This week’s Sex Blog Roundup at Fleshbot takes us into the boy’s room to find that the fellows come in all flavors—from porn star to devoted hubby, from philosopher to sissy. Be careful, though; these gents are the ones your mama warned you about.
Except Rupert. Even my mama couldn’t have dreamed this one up. I crush on him for his wit, of course, never minding that big dick he can’t seem to keep off the Internet.
Speaking of size queens, allow me to introduce Cody, a raven-haired twenty-one-year-old emo kid who has been wearing holes in my welcome mat for more months than I can count.
She cuts and repieces herself at (deep breath) I Do Not Like Titles, Though Sometimes I Conform. As the blog's name suggests, Cody is the sensitive sort whose mind often fluctuates between the settings for "easy" and "excruciating."
Those of you who stalk me across blogs will find me there, making her life easy and excruciating by turns.
Take a visit. Tell her I sent you, and let her know: nothing she can say can stop me going on.
Friday, February 09, 2007
Wednesday, February 07, 2007
Why I Am Not A Painter
Moans emerged among the panting.
“That’s it, that’s it,” I whispered, jutting my fingers steadily inside her.
I took a fistful of hair in my free hand. “Spread your legs,” I ordered. “I want to see under that skirt.”
Nicole opened her thighs, pushing the plaid mini skirt up on her hips.
“Good girl, good girl,” I commended, watching my middle fingers vanish into her. Her clit was plump. Her legs were still cold from the outdoors, even as her pale flesh grew rosy and flush.
My intercom rang.
I rested my fingers in her, and brushed the hair from her face. “Company.”
“Should I . . . ,” she began, disoriented by a sudden cessation of sensations. “I guess . . . the panties, right?”
“No panties,” I said, removing my fingers. “The skirt is sufficient.”
As I prepared for Nicole’s visit, I reflected on the fact that she would be giving me her first blowjob. That’s a memorable milestone. I thought it would be nice to give her something in return.
I pondered this, and was struck by an inspiration.
Among my readers and correspondents is a clever fellow who never fails to bring bonhomie to my inbox. He’s handsome, writes well, and lives nearby.
His flaw? He’s straight. He’s never fooled around with guys, not even with his friends, not even, you know, after too many beers, dude.
Such men are a dying breed.
I’m killing them as fast as I can.
Now, with Nicole in mind, I dropped him a line.
“How’s this scenario?” I posited. “If a cute and inexperienced young woman wanted to see two boys go at it, would you be willing to give your first blowjob? Please understand: you wouldn’t be fucking her. But you would certainly watch us fucking. And of course, I’d blow you. I think she might like that.”
He agreed that this was a novel opportunity to lose his regrettable—and inexcusable, really, in our enlightened age—virginity with men.
I told Nicole of my plan.
“Okay, now that is a salutary proposition,” she said. “A straight boy sucking dick is a fetish fantasy of mine.”
“Then I will make it so,” I pledged.
It was all in place. Nicole would have her fantasy, my straight boy would get some dick, and I would add another virgin blowjob to the quota of my birthday month.
Two virgin blowjobs in two days, no less.
It was a perfect plan, yet like many grand schemes, it was brought low by germs. The boy begged out at the last minute, having caught the flu.
Undaunted, I went back to work. As Nicole caught up on homework, I took my case to Craig’s List.
I have a lovely girl visiting. We had lined up a man to watch us go at it, but he got the flu.
We are looking for a guy who would like to watch us, and also blow me as she watches. She gave head for the first time last night, as it would be hot for her to see a guy give it a go.
She's nineteen, very cute, hourglass figure. You won't do her. Don’t try. Non negotiable.
Please send pics and notes—incomplete sentences won’t pass muster.
The responses came fast.
“Do you want to weigh in on this?” I asked Nicole. I had an instant battalion of straight recruits ready to suck cock for a pretty girl.
“Hmmm, no.” She looked up from a book and peered over her glasses. “I’m too indecisive. You can choose.”
“My favorite color is carte blanche,” I replied.
My palette was soon limited to a soccer player in a blue jersey, a green-eyed graduate student, and a man with coal black hair.
I sent each candidate a photograph of myself. I told each that he would not see a picture of her.
Of course, by this time I had amassed many photographs of Nicole. But I was adamant: the man I chose should be attracted to the scenario as opposed to the pretty girl. That had been enough for me—after all, Nicole and I had decided to meet based on words, not images—and that should be sufficient for any stranger I might select.
I lost the soccer player, presumably to the suspicion that I was misrepresenting the situation. Fair enough.
I liked the graduate student’s earnest responses. His eyes were dreamy, his lips kissable.
But the other man won out. He had a handsome photograph, but more importantly, he had enthusiasm.
I colored myself impressed, and gave him the green light.
We moved into the living room to await his knock.
I kissed Nicole, caressing the bare ass under her short skirt.
“Nervous?” I asked.
“No,” she replied. She was telling the truth. Her mind was on full alert.
The man knocked.
I opened the door.
The three of us looked at one another.
“Well, hello,” he grinned.
“That’s it, that’s it,” I whispered, jutting my fingers steadily inside her.
I took a fistful of hair in my free hand. “Spread your legs,” I ordered. “I want to see under that skirt.”
Nicole opened her thighs, pushing the plaid mini skirt up on her hips.
“Good girl, good girl,” I commended, watching my middle fingers vanish into her. Her clit was plump. Her legs were still cold from the outdoors, even as her pale flesh grew rosy and flush.
My intercom rang.
I rested my fingers in her, and brushed the hair from her face. “Company.”
“Should I . . . ,” she began, disoriented by a sudden cessation of sensations. “I guess . . . the panties, right?”
“No panties,” I said, removing my fingers. “The skirt is sufficient.”
As I prepared for Nicole’s visit, I reflected on the fact that she would be giving me her first blowjob. That’s a memorable milestone. I thought it would be nice to give her something in return.
I pondered this, and was struck by an inspiration.
Among my readers and correspondents is a clever fellow who never fails to bring bonhomie to my inbox. He’s handsome, writes well, and lives nearby.
His flaw? He’s straight. He’s never fooled around with guys, not even with his friends, not even, you know, after too many beers, dude.
Such men are a dying breed.
I’m killing them as fast as I can.
Now, with Nicole in mind, I dropped him a line.
“How’s this scenario?” I posited. “If a cute and inexperienced young woman wanted to see two boys go at it, would you be willing to give your first blowjob? Please understand: you wouldn’t be fucking her. But you would certainly watch us fucking. And of course, I’d blow you. I think she might like that.”
He agreed that this was a novel opportunity to lose his regrettable—and inexcusable, really, in our enlightened age—virginity with men.
I told Nicole of my plan.
“Okay, now that is a salutary proposition,” she said. “A straight boy sucking dick is a fetish fantasy of mine.”
“Then I will make it so,” I pledged.
It was all in place. Nicole would have her fantasy, my straight boy would get some dick, and I would add another virgin blowjob to the quota of my birthday month.
Two virgin blowjobs in two days, no less.
It was a perfect plan, yet like many grand schemes, it was brought low by germs. The boy begged out at the last minute, having caught the flu.
Undaunted, I went back to work. As Nicole caught up on homework, I took my case to Craig’s List.
I have a lovely girl visiting. We had lined up a man to watch us go at it, but he got the flu.
We are looking for a guy who would like to watch us, and also blow me as she watches. She gave head for the first time last night, as it would be hot for her to see a guy give it a go.
She's nineteen, very cute, hourglass figure. You won't do her. Don’t try. Non negotiable.
Please send pics and notes—incomplete sentences won’t pass muster.
The responses came fast.
“Do you want to weigh in on this?” I asked Nicole. I had an instant battalion of straight recruits ready to suck cock for a pretty girl.
“Hmmm, no.” She looked up from a book and peered over her glasses. “I’m too indecisive. You can choose.”
“My favorite color is carte blanche,” I replied.
My palette was soon limited to a soccer player in a blue jersey, a green-eyed graduate student, and a man with coal black hair.
I sent each candidate a photograph of myself. I told each that he would not see a picture of her.
Of course, by this time I had amassed many photographs of Nicole. But I was adamant: the man I chose should be attracted to the scenario as opposed to the pretty girl. That had been enough for me—after all, Nicole and I had decided to meet based on words, not images—and that should be sufficient for any stranger I might select.
I lost the soccer player, presumably to the suspicion that I was misrepresenting the situation. Fair enough.
I liked the graduate student’s earnest responses. His eyes were dreamy, his lips kissable.
But the other man won out. He had a handsome photograph, but more importantly, he had enthusiasm.
I colored myself impressed, and gave him the green light.
We moved into the living room to await his knock.
I kissed Nicole, caressing the bare ass under her short skirt.
“Nervous?” I asked.
“No,” she replied. She was telling the truth. Her mind was on full alert.
The man knocked.
I opened the door.
The three of us looked at one another.
“Well, hello,” he grinned.
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
Blackbird Whistling, Or Just After
She told me she craved sushi.
“Aren’t you vegetarian?” I asked.
Nicole looked chagrined. “I make an exception for sushi. I love it, and there’s none near campus.”
I told her I knew a place. There was an early bird special, even, if we got there before seven.
“We can make that easily,” she said.
“Sure,” I agreed, pressing deeper into her. “We’ll just finish fucking and go.”
“Right,” she said, clutching my shoulders.
The sun set.
We kept fucking.
Rush hour noises faded.
We kept fucking.
I noticed the time. “Okay, no more sex,” I said, pulling out. “We want to be early birds.”
“Right,” she said, swallowing my cock.
We managed to extricate ourselves, quickly shower, and dress.
“Is that all you’re wearing?” I scolded. She wore a light shirt and a mini skirt that scarcely covered her panties, leaving her long legs bare. “It’s January, you know.”
“I didn’t bring tights,” she shrugged. “I’ve got my coat. I’ll be fine.”
“It’s freezing. I’m sure I have some sweats or something that might fit you.”
She peered at me with her one visible eye.
“I know, I know,” I shook my head. “You’d rather freeze than look unfashionable.”
We walked briskly to the restaurant. We were seated by a floor-to-ceiling window.
Her legs were red and raw from the cold. The proximity of her bare skin under the table was distracting. We hadn’t worn clothes in the twenty-four hours since she arrived; we left the bed only when necessitated by the exigencies of bladders, hunger and her nicotine addiction.
Now, for the duration of a meal, we were unable to touch one another without being observed by passers by.
My teeth tore into raw fish.
“I’m glad I came,” she said, her chopsticks adroitly capturing sashimi. She sat very erect, bending slightly forward as she brought the tuna to her mouth.
“I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself,” I smiled. “It’s really been a whirlwind, huh?”
She nodded, chewing. She covered her mouth with a hand. “I can’t believe I went through with it.” She swallowed. “But I had to get away from school to do this—and of course, finding you also made it possible.”
“You’re gracious. But what do you mean about leaving school?”
“Well, my friends regard me as somewhat asexual . . .”
“Ha! If they could see you now.”
“Seriously, I’m called an ‘ice princess.’ They think I’m frigid.”
“You have no concern there.”
“This we know,” she smiled. “But in truth, it’s a convenient fallacy, this image people have of me. I’m not interested in anyone on campus, and I’d rather not be bothered. I’d rather stay in the library, frankly.”
I took a piece of eel, listening.
“So by coming here, and seeing you, I’m able to pursue my sexuality without the bothers and interferences of my friends, or gossip, and the nonsense of all that.”
“In other words, you can let your hair down.”
A grin appeared under the swoop that covered her face. “Precisely. And it doesn’t hurt that you know what you’re doing.”
“I practice,” I smiled.
When the check arrived, she insisted on going Dutch. “I have to pay for myself,” she said, opening her bag. “I’m feminist.”
“Fine by me,” I said, reaching for my wallet. “I’m cheap.”
She put her arm in mine as we walked home.
I took pictures of her red, raw legs. She bent forward as I photographed the curve of her buttocks peering from under her skirt.
I took her panties.
“Aren’t you vegetarian?” I asked.
Nicole looked chagrined. “I make an exception for sushi. I love it, and there’s none near campus.”
I told her I knew a place. There was an early bird special, even, if we got there before seven.
“We can make that easily,” she said.
“Sure,” I agreed, pressing deeper into her. “We’ll just finish fucking and go.”
“Right,” she said, clutching my shoulders.
The sun set.
We kept fucking.
Rush hour noises faded.
We kept fucking.
I noticed the time. “Okay, no more sex,” I said, pulling out. “We want to be early birds.”
“Right,” she said, swallowing my cock.
We managed to extricate ourselves, quickly shower, and dress.
“Is that all you’re wearing?” I scolded. She wore a light shirt and a mini skirt that scarcely covered her panties, leaving her long legs bare. “It’s January, you know.”
“I didn’t bring tights,” she shrugged. “I’ve got my coat. I’ll be fine.”
“It’s freezing. I’m sure I have some sweats or something that might fit you.”
She peered at me with her one visible eye.
“I know, I know,” I shook my head. “You’d rather freeze than look unfashionable.”
We walked briskly to the restaurant. We were seated by a floor-to-ceiling window.
Her legs were red and raw from the cold. The proximity of her bare skin under the table was distracting. We hadn’t worn clothes in the twenty-four hours since she arrived; we left the bed only when necessitated by the exigencies of bladders, hunger and her nicotine addiction.
Now, for the duration of a meal, we were unable to touch one another without being observed by passers by.
My teeth tore into raw fish.
“I’m glad I came,” she said, her chopsticks adroitly capturing sashimi. She sat very erect, bending slightly forward as she brought the tuna to her mouth.
“I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself,” I smiled. “It’s really been a whirlwind, huh?”
She nodded, chewing. She covered her mouth with a hand. “I can’t believe I went through with it.” She swallowed. “But I had to get away from school to do this—and of course, finding you also made it possible.”
“You’re gracious. But what do you mean about leaving school?”
“Well, my friends regard me as somewhat asexual . . .”
“Ha! If they could see you now.”
“Seriously, I’m called an ‘ice princess.’ They think I’m frigid.”
“You have no concern there.”
“This we know,” she smiled. “But in truth, it’s a convenient fallacy, this image people have of me. I’m not interested in anyone on campus, and I’d rather not be bothered. I’d rather stay in the library, frankly.”
I took a piece of eel, listening.
“So by coming here, and seeing you, I’m able to pursue my sexuality without the bothers and interferences of my friends, or gossip, and the nonsense of all that.”
“In other words, you can let your hair down.”
A grin appeared under the swoop that covered her face. “Precisely. And it doesn’t hurt that you know what you’re doing.”
“I practice,” I smiled.
When the check arrived, she insisted on going Dutch. “I have to pay for myself,” she said, opening her bag. “I’m feminist.”
“Fine by me,” I said, reaching for my wallet. “I’m cheap.”
She put her arm in mine as we walked home.
I took pictures of her red, raw legs. She bent forward as I photographed the curve of her buttocks peering from under her skirt.
I took her panties.
Sunday, February 04, 2007
Saturday, February 03, 2007
Your Ad Here
If you peer over to the left in my sidebar, you’ll note a new addition headed “Jefferson’s Gangbang.”
Now, you can post your own ads on One Life, Take Two. Do you want to get the word out on your store, product, or service? Do you have an awesome website or podcast that could use some visitation? Then share the word with the thousands of readers who stop by here on a daily basis.
You get to decide the size and duration of the ad. You can even can run your own images and links.
I’ve set up a similar page at Sex Camp, if that’s more your speed.
What’s that, you say? You have nothing to shill, but you still have something to say? Well, check it out: you can also post classifieds.
Do you need to sell a fuck machine or rent a dungeon? Care to look for love in this, the wrongest of all the wrong places? Or perhaps you’d like to send a novel Valentine to that special someone—the sweet honey who reads by your side, or maybe that much adored fellow reader you’ve never met?
All you have to do is click on “Advertise Here!,” and go through the steps. The rates are ridiculously low. Have fun!
Now, you can post your own ads on One Life, Take Two. Do you want to get the word out on your store, product, or service? Do you have an awesome website or podcast that could use some visitation? Then share the word with the thousands of readers who stop by here on a daily basis.
You get to decide the size and duration of the ad. You can even can run your own images and links.
I’ve set up a similar page at Sex Camp, if that’s more your speed.
What’s that, you say? You have nothing to shill, but you still have something to say? Well, check it out: you can also post classifieds.
Do you need to sell a fuck machine or rent a dungeon? Care to look for love in this, the wrongest of all the wrong places? Or perhaps you’d like to send a novel Valentine to that special someone—the sweet honey who reads by your side, or maybe that much adored fellow reader you’ve never met?
All you have to do is click on “Advertise Here!,” and go through the steps. The rates are ridiculously low. Have fun!
Friday, February 02, 2007
Fleshbot and Win/Win
This week’s Sex Blog Roundup at Fleshbot shines the klieg lights onto the red carpet to congratulate the winners of the Dirtyspoke 2006 Sex Blog Awards. Take a bow, friends!
(Really now, am I not the world’s most gracious loser?)
Speaking of winners, I think I’ve got an idea that just may put me in the lead for next year’s award. What if I had sex with all the 2006 winners, and then blogged it for 2007? There are only four of them; heck, I could knock that out in a weekend.
Let’s see, there’s Viviane . . . her? Had her.
Figleaf has been pining for a circle jerk . . . maybe I could invite him to join my Bukkake Social Club. That would take care of that lean, clean jerking machine.
Ilyana is a cinch. In advance of the competition, we entered into a friendly wager. If she won the contest, she would come to New York and she would fuck me. If she lost the contest, she would come to New York and I would fuck her. I’m not one to go back on a wager. Once we make good on our bet, I’m in the home stretch.
Chelsea Girl . . . damn, that’s a tough one. See, she’s in this committed relationship with a nice guy who is, incidentally, way hotter than me. Never mind that every time someone mentions having had sex with me, Chelsea makes that raspy sound in her throat, like a cat makes just before coughing up a hairball.
Damn, that’s not bloody likely, now is it? Never mind that by this point in our friendship, the thought of sex with Chelsea Girl is about as unsettling as the image of fucking one’s own sister.
Say, I wonder if Chelsea has a sister . . . ?
I’ll suss this out. Meanwhile, I’ll stick to my original plan of going about it the good old-fashioned way—by slutting myself to each and every one of the voters.
Next?
Oh, and speaking of voters, thanks to all those who cast your ballots for me, whether or not I’ve had a chance to get naked with you yet.
I would to extend a special word of thanks to the forty-four of you who made me a winner in my other undertaking this month. That’s right: together we achieved my goal of being blown by forty-four different people in the month of my birth—one for each year of my life, with one to grow on.
My friend Lily (who was gracious enough to participate and to bring a friend to assist) was so impressed by this accomplishment that she suggested I write a motivational book, to be entitled Forty-Four Blowjobs: How to Achieve Any Dream.
I don’t know if I’ll get around to that. But maybe this birthday blowjob bonanza will become a tradition. I mean, if forty-four blowjobs were this much fun, imagine the blast I’ll have when I hit ninety!
And the one to grow on? A Jersey girl. Can I call ‘em or what?
I’ll tell you all about that soon enough. But first, I’ve got to get Nicole out of my bedroom.
(Really now, am I not the world’s most gracious loser?)
Speaking of winners, I think I’ve got an idea that just may put me in the lead for next year’s award. What if I had sex with all the 2006 winners, and then blogged it for 2007? There are only four of them; heck, I could knock that out in a weekend.
Let’s see, there’s Viviane . . . her? Had her.
Figleaf has been pining for a circle jerk . . . maybe I could invite him to join my Bukkake Social Club. That would take care of that lean, clean jerking machine.
Ilyana is a cinch. In advance of the competition, we entered into a friendly wager. If she won the contest, she would come to New York and she would fuck me. If she lost the contest, she would come to New York and I would fuck her. I’m not one to go back on a wager. Once we make good on our bet, I’m in the home stretch.
Chelsea Girl . . . damn, that’s a tough one. See, she’s in this committed relationship with a nice guy who is, incidentally, way hotter than me. Never mind that every time someone mentions having had sex with me, Chelsea makes that raspy sound in her throat, like a cat makes just before coughing up a hairball.
Damn, that’s not bloody likely, now is it? Never mind that by this point in our friendship, the thought of sex with Chelsea Girl is about as unsettling as the image of fucking one’s own sister.
Say, I wonder if Chelsea has a sister . . . ?
I’ll suss this out. Meanwhile, I’ll stick to my original plan of going about it the good old-fashioned way—by slutting myself to each and every one of the voters.
Next?
Oh, and speaking of voters, thanks to all those who cast your ballots for me, whether or not I’ve had a chance to get naked with you yet.
I would to extend a special word of thanks to the forty-four of you who made me a winner in my other undertaking this month. That’s right: together we achieved my goal of being blown by forty-four different people in the month of my birth—one for each year of my life, with one to grow on.
My friend Lily (who was gracious enough to participate and to bring a friend to assist) was so impressed by this accomplishment that she suggested I write a motivational book, to be entitled Forty-Four Blowjobs: How to Achieve Any Dream.
I don’t know if I’ll get around to that. But maybe this birthday blowjob bonanza will become a tradition. I mean, if forty-four blowjobs were this much fun, imagine the blast I’ll have when I hit ninety!
And the one to grow on? A Jersey girl. Can I call ‘em or what?
I’ll tell you all about that soon enough. But first, I’ve got to get Nicole out of my bedroom.
Thursday, February 01, 2007
Dirtyspoke Awards
The results are in on the Dirtyspoke 2006 Sex Blog Awards!
Yours truly is an also-ran in the categories of Best Sex Blog and Best Male Sex Blog, but then again, yours truly is an also-fan of the winners—Best Sex Blog IlyanaLanai and Best Male Sex Blog Figleaf’s Real Adult Sex. Congrats, Sister Ilyana and Brother Figleaf!
Double congratulations to you, Ilyana, for being the oh-so-sexy Sexiest Sex Blogger. (Figleaf, don’t you never doubt your smoking hot ass. You’ve got my four-one-one, yo.)
Now, with the results in, I guess I’ll just return my rented tuxedo and borrowed jewels before heading home . . . but wait, what’s that? Best Group Sex Blog? Viviane’s Sex Carnival?
Yee-haw! That’s me in the second row, beaming as our doyenne Viviane accepts the award on behalf of her stalwarts. She’s gracious to do so, as we all know she does so much work and deserves so much credit. She makes a great deal happen for anyone concerned with sex blogs, especially those of us lucky enough to know her.
Maybe it’s the victory champagne going to my head, but I’m all verklempt to see Chelsea Girl win Best Female Sex Blog. Mind you, I’ll wipe my tears in time to focus on those pretty dumb things at the podium. Badunkadunk. Oh dang, her brain keeps interfering with the view.
Thanks again, Dirtyspoke, for conceiving the awards. If we’re not still kicking ass in 2007, come kick our asses.
Oh, and say, while you are over at Dirtyspoke, be sure to read coverage on Confessions from an Unmanageable Life, and to hear an excerpt read on Playboy Radio. Those Dirtyspoke gals, I tell you: they have their fingers on the pulse—the best of 2006 and the best of what emerges now.
Yours truly is an also-ran in the categories of Best Sex Blog and Best Male Sex Blog, but then again, yours truly is an also-fan of the winners—Best Sex Blog IlyanaLanai and Best Male Sex Blog Figleaf’s Real Adult Sex. Congrats, Sister Ilyana and Brother Figleaf!
Double congratulations to you, Ilyana, for being the oh-so-sexy Sexiest Sex Blogger. (Figleaf, don’t you never doubt your smoking hot ass. You’ve got my four-one-one, yo.)
Now, with the results in, I guess I’ll just return my rented tuxedo and borrowed jewels before heading home . . . but wait, what’s that? Best Group Sex Blog? Viviane’s Sex Carnival?
Yee-haw! That’s me in the second row, beaming as our doyenne Viviane accepts the award on behalf of her stalwarts. She’s gracious to do so, as we all know she does so much work and deserves so much credit. She makes a great deal happen for anyone concerned with sex blogs, especially those of us lucky enough to know her.
Maybe it’s the victory champagne going to my head, but I’m all verklempt to see Chelsea Girl win Best Female Sex Blog. Mind you, I’ll wipe my tears in time to focus on those pretty dumb things at the podium. Badunkadunk. Oh dang, her brain keeps interfering with the view.
Thanks again, Dirtyspoke, for conceiving the awards. If we’re not still kicking ass in 2007, come kick our asses.
Oh, and say, while you are over at Dirtyspoke, be sure to read coverage on Confessions from an Unmanageable Life, and to hear an excerpt read on Playboy Radio. Those Dirtyspoke gals, I tell you: they have their fingers on the pulse—the best of 2006 and the best of what emerges now.
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Tick Tock
It’s January 31, and time is running out. I know you are on seat’s edge, wondering:
Will Jefferson reach his goal of forty-four blowjobs in the month of his birth?
Well, I am here to tell you that . . . I will soon be here to tell you.
For now, I’m reminding you that polls close at midnight tonight (EST) for the Dirtyspoke 2006 Sex Blog Awards. If you haven’t already done so, take a visit with all the nominees and cast your vote for your favorites in each category.
Kudos to Dirtyspoke for dreaming up a fine idea to draw attention to sex blogging.
The clock is ticking in anticipation of the answers to many burning questions . . .
Will Jefferson reach his goal of forty-four blowjobs in one month?
Will Jefferson win any awards, or will he go home empty handed to cry in his bourbon?
Will Nicole leave Jefferson’s bedroom with any virginities intact?
Stay tuned for the answers to these and many more questions on (cue music) One Life, Take Two.
Will Jefferson reach his goal of forty-four blowjobs in the month of his birth?
Well, I am here to tell you that . . . I will soon be here to tell you.
For now, I’m reminding you that polls close at midnight tonight (EST) for the Dirtyspoke 2006 Sex Blog Awards. If you haven’t already done so, take a visit with all the nominees and cast your vote for your favorites in each category.
Kudos to Dirtyspoke for dreaming up a fine idea to draw attention to sex blogging.
The clock is ticking in anticipation of the answers to many burning questions . . .
Will Jefferson reach his goal of forty-four blowjobs in one month?
Will Jefferson win any awards, or will he go home empty handed to cry in his bourbon?
Will Nicole leave Jefferson’s bedroom with any virginities intact?
Stay tuned for the answers to these and many more questions on (cue music) One Life, Take Two.
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
Oyster Shells
“All right,” I said, stroking the condom on my cock. “Hop on.”
“Right,” Nicole said. She lifted herself and began dropping her hips to me.
“Wait, wait,” I said, scooting down the bed. “You’re still coming in a little low. See? When you're a bit higher, you can slide right on. Got it?”
She lowered herself fully, so that I was inside her. “Oh yeah, I see what you mean,” she nodded, beginning to gyrate.
“You’re a fast learner,” I smiled. I crossed my arms behind my head. “Now, do it again.”
“Seriously?” she stopped.
“Yes. Show me, and this time, do it yourself.”
A grin emerged on the only part of her face that was visible. “Yes, sir.”
She lifted herself from me, and looked behind her to my cock. She reached between her legs, took my cock, and slowly guided it back into her.
“Nice, nice!” I commended. “Why, soon you won’t need me here at all.”
Her laughter convulsed on my cock.
We had fallen asleep fucking and now we awoke fucking. Our arms and legs had been entangled as we slept.
Without quite meaning to, in a very short time, we had crossed over to a place where our bodies felt out of kilter if they were not conjoined.
As we fucked, she complained that she really had to go to the bathroom.
“Do you remember the last time we left this bed?” I asked.
She tilted her head. “It was sometime last night . . . right?”
“I asked because I can’t recall,” I said, pushing into her.
She fell forward to kiss me.
Later, she reiterated her need to pee.
“I thought you took care of that,” I said, pumping into her.
“I remember meaning to, but I don’t think I ever did.”
“Huh.”
We kissed.
Suddenly she pulled back. “No, seriously, I really need to pee.”
“Wait, what are you . . . no, no!” She pulled herself from my cock. I grabbed her wrist. “What can you be thinking?” I asked anxiously.
“God, please, God, you have to let me go,” she laughed. “We are ridiculous.”
“You’ll come back?” I asked, turning my body so that my head fell slightly from the side of the bed. I looked up with pleading eyes. “I won’t have to go looking for you?”
“Of course.” She lowered her face and kissed me, her mouth deep and open. “Right after a cigarette.”
“A cigarette?” I grabbed her thigh and pulled her close to my face. “Can’t you see what those things are doing to you, Nicole? What they are doing to us?”
I pulled her thigh to my mouth to kiss her flesh. I nibbled.
I reached up and took her ass, bringing her pussy to my mouth. I latched on to her clit.
“Oh, that’s very hot, but I really do have to pee.”
“Pleth dowd,” I said, tugging on her hips.
“What?”
“Pleth dowd. Pleth dowd on die mouf.”
“Press down? Like this?” She squatted slightly, pressing her clit into my tongue. “Unh, yeah, like this, I see.”
“Gweat. Dow, thuck die dick.”
Her hands stepped down my body until her face reached my cock. She took it in her mouth and effortlessly into her throat.
“Hmmph, puh-feck.” I held her hips firm as I burrowed my nose into her cunt, my tongue swirling on her clit. I mused that as she had only just given her first blowjob the night before, then this must be her first time to sixty-nine with a man.
I’d have to remember to ask if she’d ever done it with a girl.
Maybe we should be making a list of all these firsts, I pondered . . .
“Jefferson?”
“Yed?” I tongued her slit.
“Jefferson, I really do need to pee.”
“Do ahead.” I darted my tongue in and out of her body.
“Jefferson.” Her hands stepped back up my torso. “I don’t know that I’m quite ready to urinate in your mouth.”
I looked up and smiled. “Chicken.”
She took my hands from her hips. “I’ll be back. I don’t want me out of bed any more that you do.”
“Buck buck.”
She stopped at the door, looking back to me. “Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets/The muttering retreats/Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels/And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells.”
“Source?”
“T. S. Eliot,” she answered. “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.”
“I should’ve known that one,” I said, flipping onto my belly. “Smart girl.”
“I go to smart school,” she said, turning on the ball of her feet. “And yes, you should’ve.”
I grinned. My eyes followed as she left the doorway, scanning the rosy bite marks on her back, the pink stripes on her ass.
We were vanquishing every virginity we encountered.
As we fucked during the previous evening, just hours after first meeting, I told her I was weary of pussy and wanted to break in her ass.
“I suspected you might,” she smiled. “Obviously, I’ve never done that.”
“Yet many are the asses I’ve deflowered,” I kissed her. “Tell your ass to meet me at the foot of the bed, up in the air, in one moment. I’ll be the guy with the hard on.”
I duly arrived at the appointed destination to find her ass waiting.
“Why, hello, ass,” I smiled as I rolled on a fresh condom. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
She giggled.
I leaned forward to tongue her hole.
“Oh!” she gasped.
Another virginity gone, I supposed. I tongued her deeply to open and relax her, though she seemed perfectly at ease.
As I applied lube generously to her ass and my cock, I explained what she should expect and assured her that we could stop at any time. She nodded into a pillow.
I entered her slowly. “Okay?” I asked.
She breathed, nodding. I pushed in. Instinctively, she pushed back to take me.
“I’m all the way in,” I said quietly. “Are you okay?”
“I’m . . . fine,” she said, getting accustomed to the sensation.
“I’m going to just let you feel this,” I said, leaning forward to kiss her back. I added a new bite to mark the occasion.
I stood. “Okay, now, slowly, I’m going to move inside you.” I moved gently back and forth.
She held up well.
“You’re certainly taking this like a man,” I commended.
“This feels really good,” she said, her voice steady as her mind created a new file marked "anal sex."
I let her have it a little harder. Her breathing went staccato.
I spanked her. She yelped.
I grabbed her hips and fucked her hard. She groaned.
“You’re doing so well, so well,” I breathed.
“Fuck my ass, Jefferson,” she sighed. “Fuck me.”
I stopped. “No.” I pulled out. I tossed the condom aside. “I have designs on your ass. I don’t want it broken on the first night.” I kissed her neck and whispered into her hair. “You are so brave. You take a rough ass fucking so well.”
“Thanks,” she whispered.
“Now, pretty girl, I’m going to spank you.”
“Okay.”
“I’m going to do it lightly and, if you don’t ask me to stop, I will do it harder.”
“Okay.”
“And if you don’t ask me to stop, I’m going to use a cat o’nine tails, very lightly.”
“Okay.” She squirmed slightly.
“And if you don’t ask me to stop, I’m going to cane you, again, very lightly.”
“Okay.”
I kissed her. I opened a door to retrieve my arsenal.
I spanked a pink flush to her cheeks and began.
Twenty minutes later, I put down the cane.
“That’s enough,” I said. “I want you to feel this overnight before we go further.” I lay next to her and pulled her into my arms. I kissed her hair. “You don’t have to do it all at once, you know.”
“I want to do it all, at once,” she said to my shoulder.
The next morning, when she returned from her cigarette, I was waiting with a condom.
“Hello, gorgeous,” I said, raising an eyebrow.
“Ready for more?” she asked.
“I’m not talking to you,” I said with disdain. “The ass and I have an appointment."
“Oh, great!” She climbed on the bed, raising her hips in the air as before.
“Hello, ass,” I said, licking her hole. “Long time, no see.”
“You’re retarded,” she laughed.
“I might have warned you,” I said, entering her.
Half an hour later, she fell forward, her arms still pinned behind her back.
I staggered, wiping the sweat from my face.
Her skin was flushed, highlighting the purple circles on her shoulder.
My ears were numb to all but our overlapping breathing and my pounding heart.
“Shit, son!” she hooted. She laughed.
I sat down, tearing off the condom. “You,” I pointed to her face. “You can go back to college. But you,” I pointed to her ass. “You're not going anywhere.”
“Right,” Nicole said. She lifted herself and began dropping her hips to me.
“Wait, wait,” I said, scooting down the bed. “You’re still coming in a little low. See? When you're a bit higher, you can slide right on. Got it?”
She lowered herself fully, so that I was inside her. “Oh yeah, I see what you mean,” she nodded, beginning to gyrate.
“You’re a fast learner,” I smiled. I crossed my arms behind my head. “Now, do it again.”
“Seriously?” she stopped.
“Yes. Show me, and this time, do it yourself.”
A grin emerged on the only part of her face that was visible. “Yes, sir.”
She lifted herself from me, and looked behind her to my cock. She reached between her legs, took my cock, and slowly guided it back into her.
“Nice, nice!” I commended. “Why, soon you won’t need me here at all.”
Her laughter convulsed on my cock.
We had fallen asleep fucking and now we awoke fucking. Our arms and legs had been entangled as we slept.
Without quite meaning to, in a very short time, we had crossed over to a place where our bodies felt out of kilter if they were not conjoined.
As we fucked, she complained that she really had to go to the bathroom.
“Do you remember the last time we left this bed?” I asked.
She tilted her head. “It was sometime last night . . . right?”
“I asked because I can’t recall,” I said, pushing into her.
She fell forward to kiss me.
Later, she reiterated her need to pee.
“I thought you took care of that,” I said, pumping into her.
“I remember meaning to, but I don’t think I ever did.”
“Huh.”
We kissed.
Suddenly she pulled back. “No, seriously, I really need to pee.”
“Wait, what are you . . . no, no!” She pulled herself from my cock. I grabbed her wrist. “What can you be thinking?” I asked anxiously.
“God, please, God, you have to let me go,” she laughed. “We are ridiculous.”
“You’ll come back?” I asked, turning my body so that my head fell slightly from the side of the bed. I looked up with pleading eyes. “I won’t have to go looking for you?”
“Of course.” She lowered her face and kissed me, her mouth deep and open. “Right after a cigarette.”
“A cigarette?” I grabbed her thigh and pulled her close to my face. “Can’t you see what those things are doing to you, Nicole? What they are doing to us?”
I pulled her thigh to my mouth to kiss her flesh. I nibbled.
I reached up and took her ass, bringing her pussy to my mouth. I latched on to her clit.
“Oh, that’s very hot, but I really do have to pee.”
“Pleth dowd,” I said, tugging on her hips.
“What?”
“Pleth dowd. Pleth dowd on die mouf.”
“Press down? Like this?” She squatted slightly, pressing her clit into my tongue. “Unh, yeah, like this, I see.”
“Gweat. Dow, thuck die dick.”
Her hands stepped down my body until her face reached my cock. She took it in her mouth and effortlessly into her throat.
“Hmmph, puh-feck.” I held her hips firm as I burrowed my nose into her cunt, my tongue swirling on her clit. I mused that as she had only just given her first blowjob the night before, then this must be her first time to sixty-nine with a man.
I’d have to remember to ask if she’d ever done it with a girl.
Maybe we should be making a list of all these firsts, I pondered . . .
“Jefferson?”
“Yed?” I tongued her slit.
“Jefferson, I really do need to pee.”
“Do ahead.” I darted my tongue in and out of her body.
“Jefferson.” Her hands stepped back up my torso. “I don’t know that I’m quite ready to urinate in your mouth.”
I looked up and smiled. “Chicken.”
She took my hands from her hips. “I’ll be back. I don’t want me out of bed any more that you do.”
“Buck buck.”
She stopped at the door, looking back to me. “Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets/The muttering retreats/Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels/And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells.”
“Source?”
“T. S. Eliot,” she answered. “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.”
“I should’ve known that one,” I said, flipping onto my belly. “Smart girl.”
“I go to smart school,” she said, turning on the ball of her feet. “And yes, you should’ve.”
I grinned. My eyes followed as she left the doorway, scanning the rosy bite marks on her back, the pink stripes on her ass.
We were vanquishing every virginity we encountered.
As we fucked during the previous evening, just hours after first meeting, I told her I was weary of pussy and wanted to break in her ass.
“I suspected you might,” she smiled. “Obviously, I’ve never done that.”
“Yet many are the asses I’ve deflowered,” I kissed her. “Tell your ass to meet me at the foot of the bed, up in the air, in one moment. I’ll be the guy with the hard on.”
I duly arrived at the appointed destination to find her ass waiting.
“Why, hello, ass,” I smiled as I rolled on a fresh condom. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
She giggled.
I leaned forward to tongue her hole.
“Oh!” she gasped.
Another virginity gone, I supposed. I tongued her deeply to open and relax her, though she seemed perfectly at ease.
As I applied lube generously to her ass and my cock, I explained what she should expect and assured her that we could stop at any time. She nodded into a pillow.
I entered her slowly. “Okay?” I asked.
She breathed, nodding. I pushed in. Instinctively, she pushed back to take me.
“I’m all the way in,” I said quietly. “Are you okay?”
“I’m . . . fine,” she said, getting accustomed to the sensation.
“I’m going to just let you feel this,” I said, leaning forward to kiss her back. I added a new bite to mark the occasion.
I stood. “Okay, now, slowly, I’m going to move inside you.” I moved gently back and forth.
She held up well.
“You’re certainly taking this like a man,” I commended.
“This feels really good,” she said, her voice steady as her mind created a new file marked "anal sex."
I let her have it a little harder. Her breathing went staccato.
I spanked her. She yelped.
I grabbed her hips and fucked her hard. She groaned.
“You’re doing so well, so well,” I breathed.
“Fuck my ass, Jefferson,” she sighed. “Fuck me.”
I stopped. “No.” I pulled out. I tossed the condom aside. “I have designs on your ass. I don’t want it broken on the first night.” I kissed her neck and whispered into her hair. “You are so brave. You take a rough ass fucking so well.”
“Thanks,” she whispered.
“Now, pretty girl, I’m going to spank you.”
“Okay.”
“I’m going to do it lightly and, if you don’t ask me to stop, I will do it harder.”
“Okay.”
“And if you don’t ask me to stop, I’m going to use a cat o’nine tails, very lightly.”
“Okay.” She squirmed slightly.
“And if you don’t ask me to stop, I’m going to cane you, again, very lightly.”
“Okay.”
I kissed her. I opened a door to retrieve my arsenal.
I spanked a pink flush to her cheeks and began.
Twenty minutes later, I put down the cane.
“That’s enough,” I said. “I want you to feel this overnight before we go further.” I lay next to her and pulled her into my arms. I kissed her hair. “You don’t have to do it all at once, you know.”
“I want to do it all, at once,” she said to my shoulder.
The next morning, when she returned from her cigarette, I was waiting with a condom.
“Hello, gorgeous,” I said, raising an eyebrow.
“Ready for more?” she asked.
“I’m not talking to you,” I said with disdain. “The ass and I have an appointment."
“Oh, great!” She climbed on the bed, raising her hips in the air as before.
“Hello, ass,” I said, licking her hole. “Long time, no see.”
“You’re retarded,” she laughed.
“I might have warned you,” I said, entering her.
Half an hour later, she fell forward, her arms still pinned behind her back.
I staggered, wiping the sweat from my face.
Her skin was flushed, highlighting the purple circles on her shoulder.
My ears were numb to all but our overlapping breathing and my pounding heart.
“Shit, son!” she hooted. She laughed.
I sat down, tearing off the condom. “You,” I pointed to her face. “You can go back to college. But you,” I pointed to her ass. “You're not going anywhere.”
Monday, January 29, 2007
To Shine in Use
I led the Stevens girl and her hourglass figure into my bedroom.
“Lay on my bed, pretty girl,” I instructed.
She sat on the bed and brought her long legs to the duvet. She reclined, letting her head rest on the crook of an arm. Her eyes gravitated to my bookshelves.
She glanced back as I undressed. Her eyes took in my body, recording the image of the man she had traveled to meet. She saw me nude before she knew my name.
She removed her glasses, placing them on a nightstand.
She was quiet as I moved to her side. I lowered my mouth to hers. We kissed, my hands getting to know her body, her hands learning the feel of a man’s body.
I moved to cover her with my torso. I opened my mouth to contain hers, to refocus her tongue and teeth from urgency to ardor. My hands held her cheeks firm before pushing her hair back so that I could see her face.
I pulled back for a look, but my mouth drew me back to hers.
My hips pressed into her. She trembled as before.
“I think we should fuck now,” I said, reaching for a condom.
“Yes, please, let’s,” she said. I could tell she meant for that phrase to sound nonchalant, but it came out fast and tinged with nervousness.
“You okay?” I asked.
“I’m very okay,” she smiled. “Come on, let’s fuck.”
I kissed her as I positioned my cock against her cunt. “I should warn you,” she said. “I’m pretty tight.”
“I know this already,” I said, sliding my head between her wet lips.
“I hear that’s often advantageous for the sensations of the male organ,” she smirked.
“I’ve heard that myself,” I nodded, opening a bottle of lube. “That is, once you get the male organ in there. Here, let me lift your legs up.”
I pressed forward, parting her slowly. She gasped. I pushed a little more, edging my way into her.
Her pussy was tighter than a miser’s heart.
I soothed her thighs and breasts, murmuring as I went deeper into her body.
I dropped my body, pressing our bodies together as we kissed. I felt her pulse race against my chest and though my cock.
“You okay?” I whispered.
“Yes,” she nodded. “God, this is good.”
“It is good, isn’t it?” I kissed her neck and began to slowly move inside her.
She began to move back.
Soon, our fucking followed the fervor of our kisses. I grabbed her shoulders, pressing deep as I flipped us.
“Unh!” she groaned, suddenly on top.
“Now, you grind down on me,” I suggested.
“Oh, that’s incredible,” she nodded. Her face was gone again, vanished into her hair. I caressed her slender waist and palmed her firm ass.
She rode me back and forth before, in an epiphany, finding her rhythm.
“Baby, you are so beautiful,” I said softly. “And you are doing so well.”
“This is so incredible,” she repeated, paying close attention to her body’s sensations as she fucked me, closely studying the effect of sex on herself.
She was cerebral, even in her sensuality.
I pinched a nipple. I raised my head to chew on her breast. I bite hard, holding her flesh in my teeth.
She fucked down on me harder.
I let her enjoy herself for a nice long while before we took a break.
“Sex is really great,” she said, then laughed. “Understatement.”
“I’m a big fan.” I said, standing. “Hey, do you mind if I take some pictures? I want to document your body before we fuck it up too much. That bite on your tit is going to be purple soon.”
“It is?” she said, looking to her breast. “I barely noticed that you bit it.”
“Cool, right?” I retrieved my camera. “So, do you mind?”
“Not at all, for your private viewing.”
“Of course.” I adjusted the lighting. “Though, if we get a nice blurry one, I may ask to post it on my blog. Don’t worry, I’d only do that with your approval.”
“Fine. How do you want me?”
“Just act natural,” I said, snapping. “I’ll adjust my angles.”
We talked as I snapped. I told it that I was only now beginning to photograph my friends in bed. “I’m not the brightest bulb,” I said, peering at the viewfinder. “Three years into this life, and I finally realize I should be documenting it in pictures.”
“You’ve got words,” she replied.
We sat to review the images.
“Look at this one,” I said. “You look just like a fifties pin up.”
“Son, I’m hot,” she laughed.
“The camera loves you,” I said, putting the camera aside. “But now, I guess we can no longer delay the inevitable. We need to see how bad your blowjob is.”
“God, I’m sure it’s awful,” she winced. “I’ve never done it.”
“You’ve never sucked cock at all?” I asked, tugging off my condom and reclining in the pillows.
“Nope,” she shook her head. “Never.”
“Well, that won’t do.” I held my cock forward. “Let’s see what you’ve got. Just try it nice and slow, and I’ll talk you though it.”
“Okay, thanks.” She stepped forward on her knees and lowered her face to my cock. She took it in hand and gingerly licked the shaft.
I petted her hair. “That’s so sweet, so nice . . .”
Her tongue caressed my cock, her pale eyes alternating between my eyes and my cock.
I reached for my camera. “Let me document your first blowjob, pretty.” I snapped some photographs as she brought my cock to her lips. “Aw, that’s just lovely,” I clicked. “Okay, now suck my dick, darling.”
She looked up, her eyes on me and my camera. “’He goes to supper: not where he eats, but where he is eaten.’"
“Source?” I asked.
“Shakespeare,” she said into my cock. “Hamlet.”
“Very smart. Now suck my dick.”
She took my head into her mouth.
“Nice, nice . . .” I commended.
She went lower.
“Good, that’s great . . .”
She went lower still, pulling my cock into her throat.
“Whoa, wha wha wha!” I gasped. I dropped my camera to the bed. “Hang on, whoa!”
She started to pull back. “No, I didn’t mean stop,” I said. “Do that again.”
She swallowed me. I pumped slightly. She had all of me.
I rested my cock in her. She continued to hold me in place.
I fucked slowly. She swirled her tongue.
I took her head in my hands and pushed my cock back into her throat. She didn’t hesitate.
“Okay, come up for air,” I panted.
She sat up and wiped her mouth. “Was that okay?”
“Are you kidding?” I said. “You’ve never sucked cock? Never?”
“Nope, never.”
“Kid, you are a born cocksucker. That’s great head. Really, really great. You must have been absent the day they handed out gag reflexes.”
“Thanks,” she smiled. “But I have a question: how do I breath when you’re in my esophagus?”
“Ah, good question. First, take a deep breath before you swallow me. Second, remember, you don’t have to deep throat the whole time. You can tease with your throat before you plunge my cock back. Also, when you are sucking, you don’t need to keep your lips firm the whole time. You can breath through your mouth.”
“Oh, like this?” she asked, taking my cock back in her mouth. She panted around the sides of my shaft. “Hmmph?”
“Perfect,” I said. “You learn fast. Now, get that cock out of your mouth. I’m going to fuck the shit out of you.”
She sat up. “Yes sir, professor,” she grinned.
“Call me that again,” I said, reaching for a condom, “And I’ll fuck you like you’ve never been fucked.”
“I’ve never been fucked . . . professor.”
“All that is past now,” I said. “Hand me that camera and get your ass to the edge of the bed.”
The next break found us actually leaving the bedroom.
“So, now that we’ve fucked, can I know your name, Jefferson?”
“If you’ll give me yours, pretty girl.”
“You don’t buy ‘Esther?’”
“I do not, no.”
“Smart boy. It’s not my name. I borrowed it from Saul Bellow. Esther Fenchel is one of the eponymous character's love interests in The Adventures of Augie March.” She nodded to the books on a side table. “You should read it, if you can tear yourself away from Valley of the Dolls.”
I laughed. “I embarrassed to say that I haven’t even started Valley of the Dolls.”
“What are you reading?”
“I’m reading this great biography of Bing Crosby . . . ”
“Weren’t you reading that at Christmas?”
I felt a twinge of remorse. “That was just three weeks ago.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“It’s six hundred pages!”
She shrugged. “My name is Nicole,” she said.
I told her my name. “Pleased to meet you, Nicole.”
“Likewise.”
I poured a bourbon and sat to watch as she pulled out a package of Marlboro Lights.
“I should’ve warned you. I’m a chain smoker.”
“You might’ve warned me of a few things,” I said, sipping.
“There were a few things of which I was unaware,” she rejoindered. “And others you needed to discover.” She lit her cigarette and exhaled.
She looked up, resting the cigarette in her fingers. “’Yet all experience is an arch where through gleams that untraveled world, whose margin fades forever and forever when I move. How dull it is to pause, to make an end, to rust unburnished, not to shine in use.’”
She flicked an ash.
I swallowed the bourbon that rested in my throat.
“Source?” I asked.
“Tennyson,” she answered, drawing a puff. “Ulysses.”
“Impressive that you quote,” I nodded.
“It’s what I do,” she replied, stamping out a dead butt. “It’s how my mind works. I capture language. I can quote Tennyson, Eliot, Shakespeare . . . and your blog.”
“My blog?” I sputtered.
“Yes, of course.” She drew another cigarette. “Remember when you took my panties?”
“Very well,” I smiled, raising my bourbon. I took a sip.
“Do you recall what you said as you took them?” She lit her smoke.
I furrowed my brow. “What I said? Well, no, not exactly.”
Her lighter clicked on the table. “You said, ‘cute panties, did you wear these for me?’”
I looked at her, not following.
“So I provided the next line, ‘I often wear cute underwear for no reason at all.’”
“’The next line?’” I asked, resting my bourbon in a palm.
“That’s exactly what you said to someone else when you first met. So I replied with her response.”
“Wow, are you serious? I said that? And you can quote it?”
She exhaled a plum of smoke. “That’s how my mind works.”
“Incredible. Well, I suppose I need some new material if I’m getting redundant.”
“Yeah, you may want to work on that. Remember in our web cam conversation, when you wrote ‘you didn’t have to be attractive, but it helps?’ That’s what you said to Celia in your first post.” She took a drag. “Well, a paraphrase, but approximately the same.”
“I hope you don’t think I carry a set of stock lines,” I apologized. “I guess my mind just has its limitations.”
She drew a puff and exhaled. “You don’t have any cause for concern. You’re an excellent writer.”
“Thanks. Well, I’m honored to be in your repertoire . . . though a little daunted by the company of Tennyson, Eliot and the Bard.”
“You have one advantage over them,” she said, flicking an ash.
“What’s that?”
She took another drag. “I can’t fuck dead writers.”
I took a sip of my bourbon. “Nicole, finish your cigarette.”
She put it out. “Done.”
“Lay on my bed, pretty girl,” I instructed.
She sat on the bed and brought her long legs to the duvet. She reclined, letting her head rest on the crook of an arm. Her eyes gravitated to my bookshelves.
She glanced back as I undressed. Her eyes took in my body, recording the image of the man she had traveled to meet. She saw me nude before she knew my name.
She removed her glasses, placing them on a nightstand.
She was quiet as I moved to her side. I lowered my mouth to hers. We kissed, my hands getting to know her body, her hands learning the feel of a man’s body.
I moved to cover her with my torso. I opened my mouth to contain hers, to refocus her tongue and teeth from urgency to ardor. My hands held her cheeks firm before pushing her hair back so that I could see her face.
I pulled back for a look, but my mouth drew me back to hers.
My hips pressed into her. She trembled as before.
“I think we should fuck now,” I said, reaching for a condom.
“Yes, please, let’s,” she said. I could tell she meant for that phrase to sound nonchalant, but it came out fast and tinged with nervousness.
“You okay?” I asked.
“I’m very okay,” she smiled. “Come on, let’s fuck.”
I kissed her as I positioned my cock against her cunt. “I should warn you,” she said. “I’m pretty tight.”
“I know this already,” I said, sliding my head between her wet lips.
“I hear that’s often advantageous for the sensations of the male organ,” she smirked.
“I’ve heard that myself,” I nodded, opening a bottle of lube. “That is, once you get the male organ in there. Here, let me lift your legs up.”
I pressed forward, parting her slowly. She gasped. I pushed a little more, edging my way into her.
Her pussy was tighter than a miser’s heart.
I soothed her thighs and breasts, murmuring as I went deeper into her body.
I dropped my body, pressing our bodies together as we kissed. I felt her pulse race against my chest and though my cock.
“You okay?” I whispered.
“Yes,” she nodded. “God, this is good.”
“It is good, isn’t it?” I kissed her neck and began to slowly move inside her.
She began to move back.
Soon, our fucking followed the fervor of our kisses. I grabbed her shoulders, pressing deep as I flipped us.
“Unh!” she groaned, suddenly on top.
“Now, you grind down on me,” I suggested.
“Oh, that’s incredible,” she nodded. Her face was gone again, vanished into her hair. I caressed her slender waist and palmed her firm ass.
She rode me back and forth before, in an epiphany, finding her rhythm.
“Baby, you are so beautiful,” I said softly. “And you are doing so well.”
“This is so incredible,” she repeated, paying close attention to her body’s sensations as she fucked me, closely studying the effect of sex on herself.
She was cerebral, even in her sensuality.
I pinched a nipple. I raised my head to chew on her breast. I bite hard, holding her flesh in my teeth.
She fucked down on me harder.
I let her enjoy herself for a nice long while before we took a break.
“Sex is really great,” she said, then laughed. “Understatement.”
“I’m a big fan.” I said, standing. “Hey, do you mind if I take some pictures? I want to document your body before we fuck it up too much. That bite on your tit is going to be purple soon.”
“It is?” she said, looking to her breast. “I barely noticed that you bit it.”
“Cool, right?” I retrieved my camera. “So, do you mind?”
“Not at all, for your private viewing.”
“Of course.” I adjusted the lighting. “Though, if we get a nice blurry one, I may ask to post it on my blog. Don’t worry, I’d only do that with your approval.”
“Fine. How do you want me?”
“Just act natural,” I said, snapping. “I’ll adjust my angles.”
We talked as I snapped. I told it that I was only now beginning to photograph my friends in bed. “I’m not the brightest bulb,” I said, peering at the viewfinder. “Three years into this life, and I finally realize I should be documenting it in pictures.”
“You’ve got words,” she replied.
We sat to review the images.
“Look at this one,” I said. “You look just like a fifties pin up.”
“Son, I’m hot,” she laughed.
“The camera loves you,” I said, putting the camera aside. “But now, I guess we can no longer delay the inevitable. We need to see how bad your blowjob is.”
“God, I’m sure it’s awful,” she winced. “I’ve never done it.”
“You’ve never sucked cock at all?” I asked, tugging off my condom and reclining in the pillows.
“Nope,” she shook her head. “Never.”
“Well, that won’t do.” I held my cock forward. “Let’s see what you’ve got. Just try it nice and slow, and I’ll talk you though it.”
“Okay, thanks.” She stepped forward on her knees and lowered her face to my cock. She took it in hand and gingerly licked the shaft.
I petted her hair. “That’s so sweet, so nice . . .”
Her tongue caressed my cock, her pale eyes alternating between my eyes and my cock.
I reached for my camera. “Let me document your first blowjob, pretty.” I snapped some photographs as she brought my cock to her lips. “Aw, that’s just lovely,” I clicked. “Okay, now suck my dick, darling.”
She looked up, her eyes on me and my camera. “’He goes to supper: not where he eats, but where he is eaten.’"
“Source?” I asked.
“Shakespeare,” she said into my cock. “Hamlet.”
“Very smart. Now suck my dick.”
She took my head into her mouth.
“Nice, nice . . .” I commended.
She went lower.
“Good, that’s great . . .”
She went lower still, pulling my cock into her throat.
“Whoa, wha wha wha!” I gasped. I dropped my camera to the bed. “Hang on, whoa!”
She started to pull back. “No, I didn’t mean stop,” I said. “Do that again.”
She swallowed me. I pumped slightly. She had all of me.
I rested my cock in her. She continued to hold me in place.
I fucked slowly. She swirled her tongue.
I took her head in my hands and pushed my cock back into her throat. She didn’t hesitate.
“Okay, come up for air,” I panted.
She sat up and wiped her mouth. “Was that okay?”
“Are you kidding?” I said. “You’ve never sucked cock? Never?”
“Nope, never.”
“Kid, you are a born cocksucker. That’s great head. Really, really great. You must have been absent the day they handed out gag reflexes.”
“Thanks,” she smiled. “But I have a question: how do I breath when you’re in my esophagus?”
“Ah, good question. First, take a deep breath before you swallow me. Second, remember, you don’t have to deep throat the whole time. You can tease with your throat before you plunge my cock back. Also, when you are sucking, you don’t need to keep your lips firm the whole time. You can breath through your mouth.”
“Oh, like this?” she asked, taking my cock back in her mouth. She panted around the sides of my shaft. “Hmmph?”
“Perfect,” I said. “You learn fast. Now, get that cock out of your mouth. I’m going to fuck the shit out of you.”
She sat up. “Yes sir, professor,” she grinned.
“Call me that again,” I said, reaching for a condom, “And I’ll fuck you like you’ve never been fucked.”
“I’ve never been fucked . . . professor.”
“All that is past now,” I said. “Hand me that camera and get your ass to the edge of the bed.”
The next break found us actually leaving the bedroom.
“So, now that we’ve fucked, can I know your name, Jefferson?”
“If you’ll give me yours, pretty girl.”
“You don’t buy ‘Esther?’”
“I do not, no.”
“Smart boy. It’s not my name. I borrowed it from Saul Bellow. Esther Fenchel is one of the eponymous character's love interests in The Adventures of Augie March.” She nodded to the books on a side table. “You should read it, if you can tear yourself away from Valley of the Dolls.”
I laughed. “I embarrassed to say that I haven’t even started Valley of the Dolls.”
“What are you reading?”
“I’m reading this great biography of Bing Crosby . . . ”
“Weren’t you reading that at Christmas?”
I felt a twinge of remorse. “That was just three weeks ago.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“It’s six hundred pages!”
She shrugged. “My name is Nicole,” she said.
I told her my name. “Pleased to meet you, Nicole.”
“Likewise.”
I poured a bourbon and sat to watch as she pulled out a package of Marlboro Lights.
“I should’ve warned you. I’m a chain smoker.”
“You might’ve warned me of a few things,” I said, sipping.
“There were a few things of which I was unaware,” she rejoindered. “And others you needed to discover.” She lit her cigarette and exhaled.
She looked up, resting the cigarette in her fingers. “’Yet all experience is an arch where through gleams that untraveled world, whose margin fades forever and forever when I move. How dull it is to pause, to make an end, to rust unburnished, not to shine in use.’”
She flicked an ash.
I swallowed the bourbon that rested in my throat.
“Source?” I asked.
“Tennyson,” she answered, drawing a puff. “Ulysses.”
“Impressive that you quote,” I nodded.
“It’s what I do,” she replied, stamping out a dead butt. “It’s how my mind works. I capture language. I can quote Tennyson, Eliot, Shakespeare . . . and your blog.”
“My blog?” I sputtered.
“Yes, of course.” She drew another cigarette. “Remember when you took my panties?”
“Very well,” I smiled, raising my bourbon. I took a sip.
“Do you recall what you said as you took them?” She lit her smoke.
I furrowed my brow. “What I said? Well, no, not exactly.”
Her lighter clicked on the table. “You said, ‘cute panties, did you wear these for me?’”
I looked at her, not following.
“So I provided the next line, ‘I often wear cute underwear for no reason at all.’”
“’The next line?’” I asked, resting my bourbon in a palm.
“That’s exactly what you said to someone else when you first met. So I replied with her response.”
“Wow, are you serious? I said that? And you can quote it?”
She exhaled a plum of smoke. “That’s how my mind works.”
“Incredible. Well, I suppose I need some new material if I’m getting redundant.”
“Yeah, you may want to work on that. Remember in our web cam conversation, when you wrote ‘you didn’t have to be attractive, but it helps?’ That’s what you said to Celia in your first post.” She took a drag. “Well, a paraphrase, but approximately the same.”
“I hope you don’t think I carry a set of stock lines,” I apologized. “I guess my mind just has its limitations.”
She drew a puff and exhaled. “You don’t have any cause for concern. You’re an excellent writer.”
“Thanks. Well, I’m honored to be in your repertoire . . . though a little daunted by the company of Tennyson, Eliot and the Bard.”
“You have one advantage over them,” she said, flicking an ash.
“What’s that?”
She took another drag. “I can’t fuck dead writers.”
I took a sip of my bourbon. “Nicole, finish your cigarette.”
She put it out. “Done.”
Sunday, January 28, 2007
Thesaurus
I could feel her eyes on my back.
We had only spent a moment at the door exchanging glances and bussing cheeks before I took her coat.
We had never met. We didn’t know one another’s names.
Yet she had come to New York to spend a weekend with me.
Now, as I turned to hang her coat in a closet, she was giving me the once over. I took my time, allowing her to look. It was only fair; after all, I had the home court advantage.
I closed the closet door and turned to reciprocate her gaze.
She smirked, shifting her weight from one hip to another.
“You might have told me,” I said, reprimanding her.
“What?” she sassed. “And ruin the surprise?”
I liked that. I stepped forward to take her face in my hands. I kissed her deeply.
She had told me her name was Esther, but I assumed that wasn’t true. No one named girls “Esther” nineteen years ago. Nineteen-year-old girls are named “Ashley” or “Jennifer” or “Madison,” the last after that Daryl Hannah movie that had been popular a few years before they were born.
“Esther,” or whomever it was now standing in my apartment, had contacted me after reading my blog. Her introductory note was complimentary and polite, which is always pleasant, but more unusually, it avoided common words when more exact options were possible. The more syllables per word, the better.
This gal is either wicked smart, I thought, or she’s damned handy with a thesaurus. Either way, I was enticed . . . if not inveigled.
We traded notes now and then until she faded from my inbox. She later wrote to apologize, noting that the end of a semester with a double major could be exceedingly onerous.
Our correspondence resumed.
We never traded photographs. She didn’t request one, and I didn’t really care what she looked like. She had me going with wit and a vocabulary that was gorgeous, lavish, luxurious, splendid and sumptuous—that is to say, in a word provided by my thesaurus, impressive.
After a month or so of trading intermittent bon mots, I asked if she had a web cam. Of course she did; she’s nineteen. I suggested that we instant message with cams.
As her image came into view, I was glad to see that she was easy on the eyes. “You didn’t have to be attractive,” I wrote, “But it helps that you are.”
“Likewise,” she wrote back, her lips slightly pursed.
The truth was, though, that I really couldn’t tell much about her appearance. Her camera was trained on her head and the dorm room behind her. Over one unseen shoulder was a well-crammed bookcase; over the other, a white wall bare but for a poster.
She wore a newsboy cap, pushed forward and down, and glasses that were scarcely visible in the forest of dark hair that hung in her face. Only the lower third of her face was unobstructed.
She was evidently pale and had lips. Beyond that, I couldn’t have picked her out of a line up.
No matter, really. I was glad to put face to words, naturally, but I was after other quarry.
I wanted to take her fine-tuned vocabulary for a spin.
As we traded quips—cracks, jests, sallies, drolleries—I soon realized that I was barely keeping up. She parried my every sentence by three, coming back fast with pithy humor and precisely chosen words, each typed without error and burnished—buffed, polished, shined, furbished—to crystalline sheen.
This much was clear: whoever it was behind those glasses, she wasn’t fudging her smarts. She appeared to be the real deal, the sort who could waltz her way across the Mensa ballroom.
Still, I was only seeing the cards she dealt. I was looking right at this person on my screen, but her face was hidden in a disguise of cap, glasses and hair. I was conversing with her, but she hid herself in a thicket of words. All of that was wrapped up and presented under an unlikely name.
After an exchange that had been agreeable, congenial, pleasing and engaging, we signed out. Our correspondence continued without cameras; we had satisfied that curiosity as well as we could.
Still, other curiosities remained.
Finally, I took a step that was perhaps inevitable, ineluctable, ineludible and certain.
“If you are ever in the city, it would be a pleasure to meet,” I wrote.
“I can come during the winter break,” she replied.
“That would be great,” I said. “And, well, if you need a place to stay, I can put you up.”
“You are certainly complaisant,” she responded. I reached for my dictionary before thanking her for the compliment.
Now, she was in my living room, her masks intact but for the one secret she could no longer keep.
As I kissed her, I placed a hand on her hip.
“You act as though you’re ashamed of it,” I whispered.
“Not at all,” she asserted, her voice firm, revealing none of the open passion of her kiss.
I stood back. “Well, may I at least appreciate it?”
She leaned a hand on a bookcase. “Go right ahead.”
She wore a white cotton shirt, so tight that the buttons barely met. Her nipples were hard and clearly visible, for she wore nothing underneath.
“This is a lovely sight,” I said, caressing her shirt. I nuzzled into her neck. “And your clothing smells so fresh. Still, I want to remove this.”
“Go ahead.”
She began to shudder as my fingers moved down the buttons of her shirt. The front opened to reveal flesh, but I averted my eyes to undo her cuffs. When her wrists were free, I removed her shirt and tossed to one side.
“You’re trembling.”
“It’s cold outside.”
“It’s very warm inside. You’re nervous, and that’s fine.” I pressed my body to hers. “It’s alluring, actually.”
I took her mouth back into mine. Her kiss was immediate and slightly clumsy.
I stood back to stroke her torso. I turned her body so that I could look at her back.
“This is very nice,” I said, touching the black skirt that draped to her knees. “But this, too, needs to go.”
“Yes,” she said, a slight frog in her throat.
“So brave,” I whispered.
I unbuttoned the skirt, unzipped its side, and knelt to lower it to the ground. She stepped from the skirt, gently raising her high heels.
I looked up at her, touching her legs and torso. I savored the responses of her trembling flesh.
“Cute panties,” I observed, touching lace. “Did you wear those for me?”
She stopped trembling, resuming her composure. “I often wear cute underwear for no reason at all,” she smiled.
“Yes, well, I’m afraid these also need to vanish.” I lowered her panties slowly, offering a hand to steady her as she lifted her heels. I put the panties aside and allowed my eyes to take her in.
I nuzzled my nose in the soft, sandy blonde pubic hair that gave away another secret—her dark brown hair was a deliberate choice. Perhaps she had become a brunette for effect, to dramatize her smooth pale skin. But now that I was in on the larger secret, I suspected it was a diversionary tactic, intended to make her appear somewhat mousy, like the bookworm she preferred people to see when they looked at her.
Looking up to her face full of hair, I still had no clear sense of the color of her eyes.
I stood and pushed back her hair. She looked at me, now trembling again. Her eyes were pale, limpid aquamarine, the color of a clear sky viewed from underwater.
I traced a finger to her waist. I needed to address the secret she had kept from me.
“You didn’t tell me about this,” I chastised. “You must’ve assumed I would want to know.”
“Now you know,” she said, shrugging. “I have an hourglass figure.”
“Yes, you do have an hourglass figure. That’s the right word for it. I might’ve said you are built like a brick shithouse.”
She laughed. “Ever the Southern gentleman.”
I nodded and leaned to kiss her. My finger moved across the slight curve of her tight belly, and down to her slit.
I toyed with her moistness.
“Wow,” she said, for once at a loss for words.
I kissed her ear lobe.
“It’s . . . it’s been a very long time,” she added.
“Since?” I whispered.
“Since I’ve been with a man,” she said, shaking under my touch.
I placed a steady hand against the base of her spine. “How long?” My tongue traced the curve of her neck.
“Just that one time,” she answered. “When I was fourteen.”
“How old was the boy?” I nibbled her clavicle.
“My age,” she swallowed. “Well, fifteen.”
“An early predilection for older men,” I noted, cupping a firm breast. “And only girls since then?” I took a nipple in my mouth.
“Unh, yeah. Girls.”
I stood to kiss her. That mouth, so adept in forming words, was still learning to kiss.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I won’t be gentle.”
She held me close. “Who is your favorite modernist poet?” she whispered.
“I go for Frank O’Hara,” I answered, kissing her eyelids each in turn.
She looked into my eyes. “I’m a Stevens girl.”
“We’ll meet at Rilke,” I said, taking her hand. “Now come with me. I want to show you what happens to Stevens girls.”
We had only spent a moment at the door exchanging glances and bussing cheeks before I took her coat.
We had never met. We didn’t know one another’s names.
Yet she had come to New York to spend a weekend with me.
Now, as I turned to hang her coat in a closet, she was giving me the once over. I took my time, allowing her to look. It was only fair; after all, I had the home court advantage.
I closed the closet door and turned to reciprocate her gaze.
She smirked, shifting her weight from one hip to another.
“You might have told me,” I said, reprimanding her.
“What?” she sassed. “And ruin the surprise?”
I liked that. I stepped forward to take her face in my hands. I kissed her deeply.
She had told me her name was Esther, but I assumed that wasn’t true. No one named girls “Esther” nineteen years ago. Nineteen-year-old girls are named “Ashley” or “Jennifer” or “Madison,” the last after that Daryl Hannah movie that had been popular a few years before they were born.
“Esther,” or whomever it was now standing in my apartment, had contacted me after reading my blog. Her introductory note was complimentary and polite, which is always pleasant, but more unusually, it avoided common words when more exact options were possible. The more syllables per word, the better.
This gal is either wicked smart, I thought, or she’s damned handy with a thesaurus. Either way, I was enticed . . . if not inveigled.
We traded notes now and then until she faded from my inbox. She later wrote to apologize, noting that the end of a semester with a double major could be exceedingly onerous.
Our correspondence resumed.
We never traded photographs. She didn’t request one, and I didn’t really care what she looked like. She had me going with wit and a vocabulary that was gorgeous, lavish, luxurious, splendid and sumptuous—that is to say, in a word provided by my thesaurus, impressive.
After a month or so of trading intermittent bon mots, I asked if she had a web cam. Of course she did; she’s nineteen. I suggested that we instant message with cams.
As her image came into view, I was glad to see that she was easy on the eyes. “You didn’t have to be attractive,” I wrote, “But it helps that you are.”
“Likewise,” she wrote back, her lips slightly pursed.
The truth was, though, that I really couldn’t tell much about her appearance. Her camera was trained on her head and the dorm room behind her. Over one unseen shoulder was a well-crammed bookcase; over the other, a white wall bare but for a poster.
She wore a newsboy cap, pushed forward and down, and glasses that were scarcely visible in the forest of dark hair that hung in her face. Only the lower third of her face was unobstructed.
She was evidently pale and had lips. Beyond that, I couldn’t have picked her out of a line up.
No matter, really. I was glad to put face to words, naturally, but I was after other quarry.
I wanted to take her fine-tuned vocabulary for a spin.
As we traded quips—cracks, jests, sallies, drolleries—I soon realized that I was barely keeping up. She parried my every sentence by three, coming back fast with pithy humor and precisely chosen words, each typed without error and burnished—buffed, polished, shined, furbished—to crystalline sheen.
This much was clear: whoever it was behind those glasses, she wasn’t fudging her smarts. She appeared to be the real deal, the sort who could waltz her way across the Mensa ballroom.
Still, I was only seeing the cards she dealt. I was looking right at this person on my screen, but her face was hidden in a disguise of cap, glasses and hair. I was conversing with her, but she hid herself in a thicket of words. All of that was wrapped up and presented under an unlikely name.
After an exchange that had been agreeable, congenial, pleasing and engaging, we signed out. Our correspondence continued without cameras; we had satisfied that curiosity as well as we could.
Still, other curiosities remained.
Finally, I took a step that was perhaps inevitable, ineluctable, ineludible and certain.
“If you are ever in the city, it would be a pleasure to meet,” I wrote.
“I can come during the winter break,” she replied.
“That would be great,” I said. “And, well, if you need a place to stay, I can put you up.”
“You are certainly complaisant,” she responded. I reached for my dictionary before thanking her for the compliment.
Now, she was in my living room, her masks intact but for the one secret she could no longer keep.
As I kissed her, I placed a hand on her hip.
“You act as though you’re ashamed of it,” I whispered.
“Not at all,” she asserted, her voice firm, revealing none of the open passion of her kiss.
I stood back. “Well, may I at least appreciate it?”
She leaned a hand on a bookcase. “Go right ahead.”
She wore a white cotton shirt, so tight that the buttons barely met. Her nipples were hard and clearly visible, for she wore nothing underneath.
“This is a lovely sight,” I said, caressing her shirt. I nuzzled into her neck. “And your clothing smells so fresh. Still, I want to remove this.”
“Go ahead.”
She began to shudder as my fingers moved down the buttons of her shirt. The front opened to reveal flesh, but I averted my eyes to undo her cuffs. When her wrists were free, I removed her shirt and tossed to one side.
“You’re trembling.”
“It’s cold outside.”
“It’s very warm inside. You’re nervous, and that’s fine.” I pressed my body to hers. “It’s alluring, actually.”
I took her mouth back into mine. Her kiss was immediate and slightly clumsy.
I stood back to stroke her torso. I turned her body so that I could look at her back.
“This is very nice,” I said, touching the black skirt that draped to her knees. “But this, too, needs to go.”
“Yes,” she said, a slight frog in her throat.
“So brave,” I whispered.
I unbuttoned the skirt, unzipped its side, and knelt to lower it to the ground. She stepped from the skirt, gently raising her high heels.
I looked up at her, touching her legs and torso. I savored the responses of her trembling flesh.
“Cute panties,” I observed, touching lace. “Did you wear those for me?”
She stopped trembling, resuming her composure. “I often wear cute underwear for no reason at all,” she smiled.
“Yes, well, I’m afraid these also need to vanish.” I lowered her panties slowly, offering a hand to steady her as she lifted her heels. I put the panties aside and allowed my eyes to take her in.
I nuzzled my nose in the soft, sandy blonde pubic hair that gave away another secret—her dark brown hair was a deliberate choice. Perhaps she had become a brunette for effect, to dramatize her smooth pale skin. But now that I was in on the larger secret, I suspected it was a diversionary tactic, intended to make her appear somewhat mousy, like the bookworm she preferred people to see when they looked at her.
Looking up to her face full of hair, I still had no clear sense of the color of her eyes.
I stood and pushed back her hair. She looked at me, now trembling again. Her eyes were pale, limpid aquamarine, the color of a clear sky viewed from underwater.
I traced a finger to her waist. I needed to address the secret she had kept from me.
“You didn’t tell me about this,” I chastised. “You must’ve assumed I would want to know.”
“Now you know,” she said, shrugging. “I have an hourglass figure.”
“Yes, you do have an hourglass figure. That’s the right word for it. I might’ve said you are built like a brick shithouse.”
She laughed. “Ever the Southern gentleman.”
I nodded and leaned to kiss her. My finger moved across the slight curve of her tight belly, and down to her slit.
I toyed with her moistness.
“Wow,” she said, for once at a loss for words.
I kissed her ear lobe.
“It’s . . . it’s been a very long time,” she added.
“Since?” I whispered.
“Since I’ve been with a man,” she said, shaking under my touch.
I placed a steady hand against the base of her spine. “How long?” My tongue traced the curve of her neck.
“Just that one time,” she answered. “When I was fourteen.”
“How old was the boy?” I nibbled her clavicle.
“My age,” she swallowed. “Well, fifteen.”
“An early predilection for older men,” I noted, cupping a firm breast. “And only girls since then?” I took a nipple in my mouth.
“Unh, yeah. Girls.”
I stood to kiss her. That mouth, so adept in forming words, was still learning to kiss.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I won’t be gentle.”
She held me close. “Who is your favorite modernist poet?” she whispered.
“I go for Frank O’Hara,” I answered, kissing her eyelids each in turn.
She looked into my eyes. “I’m a Stevens girl.”
“We’ll meet at Rilke,” I said, taking her hand. “Now come with me. I want to show you what happens to Stevens girls.”
Saturday, January 27, 2007
Friday, January 26, 2007
Fleshbot and Tall Tales
This week’s Sex Blog Roundup at Fleshbot peers inside the skulls of sex bloggers who make good use of their overheated imaginations by dreaming up fantasies of all stripes.
Speaking of imaginative sex bloggers, allow me to introduce the lovely Anna Smash (above), who ‘fesses up at Confessions of an Unmanageable Life. Those of you who enjoy stalking me should skeedaddle over to her site to read about her recent trip to visit me in New York.
It all begins in the one in which we meet. I don’t suppose it would be giving away too much to admit that she landed a very fine addition to my quest for forty-four blowjobs during January, the month of my birth—and still managed to witness a few other contributions to the cause.
How is that going, you may ask? It’s going well, I may answer. I won’t give you the current tally, but please note: we are now in the last week of the month. If you plan to take part in this project, now’s the time to step up! Don’t assume that someone else will do your part—it’s time for you to drop to your knees to make every blowjob count.
Tell your friends!
The end of the month is also the deadline to vote for Dirtyspoke’s Sex Blog Awards.
You’ll find me up for Best Sex Blog, Best Male Sex Blog, and as a team player at Viviane’s Sex Carnival.
Those of you who have first discovered my blog through Dirtyspoke may well wonder: where’s the sex? My apologies. My blog is about my life as a parent and pervert—as stated in my profile—and by chance, the contest hit at a time when I was writing about parenting after an extended digression on perversion.
You might try delving into my archives.
Just to show that I’ve still got my chops, I am once again shifting gears. For the next few posts, you get full throttle smut. It all starts with stories of a visitor to my birthday week of wall-to-wall sex. Nope, not Anna Smash—she’s on that for now. This is another scorcher, one so hot I would doubt it myself if I didn’t have photographs as evidence.
That’s right. Photographs.
Not that you need proof. You know that if I tell a story, it’s true. I write nonfiction, and I am not one to tell tale tales.
I’m not privy to the results in progress, but I do hope the Dirtyspoke award contest is going well. It’s a splendid idea that brings attention to all of the fine folks who write sex blogs.
I’ve exchanged notes with a few of the fellows up for Best Male. There just aren’t that many of us men who blog sex, so naturally we are a convivial bunch. Once the finalists were announced, we patted each other’s asses in the locker room, saying “may the best man win.”
Then we traded blowjobs and hit the showers.
Things are a little more competitive in the Best Sex Blog category, but there again, everyone is on very friendly terms. I’m grateful for that. Frankly, I’ve had enough drama in my life lately.
Like, check this out. The other day I was out running errands, as you do, and as I walked down Third Avenue, I noticed a penny on the sidewalk. I stopped to pick it up. Huh, I grinned—a 1942 wheat penny! I thought the kids would enjoy that.
Just then, I heard a thundering crash. I looked up to see that a bank safe had fallen just inches from where I stood. Why, if I hadn’t stopped to pick up a coin, I might have been crushed by a falling safe! I had found some lucky penny, all right!
I had barely avoided a very bad scrape. But my spirits were lifted by a thoughtful email I found waiting in my inbox.
Practice SAFE sex.
Philip
“Wasn’t that nice?” I asked Elle the next day when she stopped by for tea. “Especially after that whole thing with the falling safe and all.”
“Oh my God!” she said, raising a hand to her mouth. “Are you serious? Jefferson, that’s really scary.”
“No kidding, I was really scared. But why would a safe just fall like that . . .”
I was interrupted by the faint click of my broken doorbell. I excused myself to answer the door.
“Oh my!” I exclaimed.
“What is it?” Elle called, running to my side.
There was a small fire burning in the hallway. Acting on instinct and adrenaline, I quickly stomped out the fire with my stocking feet.
“Oh God, what is that smell?” Anna gagged.
“Ugh—that fire was set to a bag of manure!” I said, retching.
“That’s so disgusting,” Anna said. “Who in the world . . . wait, what is this note?”
She pulled a paper from my door.
Scat.
Nina
“Who is Nina?” Elle asked.
“I don’t know,” I asked, scraping my feet. “A fellow jazz fan, I guess. But that can wait . . . my feet are so gross. Help me to the bathroom, would you?”
Elle held my shoulder as I hobbled to the tub to wash up. Afterwards, she helped me back to the couch.
“You rest,” she said. “I’ll refill your tea.”
“Thanks, Elle, you are very sweet.”
Elle came back with a full cup of tea. I sipped it as we talked. I was really enjoying this opportunity to get to know her better.
After a few moments, though, I began to feel woozy. I hated to be rude to my guest, but I didn’t feel very well.
“Would you excuse me?” I said, struggling to stand. “I think I need to go to the restroom.”
“Oh, of course, Jefferson,” Elle smiled. “I’ll be fine.”
I had just made it to the toilet when I began to vomit. It was an awful, burning sensation, but I did feel a little relief.
That’s when my chest began to feel tight. “Ouch, ouch, ouch,” I thought, opening my medicine cabinet. I tore down medicines for colds, fevers and hemorrhoids before finding what I needed: two aspirin and my portable defibrillator.
“Wow, I felt bad for a minute there,” I sighed, dropping to the couch.
“You . . . you’re all right?” Elle asked.
“Yes, I’m fine,” I said, patting her hand. “You’re very nice to be concerned, but I’m sure you have better things to do that look after a sick man. Really, I appreciate it, but please, go out and enjoy your day.”
After Elle left, I had a nap. I woke feeling refreshed, thankfully. I was really looking forward to my date with Ilyana that evening. She’s so hot. I would have hated to cancel.
She was just as alluring in person as I had hoped. Not to be too explicit, but we were soon naked and rolling on my bed. She was over me, I was over her, she shuddered, I trembled . . . it was very intense.
I rolled off her to take a break.
“Wow,” I panted. “That was pretty earth shattering for, you know, casual sex.”
“Casual?” she asked. “Did you say ‘casual?’”
“Yeah,” I laughed. “I mean, I can’t believe we just met.”
Ilyana put her face close to mine. “I’m going to make sure you never forget me,” she said, like she really meant it.
“Oh,” I laughed. “Not much danger of that.”
We went at it again. Eventually, I fell asleep in her arms. When I awoke, she was gone.
I guess she had someplace to be, I thought when I awoke.
I was glad she wasn’t there to see what I found in the kitchen.
Somehow, I had managed to leave a pot of water boiling on the stove. I can be such a ditz! This oversight evidently proved tragic when my sweet pet bunny fell into the pot.
“Poor Pinky!” I cried, turning off the heat. “You always were so curious.”
So, like I said, I had a very dramatic week. I’m just lucky to have so many wonderful friends. I’m glad we all get to share in the excitement of this award contest. Best of luck, pals!
I hope you enjoy the smoldering sex I’m sending your way.
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