It was a long, monotonous day.
The kids went to bed late. At eleven, I poured a bourbon and signed online.
I had a date.
Madeline had written to say that she identified with this blog. She is also a pervert and parent, raising two boys on her own in the Midwest. Our email exchanges were chummy and sweet.
She proposed a date. We were both going to be home Saturday night. We would meet for drinks online once we got the kids to bed.
I settled at my desk and found her online. We caught up on our day, and conversed easily. We really did have a lot in common, it seemed, and it was fun to flirt with her.
We both have webcams. Mine is new and not yet up and running. Hers is used when her boys talk to their dad, who lives overseas. Crank it up, I asked. Let me see you.
She was nervous about that, but relented.
My gosh.
“Uh, you are really gorgeous,” I typed. Now you can see me blush, she replied.
On screen was a stunning woman, smiling. Her face was set off by angular cheek bones, and a toothy smile. Her eye flashed and twinkled as she read my words.
She sipped her bourbon as I sipped mine. Her lamp put her features into soft chiaroscuro, like a webcam painted by Georges de La Tour.
It felt as if we were at an intimate table, not thirteen hundred miles apart.
It was a good first date. We were both a tad nervous, but turned on by one another.
As we talked about our kids and compared war stories, I got an instant message.
Uxorious: My wife and I have a webcam tonight. Will you watch us?
I have traded instant messages with Uxorious for a while. He gets off making videos and digital photographs of his wife. This was the first time he had mentioned a webcam.
Uxorious: I borrowed it from a friend to see if we want one. Will you watch us?
Jefferson: Sure!
Uxorious: She’s very nervous. Tell us what you like, okay?
Jefferson: Sure!
His wife appeared on screen, dressed only in her underwear. I clicked the screen, and dragged it closer to Madeline’s face.
We were talking about a shared affinity for summer rainstorms.
Uxorious: Do you like her tits?
Jefferson: Sure! They are great!
Uxorious: Tell her what to do.
Jefferson: Have her lose the panties and sit down. I want her to spread her legs.
That ought to keep them busy. Madeline had gone to refresh her drink. I did likewise.
She could hear trains in her living room. I used to nap as trains passed by my great-grandmother’s house.
Uxorious: Do you like the way she’s sucking me?
Jefferson: Hot! Let’s see you fuck her.
So did you see The Gates today? she asked. The unfurling looked great on the news. That’s all I saw, I replied, since Lillie was sick. Hopefully, we’ll see it tomorrow. Poor kid, she typed.
Uxorious: That was so good. I came, did you see?
Jefferson: Nice work! You are both super hot!
Uxorious: Thanks for watching. We got off on that.
Jefferson: Anytime! You should get a cam.
Uxorious: I think we will! Talk soon.
Jefferson: Bye.
Madeline and I chatted for a log time, until I fell asleep.
Sunday morning, I did some research and sent her a note.
You know, I wrote, American Airlines flies round trip between your hometown and New York for under $200.
Really?
That night we found ourselves online again. I was indulging my Sunday night ritual of listening to "The Big Broadcast," a program of 1920s-1930s jazz and pop on WFUV. She joined me in listening online.
It was raining outside her windows. The same rain would hit me a day later.
It was our second date. She turned on her webcam.
She undressed and masturbated for me.
Sunday, February 13, 2005
Two Times Three
It was show time once more for Marla and me. This time, the lucky voyeur was a married man with a special request: he was bi curious and very inexperienced. Could he, perhaps, play with me?
We were game, and invited him to join us. He very kindly brought a bottle of pinot grigio for her, and bourbon for me.
He was cute, 32, slight and blonde. He had an easy way about him that belied the fact that he was so nervous. We had drinks and talked a bit; I massaged Marla’s feet as we sat.
Marla suggested we take this to the bedroom. I took her hand. He followed us.
She sat me on the bed, then sat on my lap, facing me. We kissed, slow and sensuous, her arms around my head, my hands on her face.
Our voyeur stripped to his underwear and t-shirt.
I pulled off her sweater, kissing the nape of her neck, her cleavage, her belly . . . she threw back her head and grinded her hips onto me.
“Oh, you are wearing too many clothes,” the voyeur complained. He pulled me back on the bed, and unfastened my belt. His hands were shaking as he tried my zipper. Marla helped him.
He kneeled on the floor and pulled down my pants. I don’t wear underwear, so he saw my hard cock in his face.
Marla has wriggled out of her clothes. I pulled off my shirt. The voyeur pulled off his t-shirt, still kneeling by my knees.
I looked at Marla. I pointed at her pussy, then to my lips. “That, here.”
She sat on my mouth, and bent to suck my cock. She gave me long slow plunges. I couldn’t see her face, but I knew she giving good eye contact to the other man in the room.
She took my cock in her hand and held it forward. “You want to try?” she offered him.
He leaned forward and licked my dick. Gingerly, as if it might burn his mouth. His tongue traced up and down my shaft.
Marla took it back. Again my cock was deep in her mouth, then just on her lips. I could easily imagine how she looked to him, taking my dick to her pretty face, turning her large brown eyes on him.
“You need to fuck me,” she told me. She stood off me and bent over the bed. I stood and reached for a condom.
“Having fun?” I asked the voyeur as I sheathed myself. He had shed his underwear, and was jerking himself.
“Oh yeah,” he smiled.
I slipped into Marla. She moaned. I took hold of her hips and gentled moved in and out of her. I built tempo, fucking harder.
The voyeur came into his cupped palm.
“Way to go . . ., “ I said, slowing my thrusts.
“You aren’t done here,” Marla reminded me.
I apologized, and grabbed her hair. I pulled back on those reins as I rode her hard. She came.
The voyeur was already getting dressed. He was very happy, though man, he wished he could fuck Marla.
“Take it home to your wife,” Marla suggested. He did, making the 8:30 train out to the ‘burbs.
Marla and I dressed. I asked if she wanted to stick around for dinner and a movie; I had rented Garden State.
“You know I can’t do that,” she demurred. She was back on with her local boy.
We poured drinks and sat on the couch, taking about her on again/off again relationship with him. I was getting hungry and offered to boil some shrimp. Soon we were gossiping as we peeled and chewed.
My cell rang. It was Donny. What’s up? he asked.
I told him I was hanging out with Marla. Is she cool? he asked, meaning: does she know you’re bi?
Yeah, she’s cool. You want to come over?
“Who’s that?” Marla asked silently. I held up a finger—one sec, I mouthed.
Yeah, I’m on my way, Donny said. I should be there in about twenty minutes.
I told Marla al about Donny. He’s a straight boy who likes me to fuck him, I said, and he is drop dead gorgeous. He’s tall, with a well-built body and a very handsome face. I know you have to get home soon, but if you stick around a bit, you can see a cute boy get fucked.
She was game. I warned her: you will want to fuck him, but he won’t be up for that.
“We’ll see about that,” she scoffed.
He arrived and I made introductions. I offered him a bourbon, and we talked for a bit. After a while, he excused himself to the restroom.
“Fuck!” Marla whispered. “He is a damned fine boy toy.”
We heard the shower. “It’s about that time,” I said.
Donny walked out wearing only a towel. His smooth muscular torso was pebbled with water. “You guys busy?” he asked.
“Not to busy for you,” I said. “Shall we?”
Marla and Donny kissed by the bed, as he took off her shirt. She was still braless from earlier. He dropped the towel and lay on the bed. Marla rubbed his body, and was soon sucking his thick cock.
I undressed and watched. I walked to the other side of the bed and took down Marla’s pants.
I put on a condom and entered her. I fucked her in time to her thrusts on his cock. Donny watched us.
“You got some of that for me?” he asked.
“God, let me see that,” Marla begged.
I withdrew, and tugged off the condom. I put on a fresh one as Donny lubed his ass. Marla sat back on her calves. We smiled at one another. Donny slicked my cock.
I knelt between Donny’s legs, and pushed them back on his torso. Marla squeezed his nipples.
I positioned my cock at his ass, and slowly pressed it forward. Deep, all the way, all at once. His shoulders pulled up, and he closed his eyes.
I quickly moved to pounding him. I like to overwhelm this manly boy. He gives himself over to it, his body going docile as I fucked, pressing his legs back.
Marla worked his body with her hands and mouth. I drew her to my mouth to kiss, and to watch.
I grabbed his hard on, using it as a lever to hold his body as I fucked. I massaged it. He moaned and twisted. I slowed my thrusts and jerked him.
He shot, so much, so much on his torso.
We were all breathless. I pulled out. Donny went to wash up.
I was exhausted. I lay down, Marla next to me. “I didn’t do much with him,” she said, “but this was about the hottest threesome I’ve ever had.”
We all talked for a while, then Donny began to dress. I encouraged him to walk Marla to the subway.
I kissed her goodbye and the door, and hugged him.
Let me know when you are over at his place, Donny said as they walked up the street.
I work very near here, she said. I can be there for you anytime.
We were game, and invited him to join us. He very kindly brought a bottle of pinot grigio for her, and bourbon for me.
He was cute, 32, slight and blonde. He had an easy way about him that belied the fact that he was so nervous. We had drinks and talked a bit; I massaged Marla’s feet as we sat.
Marla suggested we take this to the bedroom. I took her hand. He followed us.
She sat me on the bed, then sat on my lap, facing me. We kissed, slow and sensuous, her arms around my head, my hands on her face.
Our voyeur stripped to his underwear and t-shirt.
I pulled off her sweater, kissing the nape of her neck, her cleavage, her belly . . . she threw back her head and grinded her hips onto me.
“Oh, you are wearing too many clothes,” the voyeur complained. He pulled me back on the bed, and unfastened my belt. His hands were shaking as he tried my zipper. Marla helped him.
He kneeled on the floor and pulled down my pants. I don’t wear underwear, so he saw my hard cock in his face.
Marla has wriggled out of her clothes. I pulled off my shirt. The voyeur pulled off his t-shirt, still kneeling by my knees.
I looked at Marla. I pointed at her pussy, then to my lips. “That, here.”
She sat on my mouth, and bent to suck my cock. She gave me long slow plunges. I couldn’t see her face, but I knew she giving good eye contact to the other man in the room.
She took my cock in her hand and held it forward. “You want to try?” she offered him.
He leaned forward and licked my dick. Gingerly, as if it might burn his mouth. His tongue traced up and down my shaft.
Marla took it back. Again my cock was deep in her mouth, then just on her lips. I could easily imagine how she looked to him, taking my dick to her pretty face, turning her large brown eyes on him.
“You need to fuck me,” she told me. She stood off me and bent over the bed. I stood and reached for a condom.
“Having fun?” I asked the voyeur as I sheathed myself. He had shed his underwear, and was jerking himself.
“Oh yeah,” he smiled.
I slipped into Marla. She moaned. I took hold of her hips and gentled moved in and out of her. I built tempo, fucking harder.
The voyeur came into his cupped palm.
“Way to go . . ., “ I said, slowing my thrusts.
“You aren’t done here,” Marla reminded me.
I apologized, and grabbed her hair. I pulled back on those reins as I rode her hard. She came.
The voyeur was already getting dressed. He was very happy, though man, he wished he could fuck Marla.
“Take it home to your wife,” Marla suggested. He did, making the 8:30 train out to the ‘burbs.
Marla and I dressed. I asked if she wanted to stick around for dinner and a movie; I had rented Garden State.
“You know I can’t do that,” she demurred. She was back on with her local boy.
We poured drinks and sat on the couch, taking about her on again/off again relationship with him. I was getting hungry and offered to boil some shrimp. Soon we were gossiping as we peeled and chewed.
My cell rang. It was Donny. What’s up? he asked.
I told him I was hanging out with Marla. Is she cool? he asked, meaning: does she know you’re bi?
Yeah, she’s cool. You want to come over?
“Who’s that?” Marla asked silently. I held up a finger—one sec, I mouthed.
Yeah, I’m on my way, Donny said. I should be there in about twenty minutes.
I told Marla al about Donny. He’s a straight boy who likes me to fuck him, I said, and he is drop dead gorgeous. He’s tall, with a well-built body and a very handsome face. I know you have to get home soon, but if you stick around a bit, you can see a cute boy get fucked.
She was game. I warned her: you will want to fuck him, but he won’t be up for that.
“We’ll see about that,” she scoffed.
He arrived and I made introductions. I offered him a bourbon, and we talked for a bit. After a while, he excused himself to the restroom.
“Fuck!” Marla whispered. “He is a damned fine boy toy.”
We heard the shower. “It’s about that time,” I said.
Donny walked out wearing only a towel. His smooth muscular torso was pebbled with water. “You guys busy?” he asked.
“Not to busy for you,” I said. “Shall we?”
Marla and Donny kissed by the bed, as he took off her shirt. She was still braless from earlier. He dropped the towel and lay on the bed. Marla rubbed his body, and was soon sucking his thick cock.
I undressed and watched. I walked to the other side of the bed and took down Marla’s pants.
I put on a condom and entered her. I fucked her in time to her thrusts on his cock. Donny watched us.
“You got some of that for me?” he asked.
“God, let me see that,” Marla begged.
I withdrew, and tugged off the condom. I put on a fresh one as Donny lubed his ass. Marla sat back on her calves. We smiled at one another. Donny slicked my cock.
I knelt between Donny’s legs, and pushed them back on his torso. Marla squeezed his nipples.
I positioned my cock at his ass, and slowly pressed it forward. Deep, all the way, all at once. His shoulders pulled up, and he closed his eyes.
I quickly moved to pounding him. I like to overwhelm this manly boy. He gives himself over to it, his body going docile as I fucked, pressing his legs back.
Marla worked his body with her hands and mouth. I drew her to my mouth to kiss, and to watch.
I grabbed his hard on, using it as a lever to hold his body as I fucked. I massaged it. He moaned and twisted. I slowed my thrusts and jerked him.
He shot, so much, so much on his torso.
We were all breathless. I pulled out. Donny went to wash up.
I was exhausted. I lay down, Marla next to me. “I didn’t do much with him,” she said, “but this was about the hottest threesome I’ve ever had.”
We all talked for a while, then Donny began to dress. I encouraged him to walk Marla to the subway.
I kissed her goodbye and the door, and hugged him.
Let me know when you are over at his place, Donny said as they walked up the street.
I work very near here, she said. I can be there for you anytime.
Post-Mortem
“You look like shit. Put on your coat; we’re getting your hair cut.”
May dropped her suitcases and opened a shopping bag. “Here, put this on,” she said, tossing me a blue fleece. I slipped it over my head.
She looked me over, and then ripped the tag off the fleece. “That blue is perfect for your eyes. And look, only ten dollars on sale! Am I good or what?”
It’s been a month or so since May broke up with me via instant message, and over two months since we have seen one another.
She is heading to California soon to begin her new life. She had left a few loose ends in New York—including me—so we agreed to spend a couple of days together.
Although we didn’t say as much, it was clear that we wanted to be sure there were no bad feelings between us once a continent divided us. The relationship we had was over. But it had been a pretty good thing for both of us, and so it didn’t make sense to end it on a sour note.
So for a couple of days, I submitted to the things that had been best about it.
When May first came back into my life, so many years after we were nodding acquaintances in college, I was one month out of my marriage. After establishing that the sex was good—and it was very good—she set to the next task; queer eying me.
May’s a total fag hag, and about the closest you will get to a gay man and still have Tampex in your medicine cabinet.
She went through my closet and threw out anything flannel or ill fitting. I was not allowed to keep socks with holes in them. My bathroom was stocked with moisturizers, conditioners and liquid soaps. I was given a special device to scrub my feet. I had my first manicures and pedicures.
“I’m sure someone else will benefit from all I am doing,” she would fret as she plucked my nose hairs. “I just hope he appreciates it.”
She had shopping to do for the Chinese New Year—her family is Chinese by way of Thailand—so we spent a lot of time in Chinatown, eating Dim Sum, buying fresh seafood, looking for cheap knick knacks.
We did domestic things around my apartment. She installed a dimmer switch in my dining area. I found wood to shore up the bed that had been broken by the recent all male gangbang.
We were both on best behavior, so this would be a good visit, without drama.
This meant that I put aside my objections to a few things.
When we watched Shaun of the Dead and she preferred looking at me to looking at the movie—for about an hour, she just looked at me—I did not object.
When she woke me at four in the morning for sex, I fucked her.
When she woke me again at seven, I fucked her again.
At nine, once again.
When we first started seeing one another, I thought it was pretty hot that she wanted sex all night.
Then, it was like all night, every time.
I’ve got kids! I want to sleep in on weekends! So I put a stop to it. The rule was: no sex until I wake up.
This time, I let her have her way.
The first time we had sex on this visit, tears welled to her eyes. “I promised myself I wouldn’t cry,” she said.
“I know,” I smiled, wiping away a tear. “It’s been a long time.” I pretended to believe she was sad about the time we had been apart, rather than about our future apart.
We parted with vague assurances that we would see each other when we could after she moved.
May dropped her suitcases and opened a shopping bag. “Here, put this on,” she said, tossing me a blue fleece. I slipped it over my head.
She looked me over, and then ripped the tag off the fleece. “That blue is perfect for your eyes. And look, only ten dollars on sale! Am I good or what?”
It’s been a month or so since May broke up with me via instant message, and over two months since we have seen one another.
She is heading to California soon to begin her new life. She had left a few loose ends in New York—including me—so we agreed to spend a couple of days together.
Although we didn’t say as much, it was clear that we wanted to be sure there were no bad feelings between us once a continent divided us. The relationship we had was over. But it had been a pretty good thing for both of us, and so it didn’t make sense to end it on a sour note.
So for a couple of days, I submitted to the things that had been best about it.
When May first came back into my life, so many years after we were nodding acquaintances in college, I was one month out of my marriage. After establishing that the sex was good—and it was very good—she set to the next task; queer eying me.
May’s a total fag hag, and about the closest you will get to a gay man and still have Tampex in your medicine cabinet.
She went through my closet and threw out anything flannel or ill fitting. I was not allowed to keep socks with holes in them. My bathroom was stocked with moisturizers, conditioners and liquid soaps. I was given a special device to scrub my feet. I had my first manicures and pedicures.
“I’m sure someone else will benefit from all I am doing,” she would fret as she plucked my nose hairs. “I just hope he appreciates it.”
She had shopping to do for the Chinese New Year—her family is Chinese by way of Thailand—so we spent a lot of time in Chinatown, eating Dim Sum, buying fresh seafood, looking for cheap knick knacks.
We did domestic things around my apartment. She installed a dimmer switch in my dining area. I found wood to shore up the bed that had been broken by the recent all male gangbang.
We were both on best behavior, so this would be a good visit, without drama.
This meant that I put aside my objections to a few things.
When we watched Shaun of the Dead and she preferred looking at me to looking at the movie—for about an hour, she just looked at me—I did not object.
When she woke me at four in the morning for sex, I fucked her.
When she woke me again at seven, I fucked her again.
At nine, once again.
When we first started seeing one another, I thought it was pretty hot that she wanted sex all night.
Then, it was like all night, every time.
I’ve got kids! I want to sleep in on weekends! So I put a stop to it. The rule was: no sex until I wake up.
This time, I let her have her way.
The first time we had sex on this visit, tears welled to her eyes. “I promised myself I wouldn’t cry,” she said.
“I know,” I smiled, wiping away a tear. “It’s been a long time.” I pretended to believe she was sad about the time we had been apart, rather than about our future apart.
We parted with vague assurances that we would see each other when we could after she moved.
Saturday, February 12, 2005
Sated
The room was filled with sun as Shelby got under the covers next to me. “Did you sleep well?” I asked.
“Yes, but I missed you.” She was in my arms. I kissed her face. “I’m so sore,” she winced.
“You’ve had a lot of sex,” I observed. We touched and kissed as we do. The ardor rose.
“You want to be in me, don’t you?” she whispered.
“More than anything. But I don’t want to hurt you.”
“It will be okay if you don’t move much.”
I put on a condom and entered her, holding her, keeping my cock still, then moving it slowly. We kissed, wet and long.
My mind was calmly reciting, “gentle, gentle, gentle, gentle . . .” This gentleness was so retrained, so easy, and so exciting.
I came inside her.
“That’s a first,” she smiled. I held the condom and pulled out. I had never cum in her body.
I lay I her arms, touching her hair.
“I’ve fallen for you hard,” she said. It’s not easy for Shelby to admit this. It can take these days together for her to speak so.
“You are safe with me,” I kissed her. “I’ve fallen for you too. It’s okay. We are in this together.”
We lay quietly, talking until she had to shower and head home.
“Yes, but I missed you.” She was in my arms. I kissed her face. “I’m so sore,” she winced.
“You’ve had a lot of sex,” I observed. We touched and kissed as we do. The ardor rose.
“You want to be in me, don’t you?” she whispered.
“More than anything. But I don’t want to hurt you.”
“It will be okay if you don’t move much.”
I put on a condom and entered her, holding her, keeping my cock still, then moving it slowly. We kissed, wet and long.
My mind was calmly reciting, “gentle, gentle, gentle, gentle . . .” This gentleness was so retrained, so easy, and so exciting.
I came inside her.
“That’s a first,” she smiled. I held the condom and pulled out. I had never cum in her body.
I lay I her arms, touching her hair.
“I’ve fallen for you hard,” she said. It’s not easy for Shelby to admit this. It can take these days together for her to speak so.
“You are safe with me,” I kissed her. “I’ve fallen for you too. It’s okay. We are in this together.”
We lay quietly, talking until she had to shower and head home.
Dinner Party
My only other plan for that weekend had involved Tina, a woman who was interested in joining our gatherings. She had not been free to join us at the most recent party, but she was keen to meet me.
“What are you doing Saturday night?” she asked.
“I’ve got a girl friend over,” I said. “You can join us if you like.”
“Oh, that would be fun,” she replied.
Now, most men would probably rest easy knowing they had two women lined up for sex on a Saturday night. I wondered if I could spin this into a small party.
I guess that’s how far gone I am.
To feel the waters, I sent a note to Jake, asking if he wanted to join me and Shelby with Tina. He thought he could make it.
Soon I had an email from Marla: “What, I’m not worthy of weekend parties?”
Jake had mentioned there would be a party at my place. Marla was once more on the outs with her local boy, and so she was free.
By all means, join us, I replied.
Three women, two men . . . maybe I can find another man. First choice Mark; alas, he had a date. Second choice, Thomas; he was out of town. So I tried Todd; he was all for it.
This was shaping into a dinner party. Perhaps I would prepare that great staple of swinging parties: lasagna.
Go to any swinger club, and you will see a pan of lasagna among the foodstuff. Group sex and pasta dishes seem as inexorably linked as lesbianism and softball.
We are the sort of people who cringe at the thought of being part of a “lifestyle,” as many swingers refer to their sex lives. But we are not above eating from the lifestyle cookbook. It could be campy, even.
Another email, from shy Alice. “Hey, I’ll see you at your place on Saturday!”
Mmmm, maybe Jake didn’t get the message that this was a small party. I invited Alice to join us, and asked her to bring Max as well. I soon had confirmation from Max.
Lasagne and sex for eight at nine.
Shelby and I spent the afternoon touring the galleries in Chelsea, and shopping for dinner ingredients at the Fairway.
We also acquired two new chairs, in the time honored New York tradition of dumpster diving.
The chairs had not quite made their way to the dumpster. A neighbor had either redecorated or died, sending back into the world two matching vintage chairs, in pristine condition.
“These are great chairs for oral sex,” I noted. Deep seats, slanted back, low arms. Perfect. We claimed them as our own, and installed them in my bedroom, one on either side of the bed. The previous chairs were retired.
Shelby read as I made a sauce and assembled the lasagna. We showered as it baked.
Tina arrived, with a bottle of vodka and a loaf of garlic bread.
She is a femme Latina, 36, with shoulder length straight hair, and a svelte runner’s body. She was very relaxed and chatty, the kind of person you think you’ve known longer than you have.
Not that we had met in person prior to this.
Marla brought wine and Alice brought a chocolate rose for me. I made a salad and served dinner.
“So, Jefferson,” Marla asked, raising a fork full of salad. “Where are the boys?”
“What boys?” I teased. “Really, I should be enough.”
Geez, where were those dorks? I had four lovely women, a fresh lasagna, and no boys.
Jake called. He would not be out of work until eleven. I called Max, but got no answer.
Finally Todd showed up, carrying his trademark bag of porn and Magnum condoms. I served him dinner.
He turned the dinner conversation to movies, saying he had brought some really great scenes to watch. Marla tried to generalize this to a fine conversation topic—what’s the hottest movie scene?—but Todd was in lecture mode.
Soon we were on a bed, as DJ Film Man Todd spun some favorite scenes from foreign films.
I’m not so keen on these kinds of activities at parties, which tend to monopolize conversation to one person’s interests. I have to say, though, that by the time he got to a scene from Bertolucci’s Dreamers—in which a brother offers his sister’s virginity to their best friend—we were all hot and bothered.
My head was in Marla’s lap. “Would you please take off your pants so I can eat your pussy?” Of course, she replied.
She sat on the edge of the bed as I went at her. Tina sat next to me, in the new oral sex chairs. My hand crawled up Marla’s body, to her breasts, to her throat. She came fast.
“He looks good,” Tina noticed.
“Oh, you have to try Jefferson’s head,” Marla recommended. Tina was ready for that. I turned on my knees and took down her pants. Marla kissed her and removed her shirt and bra.
Tina wore slim red lace panties. I licked them until they were soaked. I pushed them aside, then slipped them down, revealing a very wet shaved pussy. I licked her to climax.
I stood and opened my pants. Tina took my hard cock in her mouth. I grabbed a fist full of hair. She moaned.
Marla wrapped an arm around me. She grabbed her own handful of Tina’s hair.
On the bed, Shelby was nude and straddling Todd’s leg. Alice sucked him as she lay across his chest; he had fingers deep in her. Alice moved aside as Shelby took in Todd’s cock.
Tina looked up at me, and took my cock from her mouth. “I want to see you fuck her,” she said, holding Marla’s hand. No problem. I was just slipping on the condom when I saw Jake in the bedroom doorway.
“Well, look who’s here,” I said to the room. It completely spooked them; all were in a sex fog, and not expecting a dressed man at the door.
“Alice let me in,” he smiled. “How’s it going?”
In a few moments, Jake was nude and fucking Marla on the bed. Shelby was one chair, sitting back at Todd fingered her g spot. I sat in the other chair, as Tina lowered her pussy onto my cock. She rode it hard.
I looked over and saw Shelby watching me. I smiled at her; she grinned.
Marla started to cum. From the porn came the sound of a skinny blonde cumming. Shelby’s pants filled my ears.
“Do you hear that?” Tina asked, fucking me faster. “They are all cumming, the are all cumming . . . “ My cock fell out as she thrust. I moved to put it back in her. She pushed two of my fingers into her. “Deep, deep, hard . . .” she panted.
I obliged, curving my fingers and pressing my other palm against her lower abdomen.
“What is that?” she shouted, looking at me wildly. “What the hell is that?”
“Your g spot . . .” I began, but she could no longer hear.
Her yelps joined those of all the women now cumming in unison.
She sat in my lap after a few orgasms. “You seemed surprised when I massaged your g spot,” I observed.
“I thought that was a myth,” she purred. “Never felt that before.”
Now, that just warms my heart.
For the remainder of the night, I stayed close to Shelby. We made love as Todd fucked Tina. Jake and Marla nestled and talked.
Alice slipped out undetected. Max had called to say he couldn't make it, and she did not want to interrupt us all to say good bye. She knew she was welcome to stay on her own, but without Max, she felt like a third wheel.
Or maybe a seventh wheel?
I'm going to have to talk to Max about this. I thought he was going to take care of Alice at these parties. What gives?
It was late when everyone left. Shelby and I got into bed, wrapped in each other’s limbs.
She woke me during the night. “I’m going to another bed,” she whispered. “You are snoring.”
“Sorry, baby . . .”
“What are you doing Saturday night?” she asked.
“I’ve got a girl friend over,” I said. “You can join us if you like.”
“Oh, that would be fun,” she replied.
Now, most men would probably rest easy knowing they had two women lined up for sex on a Saturday night. I wondered if I could spin this into a small party.
I guess that’s how far gone I am.
To feel the waters, I sent a note to Jake, asking if he wanted to join me and Shelby with Tina. He thought he could make it.
Soon I had an email from Marla: “What, I’m not worthy of weekend parties?”
Jake had mentioned there would be a party at my place. Marla was once more on the outs with her local boy, and so she was free.
By all means, join us, I replied.
Three women, two men . . . maybe I can find another man. First choice Mark; alas, he had a date. Second choice, Thomas; he was out of town. So I tried Todd; he was all for it.
This was shaping into a dinner party. Perhaps I would prepare that great staple of swinging parties: lasagna.
Go to any swinger club, and you will see a pan of lasagna among the foodstuff. Group sex and pasta dishes seem as inexorably linked as lesbianism and softball.
We are the sort of people who cringe at the thought of being part of a “lifestyle,” as many swingers refer to their sex lives. But we are not above eating from the lifestyle cookbook. It could be campy, even.
Another email, from shy Alice. “Hey, I’ll see you at your place on Saturday!”
Mmmm, maybe Jake didn’t get the message that this was a small party. I invited Alice to join us, and asked her to bring Max as well. I soon had confirmation from Max.
Lasagne and sex for eight at nine.
Shelby and I spent the afternoon touring the galleries in Chelsea, and shopping for dinner ingredients at the Fairway.
We also acquired two new chairs, in the time honored New York tradition of dumpster diving.
The chairs had not quite made their way to the dumpster. A neighbor had either redecorated or died, sending back into the world two matching vintage chairs, in pristine condition.
“These are great chairs for oral sex,” I noted. Deep seats, slanted back, low arms. Perfect. We claimed them as our own, and installed them in my bedroom, one on either side of the bed. The previous chairs were retired.
Shelby read as I made a sauce and assembled the lasagna. We showered as it baked.
Tina arrived, with a bottle of vodka and a loaf of garlic bread.
She is a femme Latina, 36, with shoulder length straight hair, and a svelte runner’s body. She was very relaxed and chatty, the kind of person you think you’ve known longer than you have.
Not that we had met in person prior to this.
Marla brought wine and Alice brought a chocolate rose for me. I made a salad and served dinner.
“So, Jefferson,” Marla asked, raising a fork full of salad. “Where are the boys?”
“What boys?” I teased. “Really, I should be enough.”
Geez, where were those dorks? I had four lovely women, a fresh lasagna, and no boys.
Jake called. He would not be out of work until eleven. I called Max, but got no answer.
Finally Todd showed up, carrying his trademark bag of porn and Magnum condoms. I served him dinner.
He turned the dinner conversation to movies, saying he had brought some really great scenes to watch. Marla tried to generalize this to a fine conversation topic—what’s the hottest movie scene?—but Todd was in lecture mode.
Soon we were on a bed, as DJ Film Man Todd spun some favorite scenes from foreign films.
I’m not so keen on these kinds of activities at parties, which tend to monopolize conversation to one person’s interests. I have to say, though, that by the time he got to a scene from Bertolucci’s Dreamers—in which a brother offers his sister’s virginity to their best friend—we were all hot and bothered.
My head was in Marla’s lap. “Would you please take off your pants so I can eat your pussy?” Of course, she replied.
She sat on the edge of the bed as I went at her. Tina sat next to me, in the new oral sex chairs. My hand crawled up Marla’s body, to her breasts, to her throat. She came fast.
“He looks good,” Tina noticed.
“Oh, you have to try Jefferson’s head,” Marla recommended. Tina was ready for that. I turned on my knees and took down her pants. Marla kissed her and removed her shirt and bra.
Tina wore slim red lace panties. I licked them until they were soaked. I pushed them aside, then slipped them down, revealing a very wet shaved pussy. I licked her to climax.
I stood and opened my pants. Tina took my hard cock in her mouth. I grabbed a fist full of hair. She moaned.
Marla wrapped an arm around me. She grabbed her own handful of Tina’s hair.
On the bed, Shelby was nude and straddling Todd’s leg. Alice sucked him as she lay across his chest; he had fingers deep in her. Alice moved aside as Shelby took in Todd’s cock.
Tina looked up at me, and took my cock from her mouth. “I want to see you fuck her,” she said, holding Marla’s hand. No problem. I was just slipping on the condom when I saw Jake in the bedroom doorway.
“Well, look who’s here,” I said to the room. It completely spooked them; all were in a sex fog, and not expecting a dressed man at the door.
“Alice let me in,” he smiled. “How’s it going?”
In a few moments, Jake was nude and fucking Marla on the bed. Shelby was one chair, sitting back at Todd fingered her g spot. I sat in the other chair, as Tina lowered her pussy onto my cock. She rode it hard.
I looked over and saw Shelby watching me. I smiled at her; she grinned.
Marla started to cum. From the porn came the sound of a skinny blonde cumming. Shelby’s pants filled my ears.
“Do you hear that?” Tina asked, fucking me faster. “They are all cumming, the are all cumming . . . “ My cock fell out as she thrust. I moved to put it back in her. She pushed two of my fingers into her. “Deep, deep, hard . . .” she panted.
I obliged, curving my fingers and pressing my other palm against her lower abdomen.
“What is that?” she shouted, looking at me wildly. “What the hell is that?”
“Your g spot . . .” I began, but she could no longer hear.
Her yelps joined those of all the women now cumming in unison.
She sat in my lap after a few orgasms. “You seemed surprised when I massaged your g spot,” I observed.
“I thought that was a myth,” she purred. “Never felt that before.”
Now, that just warms my heart.
For the remainder of the night, I stayed close to Shelby. We made love as Todd fucked Tina. Jake and Marla nestled and talked.
Alice slipped out undetected. Max had called to say he couldn't make it, and she did not want to interrupt us all to say good bye. She knew she was welcome to stay on her own, but without Max, she felt like a third wheel.
Or maybe a seventh wheel?
I'm going to have to talk to Max about this. I thought he was going to take care of Alice at these parties. What gives?
It was late when everyone left. Shelby and I got into bed, wrapped in each other’s limbs.
She woke me during the night. “I’m going to another bed,” she whispered. “You are snoring.”
“Sorry, baby . . .”
Place
“Hey, you want to hang out this weekend?”
“With you? Of course! What kind of time are we talking?”
“How much can you take? I’m all yours, baby.”
The tempo of my life changes when Shelby is in it. We find that the more time we can spend with one another, at one go, the deeper we are able to get into our love bond.
There’s a frisson that makes our first moments together electric. Within hours, we are content and calm, as comfortable with one another as a pair of old shoes. Two days together, and our internal clocks are synchronized. We are quieter, touching, gazing, speaking in slow, soft tones.
That’s the place we wanted to go this weekend.
It’s good that we have the roads to that place so well mapped, as we have to leave it behind to tend to our separate lives. I have my work and kids, she has her school, her job, her friends. We make time for each other, for our retreats into one another—and, of course, for our late-night instant messages, filled with quirky observations and pangs of longing.
There were only a few things that interfered with our retreat. First of all I was going to watch Anna perform a new dance piece that night. I couldn’t very well take a date.
“That’s cool,” Shelby said. “I know you have a life. I’ll chill at your place while you are gone.” (She reads this blog, so she knows all about this life I have.)
We kissed when she arrived, and undressed and got into bed. We kissed and ran our fingers over each other’s bodies.
I try to savor these moments of getting reacquainted with one another. My hunger for her is vast; I want to swallow her whole.
But I take slow sips, appreciating the nuances. I am on her, kissing her mouth, cupping her breasts, teasing her nipples.
I just have to be in her. I am, slow, deep.
Something takes over as we are together so tenderly. That hunger wells and insists on being fed. She spreads her legs, and I push them back. Her head turns to one side.
I grab her breasts in my fists. I press down and squeeze as I fuck her, hard.
My mind is cleared by my body’s insistence that for now, flesh takes precedence over thought.
Her hair on my pillows, her eyes shut, her smooth pale skin, and I am drunk again, confused. I pull out and set my mouth on her clit. I am gulping deep now.
I am in her mouth. She takes me into her so deep, like she has to feed her hunger too. I cum, my body shaking in her hands, my body under her firm mouth.
We relax in bed, holding each other close. We are on our way now.
I’m starving. Should we go out for Japanese, or opt to be frugal and lazy by eating at home? We can’t make such decisions. Our minds are numbed.
My phone rings. “Hello? Oh hi . . . yes, I’ve got it . . . you want to come over now? Sure, I’ll see you in a few.”
“Is that someone we’re going to fuck?” Shelby yawns.
“No, baby,” I kiss her. “One of the guys at the male orgy this week left a watch. He’s coming to pick it up.”
“Is he cute?”
“Not your type. Anyway, he’s pretty gay.”
I get dressed, and Shelby puts on a silk robe.
It had been very fortuitous that I found the watch. He had left it in the bag he had been given for stowing his belongings. I felt the watch at the bottom of the bag just as I was about to throw it out.
When he arrived, I introduced him to Shelby and went to retrieve the watch. She looked very lovely in lamplight, nude under her robe. She looked like she had just been fucked; I’m sure I looked about the same.
He thanked us for allowing him to intrude on our evening. It’s nothing, we said. He insisted on offering a reward for the watch. It’s not necessary, I said. Let me send you out to dinner, at least.
He left us fifty dollars. Japanese it is, we decided. We ate our fill and paid a tab of $50.15.
There was good kharma afoot.
Shelby and I parted ways, as I went to see Anna’s dance and she went back to my place.
The performance was great, though longer than I had anticipated. I had assumed that Anna would be busy with friends afterwards, but in fact, I was the only friend to attend this performance.
We had a drink. She asked me back to her place, but I demurred, making a lame excuse.
I already had plans afterwards.
Shelby was in bed watching television when I got home. She noted that I was home later than I had said, though she was not at all put out about it.
We undressed and turned in. I faded to sleep, regretting a bit that my being away had rippled the spell.
We woke the next morning, and fell to kissing and touching. I was in her before either of us spoke. “Good morning,” she smiled.
“Good morning, love,” I kissed her.
We made love and fell asleep.
We woke up and made love again.
As we lay in bed afterward, I suggested we go look at art this afternoon.
Great idea, she agreed.
We didn’t move. We didn’t have to go.
We were already there.
“With you? Of course! What kind of time are we talking?”
“How much can you take? I’m all yours, baby.”
The tempo of my life changes when Shelby is in it. We find that the more time we can spend with one another, at one go, the deeper we are able to get into our love bond.
There’s a frisson that makes our first moments together electric. Within hours, we are content and calm, as comfortable with one another as a pair of old shoes. Two days together, and our internal clocks are synchronized. We are quieter, touching, gazing, speaking in slow, soft tones.
That’s the place we wanted to go this weekend.
It’s good that we have the roads to that place so well mapped, as we have to leave it behind to tend to our separate lives. I have my work and kids, she has her school, her job, her friends. We make time for each other, for our retreats into one another—and, of course, for our late-night instant messages, filled with quirky observations and pangs of longing.
There were only a few things that interfered with our retreat. First of all I was going to watch Anna perform a new dance piece that night. I couldn’t very well take a date.
“That’s cool,” Shelby said. “I know you have a life. I’ll chill at your place while you are gone.” (She reads this blog, so she knows all about this life I have.)
We kissed when she arrived, and undressed and got into bed. We kissed and ran our fingers over each other’s bodies.
I try to savor these moments of getting reacquainted with one another. My hunger for her is vast; I want to swallow her whole.
But I take slow sips, appreciating the nuances. I am on her, kissing her mouth, cupping her breasts, teasing her nipples.
I just have to be in her. I am, slow, deep.
Something takes over as we are together so tenderly. That hunger wells and insists on being fed. She spreads her legs, and I push them back. Her head turns to one side.
I grab her breasts in my fists. I press down and squeeze as I fuck her, hard.
My mind is cleared by my body’s insistence that for now, flesh takes precedence over thought.
Her hair on my pillows, her eyes shut, her smooth pale skin, and I am drunk again, confused. I pull out and set my mouth on her clit. I am gulping deep now.
I am in her mouth. She takes me into her so deep, like she has to feed her hunger too. I cum, my body shaking in her hands, my body under her firm mouth.
We relax in bed, holding each other close. We are on our way now.
I’m starving. Should we go out for Japanese, or opt to be frugal and lazy by eating at home? We can’t make such decisions. Our minds are numbed.
My phone rings. “Hello? Oh hi . . . yes, I’ve got it . . . you want to come over now? Sure, I’ll see you in a few.”
“Is that someone we’re going to fuck?” Shelby yawns.
“No, baby,” I kiss her. “One of the guys at the male orgy this week left a watch. He’s coming to pick it up.”
“Is he cute?”
“Not your type. Anyway, he’s pretty gay.”
I get dressed, and Shelby puts on a silk robe.
It had been very fortuitous that I found the watch. He had left it in the bag he had been given for stowing his belongings. I felt the watch at the bottom of the bag just as I was about to throw it out.
When he arrived, I introduced him to Shelby and went to retrieve the watch. She looked very lovely in lamplight, nude under her robe. She looked like she had just been fucked; I’m sure I looked about the same.
He thanked us for allowing him to intrude on our evening. It’s nothing, we said. He insisted on offering a reward for the watch. It’s not necessary, I said. Let me send you out to dinner, at least.
He left us fifty dollars. Japanese it is, we decided. We ate our fill and paid a tab of $50.15.
There was good kharma afoot.
Shelby and I parted ways, as I went to see Anna’s dance and she went back to my place.
The performance was great, though longer than I had anticipated. I had assumed that Anna would be busy with friends afterwards, but in fact, I was the only friend to attend this performance.
We had a drink. She asked me back to her place, but I demurred, making a lame excuse.
I already had plans afterwards.
Shelby was in bed watching television when I got home. She noted that I was home later than I had said, though she was not at all put out about it.
We undressed and turned in. I faded to sleep, regretting a bit that my being away had rippled the spell.
We woke the next morning, and fell to kissing and touching. I was in her before either of us spoke. “Good morning,” she smiled.
“Good morning, love,” I kissed her.
We made love and fell asleep.
We woke up and made love again.
As we lay in bed afterward, I suggested we go look at art this afternoon.
Great idea, she agreed.
We didn’t move. We didn’t have to go.
We were already there.
Friday, February 11, 2005
Back Home
“Hel-lo?”
“Hi Nanny, it’s Jefferson calling!”
“Well, hey! How are you?”
“I’m fine, Nanny, how are you?”
“Well, I’m fine! How are the babies?”
“Oh they’re fine. They’re in the back fussing, as they do. They said they hope you are better.”
“Well aren’t they precious?”
“So how are you? You’re out of the hospital . . .”
“Yes, they sent me back home this morning. They gave me some medicine to take, and I have to go back to the doctor’s tomorrow. But I’ll tell you, I am glad to be out of that hospital!”
“I bet you are. Did they treat you right?”
“Oh, they were nice. But all those tests, and those things in my arm . . . well, I don’t miss that.”
“Do you still feel effects of the stroke?”
“Well, the index finger on my left hand feels like it’s asleep. So does the middle of my left cheek.”
“It’s numb, or it tingles?”
“It tingles, like I slept on it.”
“That must be irritating.”
“It is, it is. But you know, no one can notice it by looking. I look the same, it just feels different.”
“So your beauty is intact?”
“Oh baby, when you get to be my age, ‘beauty’ isn’t much possible!”
“What, did they take your mirror away, pretty lady?”
“You hush . . . now, did you get the birthday card I sent you?”
“Yes ma’am I did. Thank you very much!”
“Well, you’re welcome, baby. Did you deposit the check too?”
“No ma’am, not yet . . .”
“You be sure that you do.”
“Yes ma’am.”
“I know twenty dollars ain’t much . . .”
“Every bit helps! It’s very sweet of you to send it.”
“ . . . well, I wish it could be more . . .”
“It will go to a good use, I’m sure.”
“Well, you make sure you deposit it.”
“Yes ma’am, I will.”
“’Cause I’ve already subtracted it in my bank book, so it’s like I don’t have it any more anyway.”
“I promise, I’ll deposit it.”
“I wish it could be more . . . you spend it on yourself, you hear? That’s not money for bills, that’s money for you.”
“I will. I’ll buy a scarf.”
“Is it cold up there?”
“Not today, really, but it’s been cold.”
“I saw that snow on TV . . . I couldn’t put up with all that snow.”
“It can be a trial, but they clear it from the streets pretty quick.”
“Well, that’s good . . . well, let me let you go. I know you need to feed those babies.”
“Yes ma’am, it’s about that time.”
“Well, you kiss them for me.”
“Yes ma’am I will. I’m glad you’re home. I love you.”
“I’m glad too! I love you baby. Bye now.”
“Bye, Nanny.”
“Hi Nanny, it’s Jefferson calling!”
“Well, hey! How are you?”
“I’m fine, Nanny, how are you?”
“Well, I’m fine! How are the babies?”
“Oh they’re fine. They’re in the back fussing, as they do. They said they hope you are better.”
“Well aren’t they precious?”
“So how are you? You’re out of the hospital . . .”
“Yes, they sent me back home this morning. They gave me some medicine to take, and I have to go back to the doctor’s tomorrow. But I’ll tell you, I am glad to be out of that hospital!”
“I bet you are. Did they treat you right?”
“Oh, they were nice. But all those tests, and those things in my arm . . . well, I don’t miss that.”
“Do you still feel effects of the stroke?”
“Well, the index finger on my left hand feels like it’s asleep. So does the middle of my left cheek.”
“It’s numb, or it tingles?”
“It tingles, like I slept on it.”
“That must be irritating.”
“It is, it is. But you know, no one can notice it by looking. I look the same, it just feels different.”
“So your beauty is intact?”
“Oh baby, when you get to be my age, ‘beauty’ isn’t much possible!”
“What, did they take your mirror away, pretty lady?”
“You hush . . . now, did you get the birthday card I sent you?”
“Yes ma’am I did. Thank you very much!”
“Well, you’re welcome, baby. Did you deposit the check too?”
“No ma’am, not yet . . .”
“You be sure that you do.”
“Yes ma’am.”
“I know twenty dollars ain’t much . . .”
“Every bit helps! It’s very sweet of you to send it.”
“ . . . well, I wish it could be more . . .”
“It will go to a good use, I’m sure.”
“Well, you make sure you deposit it.”
“Yes ma’am, I will.”
“’Cause I’ve already subtracted it in my bank book, so it’s like I don’t have it any more anyway.”
“I promise, I’ll deposit it.”
“I wish it could be more . . . you spend it on yourself, you hear? That’s not money for bills, that’s money for you.”
“I will. I’ll buy a scarf.”
“Is it cold up there?”
“Not today, really, but it’s been cold.”
“I saw that snow on TV . . . I couldn’t put up with all that snow.”
“It can be a trial, but they clear it from the streets pretty quick.”
“Well, that’s good . . . well, let me let you go. I know you need to feed those babies.”
“Yes ma’am, it’s about that time.”
“Well, you kiss them for me.”
“Yes ma’am I will. I’m glad you’re home. I love you.”
“I’m glad too! I love you baby. Bye now.”
“Bye, Nanny.”
Dee Voss
The kids began to accept that mom and dad were getting a “dee voss.”
For most of that autumn, I was pretty depressed. I don’t have much experience with depression, so it was only in retrospect that I recognized it as such.
Lucy went from being happy to being very angry with me. I didn’t know why. Maybe it had nothing to do with me. Maybe it had to do with someone she was seeing.
One day as I worked, I was served with papers. Lucy had filed for divorce.
I was shaken as I opened the envelope. I read the cover letter. She was claiming mental cruelty and alienation of affection.
I did not know this at the time, but there is no such thing as a “no fault” divorce in New York State. Someone must be to blame. There must be at least one valid claim. Lucy had made two claims.
As I read further, I began to laugh.
How could she pin mental cruelty on me? I’m the nicest person! Well, she really had to stretch. From our fifteen-year relationship, she plucked forth three arguments we’d had. It looked very petty, and even in her telling of the tales, she looked bad.
The second claim was alienation of affection. She alleged that I had denied her sex for over a year. Forget that we had in fact had sex during the preceding twelve months—we had been in couple therapy because she was so disinterested in sex with me! Was she fucking kidding?!
Time to get a lawyer.
I asked around and found the one I wanted—an agressive Type A New Yorker. Lucy was used to pushing me around. I needed to be ready to fight fire with fire.
Soon after, she called and asked if she could meet me for a beer at a place near my apartment.
“Sure,” I said. “Or we can just meet at my place.”
“I would rather meet in public, thank you,” she replied curtly.
This could not be good.
I sat at her table and ordered a beer. “So what’s up?”
“I’ve decided that you can have the kids every other weekend. That’s it.”
“You’re joking. You decided that, did you?”
“It’s a very standard arrangement.”
“That is not happening. We talked about equal custody.”
“It’s a very standard arrangement.”
“Sure, if this was nineteen-fifty and I was a child molester. I don’t know many divorced couples, but none of those I know have that arrangement.”
“It’s a very standard arrangement.”
“No way. You think you can get that because you’re the mother? You don’t love the children any more than I do.”
“It’s a very standard arrangement,” she repeated, getting her coat. She left ten dollars and a full beer on the table.
The meeting has lasted nine minutes.
She had no reason to believe that she could so restrict my time with the children. Her family tried to reason with her. You will not win this, everyone told her.
She dug in her heels. We went to court. The legal fees mounted.
Her lawyer explained she would not get what she wanted. She refused to budge.
Finally, her family made it clear that she was hurling good money after bad in fees, and they would not finance it. She had to give in.
By this point, I had gone in debt to my lawyer to the tune of about ten thousand dollars. I assume she had done the same.
Her intransigence on custody began about a year ago. We resolved it by autumn.Yet even now, nearly two years since the fight that lead her to dump me, we are still not divorced.
These days, Lucy and I are getting along pretty well. We have to get along, really, because of the kids.
And while I know I will always love her in some ways, I also know I will never forgive her for destroying our family, I will never forgive her selfishness concerning my children. That grudge I take to the grave.
I spent yesterday morning with my lawyer. We worked out some details on the divorce agreement and called Lucy’s lawyer.
A few changes were made. We had a final agreement.
Lucy called me after speaking with her lawyer. She agreed to the final draft. “Guess it’s over, huh?” she sighed.
The ink is not yet on paper. But barring any further erratic actions on her part, we are finished.
For most of that autumn, I was pretty depressed. I don’t have much experience with depression, so it was only in retrospect that I recognized it as such.
Lucy went from being happy to being very angry with me. I didn’t know why. Maybe it had nothing to do with me. Maybe it had to do with someone she was seeing.
One day as I worked, I was served with papers. Lucy had filed for divorce.
I was shaken as I opened the envelope. I read the cover letter. She was claiming mental cruelty and alienation of affection.
I did not know this at the time, but there is no such thing as a “no fault” divorce in New York State. Someone must be to blame. There must be at least one valid claim. Lucy had made two claims.
As I read further, I began to laugh.
How could she pin mental cruelty on me? I’m the nicest person! Well, she really had to stretch. From our fifteen-year relationship, she plucked forth three arguments we’d had. It looked very petty, and even in her telling of the tales, she looked bad.
The second claim was alienation of affection. She alleged that I had denied her sex for over a year. Forget that we had in fact had sex during the preceding twelve months—we had been in couple therapy because she was so disinterested in sex with me! Was she fucking kidding?!
Time to get a lawyer.
I asked around and found the one I wanted—an agressive Type A New Yorker. Lucy was used to pushing me around. I needed to be ready to fight fire with fire.
Soon after, she called and asked if she could meet me for a beer at a place near my apartment.
“Sure,” I said. “Or we can just meet at my place.”
“I would rather meet in public, thank you,” she replied curtly.
This could not be good.
I sat at her table and ordered a beer. “So what’s up?”
“I’ve decided that you can have the kids every other weekend. That’s it.”
“You’re joking. You decided that, did you?”
“It’s a very standard arrangement.”
“That is not happening. We talked about equal custody.”
“It’s a very standard arrangement.”
“Sure, if this was nineteen-fifty and I was a child molester. I don’t know many divorced couples, but none of those I know have that arrangement.”
“It’s a very standard arrangement.”
“No way. You think you can get that because you’re the mother? You don’t love the children any more than I do.”
“It’s a very standard arrangement,” she repeated, getting her coat. She left ten dollars and a full beer on the table.
The meeting has lasted nine minutes.
She had no reason to believe that she could so restrict my time with the children. Her family tried to reason with her. You will not win this, everyone told her.
She dug in her heels. We went to court. The legal fees mounted.
Her lawyer explained she would not get what she wanted. She refused to budge.
Finally, her family made it clear that she was hurling good money after bad in fees, and they would not finance it. She had to give in.
By this point, I had gone in debt to my lawyer to the tune of about ten thousand dollars. I assume she had done the same.
Her intransigence on custody began about a year ago. We resolved it by autumn.Yet even now, nearly two years since the fight that lead her to dump me, we are still not divorced.
These days, Lucy and I are getting along pretty well. We have to get along, really, because of the kids.
And while I know I will always love her in some ways, I also know I will never forgive her for destroying our family, I will never forgive her selfishness concerning my children. That grudge I take to the grave.
I spent yesterday morning with my lawyer. We worked out some details on the divorce agreement and called Lucy’s lawyer.
A few changes were made. We had a final agreement.
Lucy called me after speaking with her lawyer. She agreed to the final draft. “Guess it’s over, huh?” she sighed.
The ink is not yet on paper. But barring any further erratic actions on her part, we are finished.
W M D
My marriage ended so that my ex could win a fight.
I was offered the opportunity to take on a pretty big project for work. It would be high profile, remunerative, and a career breakthrough in many respects.
The only drawback was that it required me to travel briefly to the Persian Gulf. This was in April, two years ago.
And you see, there was this invasion . . .
Lucy strictly forbade it. She explained that I was a big blonde target for those who hate Americans, and in case I was too stupid to notice it, there was a war going on.
I argued that I would be far from Iraq, in a very safe area. I explained that while this was a unique opportunity, I would not have considered it if it was remotely dangerous.
While I researched the trip with the State Department and elsewhere, she phoned everyone we know, begging them to talk sense into me.
I heard it from my parents, from her family, from her friends . . . all warned me that I was a complete idiot for considering the trip.
While my research indicated there was nothing to be concerned about, hysteria erupted all around me.
Frankly, I resented it. I’m a smart and well-traveled grown up. If I am saying this trip will be safe, then people should listen rather than point at their televisions and panic about the stupid blonde whistling his way into a war zone.
“If you do this,” Lucy told me, “we are finished!”
Well, I had heard that before.
She regularly declared we were “finished.” She declared it during each of her pregnancies, she declared it when we were shopping for a new home, she declared it when I forgot to call a house painter, she declared it when it rained on a camping trip . . . pretty much any stress could prompt this outburst.
I went on the trip. I was in no danger whatsoever.
When I returned, she told me to sleep on the couch. I made it plain that I was going to sleep in my bed, and that if she didn’t want to sleep with me, she was welcome to the couch.
She stormed downstairs.
She would live on the couch for the next three months.
She refused to talk to me. She refused to respond when I spoke.
She behaved as horribly as she could—which was very horrible. The kids were freaked that mom and dad were so angry.
As in the past, I tried to wait out her fury. I tried to talk to her. She told me it was over, and I should move out.
One night, we made love. She was high, I was drunk. We were dead tired of fighting. I hoped this was a breakthrough.
It wasn’t. She had other plans: the marriage was going to end, and it would be my fault. All she needed was a good reason to end it.
She told me I was not a family man. She told me this as I did the dishes, having just given my daughter a bath.
She told me I was obsessed with work. She told me this as I made dinner after work, having arrived home a little after six.
Lucy told my mother she was certain I was having an affair. My mother said she very much doubted this.
One night she sat down and said she was ready to confront me with evidence of my affair.
“I would be very interested in seeing that,” I said.
She explained that she had been through my papers, scoured my computer, checked my phone records, and been through my wallet. She produced the following:
A post it note with a woman’s name and a phone number.
A card for a massage parlor.
A card for a bath house.
I laughed in her face.
“The phone number is for someone at my job. You’ve met her. Call her if you like; she will remind you that she’s gay.
“I have visited that massage parlor once, and if you will recall, I recommended it to you when your back was out.
“And as you know, I used to really enjoy going to the Tenth Street Baths, but I haven’t been in years, since the kids were born. It is a legit bath house, and has been for over a century. Please use that card and visit it yourself.”
She never found her weapons of mass destruction, but she would have her war.
A work-obsessed philanderer would be someone she could divorce with no one blaming her.
Her bad luck that she was cursed with an affable husband who was a good father.
The situation became untenable. The kids were suffering as a result of this feud. I finally agreed to live elsewhere until this blew over.
I left home on Independence Day.
Lucy’s mood brightened immediately. She was friendly and cheerful. She was happy to be rid of me.
I moved into an apartment without furniture and tried to make sense of this.
“Do you think she’s a lesbian?” my mother asked.
I have no idea what’s going on, I told her.
I was offered the opportunity to take on a pretty big project for work. It would be high profile, remunerative, and a career breakthrough in many respects.
The only drawback was that it required me to travel briefly to the Persian Gulf. This was in April, two years ago.
And you see, there was this invasion . . .
Lucy strictly forbade it. She explained that I was a big blonde target for those who hate Americans, and in case I was too stupid to notice it, there was a war going on.
I argued that I would be far from Iraq, in a very safe area. I explained that while this was a unique opportunity, I would not have considered it if it was remotely dangerous.
While I researched the trip with the State Department and elsewhere, she phoned everyone we know, begging them to talk sense into me.
I heard it from my parents, from her family, from her friends . . . all warned me that I was a complete idiot for considering the trip.
While my research indicated there was nothing to be concerned about, hysteria erupted all around me.
Frankly, I resented it. I’m a smart and well-traveled grown up. If I am saying this trip will be safe, then people should listen rather than point at their televisions and panic about the stupid blonde whistling his way into a war zone.
“If you do this,” Lucy told me, “we are finished!”
Well, I had heard that before.
She regularly declared we were “finished.” She declared it during each of her pregnancies, she declared it when we were shopping for a new home, she declared it when I forgot to call a house painter, she declared it when it rained on a camping trip . . . pretty much any stress could prompt this outburst.
I went on the trip. I was in no danger whatsoever.
When I returned, she told me to sleep on the couch. I made it plain that I was going to sleep in my bed, and that if she didn’t want to sleep with me, she was welcome to the couch.
She stormed downstairs.
She would live on the couch for the next three months.
She refused to talk to me. She refused to respond when I spoke.
She behaved as horribly as she could—which was very horrible. The kids were freaked that mom and dad were so angry.
As in the past, I tried to wait out her fury. I tried to talk to her. She told me it was over, and I should move out.
One night, we made love. She was high, I was drunk. We were dead tired of fighting. I hoped this was a breakthrough.
It wasn’t. She had other plans: the marriage was going to end, and it would be my fault. All she needed was a good reason to end it.
She told me I was not a family man. She told me this as I did the dishes, having just given my daughter a bath.
She told me I was obsessed with work. She told me this as I made dinner after work, having arrived home a little after six.
Lucy told my mother she was certain I was having an affair. My mother said she very much doubted this.
One night she sat down and said she was ready to confront me with evidence of my affair.
“I would be very interested in seeing that,” I said.
She explained that she had been through my papers, scoured my computer, checked my phone records, and been through my wallet. She produced the following:
A post it note with a woman’s name and a phone number.
A card for a massage parlor.
A card for a bath house.
I laughed in her face.
“The phone number is for someone at my job. You’ve met her. Call her if you like; she will remind you that she’s gay.
“I have visited that massage parlor once, and if you will recall, I recommended it to you when your back was out.
“And as you know, I used to really enjoy going to the Tenth Street Baths, but I haven’t been in years, since the kids were born. It is a legit bath house, and has been for over a century. Please use that card and visit it yourself.”
She never found her weapons of mass destruction, but she would have her war.
A work-obsessed philanderer would be someone she could divorce with no one blaming her.
Her bad luck that she was cursed with an affable husband who was a good father.
The situation became untenable. The kids were suffering as a result of this feud. I finally agreed to live elsewhere until this blew over.
I left home on Independence Day.
Lucy’s mood brightened immediately. She was friendly and cheerful. She was happy to be rid of me.
I moved into an apartment without furniture and tried to make sense of this.
“Do you think she’s a lesbian?” my mother asked.
I have no idea what’s going on, I told her.
Thursday, February 10, 2005
Readers' Queries
Many readers write to me with questions and comments. This is much appreciated.
Every now and then, I get an email that seeks advice. Now ain’t that something—you put yourself out there as a pervert, and people come to you for advice.
One missive to your oracle of perversion reads:
Jefferson,
I have been reading your blog and I can relate to a lot of it.
I have three kids, and they are the most important thing in my life.
I have a hectic job that occupies a lot of my time.
I married eight years ago and it seems that a whole sexual revolution has occurred since then. Time Square may have cleaned up, but the bedroom got a lot kinkier.
There were no thongs, G-strings, toys, and experiments when I was dating. Just getting vaginal sex on the fifth date was a big rush!!!
My wife is only into vanilla sex.
I have tried to bring toys in the bedroom and she flipped out. I encourage anal play for both of us, and she gets even more upset. Forget about when I tried bringing home a porn movie—I ended up on the couch for a week.
I get my anal fix from Russian massage parlor about once a month.
I know you say you a bisexual, but from your blog it seems that you are heterosexual with some dabbling with men.
I do not find men interesting but I like getting anal stimulation from a hot
chick. I wouldn't even mind a hot chick using a strap on, but I cannot
relate to a man doing it to me. (I guess I am an oxymoron,)
When you and your wife split was it because of the sex or other reasons? (I hate to get personal but I feel that I am close to that point myself.)
I tell my wife that after marriage, she became a prude and I became a sexual deviant.
Outside the bedroom our life is great. And I really mean great. But life inside the bedroom is driving me crazy.
I just wanted to say hi and get your read because it seems that you have
been down the road I am heading down.
Keep on writing I will keep on reading. Thanks for hearing me out.
Horny Hoosier
Brother, I feel your pain.
I can certainly identify with your situation.
I don’t mind that you ask, but I should clarify that my wife and I did not split because of sex; I will cover the reasons for our split in subsequent posts.
In my case, I had enjoyed a good deal of experimental sex prior to marriage. Sex within my marriage was vanilla—and a very rare vanilla at that—but I assumed that such was the life of a married man.
It sounds as though you love your wife, and that your life is generally very fulfilling.
However, you woke up one morning and realized: there is a whole world of sex out there that you missed before marriage, and you can’t find it within your marriage.
You dread that you are doomed to a lifetime without perverted sex!
All is not lost. First of all, commend yourself for your honesty.
Your efforts to introduce new sexual elements —from watching porn together to anal play—suggest that you are opening a dialogue with your wife. That willingness to talk and share your desires makes everything possible.
Too many others in your shoes would be ashamed to even ask. Count yourself among the fortunate.
Unfortunately, she has been less than receptive to your overtures.
On the one hand, you would be wise to respect your wife’s feelings. Perhaps she just don’t like porn, or having a dildo up her ass. That doesn’t make her a prude. It doesn’t mean she is “sex negative,” in that icky parlance of smug sex educators. Maybe she just knows her likes and dislikes.
On the other hand, it can be frustrating if certain options are summarily dismissed. How can she be sure she doesn’t like porn if she hasn’t seen it? How can she know she doesn’t like anal play if ass is a no fly zone? Why won’t she at least try these things that so intrigue the man she loves?
I have walked the straight and narrow as a good husband. And I am a very contented pervert, well on his way to being the easiest lay in Manhattan. So in that spirit, I am going to offer you advice that anyone would consider responsible, and I will offer advice that some will consider irresponsible.
Or as Walt Whitman put it: “Do I contradict myself? Very well, then I contradict myself.”
First the responsible advice: take the Ann Landers route and seek professional help.
You know what interests you, and it is not weird or extreme. You seem more interested in variety than deviance. You are able to communicate your desires. Take advantage of that strength you have by working on it in couples therapy. If your wife won’t participate, go into therapy alone.
Hopefully, your wife will participate, and you will hear what she desires as well. Maybe being lashed to a bed will always seem bizarre. But she may find that it’s hot to have her hands held behind her head, so that she feels restrained. Perhaps she will never strap on a dildo and fuck you silly. But she may learn why you want your prostate stimulated, and feel comfortable doing that.
You have to appreciate that she may not be on the same track as your personal sexual revolution. But this does not mean that you are on divergent journeys as a prude and a deviant, to use your words.
(FYI, a lot of men—straight, bi or gay—are aroused by anal play or penetration to varying degrees. Others less so. It has less to do with sexual orientation than with physiology. If it works for you, count your blessings rather than fret about your sexual identity.)
Long and short: by talking and seeking compromise, you may find more varieties of vanilla with the woman you love. You may find many flavors to keep you sated.
Now, for the irresponsible advice.
Your frustration with sex has led you to massage parlors and sexy websites. I think you are fortunate to have found Dacia, Jane and myself, because while we live the wild sex lives you crave, and write about it as best we can, we are also good decent people.
When Dacia takes on a client, or when Jane offers rock-solid sex tips to teenagers, or I bring another person into my gatherings, we take on responsibilities. It’s just how we are wired. This is not just something we do to get our rocks off. We like to take care of people and we want sex to be good and fun and safe—emotionally and physically safe.
I only hope you have that kind of luck at the massage parlor and other websites.
All of these are safe bets. We will get you off when the wife is asleep, or when you can sneak away during your lunch hour. You are not alone by any stretch: frustrated married men keep us all on our toes, and pay some of our bills.
You are taking advantage of that, and such is the way of the world. I won’t say a word against it. If you can get off on hot websites, enjoy sexy massages or even take on an affair with the confidence that you will never be found out, then godspeed.
But . . .
(and you knew this was coming)
. . . my ears perk up when you write “it seems that you have been down the road I am heading down.”
Yes sir, perhaps I have.
And can I say I would not visit on my worst enemy the sorrows of destroying a family. I am approaching two years of time spent rebuilding the lives of myself and my children. It has been painful, expensive and bloody.
True, I’m having the sex other men dream of. I have resilient children I adore, and great friends who make it all possible. My life is coming back together.
But if my ex had not ended our marriage, my brother, I would still be jerking off in the shower of our home in the ‘burbs, toiling in the fruitless plains of our monogamy.
I contend that any man who follows his dick out of a good marriage has a fool for a guide.
So my main advice: fix the compass of your dick. Find a way to be sexually fulfilled that does not upend the lives of your family.
Don’t settle for frustration. Don’t walk away from all you have built.
You can fix your sex life. You can.
Every now and then, I get an email that seeks advice. Now ain’t that something—you put yourself out there as a pervert, and people come to you for advice.
One missive to your oracle of perversion reads:
Jefferson,
I have been reading your blog and I can relate to a lot of it.
I have three kids, and they are the most important thing in my life.
I have a hectic job that occupies a lot of my time.
I married eight years ago and it seems that a whole sexual revolution has occurred since then. Time Square may have cleaned up, but the bedroom got a lot kinkier.
There were no thongs, G-strings, toys, and experiments when I was dating. Just getting vaginal sex on the fifth date was a big rush!!!
My wife is only into vanilla sex.
I have tried to bring toys in the bedroom and she flipped out. I encourage anal play for both of us, and she gets even more upset. Forget about when I tried bringing home a porn movie—I ended up on the couch for a week.
I get my anal fix from Russian massage parlor about once a month.
I know you say you a bisexual, but from your blog it seems that you are heterosexual with some dabbling with men.
I do not find men interesting but I like getting anal stimulation from a hot
chick. I wouldn't even mind a hot chick using a strap on, but I cannot
relate to a man doing it to me. (I guess I am an oxymoron,)
When you and your wife split was it because of the sex or other reasons? (I hate to get personal but I feel that I am close to that point myself.)
I tell my wife that after marriage, she became a prude and I became a sexual deviant.
Outside the bedroom our life is great. And I really mean great. But life inside the bedroom is driving me crazy.
I just wanted to say hi and get your read because it seems that you have
been down the road I am heading down.
Keep on writing I will keep on reading. Thanks for hearing me out.
Horny Hoosier
Brother, I feel your pain.
I can certainly identify with your situation.
I don’t mind that you ask, but I should clarify that my wife and I did not split because of sex; I will cover the reasons for our split in subsequent posts.
In my case, I had enjoyed a good deal of experimental sex prior to marriage. Sex within my marriage was vanilla—and a very rare vanilla at that—but I assumed that such was the life of a married man.
It sounds as though you love your wife, and that your life is generally very fulfilling.
However, you woke up one morning and realized: there is a whole world of sex out there that you missed before marriage, and you can’t find it within your marriage.
You dread that you are doomed to a lifetime without perverted sex!
All is not lost. First of all, commend yourself for your honesty.
Your efforts to introduce new sexual elements —from watching porn together to anal play—suggest that you are opening a dialogue with your wife. That willingness to talk and share your desires makes everything possible.
Too many others in your shoes would be ashamed to even ask. Count yourself among the fortunate.
Unfortunately, she has been less than receptive to your overtures.
On the one hand, you would be wise to respect your wife’s feelings. Perhaps she just don’t like porn, or having a dildo up her ass. That doesn’t make her a prude. It doesn’t mean she is “sex negative,” in that icky parlance of smug sex educators. Maybe she just knows her likes and dislikes.
On the other hand, it can be frustrating if certain options are summarily dismissed. How can she be sure she doesn’t like porn if she hasn’t seen it? How can she know she doesn’t like anal play if ass is a no fly zone? Why won’t she at least try these things that so intrigue the man she loves?
I have walked the straight and narrow as a good husband. And I am a very contented pervert, well on his way to being the easiest lay in Manhattan. So in that spirit, I am going to offer you advice that anyone would consider responsible, and I will offer advice that some will consider irresponsible.
Or as Walt Whitman put it: “Do I contradict myself? Very well, then I contradict myself.”
First the responsible advice: take the Ann Landers route and seek professional help.
You know what interests you, and it is not weird or extreme. You seem more interested in variety than deviance. You are able to communicate your desires. Take advantage of that strength you have by working on it in couples therapy. If your wife won’t participate, go into therapy alone.
Hopefully, your wife will participate, and you will hear what she desires as well. Maybe being lashed to a bed will always seem bizarre. But she may find that it’s hot to have her hands held behind her head, so that she feels restrained. Perhaps she will never strap on a dildo and fuck you silly. But she may learn why you want your prostate stimulated, and feel comfortable doing that.
You have to appreciate that she may not be on the same track as your personal sexual revolution. But this does not mean that you are on divergent journeys as a prude and a deviant, to use your words.
(FYI, a lot of men—straight, bi or gay—are aroused by anal play or penetration to varying degrees. Others less so. It has less to do with sexual orientation than with physiology. If it works for you, count your blessings rather than fret about your sexual identity.)
Long and short: by talking and seeking compromise, you may find more varieties of vanilla with the woman you love. You may find many flavors to keep you sated.
Now, for the irresponsible advice.
Your frustration with sex has led you to massage parlors and sexy websites. I think you are fortunate to have found Dacia, Jane and myself, because while we live the wild sex lives you crave, and write about it as best we can, we are also good decent people.
When Dacia takes on a client, or when Jane offers rock-solid sex tips to teenagers, or I bring another person into my gatherings, we take on responsibilities. It’s just how we are wired. This is not just something we do to get our rocks off. We like to take care of people and we want sex to be good and fun and safe—emotionally and physically safe.
I only hope you have that kind of luck at the massage parlor and other websites.
All of these are safe bets. We will get you off when the wife is asleep, or when you can sneak away during your lunch hour. You are not alone by any stretch: frustrated married men keep us all on our toes, and pay some of our bills.
You are taking advantage of that, and such is the way of the world. I won’t say a word against it. If you can get off on hot websites, enjoy sexy massages or even take on an affair with the confidence that you will never be found out, then godspeed.
But . . .
(and you knew this was coming)
. . . my ears perk up when you write “it seems that you have been down the road I am heading down.”
Yes sir, perhaps I have.
And can I say I would not visit on my worst enemy the sorrows of destroying a family. I am approaching two years of time spent rebuilding the lives of myself and my children. It has been painful, expensive and bloody.
True, I’m having the sex other men dream of. I have resilient children I adore, and great friends who make it all possible. My life is coming back together.
But if my ex had not ended our marriage, my brother, I would still be jerking off in the shower of our home in the ‘burbs, toiling in the fruitless plains of our monogamy.
I contend that any man who follows his dick out of a good marriage has a fool for a guide.
So my main advice: fix the compass of your dick. Find a way to be sexually fulfilled that does not upend the lives of your family.
Don’t settle for frustration. Don’t walk away from all you have built.
You can fix your sex life. You can.
Cock Slut
The morning after the orgy, I woke with a raging hard on. Oh sure, I think. Now you are raring to go.
I ignored it. I got dressed and made coffee. I had work to do before my lunchtime meeting with Kat.
I had been thinking about what Anna and Mitzi had each told me separately in the preceding week. They like it when I get off.
While they appreciate that I am so intent on their pleasure, it gives each of them that much more pleasure when I cum.
This was particularly in my mind after last night’s gathering. You know, I have been hosting this orgy every two weeks for a year and a half, give or take. And in all that sex, I don’t think I’ve ever cum once.
I’ve never wanted to. I want to get off my partners. Heck, I can cum by myself. It makes sense to stay hard and be ready to go again.
One-on-one sex, though, that’s different. And in that context I am learning: one can be giving by allowing another to give pleasure.
I need to think about that, and practice being selfish.
For our second date, Kat requested three things: ropes, a mouth full of cock, and three hours. Then she gave me only one and a half hours—same as our first date. Tsk.
By being so cock hungry and offering so little time, Kat presented the opportunity for me to be a selfish pig.
We had no time for bondage on our first date, but this time I would see to it that we did. I packed rope.
She answered the door wrapped in a towel, wet from her shower. I kissed her, closed the door behind me, and tossed the towel aside.
“Maybe you should be on your knees sucking cock, “ I suggested, loosening my belt. She went to her knees.
I pulled out my cock, already hard, and dropped it in her waiting mouth. I fucked her face slow and easy, combing my fingers through her wet hair.
“Nice of you to shower for me." I removed my fleece and shirt. “Kat, you suck cock so well.”
I let her suck me, slow and easy, no rush.
In time, I pulled my cock away and knelt before her.
“I’ve been thinking about how to tie you up,” I said, reaching for my bag to unpack a bundle of ropes.
“I like that you have a four poster bed, but that seems so cliché, don’t you think? I mean, I’m not strapping you to your bed first time out, am I?”
I stretched out my ropes. I took an ankle in my hand. “Better we do this here, on your floor.” She nodded in assent.
I never said the words aloud, but my inspiration was the pejorative sex term “carpet muncher.” Just thinking those words got me hard.
Kat was my carpet muncher.
I roped one ankle, and lashed it to the other. I bound her wrists in the same fashion. With another rope, I tied these two restraints together.
I tied one rope around her waist, another around her neck. “These are gratuitous,” I admitted. “But they give me something to grab on to.”
Thus restrained, she would have to wriggle her body to move.
I threw two pillows in the carpet across the room and reclined. I held up my cock. “Come suck it,” I offered.
She crawled across the floor to my cock and took it in her mouth. “Good girl.” I let her mouth work on me.
I got up after a while and pushed her back. Her feet and hand were hogtied in the air. I slipped on a condom and fucked her.
She moaned and pushed into me. Her eyes were hungry for mine. I slipped my fingers into her mouth and rode harder, using her body as my saddle, her jaw as the horn.
“Wait, wait,” she said. “My ankle is loose.” She had come loose from one foot. I tied it back in place.
“You have uncovered one secret,” I told her. “ I always use slip knots on a first bondage date.”
I got back to fucking her. I got her off, though I wasn’t supposed to care about that.
I moved to a chair across the room. It was a very cozy chair. “Come over here and suck me off,” I told her. She wriggled her body across the floor to do as I instructed.
She sucked me as I sat back. My cock was hard in her mouth. Her submission was a great turn on—and it made me alert to her arousal. It satisfied both of my urges: to turn her on, and to be selfish.
I had to leave at 1:30. It was 1:20. I fucked her face. I pulled out and dumped my load on her tits.
“You are so good about timing,” she marveled, as I recovered.
“I try,” I said. I kissed her. I untied her neck with my toes, and untied a wrist. I left the rest to her, stepping over her body to get a quick shower. She had freed herself when I returned.
I collected my ropes and dressed. As she dressed I said goodbye and left. She wanted me gone by 1:30, I would be gone by 1:30.
I was starving. I should not admit this, even to you, dear reader, but I had not eaten in two days. Too much work, too much sex, too little time.
I bought a paper and sat in a diner near Kat’s place. I ordered a Rueben sandwich and coffee, then turned to the Op-Ed pages.
That afternoon, Kat fucked another man. She tried to get another afterwards, but he was busy.
Kat reads this blog.
Kat, honey, you are a cock slut. I’ve seen the way your eyes roll back when you have my cock in your mouth. I’ve watched the drool accumulate on me as you suck dick. You are a cock junkie.
You need to ‘fess up.
Leave a comment below. Tell our readers that you are a cock slut. Tell them why you are so hungry for my dick.
Do it, Kat, and I will feed you more cock.
I ignored it. I got dressed and made coffee. I had work to do before my lunchtime meeting with Kat.
I had been thinking about what Anna and Mitzi had each told me separately in the preceding week. They like it when I get off.
While they appreciate that I am so intent on their pleasure, it gives each of them that much more pleasure when I cum.
This was particularly in my mind after last night’s gathering. You know, I have been hosting this orgy every two weeks for a year and a half, give or take. And in all that sex, I don’t think I’ve ever cum once.
I’ve never wanted to. I want to get off my partners. Heck, I can cum by myself. It makes sense to stay hard and be ready to go again.
One-on-one sex, though, that’s different. And in that context I am learning: one can be giving by allowing another to give pleasure.
I need to think about that, and practice being selfish.
For our second date, Kat requested three things: ropes, a mouth full of cock, and three hours. Then she gave me only one and a half hours—same as our first date. Tsk.
By being so cock hungry and offering so little time, Kat presented the opportunity for me to be a selfish pig.
We had no time for bondage on our first date, but this time I would see to it that we did. I packed rope.
She answered the door wrapped in a towel, wet from her shower. I kissed her, closed the door behind me, and tossed the towel aside.
“Maybe you should be on your knees sucking cock, “ I suggested, loosening my belt. She went to her knees.
I pulled out my cock, already hard, and dropped it in her waiting mouth. I fucked her face slow and easy, combing my fingers through her wet hair.
“Nice of you to shower for me." I removed my fleece and shirt. “Kat, you suck cock so well.”
I let her suck me, slow and easy, no rush.
In time, I pulled my cock away and knelt before her.
“I’ve been thinking about how to tie you up,” I said, reaching for my bag to unpack a bundle of ropes.
“I like that you have a four poster bed, but that seems so cliché, don’t you think? I mean, I’m not strapping you to your bed first time out, am I?”
I stretched out my ropes. I took an ankle in my hand. “Better we do this here, on your floor.” She nodded in assent.
I never said the words aloud, but my inspiration was the pejorative sex term “carpet muncher.” Just thinking those words got me hard.
Kat was my carpet muncher.
I roped one ankle, and lashed it to the other. I bound her wrists in the same fashion. With another rope, I tied these two restraints together.
I tied one rope around her waist, another around her neck. “These are gratuitous,” I admitted. “But they give me something to grab on to.”
Thus restrained, she would have to wriggle her body to move.
I threw two pillows in the carpet across the room and reclined. I held up my cock. “Come suck it,” I offered.
She crawled across the floor to my cock and took it in her mouth. “Good girl.” I let her mouth work on me.
I got up after a while and pushed her back. Her feet and hand were hogtied in the air. I slipped on a condom and fucked her.
She moaned and pushed into me. Her eyes were hungry for mine. I slipped my fingers into her mouth and rode harder, using her body as my saddle, her jaw as the horn.
“Wait, wait,” she said. “My ankle is loose.” She had come loose from one foot. I tied it back in place.
“You have uncovered one secret,” I told her. “ I always use slip knots on a first bondage date.”
I got back to fucking her. I got her off, though I wasn’t supposed to care about that.
I moved to a chair across the room. It was a very cozy chair. “Come over here and suck me off,” I told her. She wriggled her body across the floor to do as I instructed.
She sucked me as I sat back. My cock was hard in her mouth. Her submission was a great turn on—and it made me alert to her arousal. It satisfied both of my urges: to turn her on, and to be selfish.
I had to leave at 1:30. It was 1:20. I fucked her face. I pulled out and dumped my load on her tits.
“You are so good about timing,” she marveled, as I recovered.
“I try,” I said. I kissed her. I untied her neck with my toes, and untied a wrist. I left the rest to her, stepping over her body to get a quick shower. She had freed herself when I returned.
I collected my ropes and dressed. As she dressed I said goodbye and left. She wanted me gone by 1:30, I would be gone by 1:30.
I was starving. I should not admit this, even to you, dear reader, but I had not eaten in two days. Too much work, too much sex, too little time.
I bought a paper and sat in a diner near Kat’s place. I ordered a Rueben sandwich and coffee, then turned to the Op-Ed pages.
That afternoon, Kat fucked another man. She tried to get another afterwards, but he was busy.
Kat reads this blog.
Kat, honey, you are a cock slut. I’ve seen the way your eyes roll back when you have my cock in your mouth. I’ve watched the drool accumulate on me as you suck dick. You are a cock junkie.
You need to ‘fess up.
Leave a comment below. Tell our readers that you are a cock slut. Tell them why you are so hungry for my dick.
Do it, Kat, and I will feed you more cock.
Wednesday, February 09, 2005
Noisy Women
Nadia and Tammy clicked within moments of meeting. As Nadia undressed, Tammy stayed close by her side, smiling and laughing with her. Soon Jake was sitting in a chair, undressing and fondling them as they stood before him.
Tammy would last for a while, but eventually spooked like a new filly. She had promised herself she would test the waters tonight, then dive in when she was ready. She enjoyed some tender moments, then left to avoid further temptation.
(She would email me the next day: so when is the next party? Can we meet sooner?)
Mona, Alice and I were the only people dressed. We stood to a side, watching.
Mark drew me in. I undressed, as he sucked John and me. I put my arm around John.
Thomas was fucking Nadia. She began to moan, then shout her orgasm.
I put a hand over her mouth. “Shut the fuck up,” I commanded. Thomas thrust faster; she got through a very long orgasm.
“So, I was all right?” Thomas asked, as she melted.
Soon Nadia was fucking John. Mark and I moved to the other bedroom.
Five people were sprawled on my bed. And none were sucking the cute boy, Chris, who was supine across my pillows. I took care of that. I took his large cock into my mouth, rubbing my hands around his smooth body, finding my hands on his hips.
Raven kissed his mouth. “So you like my boy?” she asked me. Hmmmm.
Raven was wearing his cowboy hat. She took it off to blow me. Now I was wearing his hat.
Mona watched. Alice stood by her side.
Chris moved to kiss a woman. Mark was fucking Raven as I fucked her mouth, standing up in a cowboy hat. She eventually turned to focus on Mark, wailing in orgasm.
I was in the kitchen a few minutes later when Chris brought me a broken wine glass. “I’m sure Raven had something to do with this,” I admonished. She did.
I swear to God, that woman is costing me a fortune in condoms and glassware.
“Raven tells me you are going to fuck her,” Chris smiled. “I’d like to see that.”
“No time like the present,” I replied.
Chris kissed me, and the present got a little lost as we stood, making out. I put my hands to his face, stroking his long hair. Our hard cocks rubbed against one another as we pressed close, swaying our hips.
This boy was a sweet, sensuous kisser. I felt very distracted and out of sorts tonight, but being so aroused by him worked wonders on my mood.
I took his hand, and we walked to the bedroom so I could fuck his friend Raven.
She was blowing Jake as I spread her legs and licked her pussy. “Oh good,” she exclaimed. “Jefferson is finally going to fuck me.”
I climbed up her body, kissing her face as she sucked cock. And then, fate intervened with the loss of my erection. I felt suddenly ill at ease, with my sore ass in the air, my thoughts escaping to other concerns.
I went back down on Raven, and got her off.
I sat to watch a while, to try to get myself back on track.
Mark put his arm around me, and kissed me. “You want to fuck me?”
I kissed him. “I do, but not right now.” I stood and held him. I had told him about my grandmother earlier; his hands stroked my back.
I may not have been in the mood to fuck, but I was certainly the kissing bandit. I craved that kind of contact.
The was a knock at the door. Natasha kissed me hello, barraging me with questions about life since we last spoke. As we talked, she took off her coat . . . and the remainder of her clothes.
Nadia joined us. I kissed her, asking how it was going for her. We talked for a few moments, and then kissed again—and kept at it. Nice kisser, this one. Our hands roamed one another, and I began to think I might be up for fucking after all.
I introduced Natasha to Mona, who had dubbed herself “The Enabler,” taking on the task of making people do her bidding. She certainly looked the part of a superhero, decked all in black, the only clothed person at an orgy.
She was very impressed that anything she suggested, our folks did quite readily. Her special assignment had been shy Alice. She was working wonders, it’s true; I had noticed Mona encouraging Alice as Jake fucked her.
“I wonder what to do with that sweet girl next,” she mused.
“Why don’t you give her a nice bath?” I suggested.
Chris and Nadia thought that was a fine idea. Mona shook her head. No, she said, a shower would be better. She would give Alice a shower.
“Here, take Chris too,” I suggested. That hippy boy was ripe. “Natasha, you’d better get in the shower as well.”
“Did someone say ‘shower?,’” asked Jake.
Mona rounded up five people and stood them in the tub. She rolled up her sleeves, turned on the water, and hosed them down with the detachable shower head.
She soaped them up, very efficiently. Her charges laughed and began soaping one another.
I sat on the toilet, taking in this spectacle. So many soapy people, wriggling by candlelight.
Mona rinsed them all, and we distributed towels. She sent them off for more sex.
Alice’s friend Max finally arrived. He is a handsome fellow, thin and pale with dark hair. Alice clearly adored him. We sat talking for a while with John.
“So,” Max suggested. “Shall we go fuck Alice?” We all agreed that this was a fine idea. And happily, my libido kicked in as Alice took on the three of us.
The crowd had thinned as we were at it. I poured a bourbon and toured the remains of the party. I found Jake and Mona going at it on my bed.
“You can watch,” Mona said. “But only you.”
I settled into a chair with my drink and watched them fuck. Mona moaned noisily.
Tammy would last for a while, but eventually spooked like a new filly. She had promised herself she would test the waters tonight, then dive in when she was ready. She enjoyed some tender moments, then left to avoid further temptation.
(She would email me the next day: so when is the next party? Can we meet sooner?)
Mona, Alice and I were the only people dressed. We stood to a side, watching.
Mark drew me in. I undressed, as he sucked John and me. I put my arm around John.
Thomas was fucking Nadia. She began to moan, then shout her orgasm.
I put a hand over her mouth. “Shut the fuck up,” I commanded. Thomas thrust faster; she got through a very long orgasm.
“So, I was all right?” Thomas asked, as she melted.
Soon Nadia was fucking John. Mark and I moved to the other bedroom.
Five people were sprawled on my bed. And none were sucking the cute boy, Chris, who was supine across my pillows. I took care of that. I took his large cock into my mouth, rubbing my hands around his smooth body, finding my hands on his hips.
Raven kissed his mouth. “So you like my boy?” she asked me. Hmmmm.
Raven was wearing his cowboy hat. She took it off to blow me. Now I was wearing his hat.
Mona watched. Alice stood by her side.
Chris moved to kiss a woman. Mark was fucking Raven as I fucked her mouth, standing up in a cowboy hat. She eventually turned to focus on Mark, wailing in orgasm.
I was in the kitchen a few minutes later when Chris brought me a broken wine glass. “I’m sure Raven had something to do with this,” I admonished. She did.
I swear to God, that woman is costing me a fortune in condoms and glassware.
“Raven tells me you are going to fuck her,” Chris smiled. “I’d like to see that.”
“No time like the present,” I replied.
Chris kissed me, and the present got a little lost as we stood, making out. I put my hands to his face, stroking his long hair. Our hard cocks rubbed against one another as we pressed close, swaying our hips.
This boy was a sweet, sensuous kisser. I felt very distracted and out of sorts tonight, but being so aroused by him worked wonders on my mood.
I took his hand, and we walked to the bedroom so I could fuck his friend Raven.
She was blowing Jake as I spread her legs and licked her pussy. “Oh good,” she exclaimed. “Jefferson is finally going to fuck me.”
I climbed up her body, kissing her face as she sucked cock. And then, fate intervened with the loss of my erection. I felt suddenly ill at ease, with my sore ass in the air, my thoughts escaping to other concerns.
I went back down on Raven, and got her off.
I sat to watch a while, to try to get myself back on track.
Mark put his arm around me, and kissed me. “You want to fuck me?”
I kissed him. “I do, but not right now.” I stood and held him. I had told him about my grandmother earlier; his hands stroked my back.
I may not have been in the mood to fuck, but I was certainly the kissing bandit. I craved that kind of contact.
The was a knock at the door. Natasha kissed me hello, barraging me with questions about life since we last spoke. As we talked, she took off her coat . . . and the remainder of her clothes.
Nadia joined us. I kissed her, asking how it was going for her. We talked for a few moments, and then kissed again—and kept at it. Nice kisser, this one. Our hands roamed one another, and I began to think I might be up for fucking after all.
I introduced Natasha to Mona, who had dubbed herself “The Enabler,” taking on the task of making people do her bidding. She certainly looked the part of a superhero, decked all in black, the only clothed person at an orgy.
She was very impressed that anything she suggested, our folks did quite readily. Her special assignment had been shy Alice. She was working wonders, it’s true; I had noticed Mona encouraging Alice as Jake fucked her.
“I wonder what to do with that sweet girl next,” she mused.
“Why don’t you give her a nice bath?” I suggested.
Chris and Nadia thought that was a fine idea. Mona shook her head. No, she said, a shower would be better. She would give Alice a shower.
“Here, take Chris too,” I suggested. That hippy boy was ripe. “Natasha, you’d better get in the shower as well.”
“Did someone say ‘shower?,’” asked Jake.
Mona rounded up five people and stood them in the tub. She rolled up her sleeves, turned on the water, and hosed them down with the detachable shower head.
She soaped them up, very efficiently. Her charges laughed and began soaping one another.
I sat on the toilet, taking in this spectacle. So many soapy people, wriggling by candlelight.
Mona rinsed them all, and we distributed towels. She sent them off for more sex.
Alice’s friend Max finally arrived. He is a handsome fellow, thin and pale with dark hair. Alice clearly adored him. We sat talking for a while with John.
“So,” Max suggested. “Shall we go fuck Alice?” We all agreed that this was a fine idea. And happily, my libido kicked in as Alice took on the three of us.
The crowd had thinned as we were at it. I poured a bourbon and toured the remains of the party. I found Jake and Mona going at it on my bed.
“You can watch,” Mona said. “But only you.”
I settled into a chair with my drink and watched them fuck. Mona moaned noisily.
Worries
Sometimes, an orgy is just the thing for what ails you. Other times, it may not be foremost on your mind.
On this particular night, two things weighed me down.
First of all, the meds I had taken for my freakish neck infection had the predicted and unfortunate side effect of giving me a smarting case of hemorrhoids.
I was none too keen to have my tender bum bouncing in the air as I bopped my pals.
But more worrisome, I got a call that afternoon from my mom saying that my grandmother had been hospitalized with what was likely a minor stroke.
She is relatively young, in her late 70s, and she has never had a stroke. She was going to be fine, the doctors said. But our family is not ready for this immortal woman to fall into ill health.
I was not in the best frame of mind to be a slut. But come hell or high water, these gatherings roll around every two weeks.
I would find what I needed: a hug.
Before the main event, I was joined by Mona. She was new to group parties, and as we had not met, I suggested that we get together to talk. She could then stick around to meet the gang and decide whether or not she wanted to stay on or participate.
Mona is a very attractive black woman, mid 20s, with her hair in tight dreds. She looked chic in a black turtleneck and pants.
We sat and talked over wine. Just this past weekend, she had found herself naked and fooling around with friends. This led her to give our party a whirl. As we chatted, I told her what to expect, and a little about the people she would be meeting.
Raven was the first to arrive, bringing in tow in her protégé, Chris. For as long as I have known Raven, she has waxed about the beauty of this boy in San Francisco. Now he was here for a visit, and ready for his first group experience.
He was twenty. Raven had discovered him six years ago, when she was 22. “But,” she takes pride in pointing out, “I didn’t have sex with him until he was legal—well, almost.”
She had not exaggerated his beauty. He was tall and thin, with long wavy hair, dirty blonde, and an easy smile punctuated with dimples. He wore a big black cowboy hat.
I made introductions, and Chris sat to talk with Mona as Raven and I prepared food.
“Well?” she smirked.
“Eh,” I shrugged. “He’s okay if you like that type.”
She hit me. She knows that feigned indifference is my greatest compliment.
“So are you fucking me tonight? You know, you haven’t fucked me in months.”
She was right. And not for lack of interest from either party. It has just worked that way as we act out our respective responsibilities at the gathering. She generally take the lead in getting people naked, whereas I hang back to be sure all the new folks are comfortable. And we’ve had a lot of newbies in the mix lately.
By the time I get naked, she is usually up to her eyeballs in sex partners, and I am focused on someone else’s needs.
I offered a hooked pinky. “Tonight we fuck.”
She locked her pinky in mine. “Deal.”
The party was filling out. The assembled guests included Nadia, Thomas, Mark, Todd, John, Bugs and Fred, Lauren and Jose. Natasha would arrive late.
Thomas made an announcement: tonight marked the one-year anniversary of his first gathering with us. A toast was raised.
I sat next to Alice on the floor. She and I had had many conversations since her debut at the most recent gathering. She was very excited to be a part of this, and very nervous as well. I would need to look after her as well as Mona.
Alice had also invited her lover Max to join us later. Max and I had talked. He has been to many such parties, and wanted to be with us to help Alice feel at ease.
She was hot to have sex with him in our mix.
Jake—who had originally introduced Alice to us—arrived with Tammy, who was also new. When I fretted during the afternoon that we might not have as many women as men—unnecessarily, as it turned out—he produced her with relative ease, as though discovering a six-pack hidden in the back of an apparently empty fridge.
Raven sat in Jake’s lap and asked Chris to do a strip tease for us. He complied, removing his shirt and pants, undulating his long body as he danced. He did not remove his cowboy hat.
He has stripped to a skimpy pair of black undies, and began to tease them off his ass to our applause. “No wait, wait,” I pleaded. “We just aren’t ready for that ass!”
He came to and sat in my lap, throwing arms around my shoulders and his legs into Raven’s lap. I held his torso, running my fingers along his belly.
“If you want to really tickle him,” Raven offered, “Try behind his knees. “ She ran her fingers up his calves and he squirmed, kicking his legs.
He began to tickle me in retaliation. I was trapped under him.
I am very ticklish. I can’t hide it.
Suddenly Jake and Raven joined him in tickling me. We had roused the attention of Bugs, who spanks and tickles with sadistic intent. Her face loomed before me, a glint in her eyes.
“This . . . ha . . . this has stopped . . . no! . . . this has stopped being fun . . . .” I gasped.
“Use your safe word, Jefferson,” Raven teased.
“Don’t . . . have . . . one.” Misery. I should know better than to walk around without a safe word.
They relented. Chris squirmed against my erection.
In the melee, Nadia had removed her shirt. Raven joined her.
We were soon in the bedroom.
On this particular night, two things weighed me down.
First of all, the meds I had taken for my freakish neck infection had the predicted and unfortunate side effect of giving me a smarting case of hemorrhoids.
I was none too keen to have my tender bum bouncing in the air as I bopped my pals.
But more worrisome, I got a call that afternoon from my mom saying that my grandmother had been hospitalized with what was likely a minor stroke.
She is relatively young, in her late 70s, and she has never had a stroke. She was going to be fine, the doctors said. But our family is not ready for this immortal woman to fall into ill health.
I was not in the best frame of mind to be a slut. But come hell or high water, these gatherings roll around every two weeks.
I would find what I needed: a hug.
Before the main event, I was joined by Mona. She was new to group parties, and as we had not met, I suggested that we get together to talk. She could then stick around to meet the gang and decide whether or not she wanted to stay on or participate.
Mona is a very attractive black woman, mid 20s, with her hair in tight dreds. She looked chic in a black turtleneck and pants.
We sat and talked over wine. Just this past weekend, she had found herself naked and fooling around with friends. This led her to give our party a whirl. As we chatted, I told her what to expect, and a little about the people she would be meeting.
Raven was the first to arrive, bringing in tow in her protégé, Chris. For as long as I have known Raven, she has waxed about the beauty of this boy in San Francisco. Now he was here for a visit, and ready for his first group experience.
He was twenty. Raven had discovered him six years ago, when she was 22. “But,” she takes pride in pointing out, “I didn’t have sex with him until he was legal—well, almost.”
She had not exaggerated his beauty. He was tall and thin, with long wavy hair, dirty blonde, and an easy smile punctuated with dimples. He wore a big black cowboy hat.
I made introductions, and Chris sat to talk with Mona as Raven and I prepared food.
“Well?” she smirked.
“Eh,” I shrugged. “He’s okay if you like that type.”
She hit me. She knows that feigned indifference is my greatest compliment.
“So are you fucking me tonight? You know, you haven’t fucked me in months.”
She was right. And not for lack of interest from either party. It has just worked that way as we act out our respective responsibilities at the gathering. She generally take the lead in getting people naked, whereas I hang back to be sure all the new folks are comfortable. And we’ve had a lot of newbies in the mix lately.
By the time I get naked, she is usually up to her eyeballs in sex partners, and I am focused on someone else’s needs.
I offered a hooked pinky. “Tonight we fuck.”
She locked her pinky in mine. “Deal.”
The party was filling out. The assembled guests included Nadia, Thomas, Mark, Todd, John, Bugs and Fred, Lauren and Jose. Natasha would arrive late.
Thomas made an announcement: tonight marked the one-year anniversary of his first gathering with us. A toast was raised.
I sat next to Alice on the floor. She and I had had many conversations since her debut at the most recent gathering. She was very excited to be a part of this, and very nervous as well. I would need to look after her as well as Mona.
Alice had also invited her lover Max to join us later. Max and I had talked. He has been to many such parties, and wanted to be with us to help Alice feel at ease.
She was hot to have sex with him in our mix.
Jake—who had originally introduced Alice to us—arrived with Tammy, who was also new. When I fretted during the afternoon that we might not have as many women as men—unnecessarily, as it turned out—he produced her with relative ease, as though discovering a six-pack hidden in the back of an apparently empty fridge.
Raven sat in Jake’s lap and asked Chris to do a strip tease for us. He complied, removing his shirt and pants, undulating his long body as he danced. He did not remove his cowboy hat.
He has stripped to a skimpy pair of black undies, and began to tease them off his ass to our applause. “No wait, wait,” I pleaded. “We just aren’t ready for that ass!”
He came to and sat in my lap, throwing arms around my shoulders and his legs into Raven’s lap. I held his torso, running my fingers along his belly.
“If you want to really tickle him,” Raven offered, “Try behind his knees. “ She ran her fingers up his calves and he squirmed, kicking his legs.
He began to tickle me in retaliation. I was trapped under him.
I am very ticklish. I can’t hide it.
Suddenly Jake and Raven joined him in tickling me. We had roused the attention of Bugs, who spanks and tickles with sadistic intent. Her face loomed before me, a glint in her eyes.
“This . . . ha . . . this has stopped . . . no! . . . this has stopped being fun . . . .” I gasped.
“Use your safe word, Jefferson,” Raven teased.
“Don’t . . . have . . . one.” Misery. I should know better than to walk around without a safe word.
They relented. Chris squirmed against my erection.
In the melee, Nadia had removed her shirt. Raven joined her.
We were soon in the bedroom.
Tuesday, February 08, 2005
Quiet Men
Marla was still in the shower as the first guests arrived. This was bad timing on my part—one really shouldn’t have women lingering about for an all male orgy.
Bad timing on my part, or coyness on Marla’s . . . she was burning with curiosity about this party, and I’m sure she prolonged her shower to get a glimpse at some of the men.
I had already denied her request to watch from a closet. “But I’ll be so quiet!” she protested. No way, I said. You’ll masturbate and you just can’t be quiet when you cum.
There was another snafu in timing. Jimmy called to say he was still a few blocks away. Jimmy is the organizing host of this party. He compile the guest list, brings the supplies, and so on. As co-host, I provide the place and ambience—and wash the sex sheets afterwards.
I entertained the men as Marla dressed. She passed into the room like Mae West surveying a saloon. “Hi guys, you have fun tonight!” I held her coat for her, and showed her to the door. I kissed her good bye as Jimmy showed up.
“Sorry I’m late, but it looks like it worked out well for you,” he quipped. He kissed my cheek.
“Listen, there’s a surprise for you. I told all the guys that this party was for your birthday and mine. So you may get some presents. I know I had better get some, or there will be hell to pay.”
Jimmy set to work processing his men. He checks each off an RSVP list, collects membership fees, and instructs them to undress, putting their belongings into bags marked with their names. The men know the drill.
I answer the door, and between arrivals, I sit on the kitchen counter, drinking wine and chatting with Jimmy. His men are punctual, showing up within minutes of the appointed hour. It’s also a given that the party will end after about two hours.
So different from my gatherings, where people undress when they feel like it and stay until all hours.
Sure enough, a number of men had brought me gifts of bourbon and cabernet, following Jimmy’s edict to ply the host with hooch.
Not surprisingly, Dmitri brought a nice wine with a floral card. He’s got a crush on me, I think. I had fisted him at a previous party, and since then he has followed me around like a puppy, wagging his tail, ready for more.
Jimmy counted his list. Yep, all fifteen men were present and accounted for.
I surveyed the party. Naked men were cruising one another, hooking up in clusters of two or three. I was fully dressed, not ready to dive in.
I felt fine, having just fucked Marla and the voyeur.
I caught up with Ted. He and a friend had shown up at the gangbang I had organized for William on my birthday—the gangbang that had broken my bed.
Ted had arrived chasing the prospect of meeting Marc, a no-show. I liked taking with him, and invited him to get in touch with Jimmy about this party. He had left the gangbang without participating, so I had not seen him undressed.
Turns out he has a great toned body under his handsome face.
After a while, I stripped and sat to watch the goings on. Dmitri was on his knees immediately.
While Dmitri sucks my dick, I scan the room. Ted was sitting in another chair, gazing into the eyes of another muscle boy perched on his lap. A young twink approached three men jerking one another by the door, and went to his knees. Two guys were fucking at the foot of the bed.
It was very quiet. The men interacted in near silence, their bodies finding one another by candlelight, their interest in one another signaled by smiles, nods and touches.
Two men kissed on the bed next to my chair, watching as Dmitri blew me. One of them winked at me, licking his lips. He was cute—short clipped dark hair, angular features, and a smooth muscular body. He had a small cock, its base bound in a leather strap.
He was on top of a guy with red hair and a beard. Both were signaling for me to join them.
I took Dmitri by the ears and pulled him off my cock. I kissed his forehead. “That will do for now,” I whispered. He looked ecstatic that I had spoken to him.
I joined the men on the bed, dropping my cock in the red bearded mouth and kissing the cute boy. His hands held his cock against the other man’s, rubbing hard. I took over that task as we kissed.
He stopped me. He didn’t want to cum just yet, and that got him close.
I focused on feeding my cock to the red beard.
One man came, and heads turned to watch him shoot. Another came. The fireworks display was underway. The party would soon end.
The cute boy lay nestled in the arms of the bearded man, as I gave them hand jobs. The boy put a hand on my wrist. “That will make me cum,” he pleaded.
I looked him square in the eyes. “Cum,” I commanded.
I gave two firm tugs and he shot on his belly and chest. His face was scrunched in pleasure . . . or was it annoyance? Hard to say. I kissed his forehead and his closed eyes. I left to wash up.
I pulled on my pants and sat to talk with Jimmy. Men were dressing to leave.
Soon we were alone, cleaning up. As he got his coat to leave, I offered to walk out with him.
I had a date. It was not yet ten.
Bad timing on my part, or coyness on Marla’s . . . she was burning with curiosity about this party, and I’m sure she prolonged her shower to get a glimpse at some of the men.
I had already denied her request to watch from a closet. “But I’ll be so quiet!” she protested. No way, I said. You’ll masturbate and you just can’t be quiet when you cum.
There was another snafu in timing. Jimmy called to say he was still a few blocks away. Jimmy is the organizing host of this party. He compile the guest list, brings the supplies, and so on. As co-host, I provide the place and ambience—and wash the sex sheets afterwards.
I entertained the men as Marla dressed. She passed into the room like Mae West surveying a saloon. “Hi guys, you have fun tonight!” I held her coat for her, and showed her to the door. I kissed her good bye as Jimmy showed up.
“Sorry I’m late, but it looks like it worked out well for you,” he quipped. He kissed my cheek.
“Listen, there’s a surprise for you. I told all the guys that this party was for your birthday and mine. So you may get some presents. I know I had better get some, or there will be hell to pay.”
Jimmy set to work processing his men. He checks each off an RSVP list, collects membership fees, and instructs them to undress, putting their belongings into bags marked with their names. The men know the drill.
I answer the door, and between arrivals, I sit on the kitchen counter, drinking wine and chatting with Jimmy. His men are punctual, showing up within minutes of the appointed hour. It’s also a given that the party will end after about two hours.
So different from my gatherings, where people undress when they feel like it and stay until all hours.
Sure enough, a number of men had brought me gifts of bourbon and cabernet, following Jimmy’s edict to ply the host with hooch.
Not surprisingly, Dmitri brought a nice wine with a floral card. He’s got a crush on me, I think. I had fisted him at a previous party, and since then he has followed me around like a puppy, wagging his tail, ready for more.
Jimmy counted his list. Yep, all fifteen men were present and accounted for.
I surveyed the party. Naked men were cruising one another, hooking up in clusters of two or three. I was fully dressed, not ready to dive in.
I felt fine, having just fucked Marla and the voyeur.
I caught up with Ted. He and a friend had shown up at the gangbang I had organized for William on my birthday—the gangbang that had broken my bed.
Ted had arrived chasing the prospect of meeting Marc, a no-show. I liked taking with him, and invited him to get in touch with Jimmy about this party. He had left the gangbang without participating, so I had not seen him undressed.
Turns out he has a great toned body under his handsome face.
After a while, I stripped and sat to watch the goings on. Dmitri was on his knees immediately.
While Dmitri sucks my dick, I scan the room. Ted was sitting in another chair, gazing into the eyes of another muscle boy perched on his lap. A young twink approached three men jerking one another by the door, and went to his knees. Two guys were fucking at the foot of the bed.
It was very quiet. The men interacted in near silence, their bodies finding one another by candlelight, their interest in one another signaled by smiles, nods and touches.
Two men kissed on the bed next to my chair, watching as Dmitri blew me. One of them winked at me, licking his lips. He was cute—short clipped dark hair, angular features, and a smooth muscular body. He had a small cock, its base bound in a leather strap.
He was on top of a guy with red hair and a beard. Both were signaling for me to join them.
I took Dmitri by the ears and pulled him off my cock. I kissed his forehead. “That will do for now,” I whispered. He looked ecstatic that I had spoken to him.
I joined the men on the bed, dropping my cock in the red bearded mouth and kissing the cute boy. His hands held his cock against the other man’s, rubbing hard. I took over that task as we kissed.
He stopped me. He didn’t want to cum just yet, and that got him close.
I focused on feeding my cock to the red beard.
One man came, and heads turned to watch him shoot. Another came. The fireworks display was underway. The party would soon end.
The cute boy lay nestled in the arms of the bearded man, as I gave them hand jobs. The boy put a hand on my wrist. “That will make me cum,” he pleaded.
I looked him square in the eyes. “Cum,” I commanded.
I gave two firm tugs and he shot on his belly and chest. His face was scrunched in pleasure . . . or was it annoyance? Hard to say. I kissed his forehead and his closed eyes. I left to wash up.
I pulled on my pants and sat to talk with Jimmy. Men were dressing to leave.
Soon we were alone, cleaning up. As he got his coat to leave, I offered to walk out with him.
I had a date. It was not yet ten.
Show
Marla and I decided to put on another show. The lucky voyeur was chosen because he made an interesting request.
Told that he would only be able to watch the two of us and not touch, he inquired: as hot as that is, I would like to be fucked as a woman watched. Is that possible?
Marla and I conferred. She had never seen a man fuck another man, and liked the idea, so we agreed.
We met our man, a young married Wall Street suit, over a glass of wine. He seemed a nice fellow, as eager to talk about history as anything else. He got the nod.
We went to my bedroom and undressed. Marla and I kissed and touched as he watched, quietly.
Marla lay on me, burying my face in her long hair, covering my mouth with her kisses. In her hair, we were alone, knowing we were being watched.
“You woke up my mouth,” I said.
“I’d like to take advantage of that,” she purred. “How do you want it?”
“Feed me.”
She smiled and pulled back. She brought her pussy to my mouth as I lay back on my pillows. “Oh wait,” she said, turning her body. “I want to be able to suck your cock too.” She lowered her cunt to my tongue, and bent to suck me.
My hands roamed her hips and back. I pressed my torso up to feel hers. My mouth sucked her clit, playing with her piercing. She was already very wet.
She sat back. She told the voyeur to suck me. He complied readily.
From my vantage, I could see nothing but Marla’s ass. But she was enjoying her view—she grinded into my mouth, holding my hands on her thighs. I pulled her down firmly as she came.
The voyeur, sad to say, did not give the best head. Too shallow and geez, those teeth. Time to shift positions.
“Ready to get fucked?” I asked.
“Yes.” He was off me in a flash, and ready to bend over. Marla dismounted my face, and found a good vantage to watch.
As I put on a condom, I had him bend over with his ass on the edge of the bed. A little lube and I was in him. He pushed back. Oh, you want it deep huh? Happy to comply.
I worked him a bit, then started pounding. He took it well. I rubbed his back, roaming my hands to the nape of his neck. I pushed down hard, and his shoulders went slack. He buried his face in the bedding.
Good submissive. He got a harder pounding for that.
“Damn,” Marla blurted. “I could never take it like that.” I looked to see her smiling, a glass of pinot grigio in her hand. She was so lovely by candlight.
“You like this baby?” She nodded. “Come here and get a closer look.” She walked to me with a sexy sashay. I put my arm on her shoulder and kissed her.
I buried myself in the smell of Marla’s neck and hair, so aroused by her femininity as I fucked that man’s ass firm and deep.
I took her hand and asked her to step onto the bed. I had her straddle the man’s ass, one foot on either side of his rump, facing me.
I had hoped to lick her pussy as I fucked him, but alas, my sweet thing was too short. I contented myself by sucking a breast as I fingered her.
“You are really plowing him,” she said, looking down. “Maybe I can help.” She positioned her knees on his hips and pushed him back and forth against me. “Does this help?”
“Very much,” I panted. “Thanks sweety.” I took her face into my hands and kissed her. I kissed the nape of neck as I fucked away at the man beneath her.
Enough of this. I wanted her. I pulled out.
“Okay, get your clothes and leave,” I told the man. “I want to fuck my girl.”
“You did a great job,” she told him. “It was so hot to watch.”
“Thanks,” he said, pulling on his trousers. “I really needed that.” He added, “I’d really like to eat your pussy sometime.”
“Oh, that ain’t happening,” she smiled, kissing his cheek. “But it would be nice to see you again.”
I showed him to the door. I washed up and joined Marla in bed. We were in high spirits as we fucked.
“I have to get you out of here,” I smiled at her. “I have to host a male orgy in about ten minutes.”
“I’ve got to go anyway,” she laughed. “I have a date.”
“Slut.”
“Fag.”
We kissed.
Told that he would only be able to watch the two of us and not touch, he inquired: as hot as that is, I would like to be fucked as a woman watched. Is that possible?
Marla and I conferred. She had never seen a man fuck another man, and liked the idea, so we agreed.
We met our man, a young married Wall Street suit, over a glass of wine. He seemed a nice fellow, as eager to talk about history as anything else. He got the nod.
We went to my bedroom and undressed. Marla and I kissed and touched as he watched, quietly.
Marla lay on me, burying my face in her long hair, covering my mouth with her kisses. In her hair, we were alone, knowing we were being watched.
“You woke up my mouth,” I said.
“I’d like to take advantage of that,” she purred. “How do you want it?”
“Feed me.”
She smiled and pulled back. She brought her pussy to my mouth as I lay back on my pillows. “Oh wait,” she said, turning her body. “I want to be able to suck your cock too.” She lowered her cunt to my tongue, and bent to suck me.
My hands roamed her hips and back. I pressed my torso up to feel hers. My mouth sucked her clit, playing with her piercing. She was already very wet.
She sat back. She told the voyeur to suck me. He complied readily.
From my vantage, I could see nothing but Marla’s ass. But she was enjoying her view—she grinded into my mouth, holding my hands on her thighs. I pulled her down firmly as she came.
The voyeur, sad to say, did not give the best head. Too shallow and geez, those teeth. Time to shift positions.
“Ready to get fucked?” I asked.
“Yes.” He was off me in a flash, and ready to bend over. Marla dismounted my face, and found a good vantage to watch.
As I put on a condom, I had him bend over with his ass on the edge of the bed. A little lube and I was in him. He pushed back. Oh, you want it deep huh? Happy to comply.
I worked him a bit, then started pounding. He took it well. I rubbed his back, roaming my hands to the nape of his neck. I pushed down hard, and his shoulders went slack. He buried his face in the bedding.
Good submissive. He got a harder pounding for that.
“Damn,” Marla blurted. “I could never take it like that.” I looked to see her smiling, a glass of pinot grigio in her hand. She was so lovely by candlight.
“You like this baby?” She nodded. “Come here and get a closer look.” She walked to me with a sexy sashay. I put my arm on her shoulder and kissed her.
I buried myself in the smell of Marla’s neck and hair, so aroused by her femininity as I fucked that man’s ass firm and deep.
I took her hand and asked her to step onto the bed. I had her straddle the man’s ass, one foot on either side of his rump, facing me.
I had hoped to lick her pussy as I fucked him, but alas, my sweet thing was too short. I contented myself by sucking a breast as I fingered her.
“You are really plowing him,” she said, looking down. “Maybe I can help.” She positioned her knees on his hips and pushed him back and forth against me. “Does this help?”
“Very much,” I panted. “Thanks sweety.” I took her face into my hands and kissed her. I kissed the nape of neck as I fucked away at the man beneath her.
Enough of this. I wanted her. I pulled out.
“Okay, get your clothes and leave,” I told the man. “I want to fuck my girl.”
“You did a great job,” she told him. “It was so hot to watch.”
“Thanks,” he said, pulling on his trousers. “I really needed that.” He added, “I’d really like to eat your pussy sometime.”
“Oh, that ain’t happening,” she smiled, kissing his cheek. “But it would be nice to see you again.”
I showed him to the door. I washed up and joined Marla in bed. We were in high spirits as we fucked.
“I have to get you out of here,” I smiled at her. “I have to host a male orgy in about ten minutes.”
“I’ve got to go anyway,” she laughed. “I have a date.”
“Slut.”
“Fag.”
We kissed.
Thursday, February 03, 2005
Loser
The group sex parties I host every two weeks—aka the “gatherings”—are gaining in notoriety.
Our ex-pat Geri—now resident at the cafes and byways of monogamy—was at a sex-tinged downtown party last weekend. She overheard someone mention “Jefferson’s parties,” and turned to say, oh, I’ve been to a few of those.
Jaws dropped.
Really? You know Jefferson? How do you get into his parties?
She played it cool, letting them know that it depends on whom you know.
We laughed about that.
Word of mouth does wonders for us. Still, we post on various lists. Just before this week’s party, I got an email saying only:
Could you gve me the address for the party?
Well, no, I can not. The vetting process can be time consuming, and the gathering was a few hours off. I replied:
Thanks for responding to our ad. The gathering is tonight, so this is rather short notice. To begin with, can you send a pic? Do you have a partner?
He replied:
I can bring Suzy. Here is our photo.
Even as I downloaded the jpg, I got this email:
Suzy can’t come, so it would only be me.
I’ve been down this road a few times. Every horny man online works the angles on sex parties.
I replied:
That’s too bad that Suzy can’t join you. Keep in touch, though: we meet every two weeks.
He immediately responded:
WHY CAN’T I COME?
Why can’t you come?
Gee mister, good question. With all your charm, why shouldn’t you come to my home in a few hours and fuck my friends?
Perhaps because you wrote an email in all caps, and big letters indicate the workings of a small mind.
Is this guy kidding?
Apparently not. I declined to respond to this email. The morning after, I found this in my inbox:
ARE YOUR PARTIES FREE? ARE THE PEOPLE THIN?
I toyed with a few possible responses.
We are all thin as rails, and we are hungry for you. The gate is $5000.
We are all outrageously fat and outrageously rich.
Only one of our group is overweight, and she has agreed to go on a diet to lure you in. You are that irresistible. Give us a few months as she sheds the pounds.
Instead, I decline to answer.
Here’s a fellow who should just stay home and masturbate to “Real Sex” on HBO.
We’re too busy having real sex.
Our ex-pat Geri—now resident at the cafes and byways of monogamy—was at a sex-tinged downtown party last weekend. She overheard someone mention “Jefferson’s parties,” and turned to say, oh, I’ve been to a few of those.
Jaws dropped.
Really? You know Jefferson? How do you get into his parties?
She played it cool, letting them know that it depends on whom you know.
We laughed about that.
Word of mouth does wonders for us. Still, we post on various lists. Just before this week’s party, I got an email saying only:
Could you gve me the address for the party?
Well, no, I can not. The vetting process can be time consuming, and the gathering was a few hours off. I replied:
Thanks for responding to our ad. The gathering is tonight, so this is rather short notice. To begin with, can you send a pic? Do you have a partner?
He replied:
I can bring Suzy. Here is our photo.
Even as I downloaded the jpg, I got this email:
Suzy can’t come, so it would only be me.
I’ve been down this road a few times. Every horny man online works the angles on sex parties.
I replied:
That’s too bad that Suzy can’t join you. Keep in touch, though: we meet every two weeks.
He immediately responded:
WHY CAN’T I COME?
Why can’t you come?
Gee mister, good question. With all your charm, why shouldn’t you come to my home in a few hours and fuck my friends?
Perhaps because you wrote an email in all caps, and big letters indicate the workings of a small mind.
Is this guy kidding?
Apparently not. I declined to respond to this email. The morning after, I found this in my inbox:
ARE YOUR PARTIES FREE? ARE THE PEOPLE THIN?
I toyed with a few possible responses.
We are all thin as rails, and we are hungry for you. The gate is $5000.
We are all outrageously fat and outrageously rich.
Only one of our group is overweight, and she has agreed to go on a diet to lure you in. You are that irresistible. Give us a few months as she sheds the pounds.
Instead, I decline to answer.
Here’s a fellow who should just stay home and masturbate to “Real Sex” on HBO.
We’re too busy having real sex.
Reader's Queries
An email has arrived with queries from a reader out yonder in the Hawkeye State (that’s Iowa to those of you not up on the monikers of the contiguous forty eight) .
I started to reply, then thought: what the heck? I will answer her here. Let’s blog this baby.
I've just started reading your blog, and, since I'm late joining the conversation, I have a few questions for you. I was wondering if you participated in sex parties when you were married, and, if not, why not?
The answer is no, and the reason: I was married.
Prior to my marriage, I had been a slutty adolescent. I knew I enjoyed group sex with my friends.
Early in our relationship, my ex and I had fooled around with another couple, our best friends, every now and then. That experience ran its course, and as we solidified as a couple, the idea of returning to that kind of activity seemed totally alien to our lives.
Someone else has asked me to write about my slutty adolescence. I’ll get around to it.
Do you think that the institution of marriage itself naturally prohibits such activities—after all, isn't most marriage about "ownership" in one form or another?
I don’t know that I want to make blanket statements about marriage per se. Certainly my marriage conformed to the cultural norm that marriage meant monogamy, period, end of story.
And so while my desires may have gone in other directions—I never stopped being bi or thinking about other partners, I just stopped having sex with others—I accepted that signing on to marriage meant sublimating those desires. Those are the rules.
If so, then it’s no surprise as to why you find sex parties, orgies, and sex with strangers so appealing. And probably why the only girl you seem to have any serious feeling for in your posts is the one female who exhibits consistently elusive behavior ("your" Celia). I'm not saying this to be rude--it just seems fairly obvious.
Gosh, I am well aware of that.
I do not seek a new commitment so soon after the end of a long marriage. I do not want a new wife for myself, or a new mother for my children. For the foreseeable future, I prefer to remain single.
So it makes sense that I would appreciate most those who do not push me headlong towards a monogamous commitment. Nor is it much surprise that when I find someone who can accept this, I want to spend loads of time with that person.
Life’s little ironies, perhaps. You demand all my time, I’m not happy. You give me space, I want you in my space.
If someone accepts that my preferences are genuine and well-founded, and not some phase to be endured until I return to my senses, then I feel respected.
Respect is hot.
With Celia, I was intrigued that there could be a connection that was apparently mutual, and yet—for her at least—seemed to evaporate when we were not together.
This fed my attraction to her, and my frustration with her. It’s appealing that you do not need me—but why don’t you want me?
And yeah, I’m sure my attraction to that aspect of her personality is purely based on my own commitment to being uncommitted. Anyone else would have given up on her retarded ass after the first date.
The reverse was true with May. She is needy by nature—she would say so herself—and her strategy for “conquering” me was to consume all of my available hours. Eventually, I came to resent that my time was not my own. I felt controlled and manipulated.
Manipulation is not hot.
I am fascinated by the whole new wave of sex spawned by Craig’s List. I always wondered if those posts like "Hey, I'm a buxom blonde submissive who likes golden showers and needs to be fucked NOW" were actually real. Now I am a believer :-)
Well . . . before you venerate false idols . . .
I have had remarkably good luck meeting fine people online, and often through Craig’s List. But this is not because I succumbed to the lure of such unlikely posts as you mention.
Rather, I tend to post very straightforward ads about myself and the gatherings, and let them come to me if that is what they want.
It is true that I have met some sex partners through their postings, but they weren’t craving NSA ASAP.
My soul sister Elena posted specifically looking for conversation, not sex. Naturally enough, we talked about sex and then . . .
Kat posted seeking only to exchange instant messages. We hit it off, and in the fullness of time, we started to have sex.
It is also true that in both cases, I respected the original parameters. I am happy talking with Elena. I like trading notes with Kat. I didn’t try to push things in directions they weren’t seeking to go towards.
No offense, but I am a bit dubious that anyone could be having so much sex. Are you sure you are not fictionalizing any of this? I mean, how do you get so many people to sleep with you? Are you ridiculously good looking? Very persuasive? Both?
Believe it, sister.
What’s more: I have more sex than I blog. And I ain’t making up any of this.
By this point, I couldn’t get away with tall tales if I wanted to. Too many people written into the blog are now readers. They would slap me silly if I told fibs.
Bear in mind, though, that the two foci of the blog—being a pervert and a single parent—are just two dimensions of my life. This can create the impression that my world rotates around getting the kids to school so I can get laid.
That is a misperception created by the context of blogging.
Still, I am getting a lot of sex. And I am just as amazed about that as you are.
I would not say that all this sexual activity is due to extraordinary good looks. (For those who collect stats, I am blonde, blue/green eyes, 5’10” 160lbs.) I’m comfortable with my appearance, and it helps to be easy on the eyes, but I don’t think that’s it.
Nor do I have any special powers of persuasion. I honestly don’t force the issue; I wouldn’t even know how to do so.
I am open about my sexuality, and my lack of interest in a monogamous commitment. This may ward off a few folks, but apparently it attracts others. The ones who stick around tend to have the attitude that it’s great to have regular hot sex without the muss of having a boyfriend.
And if it seems excessive, keep in mind: I was in a monogamous relationship for fifteen years. My ex enjoyed sex, but wanted it very infrequently. After a few years of having my advances repeatedly rebuffed, I began to leave it for her to initiate sex. And she did . . . every few months or so. Maybe.
At night, asleep, my body held hers close, fondling her flesh, my cock hard against her back. Sometimes she spooned into my arms. Sometimes she swatted me off, waking me to harshly demand that I turn in the other direction.
When we had sex, I knew how to get her off, but she wasn’t so interested in my orgasm. After she came, sex was over.
In all those years, nary a blowjob was had.
When I was sent packing, I took some solace in realizing that my libido was no longer anchored to hers.
I resolved to go all out and have some fine sex. So if it seems like I’ve got my mojo working overtime, remember: I am on a mission from God.
As a submissive myself, I need to trust the person I am playing with 100%—I can't imagine being able to establish that level of trust with a stranger. But perhaps that's what makes it so exciting for you and your friends.
Thanks for sharing that. That trust you describe is inevitably at the basis of the best dom/sub relationships. “Trust” is the most commonly used word in the BDSM community.
(And you vanilla folk thought it might be “ouch.”)
I am new to being a dom, and trying it on for size. It seems to fit. Some may think this is incongruous with other aspects of my personality, as I tend to be very soliticitous and accommodating.
But perhaps that’s why it works: I gain people’s trust easily enough, and I don’t abuse it. And like every good dom, I know that I am taking on a responsibility to care for someone.
As for play with those new to me, I try keep things exploratory as we get acquainted. Like all things sexual, it just gets better as you get to know one another.
And now that we are acquainted—on your knees, Ms Iowa!
I started to reply, then thought: what the heck? I will answer her here. Let’s blog this baby.
I've just started reading your blog, and, since I'm late joining the conversation, I have a few questions for you. I was wondering if you participated in sex parties when you were married, and, if not, why not?
The answer is no, and the reason: I was married.
Prior to my marriage, I had been a slutty adolescent. I knew I enjoyed group sex with my friends.
Early in our relationship, my ex and I had fooled around with another couple, our best friends, every now and then. That experience ran its course, and as we solidified as a couple, the idea of returning to that kind of activity seemed totally alien to our lives.
Someone else has asked me to write about my slutty adolescence. I’ll get around to it.
Do you think that the institution of marriage itself naturally prohibits such activities—after all, isn't most marriage about "ownership" in one form or another?
I don’t know that I want to make blanket statements about marriage per se. Certainly my marriage conformed to the cultural norm that marriage meant monogamy, period, end of story.
And so while my desires may have gone in other directions—I never stopped being bi or thinking about other partners, I just stopped having sex with others—I accepted that signing on to marriage meant sublimating those desires. Those are the rules.
If so, then it’s no surprise as to why you find sex parties, orgies, and sex with strangers so appealing. And probably why the only girl you seem to have any serious feeling for in your posts is the one female who exhibits consistently elusive behavior ("your" Celia). I'm not saying this to be rude--it just seems fairly obvious.
Gosh, I am well aware of that.
I do not seek a new commitment so soon after the end of a long marriage. I do not want a new wife for myself, or a new mother for my children. For the foreseeable future, I prefer to remain single.
So it makes sense that I would appreciate most those who do not push me headlong towards a monogamous commitment. Nor is it much surprise that when I find someone who can accept this, I want to spend loads of time with that person.
Life’s little ironies, perhaps. You demand all my time, I’m not happy. You give me space, I want you in my space.
If someone accepts that my preferences are genuine and well-founded, and not some phase to be endured until I return to my senses, then I feel respected.
Respect is hot.
With Celia, I was intrigued that there could be a connection that was apparently mutual, and yet—for her at least—seemed to evaporate when we were not together.
This fed my attraction to her, and my frustration with her. It’s appealing that you do not need me—but why don’t you want me?
And yeah, I’m sure my attraction to that aspect of her personality is purely based on my own commitment to being uncommitted. Anyone else would have given up on her retarded ass after the first date.
The reverse was true with May. She is needy by nature—she would say so herself—and her strategy for “conquering” me was to consume all of my available hours. Eventually, I came to resent that my time was not my own. I felt controlled and manipulated.
Manipulation is not hot.
I am fascinated by the whole new wave of sex spawned by Craig’s List. I always wondered if those posts like "Hey, I'm a buxom blonde submissive who likes golden showers and needs to be fucked NOW" were actually real. Now I am a believer :-)
Well . . . before you venerate false idols . . .
I have had remarkably good luck meeting fine people online, and often through Craig’s List. But this is not because I succumbed to the lure of such unlikely posts as you mention.
Rather, I tend to post very straightforward ads about myself and the gatherings, and let them come to me if that is what they want.
It is true that I have met some sex partners through their postings, but they weren’t craving NSA ASAP.
My soul sister Elena posted specifically looking for conversation, not sex. Naturally enough, we talked about sex and then . . .
Kat posted seeking only to exchange instant messages. We hit it off, and in the fullness of time, we started to have sex.
It is also true that in both cases, I respected the original parameters. I am happy talking with Elena. I like trading notes with Kat. I didn’t try to push things in directions they weren’t seeking to go towards.
No offense, but I am a bit dubious that anyone could be having so much sex. Are you sure you are not fictionalizing any of this? I mean, how do you get so many people to sleep with you? Are you ridiculously good looking? Very persuasive? Both?
Believe it, sister.
What’s more: I have more sex than I blog. And I ain’t making up any of this.
By this point, I couldn’t get away with tall tales if I wanted to. Too many people written into the blog are now readers. They would slap me silly if I told fibs.
Bear in mind, though, that the two foci of the blog—being a pervert and a single parent—are just two dimensions of my life. This can create the impression that my world rotates around getting the kids to school so I can get laid.
That is a misperception created by the context of blogging.
Still, I am getting a lot of sex. And I am just as amazed about that as you are.
I would not say that all this sexual activity is due to extraordinary good looks. (For those who collect stats, I am blonde, blue/green eyes, 5’10” 160lbs.) I’m comfortable with my appearance, and it helps to be easy on the eyes, but I don’t think that’s it.
Nor do I have any special powers of persuasion. I honestly don’t force the issue; I wouldn’t even know how to do so.
I am open about my sexuality, and my lack of interest in a monogamous commitment. This may ward off a few folks, but apparently it attracts others. The ones who stick around tend to have the attitude that it’s great to have regular hot sex without the muss of having a boyfriend.
And if it seems excessive, keep in mind: I was in a monogamous relationship for fifteen years. My ex enjoyed sex, but wanted it very infrequently. After a few years of having my advances repeatedly rebuffed, I began to leave it for her to initiate sex. And she did . . . every few months or so. Maybe.
At night, asleep, my body held hers close, fondling her flesh, my cock hard against her back. Sometimes she spooned into my arms. Sometimes she swatted me off, waking me to harshly demand that I turn in the other direction.
When we had sex, I knew how to get her off, but she wasn’t so interested in my orgasm. After she came, sex was over.
In all those years, nary a blowjob was had.
When I was sent packing, I took some solace in realizing that my libido was no longer anchored to hers.
I resolved to go all out and have some fine sex. So if it seems like I’ve got my mojo working overtime, remember: I am on a mission from God.
As a submissive myself, I need to trust the person I am playing with 100%—I can't imagine being able to establish that level of trust with a stranger. But perhaps that's what makes it so exciting for you and your friends.
Thanks for sharing that. That trust you describe is inevitably at the basis of the best dom/sub relationships. “Trust” is the most commonly used word in the BDSM community.
(And you vanilla folk thought it might be “ouch.”)
I am new to being a dom, and trying it on for size. It seems to fit. Some may think this is incongruous with other aspects of my personality, as I tend to be very soliticitous and accommodating.
But perhaps that’s why it works: I gain people’s trust easily enough, and I don’t abuse it. And like every good dom, I know that I am taking on a responsibility to care for someone.
As for play with those new to me, I try keep things exploratory as we get acquainted. Like all things sexual, it just gets better as you get to know one another.
And now that we are acquainted—on your knees, Ms Iowa!
Broken Vows
“How do you spell ‘love?’”
Lillie was hunched over a piece of paper, writing with a purple marker.
“L-O-V-E.”
“Thanks Dad.” She finished her note and ran to the other room. “Here Collie, I wrote this for you.”
Collie read it out loud.
I love you Collie. Love Lillie.
There was a heart drawn at the top.
“Thank you, Lillie,” Collie said, hugging his sister. “I love you too!”
They set to playing with their menagerie of stuffed animals.
A few moments later they were quarreling. Then shouting.
“Oh, sure!” Collie yelled. “You wrote that note and now that means nothing!”
“I hate you!” Lillie shouted.
They decided to watch television.
Lillie was hunched over a piece of paper, writing with a purple marker.
“L-O-V-E.”
“Thanks Dad.” She finished her note and ran to the other room. “Here Collie, I wrote this for you.”
Collie read it out loud.
I love you Collie. Love Lillie.
There was a heart drawn at the top.
“Thank you, Lillie,” Collie said, hugging his sister. “I love you too!”
They set to playing with their menagerie of stuffed animals.
A few moments later they were quarreling. Then shouting.
“Oh, sure!” Collie yelled. “You wrote that note and now that means nothing!”
“I hate you!” Lillie shouted.
They decided to watch television.
Wednesday, February 02, 2005
Nerve
All weekend, I was distracted by the thought of the upcoming date with my new online girlfriend, Mitzi.
It was exciting to think that we would be meeting, and mind you, it was pretty well understood that we would be meeting for sex.
She reads my blog, so my sex life is literally an open book. And she had disliked much of what she read. I had to wonder: what if she disliked sex with me?
We had discussed this, of course. I knew what she liked: good solid sex, deep and easy. That’s fine. I can serve vanilla.
But if I’m delivering vanilla, I want it to be creamy smooth melt-in-your-mouth ain’t-no-better-flavor what-did-you-put-in-this vanilla. It should be vanilla that makes you remember why you liked ice cream in the first place.
That’s actually a tough challenge for a first date, particularly with someone you’ve never met.
Any chef worth his salt can whip up a five-course meal; it takes someone near and dear to make a grilled cheese just the way you like.
She needed something tasty. A recent bad experience with a guy had led her to a phase of detox: no sex until it felt better. Our encounter was to be the breaking of her fast.
I had heard both sides of that story. Mitzi and I met because her guy had exchanged emails with me. I had not met either of them, but he wanted to bring her to one of my gatherings.
They tested the waters of group sex with another couple, and it went very badly. They broke off as a result.
He had told me she was a bitch. She had told me he was a jerk. Heck, for all I knew, they were both right.
I had to put credence in her exchanges with me. She seemed a level, careful person.
As our date approached, she asked to change plans a little. Rather than meet Tuesday afternoon, could I come Monday night and perhaps sleep over?
I am the least spontaneous of people. Due to the kids and work, my life is scheduled well in advance. I had plans on Monday evening, but I could come after, if elevenish wasn’t too late. She was fine with that.
A sleepover as a first date . . . gosh, I so rarely leave my home for sex. This was a big step.
On Monday evening, I stuffed my overcoat with my toothbrush, some condoms and a flask of bourbon—the essentials for a sleepover.
She was watching David Letterman when I arrived. The show memorialized Johnny Carson. This is big stuff, and a little distracting.
She was as cute as her photos, and we talked as we had online. It was very reassuring to get to know that the person behind those first glimpses was indeed genuine.
I glanced around her apartment, adapting this view to the context of place established by the photos she had sent me.
That mirror was the one she used to photograph herself in her panties. There was the mirror she used to photograph herself in bed. There was the bed on which she had squatted in a transparent nighty as someone else photographed her.
I had read many of the books on her shelves.
She really liked kissing. I really needed a bourbon. She got two glasses. She could use a snort as well.
As the room was filled with tender feelings and true love—those of Letterman for Carson—we drank and kissed.
I sat on her lap, kissing her and holding her face. I removed her shirt. I pulled down her bra to kiss her nipples. She squirmed down on her sofa, yielding to my lips. I discovered a navel piercing.
I took down her pants. I took down her panties. There was her pussy, so well described by her in so many instant messages that I had tried to ignore.
I sucked her clit. She told me what worked. She got it. She orgasmed in girlish moans.
I was still fully dressed.
She suggested we go to her bed. Maybe on a second date, I demurred. Okay, see ya, she said.
I undressed and went to her bed. She told me to scoot over, as I was on her side.
I would have done the same.
We kissed and fondled. She sucked my cock, getting me good and hard. She retrieved a condom from the nightstand, telling me that it came to her from her grandmother.
“Your use you granny’s condoms?” I asked.
“The table, silly,” she laughed, handing me the condom.
A moment later, I was in her, and filled with that rush of fucking. A few moments later, I was limp.
Okay.
These things happen.
We make out some more. She touches me, she goes down on me . . . I am hard. I am back in her, thrusting, kissing . . . and I lose it.
Conan O’Brien’s voice filled the room.
“Can we turn off the television?” I asked.
“Of course,” she says. As she does, I down a gulp of bourbon.
I was nervous.
I wanted this to be good. And here I was, limp and tired, after midnight, in a stranger’s bed, trying to give her the best sex of her life.
I did the smart thing and told her I was nervous. I don’t know any other route out of that predicament.
She was nervous too. We talked, we tipped our drinks, we kissed.
We fucked until four am.
Sometime after eight, we went back at it. We fell to sleep afterwards.
Around ten, we did it again.
As I sucked her breasts, she asked why most men just lick her tits when she wants them suckled. Good to know. I lost myself on her nipples.
I was on her, slow and deep as she had told me.
“I want you to cum,” she said. I had not. “I know you want to please me, and I am pleased. You need to have pleasure too.”
I kissed her and fucked. I came.
We lay in bed for a while, talking. She offered me her shower, but I preferred to leave smelling of sex.
She turned on CNN and made cheese toast.
Her dog needed a walk, so we headed to the street. We kissed goodbye at the sidewalk.
It was exciting to think that we would be meeting, and mind you, it was pretty well understood that we would be meeting for sex.
She reads my blog, so my sex life is literally an open book. And she had disliked much of what she read. I had to wonder: what if she disliked sex with me?
We had discussed this, of course. I knew what she liked: good solid sex, deep and easy. That’s fine. I can serve vanilla.
But if I’m delivering vanilla, I want it to be creamy smooth melt-in-your-mouth ain’t-no-better-flavor what-did-you-put-in-this vanilla. It should be vanilla that makes you remember why you liked ice cream in the first place.
That’s actually a tough challenge for a first date, particularly with someone you’ve never met.
Any chef worth his salt can whip up a five-course meal; it takes someone near and dear to make a grilled cheese just the way you like.
She needed something tasty. A recent bad experience with a guy had led her to a phase of detox: no sex until it felt better. Our encounter was to be the breaking of her fast.
I had heard both sides of that story. Mitzi and I met because her guy had exchanged emails with me. I had not met either of them, but he wanted to bring her to one of my gatherings.
They tested the waters of group sex with another couple, and it went very badly. They broke off as a result.
He had told me she was a bitch. She had told me he was a jerk. Heck, for all I knew, they were both right.
I had to put credence in her exchanges with me. She seemed a level, careful person.
As our date approached, she asked to change plans a little. Rather than meet Tuesday afternoon, could I come Monday night and perhaps sleep over?
I am the least spontaneous of people. Due to the kids and work, my life is scheduled well in advance. I had plans on Monday evening, but I could come after, if elevenish wasn’t too late. She was fine with that.
A sleepover as a first date . . . gosh, I so rarely leave my home for sex. This was a big step.
On Monday evening, I stuffed my overcoat with my toothbrush, some condoms and a flask of bourbon—the essentials for a sleepover.
She was watching David Letterman when I arrived. The show memorialized Johnny Carson. This is big stuff, and a little distracting.
She was as cute as her photos, and we talked as we had online. It was very reassuring to get to know that the person behind those first glimpses was indeed genuine.
I glanced around her apartment, adapting this view to the context of place established by the photos she had sent me.
That mirror was the one she used to photograph herself in her panties. There was the mirror she used to photograph herself in bed. There was the bed on which she had squatted in a transparent nighty as someone else photographed her.
I had read many of the books on her shelves.
She really liked kissing. I really needed a bourbon. She got two glasses. She could use a snort as well.
As the room was filled with tender feelings and true love—those of Letterman for Carson—we drank and kissed.
I sat on her lap, kissing her and holding her face. I removed her shirt. I pulled down her bra to kiss her nipples. She squirmed down on her sofa, yielding to my lips. I discovered a navel piercing.
I took down her pants. I took down her panties. There was her pussy, so well described by her in so many instant messages that I had tried to ignore.
I sucked her clit. She told me what worked. She got it. She orgasmed in girlish moans.
I was still fully dressed.
She suggested we go to her bed. Maybe on a second date, I demurred. Okay, see ya, she said.
I undressed and went to her bed. She told me to scoot over, as I was on her side.
I would have done the same.
We kissed and fondled. She sucked my cock, getting me good and hard. She retrieved a condom from the nightstand, telling me that it came to her from her grandmother.
“Your use you granny’s condoms?” I asked.
“The table, silly,” she laughed, handing me the condom.
A moment later, I was in her, and filled with that rush of fucking. A few moments later, I was limp.
Okay.
These things happen.
We make out some more. She touches me, she goes down on me . . . I am hard. I am back in her, thrusting, kissing . . . and I lose it.
Conan O’Brien’s voice filled the room.
“Can we turn off the television?” I asked.
“Of course,” she says. As she does, I down a gulp of bourbon.
I was nervous.
I wanted this to be good. And here I was, limp and tired, after midnight, in a stranger’s bed, trying to give her the best sex of her life.
I did the smart thing and told her I was nervous. I don’t know any other route out of that predicament.
She was nervous too. We talked, we tipped our drinks, we kissed.
We fucked until four am.
Sometime after eight, we went back at it. We fell to sleep afterwards.
Around ten, we did it again.
As I sucked her breasts, she asked why most men just lick her tits when she wants them suckled. Good to know. I lost myself on her nipples.
I was on her, slow and deep as she had told me.
“I want you to cum,” she said. I had not. “I know you want to please me, and I am pleased. You need to have pleasure too.”
I kissed her and fucked. I came.
We lay in bed for a while, talking. She offered me her shower, but I preferred to leave smelling of sex.
She turned on CNN and made cheese toast.
Her dog needed a walk, so we headed to the street. We kissed goodbye at the sidewalk.
Tuesday, February 01, 2005
Cybersex
Condom and candy wrappers are the bane of my housekeeping efforts.
On my days as a single slut, I find little bits of condom foils under my bed, behind the nightstand, under the rugs . . .
On my days as a single dad, I find the kids are still pilfering from never-depleted stashes of Halloween candy, tucking the wrappers behind cushions, inside closets, and, occasionally, on the floor near a trash can.
The weekend was too cold for much time outdoors, and the kids were too raucous for me to work, so I saw a golden opportunity to clean house. I keep things tidy, but have not given the place a thorough scouring since the holidays.
What with the parade of children, friends and orgies that tramp through my apartment, a good cleaning was overdue.
But it’s tough to do that with my three children underfoot. Make that four children, as my eldest son had a sleepover.
I tried to do the nastiest stuff when my daughter was preoccupied, so she would not offer to “help.” When she asked to please scrub the toilet, I put her in charge of washing mirrors.
As I cleaned, I noticed Celia’s toothbrush by the bathroom sink. I tossed it out.
At the end of a day of cleaning, the kitchen and bathroom were spotless, and everything was dusted. The floor was littered with toys, clothes, popcorn and candy wrappers.
This was very discouraging.
After the kids were in bed, I poured a bourbon and retrieved my book. I heard the familiar whistle of an instant message from my new online girlfriend.
We had been chatting for a couple of weeks. Early on, we traded photos. She was cute, and she liked my pic. She was flirtatious and it looked as if we might meet. She expressed interest in my gatherings.
By this time, I had met a few women through this blog, so I thought: why not share it with her?
This was a mistake. She did not like the descriptions of bondage, group sex, and other activities that struck her as too extreme. She no longer wanted to meet, much less attend a party.
But she continued to instant message me.
Her decision that my activities seemed too much for her was fair enough—they are a bit much! I was happy to chat; she was funny and clever. Still, I did not want to get involved with cybersexing her.
You may wonder: if I enjoy writing about sex, why not cyber a cute young woman?
I do enjoy writing about sex, but that activity is more fun when writing about sex one has had or may yet have. It would only be frustrating to cyber someone who was not interested in me.
Besides, I have enough on my plate—and enough actual girl friends, thank you very much—to get distracted by the online variety.
Over the course of our chats, I got to know her better, and she began to see me as someone other than a dom and slut.
I had my bourbon and book at the ready when she instant messaged.
She: I need sex.
He: I wish I could help you. It’s tough to be horny and alone.
I changed the subject, saying I had a date with my book.
She: I’m touching myself.
He: Enjoy!
Long pause. I flipped to my chapter.
She: What would you do if I were to come there now?
He: I’d tell you to shush, as the kids are asleep and I’m reading.
She: Please, come on. Talk naughty to me. I have my vibrator in me.
She pleaded and I relented. Tell me when you cum, I wrote, and began to describe a scenario in which I walked into her door, and wordlessly go down on her.
I would kiss her neck. Hold her breasts in my hands. Suck and lick a nipple . . .
I wrote in short quick phrases. I would only go so far as cybereating her pussy. No point going all the way on a first cyberdate.
She: Done.
He: Nice!
She: Check your mail.
She had sent me three very sexy pictures of her body.
He: These are very nice. I want your address.
She gave it to me.
He: Phone number?
It was provided.
He: Cell phone?
She typed the numbers.
He: When can I see you?
She: Tuesday.
We now had a date.
On my days as a single slut, I find little bits of condom foils under my bed, behind the nightstand, under the rugs . . .
On my days as a single dad, I find the kids are still pilfering from never-depleted stashes of Halloween candy, tucking the wrappers behind cushions, inside closets, and, occasionally, on the floor near a trash can.
The weekend was too cold for much time outdoors, and the kids were too raucous for me to work, so I saw a golden opportunity to clean house. I keep things tidy, but have not given the place a thorough scouring since the holidays.
What with the parade of children, friends and orgies that tramp through my apartment, a good cleaning was overdue.
But it’s tough to do that with my three children underfoot. Make that four children, as my eldest son had a sleepover.
I tried to do the nastiest stuff when my daughter was preoccupied, so she would not offer to “help.” When she asked to please scrub the toilet, I put her in charge of washing mirrors.
As I cleaned, I noticed Celia’s toothbrush by the bathroom sink. I tossed it out.
At the end of a day of cleaning, the kitchen and bathroom were spotless, and everything was dusted. The floor was littered with toys, clothes, popcorn and candy wrappers.
This was very discouraging.
After the kids were in bed, I poured a bourbon and retrieved my book. I heard the familiar whistle of an instant message from my new online girlfriend.
We had been chatting for a couple of weeks. Early on, we traded photos. She was cute, and she liked my pic. She was flirtatious and it looked as if we might meet. She expressed interest in my gatherings.
By this time, I had met a few women through this blog, so I thought: why not share it with her?
This was a mistake. She did not like the descriptions of bondage, group sex, and other activities that struck her as too extreme. She no longer wanted to meet, much less attend a party.
But she continued to instant message me.
Her decision that my activities seemed too much for her was fair enough—they are a bit much! I was happy to chat; she was funny and clever. Still, I did not want to get involved with cybersexing her.
You may wonder: if I enjoy writing about sex, why not cyber a cute young woman?
I do enjoy writing about sex, but that activity is more fun when writing about sex one has had or may yet have. It would only be frustrating to cyber someone who was not interested in me.
Besides, I have enough on my plate—and enough actual girl friends, thank you very much—to get distracted by the online variety.
Over the course of our chats, I got to know her better, and she began to see me as someone other than a dom and slut.
I had my bourbon and book at the ready when she instant messaged.
She: I need sex.
He: I wish I could help you. It’s tough to be horny and alone.
I changed the subject, saying I had a date with my book.
She: I’m touching myself.
He: Enjoy!
Long pause. I flipped to my chapter.
She: What would you do if I were to come there now?
He: I’d tell you to shush, as the kids are asleep and I’m reading.
She: Please, come on. Talk naughty to me. I have my vibrator in me.
She pleaded and I relented. Tell me when you cum, I wrote, and began to describe a scenario in which I walked into her door, and wordlessly go down on her.
I would kiss her neck. Hold her breasts in my hands. Suck and lick a nipple . . .
I wrote in short quick phrases. I would only go so far as cybereating her pussy. No point going all the way on a first cyberdate.
She: Done.
He: Nice!
She: Check your mail.
She had sent me three very sexy pictures of her body.
He: These are very nice. I want your address.
She gave it to me.
He: Phone number?
It was provided.
He: Cell phone?
She typed the numbers.
He: When can I see you?
She: Tuesday.
We now had a date.
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