Thursday, December 27, 2007
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:
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.
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.
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
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.
I narrowed my eyes. “I mean, what are you saying to me, Dean?”
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.
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
“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.”
“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.
Friday, November 30, 2007
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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…”
“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.
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.”
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
A Charlie Brown Christmas is on ABC tonight.
Saturday, November 24, 2007
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'.
Thursday, November 22, 2007
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?
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.
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
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.
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.
“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.
Monday, November 05, 2007
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.
“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.”
Saturday, October 27, 2007
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
Blog Action Day: Sexual Activism or Lightning Doesn’t Strike Twice
Join the Sugasm
See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
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.
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!
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.
Saturday, October 13, 2007
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?”
“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.