Wednesday, May 30, 2007

In Which I Fantasize, and Jim Surprises Me

Jim is a poet. Not the type of annoying pseudo-existential poet mocked in those very irksome VW commercials, but a homegrown Midwestern type who likes words and is well read. So one night he asked me to go to a poetry reading.

A poetry reading! That’s what you’d think New Yorkers do, along with hang out at independently owned coffee bars and have love affairs. That is, if you read novels written in the 1950s or have a romantic frame of mind. (Of course, you could be reading the other kind of New York novels, where all the heroines are adorable, put upon editorial assistants … Oddly enough, in both types of New York novels, the main characters rarely have roommates yet manage to live in Manhattan… But I digress.) Even though I live in New York and you would think I know better, I kind of felt that I was claiming my birthright as I went to a poetry reading in a bar on a mild May night.

The bar where the reading was being held was a one room affair, up a flight of stairs in an old building. Evidence of the room’s better days lingered in the high ceilings and the cracked moldings. The room was dark and yes, red curtains – they might even have been tattered velvet -- kept out the evening light. It was exactly the kind of decayed room that ought to host a poetry reading.

I bought myself a drink. Despite the impressive atmosphere, I was feeling grumpy. There were no seats left (I was late). I’d walked most of the way downtown, and my feet hurt. And Jim. Though I am very fond of him, he is hard work sometimes: I always have to initiate conversation, and more than not, we still end up staring at the floor half the time. More than anything, I wanted to sink into one of the booths and nurse a gin and tonic. Instead we stood at the back of the bar and waited for what I suspected was going to be a trying evening’s entertainment. Then from a sound system I heard

Here she comes walking down the street
She's got something you would love to meet

It's her heart and her heart is black
Think of ice cream sliding into a crack

My mouth twisted into a smile. I turned to my young man, and pointed at the ceiling, where I thought the speakers were located. “Do you know what this is?” I asked.

Jim shook his head.

Another opporunity for me to instruct my young man! I was getting into this experienced older woman thing. I grinned at him: “This is the Jesus and Mary Chain’s Automatic. I haven’t heard the album since about 1993.”

Jim looked at me blankly. Of course, he was about 10 when it came out. But I felt comforted and pleased and my bad mood fell away.

The poetry reading was actually great. Meghan O’Rourke was fantastic – poems about teenage girls and the moon like a tarnished spoon, and David Lehman’s poems about a yeshiva boy turned CIA agent were very funny. On the train home I thumbed through book of Lehman’s poetry while Jim read over my shoulder.

At my place Jim and I collapsed onto my bed. We lay across the mattress, our foreheads touching: “Cute little koala bear,” said Jim.

Aw. Though I hope I do not really remind him of a hairy, tubby marsupial with a bad disposition.

“Finally I get a smile out of you,” I said. I realized this was true: Jim generally seems so glum. I always feel compelled to see if I can change the expression on his face.

We started kissing and dragging our clothes off, and I slid a condom onto his lovely engorged dick. I fitted him in me. I rocked against him and pretty soon was close to orgasm. “I’m not going to come yet,” I breathed, as if announcing it might stop the wave.

“Think of baseball,” suggested Jim from under me. “That’s from a Woody Allen routine,” he added. I grimaced as I shifted against his cock.

But I really needed to hear Jim’s voice while we fucked. So I started talking: “I had a threesome on Friday,” I panted in his ear. (True!)

“I wish I had seen that.”

“Would you like to see me suck off some men?” I said in my twistiest, most cajoling voice. “Would you like to see me on all fours, sucking some guys’ cocks?”

“Lily,” he said.

“I have this fantasy,” I went on, wanting my words to make him groan. I think I needed that groan in order to come. “I’m on all fours, and I go from one dick to the next. First I suck one guy – just a little bit – and then I suck the next one.” (Whenever I imagine this I’m always in Jefferson’s living room. Not because Jefferson’s living room -- which is home to a Hello Kitty city – is particularly sexy, it’s just that Jefferson’s living room is the only place I can imagine this particular scene occurring). I paused and squinted at Jim: “Would you like to see me do that?”


“And then I lie on my back and these men” — I paused to picture this— “There are four or five of them,” I counted, “One with his dick in my mouth,”

“That’s me,” Jim said.

“And one going down on me, and a few more jerking off on my tits… And one by one, they’d come on my tits…”

“I’m going to do that tonight,” Jim announced.

He sounded sort of masterful. I liked it. “Cool,” I panted. So when I had come, I turned over and slid his dick up and down my tits. I gazed at him from under my lids, my lips parted, looking as sullen and aching as I could. He came, a lot. Jim always seems to have so much in him.


In the morning Jim was back to his usual monosyllabic self, and, perversely, this made me brisk and cheerful. The thing is, I am not a brisk person, per se. I think that I’m afraid of indulging Jim, as though his dour exterior is deliberate moodiness rather than the result of awkward shyness. Anyway, I found myself asking him to make me a bowl of Cream of Wheat, which he did while I showered. We walked to the train station together, and on the platform I leaned close to him. He leaned into me, too, after a bit.

We got off the local after two stops and waited for the express. When the train came it was crowded. We hung back but then a train operator waved her arm at us, “Try the next car,” she advised.

I pushed my way inside but Jim was behind me on the platform when the doors shut. Why hadn’t he shoved in with me? He gave me a blank look, like he was helpless to make his way onto a subway car. This annoyed me.

“Why didn’t you get on?” the woman asked Jim as she opened up the doors to let him on. He looked at her blankly. “You two are in love!” she laughed. I smiled at her, embarrassed. Jim clambered into the car and stood next to me, looking absolutely miserable.

“Thanks,” I smiled. The woman was just being nice, and Jim hadn’t even smiled at her. I held in a sigh and we swayed next to each other as the train rumbled into Manhattan.

At last the subway car slid to a halt at Jim’s stop. I leaned over, to kiss him goodbye. “Here,” he said, and thrust a piece of paper into my hand.

It was a torn out page from a lined notebook, and it was folded into eighths. On the front was my name. I felt a sort of tender sickness, as if I might cry. “I wrote it when we first met,” Jim offered. I looked at him, and then he adjusted his knapsack on his shoulder and disappeared into the crowd.

I unfolded the paper slowly. The sheet was crammed with Jim’s small, neat handwriting. He had written me a poem.

Friday, May 25, 2007

In Praise of Minnesota

Is this how they kiss in Minnesota? I thought one evening in May as I stood kissing a stranger on a Manhattan street corner. If so, Minneapolis-St. Paul was highly underrated: I thought I was going to pass out.

It was my second date with Will. We had met at the birthday party I have with Marc every year. Will worked with Marc, and was new to New York. He had close-cropped blond hair and blue eyes and a stutter. Everything about him said Midwesterner! Geek!

At the party we’d sat on Marc’s pouf (a beanbag without the beans) and talked about books and New York City. Will was lanky and wore blue jeans and a soft cotton button down shirt. I really enjoyed our conversation, and he was the first cute guy I’d met at a regular party (non orgy setting) in some time.

I stayed over at Marc’s after the party and the next morning I announced, “I thought Will was cute. What do you rate my chances with him?”

And then a voice said: “Oh, you like him? That’s a good idea!”

It was Louise. “Oh, God!” I said, then I started to laugh.

Louise was a co-worker of Marc’s, and she was staying with Marc for a few weeks. And as I had forgotten she was in the next room, she had overheard my comment. Not only that, she worked in the same lab as Will and saw him every day.

“No, really,” said Louise. “Will’s so nice. You’d be cute together. Would it be OK if I said something to him? I’ll be really subtle.”

I shrugged, still embarrassed at being caught out like that. “Sure,” I said.

And, lo and behold, it wasn’t too subtle, because two days later I got an email from Will, asking me if I’d like to meet for a drink! I said yes, and promptly emailed Louise to find out what she had said. This was just like eighth grade.

Louise demurred: “Really, I was pretty casual. I don’t remember exactly.” But whatever she had said, it didn’t matter: we were going on a date.


On our first date we had drinks and split a quesadilla at a West Side bar (“drapps,” according to The Hookup Handbook – a portmanteau word covering “drinks” and “appetizers” and The Hookup Handbook’s approved first date activity.) The conversation flagged when he mentioned his libertarian tendencies, but we got along and had lots to discuss. But I was not feeling a spark and when it was time to go I was almost relieved.

We walked to the train station together and Will gave me an awkward, close-mouthed kiss.

When he asked me for another date I agreed; I decided the problem was mine. And Louise had made an effort, and he had taken a chance -- a second date was in order, I felt.

On our second date we went to the movies. We were early, and so we walked a few blocks and while I stopped to coo at every dog who trotted past, Will told me about running, which he does four or five times a week, and about California, where he lived until February. During the movie his arm didn’t brush mine, and I neglected to be nervous and nearly forgot that we were on a date. We were just two people, watching a film on a Saturday night.

Afterwards we went across the street to a diner. And there, over our Rueben (him) and grilled cheese (me) I warmed up quite a bit and Will again started looking handsome and, more than that, appealing. I could kiss him! I realized with relief.

At last we left the diner. It was a mild night and we walked slowly towards the subway station. His arm was sort of around my shoulder, and I was teasing him and there were a lot of coy glances and half smiles. And then, somewhere around Park Avenue, Will kissed me.

He kissed me so slowly I thought his mouth would never open. His lips brushed mine, as they are said to do in romance novels. The street was dark and we stood on the corner as his mouth lingered over my lips, hovering there, breathing on me. I thought I was going to pass out.

I mean, it was probably because he was so tall I had to stand on my toes and lean my head back to kiss him – all the blood was rushing to my head and I was feeling dizzy but I thought, Is this how they kiss in Minnesota?! I had been missing out.

I leaned my face against his tight chest, feeling very unsteady what with all the oxygen deprivation. I wound my fingers around his neck and hair and held on while he teased my mouth, kissing and stopping and kissing me some more.

It couldn’t have been that long that we were standing there, but it felt like ages. Then Will said, “Do you want to take the bus back with me? Or a cab,” he added.

I smiled. “A cab, yes,” I said. I would have taken the bus, if it came to that, but all this romance seemed to require something more hedonistic than the crosstown bus.


Will lived in a high rise condo, with a dishwasher and living room furniture and everything. I was impressed. We sat on his couch, kissing and cuddling.

The living room scenario went on for quite a while. The thing is, however flirty I am, I wasn’t going to say “Let’s go to your room.” Partially because it’s his apartment, and partially because despite the come hither approach that comes to me easily with guys I feel are geekier than me, in the end I wanted him to be the one to take charge, which for me at least meant making the move that would get us from his couch to his bedroom.

So for a long while we kissed and slid about on the leather sofa, struggling with our shirts and not to sink into the upholstery. At last Will said, “Want to go to my room?” I nodded.

It felt good to stretch out on his bed – a queen size actual bed with a platform and headboard, a real grown up’s bed – and he loomed over me, smiling. We were both half dressed. We tumbled around, stroking and nibbling, and as I lay in his arms Will noted, “Huh, you’ve got a scratch there, I think I was kind of aggressive with you.”

Be aggressive! I thought. Be very aggressive! I wondered what sex with Will would be like. I thought there might not be much in the way of talking, for some reason, even though our dates had been very chatty. I figured that none of the words that get me so riled up – words like “slut” or “pussy” or “cunt” or “cock”– would be in Will’s vocabulary. I sighed.

Then Will said, “I wasn’t expecting this kind of party.”

“OK,” I said. Then, cause I was confused, I asked: “Did you mean that literally or figuratively?”

“I mean in a practical sense.”

Oh: no condoms. “That’s OK,” I said. “I kind of like the anticipation. We can wait.”


In the morning I woke up very early. On the bedside table next to me were a number of books, mostly on physics or Buddhism. I picked up one on meditation and tried to concentrate.

Will, it occurred to me, was a very nice man, but almost entirely unknown to me. And I – and my recent sexual history -- was likewise unknown to him. Everything that I knew about him seemed foreign: he was new to New York. He had an academic background, now worked in computers and, from his address, apparently made a good living. He was tall and blue eyed. He liked to run. And evidently he meditated, a practice I find incomprehensible (I am not deep). Not only that, but he liked U2. Will was in every way completely unlike me, it seemed. I glanced at him.

After a few minutes Will turned over and smiled at me. “Hey,” he said. We started to kiss. “It’s time for quote unquote breakfast,” Will whispered.

I was really hungry. “OK,” I said. Then, again, I needed clarification: “Oh, wait, did you mean something other than food?”

“I meant you’re breakfast,” Will smiled, running his fingers along the slope of my waist.

“Oh!” I said. “Well, OK then!”

So Will tramped off for supplies while I wondered why a thirty three year old would not actually say the word condom.

When he got back he stripped off and straddled me: “I’ve had enough anticipation for one morning,” he said.


I had not been expecting much, to tell the truth. I guessed it would be very quick since I suspected I was the first girl he’d bedded since moving to New York several months ago. Will had a moderately sized dick, not huge, but nice and well proportioned, just like him. I sucked him a little bit, and he moaned. He bent over me, and as his mouth sucked at my hips and the soft skin of my belly I gasped. I hadn’t expected his mouth to do that to me. He went down on me with a slow, persistent tongue. I sighed, waiting: I wanted him inside me.

He fumbled with the condom. “Ah!” he said, examining it in the light. He was having a hard time getting it over his dick; it wasn’t unrolling.

“Do you have any lube?” I was a little anxious, and could have used some. Will shook his head. So it took a while for him to get his dick in me. At last he relaxed on my chest and I felt his dick, a solid weight, holding steady in my pussy. “Do you like that?” I breathed. “Is that good?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Oh, yeah.”

He rocked against me and smiled and I sighed. He had a gorgeous body, actual six pack abs and broad shoulders and lovely defined biceps and a perfect, firm, egg-shaped ass. Mostly I go for underfed arty types, but Will’s runner’s body was pretty fucking hot, I must say.

Then I got on top of him and started rocking back and forth. “Oh, oh,” Will gasped. He looked at me and started to laugh, his face a rictus.

“What?” I said, pretending not to understand. “Am I tickling you?”

“No,” he gasped, laughing some more: he was coming. Wait! I thought, but it was no good: he came. So I worked his dick a bit more, and I came just as he had finished. Was this a simultaneous orgasm? It was almost simultaneous, at any rate. I had never had an orgasm so close to someone else’s. Did this mean something spiritual? Like, a future? Or just that Will hadn’t had sex in a while?

Will clutched me against his body and smiled at me.

Oh, I don’t know what anything means, I thought, gazing with bewilderment at this strange man’s pleasant, unknown face. “Come on, let’s have breakfast,” I said. “I’m starving.”

Sunday, May 20, 2007

Jed Turns Up Trumps!

I was at home, doing nothing, when the phone rang.

It was Jed!

Ha! So I’m thinking, “Not free tomorrow night, pal... you’ve got to contact me more than 18 hours in advance if you want to fu—” when he said,

“So, I have an early call tomorrow, but do you want to get together?”

“What, tonight?”

“Yeah. Come on, you’re not doing anything more exciting.”

Well, he had a point. I told him to come on over. As soon as we hung up I felt like I should have said no, since I don’t approve of saying yes at the last minute, but by then it was too late.

Then it hit me: this was a booty call! Despite my year’s experience as a slut, I’d never before had a genuine booty call. I’d had sex dates, but those had all been planned well in advance.

About an hour later he turned up in tight jeans that skimmed his ankles (Jed must be about 6’3”) and cowboy boots – such a cliché rock ‘n’ roll look, especially with his blonde curls, but it was kind of hot. Oh, all right: it was very hot. Usually I go for the art school nerd look—black framed glasses and ironic polyester short sleeve shirts, and Jed’s style has less humor in it but it certainly suited him. That self conscious rocker look and with a set of keys dangling from his skinny hips…and especially those tight jeans… Mmm.

“Here,” Jed handed me a bottle of wine and I was immensely grateful to him for thinking of it; I don’t know why the idea of a little alcohol hadn’t occurred to me. It might have made my last hour a bit less stressful. Unfortunately I did not have a corkscrew – I was between roommates and my kitchen supplies were on the Spartan side. So I went across the street, where my old roommate Jenny now lives, and borrowed hers. “I won’t be needing it for a while,” she said when I promised to return it the next day. Jenny is pregnant and has given up alcohol for the duration.

When I got back to my room, corkscrew in hand, Jed was examining my CD collection, which is not large. I think the height of my music cool was probably around 1990, and my CDs reflect that. I own Big Star but not the Artic Monkeys or Kaiser Chiefs or even bands that were hip in the more recent past, like 2002. Jed, I calculated, was probably at the height of his music cool now.

I put some music on and settled in his lap. Jed works in film and when I asked him what movie (if any) made him interested in film he said, “Well, The Matrix came out when I was fourteen, and I really liked that…”

“Fourteen…!” I knew he was only 23 but this detail made it much more real.

He looked a little self conscious: “Yeah.” I shook my head and smiled: fourteen! When The Matrix came out I was out of college, and all the years had started to blend into a long stretch of mistakes and movies that weren’t marketed at me.

After a glass or so of wine we were sprawled comfortably on my bed and had started to kiss. We got our clothes off but then I remembered my questions. I affected an air of serious purpose and gazed at him serenely:

“Do you have any diseases?”

He laughed, not a happy laugh: “Nothing that’s contagious.”

I wondered what that meant.

“How many people have you slept with?”

Jed frowned. “That’s totally irrelevant,” he snapped. I just waited. I didn’t think it was irrelevant at all. “About seventeen,” he said at last.

“Me too!” I said. We had something in common.

I wondered if he hadn’t wanted to tell me because he thought it was too high or, alternatively, too low a number. Compared to the men I’d bedded of late (ahem, Jefferson, Mmmark), Jed’s bedpost was comparatively notch-free. Then I realized that as he was 23, 17 was a fair-sized number.

Anyway, Jed had not injected any drugs nor fucked any men and soon he had my clothes off. I lay on my bed, naked, and Jed gazed at me: “I have been wanting to do this for quite some time,” he said.

Oh yeah? burst out that inconvenient part of my brain. Then why didn’t you call sooner? But luckily I kept my mouth shut and just gave him a half smile.

Naked, he was long and lean and golden. Oh, and uncircumcised, which I had only noticed when I’d gone down on him the other night at Jefferson’s. I hadn’t come across any uncircumcised American dicks before.

Jed leaned over me and I realized that he was ripe. Not very strong or off putting but noticeable, like he hadn’t taken a shower that morning. It was distracting, he didn’t have that delicious neck smell that Daniel (for instance) has. I find that neck smell pretty hot, so this was a shame.

I went down on Jed for a bit, which elicited a few groans from him. As I bent over him he thrust his hips forward, pushing his cock far into my mouth. I swallowed obediently, then gagged and paused.

“You don’t have to,” he began.

I looked up at him from under my lashes. “I know,” I said. “I don’t do anything I’m not comfortable with.” I had no problem with Jed’s sexual aggressiveness, I found it a total turn on. And part of the excitement was knowing full well that I was right: I would never dream of doing anything I didn’t want to with Jed. When he held my head, when he pushed his hips at me, I went for his cock eagerly. But when Jefferson got aggressive with me I shied away. I wonder if this is because deep down, I know that Jed, despite his awesome sexiness, has no real power over me? Because he’s younger, and I’ve always felt at ease with younger men and wary of older ones?

Then Jed slid on top of me and reached to the floor for his bag. He took out a tiny tooled leather pouch and, from it, a condom. Then he brought out a pump bottle of lube. Like a 20 ounce bottle.

I mean, I have lube.

When we were all slicked up Jed put on a condom and pushed himself inside me. I sighed. Nice, nice.

The thing is, I was sure that physically we were going to fit – chemistry wise, he did all sorts of things to me, and I had just assumed that this would be the easiest, least stressful sex ever. But instead we were looking at one another, and I was waiting for that fierce abandon I had anticipated. “How’s that?” Jed asked.

“Good…” I breathed slowly as he started pumping me. If only he had that delicious neck smell. Huh. “Can I get on top?” I panted.

He squirted yet more lube on the condom – OK, it was superior lube, this BabeLube – the bottle declared the content to be hypoallergenic, water-based, etc. and yes, this lube was so great it was probably biodegradable and registered voters in its spare time.

I climbed on top of Jed and slid onto his cock. Then I said what I always say: “You like that?”


And then the chemistry I’d been so sure we had kicked in, because he started talking like I wanted him to talk: “You like that?” he grunted. “You like being stuffed with my cock?”

I did, oh I did. I bounced up and down on his dick, pushing myself against him, the walls of my cunt tensing as I got myself all worked up. I pushed my breasts against his face, swinging them across his lips. In no time at all I was very close to coming.

“You want that cock?”

I came to a slow, slippery halt.

“Did you come?”

I nodded, the flush of orgasm all through me: “It was the words,” I explained.

Jed smiled up at me: “I should have known.”

I lay on my back and this time Jed slipped inside me, wrapping my legs around his neck. “Does that hurt?” Face to face, I saw that his hairline was receding a bit.

“No, it’s OK.”

“Are you sure?”

I nodded and his cock raked through me, long and deep. Then he flipped me over onto all fours and I moaned while he chanted: “Do you want to get stuffed with my eight inch cock?”

Eight inches! “Yeah.” I mumbled. “Yeah. Give it to me,” I sighed: “Oh, God.” Jed’s legs pressed against the backs of my thighs in a constant rhythm. It hurt. It was a nice, tight muscle pain, the sort of pain you don’t quite want to stop.

Jed was nowhere near close to coming, so we took a break for a bit. “Hey,” I said. “Were you mad when I asked you how many women you’d slept with?”

“No,” said Jed.

“You seemed a bit put out,” I persevered.

“No, I wasn’t.”

He had been, though.

Then Jed asked me: “Have you ever had anal sex?”

“Uh uh. It’s my last virginity.” Well, one of them, anyway.

“You just have to go real slow, and use lots of lube,” said Jed, who sounded like he was repeating a speech he’d given before. As was perhaps the case. I got the impression that Jed was used to being the experienced one, the one who explained things to girls. And even though he probably is more experienced than me, despite my late blooming sexual free-for-all, I just couldn’t look to him like a great source of wisdom. He is eleven years my junior, after all.

When we’d first met, Jed had said he was amazed when he realized how old I was; he’d guessed I was his age. And then earlier tonight he’d said that even though he knew I was older, I still seemed young to him. It’s my demeanor, and I know that I cultivate that with the shy look from under my lids, the goofy awkwardness … and it doesn’t hurt that I am short and have a round face. I play young, I guess. On the other hand, I know I seem very mature to Jim who is in some (well, most) ways so inexperienced. But Jim doesn’t have Jed’s affectations, which, if I myself were 23, I would probably mistake for wisdom. But Jed’s air of worldly wisdom should be taken care of by the ensuing years.

“The hottest thing,” said Jed, “Is knowing that a girl wants it, wants me to fuck her ass.”

So is the best moment the fucking or the anticipation of the fuck – that heavy lidded look, the silent begging and thrust out ass? I considered this for a minute.

Then we started to fuck again and, after the application of a bit more lube, Jed came at last. We collapsed in a sweaty heap, breathing in rhythm.

“I should probably go soon,” said Jed.

“OK,” I said. The other night, Jim and I had had a big fight about just this: we had had sex and then, after a bit of cuddling, he’d announced that he was going home.

“You are?” I said, and had not bothered to keep the outraged dignity out of my voice.

“Yeah, well, I have to get up early in the morning…” he saw the look on my face. “I guess...”

“This isn’t something you could have told me before?” I asked. I was very annoyed: “You just come over and fuck me and now you’re going?” I sat up on the end of my bed, and turned away from him. I thought his behavior incredibly rude.

“Lily! No… it’s not that… I’m sorry, look I’ll stay.”

I shook my head. “I don’t want you to stay now.” I wasn’t trying to be difficult. “I mean, I don’t want you to stay, knowing that you’re staying against your will.”

“No! I want to stay. Look, just let me brush my teeth and…”

“I think you should go, OK?” And then Jim had started to cry. I had ended up comforting him and telling him it was OK, I didn’t hate him, but I’d sent him home anyway. Because there was no way that I wanted him in my bed against his will.

The following morning I’d opened a long and self loathing email from him, begging my forgiveness.

I mean, there wasn’t a great deal to forgive. I gather Jim has some OCD tendencies that involve lots of bedtime and morning rituals that sleeping at my place would have interrupted. He had only had to tell me that beforehand.

But Jed was a different kettle of fish -- look at how long it had taken for me to get him into my bed! While I thought it would be polite for him to stay, or at least to express a desire to stay, I hadn't expected him to and couldn’t be upset at his plans to leave.

Then Jed said: “Have you ever wanted anyone out of your bed after sex?”

“No,” I said. “Cause I don’t have sex with anyone who I wouldn’t want to stay overnight.” This is not quite true. When I slept with Dominant Jordan I had wanted him out immediately, which I guess is the reason I no longer see him. Anyway, in general this is the case: I like the men I sleep with. And I kind of enjoy the disjointed sleep you get when you’re conscious of a strange body beside you. At any rate, I don’t have a problem with that kind of intimacy.

“Well, it’s kind of late… can I stay?”

“No.” I rolled my eyes: “Of course you can.” Frankly I think it’s only polite. I was glad, even though his scent wasn’t doing much for me and he didn’t strike me as a cuddler.

We went outside so that Jed could have a smoke, and we sat on the stoop sharing an additive free cigarette. I told him about my novel and he told me about his screenplay, and I think we both felt pretty arty and cool. Then we went back inside and, as we’d fucked for a long time and it was a school night, went to sleep.

Wednesday, May 16, 2007

In Which I Am Very Busy

“Do I look all right?” asked Jake.

“You look great.” He looked adorable – a snug t and loose trousers, sort of dressy but not overdressed. “They’re going to love you.”

We left Jake’s apartment and stopped at the supermarket. “Should I bring a gift? Maybe some smoked almonds?”

“I don’t think that’s really necessary,” I said.


As we got closer to the building we saw a girl just ahead of us, with crayon-colored hair and flip flops on her feet. “I bet she’s going to be there,” whispered Jake in a meant-to-be-overheard voice. “She looks freaky.”

“Shut up! She’ll hear you.”

“Yeah, look at those flip flops, she’s definitely going.”

“Seriously Jake, shut up.”


We got on the elevator with the crayon-haired girl. When she got off, so did we. We followed her down the hall at a safe distance. When she made a right I turned to Jake and hissed: “She’s totally going!” And we sniggered.

Jefferson’s door Jake took a deep breath. “Listen,” I said again, “It’ll be fine. Everyone is going to sitting around talking and drinking. No one will be naked (it was still early). It won’t be awkward.” He nodded.

I opened the door. First thing I saw was two naked women draped over a clot of men on the sofa. The air was smoky and there was a considerable din. A topless girl burst out of the kitchen and gave me a hug. “Lily!” It was Wendy.

Jake and I looked at each other. I shrugged: I guess I was wrong, was what I meant.

This was the third orgy I’d been to and I’d gotten Jake to join me. Jake had heard of Jefferson but not met him, but I’d put them in touch and now here we were.

“Is Jefferson here?” Jake asked

I couldn’t see him anywhere. “I guess he’s in the back room.”

“Well, then I’m keeping my salted almonds.”

The party was the liveliest I’d ever seen – there must have been more than twenty people in the apartment, some in various state of undress, some drinking and some… ooooohhhh Hot!Mmmark.

“Hi!” Could I give him the cheek kiss or the on-the-mouth (closed) kiss? I was so pleased to see him. Just the fact that he was at the party made me feel like it was going to be a great night.

Eventually Jefferson appeared, following a really glamorous woman who stumbled into the hall, buttoning up her white men's shirt. I waved to Jefferson. I talked to Cody. I congratulated Emma on her engagement to Adam. I congratulated Adam. I met Jacob, whom Jefferson had been talking up to me for some time. I noticed Hot!Mmmark canoodling with Carlotta on the couch. I avoided a man who seemed much too drunk so early in the evening.

It was hot, and people’s clothes were coming off. I didn’t feel this was a good enough excuse to take off my clothes. After all, we were in the living room.

Jake was talking to an exceptionally beautiful girl (Calico -- seriously, plus she had a perfect body, looking at her made me feel frumpy and fat) I’d met briefly at last month’s party. Jed came, but if he saw me he didn’t react. I didn’t approach him. By now most everyone had disappeared into the bedrooms. I didn’t want to be a third wheel, and I felt strange. I went down the hall, into Jefferson’s room.

Jefferson’s room was dark; it was all just a bunch of shapes: Jefferson in the armchair and Wendy (I heard rather than saw this, Wendy talks, like, nonstop) on her knees at his feet. And Ruby, the crayon-haired girl who was a friend of Wendy’s was flat on her back. I saw Jed arch over her, his lanky body like a graceful crane. And there was Calico, perched on the bed next to Ruby… Ruby squealed happily.

I just watched, and for a moment I felt unbearably strange and awkward: I had no one to play with. Everyone was otherwise engaged.

“Do you want to come into the bathroom with me?”

I turned. The very drunk guy was whispering to me.

“No.” I shook my head.

“Do you want to—”

I turned to look at him, “No thank you,” I said. I edged out of the doorway and back down the hall.

The kitchen was empty and I stood there for a moment, feeling very sorry for myself. No one was coming onto me! (I wasn’t interested in the drunk guy, so I guess he didn’t count).

This is embarrassing, not to mention shallow, but I think a big part of why I come to the orgies is so I can be the center of attention. Not all the time. Or for everyone. But for one or two guys who I really fancy, to know that they’re into me, and I can make them gasp or smile or say something like, oh, I don’t know, “You have perfect tits,” – well, that is such a huge turn on for me. But this time I wasn’t the center of attention – I wasn’t the new girl (that was Ruby, who was making the most of it in the other room) – and Mmmark and Jed, both of whom I’m really attracted to, were enjoying other people’s company. Which is the point of an orgy, no doubt. Could I enjoy myself now that my little moment in the sun had passed? I had to get back into the right frame of mind.

“Oh, hey!”

I looked up from my contemplation of the toaster: it was Jed. Wow. His blond hair was curly with humidity, and he just looked like this total hipster: tight jeans, cowboy boots, keys clamped to his waist. I smiled: “Hi.”

“I didn’t know you were here! Did you just get here?”

“No, I’ve been here a while.”

“Oh, I didn’t see you.” I shrugged, I was still feeling sort of withdrawn. “I’m glad I ran into you,” Jed continued, “I don’t know if I was supposed to call you or—”

“You dropped the ball,” I interrupted him. I smiled, to show it wasn’t a big deal, but really it was a big enough deal for me to say that.

Here’s what had happened. We hooked up at the first orgy I went to, and I gave him my email address. He emailed me a few weeks later, said he would be going out of town, and did I want to get together when he got back? I said sure.

That was that.

Then I saw him at the next orgy I went to. I was leaving; it hadn’t been a productive night. Daniel had just broken up with me and I just felt unequal to the occasion. Plus, a girl was coming onto me and I was uncomfortable, despite my much-vaunted New York blasé-ness. So while everyone was watching The Bi Apple in states of undress (I’d noticed I was one of the few women at the party sans nipple rings), I’d made my goodbyes and was putting on my shoes in the hall when Jed walked in.

“Hey!” He had exclaimed, “You’re not leaving, are you?”

And then we had almost the exact same conversation that we were having now: e.g. “Was I supposed to call you or were you going to call me?”, only that time I didn’t tell Jed he’d dropped the ball. I’d been a little more cool. Anyway, again we agreed to get together. Eventually Jed had emailed me, and we made tentative plans, to be confirmed the day of. The day after we were supposed to get together, he emailed me. I was torn between Making a Point by not seeing him, and grabbing my chance when I got it. But in the end I met Jim the night before, and was so freaked out by that experience that I hadn’t felt up to getting it on with Jed. So I said I was busy, and could we reschedule. I hadn’t heard back from him.

So I was prepared to blow him off. Jed is 23 and as an older woman, I feel he is young enough to be weaned off of bad habits like neglecting to make plans and expecting women to say yes at the last minute. I felt it was right and proper for him to work for me a bit, especially as he’d shown such a humbling lack of tenacity. I mean, I’m used to guys losing interest in me after we have sex, but a guy who can’t summon the energy to pursue me – well, that’s not very flattering, is it?

On the other hand, maybe I was reading too much into it. Jefferson said he was just flaky. Which I suppose might be a side effect of being 23. I mean, I didn’t think Jed didn’t like me, just that he felt he didn’t have to make an effort. Which was partially true: he didn’t have to make a big effort, as I think I’d indicated to him: I was ready and willing to fuck him. I just didn’t want to chase him to make a date to do it. I thought it would be polite to show a bit more enthusiasm, you know?

“Oh,” Jed looked sheepish. “Sorry.”

He opened a bottle of wine and poured me some. I felt my mood lift with the attention (very shallow), and soon I had defrosted enough to accompany Jed down the hall into the back bedroom.

The far side of the room was crammed with people all on the futon. Jed and I slid onto the narrow single bed near the door. We kissed.

This is how I like my clothes to come off: by a guy removing them. Soon I was down to my skivvies and Jed was naked. We made out and then I slid my mouth around his dick. He moaned. Gazing at him, I slipped his dick between my breasts and rubbed it back and forth.

“Oh…” said Jed.

It felt great but I was, again, really distracted by the commotion all around us. “Listen,” I said at last, “I’m a really aural person.” And then, because this was a total non-sequitor, I explained: “I hear everything, and I’m really distracted by what’s going on—” I twitched my head to indicate the other side of the room. “I can’t have sex with you here.”

It’s perfectly true --- I have an aural memory. I remember names and dates but am not so good with faces. I don’t like to listen to music during sex because I find it distracting. Maybe because I hear better than I see? I dunno. Anyway, there was no way I was going to be able to relax enough with everything going on. Which was funny, because in a sense we were perfectly private: everyone else was caught up in something (or someone) else and no one was paying us any mind.

“I get it,” Jed nodded and we slid together on the sheets, laying alongside one another and kissing. Maybe I shouldn’t have sex at orgies? I wondered. Jed slid his arms over my head and pinned my hands to the mattress, smiling at me.

“You know I’m submissive, right?” I choked. I was really turned on.

“All this and you’re submissive?” said Jed. “Wow,” he breathed. “You are so fucking hot. I can’t believe we haven’t gotten together yet.”

I gave him a steely smile: “You dropped the ball,” I repeated. Now get your act together so we can have sex, is what I was thinking.

Then, inspired, I asked: “Do you want to come on my tits?” Jed agreed and so I lay crouched beneath him while he rocked his hips towards me and I stroked him until he came.


Now that I’d hooked up, I felt much more relaxed. After a while Jed disappeared and I started talking to the others. Mmmark put an arm around me, to my delight. Jacob kissed me. I started to put my clothes back on but could not find my bra anywhere. Giving up, I wandered, mostly dressed, into the living room.

Jed was smoking a cigarette at the door to the terrace, standing next to Wendy. I joined them. Wendy put an arm around me, and I rested an arm around her waist. She is really big, Wendy, with a big square shelf of hips. Her skin was really soft. I don’t know if I’d ever touched a woman’s bare skin like that before. I mean, for more than a quick hug.

Jake was talking to Calico on the sofa, and people were wandering in and out. I can’t quite explain – or recall – how this happened, but then Wendy and I were on the floor, taking turns to suck Jed off.

I wish I could tell this part better, to remember how it started, because it was pretty hot. We were all in full view of a couple of people, and there Wendy and I were, on our knees, trading a nice dick between us. It seemed like a perfectly reasonable thing to do, too – I wasn’t at all embarrassed. I guess there’s safety in numbers, because I don’t think I would have done this if Wendy hadn’t started it. Well, I know I wouldn’t. Jed looked completely poleaxed, as I think you ought when two nice girls are blowing you at a party.

Then Jake (not my friend Jake, The Other Jake – not to be confused with Jacob, either for that matter) joined us. I knew very little about The Other Jake. He’s a big, muscular guy with a pleasant, easy going face. He’s not really my type – I like scrawnier, more tormented-looking specimens, but he was good looking, certainly. And I moved over to work on him. He had a very nice sized dick, too.

Then Mmmark came over, and I had to go down on him too, and Wendy did as well. And then – and this is the very best part – Mmmark and I both went down on The Other Jake (or was it Jed? I was thinking about dick, not about the person it belonged to). Seeing Mmmark’s cool, laid back face happily straining around an erection was so immensely hot. I had never seen a real live man give another guy a blow job before, and because it was Mmmark who was doing it I was especially turned on. I guess because he is so handsome and laid back? There is nothing aggressively sexual about him. He is just platonically, dreamily hot.

And then I think The Other Jake asked me if I wanted to go into one of the bedrooms.
I mean, I assume he did, because we ended up on Jefferson’s Queen size bed, which was surprisingly empty.

We fooled around for a bit, until I noticed that there was someone else in the room. “Cover me up,” I whispered to The Other Jake. He obliged, and his weight, the bulk of him, felt fantastic on my skin. I relaxed, and eventually our mystery observer disappeared.

I went down on The Other Jake, and then he went down on me, but I had a hard time relaxing, in part because I barely knew this boy, but mostly because I was worried someone else would walk in. Apparently my Orgy Brain, which is what I had termed that unself-conscious state I had achieved in the living room, when blowing some guy in concert with a friend in front of a group of people seemed like a reasonable idea – did not extend to this particular interaction. Eventually we made our way back into the living room. The party was thinning out now. I thought I’d be exhausted but I found that instead I was raring to go. Where was Jed? Oh, he’d left.

But there was Mmmark! We settled next to one another on the couch and before too long I had again made my way to Jefferson’s bedroom with a boy. But I decided that I wasn’t going to have sex with Mmmark at the orgy – I would be too distracted.

We lay on Jefferson’s bed, cuddling and talking. After all the earlier excitement, this just felt nice and comfortable. Not to mention a turn on, because it was Hot!Mmmark. We were whispering when I noticed something strange:

“Is someone smoking in here?”

“Uh, yeah,” said a voice from one of the armchairs. I hadn’t even known we were being observed. I think it was the same drunk guy who’d asked me if I’d wanted to repair to the bathroom! The guy who’d walked in on me and The Other Jake (he must have been tired of seeing me by now).

“There’s no smoking in here,” said Mmmark politely from the bed.

“I want him to leave,” I whispered.

I felt really mean for saying that, like some bitchy teenager. But Mmmark and I had been getting intimate as opposed to just sexual, and I felt exposed and resentful of this intrusion. So Mmmark very politely and firmly asked the guy to leave, but I thought that might be the end of me and Mmmark for the evening, especially as we were soon joined by Avah, Jefferson, Wendy, Cody and some others. All of whom tumbled onto the bed.

Wendy piped up. “Hey Lily, have you seen Dan?” Wendy is Daniel’s roommate.

“I’m seeing him tomorrow night,” I said, staring at the ceiling. “I’m kind of mad at him.” It’s weird: ever since our break up, I’d been fighting this deep, abiding irritation with Daniel. My thoughts were along these lines: how dare we dump me?! Does he think I’m not good enough for him?! Et cetera. Every time I thought about him my brain would end up snarling. No matter how right he had been to end things, my pride had suffered a heavy blow. Whenever we talked or emailed or got together it was fine. It was just when I thought about him that I wanted to do him some serious damage. These feelings shamed me.

I scowled: “He dumped me for a bisexual virgin. I can’t compete with that.” Indeed. Daniel’s new girlfriend had the whole Madonna-whore thing covered, what with her sexual identity and fetching lack of experience.

“Think how upset he would be if we hooked up,” Wendy suggested. Moving closer to me.

She had a point. But as I am neither bisexual nor totally shameless in pursuit of revenge, I just sighed: “I don’t think so.”

Wendy rested her head on my stomach. “Just checking.”

I lay sandwiched between Mmmark and someone else I couldn’t see. Cody was brooding about The Other Jake. On whom she had a big crush.

“I saw you go into the bedroom with him,” she said to me, and I immediately felt bad. I remembered what it felt like, to see the guy you like disappear into a room with another girl. Cody is so young, and she just looks so fragile, with her dyed black hair and love of Hanson. Hanson! “I mean, it’s OK,” she added quickly.

I felt kind of protective and sad for her. “Well, if it’s any consolation,” I offered, “He’s not really my type.”

Then I felt a mouth on my belly: Wendy! She was kissing my belly! “Wendy!

“Sorry, sorry,” she said. “I just had to try. You know I had to try, right Lily?”


Were Mmmark and I going to have sex? It was so late; my brain couldn’t come up with a good reason not to fuck him. So we went into the back bedroom.

I stumbled in the dark, looking for my still-missing bra: no dice. My search uncovered some unexpected things… what was that on the bedside table? Ah. A dildo. Hastily I moved away.

Mmmark and I made our way over to the futon so lately occupied by the noisy crowd. It wasn’t too damp, thank God, that would have been a little distracting. Not to mention kind of gross and unsanitary…

Mmmark slid on top of me and we smiled at one another. Oh, he is so lovely, his skin and bones and muscles and … my skin hummed as we kissed, and I revised my policy: no sex for the first time at an orgy.

Mmmark went down on me for a bit and I thrashed around on the bed wondering if this bed belonged to Lillie and Collie or Jason and Collie, and if Jefferson minded that his kids’ beds were used for such non-kid friendly purposes… presumably not.

With a sigh Mmmark entered me and I relaxed into him as he thrust away. I wanted it to last a while, but I he was so sweaty and fast, I knew this would be quick.

As it was. After he came we lay there for a moment before pulling our clothes back on (I still hadn’t found my bra) and ambling back to the living room. It was nearly 4:00 am and I’d had a very busy evening. I sat curled up on an armchair in a post sex daze while Mmmark kissed every one of us politely on the mouth, then slipped out the door.

Jefferson had long since gone to bed, I assumed. It was just Jake (my friend Jake, not The Other Jake), and me, and a few more stragglers. It felt like the tail end of any other party. I started making noises that we should go – I had to be at work in about four hours.

Finally Jake and I said our goodbyes and, running on adrenaline, got back to his apartment without incident. I washed my face, took off all my clothes, and climbed between Jake’s sheets. I drifted off to the sound of Jake tapping away at his laptop.


I woke up on time and felt raw with the lack of sleep, but lively for all that. I showered, dressed and applied makeup in a desperate effort to make myself look a bit less ravaged.

As I picked up my bag and slung on my coat Jake shifted on the mattress and smiled at me from the bed. “Happy birthday,” he said.

That’s right: I was 34 today. “Thank you,” I said. “I almost forgot.”

Wednesday, May 09, 2007

One Giant Step for Jim

I had a date with someone named Jim. He’d emailed me via the personals. He had an awful photo, making him look like Mr. Spock had an affair with one of his fans. But his email was articulate and correctly spelled, so why not, I figured. Plus, Jim was 25, so there was no way of me being intimidated.

We met at The Dove, which Citysearch promised was quiet and romantic. It was heaving. I snagged a table near the window. A bit after 8:00 p.m. I noticed a man pacing on the sidewalk outside. I knew it was him, and when I went outside, our eyes met and we introduced ourselves.

Dear me. Jim was skinny and awkward, with acne and acne scars, and he was wearing chinos or something equally unattractive. And he ordered a Coke.

But since he looked so unprepossessing, I felt sorry for him, and worked hard at conversation. As it turns out, Jim is quite well read and, after he warmed up a bit, a decent conversationalist. So the effort was well rewarded, even though he still seemed uncomfortable. But I ordered another drink and so my increasing confidence made up for his lack.

We stayed about two hours. I found myself thinking along these lines: “He’s a nice lad,” and “Maybe with a better haircut…” and “I wouldn’t mind seeing him again…” hardly indicators of flaming chemistry, but still.

Jim decided to take the same train as me partway home. While we were waiting on the platform he took off his glasses. Suddenly I noticed that he was standing close to me, and looking at me, and despite the fact that he was a young whippersnapper of incredible dorkiness, I felt a bit of a frisson, as they say. And then he pointed out that he had two different colored eyes: one blue, one brown. I looked into his eyes. “Wow,” I said.

He was so much better looking without his glasses! It’s strange, because often I think men look better with glasses than without. But without his specs, Jim looked both stronger and more boyish; his smile seemed brighter; I don’t know.

The train came. We sat on a bench next to one another, our shoulders touching.

“You have really small hands!” He exclaimed, putting his palm to mine to compare. The hand comparison is almost always a prelude to lacing fingers and clutching palms, itself a prelude to the goodnight kiss. We laced fingers, and somewhere around 23rd Street, Jim moved his face towards mine and kissed me.

I had thought he’d need a bit more encouragement. But I wasn’t complaining, and I liked that after all my work at drawing him out, he was taking the lead. He was a nice kisser – firm lips and not too sloppy and, thank God, he smelled right. I breathed him in with relief.

We kissed without stopping. I mean, there was none of the breaks to press foreheads and smile, or to exchange the smaller, more delicate kisses. This was just high school making out. “Get a room!” a teenager shouted.

If we kept going he was going to miss his stop. And I thought, Why shouldn’t he come home with me? Why not? And when I calculated we had passed his stop we broke apart and I breathed, “You missed your stop.”

Then we started kissing again.

The train was running express, and soon enough it would be my stop. As it came up, I tugged his arm. “This is my stop,” I stood up. “I guess you’re coming home with me,” I smirked.

Jim didn’t object, but instead gazed at me moonily as we waited for the local. When we got off at my stop, he took my hand and clutched it as we walked to my place. He’s so young, I thought, and felt a little embarrassed, as if afraid someone I know might see us.

At my place I offered him something to drink, like an ordinary hostess, then led him to my bedroom. We lay on my bed, kissing, and I could see he had a nice, straining erection. We got naked pretty quickly – he had trouble with my bra -- and he lay on top of me, kissing me everywhere. It was obvious he had very little experience. He wasn’t slobbering all over me, as inexperienced men are supposed to do, but he seemed so thrilled, so eager, so amazed, that I ended up feeling a bit detached. He bent over my stomach: “You have… the most… perfect belly button,” he murmured, kissing my belly. Aw. Juvenile excitement has its compensations.

Jim had a nice sized dick; one of the bigger I’ve seen. I stroked it approvingly. I was on my back with my legs spread, and he was on top of me. He started to push his cock into me.

Was he kidding? “Hey,” I tried to make my voice sound gentle rather than panicked or outraged, “I don’t do anything without a condom.”

“Oh, right. Right,” said Jim.

We paused, and I lay back against the pillows. “Look,” I said. “Are you sure you…?” I started again: “I just think … You seem … vulnerable, and I don’t want to hurt you or anything.” Oh, well, might as well: “Can I ask you a few questions?”

Jim nodded.

By now I can recite them all from memory. “Have you ever injected any drugs?”


“Have you had sex with a man?”


So far so good. “How many women have you slept with in the past year?”

He circled his thumb and index finger: “Zero,” Jim said, scrunching up his face in embarrassment.

Not a surprise. “And how many women have you had sex with ever?” I was betting one, two tops.

He held up the thumb and index finger again: “Zero,” he blushed.

Oh, my God.

“Oh, my God,” I said genuinely shocked. A 25-year-old virgin. Here! “Really?”

He nodded.

Oh, Christ! “Are you sure you want to do this?” Which was a dumb question. He was a 25-year-old virgin. With an erection. In my bed. “It’s just that I’ve never had sex with a virgin before,” I explained worriedly. “I feel a certain responsibility. I want it to be good for you.” This would undoubtedly be something he would remember. Could I bear the onus of being responsible for an indelible memory? What if it sucked?

Well, at least Jim’s erection showed no sign of buckling under the strain. I leaned over and reached into by bedside table for the Trojans. I put it on him carefully, and lay on my back.

He pushed his way inside me. We looked at each other. “How’s that?” I asked.


I figured he would come right away, and wasn’t expecting much. To my surprise, there was no gasp and collapse, just the rigid certainty of his dick inside me. I had nothing to console him about yet; that was good.

What the hell. “Can I get on top?” I asked, my most common question to the men I fuck, I expect. I started to ride him, and though I didn’t come I was glad to note that Jim had stamina, and seemed determined to please.

We fucked for quite a while, and he didn’t come at all, which I diagnosed as the result of about 15 years’ worth of masturbation techniques polished to a high degree of specificity. So he pulled off the condom, and started yanking on his cock with some violence. I watched him, and tried my hand at it (literally).

“Harder,” he said. Then, “Ouch!”

“Sorry!” I grimaced. I tried, but could not find the particular rhythm or pressure he seemed to require, so eventually I gave up and watched him manipulate himself.

“Before I come I have to switch hands,” he explained, as he switched from his right hand to his left. “And, oh God, this is so embarrassing – I have to make out with my arm, too, when I’m getting ready to come.”

What?” I tried not to laugh, but just could not refrain. This made me picture Jim as a scrawny, gawky thirteen year old, jerking off to soft core magazines in a furnished basement with his parents upstairs. Aw. I leaned over and kissed him as he tugged on his dick, looking away politely as he exchanged passionate kisses with his upper arm.


Afterwards I noticed something awful: “Jim,” I asked, “Have you been wearing socks this whole time?”

He nodded. “Take them off,” I insisted, and waved a finger at him: “Never, ever wear socks during sex. It is the most unsexy thing you can do.” I was getting into this woman of the world thing, thinking how I could use my influence for good, and make his future lovers grateful for my gentle training, etc. “And always use a condom,” I added conscientiously.

In the morning we had sex again. He fucked me vigorously. Neither of us came. At last I lay on my stomach and had him enter me from behind. “Do you like that?” I breathed.

The proper answer to that is “Oh, yeah, baby.” (Like I said, I like the soft-core porn murmurings.)

“I like it if you like it,” was the lukewarm response.

I shook my head and smiled despite myself. “That means you don’t like it,” I said into the pillow. “That’s not much of an endorsement.” I slipped off of his dick, and turned around.

“Oh, sorry, you’re right.”

Jim was annoyed that he hadn’t come, but seriously, I thought he had acquitted himself pretty well for a first timer: no premature ejaculation, no nerves-inspired loss of erection, much attention to me and my wants. I wasn’t really inclined to console him at this point. After all, I hadn’t come, either.

We lolled around for a bit. “You know," I said, "You have a big dick.”

“Really?” Jim said. “I do? I always thought it was just average.”

“No, it’s a good size,” I said. I had suspected he’d be surprised at this bit of news.

“Awesome,” he grinned. “You just made my day.”

“Jim,” I said, “I just went down on you. I deflowered you, and that made your day?”

“But the compliment will last a lifetime,” he said happily.


Eventually we repaired to a diner near the train station. I sat there, feeling progressively more uncomfortable, while Jim stared into space.

“Is something wrong?” Generally I do not ask men this question – it is really only one step away from “What are you thinking?” and really – well, my guess is, if the guy wants to tell me something, he will. But maybe I had a special obligation (a geas!) to Jim, since I’d deflowered him after a scant three hours’ acquaintance? I dunno.

“What? No…” Jim flashed what might have passed for a smile.

“You’re just looking a bit grim.”

“No,” he said. “I was just staring at you.”


Finally I walked him to the train station. We kissed and kissed. Then we stared at one another awkwardly and I made some comment about how I hoped it had been a good experience for him, and he made some comment about how it had been a wonderful experience. Then we kissed again, and he ran down the steps. I walked home, feeling like I’d just lit a roman candle, and now I had to wait for it to explode.

Saturday, May 05, 2007

It's Poignant, It's Moving, It's Over

On Monday night Daniel came over. He’d got a haircut – short back and sides, with a funny looking little tuft in the front. I’d forgotten all about it, but Michael once had a haircut just like that. “Oh, it’s cute,” I exclaimed, and stroked his hair. It was stiff with gel. “Ah!” Daniel looked sheepish. I giggled.

In my room he stretched his long body out on my bed. I cuddled up to him, and he started to laugh. “What?” I said.

“No, you just nuzzle up so close,” he said. It was true, may face was buried in his neck. My turn to be sheepish. “I like it,” he reassured me.

“How’s Wendy?” I asked. Last week his roommate had been broken up with by her boyfriend of a year and a half, without warning. This reminded me of my break up with Michael, so I felt particularly sympathetic. And because I believe that the best way to get over one man is to get under another, I had had a brilliant idea: she should come to an orgy, and have sex with Jefferson! I’d promptly emailed Jefferson and he’d been game.

“They got together; I think they had sex,” Daniel said.

“Really? Jefferson didn’t tell me that.” Sometimes he is so discreet. “I’m so glad,” I went on. “I think it’s really important to have sex with someone else as soon as possible after a breakup. I think it really takes your mind off the breakup and reminds you that you are attractive.”

“Yeah, well,” and here Daniel smirked, “Wendy and I had sex last week.”

“Daniel!” I socked him on the arm. “You did?”

“Yeah, we were just hanging out in my room, lying on my bed together and…”

“But Daniel,” I said, mortified, “Last week the whole time I was going on about how important it is to have sex after a break up you’d already had sex with her?”

“No, that was later.”

“Oh,” I said mollified. But still. The thought of Wendy’s post-breakup sex life, and my efforts to encourage it, somehow seemed less appealing now.

We lay there for a minute, not talking.

After a few moments Daniel said, “I think this woman I’ve been dating and I are getting serious.”

I didn’t move, but I felt tears prick my eyes.

And then I felt guilty because it wasn’t so much that Daniel was ending it, but that, coming on top of my debacle with Evan, not to mention my still-simmering misery over Jeremy, I felt I was owed a little karmic good will. Now this?

I hadn’t cried before, when Daniel had been in tears and I’d comforted him. I wiped my cheek.

“OK,” I said. And sniffled.

Then Daniel started to cry, too. So there were the two of us, weeping and cuddling and nodding emphatically at one another. Eventually I had to go to the bathroom for a roll of toilet paper. I handed him a hank of paper, and noisily blew my own nose.

“It’s just sad,” Daniel cried. “I don’t want you to think I’m choosing her over you. It’s not like that. I wish you could love two people at once.”

Well, of course some people do that. And maybe Daniel is one of them. I’m not, however.

“It’s OK,” I kept repeating, even though I couldn’t stop crying. And I think he was right – we don’t have a future together, and he wants a serious relationship, and he’s attracted to someone new. But still.

And, hesitating, I said, “Was it because I want children? Was that the reason?” I had refrained from asking that question before, because I make it a policy not to ask for information I may not like. But now I was risking my pride in the hope that he would say yes, the only reason he was choosing this new girl was because I want kids and he doesn't. But what if it was because he felt something for her he'd never felt for me? What he just didn’t see us together? I didn’t see us together, for that matter, but still.

“I don’t know,” he said slowly. “I don’t know if that was all of it. I do know that knowing that about you [that I want kids] made me hold myself back.”

“You made yourself hold yourself back?” I said, distracted.


“I didn’t know it was hard for you. I didn’t know you had to hold yourself back. That makes me feel a little better.” I started to cry again, sad, relieved tears. “And that’s why I couldn’t respond to your emails right away,” I went on, emboldened. “That was my way of holding myself back.”

“I know,” he said.

“You knew?” I hadn’t figured Daniel for that much insight. I squirmed in his arms. “The whole time I was trying to be detached and you knew it was just a front?”

“Well, not the whole time,” Daniel admitted. “But I caught on eventually.”

“Oh,” I said again, embarrassed.

There was more in this vein – tears interspersed with cuddling and kissing and as our clothes came off, I half-whispered, passionately, “Listen, tonight I want you to let me say all the things I haven’t let myself say to you, OK?”


I climbed on top of him in the dim light and started to cry again. “I love you,” I declared, my voice clogged with tears.

“I love you too,” he said.

We had sex and the funny thing is, I have no recollection of it whatsoever. I think I came. I think he did. And then I think we cried some more, and then we went to sleep.

Wednesday, May 02, 2007


Everything with Evan has gone up in smoke!

Last night, after much arguing with myself over the wisdom of calling the man I liked rather than waiting for him to call me, I dialed his number. It was 10:30.

“Hi Evan. It’s Lily.”

“Oh … hi.” He sounded unenthusiastic. Even though I am hypersensitive and can feel rejected over almost anything, I was pretty sure I wasn’t imagining his lukewarm response.

“Did I catch you at a bad time?” I asked. This is a way of saying “Do you want to talk to me?” without actually saying it.

“No … I have a few minutes to spare.”

This was looking grim indeed. Our conversation stuttered along for a few minutes until finally I said, “Well, it doesn’t sound like this is the best time for you, so I’ll let you go.”

“Why do you say that?” He was using his psychotherapist’s techniques on me! Making me answer questions! Also, why was he saying “Why do you say that?” instead of saying “Well, yes..” or “No, don’t be silly…”

“Well,” I swallowed, and played with the edge of my quilt. I was lying in bed. “You didn’t sound very happy to hear from me, and I’d rather not bother you if that’s the case.”

“You don’t want to bother me? Why not?” For the first time this evening I heard warmth in Evan’s voice.

“Why don’t I want to bother you?” What kind of a conversation was this? “Well, I’d never want you to pick up the phone and think, ‘Oh no, not her.’ I … wouldn’t want to contribute to your unhappiness. I’d rather not talk to you in that case.”

“Well,” Evan said at last. “I’ve been upset about our talk on Saturday night. And I didn’t know if I wanted to talk to you.”

“Oh.” I said, taken aback. “Were you planning to tell me this?”

“I’m telling you now,” said Evan flatly, and my hackles rose.

“I’m sorry if I offended you,” I began.

“You did offend me,” Evan said. “My job and Group X is very important to me. John Smith is a very important person in my life, and it offends me when people refer to him as a cult leader.”

Had I done that? Well, sort of. I’d expressed my fears about Group X. I’d tried to do it politely and with respect for his intelligence and allegiances, but. Evan continued, “I want to know why it is why people feel free to give their opinions on something they know nothing about.”


You’re so hostile, I thought, and grimaced at my own use of psychological clichés as Evan went on: Why is it that people think I’m in a cult?” His voice rose. “I’m obviously an intelligent young man—” yes, certainly, “You would think that people might not make assumptions about things they’ve read on the Internet.”

“Evan, by people, do you mean me?” Because seriously, I thought I’d behaved fairly well, trying to understand his involvement with Group X without dismissing him as kind of nuts. And I thought he’d thought so too, judging by the lovely and passionate things he’d said to me later that night.

“Yes, I do mean you.” Oh. “You did offend me—“

“I never meant to offend you—“

“I don’t care that you didn’t mean to offend me,” Evan snapped. So I saw. “You did offend me. What about that?”

There was a long silence. At last I said, “Like I said, I’m sorry that I offended you.” Then: “I think I’m going to go now.” I hung up.

I stared at the display screen. We’d been on the phone for 16 minutes and 33 seconds. My heart was pounding. Evan didn’t call back.

I lay there, my heart still pounding and the phone not ringing and I thought, The things I said didn’t bother you when you were fucking me, did they? And I concocted this theory:

Sometime after we’d had sex that last night, Evan had decided that he no longer wanted to see me. I played with the idea that he felt so strongly about me that he’d deliberately pushed me away – an explanation favored by the romantic and easily injured everywhere – but eventually I decided that I didn’t know the reason for his decision. But he didn't want to see me. And because Evan is used to feeling defensive about Group X, it’s easy to continue to feel defensive about Group X and my doubts about something so important to him were a good enough excuse to dump me if he wanted to blame me for his decision. Which I think he did. I think Evan felt he had to get mad at me in order to justify dumping me. But he didn’t: he only had to tell me he’d changed his mind.

And I wasn’t quite angry, though I was close. On Saturday night, when I’d been near tears, insisting, “I don’t want to have this discussion with you now,” Evan had said, “Look, this talk tonight might end things between us, but I’m not unkind.” And I’d relaxed, because I believed this was true, that Evan was kind. And later, after our talk, when we’d been inching closer together, our limbs touching, he’d said, “I give myself a lot of credit, I think I’m more honest than most guys. You’re very honest too,” he admitted, “But I feel like I deserve more credit because I’m a guy and I think that in general women are braver and more honest than men.”

“You do, eh?” I smirked. “You think you deserve special credit?”

“Yeah,” he said sheepishly, then laughed.

And as I stared at the ceiling I thought, You’re neither honest nor kind. I don’t believe Evan picked a fight with me because I was disrespectful of something that’s important to him. He picked a fight with me because he needed an excuse to be angry.

Hmmmph, I thought. Is there something lacking in my judgment? First Jeremy, now Evan. At times like these it’s good to be reminded that some people don’t find me totally unpalatable. That is, attractive people: Jefferson and Daniel. Then I felt sorry for myself, wondering if I would ever find someone who returned my feelings, was kind, not in a cult, and wasn’t opposed to possibly having children with me one day.

The thing is, I don’t think his about face (or volte-face, as I believe the French call it) can be attributed to the cult. I think he made this decision all on his own.

It’s also instructive to note that while I am unhappy about this turn of events, I haven’t completely lost it, as I did over Jeremy. Part of the reason is because I didn’t know Evan as long, nor did I like and admire him as much. But I think an important part of the reason I’ve managed to retain (mostly anyway) my equilibrium is because he was so passionate, however unreasonable. He wasn’t lukewarm, at least. I can dismiss this failure more easily because Evan’s behavior was so disturbing and, in my opinion, so out of order that I can hardly regret the fact that I won’t be seeing him any longer.

So I guess this is it with me and Evan. I feel totally sideswiped: I didn’t see this coming.