Living Somewhat Dangerously

In Which I Am Subject to a Terrifying Premonition!

2009-04-30T22:15:00.007-04:00

In the tub I examined my stubbly legs: Should I shave them? Nah.

I mean, what were the odds? Tonight I would have my second date with Brian, but I didn’t imagine we’d get up to much. Our first date had been marked by nothing so intimate as a hug.

I’d met Brian via the Nerve personals, and after a brief email exchange, we’d agreed to meet for a drink one Friday night. Brian’s photo made him look handsome and genial, and he seemed pleasant enough.

When we met I was disappointed (though not surprised) to note that he was quite a bit shorter than the men I usually date, and surprised and not at all disappointed to discover that I found him very easy to talk to. We’d swapped stories about our jobs and our secular Jewish backgrounds. I am also a little embarrassed to admit that I was impressed by his high-powered job: Brian is the second-in-command to a very powerful media mogul and clearly a high achiever. He oversees dozens of people and actually travels outside the country for work. Also rich, I assumed.

Anyway, our brief first date had ended with nary a kiss, and I’d been bemused to discover I’d like to see him again. Then I’d gone off to this party. When Brian contacted me and we made plans for a second date, I figured we would take things veeeerrrry sloooowly. So my legs remained unshaven.

This time we met at a bar downtown. I was early and waited for him to arrive before ordering a drink because I read somewhere that to do otherwise was rude, not to mention it might make you look like a lush. He was almost on time, and seemed pretty edgy. I mean “edgy” in the sense my father would use it; that is, on edge, jittery, and not particularly cheerful. (I think “edgy,” meaning cool or avant garde, is very poseur-y, personally).

I was sitting at a stool at the bar and he sat next to me, his body all clenched up (edgy, you see). I remembered something I had read: Mirroring other people’s body language puts them at ease. So I ducked my head forward and twisted one leg around the other, though I drew the line at hunching over my drink in such an uncomfortable-looking position.

Things got better when we started paying attention to the music – when I recognized The Velvet Underground and then Neil Diamond playing over the speakers, he seemed to relax a little. Ha, I thought. I can stun and disarm you with my knowledge of indie pop culture. Why yes, I can argue about Robert Altman’s The Long Goodbye. For a businessman, Brian sure knew a lot of obscure stuff – the kind of stuff I picked up as a teenager in my attempt to win over shy, discerning boys, come to think of it. Not that that worked.

Eventually we moved next door to the restaurant, where we were seated by a young waitress with henna-red hair in braids and a glazed, beatific smile. Beaming at us, she recited the specials. She seemed absolutely thrilled to be our server. When she had floated off, Brian and I looked at each other: “Is she on ecstasy?”

“Maybe she found Jesus?”

“Or maybe the food here’s really good!”

When I excused myself to go to the bathroom I stared glumly at my reflection in the mirror. Why did I suspect I was going to marry this guy? Was it because despite his height, I found him attractive, meaning that at last I had met someone I could put aside my shallowness for? Because he was Jewish? Obviously wealthy and successful? At any rate, the thought filled me with dread.

But in the amber candlelight everything looked better. Especially me, apparently. “I think you’re beautiful,” Brian said as we drank our wine. “I don’t know if that’s because I like you or if you really are beautiful. Do other people think so, too?”

“No, I’m not beautiful,” I said. “You might think that because I’m friendly, and talkative. I have a mobile face,” I added, as if in explanation. I do have an expressive face, though I can remain impassive if necessary. Still. He thought I was beautiful. Why was I arguing with him? What was wrong with me? “Thank you,” I added.

I didn’t eat much of my pasta, but we finished the bottle. When we were headed out the door, he leaned over and kissed me, briefly. Outside we didn’t take one another’s hands, but walked down the crowded street in polite silence.

Around the corner it was quieter, and Brian looked at me again, then backed me up against a shuttered metal grating. Our mouths opened up, our tongues mingling. Then he took my hand. “Do you want to come back to my place?” he asked. “I mean, just to make out on my sofa, not to have sex. I’m kind of a prude,” he explained as we climbed into a cab.

“I’m kind of a slut,” I muttered as the driver pulled into the street, but I don’t think he heard me. I slid across the seat until we were nestled together. Then I placed my lips close to his neck and listened to him breathe.

***

“Oh, it’s a mess,” Brian said when he opened the door to his apartment. I looked around curiously as I followed him into the living room. What it was, was bare – a few papers on the floor, but mostly just empty. It had a stale, old apartment smell.

We collapsed on the sofa and started kissing. He pulled off my top, and my bra, and unzipped my knee-high boots. As he started to tug off my tights I giggled: “I didn’t shave my legs!”

When we were down to our skivvies he picked me up and carried me down the hall into his bedroom, depositing me on the bed. But not before I had caught a glimpse of his lair: “How long have you lived here?” The bedroom was empty, too – there was a bed, an upturned cardboard box that served as a bedside table, and a suit jacket hanging over the door, that was about it.

“I know,” he said. Then he lay on top of me. Brian is small and solidly built—not my usual type. Try as I might, I couldn’t catch the scent of his neck, which I always find so important. We kissed, and he started to go down on me but I stopped him—I wasn’t ready. Instead I clasped his dick. As he tautened in my hand it occurred to me that I hadn’t really seen it yet—I didn’t know if he was big or small or thick or what; the room was dark (there was no lamp, either). As he got stiffer I leant down and gently licked him but he shifted on top so that he could eat me: “We’re both givers,” he said, and I could hear the smile in his voice.

***

At 4 AM we rolled towards one another. He climbed on top of me and whispered, “I’m really looking forward to having sex with you. You have a great little body.”

I swallowed. “Yeah. I want to feel you inside me,” I said.

We were pushing against one another, his cock stroking the scooped-out hollows my thighs create when I open my knees. His precum was slick on my skin. He held my arms above my head. Is he dominant? Does he realize it? I thought: I’m doomed. I’m going to marry this guy.

I kept thinking he was going to slip inside me, and it was kind of a tug-of-war between my pussy and the rest of me, because I was really wet. But he didn’t. Instead he moved between my legs and seemed to fumble. “Is this OK?”

“What are you doing?”

“Putting my fingers inside you.”

“Oh no, that’s fine!” I felt my muscles pull him in, and clench around his forefinger. I was really wet. He pulsed the pads of his fingers inside me, and dialed his fingertip against my skin. Then he leant down and licked my clit. I let out a groan, my head whipping back and forth on the mattress. His fingers and tongue kept up a steady pressure, and my legs started to shake.

His tongue tapped against my clit and I heard myself gasp. Because his mouth was full and I didn’t know how to tell him, I start talking to myself, silently, saying dirty things: You slut. You little whore, opening your legs to a stranger. You like that? I do, I do. My legs shook more, and I came with great relief. Brian’s tongue kept on at my clit, slow and steady, soothing me as my limbs returned to normal. “Thank you,” I choked when he came up for air. He chuckled.

Then it was my turn, so I slid down the mattress and squatted between his legs. I took the glass of water from the cardboard box-cum-nightstand, and then I wrapped my wet mouth, full of warm water, around his dick. I still hadn’t gotten a good look at his dick and as it was now in my mouth, I wasn’t going to anytime soon.

“Oh,” he said softly. “Oh.”

I licked the underside of his shaft as gently as I could, cause I loved that “Oh…. Oh…” It was not quite a groan, just a sigh. I loved the silky feel of his dick in my mouth, against the bruised flesh of the inside of my lower lip. “Oh,” he said again, “Oh.”

My head bobbed—now I could smell him, that damp, warm smell of boy groin. I licked his balls and the join that leads from his dick to his ass, then returned my mouth to his dick. Brian was breathing hard, and soon he said, “I’m going to come.”

I assumed this was so I could avoid having his come in my mouth, so I stopped sucking but continued to lick until he said, “Just…” and I understood. I placed my fingers around the base of his dick and breathed on his dick, and then he came. My hand was covered with a thin, slick streak of liquid.

Since we’d both orgasmed I felt this was a successful evening. I went to the bathroom and when I returned he asked, “Do you prefer this side?”

“I do,” I said gratefully. I like the left side of the bed, because I sleep on my right side and, if I spoon, must be the outside spoon. “That’s OK?”

“I don’t mind,” he shifted so that I could settle in. “I’m such a neurotic person, but I don’t care about that.” I laughed, and turned on my side. Again I tried to catch his scent, and again, it was impossible. He drifted off, and I thought, Abject terror, repeating the phrase to myself. I imagined our children, and how I could possibly adjust to living in a barren apartment with a bathroom that boasted the original 1950s fixtures. I turned onto my stomach and waited to fall asleep. You don’t have to marry him, I reminded myself, and the silliness of comforting myself about a possibility that didn't even exist made me see straight for a second. The notion that this personable, intelligent stranger was my future resolved itself into what it really was: an idea I’d used to frighten myself.

Because I am frightened. I’m ready for love, so ready that I’m afraid I’ll commit myself to the first eligible guy who crosses my path. I wish I could stop thinking, I thought (ironically). Is it a sign of my capacity for happiness or my emotional neediness that I can sleep contentedly in a stranger’s arms? Of course I wasn’t dreamily asleep in Brian’s arms, I was lying beside him, terrorizing myself with an imaginary marriage. How can I relax? I fretted as I shifted again, trying to find a comfortable position. I just decided to get married! To the strange man asleep next to me.

Adventures in Offensive Dating; or, eHarmony, I Hate You

2009-04-12T10:24:00.009-04:00

When I cut Dean loose and got serious about finding someone I could love and marry, I decided to quit banging my head against the wall with FastCupid (a.k.a. Nerve) and join eHarmony, even though I feel it’s tacky. I got a ton of remarkably unattractive matches, many of them in NJ. But I got one kind of cute guy, and here is our correspondence (edited for spelling, and general writerly incompetence, except for one really appalling instance):

Lily:
You just found the topic of your upcoming New York Times best selling biography -me! We can go 90/10 on the sales profits. Ninety % for me--I am a fair crook. I like your pictures but the red dress is very aggressive. Can you guarantee me you are not one of those online stalkers, or even worse, some guy pretending to be a woman?
Mark

I thought this was rather bombastic. Also, he described himself as a “surgeon” and I didn’t believe he was, if only because most of the doctors I’ve met online (not that there have been many) have referred to themselves MDs, or Physicians. I think if he was going to be specific, he would have been more specific, as in neurosurgeon, or, (my preferred career for a mate) pediatric oncologist (shows both serious clinical knowledge and care of children).

And we won’t get into the part where he suggested I might be a stalker, or insulted my shirt. I mean, I assume this wasn’t meant seriously, but why start a conversation with insults? I’m immediately put on the defensive. I’m not prepared to be on the defensive with a complete stranger. I reserve that behavior for someone I’m already fucked up over.

I thought I’d better ignore him.

Two days later I got another email:

Lily:
What's up? Do you have writer's block? I think the way it works is I send you a message then you send one to me. Unless of course you already know everything about me and therefore have no need to ask me anything. But how, other than stalking me, could you get this info. I knew it, you are a stalker! Well, I'll give you some help with the biography. Reserve chapters 1 - 6 for my life up until now. Chapter 7: The Humphry [sic] Bogart/James Bond hybrid (that's me) began noticing the Lady in Red (that's you) everywhere. In his rear view mirror. Behind him in line. Outside his apartment in the bushes... (LOL).
Mark

The tone here was slightly more amiable, so I felt moved to respond:

Mark,
Well, gee, I didn't know quite how to respond to your email. Do you always come on so strong? Most of my boyfriends have been shy, self-deprecating geeks. You're not like that, are you?
Best wishes,
Lily

Next I received:

Lily:
I feel for you. Most guys JUST DON'T GET IT! But that's their problem (and yours if you end up with one of them).

Went to a nice little shindig with some friends last night on the Jersey Shore. Do you ever come out this way?

So... After all that time I gave you to think about me your big question for me is, "Am I a geek ?" Hmmm... Can I have more time to think that one over (LOL), please ?

My questions for you are: Where in NYC do you live? Where do you hang out? When women at a club excuse themselves from the group and go to the ladies room, what the heck do they talk about? It doesn't take 30 minutes to take a leak. (You seem like the type that would pull this one).

Now do you think you can try to come up with some cool questions like that for me. Before I double click on the close match tab.
Later,
Mark

You seem like the type that would pull this one? Threatening to close the match on me if I don’t respond ASAP? Jackass.

Two days later:

Lily:
Are you playing hard to get? If you are I understand. I use that move all the time myself. So here I go again. How many more e-mails do I have to send until you are done playing - just give me a number so I can mark the day on my calendar. Or are you intimidated by me? All joking aside, many women are. But you don't have to be. It will be OK. I give you my word. Or do you have too many other e-mails to deal with? Delete them. Most will be dead ends anyway. Email me or send me your phone number and I'll call you some time. You seem like a daddy's little rich girl, but I think I might like you.
Later,
Mark

This pissed me off, as I suppose was the intention. I wrote back the following day:

I'm not playing hard to get, I'm busy. Also bewildered as to your flirting technique- threatening to close the match unless I respond quickly, accusing me of being a daddy's little rich girl (don't I wish!). Let me spell this out for you: I don't respond well to provocation, even if that's your preferred method of courtship. Finally, your photo — is it recent? You don't look 41. That's a compliment — you look very youthful.
Lily

Ha ha! Note both the puzzled primness and the back-handed compliment — that last part hoisting him with his own petard, I felt. I bet it was an old photo.

He slunk off, and I never heard from him again. I thought he was just a hostile lunatic, but then it occurred to me that he was a Game-r — a practitioner of seduction by boorishness (called devaluation, I believe. See also this article). I hope Mark went back to his guidebook or consulted his pickup artist mentor and they scratched their heads over how to deal with women who are too old to mistake obnoxiousness for romantic banter. Also, “daddy’s little rich girl”— Do many men secretly dream of mastering a daddy’s girl, as all women are supposed to want to tame a bad boy (a.k.a. hoodlum/lead guitarist/tortured vampire)?

Mark’s emails were calculated to make me feel a) as if he’s doing me a favor by bothering with someone he clearly thinks so little of and b) flattered that he’s spending his time telling me how I might impress him a little more. From his first email (“Can you guarantee me you are not one of those online stalkers?”), my instinct is to defend myself against his accusations, and prove him wrong. I’m inclined to go to great lengths to show him what a down-to-earth, domestic beer-drinking type of girl I am, and in the process of proving myself I end up believing that defending my character against the insults of a total stranger is a worthwhile enterprise. And I might have believed it, if I were, say, mean, popular, and 16 years old. (I think it’s assumed that the subject of any such attempts is indeed mean and popular, though hopefully not 16). These methods might also be effective with a romantic, articulate teenager who hasn’t had much experience with guys; someone primed to mistake attention for interest — that is, someone who’s seen a lot of the Hepburn-Tracy movies in which this scenario plays out. Needless to say, you can imagine what kind of teenager I was (that kind).

But now I’m torn between amusement and real irritation: This is a calculated, mean-spirited way to get a date. I’m also insulted, since he thought I would fall for this. Does anyone have any firsthand experience with this? Readers?

I've had other dating issues with eHarmony men (besides the fact that they’re invariably stocky general contractors from central Jersey. One guy, Tom, sent me this message:

Hey Lily,
Where do we go from here?
Tom

Well, nowhere, if you expect me to start the exchange you apparently wanted to initiate. This was shortly after the Mark episode and, once again, I was a little annoyed:

Dear Tom,
Well, usually you tell me you like my profile/photo/great wit, and I respond in
kind. Some awkward banter follows, and then possibly a date. But you contacted me, so it's up to you to start.
Best wishes,
Lily

I probably won’t be hearing from him again either. But really, if you want to have a conversation with me, don’t ask me to start it for you.

Finally, last night I went out with Ted, also from eHarmony. A decent guy, and very bright (U. Chicago, Berkeley, U. VA) but he asked me to dinner, suggested the restaurant, and then, when the check came, asked if I minded splitting it. This was after I had explained that I was on a budget, which was why I couldn’t eat out as much as I liked and hadn’t traveled in years. I hadn’t been planning to see him again, anyway, but Jesus! You ask someone out, you offer to pay. (This is my dating guide, and it is correct). If you balk at the thought of spending $60 (the cost of our dinner, including tax and tip) on someone you may never see again (or, if you’re an angry man, “on a spoiled princess who treats you like an ATM”), you ask her for coffee. If someone asks me out, he doesn’t have to shell out much, but Jesus! “Do you mind if we split this?” Yeah, I mind— I wouldn’t have chosen a vegan Korean restaurant if I knew I was going to be paying $30 for the tofu clay pot and a cup of date paste tea. “No, not at all,” I lied.

I don’t want to become bitter, or jaded, or pessimistic about my prospects for the whole bourgeois marriage dream — me and an employed, kind, smart, loyal and tall adult male with only minor issues to work out in therapy, and our two kids, two jobs, and three bedrooms, maybe in the East Twenties — but sometimes I hate dating. And dating websites. Grrr, arrgh.

Old School

2009-04-02T15:50:00.012-04:00

It was only the second party since the gatherings (or, if you want to be technical about it, orgies) had started up again, but it all felt very familiar, walking down the block to Tilda’s building. When I’d first started attending Jefferson’s parties back in 2007, I’d been nervous. But now I was mostly just looking forward to seeing the people I considered friends. And, um, getting laid.

I’d meant to be fashionably late, but as it turned out I was early: the only people present were Tilda, Jefferson, the server boy — a new one this time — and Byron. We all said hello. I settled on the sofa next to Byron, where I calculated my chances of bedding him. He put an arm around my shoulder: pretty good, I estimated. I’d just had a very chaste date, courtesy of Nerve, and was feeling game. Or, you know, horny.

I ended up near the food, a strategic move on my part since Byron was hovering nearby. We exchanged pleasantries and ate extraordinarily large (biologically engineered, no doubt) strawberries. He leaned against the arm of the sofa, so we were at eye-level. I looked at him, and he grinned at me; we did that teenage-y thing where you sort of punch the other person on the arm to indicate interest. It was like an illustration from a book: Seduction for the Socially Awkward. After a bit of knocking one another on the shoulder, I finally managed some face contact.

I am much better at kissing than I am at the run-up to the kiss. My lips traveled the way stops to his mouth: his temples, the left cheek, the ears and that tender spot just below the ear, behind the jaw. Then I found his mouth and we kissed. This was interspersed with more eating of the mutant strawberries and sniggering at one another. Like I said, it was strangely reminiscent of junior high. Of course, in junior high I never kissed anyone; I was too terrified and inept to flirt. Instead I hung around the sidelines, pestering the DJ to play Depeche Mode, and pretending I was dating Andrew McCarthy.

I was flirting like the teenager I had never been, but the lights in the room were bright, and I feel a lower wattage promotes a more seductive atmosphere. Also, the room was filling up, and I may be a slut, but I like the pretense of privacy, at least.

“We could go into the other room,” I mumbled to Byron. While a few more people had turned up, none of them appeared to be getting undressed, and I felt a little flagrant, fooling around with Byron in front of the canapés.

Toby arrived with a female guest I hadn’t met; she wore a white fur cape and knee high red boots, giving her the look of a burlesque superhero. Her name was Marianne. We chatted for a few minutes, but when they’d moved off, Byron turned and pushed me against the wall: “I’m going to rip your clothes off,” he grinned, and really, the correct adjective here is “devilishly.”

But I was still channeling my inner eighth grader, so I pushed him away. We tussled. Finally, after he’d tried to pull up my shirt for the second time I smirked at him: “Listen, you can be an exhibitionist, or you can get laid.” Then, trying not to laugh, I swanned off to the bathroom.

I had high hopes for this more straightforward seduction technique, but when I got out of the bathroom, he wasn’t there. So I sat on the edge of the sofa, because something was Going On: Toby was flogging Marianne. She had taken off the cape, and was wearing just knickers and her leather boots. She was bent over, facing the corner of the room and Tilda’s bookshelves. This was the same position Lisa had been in last time. Tilda, in her black party dress, went over to them and crept underneath Marianne’s prone body. Her face spooled towards Marianne’s clit.

“Tilda!” Jefferson warned, ever etiquette-wise. “That’s Toby’s scene! Ask permission!”

Some murmured discussion followed, and soon Tilda was permitted to nuzzle Marianne’s breasts and clit, as Jefferson and I watched.

But wait — I wasn’t here to watch — I had a boy to fuck. I caught Byron’s eye, and we traipsed into the middle room, where Toby was hard at work, thwacking Marianne’s ass. I had my eye on the back room, for some privacy, but it was a railroad flat and required some travel.

“Want to try?” Toby asked Byron. He handed him the flogger.

The flogger is, as I’ve noted, a sort of crop with tassels attached. These were soft leather. Byron struck Marianne experimentally, and was rewarded with an “Ooooh.” Her face wasn’t visible, but her ass was turning pink.

Toby raised his brows at me. “Oh, I’m not—” I said. Byron handed me the flogger.

I held it in my hand—it was heavy. I stood as if I was going to swing a bat, my knees bent. I squinted, and snapped, and the flogger sailed through the air, hitting nothing at all about a foot from Marianne’s ass. I have never been very good at any sport requiring hand-eye coordination. Or any sport at all, really. “Sorry,” I said.

“That’s OK,” Marianne didn’t seem too concerned.

I held the flogger out to Toby — after all, Marianne should be enjoying herself, getting flogged by someone who knew what he or she was doing, not an amateur who was going to interrupt herself to apologize every time she screwed up.

“Have you ever held a tennis racket?” Toby took my hands and placed each in the proper position: one at the top, another at the bottom. “Go ahead.”

Well… This time the flogger swiped Marianne’s outer thigh, apparently a big no-no. “You don’t want to hit her there, you could injure her,” Jefferson explained. “Are you OK?” he asked Marianne.

“I’m fine.”

“Here, try this,” Toby handed me another flogger. This one was lighter, and certainly felt easier to handle. To my surprise, when I flicked it, it met Marianne’s ass with a satisfying slap.

“Oooh!” she said.

I felt a surge of pride and looked a little more carefully at Marianne’s ass. Pink stripes were appearing in criss-crosses across her pale flesh, and I felt a strong urge to see evidence of my own efforts on her skin. I hit her again.

“Ahh!” she said.

Frowning, I changed position a little, to get a better aim. Thwack. Thwack. I hit her ass several times in rapid succession. One actually drew a squeal of real pleasure.

This is easy, I thought, as I aimed another slap at her pink ass. Nothing to it at all. I missed, slicing the air near her. Huh. I tried again, and was rewarded with my loudest slap yet.

I hit her again, thinking, This is no big deal. And that’s when I stopped. Not because I wasn’t enjoying it, but because I was enjoying it as a technical exercise, like when you practice taking shots with a pool cue. I could go on and on, perfecting my wrist flick and watching the pink stripes blossom.

That was disturbing, and not only because I’d thought I was submissive. I stopped, and handed the flogger back to Toby. “Your turn,” I said.

Then Byron and I went into the bedroom. I felt a little dazed. I sat in Tilda’s desk chair, which was hidden from the door: no one could see us unless someone tucked their head in to look. “That was kind of freaky,” I said.

“Yeah?” Byron had his hands on my knees. I nodded. I felt kid of freaked out, as I said, not because it had been such a big deal, but because I’d found it easy, and satisfying. And also because I’m a bit of a drama queen, and I wanted (or needed?) acknowledgement.

But soon Byron and I fell to kissing, and without much ado we stumbled towards the bed.

I like kissing Byron so much. And when he took off his shirt I almost swooned. I thought, These freckles. They just undo me. I liked the idea of being undone.

But the freckles — what’s up with that? This is not the first time I’ve seen Byron’s freckles but, as Laurie Colwin says, “its effect… was not dimmed by repetition.” But they are just a splay of marks, a testament to uncovered shoulders at the beach. But I find the sight of them weirdly moving.

What other body parts of the men I’ve slept with (“lovers” would be the shorter, and more accurate term, but I just never use that word) have made me feel all tender? I thought about this as I kissed Byron’s stomach.

Sweetheart Daniel — well, everything about him sort of made me swoon, cause I had an enormous crush on him. I guess I’d have to say the contrast of his very pale skin against his very dark, very abundant hair. He was always clean shaven (no five o’clock shadow there) so if I hadn’t seen him shirtless I never would have guessed at how hairy he was (even his back). I found that pale skin against the dark hair moving.

Jed — Well, I loved Jed’s long curls and how his hair would get all matted and sweaty when we fucked.

Dean — Dean had very little hair on his chest. But he did have a few long hairs sprouting from his nipples, and they were gray. Despite his seven-year advantage, in some ways (like you know, in terms of personal maturity) Dean was very young — he was the baby of the family; he had no financial responsibilities and had, let’s face it, an adolescent attitude towards his brother. He used “Just For Men” to cover his gray hair. I don’t think he was particularly vain, but he had trouble being an adult. Those gray hairs revealed just how hopeless his efforts to remain young were.

And Michael — Oh, Michael. He had a series of stretch marks running up his sides, the legacy of a sudden growth spurt at age 13. Those pale, accordion-like slivers of skin! Michael, through the year and a half of our relationship, had never felt about me as I had about him, but the stretch marks made him seem vulnerable to me. Perhaps that’s what makes me sick with longing? A physical symbol vulnerability that has nothing to do with weakness but everything to do with the way the past marks the body? Oh, I have no idea.

Where was I? Oh right, on my knees. I tugged off Byron’s gray briefs, and then I murmured, “I was at work today, wondering if I’d get the chance to do this.” It was true, I had done just that while sitting in a meeting.

“You did?”

I wrapped my mouth around his dick and sighed, tasting the sweet heat of him in my nose. “Uh huh.” I slid my mouth up and down. “I was hoping I’d get to have you in my mouth,” I murmured in between sucks.

“Oooh…” said Byron, “Ooooh, Oooooh.” I love how verbal he is, how expressive of excitement. I smiled into his groin.

My head bobbed back and forth while I licked his balls and the hairy base of his dick. When I started to suck him off again, I pulled him in as far as I could before gagging.

“Hey!” said Byron, sounding pleased, “You took a lot!” I hadn’t quite deep-throated him, but I’d wanted to. Maybe next time. But now he was removing my clothes.

We fell onto Tilda’s bed. I could smell the clean sheets, and felt a little guilty at the thought of sweating all over them. But not much. We were both naked and his skin felt very smooth and soft against mine. In the other room, I could hear people talking. “Hey, let’s turn out the lights,” I suggested. It just seemed more intimate that way. I had also taken off my watch. That, too, had struck me as the proper way to fuck. I wanted to give it due respect.

He switched off the bedside lamp and brought his face close to mine. I stretched up towards him but he scooted down between my legs where he very briefly licked me. I remembered how he’d gone down on me while I sucked Jed off that last time, how much I’d enjoyed his tongue on my lips, so was sort of disappointed when he didn’t linger there. Instead he loomed up over me.

He put a condom on and slid inside me, very easy, not at all unfamiliar territory. In the next room, I could hear voices: My Friend Jake and company had arrived. “Uuuhhhh,” said Byron.

I was breathing heavily, wishing I could block out everything else. “Get on top,” Byron urged.

I started riding him. He was dripping with sweat—another trait I find oddly endearing. His hair gets wet from the sweat, it’s like stroking the hair of someone who’s just been in the shower. “Ahh,” I said, clenching my pussy tight around his cock and then releasing. “Can you feel it when I do that?”

“Yes!” I rode him back and forth while he licked my nipples, I knew I wasn’t going to come. I don’t know if it was the awareness of people in the next room (that hadn’t stopped me on other occasions) or what, but even though my legs were stretched tight and twitching, it wasn’t going to happen. After a few minutes my muscles sort of juddered to a halt and I lay down next to him.

Then Byron fucked me and oh, I loved the weight of him and the solid thrumming tick of his dick inside me. I felt wound up again.

He groaned and twitched and buried his face in my neck, then stopped, and pulled out. We lay next to one another. “Don’t you want to come?” I asked, not very delicately.

“Nah,” he was breathing heavily. “I had a wank before the party, so I can keep going longer.” So English, wank. We both giggled a little. “I’ll come in the morning.”

This was one aspect of preparing for a sex party I hadn’t thought of. (Truthfully, mostly I just tried to remember to wear nice underwear — a matching set, if possible).

“Some other people arrived,” Byron said.

“I heard them come in.”

After a bit we got dressed and put on the lights and then, with matted sex-hair, we slithered back to the party.

Back in the main room was My Friend Jake and a number of people he’d brought. I knew most of them; I’d introduced Jake to Jefferson. I settled on the sofa next to Jefferson, who looked a little worse for wear. And as Byron disappeared into the back room with Tilda, and I chatted with a much younger man in a suit about the House of Representatives, I wasn’t sure what was missing. Other than someone being lashed to Jefferson’s bed. Well, Mmmark wasn’t there, but I hadn’t seen him in ages, anyway.

It wasn’t until I was in the cab on my way home that I realized what had been so unnerving: out of all the people at the party, I was the one who’d been attending the longest, after Jefferson. I was officially old school. I had been so used to being the newbie, and, as awkward a role as it is, it was comfortable for me: I thrive on being a geek. Only several years had passed since I first traipsed into Jefferson’s living room and gleefully sucked off two strangers, and as the circumstances and the guests and the location had changed, I wondered if it was time for me to change, too.

Jefferson Plays Matchmaker, With NC-17 Results

2009-03-19T22:45:00.012-04:00

I
On my way to Tilda’s, I considered whether this was a second date, and, if so, did it count as sleeping with someone on the second date if said date took place at an orgy?

See, in order to get over Dean, I had to start dating. Ashley had told me that she’d grasped the nettle and told all her friends she was interested in being set up, so I thought I’d do the same. I asked Jefferson if he knew of anyone suitable. It did strike me as funny that I thought the self-described pervert who’d orchestrated the majority of my risqué activities since 2006 would know anyone “suitable,” but I trust Jefferson.

Jefferson came up with the goods fast. He emailed me, “I traded notes with your new boyfriend and he’s glad to hear I recommend you to one another. So let me tell you a little about him. Byron is a 30-something Brit with a good job. He’s a lovely, personable, entertaining fellow and he's one of my favorite drinking buddies of late (Cabernet). …. Here’s a pic. Cute, right?” He added that Byron would be at the party Tilda was hosting on Friday. As would I.

Byron and I corresponded and agreed to meet for a drink the day before the party. Then I approached Jefferson with a sensitive question: “Is he bald?” I asked. “I'm wondering, cause he’s wearing a hat in the photo. Also, how tall do you think he is? Just curious....” (for just curious read: I hope he’s tall).

Jefferson was quick to assure me that Byron did have a full head of hair. He went on, “And he’s taller than me — I guess six foot? I don’t meant to make him sound perfect, so let me come up with a flaw . . . oh, he cares too much.”

II
When I met Byron on the Thursday night, I was relieved to recognize him at once—he looked just like his photo (I have a hard time recognizing people. For instance in December I went to Marc’s office’s Christmas party and, according to Marc, I “totally blanked” Will. I hadn’t recognized him at all, and we’d been fairly familiar with one another not so long ago. On the other hand, I always remember people’s middle names.)

Byron and I sat at a table near the window, and I ordered a ginger ale. I’d felt mildly nauseated all day. I’d been afraid I was coming down with a stomach flu, but eventually I twigged—I was nervous. Duh.

Byron had sandy hair, blue eyes, and a large, broad nose. He was my age, and from the north of England. I liked his voice a lot; I think a Northern accent is sort of rounder than a Southern one. I sipped my ginger ale. We talked about our common friend, and his blog, and then Byron asked, “Do you have a blog?”

“Hnnnnnnnnugh,” I said. “Well, I do,” I admitted finally. “But I’d rather not give you the address.” Dean had always had access to my blog, and I’d (mostly) censored what I wrote about him because of it. I didn’t want to do that anymore. I wanted at least the possibility of normal dating, whereby one person’s most intimate (and hopefully amusingly written) thoughts and feelings are not available online. I never would have been able to say what I did about Sweetheart Daniel if he had known about my blog, for instance.

“That’s OK!” Byron said. He smiled. He had a wide, sweet smile, and I relaxed a little.

“Do you have a blog?” I asked. Yes, he did. “I won’t ask you for the address.”

“I think that’s kind of nice, actually, you not wanting me to see your blog.” He did? Well, OK.

I eventually had a few glasses of wine, and when we parted outside the restaurant we kissed. It was open-mouthed, with a hint of tongue, but not quite a full-on make-out session.

And now, less than 24 hours later, we would be meeting again, only this time we’d be at a party held expressly for the purpose of having sex.

III
At Tilda’s I was met by a man I took to be Tilda’s boyfriend, but who I later discovered was the servant boy for the night. It was his job to fetch us drinks and attend to our needs, as it were.

In her apartment I was greeted by Tilda, wearing a fifties-style dress (very cute), and Jefferson, resplendent in shiny black pants: “PVC,” he explained. “Where else does a respectable father of four get to wear such togs?”

It was early and there weren’t many people here. I saw Marla, who figuratively and literally sparkled (she was wearing lots of shiny things) with her new boyfriend. I met Miss Molly Ren. I was suddenly starving and scarfed a lot of cheese and crackers. While I was stuffing my face, Byron arrived.

We greeted one another and drifted off into a group of people standing near the refrigerator. I was introduced to Toby and Lisa. Lisa was a little taller than me and looked distinctly underwhelmed by this gathering, while Toby looked like he’d just smoked a lot of weed. I (stealthily) positioned myself near Byron. Once I switched from Diet Coke to alcohol, I felt a little bolder. A tall fellow all in white wandered in, and it took me a minute to realize it was Jed (his short hair still surprised me). He came to greet me and we hugged. “Do you want to go into the other room?” he asked, sotto voce, as I poured myself a glass of wine.

“I’m kind of showing Byron around,” I explained, euphemistically.

Then the lights dimmed, and people started undressing. I remembered how, when Jefferson hosted orgies, on Mmmark’s arrival he’d say, “Oh look, Mmmark’s here! He’s the catalyst for the orgy, because he’s so hot.” Then he would add, “Or because he’s late.” But Mmmark wasn’t here tonight. Byron and I were leaning against the refrigerator, and I wondered if he was ever going to kiss me. I looked at him from under my lashes (the flirtiest thing I consciously do), giving him my best come hither glance.

Byron noticed: “You have very expressive eyes,” he said.

Yeah, and they’re saying kiss me. But eventually he did, so I could stop being nervous and anticipatory and start being relaxed and anticipatory. By this time people were in various states of undress—I spied Jefferson in the other room, naked (natch). Byron and I made out, my back against the refrigerator. He slipped his hand beneath my shirt and, after several attempts, managed to unhook my bra. I liked his awkwardness. “Ah,” said Toby, who, I realized, had been standing nearby with several other observers, “At last. We were taking bets on when you would get that off.”

I folded my arms across my breasts. Partially because I was embarrassed, and partially because I felt that being modest at an orgy is my shtick, my way of differentiating myself. Not that it’s not real; I am uncomfortable flashing my tits at a roomful of people who I’ve just met. And so when Toby asked to see my breasts, I demurred. I wondered: Is this modesty or marketing?

Byron and I kissed for a while, and then we made our way to the next room, where Toby and Jed were whipping Lisa’s ass (literally). She was bent over, her face to the corner, naked but for striped boy shorts. “Now put your legs together,” Jed commanded in a pleasant, paternal voice. He raised the whip. I swallowed hard.

But very shortly thereafter Jed ambled over and I wound up on the sofa with both Byron and Jed. Why hadn’t I thought of that? It was if the three of us synchronized our watches or exchanged sonic Yeses. Because without really looking at one another, I kissed Jed, and my jeans came off (I had finally uncovered my breasts). Then Byron slid his mouth down my belly. He looked up at me briefly before dipping his tongue against my clit. I couldn’t help it: I moaned.

It was agreed that we could “stretch out” (or, you know, have a threesome) in the back room, so we trooped across the apartment and settled on a futon, with Byron on my right and Jed on my left. Jefferson was on the bed next to us, with someone’s bare limbs wrapped around his back. I was fizzy with drink and enjoying myself immensely, with Byron’s tongue gently probing my clit and labia. My hips swayed towards his mouth, while I sucked Jed’s dick enthusiastically. I was dimly aware that other people were in the room, but I concentrated on Jed, while he murmured all the dirty words I love to hear. He came all over my tits, and I lay there dazed as he stroked a cloth over my chest, cleaning me up. I curled up against Byron, peaceful as a cat.

When it was time to get up I realized that there were six other people in the room, of whom at least three had been watching us with some interest. I found myself back in naïf mode, and I blinked and said, “Christ.” I ran my hands through my sweat-stung hair. “Ah.”

Now it was late and, as I’d successfully hooked up, my mission was officially complete. I could go home and go to sleep. However, I wanted to go home with Byron, but I couldn’t bring myself to say, “So, um, I was wondering, um, if…” Luckily Byron just called a car and took my arm, and he and Jed and I got into a cab together! But that was only because Jed and Byron live near one another. The cab dropped Jed off first.

When we got to Byron’s he opened the front door, “Oh my God, it’s so messy,” he said, sounding sincerely mortified. It didn’t look messy to me, though admittedly I would hardly know if it was; my housekeeping is casual at best. We went into his bedroom.

Alone, I could concentrate on his body. I hadn’t seen much of him, since I’d been occupied with Jed during our recent futon engagement. Byron had a warm, soapy smell, long limbs, and a lovely splay of freckles across his shoulders and back. He was uncircumcised, like most European men. I lay down on the flannel sheets, and when he pulled out Trojan Magnums I rejoiced.

He felt good inside me though I was too tired to get on top or indeed do anything the least bit strenuous. Byron, on the other hand, seemed prepared to keep going for some time. After a while he pulled out, and stroked my arm and kissed my nipples. I listened to his lovely (he pronounced it luvflee) northern voice. Did I want a glass of water? Something to eat? Was it too warm?

Then he got inside me again and broke out in a sweat all over—even his scalp was damp as I clutched his head close when he came.

IV
In the morning we moved from the bed to the sofa, where I did climb on top to fuck him. I like this position very much—I have control, but there’s so much more upper body contact. I came quickly, my legs shaking furiously. I thought it was clear I had come, but Byron asked, “Are you cold?”

“No one’s cold like that!”

We went back to his bed where we fucked some more, then into his lavish bathroom where we soaked in the hot tub-sized tub. He leaned back and I slumped next to him, my hair curling damply from the hot water. I lay there placidly, as if I usually spent my Saturday mornings lounging in a stranger’s oversized bathtub. I recognized this feeling: It was identical to a carbohydrate coma, a very pleasant state.

Then we went to brunch and when he drove me home the conversation wandered around the subject of relationships. “And what are you looking for?” He asked as we neared my apartment building.

“Well,” I said. What I wanted was not really the kind of thing you’re supposed to talk about on the first (or second) date, even if that date did involve sex and brunch. But fuck it, I wasn’t ashamed: “I’m ready for a serious relationship,” I said. “I’m 35, and I want to be committed to someone. I’m monogamous by nature.” True, though there’s not much evidence of that in this blog. I thought, briefly, of Dean: “I’d like to get married, and I want to have children, too, though not for a few years. Three or four years,” I concluded. Awkwardly.

“That makes sense,” he said, mildly, and pulled onto my street. We kissed goodbye several times, smiling at one another like sex-drugged accomplices. Then I trudged up the stairs to my apartment, where I took off all my clothes and climbed into bed. The last 18 hours had been eventful, and I needed to get some rest.

Half-Naked Thursday, and Kink For All

2009-03-11T21:24:00.005-04:00

Like everyone, I had a fab, fab, fab time at Kink For All NYC on Sunday. Originally, I was hesitant to attend, since I am not really kinky. But I did go, and really enjoyed myself. Plus I ate delicious toffee-covered Saltines.

Kink for All was “unorganized” by SaraEileen and MayMay, and I went to presentations by them, Sascha, a Kinky Jew, Boymeat (who spoke very thoughtfully about leather stuff), Sinclair Sexsmith, Barbara Carrellas, Tilda (graphic genius--her slide show, and MayMay's nerdy gender tech talk were probably my favorites), and lots more. Plus I saw Calico, Viviane, Lolita, Axe, and several people I was too shy to approach. But my favorite moment was during Nickel Dakota's fetish filmmaking presentation when he explained, “I think, for the female armpit fetish films, I'm going to have to switch to HD.” Indeed. Then I pulled, but that, as they say, is another story.

Anyway, you may have noticed a few changes to my blog. Namely, you can now see me half-naked. It's all part of my subtle plan for Total Blog Domination Via Tasteful Nudes, and I hope you like them. The pictures are of me, and were taken by My Friend Jake (not to be confused with Jacob or Big Jake). Thanks, Jake!

In Which The New Year Suddenly Doesn't Look So Bad

2009-03-07T14:54:00.008-05:00

When Jed turned up I was feeling low. It was a bitter Tuesday night, and I’d finally kicked Dean to the curb. Worse, he hadn’t even protested.

On New Year’s Eve I’d decided on the following resolutions:

Maintain weight loss
Write for one hour (or at least one page) every day
Pitch and write at least two freelance articles
Meet man I will love, make happy, and eventually marry (and vice versa)
Continue good work on the gym-going and money-saving front

Number four was the big one, obviously. Shortly after Dean and I had broken up back in July, I’d decided it was time for me to settle down, and I thought that officially committing to meeting someone — and believing I could commit to meet someone as I’d committed to losing 15 pounds — ought to work. But this plan to meet someone else was currently stalled, since I was spending valuable dating time making out with my ex boyfriend.

“Um, I don’t know if you want to hear this,” Ashley had said a few weeks back, when I’d told her about my impending Christmas visit with Dean and his family. “But I don’t think things are really finished between you two.”

I smiled sheepishly. But in fact I was pleased: If we weren’t finished, then there was more to come.

But January had turned my head around: Dean didn’t want to get back together; for that matter, neither did I. I wanted to get married, and Dean had made it clear he didn’t, at least not to me. And I saw that the more I hung around with him, sitting in restaurants with our knees pressed together under the table and splitting a bottle of wine, the less time I would have to meet an employed, non-pothead adult male who might want to fuck me silly and have kids.

So one night early in the New Year I told Dean this: “Look,” I gulped my wine. “I’m going to have to cut you loose,” I said, after he had once again mentioned the possibility of us returning to Mohonk for a romantic President’s Day weekend.

He raised his eyebrows; I touched his arm. “Dean,” I began. “I couldn’t love you more,” I said at last. True. “It’s not that. It’s just that I don’t think it’s a good idea for us to spend time together. I want to find someone, and the time I spend with you is time that I really should be looking for someone else.”

He didn’t even blink: “I totally understand,” he said, squeezing my shoulder. “I want you to be happy, you know.”

I mean, he didn’t even have any regrets!

This was all very informative for me, since, as I later told Ashley, I’d sort of been hoping he’d say, “Oh, Lily, I don’t want to give you up, let me think about this…” Since July, I thought we’d both been responsible adults who’d been forging a new friendship. Instead apparently I’d hoped I had an ace up my sleeve. And why? I didn’t want to marry someone with Dean’s sense of entitlement and disinclination to grow up, did I?

Anyway, the point is, I went back onto the personals site on which I’d met Dean, and reactivated my profile. So had he, I discovered—and he’d managed to shave nine years off his age! Now he was younger than I!

“That’s appalling!” Ashley exploded when I told her of this development the following day at work. “I mean, that’s just gross. What kind of a Peter Pan thing does this Dean have going on, anyway?”

In Laurie Colwin’s A Big Storm Knocked it Over, the main character’s best friend, Edie, has a really unpleasant family. Sometimes, the heroine, Jane Louise, will insult them on Edie’s behalf. And Edie says, “Thank you for hating my family for me.”

I said now, “Thank you for hating my ex for me.” Then I went back to work, my righteous indignation providing a little warming flame in the arctic wasteland of my romantic prospects.

**
So the next night, while I was glad to see Jed, I was still smarting a bit. But I feel casual sex is generally good for taking one’s mind off of serious romantic problems.

When Jed arrived, I couldn’t help feeling better—it’s a real pleasure to see someone as enthusiastic and as interested in the world as he is. “You look great,” he said, which I always like to hear. “It’s good to see you again.” Jed’s compliments always make me feel a little bashful, even if they’re as innocuous as these—there’s just such an energetic sincerity there, it’s very flattering.

“You, too.” Jed settled himself in a chair and pulled it across from me, sitting on my bed. He hooked his legs around mine and smiled at me. “You cut your hair!” I said at last.

He grinned, and ran his hands through his short ’do. What had been blond curls was now shorn close to his head, a blondish brown. “I tried to dread my hair, but it didn’t work,” he explained.

“I like it!”

He looked more grown up with short hair. We sat there, our legs linked, smiling. I was glad to see him—he made Dean seem far away. We were both quiet for a minute. Then Jed said, “I’ve forgotten: Do you like being dominated?”

“You’ve forgotten?” I’m afraid I smirked. “Yeah, I like it.” He smiled at me, and leaned forward.

**
He pushed me gently back against my mattress. I stared up and him, waiting. “Take that off,” he said, pointing to my sweater. I obeyed. I felt … smug, satisfied, like he was doing what I wanted when he told me what to do.

He lay on top of me and I could feel his erection through his jeans (more smugness on my part). Jed started to undress, and when he had dragged off his jeans and was just in his underwear, he leaned over me to kiss my belly, my thighs. I was thinking that this was sort of an unusual move on his part—in fact he’s never gone down on me (though I’ve never asked, either) and mostly we sort of devour one another’s mouths before I just impale myself on his cock. I was thinking that when he slipped a finger across my clit. I was (satisfyingly) wet. Then he sat up on his knees and thrust his dick at me: “Suck my cock.”

I sighed with pleasure and stroked my mouth along his silky skin. “Suck that cock, Lily,” he said again. I think I got a little wetter just hearing my name. “Good girl.” At that I felt the walls of my pussy start to clench in excitement, and I slipped my mouth around as much of him as I could manage and sucked it long and slow. “You’re such a slut!” Jed sounded pleased. I smiled into his thighs.

“I’m going to ram my cock into you,” he went on thoughtfully. I thrust my whole upper body forward, licking the underside of his dick with a staccato rhythm. I was wet and almost frantic. I wanted Jed to leave my apartment thinking, “Oh my God, Lily gives the best blow jobs ever!” When he shifted slightly I got onto all fours in front of him, wagging my tits as I sucked him. “Oh, God, Lily!” Jed said again. “Get a condom.” I obeyed (again, smugly).

“You like that? You like that?” he muttered as he drove his cock into me. He’s such a good fit, big but not too thick (like Big Jake). Jed’s dick seemed to push me open in all the right ways.

“Yeah,” I mumbled.

“You like fucking me?” Jed pushed my hands to the side of my head and held my wrists. I groaned a little. We stayed like that for a while. My eyes never left his face, while the rest of our bodies jerked and twisted across my bed. “You want to get on top?” I nodded.

I levered myself against him, stretched my legs out, and then I pushed myself against his cock, the tight thick tension bubbling inside me. “You’re my cum dump,” Jed whispered. “Just a little hole for me to use. How do you like your little body being used by me? Do you like being used by me?”

“Uh, I do!”

“I’m just going to pump my cum into you,” Jed went on. “You want me to come all over you?”

“Yes,” I gasped. “Come all over my face!” I don’t think anyone’s ever done that, come to think of it. But I would like it if Jed did. I rocked back and forth, so close to orgasm. My legs were shaking and I was sweating. But it was draining, this pleasure, and I didn’t know if I could sustain the muscle spasms that are both necessary and a sort of internal signal for me to come. “I wish I could have you in my mouth and my pussy at the same time.”

“I bet you’d like to fuck two guys at once.”

“Yeah. I could suck one guy while you fucked me.” The idea made me shake violently: I saw myself on all fours, blindly sucking a stranger’s cock while Jed rammed himself inside me. “Yeah,” Jed went on. “Two guys using you as a cum dump. I’ll call up one of my friends and say, ‘Come on, let’s fuck Lily.’” That’s when I came really hard.

“Anytime you want a threesome, just let me know,” Jed offered after I’d recovered my breath. I squirmed a little, a little aftereffect of orgasm.

After a glass of water I slid down to nuzzle his dick. I stroked my fingers, then my tongue, across his balls. At last I slid my index finger back and gave his ass a tentative poke. Jed shifted to give me more access; I knew this was his favorite. Soon I had worked two fingers up his ass and Jed was breathing heavily: “Oh, Lily.”

“Do you want me to fuck your ass?”

In reply he took out a thick, red-orange dildo. Jesus, it was big! “Pass me the lube,” he said. (Jed always brings his own Babelube when he visits. I ought to invest in some myself. I probably have it to thank for the pain-free and generally incredibly hot sex we have. After all, nobody else has fucked my ass. Anyway.) I doused the dildo in lube. It really looked too big to fit into Jed’s hole, though I assumed this was the equipment I’d fucked him with before.

“OK,” I said, “You direct me.” I was afraid I’d shove it in too fast.

“Just push it in slowly.” I pushed and met a solid wall of resistance. “Up,” he said, so I adjusted the dildo. I was able to push it in a bit. “More lube,” Jed croaked. He splashed lube all over it and lay back down, lifting his ass up for me.

“Look at you,” I murmured. “Just look at that ass.” It was getting wider.

After a few more stalled starts the dildo slid in and, at Jed’s command, I pulled it all the way out, slowly. Now I could see his asshole stretched wide open—this puckered hole. Christ. Then I pushed it back in, and started pumping it back and forth.
“Oh God, that feels good!”

I smirked. “You like that? You like being fucked?” I was using almost the same words he’d said to me. I was on my haunches on an old beach towel, ramming an enormous dildo up Jed’s ass. “God, look at you,” I was a little wet.

“Yeah, I like having you fuck me,” Jed said breathlessly. “That’s really good.” He tugged at his cock. “Ah….” And then: “I’m going to come.”

“You’re going to come for me?” I squeezed the walls of my pussy, watching him struggle. “I want you to come.”

“Oh, Lily,” he cried, and came, splashing his stomach with come. I smiled at him, and then I did something I rarely do. I bent over and licked a drop, while Jed watched me under lazy lids. It tasted sort of sweet, actually.

In Which Various Verbs Happen to Me

2009-02-24T21:45:00.004-05:00

Hey, can I booty call you?

This instant message had appeared on my computer screen the previous Saturday night, and it was from Big Jake. We’d had sex a few weeks previously at a party at which I got so unbelievably drunk — Suffice it to say I had sex with Jake, and I was sorry I was not sober enough to enjoy it (or, who knows, not enjoy it). This was just before Christmas, and of late we’d been in touch.

On Saturday night I was tired and already in my pajamas, so I declined. But when he emailed me Monday and asked what I was doing on Tuesday night, I told him to consider himself booked.

We met at this Mexican place right near me. I had walked past it literally dozens of times and had never noticed it! Anyway, we had dinner and gossiped. On the way back to my place we stopped off to buy condoms, because though I had some, Jake needed Magnums!

Back at my place we settled on my bed. We were both dressed. We talked about nothing in particular, and slowly his hand slid towards my arm, and my foot nestled against his leg. I couldn’t—or wouldn’t—kiss him, I wanted to be the one kissed. Jake appeared to have no problem just sitting around chatting, though his hands did stray towards my thigh. When I managed to finally lean my torso against his, I explained, “This is about as bold as I get.”

We started to kiss and, still fully clothed, we strained towards one another… oh, who am I kidding? We were dry humping. Rubbing ourselves against one another, my corduroy against his jeans. My rayon blend against his cotton. I was really turned on (by the humping, not the fabrics).

Our shirts came off and I dove into his skin, trying to decipher and claim his smell. “Be sure to tell me what you like,” I murmured as I trailed my mouth across his chest.

“You can bite my nipples,” he volunteered. I obliged. “Harder.” I bit so hard I was afraid I’d break the skin, but he just moaned. I liked that. I smiled into his skin and latched my teeth to his nipples, again.

Eventually we were naked and Jake went right for my pussy, his tongue slipping across my clit. How can I say this? It was Big Oral Sex. I can’t describe it, except to say his tongue seemed to cover all of my pussy at once, it was like being washed. I came, and when I’d caught my breath Jake bent over me once again and, with a finger slick inside me, made me orgasm a second time.

I felt completely drained, and he hadn’t even penetrated me. I didn’t think I could manage another orgasm. I decided to go down on him.

Big Jake is, of course, Big. His dick is as long as Daniel’s but thicker, and when we’d fucked that night some weeks back, it had hurt a bit, having him inside me (not to mention that he’s a really pounding kind of fucker—a relentless, solid thrumming). Afterwards, I’d been very sore. Not to mention that my lower lip was actually swollen and bruised from sucking him so much. Yes. All in all, not my finest hour.

I just stared at his dick for a bit, then attempted to suck him. I couldn’t get much of him into my mouth, and my tongue and the insides of my cheeks were dry; he hadn’t produced any pre cum.

But soon enough he put me on my back and opened my legs. “Go slow!” I ordered, the memory of being sort of bludgeoned by his cock still fresh in my mind.

“Don’t worry,” said Big Jake—I guess he’s heard that before. And then he very slowly slid inside me, and I relaxed my pussy as much as I could, my legs stretched around his back. It still felt pretty big. Once he was in me he started thrusting. It was a kind of painful pleasure, feeling him sliiiiiiiiide in and out. And as he was fucking I thought, He’s attentive and polite, but I can’t imagine cuddling. I wasn’t at ease.

This surprised me, because previously I’d always found Jake very engaging. He’s sort of wholesome looking, with close-cropped hair and a good-natured face, and a big, solid body. He looks like someone who’d be glad to help you move your heavy furniture. Anyway, prior to fucking him some weeks previously, he’d always been friendly when we’d run into each other. But in my bed, that warmth was absent. I wondered about this. Callie speaks highly of Jake, and makes him sound like a total sweetheart. But I wasn't getting that vibe from him tonight.

He put my legs close together so that I could feel his cock rub against my thighs while he fucked me shallowly. He held my hands above my head, which I would have loved if the pummeling his dick was giving me wasn’t quite so athletic.

“Do you want to get on top?” he asked. I nodded. He pulled out, and I clambered up. I breathed deeply, and slowly sat down on his dick. I started riding him and he (like every other guy I’ve fucked) immediately started rocking beneath me. “Let me do the work,” I croaked. This sort of worked, but for some reason I was incapable telling him the rest of the things that make me come: Talk dirty. Lick my nipples.

But he sucked my nipples, and made an effort not to buck beneath me. “I love being inside you,” he rasped. My legs were trembling, and I realized that they’d been trembling for what seemed like ages. I was close to orgasm, but I didn’t think my muscles had it in me to come again. And then I had to stop, I was just worn out.

Jake put me on all fours (a position that’s usually uncomfortable for me) but he was thrusting faster and faster and I could tell he was about to come, so I didn’t mind—I wanted to see (and feel) him come. He pulled my hair. “Ow! Not my hair!” Seriously, that’s painful.

“Sorry!”

I like the idea of being on all fours more than I like the mechanics. I love the thought of being in such a submissive, animal-like position, but (again, I think this is because of my tipped uterus), it just doesn’t feel comfortable. Jake breathed in my ear.

I turned my head: “You going to come?”

“Hmmmp!”

“Yeah, I want you to come inside me,” I gasped between thrusts. “Come for me, Jake.” He gripped my shoulders tight and his body jerked against mine. I felt satisfied, like I’d achieved something.

**
Afterwards we lay next to one another, and he stroked my hair. I wondered if it felt strange to him, because it felt strange to me. I mean, I like having my hair stroked, but it feels intimate, and tender, and that was one thing Jake was not. At least not tonight. We chatted in a desultory manner for a few minutes, then he said, “Want to sit on my face?” Sort of casually, like, Want a Coke?

“I don’t think I can take it,” I admitted. But shortly thereafter I went down on him again. I bent over and licked the length of him, bringing my eyes up to meet his “Oh,” said Jake, “I like to see you like this.” Ooooh, that’s the kind of thing I like to hear. I went at him more eagerly, and I think he called me a “good slut” (always welcome) then he sat up, “I want to fuck you again.”

“OK!”

Jake fit on another condom and briskly pushed inside me. He wrapped my ankles around his neck, and kissed my ankle. I liked the ankle kissing (how come Dean never did that?) but with his dick, I just could not have him that deep inside. “Ow!” I gulped. “That’s not—” So I slid my legs down to Jake’s waist. He kept pounding me with his cock. The pain was close to pleasure, but alas, not as close as I would have liked. My head banged against the headboard, and I hoped my neighbor wasn’t home.

I whipped my head back and forth, like I was struggling to get away, and then Jake pinned my arms down, which soothed me a bit. I could feel my face twist into a strange grimace. “Oh, you’re so hot,” said Jake. Then, “I’m going to come.”

“Yeah,” I breathed, “Yeah.” Jake’s face was screwed up and it was the only time I’d seen him out of control. I felt warmly towards him then, and when he came hard in my arms I stroked his back and murmured his name.

I Fall Off the Wagon

2009-02-17T22:41:00.008-05:00

After being dumped by two men in the space of five days, I began to reflect. Well, first I felt sorry for myself, but eventually I began to reflect. And what I reflected was that I missed Dean.

Which was really only natural—I had been dallying with Aaron, and Jed, and Daniel—lovely boys, all—to keep myself from thinking about Dean, whom I missed, and loved. Because I hadn’t cried much, and thought I had come to terms with the fact that we had no future together, I’d thought I’d put him behind me.

Since our breakup, we’d gotten together sporadically for dinner, and after the first, awkward meal, our dinners had been punctuated by lots of kissing and cuddling. I had, however, refused to sleep with him. My feeling was, if we didn’t have sex, there was no emotional danger. My feeling was, also, why should I have sex with him? If he wanted to fuck me so badly, let him attempt to get me back. Shallow, but true. So we hung out, and held hands, and he gently tried to cajole me into bed, which put me in the comfortable position of denying him and feeling superior—for either denying him or for not wanting to have sex with him, I didn’t know which.

But I hadn’t seen him in a few weeks. Dean had cancelled on me on election night—we were supposed to watch the returns together, but instead he stayed in Atlantic City to play poker, and I’d been angry, unwilling to express my anger, and frustrated and lonely. When we finally did see one another, it was almost Christmas. This time last year, we’d been an official couple, planning to spend the holiday together.

“I didn’t realize that not wanting to get back together with him didn’t mean that I don’t miss him,” I announced to Ashley, the recipient of all my Dean-related musings.

“You haven’t really mourned him,” she pointed out obligingly.

So when we met to see a film, I was anxious. We had some time, so stopped for a drink at a sushi place first. I sat there sulking, wondering if Dean was seeing anybody else.

We discussed our Christmas plans. As usual, Dean was spending the holiday with his mother and one of his sisters, something he viewed more as penance than a cause for celebration. On the other hand, he was going to the resort where his family had spent the last umpteen Christmases, a place I’d visited with him last year. It was a wood and stone nineteenth century hotel about two hours from New York City. They had a spa, and the night we’d arrived, we’d sat in the outdoor hot tub overlooking the mountains, sleet melting on our warm faces. The hotel was still owned by members of the same family who’d founded it over a hundred years ago, and they ran it like a very lavish summer camp, with group activities and assigned dinner hours. We’d stayed in a room with a four poster bed and a wood-burning fireplace. Christmas had been like a Victorian dream, complete with tree-trimming parties and ice skating, and I’d loved the hotel so much I hadn’t wanted to leave.

“Well, on Christmas Day, I’ll probably go to the movies and out to dinner with my parents.” This is, of course, the traditional New York Jew Christmas.

“Do you want to come to the hotel?”

He’d asked me before, and I’d demurred – I’d loved being asked, but thought it a terrible idea. But now, I really wanted to go. “Do you want me to come?” I asked, like a passive-aggressive teenager.

Dean gave me a look. “Yes, of course.”

So probably he wasn’t seeing else. At least no one he expected to be sleeping with over Christmas. “OK,” I said sullenly, and tentatively stretched my hand towards him.

He clasped my palm and smiled.

**
I went up the day after Christmas, and Dean met me in the hotel’s lobby. He was wearing the same sweatshirt and jeans he always wore, and when he hugged me it felt like nothing had changed. He took my hand and we traipsed up the oak staircase to the room we would be sharing.

This room also had a fireplace, and the thin wooden shutters on the narrow windows were open to show an expanse of snowy lawn. “I have presents for you,” said Dean. He gave me a copy of Holidays on Ice, and a Scrabble travel edition. We started a game, and he ate some of the cookies I’d made him. But this was mostly a prelude to the energetic wrestling the queen-sized bed seemed to invite. We rolled around for a bit in the late-afternoon semi-dusk, nipping and kissing like a pair of kittens.

“I have an idea,” Dean whispered. He was lying on top of me.

“Yeah?”

“The winner—” he gestured to the abandoned Scrabble game nearby, “Gets to decide if he or she wants to sleep with the loser.”

“OK.”

“Did you say ‘why’?”

“What? I didn’t say why! I said ‘OK.’”

“Oh,” he kissed my neck.

“Really, Dean,” I gazed at the ceiling. “Of course I’m going to sleep with you.” I sniggered. “How churlish would it have been to accept your invitation and not have sex with you?!”

“Oh, so you’re going to have sex with me to be polite?” Dean looked skeptical.

“I wanted to come up here. If I had to sleep with you to do it, so be it,” I said virtuously. I buried my mouth in his neck.

**
Later we joined the rest of the party: his mother, sister, family friends—just like old times, I thought, half horrified, half delighted. At dinner, with his hands tugging my hair, and exchanging kisses and jokes like any happy couple, I wondered if the others knew or care that we were not actually dating, because we sure were acting like it. After dinner we all went for a walk in the moonlight, our feet crunching over the snow. Dean and I held hands in peaceful silence.

He was so familiar. But back in the room, making out, unbuttoning my cotton jersey and wrapping his mouth around my breasts, I felt detached, and I wondered if that was the price I was going to pay for having sex with Dean: I was going to be aware of just how stupid an idea it was not just after but while we were fucking.

But meanwhile his skin felt good against mine. He turned out the light, and started to go down on me. Then I froze: I was willing to fuck him but apparently oral sex was a bridge too far. “Stop,” I croaked.

“You don’t want me to—”

“No.”

“But you’re so yummy.” I shook my head. Dean licked his fingers, and rubbed his index finger across my clit. Suddenly, I was annoyed: he should know better. “Lighter,” I hissed.

And then it was all too familiar, the way he fitted his dick into me, the way he lay ¾ on his side, the way we pressed against one another. “Oh, sweetie,” he said, his voice hoarse. I waited.

“Oh, Lily,” he said. I clutched his shoulders. “Do you want to get on top?”

“No, it’s OK,” I said, but he insisted. I had no interest in coming: I wanted to stay uninvolved, which is probably something I should have realized before we started fucking. I rode him a bit but, even though he knows how, in order to come, I need my partner to stay as still as possible, moving only to lick my nipples or, you know, moan my name in a sexy manner—but despite all that, Dean clutched my breasts clumsily and jerked beneath me. Perversely, I was pleased. “It’s OK,” I said at last. “You come.”

We rolled back so that he was on top of me again. “I love you, Lily,” he said. This was what I’d been waiting for, and I forgave him everything, everything. “I love you, too,” I whispered.

**
Thus our weekend. The following night we sat in the hotel bar – a dimly lit place with plush seating and plum-colored cocktails, and Dean said, “Well, now that we’re having sex again—”

“Dean,” I said, taking his arm. “This is a one-off. I mean, this is wonderful, but.” We looked at one another. “This isn’t daily life.” I mean, again, if we weren’t dating, why should I have sex with him? Why should he have all the benefits of a relationship without any of the attendant requirements, like seeing the person on a regular basis?

“So we could come up on President’s Day weekend and have sex then?”

I admit, I was tempted: “We’ll see.”

And instead of articulating I miss you, this is hard, I just told him that I’d been having a rough time. Until recently, I hadn’t really had the chance to miss him—we’d been seeing one another. If I had called him and said I must see you, please come over, he would have done it. And I didn’t want to get back together with him but he smelled so good, and was so funny and kind and he loved me and I’d been happy with him.

That night again I wouldn’t let him go down on me, and when I rode him and he pushed up against me, interrupting my rhythm, I said, “Dean, you know how I like it,” in a distracted, irritable way. Then I ground myself against his cock until orgasm.

“I love you, Lily,” he said, jerking against me. I felt a wave of love and despair.

"Oh baby,” I said sadly, “I love you, too.”

Is the Universe Telling Me Something? And If So, Why Is It Being So Blunt?

2009-02-08T20:55:00.005-05:00

NB: I am still catching up on old entries. This is (ahem) quite an old one.

I
I had a pre-Thanksgiving dinner. I invited Ned and Olivia, and Sweetheart Daniel. We sat at my foldaway wood table from Target and ate roast turkey, baked sweet potatoes, cranberry applesauce, salad with pecans and goat cheese, string beans with shaved almonds and gingerbread. Not an exhaustive menu, but a reasonably expansive one for a Tuesday night dinner party of four. We watched A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving and Dancing With the Stars (my new favorite TV show). After Ned and Olivia left, I settled into my new wooden bed next to Daniel.

Was he wearing cologne? Ever since we started hooking up again I’ve been puzzled by his scent. Because I remember being almost intoxicated with the sweet, musty smell of his neck, but now, while I still like how he smells, it unfamiliar. I sniffed him: “Are you wearing cologne?”

“No.” I think Daniel’s a little bemused by the amount of attention I pay to the hollow of his throat. It just seems important to me.

I curled up next to him and rested my head against his chest. Although I wanted to have sex, I felt sort of distracted—like maybe we could just go to sleep and fuck in the morning. I was tired. I kissed the side of his mouth, and then his mouth, keeping my mouth closed.

“I’ve been thinking,” said Daniel. I gave him an encouraging nod. “It’s not you or anything—” he squeezed my shoulder. “But I think I should take a break from casual sex.”

Well, that was unexpected. “You should?”

He grimaced. “Well.” He paused. “I’m trying to kind of get things in order, and maybe look for a serious relationship.”

“Oh,” I said. “OK.”

I mean, I was OK with it. Though I don’t think that having casual sex with someone precludes you from looking for a serious relationship with someone else. (My fellow blogger Badman has been discussing this here.) But if that’s how Daniel sees it, then that’s reasonable.

We settled back against my headboard, in talking rather than making out mode. “Are you seeing anyone?” he asked.

I sighed. Besides Daniel, and Aaron and, one occasion, Jed, “I see Dean,” I admitted. “And it’s sort of hard.”

And it is hard, but not cause it’s a constant battle to keep from tearing his clothes off or anything. It’s hard, I explained, “Because he gets my jokes and we get along and he’s smart and nice and we’re comfortable,” I said glumly. I know there’s no future and since we’re not sleeping together—despite his persistent, not very strenuous efforts to get me naked, which I find flattering if uncompelling; we make out and he tries to feel me up—I feel then opportunity for inflicting emotional damage is limited. On the other hand, seeing him is distressing. Again, not because I miss him (which I do) but because, frankly, I think he’s throwing his life away and it’s heartbreaking to see an intelligent, talented, good natured guy squander his talents due to pique at not being as successful as his brother. He’s sacrificed a career to his ego. Which makes me want to hit him. Last time I saw him I told him he was going to end up bitter, which he took with good grace and every semblance of having heard me. But really I doubt it’ll have an effect. But, as my co-worker Ashley says, this is no longer my problem.

I said some of this to Daniel and he squeezed my shoulder again and told me I’d meet someone else soon. Well, yeah, probably. I don’t need that kind of reassurance, I want some other kind, I thought fretfully. Or maybe I just want sympathy. Or, you know, dick.

“Well Daniel,” I said. “I am sort of surprised that you waited until now to tell me.” I meant his decision regarding casual sex with me. All that time making conversation with Ned and Olivia! All the time he’d helped me glaze the gingerbread and watch The Simpsons. He’d known all along but hadn’t said anything. That felt weird, and I felt strangely embarrassed. As if I should have been embarrassed for not knowing.

“Well…” said Daniel. “It just didn’t seem like a good time.”

We sat there quietly for a bit longer, and then Daniel said he had to leave. I wasn’t sorry. When he left I curled up alone under my thin quilt, waiting to fall asleep. I didn’t feel like I had the right to be angry with Daniel, or the right to feel anything in particular.

II
On Sunday night my other twentysomething boyfriend, Aaron, came over. I hadn’t seen him in a few weeks and I felt a little shy when he showed up at my door, his skin cold from the wind. He kissed me lightly on the mouth, and I was pleasantly flustered.

But over dinner we each had a drink and by the time we’d finished I was relaxed and looking forward to getting at his mouth—smelling his neck, sucking him off—all the tings I like to do to boys I find attractive. We ambled back to my apartment and sat on my bed, and then Aaron said, “Are you seeing a lot of people?”

Dean had gone AWOL recently, which was just as well, and Daniel had cut me loose; I’d been on one date with a guy I’d met online. We’d met at a bar and he’d left his belt hang loose around his pudgy waist after a trip to the bathroom. This man had recently sent me an unsigned text message on my phone, and I’d had to thumb through my date book to find out who it was.

“Um, sort of,” I said finally. “Never mind. Are you?”

“Well,” said Aaron, “I’ve been seeing about four people…” He went on to talk about having all these sexual experiences (with Jefferson and others). I nodded emphatically, but it took me a good three or four minutes to realize what he was getting at: he was dumping me! I was being dumped again!

“Listen,” I said at last in my most mature, woman-of-the-world voice, “We don’t have to hook up.”

He smiled, looking mighty relieved. “See, one of the people I’ve been seeing … she never said she wanted me to stop seeing other people, but now I feel guilty … and you know, even if you only see someone once a week…”

I tried to look like I was listening hard, but I was thinking, “I’m not going to get laid again?!” And frankly, part of me though he could have done this via email. By traipsing out to my apartment, he’d gotten my hopes up for sex and a fun evening, even though the visit showed he was trying to do the right thing by breaking things off in person. And of course if he had just disappeared, or dumped me via email, that would have been really disrespectful and I’d have been offended. But here we both were, all awkward, and me sexually frustrated to boot. So we hugged and when he left I stared at my face in the mirror, having been dumped by two younger men in the space of five days. If I keep this up, I’m going to start to think I’m undesirable. I grinned at myself hideously.

III
I told my co-worker Ashley about this. Ashley is a genius. She is extremely pretty, with long, fine blond hair, deep blue eyes and perfect, poreless skin, with what Fitzgerald would have called “a lovely high color” (pink cheeks). When I first met her, she was so well-groomed I pegged her as a former Delta Gamma pledge chair, but in fact she is not very sorority-like, though she does play beer pong and occasionally says “Dude!” in all seriousness. Anyway, mostly we chat about our boyfriends and our diets. She’s awesome.

I relayed to her the demoralizing dumping by two younger men. She gave me a you should know better look: “The universe is telling you to date someone age-appropriate,” she said.

“I don’t want to date,” I said, horrified. I want to meet someone, fall in love, plan my low-key, semi-formal afternoon wedding and have a few kids (one boy, one girl)—not make small talk and worry that I’ve got something orange in my teeth. Then I sighed: “You’re probably right.”

If my interlude of casual sex with amiable younger men was over, it was time to get serious. It was time to go after what I claimed to want. It was time to go back online, to cut Dean loose, to polish my manners and shoes. “Urfh,” I told Ashley.

She looked up and gave me a crooked smile: “I know,” she said.

I Dismiss The Cosmo Kama Sutra

2009-02-03T21:19:00.008-05:00

Sunday night doesn’t feel like a night for assignations. So I felt weirdly sneaky as I waited for Aaron in his lobby. After several minutes the elevator door opened and there he stood, wrapped in a white terry cloth bathrobe. “Sorry,” he said. “I was in the shower.” We kissed hello.

I mean, he could have just buzzed me up.

At his floor, we walked down the hallway, and luckily no neighbors saw a guy in a bathrobe ambling around. Then, in his apartment, we sat at his kitchen table, which was located (conveniently) next to his bed. “Do you want to go out?” he asked. Our previous meetings had all involved me eating a meal or three.

But I’d already had dinner: “I was thinking we could fool around.”

“Oh, OK.” Aaron’s smile lit up his face. “You had me there.” He leaned in to kiss me and we shuffled back onto his bed.

He went down on me almost immediately, sort of dove in, and frankly it’s great to be with a guy who so enamored of the … hmmm…. scent/flavor that I am sure I must emit. I lay back on his soft mattress, my eyes half closed.

But I had other things on my mind, and after a bit I indicated he should get on his back. “It’s my turn now,” I explained.

I went down on him, nuzzling his balls and lightly sucking the loose skin there. I rested my head against his thigh, fresh from the shower and smelling of soap. His dick stood stiffly in my fist. I gave him in what I hoped was a wanton, alluring gaze.

“I’d really like you inside me,” I hinted not very subtly.

“Well… sometimes…it’s not the desire…” and after some hemming and hawing he said that sometimes he had trouble getting an erection.

“Oh, OK,” I said. That’s nothing unusual, I could deal with that. As I’ve said before, I don’t feel like it’s sex unless there’s penetration (how old school), and I really did want to fuck him.

I kept on sucking him until he was hard, which he was pretty quickly. I worried that he would be pipped at the post, so to speak, but the condom didn’t cause any problems. I dabbed a little lube across my pussy and he entered me.

I was on my back and he was kind of straddling me. For some reason, we were lying with our heads at the foot of the bed. His face went slack, like he’d just put down a heavy package. I liked that. Then he bent forward and started rocking against me.

After a bit we switched so I could get on top. I twisted and sank on to him with a sigh. I assumed my usual position: legs flexed against Aaron’s, arms on the mattress supporting my upper body. I like it when a guy holds my hips, doesn’t move much (it helps me control the pace), and talks dirty. Aaron didn’t talk dirty, but I came pretty quickly anyway.

While I was recovering, and we’d sorted ourselves out so that our heads were on the pillows, Aaron said, “I never did it that way. I’ve done reverse cowgirl, but you didn’t straddle me… where did you learn that?”

I dunno. It’s my default for orgasm. Dean and I made some efforts with the Cosmo Kama Sutra… With Dean I was keen to try everything out, even thought I knew that any number of the positions would be uncomfortable (why would I want to have sex while touching my toes?) or sexually unrewarding, but when I’m with someone new I want the security of a familiar position with a high chance of orgasm. And it occurred to me that I felt comfortable in this soft bed, next to this sweet-smelling boy ten years my junior, wrapped in his terry cloth robe and smiling sleepily. Sunday night seemed like a comfortable time for an assignation, all of a sudden.

“I dunno,” I said. “It’s just the position my body wants to be in.”

He looked at me with a new respect, like I was this woman of the world. I suppose that compared to him I was. I smiled, closed mouthed, and motioned him towards me.

“You want to fuck me?” I asked, like it was a casual question, like I didn’t care.

He leaned into me, and I breathed in his warm, sweet scent. “Yeah,” he said. I angled my hips towards him and then he swam back inside me, smiling all the while.

I Get Back in the Swing of Things, Sort Of

2009-01-20T19:40:00.006-05:00

We’d been trying to get together for a while now. After Dean and I broke up, I emailed him—I’d heard he’d had an injury and, in addition to propositioning him, I did want to know how he was doing. He assured me that all was well, and he’d like to get together.

Then followed a month during which he was out of town; I was busy; he called too late one night, and now here he was. Tall, lanky, long-haired Jed: the closest I will come to Marc Bolan. We hadn’t seen each other in about a year, though we spoke once or twice and emailed via facebook. I am fond of him; he seems genuinely interested in so many things; his enthusiasm is very appealing.

But tonight I didn’t know what to say. I was out of practice with Jed, and part of me felt like crawling under the covers and forgetting about sex until … until what? Until I stopped thinking about Dean, I guess. Dean.

We hugged—I felt a little awkward, but he was friendly and relaxed as ever. And when I opened a bottle of wine I found myself in a better frame of mind. Some cheese and crackers also helped. In my new apartment with the warm spice (orange) walls and my very own kitchen, I wanted to be a good hostess, so hors d’ouevres seemed appropriate.

We sat on my bed and talked—I gave Jed the lowdown on Dean, and he told me about his girlfriend (he is in an open relationship). I will never be in an open relationship. I was just telling myself this when he leaned in to kiss me.

He tasted nice. I tugged his lip into my mouth and nuzzled him. “I just want to get rough with you,” he said thoughtfully, and pushed me back against my pillows. I gazed at him from under my lashes, my patented Come hither, I’m submissive look. But I didn’t feel that jittery fear and anticipation that I’ve felt before, the excitement I derive from the taboo or implicit threat of being dominated. Perhaps I was getting used to being dominated. Or perhaps I was used to Jed. That is, Jed didn’t intimidate me. Which is just as well, since he is quite a bit younger than I am and not really an intimidating person (aside from his looks, which are pretty arresting)…

Jed stripped off and then stood up, naked. He looked down at me, still sprawled out on the bed.

“Suck my cock,” he ordered, and despite my declared lack of submissive-derived excitement, I found myself only too happy to obey. I bent over and slowly swiped my mouth across his cock.

“Yeah, yeah, that’s good,” he said after a minute. I pictured us from above: my head bobbing up and down as I sat hunched on the mattress, ardently sucking him.

“Oh yeah, you really know how to suck cock, don’t you?” Jed murmured. Positive reinforcement is a good motivator; I nodded without taking my mouth from him.

After a bit Jed said, “I want to fuck you,” and when I pulled off my clothes, “You’ve got a great body.” Compliments never fail to have their effect; I smiled. And without further ado, he slid on a condom, rubbed some Babe Lube (which I gather he brings on all his dates, which is just as well since I don’t have any) over it, dabbed some on my clit, and leaned over.

He slid inside me easily, and I sighed, a physical Ahhhhhh. “You like having my seven and a half inch cock in you?”

“Oh, yeah,” I gasped. Funny, I remembered him referring to it as his eight inch cock. Had someone said “Jed, that’s not eight inches…” or something? I wondered why he had resized himself.

“You want to get on top?” he offered. Too intent to speak, I nodded. I rolled on top and slid rapidly up and down the pole of his cock, thrusting my nipples into his mouth. We stretched towards one another, towards that mysterious summit. Jed pushed my buttons pretty easily, and before I knew it the bucking tension rushed up inside me and spilled over. I gripped Jed’s shoulders when I came, and slumped against his chest, panting.

We lay there peacefully in my dim room. Then, after a few minutes, Jed asked, “Can I fuck your ass?”

I had been expecting this: “Sure.”

He applied Babe Lube to his fingers and slowly probed my ass with one finger, then two. I breathed slowly. It wasn’t painful, just a strange pressure. Anal sex is, for me, a side dish. I think I’d enjoy it more if I was sucking or fucking someone else at the same time. The idea of being totally engulfed by cock, swollen with it, appeals to me…. The pressure would focus my mind. But now I was just aware of the throbbing emptiness of my pussy, the ache that comes from unfulfilled sexual promise.

Jed came quickly and once again we lay back on my bed, breathing hard. Then he said, “Do you want to fuck my ass?”

But I was tired, and the thought of more effort exhausted me. “Next time,” I said, “I promise.”

Almost immediately Jed stood up. “Oh well, I think I’ll go now.”

I sat up. Was it something I said? Apparently. “Well, you don’t have to,” I said, sort of bewildered.

He pulled a shirt over his shoulder. “I just kind of feel like you’re rejecting me,” he explained.

“Bu—”

“No, it’s not your problem, it’s mine,” he said earnestly. “I just feel like you aren’t interested.”

I just stared at him. I could have said, Well, I could say you only want me so I can stick a dildo up your ass. And I wasn’t rejecting him, I just felt unequal to sticking a silicon cock in his ass at this moment. But I didn’t say anything, I don’t know why, except he’d already made his mind up. Jed was dressed and ready to go.

I felt guilty, and taken aback. I pulled on a t-shirt, determined to be a good hostess, even if I couldn’t give my guest exactly what he wanted. “Do you know how to get back?” He had ridden his bike here.

He stuffed the Babe Lube into his leather bag, and squinted thoughtfully. “I just need to know how to get to…” [he said the name of a main drag nearby].

“Oh, you just take a left at the streetlamp and then bear right,” I said, glad I could be useful. I trailed him to the door.

“It was good to see you.”

“You too,” he said. We kissed briefly, chastely, like old friends. Then he left, and so I was alone again.

Housewarming (A Double Entendre!)

2009-01-04T21:53:00.005-05:00

I moved into my studio at the end of September, painted the walls warm spice (a.k.a. orange) and guava juice (pink), which looks much better than it sounds. As I settled into my new home, I discovered that I did not hate to cook; what I hated was sharing a kitchen. My parents helped me hang pictures. Then, armed with my new wooden folding-leg table from Target, I decided to throw a housewarming party on Halloween.

I bought Martha Stewart Living and made paper cut outs of bats. I draped a cobweb over my bed. On Halloween, I left work early, made apple crumble and headstones out of Styrofoam (mine read Lily Vereker: Crushed by Vending Machine in Altercation Over Lost Quarter) and stocked up on beer. I mixed non-alcoholic and hard cider with rum in my crock pot and waited in my apartment for guests to arrive.

My dear friend, sometimes banker, and regular supplier of British confectionary, Marc, arrived first. He was dressed as the masked guy (I mean, V) from V for Vendetta (I was, again, Death). He brought beer, and I urged him to eat the apple crumble, the salami, the cheese, all nicely arrayed on my new table from Target. I was afraid no one would show.

Though I’d sent out invites, there weren’t going to be many guests from my secret life. Though Marc is aware that I have a somewhat demanding sex life (when I first started sleeping with relative and actual strangers I would call him to check in. He loaned me A Round-Heeled Woman, leading me to dub my project Operation Round Heels), he has only read carefully selected (non-sexual) excerpts from my blog. Sweetheart Daniel was expected; he’d met Marc and a number of my other non-slut friends a few times. And Aaron, he of the chocolate ice cream and TONY notoriety, had also said he’d come. “I’m sorry I can’t host you,” I written, delicately. “I have a guest staying over.” Meaning Daniel.

“Hey,” said Marc, “Did you paint the walls orange for Halloween?”

“No! I just liked the color. Don’t you think it looks cozy?”

Others dribbled in, and soon there were about 10 of us sitting around, eating and gossiping. People were very nice about my apartment, my apple crumble, the books on my shelves. “Hey,” said my friend Miles, “Did you paint the walls orange for Halloween?”

“No. I just liked the color.”

**
More people arrived, and when people had to start angling their shoulders sideways in order to move across the room, I decided my housewarming was a success.

Daniel turned up as the devil, complete with horns and toting some papers headed “Lucifer Morningstar, Acquisitions Officer.” Below, in a Gothic font, was a contract for the signer’s soul. At the bottom of the page, in small print, it read: Desires to be fulfilled in 4-6 weeks. Not responsible for ironic interpretation of wishes. “I would never sign that, even as a joke,” I told Daniel. You know, just in case. In case there’s an afterlife, that I have a soul that can be sold, that the devil exists, that Sweetheart Daniel is a proxy for him, and that the contract is legally binding in the state of New York. It’s a long shot, but I wasn’t the only person unwilling to ironically sign the contract, get an ironic fulfillment of wishes, and lose my soul: Though copies were passed around, no one else signed, either.

After about an hour Daniel looked at his watch. “I’ve got to head out soon,” Daniel said.

I was taken aback: “I thought you were staying.”

“I’m sorry, I thought I told you I couldn't stay.”

“Oh.” But he hadn’t told me, because I would have remembered, and I’d told Aaron we couldn’t hook up on that assumption. “OK.” I said. Well, maybe Aaron would sleep over instead. I felt a little guilty thinking that—as if they were interchangeable.

By the time Aaron arrived things were noisy. “Hey!” He gave me a brief hug. “Happy Halloween!” Aaron was dressed as Joe the Plumber, carrying a plunger and wearing a latex wig that made him appear bald. He followed me down my guava juice-colored hallway to the main room. “Hey, did you paint the walls orange just for Halloween?”

“No!”

**
Eventually, the party started to wind down, and everyone except for Aaron and I headed up to the roof to smoke or hang out with smokers. He came over and stood very close to me. Our noses almost touched. “Where’s your friend?” he asked.

“He had to leave.” Aaron’s just a little taller than I am, and our bodies fit together nicely. “You could stay if you want to,” I added diffidently. He smiled. We kissed, and I wondered if my guests were watching us—we were clearly visible from the roof. I could hear the hum of their conversations.

It was late, and I was looking forward to being alone with Aaron. Too late, I’d realized my fatal flaw as a host: I like to go to bed early. I started gathering empty beer bottles, and Aaron helped. When we kissed again, he tasted of Binaca.

**
After everyone left, for a moment we looked at one another. “I’m going to brush my teeth,” I said.

When I came back, he was sitting on my bed, in his boxer shorts. I undressed, casually, like we did this all the time. I was too tired to strip seductively. I sat next to him on the bed. Then we slid onto our backs, and started to kiss. He slipped his hand down my stomach and slid his fingers gently across my pussy. His light touch got me very excited, very quickly. After a minute, I decided that this was enough foreplay for me, and I scooted down to his groin. I wrapped my mouth and hand around his cock, and I was gratified to see it respond accordingly. I was hungry to have him in me; there was this empty, clutching sensation where I wanted his dick to be. But when I reached for a condom, he lost his erection. Since by now we were both exhausted, we agreed to resume activity in the morning.

When we woke up, he got right down to cases: eating me, another really dirty-sounding phrase. Clearly this was a position he enjoys. I thrashed around the bed as his tongue probed my clit and the folds of skin beside it. I gazed at the top of Aaron’s head as he tongued me.

“Ah!” I said, “Oh, God.”

Aaron looked up at me under half-closed eyes: “I love having your juices on my chin,” he said. Juices sounded … sloppy. Could he sort of drink me? Normally I don’t get excited about oral sex, but his enthusiasm and thoroughness was kind of thrilling.

He dipped a finger inside me, and I squirmed. He licked the finger thoughtfully, then slipped it back in. He moved one finger, then two, in and out of me, all the while keeping his mouth on my clit. I fought the rising wave of tension. I usually come as I fight the spasms that are a prelude to orgasm for me, and this time was no exception. “Oh God!” I said again, and arched my hips to meet his mouth. I came with a long shudder. I gazed at Aaron with a new respect. “Thank you,” I panted.

“You’re welcome.”

But now it was his turn. After my breathing returned to normal, I slid down and took his cock in my mouth, like I was starving. Remembering what he’d told me the last time, I tugged hard and held his dick tight as I sucked. I was rewarded with an immediate erection and, shortly thereafter, an orgasm.

We lay there in polite silence. I was replete, dazed with satisfaction. Still, there was another appetite to be fed. “Want to get something to eat?” I asked. “I’m starving.”

Younger Men and Black Framed Glasses: My Weaknesses. Apparently.

2008-12-07T18:31:00.007-05:00

Jefferson had set me up with a 25-year old he’d been fooling around with. He’d emailed me the link to a story featuring Aaron in Time Out New York. I read the article. “Has he been rehabilitated?” I asked Jefferson, then told him he could give Aaron my email address.

Aaron sent me an amusing email and his spelling was fine, so I was inclined to meet him, even though I hadn’t seen his photo. When Jefferson suggests something I generally do it — he’s my excuse to do kinda reckless things that often turn out surprisingly well. And, until I was waiting for him at the bar where we’d agreed to meet, I didn’t even feel nervous. Am I becoming blasé? I think the fact that he was 25 and clearly able to construct a joke reassured me.

The thing is, he lives in Dean’s neighborhood. The bar we met in was two blocks from Dean’s apartment. In fact, I’d had dinner here with Dean not too long ago (we meet for dinner. We make out. He tries to feel me up; I tell him to cut it out. You get the idea. More on this another time). My sense of place is very strong — one thing I never do in this blog is identify neighborhoods. I think I once indicated that Jeremy lived on the East Side, but that’s not even true. I feel like your NYC neighborhood is a very important clue to your identity. For instance, before I met Jefferson I guessed where he lived without much effort. I even narrowed down his former neighborhood with his ex and kids. Anyway, I was on Dean’s turf, a turf I’d been familiar with for most of my life, and one I thought was particularly suited to the life I wanted to live, and thought I might live, with Dean. That is: a settled, married life with a couple of kids and a co-op. I was half afraid I’d run into Dean, though we’d never been to this bar together.

Aaron was almost on time and just a little bit taller than I am. He wore jeans and a boiled wool blazer and the hipster style black-framed rectangular specs I find so irresistible. I thought Aaron was pretty cute, even without the specs.

And smart and nice. And, as it turned out, a native New Yorker (always a plus). I asked him where he went to high school, he told me, and, without thinking I said, “Oh, do you know Eric Martin?” Since my friend Polly’s brother went to the same high shool and is about his age.

Aaron frowned. “I think he was in my class. How do you know him?”

Oh God: “I used to baby sit him.”

We both sniggered, me a little self-consciously. Note to self: do not say the first thing that occurs to you. Polly’s brother was a bright, talkative kid. I saw him last year at Polly’s wedding. He’s married now, like almost everyone I seem to come across these days. He grew up nice.

We finished our drinks. “Would you like to come over?” He asked. Where was my sense of fear, of self-preservation? Nowhere to be found: “OK,” I said gamely. I was completely at ease in Aaron’s presence. We bought a bottle of wine and headed to his place. I’d walked past his building many times on my way from Dean’s place to the subway.

Aaron had a nice apartment — the building and neighborhood would have suggested he was an older, more financially established professional. His largish studio overlooked a park across the street. There were no shades on the windows. He put on some music and settled on the couch. There was a pile of Time Out New Yorks on the sofa. “Oh that one’s old,” Aaron said, a little self consciously. “I kept it cause I’m in it.”

I didn’t want to tell him I’d read all about the coming without warning and the mood music fiasco. “Really?” I said. “Wow.”

On the sofa we sat near each other, and I went so far as to slip off my shoes (mules anyway), but I wasn’t going to make the first move. My boldness apparently extends to going home with guys I’ve just met but no further. Taking the initiative on the first kiss? Never! Eventually Aaron leaned in and we sat there, making out. Nice.

It helped that it was a studio with a big bed in the center so it wasn’t an awkward trip to the bed. I excused myself to pee and when I came back his kiss had a mouthwash-y taste. He’d used Binaca! So cute. Also unnecessary. I hate the metallic alcohol tang.
He lay on top of me and as we kissed I peeled off most of my clothes; he followed. As his tongue slipped towards my nipple I lifted my head from the pillow: “I don’t sleep with guys on the first date.” I mean, I have, but in general I don’t. Not at the moment, anyway.

“That’s OK,” he said, and turned his head back to my body. His tongue slid rapidly down. I wriggled out of my underwear, as did he. Then he levered himself between my thighs and put his face close to my pussy, like he was inhaling me, which I guess he was. Then his tongue began to slowly circle my clit, starting with my outer lips and then moving to the fleshy plateau (I can’t write mons pubis in a sex blog) above. His tongue dripped inward. I swallowed, my pussy pulsing. Aaron looked up at me and grinned. When his tongue reached my clit I sighed aloud, straining my hips towards his soft mouth. I felt like I was sinking into the mattress.

While he ate me, he shook his head back and forth, pressing his face to either side of my cunt, like a dog shaking water from his coat. Like he couldn’t get enough. I stroked his hair.

This went on for a while. I thought he might feel compelled to make me come, which I knew was unlikely. “Hey,” I said at last. He looked up sleepily from my thighs. “Don’t feel obligated to keep going,” I said awkwardly. “I never come from oral sex.” Anyway, I wanted to go down on him.

“I like this,” Aaron said, his voice muffled. He went back to eating my pussy. Well, who was I to argue?

SIDEBAR
I think I’ve come from oral sex once. This is funny. In mid 2003, prior my career as a slut, I went on a date with this guy Marco. He was Brazilian. We met for coffee, and then agreed to dinner. I went to his apartment kind of wondering at myself – I was going to a strange man’s apartment! I don’t even like him that much! What was I doing?

Marco was staying in a small apartment with the sort of modular blond wood-and-fiberboard matching furniture you see in your better college dorms. We ate dinner, started to watch a movie on his laptop, then started fooling around on his extra long twin bed.

Anyway. He went down on me and his tongue was so light and fast. I have no idea what he did, maybe some secret Brazilian tongue trick, but I came, to my great surprise. Then I got him off and we tried to sleep in the narrow bed. When I left in the morning I knew I would never see him again, and I was relieved. But to this day whenever a guy goes down on me, I usually murmur “Um, faster… lighter…” at some point during the proceedings.

SIDEBAR ENDS

Eventually Aaron got on his back and I straddled him. “You could sit on my face,” he suggested. I’d never really thought about it but sit on my face definitely had a dirty, euphemistic quality that I really liked. I mean, got me hot. I pictured myself literally sitting on his face, grinding myself against his eager mouth. But wait: “I want to get you off,” I announced.

So it was my turn to slide my tongue down the landscape of his body, making pit stops to lick the mountain of his nipples, kiss the valley of his bellybutton. Then I scooted down between his legs and moved my tongue across the scoop between the veins in his inner thigh. I licked him.

He had a nice dick. I trailed my fingers up and down, then moved my mouth around the head. Aaron stretched closer. I did as I’ve been instructed by various guys: a firm hand at the base, tongue on the sensitive bit under the head, rapid up-and-down strokes with my hand and mouth. To no avail. He wasn’t hard. “Is there anything I can do?” I asked at last.

“Um,” said Aaron politely. “You could hold my dick a little tighter. You know, squeeze it.”

I obliged and his dick stiffened right away. I grinned and sucked on his cock some more, my mouth and hand pulling at his cock, now properly engorged. Very soon Aaron gasped, “I’m going to come,” (I guess that Time Out New York lesson had taken). Then his come spurted out at me while I leaned over him, enjoying his expression. Our eyes met, and I brushed my breasts against his cock, and stomach, then rubbed it on my tits. I licked a drop off his dick.

“Do you want me to lick that off you?” he asked.

Taken aback, I spoke without thinking: “Oh, that’s OK.” But I liked his eagerness, and the implicit salaciousness. Then we settled back against the pillows and made out some more. I turned onto my stomach and he lay against me, bucking slightly. He slid a finger inside me and he moved his hips back and forth so I could feel his dick against my thighs. His dick felt stiff, the skin silky. I felt my pussy start to pulse again, and I reflected that maybe having sex on the first date wasn’t such a bad idea.

But instead we stayed like that, me feeling hot and liquidy. Then we relaxed into not-fooling-around mode and Aaron got a bowl of chocolate ice cream, which I polished off quick. I got the impression he felt chocolate ice cream was the proper food to serve following sexual activity. But I was starving, so we ventured out to a café. We sat at a marble-topped table, and I ate all my granita and most of his chocolate cake. When we left he walked me to the corner, where I hailed a cab.

“I don’t have any more money,” Aaron said. He’d bought the drinks, the wine, and the desserts. I wouldn’t have taken cab fare from him, did he think I expected it? I’m 10 years older, perhaps I should’ve paid for him. Or not. “That’s OK,” I said, nonplussed. We kissed next to the taxi. I got in and as we pulled away I saw him cross the street, his figure illuminated by the streetlamps.

I leaned back against the leather seats of the cab. I was looking forward to fucking him.

Sugasm #151

2008-11-15T20:53:00.003-05:00

Sorry for the delay! I've been a total slacker...

The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #152? Submit a link to your best post of the week by emailing me directly at radicalvixenatgmaildotcom.

Participants, repost the link list within a week and you’re all set.

This Week’s Picks
Help, My Friend Says I Have an Ugly Vagina!
“Say no to vagina prejudice!”

“Kiss My Boots.”
“One of the more unexpected hairpin turns I navigated in my “Coming Out” into BDSM involved a series of moments that were deceptively simple, perhaps even innocent, in a way.”

Yours, Sir
“I felt and then heard a low rumble of a slightly sadistic chuckle from him.”

Mr. Sugasm Himself
Sugar Bank

Editor’s Choice
Sass And The Sadist

More Sugasm
Join the Sugasm

Settling In

2008-11-14T16:46:00.003-05:00

“Daniel?” I bleated. “I need your help.”

I surveyed my newly painted studio apartment: small, sunny, and mine alone, but currently jammed with cardboard boxes full of books, electronic equipment, clothes, and the Noritake dinner service for 12 that my grandfather bought for his mother in the 1930s, still wrapped in its original quilted cases.

Normally, when I’m overwhelmed I retire to bed with a bar of chocolate and a book. Unfortunately, my bed was currently under a pile of kitchen equipment. I whimpered. “Can you come over?”

Daniel was with his family, but promised to help me settle in during the week. When he turned up two nights later, much of my things were unpacked and put away. Even better, I had bought a bed.

For the past three and a half years I’d been sleeping (and, uh, other things) on a mattress on the floor, since when I’d moved into my last place the box spring wouldn’t fit through the door of the room and I had vowed not to buy another. I had meant to buy a platform bed, but never seemed to have the money or inclination. But now that I’d moved to an apartment with less space than my previous bedroom, I would buy a real, grown up bed. Wood, not metal frame. With a headboard.

When Daniel arrived, I had just ordered a cherry-stained pine bed (when it arrived at first I was puzzled by the antiseptic smell before I realized it was the untreated wood supporting the mattress) with three under-the-bed drawers and a headboard. And it was a bit cheaper than similar ones I’d priced online.

Daniel helped me organize some of my stuff (“Did you your closet door sticks?” he asked, shutting and opening it again. And again. “Don’t you have a night table?”) while I lined the shabby, sawdusty kitchen shelves with paper and tried to find a place for the spices I’d collected. Then I took him to dinner. I was very pleased with myself: I had an editorial job, my own apartment in a shabby chic neighborhood and, should I ever have need of it, a gravy boat (the Noritake service was pretty extensive) plus Daniel, my friend and sometimes sex partner. I remember the halcyon days of late 2006 and early 2007: playing The Settlers of Catan! Vigorous and satisfying sex! Attempts at swing dancing! I would have someone to bring to parties! We could —

“So, Ashley and I are probably going to date exclusively,” Daniel interrupted my reverie.

“Really?” I feigned enthusiasm. “Wow. That sounds great.”

I knew he’d been seeing someone, but I’d gotten the impression he wasn’t that interested in her. At one point, he’d been seeing another woman as well, one he’d seemed very taken with, but now she was dating someone else.

“What about you?” Daniel stabbed a shumai with a chopstick. “Are you interested in anyone?”

“No,” I admitted. “But I’ve decided I want to get married. Did I tell you about my tarot card reading?”

Daniel looked taken aback, as well he might be. I gulped my water. “Well, after Dean and I broke up, I went to see a tarot card reader. And she told me I was going to meet my soul mate within a year, and that he’d be a good dancer, and we’d have children and a swimming pool.”

I’d gone to see this woman in the college town where my writing program was held, less than a week after Dean and I parted at the train station. This woman, who had stringy gray hair and an earnest, hesitant manner, told me a lot of things. After she’d turned over the first card (the Five of Cups), she turned to me and said, “Did someone die?” When, after more sober cards appeared and I admitted that my boyfriend and I had just broken up she said, “Well, you’re not going to get back together.” Which I knew, but still. “He doesn’t want to,” she added. Unecessarily, I thought.

She turned over some more cards. “You haven’t met your soul mate yet.” I loathe that term. I mean, really. I don’t believe that there’s just one man out there for me, my other half, etc. If there’s just one person I’m destined for, what are the odds of us meeting? Isn’t it likely that my soul mate is a Mongolian goat-herder or something? So I prefer to believe it’s about timing, and, the ability to be happy. I like to think I have the latter, though I suspect my timing is off.

But she was a tarot card reader, so maybe soul mates were part of her stock in trade. “You have angel blessings,” she added, pointing to some smiling figures on another card. Needless to say, I don’t believe in angels, either. “You just have t be patient, and have some faith,” she said, pointing to the Two of Swords. She turned over a few more cards and said, “I’m seeing Florida here. Do you ever go to Florida?”

Which tarot card symbolized Florida? “Ummm…” My aunt and uncle live there, but really, how could my soul mate be in Orlando? I imagined my soul mate/the hilariously funny and kind/British/Jewish/independently wealthy/dark-haired/tall/skinny/pediatric oncologist of my dreams somewhere more cosmopolitan. Somewhere with a lower obesity rate.

Then my tarot card reader took out an ephemeris (an astrological/astronomical calendar) and thumbed the pages. “I think you should go to Florida in March,” she said at last. “Sometime between the thirteenth and twenty-seventh.” I wrote this down. Then she told me that me and my soul mate would be very happy together and have several children, which is, of course, exactly what I wanted to hear. Then she told me I should wear a red hat and scarf in the winter.

I related all this to Daniel. “Now I’m supposed to be patient. But I don’t feel patient. I feel very ready.” I ate the last of my teriyaki. “I want to be in a serious, long term relationship. I want to get married.” The domestic and romantic nature of my mostly positive relationship with Dean had confirmed that for me.

Dating, on the other hand, horrified me: Scanning the crowd for a guy who somewhat resembled his photo. The awkward greeting, and the inevitable conversation about pop culture over a drink that I finished too quickly. The uncomfortable feeling that this fella was not very smart/over his ex/thinks I’m plain/doesn’t know how to talk about anything other than himself. The relief when I hug him briefly and say goodbye.

“Aww,” said Daniel. “You’ll meet someone soon.”

I hope so. Cause I don’t want to be that stereotypical single (Jewish) thirtysomething: urban, neurotic, anxious to wed, and unintentionally comic. I hope my comic-ness is always intentional, at least. I’ve always prided myself on being more amusing, more sympathetic, and smarter than average, but most people feel that way about themselves. Maybe my recent sluttiness has been a rebellion against the idea of myself as a Nice Jewish Girl. Or maybe I just like cock.

Anyway. Back at my apartment we repaired to my mattress, now free of books and covered with clean sheets. “I can’t stay tonight,” Daniel said.

“OK.” Daniel and I always spent the night together. Except for the last time, when a rogue bedbug left me covered in bites and I’d called a cab at 2 AM.

We kissed, and I decided to concentrate on the pleasurable feel of his mouth against mine. His breath was warm and sweet, and I nuzzled against the soapy tang of his neck.

I traveled my lips down his torso. When we pulled off our clothes I sighed at the sight of his dick, big and now stiff. I put my nose to his groin. “Daniel,” I said, sort of sultrily, “It’s been so long since I’ve had your dick in my mouth…” I licked the underside of the shaft, then glanced up to see his response. He smiled and lifted his hips. I bent my head and wrapped my mouth around his dick. He was so big and firm, it was a nice, filling sensation.

After I’d sucked and licked for a while, I remembered something: Daniel’s not very aggressive. I cleared my throat: “You want to fuck me?” this being about as dominant as I get.

“Sure,” Daniel smiled — or smirked — and I marveled at how easily Daniel and his dick respond to my demands.

He put on a condom and dabbed a little lube on my clit. I straddled him, arched my back, and tried to angle myself so that I could sit down right on his dick. “Aah,” I said as I felt his dick push up against my hole. I bent forward a bit, settling down. “How’s that?” I looked at Daniel. “Is that good?”

“That’s great.”

I rocked a little, trying to find the right spot… there. I rocked some more. “Like that?” I panted. “Hmmm?” I thrust my tits at his mouth: “Lick my nipples.” Daniel obliged. I watched him lap at my nipples, his eyes closed. “I love watching you suck my tits,” I gasped, cause frankly I think it is really hot.

It didn’t take much for me to come, and after a minute or so watching of Daniel’s eager tongue, I shuddered to a stop and sunk against his chest.

After a minute (“Thank you.” “My pleasure!”) Daniel pulled out, and sat up. He gestured for me to do the same.

Daniel crossed his legs and I sat in his lap, my legs wrapped around his waist swung. I don’t think I’d ever fucked Dean like this … and suddenly I remembered fucking Daniel in my old apartment, just like this, the two of us pleased with our athletic (and, we thought, possibly tantric) powers. Just like before, I could feel Daniel’s deep up inside me, poking me in the abdomen, it felt like. “Hey,” I said. “I can feel you right here.” Daniel smirked.

After a minute he slipped out and I slid onto my back. I fixed my eyes on his and breathed deeply as he pushed inside me once again. “Are you going to come for me?” I asked, like I always ask. He thrust faster.

“You wanted that?” I scraped my fingernails across his back — Dean loved this, it was guaranteed to raise a pleased shudder — but did Daniel? I couldn’t remember. I dragged my nails down his side, beneath his armpits. “Come on, Daniel.”

“Ahhh,” he grunted, his body stuttering. I looked at him but his gaze was fixed over my shoulder. With a “Nhuh!” his breathing changed, and he collapsed against me.

We lay with my head against his shoulder, and his arms around me. Very familiar and comfortable. So familiar and comfortable, apparently, that after a minute I heard Daniel’s breathing deepen; he had dozed off. I rested my cheek against his chest, and waited for him to wake up.

A Return to Form

2008-10-09T10:23:00.005-04:00

When I arrived Sweetheart Daniel was engrossed in a solo game of Rock Band. “I see you’re rehearsing,” I said.

I myself have never been a video game player, though I can happily waste hours on computer solitaire. Not to mention minesweeper, which always inspires me to belt “MineSWEEPER! It’s the GAME, the game with the SWEEPING TOUCH!” in my best Shirley Bassey contralto.

I don’t understand the appeal of Rock Band—why not just learn the guitar? It can’t be harder than trying to keep up with those colored lights. … This is probably why I don’t actually play video games. But this is right up Daniel’s alley, along with comic books and cereals that turn your tongue blue. Once he told me without a trace of shame that he was “really looking forward to the new Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles movie.” But anyway.

We cooked dinner, then settled on the sofa to watch a movie. He put his arm around my shoulder, and we sat close together, with my hand on his leg.

When it was done, Daniel stood up, stretched, and said, “So do you have to go soon?”

“Uh,” I said. I averted my eyes. I looked like I was pouting, but really I was just mortified.

I had been planning to sleep with Daniel. But apparently my would-be partner had not read my mind, forcing me to have to proposition him. Daniel caught my eye and was unable to conceal a smirk. “I mean,” he said, and moved towards me.

I slumped back onto the sofa. “I can go,” I offered sulkily.

“No, don’t go, I just didn’t want to assume.”

I rubbed my hand over my forehead theatrically, to hide my embarrassment. “Well, I was thinking of breaking my fast,” I admitted finally. Then I mentally kicked myself for speaking in euphemisms, which I detest.

Daniel sat down and put his arms around me. I buried my face in his neck. Oh, his neck! When we were dating it was like catnip for me, this irreducible mix of pheromones and soap and sweat. But now, from lack of contact, I was sensitive to what I suspected was Irish Spring and something else I couldn’t identify. The smell, though nice, was no longer familiar: I was used to Dean’s smell.

“I don’t know if I can kiss you,” I mumbled. I was eager to have sex with Daniel, but I wasn’t sure if I was ready for kissing. Was my body free, but my lips still attached (metaphorically speaking) to Dean?

“That’s OK,” said Daniel, who is always accommodating. He touched his lips to my cheek, then stood up and tugged my arm. “Come on,” he said, and led me down the hall.

In his bedroom we lay next to one another on the bed we’d had so much sex in, played so many games of Guillotine. On one hand, I was nervous. I hadn’t had sex with anyone but Dean in almost a year, and I hadn’t had sex at all in over two months. On the other hand, Daniel always makes me comfortable and happy. So I cuddled up in his arms. And because he smelled so nice and has such a lean, strong chest and is so Daniel, soon enough my mouth found his skin and his hands slipped inside my shirt. And my lips roved across his chest and I realized that I was free to kiss whomever I liked after all.

I tentatively nipped his lips. He tentatively nipped back. I like this teasing; it gives me time to get turned on. I dislike it when a guy goes right for my tonsils or tries to vacuum my tongue, it takes all the anticipation out of it. Also, being mauled by a marauding mouth (dig the alliteration!) doesn’t feel good. But the tentative kissing was effective, and after a moment I opened my mouth and slipped my tongue inside his.

It felt great.

We climbed out of our clothes like it hadn’t been 18 months since we’d been naked together. Lying on the bed, my hand slipped down his torso and onto his dick; his fingers found my clit. It was so familiar: Daniel’s bed, his skin, the noises he made, the quickness of my response. I sighed and rubbed his dick. Gosh, he’s big. I mean, I knew that, it’s not like I had forgotten the fact, but my senses were surprised to stretch my hand around his girth, to trail my fingers along the length.

We fooled around for a while.

He lifted his eyebrows at me and I nodded. After he fitted the condom on his dick I straddled him. When his dick poked at me I felt pushed open in a way I hadn’t been pushed open in, well, two months. My cunt resisted before slipping open, slowly, against him. “Ooooh,” I said, not very eloquently.

Our eyes met. “Is that good?” I prompted.

He smiled. “That’s great.”

I rocked against him, getting used to the big bluntness of him inside me. I rode up and down his dick, trying to keep my breathing even. He felt solid and heavy and deep inside me.

The bed creaked. I remembered how Daniel’s bed had always squeaked when we had sex; it was a sort of boasting bed. Wendy (Daniel’s then roommate, that’s how I met her) told me that she and Daniel’s other roommate had once applauded us, we were so noisy (and, evidently, riveting). Anyway.

I lowered myself against him so we were chest to chest, and we kissed some more. The room was warm and dark and we were so close all I was aware of was his skin, his close-together dark eyes and brown-black sideburns, his pale collarbone.

My legs started to twitch, which is a prelude to orgasm for me, but I wanted to make it last (it had been a while, after all), so I slowed myself down.

This was a mistake, because soon enough I wanted to come, but I couldn’t. My legs shook (“I like it when you quiver,” Daniel whispered, grinning) and I felt the frantic tension build all along my groin and thighs and abdomen, but I couldn’t quite get over into the delicious completeness of orgasm. After a bit I abandoned my attempt, and indicated to Daniel that he could give it a whirl. As it were.

We tried to maneuver ourselves so that he could flip me onto my back while staying inside of me, but this proved too acrobatic, so he slid out of me for a sec and I leaned against the pillows, pleasantly drained.

Then Daniel loomed up over me and slid inside me once again. I pushed up against him and met his eyes: “You want to come?” I breathed. “Hmmm?”

He bore down on me and smiled, absently, as he pumped at me. After a minute his body sped up, and twitched, so I encouraged him: “You going to come for me, Daniel? You going to come?”

He face looked fierce and private, and after a minute, he came. Some deep breaths later he shifted out of me, and I slid onto my side, into the fetal position. Daniel curled up next to me. “That was nice,” I murmured.

He clutched me to him and kissed my forehead. I felt this wash of relief: relief that I’d been able to have sex and to enjoy it so thoroughly; that my sadness at my breakup with Dean had not consigned me to a sex-free ghetto; that I was (apparently) capable of having healthy, casual sex; all that stuff.

Daniel put an arm around me and I snuggled up against him. His heartbeat steadied to normal, and I rubbed my cheek against his shoulder. When he turned out the light I lay in the dark, not sleepy, but thinking about where I had been, and where I was headed.

Celebrities About Whom I Never Fantasized Until They Appeared in My Dreams and Who I Now Kind of Want

2008-09-24T10:12:00.005-04:00

1. Michael Cera
2. Samantha Ronson

Yes, Michael Cera, of Superbad. What’s up with that, subconscious? Ever since this dream which I barely remember, I’ve found him more and more attractive. Which is, frankly, so weird. In fact, I may insist Sweetheart Daniel accompany me to a showing of Nick and Norah’s Infinite Playlist.

As for Samantha Ronson, well, if she was a guy and I was 15, she’d definitely be my type: scrawny, slouched, rebellious-looking. But really. How could I fancy a girl who's in love with Lindsay Lohan? I would think any lesbian crush I might have would have more refined tastes.

Note to brain: Cut it out!

Love Train!

2008-08-29T11:22:00.014-04:00

I got an apartment! It’s small, and has a miniscule kitchen, but then, my literary hero, Laurie Colwin, once lived in a place “approximately the size of the Columbia Encyclopedia,” and if she could do it, so can I. And thanks to the generosity of my friend Marc, I am able to clear out my bank account and pay the first month’s rent, last month’s rent and broker’s fee! I move in October 1.

I watched the Democratic National Convention roll call the other night—it was like the Miss America pageant. Each delegate announced, “Madam Speaker, I’m from the great state of __[Montana, Missourah]___, home of the ______ mountain range [cheers]; _______ [nineteenth century politico or writer nominated for a Pulitzer in 1986] and _______ [really bad for you regional food]! Here with me are _______ [name of state comptroller, local officials who haven’t been indicted, etc.] And we cast _____ votes for Hillary Rodham Clinton and _____ votes for the next president of the United States, Barack Obama! [Cheers, cheers, cheers,as Molesworth sa.]

When Obama was nominated by acclamation, the O’Jays’ “Love Train” came on. Is that the campaign theme or just a CNN invention? Either way, I felt a little shivery watching Democrats wave their arms about and elderly civil rights leaders from Mississippi choke back tears. I mean, if I were running for office, I'd want the support of The O’Jays’ Philly soul, myself.

Then later I went to Jefferson’s shindig at Happy Ending. I was booked to sell raffle tickets, which I did not realize would involve me wrapping my arms around the waists, bosoms, etc. of strangers (the “around the world” option—$10 got you as many raffle tickets as your girth could supply). For a once and future slut, I’m a little uneasy about having my hands all over people. But I did my best. All for the cause, man.

It was lovely to see Viviane, Lolita, Boymeat, Callie, Wendy, Selina, and lots of others including a cool girl who told me all about this neat Neil Gaiman project. I also enjoyed two cheap and delicious Mr. Gingers (vodka, ginger ale, and lime juice, and I’d love the recipe). The very cutest boys there were, alas, friends of the bartender, but on my way out, I saw Mmmark, and, and I am sorry to say my intentions were not just tawdry but obvious:

Mmmark: (tapping me on the shoulder): Hey there.

Me: Hi! Hi!

We hug.

Me: How are you?

Mmmark: I’m good…. I’m moving….

Me: (thinking: Gosh, Mmmark looks great! Did he cut his hair?) Really? My best friend lives around the corner! He’s having a barbeque this weekend. You should come!

Mmmark: Hmmm. How have you been?

Me: Oh, well, my boyfriend and I broke up, so I’m dipping my toes in the water again… (thinking: Jesus, that’s subtle. Not.) I’d love to see you. (thinking: You are throwing yourself at him! Shut up, shut up, shut up!) Well, it’s late, I’ve got to run. Byeeee!

I run out before I actually start slobbering.

But I’m glad my libido is showing signs of life.

Whinge, Whinge, Whinge

2008-08-25T15:37:00.001-04:00

I spent the weekend apartment hunting, which was completely demoralizing. I’ve been in my current apartment for three and a half years, and it is cheap, cheap, cheap. But I have two roommates, who are not particularly neat, and I’m desperate to get my own place. In most cities, working people can afford to do this before the age of 35. OK, in New York City, most people can afford to do this before the age of 35, too, but not me. It’s only in the last year that I finally got a full time editorial job and paid off my credit card debt. Anyway, I decided that at last I would get a small studio or one bedroom in a quiet neighborhood in an outer borough—I wasn’t aiming for anything too desirable. It didn’t even have the have a laundry room, just be reasonably near a subway station and not disgusting, in a basement, or the size of a cubicle.

But even though I’m out of debt (I mean, except for my student loans, natch), I’m still poor, and I discovered that my budget had been very optimistic. For what I wanted to pay, I was eligible for very little. So I resigned myself to paying close to half my salary in rent, but even with that, I’ll be lucky to get a cramped fourth floor walkup studio.

I’m too old for this.

I’ve always hated August. When I was a kid, I think I had my first depressive episodes at the end of the summer. One August, every time I heard a plane overhead I was sure a nuclear war was about to start. I lived near two airports.

August is almost over, and I’ll find a place I can afford and be comfortable in eventually, it’s just that I have so little patience these days. I’m cranky and maladjusted and resentful. I don’t even cry. I just check my email and mope. And wait. For what, I don’t even know. To grow up, probably.

The Cycle of Grief: Boring and Probably Lengthy

2008-08-12T20:58:00.005-04:00

It’s been just over three weeks since Dean and I broke up. After the first four days, I didn’t even cry. Which is unlike me. For about two weeks my emotional state would best be described as detached. I thought of him, but it was along the lines of “Well, this is for the best, now I can date someone with an actual job.” Or: “He doesn’t want kids.” Then a few days ago I thought of him, and I decided he probably wasn’t thinking of me. This made me angry.

I remember what he said to me the night we broke up, regarding our future: “I’ve been meaning to talk to my shrink about this…” meaning, he knew that I’d been thinking about the future, and he wanted to discuss his feelings with his shrink and then bring it up with me. Only he never did, and all of a sudden, this statement infuriated me. He’d been meaning to discuss it? It just never came up in conversation with the person he discusses his emotional life with? Of course not, he was too busy talking about poker! It just underlined how low on his list of priorities I was. And to top it all off, then he went and told me he hadn’t gotten around to talking about it, like I would understand that this was a chore he’d been putting off. And I think of him now: maybe missing me a little, but mostly just relieved that it’s over and he can go back to playing poker online and trying to stop his mother from decimating the family fortune.

He emailed me a week after we broke up. He wrote, “I don’t know if you want to hear from me right now, but I’m thinking of you…” and signed it Love, always, Dean. I was relieved, pleased to hear from him. We exchanged a few emails but then I stopped—it didn’t seem like a good idea. Then, that weekend, I forwarded him a New York Times article I wanted him to see, because that’s the kind of thing I’d done in the past and it seemed harmless enough. He didn’t respond. I hope he didn’t get it, because a) it’s not like him to ignore an email and b) that would really be mean, wouldn’t it? We haven’t been in touch since.

But he has some of my clothes and I have several books and a power strip of his. And I know, just know, it will be up to me to initiate this exchange. He’s not going to contact me, because he’s in the process of putting me away. This is what I started thinking a few days ago. And now tears well up in my eyes and I want to wring his neck and although I haven’t actually wept, I’ve come close.

I looked up the cycle of grief during a breakup and it goes like this:

Shock and Denial

Great Emotion

Acceptance, Reorganization, and Reintegration

I guess I was in shock and denial and now I’m inching towards Great Emotion (in my case, anger). For a while I felt OK, knowing that I will never sleep with him again, never have him pull his fingers through my hair; call me sweetie; insist I snuggle with him; drink kirs with his father and stepmother; listen to him complain about his brother; play Scrabble; trade entrees; hear his name on my voice mail. But maybe that was the Shock part. And now I’m furious that he couldn’t love me enough to even think about marrying me. Or pretend to. Furious that his priorities didn’t really include me, even though we made each other happy. I thought that our romantic contentment ought to be appreciated as a rarity. I mean, it is in my life. I’ve had a number of boyfriends and have loved several of them, but we’ve rarely made one another happy. At least not on a regular basis.

But I bet Dean’s not going through any Great Emotion now. He’s not thinking about me when he can’t sleep, he’s not considering under what circumstances he could possibly call me in the middle of the night. (Last night while I wasn’t sleeping I determined that if one of my parents died, I would feel comfortable calling him. He’d be good about that.)

I have to avoid his neighborhood. I was there recently, and of course there were memories attached to every store, ever street corner. Unfortunately my therapist’s office in on the edge of neighborhood, and my shrink’s office is literally three blocks from his apartment. Luckily I only have to see my shrink once a month. Still, I think. Still.

New Blogroll

2008-08-11T19:42:00.008-04:00

I added a few sites (and deleted one; sorry, Google News) from the blogroll. Check them out. Especially I Can Has Cheezburger. Come on! LOLcats are awesome, man.

I'm an FOJ (Friend of Jefferson)

2008-08-07T10:02:00.004-04:00

Yikes. I copied this from Viviane's Sex Carnival. Jefferson could use your help:

An important member of the sex-positive community urgently needs our help.

Jefferson—blogger, educator, and dear friend to so many of us—is at this moment fighting a court battle with his ex-wife, who is seeking full custody of their three children.

Jefferson’s love for his children has been well-documented on his blog One Life, Take Two for years. His ex-wife has stated in court that he is a “great” father who loves his children.

However, among her claims is that his bisexuality makes him an unfit parent.

Jefferson needs our help now. As a writer, his resources are limited. The costs of fighting this case are mounting quickly—and will certainly run into the tens of thousands of dollars.

As of today, there is an urgent and immediate need for at least $20,000 to cover costs associated with attorney fees and those of the law guardian who has been appointed to represent the children.

If he is unable to pay these fees by August 11, he will be forced to relinquish custody of his children.

This case is of concern to anyone whose sexuality does not fit the standard mold—because it could happen to you. This case is of concern to all writers, because Jefferson’s blog is being used as evidence against him—and that could have repercussions for our First Amendment rights.

Here’s how to help:

Make an ANONYMOUS, TAX-DEDUCTIBLE contribution to Jefferson’s legal defense by visiting the Sexual Freedom Defense and Education Fund at:
www.sfldef.org.

There you will find out how to donate to Jefferson’s Defense Fund via PayPal or if you prefer, check or money order.

Please note that you MUST mention that your donation be used for the JEFFERSON LEGAL DEFENSE FUND.

In the coming days, www.onelifetaketwo.com will be relaunched with information about Jefferson’s ongoing case. Be sure to visit his blog for updates. In the meantime, you can contact Jefferson directly at friendsofjefferson@gmail.com.

Feel free to copy this and post it to your blog or any email lists, or link back to this post. More graphics may be found here.

Reunion

2008-08-02T12:42:00.010-04:00

To GMG

The train platform looked right out of a movie – a romance set in the 1940’s, maybe, where women with hairsprayed curls and tailored suits fling themselves into the arms of tall, handsome men with crew cuts.

The train was late, but last it chugged up, and its honk was the exact same bullhorn whine that I remembered from the Long Island Railroad and the Metro North, the sound of commuter dads arriving in Croton-on-Harmon on a summer evening. I forced myself not to run to the platform.

He was one of the last to get off the train, and he looked just as I’d imagined, in his red sweatshirt, blue jeans and baseball cap, lugging a bag over his shoulder. Our eyes met and I waved, and when he reached me I wrapped my arms around him and he picked me up.

“Dean,” I said. I hadn’t seen him in two weeks. I’d missed the smell of his neck. He kissed me, and then he kissed me again.

***
I was attending a writing program at a college some hours’ drive from New York. Dean and I had parted in Las Vegas after the 4th of July weekend, which we’d spent sneaking into hotel swimming pools and wandering through air conditioned lobbies. Dean had played poker in tournaments and cash games, while I’d visited the hotel gym, read novels, and won a cool $45 at blackjack.

I don’t think we had been apart this long since we started dating. In fact, we’d be dating a year this weekend.

We checked into the bed and breakfast decorated in Early English Tchotcke, and then I drove us into town, where we had a few drinks at the lavish old hotel on the main street. The college was in a Victorian spa town, and it was heavy on the charm, with gingerbread houses and expensive antique stores.

After a late dinner I drove back to the B and B. I undressed and I climbed into the queen-sized bed with its many, many throw pillows.

Dean slid on top of me and it was such a relief to have his body against mine, the long, lean length of it. I buried my face in his shoulder.

Often when he kisses me he mashes his mouth against mine, but this time he kissed me softly, teasing me, and I was grateful as well as excited. He bent over me and instead of plunging his tongue inside me, his nose just brushed against my clit. I gasped, and wriggled up against him. Thank God Dean has such a long, aquiline nose. “I love you, Lily,” he said in hoarse, tender voice he gets when we’re having sex.

“I love you, too,” I whispered. He held my hands down as I shook beneath him. I missed you, I thought, but I didn’t say it. After all, he hadn’t.

***
On Saturday morning I rubbed my head against his shoulder, like a cat. We lay facing one another, blinking at the sun slanting through the too-thin curtains. He slid inside me.

“Can I put my finger in your ass?” he whispered.

I nodded. “Go slow.” He did and we lay with our legs entwined, fucking. “You like to penetrate me?”

“Uh huh!” When he came I felt a little cheated. Huh!

“Let me get on top,” I said, and we rolled over. I pushed myself against him. “Lick my nipples,” I ordered, thrusting my tits at him.

He started to buck beneath me. “No,” I said. “You already came. Now it’s my turn.” I rocked back and forth, measuring my breath. “That’s right, suck them. Like that.” I came almost immediately, and we lay clasped together in the bed, my face clamped against his chest.

***
In the afternoon we went to a nearby county fair. I beat him at the whack-a-mole and we spent close to $20 on an addictive arcade game in which you insert quarters, which are supposed to then push previously inserted money over the edge of a metal ledge and into your hot little hands. We found this game terrifically compelling. We were the only adults on the bumper cars, and a foray into a partially-closed house of mirrors ended after just a minute when we easily picked our way through the maze. We stood outside the fun house, dazed at how easy it had been. “As a metaphor,” I said, mindful of all the short stories whereby couples get lost in the fun house, “That sucked.”

We got on the ferris wheel, and I was reminded of our first trip to Atlantic City, soon after we met last summer. We’d held hands on the boardwalk, which I’d found disconcerting, though I’d liked it, and I’d gone on my first ferris wheel. We kissed in the pastel-colored car as it gently swung back and forth. We kissed on this ferris wheel, too, and I looked out at the green fields below.

In the evening we drove back into town and ended up at the same Victorian hotel we’d had drinks at the first night. We headed out to the back garden, seated ourselves in Adirondack chairs, and ordered drinks. Dean studied the paper while I read one of my classmate’s short stories.

On my second planter’s punch I took the plunge, figuring I’d rather bring this up when drunk. “Dean, I have to talk to you about something,” I said. It was a beautiful evening, dusk just falling, the air mild and clear.

“I know,” said Dean. “You’re afraid I’ll give you advice about your writing at the reading on Sunday.” Writing students had been invited take part in a reading the following afternoon. In a fit of boldness, I’d signed up. And I’ve been very wary of having Dean read my writing. He can be a harsh critic—I’ve seen the notes he’s written on other people’s work, and I’m not anxious to submit myself to his tutoring, however good or well-meaning it is. My feeling is that as my boyfriend, he should keep to a cheerleading role. As in: “Lily, your writing is great!” rather than “No, sweetie, this doesn’t make any sense.” That’s what editors and instructors and writing classes are for. Honeys are for unmitigated moral support. In my opinion, anyway.

“No, no,” I said. “It’s not that.” I swallowed.

“Do you want to talk about it back at the B and B?”

As I was drunk and feared my nerve would not withstand the onslaught of sobriety, no. “Let’s talk about it now,” I slurred. He put down The New York Times.

I gulped more of my drink. Dean’s face blurred. “You know,” I dipped my head, meeting Dean’s eyes and then looking away, “We’ve been dating for almost a year now…”

Oh, God, I was actually saying it. “I love you, and I’m really happy with you, but, I want. I want,” I paused. “I want to have children.” Lest he get the wrong impression, I rushed on: “I mean, not now. I’m not ready now, but in, like, five years, and I want to know…”

Dean took my hands. “I know,” he said. “I know you’ve been thinking about it. I’ve been thinking about it too, and I’ve wanted to bring it up, too.”

Seriously, he had thought about it? Had he discussed it with his therapist? I’d had the distinct impression that I did not come up much during the course of Dean’s four-times-a-week therapy sessions.

On one hand, this galled me. I talk about Dean all the time with my sainted therapist, Caroline. On the other hand, Dean had a lot of stuff to work on, in part because he’d apparently spent the first 35 years of his life avoiding therapy. I figured I was a source of happiness for him, and he wasn’t bringing me up with his shrink because our relationship didn’t need the help of a licensed psychotherapist. I mean, Dean does have serious issues to deal with. Like his mother, who, in my wholly unscientific opinion, suffers from one or more Cluster B (dramatic, emotional, or erratic) personality disorders, as per the DSM-IV. Like his father, whom Dean resents. Like his older brother, who is successful and not very interested in Dean, and whom Dean really, really resents. (I suspect his brother dominates a good portion of Dean’s sessions). Like the sister with a lot of problems. Like his stalled career. Like his poker strategy, the discussion of which also allows him the opportunity for personal reflection. For instance, if Dean loses money at poker, does it mean he’s sabotaging himself because he doesn’t have enough self confidence? Does his future lie in tournaments or cash games? And other interesting questions.

“I mean, I’m not ready for kids now,” I reiterated, in case he hadn’t got that part, “But I want to be in a relationship with someone with whom that can happen…”

“Lily,” said Dean. “I love you, too, and I want you to be happy.” And then I realized what was happening. “I’m not going to be ready to have kids in five years. And maybe not at all.”

Our heads were bent close together, and our hands were clasped. I was close to tears. “Dean,” I said.

“Sweetie,” he said, and his face kind of collapsed. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.” Then I covered my mouth with my hand, as though this would keep me from talking, or crying. “I know you love me, but I’m not a priority for you.” He nodded. “I want to be a priority.” Dean’s current priorities include trying to become a professional poker player and dealing with his mother. I wanted our relationship to be more than a pleasant distraction to him.

“Don’t cry,” I said, and then I started to cry, too. This had not been how I planned this discussion, not how I planned it at all. Then I changed my mind: “Thank you for crying,” I wept. “I didn’t think you’d have any tears for me.”

“I’m ambivalent,” Dean wiped his eyes. “And you deserve to be with someone who’s not ambivalent.”

“Oh, Dean.” I clung to him, and the garden swam in front of my eyes.

Thus our breakup.

We left the hotel and walked along the main street. It was dark but warm, and people were everywhere. I felt raw and stiff, like my chest was sandwiched between two pieces of plywood. I was afraid if I breathed too deeply, or moved too much, I would start to cry again. I gripped Dean’s hand, and he gripped back. We swam among the crowds. “What’s that noise?”

A crowd had gathered outside of a Borders, where a young boy stood in the lamplight. I squinted; he was playing the guitar. “Layla,” he cried in a heartfelt, off-key tenor, “You’ve got me on my knees!”

Dean and I looked at each other. The crowd appeared impressed, not by his singing, which was atrocious, but by the very fact of a kid not more than 14 crooning Eric Clapton’s heartbreak classic with technique-less abandon, and playing with some skill. “He’s got a terrible voice,” said Dean, with some admiration.

“But he’s a good player.” And, indeed, if he wasn’t just playing Guitar Hero but was instead really strumming, he was a talented guitarist. After a moment, we started walking again. It occurred to me that there were lots of literary metaphors here, after all.

We were seated at an outdoor café, where I promptly started to weep again. “Sweetie,” Dean began, then bent over, wiped his eyes, and blew his nose into a paper napkin. I was relieved not to be the only one crying. I didn’t know how I was going to make it through the meal without breaking down every five minutes, but I only cried intermittently, which was something.

Afterwards Dean drove us back to the B and B. I took a shower, letting my tears mingle with the cool water, and then I climbed into bed, naked. Dean showered. I thought we’d have break up sex. In fact I was looking forward to Dean being inside of me one last time, of him whispering, “I love you, Lily,” while I tearfully clung to him, but instead I lay chaste and sad underneath the chenille bedspread. I thought I might go to sleep early. I turned off the light, while Dean stared at his laptop.

I turned onto my side but tears leaked out of my eyes. “Sweetie, don’t cry,” murmured my ex-boyfriend.

“I wish,” I sniffled, turning on the light, “I wasn’t quite so in touch with my emotions.” I started to cry in earnest once again.

“Lily,” said Dean. “Lily.” He wrapped his arms around me. His voice cracked. “You know we’re going to have a lifelong friendship.”

That sounded very, very unappealing, as well as weirdly formal. “I don’t want to be your friend,” I wept. “I love you.” I wanted him to be jealous of other men I dated. I didn’t want us to be companionable.

“I love you, too.” He stroked my hair.

“I guess I think that if you loved me more, you’d want to try.” And that, to me, was the crux of the matter. He hadn’t even had to think about it when I brought it up. I hadn’t gotten a chance to say the rest of my spiel, which was, This isn’t something you have to decide now. Think about it, and let’s talk in a few weeks. And what that meant was: I love you. I don’t want to break up. But as soon as I brought up the idea of the future, he jumped right to the break up, like he was relieved. He’d already made up his mind. He’d sooner break up with me than even consider the possibility of us getting married and having a family. That hurt.

“It’s because I love you that I don’t want you to miss the boat on this. Having a family.”

“I know.” And that’s true. But. “It wouldn’t be so bad if I weren’t convinced you’re going to get married and have kids.” Because I am. I think he’ll do just as his brother did: meet a woman 15 or so years his junior when he’s close to 50 and grown up enough. And because she’ll be so smart and beautiful and accomplished and he’ll be so aware of how lucky he is, when she says, “I want to have children,” he’ll realize he’s onto a good thing and ought to land her quick. So they’ll get married and have children. And I swear to God, if he does this before I do, I won’t be responsible for my behavior.

He shook his head. But I think that’s what’ll happen. “I wish I could have made you happy,” I said in a small voice.

“Don’t say that,” he said, almost harshly, and then he started to cry again. “Don’t say that. You’ve made me really happy.”

What I meant was: I wish that you’d loved me enough to be unwilling to let me go. I wish having children with me didn’t seem like too high a cost for keeping me by your side. I wish keeping us together was your priority.

Here’s a story. I work with this woman named Lara. She’s 42. She met her now-husband a few years ago. She told me that after they’d been dating for six months, she asked him, “Where are we going?” He’s ten years her senior, childless, and divorced. He said to her: “I don’t love you, I don’t want to marry you, and I don’t want any kids.” (How incredibly harsh!) So Lara said, “Well, you’re giving me nothing to work with. I guess we’re breaking up.”

Two days later he showed up on her doorstep, red-eyed, and begged her to take him back. “So he got some therapy,” concluded Lara—the optimistic ending to most healthy modern romances, it appears. They wed a year ago, and last month she had a baby.

The point isn’t that she got her way, or even that what Lara wanted wasn’t too high a price for Jim who, despite not seeming to want anything that Lara did, eventually agreed to everything Lara desired. The point is that Jim seems really happy now. She had to convince him, but he seems pleased with how things turned out.

“I’ve just broken up with two women who made me happy,” Dean continued. “Lily, I’m fucked up.” Well, I knew that already, and plus, I wanted to say, This isn’t about you! This isn’t about your issues! And anyway, how could his ex have made him really happy? She wouldn’t sleep with him! Of course, she is younger and prettier than I. And I think she went to Harvard. But anyway, what was the point? Maybe, for Dean, this was just another anecdote on his journey to adulthood. Maybe this would be a stick he could beat himself with in therapy. Maybe, for Dean, the real point was why, as a fortysomething with a degree from an Ivy League college and no serious drug problem, he lives the life of an independent teenager.

***
The next morning we checked out of the bed and breakfast. “Did you have a good stay?” asked one half of the polite, mustached male couple who ran the place.

“We had a great time,” Dean said.

“Except for the breaking up part,” I whispered as we edged out of the chintzy living room towards the door.

Outside, it was overcast. I was glad; I didn’t want to see the sun today. We walked to the car and once more, tears welled up in my eyes. “Sweetie,” Dean said helplessly. “Sweetheart.”

I blinked. He’s called me Sweetie since the night we met. He won’t call me sweetie anymore, I realized. Or if he does, it will only make me want to cry.

**
When I pulled up in front of the train station it was raining lightly, and I followed him to the entrance to the station house. He put his hands on my shoulders, and I burst into tears for what felt like the twentieth time in less than 24 hours. “Sweetie, sweetie,” Dean said again, earnestly, and I could see my tears might get a little wearing. “I love you. You’ll be fine. I’ll call you in a week or two,” he said firmly, kissing me, and I knew I’d be waiting for his call.

He went into the station and I went back to the car but I didn’t drive away. I sat there, watching the rain beat on the windshield. What if his train was really delayed, like it had been on Thursday night? Maybe I should offer to drive him back to the B and B. Only now I was no longer his girlfriend, and there was no rationale for me to think like that, to take his comfort and convenience into consideration. Eventually I turned the engine on and drove around to the parking lot, where I watched the train pull up.

Dean was easy to spot – he was undoubtedly the tallest person there; he is probably the tallest person wherever he goes. I watched him climb on board, and then there was nothing else to do, nothing else to wait for. I turned on the engine on again and edged the car towards the exit. And it occurred to me that for weeks I’d hear his laugh from stranger’s mouths. Then I drove off into the rain, waiting until I started to cry again.

My Brush with Greatness

2008-04-29T10:57:00.004-04:00

So last night I was at this restaurant with Dean. It’s near his apartment, and we go there a lot. And next to us is a couple, clearly on their first date. And then an older woman enters and goes up to a man I’ve just noticed — he’s sitting parallel to me on the banquette, so I can't really see him. She leans over to say something to him and I think, “How nice. Two old folk on a blind date, we’re all on dates here...”

But instead of sitting next to the man, this older woman then goes to another table by herself and starts reading a magazine. It’s then that what she said to him finally registers with me. It was, “Are you Philip Roth?”

Unfortunately I hadn’t heard his response, so I nudge Dean and ask him if he thinks the oldish man with graying dark hair is Philip Roth and we both surreptitiously sneak a look. We’re pretty sure it's him, and then we're really sure a few minutes later, when he's joined by a very pretty, very young woman.

Say it Again

2008-04-22T10:11:00.004-04:00

We were lying in Dean’s bed, having just exhausted ourselves in the approved-of manner. I was feeling sex-dazed and sleepy. It was, as usual, late for me (after midnight). At Dean’s, I always make a bid to get to bed early, and it never works.

I smirked at Dean. But then he looked at me in a funny way and before I could get much further than raising an interrogative brow, he said, “I love you, Lily.”

My skin went hot and I thought, Say it again. I said, “I love you too.” I felt flooded with a rich, sad tenderness, as if I might cry. Then I added, “But you can say it again.”

So he said, again, “I love you.”

I rubbed my cheek against his shoulder, and he stroked my hair. “I love you, too. But you knew that, right?” I mean, it was pretty obvious how much I dote on him. “Didn’t you?”

Ah, Romance

2008-04-18T10:02:00.005-04:00

Interior: Dean’s bedroom, late at night. I collapse on top of my boyfriend in post-coital exhaustion.

Dean: Why, young lady, if I didn’t know better, I would say you just came.

Me: (panting) Nah, I was faking it.

Your Good Deed

2008-03-21T12:17:00.004-04:00

Hey there.

Most of you found my blog via Jefferson, charming orgy host and mentor of sluts throughout the U.S and abroad.

As you probably know, he's in a jam at the moment and is hurting for the bucks.

Since Jefferson has been so good to me, what with the orgasms and cute indie boys and amusing anecdotes, I sent him some cash. I bet he's been good to you too, what with the nekkid Australian girls and erotica and songs. Not to mention the stories. So please do your best, and send him some lovin' (and by lovin', I mean money).

And next week, it's back to my slut beginnings in the far-off days of March 2006....

My Year in Review

2008-02-10T18:22:00.003-05:00

As Lou Reed once noted, “Sorry it took awhile.”

2007 Round Up: The Year in Living Somewhat Dangerously

Most “Holy Smokes, I Can't Believe this is Happening!” Moment: My First Orgy. Well, duh. Was it the writhing crowd on the bed? Jed’s dick? Jefferson’s unflappability? The cookies Callie baked on the living room table? At any rate, just attending made me feel cool and subversive. Hooking up with Mmmark and then Jed, both of whom are so cute and nice, was likewise thrilling.

Things About Jefferson that Made Me Laugh: The sight of him, naked, in lace up black leather boots with a pink ribbon around his balls; his “Daddy Likes” t-shirt; and that when I, worried that a mutual acquaintance had slept with almost 100 people, making him, in my opinion, sorta out of my league, Jefferson said, “Yes, but when you hit 100, the odometer goes back to zero.”

Dumbest Thing I Did (a tie): Stalked Jeremy/Revealed my secret identity as Sex Blogger Girl to Dean on our first date.

Most Ridiculous Conversation:
Me: How's Mmmark?

Jefferson: I don't know. And I should. After all, I publish the fanzine.

Me: The fanzine! What a great idea.

(I am picturing something akin to J-17, with headlines like, “Mmmark: What He Thinks About Global Warming!” and “Mmmark's Tips for Getting Along with Your Parents.”)

Me: It could be full of Mmmark news and tips! Like, “Boys and girls, don’t be afraid to approach Mmmark at an orgy! He’s really nice!”

Jefferson: Or, “How's Mmmark? Still Hot!” And, “What's Mmmark's favorite color? Still purple!”

Me: (chanting): “What's Mmmark's favorite food? I have no idea!”

Biggest Firsts for Me:
My First orgy!
My First Anal! (thanks, Jed)
My First Threesome!
My Second Threesome (etc.)!
My First Foursome!
My First Girl!
My First (and Second) Fisting! (Jed again).
It was a busy year.

Sex Aid I am Most Grateful For: BabeLube.

Most Surprisingly Satisfying Casual Sex: Paul. I was sorta dreading seeing him, but we were well-matched. Sadly, he went AWOL in November.

Most Surprisingly Unsatisfying Casual Sex: Alejandro. The most noticeable thing about it was how unmoved I was.

Nicest Surprise: That I'm still friends with Sweetheart Daniel. Oh, and the poem Jim wrote me.

Most Terrifying Moment: Realizing I was about to seduce a virgin (Jim).

Worst Part of Living Somewhat Dangerously: Brooding/crying over Jeremy.

Second Worst Part: Wondering if the Evan (Mr. Cult) affair was indicative of a total lack of judgment/normalcy on my part.

Best Part of Living Somewhat Dangerously: Having a secret when you’re bored on the subway feels good. I also met so many great people and got nice emails from readers. Thank you.

Things I Like About Dean: His terrible puns, his kindness and the funny Pillsbury Doughboy squeak he makes when I poke him in the ribs. Also he's really smart and tall and cute and likes to stroke my hair and hold my hand and takes me out for nice meals.

Worst First Date: Mr. Knucklehead. What a jerk.

Best First Date: Dean. He still has a scar by his eyebrow from when we fell off the stoop.

Sluttiest Episode: Ahem. I went for a drink with Jefferson, and ended up having sex with him, Anna Smash and Anna Smash’s hot boyfriend, Nick. The following night Jim came over and I fucked him, too.

Sexiest Sex: Riding Dean (sans condom!) while Sam Cooke sang “Bring it on Home to Me.” Usually I can't listen to music while I'm fucking as I find it distracting, but I came really fast and really hard – I mean, it was Sam Cooke. Then I sucked Dean off and he came in my mouth really fast and really hard. So that was nice.

Runner Up: Jed muttering dirty things to me.

Who I Had Sex With:
Sweetheart Daniel (sex partner #10)
Jefferson (sex partner #12)
Jeremy (sex partner #13)
Mmmark (sex partner #14)
Evan (sex partner #15)
Jim (sex partner #16)
Jed (sex partner #17)
Will (sex partner #18)
Jacob (sex partner #19)
Alex (sex partner #20)
Dean (sex partner #21)
Jessica (sex partner #22)*
Anna Smash (sex partner #23)*
Nick (sex partner #24)
Alejandro (sex partner #8)
Paul (sex partner #25)

*Oral sex only. As I've mentioned, like Clinton, I think this doesn't really count.

Who I Hooked Up With:
1. Simon.
2. The Other Jake. According to Jefferson his dick is “like a jackhammer, and it's total porn star sex.” Which I did not get to experience. Though I guess that was just oral sex, too.
4. My Friend Jake.
5. Jessica's adorable boyfriend Sean.
6. Thomas (we just kissed, alas).

Other Notable Facts about 2007:
I got a full editorial job. And some freelance assignments! Hallelujah.
I became an aunt for the second time.
I started revising my novel.

I would like to continue this blog, but frankly I think it's a bad idea to write about Dean since he could, if he chose, read everything I post. It gives him an access to me that is both more and less than honest, and I'm not comfortable with the idea. I think whatever I want him to know I should tell him.

Besides, this is supposed to be a sex blog, and the more I have sex with someone, the less I have to say about it. I think it's because when I'm fucking someone I don't know well, the whole experience is exotic and frequently hilarious. But when I'm having sex with someone on a regular basis, I'm less observant because I'm not thinking about the sex as a blog entry. There's more room for emotion. What I mean is this:

“I too, if I may mention myself, have always known that my destiny was, above all, a literary destiny—that bad things and some good things would happen to me, but that, in the long run, all of it would be converted into words. Particularly the bad things, since happiness does not need to be transformed: happiness is its own end.”

Jorge Luis Borges wrote that, and the last part, in particular, has always applied to me. That is, I tend to write more when I'm unhappy. Right now I'm enjoying myself a lot. I am superstitious and suspect that by writing about my life, I will ruin it. If things start to go pear-shaped, I will certainly record it.

On the other hand, I started my year of living (and writing) somewhat dangerously in March of 2006. Which means I have several months' worth of unpublished adventures sitting on my hard drive. Stay tuned.

I Handle Uncertainty With a Certain Aplomb. Not Really.

2008-01-02T21:44:00.000-05:00

It was the day I was to hear from Dean regarding my proposition. He was to consult with his therapist and give me an answer. And then I might have a boyfriend! Alternatively, I might spend the next few weeks convinced that I was a love pariah, in the words of my favorite diarist.

I felt kind of queasy, though perhaps it was all the Swedish fish I'd had for breakfast. I keep my email account open on my desktop at work, so every time a new message hits my inbox there’s a ping! As soon as I heard the sound I would click on the window, only to find annoucements from The Body Shop or a newsletter from my college.

When did Dean see his shrink, anyway? The later it got, the worse my odds, I figured. If he wasn't interested, he might put off writing to me, whereas if the answer was yes, he had no reason to wait. I thought the earliest I might hear from was about 12:00 noon.

Noon came and went. At two o'clock I had decided if he hadn't contacted me by 5:00, the answer was no.

Time passed. I read other people's blogs. I read The New York Times. For variety, I did a little work. Just before 3:30, my computer pinged.

He had emailed me. The subject line was Very Well, Young Lady!

I thought, !!!

I opened the email: Yes, Dean had written, he thought it would be a good idea if we were to see one another exclusively. I read the words again. I guess his shrink had approved. I pictured Dean's shrink, seeing him with a beard and a strong resemblance to Sean Connery. I really, really liked his shrink, I decided.

I was happy, but also incredibly relieved I wouldn't have to spend the next few days valiantly trying not to be upset.

So I wrote back to say that I was really pleased.

Then I emailed Jefferson to give him the news.

I Gird My Loins and State My Case

2007-12-27T09:58:00.001-05:00

The minute I left Dean’s apartment I placed a phone call to my sainted therapist: “Caroline?” I bleated to her voice mail. “This is Lily. I’ve precipitated a crisis with Dean. Can you call me back as soon as you get this?”

Then I went to work in the (mild) November rain, where I did what I always do when faced with romantic confusion: I emailed Jefferson. I had confided my crush on Dean to him some months ago, and he had been unfailingly kind in allowing me to blather on about it. Jefferson has also been the patient recipient of my more inane ramblings, like my astonishment at coming across a reference to Lesa Aldridge in an old Smithsonian magazine (kind of obscure: Aldridge is the onetime girlfriend of Alex Chilton -- he of the super-awesome Big Star, The Box Tops, and that Replacements song) as well as my disgruntlement at my sister’s choice of name for my newborn nephew (she named the baby after our grandfather. But that name was earmarked for my as-yet-unborn son!) Best of all, Jefferson always responds to my emails, and in a timely manner. Truly, yea, he is a paragon. And then, after some cathartic whining, I composed an email to Dean.

It was a very nice email, but it said that I was dumping him on the grounds that I didn’t think he wanted to be my boyfriend, and the casual nature of our relationship was turning me into a nervous wreck. I waited for Caroline to call me back before I sent it, since I never do anything without her approval. When she phoned I recounted my conversation with Dean. She suggested that perhaps instead of dumping him as a preemptive strike, I should instead ask Dean if he wanted to date me seriously.

“I don’t want to do that,” I whined. “That gives him the chance to reject me.” Also, it would make my email an ultimatum, which meant I was the kind of woman who gave ultimatiums: manipulative, scheming ... female. I preferred to see myself in a more flattering light.

But Caroline prevailed, since she is the therapist and I am the neurotic. I thanked her and then I sent the following email:

Dear Dean,

Hi. I cannot tell you how much I regret our conversation last night. I revealed information I suspected you did not want to hear and painted myself into a corner. But I learned my lesson, and that lesson is Lay off the pinot grigio. I'm still hungover. Jesus.

But the corner. As I said, I want to date you seriously, exclusively, whatever. But you said you weren’t sure you were capable of being in a relationship, which, alas, didn’t sound like a yes to me.

I think that the more I see you, the more I will want that kind of intimacy. So there are two options. One is I stop seeing you. Frankly, my nerves are shot and if we continue to date casually, there is a strong likelihood of a repeat of last night’s theatrics. I’m not up for that. The other option is you give some thought to us dating exclusively. And then you say, ‘OK, sounds good.’ That means we take our personals profiles down and you think of me as your girlfriend and when we get together we make dumb jokes and have sex.

…

Anyway. I’m sorry I haven’t got the nerve to talk to you about this in person. I will be disappointed if you don’t want to give it a go, but I will understand. (This part was not really true: I would have a hard time understanding. For once I was the victim of high self-esteem; I thought he ought to want to date me). I will miss you. I like you tremendously and think you’re lovely and, if this is it, I really hope everything turns out well for you. Take care. Many kisses.

Lily

I sent it and decided I would not check my email until the following morning. To facilitate this, I went home and went to bed. It was not yet 7:00 pm, but I’d had a trying 24 hours.

The following morning there was an email in my inbox from Dean. He too apologized for the conversation, said he liked me very much, and needed to discuss my proposition with his therapist. See? I thought, We have so much in common!

So then I settled down to wait for his answer. I didn’t cry, though. I’m done with that. At least I hope I am.

Ohh, Technorati

2007-12-19T16:13:00.000-05:00

Claim me, baby: Technorati Profile

In Which In Vino Veritas ... !@#$

2007-12-19T15:06:00.002-05:00

As usual, Dean and I were eating dinner and sharing a bottle of wine. His knee was sandwiched between my legs. We had just finished comparing parent horror stories (sexy!). He swallowed some linguini. “Anyway,” he concluded, “I’ve decided that I won’t have children…”

I looked at my plate. And then I sipped my wine. I stared at Dean, and then I looked at my plate again.

“You look really displeased,” said Dean. “I guess this isn’t something you want to hear about.”

I hadn’t realized I looked displeased. My policy is to maintain a totally noncommittal expression whenever Dean says something that flummoxes me. After all, it’s none of my business. We’re not a couple. Also, I don’t want him to know that when he says, for instance, “I’m not having kids,” that I think, “Oh, yeah? Well, I’ve picked out the names for mine!” I mean, I’m sentimental and dreamy, and I feel this is a character flaw. So I make a big effort to appear normal.

But my emotions had been detectable! I gulped down some more wine. “Well,” I said, and my voice sounded belligerent. “Are you saying this, or are you saying this to me?” Meaning, was he trying to tell me something?

“I’m just saying this. I’m just talking.” He clasped my hand. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“No, you didn’t –” He hadn’t upset me, had he? Oh. He had.

“Sweetie—”

I narrowed my eyes. “I mean, what are you saying to me, Dean?”

“I’m not—”

On our first date I had given Dean this blog address, and I’d regretted it mightily ever since. To compensate, I’d been pretty close-mouthed about my feelings both in person and online. But now, thanks to a bottle of wine, I was about to precipitate a discussion I didn’t want to have. That is, I was going to be honest.

It got a little convoluted, but this is the upshot:

I blurted out that I really, really liked him, and wanted us to date exclusively.
He said, “I didn’t know you felt that way; I had no idea.”
I thought, Oh, thank God and then said, “Well, how do you feel?”
He said, “I like you a lot.”
Note the lack of enthusiastic Yes! on the idea of us dating exclusively. Something in me collapsed a little. So I said, “Listen, I like you tons, but dating you is very stressful for me.” No joke. I would wonder, Hmmm, who else is Dean seeing? Is she prettier than me? She can’t possibly give more enthusiastic head – though admittedly that last insight did provide some comfort. I had started to think I’d developed an anxiety disorder, but now I realized it was just romantic neuroses.
He said, “Lily, I don’t even know if I’m capable of being in a relationship,” and took my hand.
I swallowed and half-whispered, “Dean, this isn’t going to end well for me.” Then I pushed my chair back. “I think I should go,” I said, melodramatically.
He said, “Sweetie -- sweetie. Don’t go. I’m so sorry I upset you.”
I said, “Excuse me,” and flounced off to the bathroom. Unfortunately it was occupied so I could not fling myself in there in sulky outrage. Instead I fidgeted in full view of Dean until the bathroom was free. Once inside, I cursed myself for being such a drunken moron. I’d been honest and if Dean wasn’t interested, I was going to have to dump his ass. I mean, I couldn’t go on dating him casually, knowing he didn’t want a relationship with me. For the past few weeks I’d suspected this discussion was only a matter of time. But now I’d gone and done it. Apparently my nerves couldn’t handle the limbo of wondering how (if at all) Dean felt about me.
I sheepishly returned to the table, and Dean, after ascertaining that I hadn’t been sick, paid the bill.
We left the restaurant and, outside, Dean wrapped his arms around me and stroked my hair, “I’m so sorry,” he said. “Please don’t be upset. Don’t go. Come home with me.”
“Why?” (I was fishing.)
“Because I want to be close to you and lie next to you.…”
And I whined into his leather jacket, “You knew I would say yes.”

So then he took my hand and we went for drinks and didn’t say any more about it. I drank two glasses of dessert wine but did not touch Dean’s passion fruit sorbet, which as a rule I make pretty quick work of. I was mortified and thought I might as well go the whole hog and get really wrecked. I was going to have to break up with him.

Walking home, he reminded me that I’d agreed to visit him in Atlantic City, where he was planning a 10-day poker trip in a few weeks. “OK,” I lied.

I appreciated the gesture, and he might have meant it, but I’d just told him I wanted us to be a couple and he’d not given me a terribly enthusiastic response. We weren’t going anywhere together; there was no way my ego would allow me to hang around him after this. I had forced my own hand. Damn you, pinot grigio!

Back at his place I hurriedly drank a glass of port, which I hate, and joked with him like everything was fine. We went upstairs, curled up on his bed and watched most of an old Fawlty Towers episode. When Dean smoked a bowl I joined him, which I never do. Like I said, I was determined to get really ploughed.

Then he kissed me and I went at him with a ferocious longing. I gave him a very ardent blow job and then he fucked me. I thought: This is the last time he’ll be inside me. He fucked me quickly and steadily. I couldn’t look at him. He breathed heavily in my ear and said my name.

Afterwards he clasped me close and I breathed him in, thinking, I’ll never lie here next to him again, because I am very self indulgent. When I shifted away he wrapped his arms around me and pressed my head to his chest and stroked my hair. I craved the comfort of him, the physical closeness he initiated. Maybe that is what I like best about Dean – how physically affectionate he is, how easy it is for him to take my hand and tell me I’m pretty and cuddle me.

I didn’t sleep well, but instead concentrated on the intangibles I anticipated missing: Dean’s scent, the way his fingers felt in my hair and the funny chirps he made when he snored.

**
In the morning I was wide awake and overtired, examining my broken-out complexion in his mirror as I applied my makeup.

“Want to see a movie on Thursday night?” Dean asked after I’d said, “I’m headed out,” and waited for him to kiss me goodbye.

“OK,” I lied again. I slipped out of the apartment. Dean, clad in his boxer shorts, peered at me from behind the front door as I clopped off down the stairs. I was going to have to do the rest of my truth-telling via email.

In Which I Am Rudely Awakened

2007-12-11T07:12:00.000-05:00

“I bought a new bra and panties,” I said, tugging off my top to reveal my new, 34C (!!) maroon bra and matching low rise bikinis, courtesy of The Gap. “And you’re the beneficiary.” The 34C had been a surprise. My mother had pointed out that I ought to try on the bra – usually I just buy a 34B, and I realized that I had no idea when I’d last been measured for a bra. So I tried on the 34B. Truthfully, it was tight around my ribs, not my breasts. The 36B fit fine, too, suggesting I’ve gained a little weight in my frame rather than my breasts. Alas. But the 34C fit nicely, too, so vanity won out. A 34C! I was pleased.

“Very nice,” said Paul. He stretched out on the bed and moved over to let me in, and I climbed in beside him. He pulled off his shirt and pants and, again, I was amused to note he wore tight bikini underwear. I feel boxers are the most appropriate undergarments for men, but I guess he had his reasons. Still, he had such a nice body – muscular arms, a tight stomach – totally impressive. It seemed churlish to mind the underwear. He pulled off his bikinis and his dick stood out, erect and slightly curved. I smiled.

Paul leaned forward to kiss me, and with one arm unhooked my bra. “Are you impressed?”

I giggled. “Could you do that cause you’re an older man?” I still can’t get over the fact I’m sleeping with a 51 year old. Fifty one!

He smirked: “I have years of experience.”

Naked, we pressed our bodies against one another. I felt great – the rough softness of the blanket, the give of the mattress, the silky hardness of Paul against me in the dim room – I felt like purring.

Paul slipped his mouth across my skin and down my belly. He tugged my underwear down my legs and then off. I stiffened a little, cause getting head tends to make me anxious. “Mmmm,” he said, burying his face in my pussy. I sighed and twitched as his tongue flickered against my clit, fighting the nerve ending-jumps I felt.

It was OK, but I really wanted to go down on him, so after a moment I pushed him away and got right on my knees. When I wrapped my mouth around his cock he moaned: “Lily…”

I liked hearing my name, and I liked the feeling of his warm, firm dick in my mouth. He wasn’t huge, but well-sized, and I had no problem taking him all the way in, my throat was relaxed and I was eager. Paul jerked his pelvis at me, accompanying his thrusts with moans. None of this was very out of the ordinary (though it was the first time Paul and I had gone down on one another), but I couldn’t get over how good everything felt – my skin felt sensitive only to pleasure, and I was just basking in his touch and my eagerness for him.

After a moment Paul slid his fingers between my legs. I was afraid I wasn’t wet enough, but after a minute I was slick. The blood throbbed in my groin. I moaned a little, too.

Paul whispered, “I want to do nasty things to you.”

I smirked. “You can. You can do whatever you like,” I breathed.

Paul lay on top of me and angled his cock towards my pussy, the tip just touching my cunt. “I want to — just for a —”

I shook my head. No way. Jesus, we weren’t teens: Let me put it inside, for just a minute! Gah.

“Then let me get a condom.”

I nodded, and sank down into the mattress. “You know what?” I said. “I think we have to turn off the music.” I get very distracted. We were listening to the soundtrack to American Gangster, a movie both of us had recently seen, and liked.

“Really?” Paul sounded disappointed. “OK.” He dutifully shuffled over to his laptop and turned off. Then he got back into bed and rolled on the condom. “You want to get on top?”

“No, I mean if you—”

He chuckled. “Get on top!”

“Well, OK then,” I said, and dreamily slid down his dick until he was all the way inside me. I rested there for a moment, his solidness opening me up, making me all liquid.

I rocked myself slowly against him, and my hair swung forward, hiding my face. I shifted until I could see Paul again, smiling up at me. “Does this make you feel good?” he whispered.

I stretched my thighs against his legs. “You make everything feel good.” It was true. My body seemed incapable of anything less than a kind of exquisite comfort; a sexual relief and happiness that had nothing to do with love, or even with lust. My brain was engaged only enough to notice that I felt fantastic. Maybe it was the quiet of Paul’s bedroom, with his big neatly-made bed and dim lights? Maybe it was Paul, who is so polite and enthused? At any rate, we were murmuring at one another, and my skin hummed.

“My baby’s going to come for me,” Paul muttered, and I vaguely registered that as my body worked towards an orgasm. I came with a cry and then I pressed myself close to Paul, waiting for my breathing to return to normal. After a bit I rolled onto my back with him still inside me, but then he said, “No wait,” and pulled out. He got on his knees. “I want you like this—” he said, so I turned over, and felt my stomach sink into the mattress as he found his way back inside me.

“Ahh,” I said into the pillow.

He thrust at me, “I’m going to come soon,” he noted ruefully. “I’m going to come fast.” I thrust my ass up at him. When he came he collapsed on me and his weight felt great, but he quickly pulled out, even though I wanted him to stay right there, inside me.

I felt blissed out and serene. Paul put his head on my shoulder and his solid compact body against mine, and we lay there quietly. After a while his breathing changed; he had fallen asleep.

Was this ideal casual sex? Paul is lovely, but I’m not in love with him. The person I feel most strongly about is Dean, who doesn’t get me off with such easy pleasure. And this didn’t feel the least bit weird, like sex with Alejandro had. It wasn’t particularly kinky, and didn’t require angst, like fucking Jed sometimes did. It was just pleasurable.

I was laying there, feeling pleased with myself and wondering if this was some sort of sexual nirvana – no attachment, no pain kind of thing, when Paul shifted in my arms and raised his head. “Do you have to go soon?” he asked. Then, “Wow. l asleep. Did you?”

I slid out off bed. “No I didn’t,” I said, and stalked off to the bathroom.

Under the bathroom lights I managed to squirt liquid soap all over myself. When I had cleaned myself up I went back to the bedroom. Paul was sprawled out on the bed. I picked my bra up from its lonely stay on the floor. “That was unnecessary, and rude,” I said, struggling to hook myself in. “‘Do you have to go soon?’ This is the second time you’ve said this to me.” (True. He’d said the same thing after our first encounter the other week, when I’d also been congratulating myself on the ease and simpatico-like qualities of our sex.)

“That’s not what—”

“Don’t worry,” I said, stepping into my underwear. “I won’t overstay my welcome.”

“Lily, wait. That’s not what I meant.” Paul grabbed my arm. “I’m sorry. I just worry about you getting home. It’s late.”

Sure.

“You know, I remember New York when it wasn’t safe to get on the subway after nine. I just worry about you being safe.”

Well, that was nice, only if he was really worried about my safety he could have walked me to the subway station three blocks away. Or, you know, the elevator. He had just kissed me goodbye the door to his apartment. He could have seen me out properly, you know. I didn’t say anything.

“That’s not what I meant,” he repeated, and tugged me into the bed next to him. I relented as he spooned me. It felt good. “I’m sorry,” he said again.

“It’s OK,” I said. He was allowed to want me to leave, just not to express it, I thought. And I guessed he wouldn’t express it again.

Probably Not What They Mean By an Epistolary Romance

2007-11-30T15:02:00.000-05:00

Dear Sir,
When I spoke to you earlier today I neglected to mention that I was naked, except for two strategically placed poker chips. And sunscreen, of course.

xxx
Young lady

Dear Young Lady,
How I envy those two strategically-placed poker chips! Or perhaps I envy even more the layer of sunscreen that coats your entire body. Hmmmm...

The rules to Mafia seem most fascinating. …

Off to AC on Tuesday afternoon, returning laaaate Weds, but I shall be thinking of you every time that I announce to my fellow players that I am “pushing all-in” as we poker players say.

xoxoxox
-Sir

**
Dear Sir,

I think Mafia will be lots of fun, though it can run on and you have to be able to tolerate annoying people -- not always my strongest point...!

I hope your trip is successful, and that images of my naked, card-adorned (full house? flush?) body occasionally flit through your brain as you kick poker ass.

xxx
Young lady

**
Dear Young Lady,
Thoughts of your naked body were indeed distracting whilst I was playing poker in Atlantic City!

Am very much looking forward to seeing you on Saturday night. Playing “Mafia” with you and your friends will surely be fun, but I am even more looking forward to playing “Stern Professor and Eager Young Coed” with you later on at my place.

xoxoxo
-Sir

**
Dear Sir,
Congrats on your big win, that's so impressive! I would like to think I played a small, yet pivotal role in your success. So I'll think that, evidence notwithstanding.

I’m looking forward to seeing you tomorrow night, too. I want to ask you about my extra credit assignments. It’s important for me to get an A in your class, if you know what I mean by this heavy-handed metaphor. And I think you do ;-)

xxx
Young lady

**
Dear Young Lady,
I think we might be able to reach a mutually agreeable plan for extra-credit work that would improve your grade for the semester. You would have to be extremely diligent and thorough in your side work for me, as the thing I have for you to work on is very hard indeed, but I feel confident that if you apply yourself you can truly earn that “A” we both know you deserve.

xoxoxxo
-Sir

My emails with Dean had degenerated to ridiculous innuendo and it looked like this would lead to some role playing. I had always dismissed the idea as silly, but when I read the words “stern professor and eager young coed” I felt a tingle at the back of my thighs. My cunt tightened reflexively and suddenly the idea of role playing did not seem so silly.

I thought of our second date, when, in Dean’s bedroom, he taken me over his knee and commented, “Now you have an older man who knows how to discipline you,” and I’d sort of swooned. And I imagined Dean as a professor and me as a student. In my mind, he was seated at a desk in a windowless office, but his office was also the bedroom I was familiar with, a messy room where outdated issues of The New York Times go to die.

I pictured standing in front of him, seated at a desk: “Professor? I’ve come to see you about some extra credit work, like we discussed.”

“Ah, yes. Sit down, Miss…”

“Vereker.”

“Yes, Miss Vereker.” [He would be an unreconstructed elbow-patch wearing guy, and would not deign to call me Ms., as I prefer.] Dean, looking more grizzled than he does in real life, and not wearing jeans, would peer at me over his glasses. I, naturally, would be wearing a plaid skirt and knee socks, as is required in these fantasies. I might even be sporting saddle shoes, though that could be going overboard. “So, you’d like to improve your grade?” He would rifle through his papers. “Ah, yes, your midterm…”

“Yes, I was very disappointed.”

He looks back up at me, gravely. “I can see why.”

I blush. “It’s very important to maintain my GPA,” I say softly.

Et cetera.

Unfortunately, this was not to be. This was the weekend before Halloween, and we went to a costume party. I went as Death, and Dean went as a mafioso, complete with a violin case and a stick-on mustache that gave him a strange resemblance to Mr. Potato Head.

By the end of the party I had a terrible headache. Then, in the cab on the way back to Dean’s apartment, I broke out in a cold sweat and vomited copiously. I hate throwing up; it hurts. Also, it’s not the most attractive thing you can do on a date.

At Dean’s, I melodramatically dragged myself up his stairs, drank some Coke, then vomited into a wastepaper basket. Dean left a message with a friend, an ER doctor, and rubbed my back. I fantasized that emergency services would turn up, inject me with painkillers (so I wouldn’t throw them up), and cure me immediately. Then I threw up what was left in my stomach and gargled with Listerine. I stopped sweating, and the kindly ER doc called back. “It hurts when I swallow,” I whined.

“It sounds like a virus,” the ER doctor diagnosed. “It should just run its course.”

“Tell me a story,” I said to Dean, and he obliged by telling me about his driving test, which naturally led to some innuendo about stick shifts. Then I fell asleep.

In the morning I felt better, but didn’t want to kiss Dean for fear of giving him my virus, though chances were I’d already infected him. But I kept thinking about the role playing we hadn’t done.

We are in his office again. At Professor Dean’s command, I have shown him my underwear. “You should be wearing white panties. They’re much more ladylike,” Professor Dean shakes his head as he puts me across his knee.

“Yessir,” I say breathlessly. “Should I take these off?”

“Hmmmph,” he says, thwacking my ass thoughtfully. After a few smacks, he stops. I am breathing hard. He sits me back on his knee, his thigh pressing up close to my pelvic bone. “Why young lady,” says Professor Dean, astonished, “Are you wet?”

I try to squeeze my thighs together and don’t say anything. Dean pushes me to my feet. I stand facing him, and then he puts his face close to my pussy, his lips rubbing against the cotton: “You are all wet,” he announces.

I feel my pussy clench. “Did I tell you that you could get wet?” he asks softly, lightly tapping his fingers against my underpants. I remain silent. “Did I? Young lady?” I shake my head, looking at the ground.

Very slowly, Professor Dean peels off my panties, and I squirm when the air hits my hot, damp skin. Professor Dean leans in even closer, and breathes right on my clit. I let out a squeak.

He immediately stops, and gazes up at me. “Young lady,” he says, sternly-but-fairly, “You’re going to have to behave yourself.” I am embarrassed. His mouth hovers just millimeters from my lips as he examines my pussy. “Hmmm,” he says thoughtfully. “I see.”

“What? What do you see?” I’m shaking now. Dean looks up at me and cocks his head, prompting me. “Sir.” I add.

“I see … you obviously … ” and here he draws back and slips a finger inside me. I’m so wet there is almost a splash. I sigh, and sway a bit on my weak knees. Dean draws his finger out and slips it into his mouth, sucking thoughtfully, like he’s tasting a wine. Then he takes it out and looks up at me for a moment before returning to gaze intently at my pussy. “I see that you need a lot of cock,” he murmurs, and flicks his tongue at me gently.

Dean and I lay sandwiched together, my stomach pressed against his dick. I stroked Dean’s cock as I imagined Professor Dean manhandling me, and eventually Dean pushed me onto my side and squeezed my right breast. I trailed my fingers along the underside of his dick.

He stood up and crossed to the other side of the bed, to the drawer where he keeps the condoms. I slid my legs open wide and slipped my middle finger against my underwear, enjoying the friction of the cotton against my clit. I gazed at Dean as he tugged the condom on, then rubbed myself a little more.

He climbed back into the bed and lay on top of me, spreading my legs wider and pulling off my bikini underpants. I caught his eye and held his gaze; he grimaced as he fitted himself inside me. “Good?” I prompted him as he sank inside me.

“Yeah….” he said, and pushed against me. “Oh, Lily.”

He leaned to kiss me but, fearful of my virus, I turned and gave him my cheek. He kissed each side of my mouth, then my cheek, and my forehead, and I wrapped my legs around his back. “Oh, yeah,” I sighed as his body wracked mine. “That’s good.”

Then he kissed my mouth, lightly, and I pushed against him as he fucked me. “You like that? Baby?”

“Lily,” he said. “Lily.”

Tonight's the Night!

2007-11-27T11:36:00.001-05:00

A Charlie Brown Christmas is on ABC tonight.

Linus has always been my favorite, though apparently when I was three I insisted on being called Sally. I love Linus' s peculiar clear voice and the way he says “Charlie Brown,” with the syllables coming right from the front of his mouth.

Also, Peanuts on TV always makes me think of the old CBS Special Presentation promo and commercials for Peppermint Patties and Mounds and Almond Joy -- I think Peter & Paul sponsored the show. Does anyone remember these ads? “A York Peppermint Pattie gives me the sensation of a cool breeze...” Those were the days.

Holiday, Schmoliday

2007-11-24T18:52:00.003-05:00

This Be The Verse

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats.

Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself.

I mean, it's Thanksgiving and I love them, but years of therapy have only confirmed Larkin's conclusion.

I'm just sayin'.

Good Manners Rewarded!

2007-11-22T14:19:00.000-05:00

I was dreading my date with Paul.

It was cold and overcast, and I’d spent the previous night with Nick and wanted to go home; also my thoughts were on Dean and the thought of fucking someone new just did not appeal.

I’m sorry, I just threw up, I tried. This just isn’t going to work. I don’t want to be a slut anymore. I’ve had an accident. There’s been a family emergency.

But no. I’d already cancelled earlier in the week. I should have turned him down when he suggested it; it would be rude to back out now.

So you’re going to sleep with him cause it’s the polite thing to do? You’re afraid he’ll get mad at you? Think you’re a tease?

Huh. Apparently.

**

Paul had emailed Jefferson after Jefferson appeared in Time Out New York’s annual sex issue a few weeks ago. He’d checked out Jefferson’s blog and emailed him, saying he was interested. With a caveat: “I’m straight as an arrow,” he wrote, “And wouldn’t want to be in a boy-fest.”

All straight men seem compelled to remind Jefferson that they’re straight. Cause all bi and gay men want to fuck them.

When Paul wrote I was at Jefferson’s, dancing around his living room to “Too Drunk to Fuck”.

“Look at this guy,” said Jefferson. I peered over his shoulder, and looked at a photo of a dark haired, handsome man in a button down shirt.

“He’s cute.” I hopped around and did the swim – my default dance mode is always a ’60s mod move. I had recently been complaining that of late my sex partners had been disappearing: Alex’s girlfriend was back in town, Jefferson was always busy, and Jed was impossible to get hold of. I felt that for the sake of living somewhat dangerously, not to mention my as yet unsigned book deal, I ought to be fucking around with more people. And doing it as soon as possible.

“Let me at ’im,” I said. Well, not really. Instead I read their correspondence, which ended with Paul’s asking, “Do you know any woman who would be willing to ‘associate’ with me?”

“Tell him I’m hot,” I advised. “And easy!” I caught a glimpse of myself reflected in Jefferson’s window. I did the frug and a shimmy. I looked ridiculous.

**

Jefferson forwarded me the emails so I contacted Paul. We arranged to meet for a drink the following week.

That Thursday we met, as planned, at Vintage, where I’d gone on my first date with Dean back in July. When I arrived, I was met by a tall, thin fellow in jeans, with a messenger bag across his shoulder. Hipster version 2.0.

“Hi!” We shook hands. It was a mild evening so we wended our way to the back garden, where I ordered a Flirtini. I guessed Paul would order a Heineken or a glass of wine, but he opted for vodka and soda. When the waitress asked him what vodka brand he would prefer, he shook his head and said “Any” before agreeing to a Stolichnaya at the waitress’s prompting. This I approved of; I think it’s pretentious to ask for Grey Goose or Stoli (no one ever requests Crystal Palace, do they?). Though that’s just prejudice on my part. Just cause I can’t tell one vodka from another doesn’t mean others can’t tell if one brand is superior. Nevertheless, I stick to this reverse snobbism. But I digress.

So. Paul was lean and his hair was spiky and he had a mild, deferential manner. I pegged him at 43, tops. Then he told me he was 51. Fifty one!

“Wow,” I said weakly.

“I’m pretty healthy,” he explained.

He was a creative director at an ad agency and a native of Brooklyn. He had read some of the same books as me. He remembered the blackout of ’77, though, unlike me, he wasn’t four years old at the time. And, I noticed, his voice had a faint but unmistakable East Brooklyn tinge. What do I mean by this? I mean his voice bore a strange resemblance to Woody Allen’s! Good lord.

But despite that he was attractive. I mean, I’m not immune to lean, polite and articulate men with messenger bags. We chatted for a bit and after a discussion about the recent history of New York City -- always a turn on for me, come to think of it -- I decided that a) I would fuck him if he was game and b) he would make an admirable addition to Jefferson’s parties, despite being straight. He was attractive, personable and wouldn’t frighten the skittish (i.e. me).

So it was agreed: we’d make plans to fuck in the coming week. I went home, satisfied that I was doing my part to live somewhat dangerously.

But now we were meeting again and I was having second thoughts. I’d spent the previous night with Nick, it was rainy and cold, my feet hurt and the idea of spending a few hours fucking a near-stranger did not appeal. I sat on the uptown bus, loathing myself.

When I got to Paul’s door he welcomed me with a big smile and took my coat. “Can I get you a glass of wine?” he asked as I seated myself on his sofa.

“Yes please.” I figured alcohol would go a ways towards easing my doubts.

He poured me a glass of Riesling (he had, in fact, emailed me earlier to find out if there was anything I preferred and I’d been quick to lodge a request). It was slightly fizzy and sweet, and went down a treat.

“Oh, this is nice,” I said, leaning back against and feeling myself relax ever so slightly.

We talked and talked and my eyes wandered to a pile of books. I approved of his selections (mostly non-fiction, but still) and after a while I forgot that I didn’t want to be here. I did, in fact, want to be here. I drank most of the bottle of Riesling.

“Maybe we should take our clothes off,” said Paul at one point as I poured myself another glass of wine.

“Why?” I smiled. “Do you have to be somewhere later?” I mean, what was the hurry?

“No, I just thought it would be nice to continue talking naked,” he said, sounding embarrassed.

“Well, you’re not in a rush, are you?” But when he lay on the couch I slid next to him, and when he climbed on top of me I didn’t protest.

We kissed for a while. For a 51-year-old, he had a great body: lean, muscled, blah blah blah. He had a great body for a 30 year old, in fact. He took off my shirt and nuzzled my breasts. I smirked at the ceiling. Eventually, stripped to our underwear, we headed to his bedroom.

On the bed we lay next to one another, kissing. I straddled him and dangled my breasts in his face. He licked my nipples, then kissed the aureoles. “You have great tits,” he observed. He ran his hands from my waist to my hips. “You’re really voluptuous.”

I giggled. “You know what that means to a woman?” I asked. “Voluptuous? It means fat.”

“No, no,” he protested, “I didn’t mean—”

“I know.” I rubbed myself against his smooth skin. I mean, I did know. He didn’t mean I was fat, and that’s not what the word voluptuous means, either. But for an American female, words like “voluptuous”, “curvy” and even “healthy” have sort of double meanings, and those double meanings are apparent in everything from Glamour to Craig’s List.

And frankly I am kind of voluptuous – I have a small waist and wide hips (and, unfortunately, wide thighs, too). My tits are a reasonably-endowed B. I’ve got trim ankles, though, which is a weird source of pride for me and would definitely up my hotness factor if this were 1891.

But anyway. Paul was hard, and I was wet. I was sliding up and down against him, almost as if we were actually fucking rather than mimicking the actions our bodies would soon perform, that role-play of sex that often precedes the event itself. My cunt was tipped against his cock, I was close to opening up to him.

I rolled off him and he put on a condom, and I got back on top. I sighed as my flesh yielded to his dick. It felt great, even better than I’d expected. I rode him slowly.

“Ah,” he said.

“You like that? You like being inside me?”

“Yeah, I like your pussy,” he sighed.

Oooh, he’d said pussy. “You do?” I hinted.

“Yeah, you’ve got a sweet, wet pussy…”

I felt this warm, dreamy contentment steal through me, at odds with the physical urge I had to keep pushing against him. I was flooded with the disassociated bliss that usually follows sex before I’d even had an orgasm. I rocked back and forth absently.

“Is that good?”

“Yeah, I’m going to lick you pussy and fuck you and … ride my cock.” Paul looked pleased and secretive.

I did, and then I came. I collapsed onto Paul’s chest before tumbling onto my back so he could fuck me.

On top of me his cock pushed up against me. “This is the best time I’ve had all day,” he breathed into my ear.

“Well, I should hope so!” I would hope sex with me would trump laying off employees, which, Paul had told me, he’d spent the last few days doing at the behest of his higher ups.

“I mean, the best time I’ve had all year,” he corrected himself, laughing. I assumed that was a bit of an exaggeration, but I appreciated the sentiment.

I stretched against Paul’s comforter, enjoying the cool cotton against my skin. With a long, slow shudder, Paul came, and I lay there, smug and warm underneath him while the rain battered against the windows.

Nick Redux!

2007-11-14T12:43:00.000-05:00

One Friday night I got an email from Nick, Anna Smash’s boyfriend – he was in town for a few days and asked if I wanted to get together. I was really pleased, because I regretted that I’d really been too drunk to fuck him properly when we’d first met, and I’d thought he was a sweetheart, not to mention hot and the possessor of a niiice dick.

Accordingly, the following Wednesday night I traipsed all the way out to NJ for our assignation at a Newark hotel. I felt this was pretty sleazy, though I was mollified by the fact that we were not meeting at a one-floor Super 8 but at a genuine hotel. Nick had texted me that he’d left a card key for me at the front desk, but I couldn’t bring myself to go to reception and announce myself; I felt like this would be declaring to the concierge that I had crossed state lines for sex. Which I had.

I used to go to London for sex; but that was when I was dating Luke Parker but we claimed to love one another and who knows, maybe we did. I was 25.

Wednesday was rainy and cold; the mild weather we’d been having seemed to be over for good. I took NJ Transit to the Newark air train and then a shuttle bus to the hotel. The shuttle bus was full of what I took to be genuine business people, not self-declared sluts masquerading as conference-goers. At the hotel I was relieved to find a bar and I immediately got myself a glass of wine before texting Nick to let him know that I was perched on a bar stool, awaiting his return.

He turned up not 10 minutes later and he clamped his arms around me in a bear hug, like we were old friends rather than near strangers. Which I liked. And I guess in a sense fucking someone breaks down the barriers that people who have only met once usually have between them, because I didn’t feel like he was a near stranger. He looked good. He went to park his car and when he came back he introduced me to one of his colleagues, and we went to store our stuff up in his room.

Upstairs we didn’t fool around or anything. There were two beds and I wondered if, like Alex and Katie, he and Anna Smash had rules about sleeping in different beds from the people they fooled around with. On the way down in the elevator Anna called. “Yeah, she’s here now,” Nick said, smiling into his cell phone. “No, you wouldn’t be interrupting ... call me later…” I pretended not to eavesdrop, since it’s not polite to listen to other people declare their love for one another.

We went back downstairs and settled ourselves at a table in the bar/lobby area. Some people he worked with joined us – two men and a woman, and we all ordered drinks and traded stories. After two drinks, I was fairly buzzed since I hadn’t eaten since lunchtime. I felt very mellow and cheery, and I liked Nick’s friends.

He sat between me and his producer, a woman named Karen, with his arm slung around the back of the upholstered bench we were sitting on. He rubbed my back a bit. Clearly his colleagues knew about Anna Smash, so I felt a little funny about this, since I assumed the fact that he and Anna had an open relationship was not common knowledge. I figured that even if his co-workers realized I was here to be fucked, they would be uncomfortable being faced with evidence of the fact. Or maybe I was projecting. I mean, if I went out with some co-workers and someone I knew had a girlfriend was looking cozy with someone not his significant other, I’d feel uncomfortable. But whatever. Maybe they all thought I was an old friend. Maybe they couldn’t have cared less (most likely option).

We ate dinner and chatted but eventually the others drifted off, leaving me and Nick still ensconced on the bench. He put an arm around me and we kissed, in full view of anyone who walked by. Then we headed back to his room. He poured us both bourbons and we sprawled on one of the beds. Anna called, and I closed my eyes and listened to him talk to her: “Yeah, I’ve got a beautiful woman here with me now …. How are you getting home? You’re not going to walk, are you? …. I love you, baby.” I smiled.

“How’s Anna Smash?” I asked. I marveled that Nick and she could feel secure enough to fuck other people and not feel that their commitment to one another threatened. I said as much.

He nodded, and trailed his hand along my leg, propped up on the bed. “I’m not jealous, and neither is she. I’ve never been jealous,” he said mildly. “Anna’s exactly what I’m looking for, and I think I’m exactly what she needs right now, too.”

In a way, it always amazes me that people find one another at all. I mean, think of the people you think are attractive – what are the odds that they find you attractive, too? Not great. Assuming that you both do fancy one another, what are the odds that you can declare yourselves and make it to a first date? What are the odds that this date will be successful and that this person’s attractiveness won’t fade when they reveal themselves to be rude to waiters or libertarians? Even if you approve of this person’s attitudes, what if she honks when she laughs or he wears cardigans or has any one of a million idiosyncrasies that you know are irrelevant but just totally turn you off? So it seemed wonderful, literally full of wonder, that Nick, who is from the south, and Anna, who is 15 years younger than Nick, both managed to find themselves in the same city, meet through roommates, be attracted to one another, single at the same time, and kinky enough for one another.

“I could never do what you do,” I said, a little sadly, “I mean, be in an open relationship.”

Nick gave me a curious look, and ran his hand across my stomach. “Let’s take these off,” he said, pointing to my stockings.

Obediently I unrolled them, then remembered my flawed striptease for Jefferson so many months ago. “Oops,” I said. “I didn’t put much into that.” I tossed the nylons to the floor and stretched back on the bed. Nick sloped towards me; we kissed.

We lay on the bed for a bit, our fingers trailing over each other’s bodies. “It’s nice to see you,” he said.

I slid my limbs across his torso. “It’s good to see you, too. I know I’m sort of passive, but I’m really pleased that I got another chance to fuck you.”

He leaned closer. “What kinds of stuff do you like?”

“I dunno,” I said. What I meant was: Be in charge. Order me around. Don’t inflict any pain on me. “I like being told what to do,” I said at last.

Nick kissed me again. He ran his hands up along my body, he had the lightest touch. I slid my fingers along his back, dragging his shirt over his head. He bumped his groin against mine; I was pleased to note he had an erection. I looked up at him and rubbed my palm across his crotch. He hoisted himself onto his knees and unbuckled his jeans.

“You’re not wearing underwear!”

“Well, not today…” We smirked at one another, and then he pressed himself against me and started kissing me again. Then he slid off the bed and stood facing me. With a sigh I turned onto my side and slipped his cock into my mouth.

“Oh, Lily.”

His dick was warm and silky and hard; I puckered my lips around it and gave him a nice long suck. “Ah,” he said. “You’re such a good girl.”

Just hearing that made me so wet; I do like being told I’m a good girl.

I licked the underside of his dick, just like Jefferson had shown me. “That feels so good,” he murmured arching his pelvis towards me. Then he slid his hand between my legs.

My cunt was all slick and soft. “Mmmmn,” I whimpered. I bobbed my head back and forth across his dick in absentminded bliss as Nick played with my clit. His index finger pressed gently against me. I sighed and tried to take him deeper into my mouth.

“Oh, you’re such a good girl…” Nick shoved himself a little bit closer. I wanted to be the best girl ever.

“Stand up,” he said at last. I struggled out of my dress, which had a side zip and got stuck over my breasts, but at last I stood in front of him, naked. He turned me around so I stood with my back against him and he put his hands on my tits. “You’ve got great breasts.”

I mean, you want to fuck me? Compliment me. I’m totally easy like that.

We lay down on the bed and pressed up close against one another. Then he reached into the night table drawer and brought out a condom and some lube. He slid the condom on and swirled a little lube on my clit. Then he pressed his cock inside of me.

He felt really big; I could feel him pressing right up against the swell of my abdomen. I had been spotting all day, though, and it kind of hurt. When he lifted my legs around his neck I actually gritted my teeth; that’s not something that I usually find painful.

He fucked me hard, with a steady, ramming push, and again, I was reminded of Jeremy, whose violent reaming had taken me completely by surprise back in December. After minute I indicated that I wanted to get on top.

As I slid onto his cock my whole body slumped in relief. We smiled blurrily at one another, and then I began rocking back and forth. “You like that,” I muttered as I pushed myself back and forth on his dick.

“Yeah,” he said. “You’re going to come for me, baby?”

“Uh huh.” He stretched his arms above his head, so I put my hands on his wrists and held them against the pillow. I stretched my tits towards his mouth and gazed at him from under my lashes. He lifted his head and took a breast in his mouth and I sighed and rubbed myself against him.

I don’t have much stamina these days; I start fucking, I want to come, and so I come pretty quickly and want to collapse. I used to come like a wave; my whole body would judder and I occasionally had multiple orgasms (I remember having a few with Michael). But now it was like my body just gave up the fight, and my orgasm slipped out of me. I slumped a little, and considered working myself up for another round, but after a bit of rubbing myself up and down Nick’s cock, I decided I was too tired. I gave Nick an unfocused smile.

“Sit back on my dick,” Nick said. So I slid back, swaying my hips up and down as I rocked back and forth. When I’m ready to come, I ride the guy by pressing my hips close against him and stretching my legs straight between his. It’s sort of snake position, yoga style, only I don’t stretch my neck and my tits are in someone else’s mouth, usually. But now I was sitting all the way back on Nick’s dick and again, I was aware of what really was probably my period (though this wasn’t fair, I was in the middle of my birth control cycle!). After a bit I slumped forward and indicated it was time for him to fuck me.

“Not until you come,” he said.

“Oh, but I did,” I said. Boy, this probably sounded like I was lying, like I just wanted it to be over, which wasn’t the case. “I did,” I repeated, worried that he didn’t believe me. “That’s why I stopped fucking you. I thought of going for a second round but I’m too lazy.”

He rolled off of me. “Hmm,” said Nick.

“Is there something wrong with the condom?” He had pulled it off.

“No, you’ve just been bleeding.”

Oh Christ, the white sheets were bloodstained. Nick slipped on another condom.

“Sorry.”

“It’s OK.”

“My blood’s clean, though,” I added. “I mean, I was tested recently.”

He smiled at me. “I’m not worried about that,” he said, and then pushed himself back on top of me.

“I really did come,” I repeated. “I wouldn’t lie about that.” I wouldn’t. I did once, I think, with Luke Parker, and never again, it’s not worth the stress of wondering if the guy thinks I’m faking it. Not to mention the effort of training one’s breathing. I almost always come with little effort, so if I don’t it’s not a huge deal.

“Lie on top of me for a second,” I said. I love having the weight of a man’s body on top of mine, it’s so soothing. But this time it was like I needed it, I felt jittery and tense; or rather, my muscles had relaxed but my skin had not. A peculiar feeling.

Nick obeyed, then after a moment he fitted his dick inside me and lifted my legs around his shoulders. “Ah,” he said. “Ah, yeah.”

The bed creaked a bit and the headboard banged against the wall, just as in the movies. When Nick thrust against me I let out a yelp. I clamped my hand over my mouth: “Sorry!”

“That’s OK. It’s a hotel,” he grinned.

But it kind of hurt. It never hurts when a guy puts my legs around his neck and fucks me hard, but tonight I felt this deep ache in my abdomen. Ow.

But I persevered, and dragged my nails down Nick’s back as he fucked me. His hair was damp with sweat, and as he burrowed inside me I clamped my arms around his back. “Come for me,” I commanded. Nick groaned. “Yeah, yeah,” I urged.

He came with a long shudder, a kind of cry, and I loved the desperate noises he made when he shuddered in my arms. Afterwards we lay there, tangled up in the sheets. The linen was bloody from my “spotting”. Fuck.

He wrapped his arms around me and kissed my forehead – he smelled nice – and I snuggled up against him. Then suddenly I got this deep, gripping cramp. It was like a windshield wiper was being slowly dragged through my gut. I rolled onto my stomach and pressed my body against the mattress, holding my breath. That felt more like food poisoning than my period, I thought. I mean, my cramps are a dull grind, not a crunching pain. Then it happened again, and I clutched my stomach.

But eventually it subsided again and I lay there in the dark, getting used to the scent of Nick next to me in the bed.

***

The alarm went off at 6:15. Nick and I rubbed against one another in a companionably fashion for a bit, and then he put me on my stomach and put on a condom.

“Stick your ass up,” he whispered. I did.

“Oh, god,” I said, “I’m sore.” I was; I felt achy, though I wanted him inside me.

“Hold on.” Nick rubbed a bit of lube against my skin and then pushed him cock back inside me. I sighed, “Aaahhh.”

“Stick that ass up,” he said again. I obeyed. “Yeah, that’s right.”

“Yeah, just like that,” he gritted, and a grin broke across my face as I buried my head in my pillow. “Yeah,” he grunted. I balled my fingers into the sheets and gripped hard.

“Yeah,” I muttered, “Fuck me. Yeah.”

Even though I felt raw and achy, it was still good. I felt extra sensitive, but also like my body was fighting the excitement. I shoved my ass against Nick’s stomach and listened to him grunt in my ear. “Yeah, yes,” I said. “Yeah, Nick. Fuck me. Come on, fuck me.”

It was still dark out and he pounded away at my pussy while I clutched the sheets and clenched my thighs in excitement. He came quickly, and then, after a moment of mutual awe (“That was hot!”) turned on the lights. We blinked at one another.

He took a shower and while I still had time I couldn’t go back to sleep. I was hungover and my body was raw but wired. I put my head under the down pillow and tried to relax, unsuccessfully.

**

The sky was a dark gray green and it was raining when I got out of the shower. Nick was dressed and checking his luggage. “I have to go,” he said.

I nodded. We looked at one another. “I’ll let you know about the party,” I said. I had been invited to a party hosted by Viviane, and Jefferson would be there.

“It was great to see you.”

“Yeah.” Awkwardly, gently, we kissed, and then I watched as he towed his bags to the door, and left the room.

A Lucky Accident

2007-11-05T14:09:00.001-05:00

I gazed at my naked body. I had meant to clean myself up a bit, but instead I was shaved bare.

I’d slid my pink Daisy razor across my pubes, hoping this would result in a neater, more trimmed me, but instead it’d done what razors do and removed all my hair. I felt my hairless pussy. The skin was tender and soft and smooth, though the texture was slightly pebbly, like a plucked chicken. Huh.

Well. I guess it looked OK. I got dressed and climbed upstairs.

In the bedroom Dean was getting dressed. “I like your shirt,” I said. It was hot outside, but he was buttoning up a long-sleeved Oxford shirt, and wearing jeans. He looked really cute; I wasn’t used to seeing him in long sleeves. Most of the time he wore an Onion t-shirt that read The Sports Team in My Area is Superior to the Sports Team in Your Area.

“You do?” Dean turned to look at me.

“It’s a nice color.” It was pink.

“Yeah,” Dean deadpanned, “I’m secure in my masculinity.”

“Well, that’s a relief.”

**
We were on our way to a wine and chocolate tasting party. The combination seemed a little unusual, but I like wine and I love chocolate, so I was game. The party was hosted by Elaine, a friend of Marc’s (and mine, too).

At the door to the apartment we were greeted by Elaine, dressed, no joke, like Vegas showgirl minus the headdress. She wore a cropped, flimsy top and a ruffled asymmetric skirt that just skimmed her knees. Her long, straight hair hung halfway down her back. Elaine is about eight years my junior. She works as a financial analyst and likes to know how much everything costs. Her goal is to marry a managing director. She’s kind of endearing, though. She’s completely artless, and doesn’t seem to understand that not everyone wants to talk about what they paid for stuff.

Elaine was co-hosting the party with Paul, who is her ex-boyfriend. We were at Paul's apartment. According to Marc, Paul is weird. Looking around, I didn’t doubt it.

“This is the apartment of an old person!” I hissed at Dean as we each poured ourselves some white wine. Dean looked at me quizzically. “Look at the way it’s decorated!” I couldn’t quite explain. The walls were covered with a stiff royal blue fabric, and all the dark, wood furniture matched. It just looked the apartment of an elderly couple, circa 1948 or something. It did not feel like an apartment you would or could relax in.

Nonetheless, people appeared to be enjoying themselves – drinking wine and eating chocolates (there was also cheese and crackers for the less adventurous). I knew a bunch of people here – many of them were Marc’s co-workers.

Then I spotted Marc. Ah. I clutched Dean’s hand and dragged him over. “Marc, this is Dean.” They shook hands. I looked from one to the other. I wanted Marc to like Dean.

“Nice to meet you,” said Marc. “Lily mentioned you, but all she said was that you were tall.”

Oh, Christ. For a second I'd been afraid he was going to say something else. Because when I’d told Marc about Dean I’d said, “And I think he’s really rich!”

“Hey, you match,” said Marc, looking from Dean to me. I was wearing a pink top.

“Well,” I considered. “I guess his shirt is kind of a soft rose,” I don’t know where I got that phrase.

“Soft rose?” Dean looked pained. “I can handle pink, but soft rose?”

**

Eventually we said our goodbyes and headed out to the street. It had gotten dark, and we ended up at a sidewalk table of an Italian place for dinner. When the bill came, I excused myself. “Ah,” said Dean, “You always disappear when the bill comes.”

I felt really bad. I never pay for anything when I’m with Dean. “I’ll pay,” I said.

“I was kidding!”

“No, I’ll pay!”

He drew me to him. “Lily, who’s the trustafarian here? I was just deliberately being an asshole.”

“OK,” I said, cause I decided he was right. The thing is, I like being treated. I don’t mind the fact that I can’t contribute cash to the dinners, cabs, movies, etc. I don’t mind being poor or being indulged by a rich older man, which is what Dean is. I mind that he might think I’m greedy, or using him. I don’t think he does, actually, since I’m not. But we took the bus back to his place.

**
Back at Dean’s we climbed upstairs to the roof. I was dressed, Dean was in his boxers. We lay in the hammock, my head on his chest.

After a minute or so I slid my hand over his groin. I rubbed his dick lightly through the cotton, and then I scooted down and started to blow him.

“Come on,” said Dean hoarsely. “Let’s go downstairs.”

We made it to the lower deck, where he sat in his lazy-boy lawn chair and pushed my head between his legs before suddenly getting up and going inside. He came back with a long deck chair pillow and a cord, with which he tied my wrists behind my back. I slid onto my knees and took him in my mouth. He moaned.

“Yeah, yeah,” he said. I was so eager. I deep throated him, gagging as he thrust his cock down my throat. After a minute or two he stood up and motioned to where he’d put the cushion. He untied my hands and I lay down. He spread himself on top of me and, after struggling with the condom, pushed himself inside.

He smelled good, and his weight felt strong and solid. “I don’t want you to forget me,” I said fiercely, apropos of nothing.

“I wasn’t planning on getting rid of you,” he said, pausing between strokes.

I clutched at him, desperate to hold his dick tight inside me. “I’m just drunk and maudlin,” I panted. Well, I was.

**

In the morning I woke up before Dean, and I buried my face in his arm. This is the position we have adopted: him on his back with an arm around me, and me on my stomach with my face in the crook between his shoulder and upper arm.

“You didn’t notice,” I said when he woke up. “I shaved my pussy.”

“Oh!” He examined me, sliding a finger across my smooth bald pussy. Then he bent down, and touched his tongue to my clit. It didn’t feel noticeably different, or more sensitive. Oh well. “Kiss me,” I said, and he obeyed, before going right back to my pussy.

He tongue swirled around my clit. I groaned and shook, and then I came. That was a turn up for the books: I never come during oral sex. Suddenly it occurred to me that I’d been mistaken: shaving my pubes had given me some extra sensitivity. But I wanted more. “Fuck me,” I said.

“You’re so demanding,” Dean grinned. “Young trollop!”

“Ah, you love it.”

He undressed, and then put Bob Marley on the CD player. I shrugged out of my bra.

He put on a condom, and then a buzzing cock ring we’d spotted a few nights ago during a tour of a sex toy shop downtown. We’d tried it that night, and the battery had burned out after 10 minutes. Dean had since replaced the battery, but this one died almost immediately, too.

He pushed himself inside me and lifted my legs so that they were around his back. “Look at me,” I breathed.

He kissed my forehead and grimaced as he fucked me, staring at a point beyond my head. “Was that the first time you fucked outside?” he asked suddenly.

“Uh huh.”

“That deserves a blog entry, don’t you think?”

“Uh huh.” I struggled up against his cock, pushing back against him. I remembered what it had felt like last night, being on my knees on the deck, frantically sucking Dean off, with my hands locked behind my back. “I liked being on my knees for you,” I muttered, “And having you moan my name and shoving your cock down my throat...” I started to shake.

“Did you come again?”

“Yes.” I had. I rarely come in missionary position. This bare pussy was really something.

“Stir it up, little darling,” sang Bob Marley.

Dean rocked back and forth on top of me, breathing heavily. Now it was his turn. “Are you going to come for me?” I raked my nails down the side of his torso.

“Oh!” Dean cried. He jerked, and came to a shuddery halt in my arms. “That’s two for two,” he rasped after a moment, looking right at me. “We’ll have a rematch later.”

Oooh, Sugasm!

2007-10-27T12:01:00.000-04:00

The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #103? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form. Participants, repost the link list within a week and you’re all set.

This Week’s Picks

She Told Me
“She told me she had a headache.”

Fantasy: If you can’t stand the heat…
“You set the ice cube down and force my legs apart.”

Sugarbutch Star: Bad Bad Girl
“I brought my lips down on hers hard, crushing, devouring, insistent.”

Mr. Sugasm Himself
Upskirt Video from V Magazine

Editor’s Choice
Blog Action Day: Sexual Activism or Lightning Doesn’t Strike Twice

More Sugasm
Join the Sugasm

See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.

And more!

More Lesbian Hijinks Ensue!

2007-10-23T12:29:00.001-04:00

I was having a bad day and feeling sorry for myself so when Jefferson invited me to hang out I was only too grateful to be taken out of myself. I went down to Toad Hall to meet him, Anna Smash, her boyfriend Nick and one of Jefferson’s blog correspondents, a Californian named Eleanor.

I was feeling that peculiar aftershock of unhappiness, where you’re holding misery at bay by feeling very detached. I had eaten very little all day and had decided that perhaps my unhappiness would inaugurate some weight loss. But when Nick offered to buy me a drink I quickly relented: “A gin and tonic, please,” I said automatically.

“Sure,” said Nick. He turned to Anna Smash and held out his palm for money. “Honey?”

We all laughed. When Nick stood up to get the drinks he rubbed his arm against my back. Oho! I thought.

We drank and laughed and every so often thoughts about unemployment and family problems flickered through my brain and sometimes I ignored them manfully and other times I probed the thoughts like a sore tooth, trying to see how they hurt. Everything got funnier and we all gave one another high fives – over the fact that I correctly guessed the spelling of Eleanor’s last name, that Eleanor and I were the same age, that Anna Smash had created such a remarkably cool and sexy blog name.

Anna Smash was so pretty, with a glossy black Louise Brooks bob that framed her face like a parentheses. She had fine, delicate features and a slight body. She was gamine and soignée and other French adjectives, as well as being very young; her boyfriend was 38. When Nick told me how old he was I realized he reminded me a bit of Jeremy. Nick had a nice face, plump lips and slightly protuberant front teeth. He also had a faint Southern accent, which I didn’t hear until Anna Smash pointed it out. He was awfully nice. He bought another round of drinks and when he sat back down he slid his hand over my knee.

I liked his hand on my knee, but was this kosher? “Is this OK with Anna?” I hissed.

Nick smiled broadly: “It’s totally OK,” he said, and turned to smile at his girlfriend. She smiled back.

“OK then,” I slurred, and when Nick rubbed my knee I slipped my hand onto his thigh. After another few sips of gin and tonic we kissed; it felt great.

We kissed some more. “Are you going to let me fuck you later?” Nick murmured.

“Is it OK with Anna?” I asked again, just to let everyone know where my feminist loyalties lay, even if I was behaving like a slut.

“Totally,” Nick assured me. “Right, Anna?”

“Uh huh,” said Anna Smash.

I looked at Nick from under my lashes. “Yeah,” I said, “And I’m going to go down on you, too.” We kissed again. I was really turned on.

Eventually we stumbled out of the bar and back to Jefferson’s apartment. I was fairly wasted by this time and within a few minutes we were naked. Anna Smash was ridiculously gorgeous nude. Her nipples were pierced and they tipped upward like little teacups. She was thinner and prettier and younger than me, but luckily I was too drunk to feel outclassed. And then I realized that I was staring at the Sassiest Girl in America.

SIDE BAR

In case you weren’t an alienated teen or an ironic adult in the late 1980’s and early 90’s, Sassy was a bitchy, smart alternative to more traditional (and frankly pretty insipid) teen fare like Seventeen and the now-defunct YM. It was edited by future Jane editor-in-chief Jane Pratt and the staff featured the likes of Kim France (Lucky). Sassy was relentlessly opinionated and published some provocative stories, like interviews with neo-Nazi teens and an infamous Karen Catchpole article on what losing your virginity feels like (“It will hurt.”) The virginity story created such a furor that Sassy had to backtrack, and a few months later the magazine published a pro-chastity follow up: “Virgins Are Cool.” Yes, really.

I didn’t actually love Sassy as much as I was supposed to, mostly cause it seemed to be written by mean girls. Smart girls, but kinda mean, especially, if I recall correctly, about stuff like blonde starlets, pegged jeans and Milla Jovovich. I was massively uncool in high school and Sassy didn’t make me feel any cooler; it only made me long to be like Sassy staffers, who all seemed to live in the East Village and know all about the cool bands you weren’t seeing. They were your smart, skinny classmates who made fun of all the trends but still managed to be trendy.

So anyway Sassy had this annual contest – The Sassiest Girl in America. It was not a modeling competition, as at Seventeen, but featured contestants from around the country, who sent in amusing entries and wowed the staff. The winner got cash, money for a favorite charity, plus a cover shoot – and the SGIA wasn’t always thin, which was cool. Anyway, watching Anna Smash, it hit me that Sassy would have loved her – that jet bob with its parentheses framing her pale face, her elegant lithe body, coolest girl in the room demeanor and rapid-fire conversation. She would have been a shoo-in for The Sassiest Girl in America, if only she hadn’t been about 4 when the magazine folded.

In a bid for gender equality, the magazine even had a Sassiest Boy in America contest. The winner was in an indie band, natch, and really cute. On a side note, when I first met Jefferson, he revealed to me that he had once met The Sassiest Boy in America!

SIDEBAR ENDS

Anna Smash’s pussy was bald but for a tiny thatch of hair. We all tumbled down the hall to Jefferson’s bedroom and flopped on the bed. Then Anna straddled me and we kissed.

Her mouth was so nice and soft and it was clear she was in charge which was a relief for me after the Jessica affair, nice though that was. As it is I hate to take the lead and with girls even more so. We kissed for a while, our mouths just sort of swirling together. Beside us Jefferson sucked Nick’s dick, and I came to when Nick said, “Sorry, sucking my balls just doesn’t do it for me,” regretfully. I moved my mouth to Anna’s tits, which I sucked and kissed. Then Anna Smash gave me sort of a half-questioning look, and then she slid down between my legs and started to eat me out.

Christ I hope I don’t taste bad or smell funny was all I could think. Anna Smash herself probably smelled and tasted perfect, but I didn’t get the chance to find this out, which was probably just as well since later on Anna revealed that she had once actually fallen asleep while a friend was going down on her. But I didn’t get a chance to really indulge my neuroses since shortly thereafter Anna slipped onto her stomach and stuck her ass towards Jefferson: “Hit me,” she said.

Jefferson obediently retrieved his cat o’ nine tails and Nick, Eleanor and I looked at one another and then scurried from the room. “I need to get some air,” Nick declared. We tugged our clothes on and walked out into the warm, muggy night, ending up in a nearby diner.

They ordered food (I was still too drunk to eat); it was clear that Nick was upset. But we all chatted for a bit and after his meal he seemed more cheerful. Afterwards we walked back to Jefferson’s and at the apartment Nick and I started fooling around – what I’d been waiting for: “I want to make you tremble,” he said, kissing me. We were half dressed. Oh Christ, I thought, and bent my head towards his groin. “Let’s go and have sex,” he added.

“OK!” I said, and followed him to the back bedroom. In the dark room we got onto the futon, but our combined weights were too much and the wooden frame popped up, like a Murphy bed. “Come on,” said Nick. So we distributed our weights at the foot of the bed and wound ourselves around one another.

He started to fuck me and it felt great. I was so wet and felt all melty inside. I got on top. He murmured: “Lily, you’re so beautiful. You’ve got beautiful breasts.”

Nothing makes me feel more like sucking cock than being told I’m beautiful.

I was shaking as I slid my thighs close together around his cock, my breath raggedy. “You’re going to be a good girl and suck my cock?” Nick went on.

This made me squirm, I was so turned on: “Oh yes.” And I had a revelation: when I suck cock I’m a good girl rather than, say, a naughty slut. I’ve always been a good girl, always sought approval. I like approbation. So if I’m sucking cock, I want to be called a good girl. Though, I must admit, on occasion being called a filthy slut does give me a thrill.

But anyway. I rocked back and forth on top of Nick, and I was so excited but couldn’t seem to come; and it occurred to me that I was really too drunk to fully appreciate how great this felt.

Eventually he got on top but when he thrust inside me he stopped suddenly: “The condom slipped off,” he announced. We sat at an awkward angle and then he tugged it out. “Suck me for a while,” he said then. So I did, eagerly, gratefully, but after a minute he pulled his cock out of my mouth and slid another condom on and started to fuck me again. He slipped a finger in my ass. “Are you going to come for me?” I whispered, as he pumped the breath out of me with his thrusts.

“Yes, I am,” he said, and again I was reminded of Jeremy, who, I remembered, used to say “Yeah, I do” or “Yes, I will” instead of just Yeah. I had liked that.

Then Nick came and we lay there, glued together. He smelled really good and is so nice; this was a good idea.

“Thank you for that,” said Nick. “It was just what I needed.”

He meant that this had distracted him from thoughts of Anna Smash being smacked silly in the next room. He didn’t like to watch his girlfriend being hurt.

“You don’t have to thank me,” I said. “It was my pleasure.” True, that. I smiled at him.
“Do you want a towel?” he asked, and, before I could explain that I was used to being all sweaty after sex, he disappeared, returning a minute later with a damp towel, which he rubbed gently across my cunt.

After we cleaned up we got up and peeked next door: Anna Smash was sprawled on the bed, with Eleanor in the voyeur’s chair with Jefferson’s head in her lap; they were all asleep. “I think I’m going to sleep next to Anna,” Nick said. I nod, and we kissed goodnight and I toddled back to the futon.

But a few minutes later Nick joined me. He put new sheets on the bed and then for a minute he put his arms around me – oh, he smelled so nice. Then he turned on his side and started to snore and eventually I fell asleep, too.

I woke up at 4:30 am, and shortly thereafter Nick woke up, too. He left to join Anna, and I read for awhile before Jefferson wandered in – musical beds! “Hey,” Jefferson whispered, eyeing me blearily. He sat on the edge of the futon.

“Careful,” I said, and told him about how the bottom of the bed had popped up earlier, and that we were at risk of being crushed in a Buster Keaton-style mishap. “Couple die in futon massacre,” I intoned. “Orgy goers stunned.” Jefferson darted a quick, worried look at me. I think he was perturbed that I’d referred to us as couple, even though it was only for the purposes of an Onion-style headline.

Jefferson slipped into bed beside me. I was sleepy, but when he began to stroke my breast I decided I wasn’t that tired. We started to kiss, but I was very tense – overtired, probably -- and it took ages to feel my muscles relax. After a while Jefferson climbed inside me and tugged my legs up around his shoulders. “Oh,” I said. “Oh.”

He gave me a peculiar, searching look – or maybe it was just knee strain – and we fucked for a long time. Funny thing: Jefferson and I talk non-stop, but our sex is generally silent. Jefferson has lots of stamina; but I felt raw and shredded. Jefferson said, “Sit on my face,” so I did, and my legs shook as his darting tongue made quick flickery movements against my most secret skin. After a bit he commanded, “Suck my cock.” He thrust his cock down my throat, but I couldn’t do much in the way of deep throating. My throat just wouldn’t cooperate, my gag reflex was working overtime. But he kept holding my head down and shoving his dick up. At intervals I rubbed his cock against my tits and slipped my fingers up and down the shaft. “My lips are numb,” I said at last – my usual complaint with Jefferson. So he pulled out of my mouth and tugged on his dick until he came. Then he went to sleep and I read, and I thought about being a 34-year-old unemployed would-be writer, and about a fight I’d had with my mother. Then when the sky was light I started to cry.

I cried loud enough to be heard; I wanted to be heard. Jefferson tugged me close to his chest and stroked my hair while I wept.

My Afternoon with Alejandro

2007-10-13T16:41:00.000-04:00

It used to be that I had sex with someone because I couldn’t bear not to. I had to touch his skin, be as close as humanly possible, in the words of a short story writer whose name I’ve forgotten (which I read in a collection called Writing Our Way Home: Contemporary Stories by American Jewish Writers). Now I have sex because I’m horny. Which is not a bad thing, but is less dramatic, or romantic, certainly, and I guess is what happens when you’re 34 and not nineteen. Not that I had sex at 19. I had sex, once, at 17, and then there was a 7 year drought before Luke Parker wore me down with his incessant, arrogant wooing and blunt, uncircumcised dick. But anyway.

I mean, ever since I became a slut the goal has been adventure rather than intimacy. I have had occasional, terrifying forays into intimacy: with Sweetheart Daniel, especially, who is still my favorite non boyfriend ever. But now sex is more about getting off than anything else. Thus Alejandro.

After he contacted me the other week I hemmed and hawed before agreeing, ’cause, though he is cute and our sex was satisfactory, surely sex ought to be more than satisfactory. But. Of late my number of sex partners has shrunk – Alex’s girlfriend is back in town and Jed is, as ever, completely unreliable, so I thought what the hell, and told Alejandro to come on over.

He turned up on Sunday afternoon. I hadn’t seen him in over a year, and it occurred to me that he could be anyone at all. I remembered him as tall, dark-haired, and handsome, with a very faint Brazilian accent and a leather thong around his neck. When I saw him on my doorstep on Sunday – well, it could have been any tall, dark-haired man. “Hey!” I grinned, like we were long lost friends. “Come on in.”

Until Mmmark, Alejandro was definitely the most handsome man I’d ever slept with, but sexually we were sort of ho-hum. We had sex two or three times, and it was quiet, polite, eyes closed-type sex. That is, he doesn’t talk dirty. He was clean cut, and had a nice body, lean and lightly muscled, as I believe the term is, but I had no desire to be as close as humanly possible to him.

So I got him a glass of water and gestured for him to go to my room, and there I sat on my bed and we discussed what we’d been up to in the year and a half since we’d last met. “I took a break from acting,” Alejandro informed me, which I took to mean he’d gotten burnt out from rejection. “But now I’ve started teaching and acting again. It’s going really well.”

Yeah, yeah. He put his backpack on my armchair and after a bit more in this vein, walked over to me: “Are you ready?”

“Huh? Oh—”

“Cause last time you had to drink…” He lifted his arm and mimed drinking like in commercials for soda where people throw back their heads and gulp down high fructose corn syrup. I recalled that on our first date I had insisted on drinking several alcopops (English slang for those soft-drink like mixed drinks you can buy at the supermarket) before getting naked.

“Oh, no—” How things had changed! I could now have casual sex sober.

Alejandro crouched down in front of me and put his face close to mine. He smelled faintly of cologne; Aqua di Gio?

Our faces were close together, but instead of kissing, his lips just hovered next to mine. He was making me wait, which I appreciated, since it added an element of seduction to what was otherwise, well, not a very seductive scene. For a long time we stayed like this, our lips not quite touching as our bodies mimed closeness. I nipped the air surrounding him, waiting for his mouth on mine.

At last we kissed, and Alejandro pushed me backwards onto my mattress. He lay on top of me and I closed my eyes as we kissed, because I was afraid that looking at him would make me feel too detached.

He gently, then not so gently, bit my neck, and I scraped my nails along his back. I always notice a man’s smell, and while the cologne wasn’t overpowering, the cologne made me feel like I was making out with the ground floor of Bloomingdale’s.

We kissed and kissed and I kept my eyes closed so I could concentrate on the sensation instead of asking myself what I was doing with this person. He pulled my shirt over my head and when he struggled with my bra I unhooked it for him. Then I tugged his t-shirt off. His skin was warm against mine. He unzipped my skirt and I slipped off my underwear, and then he pulled off his jeans so we were naked. His dick was medium sized, thick, nice.

His fingers drummed at the skin around my cunt, but not at my clit or lips, again, he teased me. My breathing got heavier, and I wrapped my hand around his dick, it felt thick and solid in my fingers. Still Alejandro’s fingers lingered at my clit, the ghost of his fingertips on me.

At last he slid his fingers to my clit, and I moaned with relief. I was slick for him, all the waiting had done me good. He rubbed his finger inside me for a minute and then turned on his side: “Do you have a condom?”

I nodded, and handed him. I watched as he put it on, then gestured that I wanted to be on top. After a moment I lowered myself on top of him, and closed my eyes as his cock opened me up. For a second I paused, and we looked at one another. Then I pushed myself all the way down, and felt his dick sink all the way in. I sighed.

I started rocking back and forth. Alejandro’s face looked rounder, his skin more olive. He smiled up at me, and I smiled back. He bent his head, and took my left breast in his mouth. Had he remembered that I liked that or was that something he wanted to do? I arched my back against him.

We fucked in silence, exchanging polite smiles as we pushed against one another. I came quickly and then Alejandro took over, rolling on top of me and pinning me to the mattress.

We kissed a bit as he fucked me, and I relaxed with his cock nice and smug inside me. He thrust back and forth, grunting occasionally, and I ran my hands along his back, feeling like I was soothing him somehow.

He took a while to come and when he did he gasped like he’d run a race. As soon as he came I thought: OK, you can go now. Which is very ungenerous on my part, seeing as how Alejandro is a perfectly nice guy and had just given me a perfectly nice orgasm. Nonetheless. We have nothing in common except sex, and now that he was lying next to me in a post-coital way, I felt obliged to make small talk. And anyway if he’d just gotten up and said, “Well, that was great! See ya!” I would have been offended. “So,” I said at last, clearing my throat, “How are you?”

And Alejandro told me, but I didn’t really pay attention since I was wondering how long he might think it was appropriate to stay since clearly I couldn’t kick him out. After a few minutes he got up, dressed, got himself a glass of water and when he got back he reached for his knapsack. “Well,” he said, “I better get going.”

“Well!” I said, jumping out of bed and pulling on my clothes. “Let me see you out.” So I trailed him to the door and we touched lips. He stepped outside and blinked in the bright sunshine.

“Good seeing you,” I said, and gave him a friendly, disinterested smile. He waved, and for a moment there was almost a rueful glance, but then he turned and I shut the door and was alone once more.

Oooh, Sugasm!

2007-10-10T07:37:00.000-04:00

The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #101? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form. Participants, repost the link list within a week and you’re all set.

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Do you want me…?
“The shiver that runs through you tells me everything I need to know.”

Love that ass (his perspective)
“But as long as we are in here, she submits to my command; to my every whim.”

Hubb and Spoeker
“He was good for show and good in bed, but an asshole in the real world.”

Mr. Sugasm Himself
125 Magazine, Alternet and Enviromentally Friendly Porn

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I Succumb to Jefferson's Dastardly Lesbian Plot!

2007-10-03T20:57:00.000-04:00

It was summertime. The sun was shining, and I was going to Atlantic City with Dean.

I thought we were going to stay in a seedy seaside motel, and Dean would relieve elderly daytrippers of their money at the poker table while I wandered the boardwalk and sampled the saltwater taffy.

Instead, we stayed at a perfectly respectable, even luxurious, hotel and ate lots of rich food. I was bemused by the miasma of cigarette smoke and the constant musical roar of slot machines in the lobbies, but seediness was in short supply. I did buy a $4 cappuccino, however.

But my Atlantic City experience was destined to be short, since I had other plans. Or rather Jefferson had other plans for me: “The clock is ticking on your girlginity,” he informed me. “What time are you coming over?”

Oh, right.

**

It had started like this: Back in December, Jefferson had suggested I might want to get it on with a carefully selected woman. I had shrugged. In Jefferson’s orbit, being straight is a bit of a novelty and I wanted to hold onto whatever distinction I might have. Nonetheless, it occurred to me that if I was trying to Live Somewhat Dangerously, perhaps I ought to put my money where my mouth was, or rather, put my mouth where …

The thing was, although Jefferson knows tons of attractive bi and lesbian women, when you’re approaching your first lesbian encounter as a kind of adult-ed experience, it’s not like choosing a hot boy to fuck. I could agree that a woman was comely, but there was no connection between my brain and my groin, so it had no context. And I don’t like to fool around without context.

Also, I realized that there were certain other barriers to me getting it on with a woman. Like, I did not want to hook up with someone I was friends with. I can do that with men, but with a woman it just seemed too overwhelming, too much opportunity for sidelong glances, misunderstandings, etc. I wanted it to be with someone I didn’t see on a regular basis.

She would have to be more experienced, and amenable to the fact that I was a girl virgin and awkward in the extreme, I decided.

So what I wanted was someone I could be attracted to, did not know very well, was experienced, and furthermore did not threaten my fragile ego in any way. With these demands in place I felt confident that I’d outmaneuvered Jefferson and would not come face-to-pussy with my fears in the near future.

**

When I first met Jessica my only thought was that she and her boyfriend should definitely attend Jefferson’s orgies. She was pretty, brunette, and friendly, with long hair and a nice giggle. The word vivacious would have been appropriate.

Actually she was kind of like me, though I am not always vivacious. She and Sean stopped by Jefferson’s one afternoon. I was on my way out, but I stuck around long enough to echo Jefferson’s assertions that they would definitely have a good time if they turned up at a party.

Eventually, they turned up. This was at the May orgy. Jessica, stripped to her bra, made out with Jed while I watched. The next day I emailed Jefferson, “You know, if I were going to hook up with a girl, Jessica’s the kind of girl I would do it with.”

Jefferson interpreted this as a green light and took it upon himself to arrange the great lesbian experience. He sent me an email later that day saying we were all set: Jessica and Sean were game. It would be, Jefferson informed me, what was known as a “soft swap”: While she and I would hook up, Jessica would not have sex with Jefferson, nor would I fuck Sean.

I was mortified. Not only had Jefferson organized My First Lesbian Event, he’d done it in a way that made me look like a third grader. He’d probably passed Jessica a note in language arts: Do you want to have sex with Lily? Check Yes ___ or No ___.

It turned out that Jessica was likewise inexperienced with women, which I hadn’t realized. From the conversation we’d had when we’d met I’d had the impression she’d slept with several women.

So now I was committed to sex with another straight-identified woman. One who’d probably felt obliged to say yes. Gah.

**

Of course, I hadn’t actually protested when Jefferson told me we were getting nekkid. Jefferson gets me to do things I wouldn’t ordinarily do, because he arranges them and then informs me of the fact, so I never have to take any responsibility. Passive aggressive on my part, but he’s never complained. I considered this as I made my way to Jefferson’s apartment one hot Saturday afternoon. When I reached his door, I gave myself no time to consider what I was in for, and rang the bell before I could start worrying.

Jefferson peeked around the door at me: “Hiiiiii,” he smirked. I stepped inside.

Jessica and Sean were seated on the couch. “Hi!” I tried for insouciant cheeriness. They waved.

I made my way to them and, in a bold move, sat next to Jessica on the sofa rather than in the armchair opposite. I swallowed.

“Can I get you something to drink?” Jefferson twinkled at me. He knows I find alcohol invaluable in these situations.

“Can I have a gin and tonic?” I glanced at Jessica, and then at Sean.

Jessica leaned over and looked up at me from under her lashes: “We went to brunch and had six mimosas,” she confessed. Apparently I wasn’t the only one who’d needed Dutch courage. I grinned at her, and she grinned back.

Jefferson brought me a large g and t, with a wedge of lime, and soon enough Jessica and I were talking a blue streak, about how alcohol combated nerves, how she and Sean had started dating, about Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

In fact, Jessica was awesome: engaging, friendly, good natured. Her boyfriend was lovely, too: quiet, with dark hair and sort of boy scout good looks. He watched Jessica with pride. OK, he was totally hot.

Eventually, when I’d downed my second very large g and t, Jefferson indicated it was time for us to get moving. Marcus was coming over later, and, as Jefferson had told me, if he turned up while Sean and Jessica were around, all hell would break loose.

“He’d insist on an orgy on the spot,” he’d emailed me. “That might spook Jessica and Sean, so we have to finish up early.”

Jessica and I looked at one another. I raised my eyebrows. “OK?” She nodded, so we headed off down the hall.

Jefferson and Sean left us alone, as per intro lesbian etiquette, I guess. Jessica and I sprawled on Jefferson’s bed, topless, drunk, game.

“Listen,” I slurred, giggling, “I didn’t realize that you had never hooked up with a woman—I didn’t want you to think—” What I guess I didn’t want her to think was that she was, you know, obliged to hook up with me, even if we were both half naked and entirely drunk. Or maybe I was still embarrassed at how the whole thing had been arranged. I dunno.

“That’s OK,” she sniggered.

We whispered for a while, gingerly touching one another: “Your skin’s really soft!” Jessica exclaimed.

I stroked her arm: “So’s yours!” I lowered my voice, though no one else was in the room: “Can I touch your tits?” Her breasts were at least a D, with large reddish brown nipples.

“Uh huh.”

“Hey, what’s going on in there?”

We looked up. Jefferson and Sean stood in the doorway, beaming at us.

“Go away,” I mumbled.

Tentatively I licked a nipple. Jessica nodded her encouragement. “You can come back in,” I called.

The boys trooped in, and Jefferson supervised the rest of the undressing; I was too far gone to be of much use. Naked, Jessica was smooth and curvy all over, with pale skin that glowed in the darkened bedroom. The room spun, and I wondered if I should have had quite so much to drink.

I looked up at Jefferson: “Now what?”

“Now you go down on her,” he said.

“OK.” My eyes met Jessica’s. “You’ll have to direct me,” I said. She nodded.

I scooted onto my knees. Jessica’s pussy was completely bare except for a tiny thatch of hair just above her clit. Cautiously I slipped my finger against the hood of her clit. “It’s like a button!” I exclaimed. I had never seen anyone’s clit – other than my own – before.

Jefferson and Sean watched in polite silence while I studied Jessica’s pussy. Then, after a moment, I put my mouth to her clit and licked.

Hmmm.

I licked again, and then put my tongue up close to her and pressed it against her skin. In all the dirty stories (I mean, erotica) I read, women have a smell -- like pepper, or orchids, or spices or whatever. I couldn’t smell or taste anything from Jessica, though. I licked her again.

“Higher,” she said. “Steady pressure on my clit.”

I obeyed, and lifted my mouth to slide my fingers against her skin. After a minute I slid my index inside her; she was wet.

“How’s that?”

She nodded. “You can put another finger in,” she said. I obliged. “Yeah, I just get very wet,” she explained, smiling, while I slid a finger in and out. Indeed. I concentrated on her clit for a while, and then Jessica slid down on the mattress and slipped between my legs. I hoped I tasted OK.

After a bit Jessica moved away, and out of the corner of my eye I noticed Jefferson move towards her. They kissed. Then Sean leaned over from his side of the bed and kissed her, too. I was on my haunches, watching them. When Sean lay back on the bed next to me, I leaned over and whispered to Jessica: “Can I go down on your boyfriend?”

She smiled: “Sure.” Generous girl! His dick was standing straight up, full and hard. I bent over and wrapped my mouth around him, I’d never felt quite so compelled to suck someone off. It was a relief to blow him, he felt great in my mouth. A dick, that’s my natural habitat.

I could have gone like this for some time, but alcohol made things blurry and I don’t remember much else. We parted with great cordiality and later on, when I asked Jefferson if he’d seen me and Jessica kiss, he said he couldn’t remember.

Did I manage to have sex with a woman without kissing her? Worse, did I kiss her and not remember it?

**

After Sean and Jessica disappeared, I lay on the couch in an alcoholic daze. Then I perked up: “Where’s Marcus?”

Jefferson had promised I could meet his boyfriend, who was supposed to turn up with his boyfriend. So I stuck around, and soon enough, Marcus showed up with Seamus. Marcus was, just as promised, tall and handsome in the Ben Stiller vein – dark haired, lanky, gregarious. Seamus was mild mannered, built. He sort of reminded me of Grant Mitchell of Eastenders, only without the ruddiness. I generally don’t go for bald, stocky (or, you know, gay) men, but I took a shine to Seamus.

We ordered Chinese and sat around while I tried to remember whether or not Jessica and I had kissed. Marcus regaled us with stories of his life as a whore, and I tried not to look gobsmacked. Then Jefferson leaned over and whispered: “Don’t hook up with Marcus.”

I shook my head – I’m very skittish about sex workers; and anyway, I prefer my men a little less alpha. I like shy, angst-ridden boys who look like they could use a good meal or might like to educate me about some band I’ve never heard of, not hottie motormouths who have sex for a living.

Marcus was telling us about one of his clients, whom he had accused of not trusting him. “So anyway,” Marcus went on, “I had my foot up his ass and…”

He had his foot up some guy’s ass. I cast a covert glance at Marcus’s feet, currently shod. He had a big foot. Wouldn’t this be unhygienic? Not to mention exceptionally painful? Did Marcus wash his feet before shoving them up a man’s ass? Or were there foot condoms out there to prevent athlete’s…

Eventually Marcus and Seamus wandered out to the deck, and I turned to Jefferson: “He is getting nowhere near me.” I found Marcus fascinating and attractive but, also, you know, gah!

But all my gins and tonics were taking their toll, so when Jefferson suggested I stay over, I gratefully acquiesced. I took a quick shower (it was still very hot) and then put myself to bed in Jefferson’s room, wrapped in a bath towel. Some time later I felt Jefferson slip off my towel and curl up next to me.

We must have been asleep, because I woke up to the sound of Jefferson’s shrieks: “Stop it!” he cried. I opened an eye. Marcus and Seamus loomed above us, and Marcus was smacking Jefferson lightly with a DVD – Lost, season 1. What the--?

Then Marcus grabbed my arm. “Hey!” I squeaked. He wrapped one of Jefferson’s neckties around my wrist and started tying me to Jefferson. “What are you doing?!”

Hooting happily, Marcus and Seamus rained blows on Jefferson, who protested, but not very strongly. I think, in fact, that if I hadn’t been there, he would have been quite happy to have been assaulted with DVDs.

Marcus laced me to Jefferson and started swatting at me. “Cut it out!” I cried, really annoyed. I was naked, in front of two men I’d just met. When that happens, it’s because it’s my choice, not because someone has woken me up and pelted me with video discs. I glared at Marcus. “Stop it.”

“Stop!” Jefferson laughed, but Marcus and Seamus kept it up.

I leaned over and reached for my bra. This was ridiculous. “OK, that’s it,” I said.

“Yeah, stop,” said Jefferson again, pushing Marcus away. Chastened, Marcus and Seamus swept from the room, chuckling. Jefferson began to untie himself.

I sat there, wide awake, my bra halfway up my arms. Jefferson tossed the necktie to the armchair and rolled his eyes. “Ow,” he said, rubbing his arm, where Marcus had scored a direct hit.

My fists were clenched. Jefferson gave my arm a squeeze, then rolled onto his side. Within minutes, he was snoring.

I sat on the bed, staring straight ahead. My bra still hung on my arms. I could hear the low laughter of Marcus and Seamus as they got ready for bed. My hands were shaking; I was furious.

I looked again at Jefferson, nestling quietly at my side. “Jefferson,” I whispered, “Jefferson?” I tapped him on the shoulder, but he just snored.

I got out of bed and got dressed. I hunted for a pen and piece of paper and stared at it for a minute. Jefferson, I wrote at last, I tried to wake you but you were dead to the world. Talk to you soon – Lily.

I turned off the light as I left the room. As I made my way to the door I could hear the steady squeak of the futon from the second bedroom.

I Put Out. So, No Big Surprise.

2007-09-22T19:22:00.000-04:00

Dean greeted me at the door. Again, he was unshaven, which, again, I found pretty damn attractive. We kissed.

“Hi.”

“Hi.” We looked at one another: this was it. After eight days of fooling around, we were going to have sex: it was our third date, after all.

“Oh, wait,” Dean shuffled through some papers, and handed me one: “Here.” It was his test results from the Callen-Lorde Community Health Center where he, and I, had both been tested for HIV. Negative, it read.

“I have one too!” I’d forgotten. I rummaged in my bag until I found it, and handed it to him. “Hey, was your counselor Samuel? Wasn’t he nice?”

After the finger prick blood test I’d been counseled by Samuel, a very kind African American man maybe ten years my junior. He’d asked me about my sexual habits, and congratulated me on the fact that I use condoms religiously, even with “primary partners” … I don’t actually have a primary partner, though. Then he’d told me my test was negative, he’d give me a call in a few weeks to check in, and have a nice day. I’d left, jubilant, and phoned Dean. “Guess what? Samuel congratulated me on my practices!” I’d meant my safer sex habits.

“I’ll bet he did,” Dean’d said. Ho ho.

“That’s totally inappropriate,” I’d said. But I was laughing.

“Yeah, he was a nice guy,” Dean agreed now. Then I dumped my bag on his floor and went upstairs to his room.

His bed was still a mess: “I see you’ve been setting the mood.” I climbed onto his bed and sat with my back to the wall.

Dean stood next to the bed. We looked at one another. “Are you hungry?”

“Not yet.” Here was the moment, after all. The third date. It was time for sex. “Are you?”

He shook his head. “I was thinking you could give me a blow job,” he said.

“Oh, you were?” This got my back up a bit. We were supposed to be having sex, but all he wanted was for me to go down on him? I mean, all things being equal, I was more than happy to blow him, I just didn’t like the idea that this was his first and best idea, like I owed him or something.

“Yeah. Well, I went down on you…”

So he had. Twice. “OK,” I said. Slowly I took the hair band from my wrist and wrapped my hair in a ponytail. Dean sat on the bed and leaned back, until his head was in my lap.

“Let me warm up,” I said. I wanted to be in the right frame of mind. I wanted to fool around a bit before diving at his dick. We kissed, and I studied his angular face, his expression.

“Should I shower?”

“No, you’re fine.”

Dean stood up and stripped down to his underwear, so I lifted my shirt over my head, and wriggled out of my skirt, tossing my clothes onto the floor. He stood in his boxers, and I reached over to stroke his dick through the thin cotton. There were splotches of pre-cum on the front. I rubbed my hand up and down the opening. Then I slid the boxers off and wrapped my mouth around his cock.

He moaned. I moved my mouth back and forth, tonguing him.

“Wait,” he said. “I want to sixty-nine you.”

He sat on the bed and then slid underneath me. I shifted on top of him until we were mouth-to-genitals, and he pulled down my underwear. As an afterthought, I unhooked my bra. His tongue flicked at my clit and I stiffened with excitement. I took him all the way in my mouth, fighting my gag reflex. He moaned again, and my legs shook as he slid his tongue up and down my pussy, really fast. I let out a little gasp.

I threaded my fingers through the coarse, curly hair around his balls, then slipped one into my mouth. My legs twitched again as I pushed my pelvis towards his mouth. I went back to his dick, more eager than ever. “Come here,” I whispered; him going down on me was distracting me from making him come.

He tugged himself away from my cunt and stood with his dick dangling in my face. I looked up at him under my lashes, then rubbed him against my breasts. “I’m going to make you come,” I explained. I went back to sucking and licking; I couldn’t get enough of his cock, and I wanted him to come all over me.

He came quickly, with a grimace. I looked up at him again as I slowly rubbed his come into my breasts, playing with my nipples in the hopes he would find this hot.

Dean slumped beside me and for a moment we looked at one another in silence. Then I smirked at him, and he gripped my hand.

Dean’d drawn the curtains, but there was a faint late afternoon light through the windows. We were cool and cozy in his bed. I leaned against his arm. We talked in a desultory manner for a few minutes, and then Dean mentioned that he was planning to go to Atlantic City to play in a tournament. He hoped to win a place in the game.

“But if I don’t place I’m committed to buying into this tournament anyway,” he explained. Then he told me how much it cost to buy into this game. It occurred to me that this was a man who, so far, I had not seen with anything amounting to a steady job.

“Um, Dean? Can I ask you something?”

“No.” But he smiled.

“Are you …” I paused, completely at a loss as to how I might phrase this: “… independently wealthy or something?”

He smiled wryly. “What gave it away? Was it cause I have a deck, in addition to the rooftop?” He pointed over his shoulder, towards his very nice deck, which boasts a grill and matching lawn furniture.

“Yeah, that, and maybe the fact that you had a live in nanny. And grew up in a house in Manhattan.” This he had revealed on our first date. I gazed at him covertly. This was what an independently wealthy person looked like. Naked. Well. It was time to change the subject: perhaps my discomfort with talking about money is a middle class habit? “Well, you’re buying dinner then.” I kissed him.

“Do you want to go to this party?” That had been the original plan: go to a party at a Brooklyn bar, then return to his and consummate our relationship, such as it was.

“Fuck it, let’s go get dinner and get drunk,” I said. So we did.

**
When we got back from dinner we stretched out on his bed. He slid between my legs and examined my underwear: black nylon mesh bikinis. “I’m going to rip these off,” he announced.

“What? That’s my underwear!”

“They’re already kind of worn.” So they were; rubbed thin at the crotch.

I sighed. “Oh, go ahead.” A couple of other guys have ripped off my underwear, they all seem to get a kick out of it. I suppose it’s quite a macho gesture.

Once I was knicker-free, Dean slipped his tongue right against my clit. I swallowed as he swirled his tongue around my lips, tapping against my skin. My legs shook.

After a moment Dean stood up, and reached into one of the drawers built into his bed frame. He took out a condom.

“Kimonos?” I’d never slept with a man who used those.

“They’re very thin.” He fiddled with it until it was snug on his dick. He lay down on top of me. We looked at one another. With a grimace, he struggled to fit himself inside of me.

“I want to get on top,” I said. ’Cause usually I’m on top first, I come, and then the guy I’m fucking is free to do what he likes. Well, within reason.

“Sweetie,” Dean grunted, “You’re going to have to wait.”

Eh? Why was that? Dean pumped himself against me. His eyes were on a spot somewhere behind me.

I pushed my pelvis up against him and let my voice go slack and breathy. “You like that? Tell me.”

“You’re a slut,” he said obligingly. “A tight little slut, with your warm, wet pussy…”

That was good. I shoved myself up against him more. “Yeah. Come on, Dean. Give it to me.”

“Lily.”

“Mmmm.”

“What’s today’s date?” he panted. “August first.”

“Mmmm.” I pushed my mouth towards his.

“Lily. On December first.” Dean kissed me, “If we’re still fucking, then we’re going to both get tested again and I’m going to start fucking you without a condom.”

“Ummm. Can we have this conversation later?” I gasped. “When we’re not having sex?” I mean, what was that about? I’m not having sex without a condom unless I’m in an exclusive relationship, which I was sure was not what he was aiming at, but, really, did I need to explain this to Dean while he was inside me? For God’s sake. Dean shuddered. “Say my name,” I demanded.

“Lily. Lily. Lillian Vereker.”

Lillian Vereker feels like I’m in school. “Just Lily is fine,” I said breathlessly. I wrapped my legs around his hips, and he lifted them higher around his torso, until it my legs felt the strain.

When he came I held my hands against my back, as if to keep him inside me, cause I liked the pressure and weight of his body, his cock, against me. When he rolled off I made him turn on the air conditioner. He feel asleep easily, one arm around me. He began to snore: “Veerup!” I cocked my head at the man next to me. It was the noisiest snore I had ever heard. Each snore was accompanied by a long, quiet wheeze, and just as I got used to the wheezing he would snore again. It was from deep in his chest. I stared at him, nonplussed and unable to sleep. He sounded, I decided finally, (and poetically) like the death rattle of a baby frog: “Veerup!” I put my head under a pillow and waited for the snoring to become background noise.

**

I woke up with a bad hangover and very horny. I wrapped myself around Dean, who, luckily, was amenable to being cajoled out of his sleep in order to service me, as it were. He rolled on top of me. “I want to get on top,” I said, determined to have my way at last.

“Wait,” he said.

He put on a condom and with a sigh I opened my legs and he struggled inside me. After a minute he nodded and he slid out. I crouched on my knees as he lay down, and then clambered on top of him. He fiddled with his dick and then, stretching forward, I started to ride him.

This is the position I like best, it’s the easiest way for me to come. I just rock back and forth and, if the guy stays still (I know, not very sexy), I get myself so worked up that I come very quickly, especially if my partner engages in a little dirty talk. Most men, of course, feel obliged to participate in the act, and Dean was no exception. “Stay still!” I grunted. This was not too successful. “Hold my hips,” I tried again. “No, lower.” I bounced a little on his dick, anxious just to ride him hard and come. “There. There. No, wait.”

Hmm. “Tell me to stop,” Dean said.

I looked at him. “Stop,” I said, experimentally. Huh. “Stop, stop,” I made my voice exaggeratedly whispery. “Stop.” I laughed at how coy I sounded: “Stop.” I didn’t want him to stop at all, but I wanted to keep saying it; it was turning me on. Good lord. I opened my eyes wide, half pouted, and heard myself beg: “Please stop.”

Despite this and my fevered rocking, I did not come, not even when Dean began slapping my ass lightly, as per my directions. So eventually, both of us sweaty and stuck together, he rolled back on top of me and fucked me. “Come on,” I said, my voice almost a whine: “Come on, Dean.” He obliged.

When we at last made it out of bed and into the shower, I realized I was too hungover to stand up and sprawled in the tub, clutching my forehead theatrically while Dean scrubbed his back. “Are you OK?”

“Uhh,” I moaned. Eventually I managed to get upright and washed, and after I’d tugged on yesterday’s clothes we went out to breakfast. We sat at a sidewalk café and collaborated on the crossword before all the carbs I digested made it necessary for me to go back to sleep.

We made it back to his place where I flopped on the bed. He lay on top of me and we smirked at one another, sated and smug. I closed my eyes and drifted off, enjoying my midweek idyll. And I considered that being an unemployed slut has its compensations.

Decisions, Decisions.

2007-09-11T09:47:00.000-04:00

Oh my gosh. Alejandro emailed me!

I hadn't heard from him since last fall. We originally met in the Spring of 2006, during my original foray into the world of casual sex (not chronicled here). Alejandro is Brazilian, handsome in a clean-cut way, earnest and a few years younger than I. I’d broken it off when I decided to see Roger exclusively. This turned out to be a bad idea, so back in October I wrote to Alejandro and asked if he wanted to get together. He initially agreed, but later cancelled because he wanted to (and I quote) “make love on a spiritual level.” I couldn't fault him for that, though I'm afraid this did make me snicker, so I wished him well and that was that.

But hmmm, he just emailed me, and asked if I was available. I'm undecided. Our sex, as I recall, was nothing special. I was really taken with his looks, and he’s a nice guy, certainly, but it wasn’t particularly passionate, or sweaty (i.e. no oral sex for either of us). But I’m all in favor of quantity, not quality, so maybe this isn’t a bad idea. I’ve got to think about this some more.

I Play Hard to Get. You Know, Sort Of.

2007-09-04T20:44:00.000-04:00

At the door to his apartment, Dean kissed me firmly. I panted as he mashed his mouth against mine – it was hot and I’d just climbed five flights of stairs.

Since I’d last seen him the cuts on his face has healed somewhat. He was unshaven, and I was astonished at how good he looked—usually I prefer my men clean shaven. But disheveled and bruised was a look I found appealing on Dean. Perhaps because it mitigated his otherwise hardcore preppiness?

For the first time I got a good look at Dean’s apartment – on our first date I’d been too drunk, not to mention distracted by the sight of the blood pouring off his face, to notice. But now I looked around. We were standing on a lovely oak floor. Next to me was a kitchen, about eight feet wide and five feet deep, tucked into the wall. It held a small stove, a half fridge and a marble countertop. The foyer and kitchen were divided from the living room by a low rail and few steps. The living room had a fireplace – a gas one or something, since the chimney was blocked. Boxes were piled up everywhere.

“When did you move in?” I asked.

“February.”

“Ah.” I followed Dean up the lovely oak staircase to his bedroom. The room was dominated by an unmade bed pushed to the center of one wall, and against the far wall was a row of closets lined with mirrors. The wall opposite the bed was a glass door, leading out onto his deck.

“I’m just going to send an email,” Dean said. “Go on up, and I’ll be there in a minute.” I opened the sliding glass door and stood on his deck, looking at the roofs of the buildings opposite. Then I climbed up a flight of wooden stairs to the roof, which had a number of potted plants and the hammock we’d gotten comfy in the other night. I maneuvered myself into the hammock and read a little Harry Potter, enjoying the warm, mild evening. After a few minutes Dean joined me, and we arranged ourselves with him on his back with an arm around me; me on my right side curled up against his chest.

We had tentative plans to join some friends of his who were watching a movie, but really what I wanted was a replay of the other night (though without the brain trauma): a long, boozy meal and lots of fooling around.

We were debating our options and I mentioned something about my apartment when Dean asked me how much I paid in rent.

I told him, though I couldn’t quite believe he’d asked. “That’s a bit less than I pay on my mortgage,” he said, looking at me from the corner of his eye.

And suddenly it occurred to me that Dean was rich. I mean, richer than I’d guessed, and I’d guessed he was pretty rich already. Some of the things he’d said on our first date made it clear that both of his parents, at least, had an awful lot of money, but I hadn’t thought much about it. I mean, my parents have some money, but it doesn’t affect me – it’s the result of forty years of two incomes and rising home prices in New York City and is earmarked for their threatened retirement to Florida, where they plan to spend their days power walking at the Aventura Mall and watching every film released in Broward County.

So I hadn’t paid that much attention. I assumed that Dean had some money socked away from his days as a television writer or perhaps a parent had loaned or given him some cash for a down payment. But as I stared at the dimming sky it hit me that no bank I knew of would loan money to an aspiring poker player. Not for this apartment, anyway.

I didn’t say anything. Because while I had no qualms about my poverty, I felt really, really funny about saying to him: “Dean, are you rich? Like, really rich?” for fear it would reveal me as a shallow gold digger. Rather than a shallow sex fiend. Oh, so that was why he’d dismissed my offer of a contribution to dinner the other night with a casual “No, I have way too much money.” He had just been being truthful. Ah.

We were running late, but when we went back inside Dean sat on the edge of his bed and tugged me close to him. We were eye to eye. We kissed. “I want to spank you,” he said.

I caught my breath. I was in the apartment of a man I’d known for a total of three days, and no one knew where I was, and he was seven years older than me and…

His bed frame had built-in drawers, and he opened one now, and took out a thong of suede-like fabric. Dean indicated the sand-colored, cushioned wall inlay behind the bed: “This is from when I had that done,” he explained.

“Chamois,” I choked.

“Chamois,” he agreed. He sat on the edge of the bed and looked at me: “Now you’ve got an older man who knows how to discipline you,” he said mildly.

Oh, my God. I was so excited I forgot to be scared.

He pulled my hands behind my back and tied them with the chamois. I stared at him, wide-eyed, docile, and then he pulled me across his knee, so I was facing down.

I stared at his sheets: “Um, maybe you want to move your socks. And possibly The New York Times.” How was I going to get into the right frame of mind when I was distracted by tube socks and other evidence of Dean’s normal, non-threatening guy-ness?

“Oh, right, yeah, that might help.” He swept some of the junk off the bed. If I have men over, I at least make my bed. Jeez. He must have had months’ worth of Sunday magazines here.

At last the stage was set, and Dean smacked my ass – still clothed – with a quick, brisk hand.

“Start really soft,” I said, and was dismayed to notice that I was hardly being submissive here, what with the giving of orders and stuff. But he obliged. He hit me, and I started getting really excited, but we were supposed to meet his friends so it was brief.

We stopped by to see his friends but ended up going to dinner by ourselves. By the time we made it to an Italian restaurant the sky was dark. It was warm and we sat at a table on the sidewalk, our knees touching under the table. Dean rubbed his hand along my leg and squeezed my ankle.

We split a bottle of wine and ate bread and olive oil and I struggled over the menu, trying to decide on an entree. When the waiter came I was still debating. “We’ll share the steak salad for an appetizer.”

“How do you like the steak?”

“Medium rare?” I was leaning toward the homemade pasta and not really paying attention. “Sweetie?” said Dean. “Is medium rare OK?”

“What? Oh, That’s fine.”

We had a nice boozy meal, as I’d hoped, and it occurred to me that this would be a nice way to spend my life, eating at the sidewalk tables of Italian restaurants on summer nights, drinking Pinot Grigio with a cute guy who called me sweetie.

Afterwards we walked back to his place, and in his room he tied my hands behind my back with the chamois again, and put me over his knee, as I’d known he would. It was dark in his bedroom, and I whispered, “Tell me why you’re hitting me,” and there was a note of longing and thrilled anticipation in my voice.

Dean slapped my ass: “This is for making me get an AIDS test,” he announced, and then he hit me again. I breathed rapidly. “And for not calling me ‘Sir,’” he added thoughtfully, bringing his hand down on my ass. I swallowed. “Because you’re a whore and a cum slut and you need to be disciplined,” he went on. His words washed over me, a flood of all the dirty things I whisper to myself when I masturbate, and I was gasping and he was hitting me while I squirmed against his hand in the dark. His hand was nowhere near my clit, but I was amazed to discover I was totally wet. I rubbed myself against his jean-clad thigh, shuddering and moaning.

After a while his hand subsided and he wrapped his arm around my back. I lay with my face buried in his chest. I felt very, very strange, sort of hollowed out and almost ashamed and what we’d done, or of how I’d enjoyed it.

“If you get tired, you should stay over,” Dean offered.

“OK,” I said.

After a minute I rolled away onto my back. My hands were still tied together, but the lack of movement didn’t bother me. Dean slid on top of me and kissed me. “I want you to stay over,” he said.

I wrapped my bound wrists over his head and around his neck. I kissed him back. “OK,” I said again.

He put the movie Secretary on, perhaps so I could get an idea of what was in store for me, but we didn’t pay much attention since he had his hand on my clit and we were kissing and rolling around. I was surprised at how funny the movie was, though; I’d never watched it before.

When it was over we lay in the dark. “You know what I want?”

“Hmm?” I nuzzled his neck.

“Ah, Lily, I want to wrap myself in latex and slip inside you,” he whispered.

I considered this: “No, I’ve made such a fuss about it.” Best to start as you mean to go on. “I’ve got to see it through. We’ll do it on Monday, when we’ve both been tested.” That was my plan: after we'd both been tested (on the following Monday, provisionally), we'd make a beeline for his place and get naked. This is my idea of playing hard to get.

“Listen, you’re going to stay over three nights a week.” I didn’t respond; I didn’t know what to say, though the idea appealed. And I thought: Dean lied to me: he is interested in a serious relationship. Maybe not with me, that wasn’t entirely clear to me — perhaps it was just that I was in the line of fire, and all his good manners and affection and boredom were spilling onto the first available girl. But he’d been so attentive, and asked me to do social, non-sex stuff -- did I want to meet his friends? Should we see a movie? – it was clear that he wanted someone to socialize with. But. He was so nice and smart and funny and kept seeking my company so I thought: Don’t be surprised if he disappears in two weeks. Dean came on strong, and my recent experience with men who showed this much interest in me (like Evan, for instance) hadn't proved very positive. Perhaps Dean was a hit-and-run kind of guy: I had no idea.

But I wasn’t going anywhere tonight. When Dean turned off the light he snuggled up against me. I wasn't expecting that, I wouldn't have taken him for a cuddler. I’m a restless sleeper and couldn’t have his limbs on top of mine. But whenever I tossed and turned he would tug me back to his chest, and I fell asleep with the sensation of his arm clutching me close.

Dirty and Clean

2007-08-28T21:42:00.001-04:00

It was still early, and everyone was dressed. But when the phone rang our host wasn’t in the room. “Hey!” I called. “Your phone.”

“Incoming call,” trilled the automated voice: oh, that was my phone. I picked up. “Hello?”

“Hello, Lily? This is Jed Jones.” Gosh, his voice was really deep.

“Hey! How’re you?”

“I’m OK. Listen, are you going to Jefferson’s party tonight?”

I smiled at nothing in particular: “Jed,” I said, “I’m already here.”

**

But meanwhile I wanted to spend some time with Alex. He had brought his friend Amy, but she was in the midst of a conversation with a dreadlocked guy on the sofa, and they appeared to be getting cozy. Alex is so smart and easy to get along with – just nice to be around. He is shy, and I wanted him to have a good time, even though it wouldn’t be with me: it hadn’t been three weeks since we’d last fooled around, so, as per the rules of his open relationship with Katie, he was off limits tonight.

When Emma and Adam showed up I introduced Alex to them and we all stood around talking with Donny. As time wore on, Donny casually unbuttoned his shirt – a proactive kind of guy. He had a really impressive six pack, and he's super-cute, but not my type, sadly.

Meanwhile, on the sofa Amy and the dreadlocked guy were making out. I nudged Alex: “I guess that’s going well!” He nodded at me owlishly from behind his specs. Amy had told me she was an attorney, and did not appear to me at all like the type to be entwined with a stranger within 20 minutes of meeting him, but what do I know?

Cody turned up; I wanted Alex to meet her. They were both shy, sweet and good-looking, and I felt this kind of symmetry shouldn’t be ignored. However, they were in different conversational orbits, so instead I made Jefferson show me photos of his daughter Rachel’s wedding.

When Jed arrived I was chatting with Adam and Emma et al and as he leaned down to kiss me I gave him my most demure-but-sly smile. I would have gone with him into the back bedroom right then, frankly, but after a moment he drifted off to talk to Cody. I kept my eye on him, determined not to have a repeat of last month’s sex-free fiasco. Because I wanted to look nonchalant rather than desperate to get it on, it took me a while, but eventually I sidled up to Cody. She told me she had just been to meet Hanson at a record store and told me about her encounters with them (Zak is her favorite).

God, she is a sweetheart. Hanson.

Then Jed slipped behind me and put his arms around my shoulders. I tried to continue my conversation with Cody but I’m afraid I was totally distracted. Jed and I kissed and smirked at one another in a no doubt annoying manner before ambling down the hall to the back bedroom. I wanted the single bed – that’s about as much privacy you can get at Jefferson’s, unless you’re going to draw the curtain and fuck in the shower. But when we got there Amy and her new friend were sitting there, watching the foursome on the futon opposite.

The only person I could see (it was dark and, well, their faces weren’t really apparent) was Calico, the beautiful model. Her hair was in two schoolgirl’s braids and her pale body shone in the dark. It was a mash of people and as we watched, Amy walked over to the futon to get a closer look.

Jed and I settled onto the single bed next to the dreadlocked guy (I was hoping he’d take the hint and leave us the bed) while Amy edged her way towards Calico, who was facedown on top of someone or someones. Amy clambered onto the futon and bent her head down over Calico.

Calico’s head popped up: “Who’s there?”

Amy introduced herself.

“Oh, it’s OK,” Calico said, “You know, I just want to know who’s…”

I would personally have been kind of freaked out if someone put their mouth on my naked body without having let me know they were there, but Calico is apparently a laid back kind of person in that way.

I turned to Jed and we started to kiss, and at last the dreadlocked guy gave up the bed and we were free to stretch out.

We were slipping out of our clothes when others – I’m not sure who, but definitely Adam and Emma and maybe Carlotta, too, I think — tumbled into the room, laughing and chatting. Jed was lying on top of me, and I wanted him to cover me up completely: I felt really exposed. So I closed my eyes, like children do, the idea being, I can’t see you, so you can’t see me.

After some rather violent kissing Jed slid inside me and he was sweating ferociously and I tried to enjoy fucking him, but I was conscious of the others in the room, even though they were all otherwise occupied.

“Can I fuck your ass?”

“Uh huh.” Now I was a veteran! I knew that this was what Jed really liked.

This time, despite the application of much BabeLube, I was a bit tight, mostly ’cause I just couldn’t entirely relax, but again, it wasn’t painful. Of course, “it wasn’t painful” is not an overwhelmingly positive review. But I was too busy concentrating on not noticing the others, and couldn’t enjoy Jed’s grunts as he thrust at me with his long cock. Damn!

After he came I stroked his hair as he lay with his head on my chest, breathing heavily. I wanted to say, “Stay,” to hide me here beneath him until the room had cleared out. But I didn’t, because I didn’t want to have to ask him and I resented that I would have to ask him and anyway I knew he wouldn’t. He would want to be on Jefferson’s terrace, smoking cigarettes and flirting. When Jed excused himself I got dressed quickly, leaving the foursome on the futon and the group in the middle of the room, feeling worked up from all the fucking without orgasm.

I needed a break and when I went back to the living room I halted by the stereo: “Jefferson, are we listening to the Buzzcocks’s Singles Going Steady?”

“Why, yes we are!” Jefferson smiled.

Jacob, sitting on the sofa with some others, grinned at me. I had known that would get his attention. Though The Buzzcocks don’t really strike me as orgy music.

I slumped onto the couch next to Jacob and helped myself to a Double Stuf Oreo. “Hey!” I said. “How’s it going with that girl?”

“Ah,” he grimaced. “We’re just friends.”

This is an interesting story: at the last orgy Jacob told me he had just met a girl. They’d eyed one another at the supermarket near his apartment and then he’d nearly run into her on the street a few minutes later but for some reason had been unable to make contact. So he went home and posted an ad on Craig’s List’s Missed Connections! And, as he had told me, not 15 minutes later she had responded, and they had been on several dates and had not yet slept together and she was hotter than anyone here at the orgy now (I’m quoting).

But apparently it had come to naught, because, as Jacob explained, “I just don’t have the time to get involved with someone I’m not comfortable with.”

This struck me as sad – he’d been so enthusiastic. I expressed my sympathies and, after I’d eaten a suitable number of Oreos, got up to check out the action. “Don’t be a stranger,” Jacob urged.

I drifted back down the hall to Jefferson’s bedroom. The room was packed. And I was astonished and turned on to find Alex, in his underwear, wrapped around Mmmark in a hot clinch.

Ho boy. I swallowed. As usual, Mmmark seemed to be enjoying himself immensely. Alex’s face was hidden from view, but he, too, appeared pretty satisfied with this turn of events. Everyone else was likewise engaged. I slunk back against the wall for a minute, watching the couples writhe in the dark in happy abandon.

Part of me wanted to be in on the action, giggling and slurping and burying my mouth against someone’s skin. But I was also feeling just unwilling to be so exposed. Which is not the kind of attitude that serves one well at an orgy. OK. It’s time for me to go, I determined. I went to the bathroom and decided to make my goodbyes to Jefferson, and to Alex, whom I didn’t want to abandon. I found him in the back bedroom, sitting on Lillie’s bed. He was alone.

“Hey! You and Mmmark!” I said by way of greeting.

Alex nodded fervently.

“That was hot!”

Alex nodded fervently, again. I felt like I’d sent my protege out into the sex world for the first time, and he’d scored big. “Did you…?” What I wanted to know was had they done more than kissing? What had I missed?

Finally I abandoned all delicacy and, taking a seat next to him I whispered: “Did you go down on him?”

Once more, Alex gave me a nod. I high-fived him. “Well done! Doesn’t Mmmark have a nice dick?” Another nod from Alex while we both considered Mmmark’s anatomy. When I’d recovered I remembered my point: “Listen, I think I’m going to go.”

“OK.” Alex has the habit of looking as if he’s paying close attention when you talk to him, as if what you have to say is really important. I like that.

We hugged, and I sloped out of the room, only to run right into Jed. “Oh, hey. I’m about to take off.”

“What? You’re leaving?” I was gratified to see he appeared to be disappointed.

“Yeah, it’s late…”

“Oh,” He leaned down to me: “I was hoping you’d fuck me…”

Aha, the old ‘I was hoping you’d fuck me’ gambit! “Well, I… Oh, what the hell. Sure.”

So we tripped back into the back room, where we’d fucked earlier and where I’d last seen Alex perched on Lillie’s single bed. It was empty now. “I’ll go wash my hands,” I offered.

“People usually do that afterwards.”

“Well, I’ve got Oreo crumbs on me.” Not so sexy, Oreo crumbs.

When I returned Jed had stretched out on the bed. He was naked and the short, wide dildo I’d first encountered at his place a few weeks ago was beside him. I perched next to him, and then leaned over. We kissed. “Take off your shirt,” Jed said. I obeyed, keeping my eyes on him.

The room was empty but for the two of us, and I was relieved. As usual, I waited for Jed’s instructions. I like taking orders from him. Ahem.

He gestured to the bottle of lube, and I slid some all over my fingers. “Put a finger inside me,” Jed said after a minute.

I complied. I liked the slick, soft feeling of his innermost skin against my fingertips. Jed sighed, and I half smiled at his expression. Nothing else seems to get Jed as worked up as this. And even though I like it when he’s in control (over me), I like it when he’s out of control, too.

“Put another finger in,” Jed breathed. I fit my middle finger inside him, along with my index. He opened right up with no resistance at all. I liked that; how easily his body responded, how eager he was. I bent lower over him, stroking his ass with my skin.

“Put another one in,” he muttered, so I slipped my ring finger in this time. I went in slowly, so as to not stretch or hurt him, but it didn’t matter: he was wide open. His body was begging for it, just as women are supposed to be begging for it in the fantasy of fraternity brother speak. My breathing was getting a little shallow.

“More,” said Jed, so I fit my pinkie inside him, too. Sliding my hand in and out, I gazed at my fingers, astonished at what I was doing, and at the fact that the puckered dot of Jed’s anus could open up to fit all my fingers. Christ. I swallowed, and shifted a bit on the bed. I was getting wet.

“Put your whole hand in,” he urged. I looked at my wet hand doubtfully, but, after a moment, I slid my hand underneath him again and slowly inched my entire fist up his ass.

Holy smokes!

“Ahhhh!” groaned Jed.

My whole hand! I was fisting him! This was anal fisting! “Jesus Christ,” I gasped. “I’ve got my entire hand inside you.”

“Your hands are … really … tiny,” Jed breathed as he strained against me, arching and bucking. “Now the dildo.” I had almost forgotten about that in all the excitement. I slowly tugged my hand out, gazing at my sloppy wet fingers for a minute in wonder. It had been inside someone’s ass! But onwards: I squirted lube over Jed’s dildo, and then carefully turned it to face up, like he’d directed me the other week. As he squirmed on the bed, I fitted the dildo right inside him.

“Aaahh,” he said again. I crouched low over Jed’s torso, pushing the dildo up his ass, swinging my hand. “Oh, Lily…”

“Oh,” I murmured. “Oh, Jed, you’re doing great.” I slid the dildo back and forth, pushing it up Jed’s ass while he grunted. “You’re taking it like a champ,” I crooned. I have always, always wanted a chance to say this; to me it just sounds incredibly dirty and sexy. “Oh, you’re taking it really well, baby.” I slung my hips back and forth as I swung the dildo up his ass, slipping it out just a bit to hear him moan. Jed tugged on his dick. “Oh, Lily,” he said. “Fuck me, Lily. Fuck me.”

How I loved hearing him say my name. I bent lower, pushing my breasts towards him and rubbing the dildo more fiercely. “Oh, you’re doing so well,” I murmured. “That’s real nice.”

“Lily. Oh, Lily!” I watched smugly as with a shudder Jed came, a stream of semen spurting out onto his stomach. For a moment he lay still, his chest heaving.

Then I stood up and went into the bathroom, where I scrubbed my hands with Jefferson’s Vanilla Bean Noel hand soap from Bath & Body Works. When I got back to the bedroom, Jed was gone.

I pulled my shirt on, and back out in the hall I looked at my hands: I just had unprotected sex, didn’t I? Unprotected hand sex. Well, fisting. Ah: there was Jed.

“Heeeey,” he said, looking totally unconcerned, as usual.

I glanced down at my hands. “I should have worn gloves for that, right?” I don’t know why I was even asking, only he’d had experience with fisting (anal fisting! Wow) and I hadn’t.

Jed looked at me: “Give me your hands.” I placed my paws in his, and he held them up to the light.

“You’re fine,” he said after a minute. “You don’t have any scratches or anything, besides, I’m totally clean.”

I think he mean that he was free of disease; I already knew he was entirely clean, ass-wise. As Wendy had once asked me, “Do you think he spends all that time in the bathroom using an enema? That boy is immaculate.” (My guess: yes).

“OK,” I said, looking at my pink little hands, now smelling faintly of soap. “But if we do this again, we’re using gloves.”

And I trooped back to the living room, too tired to be worried about my bout of Unprotected Hand Sex. Alex had disappeared, as had Jefferson, and I really wanted to get moving before Jed suggested anything else I was likely to agree to. Though I’d fulfilled my directive to live somewhat dangerously and I felt smug, the apartment was hot and I was tired and hadn’t come and I was going home.