HNT

Walking the High Line with Danny Wylde.

HNT

Lori decided to celebrate her birthday by getting one nipple pierced. I went along to hold her hand and offer a supportive foot.

My toenails look lovely, don't they? Kay prettied them up.

HNT

Halo organized a photo shoot that involved painting on flesh, and recruited Ava Amnesia and me among her models. Her plan was to script our bodies with emotional and sexual words using the phonetic alphabet; you can see that my foot is labeled lasivies, or "lascivious." I'll cop to that.

Late in the shoot, smudges of paint accentuated the bruises already coloring Ava's breasts from bitings I'd given her over several days. Additional colors transferred to her body from mine when we, um, mixed paint.

HNT

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

HNT

Each year, Tilda and I celebrate her birthday by holing up for a night of pushing boundaries. This year, we decided to invent a Sid and Nancy scene: we’d take a room at the Chelsea Hotel, enjoy some murder and mayhem, and see if the tabloids picked it up.

We wound up in Thomas Wolfe’s former digs, Room Eight Twenty-nine. No screaming headlines; still, I’m not sure we can go home again.



I was inspired to do some writing.

HNT

I was recently asked by an artist to pose for a portrait to be included in a forthcoming exhibition. The request was based on my real-life writing career; the artist knows nothing about this blog or my work as “Jefferson.”

How funny, then, that the artist proposed to shoot me in a nude group.

We planned the shot so that I would be suited, surrounded by a writhing mass of nude bodies. I agreed to the artist’s proposal, asking how many models she had. “Oh, I can get five people, I think,” she said. “But I want a larger group. Do you know anyone who will undress for my camera?”

I allowed that yes, perhaps I did. She was impressed when I showed up for the shoot with nearly twenty volunteers. Still, she wanted one more, having decided that I should also be semi-nude. I acquiesced. Fortunately for her, it doesn’t take much arm twisting to get me naked.

Here’s a detail from one of the images. By now, I’m sure you can identify my feet. Pay no mind to the discreet dots; they won’t be included in the final prints.

Thanks to everyone who participated, including those who first learned of “Jefferson” as a result. The shoot was a blast.

The after party? Beyond blast.

HNT

Anna Smash told me she doesn’t "quite approve” of my HNT foot series, so naturally, I’m more than happy to include her in it.

Look closely and you may detect my serpentine chain of bites, encircling her right breast and trailing around her belly. The chain concludes under my foot.

HNT

By Tuesday of this week, I had made great progress in settling into my new apartment. As a reward for my efforts, I ventured downtown to celebrate the release of Tristan Taormino’s new book on polyamory, Opening Up: A Guide to Creating and Sustaining Open Relationships. She interviewed me for the book, so I thought I should show up and get a copy if only to, you know, flip through the pages to see if I’m in it.

Never mind that Tristan is to sex writing as Hannah Montana is to backless gowns. Which is to say, a bigger deal than we remember to remember.

I was uncharacteristically early, and found a long line waiting to get into the event. Gift bags were promised to the first two hundred attendees. The event was so well attended that even by queuing for a nice long while, I didn’t score freebies—no surprise, I guess, for a party celebrating a poly book. Everyone who came was sure to bring a few dates.

I settled into a banquette with friends. Not long afterwards, a burlesque performer danced until she was well past naked. I gave her a dollar and she shoved her discarded panties under my nose. They smelled like lavender. I didn’t get her name more than once or twice. I remember asking and being grateful each time she said it.

I caught up with friends. The bar, Happy Endings Lounge, was established on the site of a former massage parlor. A sauna was converted into a sitting area. As the evening went on and rounds were exchanged, Tilda decided she really, really liked my leather belt. Lynsey liked how much Tilda liked my belt. So as Lynsey perched on a tile bench to watch, I removed my belt to beat Tilda. A crowd formed, as might happen when you thrash someone in public as a stick artist grows googly eyes.

Tilda took a solid whooping. Lynsey took a solid eyeful.

I wouldn’t know beans about beating if Lolita didn’t take care in educating me. That night, Lolita took this photo of my foot out in public. Ace of Hearts likes to tickle, so here, he gives my sole a soulful wiggle. Not so much into the boys, our Ace, but as you see, soul brothers is soul brothers.

HNT

I read a lot of sex blogs—heck, it’s my job—and there are certain features common to many that I find amusing. One is “Half-Naked Thursday” (or HNT), in which exhibitionists take the opportunity to show off some flesh.

I’ve never considered participating in that tradition. My life requires me to be guarded about my identity, and anyway, it’s probably more interesting that you don’t know what I look like when you imagine me having sex. I’m surely way hotter in your imagination.

But now and then, I think it’s a shame that I deny you my feet, because my feet are really all that and a bag of nail clippings. Look at those long prehensile toes, that abundant Hallux, that elegant Morton’s toe . . . how can I deny these to you?

If you would care to be photographed with such extraordinary feet, grab your pedicure kit and drop a line.

Pearls

Two drinks in, I was thinking ahead to our second date.

Leah and I had met on a soft summer evening at Bethesda Fountain, perhaps the most romantic setting in this city of twinkling skyscrapers and horse-drawn carriages. We had talked at the higher levels of our individual acuities, chasing each other—cautiously a first, then, at each firm footfall, with mounting assuredness—ever upwards.

I had been reserved about her beauty. She made no fuss about my appearance.

Noel Coward was humming in my mind.

When our date might have ended with a kiss on the cheek, I had invited her over for drinks. Or had she invited herself? I couldn’t be sure, but at any rate, here she was in my living room, smiling.

It was after eleven.

I wasn’t going to rush anything.

“Are you comfortable?” I asked. “I just realized you’ve been in that dress all day. Should I turn on the air?”

“That would be nice,” she said, reaching for my coffee table. “Oh, you’ve got the catalogue for that show at MoMA. I’m seeing it this weekend. How was it?”

I thought for a moment as I shut a window. “You know how MoMA’s perfection slides at times to a certain sterility? Like the cleanliness of a hospital ward?”

“ICU,” she nodded, flipping pages. “Like that?”

“Precisely,” I said, turning a knob on the air conditioner. “Not a damn thing wrong with that show but for the filtered oxygen. Perfect can be rather stupefying at times.”

“Perfect is a little overrated,” she agreed closing the book. She reached for her glass. It was empty. She left it alone.

“I’m sorry, would you care for another drink?” I offered.

“Yes, please.” She took the glass and handed it to me. “I’m usually a vodka girl, but this is good.”

“I regret I have no vodka,” I said, standing. “Bourbon man.”

“It’s manly,” she shrugged, smiling.

I was not sleeping with her.

For all the sex I’ve had since my marriage collapsed, I’m not terribly experienced with what normally passes for a date. I don’t often meet women for drinks and conversation. I more often meet women who have read my blog and want some of what they read about. I more often meet women who are recommended to me by mutual friends who enjoy fucking me. I more often meet women who show up at my orgies and like me well enough to request private encounters.

Leah and I were on a date of a more traditional sort.

Yet we had met online. I had responded to her advertisement for a dominant man to help to fulfill her submissive desires.

We had met through the most uber-lumpen of online forums, Craig’s List. I can only imagine how many cock shots she had deleted before responding to me.

Having met through Craig’s List, we each knew what it was like to be pearls before swine. Now we were nestled into our respective oysters, eying one another.

She had read my blog. I had shared it by way of introduction, in the interest of honesty and potentially snaring her attention. She had read what she cared to read of my sexual exploits, but she expressed no special interest in talking about that.

We kept sex at arm’s length.

My mind came to wonder about our second date. Would we be so cool then? After she went home that night, would she write me a note slightly more heated than our previous correspondence? Would I reply with coy innuendo, hoping she would want a date as soon as possible, given that neither of us had any claim on the heft of one another’s schedules?

Or would she simply put me off?

We fell to talking politics. She told me that she had once contemplated entering politics as a candidate.

“It was student government,” she laughed at a memory. She took a sip of her drink. “I liked my odds, though. Like I could lose with my slogan.” She raised a fist into the air. “More caffeine and anal sex!”

“You didn’t!” I laughed. “Are you serious?”

“No, I didn’t. But my slogan polled very well.”

That sealed it.

“You’re killing me,” I said. “Lean back.”

She set down her glass. She reclined on a pillow.

“Like this?” she asked. She extended a bare leg across my lap. I took a foot in my palm. It was perfectly manicured.

“Precisely like that,” I smiled.

Device Bondage

Calico

My friend Calico recently stopped over for drinks. She’s a pretty thing, this one: a twenty-one-year-old pro domme and fetish model with abs that would bounce a quarter to Weehawken.

God bless her, for a skinny gal, she can hold her bourbon.

She was still jetlagged from a trip to San Francisco for a kink photo shoot.

In my life, Calico is one of those people who sets my mind at ease. We let our hair down with each other. She doesn’t have to be Calico the kink vixen; I don’t have to be Jefferson the smutmonger.



We talked.

Somewhere around the second drink, she started showing me bruises.



“Holy smokes!” I exclaimed. “They really worked you hard.”

She smiled. “I had a very, very good time.”

Here are some examples of what Calico considers a “very, very good time,” courtesy of a brand-spanking new website at Kink.com, the exquisitely cruel Device Bondage.

I soon poured a third round.

I wanted to hear all about it.

Footjob

Footjob