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.

HNT

One of the highlights of last weekend’s Armory Show was Marc Quinn’s life-sized sculpture of female-to-male transgendered porn actor Buck Angel. Quinn has worked with celebrity subjects before—he gained some tabloid notoriety by depicting a spidery Kate Moss and a very pregnant Britney Spears on all fours—yet here, Buck Angel is presented in a straightforward manner, much as he presents himself. Not surprising, as Angel collaborated in the creation of his representation.

Here’s a frontal shot—minus my foot—for a better sense of the work’s frankness.

Fleshbot and Taskmaster

This week’s Sex Blog Roundup at Fleshbot heads south to meditate on the body. Turns out a lot of sex bloggers are using their brains to think about their skin.

Those of you who enjoy stalking me will find Anna and I at a loss for how to say goodbye, although our efforts went down well with chasers of vanilla. Also awkward with departures, Cody ponders the etiquette of farewells after a bukkake party.

Lily thanks her lucky stars that I introduced her to my man Mmmark.

Speaking of bodies, mine is aching in the places where it used to play.

Two weekends. Two journeys to dungeons.

Five nights. Five orgies.

That Jefferson is a tough taskmaster.

For a little over a week, being “Jefferson” was a full time job. I traveled to Baltimore one weekend for a dungeon play party—my first as a participant. The following weekend, I headed to DC to a sex conference at which I taught about sex . . . and, come to think of it, had sex with teachers.

In the intervening week, I prepared for my sessions, wrote some posts, and compiled sex blogs for Fleshbot. I managed to keep up a schedule of sex at least once or twice a day.

In between, I made money and raised children. I also fried chicken. Jefferson didn’t give me much time off, so I had to make good use of every moment.

I’m still getting accustomed to being “Jefferson” in public, and it was an adventure to spend a week or so walking around in his skin. Tell you what, that boy gets some action.

Among the observations I gleaned from that week are the following:

If you fuck women in clusters of two or three, the line will move much faster.

If you want people to fuck in the dungeon, you should fuck in the dungeon.

The best way to attract women is to announce that you suck cock.

Along the way I picked up other more nuanced lessons. Like, for example, if faced with the question of whom to fuck first—a gay porn star or a Dutch submissive—start with the gay porn star. This will draw an audience to your treatment of the Dutch submissive.

This is a good rule of thumb, though it may be rather specialized information. For now, please focus on the three main lessons above.

If you fuck women in clusters of two or three, the line will move much faster.

For a while now, I’ve known that straight boys will do almost anything to be in a room with a naked girl. This can be exploited to good advantage. In fact, by this point, I’m pretty well convinced that I could spend my days and nights exclusively tending to straight boys who would never suck cock or get fucked unless a girl was watching. Otherwise, you know, it would be gay.

As it happens, most of the women I know enjoy a good man-on-man sex show. It’s a winning combination.

I can’t tell you how many toasters I’ve accumulated with all this cherry popping.

But it’s important to recall that the reverse is also true. Not every bi-curious gal has had her curiosity slaked, and even the straight girls want to see what all the fuss is about. And obviously, it’s better if a man is present. Otherwise, you know, it would be lesbian.

I’m glad to oblige.

As for the bisexual women, heck, they just seem to love a good old-fashioned threesome in which they get it all. So while I would hate to cut back on my mainstay of male-male-female threesomes, I do see a growing place for female-female-male threesomes in my life . . . and if we toss another woman in the pile, everyone is the happier.

As for the lesbians who like to get their hands on dick now and again, well Lordy, I could write a book.

If you want people to fuck in the dungeon, you should fuck in the dungeon.

Nowadays, I’m meeting more and more people who spend their time whupping on one another. Partly, this is because I have taken a shining to administering a shining, which attracts people who like their bottoms pinks and their minds fucked. Partly, it’s because I’ve taken a shining to Lolita, who has taken a shining to making things happen for me. And partly, it’s because I’m attending Dark Odyssey events, which blend queer, swinger and BDSM communities in a shining example of what can happen when we eschew boundaries and labels.

Naturally, I wander from the orgy to the dungeon to pick up tips. I watch impressed as single tails fly, razors cut and school girls humiliate, taking notes and adding arrows to my quiver.

The cross-pollination leads some dungeonistas my way as well. “No one fucks in the dungeons,” they grouse. “I would really, really like to get some dick in me when I’m strung up, but that can’t happen at clubs and doesn’t happen often enough at private parties.”

To hear tell, there's more sex in the champagne room.

Since the eighties, intercourse in BDSM clubs has been illegal, and its depiction in porn has been curtailed, as there can be no suggestion of coercion. Naturally, these restrictions influence what people do privately. There are many people on the scene putting sex back into BDSM, as Bridgett Harrington does in her writing, workshops and porn, or as the folks at Sex and Submission do in their smut.

So as I pick up my cat o’ nine tails and swing my cane, I remember that taking up BDSM doesn’t mean I need to put away my cock. If you want fucking in the dungeon, then by God, step up and fuck in the dungeon.

The best way to attract women is to announce that you suck cock.

I pass Howard Stern on the street once a week, like clockwork. I nod. He doesn’t acknowledge me. Fair enough. He doesn’t see me. I don’t listen to him.

But if I were on his show, I can imagine what he would say. “You’re a good looking guy, Jefferson, but nothing special. Still, you get with all these hot chicks. How do you do that?”

“Easy,” I would say. “I suck dick.”

My advice to all the straight boys who idolize Howard Stern would be simple. Take your buddy to Hooters (or wherever it is that straight people go), pick the cutest girl at the bar and ask her if she would like to watch the two of you blow each other. She will say yes. She will even buy you each a beer as you talk her through it. Chances are good that she will get so turned on, she’ll want to get naked too.

Guaranteed to work. Your money back if not satisfied.

Why would a woman want to watch two men go at it? The obvious answer is—well, duh, it’s hot. The less obvious answer is that it’s different. Girl-on-girl action is pervasive in popular culture. It sells beer, music, sports, television shows, movies . . . in fact, having no interest in girl-on-girl action would be like having no interest in celebrity gossip—too bad for you, pal, because it’s ubiquitous.

Whereas boy-on-boy action is all but invisible for the average woman. For the girl at the bar at Hooters, it’s a transgressive fantasy come to life.

Even for the woman at the orgy, it’s no less invisible or transgressive. Swinger clubs and parties routinely assume that women will be bisexual—even if they are not—yet male bisexuality is restricted within that culture. Most clubs go so far as to prohibit men from sexual contact with other men.

So that, Howard Stern, is why the hot chicks your listeners want are out chasing the bisexual boys. We are their lovers and gay best friends, all rolled into one package.

Near as I can tell, straight folks best wake up and smell the sex.

Straight boys who want to know more should sign up for my upcoming class, “Impress Chicks by Sucking Dicks.”

Metacognition

“I’m not sure where we are speaking,” Simone said, looking around the conference room. “I mean, the chairs are arranged here, so maybe we’re talking before the movie?”

“They wouldn’t have you speak beforehand, would they?” I asked. “How would the Q&A work?”

“The screening is in the theater,” Dacia said. “You’re probably talking afterwards. The chairs are just screwy here because they are. New School fucks up.”

Simone laughed.

“I’m sorry, excuse me,” Jamye said, taking Simone’s elbow. “I just need to introduce you to someone. Sorry guys!”

“It’s cool,” Dacia said. Jamye pulled Simone to a cluster of people. Dacia turned to me. “She’s super cute.”

“Simone? Or Jamye?”

“Well, both, but I was referring to Simone.”

“I have an enduring crush on Jamye Waxman,” I nodded. “She pushes all my ‘Rhoda’ buttons. I want to have hot Mary-loves-Rhoda lesbian sex with her on my sofa bed. But yeah, your star is adorable. And she’s so nice.”

“Yeah, she’s nice,” Dacia said. “I can’t wait to watch her fuck again.”

Dacia and I were at a reception preceding the premiere of Simone Valentino’s new porn flick, Afrodite Superstar. The executive producer was Candida Royalle, a friend of ours who was launching a new line of African-American films aimed at women and couples.

We like to support Candida’s work any time, but we were particularly eager to attend this function, as Simone is also the star of Dacia’s new release, The Bi Apple.

As we talked, a man announced that everyone should adjourn to the theatre for the screening. Dacia walked ahead with Jamye and Simone. I followed, chatting with Veronica Vera.

Dacia and I caught up in the theatre and found two seats near the middle.

Dacia turned to me. “I was meaning to ask you—how was the last party? Were you hypertexting?”

“Was I what?” I said, raising my eyebrows.

“Showing my movie at your orgy. There must’ve been some metacognition.”

There sure was.

The Bi Apple concerns a sex researcher, played by Simone Valentino, whose work brings her to an apartment in New York City where people meet for orgies and bi sex. As she watches sex and scribbles observations in her notebook, Simone finds herself drawn into the activities—masturbating as two men kiss, dreaming of sex with a woman, and finally, doing the deed with two bi fellows.

Anyone who knows Dacia—personally or through her writing—would recognize her in the character of Simone’s sex researcher. And anyone who knows me—personally or through my writing—would draw parallels to Dacia’s experiences at my bisexual orgies.

So with the film’s release, I thought: how better to celebrate art’s imitation of life than to bring the onscreen sex back home to roost? I decided to show The Bi Apple at my next orgy.

It was a big party, with a number of novices in the mix. My friend Lily was attending her second orgy at my place. Her ex-boyfriend’s ex-girlfriend Wendy was also there. When Wendy broke up with a boyfriend (not her former ex, now Lily’s new ex, but a newer ex), Lily had suggested that Wendy contact me for breakup sex therapy. Wendy and I had some very fine sex as a result, and now she was at my party.

Avah was there, chatting with her new buddy Lolita, who had brought Boymeat and his girlfriend. A couple that Dacia had introduced to the party was there, chatting with another couple, as well as a third couple I like to fuck. Bugs dropped in, as did her friend Callie, who brought homemade mint brownies.

With so many women, I had called in lots of men. Our mainstays Jake, Thomas, John and Mmmark were there, as well as two recent additions: Jed, a straight boy who loves strap-ons and sucking dick, and Fred, a bodybuilder and porn actor who had never been to an orgy—off camera, that is. Funny thing was, he didn’t have that much group experience outside of his porn appearances. The first time we met, he said his biggest fantasy was to have a girl blow him as she fucked a man.

“Did you ever do that?” he asked.

I took his dick from my mouth. “Now and then,” I shrugged.

I had also invited a crossover from my male orgy, a gay man who hadn’t been with a woman in years but admitted to being “bi curious.” He’s handsome and sensuous, which I like, but above all, I adore that he laughs when I describe his thick hair as a “Franz Kafka ‘fro.”

It began as a chatty party. You know how it is with girls at orgies—they love to trade recipes and talk smut.

After a while, I spoke up.

“Everyone, can I have your attention please? Hello?”

“Shhh,” Jed said. “Jefferson’s got something to say.”

“Thanks, Jed.” I looked around. “Well, friends, tonight we have a special treat. Our friend Dacia has created her first porn film, and we have it. This is not her debut as a porn actor—that was another film. This is her debut as a director.”

Thomas looked around. “Hey, where is Dacia? Is she coming?”

“Alas, no,” I replied. “Dacia doesn’t do our orgies so much these days. I may have to retire her jersey eventually. But, as many of you know, her film is partly inspired by her experiences at our shindig . . . and a number of us saw her get naked for the party celebrating the release of The Bi Apple . . .”

“Oh, that reminds me,” Boymeat interrupted. “We have your blue balloon.”

Avah laughed. “You do?”

“Yeah,” his girlfriend nodded. “Some Hispanic kids gave it to us in the subway that night. So now it’s at our apartment.”

“My goodness,” I grinned. “You have to chronicle its further adventures.”

“Well, I think its high times have passed,” Boymeat said. “It’s retired now.”

“Do give it our love,” I smiled. “Now, anyway, some of you old timers will recall that we used to play porn at the orgies.”

“Yeah, what happened to the porn?” Thomas asked. He looked at Jake. “I loved the porn.”

“Well, everyone loved the porn,” I said. “And that was the problem. I kept finding groups of naked people sitting around watching the screens.”

“Tsk. You should be making your own porn,” Lolita admonished.

“My sentiments exactly,” I said. “So tonight, I am showing porn. But I warn you, if it kills the sex, I’m turning it off. In fact, to facilitate our usual level of activity, I suggest we watch it nude.”

Lolita pulled off her t-shirt. “Let’s go,” she smiled.

I pulled off my shirt. “Friends? To the bedroom.”

I hit “play” as everyone undressed.

A bass note hit as Simone cruised the city streets.

“God, I love porn music!” Wendy cried.

“You know, Dacia got her brother to compose the music,” I said.

“That’s fucking hot,” Avah said.

“The family that porns together . . .” Callie added.

“Do you mind if I stay to . . . watch?” Simone asked a couple as they fucked.

“Do you mind if I stay to . . . fuck?” I asked Avah. I picked up a condom as she spread her legs and grinned.

“Tucker, you need to concentrate,” Trixie whined. “Sex can be so much more intense if your chakras are aligned.”

“Get on the bed,” Jake ordered Callie.

“On my back or stomach?” Callie asked.

“Who the fuck cares?” Jake shrugged.

“I’m just going to shower,” Tucker said as he passed a nude man shaving at a sink.

“Cool,” the man said.

“You,” I pointed to my gay friend. “C’mere.”

He crossed the room and stood beside me. I pulled out of Avah.

“This is my friend, Colin,” I said to her, tearing off my condom. “He’s going to fuck you now.”

“Hey, Colin,” Avah smiled.

“It was just so . . . unprofessional,” Simone said quietly. “I shouldn’t have given in.”

“Hey, Callie,” I whispered, fucking her.

“Yeah?” she whispered.

“Check out the cute muscle boy.”

“Yeah, he’s hot.”

I kissed her. “Want to trade his cock?”

“Hmmm,” she nodded.

I stood, keeping my dick in Callie. “Hey Fred, c’mere.”

Fred walked over from side of the room, where he had been leaning against a wall. “Me?”

“Yeah,” I smiled. I took his cock in my hand. “Mind if we blow you a bit?”

“Uh . . . no,” he said, putting his hands on his waist.

“Awesome.” I took his cock in my mouth and fucked Callie with renewed vigor.

After a bit, I passed his cock to her mouth.

He caught my eye. “Fuck, bro.”

I winked as I moved in and out of Callie. “One fantasy, down.”

“Hmmmm,” Simone sighed. “I’d really like to get my cock in that ass.”

“I have some lube over here,” Josh offered. “And a harness for you.”

“Hey, where’s Josh?” Avah asked.

“Yeah, wasn’t he supposed to be here tonight?” Callie asked.

“He was,” I answered. “Along with his wife, whom I’ve never fucked . . . uh, met. I guess they are not coming tonight.”

“Oh shit, I’m coming,” Josh said.

“Come on me,” Simone moaned.

“Oh, God,” Wendy sighed.

“Unh, take it,” I whispered.

Wendy trembled. Her body shook under me. “God . . . unh, God damn it . . .”

“Take it . . . ” I said.

“Unh, ooh . . .” Wendy’s body went still as she stopped breathing. For a moment, she was absent. “Unh, oh shit . . . fuck!”

“Yeah, yeah,” I laughed into her mouth.

“God damn it, unh!”

“Go, go,” I said, pulling her hair.

“Fuck me!”

“I am, I am.”

I felt Wendy splashing on my cock. She bucked and twisted, and then went limp under me.

She looked up at me. “Fuck, man.”

“No shit,” I smiled.

“While you were having your fun,” Thomas said, “The porn ended.”

I looked back at the blue screen on my television.

“Yeah,” I kissed Wendy. “The porn ended.”

Dacia elbowed me. “That’s Mister Marcus.”

I looked at the screen. The denouement of Afrodite Superstar played out. “That’s one fine wall of man.”

She nodded. “No shit. I met him at AVN. He was so mellow. ‘Hey, how’s it going.’ I should’ve fucked him.”

“You’ve thought of this?” Simone asked.

“Yeah, I’ve thought of this so much . . .” Mister Marcus said, his voice low and sexed. He reached for a condom.

“Yeah,” I nodded, low and Barry White. “Magnum.”

Dacia laughed. “Sweet.”

Blue Balloon

It was the end of the line for me.

I couldn’t complain. Life is fleeting for my kind, and I had enjoyed a pretty good run. Still, I hadn’t imagined that I would meet such a grisly fate.

I was moments from being crushed by the next downtown local.

That’s when he found me.

“Oh my God, where did you get that balloon?” Avah laughed.

Jefferson tugged on my ribbon. “It was hiding behind a post. Can I keep it? Can I keep it? Pleeease?”

“Only if you take care of it,” Avah smiled. “Balloons are a big responsibility, you know.”

“Oh, I know,” Jefferson nodded. He poked me. “You’re my new best friend, blue balloon. And I’m taking you on an adventure.”

The train that had been destined to destroy me sped into the station. It did not splatter me into blue confetti and a wisp of helium; instead, it took me, intact, along with my new protectors, to my very first concert.

I heard that it was Avah’s second.

“It’s going to be very hard to be the hottest people here tonight,” Jefferson said. “I mean, look at this crowd.”

“Don’t worry, baby,” Avah replied, patting his hand. “We’re very hot.”

I scanned the concert hall. Apparently, I was the only balloon in attendance. That might have made me feel conspicuous and uncomfortable, but instead, I felt rather unique.

“I think I’m in the minority,” Avah noted. “Being a girl.”

“Maybe,” Jefferson agreed. “But you remain in the majority by virtue of being a cocksucker.”

The lights went down and Jefferson tucked me under his seat. I felt as cozy as an egg waiting to hatch.

My skin began to shake to unpleasant loud thumps.

“What do you think?” Avah shouted.

“I think it is the worst opening act I’ve ever seen, bar none,” Jefferson shouted back.

A loud voice slurred that the act was from Kingston, Ohio. “Let me amend that,” Jefferson added. “This is also the worst band I’ve ever seen from Kingston, Ohio. Tonight, at a gay club in Kingston, someone is asking someone else, ‘Hey, where are those two annoying faggots? You know, the really fucked up ones with no talent?’”

The lights came back on.

An hour and a half passed.

Of course, I can’t tell time—I’m a balloon, not a clock. I know how much time passed because Avah kept asking, “Is it supposed to take so long before the real band comes on?”

Finally, the lights dimmed again. Everyone stood and cheered. Jefferson tucked me between his knees so that I wouldn't float away.

Suddenly, my skin began to vibrate. My helium began to throb. What was happening to me?

“God, I’m so excited!” Avah said, squeezing Jefferson. “The Scissor Sisters!”

“Awesome fabulous,” Jefferson nodded.

Scissors? Balloons dread scissors. When they cut my ribbon, I thought I was going to pop dead.

But this sensation was like nothing else. If I had exploded on the spot, I would have evaporated a happy balloon.

I bounced contentedly between Jefferson’s knees.



At one point Avah shouted that Jefferson was filthy, and contended that she, Avah, was gorgeous. The roar of the crowd stretched my skin.

“C’mere, blue balloon,” Jefferson said. “I want you to see something.”

He held my ribbon so that I was level with his eyes. I blinked as bright lights shone through me, turning my blue to greens and violets.

And then, I saw them. Projected over the stage, as large as a movie screen—two bouncing pink balloons. The balloons shook and shimmied, back and forth, as I had never imagined balloons might do.

I wriggled open my knot, just a little, to let out a whistle. It was that exciting!

After the concert, I was led back onto a subway, once again thwarting death.

We emerged in lower Manhattan. My helium contracted in the cold night air.

My innards relaxed as we entered a place called the Pussycat Lounge.

I blinked as once again, lights filled me.

Jefferson and Avah pulled me through a crowd. At a table, they met Simon Valentino, a beautiful porn actress who was signing copies of her new movie, The Bi Apple.

I gathered this was a party for the movie, directed by Jefferson’s friend Audacia Ray. It’s about an apartment in New York City where people meet for bisexual orgies.

Pretty improbable scenario, if you ask me. Still, balloons have an affinity for apples, so I kept an open mind.

Jefferson seemed to know a lot of people. A handsome man named Mmmark let Jefferson sip from his cup of bourbon. A beautiful woman named Les admired his leather motorcycle jacket.

Another fellow, Thomas, said it looked like Jefferson had picked up his jacket in the nineteen seventies.

“Near enough,” Jefferson nodded.

“You should’ve left it there,” Thomas said.

“Thanks for the consult, Mary,” Jefferson replied. “By the way, you’re sporting a nice jacket. They carry Miami Vice in boys’ sizes?”

I was floating pretty high by this point, so some things got lost in the din. But I was drawn back when Lolita approached Jefferson.

“Have you ever played with electricity?” she asked.

Jefferson gripped my ribbon. “Uh, no,” he stammered.

“I’d like to put an njoy plug up your ass, wire it to a connector on your cock, and shock you,” she grinned. “You’d do that, right?”

Avah clapped. “You should totally do that,” she giggled.

“See?” Lolita said. “Avah’s on my side.”

“You want to fry my cock? How about . . . well, can we just wait and see about that?”

Lolita turned to Avah. “He’ll do it. You can watch.”

“Oh, goodie!” Avah smiled.

A crowd of people pushed toward a stage, where two naked women were licking each other’s bodies. I floated up for a better view.



Pretty soon, Audacia Ray joined the performers. She was accompanied by a woman with a spiky Mohawk. Spikes scare me, so I was especially concerned when I saw so many pink balloons bouncing on stage. What if they should burst?!

Evidently, though, those balloons were made of sturdy stuff. The spikes poked and prodded, but the balloons only bounced all the more.

I squeaked with joy.

Soon, we were back on another subway, joined by a group of people from the Pussycat Lounge. When we emerged into the cold again, Jefferson looked around and smiled.

“Two weeks ago, I was in Paris watching Rufus Wainwright sing Judy Garland. Tonight, I saw the Scissor Sisters, went to a bi porn release party in titty bar, and now I’m on Christopher Street after midnight. Man oh man, am I queer or what?”

“Yes baby, you’re queer, all right,” Avah smiled.

“Oh, it’s not like it used to be around here,” Selina said, looking wistfully at the Duplex. “Too many yuppies now.”

Several tables were pushed together at a restaurant. Jefferson tied me to his chair so that I could survey the room.

The waiter was round, like me. He seemed to enjoy having so many people talking about sex at his restaurant. He tried to participate, though he felt a little awkward about it.

“This man offered me his telephone number,” he complained to Boymeat. “But I’m not gay.”

“You should keep an open mind,” Boymeat suggested.

“ . . . but we’ll keep the man’s number,” Jefferson added.

Later, the waiter brought Jefferson some mustard and added, as an unordered side, that he had recently had sex with a teenage Swedish tourist. “It was so hot,” the waiter noted.

“I’ve seen old porn films like that,” Jefferson nodded. “Actually, I think ‘Teenage Swedish Tourist’ was one of the titles.”

When the waiter left, Boymeat turned to Jefferson. “He needs us. We should totally . . .”

“Yes,” Jefferson agreed. “We totally should.”

“So, did you read my fantasy about Jefferson in chains?” Lolita asked Avah.

“Yeah, that’s a nice one.”

Lolita nodded. “Yeah, and he’s already said he would do it.”

“Wait,” Jefferson interrupted. “What am I doing?”

“I’m telling Avah how I’m going to put you in cut-off Daisy Duke shorts.”

“Yeah, I think you mentioned that. But what’s this about chains?”

Lolita smiled. “It’s a new inspiration. I want to do you up like Christina Ricci in Black Snake Moan.”

“I don’t remember agreeing to chains.”

“Oh, you should totally do that,” Avah laughed.

“See?” Lolita pointed. “Avah’s on my side. You have to do it.”

“What I have to do is keep you two separated,” Jefferson sighed. He changed the subject by asking a man across the table about toys that go up people’s asses.

I had certainly been rescued by an interesting group.

Outside, the crowd said goodbyes. Some were looking for cabs, others were headed to the subway.

Jefferson was too cold to linger. He took Avah’s arm in his, held my ribbon and walked quickly down Christopher Street.

A train was coming into the station as we cleared the turnstiles.

“Should we wait on the others?” Avah asked.

“It’s after three in the morning and they are dawdling, so no, let’s go,” Jefferson replied. “Quick, get on the train.”

A chime sounded. Jefferson held me close.

“Blue balloon, I need you to wait here. Tell our friends we went ahead.” He held my ribbon outside the closing doors. “Thank you for a lovely night.”

Suddenly, a hand took me from Jefferson.

“Hey, thanks man,” a young man laughed. “Yo, check it out,” he called to his friends. “That guy just gave me a balloon.”

I looked back. The doors had closed and the train began to leave the station.

Through a wiindow, I saw Jefferson kiss Avah as my new protector tugged me away.

Fleshbot and Vanessa del Rio

This week’s Sex Blog Roundup at Fleshbot comes a bit late, as my colleagues were up to their teabags with gay porn stars at last weekend’s GAYVN.

Alas, I missed those festivities in San Francisco, stuck as I was in snowy New York, churning my own smut of the boy-on-boy (-on-boy-on-boy . . . ) persuasion.

At Fleshbot, it’s back to the breeders for my compilation of the cream of the crop in MILF action, as told by the sexy mamas themselves. Curl up and enjoy the steamy bedtime stories your mom forgot to warn you about.

Speaking of sexy mamas, can we talk about Vanessa del Rio?



Vanessa del Rio

Porn is pretty much a west coast production these days, but for those of us who go old school, Vanessa is the queen of New York sex.

Vanessa grew up in Harlem and first encountered erotica on film with Isabel Sarli, who shed all in Forty-second Street grindhouses. Vanessa’s mother took her to Times Square in search of Spanish language films. Mama found them, and in the process, set her young daughter on the path of becoming porn’s first woman of color.

(Read that last sentence slowly and you want a coin minted in Vanessa’s honor.)

Vanessa hit the screen as a teenager in racy sixteen double m, and a few decades and technologies later, she still tears it up online.

The beauty of Vanessa’s site comes in part because it revisits her thirty-plus year career, covering the full Golden Age of porn and beyond. She emerged just after Deep Throat and worked right through video and into DVD and the Internet.

In that time, the kittenish chica bonita with the Desi Arnaz schtick became the Satanic diabla loca with a mean-ass whip. As time passed and tastes changed, she transformed her body from that of a curvy cootchie to that of a New Wave bodybuilder to that of a full-bodied woman of pleasure.

No matter the moment, Vanessa was—and remains—hotter than hell.

Vanessa steams because she is gorgeous, but above all, she’s hot because she is the person she is.

Back in the day, she was the porn star who, on her days off, showed up at Plato’s Retreat and The Eulenspiegel Society to get naked with the locals. She was always in sex not as a means to an end, but as the end itself, a sexual outlaw who managed to get a porn career along the way.

Vanessa’s best recommendations come from those who know her. Thirty years in porn and BDSM, and no one says a word against her. If you met her once, you would swear she was your best friend.

Share the love. Visit her site through the links above or at left. Join up, watch her films or those of her girls, chat with her on cams—yes, she is her own webmistress—and see how it feels to bask, con fuego y pasión, in the ardors of the legend next door.