had no idea what we were getting into. It was the first time any of us had seen explicit sex. Before the advent of video tapes, the only places to encounter stag films were bachelor parties and adult theaters in seedy sections of big cities. My parents had no experience with such places. The only theaters they visited were cineplexes and drive-ins with four children in tow. The bachelor’s video introduced blowjobs into our family’s garage-cum-den-cum-grindhouse.   

The next morning, I ate breakfast with the kids in silence. The third video vanished, never to be seen again.

Years later, now an adult living in New York City, I visited the annual Tattoo Convention at the Roseland Ballroom. I don’t have ink of my own, but I like art and flesh, so I’m an admirer. As I toured the near-empty second floor balcony, I turned a corner and nearly tripped over an easel with a sign reading “Meet Linda Lovelace!” Two women were seated at a table some distance away, as if prepared for a queue that never materialized. I smiled and waved. They waved me over.

I introduced myself. One of the pair replied with her name and introduced her companion as Linda Lovelace.

“Nice to meet you. Big fan,” I blurted. I tried to cover. “You know, Deep Throat was my first porn movie.”

“Yeah, it was a lot of people’s first,” Linda Lovelace replied flatly. “Some firsts for me, too.”

I laughed at the joke. She didn’t smile. I pressed on. “Yeah, but how many people watched it with their parents?”

She nodded, unimpressed. “So, you want to get an autograph? You can buy a picture for ten dollars or the book for fifteen.” She indicated a stack of The Complete Linda Lovelace by Eric Danville. I asked for a book and paid her friend. “How do you want it signed?” Linda Lovelace asked.

“How about ‘To Jefferson?”

Linda Lovelace carefully creased back the book’s cover to the title page and took up a pen. She sounded out the words as she wrote:  “To . . . Jeff . . er . . . son . . .” Her companion and I exchanged glances. I wondered if Linda Lovelace had suffered some disorder that caused her to write so slowly. I knew very little about her.   

By the time I met her, Linda Lovelace was one of life’s walking wounded. As a young woman, Linda Susan Boreman emerged as “Linda Lovelace,” immediately cast as a national punchline. Although few people actually saw Deep Throat, everyone had heard of the film and its star. Johnny Carson got a reliable laugh from dropping her name. Woodward and Bernstein used the film title in identifying their secret informant on the Watergate scandal, certain readers would get the reference. The smart set enjoyed the era’s “porn chic,” opining that X-rated fare indicated a new direction for sex in mainstream cinema.

Linda Lovelace herself felt used by the filmmakers and her unsought notoriety. She had been paid flat fees and never saw profits from the film, its sequels or merchandise. She renounced Deep Throat, claiming that her abusive husband, Chuck Trayner, had forced her to perform. Coming out as a survivor led to her embrace by second-wave feminists. Linda Lovelace was pushed to the front lines of a campaign against pornography, speaking on campuses and marching through Times Square buffeted by Gloria Steinem and Bella Abzug behind a banner proclaiming “Porn Hurts Women.”  She testified before Congress, “When you see the movie Deep Throat, you are watching me being raped. There was a gun to my head the entire time.”

Linda Lovelace came to feel used on all sides of the debate about pornography. She became a born-again Christian and retired into a private life about we which know little other than its continued hardships. Not long after I met her, Linda Susan Boreman would die from injuries sustained in a car accident at age fifty-three.

But that day, she was still Linda Lovelace, relying on her disavowed celebrity to survive by selling autographs at an uninterested tattoo convention. I quietly watched as she inscribed my book, slowly looping the “e” to the “l” in “Lovelace.”

“You have very nice handwriting,” I observed.

Linda Lovelace looked up. “Thanks. I’m proud of my handwriting. I learned cursive as a fourth-grader in Catholic school in Yonkers.” She returned to complete her signature. “I always say, you should always have something in this life that you’re proud of.”

Linda Lovelace smiled as she gave me the book. I shook her hand and left the pair at the table on an empty ballroom balcony. I carried away Linda Lovelace’s signature and life lesson: always have something in this life that you’re proud of.  

A lesson I’ve always tried to apply to my own life in pornography.

Sex and Submission

Gia DiMarco

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.

Sex Fifth Avenue

I gave up dodging tourists at Sixth Avenue. They were gathered in loose overlapping clusters of gawking children, wary parents and grandparents observing that Radio City Music Hall is right there, and look, right across the street is NBC, where they make “The Today Show,” so the whole family might be on television right then and not even know it. You can’t predict which way the herd will shift in a moment of excitement or panic, so I relented to its meandering pace and bid my time.

A text came into my phone. Where are you? My lunch break is nearly over.

I’m a block away. I replied. I should be there in a few hours.

LOL. Take a picture of the tree.

In time, I arrived at the Christmas tree at Rockefeller Center. Only a half block to go, I thought, glancing up briefly. I kept a hand outstretched to avoid jostling the upward gaping surge. As I reached the end of the block, more faces looked past me and pushed forward, reassuring one another that the tree was just ahead, and look, there was that gold statue from “30 Rock.” Fifth Avenue was penned in by traffic cops operating improvised gates of yellow crime-scene tape. I fell in line and crossed the street within two light changes. I shuffled behind two older women in matching coats, clinging together for dear life.

Most people outside the store were hemmed behind velvet ropes, queuing to gaze at the holiday windows. I made my way past them, peering over their heads to get my own glimpse before making my way to the store’s revolving doors. A few cycles and I was inside.

I pressed my back to a wall and took out my phone. I’m in make up. I texted.

Wow, that really did take twenty minutes. Take the elevator to seven. Turn right.

I put away my phone and followed distracted shoppers to the rear of the store. The main floor was no less crowded than the sidewalks outside, as tourists took respite from the cold and allowed their wrists to be sprayed with various unaffordable scents.

Two elevators came and went before I found space in one. All the buttons had already been pushed. I edged to the back of the car, prepared to take the local to the uppermost floor open to shoppers.

As the elevator emptied and refilled at the sixth floor, I reached for my phone. Almost there.

Men’s Lounge, first stall.

A friend of mine had taken seasonal work at Sak’s Fifth Avenue. Knowing my penchant for sex in city landmarks, he offered to blow me in the legendary store. “Should we dare?” I asked. “I’ve had sex at Lever House and Lehman Brothers and each went out of business shortly after the act. I may have a curse.”

“I think Sak’s can survive you. Anyway, my job is over in January. I’m in the same position whether or not you curse the store.”

The elevator door opened on Men’s Clothing. At the right, the Men’s Lounge was indicated in elegant script. I peeled away from those shuffling from the elevator and entered a corridor. Rounding a few corners brought me to the door. I entered.

I passed the first stall. I walked to the rear of the lounge to survey the space. I stood at a long countertop slowly washing my hands, scouting the space behind me in the mirror. A security guard stood at one urinal. I’d want to wait until he left. Beside me, a middle-aged man was scrubbing the face of his teen-aged son with a paper towel as an older son watched. I’d wait them out too. I sat down, affecting the air of a husband worn out by shopping wife. I texted my friend. Waiting on the herd to thin.

Good. I don’t have long. I’m in the first stall. Door is unlocked.

I removed my scarf. The guard washed his hands, conversing with someone who also seemed to work at the store. They walked out together. The father discarded his shredded paper towel and took another, wetting it before returning to his son’s face. How dirty is that kid’s face, I wondered. Did he get it made up on the main floor, as a goof? His father seemed good-natured about his task, but determined that he, and not his son, would wash his son’s face.

The father wore a Pittsburgh Steelers sweatshirt. I took off my hat.

The father went through another paper towel before judging his son’s face sufficiently clean. He spoke to his sons as he washed his hands and then his own face. As he reached for more paper towels, he suggested that his sons take this opportunity to go to the bathroom. The eldest nodded and walked to a urinal. The younger went to a stall. Finding it locked, he moved to another. It was open; my friend’s stall was untouched. The kid’s brother finished and washed his hands. He joined his father waiting for his sibling. Minutes passed. Finally, he came from the stall and crossed to the sink. He carefully and deliberately washed his hands and, returning to his father’s task, washed his face.

I silently composed a letter to the mayor of Pittsburgh, commending him on the meticulous hygiene of his city’s citizens.

The family made to go, but not before the father zipped up his sons’ coats and then his own. I watched them leave with a wish that all their adventures in New York be as rich and bonding as that which I had witnessed.

Now, I was left to my own adventure. I walked casually to the first stall, turned the handle and entered. It appeared empty. His voice whispered from behind the door, “I worried they would never leave.”

“I think they owe rent to Sak’s.” I pulled off a coat sleeve. “How’s your time?” I hung the coat on the door handle.

“I have time.” He took my coat and hung it on a hook with with his own. He locked the handle. I nodded and silently unhooked my belt. His eyes followed as I unfastened my pants, unzipped and, with deliberate nonchalance, took out my cock. I leaned back on a tile wall, my stance wide, waiting. He was my sissy cocksucker. I was his anonymous pick up. Generations of men had set the stage of this lounge before us.

I declined to remove either my shoes or my pants. He removed his own, leaving on his shirt and tie. His cock curved out like mine. He spread his knees wide as he went to his knees and took me in his mouth. As he blew me, I looked around the stall. He had chosen well. The stalls were tall, so no one could peer from above. The walls and doors continued to the floor, so no one could peer from below. The doors themselves were louvered, so that standing, I could see feet walk by, but no one could detect us. With the door securely locked, we were in our own private room.

He stopped to look up at me. “Don’t come in my mouth.” I nodded. “And don’t come too soon.” I nodded again. He retrieved a small amber vial from his shirt pocket. “Poppers?” I shook my head. He unscrewed the vial, took a deep whiff in each nostril, and returned the top. I held out a plan to take the bottle. It would be more convenient to him in my hand.

He hungrily returned to my cock. I knew the poppers sent a rush to his head, and it felt intense to suck me. I forced my cock into him deeper, knowing he would intently feel his control ceding to me, his silent unknown stud.

I put my hand on the back his neck, combing my fingers through his black hair. I took care not to muss it too much. He would shortly be back on the floor, selling shirts and trousers to men like the Steelers fan, none of them the wiser that he had been on his knees in a bathroom stall drooling on cock.

He took another couple of hits from his popper vial and returned it to my palm. “Do you want to sit down?” he asked, nodding to the toilet. I shook my head. “Do you mind if I sit?” I shook my head. He stood, left the toilet seat and sat. I turned to return my cock to him. He jerked off as I fucked his face. He soon moved forward, falling back to his knees. I turned, leaning back against wall. I preferred him on his knees.

“Do you want to suck me?” he asked. I shook my head and handed back his poppers. My message was plain: shut up and suck my dick, cocksucker. He nodded, whiffed and sucked.

I was turned on by my use of him and by our illicit location. The lounge door opened and closed continuously. Feet paced outside our stall as men waited for a stall of their own. I was edging close to an orgasm when someone tried the handle of our stall. I felt that if the door opened, I would come immediately, unable to stop myself at the terror and thrill of discovery. He looked up at the sound. The lock remained secure. I pulled out of his mouth as the footsteps moved away. “That was close,” I whispered.

“Yeah, but it’s locked,” he said, his hands still on my naked thigh.

“No, I mean that I’m close,” I said. “Finish the job.”

He began to rise. “Let’s jerk off. I want to watch you come. Do you want me to do you?”

I shook my head and began to jerk. I was too close to rely on his hand. My cock was soaked with his saliva. I watched as he pulled his own cock, his eyes riveted on my hand and cock.

He came in deep spurts, creating puddles on the floor. I followed soon after. As my legs spasmed, I reached over his shoulder to brace myself on the opposite wall. I steadied myself as the wave subsided. I leaned back on the wall, my cock still bouncing for more. “Here,” I said, handing back his poppers.

“Thanks.” He returned the vial to his shirt pocket. “Hang on, let me clean up before you go.” He unrolled toilet paper onto our shared mess. Using a paper seat cover, he expertly mopped up the tissues and dropped the papers into the toilet. He quickly dressed before flushing. “Okay, thanks,” he repeated. “You go first.” I nodded, unlocked the door and left the stall. I heard it lock behind me.

I washed my hands and, for good measure, my face. Twenty minutes later, I was on the sidewalk of Fifth Avenue.

Crossing John Cardinal O’Connor Way to Saint Patrick’s Cathedral, I looked back to Sak’s. Each year, I recalled, the store is wrapped in giant red ribbon, transforming the building into a giant gift box. Not this year, though.

Blogoversary

Today is the sixth 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, two bloggers, Tess and Dee, saw my curtailed online presence as an opportunity to promote themselves at my expense. Dacia, dissatisfied with our friendship for reasons she declined to discuss with me, attacked me in her blog, initiating a flame war that speculated wildly—and altogether inaccurately—about my custody case. 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. The story of the smear campaign undertaken by Dacia, Tess and Dee is told at Feverish, Sad Drama.

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 two years ago, 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.

Prunes

I fucked her. I just kept fucking her, looking at her face, trying to get past her beauty.

She was sitting on my stoop when I returned home. She smiled and stood as I approached. I leaned to kiss her cheek. “Been waiting long?” I asked.

“No, just ten minutes or so.” She smiled again, laughing slightly. Nervously.

She was about my height. I stood on a step to look down at her. “You’re pretty,” I observed, taking keys from my pocket. “Good. Come in, let’s see what I can do with you.” I opened the door and let her pass. I noticed that despite the sweltering heat, she wore jeans and long sleeves. I can leave marks, I thought.

Kay and I had waited months to meet. She anticipated an internship in New York and contacted me to propose a summer fling. Her photos showed an attractive brown-eyed girl with long hair, cutting up in silly ways. Her notes were bright and engaging. Though summer was half a year away, we agreed to a fling. It would pass the months of her internship and end with her return to school in the autumn.

Anticipation made us impatient. An event would have me in her town in February, so we became excited about meeting in advance of our fling. When my plans fell through, she suggested meeting in April when she would be in the city visiting family. Those plans also fell through. By the time June finally arrived, we’d had months of aroused correspondence, fueled by our thwarted desires.

I held open the door to my apartment. She stepped quickly, as if to avoid inconveniencing me for long. Inside, she put down her bag and looked around. “I just realized, I’m sorry,” she said. “I forgot to bring bourbon.”

I shifted my weight. “You forgot? We went over this, and it’s not like I don’t have a blog that makes it clear. You are to bring bourbon to dates.”

I know. I’m sorry. I just didn’t know of a liquor store in the neighborhood. Should I go get some?”

I stepped out of my shoes. “No, you’re here now and I have a bottle. Just, please, don’t make me repeat things you’ll only forget.” I turned to the kitchen.

“I really don’t mind . . . “ she began.

“On the rocks or neat?” I replied.

“Um, ice. Lots of ice. Maybe some water.” She stood in the kitchen doorway. “I don’t really drink bourbon, so . . . not too strong.”

Pretty. Long sleeves. Forgetful. Weak bourbon. Kay was probably nervous about my first impressions of her.

I led her into the living room and placed her drink on a table. I sat and looked at her. “Kay, take off your clothes.”

She looked at me blankly as the words registered. She laughed and began to unbutton her shirt. “Well, this is the fastest I’ve undressed on a date.”

“I regret waiting this long,” I smiled. I sipped my bourbon. She took off her shirt and paused to sip her drink before resuming.

She had soft round shoulders. As she lowered her jeans, I took note of the fluidity of her gestures. There was a kind of grace about her movements. “You chose not to wear matching underwear?” I asked.

She stood slightly, still holding the leg she was undressing. “I didn’t . . . I didn’t think of it.”

“You must’ve assumed you’d be undressing, Kay.” I sipped my bourbon, looking away.

She laughed, a nervous tic, I gathered. “You don’t like my underwear?”

“No matter. You’ll be rid of them soon enough. Please resume undressing, pretty girl.”

Kay pulled off her jeans and took another sip of her drink. She took a breath, as if resolving to carry on, before removing her bra with an affected casualness. Her breasts were small with faint pink areolas. My eyes moved down as she lowered her panties. “You know, I see more and more girls your age with pubic hair,” I observed. “Must be a trend.”

She added her panties to the pile of clothes by the door. “I didn’t know if I should shave or not.”

“You don’t seem to have given much thought to your appearance, really.” I cocked my head. “Kay, turn around so I can get a look at you.”

She raised herself on her toes and turned, awkwardly, unsure of what to do with her arms. “Do you like?” A nervous laugh.

“Yes, you’ll do nicely.” I put down my drink and patted my lap. “Come here, pretty girl. Sit.”

She turned and crossed the room. “I don’t want to crush you . . .” she began.

“I don’t ask for things I can’t handle. Sit.”

Kay lowered herself into my lap, wrapping an arm around my shoulder. I pulled her legs to drape over my own. She lowered her head to nuzzle. I took a breast in my hand. “Look at this,” I said. “Your breasts are perfectly sized to my palm.”

“You do have big hands,” she said, her voice softer now.

“Hmmm.” I assented. She sighed quietly as I traced my fingers down her side. “Spread your legs, pretty girl.”

Kay moved one leg aside. I felt her inner thigh, slowly moving up from her knee. I could feel her head moving against mine as my fingers caressed her labia. “Are you wet for me, pretty girl?”

She nodded into my shoulder. She gasped as a finger entered her. “Good girl,” I murmured. “You did bring me a nice wet hole to fuck.” She moaned more loudly. I took the back of her neck with my other hand. “Kiss me, Kay.” She lifted her head and brought her mouth to mine, her eyes closed. My tongue flitted against her lips, which parted for our first kiss. Two fingers now pulsed inside her as my tongue entered her mouth.

She groaned as I took my fingers from her. I pulled away from our kiss and raised my wet fingers to her lips. She nodded and took my fingers into her mouth. I rubbed them softly against her tongue, gently, and then, abruptly deep to her throat. She gagged, her eyes opening in alarm. I held my fingers in place, keeping her steady with the hand on her neck. “Do you suck dick well, pretty girl?” She sputtered and nodded as well as she could with her head pinned in my hands. “Oh, is that a ‘yes?’” She gagged and nodded again. “Well, pretty girl, that’s good, as I require an awful lot of cocksucking. If you aren’t good now, you soon will be. Can I count on you to suck my dick as I want, whenever I tell you?” She gagged and nodded again, her eyes welling as I kept talking, filling the time as my fingers filled her. “Good.” I took my fingers from her mouth and released her neck. She slumped, gasping for air.

“Stand up,” I instructed. She swung her legs around and, steadying herself with the hand on my shoulder, rose. I stood beside her. “Now, on your knees.” She knelt, her eyes gravitating to my hands unfastening my shorts. They fell to the floor. I kicked them aside and pulled off my shirt, giving her a look at my body. “You really are a pretty girl,” I said, stepping closer. I took her hair in my hand and pulled back her head. “Boys must hit on you all the time, huh?”

“Sure . . .” she began.

I put a finger to her mouth. “You’re not here because you’re pretty, pretty girl.” She opened her mouth to my finger, which moved slowly in her. “I don’t care about your looks. You’re not here because you’re pretty, or because you’re smart, or because you’re kind to small animals. You’re here to do what I say, when I say you should do it.” I added another finger to her mouth. “What you’re going to do now is suck my dick. You’ll do your best?” She blinked and nodded. “Good.” I released her hair and sat. I took my drink in hand and looked at her. She stared back at me. “Well? Was I unclear? Suck my dick.”

She crawled forward on her knees. She took my dick in one hand, moving her hair over her shoulder with the other. Practiced, I thought. She lowered her head to take my dick in her mouth. “Good girl,” I commended. “Show me what you’ve got.” I relaxed into my seat. My free hand rested on my lap. I wasn’t going to move or touch her. This blowjob was entirely hers to perform. I looked at the clock, planning to see how she did for a half hour.

She slurped back the saliva as her mouth moved up and down the end of my cock, her hand working its base in tandem to her sucking. She quickly settled into a comfortable, slow rhythm. I watched her, enjoying my drink. I withheld any feedback—no words, no instructions or guidance, no evidence of pleasure or reaction. After twenty minutes, she began to tire.

“I was afraid of this.” I put down my drink and took her chin in hand. She drew a sharp breath as I pulled up on her face, ending the blowjob. She hurried to wipe the saliva from her lips. “Kay, you suck dick like a pretty girl. It’s not your fault; I rarely meet pretty girls who are already impressive cocksuckers. You don’t have to put anything into your blowjob. Most guys can’t believe they’ve got a pretty girl sucking their dicks. I suppose they get one look at this pretty, pretty face bobbing on their dicks and they just blow.” I nodded at the clock. “You just sucked my dick for twenty minutes. I'll wager that's the longest blowjob you've ever given."

She glanced at the clock. “I don’t know, I think . . .”

I turned her face back to look at me. “Listen to me, pretty girl. Some people work very hard to be good cocksuckers. They aren't just pretty girls. I’ve had my dick sucked by gay men. I’ve had my dick sucked by some very homely women.” I leaned forward. “I’ve had my dick sucked by women from New Jersey,” I whispered. “Do you know what that means? Do you know how well New Jersey women suck dick?” I opened her mouth and moved my cock to her lips. “This summer, you are going to learn how to really suck dick. You’re going to forget how pretty you are. You’re going to suck my dick like the ugliest faggot in a New Jersey prison.”

I took the hand from her chin, grabbed her hair and rammed my cock into her mouth. She coughed in surprise. I pushed my cock into her throat and her in place. “Feel that, pretty girl? That’s where my cock goes.” Holding tightly to her hand, I pulled her head back and forth on my cock, standing still as I pumped myself with her head. Tears welled in her eyes. “Good, let’s see you cry, cocksucker.” She looked up at me, her cheeks sunken as she struggled to keep from drooling. “God damn it, cocksucker, open your mouth.” She struggled with my cock, confused by my instruction. “Open your mouth,” I repeated. “Part your lips. You don’t need to actually suck. Give me a big wet hole to fuck.” She parted her lips, releasing a reserved of saliva. She groaned. “Don’t be embarrassed,” I said. “That’s just what I want.” I adjust my stance, pushed forward my hips, and fucked her mouth roughly. Before, she had full control over her blowjob. Now, she had none. “Twenty minutes,” I instructed. Panic swept over her face. I ignored it.

Twenty minutes later, precisely, I released her hair and stepped back. She fell forward, gasping, her body covered in a sheen of sweat. “Good girl,” I commended. I offered a hand. “Here, let me help you up.” She looked up, still catching her breath. She put her hand in mine and stood. “So lovely, so pretty,” I smiled. I kissed her, taking both her hands in my left hand as my right played across her torso. I trailed a finger to toy with her pubic hair, her labia and, teasing, slowly into her.

She exhaled into my mouth, inhaling my warmth. Still woozy from her exertions, she was reduced to shallow breaths as we kissed.

A hand moved in mine. She wanted to touch me. She tugged slightly and realized, only now, that her wrists were bound in my fingers. I pulled down on her arms, intensifying our kiss.

A second finger entered her, followed by a third. I pulled my lips from hers. Her eyes were closed, her mouth agape. Her pussy was cupped in my hand. I squeezed the fingers inside toward my palm. I lifted. “Unh, oh, that’s so . . . you can’t pick me up that way!”

“On your toes, pretty girl.” I took a step back. “Come with me.” I walked slowly backwards, keeping pressure on her pussy to keep her own her toes, staggering a bit as she followed in tow. “Easy girl, easy . . .” I backed us into my bedroom, I pulled her to me, kissing her as I turned our bodies. “Now,” I said, releasing my grip and easing my fingers from her. “Let’s give your mouth a rest and move in to another hole.” I pushed against her sternum with the fingers wet from her body. She stumbled back onto the bed.

I took a condom from a nightstand and tore open the package. I kept my eyes on her as she watched it roll over my cock.

She laughed, her nervous tic. “Geez, don’t you ever take a break?”

“I only have you for three months,” I said, opening the package. “No time for breaks, pretty girl. Now spread your legs.”

Her body was hot under mine, and slick with sweat. I fucked her slowly, getting a feel for her responses. Her eyes were closed, so I studied the face I had so brutally used. She was pretty, as I kept reminding her, and now, I acknowledged to myself that my disinterest in that was mere pretense: her beauty really did affect me. Her dark hair spread over my pillows, her long lashes resting under large lids, her aquiline nose over unpainted lips . . . she really was a vision. I raided my memory for comparisons to paintings, resolving to keep quiet about that. If I compared her to art, that would really be the end. I’d fall for her. Beauty has that effect.

I fucked her. I just kept fucking her, looking at her face, trying to get past her beauty.

She breathed and sighed and still, I fucked her. I fucked her harder, then softer, always in the same position, always watching her face, flushed with arousal. I noticed the darkening of the sheets around her; we were soaking the bed with perspiration. I kissed her mouth, her beautiful, beautiful mouth, her exquisite mouth, her Botticellian mouth, her Davidesque mouth.

I was as close to her body as one can be—I was inside her body—and still it didn’t feel close enough.

I pulled back to look at her again. The sheets were now darkened in a wider halo around her body.

“Come for me,” I whispered. “Come for me.”

She nodded, Without opening her eyes, she moved a her right hand to touch herself. Her left hand played with a nipple. “Kiss my breasts,” she whispered. I lowered my lips to her untouched nipple, sipping the sweat that accumulated at her breasts. “Oh God . . .” she moaned, bucking her hips.

“So good . . .” I murmured.

“Keep doing . . . oh God, oh man, I’m coming . . .”

“That's right come for God and man,” I whispered. Her breath stopped and then, suddenly, she moaned, convulsing under me.

She dropped her hands and opened her eyes. “Oh my God, that was intense.” She breathed deeply, gulping air. Then she laughed. “’Come for God and man?’”

I laughed. “My head was in a divine place. I’ll say no more than that. Hey, look at this.” I held up a hand. “We’ve been sweating so much, my fingers are wrinkled like prunes.”

She looked at her hands. “Me too. Wow, I’ve never done that.”

“It’s a first for me as well. Take it easy: I’ll bring us some water.” In the kitchen, I poured two glasses with iced water and quickly drained one. I refilled it and returned to the bedroom with both. I handed her a glass and watched her gulp it down.

I took an ice cube from my glass in my fingers. “Here, let’s cool you off,” I offered. I placed the ice between her breasts.

“Agh, that’s so cold!” she winced.

“And you are an oven.” I traced the ice around her breasts, touching her nipples, and in swirls around her torso to her labia. It was still a substantial chunk when I put the ice inside her.

“Ah-ta-ah-ta!” she stammered. “Jesus, that’s cold!”

I lowered my face to her pussy. “Melt it for me,” I said, licking her. The ice was long gone when she came again.

I refreshed our drinks and poured a bath. We sat in the tub to cool off, our only light being the remains of dusk through the window. I smiled at her. “We met at two, right?” “Yeah.” She paused. “Wow, that was—what? Six hours ago?”

I raised my glass. “To time well spent.” She laughed and raised her glass to mine. We drank and talked, getting to know one another after an afternoon and evening of sex. “So, I’m glad you’re here this summer and we get to be together,” I said, taking care that the bourbon not do all the talking. “But . . . no, not but. And. And here’s the thing. We’re going to have lots of sex.”

“Mmmm.”

“And sometimes, when we have sex, it’s going to feel a lot like making love. Like we’re in love. I think that’s just how we are, how you and I are when we have sex.”

She looked at me quizzically. “I’m not sure what that means.”

“I’m not sure I do either, but it’s what it feels like. To me, anyway. Some of that was pretty intense.”

“Yeah, we do have some pretty intense sex,” she agreed.

“Yeah.” I nodded. “That we do.”

“I like it. I like being so . . . submissive with you.” She splashed the water absentmindedly. “I’m going to do my best to suck your dick the way you want. Any way you want.”

I smiled. “Yeah, and about that . . .” I started to stand.

“Oh no, we just had so much sex . . .” she laughed.

“Three months,” I said, putting my cock into Botticelli’s mouth. “There’s much to be done.”

A year and a half later, Kay and I were in bed talking after sex.

“Do you remember when we were in the tub, on our first date?”

“I remember everything about our first date.” I touched her hand. “Pretty girl.”

She chuckled softly. “Do you remember that thing you said about how sex with me felt like making love?”

I nodded. “Yes.”

“You know, at the time, I thought that was just a line, something you must’ve said a million times. But now, I’m thinking it wasn’t. You meant it.”

I raised myself on an elbow. “That was no line. I meant it. That was really something, what I was feeling that day.”

“I’m not sure what I was feeling that day,” she mused. “I’m not sure it was as, I don’t know, intense as what you described, or that I felt as intensely as you, but yeah, there was something going on.”

“Something, indeed.” I kissed her Renoir breast.

“Baby,” she sighed. “And look at us now.” She fell quiet, stroking my hair as I kissed her. Suddenly, she laughed at a thought. “That thing about sucking dick like an ugly New Jersey prisoner?”

I looked up and smiled. “Oh, now that was a line.”

Happy birthday, beloved.