Lust for Life

Christopher Owens is the songwriter for the band Girls from San Francisco. Their new album, called Album (are you already loving the simple names?) features this song, “Lust for Life” with no apologies to Iggy Pop or Princess Cruise Lines.

Owens grew up as one of the Children of God. His folks allowed his older brother to die of pneumonia rather than call a doctor, as medicine was outside the cult’s beliefs. His mom turned tricks to sustain the cult. His exposure to music and literature was limited to whatever was produced within the cult. He ran away as a kid, and apparently, Michael Jackson and Lionel Ritchie were revelations.

Tell you what, if you grow up with that much baggage and you get art from it all, you do well to take things one step at a time. Keep lyrics and titles simple. Make videos about being young, pretty and fucked in the head.

The band’s MySpace page features a Morris Louis painting, so they are savvy to art. They aren’t idiot savants. Still, first person to get Christopher Owens to read Burroughs or Bukowski gets a punch on the arm. Steer clear of the clichés, Christopher.

Tenet

Given my ex-wife’s steadfast refusal to deal with me directly, extended phone conversations are rare. The three-hour marathon following her efforts on a custody crisis Tuesday returned me to the years I spent as Lucy's support system. Her mania routinely led to long, rambling monologues which we would together reassemble into useful touchstones, constructing ways to face reality that would anchor Lucy in her routines.

Perhaps in this conversation, she noticed that I declined to be drawn into my past role. I kept returning to a simple question we needed to address: what was happening with school pick-up the next day? I’m responsible for getting my kids home from school, but I’m no longer responsible for helping Lucy to order her mind.

It sickened me to worry that the children were now being assigned my former position. Playing nursemaid to Lucy’s illness wasn’t fair to me then, and it isn’t fair to them now. Still, as the custody case progressed, I wanted to remain optimistic. I wanted joint custody to work. Lucy is now, finally, being treated for her illness. The custody case felt like a relapse, with a return of all the familiar signs—Lucy’s raging tantrums and manic actions feeding on her family’s denial and placation—but as the court continued its work, I could hope that a renewed acceptance of reality would once more stabilize life.

I made a few notes on the conversation to share with my attorney. It had raised a number of things to discuss—my attorney was increasingly concerned with Lucy’s erratic behavior, which is so familiar to me that I sometimes fail to note it as unusual—but as I went through the following days, my mind kept returning to a certain thought:

Did Lucy genuinely believe that I watched pornography with my daughter Rachel?

After more than twenty years with Lucy, I have a reliable sense of her responses. When my denial of having watched pornography with my daughter was met with a sarcastic “yeah, sure,” I could be reasonably sure that Lucy didn’t believe me. If I hadn’t done so, she argued, then why had I written otherwise in my blog?

The fact that I had not written that in my blog was immaterial. What mattered most was Lucy’s need to believe that I had written it. If I wrote it, it was true. If it was true, then I had done a bad thing, providing evidence that I was a bad person and thus, a bad father. If I denied it now, I was lying, as bad people will. It was important to Lucy that people believe me to be bad. Perhaps not so bad that I rape our children, as she had come to say casually to others, but certainly bad enough to warrant her actions against me.

In their motion, Lucy’s legal team asserted as fact that I had watched pornography with Rachel, citing my blog as evidence. Still, I didn’t expect that Lucy truly believed it. The motion so relied on misrepresentation that it appeared rooted in cynicism. There was no special interest in establishing the truth; rather, the goal was to help Lucy to use my sexuality to finally “get” me.

Take for example this passage from my blog post Tourists, reprinted here as cited in the motion. It describes an encounter while walking on Saint Mark’s Place with my daughter Rachel and her friend Stevie.

"Jefferson?"

I turned. It was Thomas.

Thomas: the sex party twink who loves the trannies.

"What brings you to my neighborhood?" he asked.

"I'm here with my daughter," I replied, pointing ahead. "And her friend."

"Really? Huh. Man, I have to meet your daughter."

"If you behave," I intoned.

I was kidding, but half serious—for two years he has admired Rachel's photographs on my refrigerator door. He stands naked in my kitchen and asks, "So how long before she's legal?"

This passage was central to my ex-wife’s case against me. Her attorney stood in court to read it aloud, bringing special attention to certain words and sentences. Her voice punctuated with disgust, the attorney went on, “Your honor, the defendant, a self-avowed pervert, is a friend of this man described as ‘Thomas,’ a self-avowed lover of trannies, meaning transsexuals. The defendant admits that he has had sexual relations with this man who loves trannies, meaning transsexuals. This so-called ‘Thomas’ is allowed to come into the defendant’s home to admire photographs of the plaintiff’s underage children so that he can select the child he wants. This is clearly a danger to the children, who should be removed from his home.”

Lucy’s attorney thus argued that my seemingly homely refrigerator door in fact operated as a catalogue for those shopping for sex with minors.

I made notes as the attorney spoke, wondering at the ease with which she could knowingly misrepresent a text to the court. The passage had been shorn of context, overlooking mention that at the time, I had known Thomas for over two years. Over and again in the blog, I wrote of my teasing relationship with Thomas, an aspiring comedian who routinely made jokes at my expense.

Most blatantly in her misrepresentation, the attorney had refrained from reading the two sentences following the highlighted passage:

I usually reply that I am not setting up my daughter with anyone I've blown, so eyes off, faggot.

Perverts are lost without scruples.

With those sentences restored, it was clear that I had written the exact opposite of what the attorney alleged. I wasn’t offering my children to Thomas; I was telling him to stop being silly.

The entire text had been attached to the motion, which sat before the judge. The attorney knew that a simple reading of the restored text would prove she had misrepresented it. Lucy knew there was no genuine cause for concern that these allegations were true. Yet there she sat, pretending otherwise and paying her attorneys eight hundred dollars an hour to further the pretense.

Taking notes, I felt once more in the role of the graduate student in a seminar on textual analysis. But now, I was the author called before a court. If we were going to evaluate my writing, we would be able to do so with my expert opinion on it.

The attorney’s argument seemed lazy, really. She pursued a perceived shock value in repeating the word “trannie” aloud in court. She wanted to link me to a man who loved trannies. I chewed my pen and wondered: gosh, surely I must’ve blogged about my own love for my trans friends. Why bother with one degree of separation?

If Lucy could allow her attorneys to make awful allegations they knew to be based on nothing, I assumed that she was simply guided by her ongoing desire to “get” me. She had told me that winning was everything, saying she would “go the final mile, no matter what it takes” to do so.

By this time, she had spent over fifty thousand dollars to prove her determination. Before long, she would be one hundred and fifty thousand more dollars closer to the final mile.

Lucy was not above misrepresenting a text. As she made clear in court and the court-ordered psychiatric evaluations, she would even knowingly lie about facts if lying fed her need to win.

Yet after our extended phone conversation, I wondered if Lucy was even all that concerned with facts. She seemed to be guided more by belief. She believed that I had watched pornography with Rachel. She needed this to be true. Therefore, it must be true. She asserted that my blog supported this belief and seemed genuinely convinced of this.

And yet it isn't true, and my blog doesn't say that it is.

Here’s the relevant passage, from my post On Her Own, reprinted here as cited in the motion. The story concerned Rachel’s move out of her family home and a visit in which I had helped her to settle in to her new place. She wrote to thank me for a coffee carafe I’d given her.

Hey Dad,

It was so great to see you and everybody last week. I am writing this on my patio with some great coffee—thanks!

I’m so sorry I couldn’t go south this year. When can I come up to New York? Maybe for my eighteenth birthday. Then we can smoke cigarettes and watch porn—you know, the usual, but now it will be legal.

I love you Dad. Call me!

Rachel

In posting this note, I had cut-and-pasted it as written. It seemed clear to me, in the context of the story and my writing about my relationship with Rachel, that my daughter was joking in this email. I saw no reason to add further elucidation. At the risk of bruising dead horses, I’ll say that we did not actually make plans to smoke cigarettes and watch porn prior to her eighteenth birthday, nor have we done so since. Rachel’s joke refers to things many people have done prior to their eighteenth birthdays that become legal at that age. I do know Rachel has an on-again, off-again smoking habit. I don’t know what experience, if any, she has with viewing pornography.

If Lucy had been genuinely concerned about the veracity of her claim, she could have confirmed it with Rachel. Being concerned with refuting Lucy’s claim, I asked Rachel to write an affidavit affirming that the note made a joke. But confirming veracity was apparently beyond Lucy’s interests, as is speaking with Rachel. Lucy wrote off Rachel over two years ago, as she disapproved of my daughter’s engagement to marry. The girl who grew up considering Lucy her stepmother has since been a non-entity to my ex-wife.

Still, in her motion, Lucy found it useful to profess concern for Rachel. My relationship with my eldest daughter could be considered a precursor for my relationship with our three children. If I used photographs on my refrigerator door to offer Rachel to a boyfriend who loves trannies, then could my other children expect the same fate? If I smoked cigarettes and watched pornography with Rachel, then how long before my other children were reaching for ashtrays and surfing smut with the old man?

In the case of Thomas and the refrigerator door, I am confident of Lucy’s cynicism. She didn’t really believe this claim to be true. There was simply a hope of courtroom shock value in citing that passage from my blog. But Lucy’s sarcastic “yeah, sure” response to my refutation of her claim about watching porn with Rachel seemed genuine. True or not, Lucy needed to cling to her belief. She needs to believe such things in order to quash her feelings for the husband who had loved her. Sharing cigarettes and pornography with one’s underage children must be bad; anyone can see that. Lucy’s belief became, in her mind, an unshakable tenet.

She couldn’t allow this tenet to be taken away. She couldn’t risk reading the text too closely or asking too many questions of it. It had to mean what she needed it to mean.

In Lucy’s mind, at some point near the end of Rachel’s seventeenth year, my daughter and I settled in for yet another evening of chain-smoking and watching hardcore porn. That evening may always be remembered by Lucy.

Rachel and I can’t share that memory, as we weren’t there. We can’t provide Lucy with the facts she needs to make her world right, so she is left to create them on her own.

If a selective misreading my blog anchors Lucy’s sense of reality, Rachel and I will have to accept that. Lucy’s mental health is not our responsibility.

Dance With Me

Nouvelle Vaue

Nouvelle Vague know how to appropriate the good stuff. The dance sequence is from Godard's Bande à Part.

Computer Camp Love

Datarock

I ran into her on computer camp.
Was that in 'Eighty-four? Not sure.
I had my Commodore Sixty-four.
Had to score.

I Feel Myself

Cali

Custody Crisis Tuesdays

On a cool Tuesday evening last April, I went with a friend to see John Waters in conversation with curator Robert Storr at the Ninety-second Street Y. This was a nice reunion for me, as I used to work with Robert Storr and John Waters and I have long been friendly.

(By “work with,” I mean that Robert Storr may have noticed me occasionally stalking him at museum openings. By “friendly,” I meant that I can recite every conversation I’ve had with John Waters since nineteen eighty-four; with prodding, he might politely pretend to remember me before inching away.)

My friend and I went back to her apartment afterward. She went to the kitchen to open a bottle of wine. I sat at her desk to check my email. “Ah, the Tuesday tradition continues,” I called.

“You’re kidding,” she said, looking around the corner. “Please tell me you’re kidding.”

“Nope. She wouldn’t miss a Tuesday. This time she had Collie do it.” I read the email aloud.

Hi dad it's Collie and Lillie,

The new schedule began this Monday. This means that your five days in a row starts Wednesday, April 8th. This week so far has been mom's nine days in a row which ends Tuesday April 7th. To make it so Jason, Lillie, and I have the same weekends together we were wondering if it was O.K. if Jason spent this weekend with you, like normal, and then next weekend with you and Lillie and I.

Thanks.

Love,
Lillie and Collie
P.S. tomorrow ours field trip to the farm house!!!! 9:15 at the lobby!

“What new schedule?” my friend asked. “Is this referring to the schedule Lucy proposed in January? The one that everyone rejected as unnecessary?”

“I suppose,” I said, rereading the email. “I honestly had a hard time understanding Lucy’s scheme then. It was so complicated. Yet, by some miracle, my twelve-year-old son has conceived of the exact same plan and, by fiat, declared it in effect as of yesterday.”

“Oh, please,” my friend said, handing me a glass. “Lucy is obviously behind this email.”

I took the glass, shaking my head. “No, that can’t be. We were told not to discuss specific custody proposals with the children. Lucy would never disobey a judge’s directions, or manipulate the children.” My friend chortled. “No, I’m serious,” I continued. “No caring parent would ever put a child in such an awful position. Lucy is a caring parent. Therefore, the only possibility is that Collie was somehow, miraculously, possessed of precisely the same notion that preoccupied his mother a couple of months ago. It must’ve been a part of the collective unconsciousness. You know, just something in the air.”

“Yes, and somehow, he came up with the same plan, excluding his older brother . . .”

“ . . . thereby dividing the children, further hacking up the family. That didn’t fly when Lucy proposed it. It was clear then that Jason simply wanted nothing to do with her scheme. But now than this idea has miraculously returned . . . well, the only possible explanation is that Jason missed the Rapture.”

She leaned forward, staring at the screen. “Wait, look at that last sentence again.”

I read it over. “Right. This refers to a field trip I’m joining tomorrow morning with Lillie’s class. I mentioned it to you. She’s very excited about it.”

“Right, I remember. I’m sure she’s excited that you’ll be there. But look. The sentence reads, ‘lower-case “t” tomorrow ours, with an “s,” field trip to the farmhouse, two words, quadruple exclamation points. Nine fifteen at, not in, the lobby, exclamation point.’”

I nodded. “Sure, that’s how kids type.”

“I’m sure it is,” she agreed. “Read the paragraph above. It describes a complicated idea, with specific dates. Collie tells you, his father, that he, your child, has changed the custody agreement, effective immediately.”

“Right.”

She pointed at the screen. “This was not written by a twelve-year-old child. Not without help.”

“Oh, I’ve noticed that discrepancy in earlier emails from Collie that curiously echo his mother’s positions. Collie swears that his mother doesn’t write these notes. Lillie says her mom just ‘puts the words in them.’”

“Never mind that his mother has been trying change the custody agreement to her advantage for—what? ten months?—to no avail. He just decided it, purportedly on his own.”

“Right.”

“This is awful.” She shook her head. “What a mean, cruel thing she’s doing to her children.”

“Kidding aside,” I nodded, “It really is awful.”

Mean, cruel, awful. Yet wholly predictable.

When Lucy discovered this blog in March of last year, surprise quickly gave way to opportunism. At last, she felt she had the means to finally win the one-sided battle she had waged against me since she ended our marriage five years before. At the time of her discovery, Lucy was pushing to have my family removed from an apartment her father owned. Once that was accomplished, she planned to land the coup de grace: with the help of her family’s money and the high-profile legal team it bought her, she would sue for full custody. She had done so in the original divorce, and remained bitter that we shared joint custody.

Surely, she felt, my blog changed everything. My writing about my sexuality would give her what she needed to deny me our children. Not only would the court grant her full custody, she was sure, but I would also be ordered to shut down my blog and instructed to never again to write about the children.

While my right to keep a blog would seem to be protected by the First Amendment, parents often have their constitutional rights curtailed in custody cases, where the legal standard is expanded to include the best interests of the child. As I would later learn, this dual standard has led to contradictory rulings. Parents have been ordered to prevent their children from hunting; parents have been ordered to provide shooting instruction to their children. Parents have been ordered to provide their children with religious instruction; parents have been restricted from taking their children to certain churches. Gay parents have been forced to come out to their children; gay parents have been prohibited from coming out to their children. Run through the Bill of Rights and it’s not hard to find a custody case in which some parents have had their constitutional rights curtailed.

To up the ante, Lucy made sure the filing was made on an emergency basis, so that I would be forced to scurry for money and representation with little notice. If I failed to accomplish that, she felt, her court case would be quick work.

Lucy’s plan was upset when I showed up to court with an attorney experienced in custody cases concerning sexuality. Following a hearing in which our children were not immediately yanked from me and put into her protective care, Lucy banged her hand on the table, repeating, “No, no, no!” As she exited the courtroom, she fell into a violent tantrum. Her lawyers rushed her into a disused pay phone vestibule, frantic to hide her tantrum from view. Still, her shouting could be heard, echoing along marble hallways to reverberate in the courthouse’s domed entryway.

“Wow,” my lawyer said. “Never seen anything like that. Have you?”

The children’s law guardian stared at the vestibule, stunned. “Let’s give them a moment,” she managed.

As the case progressed, Lucy’s anger and anxiety deepened. Her entire case against me rested on my sexuality as described in this blog. To her chagrin, she saw little traction where she had expected a steamroller to crush me. The State of New York didn’t seem too concerned that my sex life had become more interesting after our divorce. Judging from the case evidence supplied pro bono by Lambda Legal, the State had heard such arguments before. Despite her expensive legal team, Lucy seemed unaware of such precedents.

Lucy’s legal team requested that I undergo a psychiatric evaluation. Bisexuality has not been considered a potential sign of mental illness for over thirty years, but involvement in BDSM remains listed as a possible symptom of paraphilia in the current edition of the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM-IV). Given this, a psychiatric evaluation was ordered for me, and also for each member of our family.

As our sessions with the psychiatrist loomed, Lucy saw a final chance to gain advantage. She was already in the hole over one hundred thousand dollars, with nothing to show other than the court’s apparent satisfaction that I am a good father. On top of that, the economy had tanked without warning, diminishing her family’s ability to fund her second custody battle. In her heart, Lucy knew there was no reason to question my mental health. She worried about her own evaluation, given that she was diagnosed and treated for generalized anxiety disorder and depression. Having been in therapy more or less continuously since adolescence, she worried about her files being pulled and her own mental health and competence being called into question.

Given the failure of her legal team’s plan to this point, Lucy took matters into her own hands. She resorted to manipulating the children.

I took care to avoid putting the children in the middle of our conflict. It is not in a child’s best interest to be used by one parent against another. Never mind that it is a foolish strategy: there are no tricks that haven’t already been tried in custody cases. The manipulation of children is routinely detected by courts, legal guardians and psychiatrists.

Lucy surely knew this. Yet apparently, in her state of mind, she couldn’t help herself.

Lucy now alleged that the children were frightened of me, as I could not control my anger. She alleged that I routinely lost my temper and used expletives in front of the children. “This is cut from whole cloth,” I complained to my attorney. “I put up with Lucy’s rage and abuse for fifteen years and I never responded in kind. How can she make such an assertion? It’s like she is attributing her own anger to me. If I have such a problem, then why wasn’t it noted in the original motion just a few months ago?”

Soon, I saw what Lucy was doing. On the eve of the psychiatric evaluations, ordered because of my involvement with BDSM, Lucy was trying to depict me as someone unable to control an essentially violent nature. If I hit people with flogs or canes, as I had written in my blog, then surely I was capable of hitting my children.

This depiction required a crude leap of logic, in which BDSM play among consenting adults is equivalent to child abuse. But more, selling this depiction required deep cynicism. Lucy knew for a fact that there was no cause for concern that the children were in any physical danger in my care. If she had any cause for actual concern, she could have brought these concerns before the court. The court would have assuredly taken such allegations seriously and investigated accordingly. If Lucy had any evidence whatsoever of abuse—photographs, testimony, witnesses, medical records, or any signs of ill effect on the children’s behavior—she would have offered it in building a case for her full custody.

Lucy had no such evidence, as no such evidence existed. She was fully aware that the children were safe with their father. Yet this truth had little to do with the story she needed others to believe. She needed others to fall back on facile stereotypes about BDSM. Someone who would flog or cane another person must be deeply disturbed, no doubt acting on uncontrollable psychosis. Lucy could conjure stereotypes, but she could not conjure evidence. As there was no abuse, there were no photographs, testimonies, witnesses, medical records or behavioral issues.

Only on the final item—the children’s behavior—could Lucy hope to gain influence.

Suddenly, our youngest daughter began to express anxiety about being in our home. This anxiety would only be manifest when she was coming from an extended stay with her mother, never when she was coming home to me after school.

It turned out that Lucy had told her stories about me, stories designed to scare our daughter, stories that left our brave and vivacious nine-year-old child in tears on her mother’s bedroom floor. Lucy told her daughter not to repeat these stories to me. On this and other matters, our daughter would later reveal, Lucy instructed our child to lie to her father.

Suddenly, our twelve-year-old son became anxious about being away from his mother. Lucy had long referred to him as her “rock,” the anchor of her emotional wellbeing. To the law guardian, she repeatedly referred to our son as having the maturity of a “forty-five-year-old man,” attributing to a boy the precise age of her ex-husband. Lucy had long ago stopped dealing with me as co-parent of our children. She refused to speak to me, preferring to have Jason act as our go-between. Now that Jason had declined to support her goal of seeking full custody, she discarded him in favor her “rock.” She knew she could count on Collie to take care of her.

I felt for Collie. I used to have his job. As Lucy’s husband, I knew that she was always to be placated. When Lucy is unhappy with life, people around her are supposed to change life until it suits her. Her family had raised her to expect that. Her family placated her in the usual way, by writing checks, but I no longer fulfilled my role, as I declined to roll over and surrender our children. Lucy turned to Collie. He was her rock, her more reliable forty-five-year-old husband. On this and other matters, our son would later reveal, Lucy encouraged our child to do what she needed him to do to recast life to her liking.

As the two children began to exhibit signs of Lucy’s manipulation, my attorney sat me down. “If it becomes necessary,” she asked, “Are you prepared to take full custody of the children?”

I wasn’t expecting her question, but I wasn’t entirely surprised, either. “I want joint custody to work,” I answered.

“I know, and if that’s how you feel, then that’s our goal,” she answered. “Still, I’ve never seen anything so blatant. Lucille is really out of control and the children are suffering as a result. The court may direct you to take full custody. I’ve seen it happen before. Are you ready for that?”

“Yes, of course,” I nodded. “I want what’s best for the kids. Lucy was abusive when we were together, but now she’s on medication and getting treatment, so I want to be optimistic.” We sat quietly for a moment. “Anyway, this assumes Lucy can keep it together while we’re in court.”

My attorney looked at me for a moment. “Well yes, it does. Let’s see if she can.” She paused. “Look, I have to say this: manipulating children in this way is abusive. I’m your lawyer and we’ll stay this course if you want. But it’s pretty clear to anyone observing that Lucy is out of control. You aren’t still worried that she can hurt you, right?”

“No, that’s not it. I just . . . look, the kids have been through a lot. This custody thing is awful on everyone. I’d rather be optimistic and hope Lucy calms down when it ends.”

“Then let’s hope it ends soon,” my attorney said. “In the meantime, I’m investigating psychological abuse in custody cases.”

My attorney researched the free speech restrictions requested by Lucy’s legal team. To the best of my attorney’s knowledge, this was an instance of “first impression,” meaning that no other case had previously presented this mix of parental custody, sexuality and the First Amendment. If the court ruled to censor my blog, I would be able to appeal. As this was a constitutional issue of first impression, my attorney told me, it could ultimately be appealed to the U.S. Supreme Court.

“Heady stuff!” I replied. “Well, my activist side says, ‘bring it.’ But as a parent, I really, really hope it doesn’t go that way. I won’t be bullied by my ex-wife but still, appeals would take so much time. So I can only hope Lucy develops some liberal shame about being so fixated on my sexuality and speech.”

“Then let’s count on Lucy’s shame,” my attorney said. “In the meantime, I’m renewing my credentials to appear before the Supreme Court.”

By this point, I felt that the writing was already on the wall. I was eager for life to return to normal for my family. I didn’t want anything to prolong the case.

Lucy, however, felt differently. She had come to fear that she had little hope of winning full custody due to my sexuality or my writing. In her desperation to win something, Lucy grasped at straws, doing what she could to turn the kids against me while making scattershot accusations.

Lucy alleged that I was unable to control my anger. She was unable to provide any evidence to that effect. The psychiatrist did not concur. It was a dead letter.

Lucy alleged that I did not care about the children’s academics. School records were offered, showing that the children were thriving in school. All had perfect homework completion records, regardless of which parent had them on the previous night. Our eldest son had recently taken the PSATs, scoring very high among college-bound students a grade above him.

Lucy compiled complaints from the children, whom she bribed to give her reports on me. She asserted that I did not do laundry often enough. I sometimes ran out of fruit juice. I failed to change the cat litter with satisfactory frequency.

We sat with the children’s law guardian. Lucy listed her complaints. I offered to try to be a more perfect housekeeper. We had come a long way, I noted, from Lucy’s original motion. She had brought me to court on an emergency basis claiming that my sexuality and writing were an immediate danger to our children. Now, we were sitting in an office in midtown Manhattan paying a lawyer six hundred dollars an hour to mediate a discussion about cat litter.

In time, the case was resolved. The law guardian was satisfied that the children were well and content at home with each parent. The court saw no reason to modify joint custody or to censor my writing. Life should have gone back to normal.

By the terms of our custody agreement, the children come to me on Wednesdays after school. After the court reached its decision, Lucy began to contact me every Tuesday with some reason why she should have the kids the following day. None of these reasons was pressing. She might have contacted me well in advance of Tuesday nights. I generally pointed this out and each week, the children came to me as usual. Her efforts were so predictable that my attorney and I began to refer to her “Custody Crisis Tuesdays.”

Finally, Lucy turned to Collie. She knew her rock wanted her to be happy. He knew that he could take care of her, so that she wasn’t so unhappy all the time. So when she told him that she wanted him and his sister to spend weekdays with her, she knew he would take care of her. Maybe he could give her what I did not. Maybe he could give her what the State of New York did not.

So it was that on a Tuesday night in April, my son’s email arrived in place of my ex-wife’s, using the words that his mother had “put in.”

I replied to Collie that his note confused me and we would talk about it the next day. I looked at the time. It was not yet ten thirty. The children would be up until eleven. “Hey, do you mind if I make a quick call?” I asked my friend. “I want to straighten out plans for tomorrow.”

“Sure,” she said. “Do you want me to leave the room?”

“No, that’s cool,” I said, opening my cell. “This won’t be long.”

For the next three hours, my friend sat nearby, her expression changing from disbelief, to shock, to dismay.

When Lucy answered, I explained that I was calling to clarify the confusion in Collie’s email. There was no change to custody, I reminded her; the court had already ruled on that. It was unfair to confuse the children by suggesting otherwise.

“It’s not me, Jefferson,” Lucy said. “It’s the kids. They really want this.”

“And Jason? He’s not included among the kids anymore?”

“Jason . . . I can’t deal with Jason anymore. He won’t do what I say. He lies to me. Did you know what a liar he is now?”

“No, I haven’t encountered that. And I don’t believe the children have suddenly generated a sui generis preference in custody—particularly one that just so happens to echo your own previous proposal.”

“It’s true, Jefferson. It’s true.” Her voice dropped to a whisper as she walked into the backyard. “I tried so hard. You have to believe me. I sat the kids down and begged them not to do this. I told them to consider your feelings; I said, ‘This is really going to hurt your father’s feelings.’ They wouldn’t listen. They didn’t care. They are scared of you, Jefferson. They are so scared of you. You don’t see that, but I do.”

“Right. I think we covered this back in the ‘Jefferson can’t control his anger’ days. Anyway, we need to clarify the plan for tomorrow. The existing plan is that I pick up the kids from school . . .”

“They won’t go with you,” she interrupted. “They’ll run away. You won’t be able to catch them. They’re fast. They will run away from you.”

“They’ll run away from me?” I looked at my friend. Her jaw hung open. “You’re saying that Collie and Lillie will run away when I pick them up at school? Why? Nothing like that has ever happened before.”

“I wouldn’t try it if I were you,” Lucy warned.

“Collie and Lillie are scared of me that they will run away, you say. But Jason isn’t scared?”

“Poor Jason,” Lucy sighed.

“Why do you say, ‘poor Jason?’ I don’t get that.”

“Poor Jason,” she repeated.

Lucy was luring me into some circular reasoning that I could not follow. It was after ten, so it was possible she was pretty stoned. I wasn’t getting anywhere with her. “Lucy, let me speak with Collie, please.”

I heard a drag on a cigarette. “He doesn’t want to talk to you.”

“He’s never refused a conversation with me before. Can you give him the phone, please?”

“I can try, but I’m telling you, he doesn’t want to talk to you.”

“Thanks for trying.” I heard the phone land on metal, presumably the wrought iron bench in the backyard. We had inherited lawn furniture from Lucy's late grandmother. When we moved into the house, I sanded the set and repainted it white.

“What’s she doing?” my friend asked.

“She’s getting Collie,” I said. "Well, she says she's getting Collie."

“Is this normal?”

“Normal is relative,” I said.

She offered me my wine, but I waved it off. A long time passed. Finally, Lucy returned to the phone. “I told you, he doesn’t want to talk to you.”

“You told him I was on the phone? What did he say?”

“He said, ‘I don’t want to talk to Dad.’”

“I see. Well, may I speak to Lillie?”

Lucy returned to her cigarette. “She doesn’t want to talk to you. None of the children want to talk to you. They are scared of you.”

“Do you mind asking, please?”

“It won’t work.”

“Please.”

“Fine.” Once more, the phone was placed on the wrought iron bench. Once more, an inordinate amount of time passed. Lucy picked up the phone. “It’s like I said. She doesn’t want to talk to you.”

“Just to reiterate,” I said. I motioned for my friend to pass a pen and paper. “You are saying that the children are awake at, um, eleven eighteen, and they each refuse to speak with me.”

“Yes. That is correct.”

“Okay. Well, this creates a conundrum. They are supposed to come home with me tomorrow after school . . .”

“They won’t.”

“ . . . and it is your responsibility to be sure the children are returned on my custodial days.”

“I have no control over the children, Jefferson.”

I took notes. “Are you saying you have no control over our two youngest children?”

“None of them, Jefferson,” she sighed. “Not one. Jason lies to me. Collie and Lillie do nothing I say. I have to pay them to do their homework. They don’t do anything.”

I shook my head, bent over the notepad. “I have a very hard time believing that. Now, tomorrow, you have time to talk with them as you drive to school. You can explain that they are going home with me that afternoon, as usual.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not, Lucy?”

“They don’t listen to me. I’ve told you. I was practically on my hands and knees begging them to go home with you tomorrow. They just refused. They don’t like you, Jefferson. They don’t. They don’t want to stay with you. They are scared of you.”

I drew a breath. I was not taking Lucy’s bait. I circled her main points on my friend’s notepad. “Okay, so to reiterate . . . you contend that Collie and Lillie refuse to come home with me, per usual, because they are scared of me. They will run away if I pick them up at school. Meanwhile, Jason is fine with coming home to our apartment. Also, Jason is a liar, you have no control over the children and you have to offer bribes to get them to do homework. Is that all correct?”

“Yes.” She exhaled, sarcasm in her voice. “That is all correct.”

“Okay. Well, it’s late and I don’t see any other solution. You should take Collie and Lillie tomorrow. We’ll talk after school and work this out. Okay?”

“Thanks. Maybe they’ll feel better about you tomorrow.”

“We can hope. Well, I guess we’ll talk then . . .”

“It’s just so sad they feel this way, Jefferson,” Lucy went on. “I think you are a really good dad. I really do.”

“Oh,” I replied. “Well, thanks. It’s nice to hear you say that.” I caught my friend’s eye. “What?,” she mouthed. I held up a finger.

“This has just been a really bad year, hasn’t it? Just so hard.”

“That’s right, it’s been a very bad year.” I held back my thoughts: it’s been a bad year because you dragged us all into court, my mind wanted to shout. But I sat, listening, responding only to what she said.

Lucy rambled on. Her tone became accusatory, then, on a dime, nostalgic. She laughed about the way Jason used to chase Collie around the coffee table when the baby was learning to walk. Did I remember that, she asked? I did, I said. I remembered it all. We shared other memories.

“What happened to you?” she asked finally. “You used to be so different.”

“I’m still me,” I said.

“No, you’re not. The old you wouldn’t have watched porn with your daughter.”

“Lillie?” I winced. “Lucy, I’ve never watched porn with Lillie.”

“No, I mean Rachel. You watched porn with her when she was seventeen.”

“No, I didn’t. I’ve never watched porn with Rachel. What makes you say that?”

She sighed. “It was in your blog.”

Now I was really confused. My blog is nonfiction and I only write actual events in it. “That’s not possible,” I replied. “Why would I write something that didn’t happen?”

“It was before her birthday. She was coming to visit you and she said you were going to smoke cigarettes and watch porn.”

“But I’ve never been a smoker . . . ” I began before recalling an email from Rachel that I had posted. “Oh geez, now I remember. Lucy, that was a joke. Rachel was joking. She was referring to things that she would be able to do legally once she was eighteen. She wasn’t saying we did those things together.”

“Yeah, right,” Lucy said facetiously. “Sure.”

I coughed back a laugh. “I suggest you reread that. Rachel is clearly joking. If you don’t believe me, you can ask her. I can’t believe you couldn’t see that.”

“I’m not talking to Rachel, no way,” Lucy said. She drew on her cigarette and exhaled. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. Your blog is useless. Apparently I can’t get you on sex unless you rape the children.”

I caught my breath. “What?”

“It’s true. I can’t get you on sex unless you rape the children.”

I gripped my chair rail. “Are you insinuating . . . ?”

“No, of course not.” She drew another puff. “No one is saying you rape the children.”

“You sound almost disappointed.” I paused. “Actually, this sounds like something you’ve said before, the way you say it so easily. Is that true? Is that something you say to people?”

“So what? So what if I’ve said it? Look, it’s a joke, okay? Sorry I mentioned it.”

“It’s grotesque, Lucy. Really awful. Never mind that you think sex is something you can use to ‘get’ me, like you hope you can find something to ‘get’ me one day.”

Lucy was silent. “I didn’t mean to say that, that thing about ‘getting’ you.” She seemed to feel she had revealed too much. She changed the topic. “Look, here’s the thing. I read your blog and I think, why now? Why couldn’t we do fun things when we were married? I like to be touched. I like sex.”

I stared at a blank wall. I couldn’t process this.

“Plus, why do you write that I’m ‘miserable?’ I’m not miserable. Look, I’ve got a house and a car. I’ve got a full-time job and a four-oh-one-k. I’m happy. You’re the one who should be miserable. You don’t have anything.”

I started to answer that I had a nice Toyota, but that seemed beside the point. “I’m not really sure how to answer that, Lucy. Look, it’s late. It’s after one. Are the kids still up?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, I need to get to bed. We’ll talk tomorrow. Good luck with the kids tomorrow. We’ll talk.”

“Okay.” She waited. I had nothing to add. “Okay, then.” She exhaled. “I guess that’s it. Good night.”

“Night.” I closed my phone.

“Oh my God,” my friend said. I’d almost forgotten she was in the room. She sat on the couch, her knees pulled up under her chin. Her face was stricken. “Are you okay?”

The phone was limp in my hand. “If I didn’t know better,” I said, “I’d swear Lucy was expecting me to end that conversation by saying ‘I love you.’”

F Word

Jens Lekman

Would you stand up for this kind of beauty?
'cause this kind of beauty won't stand up for you.

It won't lift a finger for some lazy dreamer.
Here it comes, the average dirty word.
Pardon my French.

Abby Winters

Larissa and Silvie

Firewalls

When I first began this blog nearly five years ago, I had no conception of how anyone would find it, much less read it. I told a few friends about it. I knew only two sex blogs, each written by friends; I was new to sex blogs and anyway, there just weren’t that many around. Otherwise, I wrote into a void. Since no one read my blog, I felt I could write honestly, telling stories for a few friends and anyone who came upon them.

Pretty soon, though, that void took on a face. A reader wanted to meet me for sex. This surprised me. Was this even allowed, I wondered? I agreed to the date with her—and then another, and another—and before long, it turned out that my sex blog had found my new girlfriend.

Then my girlfriend started a sex blog. She invited me to have sex with her girlfriends, and they started sex blogs. Other sex bloggers caught wind of our burgeoning network and wanted to join in. Word got out among friends at my sex parties, and many of them started sex blogs. We all wrote stories about one another. Within a few months of beginning my blog, “Jefferson” was getting laid all over the Internet. It was all in fun, we felt, safely behind a filter of anonymity.

But then I transgressed on a taboo I didn’t know existed. I blogged love. This caused some upset in my new circle of friends, as my love was directed to someone no one knew. Some wished me well. Some were anxious that this new relationship would put the brakes on all the fun. Others were jealous. My girlfriend was understandably frustrated. The upset happened off blogs; everyone talked to each other and, with varying degrees of success, we worked it out. Love was okay. It didn’t mess us up.

Inevitably, as the number of sex bloggers grew, I encountered those who enjoyed the adrenaline rush of blog drama. In time, I learned to identify the red flags of bloggers driven by accusation, upset and vitriol (hint: this cohort is largely comprised of poor writers whose emotional vocabulary is routinely limited to extremes of elation or outrage). I learned to keep my distance.

In my personal life, I found my presence in so many sex blogs to be the cause for occasional upset among the people I cared about. Someone might reasonably be jealous to read about her lover having sex with someone else. This was exacerbated, in my circle, by the fact that so many women I dated had met one another at my sex parties. They had witnessed me having sex with other partners. They read about private moments in blogs. This was a given, but granted this access to my other relationships, they could watch closely, looking for giveaway signs of love and intimacy.

It was hard to predict what would trigger upset. A girlfriend read in a blog that a partner and I had hot sex and afterward, we went to a museum. The girlfriend was jealous: why had I never taken her to a museum? A girlfriend read in a blog that a partner and I had hot sex and afterward, I served scrambled eggs. The girlfriend was jealous: why had I never served her scrambled eggs?

I struggled to sort through such reactions. I could offer to rectify perceived slights with offers of field trips and scrambled eggs—and in this way, attempt to be all things to all people—but ultimately, it felt that anyone who regarded such minor revelations as indicators of favoritism was probably ill-suited to be in a relationship with me. My private life was just too public, and too much of it written by others in blogs over which I had no oversight. Over and again, I found myself repeating variations on a theme:

“I have sex with multiple partners. I write about it on the Internet. Some of my partners write about it on the Internet. I am single. I am bisexual. I am nonmonogamous. I am under no obligation to report my dates to anyone. Most people really enjoy knowing me. But if discovering evidence of these facts on your own will hurt you, please do not seek a relationship with me.” This is the truth. It must bear repeating, as I repeat it over and over.

Obviously, it is absurd that anyone would find evidence of favoritism in something so mundane as the serving of scrambled eggs, much less conclude that such favoritism means I don’t care about the person who went without scrambled eggs. In real life, not everyone gets the same thing. To want every single thing that everyone else gets, plus something else—something more and unique—is to assume a platinum-level membership in my life that doesn’t really exist.

Even as I tried to address these assertions of upset, I met people who were comfortable with what I had to offer. They knew about my blog; they generally met me through it, and if not, it was freely offered. They read about me in other blogs and appreciated that confirmation of my essential honesty. As promised, I was indeed having sex with other partners who were indeed writing about it. Some were pleased if I wrote about them in my blog. Others requested that I not do so.

In respecting the requests of those who preferred to remain off-blog, I found myself with a secret life within my secret life. Everyone knew about the partners at my sex parties. Everyone knew about partners who wrote about me in blogs. But in addition, I had sexual relationships that flew under the radar. I had sexual relationships in private. I had intimacy, just like anyone might.

This allowed me a better perspective on the public sex life I had introduced in this blog. Here, I knew to take care in blogging love. I adopted strategies of subterfuge by telling the truth without necessarily revealing chronology or naming full casts. In my private life, I could be less guarded. I wasn’t worried about truth or love being used against me. I could be more content in trust.

With my intimacies, as with my family life, I erected firewalls between the façade of “Jefferson” and my private interiors.

This proved a good precaution during the upheavals of last summer. During a year-long custody case based entirely on my sexuality as revealed in this blog, I sat silently in court as my ex-wife’s attorneys tried to build a case against me, decrying a life they knew only from what I had chosen to reveal. As a few bloggers used my misfortune to stoke a flame war, a former drinking buddy claimed special insights based on our six-year association. She later admitted she really had no direct knowledge of my life in the preceding three years; her assertions, she confessed, were based on hearsay and second-hand gossip from biased sources. Her confession went unacknowledged by those distracted by the few busting more furniture for the bonfire.

The makeshift torches outside my firewalls burned out their fuel, scorching effigies without singeing flesh. I fretted about the flames before realizing, as embers cooled, that none of it had anything to do with real life. For me, real life and online life are clearly distinct from one another. Apparently, this is not always the case for others.

Now, I’d like to tell you a story. I’d like to talk about something that happened to real people, in a real time, in a real place. You’ll recognize some of the people in this story, but a few will come as a surprise. To tell it properly, I’ll need to breach my firewalls in certain areas. Rest assured, the interiors will remain intact.

Hot Dads: The DILF Anthology

Hot Dads: The DILF Anthology

Apparently, I was one before I knew what they were.

I was once having a snack with my daughter, listening as she gabbed away about her best friends in school, when I became aware of the woman at the next table listening in. She grinned to hear my daughter talk and laughed along at my responses. As I paid the check and we prepared to go, she leaned forward to touch my arm. “Can I just say, the two of you are simply adorable?”

“Oh! Well, thanks!” I stammered. “That’s very nice.” I smiled back. She continued to smile, still touching my arm and saying nothing more. “Okay, well, I suppose we should get going . . .” I stood and held my hand out to my daughter, who had watched the exchange intently.

“Who was that?” she asked as we walked out.

“A nice lady,” I shrugged. “Evidently, a very nice lady.”

I later related this to a friend. “Was that just a ‘nice lady,’ or do you think she was . . . I dunno, saying something?”

“Of course she was saying something,” she replied. “You’re attractive, you’re nice to your kids and you don’t wear a wedding ring. That makes you a DILF.”

“A ‘DILF?’”

“You’re so clueless,” she sighed. “You know what a MILF is—a mother I’d like to fuck. Well, a DILF is the daddy equivalent.”

“Oooh. That’s a new one to me.” I sat back and put my hands behind my head. “Gee, this sheds a whole new light on all the nice ladies at the playground . . .”

She shook her head. “Incorrigible.”

Well, incorrigible or not, I am now an anthologized DILF, thanks to editor Lori Perkins at Ravenous Romance. Hot Dads: The DILF Anthology includes my story “Not This Time, Daddy.” It won’t be appearing on my site, so you’ll need to drop in on Ravenous Romance to read this tale of obtuse romance.

You’ll also get stories from a dozen other contributors. As the advertising copy suggests, you’ll read about dads who are “gay and straight and even bi. You'll find thirteen stories of hot dads in these sizzling pages, from spy dads to a dad who has a thing for orgies!”

Even bi? Scorch!

My Only Offer

Mates of State

Shampoo

Elvis Perkins in Deerland

And, for good measure, the reason I can't get a meeting in Hollywood. Let's face it, I fucked 'em all.

HNT

Canadian Girl

The Walkmen

Abby Winters

Alena

Here's the uncropped version of my blog avatar.

Office

She often told me that I pushed her limits. Every now and then, she pushed mine, intentionally or not. So it was when she confessed a desire for sex in her office building, a corporate skyscraper in midtown. “I’m your man,” I said, swallowing two quiet anxieties that have trailed me since childhood—mild vertigo and a too-highly attuned respect for authority.

She had already caught a glimpse of my discomfort with heights one evening as we made our way through a crowded opening at the New Museum. We had collected glasses of absinthe and wedged ourselves into a place on the slender rooftop balcony. She was telling me a story when I suddenly grasped the wall behind me. “Are you okay?” she asked.

“I’m fine, it’s nothing,” I said, hurriedly gulping my drink. My eyes were focused over her shoulder.

“What?” she turned. “What are you looking at?”

“It’s nothing, really,” I said. She looked at me querulously. “Okay, look. You see that guy holding the toddler? Over by the railing?”

She turned her head. “Sure. Cute kid.”

“Yeah, well, that cute kid is bored and squirming and the guy isn’t really paying attention. I can’t help imagining the kid going over the railing.”

She looked at me. “Seriously? He looks safe to me.”

“I know, it’s my thing.” I diverted my eyes from the child. “I get this vertiginous feeling at times and imagine heights exist primarily to provide places from which to fall.”

“Oh, I hate that feeling, too. Should we go inside?”

“No, let’s stay out here. Hang on.” I moved to the railing and peered over. The Bowery waited for me seven floors below. A wave of anxiety passed over me, causing my heart to race.

She came up behind me. “That’s brave of you.”

“Cheap thrills,” I admitted. “I always do this at the Guggenheim, too. The interior walls along the ramp tilt out at a slight angle. Now, that’s just death’s way of making life fun.”

We soon made a date for office sex. Eddie Izzard was playing Radio City Music Hall, which happened to be near her office building. She proposed that we take in the show and then repair to her office, which would presumably be empty at that hour. I agreed. Throughout the show, my mind flashed forward; I would soon be having sex with this lovely, kinky woman, I reassured myself, and the odds of getting arrested for it weren’t really all that great.

Afterward, we shuffled out among the crowd, laughing about the show. We hadn’t walked far when she took my arm. “Here it is,” she said. “Are you ready to do this?”

I looked up and drew a short breath. “Yes. Let’s fuck in your office.” I took her hand and followed into the lobby.

She stopped to flash her identification card to the security guard, explaining that I was a client stopping in to pick up a package. He looked me over. “That’s fine, but you’ll need to get a visitor’s pass for your guest. After hours, those are only issued at the main desk, other entrance.” She confirmed the location and thanked him.

I looked up as we approached the main entrance. The company’s logo moved across a series of animated screens. “That’s going to look so dated in a few years,” I said. “It’s a wonder they did something so . . . flashy.”

“If it gets old, they’ll just scrap it off and put up something else,” she replied, waving a hand as if to erase the facade. “This company is over a century old and they have more money than God.”

At the main desk, we faced five guards. One took my driver’s license, scribbled some notes and returned it to me with a plastic badge. “Keep that visible at all times,” he instructed me.

“Yes sir,” I said, attaching the badge to my shirt. I tried to look like someone who had business to conduct at this late hour and not like someone trespassing for sex.

Back at the original entrance, the guard looked at my badge, looked again at her identification and allowed us to pass. I admired the blue-chip art on the way to the elevator.

When the doors closed, she pushed the button to her office’s floor. “I’d suggest we get started in the elevator, but . . .” she raised her eyes. “Video cameras.”

“Oh, right,” I said, noting the glossy dark hemisphere in the ceiling. “Say, there aren’t cameras on your floor, are there?”

“No.” Her brow furrowed. “Well, not that I’m aware of.” My stomach dropped as the elevator halted.

I followed as she led me past long rows of empty workstations. I knocked on a desk as I passed, listening for the solid report of good wood. Identical offices banked the opposite wall, each with a fine southern view of midtown, none with any sign of occupancy. “Does anyone actually work on this floor?” I asked.

“Yes, we’re all grouped in the back. This area has been pretty empty since the last round of layoffs.” We passed a kitchen area stocked with drinks, snacks and two espresso machines. A glass wall revealed a library with shelves of oversized art books. “No one reads them,” she told me. “But we keep ordering them to impress clients with our brainy décor. We have a huge budget for books. I can barely find enough to order.” She pointed to a top shelf. “See? I cheated and ordered two copies of Rem Koolhaas’s S, M, L, XL. Had to spend the money somehow.”

Her desk was located with a cluster of others in a open space near a corner window. Fluorescents burned overhead. “I wanted you to see my work space, but I think it’s too exposed to actually do anything here.”

I looked around. The room was the length of a city block. “Yeah, I wouldn’t want a guard to come in here while we’re . . . in flagrante.”

“Come on.” She took my hand and led me back down the way we had come. I followed her into one of the darkened empty offices. She shut the door. “Now, this is better, right? Like our own private office.”

“Yeah, this is much better,” I smiled. I stepped closer. We kissed, her mouth opening to mine. I took her shoulders and turned her, pushing her back toward the window. She scrambled to pull herself up to a ledge. “That’s good, that’s good,” I growled. “Now spread your legs.” I ran my hands under her dress as she did so, moving along her thighs to her bare pussy. “So wet,” I smiled into her kiss. “But let’s get it wetter.”

I grabbed the nape of her neck in my hand and pulled her forward. Her arms scrambled to break her fall. I grabbed a wrist in my free hand and pushed her to her knees. She got the message, righting herself and watching eagerly as I unzipped. She took my cock in her mouth. I looked over my shoulder, checking that the door was indeed closed, noting the glass wall that revealed the hallway beyond.

I put my hand back to her neck, forcing her head back and forth rapidly, listening to her gurgling gags. Saliva ran from her lips to her chin. “Good, good.” I pulled back and shoved three fingers into her throat. “Now, that’s the slick stuff, back here,” I said. I stroked my well-lubricated cock. “Here, follow me,” I said, tugging with the fingers inside her. She crawled forward, coughing on my fingers. I dropped my pants to my ankles and sat at the desk. “Now,” I said, releasing her. “Suck my cock.”

She groaned and crawled forward. Her eyes rolled in pleasure as she returned my cock to her throat. “That’s good, that’s good,” I said, stroking her hair. My eyes were drawn to the window, looking up at the offices across the way. I wondered at all the blowjobs that must happen in midtown offices. How many in a year? How many in a decade? Numbers ran though my mind as her drool gathered in the leather seat under me.

I leaned forward and reached under her dress. Wetness ran down her inner thighs. “Okay, you’re ready,” I said. “Get back on that ledge and give me something to fuck.” She hurried to comply. I bent to take a condom from my pocket, kicking off my shoes and pants as I opened the package.

I listened to her groans as I thrust into her, my eyes closed. She grabbed at my head and, instinctively, I opened my eyes. There, far below us, was Radio City Music Hall. I felt a wave of panic and looked up, focusing on the General Electric sign blazing at Rockefeller Center. That’s good, that’s good, I thought, letting my eyes drop again. My skin tingled. The only thing between us and our demise was the sheet of glass I now banged with her body.

“Thrill junky,” I murmured, pulling out.

She groaned, confused. What had I said, she wondered, trying to focus. Suddenly, two fingers were inside her. Another followed. Her eyes widened and captured mine as she realized what I was doing. “Oh, no, no, not that,” she said. Tears came to her eyes. She had taught me, long before, that “no, no” was not her safeword.

Her body rocked hard as I fisted her, her back pummeling against the glass. Her face was in full ecstasy, haloed by red neon against the sea-black sky. I felt her clench against my fist as warmth flooded from her body, splashing against the ledge.

I slowed, then stopped. Her body went limp as I pulled out, as if my fist had been the only thing holding her erect. Her sobs were audible now, lowering into the range of human hearing. I held her as she recovered. Far below, a solitary taxi sped up Sixth Avenue.

We kissed. “Come on,” I said quietly. “Let’s go home and fuck in bed.” She nodded, drying an eye with the back of her hand.

We dressed and gathered our things. I put the condom and its wrapper in my pocket. “Don’t want to leave any evidence,” I said.

She ran a finger over the puddle on the ledge. “Yes, well, other than my DNA.”

I fastened my belt. “Should we clean that?”

She grinned. “No, let’s not.”

We washed up in the ladies’ restroom and raided the kitchen. I made a cup of espresso to drink on the way to the subway.

The guard wished us a good night as we left. She leaned to my ear. “We forgot to bring out a package,” she whispered. I laughed at the dumb luck of pulling off sex in her office.

She wrapped an arm in mine as we waited to cross the street. I took my last sip of espresso and looked at the cup. Glancing up, I saw the same logo swirling across the screens on the building’s façade. “Lehman Brothers, Lehman Brothers, Lehman Brothers,” I mused aloud. “You come for the office sex, you stay for the coffee.”

She laughed as I tossed the cup into a wastebasket and stepped to the curb.

Training of O

Amber Keen and Maestro

Tweets

It was the shining affair of that dismal season, and it played exclusively on Twitter.

Lyle was a butch lesbian who identified as male. Susan was a straight woman with flowing blonde hair. Lyle lived in the Pacific Northwest. Susan lived in Southern California. They were each married to others and parents to small children. They were also sex bloggers.

At the time, I had closed my own blog in order to focus on a custody case. My ex wife had discovered my blog and was using it—and its stories of my sexuality—in her second bid to take my children from their father. The story of this custody case had caught the attention of other parents who blog about their sex lives. Many sent their sympathies. A few went so far as to close their own blogs for fear of similar consequences.

As it happened, sex blogging underwent a transformation during the time I was offline. Twitter had quickly emerged as a popular social media, allowing users to maintain an online presence in bite-sized nuggets of one hundred and forty characters. Bloggers naturally gravitated to it. The format was well suited to those who approached blogging as diarists. Rather than develop ideas and stories by crafting paragraphs, they could now narrate their lives in real time. For those who enjoyed the attention to be gained from maintaining online personae, Twitter provided the narcotic of immediate gratification. Tweets allowed constant reassurances of one’s own fabulousness.

Still, in most hands, Twitter seemed irretrievably banal. Followers of sex bloggers now found themselves enmeshed in the minutia of daily lives. From morning coffee through mid-morning paperwork to late afternoon ennui to television viewing to a final “goodnight, tweeps,” nothing seemed too minor or too personal for public consumption. I’m bored. I’m horny. I love these shoes. My stomach hurts. I’m crossing Third Avenue and I can’t find a cab. There were bloggers whose disclosures allowed the charting of every meal, every irritant, every bowel movement. Readers once entertained or informed by sex bloggers now found their eyes glazed at the evaporated boundaries of personal revelation and the apparent loss of meaningful texts.

Yet given a new print medium, worthy narratives will inevitably emerge. So it was with the romance of Lyle and Susan.

As the Pacific Coast woke each day, Lyle and Susan were among the sex bloggers who would pipe into a morning already underway for their cohorts to the east. Gradually they took note of one another, Lyle giving a gentlemanly nod to Susan, Susan replying with tongue-in-cheek flirtation. After some light banter, Lyle would head to his job with Susan’s affectionate peck on his cheek. Their interactions became a part of my own routine, like a radio talk show playing the background as I worked.

Soon, things began to heat up between them. Susan would sign on, alluding to too little sleep following long conversations with Lyle. Lyle would sign on with ardent greetings to the woman he now referred to as his darling. Inquiring readers soon learned of late-night webcam sessions, exposed flesh and feverish desires. With the blessings of their respective spouses, Lyle and Susan began to plan a meeting in real life in which their long-distance online affair would be consummated in the flesh.

If Twitter was primarily devoted to documenting nothing, here it had fostered the creation of something real—Twitter had made lovers of two strangers. And in doing so before an enraptured audience, Twitter had provided optimism and excitement in the form of a real-life soap opera. People who would never meet Lyle or Susan came to care about them.

I was among the many who wished them well. I’m a sucker for romance and there was no question of genuine affection between my online friends. Certainly, I could relate to the passions they felt, as I had been in their situation. I had met friends and lovers, and even fallen in love, through instant messages and webcams. I knew the joy that online romances can bring to real life.

Several years ago, I received an email from a reader then in college in the Midwest. She was funny and engaging and, as it happened, we got along famously. In time, she came to visit me in New York. Anna Smash and I became lovers.

Anna started a blog in which she wrote about our friendship and romance, among other aspects of her life. I decided not to write about Anna in my own blog, preferring to keep our relationship private. She visited now and then and as I introduced her to my friends, many remarked on the bond between us. “Well, yeah,” Anna would say. “I’m totally smitten with Jefferson.”

“I’ve got an absolute Smash Crush,” I would sheepishly admit.

Over the years, Anna and I have had I-don’t-know-how-many threesomes. I arrange orgies for some of her visits and preserve intimacy for others. Our shared curiosity about BDSM grew together and we’ve established a great trust in that; so much so that when she became deeply involved with her boyfriend, she wanted him to learn to be her dominant by being together with us.

Anna and I keep in touch when we’re apart, as friends do, and we look after one another. She knew I was stressed about my custody case and she was going through a rough patch with her boyfriend. She came for a visit and for several days, we locked the doors to the rest of the world. We talked, laughed, made love and took care of each other. On the day she left, we both felt sated and content.

Later, she called me from the airport. “Everything is screwed up,” she said. “I’m not going to make my flight. I should’ve left earlier, maybe made a different flight, but as it is, baby, I’m stuck here for a few days.” I told her to come back home.

While I waited, I signed online. Everything in and out of New York was delayed due to weather. Checking Twitter, I saw a message from Susan. “New Yorkers, can you help? Lyle is trapped at the airport until tomorrow.”

I sent Susan a note. “Everything is socked in. Can I help?”

Susan was quick to reply. Lyle was stuck on a layover on his way to Florida and needed a place to stay overnight. “I’m running an orphanage for waylaid travelers,” I said. “If Lyle needs a roof overhead, send him my way.” Susan conveyed the message. I spoke with Lyle, explaining that my friend Anna was also delayed and heading back to my place. “I’m sorry you’re in a bind, but I’m glad to meet you no matter the circumstances,” I said. “Come on over. I’ll buy you a drink.”

Lyle was the first to arrive, about an hour later. He smiled when I opened the door, holding a wet hat in one hand and extending the other. “You just rescued me from Third World conditions,” he smiled.

“Glad to do it,” I replied, taking his hand. “Come in and let’s get you settled.” Lyle picked up his bag and I showed him to a room. He changed into dry clothes as I poured us two bourbons.

As we got acquainted, I told Lyle a bit about Anna, explaining that she was also a sex blogger and we had originally met online, like him and Susan. The mention of Susan lit up Lyle’s face. “Jefferson, it’s like nothing I’ve felt,” he said. “I love my wife, and I’ve talked with her about this. I love my wife and I would do anything for her. But this thing with Susan, it’s like . . .” he paused, searching for words.

“It’s lust, buddy,” I suggested. “It’s lust caught up in love and it’s for someone you know so well and you’ve never even met.”

Lyle laughed. “That’s exactly right. And that makes no sense, does it?”

“Maybe not.” I lifted my glass. “But cheers. I’ve been there myself.” We drank to love and continued talking until interrupted by Anna’s arrival.

She looked forlorn. “I’m so sorry, baby. I hate that I’m imposing.”

“No, no.” I kissed her forehead. “I’m glad we get more time together. Listen, my friend Lyle is also trapped in town tonight. Come in—let me introduce you and then I’ll set you up with a drink.”

I ushered Anna inside. Lyle stood to shake her hand. Anna was clearly impressed by the gentlemanly butch cowboy in my living room and sat to compare traveler’s tales of woe. I fixed Anna’s drink and refreshed our own. In no time, we were deep in conversation about love, online romance and sex blogs. Anna mentioned in passing that her socks were wet and began to take them off. “My pants are drenched from the knees down,” she added. “Do you guys mind if . . . ?”

“No, not at all,” Lyle grinned.

“No one’s going to stop you from taking off your pants, baby,” I assured her.

As Anna pulled down her jeans, Lyle noticed bruises on her thighs. “Whoa, what happened to you?” he asked.

“Oh, well, Jefferson happened to me,” she laughed. “That would be from the paddle.” Lyle looked at me. I shrugged. “And this,” Anna said, turning. “This would be from the caning.”

Lyle leaned forward to look more closely. He let out a slight whistle. “You’ve got a mean arm, Jefferson,” he said.

“I can’t help it,” I said. “I’ve got a fierce Smash Crush.” I motioned for Anna. “Come here, honey, and sit on my lap.” Anna smiled and sat on my lap. She wrapped an arm around my neck and extended her legs toward Lyle. Soon, Lyle was massaging her feet.

Another round of drinks later and I was searching for my strap-on cock. “I don’t really need this all that often,” I apologized, rooting in a cabinet.

“I didn’t know I’d be needing mine,” Lyle apologized, stepping out of his jeans.

Anna reclined nude on the bed, propped on her elbows. Her eyes moved from Lyle to me and back again. “I think I must be the luckiest girl in the world,” she smiled.

I found the harness and handed it to Lyle. “Okay, I can make this work,” he said, adjusting straps. He raised a leg to step into the rig. “It takes some getting used to . . . I do favor my own equipment . . .”

“I’m sure you’ll do just fine,” I encouraged, putting out lube and condoms. “Here, how about I warm her up while you’re getting ready.” I leaned forward to kiss Anna, unzipping my jeans as our lips met. We had been making love all day, after days of making love. Her trip to the airport was just a blip in our routine.

When Lyle was prepared, I pulled back. “You ready for the next up?” I asked.

Anna nodded. “Oh yeah.”

Lyle gave Anna a light kiss as he entered her.

Lyle and I passed Anna back and forth until I needed a rest. I sat back on a pillow, my eyes closing as Lyle fucked Anna to yet another orgasm.

The next morning, there was a knock on my bedroom door. “Good morning,” Lyle smiled, peeking around the door. His breast revealed he was nude. “Breakfast is almost ready. But where do you keep the coffee?”

I raised my head. “Now, that’s sweet, but you don’t have to . . .”

“Don’t get up,” Lyle said. “I’ve got this taken care of. I just need to know where you keep your coffee.”

I dropped my head. “So sweet. It’s in the freezer . . .” I buried my face in Anna’s hair and returned to sleep. She snuggled back against me. The scent of bacon wafted from the kitchen.

Lyle called when breakfast was ready. Anna and I stumbled out and took our places. We woke slowly, eating breakfast nude as Lyle poured our coffee. In time, we were capable of conversation. We sat talking and drinking coffee until it was time for Lyle to leave. We hugged him goodbye. “Thanks so much for letting me stay over, Jefferson,” he said. “That was pretty memorable.”

“Yeah, what I remember of it,” I yawned, sitting back on my bed.

Anna leaned up to kiss Lyle. “Don’t worry, baby. I remember it all.”

Lyle blushed slightly. I offered to show Lyle to the door, but he said he could take care of it. “Good,” I said, tugging Anna’s arm. “Then I’ll take care of this.” I pulled Anna back into bed with me. We were kissing as the front door closed.

Lyle dropped a line to let me know he was safely arrived in Florida. He thanked me again for the hospitality. I repeated that it was a pleasure to meet him. Susan wrote later to reiterate her thanks. I told her I was glad to oblige.

A few days later, Lyle sent me a link to his blog. There was a hot story of a threesome, “inspired,” he wrote, “by our fun night.” Anna had returned home by then, so I forwarded the link to her. It didn’t mention us by name but it was clearly about us. She replied that it was great and said she really liked Lyle.

When Lyle returned home, we traded a few tweets. We didn’t say anything explicit about our night together, but it was evident that we had met in New York. Anyone reading us on Twitter may have followed our exchange.

A few days later, I checked in on the romance of Susan and Lyle. I realized that I could read Susan’s tweets, but not Lyle’s. Assuming that my Twitter feed was messed up, I tried to sign on to Lyle again. It didn’t work. Lyle had blocked me.

I wondered if something had happened. My blog had been discovered—what if something bad had happened to Lyle as well? I checked his blog. It was still in place, though the references to meeting me and Anna had been expunged. Now I was thoroughly confused. I wrote to ask Lyle if he was all right. I had no response.

A month or so later, I got an email from a mutual friend. “I feel like I’ve heard this story from everyone but you,” she wrote. “What happened with you and Lyle?”

Nothing much, I replied. He was stuck at the airport and he stayed at my place. I liked meeting him.

“Wasn’t there a girl there?”

Yes, Anna Smash was here, I replied. Why?

“I heard that you both had sex with her, and that she was a less than willing participant. Is that what happened?”

Anna Smash? Did Lyle think she was less than willing?

“It’s not Lyle. There’s someone else who is telling this story.”

The friend told me who was behind the story. A former girlfriend of mine, a married woman with whom I had a brief affair, had been spreading malicious gossip about me since the end of our relationship. As she has been married for a very long time, ours was her first break up since the nineteen-seventies. She didn’t have much experience in ending things gracefully, so she reverted to the rules of the playground: if you don’t hate him, you can’t be my friend.

Her playground happened to be the Internet. While I was busy in real life, fighting my custody case, she was busy online, dividing sex bloggers into two camps—hers and mine.

At first, she went after bloggers I had long known as friends. Sex blogs were all new to her, as my blog was the first she had read mere months before and, among sex bloggers, she knew only my friends. A complete stranger complaining about your friends will meet with limited success, she found, so she moved on to bloggers I had not met, focusing on those outside New York. Here, she found eager ears, as everyone loves gossip. Even better, not only were these bloggers less likely to know me personally, no one knew her at all. It was virgin turf. She could attack me with impunity.

Lyle found himself in an awkward position. He didn’t know me well. As my ex girlfriend grilled him for information, she turned Lyle’s experience to new conclusions. The girl was bruised? That’s evidence that she was coerced. She was young? She’s been duped. He was probably paying her. He probably brainwashed her. He uses girls like that, girls with no self-esteem. You have to stay away from Jefferson, Lyle. You don’t know how evil he is. Hearing this, Lyle began to wonder: what if his experience was mistaken and my ex girlfriend's assertions were correct?

I told Anna what I had heard. “If Lyle thought I was coerced,” she asked, “Then why did he keep fucking me after you were asleep?” The whole thing got under her skin. Anna wrote Lyle to make it plain. She and I have been friends and lovers for years. Everything that transpires between us is consensual. She is nobody’s dupe. She is very capable of making decisions and she was entirely comfortable having sex with us that night.

Lyle thanked Anna for her note. It really put his mind at ease, he said. After my ex girlfriend learned of our night together, she had been very upset with him. “I thought you were my friend,” she had messaged Lyle. “You can’t be my friend and be friends with that dickhead.” Ever the gentleman, Lyle acquiesced to keep the peace.

Anna told me what Lyle had said. “You know, that’s pretty fucked up,” she added. “He met us in person and he still bought into that online bullshit.”

“People do odd things online,” I replied. “One day, maybe Lyle can talk this out with my ex girlfriend. You know, assuming they ever meet in person.”

I Shot Myself

Blithe

Abby Winters

Clara