The Neck

I dressed, put a book in my coat pocket in anticipation of a long wait at the emergency room, and walked to the hospital.

I was quickly ushered to the admissions desk. There are some benefits to looking freaky.

Within a few minutes, my shirt was removed and a doctor was poking and prodding my neck, asking questions about allergies, dental work, ear infections, recent traumas . . . all answered in the negative.

Another doctor, same questions, interested in my seeing inside my throat. I could barely open my mouth, but aahhhhhhh . . . no infections.

Another doctor, more questions, any history of intravenous drug use, heart disease, blood clots? No, no, and no.

I was certainly getting a lot of attention. In between doctors, I looked at a mirror. In the short time since I had left home, the swelling had increased substantially.

I now looked like a cartoon of a bullfrog holding its breath. A cartoon of a bullfrog as Dizzy Gillespie holding its breath.

The doctors conferred with me. There was some debate. Either I had a clot in my jugular—which would be very rare, and worth study!—or an infected lymph node. Either way, I was being admitted to the hospital for tests. I should expect to be there over the weekend, at least.

It was my weekend to be with the kids, and I had a lot of work to do. But there was no choice in the matter.

I called Lucy. She was worried sick about me. Don’t worry about the kids, she said. Are you going to be okay? Are you scared?

I wasn’t scared, really, and I felt fine. This was just, you know, very weird.

I was hooked to an IV for antibiotics and given a sonogram, an EKG, chest X-rays, a rectal exam and a CAT scan.

Whenever the doctors discussed my case amongst themselves, I was referred to as “the neck.” I wondered if this might become my new nickname, like a gangster—Jefferson the Neck.

By the time I was wheeled to a bed, it was too late for Lucy or the kids to visit. I got acquainted with my roommate, a gentle recovering junkie with one tooth and a bad limp.

My mother called, ready to hop on a plane to sit beside my bed. I’m fine, I reassured her. I just look strange. I’ll be out of here after the weekend. Mom talked, for over an hour, about relatives who have had infections at various times in the past.

I called the kids and Lucy to check in, and turned off the cell to save the charge. I found Easy Rider on television, and settled in to watch the last hour or so. I adjusted my arm to accommodate my IV, wondering how I would sleep with that needle in me.

Remember the redneck at the end of Easy Rider, the one who shoots Dennis Hopper and Peter Fonda? I had forgotten this, but he had a kiwi-sized goiter on the side of his neck.

Lucky bastard, I thought, fingering my lump. Yours is so small.

Freak

Last Thursday morning, I awoke with a stiff neck. Must have slept on it crooked, I thought. I popped a couple of ibuprofen and went on with my day.

That night, after a domestic evening of homework, laundry and dinner with the kids, I was online with Dacia and complaining of a sore throat. There’s something going around, she pointed out. No surprise you picked it up, slut.

I turned in to bed sometime around one.

I awoke at six with a brutal sore throat and a fever. Bad day for this, I thought, as I lay sweating in the sheets. I had to get the kids to school, and Jason had a high school admissions test in a couple of hours.

Best get up, get the kids to school, and try to get to a doctor before I need to pick them up again after school. I stumbled to the bathroom. That’s when I saw it.

The right side of my neck was bloated to several times its normal size. I looked like a bullfrog holding its breath.

I felt queasy, and sat on the toilet, waiting to see if I would vomit. I rested my head on the side of the tub. That felt cool. Okay, I’m not sick. I just look weird.

I examined my neck in the mirror. I had never seen anything like that, but I felt all right—I could still get the kids to school. But what if I was nauseous again? Would I throw up in the cab, all over the children?

I called Lucy. She agreed to pick up the kids. She was worried: I’m never sick, and certainly never so sick that I am unable to take the kids to school.

I woke the kids, making note that, yes, Dad looks a little odd today because he’s sick, but Mom would be here soon to take them to school. I would go to the doctor and I would be fine, and say, be sure to wear a sweater, it’s cold out there!

“Whoa, your neck is freaky,” Jason exclaimed, his eyes fixed on me.

“Dad, I’m scared about it,” Collie whined, in his faux crybaby voice. Lillie sucked her thumb as I dressed her.

“I know, it is strange,” I said, calmly buttoning Lillie’s pants. “But I will go to the doctor and get medicine so it will get better.”

The kids were dressed and breakfasted when Lucy arrived. She blanched when she saw me. Forget the doctor, she told me. Get your coat and go to the emergency room.

That seemed like an overreaction, but I agreed to do it. I kind of had to—I couldn’t shake my head to disagree.

Lucy took the kids to school. I took a shower before going to the hospital. As the water streamed over my head, it cascaded around the neck that had so become so suddenly engorged overnight, in just a few hours.

I thought: please don’t let this be about my heart or about sex.

It Isn't the Carpet

Dear Jefferson,

We have received noise complaints from residents near your apartment. In order to respond to the complaints, I will need to inspect your apartment to ensure that you have the proper amount of carpeting. Please contact me at the office to arrange for the inspection.

Thank you in advance for your cooperation.

Sincerely,

Roger Manly
Manager

Look Around

In the living room, I met Thomas’s date for the night, who had just arrived. Veronica was a pretty, light-skinned young black woman, with her hair in ringlets and a bright smile. She was wearing a corset that set off her hips and full bust.

Thomas and I also knew she was packing a nice cock.

Thomas has been a regular at my gatherings for over a year. He is a slender blonde fellow, 26, handsome and very funny. With his smooth skin and boyish face, he could easily pass for a teenager.

The girls all go for him, but he does have this annoying tick: he eventually winds up insisting to anyone who will listen that he is not really bi. He’s straight. He just happens to like playing with our gang.

We’ve all seen Thomas suck cock. He’s sucked me and all the boys. We’ve all sucked Thomas. And yet he sticks to his guns on this—despite the fact that we are all bi, and we like it that he’s bi.

It doesn’t bug me much, really, but it is the kind of thing that makes Dacia and Jane nuts.

“He’s just internalizing his own biphobia,” Jane huffs.

“It’s stupid and it makes me want to hit him,” Dacia concurs.

Still, Thomas freely admits that he is an aficionado for the she-males. He adores those chicks with dicks. At this party, at long last, he had his latest on his arm, and he was proud to show her off.

Veronica stripped to her corset and panties, and Thomas undressed. As they went back to one bedroom, Scarlet came from another and joined me on the couch. You doing okay, I asked?

Oh yes, she sighed. She had just had her first orgasm from “just fucking.” She had explained before how it was usually some combination of two or more things—fucking and nipple play, or fucking while she played with her clit—that got her off. Jake had relentlessly taken her over, and it had worked.

We were talking when Jake plopped himself next to us, his cock still hard. Like a hound on her trail, Scarlet was sucking him again.

“Hang on,” I said. “You can’t just suck one cock with so many around.” I gathered John, Thomas and Michael nearby. “Here you go, Scarlet, make the rounds.” She crinkled her brow, and then set to her task, moving from one to another, sucking each in turn.

I told her she needed to pick one as the next boy to fuck her.

“Hmmmm,” she pondered. “Well, I’ve never been with a black guy, so I guess its Michael.” He offered his hand, and she followed him to the bedroom.

I wondered if she did the right thing, picking such a big dick after having just had one, but that’s her choice.

Michael fell back on the bed, and Scarlet went back to sucking him. Jake joined her, the two of them trading Michael’s cock between their mouths. Michael made them stop, saying he wanted to fuck Scarlet before they made him come.

I wound up at the head of the bed, with Scarlet blowing me as Michael fucked her. He came instantly.

Scarlet kept her mouth on me, as the bed filled with boys. John sat to my left, wanking as he watched me and Scarlet. Randy, who was now nude and sucking Mark nicely, pushed on Mark back to the bed, next to my legs. Veronica sat on the edge of the bed, her back to me, as Thomas sucked her.

I pulled Scarlet up and whispered in her ears, “Look around you.” Her eyes were closed as she fell into kissing me. Mark took her place sucking my cock. “Look around you,” I repeated. Scarlet glanced around and returned to kissing me.

Her mouth, once started, takes over. I enjoyed it. I held her close.

Veronica turned and rubbed her hands on Mark’s hairy, tightly muscled chest. He touched her face. Veronica was on top of him, thrusting with her cock.

I think it was about this time that Scarlet first noticed Veronica’s cock—just before it vanished into Mark’s ass.

Later, as Todd fucked Scarlet, I found Veronica riding Thomas’s face, slow and steady. He had his hands on her soft hips, feeding himself on her cock. Thomas was hard, his cock stiff upright, his hands unable to reach it.

I took it in my mouth. He came in no time.

As the party ended, I put Veronica’s coat on her shoulders. She gave me her number, saying she would be back.

I put out candles and turned off the music. I put fresh sheets on my bed. John and Randy were talking in another bed. Scarlet was nude and huddled on the couch.

“Come on, baby,” I took her arms. “Time for bed.”

Hold Back

“I think you took care of the ‘convent’ problem we’ve had,” Raven told me, referring to the preponderance of women at the last two gatherings.

“Welcome to the monastery,” I said.

We made one last effort to call in a few women. Raven worked her phone, and I worked mine, but there comes a time when you dive in with the crowd you have assembled. We poured wine and staked out positions in opposite corners to talk with our friends.

I sat between Randy and Scarlet. She smiled at me, a little nervous. I held her hand.

As the crowd mingled, Scarlet and Jake talked. They had been flirting online since the last gathering, in anticipation of this encounter. They disappeared into a bedroom. I stage whispered to those nearby that they had been plotting for tonight. A few boys ducked back to bear witness.

Raven and Bugs were drawn into a tête-à-tête with Bug’s beau. Todd, Mark and Michael were chatting.

I dimmed the lights, and turned up the music. I went back to check on things.

Jake was nude and stretched out on a bed, his arms behind his head. Scarlet had undressed and sat crouched on his thighs, and was tying back her hair. I ditched my clothes and sat beside them.

“That’s bigger than I remember, even,” Scarlet smiled, referring to Jake’s cock. Good luck, I said, tucking a stray hair behind her ear as she set to sucking him. Thomas and John stood nearby, hard and stroking. Jake looked down his body to watch Scarlet’s mouth on him.

He had heard me extol her skillful mouth.

Across the room, I saw Randy sitting fully dressed, sipping bourbon as Bugs and her boyfriend humped next to him.

Raven joined us on the bed, already nude and ready to play. She greeted me with a smile and started sucking my cock. Michael was hard and stroking behind her, fingering her slit. She lifted her ass to his hand.

I was on my knees, enjoying Raven’s sensuous mouth, as she twisted her body around to get fucked by Michael. I leaned back, an arm resting on Jake’s massive chest as Scarlet blew him.

I pulled Scarlet forward to kiss me. Jake turned her over, and moved his face between her legs. I kissed her as he went down on her, twisting my body to keep my cock in Raven’s mouth.

Zach stood at the door to the bedroom to catch my eye and wave goodbye. I wasn’t sure if he had seen enough, or just freaked out a bit. But I was too deep in this tangle to check up on him. I nodded back in his direction.

Jake soon sat up. “Suck me, make me hard,” he told Scarlet. “And I'll fuck you.” It was tough to imagine him getting harder, but she went at it. He slipped on a condom and fucked, hard and fierce, his preferred tempo.

Bugs stood behind Raven, rubbing her back and ass, as her boyfriend rubbed her own. Bugs arched her back and her boyfriend was in her again.

Raven’s taunt orgasm shot Michael out of her like a bullet.

I noticed John wanking, and motioned for him to stand beside me. “Raven, as much as I enjoy your mouth, I want you to meet John.” She looked up and I held his massive cock to her mouth.

“Hello, John,” she smiled, taking him into her. He moaned—that boy needed his dick sucked.

I stood on the bed and stepped over Scarlet to join Randy on the opposite side of the room. With so many boys, I elected to sit tight and observe in favor of the “family hold back” rule until the guests had their fill.

John moaned as he came on Raven. Michael was there to fill her mouth as John pulled out.

Jake’s body completely covered Scarlet. Only her legs emerged from the side of his thighs, as she panted and grunted into the room. Jake was in full locomotive mode, a ceaseless rhythm of pounding on her. I could hear in her familiar breaths that he was finding her beat.

Bugs buried her face between Raven’s legs, as Jake flipped Scarlet so that she was now on top of him. He pushed up into her, bucking her body with his hips.

I watched as Raven and Bugs kissed and fondled. “Nice lesbian scene, Raven,” I teased. “Not enough cocks around here for you?”

“What can I say?” she shrugged. “I do what I do.”

In time, I wanted to kiss Scarlet. I crossed the room and pulled her face off of Jake’s mouth. Her eyes were like slits, her cheeks red and streaked with hair. I untied her hair and pulled it back, tying it again. I kissed her mouth as Jake fucked her. I gave her mouth back to him, as he held her tight and pounded up into her.

“I was sure you were going to fuck her face,” whispered Randy, as I passed by him.

“I just couldn’t,” I said, looking back. “Her face inspired something like . . . awe.”

All the Young Dudes

“I cast a party the way I cast a movie.”

That’s what Orson Welles famously said years ago, as a former bou genius shilling wine on television.

Casting a sex party takes attention to detail. The host needs to know about the people who are attending, and think about their balance of preferences, as well as existing and possible interpersonal connections.

I make things a bit more challenging at my gatherings, in that I am open to people who are new to bi and group sex, whose may have trepidations about diving in.

I also don’t insist on a “couples only” rule for attendance. That regulation tends to make some things easier, as couples tend to anticipate their own limitations and expectations –or so we hope—and if one of them can’t come, neither does, thus maintaining a measure of gender balance.

But as it turns out, a lot of my friends are single. They like to play on their own. I’m single too, so I am cool with that. We are all friends and all bi, so we can play a bit loose and free with gender balance. We always make it work.

The last two parties had been very gender balanced, perhaps weighted to more women than men. And this, in the view of newbie Dacia and old-hand Raven, had meant less boy-on-boy action than they might like. I agreed; we needed to tilt it more towards boys at the next get together.

A good measure, as Jane points out, is when you have about three guys for every two women. That way, the girls can play together when the boys play; there are plenty of boys to go around for the girls when they want ‘em; and the boys never feel obliged to wait a “turn” for the next available girl.

At least these are good guidelines with our gang.

Preparing for this evening, I took stock of the following.

Scarlet was ready to strike out on her own and try a few of the boys she had observed at the previous gathering. “Don’t feel like you have to baby sit me,” she said. “I’ll be fine.”

Yes . . . well. She was game, but this was only her second orgy ever.

She is my sweet thing, and I wanted to look out for her. Plus we would have spent the day in bed together, which is a lot of sex before a gathering.

But I agreed: she was ready to take off on her own a bit. I could be sure all her preferred boys were there—Jake and Todd, especially—adding Zach as an appetizer. But I would be sure to keep things gender balanced. Sweet Scarlet wasn’t poised for a gang bang, after all.

There was a chance that Jake was bringing a new girlfriend of his. There was a chance that Nadia was coming, though inclement weather might discount her. Experience has taught me not to bank on untested talent anyway, so these possibilities were neither here nor there in the final tally.

Marla and Raven were coming. So were our main stags, Mark and Thomas. Mark is bi and vers, and everyone’s fav . . . Thomas thought he might bring a girl, so . . . better throw an extra boy on the bar-be-que.

Bugs had been saying she would bring her boyfriend to the last few gatherings, but so far he was a no-show. I could count on her, but not him.

Dacia was coming, but her boyfriend Dirck was not. Instead, Dacia was bringing her girlfriend Gracie. So I was ahead one girl—maybe two—and down one boy, so I needed to add two boys.

I declined to invite Todd’s friend Michael. He was very cool, but I had to consider those with prior claims. I invited my bi pal Randy, who had never been to an orgy but was keen to observe and maybe participate. That fits my inclination to give an opportunity to a deserving newbie.

I also invited John, who had done so well at my all male gang bang. Scarlet would like him, as a fellow musician with a big dick. We do well with the monster cocks, so he would be fine.

In the hours before the gathering, as Scarlet and I relaxed, having sex and initiating Zach, it was all settled. Or so I thought.

As the evening approached, I checked my messages and emails.

Marla would be late and might need to leave early, due to business obligations. There was a chance she wouldn’t come at all.

Dacia was sick. As she couldn’t come, Gracie would wait until next time.

Jake’s girl cancelled, but he would be here. Nothing from Nadia.

Then all the boys began to show up. Todd showed up and sure enough, he had invited Michael without checking with me. Bugs came, and of course her boyfriend joined her this time.

A few missing women, and no absences among the men.

Three women, about nine men.

Languid

Having stayed an extra day, Rachel was ready to return home on Tuesday morning. The extra day together did us both good. We visited the Museum of Modern Art, shopped for books, and I made dinner. We chilled and talked.

Scarlet planned to come up on Tuesday afternoon to spend time together before taking in that evening’s orgy. When she learned that I would be taking Rachel to Penn Station at nine that morning, she offered to take an early train so she could spare me two trips to the station in one day.

It’s really no bother, I protested. That plan requires you to take a very early train, and you will have worked until midnight the night before.

Never mind that, she said. I can sleep on the train and crawl into your cozy bed for a nap.

So on Tuesday, having kissed Rachel goodbye and put her on a bus, I walked into the station to kiss Scarlet hello ten minutes later.

She was very drowsy. When we arrived at my place, I told her to undress and get under the covers. I stripped and cuddled next to her. I kissed her check and touched her skin for a while, then held her close as she drifted off.

I must have fallen asleep as well, for a few minutes. I woke, slipped on some pajamas, and made coffee. I worked while my sweet Scarlet slept.

I was so hungry for that girl. It pained me to wait, but comforted me to know she was here, and mine for two days.

She padded out of my room after one o’clock, wearing only my t-shirt, her hair in her face. I stood and hugged her, moving aside the strands of hair. I held her close. I was hard. She embraced me, slipping her hands into my pajamas to feel my ass.

I took her hand and led her back to my room. “You were the last woman I took to bed in 2004,” I said, “and you will be the first of 2005.”

As for Scarlet, she had enjoyed a threesome at sunrise on New Year’s Day, with a boy and a girl, her good friends. But she was kind enough to say, “You will be the first good long fuck I’ve had in 2005.”

We kissed, as I removed the t-shirt so I could feel her body against me. We lay in bed, me firm on top of her, kissing her mouth, pressing our bodies against one another. My body pressed to be as close to her as possible. My cock was so swollen, my nipples aching, my mouth swallowing hers.

I sat back and rubbed my cock against her slit, which was getting wet.

I had not been able to eat my baby’s sweet pussy last week. Now it was mine.

I buried my head on her, my mouth wide, my tongue flicking her clit. I took luxurious laps of her cunt, tasting her, swallowing her. My hands roamed her body, finding her hips and holding them strong and firm, pushing her into my mouth.

I was starved and she was my meat. I ate her like a lion devouring a zebra—ravenous at first, then slowing to enjoy the savory juices. I hit a langorous pace, as she squirmed and moved to my tongue. This might last all day.

No. Now that my mouth had had some satisfaction, my cock needed to be fed. “Don’t move,” I directed. “I’m going to fuck you.” I found a condom and was soon in her, deep immediately. She moaned.

I kept it deep and firm, then started to move faster.

I pulled out, grabbed a leg and turned her body. I grabbed her hips and pulled them to the side of the bed. I pushed her legs back, and pushed my cock into her. My arms were extended, and I was on my toes. Only my cock touched her body, deep, then out, deep, then out, fast.

“I want you to cum,” she said. I refused. She’s not taking the coward’s way out of this fucking.

Her legs gave way eventually, and we stopped. We kissed and held on another in various configurations, putting my cock in her when it seemed to work.

“You are so comfortable,” she said.

“I can’t stop touching you,” I confessed.

I needed to feed her, though. It was after three. I slowly, painfully peeled myself off her. I made her fried chicken, mashed potatoes and carrots.

I had to prepare for the evening’s orgy, which meant a few errands and some house cleaning. When she finished supper, I made her get dressed to join me fro an outing.

She complained that she hated to wear clothes. It did feel depressing to get dressed.

As she stood to dress, sunlight caught her through the window. My mind flashed to Botticelli’s Venus. Similar body type. And they made Venus cover up too.

As I put on my shoes, she sat in my lap to kiss me. “I still need to tie you up today,” I mumbled into her mouth.

“Mmm hmmm.”

I had a thought. “You want to do a threesome before the orgy?”

She looked up. “Who do you have in mind?”

I was thinking of Zach. He had responded to an ad about our parties long ago. He had never been to one and while he had been with multiple women, he had never been with a man and a woman. He was bi curious, and confessed that he had been fucked by a girl with a strap on and creamed for it.

He is also a Renaissance-looking fellow, a long-haired surfer with a lean killer body. Kind of a Saint Sebastian, to complete the Botticelli set.

He was slated to join the orgy tonight, but was wary and intimidated by the prospect. If only, he said, we could try something with a girl first, just the three of us. What better opportunity?

I described him to Scarlet. “How about Zach and I tie you down and use you for a while?” She liked that idea. I contacted Zach and told him to meet us after six.

We went to the grocery store, where we kissed among the vegetables and frozen foods. Returning home, I left her to relax while I set up for the party.

I did all I could manage, considering how I wanted her. I told her I couldn’t wait for Zach, I needed her naked now.

She pushed me onto the bed, and climbed on top of me. She kissed me, her hair falling on my face. My hands went to her nipples. I was panting.

“Please, please . . . take off your clothes,” I begged. “I need your skin.” Her clothes were gone, mine were gone. She rocked her body back and forth as she hovered above me, kissing me, pushing her pussy against the head of my cock. “The condom, “ I pleaded. “Now.”

She put it on and I slid in her. Waves of relaxation passed over me.

I pushed up into her, holding her hips. My mouth found her nipple and bit, hard. Her hair tickled my face.

My finger massaged her anus, and was in her. She gasped and fucked me harder. Two fingers, fucking her slow while she fucked my cock fast.

“Baby,” I breathed, “I need to fuck your ass.” I had played with her ass last time, and promised this for our next meeting.

“If you must,” she panted, fucking me.

“You need to stop so I can do this.”

“Okay,” she said, fucking me. I rolled her off me. I switched condoms and lubed up.

“How . . . ?”

“On your knees,” I directed.

She lifted her ass, burying her face in a pillow. I roughly knocked her knees apart, wider.

“Be gentle . . .”

“I will. At first.” I lubed her, and gave her fingers she was enjoying. Then replaced that with the head of my cock.

Unnnh!

My hands held her back. Her skin grew cold, and her flesh was covered in goose bumps.

I pushed slowly but firmly, holding her hips steady. I felt my cock pass that first barrier, as she wailed. I knew the worst was over, and pushed in all the way.

“Tell me how you feel.”

“I feel like I have a huge dick up my ass,” she grunted. I left it there, slowly fucking now and then. My hand reached around to massage her clit.

My cell rang. “Get my phone,” I said. She looked up, and handed it back to me. It was Zach.

“Hello?”

“Hey man, it’s Zach. I’ll be there in like twenty minutes, okay?”

“Great. See you then.”

I put the phone down. “That was Zach,” I said. “He will be here . . .”

“I heard!” she shouted into a pillow.

“Twenty minutes,” I mused. “Not a long time, but it can seem like a long time.” I pushed in and out of her ass, as she wriggled. “My dick will be in you for the next twenty minutes. You want it in your ass, or your pussy?”

“My pussy, please!”

I slipped out slowly. She grunted involuntarily. I left the room to wash up.

I came to find her sprawled on her back, her arms akimbo, legs spread wide. “You okay?” I asked, putting on a condom. “Tell me what you feel.”

“I feel so fucked.”

“Good, baby,” I said, crawling over her body, lowering onto her, kissing her. I was in her, slow, just resting in her body. “Though you do have a big night ahead of you. Are you going to fuck my friends?”

“Yes.”

“Are you going to fuck Zach?”

“Yes.”

“Are you going to fuck Jake?”

“Yes.”

“I know you like to fuck Todd.”

“Hmmm, yes.”

“So slutty.” I kissed her.

Zach rang up from downstairs. We had the duration of an elevator ride to get dressed. She put on my pajamas, I wore jeans. She opened the door to greet Zach. This was their first meeting.

I poured some wine and we sat on the couch talking. Gosh, I thought, I am a good matchmaker. The each made sly eye expressions to me, signaling that each found the other hot. They talked about all kinds of hippy stuff I don’t know, about bands and music festivals. They kidded each another about the other’s tastes.

I sat on Scarlet’s lap, and reached a hand under her shirt to fondle a nipple.

She remembers. “It sucks to be in clothes,” she said.

“Let’s undress,” I suggest. “In the bedroom.”

We go to my room, Zach and Scarlet talking as we undressed, as I lit candles. I undressed and sat next to my Scarlet. Zach lounged at our feet, relaxed, gorgeous nude.

It was already after eight, when my guests were to arrive. I heard a knock. I went to the door and it was John. I ushered him back the bedroom and made introductions.

“We’re just naked,” Scarlet pointed out.

“Very nice,” John replied. “Should I undress too?”

“People are usually clothed when the party starts,” I observed. Scarlet suggested we dress again.

We sat in the living room, listening to music. Jake arrived, followed by Thomas, then Todd, and Mark, and Randy.

I had a room full of boys and Scarlet.

I had a situation.

Loose Ends

There are some significant loose ends.

First, I have felt that I should talk with my ex Lucy about the sex we had over Christmas, about how well we got along, and about her stoned inquiry about getting back together.

Lucy sees no need to talk, as all of that was just something that happened. We have been getting along fine since then.

Today she called to say she is comfortable with our final divorce agreement, which is still in process.

I suppose, then, that we have had this conversation without having it.

Second, there is May’s haywire break up with me—via instant messages. I let that go for a day or so, then sent this note:

I’m still bewildered by the “let’s break up” instant messages you sent.

I’m going to put aside my option to be angry about that (never mind what Emily Post may say about breaking up via answering machines or instant messages . . . )

I know you have been sick and under a lot of stress about the possibility of moving to California. I know you are trying to settle the books, emotionally and more, so that you can be free and clear if and when you move.

I also know that I have zero tolerance for relationship drama. I don’t have the time, energy or patience for a break up/make up scene. That’s just the stuff of childish tantrums, and I don’t do tantrums with anyone over four feet tall.

So if you really want to “break up,” we can do that. Or we can also just give it time.

You need to figure out your life. I am unwilling to be the deciding factor about California. If that job is what you think it is, and you will be making good money, then I will not be the reason you turned it down.

God knows I need to focus on my work. For now, I think my free weekends really are best used to get things done. Not to mention that I am very focused on my relationship with Rachel; if I can give her time, I want to.

So for now, I will take your offer of a “break up.” Or a hiatus, or whatever.

Let’s take a breath. You get your shit together, I will work on mine.

Love,
J

She called soon after I sent this note, and left a message saying she wanted to talk. I’m not ready for that.

Bonus

Rachel awoke not long after my exchange of instant messages with May.

Yesterday, Lucy took Rachel to a movie for her last afternoon in New York. On the sly, the kids and I shopped for gifts for Rachel’s birthday.

Having recently had such a fine pseudo-birthday experience at my preferred Indian restaurant, I suggested we go there for a family dinner in honor of Rachel’s seventeenth.

Rachel had not been there, and she got a kick out of the light-encrusted atmosphere. Lucy was in good spirits, and we got along swimmingly—each doing our utmost as we swam in Kingfisher beer.

The kids fawned on Rachel, jockeying for seats next to her. The waiters gave Rachel the full Bollywood “happy birthday” treatment, to her great embarrassment and pleasure. Collie and I set that up that surprise in secret; he is a superb co-conspirator.

It was hard on Collie and Lillie when we ended the evening. They had to go home with their mom and Jason, and resume school the next morning. They were in tears as we said good night.

Rachel came back to my place for one last night before she headed home. She called her mom to make plans for her return. She hung up and came to me crying, saying she wasn’t ready to go home. Could she stay another night or two?

I was surprised by her tears. Of course, I said, if it’s okay with your mom. This is your home too. I called her mother, who was equally bewildered by Rachel’s sadness. We agreed it was fine for her to stay.

Rachel put her head on my lap, and I rubbed her back. “I’m sorry, I think I pulled a Collie,” she said, referring to his sadness about returning to “real” life. “I don’t know why I was so sad, but I’m just not ready to leave.”

It was a very busy and emotional weekend, I said. And it all happened so fast. You may just need time to decompress.

We hung out until all hours, and discovered a marathon “Battle for Ozzfest” on MTV.

Rachel spent several late-night hours on the phone with her boyfriend, so she was thinking about communication when she woke up.

“Did you hear back from May?” she asked, as I brewed coffee. She knew things were rough with us this month, and that I had not heard back from my phone message the day before.

I told her that May had just broken up with me via instant messages.

“Dad, that’s messed up.” She thought a moment. “You need to hook up with Samantha. She is hot, and she’s tall—like Daryl Hannah.”

About that time, I got a text message from May:

“We need 2 talk when we aren’t angry.”

I wasn’t angry. I replied:

“I’m busy with Rachel today. I don’t have time for break up/make up bullshit.”

The phone rang immediately. It was May. I ignored it.

Rachel was eating a bowl of Frosted Mini-Wheats. “Any idea what you want to do today, Rachel?”

“Is the new Museum of Modern Art cool?” she asked.

“Let’s find out,” I suggested.

May Says

An exchange of instant messages, from this morning:

He: Happy New Year!

She: Ditto.
She: Thanks for the message yesterday.
She: I hadn't heard from you in six days.
She: I thought that was that.

He: Oh please.
He: Not a chance.

She: Your behavior stinks.

He: Yours ain't so hot either.

She: I suppose that's not an apology.

He: Hardly!

She: I have never been this sick and not in the hospital. I expected that you'd call to check in on me.

He: I didn’t know you were so sick. How are you?

She: You didn't even call.
She: And I should just forget about that behavior?
She: How about an apology?

He: I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.
He: Take three.

She: You are a SOB.

He: What is the health issue?

She: Oh, now you care.

He: What is the ailment?

She: I had a throat infection, swollen tonsils, high fever and fainting.

He: Yikes! Did they put you on antibiotics?

She: Yes but it's still not gone. I have some congestion that hasn't gone away. I think its pneumonia.

He: Good grief! But you are writing me from work?

She: Wish you were there for it.
She: Anyway, I don't like how things are between us so let's just call it off.
She: I'm tired of being sad about this.

He: Okay, la la la.

She: What does that mean?

He: It means you are being dramatic and ridiculous, and awfully cavalier.
He: I told you I would be spending the holidays with family, you anticipated it, and so it came to pass. And yet you act like it is a personal affront.

She: Well, I'm done with it. You can have all the free time you need without the weekends you HAVE to spend with me.
She: You deal with me only when you have to see me.
She: Out of sight, out of mind.

He: You can play this scene without me. Sounds like you have rehearsed it enough.

She: You can't have a relationship without the upkeep.

He: You can't have kids without Christmas.

She: I don't have kids; I thought I had a boyfriend.

He: You might have, but apparently you decided to dump him because you can't always get your way.

She: You are always the victim. You play that part well.

He: Good lines, but I'm really not interested in this drama.

She: So that's it.

He: If you want to end things after a year and half because you missed a few weekends, then that's your decision.

She: You insult me with this shit. You don't apologize for your behavior. You think everything is okay.
She: What about the way I feel? That seems to be of no consequence.
She: You never say you miss me because you assume I will just always be there.
She: Well, you should rethink that.

He: Gosh, you spent a lot of time making this straw man, didn't you?

She: I don't need you to belittle me

He: You need to grow up.
He: Your response to my wanting to be with Rachel this past weekend, and my need to be with Jason when he was sick, was incredibly appalling.
He: Selfish, needy, and utterly lacking in perspective.

She: Excuse me. You decided that it wasn't worth the day trip to spend with me that weekend Jason was sick.
She: That was insulting and hurtful.

He: Then you spend the time being miserable about me.
He: And then you want apologies.
He: And THEN you try to break up via instant message.
He: All because I wanted some time alone with my daughter.

She: You have it.
She: And all the other weekends and weeks you need.
She: Why can't you mother know about me?
She: And your family?

He: What does my mother have to do with anything?

She: Why doesn't she know about me? Are you embarrassed?
She: Why doesn't she know about me?

He: Oh brother.

She: Why? Tell me why your family doesn't know about me?
She: Because she might ask how I am?

He: You must know how one-sided this dramatic stuff is.

She: Why don't they know about me?
She: Call me now and let's talk it out.

He: I am not interested in talking with you now.

She: We're finished.
She: You think that I will just show up and everything will be okay.
She: Well, I have no plans to do that.

He: If you want to dump me via instant message because we missed a couple of weekends after a year and a half, then you are way out on a limb by yourself, sawing furiously.

She: We're finished.

He: See ya.

Listen

Rachel and I took it easy following our raucous party the night before. I took her to see Kinsey. This was my third viewing, but a necessary corrective in her education. Her textbooks describe Kinsey as an evil pedophile.

Afterwards, we walked to get a bite, having a conversation about the exhilaration of honesty. Okay, so I brought up the subject, and its importance to Kinsey’s character in the film. But the longing for honesty is a big issue in Rachel’s life as well—there are too few people she can open up to.

“So anyway,” she says, “I lost my virginity last month.”

She told me all about it, in great detail. I won’t blog this, but suffice to say, she created the opportunity and initiated it with her long time boyfriend. I thanked her for sharing. I didn’t pry, but I listened and gave responsible advice. And I listened.

Party

The restaurant is a short walk from Samantha’s loft, in a wooden house tucked under the Williamsburg Bridge. Samantha’s friend has reserved a long table. The ceiling is hidden by white balloons, and a DJ plays danceable music.

We sit and introductions are made. Rachel and I sit close, now and then pulling down balloons and writing on them as a way of passing notes and playing word games.

We strike up a conversation with a fellow who asks how long Rachel and I have been seeing each other. This is a recurring theme of the evening; in this crowd, it is more common to meet couples than fathers and daughters.

The chef brings out platters of meats and cheeses, and cabernet flows. There was never a check. Everyone is getting loose, including Rachel and me.

By the time champagne is poured at midnight, everyone is in high spirits and dancing. Samantha dances with us, and soon I am dancing with Samantha’s friend. She and I find a groove right away, and we lock into it.

Rachel flirted with a young hipster, but it went nowhere. Rachel thinks she blundered in saying that I was her dad. “The gay guy is your dad?” he asked.

By this time, I was dancing with this cute black boy who had been following Rachel and me around all night.

That’s him, Rachel said. “You must be way young,” the boy averred. “Wild.” But he declined to dance with her. Rachel joined my new pal and I on the dance floor.

I am reasonably certain that the boy took my phone number, but Rachel assures me I did not make out with him.

Rachel also caught the eye of a well-dressed Jude Law look-alike, but that ended when another woman walked up and put her tongue in his mouth. “It was very nice to meet you Rachel,” he said, as the interloper lured him away.

Someone decides it’s time to go. Samantha takes us outside and puts us in a cab. “Samantha is so sweet to us,” I say to Rachel.

I say this a few times.

We are home and in bed by four a.m. Happy New Year.

Two Women

Rachel slept until four. When she finally roused herself, I made coffee and we partook of that great ritual of New Year’s Day:

“Please tell me what I did last night.”

After an afternoon of goofing off in the East Village, Marcus and his kids headed home. Lucy retrieved our kids, and Rachel and I were left to our own devices. We had the rest of the weekend together, to celebrate the New Year and her imminent seventeenth birthday.

In planning the weekend, I wanted to find a fun party for New Year’s Eve—preferably artsy, funky and not too crowded—where Rachel could meet cool folks, have a glass of wine, and feel grown up.

But where to find such a cool scene? I am not cool myself, but I have cool friends. High on that list is Samantha. I asked her to find a good party for us, and she came up with a list. We selected a private party at a restaurant in Williamsburg, where Samantha knows the chef.

In describing Samantha to Rachel, I said that if I were going to have an affair during my marriage, it would have been Samantha. Laconic and cerebral, she’s got a magnetism that draws you closer, to hear what she will say next, to ascertain the nuances of her wry wit.

For years, I lived vicariously through her great array of friends and lovers. Several of her friends became my friends, but not her lovers. I was married, of course, and anyway, she tended to regard her lovers as disposable amusements.

When I first met Samantha, she had passed through a lesbian phase; her new favorite pastime was meeting straight boys online who liked to get fucked with a strap on. “Are there many boys like that?” I asked, incredulous.

Rachel and I met Samantha at her loft. She poured us wine as we looked at the new series of paintings she was finishing. She has long worked with sexually charged images of Amazonian women, rendered with highly realist skill. In the new work, the surface depth is flattened so that one is more aware of the abstract interactions of her muted colors.

“Awesome,” Rachel said.

Samantha has seen my other children grow up, but this is the first time she has met Rachel. She has heard me talk about my daughter’s upbringing in a large family in a rural area, my frustration that her mother home schools from fundamentalist text books (Rachel was recently required to write an essay reconciling the truth of creationism with the theory of evolution), and my pride in her independent mind.

“You too look just alike,” Samantha observed. It’s true: if I were young and pretty, I would be Rachel.

I’ve brought a fresh loaf and some Brie. We talk and drink, making short work of the food. Time to hit the party.

Two Daddies

The next morning, Jason returns from his sleepover. Marcus and I breakfast the kids and take them to a few galleries. While I go to pick up Rachel at Penn Station, he takes the kids to a bookstore to burn off some gift certificates they received at Christmas.

I wait around for Rachel, as her bus has been delayed. We smile as she disembarks. We’ve just seen each other at Thanksgiving, but I have really missed her. Now that she is old enough to take the bus, I hope we can continue to see each other this often.

She’s looking forward to seeing Marcus too. He made a great impression when they met on her last trip. He’s funny and flirts with her, and she eats that up. She hasn’t met his kids before. Tonight there will be eight of us sleeping at my place. She’s okay with that, though: she’s got many siblings back home. She can manage a crowd for one night.

We meet Marcus and the kids at a restaurant for a late lunch. We sit at a large round table. After we order, the kids share the books they found, and chat up Rachel. I’m sitting next to Marcus.

We turn a few heads, I notice. I suppose we look like a nice family: lots of kids and two doting dads. Marcus and I joke about getting married and becoming a gay Brady Bunch.

In reality, that just can’t happen, if for no other reason than the restrictions of our respective custody agreements. For the sake of the kids, he needs to live near his ex, and I need to live near mine. We live several states apart.

When I was first single after the break up, a gay friend told me I should give up girls and find a rich husband. He said I was perfect for someone who has built up a career, burned out on the party scene, and is looking to settle down and have a family.

It’s an appealing thought. A nice house, a caring husband . . .

I could certainly do worse than Marcus. He’s charming, funny, sexy and very handsome. We would be the envy of all the boys.

For me, it also helps that he is bi and as slutty as I am. There would be no pretense of monogamy. And forget about giving up women—he would bring them home for us.

Last week, The New York Times ran a summary of words and phrases that have emerged in the American lexicon during the past year. Among these is the phrase “two-parent family.” I suppose this means that single parent families are now so common that one needs to clarify when two parents live together.

I am no fan of being a single parent. It is certainly easier to have Marcus around. Even adding two kids to the mix doesn’t detract from the advantages of having another adult to pitch in.

Over the course of this visit, as we hang out or go to the park, I am aware of how well our parenting styles mesh. He’s a bit more of a disciplinarian than I am, I think, but he’s very reasonable about it. He defers to me on many things, and I defer to him on others. We don’t confuse the kids at all. We are consistent.

Marcus is also good in a crisis.

It was dark as we left the restaurant, and we were a big group. I lag behind to help Collie with his coat. When we catch up to our group at the corner, I notice that Jason and Marcus’s eldest boy are not with them. Marcus and Rachel have just noticed it too.

They vanished. We look in all directions, but there is no sign of them among the crowds.

We strategize. We are close to home and Jason knows the way there. I will walk east, taking the kids home. Marcus will walk south, and meet us at the apartment. We talk calmly so the kids won’t get upset.

Rachel comes with me. Lillie and Marcus’s other son seem unconcerned, but Collie is clearly working hard to be brave. We arrive home—no sign of the boys.

I call Marcus. No luck. By this time, he is in a cab, cruising side streets.

I’m worried. If Jason had headed home, he should have been there before us. Marcus frets about child molesters. I don’t go there.

We get a call. The boys had crossed the street ahead of us, not realizing that we weren’t behind them. Half a block away, they realized they were alone. They did exactly the right thing: they went into a restaurant and called us.

Marcus picked them up and brought them home. We talked with the boys about what had happened. Jason was pretty shaken, and sat on my lap as we talked. I held and soothed him, telling him he did the right thing.

After the kids were settled and back to playing video games, I hugged Marcus. This would have been much scarier without him.

Recidivism

Marcus’s two sons get along well with my kids. They are the same ages as Jason and Collie, and the youngest enjoys playing with Lillie. On the first night of their visit, Jason is spending the night with a friend, so we only have four kids to tend.

They arrive later than expected, having hit a lot of traffic coming into the city. I had planned to cook, but in the interest of time, we order Chinese food. The kids play for a while, then we get them to bed.

Lillie bounces on the bed, excited that Marcus’s boys are here, excited that she is seeing her big sister Rachel tomorrow. She tells Marcus, “Rachel is so cool! She likes playing with little kids. She’s a teenager! She showers every day. And she’s hot! She has a boy friend!”

The kids fall asleep, talking to one another.

Marcus and I stay up for a while, talking and drinking bourbon. We talk regularly, but always have so much to get caught up on. He has just spent several days in Los Angeles, partying with a friend who is a great circuit queen. He always comes back with hair-raising tales of debauchery.

We are beat, and we go bed reasonably early.

I wake to his mouth on my cock. Just like last time: he is nude and sucking me. He knows better; I don’t want to have sex with my kids sleeping nearby. But I gave in for a while on his last visit, so he knows my resolve is weaker than my desires.

He sucks me in deep thrusts. He has become an even better cocksucker in the time since my break up—he has been keeping very busy at it. I watch him devour me, and feel myself deep in him.

I am vigilant for noises, worried about the kids. Marcus has closed and locked the door. I should relax, but I can’t.

I do give myself over to him, though. I am very passive and subdued under his mouth. He can have me.

He moistens two fingers and gently slips them in me. I push myself into his throat.

My brain takes over, and I stop him. That’s all I can take without giving in entirely. I remove his fingers from me. I take his mouth off me.

He understands.

Stage Manager

May calls. I was taken a bit off guard, as I was working and only had a little time for that before Marcus arrived with his kids. Of course, I can’t tell her that: Marcus is on her list of people she doesn’t want to hear me talk about.

She used to adore Marcus. I introduced them, and the three of us talked all the time. We fooled around together on many occasions. He lives close to her, and I encouraged them to hang out.

But, as I’ve said, May gets very possessive when she feels I like someone too much. Never mind that I’ve known Marcus for half my life, and there is no imminent threat that he is going to “take” me from her.

One day last summer, I told her I was going to spend an extra night in her area, after a weekend with her, so I could visit Marcus and his kids. She got angry. If it was possible for me to spend another night away from the city, why wasn’t I spending it with her?

We’re spending three days together, I said. I haven’t seen Marcus or his kids in a couple of months, so we are grilling one night. Why is this a big deal?

It was evidently a big deal. She broke into tears. She asked why I don’t care about her or her feelings. Maybe we should break up, she said.

You want to break up because I’m having dinner with Marcus and his kids?

I’m not naïve. I know that my long relationship with Marcus is also a factor in her anxiety. She knows I have had sex with him, as she has had sex with us both. I’m not hiding any of that. But she also knows that I spend a lot of time with her, and while Marcus is a great friend, we aren’t about to elope.

The whole charade left me feeling emotionally manipulated. The correct response was clearly that all available time should be spent with May, and I should not opt to spend an evening with Marcus’s family at the expense of a fourth day with May.

Needless to say, I had dinner with Marcus and his kids that night. It was relaxing, a welcome respite from May’s meltdown. She called the next day to apologize. Par for the course.

When she called this time, I was still in the “perma-grin” phase of seeing Scarlet and trying to focus on a few things before several days with guests. I was chipper and alert.

The ostensible reason for her call had to do with a car she loaned me. She bought a new car last year, and at the time, I needed a car. She loaned me her old one. I paid for some repairs and got it running. It’s broken again, and I no longer need it, so we need to get rid of it.

She wants to take care of this so it isn’t a lingering concern when she moves to California.

The actual reason for her call was clearly her future. This call offered me another opportunity to beg her not to leave. Her possible job in California is still iffy at best, so there is no real urgency in dealing with the dead car.

May’s voice was heavy and slow. She was very depressed.

I stayed on subject. I tell her that it’s hard for me to take care of the car in the days after Christmas, but I will make a priority of it in January.

She asks for a deadline. I agree to a deadline.

Her tone is unmistakable. She is going through the motions of closing the books, insuring that there are no outstanding obligations when we break up.

We must be breaking up, in her mind, because I decided to spend New Year’s Eve with my daughter rather than her. Once again, I am afforded the opportunity to change my mind about that.

I’d rather not be painted into corners. If she needs to break up with me over that, then that will be the reason we broke up. I’m not begging her forgiveness for my desire to spend time with my daughter.

She asks if I am doing all I can to make money. She begins to offer suggestions on ways to manage my career. I begin to regret having answered the phone.

Part of her attraction to me has to do with my career. She works in the same field, and early on she dreamed that we would become a “power couple.” I was glad that she cared about my work—Lucy did not—and I endured her ideas that she would stage-manage my career.

But her suggestions are generally parochial, and her need to control me is really unpleasant. I tell her I am working, and I don’t want generic career advice at the moment.

I tell her I need to go.

We hang up. I don’t know what she wanted to accomplish with that call, but I am sure she is disappointed.

Girlfriendly

For the second Tuesday in a row, Scarlet came to town to spend the night with me. No orgy on the books, though. Just the two of us.

She is having her period, and the antibiotics she has been prescribed for a minor problem have given her a yeast infection. So there will be no sex.

This is out third date, if the concept of dating has relevance within our relationship. She brings a bunch of movies I haven’t seen, and I plan to take her out for dinner. Dinner, videos and no sex—why, it’s like we are already married.

Well, not quite. In explaining why there would be “no sex,” Scarlet added “just blowjobs, if that’s okay.”

I can accept that.

I felt giddy as I headed to the train station to meet her. I thought about the things I liked about our relationship. The sex, obviously, and getting ever more connected as new lovers.

But also, I liked this. I liked picking her up at the station. I liked kissing her hello. I liked being aroused by the cute way the tips of her ears poke through her shoulder length hair. I liked holding her hand as we walked toward the subway. I liked the way she walked, the turn in her smile, the story she told of her commute.

I liked all that boyfriend/girlfriend stuff.

We both recognize that we have met because she wanted better sex than she was getting in her hometown. We know that our encounters will be far less frequent once her classes resume in a few weeks. We are both vociferously committed to being noncommittal about relationships.

Still, we acknowledge, this feels good. I don’t want a girlfriend, but that doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy caring for someone. I like caring about her, and feeling that she cares about me.

She is very tired, and it is early, so I suggest she take a nap. We have all night to be together. I undress and hold her as she falls asleep in my bed. The feel of her body, and her scent, have me very aroused. I hold her close and breath slowly as she drifts off.

I leave her in bed to slumber, and I get some work done. When she stirs after a hour or so, I hold her, easing her back to waking life. We kiss and our kissing gets heavy. She soon has me undressed and enjoying her active mouth on my cock.

Three hours of making out, including two explosive blowjobs, and I am aching to give her as much pleasure as she so readily gives me. It’s sweet that she is so obliging to get me off, but, as I tell her, I am most thrilled when making her cum.

We watch a movie, and hold each other throughout, kissing frequently. I would sometimes turn to see her looking at me rather than the movie. In my book, that’s an invitation to get kissed.

I kiss her, I bite her bared nipples hard, as she wants, and rub her pussy through her jeans.

She’s frustrated; she really wants to fuck, but can’t. She want to feel our flesh together, but she is not inclined to remove her jeans.

She trusts that we can be nude and I will respect that intercourse is not on the agenda. Her hesitancy comes from being embarrassed by her “issues,” as she describes her period and yeast infection.

I’ve told her that I am not uncomfortable with her menstruation, and she should really do whatever makes her most comfortable. I am very content to hold and kiss her, pants or no pants.

I leave the bedroom for a moment, and when I return, she has fully undressed.

As we kiss, I touch her legs, her thighs, her hips, her ass. I touch her clit. “Is this okay?” I ask. Oh yes, she says. I rub her gently, and her head goes back, her eyes closing, as she relaxes and focuses in ways that are already familiar to me.

My tongue longs for her, but I resist. I retrieve a vibrator and massage her clit. She squirms and smiles in response.

With another vibrator, I move around her labia and to her asshole. I massage with the vibrator and my thumb. She says, “I never thought I’d say this, but I like what you are doing to my butt.”

She has told me that her scant experience with anal sex wasn’t so pleasurable. It was with a boyfriend who had a huge dick and not much interest in foreplay. Anal sex was what he expected as his due when she was on her period.

I put her hand on the vibrator that tickled her clit. That was her responsibility now. I opened her legs, and massaged around her anus, probing gently with my thumb now and then.

She came. Afterwards, she talked about the new kinds of orgasms she was experiencing with me. This had felt different from the orgasms she had when I went down on her, which felt different from those she had when we fucked.

We kissed more, and I was awash in the pleasure of getting her off.

It’s cold out, and I have the makings for dinner. But I am resolved to take her out for Indian food, as she hasn’t had it before. I want to excite her about the city, so she will enjoy it more.

We go to my favorite place on Sixth Street, a block crowded with small Indian restaurants vying for patrons.

This place is packed with diners, cramped in a narrow room drenched in strands of lights. The lights hang from the ceiling in such density that you have to crouch when standing.

I order, and we talk as we eat. The waiter asks if it is her birthday, and I exclaim, “How did you know?”

“It’s not my birthday,” she insists. She doesn’t know: everyone has a birthday at this restaurant. The meal is frequently interrupted as the lights blink and the music shifts to a crazy Bollywood “happy birthday” song. Everyone claps along and the hapless birthday celebrant is made to dance with the waiters.

Not a place for a quiet date. Scarlet loves the spectacle.

Back at home, we put on pajamas and cuddle in bed for another movie. We snuggle and kiss. I am far more interested in her ass than in this flick.

We undress and I flip her. I open her cheeks and massage her anus again, slowly, intently. I lick her, probing with my tongue. I languish at my task, as she relaxes silently, then moans. I can do this all night, eating her at last.

With my free hand, I rub her clit. My thumb probes her ass and is soon in her. It fucks her as I massage her clit. I wonder if these two actions will confuse her body’s sensations, blurring her distinctions between pleasure and discomfort. Whatever else, it is getting her off.

I stop, and lay down with her, my face close to mine. “Tell me what you are feeling,” I ask. It’s intense, she tells me, breathing hard. It hurts a little, but it feels good.

“I bet you want to fuck me, huh? “ she asks. I can tell she wants me to try. I look at the clock. It’s after 2:30am. I know she is horny, as I am, but I also know she is sore.

“No, not tonight,” I say. “I want to do it, but it’s late and I want to give this some time. I don’t want to hurt you. Next time, I will.”

At the orgy the previous week, I declined her blowjob, as I needed a break. Tonight, I decline to fuck her ass. This is within the context of our having lots of great sex, but I suspect I am blowing her mind a bit. I wonder if she has ever had a lover who didn’t just go all out, full throttle, for his own orgasm at every opportunity?

I let her sleep in the next morning as I work. When she awakes, I cover her like a blanket. We kiss and embrace and hold each other . . . it feels very tender and warm, and we are very aroused.

“Hmm, what am I going to do with you?” she says. This cues me that she wants to get me off. I suggest another blowjob might be the ticket.

“We have twenty minutes,” she says, putting back her hair. Do your worst, I kid.

She knows my cock. She loves sucking it.

Eight minutes, start to finish. She thinks this may be her personal best.

I take her to the train. We feel sad parting, as we kiss.

I head off to do some work before my kids arrive. We’re also hosting Marcus and his two kids for a few days. It will be noisy around my place.

That night, as the kids play, I sign on and get an instant message from Scarlet. She says I can do whatever I want with her body. She trusts me, and I know what the hell I am doing.

Hot.

Recruit

The first of my two invited guests to arrive was Tommy. He is a cute Asian twink, with a certain physical oddness, in his posture or something, that gives him the air of a space alien. It’s appealing, though he is a bit annoying.

He’s a bottom, and he really really wants me to give him a gang bang. He attended one I gave to a cool friend of mine—Tommy was the assigned fluffer—and he wants the same level of attention my friend received.

I’m not sure I want to set that up. The gang bang for my friend was arranged with a lot of care, as I like him. It’s not so easy to do that for just anyone. So I invited him to this group party. He was very excited to be here, hoping to score his own group of guys.

My other pal is John. We met when he applied to join my mixed boy/girl gatherings. We got together for drinks. He was bi and new to town, and having a hard time navigating things, as he was so busy with school and work. He was cute. Not exactly my type, but nice.

I didn’t really have space in the group for a single male at that time, but invited him to join my friend’s gang bang. He was a lot of fun to play with, and he made a great impression—perhaps helped by his thick nine-inch dick.

(That night I told John: the next time you want to get into a sex party, you might want to mention your monster cock.)

Tommy surrendered his clothes to Jimmy, and shyly made his way into the rooms of naked men. I lagged behind, talking with Jimmy and John. We were all dressed.

I made the rounds, and found a line at the bathroom. “Has the door been shut long?” I ask the first guy. It has. I knock and open it.

Tommy is bent over the sink, getting fucked by a really buff guy in a baseball cap. They look great by candlelight, but . . . “Sorry, guys, we need to keep this room open.”

“Looks like they wanted a little privacy,” laughs a guy in line, as the boys disengage.

“Fine and good,” I say. “If so, they should get a room. We don’t do privacy here.” I’m not at all miffed, just doing my job.

As I watch five guys go at it, a nice looking man walks over and puts his hand on my crotch. “Not playing tonight?” he asks.

“Perhaps I am.” I unzip and he plays with my cock. We are joined by another guy, and both are pretty hot. The first guy slips a condom onto me and sets to blowing the second guy.

I undress, and lube up. I slip into his ass easily, and fuck hard. He cums in moments.

I put a box of tissues near him. “Clean up your mess,” I direct him, and go to wash up.

Later, John and I are on a bed, getting blown by two guys. The man on John is really handsome: swimmer’s built, Latin, crew cut, brilliant smile (though I’m not seeing much of his teeth at the moment). His name is Trey.

The guy on me is cute too, a skinny white Goth kid with tattoos. I put my hand on the back of his neck as he blows me.

“Hmmmf,” he stops. “Say, don’t hold my head down, okay? I don’t know why but it messes with my gag reflex.”

Sure, I say, thinking: Mary, shut up and suck my cock.

A guy with a shaved head and a goatee was blowing Goth boy and overheard this exchange. Goth boy moved a bit to get at somebody else’s dick.

The bald guy was on me fast. He put my hand on the back of his neck.

Hotcha. Now we’re talking. I gave it to him hard and fast. He drooled like a baby.

Jimmy came by, making the rounds. “Jefferson, you look so cute when you’re getting your dick sucked.” Cute? Heck no, man, I am one bad mofo. I pop bald boy on the scalp and keep at it.

We go until he just can’t take anymore.

I get a drink of water, and run into Jimmy. “Your whole dom thing works, Jefferson, because it is so unexpected,” he opines. “You don’t come on like some butch leather boy, with a lot of bull. You seem like this nice friendly blonde boy, and then wham!” He added, “I get lots of good feedback on you.”

That’s such nice encouragement. My inner gay boy is still learning the ropes of reading types, and I don’t do anything to craft a persona. I appreciate hearing that somehow I manage to find my way.

Later, the bald guy and I recline on a bed and watch as Trey fucks Goth boy. He’s got Goth on his back, legs in the air, and he is pumping his ass. Goth moans and asks for more, harder, faster. Trey gives it to him, then pulls out. He looks like he may blow. He strips off the condom and strokes his long curved cock.

He seems to lose the trigger. Goth boy drops to his knees to blow Trey. I walk behind Trey, draping an arm over his neck, and another around his waist. I feel his tight torso, and kiss the back of his neck. I am hard against his ass.

He relaxes his body, leaning heavily against me. “I’ve got you,” I whisper. He puts his hand on my arm, and turns to look at me.

He bends over to suck bald boy, offering his ass to me. Goth shifts position to accommodate Trey.

Trey’s ass is small and firm. And inviting. I roll a condom onto my shaft.

I fuck him slowly, getting a feel for him as I feel him up. My hands roam his body, settling on his waist. It is so slender, I can nearly wrap my hands around him. I grab hold and fuck him fast and smooth.

He throws his body back, against me, knocking Goth off his cock. I wrap my arms around his torso. He cums on Goth’s chest.

Trey is washing up at the sink when I join him. As we soap our cocks, he asks if I had cum. No, I said. He looked a little disappointed. Not to worry, I say. You can add my notch to your belt. That was hot.

He smiles. “Hey,” he says. “Do you think we can use these towels?”

I laugh. “I like it that I just fucked you, and now you ask if it’s okay to use a towel. Be my guest!”

He had not realized it was my place. He asks if I throw many parties. I told him about the mixed bi boy/girl gatherings. I ask if he has been to many parties.

This was his first.

Say, I’m totally gay but I love to fuck girls, he said. Do you think I might fit into one of your parties?

Could be, I said. I’m told I need some more boy-on-boy action. I take his info.

A gay boy who fucks girls. Sounds like our kind of people.

Boys Boys Boys

My pal Jimmy sure keeps busy. He’s a club kid from way back, a cranking DJ, and a producer of gay porn. Somehow, he still finds time to organize all manner of gay sex parties.

I attended a few of his smaller parties—i.e., fewer than twenty men—and I was impressed. They were efficiently organized, with some very hot guys getting it on. But also, I noticed, a few trolls. He has a good screening process, so I asked: why allow the homely guys?

He explained that there are a lot of gay sex parties in New York, and too many are characterized by snotty attitudes about good looks and gym physiques. He wanted to distinguish his parties from those by emphasizing a lack of attitude. He focuses on guys who like to have sex. The so-called “trolls” are his friends, and good at what they do.

And, he pointed out, his good-looking regulars—and we are talking guys who are porn star hot—don’t seem to mind.

I liked that. A sex party that is about sex, not about attitude. Righteous. That resonated with how I saw my gatherings as opposed to other swinger-oriented events.

I invited him to try throwing a few parties at my place. He scoped it out, and thought it was a fine idea.

Monday night was his second party at my place. His parties are rather different than mine, and not just because they are exclusively male.

My parties always begin with conversation. People undress when they feel like it, and get busy when they are ready. I put out food and try to create a relaxed atmosphere. People generally kick in a few bucks to defray expenses, but the parties are otherwise free.

Jimmy makes his guests pay. They must maintain a membership in his group, and adhere to rules posted at his website. Everyone fills out forms specifying their sexual preferences, which Jimmy enters into a database to help when screening applicants. He supplies condoms, lube and sodas, but that’s it. He also enforces a mandatory clothes check at the door.

And unlike me, he doesn’t play at his parties. He keeps his clothes on. He monitors things, hangs out with friends, and generally acts the pro. Thus, he isn’t required, as I sometimes have been, to extricate himself from a heap of bodies to answer the phone.

To make co-hosting worth my while, he offered me a percentage cut of the gate.

Before Jimmy arrived, I cleaned a bit, put out “sex party sheets” and candles, and low thumping music. I set the lights low. I had invited a couple of my friends, but otherwise, I left the details to Jimmy.

The men started to arrive at the appointed time. As they arrived, I led them to Jimmy. They were checked off the RSVP list, their memberships confirmed or renewed, and their money paid. They were told to strip and put their clothes into bags, which were then sealed and marked with their names.

Gradually, the apartment filled with naked men, chatting and cruising one another. It didn’t take long for a few of them to hook up in twosomes and threesomes.

I roamed the space, checking things out, seeing that things were off and running. I kept my clothes on. For now, I was content to let things and unfold while I helped Jimmy and we caught up. He’s a riot, and I like his company.

I enjoyed the surreality of the arrival ritual. It was a cold night, and as guests arrived, they were bundled in coats, hats and scarves. They looked completely innocuous. At the other end of Jimmy’s processing, they emerged as nude studs, most with gym-toned bodies, trimmed body hair and a cruising demeanor.

Seventeen guys showed up. I guess the trolls were still busy with Christmas, as it was hot crew tonight.

All Sales Final

Christmas day was cold but clear, and we spent much of it outdoors, playing football and enjoying the fresh air. Indoors, we played with the kids and their new toys. I helped Lucy’s mom make the traditional dinner.

After dinner, we sat around a fire, telling stories until the kids went to bed. The adults stayed put, talking. I poured bourbons for Lucy and myself. She sat on a couch, between her siblings. I sat on the floor near the fire.

Lucy’s sister pulls out a pipe and some pot.

This is a family tradition: the smoking of the peace pipe. In years past, there was always some fight on Christmas night. Tonight, we wondered if Lucy’s mom would get into it with my ex father in law’s other ex, like it was thirty years ago, and she was still mad about their break up.

Lucy, her sister, and her sister’s fiancé are potheads. The rest of us are novices. Lucy has to show her brother and father how to operate the pipe. I know at least that much, but cough after trying to inhale.

Neil Young is playing in the background. The fire is stoked and very hot. A stoned debate breaks out on the physics of shortwave radios, a subject no one present understands. It’s very funny to see everyone offer revelations and insights.

I know that pot makes me stupid. I keep my mouth shut and tend to the fire. Lucy’s mom, drunk and stoned, pulls me in to a side conversation about how much she likes me, and how she misses me. Lucy motions for me to move away and sit near her—it’s just best not to go there, she whispers in my ear.

After everyone is gone, Lucy and I sit by the fire. I move to sit next to her.

“Making your move, huh?” she says.

“Just getting closer” I reply, putting an arm behind her. “So we can talk quietly.”

I have no idea what happens next. Are we going to retire to bed, together? To our separate rooms?

We have The Talk.

She brings it up. “What are we doing? It’s very confusing. “

“I know, it is very confusing. I’m not sure what’s happening, but I’m so glad we aren’t fighting. I’ve really missed you.”

“I’ve missed you too. But what are you doing? Why are you seducing me?”

“I’m seducing you? I thought . . .”

“Is this just sex, or do you want to get together again?”

This is heavy. “I think we should talk about this, but not now, not when we are stoned.”

“Is this just sex? Because if so, that’s okay. But do you want to get together again?”

“You would even contemplate getting together again?” I’m stunned.

“It would make everyone happy. It would make the kids happy. It’s what everyone wants.”

“Is it what you want?” I say. “Wait, I’m too stoned to have this conversation. I really can’t believe what you are saying.”

“I think its just sex for you.”

“I’m not sure, not at all. I mean, I don’t need to get into something with you just to get laid. I’m so happy to be connecting with you, to be talking without so much anger. But maybe this . . . this is so much.”

We look the fire. “I’m going to bed,” she said. “Good night.”

What just happened?

The next day, I pull her aside. I’m not sure where we were going last night, I say. But I want to revisit that conversation when we can really talk.

I think I have my answer, she says. I’m not looking forward to that conversation!

Yeah, but we need to talk. We can’t leave this dangling.

Okay, she says. You will call me, and we will talk.