Submission with Jordan, Part II

I had another date with Jordan. He’d emailed me a few days before to ask if I’d like some “instructions” for our date. I immediately panicked, imagining what these instructions might amount to. Truthfully, once common sense prevailed, I guessed it would be something in the way of thongs, but I felt obliged to deny him, cause, like I said, I want to go slow. Also, even though I like being told what to do sexually, it seems to run contrary to every instinct I have. Besides, my funds can’t run to this sort of thing at the moment, though, it must be said, some of my underwear is literally in tatters (the lacy nylon ones I’ve had for years, but still).

I’d fortified myself with a bottle of $7.99 Lambrusco, which, for those of you who have sophisticated tastes, is a fizzy red wine much beloved by college students the world over for its sweetness, not to mention its cheapness. Nothing says “I can’t afford Merlot!” like Lambrusco.

Jordan came by at about 7:30, and, in keeping with the polite fiction that we’re friends, I introduced him to my roommate as we passed her in the kitchen. Then onto my bedroom. He sat against the wall, as he had before, and asked me how I’d been. I told him a bit about my date with Jefferson.

“He slapped your face? Wow,” said Jordan. “That’s kind of advanced.”

“Chuh!” I said. “I was really freaked out. (This was my way of telling Jordan to not try anything of the kind with me. Subtle, eh?)

At last he said, “Take off your clothes.”

When I was down to my underwear (pink nylon, bikini) he said, “Walk over to the wall.”

What--? I backed myself to the wall, where Jordan said, “Turn around, and lean against the wall.”

Jordan had thought this out, you know? He planned these scenarios. I liked that: the imagination that goes into it.

“Now stick your ass out, and slowly rub your ass against me,” he said in my ear. I stiffened, and awkwardly put my ass out against his, and pushed against him, clad in his dress trousers.

“Now slowly pull your underwear down—slowly—not all the way…”

Again, I felt strange and detached, like I was taking part in some German Expressionist play. “Now I’m going to slap your ass,” Jordan said. After my night with Jefferson, I was tense. He hit me. It wasn’t too hard; I relaxed.

“Now pull your panties back up, and rub yourself against me.”

“Now pull them down again.”

“Now take them off.”

“All right. Now come back to the bed.”

I followed him back across the room. “Beautiful,” he said, as if I’d just passed a test. “Undress me.”

I went to work. When Jordan was naked he said, “Put my clothes over there,” he said, gesturing to my chair. I balked. This, to me, seemed to be on the domestic ratheer than the sexual side of submission. Stiffly I dropped his shirt and trousers on the arm of my rattan chair. “Now ask for permission to suck my cock.”

“Tie your hair back,” he said, after a bit. “I want to watch you suck me.”

Soon he had me on my stomach, with his fingers rubbing against my clit. I longed, really longed, for him to slip a finger or two inside me, but he didn’t. I pushed myself against him, just as I had earlier, when my breasts had been pressed against the wall and my ass against his groin. “You want me to fuck you?” he said.

“Yes. Please.”

He slid inside me and rocked against me. Don’t come right away! I thought. He briefly kissed my cheek, which surprised me and is probably the most affectionate and least sexual physical intimacy we have ever had.

“Can you do something for me?” I whispered, thinking, hmm, this probably violates all laws of submission, but what the hell. “Can you call me a whore?”

He did – and came quite quickly. Damn.

Afterwards, he wanted to know what I’d thought. My real feeling was, of course, that it had been too short. I didn’t say that, though.

“I liked it,” I said, which was true, but also, what else is there to say? I mean, I think lots of things when I’m with Jordan: I’m scared. Is this it? This is weird. None of which I’m going to share with Jordan. They’re not particularly flattering thoughts, after all. Though, to be fair, sometimes I think Ah. Yes, go on.

“Hey, was that not submissive, to ask for you to call me a whore?”

“No, that was OK. Have you been reading about submission, like online or anything?”

No, I hadn’t. No, wait, I had! “Yeah, on Fleshbot...” And I froze, thinking, !@#$ !@#$!. Because, of course, the Fleshbot sex blog round up on submission (with sites chosen by Jefferson) had featured none other than me. And that blog entry was about my date with Jordan, in which I complained that (among other things) he came really quickly and “smelled wrong.” Oh God oh God oh God. I changed the subject.

“I like how you have this story,” I said, thinking of bring pressed against my bedroom wall, of the way it was clear he had thought about what to do to me.

“It’s always been about ideas with me,” he said, and he told about how, when he was growing up, the story surrounding the sex had always been of primary importance to him, in porn, fantasies, whatever.

“Narrative,” I said.

“Look, I don’t want to overstay my welcome,” said Jordan. Which I thought was strange, that diffidence. “But, I’m really hungry. I was thinking I could go get some food at that diner and come back.”

“Sure.” I wanted to have sex again. I hadn’t come.

“Do you want anything?”

“A vanilla milkshake,” I said promptly. I hadn’t even known that I wanted one, but it came right out of my mouth. And, yes, I love vanilla milkshakes, but I think part of the reason I asked for one is because it is, to me, the epitome of an innocent beverage (if beverages can be said to have such characteristics). I was suddenly eager to reassert my innocence.

“A vanilla milkshake. I think I’ll have one, too,” said Jordan, so possibly he missed the symbolism there.

He left and I drank the Lambrusco remaining in my glass, and then started on his.

When he came back we sat on my bed and I drank a bit more Lambrusco, and washed it down with my milkshake, to Jordan’s amusement.

“The only thing that weirded me out was when you told me to take your clothes,” I said, just to remind him that, despite being submissive, I am a feminist. Proving it to myself as much as him, I suspect.

“Yeah, I kind of saw that,” he said. “I saw that that bothered you, and I’m the kind of person who, if I see that it bothers you, pushes it,” he admitted. And I thought, Huh! I would never date someone whose personal sexual motivation was to make me uncomfortable. But then I thought, Oh, grow up. There’s no conflict here: you’re not dating. You don’t have to like Jordan. He’s here to get off, and to help you explore a bit. You’re here to learn something. (Actually, that last statement is sort of funny. It makes me sound like I've enrolled in an evening class at the local community college.)

“I’m naturally very law abiding,” I said, apropos of nothing. “My instincts are to be very obedient to authority.” When I was a kid, I was terrified of upsetting teachers, or my father, who has a very uncertain temper. Now, my father’s temper irks rather than terrifies me, but it still has the power to throw me off balance. But that’s another story. But when I was a kid, I never did anything wrong. I thought it was a sign of moral probity, rather than an overdeveloped fear of authority figures or a lack of a reasonable sense of the ridiculousness.

“Then, when I was sixteen,” I continued, “I suddenly realized that it didn’t matter if I didn’t do my math homework or was twenty minutes late, and for a while I kind of deliberately did things wrong.” Not very wrong: I still didn’t cheat on tests. My great rebellion consisted of cutting classes with my friend Sarah, smoking cigarettes with her in the handicapped stall of the girls’ bathroom. I fought with my parents and antagonized some of my teachers. That was about the extent of it. But still. “Maybe that’s what makes me kind of resistant to authority now,” I said doubtfully. Because I still resent all those years when I internalized all that authority; when I believed that disobeying rules meant I was bad; when angering my parents was shameful.

“Get on all fours,” he said, “And stick your tongue out.” Like a dog! I thought, and obeyed.

He stood in front of me and hastily rubbed his dick, then slid it into my mouth. I sucked him.

“Tell me you want me to come in your mouth,” he coaxed.

“Please come in my mouth,” I said, thinking, but wait! I want you to fuck me again. Damn! But I sucked him, and sucked him, and when I wasn’t sucking him he rubbed his dick up and down. I thought, he’s fucking my mouth. I’ve given many blow jobs before, but this, I thought, is having my mouth fucked. (I was wrong, but more on this later.)

“I’m going to come,” he said. And with a jerk he spewed into my mouth, a thin, transparent stream of cum. It sat in my mouth, waiting, so, after a moment, I swallowed it.

Jordan said nothing. Then I said, “Fucking HELL!”

He gave me a look, and I realized that might not have been the most tactful thing to say.

“Okaaay,” he said.

“No, it’s just,” I began. What I meant was, I never swallow. I swallowed for you. Show some appreciation. “I rarely swallow. I just wanted some acknowledgement,” I said lamely.

He sat back against the wall and I leaned against him. “Do you think you could fuck me again?” I asked. I was still unsatisfied.

He sighed: “No.”

“What, is that you being dominant? Denying me?”

“No,” said Jordan. “I’m forty. I just had a birthday.”

“Oh right,” I giggled, patting his shoulder. “You’re an old man.” I felt like Mirabelle Buttersfield.

“No,” said Jordan. “Even when I was twenty I don’t think I could have fucked you three times.”

I thought smugly of Daniel, who, at 26, has both a quick recovery time and the stamina Jordan seems to lack. Of course this could be because Daniel is pretty active, whereas poor Jordan has to rely on me for all non-solo sexual activity.

We’d previously discussed my job at Dor-Oops Industries (Jordan works in a similar industry), and when he was getting dressed, he said, “Do you work at 123 X Street?”

“Umm-hmm.”

“Do you know Terry Milliven?”

Terry Milliven is the boss of Ken Smith (my boss – the man I would like to – but no doubt will never – seduce.)

“Terry Milliven is my boss’s boss,” I said, astonished. “How do you know Terry Milliven?”

Jordan smirked as he pulled on his jacket. “I told you: I’ve got connections.” I pictured Jordan walking into my office for a meeting with Ken Smith. And it occurred to me, not for the first time, that I have no idea of Jordan’s last name.

When he left I thought back to my idiotic slip about Fleshbot, and I hoped to God he didn’t get the notion to look for it online. When I didn’t hear from him afterwards I thought, Oh, God, he’s read it, and I felt just stupid and mean. But mostly stupid.

But then, just before Thanksgiving, he emailed to ask if I wanted to get together. I was relieved, since I figured it meant he had not come across that damning blog entry, but I already had plans. I declined, but said we should get together soon. Like, you know, when you give me more notice. I didn’t say that. Also, I think etiquette demands that a man thank his partner for his/her participation in his sexual fantasies on the day immediately following the event. This is something Jordan apparently does not consider important. Can I suggest that “Thanks, last night was fun,” would be in order, or, again, is that violating the submissives’ code? It’s bloody difficult, getting into the submissive spirit while still feeling compelled to insist on proper manners from the men I fuck.

Jefferson, Part Three

So, anyway, the date. NB: This took place before the entry titled I'll Call You Sometime: The Sequel. Excuse the lack of proper chronology.

Jefferson had warned me that he was out of liquor, so I bought some whisky. I am not yet blasé enough about going to a man’s apartment for the first time (especially to an apartment that sees regular orgies), or about submission, for that matter, to turn up without reinforcements in the form of mood-altering substances. I wanted Dutch courage. Of course, this involved some angst at the liquor store. I really didn’t want to spend much on alcohol (quantity, not quality is ever my motto), but could I really bring myself to show up at Jefferson’s door with a bottom shelf bottle of blended scotch whisky? I’m pretty vain – I didn’t want to be thought of as cheap. If I did buy El Cheapo brand, I would feel compelled to apologize for it. At which point Jefferson, being a well-mannered Southerner, would probably demur that it was fine. This dilemma took me a few minutes. Finally vanity won over frugality. As it so often does in my life.

Jefferson greeted me at the door in a t-shirt and pajama bottoms. I handed him the bag. “Maker’s Mark!” he said, sounding pleased.

“I read your blog,” I reminded him. I glanced around his living room. Lots of books, artwork by his kids: so, you know, not intimidating. I’m not quite sure how a few square feet could be considered intimidating, but apparently the possibility had occurred to me.

We settled down on the sofa with our whiskies and listened to Neil Young and then Emmylou Harris. I’d been thinking about music on the way over. I’d been playing T. Rex’s “Hot Love” again and again on my iPod. This seemed like an appropriate soundtrack to get me in the mood. As did, oddly enough, Billie Holliday’s “Strange Fruit.” Obviously not the lyrics, but the sinister air of melancholy, and the soft minor key melody seemed fitting as I contemplated being slapped, possibly quite hard, by a man I barely knew.

We talked and talked. Alcohol makes me quite chatty, and because, of course, it’s alcohol, I am a little fuzzy about the subject of our discussion. I think Emmylou Harris, the idea of being an artist and of the importance of loving one’s work were bandied about. I knocked back my whisky pretty quick.

When he brought me a second drink he sat a bit closer. “See, I’m sitting incrementally closer to you now,” he announced.

“Oh, right!” I said, and squeezed just a bit closer, myself.

“You’re getting better at maintaining eye contact,” he observed. He has very blue eyes.

“That’s the alcohol,” I said, giving credit where it was due. This became clearer when we started talking about his writing. “When I’m writing erotica, the sentences get shorter,” he explained. “It’s not ‘My penis did this…,’ it’s ‘My cock. My cock. And there’s no vagina, that’s what you take to the doctor.’”

“Yes!” I cried. “Cause, you know, a penis is flaccid, but a cock is hard. And you know what else?” I went on, inspired, “I think cunt is a perfectly acceptable word, but pussy is really dirty.”

“What do you mean by dirty?” Jefferson asked. I realized that using ‘dirty’ as a pejorative term might put a damper on our evening, which was supposed to be very dirty, indeed.

“I just think euphemisms are dirty.” The alcohol was making me more voluble, but, unfortunately, also less articulate. I tried to remedy that: “With cunt, I think it’s the hard ‘k’ sound, and the dentalization at the end that makes it sound clean. I mean, I like the dirtiness of pussy,” I added, not wanting him to think I was a prude or anything. “I mean, just now I got this kind of shiver down the backs of my thighs.”

“Really?”

“That’s also the alcohol talking,” I said, insightfully. “I wouldn’t otherwise be talking about why I think pussy is a dirty word.” I finished my second whisky. “I’m just going to use your bathroom.”

“It’s at the end of the hall.”

When I returned to the sofa he pulled me towards him and kissed me, sliding his hands all over me. I sighed. He slipped his hands up under my shirt. “This is the part I have trouble with,” he said, struggling with my bra. Like me putting on condoms.
But he soon got rid of the rest of my clothes, slipping my tights off my legs and, briefly, onto his left arm. Then he settled me next to him on the couch, and I curled up against him. He was still dressed, or rather, still in his pajama bottoms and tee.

We kissed. “I just want to smell you,” I announced. I was definitely drunk at this point. I sniffed the crook of his elbow. Nice. We kissed again. “And I’m going to stroke you,” I added, sliding my hand across his groin.

It was already after 8:00; he’d been making me comfortable for two hours at this point, and I was due to leave at 9:00. “OK,” he said at last. “Take your drink into the bedroom.”

So I did. Hey! I thought. This is where the orgies (parts of them, anyway) happen! I looked at the bookshelves, then sat on the bed.

When he came in he joined me on the bed, pushing me back against his pillows and reaching into the drawer of his bedside table. He slipped a mask over my head, where it snagged in my hair. It was the real deal, not one of those wimpy Virgin Atlantic sleep masks. I couldn’t see a thing, not even an impression of light. I sighed. He lay on top of me.

After a minute I felt his dick on my face. He rubbed it across my mouth, and I licked it desperately. I tried and tried to get my mouth around the head, but he wouldn’t let me. “Please?” I said. “Won’t you let me suck you?” He slapped my face. I gasped: “Ow!” I hadn’t expected it at all. I had thought the slapping would be limited to my ass. It hurt. I wasn’t wet. I might have been excited, but I could barely even think. It really hurt.

Then he turned me over and slid me to the edge of the mattress, and spanked me hard. Several times. It was really painful, and I heard my voice whimpering. But it went on.

I don’t know how long it lasted. Not very long, I don’t think. Afterwards, Jefferson lay me on my back and covered me up with his body. He took off the mask.

“Well,” he said. “So we tried that, and it’s not for you. That’s OK.”

“No,” I said. “It’s not that I didn’t like it…” I said. Lying, I think.

“That’s a lot of double negatives,” he pointed out.

“It’s that I let you do that to me,” I was nearly in tears. “I let you. I didn’t even stop you.”

He kissed my face, and was quite soothing. I’m not surprised he has such an active social life. Even though he hit me really hard, and his promiscuity makes me nervous, I think he’s lovely, and I’m going to see him again, no question about it.

He found a cigarette, an unfiltered Gauloise! (How French!) and we split it, with me slouched in his armchair, and him lounging on the bed. It was after 9:00.

“Sometimes I don’t think I’m actually submissive,” I said, returning to our conversation. “I think I like the idea of refusing to do what I’m told,” I said.

“Oh, so you’re a brat,” Jefferson laughed.

I wondered if this was an official term for this particular perversity or if I’m just completely weird. Do I just want to annoy my partners to orgasm?

It was getting late. “Don’t you have another date?” I asked.

“I’m actually headed out,” he said. “I wish we’d planned for you to stay over,” he said. I smiled.

We started to dress. It was at this point I realized I was very, very drunk. The term legless suddenly made sense.

We walked to the subway station. “Are you OK?” he said. I was not too steady on my pins.

“I think I’m going to get a cab,” I said. “I just need a cash machine.”

“I’m going to come with you,” he said. Thank God for that, I was in a real state. He saw me to a nearby ATM and then into a cab. I don’t remember getting home, and I can’t imagine how I managed to give the driver directions. I struggled out of my clothes and collapsed in bed, not even washing my face. I woke up at 4:00 am with a splitting headache, having dreamt about HIV tests given by cheery people who kept mixing up the results and giving them out in public. My subconscious isn’t all that subtle, it seems.

Walking to the subway station this morning, I checked my voice mail. The phone had rung while I was at Jefferson’s, but I’d assumed it was Marc, since I’d asked him to check in. But aha! It was Daniel. He’d called to see if I was free tonight. Since I was playing it cool, I called him back immediately and said I’d love to get together. I believe this is called self-sabotage. I’ll call you sometime, eh? Call me Tuesday night, pal!

Jefferson had threatened – or promised – to give me bruises that would last nearly a week. I hadn’t had the courage to ask him not to (how could this take courage? It’s my ass! What the hell is up with me?). I don’t want bruises because I’m seeing Jordan on Friday night and am not sure of proper sub etiquette regarding multiple partners leaving welts on one’s ass. I can’t see my ass, but I don’t think it’s bruised. I thought it would hurt to sit down. I was kind of excited about being constantly, physically reminded of my night. Which is strange, considering how ambivalent I was about being hit that hard. But anyway, while it stings, I can’t tell if it’s a response to the spanking or just the latent effects of lycra-heavy tights clinging to by skin three days running. If there’s any visible bruising presumably Daniel will tell me. Wow, I am a slut.

When I got to work there was a nice email from Jefferson. He’s lovely.

Email (Jefferson, Part Deux)

For my date with Jefferson, he’d asked me to think about what I was interested in. So I told him:

“OK then. First, alcohol (as I think you mentioned before), that would be very good. Then, I think I'd like it if you to told me to get undressed and let me feel all exposed. During my brief hour or so as a submissive the other week, I enjoyed having my ass slapped. I think I liked it because I found it sort of stimulating rather than very painful. There's one or two other things I can think of, and actually they're quite tame but we can talk about them in person. For some reason I feel quite embarrassed about writing them down. Hmm. I guess the most important thing I'd like you to know I'm nervous, and I trust your experience and good intentions. But I'm sure you knew that already.

What were those things I thought of but could not bring myself to mention via email? Ahem! Well, I'd liked it when Jordan said, "Want to be a good whore and suck my cock?" I liked a) being called a good whore and b) being told to suck his cock. That's the kind of thing I was thinking about. Now, while I think I might have been able to say this to Jefferson in person, I couldn't countenance the thought of emailing him about this. What's up with that?

I'll tell you what's up with that. When I'm really nervous, I often say exactly what's on my mind, just because I find the tension of not saying it too great. Then I can be embarrassed that I've been too blunt, rather than be nervous about what hasn't been said. It's a trade off. I've been awkward when I'm nervous for so long that it barely bothers me anymore. But emailing a man I don't know very well and saying, "Yah, I'd like for you to call me a whore and tell me to suck your cock -- and oh, by the way, you can grip the back of my head while I suck you off, that's nice too," -- is just too much for me to say without tempering it with what I hope is a fetching awkwardness. In person I can minimize my nerves by letting it be known that I am embarrassed and nervous. I've found that this usually buys me some time, and generally the goodwill of whomever is patiently waiting for me to get over myself.

Anyway, this is what Jefferson wrote back:

"You anticipate me. I had already decided to undress you on arrival. I'm not having you over to admire your wardrobe.

"Likewise, your comment that you "don't like pain" had already earned you a spanking. We need to get you past things you haven't tried but "don't like."

Now, that is the most aggressive email I’ve ever received from him. Is it part of his dominant role? It’s a change, though, as previously he’s been exceptionally decorous. If this had been his persona throughout our correspondence, I would have been dead scared, as the English say. Has he guessed that, and is pushing me?

And, gah! I am dead scared. Thinking about this, I’ve decided not to write back at all. The only kind of response I can give is a sort of chiding, “Hey!” – which isn’t really playing the game, and well, he knows I’m fearful, but he also knows I’ve made the decision to trust him. I want to trust that this email suggests that he has a good idea of what might please me, not that he’s a sadist. So I’m going to put my money where my mouth is and see what happens. If I hate it, I won’t do it again. (I kind of doubt I’ll hate it, though. I think that’s what scares me.)

Jefferson, Part I

NB: This was a week or two ago. I didn't post it right away, for a number of reasons. But now...

The other evening I had a date with Jefferson.

Jefferson emailed me a few weeks ago, after he came across my Craig’s List ad. He sent me a brief note with a link to his blog. I checked out his blog and was completely floored: it was about the dirtiest thing I’d ever seen. He’s a divorced father of four, in his early forties, and apparently all he does is have sex with multiple partners and take care of his kids, though not at the same time. He’s a good writer. All the sex was erotic, the orgy conversations were funny and I was astounded.

I wrote back to say “!” – I thought his writing was great, but I found his depth of experience and number of partners intimidating. I didn’t expect to hear back from him, but he did respond, enclosing a photo. He also used the word “gosh,” which put me at ease. An insightful guy – he could see I am a sucker for what Michael Chabon terms a “dainty lexicon.” His photo showed him to be lanky and blond.

I was so flattered to be the subject of his pursuit. Though of course that doesn’t really make sense, since it appears that Jefferson is not averse to pursuing a fair number of men, women and some transsexuals in the five boroughs. I am a little ashamed to say I was thrilled that a celebrity was interested in me.

I thought I’d like to meet Jefferson – I wanted to see what someone who has huge amounts of group sex looked like in the flesh, as it were – but decided I wouldn’t sleep with him, since he didn’t sound like a safe bet. I noticed that in all of his entries he made a point of mentioning wearing a condom, but it was clear he had sex with a number of men, which I think is dangerous, and is on my list of stuff to be wary of.

Anyway, we wrote back and forth, flirty but not at all explicit emails, which is just how I prefer things to be. Eventually we agreed to meet for a drink on Saturday evening.

When he turned up I was, again, totally surprised. Cute, definitely, but I never ever would have would have picked him out of a line-up as the Man Most Likely to Host Orgies. Come to think, who would I pick out of a line up for that? Hmmm, Jonathan Rhys Meyers, circa Velvet Goldmine, I expect. Anyway. Jefferson was nice, and smart, and older than the men I usually hook up wih. But I loved the idea of being named in his blog! Apparently I want to be a star fucker.

We talked for a few hours, about things like whether or not I might consent to go to bed with him, the nature of submission, and how, when he was a child, he was told that being gay meant you masturbated over a bowl of cornflakes.

“Submissives really have all the power,” Jefferson explained as I gulped down my gin and tonic. “They hold the safeword, and the dominant does all the work.”

“Yes ... Have you ever read Anna Karenina?”

“Yes…”

“Well, you know how Levin proposes to Kitty? And she turns him down at first? There’s this whole discussion about it. Basically, all Kitty can do is say yes or no, but by saying yes or no, she wields a lot of power over Levin. She holds all the cards. She can’t do much with the cards,” I admitted, “But Levin can’t do anything without her say so, either.”

We considered that. Later, I thought, being dominant is like playing the queen in chess: you have all the powerful moves, but your status isn’t actually that important. Only the king, whose movements are totally circumscribed, is of import in the outcome of the game. Being submissive is like playing the king.

By the end of the date I was pretty keen to sleep with Jefferson. He’s cute, very easy to talk to, nice, complimentary. There’s something to be said for older men. It’s so easy to feel comfortable with someone when he makes it clear he thinks you’re hot. Or takes pains to let you think so, at any rate.

After several gins and tonics, I was comfortable enough to tell him a bit about my experiences (including my big experiment with Jordan), and we talked frankly about what I might like, how his sex life sounds high risk to me, and how terrified I am of contracting HIV. But the more we talked, the more I felt like these objections could be overcome. Perhaps it was the alcohol. He was so funny and friendly and picked up on my physical standoffishness. He didn’t even brush my hand. It was late in the evening when he briefly touched my cheek. At that point I was pretty lightheaded. “See, thanks!” I slurred. “I mean, I appreciate that you waited until I’d had three drinks before you touched me.” I wasn’t being sarcastic: when he finally did get around to making contact, I was comfortable.

He had plans for later, but he leaned over and whispered in his soft Southern accent, “I’m trying to decide whether or not I have time to take you home and fuck you before dinner,” he said. I burst out laughing. It turned out that Jefferson had to meet with one of his girlfriends for dinner later. “I don’t want to keep you,” I said. Also, I wouldn’t like to think that he would be watching the clock the whole time we were together. Reading his blog, it’s clear he is on a really tight schedule.

“Let me look at my schedule,” he promised. “Is it OK if it can’t be this week?

“No, take you time,” I said, flattered. “I’m sort of amazed you might be able to fit me in at all.”

“Well, I want to see you soon,” he said. “So maybe next week.”

“OK.” We got up to leave.

At the corner we faced one another purposefully. “Well, it was so nice to meet you,” I said.

“I’m going to kiss you now,” he warned.

“Yeah, yeah!” I said, in a “Of course, go ahead,” voice. So he did. It was funny. His kiss was very light, his lips soft. We made out. I nipped at his lip just a little. Then we bid one anther goodbye, and headed our separate ways.

Later, I got a very nice note from him. That’s Southern manners for you. Then he offered to have an HIV test. Which was even nicer.

So we’re fixed up for Tuesday, though we’ve agreed that this time we’re not going to have sex since, as I put it,

"I like the thought of getting all worked up, and of being denied (this one time, anyway) -- that's actually quite pervy, isn't it?"

And he agreed.

Another First Date That Won't Result in Sex

The other night I met Jon. He emailed me on the Nerve personals. In his profile, he said that he had a girlfriend but that theirs was an open relationship. This made me think of Tim and Amanda. His photo, from what I could see of it, was cute. It would be a new experience for me, so I responded to his wink.

After much back and forth, including his invitation for me to meet him at his apartment (No, no, no) it was agreed that I’d stop by the bar he works in on Tuesday night. I thought this wasn’t a great idea, since I figured it would be crowded, he’d be distracted, and I’d feel surplus to requirements. Nonetheless, what the hell.

I went to the bar, which was not at all crowded when I got there just before 8:00. He’d told me he was a bartender, and he’d be the only one there, but when I arrived I thought perhaps someone else was working instead of him. The bartender didn’t really resemble Jon’s picture at all, at least what I’d seen of it. He was short and stocky, with close-clipped dark hair and several silver rings on his fingers. I sat at the bar. “Hi, Lily,” he said.

“Hi Jon,” I said.

“You want a Cosmo?”

I nodded.

He was all right. He had a moderate Philadelphia accent and a huge chip on his shoulder: he’s a not very successful actor, poor man. Within twenty minutes of meeting, he’d managed to let it drop that he’d had three callbacks for this musical, that he was really artistic, and that, while his girlfriend tolerated his non-monogamy, she actually hated it. “But we’ve talked about it a lot,” her said, “And she knows that the only way for me not to feel trapped is to be able to have sex with other women. But she doesn’t want to hear about it.”

“Oh,” I said, thinking, I’m sure his girlfriend can do better. If she doesn’t like him sleeping with other women, why doesn’t she dump him? I don’t think I could be happy knowing that someone I was committed to was regularly bedding other women, or trying to. At this point, there was no way in hell I’d ever want to sleep with him, especially after he made a joke about “seeing if we’re going to bang.” Now that’s class. “I’m just kidding,” he added, anxiously. “You know I’m kidding cause I said ‘bang,’” I nodded, smiling politely. No way, pal, was my thought.

I felt sorry for him. He’s not particularly young, a bit burnt out from constant auditioning, and working as a bartender at a not very nice place. He seemed frustrated. I would be too, if I was a thirtysomething bartender struggling to get a break. Still. I’m not going to bang him, thank you.

I'll Call You Sometime: The Sequel

“So that was a big blow off, you know,” I said to Daniel. “The I’ll call you sometime, and I’ll see you online.”

“No! I didn’t mean it like that! You didn’t think I was blowing you off?!”

“Well.”

“I’m sorry! I didn’t mean that at all. I just usually see people online. I think things are going great with us.”

***

When Daniel came over last night I insisted that we practice the dance moves I learned on Friday: forward, back ROCK step. Then we adjourned to my bed and started fooling around. “You’re not wearing panties!” he gasped, lifting up my skirt.

“You didn’t notice? You had your hands all over my ass!” I was astounded.

“It didn’t occur to me.” He looked at my pussy. “Wow. Lily.”

“I thought you might like it.” He slid his mouth between my thighs. “Oh….” I said.

******

He’s got a lot of stamina. I climbed on top of him and came really quickly. We spent the next half hour with him inside me, urging me to ride his cock. "I love seeing you bounce up and down," Daniel said. He smacked my ass (this is becoming a pattern) and nuzzled my tits: “You have perfect tits,” he murmured.

“Thanks. But I can’t take any credit for them." I mean, it's not like I can improve them by exercise, like biceps. I gasped as his mouth clamped onto a nipple. "Yeah. Suck them….”

“Here…” He sat on the edge of my mattress and I straddled him, locking my ankles around his back. “You like it deep, baby? Can you feel that?” he asked. I love that lazy, necessary verbal urging, all that Come on/Yeah, baby/Do that again/You want to take this?/Give it to me/Harder. All those intimate, foolish phrases. I love it.

When at last he came I curled up with my head on his chest and we talked. About how he doesn’t want children, and his ex-girlfriends, and all sorts of things that only reinforce that we really don’t want any of the same things. But by the same token, everything about him is so appealing and sweet and sexy. And he likes me too, that’s the strangest part of all. It grew later but at last I said, “Please fuck me again,” and I lay on my stomach, cause I wanted him to fuck me from behind, doggy style.

“You like this?” he panted as, once again, his cock pushed right through me. “You’re so tight!”

“I want to be a whore for you,” I whispered, my hair stuck in my face. I tried to turn around and look at him, energetically pumping away at my pussy.

He got that: “Good slut,” he grunted obligingly. “Filthy bitch.”

It’s hard to be a submissive feminist, I must say. But when I’m told that I’m a filthy bitch and a dirty whore, I’m so excited I can do nothing but whimper, “More.”

Now it’s morning and I’m left in a kind of daze of good feeling. God, I wish I could fuck him every single day. And then spend hours just mooning at him and stroking his chest and tasting his mouth. Unfortunately, no good can come from this excess of hormonal cheer. I may even feel muzzy enough to send him a complimentary email

In Which Emotion Rears its Ugly Head

I got Fleshbotted by Jefferson (whoo-hoo) on Friday, to my great delight, and then on Sunday I got an email from Jordan. Since the entry picked up by Fleshbot was all about my night with Jordan, I panicked when I saw his address in my inbox. I was afraid he’d seen my blog and was writing to bawl me out. What could I say? “Yes, sorry, I thought your tartan trousers were horrendous, and, yes, I said you smelled wrong to me. Sorry you had to come across that on what was no doubt an innocent Internet trawl for porn.” But, as it turned out, he was only writing to see if I’d finished brooding about the other week, and if I wanted to meet again. It was actually very good timing, and I am going to say yes, for reasons I will detail below.

I saw Daniel on Friday night. We’d had a long IM session on Wednesday. In some ways it was really nice, quite complimentary and flattering and sexy and dirty. On the other hand, it was kind of disturbing, as I got full disclosure about him and Robin. He seems to spend a good deal of time with her, which, I am sorry to say, makes me envious. He asked if I’d like to meet her. “She’s not a jealous person,” he added. She sounds perfect.

“Do you think she’d like me?” I asked.

“I think she would,” he said, and this segued into him imagining a threesome. (“I don’t know if I’m man to satisfy you both, but I’d like to try,” he offered. “Just thinking about one of you riding me while the other sits on my face. I mean, damn.”) I deflected this by saying, “I’ve never fooled around with a woman before. I’d probably do it wrong.” Only half joking.

“That’s OK. Robin has. She could direct us,” Daniel explained. Of course she has.

The thing that really scares me about a threesome is I’m sure the other woman, whoever she may be, will be prettier and thinner and with a better body than me. That’s the thing that’s really keeping me from it. If I see how beautiful another woman is, I’ll just think, “How can he stand to be with me when he could have her? She’s the woman he really wants to fuck, I’m just the extra.” If I knew for a fact that Robin was plain and chunky, I wouldn’t mind. However, I’m pretty sure that this is not the case. That says so many damaging things about me, it’s just embarrassing. Nonetheless, it’s the truth.

Daniel and I made plans for Friday and that morning I got an email asking me if I wanted to go swing dancing, since he is a big fan. I missed the swing dancing craze somehow, and was skeptical, but he was really keen, so I said sure.

We met right outside the bar at about 9:00. The dance was held in the upstairs room of a midtown pub and wasn’t too crowded. Daniel looked adorable – he was decked out in a pinstripe suit, complete with a fedora and wing tips. “I have many facets of geekdom,” he explained over drinks while we waited for the dance lesson to start. “I missed you,” he said. I beamed at him and we made out, our fingers entwined.

When the dance lesson started I got all flustered, since I’m not in the least coordinated. Daniel knew what he was doing. But the instructor kept up the “forward, back, ROCK step,” and I got along OK. Standing at attention, clutching Daniel’s hand with my paw, I felt sort of dazzled, and it occurred to me how hot choreography can be. I felt so awkward, and he was smooth, and when I wasn’t concentrating on my feet I looked into his eyes and felt all fizzy. “This is kind of sexy,” I gasped, tripping over my feet. We gazed at one another. Or at least I gazed at him, stretching the high-school flirtiness of the moment. He smiled at me. “I…” I said.

“Hmm?”

“I’m going to have you inside me later,” I said, a little breathlessly.

He smiled.

Normally I don’t mkind feeling like a fool, but I don’t like to look like this in front of Daniel. Nonetheless, I enjoyed myself. It’s the only time outside of a wedding that I’ve seen couples of all different ages getting down on the dance floor.

We left at about 11:00, and took the train back to his place. He showed me around his apartment but all I could think was, Let’s go to bed, eh? Then his roommates returned, and he introduced me to them. He’d mentioned his roommate Wendy, whom, he said, he’d dated the previous summer. I was surprised (and, let’s face it, pleased) to see that she was quite fat. He’d described her as this very sexually open person, so I’d been intimidated at the thought of her. She was nice. Wow, I am shallow.

Anyway, in his room, he showed me the Disworld art book, and I quelled my instinct to jump him. At last we started fooling around. He uses Trojan Magnums, as I’d guessed. Mmm. We fucked and fucked and the slats of his platform bed got loose, so we moved to an armchair. I sat with my back against him, riding him as he fingered my clit. “You going to come for me, baby?” he hummed in my ear. Yes, apparently.

Then I settled on the floor at his feet and took him into my mouth, as much as I could. He moaned, holding the back of my head close to him. God, it was a lot. I kept kind of gagging, which is hardly attractive. “Sorry!”

“No, it’s OK. You want to snowball?”

I nodded. I hadn’t even known what this was until he’d explained it to me the previous week. This is something he does with Robin. Although you, dear reader, probably know exactly what this means, I didn’t. Basically, he comes in my mouth, and then I pass his cum to him, which he then swallows. What a guy. (“I’d never ask you to do something I wouldn’t do myself,” he said judiciously, when I’d explained I hadn’t had time to shave my legs. A feminist after my own heart.)

I worked on him eagerly, delighted by his moans. “I’m going to come,” he said, and I sighed in relief and pleasure. When he came, I tried holding his cum in my mouth and then just gagged. “I’m so sorry,” I gasped. How insulting is that?

“It’s OK.”

“No, really…I’m sorry!” You make me sick. That’s the message I’m giving him. Good grief.

Eventually we made it back to the bed and soon he was asleep, snoring like a vacuum cleaner. I struggled in and out of dreams. We woke up just as it was getting light and we started fucking again. His bed creaked. It was so loud I was sure his roommates would be woken up by the noise. This was too embarrassing to contemplate, so I tried to ignore the sounds.

I stroked his cock, and slid my fingers around to his ass. Tentatively. I wasn’t quite sure where to put my hand.

“You want some lube?” he whispered.

“OK.” I slipped some lube over his cock.

“No, I meant—“

“Oh!” I giggled. “Right!” I’d never done that before, either. Slowly I massaged his anus, feeling for an opening, wondering where exactly I should put my fingers. But at last I felt my index finger slip inside his ass. It was so tight, clutching at my skin as soon as it let me in. He sighed. I tried not to scratch him, but rubbed against him, sliding deeper in.

“I like feeling you inside me,” he whispered. That’s what I usually say. It felt weird, being on the receiving end like that. When he came it was light out and we went back to sleep.

When we woke up again it was almost noon, and we made breakfast and watched television with Wendy. “What’s this?” Wendy demanded, pointing to a Pepto Bismol-pink tab stuck to the coffee table.

“I think it’s from a Lucky Charm,” Daniel said at last. “That’s either me or Robin.” Robin, I thought, tightening up inside.

I was going out that night, and knew I should start heading home if I wanted to get anything done before meeting Ben for drinks later. Also, I knew that if I didn’t go soon I would not want to leave at all. I didn’t want Daniel to be waiting for me to leave.

We went back to his room and without further ado I took off my clothes. I slid right onto his cock. I was wet and excited, but sore by this time. I rode him and we sighed in unison.

“Can you do something for me?” I whispered. My hair covering me like a curtain.

“Sure.”

“Talk dirty to me, OK?”

He smiled. “You like this? You like being fucked?”

“Uh…”

“You need a good drilling?”

That’s it: a drilling. Yes. “Lick my nipples?” I pleaded. He obliged. I came almost immediately.
“You came?”

“Uh huh,” I breathed.

“Good girl.” Being called a good girl is, I think, really very dirty indeed. “That was quick,” he smirked.

“You got me all excited,” I said, which is, I think, the correct response in these situations.

He flipped me over and began drilling me all over again. Christ. “Uhh…” I said. “I love the way you pound into me,” I said. It was this sort of solid pumping. Aah.

“This way,” he said, slipping off the bed. I slid onto my stomach, sticking my ass towards him. He bent over me and slid himself back into my cunt. “Yes, yes,” I said, hearing myself groan.

At last he came and again we collapsed, our limbs sweaty and stuck together. I stared at nothing, thinking, Do not ruin this. Do not get too attached. You are not going to mess this up.

“And this is only our third date,” Daniel said, stroking my hair.

Fuck, fuck fuck!

What I really wanted to do was go to sleep and then wake up and fuck him again and again. So instead I watched the clock and at 2:30 I got up. “You’re going to go?” he said.

“Yeah, I’d better,” I said. I got dressed and he walked me to the door, where we kissed, briefly. “Well,” he announced. “I’ll give you a call sometime, and I’ll see you online,” he said. Sometime? I thought. You’ll give me a call sometime? That’s quite an obvious blow off. But what could I say? By the time I had considered whether or not it would be appropriate for me to shrug, Eh, Daniel, I’ll call you sometime isn’t the most flattering way of saying goodbye, you know, it was too late, and I was nodding and heading for the stairs.

I walked home, wondering how long I could possibly do this without becoming insanely jealous of Robin or wanting Daniel to by my boyfriend. Can I last to the new year? Cause maybe we could do something then… were my thoughts. Of course, maybe he’ll have plans with Robin for New Year’s Eve. I don’t think I can do this, I thought, and practiced telling him so. In my mind, though, he protested. I don’t think he’d disagree if I said we’d better not see one another anymore, since he doesn’t want a serious relationship and, truthfully, I don’t think it’s what I need, either, but I’d be pretty damn annoyed if he didn’t at least seem sad about it. What if he didn’t seem sorry? I’m going to wait it out as long as I can because damn, I fancy him. No, that’s not true: I like him. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

So when I saw the email from Jordan I thought, ha! Perfect timing. This will keep my mind off of Daniel, and will serve to remind me that other men are eager to fuck my brains out. I will therefore feel desired and as if the ball is not entirely in Daniel’s court. Which it is. I just have to hope he doesn’t know that. Not ’cause I begrudge him the knowledge that I think he’s totally ace. But because I think that if he did know how I dote on him, he’d run screaming. Which he probably should do, anyway. Sigh.