First, thanks to Jefferson for the mention. Hey!
Of late, my MO has been to go to bed with a man within a few hours of our meeting, if we’re going to have sex. Viz: Daniel, Roger, Alejandro, Eddie …
But with Jefferson it was a bit different. His escapades – detailed so amusingly on his blog --made me think he was most definitely not for me. That is, I was afraid he was much too …well… advanced.
Anyway, as I’ve written, back in October we had a drink and started talking, and since then I haven’t been able to shut up. And then last week he told me that his HIV test had come back negative – so –
I thought I wouldn’t be nervous. I even thought I could do it sober. But when I left my office my stomach was in knots.
When I turned up at his place instead of the prolonged talk we have had on our previous dates, we immediately kissed and he lugged me over to the sofa. There I curled up against him and nuzzled his neck. He took off my shirt. Then he started removing my trousers.
“Wait!” I said. “Let me take off these first…” I rolled down my knee-high stockings, anxious to give it some panache after last week’s stripping debacle. “Cause I wouldn’t like to be naked except for knee highs, which are the least sexy item of clothing in the universe,” I explained. “Can I have a drink?”
"Uh huh," Jefferson didn’t move.
So I sprawled naked on his couch and we kissed, and then Jefferson picked me up and carried me into his bedroom. “I’d feel really bad if you got a hernia,” I said. Which was a sexy and mood enhancing thing to say. Not.
In his room he slid me onto his bed and loomed over me, smiling. “I’m going to fuck you now,” Jefferson said, parting my legs. “That was the foreplay,” he added, sweeping his hand across my thigh: “Telling you that I was going to fuck you.”
“Ah.” I smirked.
He put a condom on and pulled me towards the edge of the bed. He swung my legs around his neck and slid towards me. “You really are tight,” he said, after a minute.
What I was, was incredibly nervous. “I’m nervous,” I said.
After a moment Jefferson paused. “I’m nervous, too,” he said, which I appreciated. He slid on top of me. “Let’s have that drink.” He didn’t move. We started rolling around on the bed, and he was pinning my hands to the bed, and teasing me – about how I look, and my weight, and I blurted out, “Do not ever say anything about my ass!” I wasn’t mad, but I was serious. I mean, nothing is guaranteed to make me more miserable than negative comments about how I look. Which is totally obvious from this blog, and is a strong indication of my tiresome vanity and need for approval and other really unattractive qualities. Ahem.
“Boy. We’ve got to work on you,” Jefferson said. And then he said nice stuff about me and my greedy ego was soothed.
But eventually he got us drinks and we sat propped against the wall, and started talking – again. I told him about the first time I had sex (with Dennis Trainer, that schmuck. Now a neocon in DC) and about my ill-starred affair with John Killian, on whom I had a tremendous crush in college. As it turned out, he had a crush on me, but was still dating the woman I had thought was his ex. Good times. Again: not.
Jefferson told me about going down on this girl as a college student, while playing Patti Smith’s Horses on the turntable. I pictured this (“Horses! Horses! Horses… Do the Watusi!…”) and started giggling.
When he started talking about how he hooked up with his male college roommate, I got kind of excited. “OK, I’m just going to climb over you a bit,” I announced, straddling Jefferson and bending over his torso. “Keep talking…”
Again, he smelled what perfume bloggers call “gourmandaise” – like food. “This time you smell like buttered popcorn,” I said. And not the crappy fake butter you get at the movie theater, either. Jefferson laughed.
I was getting all turned on, hearing him tell me about his old roommate. God, I love hearing about two men getting it on. We started fooling around. At last Jefferson asked, “Should I go down on you?”
I gasped, “No, you’ve got to fuck me, please.”
This I think he liked. Again, he pulled me to the edge of the bed and placed my legs around his neck. Then at last he slid into me, and I was so grateful. I think I thanked him.
He fucked me for a long time.
Then we stopped and talked again, and drank a bit more whisky, and I said, “You know how you said you might ask me to sleep with someone of your choosing?” He’d emailed me about that.
“I said I would tell you to sleep with someone of my choosing,” Jefferson corrected, ever dominant. He straddled me.
“Yes, but I reinterpreted it,” I explained. “Well, who were you thinking of?” Because, my God, I found this idea pretty exciting. Only I was afraid he’d want me to sleep with someone who wasn’t as careful about using condoms as Jefferson.
“Really nice guys. Really cute….”
“I mean, … are they careful?”
Jefferson laughed, “Well, I can only speak for then when they’re with me…” He slipped on a condom and started fucking me again with a kind of ferocity. “You asked me to get… tested…” he panted, “…And I thank the woman who stuck a needle into me that I can fuck you… Cause you are totally worth it.” (He said something like this. I can’t remember exactly.)
“One...” I was breathing heavily, too. “I didn’t ask; you offered.” This is true. I would never have asked; I thought that would be rude. Also, it would have been like abrogating responsibility, in a way. Oh, I don’t know. “Two,” I met his eyes: “You had me anyway.”
Afterwards, we lay sprawled on his bed. “I think I’d like it if you called me a whore,” I said, apropos of I don’t know what.
“Oh no,” said Jefferson. “You have to earn that. When you fuck one of my friends, then I’ll call you a whore.”
I'd have to earn being called a whore? Of all the sexual stuff we've discussed, I would never have thought being called names was the one that might meet resistance from Jefferson. This is the kind of statement Daniel is happy to provide for free... Was Jefferson's refusal some sort of kinky submissive thing? Or a kind of applied economics?
“But then I wouldn’t want it,” I said. “I mean, if it were true I don’t think I’d want to hear it.”
“No, afterwards,” said Jefferson sensibly. “While you’re doing it you want to feel protected, and safe.”
Clearly, Jefferson knew whereof he spoke. I shrugged.
Then we talked about me fucking people in front of him. The idea is unnerving, certainly. But, right now, the drive to live somewhat dangerously, and take a few (calculated and with due regard for my sexual health and safety, natch) risks makes the prospect intriguing rather than horrifying. I like being intrigued.
Women came up. I've never so much as kissed another woman. But, hey. From the vantage point of Jefferson's bed, with the reality far away, it seemed like a reasonable idea. “Well, I’d probably do it," I said. "More cause I’m feeling experimental than anything else,” I added. Cause I couldn't see fooling around with girls on a regular basis. I'm not that cool, after all.
“You don’t have to do it, you know.”
“I know.” Funny thing, I trust Jefferson. “I’ll probably do it.” I knew that if I'd really been scared, or turned off, I’d have revealed my doubts and fears earlier. Like, as soon as he brought it up. I was getting used to the idea. “I put my money where my mouth is,” I said, fiercely. Cause, you know, I do.
It was already really late, and he had to go. We got dressed and he showed me a recent post -- a very cute boy in a bathtub. Is that who Jefferson meant? That he wanted me to sleep with? Oooh, I hope so.