Motel

She was home from her first semester of college. She wrote to say that she liked my blog, and apologized for bothering me to write to say so. She stayed up nights to read it, she told me. She was eighteen and she had had sex a few times, but there were so many things she wanted to know about, so many things she had not done.

We traded notes. She wanted me to tell her what to do. I gave her simple instructions. She followed them diligently.

She had never had sex in a motel. It had been a while for me.

This is her account of our first date.

“Oh, boy, we even get to stay on the second floor!” I remark, as we walk up the stairs.

“We do . . . it’s a good thing, too; I don’t think we have any neighbors,” he replies, turning the key, opening the door to our room.

Once we step into the room, I put my bag down on the chair next to the door, and it’s clear that he’s already been in the room before picking me up. There is a bottle of bourbon on a table next to the ice bucket. Condoms and lube are ready on the nightstand tables.

I am anxious as hell, and he knows it. We kick off our shoes. He cups my chin in his hand, kissing me, parting my lips with his tongue. I pull back, and wrap my arms around him. He holds me.

“Such a brave girl,” he whispers, kissing the top of my head, running his fingers through my hair.

I step back from him, unzip my jacket, and take off my scarf. He sits on the bed and looks at me expectantly: our rule is that when we are alone together, I must be nude. I take off my clothes and lay them on the chair where I had placed my bag just moments before. He is standing right next to me. He holds my hands down by my side and orders me to stay still. I don’t say a word, He knows that I want to obey him.

“Close your eyes. And keep them closed.”

He begins at the top and moves down; stroking my hair, kissing the top of my head, my neck, shoulders, running his hands down my body, taking my nipples in his mouth, so gently. I sense him kneeling down, hands on my waist, running them down my legs, parting them, kissing the inside of my thighs and my pussy. He stands up abruptly.

“Honey, you are about to give the longest blowjob of your life.”

I open my eyes, looking up at him.

“Keep them closed,” he reminds me.

He pulls one of the chairs away from the table, throws a pillow down on the floor in front of it, guides me to it, and instructs me to kneel.

I get down on my knees, patiently, unable to see what he is doing. I trust him. I hear him open the bottle of bourbon and pour it into one of the plastic hotel cups. He pulls off his shirt, unbuckles his belt and unzips his jeans; I can hear him taking them off. Socks next. Then he sits.

He guides his dick to my mouth.

“You can open your eyes.”

I take it in my mouth, circling the tip, running my tongue underneath on that sensitive spot, one that I didn’t even know existed until he told me. I am nervous; all I want is to please him.

“Have you sucked a lot of cock? Hmm? Or are you just working on intuition?” he asks, sipping his drink, smiling down at me.

I sit back on my heels, look up at him and tell him that really, I haven’t sucked that much dick. I look back down, close my eyes, and take him deep in my throat. He groans, pushes my head down, urging me to keep going. I come up for air and ask him how I can stop gagging so much. I am glad that I can ask him questions and not feel foolish, He doesn’t mind answering.

“It’s good, you’re good, and you’re doing good. Jersey girls give the best head. There must be something in the water!” he laughs.

I suck cock for a while longer until he finally utters the words I’ve been waiting for.

“Get on the bed. I’m going to fuck you.”

I jump on the bed and lay on my back. He kneels in front of me, rolls a condom over his hard cock, and enters me, wrapping my legs around his waist. After a few minutes, he pulls my legs up over his shoulders. He held my hands up over my head. I fought back, although I loved every second of it. He made a comment about how he should have brought the ropes. I had already told him how I wanted to be tied up. After a while, he let up, and I moved my right hand down my body, resting it near my pussy.

“Go ahead. You can touch yourself.”

I start to finger my clit, faster and faster, to match his thrusts. I cum—my first time ever during sex. He knows this, and he slows, not pulling his cock out of me. He wraps his arms around my legs, which are still on his shoulders.

He leans down and kisses me.

“Um, was that an orgasm? Did you just cum during sex?” He smiles, and pretends to gasp. I just smile up at him.

He pulls me around and slides me up the bed, my head on the pillows.

He puts my legs back up over his shoulders and enters me again. I groan and throw my head back, bumping into the headboard. I start to rub my clit again—and he pulls out. He starts kissing and rubbing the inside of my thighs. I have my eyes closed, but I know he is watching me touch myself. I make myself cum again. And then, I feel his fingers enter me.

His fingers fill me up, hitting all the right spots. I moan as his mouth latches onto my clit, using his tongue; he is using both hands inside of me, alternating in and out, and he keeps hitting my g-spot. I am not so sure I have ever felt that before. Leave it to him. I have my hands up over my head, palms up against the headboard, eyes closed, breathing heavily. He makes me cum a few more times, and then I pull away.

“Why did you stop me? I was watching you before. I could see you have a sweet spot . . . and I went after it. We found your sweet spot, and your g-spot. You looked pretty damned hot.”

Then he laughs and demonstrated what I looked like just then.

We lounge on the bed for a while, and he holds me. His stomach gurgles. I mention to him how it is so college of him to be drinking out of a plastic cup. We start talking about my cocksucking. I insist that I really am nothing that special. He disagrees.

“Speaking of . . . you should probably get on that.” He points at me, then at his dick. “You know, you are the only cocksucker here. Beside me, I mean, and I can’t suck that cock.”

I decline and cross my arms. I make my “face” at him, and snap my teeth, pretending to bite. I am lying on my stomach next to him, and he spanks me, hard. I yelp. He continues with little taps, getting harder and harder.

He says he likes my ass. I laugh and tell him that he likes it more than he likes me.

He rolls over so he is on his stomach. He smiles and wiggles his ass at me.

“Spank me.”

I decline.

“You’ll be sorry. In ten years you are going to ask yourself, ‘Why didn’t I spank Jefferson when I had the chance?’ You’ll beg me, and I’ll say no.”

I laugh at him. He rolls over and gets back into his previous position, sitting, leaning back against the headboard, his legs sprawled in front of him.

I keep protesting that I really am no good at sucking dick, and he challenges me.

“You are. But if you don’t think you are, you should know that practice makes perfect. Now get going.”

I lay between his legs, taking his cock in my mouth once again. I keep gagging. I am embarrassed, but he thinks its hot, because to him, that means that he knows that blowing him is my number one priority at that moment. He knows I’ll do anything to please him. But it’s not really the best position to be sucking dick in.

He moves back to his chair, and I resume my place on the floor. My feet are falling asleep, and I will later realize that I am receiving my first rug burn. I can take him deeper in my throat now. He is groaning, one hand on my back, the other on my head, pushing me.

He tells me to get back on the bed, on my knees. I oblige, and he walks to the other side of the bed. I face him, but he tells me to turn around, smiling and gesturing with his hand. He rolls on a condom. He pushes me down and enters me again, this time from behind. He pushes down on my back; my face is squished into the comforter. He grabs my arms and pulls them behind my back; he holds them there while he fucks me.

He pulls out, and I move to lie on the bed, head on the pillows. He pulls off the condom, climbs onto the bed, straddles my chest and starts to fuck my face. I take him as deep as I can; trying as best I can . . . this is new to me. He comes so close, but he isn’t cumming.

I joke and tell him that I have failed him. He reassures me that it’s fine, and that we should sleep for a while. There is plenty of time for him to cum. I nestle into him, I like that I fit so nicely next to his body. He likes that I am affectionate. He kisses me.

A few hours later, we wake—the first time. He kisses up and down my back, and then turns me over and kisses me. We don’t speak. He flips me over, rolls on another condom and enters me from behind. He puts a pillow up against my headboard so my head doesn’t go through so much abuse. He fucks me hard, I touch myself, and I cum again.

He flips me over so I am on my back, and continues to slam into me. My legs are on either side of his waist, I reach my hands around and grab onto his ass, making him thrust harder. I grind against his flesh, bringing myself so close, but this time, I don’t cum. He does, and I couldn’t be happier. His body shakes, his eyes closed, his head back. He smiles and comes down to kiss me. I bite his lower lip. I am so glad he finally came.

We fall back asleep in each other’s arms.

I wake up a few hours later, and kiss his cheek. No response. He is fast asleep. I lie there next to him, and wait for him to wake from his deep sleep.

Around ten-thirty, he finally wakes, and tells me we have a half hour. We have to be out of the room by eleven. He puts his arms around me and suggests that we shower. I shrug, and he says we can stay in bed. He kisses my cheek, my eyes, and my mouth. He runs his hand across my chest, pinching my right nipple as hard as he can until I gasp and he lets go. He moves his hand down my stomach, and touches my pussy.

My eyes are closed, head turned to the side. He reaches to the nightstand to get a condom; I can hear the package ripping. I move, and look into his eyes. We can fuck once more before we have to leave. He puts my legs back up over his shoulders one last time and enters me. He fucks me slow, soft. I want more. I reach my arms around and grab his ass, pulling him into me. He gives me his fingers in my mouth, and I bite them and keep quiet, breathing heavily. He moves my legs down from his shoulders, holds them down. Our time together is running short. He pulls out, lies on top of me and kisses me.

“Really? We have to get dressed!”

I smile, and tell him I am not allowed, since we are still alone together, longing for more time with him. He tells me that it is time to go back to the real world. I complain that I hate goodbyes. He reminds me that this is only the beginning, and that the next time we see one another, it will be at his place. I smile; he pushes me back on the bed, straddles me, and kisses me one last time before we leave.

Fleshbot and Grooms

This week’s Sex Blog Roundup at Fleshbot gives up a chance to kiss the bride in order to pay special attention to the groom. Wedding bells are ringing this month, and last time I checked, there were two figurines on the wedding cake. Let’s find out what happens as the bachelor party recedes into memory.

Those of you who enjoy stalking me will find Lily contemplating the curiosity of watching amateur porn alongside the people who made it, not long before she finally has sex at orgy—unbeknownst to her, I’m watching, bourbon in hand. Somewhere along the line, she has the pleasure of conversing with my friend, the ever-charming Brooklyn Rake.

An orgy or two later, you’ll find Wendy on her knees and earning her stripes as an expert sword swallower. She puts aside swords for garden tools when she attracts the attention of none other than Brooklyn Rake.

I wish I had a reason to send stalkers to visit Cody, but in truth, I’m not involved in her most recent post. Sure, I introduced her to the fellow who introduced her to her . . . subject, but so far as I’m concerned, that’s as far as it goes.

I would also enjoy an excuse to send you to visit the aforementioned Brooklyn Rake, but alas, the rake ain’t raking. My man is too busy fucking girls at my place to bother writing about it. Stay tuned, though: one day soon, he’ll put aside his tool and pick up his quill.

For now, Rake’s blog is just limp.

Speaking of grooms, it won’t be long before a fresh-faced teenager becomes my son-in-law. That’s right: this month, my nineteen-year-old daughter Rachel takes a husband.

Finally, I can lay to rest my anxieties about her fate as a spinster.

My children and I will be at the wedding, along with my grandmother, my parents, my siblings and my nieces and nephews. None of us thinks it wise that Rachel marries so young—even seven-year-old Lillie has said as much to her adored sister—but we love Rachel and we respect her undeniable love for Ray.

That’s all we need. Ray is family now. He’s my son.

I look forward to getting to know him.

My ex wife Lucy never responded to her invitation to the wedding. We reckon she won’t be there.

I’ll tell you about the wedding in time, but no time soon. I’ve got other stories to tell you in the meantime.

Still, just so you know, I’ll soon be away for a spell. After the wedding, I’m taking the kids Down South to be with family.

I may post now and then when I am away; I may not. But that doesn’t mean I’m not thinking of you.

Hell fire, sugar. I’m cooking something special with you in mind.

Erratum

The phone vibrated in my hand.

I opened my eyes, startled.

The television was on. Some local news program on Channel Two. I must’ve fallen asleep during “Letterman.”

The phone vibrated in my hand.

I rubbed my eyes to bring the caller’s name into focus. What time was it? “Hello?”

“Hello, Jefferson. Did I wake you?”

“No, no,” I croaked. I coughed. “Okay, well, yeah. Where are you?”

“Downstairs. I think I found a space outside your building, but I can’t parallel park.”

“You need me to come down?” I sat up.

“Yes, I’m sorry, but I do.”

“No problem. I’ll be right down.” I closed the phone and checked the clock. Three twenty six.

I leaned to my chair to grab my jeans. The television was clicked off as I pulled on a sweater. I sat in the living room to lace up my snow boots.

I looked around as I tromped outside. Snowflakes caught in my eyelashes. Only one car on the street was not wedged into the banks created by snowplows. The brake light glowed red.

I stomped my way to the light. I rounded the car to the passenger side. I opened the door and bent forward.

A cloud of smoke wafted my way.

“Hello,” I smiled.

“Hello, yourself,” Nicole said. She draped an arm on the steering wheel. “Nice night for a drive.”

The storm began just as she left campus.

Nicole hadn’t bothered to check the weather before her second trip to visit me. The mildest winter in recorded history had left everyone a bit lazy in that regard—one either wore a sweater or a coat, but rarely both.

She was surprised by a freakish snowstorm that hit just as Spring was due.

She steered her car with Southern plates and thinning treads into the slow lane. She sang and chain-smoked her way to Manhattan, forty-five miles to the hour.

She looked well settled into her seat. Her legs were propped up casually, as if she were seated at a café waiting for a friend.

I looked over the car’s hood. She had evidently attempted a U-turn and wound up wedged in snow bank. “Well, this was a noble effort at parking. May I give it a go?”

“Please.” She exhaled and tossed a butt from a crack in her window. “Be my guest.”

She opened her door. We met in the glow of her taillights. I took her arms. “Pretty.”

“Pretty exhausted,” she smirked.

I adjusted her driver’s seat and rearview mirror as she settled into the passenger seat.

The wheels spun. I shifted gears, back and forth, turning the wheel clockwise and back. The car barely rocked.

We attracted the attention of two sanitation workers driving a garbage truck fitted with plows. They stopped to dig us out.

We called our thanks.

“Y’all think they knew we was Southern?” I drawled.

“Two years up here, and I just don’t get snow,” she said, reaching for her lighter.

I drove around the block. There were plenty of parking spaces, all blocked by piles of snow. The parking garages were full. I learned something about New Yorkers: the drivers follow the weather reports, and avoid digging out by garaging their cars.

I saw my chance. I looked to my right. She saw it in my eyes. “Nicole, I can’t resist. Hang tight.”

“It’s yours,” she said.

I shifted to a low gear, stepped on the gas, and plowed into a snow bank. The Dixie-bred compact complained as I wedged it into two feet of fresh snow.

The car was about a foot from the curb. “That’s just going to have to do,” I apologized.

As we trudged back to my apartment, I expressed my sympathies on the ordeal of Nicole’s travels.

“I did okay,” she said, tossing it off. “But I now realize I haven’t slept in sixty hours.”

“Lord, really?”

“Yeah. Midterms, whatnot. I had a lot of reading.”

We undressed and got into bed. We fell into kisses and sex, our skin cold and damp from the snow. Her feet were still thawing as we drifted to asleep.

I woke around nine, made coffee and worked as she slept.

She grumped that I let her sleep until she woke. “Shh,” I kissed her. “This is a spa vacation. Rest up.”

She breakfasted on cigarettes and coffee.

We got back into bed.

We eventually decided that sushi and Zodiac were worth getting dressed.

I pulled on jeans and a shirt as she dug clothes from her backpack. I lay on the bed and watched as she pulled on panties and a light dress of cerulean blue.

“That color would really bring out your eyes,” I said, reaching for my camera. “That is, if anyone ever saw your eyes.”

“Ha!” She tossed the hair from her face. I snapped a few photos.

“Raise your dress,” I directed. “Let’s see the panties.”

She lifted her hem and extended a leg.

“Such a pretty femme,” I said, clicking.

I pulled on my snow boots as she laced her sneakers.

We walked half a block in silence.

“It’s funny you call me a femme,” she said, pulling her jacket close. “I mean, I’d never say that.”

“Really?” I put my arm in hers. “I didn’t mean much by saying that. But you do look feminine with your preference for dresses and skirts, and the Veronica Lake swoop . . .”

“That, well, that’s the result of growing out my crew cut.”

I looked at her. “It’s hard to imagine you with a crew cut.”

“The dresses are new too.” Her breath plumed in the cold. “It’s actually pretty controversial at school.”

“How so?”

“Well, remember, I go to a smart school in New England and I like girls. So with the crew cut and jeans and whatnot, I fit in pretty well with the queer kids. Now, with the way I look, it’s pretty controversial.”

“Identity politics and fashion, huh? Ne’er the twain shall meet.”

“It’s fashion, but of a different cut,” she nodded. She took her arm from mine to retrieve a cigarette. “All of which reminds me: you know I like what you wrote about my being here in January.”

“Good. I enjoyed writing it.”

“But, do you remember, you had that one comment? About how you said I had been with just a few men and more women?”

“Yes, I remember.” I offered my hand as she stepped away from a puddle at a street crossing.

“Thanks.” She took my hand, balancing her cigarette at the end of an extended arm. “Anyway, the commenter suggested that you discounted my experiences with women, as if they didn’t . . . well, count.”

“I recall. I didn’t mean that, not at all . . .”

“Oh, I know.”

“I mean, I intended to emphasize that you didn’t have much experience with men before, you know, meeting a man of some experience.”

“I know. But I could see what she meant. I assume she was a ‘she,’ I don’t recall the commenter’s gender, but . . . it’s a commonplace presumption that sex with girls isn’t as serious as sex with boys.”

“True. Same with straight boys. They regard their sex with other guys as independent aberrations even as they tally up the girls.”

“That’s not exactly what I meant.” She took a drag and exhaled. “I mean, in my case at least, perhaps it’s more accurate to say that the sex with men is the aberration. When it comes down to it, I really take sex with women more seriously. I know I would never connect that way with a man—not with the same emotional intensity or commitment, or whatever you want to call it. With a man, it’s mostly . . . well, sex.”

I took her arm back in mine. I appreciated her openness to me, a man with whom she mostly had . . . well, sex.

“We make up our sexuality as we go along, I suppose,” I said. “It’s not like you have to self-identify as lesbian or bisexual, or butch or femme, or anything at all, so long as you are comfortable with yourself.”

“Tell it to the campus dykes,” she grinned.

We rounded a corner. “Eh, they’re young yet,” I shrugged. “The sexual identity of peers can seem extremely critical when one’s own identity is still being formed.”

She pushed her hair from her face to look at me. “I suppose,” she said.

I stepped ahead to the restaurant entrance and held the door open.

She stopped to take a last drag. “I’m going to be twenty soon, you know," she exhaled, stepping out her smoke in the snow. "No more teenage sex for you—not from me, anyway.”

“Yeah, about that,” I patted her shoulder. “You’re getting a little long in the tooth for me. I’ll probably trade you in.”

“Ha!” she laughed.

Counting

Avah looked up instinctively as she crawled around the corner.

I tugged down on her jaw, gripping it firmly, my thumb on her chin, two fingers under her tongue.

Her eyes dropped. Her nude ass rose. Good.

We had first met just a few minutes earlier, yet already, we each knew how to respond to the other.

We had prepared the way.

Our first correspondence had been friendly and flirtatious. I was glad to see photographs of the pretty young woman who had contacted me. She read my blog, and so she had some insights into my life. I asked about hers.

I asked about her past experiences, and what had drawn her to me. She revealed a rather jagged and fast-paced sexual history.

She was nineteen when she wrote to me, on the cusp of her twentieth birthday. She had lost her virginity at the age of seventeen. In the intervening two-to-three years, she had lost track of the number of men she had fucked.

“How can that be?” I asked. “Did you run out of fingers and toes to count?”

“No,” she replied. “I was an escort for a while when I was eighteen—at least, until my mom found out and made me stop.”

Avah had joined an agency that knew how to make good use of a fresh-faced teenager. She would book a New Jersey motel room and spend a day seeing a succession of clients, primarily men she would never see again. At the end of a working day, she would tuck a few hundreds into her purse. The agency would put much more into their accounts.

It was a sweet deal—for the agency.

Since her forced retirement from whoring, Avah had been involved with a few boyfriends, including one who would occasionally tie her with ropes. Avah writhed under the restraints and came to see herself as submissive, although she wasn’t sure how to pursue this with her boyfriend.

She considered herself bisexual, although she had little experience with women.

She had never had an orgasm with a partner.

I released her jaw from my fist. “Get on the bed,” I directed.

Avah nodded and lifted her arms to the bed. Slowly, with the deference of a chastened dog, she crawled onto it.

“On your back.”

She rolled off her knees, settling back into the duvet.

I kept her eyes in mine as I removed my shirt. I watched her eyes lower as I removed my jeans. For the first time, she saw the cock she had already had in her mouth and throat.

I lay next to her. I took her face in hand and lowered my lips to hers.

Her mouth opened. A sigh was trapped in her chest.

My fingers moved lightly across her flesh as I kissed her firmly. My mind was searching for her responses, adding tactile sensations to the information it had gathered on Avah.

I took my time. We made out like the kid she still was.

“Are you ready for rope?” I asked.

She nodded. “Okay.”

“Good.” I reached over a corner of the bed to retrieve a line. I wrapped it around her wrist, knotting it loosely.

“Slip knots on a first date,” I whispered, reaching for the opposite corner of the bed.

“I know,” she nodded. She had read that somewhere in my blog. I tied another knot.

I sat back on my knees, looking over her pale skin. I settled on the girlish pink of her nipples. I pinched one, watching it turn white when I released my hold.

“May we try clothespins?” I asked. She nodded, watching my hand reach for a drawer.

I gathered a fold of nipple and flesh from a breast much smaller than my palm.

She sucked in her breath as I attached the first clothespin. “Shhhh,” my voice soothed as the second snapped into place.

Avah drew deep breaths as the sensations rushed to her head. Her hands balled into fists. I watched as her toes curled, waiting for them to relax.

I leaned forward to kiss her neck. I traced a tongue to her clavicle, kissing again as I made my way to her breast. I kissed and licked as the clothespin bobbed, providing the axis around which I traveled.

I took the underside of her breast lightly in my teeth and held it. Her breathing accelerated as my incisors gradually dug deeper. I increased the pressure until she writhed. I held it longer and then suddenly released her.

“Ahhh-unhh!” she moaned, twisting. The sharp pain of the bite competed with the sustained pinch of the clothespins.

I watched her face, my hands rubbing her belly. Her brow furrowed and then relaxed as she calmed her contortions, willing herself into composure.

She knew what to do. She knew what to anticipate.

My teeth sank into the soft underside of another breast.

My mouth’s tour of her body left the oval of my teeth’s imprint repeated across her torso. In some places, small bites nestled inside larger ones, creating pink flowers that would blossom into purple bouquets in the following hours. My garden was somewhat formal in its symmetry.

In time, my mouth arrived at the conclusion of it meandering, unhurried path. My destination was damp in expectation.

I leisurely lapped at Avah’s clit. She breathed out in relief that I had finally arrived.

I suckled and tongued, giving her head in different modes, trying on rhythms and patterns for this pussy new to my mouth, and so misused by other men.

I found sensations that resonated with Avah’s body, filing them away and moving to others. I wasn’t pursuing her elusive orgasm—not yet, anyway. This was more of a fact-finding mission to collect data preliminary to later use.

Two fingers curved into her.

Avah’s legs spread as I filled her cunt for the first time. Her back arched as now, for the first time, she felt a pressure her own fingers had been unable to produce—and no other lover had bothered to try.

My fingers pushed gently. Firmly. Pressing. Rhythmically. Screwing. Pulsing. I watched her face, rubbing her thighs and torso, learning.

I pulled out. She collapsed slightly, sighing.

I opened a nightstand drawer. “I’m going to fuck you now,” I informed her.

She opened her eyes. “Okay.” I smiled, kissing her cheek. We both knew, in that moment, that she would have refused me nothing, just as I was prepared to give her something she needed.

We both knew that we wanted that trust.

I watched as, for the first time, my cock vanished into her shaved folds. I thought of the uncounted men who had used Avah’s body, trading small folds of cash for this moment of feeling her tight teenage cunt close in on them.

All that effort, I thought, lowering my body to hers, and no one had bothered to take care of her. Stupid, really, that men pay for so little, when there is so much more to be had—if one learns to appreciate what is given.

I fucked her slowly, kissing her cheeks and mouth, nestling my face in her hair. I bit into her arm as she flinched, unable to move away from my mouth.

I sat back, pushing her thighs forward. I fucked harder. She squirmed and moaned.

“Is this hitting that same place as my fingers?” I asked.

She opened her eyes and nodded.

“Good,” I smiled. I pounded hard, fucking her with a measured ferocity.

She zoned out. I caressed her hair.

My phone rang. Avah opened her eyes.

“This is very rude of me,” I shrugged. “But I do need to take that.”

Avah nodded, panting.

I reached for the nightstand. “Hello? Yeah, how’s it going?” I pushed deep into Avah, then back lightly. “Good. Yeah, it’s going very well. I like her.” I smiled at Avah. She smiled back. I fucked her a little faster. “Yeah, I think she likes me too. So where are you? . . . Uh huh . . . No, no it’s cool. Come on over. The door is open.” I fucked slower. “Her? No, no worries. This one does what I tell her. See you soon.”

I returned the phone to its receiver.

“Friend of mine,” I said, pinning Avah’s legs back. I reached for the rope, lashing her calves to her wrists as we fucked.

I offered no further explanation of the phone call. She knew better than to ask.

I fucked her through different rhythms, finding the ones that worked. A few times, she seemed close to orgasm, but never made the leap.

I lowered myself to her.

“Okay, now, I want to try something,” I said, looking into her eyes. “Are you with me?”

She nodded.

“All right. Now, I’m going to fuck up into you, just like this.” I pushed in and up, back and forth, in a regular pattern. “Now, you push down onto me.” Her pussy clenched on my cock. “Good! You are so swollen and tight now. And that sense, that ‘pushing down’ is what your body has been doing when you are about to cum. I’m going to keep fucking you, just like this.” I pushed in and out, repeating an unwavering beat. “You push down and focus.” I kissed her. “I’m not stopping. I’m not cumming. We’ll take all the time we need.”

“Okay,” she said, smiling a little nervously.

“No pressure,” I said, kissing her lips. “Just try this.”

“Okay.”

I took her shoulders in my arms. Together, we chased her orgasm.

Soon, she panted and pushed and moaned. She fell limp.

“Ugh,” she complained. “No good.”

“You were close?” I said, slowing.

“So close,” she said. “What’s wrong with me?”

I slapped her. “Nothing is wrong with you.” I resumed our rhythm. “Again.”

Her eyes flashed as her cheek grew red. I felt her pussy clench on me.

“Good girl.” I smiled. “Let’s try again.”

We were pulsing in our motion. I loomed over her, dripping sweat from my brow. I held her throat in my hand as she gasped, flush and intent.

My front door opened.

Avah’s eyes widened.

“Ignore it,” I commanded. “Keep fucking.”

Avah nodded and closed her eyes.

My front door closed.

I spit on two fingers and circled Avah’s clit. She gasped. We were getting close to the combination. I could feel the tumblers falling into place.

Focus, girl, I thought.

“Harder . . .” she whispered.

“The fucking or the fingers?” I said forcibly.

“The fingers . . .”

I quickly untied a leg and arm. I brought her hand to her pussy.

“Rub your own God damned clit.” I barked. “I’m fucking.”

Avah’s back grew rigid. Her pussy was swollen and full after so much fucking. Her clit was twitching. In the next room sat someone she didn’t know, someone who heard every sound we made.

She gasped.

“Give it.” I ordered. “Give me what I want and I swear to God, I’ll beat the shit out of you.”

She sucked a breath. “Oh my God, oh my God . . .”

“That’s it,” I urged, pressing in, refusing to be expelled by the coming earthquake.

Avah convulsed. Her cunt pushed and pulled. Soon enough, she shuddered and cried out.

“Mother fuck, my God, oh my God!”

“Yeah, yeah!” I laughed. I fucked her even harder now.

Three years of sex with countless men, and finally, Avah got her orgasm.

We kissed.

I untied her and we relaxed in one another’s arms.

“Honey,” I panted. “You done good.”

Avah looked at me. “You’re not so bad yourself,” she laughed.

“You’re sweet,” I smiled. I kissed her forehead then turned to face the door. “Hey, Meg!”

“Yeah?” a voice called back.

“Come here. I’m going to beat up this girl. You want to watch?”

“Yeah!” she called back. “Just a sec.”

I turned to Avah. “You don’t mind if I cane you in front of my friend, do you?”

Avah laughed nervously. “I guess not . . . ”

“Good girl.” I squeezed her hand. “Just keeping doing what I say, and you’ll be fine.”

Meg joined us. I introduced Avah, and suggested Meg settle into a comfortable chair at the side of the bed.

I retrieved my cane.

“On your knees, all fours,” I commanded. Avah did as instructed, her face in the pillows.

“No, no,” I reprimanded. “Stupid girl.” I tapped the bed with my cane. “Look at Meg. See where she is sitting? Meg wants a good show. Face your ass to Meg.”

Avah looked up. She crabwalked into a more suitable position.

“Good.” I leaned next to Meg, sizing up her view. “Now, spread your knees, Avah. Meg wants to see more pussy.”

Avah complied.

“All set, Meg?” I asked.

“Oh yes, this is a great view,” she nodded.

“Any requests?”

“Shouldn’t she get a birthday spanking?” Meg suggested. “And count off each one?”

“Splendid idea,” I smiled. I kissed Meg. “And one to grow on.”

“Of course,” Meg nodded.

“Oh, God,” Avah whimpered.

“Now, now, none of that. Ready?”

Avah wriggled her hips. She drew a deep breath. “Ready.”

Avah cursed as she counted the stripes that would keep her standing for the next two weeks. She called me a monster when I delivered two blows for her seventeenth year, marking her deeply for the loss of her virginity.

She hated me as she waited anxiously for the twenty-first blow.

It came down hard and diagonal, bringing all the other blows to vivid, exquisite agony.

I put down the cane and took Avah in my arms.

We talked in low voices, kissing as she came around. In time she was laughing and trading jokes with Meg.

“I’m glad we met,” I said, petting her hair. “I hope you enjoyed your birthday?”

“Oh yeah, this was the best birthday ever!” she laughed.

“Good.” I kissed her lightly. “Now, get dressed and get the hell out of my apartment. I have company.”

“Oh!” Avah sat up. “Sure, of course . . .”

Meg and I chatted as Avah retrieved her clothes and returned to the bedroom. She began to put on her panties.

“Unh unh,” I said, holding out a hand. “Those are mine.”

“You’re taking my panties?” she asked.

“First date.” I said, nodding.

“He’s got quite a collection,” Meg agreed.

Avah handed over the panties. “That’s my nicest pair, too,” she winced. “Black lace and everything.”

“Of course they are your nicest,” I said, taking them to my nose. “It was a first date, after all.”

Avah shouted as the denim of her tight jeans touched the fresh welts on her ass. Meg cooed in sympathy.

I showed Avah to the door, kissing her goodbye.

“Did you have a good time?” she asked.

“Honey, we’re just getting started.” I smiled.

I locked the door behind her. I returned to the bedroom and flopped over my bed.

“She’s cute,” Meg observed.

“Oh, she’s a keeper all right,” I nodded. I reached over to touch Meg’s calf. “So, you want to fuck?”

Milk

Her skin was milky, I thought, just as Tess had said.

As Gina sat talking, I reflected on Tess’s description of her new girlfriend: “God, her skin—so pale and translucent, so milky!”

I sipped my bourbon, listening.

Gina sat very erect as we talked about books. She had browsed my bookcases and asked what I was reading. I pointed to my copy of Saul Bellow’s Adventures of Augie March. She reads my blog, so she knew that it had been recommended to me.

Gina told me she had just picked up a new book of erotica.

“Oh, right, of course you read erotica,” I smiled.

“That’s how I met you,” she nodded. “And Tess.”

“Tess is lovely,” I said. “She giggles if you look at her crooked, which is hot.”

Gina laughed. “She’s a good writer, too. So, what else do you read? Do you read science fiction at all?” she asked.

“No,” I said, hoping my eyelids didn’t flutter. “I mean, I used to love comics, but somehow, I never caught on with science fiction.” I searched my mind. “Ray Bradbury, you know, when I was a kid.” She nodded. I nodded in response and went on. “I liked that one about the time machine, you know, with the path and the squashed butterfly.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she smiled.

I smiled. “Yeah, that blew my seventh-grade mind,” I grinned. I sipped my bourbon, glad that I had connected on a subject rather alien to me. As the bourbon stung my tongue, I suddenly regretted the comment about seventh grade.

“Mysteries?”

“No.” I needed to take care here; we were each readers, which is a connection, but not the same type of readers, which might prove awkward.

“No, not really. I mean, some Dashiell Hammett, some Raymond Chandler . . . but no, not really.” I looked into my hand. I swirled the bourbon. The ice tinkled against glass. “No P. D. James.” I looked up into her eyes. “I’ve never read Anne Rice.” I raised the glass to my lips and paused. I lowered it and looked back. I confessed my shame. “I’ve . . . I’ve never read Stephen King.”

She smiled. She looked over her shoulder. “You have a lot of books, though . . . ” she noted.

“I’ve read Harry Potter!” I interrupted. “You know, the first two books. I read them to my son when he was younger. But then . . . you know . . .” I sipped my bourbon and swallowed hard. I shrugged and came out with it. “Well, then he began to read them on his own, and well . . . I was bored with Harry Potter, so . . .”

She laughed. I put down my glass.

“God, I’m sorry, but that stuff reads like it was a checklist dictated into a tape recorder. ‘And here we have the talking paintings—check! And here are the giant chess pieces—check!’”

“Don’t forget the brooms,” she laughed. “Check!”

“And the capes,” I added. “Whatever, it was worth a few billion for someone who needed the money.”

“Yeah,” she agreed. “And you know, they were actually good books.”

“Sorry,” I grimaced. I reached for my drink. “I’m not really a snob. I just don’t read enough fiction, so I miss a few genres now and then.” I took a sip. “I should read erotica, eventually.”

She folded her hands and smiled. “Yeah, think about that—once you stop living it, maybe. So anyway, this book I’m reading . . .”

“Yes,” I nodded. “Tell me about it.”

I listened, taking her in. Her long red hair hung behind her, its ends resting on the couch behind her hips. Smart glasses framed her caramel eyes. Her tight jeans and blousy shirt revealed a lean figure; she had been trained as a dancer, she mentioned.

Her lips were pale and lovely. Tess had told me how youthful she seemed—she was twenty-seven, but could’ve passed for someone a decade younger.

As she talked, she mentioned her husband in passing.

“Oh yeah, that,” she said, recalling something. “I should tell you about him. See, we’re separated, recently . . .”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I clucked.

“Yeah, well, me too, but it’s okay,” She nodded. “It wasn’t my idea, but, you know . . .”

“That’s hard,” I commiserated.

“Yeah.” She caught my eye. “You want to hear the worst part?”

“If you want to tell me.”

“He told me he wanted a divorce while I was still pregnant with the baby.”

“Ouch!” I grimaced. “Yeah, that’s pretty low.”

“Yeah, right? But see, it’s not like that. He’s not a bad person. He just . . .” She looked up, thinking of the right words. “He just knows that he wants to be in love with someone else.”

“Oh, wow. So . . . there’s someone else . . .”

“No.” She shook her head. “There’s no one else. He just wants there to be.”

“He wants . . .” I repeated, not getting it.

“See, he realizes that while he loves me, and our two girls, very much, he doesn’t think this is the relationship he is meant to have. So he wants to be free to look for that relationship.”

“Oh, I guess that kind of makes sense.”

“Right? I mean, I said, ‘Why don’t we have an open relationship, then? You can date other women, and if you met someone, then . . . well, that’s what happened.’ But he’s not like that. He can’t date someone else while he’s with me. So, he has to be free to look.”

“Well, it sounds tough.” I said. “But kind of honorable, in a way.”

“Yeah, he’s very upright like that. And he’s so great with our girls.”

“You have two girls, you said?”

“Yes, four and eighteen months.”

“He’s with them tonight, while you’re here, right? Does he know that you’re seeing me, and . . .”

“Oh yes, he knows. He likes your blog, actually.”

I picked up my glass. “He reads my blog and he knows you’re here. Well . . . cheers.” I took a sip.

“I know, it’s unusual, but . . . well, it’s life.” She paused. “And man, the sex is so much better.”

I nodded and smiled. “Well, yeah, I hear that. I can’t say I miss being tied to my wife’s libido.”

“Right. Well, I meant that, yes, I like having new lovers. But I meant with him.”

“Oh, you still have sex?”

“Well, we live together,” she shrugged. “Different rooms, but . . . yeah. Only now, it’s different. We’re getting into kinkier stuff, dom/sub, and it’s really hot.”

“Yeah?”

She nodded, flashing her eyes. “Really hot.”

I grinned. I reached to touch her hair. She leaned slightly to my touch.

Talking about her husband and children led her to speak about renovations they were doing to the house in light of the recent change in their relationship. She focused on the kitchen, speaking in some detail about additions. She was talking at length as I listened, allowing the familiarity of her own voice to still her nerves. She was, after all, meeting a new person for sex.

“ . . . and a new coffee pot,” she went on. “Weirdest thing, lately, I’ve developed a lactose intolerance, which is sad, really, because I always like milk in my coffee, and the substitutes are just . . . not good. Bleh.”

She paused and looked at me.

“I like half and half,” I offered.

“I am so sorry,” she said. “I’m just going on and on.”

“It’s fine, really. You’re nervous. May I make a suggestion?”

“Please,” she said, her body slumping.

I stood and held out my hand. “Come on. Let’s go have some really hot sex.”

“That’s a good suggestion,” she laughed. “Whew. Yes. Let’s do that.”

She looked around my bedroom. “So, this is where it all goes down?”

I stood next to her. “Yes.” I took her face in my hands. “It goes down here.” I touched my lips to hers. Her mouth parted for mine.

I rested a hand on the small of her back, under her hair, pressing lightly to feel her muscle tone. I pulled back and smiled. I took her glasses and placed them on a nightstand. “Clothes off, Gina,” I said softly.

Gina’s eyes dropped. She raised the shirt over her breasts and shoulders. I touched her belly.

She handed me the shirt. I tossed it aside.

She reached behind her back. Her bra fell forward. I took it, throwing it to land near her shirt.

I caressed her left breast, admiring its pale areola and its nipples like pencil erasers.

“Pretty,” I said, leaning to kiss her neck. My mouth grazed her clavicle, her chest, a nipple. My lips returned to hers, barely touching. Her eyes closed in expectation.

I fell back abruptly, landing on the bed. She laughed.

“The pants, the pants!” I motioned impatiently. “Let’s see all of you—now, now!”

“Okay, okay,” she said. She stood on her toes and turned in place, giggling slightly. She stood still to unfasten her jeans. “You can undress too, you know.”

“Pshhh,” I said, waving a hand dismissively.

She was wearing pink panties, probably “date panties.” I stood to remove them.

“Now,” I said, kneeling before her. “Now, I can touch you.” I traced fingers up the back of her dancer’s legs, lightly nuzzling her bare pudendum with my nose. I inhaled deeply, carrying her fragrance with me as my face traveled over her navel to her hips, up to her breasts and finally, to rest with her face.

We kissed.

I took her hand and lay her back on the bed. She watched as I slowly undressed by the lamp’s light.

She suddenly looked around. “Wait, what time is it? I need to call my kids to tuck them in at eight.”

“We have about an hour before bedtime,” I said, crawling over her. “You let me mind the hour.” I kissed her eyelids. “You just relax.”

My lips moved around her face and back down her body. I paid attention, savoring these first moments together.

My lips moved around her breast. She sighed as her nipple grew hard in my mouth. I caressed her breast in slow, deep circles, sucking with steady rhythm.

I was rewarded as her milk streamed into me.

I moaned in appreciation. She ran her fingers though my hair, quietly, as her back arched.

I licked her inside my mouth, tasting her warm sweetness. My hands massaged as she let down into me. I’m here, I thought. Give yourself to me.

I drank her slowly, licking and nibbling, making my suckling erotic and arousing. My fingers confirmed the wetness between her legs. I found her clit and massaged as I sucked.

She sighed deeply. I licked again. Just cum, I thought. Cum as I drink you.

I moved to nurse from her other breast. A finger entered her. Another followed.

I drank more intently, more selfishly, slurping and gulping noisily.

I swallowed a draught and edged up her neck. I kissed her deeply.

“So sweet,” I smiled. Her gentle face was beatific in lamplight, her long red hair splayed across the pillows. I leaned into her neck. “I’m going to fuck you now,” I whispered.

She nodded.

After so much talk, she was now so quiet.

I entered her easily, holding her close under me. I fucked her fully, getting to know her responses as filled her, rocked back, and filled her again.

We fucked quietly, intently.

“Nicole was right,” she whispered, breaking the silence.

“Nicole?” I asked. “You mean Tess?”

“Well, yeah, Tess was right, too.” She put her hands on my shoulders. “I meant Nicole, the teenager . . .”

“Oh, Nicole,” I kissed her neck.

Gina pulled me close. “She was right to see you.”

I put my lips to her ear. “I’ll be sure to tell her you think so,” I whispered. “When next I kiss her.” I brought my mouth to hers.

I sat back, keeping my cock inside her as I pulled her legs up to rest on my chest and shoulders. I lowered myself again, bringing her legs down as my face moved to hers.

I kissed her as her calves framed her face.

“Impressive,” I said.

“Dancer,” she smiled.

“Yeah, well, my dancer,” I smiled in response. “The fact that you can do this allows me to do this.” I pivoted back on my hips and thrust upwards.

“Unh,” she gasped. “God.”

I fucked into her forcefully, pressing up just inside her body.

Her face glowed. Her eyes were inward, leaving me.

I kept a deep, steady rhythm. I noticed the time. Ten minutes.

I fucked her closer.

Five minutes.

I fell close to kiss her. “Gina?”

“Hmmm?”

“Call your babies, mama.”

She snapped alert. “Is it eight?”

I nodded to the clock. “Yeah. Make your call. We have things to do.”

I pulled out and kissed her forehead. She reached for her phone. I went to the bathroom to wash up as she made her call.

She shut her phone as I returned to the room. I set a glass of water on the nightstand. “Babies all tucked?” I sipped from a second water glass.

“No,” she put down the phone, exacerbated. “There’s no answer. Maybe he has them out or something.”

“Do you need to keep calling, or . . .”

“No, it’s fine. I just hate to miss talking to them at bedtime.”

“I know the feeling,” I said. “So, if you’re done with the call, it’s time for me to fuck you up the ass.”

“You’re so direct!” she laughed.

I opened a cabinet and took down a bottle of lube. “I find it works best to be direct.” I opened the bottle and poured lube into my palm. I closed my hand to warm the liquid before applying it to her hole.

“I guess that’s best if you want to get your way.”

“It’s best for me to give you what you want,” I replied, massaging her hole. “Besides, I’m increasingly convinced that anal sex should be a part of any first date. Just sorta gets it out of the way, you know?”

I slid a finger into her.

“Unh.” She closed her eyes. “Hmm, well, it’s going to be a tight fit. It’s been a long time.”

“I don’t mind a tight fit.” I reached for a condom. “Anyway, stick with me, and it won’t be a long time anymore.”

“Hmm, nice. So, do you want me on my knees or on my back, like this?”

“On your back. You’re pretty so I want to look at you.” I raised her thighs, bringing her ass up. “Now, if you were homely, I’d have to flip you over.”

She laughed ass I entered her cunt.

“Hmmmm,” she nodded. “That’s not my ass, you know.”

“I know. It’s just so hard to tear myself away from your pussy.”

“I don’t mind at all . . .” She fell back into the silence that envelops her as she’s fucked.

Wordlessly, I took my cock from her and gave it back to another hole.

Her head turned as she moaned lightly.

“Shhh,” I said, caressing the legs on my shoulders. “I’ve got you,” I whispered. “I’ve got you.”

She reached to touch my forearm.

I let my cock rest I her body, moving slowly to take in the contrast of between the lushness of her pussy and the tight grip of her sphincter.

As she faded again, I fucked into her harder.

I pounded and pounded, wiping the sweat that dripped from my brow.

I reached down to take a breast in hand. I squeezed firmly. A long arc of milk shot up.

“Hot damn,” I admired as the fountain splashed on her flesh.

She opened her eyes and grinned. “Not every girl you fuck can do that trick.”

“No, they can’t,” I said, taking both breasts in hand. “You are a girl with many unusual attributes.” I turned the stream to face me, never giving up my pace on her ass. I opened my mouth as milk splashed on my face and waiting tongue.

She laughed out loud.

“Oh, fuck you’re hot,” I exclaimed. I pulled out and licked her from my lips. “Bend the hell over, mama. I’m spanking your ass.”

She kept laughing as she turned over.

The next day, I wrote to thank Tess for inviting me to Gina. “Thanks for sharing your bitch, girlfriend,” I wrote. “She’s a solid-gold keeper.”

I also said as much to Gina, letting her know that I very much looked forward to second date.

“Me too!” she replied. “That was incredible. Thanks." She told her bottom still smarted, which she enjoyed.

“I told my husband how hot it was," she went on. "He wants to know if he can watch next time.”

Omelettes

I sat on the bed next to Fawn as her face emerged from a t-shirt.

“Your hair is a mess,” I smiled, tucking a black strand behind her ear.

“Sorry,” she grinned nervously, looking away. She ran her fingers through her hair and looked up at me. Her pale blue eyes were clear and unblinking.

“So . . . ,” she began. Her hands dropped to her bare lap and rested there, palms up. “Anyway, this is me.”

My hand moved down her neck to her shoulder. “And this is us—alone, finally.”

“Yeah, I know. So, um, I’m sorry I’m not skinny,” she said. She nodded to the door. “Like Jenn.”

I touched her cheek with my fingers. “Jenn seems very nice. She obviously cares about you.”

“Yeah, Jenn’s cool.” Fawn looked to her palms. Her face turned to rest in the cup of my palm. She closed her eyes.

I took her chin between my thumb and forefinger. “Hey.”

She looked up. “Yeah?”

“Jenn’s here because she knows you wanted to be here.” I stroked her black hair. “You’re here because you wanted to be here. You’re here because I wanted you here.”

“Yeah.”

“You okay?”

She smiled. “Yeah, I’m okay.”

I smiled. “Good.” I leaned forward. Our lips met.

As we kissed, my fingers traveled lightly over her body, now bare but for her panties. She touched my t-shirt and felt the fabric of my pajamas.

I inhaled deeply as she quivered, savoring her response to my touch.

Her hand found my cock, hard inside my clothes.

I listened as I entered her. I moved slowly into her body, imagining my cock as an expansive tendril that would grow long and fat to fill her entirely, or to retract at any hesitation.

She breathed deeply, holding my shoulders firm as, for the second time in her life, her body took another body into her.

I rested in Fawn, listening to her breath. My face was nestled into her neck. I pulled back to look into her face. Her eyes were tightly closed.

“Hey.”

She opened her eyes. She turned her chin down, smiling slyly. I grinned, suspecting that she was giving me a look practiced in mirrors and webcams.

“Does this feel good?” I asked, moving gently inside her body.

She laughed. “Are you kidding? This is amazing.”

“Oh yeah?” I kissed her nose. “How about this?”

I fucked her with more vigor, pulling back, pushing forward.

“Oh, God yeah.” She laughed again.

“All right.” I sat back, pushing her thighs forward. I raised her ankles to my lips, lightly kissing her left calf. My cock pressed up and deep into her. I rocked back and forth. “And this?”

She looked up at me as her mouth dropped. “Oh . . . fuck yeah.”

I caressed her face. “That’s all I need to know, Fawn. You can just relax now while we fuck.”

We had our basic vocabulary. We were close and tender. We were hot and rough. We were submissive and dominant.

It only takes three letters to spell “l-u-v.”

We had traded so many mash notes to finally be here, in my bed, after midnight with her friends making out in the next room.

Fawn wanted to trade in her inexperience and add luster to the novice’s sexual resume she had amassed with her first high school boyfriend. I wanted her to trust me and to be content that she had made the right decision in being with me—and perhaps, along the way, to add a few notches to the brand-new bedpost of her sexuality.

After our first hour and change, we peeled our bodies apart.

“You still doing okay?” I panted.

“Oh yeah, my God,” she said, catching her breath. “That was . . . this is . . .”

I took her hand. “Right?”

We lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. I looked to my clock.

“Look, it’s really late. Let’s sleep. But look, I’m probably going to wake you for sex at three or four. So don’t be surprised.”

She laughed. I liked her laugh, especially now that I heard it so often. “That is fine by me.”

“Good.” I turned to curl against her. I yawned. “If you need me, or you wake up and I’m hard, just elbow me and climb on.”

She put a hand to my head, suddenly maternal. “Shhh, you just sleep.”

I was out immediately.

We woke up fucking. One of us initiated it. Hard to say who did what, as we were both asleep.

The next morning, my face was buried between her legs when I heard giggles. I looked up. Shapes scurried past the open bedroom door.

One of us must’ve gone to the bathroom overnight and left the door ajar. Or maybe it had been pushed open.

Her friends had watched as my mouth pulled orgasms from Fawn.

“Oh shit, did they really see me?” she asked, coiling her legs to her torso.

“Uh, maybe,” I said, pulling her to me. “Was that embarrassing?”

She looked to one side. “Do you think they saw my chest?”

The focus of her bashfulness seemed a tad incongruous, given that I was licking her pussy when the giggles passed by. Still, I could see she was unnerved by the prospect of having her breasts exposed.

“I suppose so.” I pinched a nipple. “Here, let me close the door.”

I closed the bedroom door and came back to her. She relaxed as we kissed.

I went down on her again.

She gushed in my mouth. I waited a moment before I made her do it again.

I kissed my way up her body.

“Wow,” she said, glancing at a clock. “That’s a record. Ten times in one hou . . .”

Her voice trailed as I entered her.

She rested her eyes on mine as my palm squeezed a breast.

Fawn stayed in bed as I emerged to face the music.

“Hey,” Jenn grinned. “You two were pretty noisy in there.”

I shrugged. “I hope we didn’t wake you.”

Paolo laughed. “Shit, man.” He held out his palm. I shook his hand.

“Coffee?” I asked.

Fawn came out of the bedroom fully dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt. She sat next to Jenn on the couch as I rattled pans in the kitchen.

I prepared a breakfast of omelettes with thyme and sweet sausage, bacon and toast. Jenn said it was the best omelette she had ever been served.

Paolo watched as I made them. I talked him through the steps.

After breakfast, Paolo and Jenn disappeared for a while. I sat talking with Fawn. The vulnerability of the early morning was gone. She was once more locked up in her clothes, her body, her veneer.

I kept my blue eyes on her pale mirrors. I held her hand. We talked about things, passing the time.

It took Jenn forever to locate her cell phone, but she found it.

At the door, I kissed Jenn’s cheek and hugged Paolo as he pulled me close, once, strong and tight.

I kissed Fawn’s lips, soft and slow.

“Thanks,” I murmured.

“Shit, thank you,” she said, dropping her forehead to my lips.

Later, Fawn phoned to say they returned home with no mishaps.

It turned out that it was the carburetor, and it cost less than a hundred dollars to repair.

Jenn dumped her boyfriend and hooked up with Paolo.

Jenn and Fawn had a falling out. They were no longer best friends forever.

Fawn made plans to see me again. A few weeks later, she had a new boyfriend.

I never saw her again, as she doesn’t cheat.

I’m her friend. I wouldn’t want her to cheat.

As I made breakfast that morning after meeting Fawn, I reflected on an unexpected threshold I had crossed. In my nascent career as a chicken hawk, I had reached a new apex—or nadir, depending on one’s point of view.

I had now slept with someone younger than my eldest daughter.

Slumber Party

“Oh my God, we made it alive!” Fawn laughed as I kissed her cheek. She wrapped her arms around me. “I’m so glad to finally meet you, Jefferson!”

“Likewise, honey. It’s been a long time coming. And you must be Jenn?”

“Nice to meet you, too,” she said, stopping just short of adding “sir.” We leaned forward from our hips to buss cheeks without otherwise touching.

I took Paolo’s hand. “And tonight’s knight in shining armor. Nice save, Paolo.”

“’sup, man,” Paolo said, wrapping one arm around my shoulder to pull me into a brief embrace.

I invited my guests inside and took their coats. Underneath his puffy black coat, Paolo wore a puffy black sweatshirt and puffy black pants. He didn’t remove his oversized black baseball cap.

Jenn looked around the living room, sweeping the long blonde hair from her shoulders as she glanced at book titles on my shelves. She was tall, with an erect bearing and a fresh-scrubbed beauty that reminded me of Christie Brinkley, circa my senior year in high school, before Jenn was born.

“This was one night I would love to forget,” Fawn said, falling back on the couch.

“Perhaps your evening is now improving,” I smiled, sitting beside her.

“Well, anything would be better than having my car die on the highway and waiting in that growdy gas station,” she said. “I have no idea what’s wrong with my car.”

“It’s the carburetor,” Jenn diagnosed as she pulled down a book.

“It’s going to be three hundred dollars, whatever it is,” Fawn predicted.

Paolo sat on a chair.

“Anyway, we finally meet, Jefferson,” Fawn went on. She grinned. She was instantly familiar, something I had found endearing in our correspondence. Fawn had the easy air of someone who quickly makes people feel like her best friend. She had only just arrived, but she seemed settled and at ease.

I smiled, taking in her pale blue eyes, black hair and milky skin.

“Yeah, it’s great to see you, too,” I nodded.

We talked for a while. Jenn joined in the conversation as she continued her tour of my bookcases. Paolo sat quietly, listening.

I relaxed, shifting gear from a long day—kids up and off to school, project deadline, housecleaning, gay orgy, and now, a teenage slumber party.

As midnight approached, I wondered how the night should progress. Fawn was here to have sex with me, and everyone knew this. It would probably be my responsibility to initiate that transition. But how? Should I offer a snack to Jenn and Paolo, and then excuse Fawn and myself to my bedroom? Wouldn’t that be a tad awkward?

In my life since marriage, I’ve grown accustomed to meeting people for sex. But this had the sense of a more distant social interaction. I tried to remember: how did we work this in high school?

“I’m so wired, still,” Fawn said, tapping a hand on her jeans. “You know what I would love to do? Veg to a movie.”

That was one way to do it.

“That’s a good idea,” I said. “Have you seen Secretary?”

“No!” she exclaimed. “I really want to.”

“What’s Secretary?” Jenn asked.

“It’s like a movie about this submissive secretary who works for this guy who’s totally OCD. Right, Jefferson?”

Paolo laughed. “Sounds whack.”

Jenn winced.

“No, it’s not like you think,” I assured them. “Let’s go to the other room and give it a spin.”

We moved to my bedroom. Jenn sat in a chair, with Paolo sitting on the floor between her knees. I left them to watch cartoons as I prepared a snack and Fawn went to the bathroom.

I came back with popcorn and drinks—lemonade for my underage guests, bourbon for myself.

Fawn returned. She had stripped to an oversized t-shirt and panties.

She cuddled next to me on the bed. I kissed her hair and clicked the remote.

I had seen the movie more times than I could count. But I was glad to take this moment for down time, to unwind and feel Fawn so close.

My hand caressed her back. I felt her bra strap.

“Sit up, honey,” I whispered.

She sat forward, her eyes on James Spader. I unfastened the clasp on her bra. Her arms retreated inside her shirt and reemerged with a black bra. She handed it to me. I tossed it on a nearby chair.

She sat back in my arms.

“Much better,” I whispered, my hand cupping a breast. I toyed with her nipple as it grew hard.

I licked her ear and touched her thighs as Maggie Gyllenhaal wet her wedding gown. Fawn wrapped her bare leg over mine, resting a hand on my chest.

I stole a glance at Jenn and Paolo. Their eyes were on the screen as he rested a cheek on her knee. They didn’t notice our discreet touches, or they pretended not to notice.

James drove away, waving to Maggie. She waved back and looked into the camera.

“I love that movie,” Fawn said.

“Whack,” Paolo laughed.

Jenn turned a head to her shoulder. "That guy from Boston Legal is kinda hot."

"Totally," Fawn agreed.

We talked for bit more until our conversation was punctured by yawns. I made a bed for Jenn and Paolo as they said good night to Fawn.

They closed the door to their room. I closed the door to mine.

I looked into Fawn’s azure eyes.

They vanished as she pulled off her t-shirt.

Sex Ed

John and Randall were chatting in their underwear when she called.

She was laughing so hard I could barely make out a thing she said.

“Come again?” I asked.

“I said . . . wait, wait, let me get my breath . . . oh my God, I am not believing this night!”

“You’re having some adventure, all right.”

“Okay, okay. You guys? Can you please not play with the radio?” She turned back to the phone. “So, yeah, we managed to get my car towed and called Jenn’s friend Paolo. He came to pick us up at the gas station, and so he’s driving us there.”

“I can’t believe your car chose tonight to break down. So Paolo is coming too? Is he cool with our plans?”

“Yeah, yeah, he’s cool. Actually, he’s probably going to be Jenn’s new boyfriend. She’s got to dump the guy she’s seeing now.” She turned away. “What? Oh God, Jenn, Paolo knows this already, don’t you, Paolo?”

“Fawn? Fawn, you there?”

Fawn turned back to the phone. “Yeah, sorry Jefferson, I’m here. Guys, shhhh! I can’t hear.”

“So where are you? Are you near the city yet?”

“Hmmm? Oh yeah, we’re in the city. We just passed your building, actually. We’re just looking for parking.”

“You’re here now?” I looked around my room, bending to pick up stray condom foils. “Goodness, okay, let me go then. Call if you need help parking.”

“I think we just found a space, actually. So, bye! I’ll see you in a minute. I’m excited!”

I put down the phone. “Fellows, I’m sorry to shoo you off, but I’ve got a date on her way up.”

“Oh, a date?” Randall teased. “Maybe we should stay and meet her. Think she’d like to meet your gay boyfriends?”

“Not this time, princess. Get your clothes on, pronto.”

As the boys dressed, I hurriedly tidied my room. I stripped the sex sheets and made the bed with fresh linen. I put away gay porn, quart-sized bottles of lube, piles of condoms and boxes of latex gloves.

I left the candles in place.

I waved goodbye to the boys as I headed to the shower. I had to wash away the scent of men.

My soapy cock bobbed with the thought of meeting Fawn.

She had first contacted me in the middle of her senior year, just after her eighteenth birthday. She told me she got hot and bothered from my blog. She fantasized about fucking me, but she had a boyfriend, and she didn’t cheat.

I thanked her, and commended her honor.

The thing is, she went on, she and her boyfriend had lost their virginities to one another, and they had remained monogamous ever since. And while she loved him very much, she felt that . . . well, their sex was a little . . . well . . . abrupt.

He cums too soon? I asked.

Immediately, she answered.

I offered some advice. Give yourselves time when you have sex, I suggested. Don’t feel that you have to rush to grab this opportunity that will never again come. Enjoy touching one another, kissing, and building up to intercourse. Maybe he can give you an orgasm with his fingers and mouth before penetration. During intercourse, when he feels an orgasm coming, he can slow his pace, maybe even pulling out to restrain the impulse.

God, I want to fuck you, she wrote. Thanks!

Fawn spoke to her boyfriend. She had an idea. Her boyfriend didn’t mind if she had sex with me, so long as he was present. Maybe I could have sex with her and kind of teach her boyfriend a few tricks?

Furthermore, he had fantasized about being with a man, but never had the opportunity. So maybe she could watch him with me?

I pondered Fawn’s proposal. Should I take on the sexual education of two teenagers in love? It might mean many hours of threesomes and virgin experiences, but still, how could I refuse a request to improve two lives in one bedroom?

I agreed. We decided to get started in May, when her high school had a Senior Skip Day.

Alas, our plans were thwarted by the vagaries of young romance. Fawn and her boyfriend broke up. She was bummed. Her libido went on the skids.

Fawn had my condolences. Breaking up never gets much easier, but the first times are the worst.

A few months passed. Fawn decided that she missed sex. She decided she wanted me.

I gave her a night. I warned her our date would follow my boy orgy.

She thought that was hot.

Fawn said she wanted to bring her girlfriend Jenn along. Jenn wouldn’t want to get naked with us, she told me, but Fawn would feel more comfortable knowing she was nearby.

I told her I understood. I keep a very nice waiting room for such occasions, I said, stocked with all manner of reading material.

Everything was in place. Yet once again, catastrophe intervened. On the appointed night, her car broke down on the road to my place.

Jenn called her friend Paolo and explained the situation. Paolo agreed to chauffer Fawn and her chaperone to Fawn’s night of sex with a stranger.

The three of them rang up as I toweled off.

Fleshbot and Cliffs Notes

This week’s Sex Blog Roundup at Fleshbot goes joyriding with twentysomethings, those children of the eighties who take on adults-only adulthood with monogamy, serial dating, and just plain getting it on.

And speaking of youngsters, students, your professor is here with Cliffs Notes to One Life, Take Two. Pay attention—this will be on the final.

Astute readers have noted that I tend to write series of posts on a particular theme, as when I took all of four months to write about a single weekend in relating the events of Sex Camp. Sometimes, though, the theme is less overtly stated than it was in that case.

Since around the time of my birthday last month, I have focused on one recurring leitmotif. Did you notice? Anyone know what it was? Any hands at all?

Okay, then I will tell you.

Youth and maturity.

I wrote about my teenage daughter’s engagement, my weekend with a nineteen-year-old thesaurus, my jailbait girlfriend’s contention that a cute boy was “too young” for me, my orgy boy toy, the gay escort with a thing for “really, really young boys” and Vanessa del Rio’s three decades in porn.

And, of course, the aforementioned twentysomethings.

I decided to write about youth and maturity for a couple of reasons. Most obviously, because I added another candle to my birthday cake.

Less obviously, because of the war.

I was recently watching the evening news with my son Jason, himself a newly minted teenager. During a segment on soldiers returning from Iraq with missing limbs, Jason observed, “It’s so weird when they call teenagers ‘veterans.’”

I agreed that this sounded odd. We are accustomed to thinking of vets as gray-haired men who march in parades and cry at memorials. And yet these teenaged soldiers, male and female, are also veterans. It’s odd to two generations of Americans—including my children and me—as we remain unsettled in our new life in wartime.

So as I wrote these stories, and read reader’s responses in comments and emails, I was consciously addressing issues of age, maturity and consent. And as I wrote my tales of autobiographical erotica, as I do, I noticed relevant reports in recent news stories—and not just about the war.

For example, consider seventeen-year-old Genarlow Wilson, sentenced to ten years in prison for having consensual oral sex with his fifteen-year-old girlfriend, or the two teenagers convicted of producing and trafficking child pornography when they photographed themselves nude and the female emailed one of those images to the male.

(These and other issues of public policy and sexuality are more smartly considered at the essential Sex and the Public Square.)

As a parent, I want to protect my children from genuine sexual predators. I also want to protect them from overzealous legislation that criminalizes normal adolescent sexuality.

All of that swirled in my head as I wrote my posts about youth and maturity. I paid close attention as these posts elicited some telling responses, as well as some telling silences.

There was a consensus of approval for my reaction to the engagement of my eighteen-year-old daughter. It is her decision to make, and while I have expressed my wish that she would not marry so young, she has the confidence of my enduring love and full support.

By far, the most controversial of my recent posts had to do with Nicole. Some readers viewed my weekend with a nineteen-year-old woman unfavorably, saying that she was much too young to engage in sex with someone my age.

It is notable that this opinion was generally expressed by older women. Men tended to write that I was one lucky dog. Younger women tended to write that Nicole was one lucky dog.

The surprise in these reactions is that there is no surprise to these reactions. They were subjective, based primarily on the anxieties and desires of respondents as opposed to facts related in the tale.

Such is sex.

Apparently, I had tripped over a taboo: heterosexual intergenerational sex.



Andres Serrano "Sex" Series

Why do I emphasize the taboo concerning heterosexuality? Well, as a test case, consider my story of sex with a nineteen-year-old man, which garnered no unfavorable responses (except, of course, that of Shelby, as related in the story).

I suspected there would be a gender gap concerning the comparison of these two stories, and that bore out. Evidently, young women are not to be trusted in choosing older sex partners, whereas its hunky dory for young men to do so.

All of which got me thinking again about the war.

We hold contradictory notions about adolescence and maturity. On the one hand, it is acceptable that eighteen year olds have the right to marry, get tattoos or enlist for military service at a time of war, even as we acknowledge that these decisions are likely to forever alter their lives.

On the other hand, the sexual agency of adolescents makes some people uncomfortable, even when teenagers have sex with partners of the same age, as in the cases cited above.

It is all the more discomfiting if a young woman in late adolescence seeks consensual sex with an older man, a decision that is likely to alter not her life but . . . a weekend. The man is presumed to be “predatory,” as one reader responded, even though the related facts made it clear that Nicole sought out the relationship, and stressed over and again that she is no dummy.

In this case, that presumption stands in opposition to troublesome facts to the contrary. It is a presumption as firmly rooted in cultural bias as that of a younger man being fortunate if an older woman takes him as a lover.

I have two more stories in the series on youth and maturity, and then I am off to other things.

But before I do anything, I need to relate the adventures of a blue balloon.

(I should add: this is the type of post that may draw comments. Be advised that I do not approve vitriolic commentary, particularly that posted anonymously. These are, frankly, a buzzkill for readers. If you comment, please have something relevant to say.

I welcome responses of any kind via email at onelifetaketwo@gmail.com.)

Last Call

Jimmy exchanged words with the late arrival in the doorway, pointing now and then in my direction.

Randall pulled aside his winter coat and sat on the arm of the couch. “Who’s that?” he leaned to me.

“My next husband,” John replied.

Carlos finished buttoning his shirt, then turned to have a look.

The late arrival strode across the room and stuck out his hand. “So this is your place, eh? I’m Harry, like the prince. Otherwise, not that ‘hairy’ at all, really.”

“Hi, Harry,” I smiled, taking his hand. “Nice to have you here. This is John, and this is Randall.”

John stood and shook Harry’s hand. “Pleasure.”

“Right, nice to meet you as well.”

Randall leaned forward to buss Harry’s cheek. “Hey, sexy.”

“Oh, that’s right nice, innit?” Harry looked around. “So what, I hear I missed the party?”

“Yes, unfortunately . . .” John began.

I put a hand on his thigh. “Yes, unfortunately you missed the rehearsal. The main event is just about to begin.”

Harry laughed.

Randall looked him over. “You know, I can’t understand a word you’re saying.”

“Yeah, I talk fast. That and the accent. East London. Here on business. Telecom.” Harry looked around. “So, what? Do I just undress and we get going? Wham bam, like that, right?”

Carlos appeared by Harry’s side, unbuttoning the shirt he had just put on. “If you’d like, I can give you the tour.”

“Yeah, mate, that’d be great, thanks,” Harry smiled.

Carlos led Harry toward the bedrooms.

Jimmy’s eyes followed. “I see Carlos is making himself right at home.”

“Yeah,” I said, looking after. “Carlos has never been here before, right? I swear, these parties—one minute I’m blowing someone whose name I don’t know, the next we’re making introductions in a shower, and before you know it, he’s moving in with John’s fiancé.”

“That’s the biz, doll,” Jimmy shrugged. “I’m sorry I let that kid in so late, but I thought you and John would enjoy him. He’s cute and all twinky-twink, like you like.”

“Yeah, he so-oo cute,” John agreed.

I looked at him and smiled.

John is the only fellow who regularly attends both my boys-only party and my mixed bisexual party. While his attendance has always been smooth sailing at the mixed party, we initially encountered a little elbow-jabbing at the boy party.

The conflict was a classic one: when it comes to boys, John and I go for the same type. Put us in a room full of attractive, naked, available men, and we’ll hone in on the same one—the smooth bottom twink.

We each like many flavors, but this one melts in our respective mouths.

Over the course of our years of shared orgies, John and I have achieved a kind of natural balance derived from our complementary personalities.

I tend to be outgoing, so I am likely to be the first to get together with a boy we are both eying. I chat him up and bend him over, giving him a good run to his finish line.

John, by contrast, is more retiring. He begins most parties as a wallflower, keeping his boxers in place as he surveys the first rounds of activity. I used to encourage him to jump in, but he would just quietly shake his head. I came to realize that he wasn’t shy; he simply preferred to study a situation before diving in.

Eventually, though, he would show up in the tangle of bodies, nude and revealing his secret—for John possesses a monster cock. It is long and thick and utterly unexpected, as John is otherwise of average build. His delayed presentation is always well timed, like discovering in the third reel that there’s something unusual about that mild-mannered reporter.

Just as my cute lay has recovered from my best pounding, his eyeballs will pop at the rare prospect of taking so grand a cock. I often stand by, offering encouragement and prepared to finish the job when John shoots his load.

When I follow John in fucking someone, I often crack that I should strap a board to my ass so I don’t fall in. It’s a bit like driving a Volkswagen in the wake of a Mack truck.

John and I exchanged glances before following the boys to the bedroom.

Harry was reading titles on my bookcase by the light of candles and porn. Carlos stood smiling next to him.

“Jefferson, I’m really impressed,” Harry said. “You must read a tremendous amount.”

“It’s all décor, meant to impress people I want to get naked,” I replied, taking his arm. “Glad to see it works.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not much to judge by, am I? I get naked remarkably easily.”

“Good to know.” I pushed Harry back on the bed and unbuttoned his jeans. Another button appeared. “You wore button fly pants to an orgy? Christ, Harry, you must have all the time in the world.”

“Do you want my help, then?”

I unfastened the next button. “No, it’s fine. At least you present me with a few challenges.”

I took down his pants and his underwear, and then sat him up to tug his sweater and t-shirt over his head. He was left in a pair of ankle-high white cotton socks. I moved to pull them.

“No, wait,” he said reaching. “I want to leave my socks on, ‘cause my feet get cold.” He paused. “Well, no, that’s not true. It’s just a bit of a fetish, really.”

I smiled. “We do fetish on request. Now shut up and let me get a look at you.”

“Right, then.” He crossed his ankles, propped himself on his elbows, and let his eyes turn to the porn on my television.

I rested a finger on the toe of his sock and let my eye travel up his body. Lean, hairy calves. Runner’s thighs. Thick, uncut cock. Narrow hips. Smooth, thin torso. Long neck. Angular, boyish face. Short wavy hair.

I unfastened my shorts and lifted one of his ankles away from the other. I slowly separated his legs wide apart.

Thanks again, kharma, I thought as I took Harry’s cock in my mouth.

The other boys wasted no time. Harry blew John as he held Carlos’s cock in his hand. Randall had stripped to his white cap and sat stroking his cock at Harry’s scalp.

I closed my eyes, involuntarily. I prefer to watch sex unfold, but my mind often denies my eyes in favor of other senses.

I wrapped my hands around Harry’s waist. They could nearly meet near his middle.

I gave myself over to the cock in me.

“I think this boy wants to be fucked.” I opened my eyes to see John close to my face. I took the cock from my mouth.

“What, already?” I whispered. John nodded to Harry, who was noisily slurping Carlos. He was clearly ready to be sent over the edge.

I also noted that John was very hard.

I nodded and stood. I opened a condom package and reached for the lube. I knew our choreography: I would fuck the twink, pass him to John, then return to close the deal.

I only regretted we were moving so fast—never mind that I had set the pace.

I pulled Harry down so that his ass was curved up. I spread his cheeks as I lubed him. I entered him easily.

“Hmm, you’re tight, Harry. How’s it feel?”

He took the cock from his mouth for a moment—“Go for it, mate”—and switched to Randall’s dick.

Right, then.

I held his socks to my neck as I gave him wide swivels, pulling my hips back and pushing deep.

I was taken by Harry’s enthusiasm and looks. I watched his face as I began to thrust deeper and harder.

He took it well for a while before holding out his hand. “Ow, okay, one second, mate.”

I stopped. “Talk to me.”

“It’s just . . . you’re too big and it’s a bit much all at once.”

“Need a break?”

“Yeah, mate, sorry.”

“No worries, handsome man,” I said, pulling out. “I’m here if you need me.” I bent forward to kiss his navel before excusing myself to the bathroom.

I tore off the condom and washed my groin. I splashed water in my face. I caught a look at myself in the mirror. I was flushed and grinning.

When I returned to the bedroom, John was fucking Harry.

“Oh yeah, mate, harder!” Harry called. “Harder, man!”

I raised an eyebrow to Randall. It’s not often someone tells me I’m “too big” before moving on to John.

I reclined next to Harry, gently stroking his torso, kissing his forehead. Randall put his arm around me.

“Oh shit!” Harry threw back his body. “Shit, I’m cumming!”

John leaned forward, taking Harry’s load full in the face.

I returned to the bathroom for a round of washcloths.

As we sat on the bed coming down from sex, I noticed the time. It wasn’t yet ten. Harry had been at my place for about twenty minutes.

I reclined on a pillow next to Randall. “Don’t you have a date?” I asked.

He scratched his nose. “I think my train is delayed.”

“I hear there’s a lot of construction work,” I sympathized.

“So, how long will you be in New York?” John asked.

“About four months,” Harry said. “I’m just here for work, and, you know, this.”

“Did you say you work in television?” Randall asked.

“Telecom,” I corrected. “Like, ‘telecommunications.’”

“Well, yeah,” Harry said. “Yeah, that’s what I said, but that isn’t actually what I do, really. Actually, I’m an escort.”

“Ah,” we replied.

I looked at John. “Think of all the money we saved by fucking Harry for free.”

“I know, now I can afford that new car,” John smiled.

“Is there much money in that?” Randall asked.

“Yeah, yeah, I do all right,” Harry said. “I mean, I’ve got a look the johns go for, don’t I, like a young boy, and in the U.K., I’m sorta famous as a porn star.”

“Ah,” we replied.

“Yeah, so some johns want to fuck the British porn star.”

“What’s your porn name?” Carlos asked.

“Same as my real name, actually. I escort and do porn under my real name. Not smart, maybe, but that’s how I started, so it’s done now.”

“Aren’t you afraid your family will find out?” Randall asked.

“Nah, fuck my family. I mean, I run away at sixteen, so they got no hold on me.”

“Wow, sixteen, that’s so young,” Randall said. “I’m twenty-one and I still live with my parents. But where are you in the U.K.? I have family over there.”

“East London.”

“Hmm, I don’t know where that is. I visited my cousins in Manchester . . .”

“Yeah, that’s not London.”

“I know, I know. I didn’t really like it, but I was in a bad mood anyway. I was engaged to be married . . .”

“You were engaged?” I asked, surprised. “I thought you had no interest in girls at all.”

“Oh, I don’t,” Randall said. “It was an arranged thing. My mother wanted me to marry one of my cousins.”

“How did you dodge that bullet?” I asked.

He shrugged. “I didn’t like her, which she didn’t like. And we were both fifteen, so they kind of had to listen to us . . .”

“You were engaged at fifteen?” Carlos asked. “That’s crazy.”

“We’re Indian,” Randall shrugged. “That’s how my family does it. Where are you from?”

“Puerto Rico. Come to think of it, my cousins married pretty young.”

“Yeah, see?” Randall said.

“Do you like girls at all?” John asked Harry. I knew what he was thinking. This guy was a character. He’d go over well at my bisexual parties.

Harry rolled his eyes. “No, no way. I fucked one once, I think, it was disgusting, but I was so high on coke . . .”

We laughed.

“Seriously, I tell you. Girls is good for one thing and one thing only—you date them to help you get really young boys.”

Randall giggled. “Oh my God.”

“It’s true,” Harry went on. “What do young boys want? To shag some girl. So if you’ve got some fancy girl, all the boys will want to shag her, right? So you say, fine, mate, you can get with her if I get to fuck you.”

We laughed. I choked slightly.

“It works, I’m telling you.”

“I don’t doubt it works,” I coughed. “I’ve just never heard that notion expressed so baldly. You’re a callous genius.”

“No, no,” he shook his head. “I just know how to get young boys.”

“Young boys . . . how old are you?” Randall asked. “You’re my age, right?”

“No, I’m older, twenty three. I just look younger. That’s fine, but I like them really, really young.”

“Like how young?” Carlos asked.

“Well, legal, of course. But that’s different in different places, innit? Here, of course, I go for eighteen year olds. That’s legal. But in the U.K., it’s sixteen, so there I fancy sixteen year olds. Younger than that, you have to go someplace like Morocco or Cuba . . .”

“Ew, you go younger than sixteen?” Randall asked.

“No, no, well, I don’t want children,” Harry said. “Just really, really young boys.”

“Hmm, yeah, well, I like older,” Randall said, stroking my hair. I kissed his ribs.

“Each his own,” Harry shrugged.

“Yeah, Morocco, never been,” Carlos mused. “Of course, Americans can’t go to Cuba.”

“Why?” Randall asked. “They don’t like us?”

I took Randall’s hand. “Baby, honey, where’ve you been?”

“Come on . . . “ he hedged. “Come on, I grew up in a village in India. I don’t know these things. Why, is it about nine eleven and that prison thing?”

I kissed his cheek. “Cuba’s a long story. I’ll tell you some time.”

Jimmy knocked on the door. “Oh, I’m so glad to see the natives are happy. Are you children okay? I’m just about to leave.”

“Yeah, right, I should get going, too,” Harry said, standing. “I’ve got a call tonight.”

“Which way are you going?” John asked. “Maybe we can take the train together.”

We traded contact information after we dressed. Everyone made sure he had Harry’s phone number.

Harry smiled and kissed us each in turn, saying he had a fine time. He assured us he would definitely arrive earlier for the next party.

A week or so later, I decided that I would relate this story on my blog. As Harry is open about his identity, I thought he might not mind being blogged under his real name; with luck, he might even send me a photo to post.

I dialed him up.

“Yeah, hello?” Harry answered in the noisy din of a bar.

“Harry, hello, this is Jefferson . . .”

“Yeah, who is this?”

“It’s Jefferson,” I said, speaking a little more loudly. “We fucked at a party at my place about a week ago.”

“Oh yeah, right! How are you?”

“I’m fine, thanks. Listen, I have a question. I’ve got a sex blog . . .”

“What’s that? I can’t hear you, sorry, mate.”

“I’ve got a sex blog,” I said, enunciating loudly. “I write about sex, you know, real life stuff, things that have happened.”

“Oh cool, that’s great.”

“Thanks. So I’d like to write about meeting you . . .”

“Yeah? Who is this? You’re the bouncer from Wednesday, right?”

“Me? No, I’m not a bouncer. We had a sex party at my place, a private event. There were five of us in one bed, I was the blond, there was an Indian kid—ring any bells?”

Harry paused. “Sorry, when was this?”

“A little over a week ago.”

“Yeah. So anyway, go on.”

“Okay. So I write about real sex, and I usually use pseudonyms. In your case, I wondered if you would like me to use your real name, as you use it in your work.”

“My real name? Oh no, don’t do that. I’d prefer pseudonyms.”

“Okay, that’s fine. I just wanted to check.”

“Thanks.”

We paused.

“Anything else?”

“No, I guess that’s it. Hope to see you at the next party.”

“Wouldn’t miss it. Cheers!”

“Bye, now.”

At the next party, I was blowing Randall when he raised the bill of his cap to look at me.

“Hey, have you heard from Harry? Is he coming tonight?”

I looked up and took his dick from my mouth. “Sometimes, baby, people just pass through this life.” I licked his foreskin. “I’ll explain that sometime—though Cuba will be easier to comprehend.”