Sunday, January 23, 2011
Saturday, January 22, 2011
Storytelling at Perch
Join me on Monday, January 24, 8:00-9:30pm, for Storytelling at Perch. The theme is "regrets." I've had a few.
You can have a few yourself; there are fine drink specials. This intimate space is also a lovely restuarant. Arrive early to reserve your seat.
Regreters:
Rob Asaro
Johanna Clearfield
Judy Goldschmidt
Jefferson
Ariana Seigel
With a very special guest: Vigilante, singing the stories of regret.
Perch Cafe
365 Fifth Avenue
Brooklyn, NY
Thursday, January 20, 2011
HNT
Scout wrote to ask if I’d like to have a girlfriend tie him up and watch as he sucked my dick. Lori was all about that. Here’s her rope handiwork just prior to the realization of the second part of Scout’s proposal.
Yesterday was Lori’s birthday. Show her some love at Kinky Sticks.
Friday, January 14, 2011
Story Collider
Story Collider is a story-telling series focused on science. On January nineteenth, the theme is “pathology,” and I’ll be there, telling the story of my brief career as a sociopath.
My story focuses primarily on the anticipated revisions to the Diagnostic Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM) and the real-life impact of the categorization of sexuality by mental health professionals. In the current edition of the DSM, anyone involved in kink is potentially diagnosed with “paraphilia,” a catch-all term for any sexual attraction deemed outside normative behavior, be it necrophilia or a taste for latex. The new edition is expected to update diagnostic criteria so that kinky is not a diagnosis.
Until then, the current edition remains the guideline, as it was during my recent custody case. My interest in BDSM became the subject of a psychiatric evaluation that could have caused me to lose my children.
My story also includes the gossipy smear campaign undertaken by bloggers Dacia, Tess and Dee. When they learned that there would be a psychiatric evaluation, they filled blogs, anonymous attacks and cocktails hours with their diagnosis that I was, unquestionably, a “sociopath.” This feverish, sad drama consumed them even after the psychiatric evaluation and custody case were concluded.
Hear the full tale at Story Collider, where I’ll share the stage with great storytellers, including some of my chums from the Moth. The event is free but the house will be full, so arrive early to claim your spot; make Pacific Standard your happy hour destination.
Saturday, January 01, 2011
Orgasm Giveaway
With the New Year’s hangover comes my annual Birthday Month Orgasm Giveaway. Each January, I give away orgasms for duration of the month in celebration of my birthday, which is January seventeenth. My goal is to give away one orgasm for each year of my life, plus one to grow on. This year, I turn forty-seven, so that’s forty-eight money shots.
Last year, I exceeded my goal a tad—I gave out two-hundred and forty-six orgasms.
Each year, I meet new people who have read my blog for a while but never contacted me. If you’d like to shake my hand and get off to boot, here’s your chance.
Last year, I exceeded my goal a tad—I gave out two-hundred and forty-six orgasms.
Each year, I meet new people who have read my blog for a while but never contacted me. If you’d like to shake my hand and get off to boot, here’s your chance.
Thursday, December 23, 2010
HNT
At Santacon with the fabulous Veronica Vera of Miss Vera’s Finishing School for Boys Who Want to be Girls And Santa!
Monday, December 20, 2010
Sex Fifth Avenue
I gave up dodging tourists at Sixth Avenue. They were gathered in loose overlapping clusters of gawking children, wary parents and grandparents observing that Radio City Music Hall is right there, and look, right across the street is NBC, where they make “The Today Show,” so the whole family might be on television right then and not even know it. You can’t predict which way the herd will shift in a moment of excitement or panic, so I relented to its meandering pace and bid my time.
A text came into my phone. Where are you? My lunch break is nearly over.
I’m a block away. I replied. I should be there in a few hours.
LOL. Take a picture of the tree.
In time, I arrived at the Christmas tree at Rockefeller Center. Only a half block to go, I thought, glancing up briefly. I kept a hand outstretched to avoid jostling the upward gaping surge. As I reached the end of the block, more faces looked past me and pushed forward, reassuring one another that the tree was just ahead, and look, there was that gold statue from “30 Rock.” Fifth Avenue was penned in by traffic cops operating improvised gates of yellow crime-scene tape. I fell in line and crossed the street within two light changes. I shuffled behind two older women in matching coats, clinging together for dear life.
Most people outside the store were hemmed behind velvet ropes, queuing to gaze at the holiday windows. I made my way past them, peering over their heads to get my own glimpse before making my way to the store’s revolving doors. A few cycles and I was inside.
I pressed my back to a wall and took out my phone. I’m in make up. I texted.
Wow, that really did take twenty minutes. Take the elevator to seven. Turn right.
I put away my phone and followed distracted shoppers to the rear of the store. The main floor was no less crowded than the sidewalks outside, as tourists took respite from the cold and allowed their wrists to be sprayed with various unaffordable scents.
Two elevators came and went before I found space in one. All the buttons had already been pushed. I edged to the back of the car, prepared to take the local to the uppermost floor open to shoppers.
As the elevator emptied and refilled at the sixth floor, I reached for my phone. Almost there.
Men’s Lounge, first stall.
A friend of mine had taken seasonal work at Sak’s Fifth Avenue. Knowing my penchant for sex in city landmarks, he offered to blow me in the legendary store. “Should we dare?” I asked. “I’ve had sex at Lever House and Lehman Brothers and each went out of business shortly after the act. I may have a curse.”
“I think Sak’s can survive you. Anyway, my job is over in January. I’m in the same position whether or not you curse the store.”
The elevator door opened on Men’s Clothing. At the right, the Men’s Lounge was indicated in elegant script. I peeled away from those shuffling from the elevator and entered a corridor. Rounding a few corners brought me to the door. I entered.
I passed the first stall. I walked to the rear of the lounge to survey the space. I stood at a long countertop slowly washing my hands, scouting the space behind me in the mirror. A security guard stood at one urinal. I’d want to wait until he left. Beside me, a middle-aged man was scrubbing the face of his teen-aged son with a paper towel as an older son watched. I’d wait them out too. I sat down, affecting the air of a husband worn out by shopping wife. I texted my friend. Waiting on the herd to thin.
Good. I don’t have long. I’m in the first stall. Door is unlocked.
I removed my scarf. The guard washed his hands, conversing with someone who also seemed to work at the store. They walked out together. The father discarded his shredded paper towel and took another, wetting it before returning to his son’s face. How dirty is that kid’s face, I wondered. Did he get it made up on the main floor, as a goof? His father seemed good-natured about his task, but determined that he, and not his son, would wash his son’s face.
The father wore a Pittsburgh Steelers sweatshirt. I took off my hat.
The father went through another paper towel before judging his son’s face sufficiently clean. He spoke to his sons as he washed his hands and then his own face. As he reached for more paper towels, he suggested that his sons take this opportunity to go to the bathroom. The eldest nodded and walked to a urinal. The younger went to a stall. Finding it locked, he moved to another. It was open; my friend’s stall was untouched. The kid’s brother finished and washed his hands. He joined his father waiting for his sibling. Minutes passed. Finally, he came from the stall and crossed to the sink. He carefully and deliberately washed his hands and, returning to his father’s task, washed his face.
I silently composed a letter to the mayor of Pittsburgh, commending him on the meticulous hygiene of his city’s citizens.
The family made to go, but not before the father zipped up his sons’ coats and then his own. I watched them leave with a wish that all their adventures in New York be as rich and bonding as that which I had witnessed.
Now, I was left to my own adventure. I walked casually to the first stall, turned the handle and entered. It appeared empty. His voice whispered from behind the door, “I worried they would never leave.”
“I think they owe rent to Sak’s.” I pulled off a coat sleeve. “How’s your time?” I hung the coat on the door handle.
“I have time.” He took my coat and hung it on a hook with with his own. He locked the handle. I nodded and silently unhooked my belt. His eyes followed as I unfastened my pants, unzipped and, with deliberate nonchalance, took out my cock. I leaned back on a tile wall, my stance wide, waiting. He was my sissy cocksucker. I was his anonymous pick up. Generations of men had set the stage of this lounge before us.
I declined to remove either my shoes or my pants. He removed his own, leaving on his shirt and tie. His cock curved out like mine. He spread his knees wide as he went to his knees and took me in his mouth. As he blew me, I looked around the stall. He had chosen well. The stalls were tall, so no one could peer from above. The walls and doors continued to the floor, so no one could peer from below. The doors themselves were louvered, so that standing, I could see feet walk by, but no one could detect us. With the door securely locked, we were in our own private room.
He stopped to look up at me. “Don’t come in my mouth.” I nodded. “And don’t come too soon.” I nodded again. He retrieved a small amber vial from his shirt pocket. “Poppers?” I shook my head. He unscrewed the vial, took a deep whiff in each nostril, and returned the top. I held out a plan to take the bottle. It would be more convenient to him in my hand.
He hungrily returned to my cock. I knew the poppers sent a rush to his head, and it felt intense to suck me. I forced my cock into him deeper, knowing he would intently feel his control ceding to me, his silent unknown stud.
I put my hand on the back his neck, combing my fingers through his black hair. I took care not to muss it too much. He would shortly be back on the floor, selling shirts and trousers to men like the Steelers fan, none of them the wiser that he had been on his knees in a bathroom stall drooling on cock.
He took another couple of hits from his popper vial and returned it to my palm. “Do you want to sit down?” he asked, nodding to the toilet. I shook my head. “Do you mind if I sit?” I shook my head. He stood, left the toilet seat and sat. I turned to return my cock to him. He jerked off as I fucked his face. He soon moved forward, falling back to his knees. I turned, leaning back against wall. I preferred him on his knees.
“Do you want to suck me?” he asked. I shook my head and handed back his poppers. My message was plain: shut up and suck my dick, cocksucker. He nodded, whiffed and sucked.
I was turned on by my use of him and by our illicit location. The lounge door opened and closed continuously. Feet paced outside our stall as men waited for a stall of their own. I was edging close to an orgasm when someone tried the handle of our stall. I felt that if the door opened, I would come immediately, unable to stop myself at the terror and thrill of discovery. He looked up at the sound. The lock remained secure. I pulled out of his mouth as the footsteps moved away. “That was close,” I whispered.
“Yeah, but it’s locked,” he said, his hands still on my naked thigh.
“No, I mean that I’m close,” I said. “Finish the job.”
He began to rise. “Let’s jerk off. I want to watch you come. Do you want me to do you?”
I shook my head and began to jerk. I was too close to rely on his hand. My cock was soaked with his saliva. I watched as he pulled his own cock, his eyes riveted on my hand and cock.
He came in deep spurts, creating puddles on the floor. I followed soon after. As my legs spasmed, I reached over his shoulder to brace myself on the opposite wall. I steadied myself as the wave subsided. I leaned back on the wall, my cock still bouncing for more. “Here,” I said, handing back his poppers.
“Thanks.” He returned the vial to his shirt pocket. “Hang on, let me clean up before you go.” He unrolled toilet paper onto our shared mess. Using a paper seat cover, he expertly mopped up the tissues and dropped the papers into the toilet. He quickly dressed before flushing. “Okay, thanks,” he repeated. “You go first.” I nodded, unlocked the door and left the stall. I heard it lock behind me.
I washed my hands and, for good measure, my face. Twenty minutes later, I was on the sidewalk of Fifth Avenue.
Crossing John Cardinal O’Connor Way to Saint Patrick’s Cathedral, I looked back to Sak’s. Each year, I recalled, the store is wrapped in giant red ribbon, transforming the building into a giant gift box. Not this year, though.
A text came into my phone. Where are you? My lunch break is nearly over.
I’m a block away. I replied. I should be there in a few hours.
LOL. Take a picture of the tree.
In time, I arrived at the Christmas tree at Rockefeller Center. Only a half block to go, I thought, glancing up briefly. I kept a hand outstretched to avoid jostling the upward gaping surge. As I reached the end of the block, more faces looked past me and pushed forward, reassuring one another that the tree was just ahead, and look, there was that gold statue from “30 Rock.” Fifth Avenue was penned in by traffic cops operating improvised gates of yellow crime-scene tape. I fell in line and crossed the street within two light changes. I shuffled behind two older women in matching coats, clinging together for dear life.
Most people outside the store were hemmed behind velvet ropes, queuing to gaze at the holiday windows. I made my way past them, peering over their heads to get my own glimpse before making my way to the store’s revolving doors. A few cycles and I was inside.
I pressed my back to a wall and took out my phone. I’m in make up. I texted.
Wow, that really did take twenty minutes. Take the elevator to seven. Turn right.
I put away my phone and followed distracted shoppers to the rear of the store. The main floor was no less crowded than the sidewalks outside, as tourists took respite from the cold and allowed their wrists to be sprayed with various unaffordable scents.
Two elevators came and went before I found space in one. All the buttons had already been pushed. I edged to the back of the car, prepared to take the local to the uppermost floor open to shoppers.
As the elevator emptied and refilled at the sixth floor, I reached for my phone. Almost there.
Men’s Lounge, first stall.
A friend of mine had taken seasonal work at Sak’s Fifth Avenue. Knowing my penchant for sex in city landmarks, he offered to blow me in the legendary store. “Should we dare?” I asked. “I’ve had sex at Lever House and Lehman Brothers and each went out of business shortly after the act. I may have a curse.”
“I think Sak’s can survive you. Anyway, my job is over in January. I’m in the same position whether or not you curse the store.”
The elevator door opened on Men’s Clothing. At the right, the Men’s Lounge was indicated in elegant script. I peeled away from those shuffling from the elevator and entered a corridor. Rounding a few corners brought me to the door. I entered.
I passed the first stall. I walked to the rear of the lounge to survey the space. I stood at a long countertop slowly washing my hands, scouting the space behind me in the mirror. A security guard stood at one urinal. I’d want to wait until he left. Beside me, a middle-aged man was scrubbing the face of his teen-aged son with a paper towel as an older son watched. I’d wait them out too. I sat down, affecting the air of a husband worn out by shopping wife. I texted my friend. Waiting on the herd to thin.
Good. I don’t have long. I’m in the first stall. Door is unlocked.
I removed my scarf. The guard washed his hands, conversing with someone who also seemed to work at the store. They walked out together. The father discarded his shredded paper towel and took another, wetting it before returning to his son’s face. How dirty is that kid’s face, I wondered. Did he get it made up on the main floor, as a goof? His father seemed good-natured about his task, but determined that he, and not his son, would wash his son’s face.
The father wore a Pittsburgh Steelers sweatshirt. I took off my hat.
The father went through another paper towel before judging his son’s face sufficiently clean. He spoke to his sons as he washed his hands and then his own face. As he reached for more paper towels, he suggested that his sons take this opportunity to go to the bathroom. The eldest nodded and walked to a urinal. The younger went to a stall. Finding it locked, he moved to another. It was open; my friend’s stall was untouched. The kid’s brother finished and washed his hands. He joined his father waiting for his sibling. Minutes passed. Finally, he came from the stall and crossed to the sink. He carefully and deliberately washed his hands and, returning to his father’s task, washed his face.
I silently composed a letter to the mayor of Pittsburgh, commending him on the meticulous hygiene of his city’s citizens.
The family made to go, but not before the father zipped up his sons’ coats and then his own. I watched them leave with a wish that all their adventures in New York be as rich and bonding as that which I had witnessed.
Now, I was left to my own adventure. I walked casually to the first stall, turned the handle and entered. It appeared empty. His voice whispered from behind the door, “I worried they would never leave.”
“I think they owe rent to Sak’s.” I pulled off a coat sleeve. “How’s your time?” I hung the coat on the door handle.
“I have time.” He took my coat and hung it on a hook with with his own. He locked the handle. I nodded and silently unhooked my belt. His eyes followed as I unfastened my pants, unzipped and, with deliberate nonchalance, took out my cock. I leaned back on a tile wall, my stance wide, waiting. He was my sissy cocksucker. I was his anonymous pick up. Generations of men had set the stage of this lounge before us.
I declined to remove either my shoes or my pants. He removed his own, leaving on his shirt and tie. His cock curved out like mine. He spread his knees wide as he went to his knees and took me in his mouth. As he blew me, I looked around the stall. He had chosen well. The stalls were tall, so no one could peer from above. The walls and doors continued to the floor, so no one could peer from below. The doors themselves were louvered, so that standing, I could see feet walk by, but no one could detect us. With the door securely locked, we were in our own private room.
He stopped to look up at me. “Don’t come in my mouth.” I nodded. “And don’t come too soon.” I nodded again. He retrieved a small amber vial from his shirt pocket. “Poppers?” I shook my head. He unscrewed the vial, took a deep whiff in each nostril, and returned the top. I held out a plan to take the bottle. It would be more convenient to him in my hand.
He hungrily returned to my cock. I knew the poppers sent a rush to his head, and it felt intense to suck me. I forced my cock into him deeper, knowing he would intently feel his control ceding to me, his silent unknown stud.
I put my hand on the back his neck, combing my fingers through his black hair. I took care not to muss it too much. He would shortly be back on the floor, selling shirts and trousers to men like the Steelers fan, none of them the wiser that he had been on his knees in a bathroom stall drooling on cock.
He took another couple of hits from his popper vial and returned it to my palm. “Do you want to sit down?” he asked, nodding to the toilet. I shook my head. “Do you mind if I sit?” I shook my head. He stood, left the toilet seat and sat. I turned to return my cock to him. He jerked off as I fucked his face. He soon moved forward, falling back to his knees. I turned, leaning back against wall. I preferred him on his knees.
“Do you want to suck me?” he asked. I shook my head and handed back his poppers. My message was plain: shut up and suck my dick, cocksucker. He nodded, whiffed and sucked.
I was turned on by my use of him and by our illicit location. The lounge door opened and closed continuously. Feet paced outside our stall as men waited for a stall of their own. I was edging close to an orgasm when someone tried the handle of our stall. I felt that if the door opened, I would come immediately, unable to stop myself at the terror and thrill of discovery. He looked up at the sound. The lock remained secure. I pulled out of his mouth as the footsteps moved away. “That was close,” I whispered.
“Yeah, but it’s locked,” he said, his hands still on my naked thigh.
“No, I mean that I’m close,” I said. “Finish the job.”
He began to rise. “Let’s jerk off. I want to watch you come. Do you want me to do you?”
I shook my head and began to jerk. I was too close to rely on his hand. My cock was soaked with his saliva. I watched as he pulled his own cock, his eyes riveted on my hand and cock.
He came in deep spurts, creating puddles on the floor. I followed soon after. As my legs spasmed, I reached over his shoulder to brace myself on the opposite wall. I steadied myself as the wave subsided. I leaned back on the wall, my cock still bouncing for more. “Here,” I said, handing back his poppers.
“Thanks.” He returned the vial to his shirt pocket. “Hang on, let me clean up before you go.” He unrolled toilet paper onto our shared mess. Using a paper seat cover, he expertly mopped up the tissues and dropped the papers into the toilet. He quickly dressed before flushing. “Okay, thanks,” he repeated. “You go first.” I nodded, unlocked the door and left the stall. I heard it lock behind me.
I washed my hands and, for good measure, my face. Twenty minutes later, I was on the sidewalk of Fifth Avenue.
Crossing John Cardinal O’Connor Way to Saint Patrick’s Cathedral, I looked back to Sak’s. Each year, I recalled, the store is wrapped in giant red ribbon, transforming the building into a giant gift box. Not this year, though.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Blogoversary
Today is the sixth anniversary of my blog.
Five years ago this week, I had a date with Celia. I had fostered a serious crush on her since the night, months before, she had showed up at my orgy on the arm of a guy I liked. Celia and I planned to go to a gallery and have lunch before her daily yoga class. She never made it to yoga. The date lasted all weekend.
As was my habit in those days, I described our date in a long email to my friend Dacia. The demise of my marriage was fresh, and after fifteen years of generally abstinent monogamy, dating and sex were wholly alien to me. It helped to share my experiences with someone who could relate to the wonder and surreality I felt in being with new partners. I was now free to desire others and, more astonishingly to me, others desired me in kind.
After reading this particular story, Dacia diagnosed me with “blog envy” and suggested I start my own blog. I had little notion of what a blog was; this was two-thousand and four, back when “weblogs” were novel and Facebook and Twitter mere twinkles in the eyes of entrepreneurial undergraduates. Dacia offered to help me get started. One evening over bourbon and conversation, she showed me how to start a blogger account. My email to Dacia about a weekend with Celia became my first post.
When I started blogging, I imagined I was writing into a void. No one I knew read blogs, much less blogs about sex. I was aware of only a few sex blogs and of those, none were by parents, none were by men and none by anyone over thirty. None were primarily focused on nonfiction erotica. I didn’t imagine that I had discovered a niche; rather, I felt like an interloper in an arena in which bespectacled twenty-something women offered sex advice to one another while waiting for the inevitable book deal. I contented myself by regarding my blog as a kind of safe deposit box. I now had a place where I could store the stories of my new life.
It wasn’t long before that perception changed. A reader began to correspond with me and, before long, we had a date. That date lead to love, a sexual relationship lasting nearly two years, and a friendship that endures to this day. Another newly-divorced parent found my blog, started her own, and, despite the twelve-hundred miles between us, we fell in love. People who read my blog also became bloggers. Other bloggers came my way as correspondents and sex partners. Within a year of my first post, I found that the void into which I had written had transformed into a community of friends, lovers and fellow smutmongers.
My writing as “Jefferson” soon became a second career, an adjunct to the work done under my real name. My blog drew media interest and offers to publish elsewhere. I began to teach at public events. Eventually, publicity led to catastrophe. My ex-wife discovered my blog and, asserting that my sexuality as described herein put our children in immediate danger, she sued for full custody. I took down my blog as that case went to court. Adding to my difficulties, two bloggers, Tess and Dee, saw my curtailed online presence as an opportunity to promote themselves at my expense. Dacia, dissatisfied with our friendship for reasons she declined to discuss with me, attacked me in her blog, initiating a flame war that speculated wildly—and altogether inaccurately—about my custody case. For nearly a year, I kept my life offline as my ex-wife sought to dismember my family and others sought to capitalize on my misfortune. The story of the smear campaign undertaken by Dacia, Tess and Dee is told at Feverish, Sad Drama.
In the end, I prevailed in my custody case. The State of New York did not concur with my ex-wife’s cynical assertions that my sexuality was in any way detrimental to our children. My family remained intact.
My blog returned and, to the dismay of malicious wags, it continued to attract a wide readership. In seeking to bury me with gossip, they only succeeded in making my story that much more interesting to readers.
Throughout these hardships, I was reminded over and again of the many good things that have happened because I began to put my life online in this blog. My struggle in the custody case was aided by Lambda Legal, The National Coalition for Sexual Freedom and The Sexual Freedom Legal Defense and Education Fund. Throughout my interactions with these organizations, I was supported in the free expression of my sexuality. I was offered daily encouragement by friends I met though this blog, including those who formed The Friends of Jefferson to aid in raising awareness and funds. Readers offered supportive notes and made financial contributions to my legal defense fund; as these donations were anonymous, I can’t thank contributors directly except by offering my gratitude here. The legal defense fund was instrumental in the preservation of my family. Thank you.
Being online and open about my relationships, my parenting and my sexuality is not a decision I’ve made lightly. I am aware of the challenges I risk because I choose to do so. Still, it would be wrong to stop writing merely to avoid conflict with my ex wife—she’s made it plain that she will continue to offer conflict, blog or no blog—or to cede to the bullying of online detractors. It’s gratifying to hear that my blog entertains. It’s inspiring to hear that it encourages others in their own lives.
Each year on my blogoversary, I reprint my original post. (This was unfortunately not possible two years ago, when I was obliged to keep my sex life offline.) If you enjoy this story, you’re welcome to root around in my Archives for more.
Enjoy. And Celia, I know you’re reading: happy anniversary.
My Celia
It’s been over a year since the break up.
For most of that year, I have hosted sex parties in Manhattan. I suppose I will need to catch you up on how that transpired. I’ve made great friends and lovers at these parties, and yet I haven’t often had the feeling of falling head over heels for someone.
Until my Celia.
I met Celia at a party at my place last spring. She arrived late with a guy who comes sometimes. The regulars were already naked, well fucked and relaxed.
Celia sat on a bed and chatted with us. She was dressed in jeans and a black t-shirt, worn backwards so that the logo was illegible. As we talked, Jane removed Celia’s clothes, and had soon stripped her naked. Jane kissed her torso as Celia leaned back, opening her thighs; we heard her gasp as Jane’s mouth reached her clit.
Being gracious like she is, Jane soon turned and offered me Celia’s body. I set to licking Jane's drool from Celia's labia.
As we fucked, as we did almost immediately, I decided not to stop fucking her. This is not the best form at a sex party, particularly for the host; one really should offer new guests an opportunity to work the room.
I doubt that Celia cared much for etiquette. She had gorgeous hazel-green eyes, focused intently on mine. I kept her gaze, noticing details at the periphery. Celia had a lovely face: aquiline nose, pre-Raphaelite features, framed in long black hair.
I was soon very curious to know more about the woman I was fucking, and so thought maybe we could take a break to chat.
"I would really like to talk with you," I said, meaning "Maybe we can stop and talk."
"Sure . . . what do you want to talk about?" she replied, as if I meant we should have a conversation while fucking. I was willing.
"So, where did you grow up?," I asked. I learned that she grew up in New England, she is an art student, and she would be working on a farm all summer. Within those first few moments, I gleaned that we had art in common, the sex was great, and I wouldn't be able to see her again for months.
I finally let her have sex with some of the others. Later we kissed, as intently as we had gazed. As she left, she stood in the door, giving me long, hungry kisses, as her date waited for her.
As it happened, she had an art show up, and as it happened, I was in the neighborhood the very next day. I was glad to see her art was good.
The summer passed.
Two weeks ago, I got an email from her, saying she was back in town and wanted to return to the sex parties. Cool!
I suggested we get together, and proposed we go check out the new Museum of Modern Art on opening day, as I had special tickets. It turned out she did too.
Later, we learned that the opening day was free to the public. So much for special access.
We decided to meet at an exhibition by Barbara Nitke at Art@Large gallery, get lunch, and see the museum--which we knew would be hellishly crowded. Nitke’s photos have to do with sadomasochism (SM). While not into SM herself, Nitke has an empathic insight into the lives of those who are. There is a strong sense of intimacy and care in her photographs.
Celia was late for our date, which was fine with me. We saw Nitke's work together. Celia says she knew many of the images, having seen Nitke lecture at the Eulenspeigel Society, a New York based organization for those into SM.
(I catalogued those details—Celia already knew Nitke and the Eulenspeigel Society?)
We lunched, and talked about out first encounter. It was her first sex party, she said, and her moment with Jane was her first encounter with a woman. She liked it, but she was taking downers at the time, which she regretted.
I referred to this as a pretty unusual second date. She agreed: first sex, then a lunch date. We were doing it backwards. She says she is surprised that she feels so shy.
She talked about her gaggle of girlfriends, and how she makes nude films of them, but can't imagine sex with them--though she really wants to be bisexual, as it's hip (it is?) and of course, there are more options for sex if you are bi.
She opines that the MoMA is going to be crazy crowded, and maybe we shouldn't go. This leaves her with two hours to kill before her yoga class . . . what can we do? Well, I suggest, we can go to my place and kiss. She looks at me like she can't believe I suggested this. I can't believe it myself--I am really getting bold.
"Okay," she says, "but I really am feeling shy about this. Is it too early to drink? Do you have any bourbon?"
"A girl after my own heart." I actually said that out loud.
Soon, we are at my place, on my couch, sipping bourbon. Soon, we are kissing. Fully clothed. For a long, sweet time.
Soon we are nude, in my bed, kissing. Touching. For a long, sweet time. She is so into gazing, touching, kissing, and I am melting, melting, melting. As the time passes, and her yoga class approaches, I think it will be wise not to start fucking. But I do go down on her. And she cums. And she cums again as I kiss her and hold her very close.
I should mention that she does intense yoga five times a week. And she is a semi-pro athlete. She has a strong, lean body. When she held me firmly, she knocked the breath out of me. Mind you, I was pretty breathless.
I tell her to go, it's time. She declines to leave. We fuck. Like all the foreplay, it's slow, and intense. At one point, I'm on top of her, holding myself up with my arms at full length. She is about to cum. She sits up, putting her arms around my shoulders. She lifts her ass from the bed. She is clinging to me, hanging from my body in air, pushing herself down on me. She cums. I can scarcely believe she made my body work that way.
We are back to kissing, touching . . . she discovered my sensitive nipples, and slowly tortured them. Exquisitely.
I am laying on top of her, tracing a finger along her nose, her lips, her cheeks. I take a breath. "You are really beautiful," I say. "You don't have to be. I would be nice to you anyway. But it helps that you are."
She looks down at me. "Are you bi?" she asks. I say I am. "I do well with the bi guys," she says. Why is that, you think? "Must be my physique," she says, flexing a bicep that would give pause to Charles Atlas.
She said she was hungry. I went to the kitchen and produced Spanish rice, steamed shrimp, and fresh calamari sauteed in garlic. We eat nude.
As we eat, we talk about the Nitke photos. She mentions liking one in which a man is fully bound to a flotation board, adrift in a pool. I say that there was such a sense of risk in that position. She says she likes the feeling of being bound.
I recall how she came when I was holding her, on top of her, as she pulled me closer to crush her.
"I can bind you," I offer. She produces rope and ankle bracelets from her bag, saying they were intended for a possible film shoot later that night. I dig up handcuffs and other stuff. She is soon strapped to my bed on all fours.
I torture her nipples. I tell her I am going to verbally abuse her. "Yes," she murmurs. I ask her why, with all that we've been doing, she has not sucked my cock? "Are you bad at it or something?" I ask. She opens her mouth, wide. I feed her my cock, and fuck her face hard. She can take it very well, so I commend her. Then I slap her for making me wait for that.
We had already established that she is an ass virgin, and so I take her to task for this. How can I let her fuck my friends if she can't even do anal? So I move around and give her a hard spanking. I lick her hole, and blow air in her. She moans. She can't help but fart. I spank her for this, and do it again. "This will burn, but only for a second," I warn. I take a sip of bourbon, and blow it up her ass. I plug it with my thumb, and then a butt plug.
I fuck her pussy.
"Can you take candle wax?," I ask. Never tried it, she mumbles. I drip wax on her back and ass for a very long time. She squirms until I tell her to be still. (Later she asked: was I making too much noise? I can try to be less responsive. Oh no, I say. You did very well.)
In time, I release her and take her to the shower. I wash her body, and flake off the wax. We go back to bed and it's tender again. She falls asleep. I read.
We woke up entangled, touching . . . her fingers are never still when they can be caressing. We spend the morning in bed. There was a joy in this, so palpable, for me at least, that I had to take care lest blurting out, "I am so in love with you."
I had to remind myself, I really don’t know Celia so well. Not yet.
I make her breakfast—bacon, eggs, and her first helping of grits. We were both very sated. We talk about how she just broke up with her boyfriend, and she had broken with her other two lovers in the last month. I say I am hers, when she wants me. Her eyes fix on mine. “That’s right,” she smiles.
My friend Todd calls. He reminds me that we are going to fuck this woman from Texas that night. I had offered to host, and said I would line up some others to join us. I had invited Thomas, that was easy, but I was so busy with Celia all weekend, I didn’t do much more.
I asked Celia if she wanted to do a group thing that night. She pondered it but declined. She was already well sexed. So was I, really.
Around two or three, I kissed goodbye to my Celia. I had a gang bang in a few hours. I would spend that time in the thrall of my Celia, picking up flecks of candle wax, and writing to my friend Dacia about her.
Five years ago this week, I had a date with Celia. I had fostered a serious crush on her since the night, months before, she had showed up at my orgy on the arm of a guy I liked. Celia and I planned to go to a gallery and have lunch before her daily yoga class. She never made it to yoga. The date lasted all weekend.
As was my habit in those days, I described our date in a long email to my friend Dacia. The demise of my marriage was fresh, and after fifteen years of generally abstinent monogamy, dating and sex were wholly alien to me. It helped to share my experiences with someone who could relate to the wonder and surreality I felt in being with new partners. I was now free to desire others and, more astonishingly to me, others desired me in kind.
After reading this particular story, Dacia diagnosed me with “blog envy” and suggested I start my own blog. I had little notion of what a blog was; this was two-thousand and four, back when “weblogs” were novel and Facebook and Twitter mere twinkles in the eyes of entrepreneurial undergraduates. Dacia offered to help me get started. One evening over bourbon and conversation, she showed me how to start a blogger account. My email to Dacia about a weekend with Celia became my first post.
When I started blogging, I imagined I was writing into a void. No one I knew read blogs, much less blogs about sex. I was aware of only a few sex blogs and of those, none were by parents, none were by men and none by anyone over thirty. None were primarily focused on nonfiction erotica. I didn’t imagine that I had discovered a niche; rather, I felt like an interloper in an arena in which bespectacled twenty-something women offered sex advice to one another while waiting for the inevitable book deal. I contented myself by regarding my blog as a kind of safe deposit box. I now had a place where I could store the stories of my new life.
It wasn’t long before that perception changed. A reader began to correspond with me and, before long, we had a date. That date lead to love, a sexual relationship lasting nearly two years, and a friendship that endures to this day. Another newly-divorced parent found my blog, started her own, and, despite the twelve-hundred miles between us, we fell in love. People who read my blog also became bloggers. Other bloggers came my way as correspondents and sex partners. Within a year of my first post, I found that the void into which I had written had transformed into a community of friends, lovers and fellow smutmongers.
My writing as “Jefferson” soon became a second career, an adjunct to the work done under my real name. My blog drew media interest and offers to publish elsewhere. I began to teach at public events. Eventually, publicity led to catastrophe. My ex-wife discovered my blog and, asserting that my sexuality as described herein put our children in immediate danger, she sued for full custody. I took down my blog as that case went to court. Adding to my difficulties, two bloggers, Tess and Dee, saw my curtailed online presence as an opportunity to promote themselves at my expense. Dacia, dissatisfied with our friendship for reasons she declined to discuss with me, attacked me in her blog, initiating a flame war that speculated wildly—and altogether inaccurately—about my custody case. For nearly a year, I kept my life offline as my ex-wife sought to dismember my family and others sought to capitalize on my misfortune. The story of the smear campaign undertaken by Dacia, Tess and Dee is told at Feverish, Sad Drama.
In the end, I prevailed in my custody case. The State of New York did not concur with my ex-wife’s cynical assertions that my sexuality was in any way detrimental to our children. My family remained intact.
My blog returned and, to the dismay of malicious wags, it continued to attract a wide readership. In seeking to bury me with gossip, they only succeeded in making my story that much more interesting to readers.
Throughout these hardships, I was reminded over and again of the many good things that have happened because I began to put my life online in this blog. My struggle in the custody case was aided by Lambda Legal, The National Coalition for Sexual Freedom and The Sexual Freedom Legal Defense and Education Fund. Throughout my interactions with these organizations, I was supported in the free expression of my sexuality. I was offered daily encouragement by friends I met though this blog, including those who formed The Friends of Jefferson to aid in raising awareness and funds. Readers offered supportive notes and made financial contributions to my legal defense fund; as these donations were anonymous, I can’t thank contributors directly except by offering my gratitude here. The legal defense fund was instrumental in the preservation of my family. Thank you.
Being online and open about my relationships, my parenting and my sexuality is not a decision I’ve made lightly. I am aware of the challenges I risk because I choose to do so. Still, it would be wrong to stop writing merely to avoid conflict with my ex wife—she’s made it plain that she will continue to offer conflict, blog or no blog—or to cede to the bullying of online detractors. It’s gratifying to hear that my blog entertains. It’s inspiring to hear that it encourages others in their own lives.
Each year on my blogoversary, I reprint my original post. (This was unfortunately not possible two years ago, when I was obliged to keep my sex life offline.) If you enjoy this story, you’re welcome to root around in my Archives for more.
Enjoy. And Celia, I know you’re reading: happy anniversary.
My Celia
It’s been over a year since the break up.
For most of that year, I have hosted sex parties in Manhattan. I suppose I will need to catch you up on how that transpired. I’ve made great friends and lovers at these parties, and yet I haven’t often had the feeling of falling head over heels for someone.
Until my Celia.
I met Celia at a party at my place last spring. She arrived late with a guy who comes sometimes. The regulars were already naked, well fucked and relaxed.
Celia sat on a bed and chatted with us. She was dressed in jeans and a black t-shirt, worn backwards so that the logo was illegible. As we talked, Jane removed Celia’s clothes, and had soon stripped her naked. Jane kissed her torso as Celia leaned back, opening her thighs; we heard her gasp as Jane’s mouth reached her clit.
Being gracious like she is, Jane soon turned and offered me Celia’s body. I set to licking Jane's drool from Celia's labia.
As we fucked, as we did almost immediately, I decided not to stop fucking her. This is not the best form at a sex party, particularly for the host; one really should offer new guests an opportunity to work the room.
I doubt that Celia cared much for etiquette. She had gorgeous hazel-green eyes, focused intently on mine. I kept her gaze, noticing details at the periphery. Celia had a lovely face: aquiline nose, pre-Raphaelite features, framed in long black hair.
I was soon very curious to know more about the woman I was fucking, and so thought maybe we could take a break to chat.
"I would really like to talk with you," I said, meaning "Maybe we can stop and talk."
"Sure . . . what do you want to talk about?" she replied, as if I meant we should have a conversation while fucking. I was willing.
"So, where did you grow up?," I asked. I learned that she grew up in New England, she is an art student, and she would be working on a farm all summer. Within those first few moments, I gleaned that we had art in common, the sex was great, and I wouldn't be able to see her again for months.
I finally let her have sex with some of the others. Later we kissed, as intently as we had gazed. As she left, she stood in the door, giving me long, hungry kisses, as her date waited for her.
As it happened, she had an art show up, and as it happened, I was in the neighborhood the very next day. I was glad to see her art was good.
The summer passed.
Two weeks ago, I got an email from her, saying she was back in town and wanted to return to the sex parties. Cool!
I suggested we get together, and proposed we go check out the new Museum of Modern Art on opening day, as I had special tickets. It turned out she did too.
Later, we learned that the opening day was free to the public. So much for special access.
We decided to meet at an exhibition by Barbara Nitke at Art@Large gallery, get lunch, and see the museum--which we knew would be hellishly crowded. Nitke’s photos have to do with sadomasochism (SM). While not into SM herself, Nitke has an empathic insight into the lives of those who are. There is a strong sense of intimacy and care in her photographs.
Celia was late for our date, which was fine with me. We saw Nitke's work together. Celia says she knew many of the images, having seen Nitke lecture at the Eulenspeigel Society, a New York based organization for those into SM.
(I catalogued those details—Celia already knew Nitke and the Eulenspeigel Society?)
We lunched, and talked about out first encounter. It was her first sex party, she said, and her moment with Jane was her first encounter with a woman. She liked it, but she was taking downers at the time, which she regretted.
I referred to this as a pretty unusual second date. She agreed: first sex, then a lunch date. We were doing it backwards. She says she is surprised that she feels so shy.
She talked about her gaggle of girlfriends, and how she makes nude films of them, but can't imagine sex with them--though she really wants to be bisexual, as it's hip (it is?) and of course, there are more options for sex if you are bi.
She opines that the MoMA is going to be crazy crowded, and maybe we shouldn't go. This leaves her with two hours to kill before her yoga class . . . what can we do? Well, I suggest, we can go to my place and kiss. She looks at me like she can't believe I suggested this. I can't believe it myself--I am really getting bold.
"Okay," she says, "but I really am feeling shy about this. Is it too early to drink? Do you have any bourbon?"
"A girl after my own heart." I actually said that out loud.
Soon, we are at my place, on my couch, sipping bourbon. Soon, we are kissing. Fully clothed. For a long, sweet time.
Soon we are nude, in my bed, kissing. Touching. For a long, sweet time. She is so into gazing, touching, kissing, and I am melting, melting, melting. As the time passes, and her yoga class approaches, I think it will be wise not to start fucking. But I do go down on her. And she cums. And she cums again as I kiss her and hold her very close.
I should mention that she does intense yoga five times a week. And she is a semi-pro athlete. She has a strong, lean body. When she held me firmly, she knocked the breath out of me. Mind you, I was pretty breathless.
I tell her to go, it's time. She declines to leave. We fuck. Like all the foreplay, it's slow, and intense. At one point, I'm on top of her, holding myself up with my arms at full length. She is about to cum. She sits up, putting her arms around my shoulders. She lifts her ass from the bed. She is clinging to me, hanging from my body in air, pushing herself down on me. She cums. I can scarcely believe she made my body work that way.
We are back to kissing, touching . . . she discovered my sensitive nipples, and slowly tortured them. Exquisitely.
I am laying on top of her, tracing a finger along her nose, her lips, her cheeks. I take a breath. "You are really beautiful," I say. "You don't have to be. I would be nice to you anyway. But it helps that you are."
She looks down at me. "Are you bi?" she asks. I say I am. "I do well with the bi guys," she says. Why is that, you think? "Must be my physique," she says, flexing a bicep that would give pause to Charles Atlas.
She said she was hungry. I went to the kitchen and produced Spanish rice, steamed shrimp, and fresh calamari sauteed in garlic. We eat nude.
As we eat, we talk about the Nitke photos. She mentions liking one in which a man is fully bound to a flotation board, adrift in a pool. I say that there was such a sense of risk in that position. She says she likes the feeling of being bound.
I recall how she came when I was holding her, on top of her, as she pulled me closer to crush her.
"I can bind you," I offer. She produces rope and ankle bracelets from her bag, saying they were intended for a possible film shoot later that night. I dig up handcuffs and other stuff. She is soon strapped to my bed on all fours.
I torture her nipples. I tell her I am going to verbally abuse her. "Yes," she murmurs. I ask her why, with all that we've been doing, she has not sucked my cock? "Are you bad at it or something?" I ask. She opens her mouth, wide. I feed her my cock, and fuck her face hard. She can take it very well, so I commend her. Then I slap her for making me wait for that.
We had already established that she is an ass virgin, and so I take her to task for this. How can I let her fuck my friends if she can't even do anal? So I move around and give her a hard spanking. I lick her hole, and blow air in her. She moans. She can't help but fart. I spank her for this, and do it again. "This will burn, but only for a second," I warn. I take a sip of bourbon, and blow it up her ass. I plug it with my thumb, and then a butt plug.
I fuck her pussy.
"Can you take candle wax?," I ask. Never tried it, she mumbles. I drip wax on her back and ass for a very long time. She squirms until I tell her to be still. (Later she asked: was I making too much noise? I can try to be less responsive. Oh no, I say. You did very well.)
In time, I release her and take her to the shower. I wash her body, and flake off the wax. We go back to bed and it's tender again. She falls asleep. I read.
We woke up entangled, touching . . . her fingers are never still when they can be caressing. We spend the morning in bed. There was a joy in this, so palpable, for me at least, that I had to take care lest blurting out, "I am so in love with you."
I had to remind myself, I really don’t know Celia so well. Not yet.
I make her breakfast—bacon, eggs, and her first helping of grits. We were both very sated. We talk about how she just broke up with her boyfriend, and she had broken with her other two lovers in the last month. I say I am hers, when she wants me. Her eyes fix on mine. “That’s right,” she smiles.
My friend Todd calls. He reminds me that we are going to fuck this woman from Texas that night. I had offered to host, and said I would line up some others to join us. I had invited Thomas, that was easy, but I was so busy with Celia all weekend, I didn’t do much more.
I asked Celia if she wanted to do a group thing that night. She pondered it but declined. She was already well sexed. So was I, really.
Around two or three, I kissed goodbye to my Celia. I had a gang bang in a few hours. I would spend that time in the thrall of my Celia, picking up flecks of candle wax, and writing to my friend Dacia about her.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
HNT
Madison Young is one of my favorite people to see naked. Normally, I find her at Kink.com or on her own website, but this week, I found her in Leila’s living room, loaned to Madison for use in a film shoot. In between takes, we talked babies (she’s five months pregnant) and art, as we were each influenced by some of the same artists, particularly feminist performance artists such as Marina Abramović and Carollee Schneemann.
Mama Madison loved the Eames chair. In fact, during the shoot she made love to the Eames chair so intently that, in some states, she'd be married to it.
We laughed a good deal. My foot was happy to share the spotlight with her grin. Perhaps one day, Madison will be as famous as my foot on the Internet.
After the porn shoot, we went off to Madison’s baby shower. Parents and perverts, that's what we do.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Friday, October 22, 2010
Prunes
I fucked her. I just kept fucking her, looking at her face, trying to get past her beauty.
She was sitting on my stoop when I returned home. She smiled and stood as I approached. I leaned to kiss her cheek. “Been waiting long?” I asked.
“No, just ten minutes or so.” She smiled again, laughing slightly. Nervously.
She was about my height. I stood on a step to look down at her. “You’re pretty,” I observed, taking keys from my pocket. “Good. Come in, let’s see what I can do with you.” I opened the door and let her pass. I noticed that despite the sweltering heat, she wore jeans and long sleeves. I can leave marks, I thought.
Kay and I had waited months to meet. She anticipated an internship in New York and contacted me to propose a summer fling. Her photos showed an attractive brown-eyed girl with long hair, cutting up in silly ways. Her notes were bright and engaging. Though summer was half a year away, we agreed to a fling. It would pass the months of her internship and end with her return to school in the autumn.
Anticipation made us impatient. An event would have me in her town in February, so we became excited about meeting in advance of our fling. When my plans fell through, she suggested meeting in April when she would be in the city visiting family. Those plans also fell through. By the time June finally arrived, we’d had months of aroused correspondence, fueled by our thwarted desires.
I held open the door to my apartment. She stepped quickly, as if to avoid inconveniencing me for long. Inside, she put down her bag and looked around. “I just realized, I’m sorry,” she said. “I forgot to bring bourbon.”
I shifted my weight. “You forgot? We went over this, and it’s not like I don’t have a blog that makes it clear. You are to bring bourbon to dates.”
I know. I’m sorry. I just didn’t know of a liquor store in the neighborhood. Should I go get some?”
I stepped out of my shoes. “No, you’re here now and I have a bottle. Just, please, don’t make me repeat things you’ll only forget.” I turned to the kitchen.
“I really don’t mind . . . “ she began.
“On the rocks or neat?” I replied.
“Um, ice. Lots of ice. Maybe some water.” She stood in the kitchen doorway. “I don’t really drink bourbon, so . . . not too strong.”
Pretty. Long sleeves. Forgetful. Weak bourbon. Kay was probably nervous about my first impressions of her.
I led her into the living room and placed her drink on a table. I sat and looked at her. “Kay, take off your clothes.”
She looked at me blankly as the words registered. She laughed and began to unbutton her shirt. “Well, this is the fastest I’ve undressed on a date.”
“I regret waiting this long,” I smiled. I sipped my bourbon. She took off her shirt and paused to sip her drink before resuming.
She had soft round shoulders. As she lowered her jeans, I took note of the fluidity of her gestures. There was a kind of grace about her movements. “You chose not to wear matching underwear?” I asked.
She stood slightly, still holding the leg she was undressing. “I didn’t . . . I didn’t think of it.”
“You must’ve assumed you’d be undressing, Kay.” I sipped my bourbon, looking away.
She laughed, a nervous tic, I gathered. “You don’t like my underwear?”
“No matter. You’ll be rid of them soon enough. Please resume undressing, pretty girl.”
Kay pulled off her jeans and took another sip of her drink. She took a breath, as if resolving to carry on, before removing her bra with an affected casualness. Her breasts were small with faint pink areolas. My eyes moved down as she lowered her panties. “You know, I see more and more girls your age with pubic hair,” I observed. “Must be a trend.”
She added her panties to the pile of clothes by the door. “I didn’t know if I should shave or not.”
“You don’t seem to have given much thought to your appearance, really.” I cocked my head. “Kay, turn around so I can get a look at you.”
She raised herself on her toes and turned, awkwardly, unsure of what to do with her arms. “Do you like?” A nervous laugh.
“Yes, you’ll do nicely.” I put down my drink and patted my lap. “Come here, pretty girl. Sit.”
She turned and crossed the room. “I don’t want to crush you . . .” she began.
“I don’t ask for things I can’t handle. Sit.”
Kay lowered herself into my lap, wrapping an arm around my shoulder. I pulled her legs to drape over my own. She lowered her head to nuzzle. I took a breast in my hand. “Look at this,” I said. “Your breasts are perfectly sized to my palm.”
“You do have big hands,” she said, her voice softer now.
“Hmmm.” I assented. She sighed quietly as I traced my fingers down her side. “Spread your legs, pretty girl.”
Kay moved one leg aside. I felt her inner thigh, slowly moving up from her knee. I could feel her head moving against mine as my fingers caressed her labia. “Are you wet for me, pretty girl?”
She nodded into my shoulder. She gasped as a finger entered her. “Good girl,” I murmured. “You did bring me a nice wet hole to fuck.” She moaned more loudly. I took the back of her neck with my other hand. “Kiss me, Kay.” She lifted her head and brought her mouth to mine, her eyes closed. My tongue flitted against her lips, which parted for our first kiss. Two fingers now pulsed inside her as my tongue entered her mouth.
She groaned as I took my fingers from her. I pulled away from our kiss and raised my wet fingers to her lips. She nodded and took my fingers into her mouth. I rubbed them softly against her tongue, gently, and then, abruptly deep to her throat. She gagged, her eyes opening in alarm. I held my fingers in place, keeping her steady with the hand on her neck. “Do you suck dick well, pretty girl?” She sputtered and nodded as well as she could with her head pinned in my hands. “Oh, is that a ‘yes?’” She gagged and nodded again. “Well, pretty girl, that’s good, as I require an awful lot of cocksucking. If you aren’t good now, you soon will be. Can I count on you to suck my dick as I want, whenever I tell you?” She gagged and nodded again, her eyes welling as I kept talking, filling the time as my fingers filled her. “Good.” I took my fingers from her mouth and released her neck. She slumped, gasping for air.
“Stand up,” I instructed. She swung her legs around and, steadying herself with the hand on my shoulder, rose. I stood beside her. “Now, on your knees.” She knelt, her eyes gravitating to my hands unfastening my shorts. They fell to the floor. I kicked them aside and pulled off my shirt, giving her a look at my body. “You really are a pretty girl,” I said, stepping closer. I took her hair in my hand and pulled back her head. “Boys must hit on you all the time, huh?”
“Sure . . .” she began.
I put a finger to her mouth. “You’re not here because you’re pretty, pretty girl.” She opened her mouth to my finger, which moved slowly in her. “I don’t care about your looks. You’re not here because you’re pretty, or because you’re smart, or because you’re kind to small animals. You’re here to do what I say, when I say you should do it.” I added another finger to her mouth. “What you’re going to do now is suck my dick. You’ll do your best?” She blinked and nodded. “Good.” I released her hair and sat. I took my drink in hand and looked at her. She stared back at me. “Well? Was I unclear? Suck my dick.”
She crawled forward on her knees. She took my dick in one hand, moving her hair over her shoulder with the other. Practiced, I thought. She lowered her head to take my dick in her mouth. “Good girl,” I commended. “Show me what you’ve got.” I relaxed into my seat. My free hand rested on my lap. I wasn’t going to move or touch her. This blowjob was entirely hers to perform. I looked at the clock, planning to see how she did for a half hour.
She slurped back the saliva as her mouth moved up and down the end of my cock, her hand working its base in tandem to her sucking. She quickly settled into a comfortable, slow rhythm. I watched her, enjoying my drink. I withheld any feedback—no words, no instructions or guidance, no evidence of pleasure or reaction. After twenty minutes, she began to tire.
“I was afraid of this.” I put down my drink and took her chin in hand. She drew a sharp breath as I pulled up on her face, ending the blowjob. She hurried to wipe the saliva from her lips. “Kay, you suck dick like a pretty girl. It’s not your fault; I rarely meet pretty girls who are already impressive cocksuckers. You don’t have to put anything into your blowjob. Most guys can’t believe they’ve got a pretty girl sucking their dicks. I suppose they get one look at this pretty, pretty face bobbing on their dicks and they just blow.” I nodded at the clock. “You just sucked my dick for twenty minutes. I'll wager that's the longest blowjob you've ever given."
She glanced at the clock. “I don’t know, I think . . .”
I turned her face back to look at me. “Listen to me, pretty girl. Some people work very hard to be good cocksuckers. They aren't just pretty girls. I’ve had my dick sucked by gay men. I’ve had my dick sucked by some very homely women.” I leaned forward. “I’ve had my dick sucked by women from New Jersey,” I whispered. “Do you know what that means? Do you know how well New Jersey women suck dick?” I opened her mouth and moved my cock to her lips. “This summer, you are going to learn how to really suck dick. You’re going to forget how pretty you are. You’re going to suck my dick like the ugliest faggot in a New Jersey prison.”
I took the hand from her chin, grabbed her hair and rammed my cock into her mouth. She coughed in surprise. I pushed my cock into her throat and her in place. “Feel that, pretty girl? That’s where my cock goes.” Holding tightly to her hand, I pulled her head back and forth on my cock, standing still as I pumped myself with her head. Tears welled in her eyes. “Good, let’s see you cry, cocksucker.” She looked up at me, her cheeks sunken as she struggled to keep from drooling. “God damn it, cocksucker, open your mouth.” She struggled with my cock, confused by my instruction. “Open your mouth,” I repeated. “Part your lips. You don’t need to actually suck. Give me a big wet hole to fuck.” She parted her lips, releasing a reserved of saliva. She groaned. “Don’t be embarrassed,” I said. “That’s just what I want.” I adjust my stance, pushed forward my hips, and fucked her mouth roughly. Before, she had full control over her blowjob. Now, she had none. “Twenty minutes,” I instructed. Panic swept over her face. I ignored it.
Twenty minutes later, precisely, I released her hair and stepped back. She fell forward, gasping, her body covered in a sheen of sweat. “Good girl,” I commended. I offered a hand. “Here, let me help you up.” She looked up, still catching her breath. She put her hand in mine and stood. “So lovely, so pretty,” I smiled. I kissed her, taking both her hands in my left hand as my right played across her torso. I trailed a finger to toy with her pubic hair, her labia and, teasing, slowly into her.
She exhaled into my mouth, inhaling my warmth. Still woozy from her exertions, she was reduced to shallow breaths as we kissed.
A hand moved in mine. She wanted to touch me. She tugged slightly and realized, only now, that her wrists were bound in my fingers. I pulled down on her arms, intensifying our kiss.
A second finger entered her, followed by a third. I pulled my lips from hers. Her eyes were closed, her mouth agape. Her pussy was cupped in my hand. I squeezed the fingers inside toward my palm. I lifted. “Unh, oh, that’s so . . . you can’t pick me up that way!”
“On your toes, pretty girl.” I took a step back. “Come with me.” I walked slowly backwards, keeping pressure on her pussy to keep her own her toes, staggering a bit as she followed in tow. “Easy girl, easy . . .” I backed us into my bedroom, I pulled her to me, kissing her as I turned our bodies. “Now,” I said, releasing my grip and easing my fingers from her. “Let’s give your mouth a rest and move in to another hole.” I pushed against her sternum with the fingers wet from her body. She stumbled back onto the bed.
I took a condom from a nightstand and tore open the package. I kept my eyes on her as she watched it roll over my cock.
She laughed, her nervous tic. “Geez, don’t you ever take a break?”
“I only have you for three months,” I said, opening the package. “No time for breaks, pretty girl. Now spread your legs.”
Her body was hot under mine, and slick with sweat. I fucked her slowly, getting a feel for her responses. Her eyes were closed, so I studied the face I had so brutally used. She was pretty, as I kept reminding her, and now, I acknowledged to myself that my disinterest in that was mere pretense: her beauty really did affect me. Her dark hair spread over my pillows, her long lashes resting under large lids, her aquiline nose over unpainted lips . . . she really was a vision. I raided my memory for comparisons to paintings, resolving to keep quiet about that. If I compared her to art, that would really be the end. I’d fall for her. Beauty has that effect.
I fucked her. I just kept fucking her, looking at her face, trying to get past her beauty.
She breathed and sighed and still, I fucked her. I fucked her harder, then softer, always in the same position, always watching her face, flushed with arousal. I noticed the darkening of the sheets around her; we were soaking the bed with perspiration. I kissed her mouth, her beautiful, beautiful mouth, her exquisite mouth, her Botticellian mouth, her Davidesque mouth.
I was as close to her body as one can be—I was inside her body—and still it didn’t feel close enough.
I pulled back to look at her again. The sheets were now darkened in a wider halo around her body.
“Come for me,” I whispered. “Come for me.”
She nodded, Without opening her eyes, she moved a her right hand to touch herself. Her left hand played with a nipple. “Kiss my breasts,” she whispered. I lowered my lips to her untouched nipple, sipping the sweat that accumulated at her breasts. “Oh God . . .” she moaned, bucking her hips.
“So good . . .” I murmured.
“Keep doing . . . oh God, oh man, I’m coming . . .”
“That's right come for God and man,” I whispered. Her breath stopped and then, suddenly, she moaned, convulsing under me.
She dropped her hands and opened her eyes. “Oh my God, that was intense.” She breathed deeply, gulping air. Then she laughed. “’Come for God and man?’”
I laughed. “My head was in a divine place. I’ll say no more than that. Hey, look at this.” I held up a hand. “We’ve been sweating so much, my fingers are wrinkled like prunes.”
She looked at her hands. “Me too. Wow, I’ve never done that.”
“It’s a first for me as well. Take it easy: I’ll bring us some water.” In the kitchen, I poured two glasses with iced water and quickly drained one. I refilled it and returned to the bedroom with both. I handed her a glass and watched her gulp it down.
I took an ice cube from my glass in my fingers. “Here, let’s cool you off,” I offered. I placed the ice between her breasts.
“Agh, that’s so cold!” she winced.
“And you are an oven.” I traced the ice around her breasts, touching her nipples, and in swirls around her torso to her labia. It was still a substantial chunk when I put the ice inside her.
“Ah-ta-ah-ta!” she stammered. “Jesus, that’s cold!”
I lowered my face to her pussy. “Melt it for me,” I said, licking her. The ice was long gone when she came again.
I refreshed our drinks and poured a bath. We sat in the tub to cool off, our only light being the remains of dusk through the window. I smiled at her. “We met at two, right?” “Yeah.” She paused. “Wow, that was—what? Six hours ago?”
I raised my glass. “To time well spent.” She laughed and raised her glass to mine. We drank and talked, getting to know one another after an afternoon and evening of sex. “So, I’m glad you’re here this summer and we get to be together,” I said, taking care that the bourbon not do all the talking. “But . . . no, not but. And. And here’s the thing. We’re going to have lots of sex.”
“Mmmm.”
“And sometimes, when we have sex, it’s going to feel a lot like making love. Like we’re in love. I think that’s just how we are, how you and I are when we have sex.”
She looked at me quizzically. “I’m not sure what that means.”
“I’m not sure I do either, but it’s what it feels like. To me, anyway. Some of that was pretty intense.”
“Yeah, we do have some pretty intense sex,” she agreed.
“Yeah.” I nodded. “That we do.”
“I like it. I like being so . . . submissive with you.” She splashed the water absentmindedly. “I’m going to do my best to suck your dick the way you want. Any way you want.”
I smiled. “Yeah, and about that . . .” I started to stand.
“Oh no, we just had so much sex . . .” she laughed.
“Three months,” I said, putting my cock into Botticelli’s mouth. “There’s much to be done.”
A year and a half later, Kay and I were in bed talking after sex.
“Do you remember when we were in the tub, on our first date?”
“I remember everything about our first date.” I touched her hand. “Pretty girl.”
She chuckled softly. “Do you remember that thing you said about how sex with me felt like making love?”
I nodded. “Yes.”
“You know, at the time, I thought that was just a line, something you must’ve said a million times. But now, I’m thinking it wasn’t. You meant it.”
I raised myself on an elbow. “That was no line. I meant it. That was really something, what I was feeling that day.”
“I’m not sure what I was feeling that day,” she mused. “I’m not sure it was as, I don’t know, intense as what you described, or that I felt as intensely as you, but yeah, there was something going on.”
“Something, indeed.” I kissed her Renoir breast.
“Baby,” she sighed. “And look at us now.” She fell quiet, stroking my hair as I kissed her. Suddenly, she laughed at a thought. “That thing about sucking dick like an ugly New Jersey prisoner?”
I looked up and smiled. “Oh, now that was a line.”
Happy birthday, beloved.
She was sitting on my stoop when I returned home. She smiled and stood as I approached. I leaned to kiss her cheek. “Been waiting long?” I asked.
“No, just ten minutes or so.” She smiled again, laughing slightly. Nervously.
She was about my height. I stood on a step to look down at her. “You’re pretty,” I observed, taking keys from my pocket. “Good. Come in, let’s see what I can do with you.” I opened the door and let her pass. I noticed that despite the sweltering heat, she wore jeans and long sleeves. I can leave marks, I thought.
Kay and I had waited months to meet. She anticipated an internship in New York and contacted me to propose a summer fling. Her photos showed an attractive brown-eyed girl with long hair, cutting up in silly ways. Her notes were bright and engaging. Though summer was half a year away, we agreed to a fling. It would pass the months of her internship and end with her return to school in the autumn.
Anticipation made us impatient. An event would have me in her town in February, so we became excited about meeting in advance of our fling. When my plans fell through, she suggested meeting in April when she would be in the city visiting family. Those plans also fell through. By the time June finally arrived, we’d had months of aroused correspondence, fueled by our thwarted desires.
I held open the door to my apartment. She stepped quickly, as if to avoid inconveniencing me for long. Inside, she put down her bag and looked around. “I just realized, I’m sorry,” she said. “I forgot to bring bourbon.”
I shifted my weight. “You forgot? We went over this, and it’s not like I don’t have a blog that makes it clear. You are to bring bourbon to dates.”
I know. I’m sorry. I just didn’t know of a liquor store in the neighborhood. Should I go get some?”
I stepped out of my shoes. “No, you’re here now and I have a bottle. Just, please, don’t make me repeat things you’ll only forget.” I turned to the kitchen.
“I really don’t mind . . . “ she began.
“On the rocks or neat?” I replied.
“Um, ice. Lots of ice. Maybe some water.” She stood in the kitchen doorway. “I don’t really drink bourbon, so . . . not too strong.”
Pretty. Long sleeves. Forgetful. Weak bourbon. Kay was probably nervous about my first impressions of her.
I led her into the living room and placed her drink on a table. I sat and looked at her. “Kay, take off your clothes.”
She looked at me blankly as the words registered. She laughed and began to unbutton her shirt. “Well, this is the fastest I’ve undressed on a date.”
“I regret waiting this long,” I smiled. I sipped my bourbon. She took off her shirt and paused to sip her drink before resuming.
She had soft round shoulders. As she lowered her jeans, I took note of the fluidity of her gestures. There was a kind of grace about her movements. “You chose not to wear matching underwear?” I asked.
She stood slightly, still holding the leg she was undressing. “I didn’t . . . I didn’t think of it.”
“You must’ve assumed you’d be undressing, Kay.” I sipped my bourbon, looking away.
She laughed, a nervous tic, I gathered. “You don’t like my underwear?”
“No matter. You’ll be rid of them soon enough. Please resume undressing, pretty girl.”
Kay pulled off her jeans and took another sip of her drink. She took a breath, as if resolving to carry on, before removing her bra with an affected casualness. Her breasts were small with faint pink areolas. My eyes moved down as she lowered her panties. “You know, I see more and more girls your age with pubic hair,” I observed. “Must be a trend.”
She added her panties to the pile of clothes by the door. “I didn’t know if I should shave or not.”
“You don’t seem to have given much thought to your appearance, really.” I cocked my head. “Kay, turn around so I can get a look at you.”
She raised herself on her toes and turned, awkwardly, unsure of what to do with her arms. “Do you like?” A nervous laugh.
“Yes, you’ll do nicely.” I put down my drink and patted my lap. “Come here, pretty girl. Sit.”
She turned and crossed the room. “I don’t want to crush you . . .” she began.
“I don’t ask for things I can’t handle. Sit.”
Kay lowered herself into my lap, wrapping an arm around my shoulder. I pulled her legs to drape over my own. She lowered her head to nuzzle. I took a breast in my hand. “Look at this,” I said. “Your breasts are perfectly sized to my palm.”
“You do have big hands,” she said, her voice softer now.
“Hmmm.” I assented. She sighed quietly as I traced my fingers down her side. “Spread your legs, pretty girl.”
Kay moved one leg aside. I felt her inner thigh, slowly moving up from her knee. I could feel her head moving against mine as my fingers caressed her labia. “Are you wet for me, pretty girl?”
She nodded into my shoulder. She gasped as a finger entered her. “Good girl,” I murmured. “You did bring me a nice wet hole to fuck.” She moaned more loudly. I took the back of her neck with my other hand. “Kiss me, Kay.” She lifted her head and brought her mouth to mine, her eyes closed. My tongue flitted against her lips, which parted for our first kiss. Two fingers now pulsed inside her as my tongue entered her mouth.
She groaned as I took my fingers from her. I pulled away from our kiss and raised my wet fingers to her lips. She nodded and took my fingers into her mouth. I rubbed them softly against her tongue, gently, and then, abruptly deep to her throat. She gagged, her eyes opening in alarm. I held my fingers in place, keeping her steady with the hand on her neck. “Do you suck dick well, pretty girl?” She sputtered and nodded as well as she could with her head pinned in my hands. “Oh, is that a ‘yes?’” She gagged and nodded again. “Well, pretty girl, that’s good, as I require an awful lot of cocksucking. If you aren’t good now, you soon will be. Can I count on you to suck my dick as I want, whenever I tell you?” She gagged and nodded again, her eyes welling as I kept talking, filling the time as my fingers filled her. “Good.” I took my fingers from her mouth and released her neck. She slumped, gasping for air.
“Stand up,” I instructed. She swung her legs around and, steadying herself with the hand on my shoulder, rose. I stood beside her. “Now, on your knees.” She knelt, her eyes gravitating to my hands unfastening my shorts. They fell to the floor. I kicked them aside and pulled off my shirt, giving her a look at my body. “You really are a pretty girl,” I said, stepping closer. I took her hair in my hand and pulled back her head. “Boys must hit on you all the time, huh?”
“Sure . . .” she began.
I put a finger to her mouth. “You’re not here because you’re pretty, pretty girl.” She opened her mouth to my finger, which moved slowly in her. “I don’t care about your looks. You’re not here because you’re pretty, or because you’re smart, or because you’re kind to small animals. You’re here to do what I say, when I say you should do it.” I added another finger to her mouth. “What you’re going to do now is suck my dick. You’ll do your best?” She blinked and nodded. “Good.” I released her hair and sat. I took my drink in hand and looked at her. She stared back at me. “Well? Was I unclear? Suck my dick.”
She crawled forward on her knees. She took my dick in one hand, moving her hair over her shoulder with the other. Practiced, I thought. She lowered her head to take my dick in her mouth. “Good girl,” I commended. “Show me what you’ve got.” I relaxed into my seat. My free hand rested on my lap. I wasn’t going to move or touch her. This blowjob was entirely hers to perform. I looked at the clock, planning to see how she did for a half hour.
She slurped back the saliva as her mouth moved up and down the end of my cock, her hand working its base in tandem to her sucking. She quickly settled into a comfortable, slow rhythm. I watched her, enjoying my drink. I withheld any feedback—no words, no instructions or guidance, no evidence of pleasure or reaction. After twenty minutes, she began to tire.
“I was afraid of this.” I put down my drink and took her chin in hand. She drew a sharp breath as I pulled up on her face, ending the blowjob. She hurried to wipe the saliva from her lips. “Kay, you suck dick like a pretty girl. It’s not your fault; I rarely meet pretty girls who are already impressive cocksuckers. You don’t have to put anything into your blowjob. Most guys can’t believe they’ve got a pretty girl sucking their dicks. I suppose they get one look at this pretty, pretty face bobbing on their dicks and they just blow.” I nodded at the clock. “You just sucked my dick for twenty minutes. I'll wager that's the longest blowjob you've ever given."
She glanced at the clock. “I don’t know, I think . . .”
I turned her face back to look at me. “Listen to me, pretty girl. Some people work very hard to be good cocksuckers. They aren't just pretty girls. I’ve had my dick sucked by gay men. I’ve had my dick sucked by some very homely women.” I leaned forward. “I’ve had my dick sucked by women from New Jersey,” I whispered. “Do you know what that means? Do you know how well New Jersey women suck dick?” I opened her mouth and moved my cock to her lips. “This summer, you are going to learn how to really suck dick. You’re going to forget how pretty you are. You’re going to suck my dick like the ugliest faggot in a New Jersey prison.”
I took the hand from her chin, grabbed her hair and rammed my cock into her mouth. She coughed in surprise. I pushed my cock into her throat and her in place. “Feel that, pretty girl? That’s where my cock goes.” Holding tightly to her hand, I pulled her head back and forth on my cock, standing still as I pumped myself with her head. Tears welled in her eyes. “Good, let’s see you cry, cocksucker.” She looked up at me, her cheeks sunken as she struggled to keep from drooling. “God damn it, cocksucker, open your mouth.” She struggled with my cock, confused by my instruction. “Open your mouth,” I repeated. “Part your lips. You don’t need to actually suck. Give me a big wet hole to fuck.” She parted her lips, releasing a reserved of saliva. She groaned. “Don’t be embarrassed,” I said. “That’s just what I want.” I adjust my stance, pushed forward my hips, and fucked her mouth roughly. Before, she had full control over her blowjob. Now, she had none. “Twenty minutes,” I instructed. Panic swept over her face. I ignored it.
Twenty minutes later, precisely, I released her hair and stepped back. She fell forward, gasping, her body covered in a sheen of sweat. “Good girl,” I commended. I offered a hand. “Here, let me help you up.” She looked up, still catching her breath. She put her hand in mine and stood. “So lovely, so pretty,” I smiled. I kissed her, taking both her hands in my left hand as my right played across her torso. I trailed a finger to toy with her pubic hair, her labia and, teasing, slowly into her.
She exhaled into my mouth, inhaling my warmth. Still woozy from her exertions, she was reduced to shallow breaths as we kissed.
A hand moved in mine. She wanted to touch me. She tugged slightly and realized, only now, that her wrists were bound in my fingers. I pulled down on her arms, intensifying our kiss.
A second finger entered her, followed by a third. I pulled my lips from hers. Her eyes were closed, her mouth agape. Her pussy was cupped in my hand. I squeezed the fingers inside toward my palm. I lifted. “Unh, oh, that’s so . . . you can’t pick me up that way!”
“On your toes, pretty girl.” I took a step back. “Come with me.” I walked slowly backwards, keeping pressure on her pussy to keep her own her toes, staggering a bit as she followed in tow. “Easy girl, easy . . .” I backed us into my bedroom, I pulled her to me, kissing her as I turned our bodies. “Now,” I said, releasing my grip and easing my fingers from her. “Let’s give your mouth a rest and move in to another hole.” I pushed against her sternum with the fingers wet from her body. She stumbled back onto the bed.
I took a condom from a nightstand and tore open the package. I kept my eyes on her as she watched it roll over my cock.
She laughed, her nervous tic. “Geez, don’t you ever take a break?”
“I only have you for three months,” I said, opening the package. “No time for breaks, pretty girl. Now spread your legs.”
Her body was hot under mine, and slick with sweat. I fucked her slowly, getting a feel for her responses. Her eyes were closed, so I studied the face I had so brutally used. She was pretty, as I kept reminding her, and now, I acknowledged to myself that my disinterest in that was mere pretense: her beauty really did affect me. Her dark hair spread over my pillows, her long lashes resting under large lids, her aquiline nose over unpainted lips . . . she really was a vision. I raided my memory for comparisons to paintings, resolving to keep quiet about that. If I compared her to art, that would really be the end. I’d fall for her. Beauty has that effect.
I fucked her. I just kept fucking her, looking at her face, trying to get past her beauty.
She breathed and sighed and still, I fucked her. I fucked her harder, then softer, always in the same position, always watching her face, flushed with arousal. I noticed the darkening of the sheets around her; we were soaking the bed with perspiration. I kissed her mouth, her beautiful, beautiful mouth, her exquisite mouth, her Botticellian mouth, her Davidesque mouth.
I was as close to her body as one can be—I was inside her body—and still it didn’t feel close enough.
I pulled back to look at her again. The sheets were now darkened in a wider halo around her body.
“Come for me,” I whispered. “Come for me.”
She nodded, Without opening her eyes, she moved a her right hand to touch herself. Her left hand played with a nipple. “Kiss my breasts,” she whispered. I lowered my lips to her untouched nipple, sipping the sweat that accumulated at her breasts. “Oh God . . .” she moaned, bucking her hips.
“So good . . .” I murmured.
“Keep doing . . . oh God, oh man, I’m coming . . .”
“That's right come for God and man,” I whispered. Her breath stopped and then, suddenly, she moaned, convulsing under me.
She dropped her hands and opened her eyes. “Oh my God, that was intense.” She breathed deeply, gulping air. Then she laughed. “’Come for God and man?’”
I laughed. “My head was in a divine place. I’ll say no more than that. Hey, look at this.” I held up a hand. “We’ve been sweating so much, my fingers are wrinkled like prunes.”
She looked at her hands. “Me too. Wow, I’ve never done that.”
“It’s a first for me as well. Take it easy: I’ll bring us some water.” In the kitchen, I poured two glasses with iced water and quickly drained one. I refilled it and returned to the bedroom with both. I handed her a glass and watched her gulp it down.
I took an ice cube from my glass in my fingers. “Here, let’s cool you off,” I offered. I placed the ice between her breasts.
“Agh, that’s so cold!” she winced.
“And you are an oven.” I traced the ice around her breasts, touching her nipples, and in swirls around her torso to her labia. It was still a substantial chunk when I put the ice inside her.
“Ah-ta-ah-ta!” she stammered. “Jesus, that’s cold!”
I lowered my face to her pussy. “Melt it for me,” I said, licking her. The ice was long gone when she came again.
I refreshed our drinks and poured a bath. We sat in the tub to cool off, our only light being the remains of dusk through the window. I smiled at her. “We met at two, right?” “Yeah.” She paused. “Wow, that was—what? Six hours ago?”
I raised my glass. “To time well spent.” She laughed and raised her glass to mine. We drank and talked, getting to know one another after an afternoon and evening of sex. “So, I’m glad you’re here this summer and we get to be together,” I said, taking care that the bourbon not do all the talking. “But . . . no, not but. And. And here’s the thing. We’re going to have lots of sex.”
“Mmmm.”
“And sometimes, when we have sex, it’s going to feel a lot like making love. Like we’re in love. I think that’s just how we are, how you and I are when we have sex.”
She looked at me quizzically. “I’m not sure what that means.”
“I’m not sure I do either, but it’s what it feels like. To me, anyway. Some of that was pretty intense.”
“Yeah, we do have some pretty intense sex,” she agreed.
“Yeah.” I nodded. “That we do.”
“I like it. I like being so . . . submissive with you.” She splashed the water absentmindedly. “I’m going to do my best to suck your dick the way you want. Any way you want.”
I smiled. “Yeah, and about that . . .” I started to stand.
“Oh no, we just had so much sex . . .” she laughed.
“Three months,” I said, putting my cock into Botticelli’s mouth. “There’s much to be done.”
A year and a half later, Kay and I were in bed talking after sex.
“Do you remember when we were in the tub, on our first date?”
“I remember everything about our first date.” I touched her hand. “Pretty girl.”
She chuckled softly. “Do you remember that thing you said about how sex with me felt like making love?”
I nodded. “Yes.”
“You know, at the time, I thought that was just a line, something you must’ve said a million times. But now, I’m thinking it wasn’t. You meant it.”
I raised myself on an elbow. “That was no line. I meant it. That was really something, what I was feeling that day.”
“I’m not sure what I was feeling that day,” she mused. “I’m not sure it was as, I don’t know, intense as what you described, or that I felt as intensely as you, but yeah, there was something going on.”
“Something, indeed.” I kissed her Renoir breast.
“Baby,” she sighed. “And look at us now.” She fell quiet, stroking my hair as I kissed her. Suddenly, she laughed at a thought. “That thing about sucking dick like an ugly New Jersey prisoner?”
I looked up and smiled. “Oh, now that was a line.”
Happy birthday, beloved.
Thursday, October 14, 2010
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Biting
Last month I taught several classes at The Floating World, including a session on erotic biting. I focused on two aspects of biting—sensation and decoration—and encouraged everyone to practice biting in class.
Damaetasia was one of my models. She’s very pretty and feminine, which led me to have two thoughts: either I would mark her in a way that wrecked those qualities, or I would accentuate them. I decided on the latter route. She always wears dresses or skirts, so I added to her style by biting a line one each of her calves and thighs emulating the seam of hose. Smalls assisted me, chewing one leg as I chewed another. Later, a friend added a garter of hickies.
The results were rather fetching, don’t you think?
Damaetasia was one of my models. She’s very pretty and feminine, which led me to have two thoughts: either I would mark her in a way that wrecked those qualities, or I would accentuate them. I decided on the latter route. She always wears dresses or skirts, so I added to her style by biting a line one each of her calves and thighs emulating the seam of hose. Smalls assisted me, chewing one leg as I chewed another. Later, a friend added a garter of hickies.
The results were rather fetching, don’t you think?
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Incriminating Polaroids
Last weekend, Dark Odyssey’s summer camp brought together over four hundred people from our diverse communities to teach, learn, play and socialize in the beautiful, secluded site that is annually transformed into “sex camp.”
Leila, Kay and I organized a cabin around the theme of art-making. We invited campers to stop by to create something—drawings, paintings, sculpture, writing, whatever—encouraging them to worry less about the finished product and to think more about the process of being creative. At the end of the weekend, the results were included in an art exhibition, complemented by the requisite white wine and friendly critique.
We named the cabin “Incriminating Polaroids,” mindful that instant photography is a popular art form that can have deliciously smutty results. To identify ourselves and draw attention to our art project, we designed and silkscreened shirts that our cabin mates subsequently wore to classes, meals and other occasions where we weren’t, you know, just naked.
Among other projects, Leila recreated performance artist Marina Abramović’s classic Rhythm 0 (nineteen seventy-four), in which viewers became participants, invited to make use of an array of provided objects to interact with the inert artist. It was a powerful piece when Abramović created it. It was extraordinary when Leila recreated it in a dungeon, with the participation of so many experienced players. Her gender presentation was altered, her flesh painted and flashed with numerous sensations, her spirits surprised by unexpected actions and occasionally sustained by kindness and care.
For my part, I transformed Kay into a living abstract canvas, coloring her nude body with hot wax in emulation of encaustic painting. She glowed in candlelight on the grass under a clear sky, with virtually no witnesses.
Here are a few incriminating Polaroids.
Preparing a silkscreen for printing, and the logo as it appeared on our shirts. For those too young to recall, the logo recreates the contour of a Polaroid picture.
My boots after making a particularly messy wax painting by moonlight.
As official camp photographs are made availble, I'll post links here. The next Dark Odyssey event will be in February in Washington, DC. Hope to see you there. If you're interested in taking part in art/sex events, drop me a line.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Lend Me Your Face
I wanna cut you with glass
You haven't got such a pretty ass now
Wanna put you in a cast
And cast off all my memories of where you been at.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
HNT
It was as painful as it looks. I had stubbed my big toe a week earlier, but by the time I spanked her, it was already on the mend. It's all better now, thanks.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
Thursday, August 05, 2010
Feverish, Sad Drama
Two years ago today, Dacia immolated our friendship.
My ex wife had discovered my sex blog and was using it to sue for full custody of our children, claiming my sexuality put our children in immediate danger. Dacia was among the first friends I called with this news, hopeful that she would be familiar with resources that could help my impending legal battle. Dacia didn’t have any advice at hand, but offered to look into it. “I’m so sorry this is happening to you,” she said.
“Thanks,” I replied. “Me too.”
It was to be our final exchange. A few days later, Dacia launched a flame war against me in her blog. Dacia opined that the case wasn’t really about my sexuality. She hadn’t seen my ex’s motion, but she wondered: what if it was about something else, like alcoholism, maybe? Comments flowed into her blog, speculating about all manner of awful things that could be behind the case.
Tess and Dee watched with delight. Their gossip had been instrumental in fueling Dacia’s opinion, and their own voices, disguised behind various pseudonyms, kept her blog’s comments negative and flowing at a crisp pace. Tess and Dee saw great opportunities in encouraging gossip and speculation against me. For Dee, it was sweet vindication for her frustration that her love for me had proven unrequited. For Tess, it was an opportunity to promote herself by contributing to the downfall of a rival—in a rivalry of which I was fully unaware.
I’ve written about this at some length in this blog. At the request of those who want to follow the story in its entirety and to link it in their own blogs, I’ve complied the story at one site.
Feverish, Sad Drama
The site includes new chapters not published on this blog. These include revelations about the extraordinary efforts undertaken by Tess and Dee to accumulate fodder for their gossip—including, astonishingly, distributing correspondence hacked from a personal email account. Most of this draft focuses on Tess and Dee rather than Dacia—some stories need to be saved for the book, after all—but included is the story of how Dacia’s flame war was fueled, in part, by an ex boyfriend of hers who enjoyed pitting Dacia against her friends. Though Dacia was unaware of it, he played her, and he played her beautifully. Even he hadn’t anticipated that through his game, Dacia would behave with such ruthlessness.
As Dacia later wrote, the entire affair was a “feverish, sad drama” largely of her own creation. It showcased the worst behavior I’ve encountered online. Fortunately, it was limited to a small cohort—Dee, Tess and to a lesser extent, Dacia—who remain, to date, the only rotten apples I’ve encountered as a blogger. I’ve made great friends and lovers through this blog, for which I’m grateful. Blogging has been an overwhelming positive experience, and I’m glad to have this space in which to share my stories. Others who blog may take Feverish, Sad Drama as a cautionary tale—be very careful about your confidences. Some people are sharks.
My ex wife had discovered my sex blog and was using it to sue for full custody of our children, claiming my sexuality put our children in immediate danger. Dacia was among the first friends I called with this news, hopeful that she would be familiar with resources that could help my impending legal battle. Dacia didn’t have any advice at hand, but offered to look into it. “I’m so sorry this is happening to you,” she said.
“Thanks,” I replied. “Me too.”
It was to be our final exchange. A few days later, Dacia launched a flame war against me in her blog. Dacia opined that the case wasn’t really about my sexuality. She hadn’t seen my ex’s motion, but she wondered: what if it was about something else, like alcoholism, maybe? Comments flowed into her blog, speculating about all manner of awful things that could be behind the case.
Tess and Dee watched with delight. Their gossip had been instrumental in fueling Dacia’s opinion, and their own voices, disguised behind various pseudonyms, kept her blog’s comments negative and flowing at a crisp pace. Tess and Dee saw great opportunities in encouraging gossip and speculation against me. For Dee, it was sweet vindication for her frustration that her love for me had proven unrequited. For Tess, it was an opportunity to promote herself by contributing to the downfall of a rival—in a rivalry of which I was fully unaware.
I’ve written about this at some length in this blog. At the request of those who want to follow the story in its entirety and to link it in their own blogs, I’ve complied the story at one site.
The site includes new chapters not published on this blog. These include revelations about the extraordinary efforts undertaken by Tess and Dee to accumulate fodder for their gossip—including, astonishingly, distributing correspondence hacked from a personal email account. Most of this draft focuses on Tess and Dee rather than Dacia—some stories need to be saved for the book, after all—but included is the story of how Dacia’s flame war was fueled, in part, by an ex boyfriend of hers who enjoyed pitting Dacia against her friends. Though Dacia was unaware of it, he played her, and he played her beautifully. Even he hadn’t anticipated that through his game, Dacia would behave with such ruthlessness.
As Dacia later wrote, the entire affair was a “feverish, sad drama” largely of her own creation. It showcased the worst behavior I’ve encountered online. Fortunately, it was limited to a small cohort—Dee, Tess and to a lesser extent, Dacia—who remain, to date, the only rotten apples I’ve encountered as a blogger. I’ve made great friends and lovers through this blog, for which I’m grateful. Blogging has been an overwhelming positive experience, and I’m glad to have this space in which to share my stories. Others who blog may take Feverish, Sad Drama as a cautionary tale—be very careful about your confidences. Some people are sharks.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
HNT
Preparing to take the stage at the Highline Ballroom for last night's Moth GrandSlam, I was nervous that I had chosen a story too awful for the given theme, “the point of no return.”
This was my first time to make it to the Moth’s championship round of storytelling competition. Like the nine other storytellers on the bill, I had won a previous StorySlam before moving to the GrandSlam. Competitors had been provided with the evening’s theme about two weeks prior to the event. Given the five-minute time limit and what I’ve so far ascertained about the audience’s familiarity with subjects I generally address as “Jefferson,” I felt a keen awareness of the challenges in choosing a story and telling it well.
A few days prior to the GrandSlam, I scrapped the story I had chosen in favor of something much more raw. The story went back two decades and yet its new revelations were only days old. As I told my story, I found myself shaking with a mix of emotions—fear, rage, numbness—and the audience’s dead silence as my only feedback.
I came in second place.
It’s not a story I anticipate telling on this blog, so to those who heard it live, thanks for allowing me to share it even as I’m not sure what happens next.
Welcome to those who found me through the Moth. By way of introduction, be aware that my blog isn’t safe for work, as I write graphically about sex. I also write about parenting, dating and relationships—our secret, but these are the real subjects of my sex blog—and each Thursday, you’ll keep up with the ongoing adventures of my right foot.
If your heart aches for stories of love and loss, you might start by reading Old Roads. If hot sex is more to your liking, that all began with my first post nearly six years ago. To keep up with my day-to-day meanderings, follow me on Twitter.
Enjoy.
Monday, July 26, 2010
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