Tuesday, July 24, 2007


Will was out of town last weekend and on Tuesday I emailed him asking if he wanted to get together. I got an email back later that night saying he’d just arrived home, and with no mention of getting together.

I was put out and considered not writing back. But then I wrote a brief email, carefully not suggesting that we get together. Then I waited.

This was two days ago. By this morning I was pretty sure I had been dumped, and was offended to discover that he wasn’t going to email me at all! Did he not think I was even worth an email? The bastard! Et cetera, shades of Jeremy all over again.

Work was stressful and demanding in all the wrong ways. After work I met Daniel and could not have been a bigger killjoy. I felt so irritable about my stupid job, about my lack of a good job, about the way my face looked in the mirror on the wall in the restaurant, you name it -- that I had to spend all my energy on not whining and was therefore nearly silent. I was not a very good dining companion. Even Daniel himself was getting on my nerves, and I resented the fact that he loves his job and that everything’s going well with the Virgin Girlfriend. On the train home he practically leapt off the subway car a stop early, presumably to get away from me, and I ended up feeling guilty for being so self indulgent with my bad mood, and abandoned that he had not tried harder to make me feel better.

I thought I had dismissed Will from my mind and was simply brooding, but I’m all about closure and I succumbed after much agonizing. This evening I sent him another email. It was polite and friendly, and closed with “I haven’t heard from you about getting together. Let me know what’s going on.”

So Will just called. And he didn’t fall in love with a bridesmaid during the wedding he went to over the weekend, and I wasn’t misreading the signs: he said he was looking for a serious relationship, and he didn’t think we had a future together.

“Well,” I said, “I would never try to convince you otherwise.” What I meant by that is I don’t want to have to convince a guy to date me. “I wouldn’t want to see you against your will.”

“I’m not seeing you against my will!” Will protested, half laughing. “I have a good time with you. I just … I’m looking for a serious relationship and I don’t see us together.”

“Um,” I crossed my room to turn off the air conditioner so I could actually hear the conversation I would prefer not to be having. “Was this because of what I said? About my social life and not being monogamous?” (I had given him a brief precis of my current, rather complicated, social life).

“No, no…” Will insisted. “That’s not it, you can see whoever you want … I just don’t see us together …”

“Oh. OK.’ I was shaking. “Fair enough.” My voice was steady, though. I mean, it was fair enough. At least he’d bothered to call.

“So,” Will went on, “If you wanted us to see each other, it wouldn’t be seriously, like in a relationship.”

Oh. So we could have sex but I wasn’t to expect anything from it. “Huh.” I get folksy when I’m nervous. I considered, trailing around my room and looking for something to occupy my hands. Then I said, “I don’t know. See, I think of you as more boyfriend material than not, so maybe that wouldn’t be a good idea.” This is true: Will is serious and adult and solvent. But, alas: apparently not that interested in me. There are a number of men I have sex with but do not expect emotional commitments from, but Will’s declaration of intent, or non-intent, sort of rubbed me the wrong way. I think I demurred in part because I was piqued that he wasn’t interested! It’s not as if I’m in love with Will. But I was hurt, or my vanity was wounded. And I might have liked Will a lot, given a little more time and long mornings in his bed: I was prepared to like him a lot.

“Yeah, OK, I thought you might feel that way…” Will said, and I think he was relieved.

What, you think I’m so fragile I couldn’t possibly see you? I’m not that into you! I wondered if Will had decided we weren’t relationship material because I wasn’t smart enough for him or, alternatively, because I am the kind of girl who sleeps with men on the first date or because, given the slightest encouragement, I will talk incessantly during sex or because I don’t have a real job or any prospect of one. These are interesting questions to which, unfortunately, I will never get the answers.

“Well, listen,” I said, full of gentle good cheer, ’cause I wanted him to be sure to regret the good thing he was giving up, “Take care of yourself.” I was also polite because I take pains not to seem like the stereotypically neurotic New Yorker that I actually am. After all, Will is from the Midwest and probably expects all New York women to be unmarried, anxious and in therapy… which would be spot on, in my case. Anyway.

“Yeah, you too,” said the man with whom I had nothing in common, and now not even sex. “… Keep in touch if you want.”

That’s just not going to happen, is it?

“Well, have a good night,” I said with a little laugh in my voice, as though I wasn’t really bothered. And who knows, maybe I wasn’t.

“You too.”

Then I hung up the phone and thought: This has been a terrible day.

Sunday, July 15, 2007

I Submit. Sort Of.

Jed and I went to see Hounded, which was part of the Brooklyn Film Festival and playing at the Cobble Hill Cinema on Court Street. Jed had sent me a link which had brief blurbs about the films playing that evening, and Hounded sounded sexy, so I chose that over the story of a special friendship that develops between two boys, blah, blah, blah.

Hounded is about a burnt out probation officer who gets involved in a sadomasochistic relationship with one of her parolees, a sulky and rather sexy boy of about 16. It was pretty kinky. For much of the film, the boy, Jan, is trying to please this woman, romance her. Jan’s clearly this vulnerable kid and Elsa’s an in-charge adult with a longtime partner and teenage daughter. But Jan is not just pursuing her but daring her, trying to seduce her into using and abusing him, which, eventually, she starts to do. He gets her to beat him with a ruler, chain him up at her partner’s empty garage, etc. He wants it, and she loves doing it.

I really liked the film's exploration of the power dynamic, and it made me think about the conversation Jefferson and I once had about submission and dominance. The power structure is thus: even though Elsa is the responsible adult whose job it is to keep Jan in line, the fact is that Jan is in charge, because Elsa has so much to lose if the affair goes wrong (as it must). And once Elsa gives into the temptation of an erotic and violent relationship with a susceptible teenager, she has put herself at risk, not only because of the heady power of the kinky stuff, but also because her relationship with this boy threatens the well being of her family and her own emotional stability. There’s a power in Jan’s youth and beauty; he can afford to be vulnerable in a way Elsa cannot.

Anyway. Jed and I sat in the theatre and nudged one another at various sexy and disturbing moments, and when the lights came up we agreed: It was hot (hot being Jed’s favored term of approval). There is an element of dominance and submission in the way Jed and I fuck. I thought about that, and about the appropriateness of this choice of film, and I got all shivery.

We took the train to Jed’s neighborhood, where Jed lives in a bona fide loft in a converted factory, along with lots of other arty white twentysomethings. It reminded me of a dorm. In his loft, two windowless rooms had been carved out of the raw space with the judicious use of particleboard walls and whatnot. There was a real kitchen and bathroom, however, and I thought it was kind of cool.

Jed introduced me to his roommate, and then opened a bottle of wine and fried up some dumplings, burning his hand in the process. I hadn’t had dinner, so soon I was buzzed and feeling very mellow, sitting in Jed’s kitchen watching him fence with the grease-spitting pan, using the lid like a shield as he tried to sear the wonton skins without burning himself.

If I were his age, I would have a massive, brain-numbing crush on Jed. As it is, I find him pretty thrilling.

We ate our dumplings and broccoli, and by the end of the meal I was feeling just sodden with horniness and affection. We sat on stool at the kitchen counter, my thigh sandwiched between his. We kissed, and I tugged my fingers through his heat-damp curls.

Eventually we retired to his bedroom, which was one of the carved out rooms in the middle of the loft. It was dim and crammed with stuff, and Jed had a loft bed. The ladder wasn’t angled: it was flush against the bed without real steps, just wide planks a foot or so apart. Jed had to hoist me up, and when I reached the top I struggled cause I couldn’t get a purchase. When I landed on his mattress I stretched out. It was very attic-like and cozy (or possibly claustrophobic), with the ceiling low over us.

We started to kiss, and Jed pressed himself against me. “These need to come off,” he said, and tugged off my underwear. He was wearing white boy short underwear, which he took off.

I slid up against him, wanting him inside me. We kissed, and after a few moments I said, “Are you going to fuck me?”

Jed pulled his torso away from me. “Maybe I will,” he said, “And maybe I won’t.”

I eyed him: “Do you want me to beg?” As always, with Jed my voice becomes this breathless demand. I sound all whispery and achy, and at the same time sort of careless: “’Cause I will if you want me to.” As long as you fuck me. “Do you want me to beg?”

He said nothing. I pushed myself up against him, and finally he reached over to what would have been a bedside table if this had been the floor. This is what he kept next to his bed: a pack of cigarettes, condoms, the aforementioned super slick BabeLube, and a tub of antiseptic hand wipes. No books or anything. He tore open a condom. He had barely touched me and I was afraid I wasn’t wet enough, but it didn’t matter: I was. “Ahh,” I sighed as he entered me.

“God,” he said as he pumped against me, “I love your hot little body.”

“Uh,” I said, not very eloquently, and pushed up closer against him.

“You’re really a slut, aren’t you?” he went on. “I just want to stuff you full of my cock and use your body, huh.”

“I’m a selective slut,” I breathed, a little distractedly. But yes: I wanted to be stuffed full of his cock and be used by him. Yup, absolutely…. Ahhh.

When Jed paused for a bit I said “Hit me,” and turned over.

I was sort of thinking about the movie, but I was also remembering the last time we fucked: how Jed told me to turn over and then very slowly and rather tenderly proceeded to slap my ass, softly at first, and then with a firm, practiced hand.

Jed obliged. What I liked was being able to see him out of the corner of my eye, how he lifted his hand high and then brought it down as if he were going to thrash me, but only swept his hand lightly across my bare ass. I liked the choreographed grace of it, the way Jed looked so absorbed. It is hard to actually see the person bent over your ass without a mirror, but I turned my head and did my best.

I think I could have gone on like this for some time, but he only did it for a bit. “Let me get on top of you,” I said then, and after not having him inside me for a few minutes, the relief of his dick sliding into me was great.

I rocked against him. “You’re a real little slut,” Jed muttered admiringly as I thrust myself against his cock. “A slut for me.”

I was sweating, and smiling, and working hard. I shoved my breasts at him, “Like my tits?” I asked, like I didn’t know the answer. “Suck my nipples.”

Jed slid his mouth along my nipples, swirling his tongue against my skin, and I felt my orgasm start to build. “I’m really close,” I whispered to Jed, as I swung myself back and forth on top of him. “Hold my hips, OK? Yeah, like that.”

He kept up a stream of words while I relaxed into the rhythm of it, and when I came I slumped against his neck, panting with exhaustion and grateful for the long lean length of him beneath me. Jed held his arms around me while I waited for my heart rate to subside.

Then it was his turn. “Get on all fours,” Jed said. I obeyed. He manipulated his dick into me and started to pump away at my pussy. I tried to encourage him by jiggling my ass, pumping back at him. “Can I play with your ass?” He said.

“Uh huh.” And he slid a finger inside me. My anus opened up to his finger without difficulty, his finger felt smooth and slippery. It didn’t hurt, it just didn’t feel particularly good. After a bit he stopped fucking and fingering me and I turned over on my back. “Remember what you said the other week?” Jed prompted.

I knew exactly what he meant: he’d asked if he could fuck my ass and I’d breathed “Next time, OK?” He probably remembered that as a promise, not as me putting him off. Gah! “Yes, I know exactly what you’re referring to,” I said ruefully.

“Listen,” he said, “I have introduced, like, four women to anal sex and they’ve all loved it, I promise…”

“No, that’s not it,” I protested. I mean, I thought it might hurt, but that wasn’t the problem: it was more like it didn’t turn me on. The only time I had been excited was when Jeremy played with my ass, and I couldn’t call him up and say, “Hey, Jeremy! It’s Lily … yeah, that girl you unceremoniously dumped a few months ago…. Yeah, I’m fine, thanks. … Listen: remember how you put your finger up my ass? You do? Well, can you tell me exactly how you did it? … Right, right…”

“It won’t hurt,” Jed promised. “This lube—” he gestured to the much-vaunted BabeLube – is really great, it’s not too thin, but it’s really slick…”

“I’m just kind of teen Christian about my ass,” I said weakly. It’s true. I guess I’m saving my ass virginity for something (or someone?). I suspect Jefferson feels he has first dibs, but huh. I mean, yes, I’m kind of scared of the pain, but it’s more like I’m not that into it. I want to want it. And I think there’s a good chance that I will. Eventually. So I’m prepared to wait until I do.

But what the hell, if Jed wanted it that much, was I really compromising my sexual autonomy by indulging him? My considered answer: Nah. Also, Jed wasn’t a bad bet, safety wise: he hadn’t slept with nearly as many people as Jefferson, for instance. I shrugged: “OK.”

We started to fuck again, with Jed’s finger slipping up inside my ass again. But then, instead of the prelude to ass sex which includes (I would hope) more lube and a bit of crooning dirty talk, Jed pulled off the condom: “Suck my dick,” he said.

I climbed onto him and leaned over, dangling my tits over his cock. I licked the length of him, and sucked his balls, and then finally wrapped my mouth around him, in all his uncircumcised, and quite lengthy, glory. “Ahhhh,” Jed groaned. “That feels really good.”

I smiled down at his dick, which was properly stiff and engorged. Then I went back to sucking him off. His dick felt really slick and slippery in my mouth, and it was a pleasure to work it over. “Yeah,” muttered Jed, “You’re good at that…”

And a after a minute or so he said, “I’m gonna come,” and my mouth was filled with his warm, wet come. I kept sucking away, drawing it all out. I swallowed a bit, but mostly I let it drip out of my mouth and onto his stomach. It didn’t taste foul by any means, but I avoid swallowing.

I hauled myself off Jed and collapsed next to him, smiling at the ceiling. Jed shook the pack of cigarettes and, on discovering that it was empty, said, “I’m going to get a pack of cigarettes – want to take a quick walk?”

“OK.” But Jed didn’t get up. Instead he reached over again, and this time pulled over one of two acoustic guitars sitting behind all the lube and wipes. “I don’t really know any songs,” he explained, “Just my own.” He was going to play his songs for me.

Christ, the college girls must have lined up to fuck him. I bet this sensitive rocker poet stuff, especially when combined with that long body and those blond curls, must have been a pretty incendiary mix. Of course, as I am not only older and wiser but immune to these arty boys and their acoustic charms, I merely find this amusing and sweet.

Yeah right. If I’ve been dismissive of Jed due to his occasionally pseudo-deep conversation, not to mention his flakiness or the fact that tonight he’d actually worn a black bandanna around his neck, cowhand style (really! I can’t believe he gets away with stuff like that, but when you’re really tall and cute and sure of yourself, all things are possible, I expect) but I take it all back: his song was great.

It was about Kit, whom I’d met at the first orgy I attended, back in February. I had spoken to her briefly, and now I tried to picture her: pretty, with a strong resemblance to Scarlett Johansson, with pronounced curves and creamy pale skin.

I lay there, openmouthed: it was a good song. More than that, it was romantic, and sexy, and the lyrics were smart. Jim wrote you a poem, I reminded myself.

When he finished his song I shook my head, dumbfounded, “Jed,” I said, “That was great. You are really talented.”

He smiled at me. He knew that already.

Then we got up and went for a walk, with me wearing his maroon leather jacket ’cause it wasn’t as warm outside as it should have been. Jed carried his guitar: he was going to play me another song. At the corner store he bought a pack of cigarettes entirely with coins drawn from a handkerchief pouch (“Like a hobo!” I observed) and then we sat on what appeared to be the front seat of a Ford Taurus resting on the sidewalk in front of his building. There Jed arranged himself and sang me another song. People walking by looked at us as Jed performed, which made me smile, embarrassed at the attention. But Jed was shameless. This song was really good too. I was humbled.

At last we returned to his apartment and got ready for bed. He lay next to me on the mattress and turned, fetal position, to face me. I was surprised – he is not much as a cuddler. I mirrored him, and then he started to kiss me.

Oh, I thought, as we wrestled, we’re going to have sex again! Gosh, I liked his energy, and the tiredness I’d felt earlier was gone.

He fucked me from behind, pushing against me while I stretched up against him, like a cat. We went fast: after a minute he said, “Can I come?”

I nodded: “Uh huh.”

He came with me on my knees, his breath a steady rhythm in my ear.


“Which side do you like?” I asked. Meaning, what side of the bed.

“This is my side,” he said. He lay at the edge, and I next to the wall.

“OK.” Jed had rigged up his fan so that we wouldn’t melt from the heat. I lay marooned under his white duvet, enjoying the cool air on my face. Jed flopped onto his side and I lay on my stomach. “Goodnight,” I said.

I leaned over to kiss him and then I buried my face in his pillow and waited to fall asleep.

Tuesday, July 10, 2007


I entered the apartment building and walked up to the Concierge Desk. “I’m here to see Will … Firr… Firrens--? Will Forr-?” Well, it was something like that.

The doorman consulted his book: “I don’t see his name. Is he new?”

“Yes,” I said, glad to be able to supply some information. “He moved here in February.”

The doorman turned to a second uniformed man, who was standing at the revolving doors and whose job, it appeared, was to thrust his weight at the glass doors so that people exiting the building would not have to do this themselves. Talk about a luxury building.

The first doorman appealed to the second: “Do you know a Will …” He turned to me: “What was his name?”

I lifted my shoulders: I thought I could spell it, but I was pretty sure it was pronounced other than it looked.

The second man eyed me: “Will what? Are you sure he lives here?”

Oh, for God’s sake. At this rate I was never going to get upstairs. “Yes, Will Farr…” I attempted his last name again.

“What does he look like?”

“Um. Tall, blond, blue eyed, kinda thin..” Cute! My brain supplied. Nice ass!

“Is he a runner?” the man at the revolving doors asked at last.

“That’s right!” I was encouraged.

The second man gazed at his comrade behind the desk: “Try 11G,” he said finally.

This turned out to be correct, and soon I was waiting for Will’s very slow elevator to make its way to the lobby. I was obscurely embarrassed by my inability to remember Will’s apartment number, as if my poor memory signaled to these doormen that I was the kind of girl who slept with so many men that she couldn’t keep track of all the apartments involved.

When at last I made it to 11G, Will kissed me at the door, chastely. I regaled him with the drama downstairs.

Will smiled: “I think they were razzing you,” he said, as I followed him into the apartment and hung my coat on the back of a dining room chair. Razzing. Wherever did he get such a term? It sounded so old-fashioned. “They know who I am.”

“You think?” The guy at the desk seemed pretty flummoxed.”

He looked uncertain: “Well, maybe.”

We slid onto his couch, and Will put an arm around me. I leaned over to kiss him.

Slowly we slipped into a horizontal position, our clothes askew but still on. He lay on top of me and I wound my limbs around him. My left hand stroked the base of his skull, with its fair, buzz-cut hair. Every once in a while we stopped kissing, to smile at one another.

“I like this shirt,” Will murmured. I was wearing a coral blouse with a zip running all the way up to the collar (it was fitted cotton but not at all tight; that would have been tacky). “You’re like a present,” he went on, tugging at the zipper, “And I can unwrap you.” I smiled up at him.

In his bedroom we lay in the semidarkness, our limbs pressed together. Will’s mouth slid all over my skin, slipping downwards. He slid his tongue inside me for a bit, but I couldn’t wait to have him fuck me.

We faced one another, his big body on top of my little one, and Will pressed himself inside me. I shifted a little, stretching up towards his dick. I like the missionary position, but generally don’t come in it; I have to be on top. But just as I was relaxing into the rhythm of Will’s body he started to shudder; he was close to coming.

“Wait!” I gasped, “Don’t go over yet…!” I meant Don’t go over the edge, as in, Don’t come yet!

But he kept moving: “Come with me,” he panted. “Come with me,” he said again, burrowing deeper inside me. I clutched at his shoulders and he stared at me and when he came I made him stay inside me for a bit, so I could feel that dense thickness pressing against me, soothing my tense, waiting cunt.


In the morning Will left early for a 10K run. I accompanied him to the street, bought breakfast (Challah for French toast, eggs, milk, juice and strawberries) at the local supermarket and then let myself back into his apartment, like I was his girlfriend or something. I soaked the bread in egg and milk, and then went back to bed. I imagined how nice it would be to live in this apartment, which had a dishwasher and real furniture.

When Will returned I got out of bed and stood in front of him, naked. “Hey.” I felt self indulgent and languorous beside this evidence of Will’s healthy exertion.

He took off his sweat-wicking running clothes and I wrapped my arms around him. I licked his salty chest.

In bed he lay on top of me, and I felt like my bones were melting into the mattress from his weight. He put on a condom and then entered me. “Did you have a good run?” I whispered, like I cared. I hugged my hands to his back.

“Yeah, but I was thinking about your pussy,” he croaked as he thrust at me.

I didn’t know he would have the vocabulary I liked; I hadn’t expected him to use the word pussy. I liked it.

“Really?” I was flattered, that he would think of me, or my various parts, during a race around Central Park. I pushed my pelvis up towards him, trying to bring him closer. “You like that?”

He got it: “Oh, yeah, I love your tight little pussy, I’ve been thinking about it all morning…”

I grinned at the ceiling. All right!

This time I was determined to get my orgasm, so after a bit I slid on top of him. Now that I knew he didn’t mind talking, I felt free to let loose: “You like my tits?” I rocked back and forth, my palms flat against his sheets. I dipped my chest towards him, shoving my breasts at his mouth.

“Oh yeah,” he scooped them to his mouth: “You’ve got luscious tits.” I smiled: luscious. That was sort of a dirty word, in this context. I liked it.

I thrust myself at him harder, frantic to come: “C’mon, darlin’,” said Will. “Come for me.”

Darlin’. No one had ever said that to me before. I came.


Afterwards, we climbed into the tub. Underneath the showerhead, I soaped Will’s back and chest, and slid my fingers around his cock and balls. He traced his fingertips across my nipples. The water was aiming right at my face, so I stepped back, to the wall. Will followed, and pressed his body against mine, so I was sandwiched between him and the wet turquoise tiles. It was bliss, the weight and firmness of him and the tiles. Slowly Will slid his body up and down against mine. But I wasn’t close enough, somehow, so I climbed up on the edge of the tub so we were eye to eye. I wiped the water from my face and blinked at him. It felt so lovely, the solid weight of him, as he slid his torso up and down. I felt myself go limp against the firmness of him -- his stomach muscles and broad chest and the strength of his thighs. Again I closed my eyes, not wanting to miss a single second of the feeling of his soapy skin against mine.

Friday, July 06, 2007

Coincidences Incite Romantic Delusions!

Maybe it’s the stars or something: over the past three days I have heard from two formerly MIA men.

First is
Tim, whom I met last fall when his girlfriend posted an ad on Craig’s List looking for women to sleep with her boyfriend. Really. In the spirit of living somewhat dangerously, I volunteered. Then it all went pear-shaped when Tim was recalled to the family bosom due to his father’s illness. The crisis put a damper on his libido, and then he and the girlfriend broke up, thus nullifying the purpose of this escapade. I was really disappointed, because we’d met for a drink and hit it off (read: made out over several gins and tonics). Most importantly: he had actually read and liked Happy All the Time, by Laurie Colwin, which I took to be a sign from God. He sent me an email a few days ago and when I recognized his email address I started flapping my wrists in excitement. He asked if I wanted to get together.

Actually the email was weird. It was a response to the last one I’d sent him, meaning he’d saved mine (it was a really nice and well worded email, it’s true) but he didn’t sign his name, which I thought was the first strange part. But the thing that really threw me was that after the greeting he just said he’d like to see me and did I want to get together at the place he was apartment sitting next weekend.

It’s been 10 months, and while I am a slut, I was sort of taken aback at the idea of going to sleep with a guy I’d met once before almost a year previously. So when I wrote back I suggested we meet for a drink first to catch up. After all, I don’t want him to think I’m easy. I mean, not that easy.

So Tim wrote back to say why didn’t I come over to his for the drink, and that he thought of me whenever he saw a Laurie Colwin book, hoped my novel was going well, and was very excited to get together. So that shut me up and, unless there’s another family crisis, I expect I will indeed go over to his place and drink wine (maybe a nice Riesling?) and make out with him on a stranger’s sofa.

And then this morning there was an email from Dean, who contacted me via the personals last April or thereabouts. As I recall, he asked me out, and then bailed on the day of the date. He claimed he had just met someone and it had suddenly gotten serious. I hear this excuse all the time, so I assumed he just wasn’t interested – I’ve noticed that some men seem only want you to say yes to a date, not to actually go on one. In this most recent email he addressed me by my name, which was a pleasant surprise, as I’d forgotten his, and then explained that last year he’d been in a long distance relationship and so, despite the flirting, had not followed through. Which doesn’t make him sound too appealing, does it? A man who approaches women and then backs off because he already has a girlfriend? Of course, as I saw him online all the time after he supposedly met someone new last year, I expect he hasn’t told me the truth either way. If he doesn’t cancel on me again, I will have a drink with him and try to get a straight answer.

This is all very exciting but I can’t help wondering if all these blasts from the past might foretell a missive from the one I really want to hear from:
Jeremy. I haven’t written about this because it’s too embarrassing (not to mention unrelated to my sex life and therefore not really encompassed by the theme of Living Somewhat Dangerously) but a few weeks ago I actually went to Enchantments in the East Village and bought myself a pink carved love communication candle, complete with Goona Goona oil (which smells like overripe carnations, not my favorite). My tarot card reader, Jane, told me that this would send out love messages to Jeremy and make him contact me, or at least engineer the stars so that we might run into one another on Avenue B, say. “How soon do you think this will work?” I asked Jane, who was small and skinny and covered in tattoos.

“Sometimes it happens right away,” she said. “Even before you light the candle!”

I wasn’t sure if that actually argued for the efficacy of the candle. “Really?”

“Well,” she backtracked, “In your case it might take a little longer, since it’s been a few months.”

So I went home and took a bath with the oil and lit the candle, after carving the names Lily and Jeremy into the candle, as per Jane’s instructions. I couldn’t find the right sized holder and ended up cutting off the bottom of the candle and trying to soften the wax to make it stand up straight. This didn’t work: the candle drooped at an alarming angle and once or twice toppled over onto my nightstand. I wondered if this negated my efforts, but as the candle never went out, I chose to think it was a good omen. Of course that was before the glass candle holder exploded. But anyway.

I had felt so confident and positive when I lit the candle. Not necessarily that Jeremy would want to see me, but that we were bound to run into one another and that at the very least I would get some closure. Our eyes would meet, and I would smile and say “Hi! Nice to see you!” with no trace of the misery I’d felt over his defection. And then, very gently, I would add, “You know, I really liked you. I was hurt when you disappeared -- I gave you every opportunity to dump me with very little embarrassment to either one of us. Why didn’t you just respond to my email and say you weren’t interested?” All the while maintaining a polite, puzzled smile, like his answer really didn’t matter at all.

And because I understand that sometimes fate needs a hand, I took to wandering his neighborhood – sitting in the park his apartment overlooked, walking up and down the street where we’d had brunch, hoping that I would spot him as he lingered over a meal or bought toothpaste at the Duane Reade. One Sunday morning in this park I discovered that if I sat on a certain bench at a 45 degree angle, I had a perfect (though distant) view of his front door.

This proved to be a bad idea, though, since it meant I was reduced to staring into the distance rather than simply reading in the park, which is probably what separates
stalkers from fate’s little helpers. I ended up with a cramp in my neck and a sense of shame at the unbelievable weirdness of what I was doing. Finally I gave up on the whole project, not because I had turned into crazy stalker girl – that apparently wasn’t enough to stop me – but because I couldn’t figure out how to improve my odds of running into him. I’m sure there’s a formula that would increase my chances, but there were too many variables (what time of day should I stalk? Should I approach from the South or the West?) for my math-challenged efforts to be anything but totally futile, not to mention pathological.

I make it sound like all this was months ago, but really I decided that the stalking was in no way joy-inducing or productive only about six days ago. Nevertheless.

Anyway, last night I was IMing with
Sweetheart Daniel (who is still a sweetheart, even if he is not my sweetheart) and I Confessed All. And then he said, Well, why don’t you just email him? Casually? See what he’s up to?

Oh, no, I typed. See, if I don’t email him, I can maintain the illusion that he still thinks about me. But if I email him, then I’ve got to face facts: either he doesn’t bother to respond, which leaves me again, without closure, but also unable to tell myself that he maintains a lingering interest, or he responds politely, leaving me in no doubt as to what I already know: that he’s not interested.

I cherish my illusions, you know.

But still. Daniel got me thinking. It was kind of ambiguous, the way things ended. Five days after I sent Jeremy
that email and then agonized over his lack of response, I looked in my Spam mailbox and saw that the email had actually not been delivered! Please try again, mailer daemon said. Truly! I was flabbergasted, angels sang, etc. So I immediately sent Jeremy a brief email, asking only if he’d received the note I’d sent him earlier in the week.

He never responded. So actually it wasn’t that ambiguous. But, as Jane the tarot card reader had pointed out, Cancers tend to hide. (I actually don’t know if Jeremy’s a Cancer or a Leo, but for the purposes of my overactive fantasy life, we’ll say he is). Also, maybe he had dropped me because of
that conversation we had back in December, where I said I wasn’t monogamous and he said he wanted to settle down… maybe, maybe. These were all things that Caroline and I had discussed, but suddenly putting my pride on the line (again) seemed like a reasonable possibility. I told Daniel I’d consult Caroline.

But first I’m going to light the second candle I got from Enchantments.

Sunday, July 01, 2007

I Learn to Share

It was supposed to be me, Jefferson and Jacob. But the evening before, I’d gone to dinner with Wendy, and when she said she hoped to see Jefferson the following evening I saw how this was possible.

Of course, this meant I’d have to share. So I supposed this would be a good opportunity for me to develop loving kindness, a Zen lack of jealousy, all the spiritually evolved qualities that ethical sluts (which I hope I am) should cultivate, along with a sense of humor and good upper body strength.

So on Friday night I turned up at Jefferson’s place and was taken aback to see not just Wendy but Ruby. Had Jefferson added to our party, as well?

“Ruby’s on her way out,” Jefferson explained. He has a good feel for social nuances. Ruby sloped on the sofa, bleary eyed, smiling. Christ, Jefferson had a really packed schedule.

“Is Jacob coming?” I was worried. Though we’d emailed a few times, I hadn’t heard from him in a while and wondered if I would be seeing him tonight after all.

“Why?” Jefferson paused, a bottle of wine in his hand. “Did he tell you he wasn’t?”

“No… I just…”

But it turned out my suspicions were unfounded: Jacob arrived shortly after Ruby left. The four of us sat on the sofa, slumped together by gravity and curiosity. Jacob seemed pretty low. He admitted he’d been holed up in his apartment, avoiding contact with the human race. Then he downed a Vicodin. This didn’t seem like a great omen, but I smiled at him hopefully and we trooped off to the bedroom.

We all got undressed as if we were getting ready for free swim at summer camp. No one kissed or touched. There was no eroticism, just an athletic energy.

Jacob was an unknown quantity to me sexually – we’d kissed a bit at the April orgy, and that was all. Naked, his boy’s body was decorated with tattoos: a revolver tilted across his chest, illustrations bloomed on his forearms. Jacob has shaggy hair in a modified hipster mullet, and, before he’d stripped, had been wearing jeans clipped with a silver chain. Around his neck he wore a long chain with a Star of David. It looked so ’70’s. I liked it, how unfashionable it was, contrasting with his shaggy hair and decorated arms. It was like saying, “I’m a nice Jewish boy,” – (and a suburban one) even though the evidence suggested otherwise.

Jacob wore cute underwear, rather like the Underoos of my childhood. I removed his skivvies, and when he was naked I went down on him – perhaps that is my version of “Nice to meet you,”? Meanwhile, next to us on Jefferson’s bed Wendy and Jefferson fucked. Wendy is very loud in bed. I talk during sex, but Wendy’s voice rises and she cries.

Jacob pushed me onto my back, but I wanted a little more anticipation before we fucked. So we fooled around a bit more before I let him put a condom on and slip inside me.

That was it, he slipped inside me. Next to me, Wendy was moaning as Jefferson fucked her. I looked at Jacob, at his puckered little boy’s face, and felt nothing.

I mean, Jacob is sexy and adorable. He has a lovely dick – good sized, and willing. But in me there was no surge, no sweat, no urgency. Maybe I needed more foreplay, or narrative. But right now it felt like exercise rather than sex. I wanted to feel it.

So I gestured to Jacob and then I swung over so that I could ride him. This was better. I felt it more, but still. Eventually, Jacob pulled out – he blamed the Vicodin, and no doubt he was right.

I went to the bathroom and when I came back Wendy’s mouth was wrapped around Jacob’s dick. She knelt over him as he lay flat on his back, with Jefferson sprawled on the bed beside him. I slid next to Jefferson, our arms touching. Absently I stroked Jefferson’s soft arms.

Then Jefferson straddled Jacob. Funny, the way Jefferson sat on Jacob’s face reminded me of a girl – sort of hippy and proud. Then he slid off and started to massage Jacob’s ass. Jacob writhed happily, like a kitten. I watched.

“I’m going to fuck your ass,” Jefferson promised, smiling down at Jacob.

But Jacob wasn’t that far gone: “No, not tonight,” he murmured. Aha! Just like me.

Then Jefferson slouched onto his back and Jacob slipped between his legs. He was so engaged, it was really awesome to watch. He took Jefferson’s cock in his mouth so deeply – his nose started to run and he kept sniffling and gagging, but not once did he pause. It was as if he couldn’t stop himself, and also as though this was his job, to slurp Jefferson’s cock, and he was a hard, conscientious worker. Oh, God. I slid down to the edge of the bed, where Jacob lay on his stomach with his face buried around Jefferson’s dick. I suddenly felt the need to suck Jacob off, and maneuvered myself beneath him, where I tentatively licked his cock, and then his balls. As I continued, my mouth became more eager, and I grew frustrated that he was at an angle that was so difficult for me to reach. I wanted to devour his dick, to place my mouth squarely at his cock and suck him right inside me.

Eventually Jacob slid around so I could have at him. Then Wendy wanted in, so we traded Jacob’s dick back and forth between us for a bit, and then we licked him together, one tongue on each side of Jacob’s shaft. Then I had a terrible thought: what if Jacob preferred Wendy’s cocksucking to mine? This is the kind of thought that can wreak havoc with your fucking.

And again, this was the perfect time for my two-on-one fantasy. I got Jacob to myself for a bit and motioned for Jefferson to fuck me from behind. He obliged.

I was on my knees, arching my back and thrusting my ass at Jefferson so that he could fuck me properly. I was really wet. But we didn’t get very far. That’s one of the problems with more than two people – there’s always more to do, and maybe people feel like they’re missing out if they don’t move quickly through a variety of positions? Jefferson pulled out and Wendy indicated that it was time for Jacob to fuck her. Jefferson spun me over and slipped my legs around his neck, and started to fuck me once more. But I was distracted, keeping an eye on Wendy and Jacob. Wendy was moaning. Then she groaned: “I want you to fuck my ass.”

“OK,” said Jacob amiably.

I gulped, and looked up at Jefferson, who was lazily pumping away against my cunt. “I want to watch,” I whispered to him.

Jefferson smiled: “I thought you might,” he said. He pulled out, and I slipped off the bed and slunk next to Jacob, who was standing behind Wendy.

She was laying face down on Jefferson’s mattress, her white ass reaching towards Jacob’s dick. I watched as slowly he pushed his cock deep between her cheeks, where I couldn’t see.

“Harder,” said Wendy. Her voice was a whine: “Harder.”

We watched as Jacob pumped her. “Jefferson,” Wendy said from her position on her stomach, “Can you get me your bullet vibrator?”

Jefferson reached over and pulled some equipment out of his drawer. Silently, he handed it to Wendy, who slid it underneath her. She started to moan again, and while Jacob thrust away.

Then Wendy started to yell, and she came with a series of cries, like she was upset rather than just well and truly fucked.


Afterwards, I sat on Jefferson’s lap in his armchair while Wendy and Jacob lounged on the bed. Both of them, I realized, sounded remarkably similar, with their cute Long Island voices. But shortly afterwards, Jacob insisted he had to leave, so we all escorted him to the door with kisses.

Back in Jefferson’s bedroom Wendy sprawled across the mattress and shut her eyes. It was then I realized my folly: the three of us could not sleep comfortably in Jefferson’s bed. Particularly not me, since I toss and turn. Wendy looked about ready to crash. I sighed: “I’ll go sleep in the other room.”

“Are you sure?” Jefferson asked politely.

I nodded, bid them goodnight and trundled to the back room, feeling like the third wheel, albeit one who would sleep undisturbed. Sober and childlike, I put myself to bed in Lillie’s single metal frame bed, and read a Penguin Classic until I fell asleep.