Friday, November 30, 2007

Probably Not What They Mean By an Epistolary Romance

Dear Sir,
When I spoke to you earlier today I neglected to mention that I was naked, except for two strategically placed poker chips. And sunscreen, of course.

Young lady
Dear Young Lady,
How I envy those two strategically-placed poker chips! Or perhaps I envy even more the layer of sunscreen that coats your entire body. Hmmmm...

The rules to Mafia seem most fascinating. …

Off to AC on Tuesday afternoon, returning laaaate Weds, but I shall be thinking of you every time that I announce to my fellow players that I am “pushing all-in” as we poker players say.

Dear Sir,
I think Mafia will be lots of fun, though it can run on and you have to be able to tolerate annoying people -- not always my strongest point...!
I hope your trip is successful, and that images of my naked, card-adorned (full house? flush?) body occasionally flit through your brain as you kick poker ass.
Young lady

Dear Young Lady,
Thoughts of your naked body were indeed distracting whilst I was playing poker in Atlantic City!

Am very much looking forward to seeing you on Saturday night. Playing “Mafia” with you and your friends will surely be fun, but I am even more looking forward to playing “Stern Professor and Eager Young Coed” with you later on at my place.

Dear Sir,
Congrats on your big win, that's so impressive! I would like to think I played a small, yet pivotal role in your success. So I'll think that, evidence notwithstanding.
I’m looking forward to seeing you tomorrow night, too. I want to ask you about my extra credit assignments. It’s important for me to get an A in your class, if you know what I mean by this heavy-handed metaphor. And I think you do ;-)
Young lady

Dear Young Lady,
I think we might be able to reach a mutually agreeable plan for extra-credit work that would improve your grade for the semester. You would have to be extremely diligent and thorough in your side work for me, as the thing I have for you to work on is very hard indeed, but I feel confident that if you apply yourself you can truly earn that “A” we both know you deserve.

My emails with Dean had degenerated to ridiculous innuendo and it looked like this would lead to some role playing. I had always dismissed the idea as silly, but when I read the words “stern professor and eager young coed” I felt a tingle at the back of my thighs. My cunt tightened reflexively and suddenly the idea of role playing did not seem so silly.

I thought of our second date, when, in Dean’s bedroom, he taken me over his knee and commented, “Now you have an older man who knows how to discipline you,” and I’d sort of swooned. And I imagined Dean as a professor and me as a student. In my mind, he was seated at a desk in a windowless office, but his office was also the bedroom I was familiar with, a messy room where outdated issues of The New York Times go to die.

I pictured standing in front of him, seated at a desk: “Professor? I’ve come to see you about some extra credit work, like we discussed.”

“Ah, yes. Sit down, Miss…”


“Yes, Miss Vereker.” [He would be an unreconstructed elbow-patch wearing guy, and would not deign to call me Ms., as I prefer.] Dean, looking more grizzled than he does in real life, and not wearing jeans, would peer at me over his glasses. I, naturally, would be wearing a plaid skirt and knee socks, as is required in these fantasies. I might even be sporting saddle shoes, though that could be going overboard. “So, you’d like to improve your grade?” He would rifle through his papers. “Ah, yes, your midterm…”

“Yes, I was very disappointed.”

He looks back up at me, gravely. “I can see why.”

I blush. “It’s very important to maintain my GPA,” I say softly.

Et cetera.

Unfortunately, this was not to be. This was the weekend before Halloween, and we went to a costume party. I went as Death, and Dean went as a mafioso, complete with a violin case and a stick-on mustache that gave him a strange resemblance to Mr. Potato Head.

By the end of the party I had a terrible headache. Then, in the cab on the way back to Dean’s apartment, I broke out in a cold sweat and vomited copiously. I hate throwing up; it hurts. Also, it’s not the most attractive thing you can do on a date.

At Dean’s, I melodramatically dragged myself up his stairs, drank some Coke, then vomited into a wastepaper basket. Dean left a message with a friend, an ER doctor, and rubbed my back. I fantasized that emergency services would turn up, inject me with painkillers (so I wouldn’t throw them up), and cure me immediately. Then I threw up what was left in my stomach and gargled with Listerine. I stopped sweating, and the kindly ER doc called back. “It hurts when I swallow,” I whined.

“It sounds like a virus,” the ER doctor diagnosed. “It should just run its course.”

“Tell me a story,” I said to Dean, and he obliged by telling me about his driving test, which naturally led to some innuendo about stick shifts. Then I fell asleep.

In the morning I felt better, but didn’t want to kiss Dean for fear of giving him my virus, though chances were I’d already infected him. But I kept thinking about the role playing we hadn’t done.

We are in his office again. At Professor Dean’s command, I have shown him my underwear. “You should be wearing white panties. They’re much more ladylike,” Professor Dean shakes his head as he puts me across his knee.

“Yessir,” I say breathlessly. “Should I take these off?”

“Hmmmph,” he says, thwacking my ass thoughtfully. After a few smacks, he stops. I am breathing hard. He sits me back on his knee, his thigh pressing up close to my pelvic bone. “Why young lady,” says Professor Dean, astonished, “Are you wet?”

I try to squeeze my thighs together and don’t say anything. Dean pushes me to my feet. I stand facing him, and then he puts his face close to my pussy, his lips rubbing against the cotton: “You are all wet,” he announces.

I feel my pussy clench. “Did I tell you that you could get wet?” he asks softly, lightly tapping his fingers against my underpants. I remain silent. “Did I? Young lady?” I shake my head, looking at the ground.

Very slowly, Professor Dean peels off my panties, and I squirm when the air hits my hot, damp skin. Professor Dean leans in even closer, and breathes right on my clit. I let out a squeak.

He immediately stops, and gazes up at me. “Young lady,” he says, sternly-but-fairly, “You’re going to have to behave yourself.” I am embarrassed. His mouth hovers just millimeters from my lips as he examines my pussy. “Hmmm,” he says thoughtfully. “I see.”

“What? What do you see?” I’m shaking now. Dean looks up at me and cocks his head, prompting me. “Sir.” I add.

“I see … you obviously … ” and here he draws back and slips a finger inside me. I’m so wet there is almost a splash. I sigh, and sway a bit on my weak knees. Dean draws his finger out and slips it into his mouth, sucking thoughtfully, like he’s tasting a wine. Then he takes it out and looks up at me for a moment before returning to gaze intently at my pussy. “I see that you need a lot of cock,” he murmurs, and flicks his tongue at me gently.

Dean and I lay sandwiched together, my stomach pressed against his dick. I stroked Dean’s cock as I imagined Professor Dean manhandling me, and eventually Dean pushed me onto my side and squeezed my right breast. I trailed my fingers along the underside of his dick.

He stood up and crossed to the other side of the bed, to the drawer where he keeps the condoms. I slid my legs open wide and slipped my middle finger against my underwear, enjoying the friction of the cotton against my clit. I gazed at Dean as he tugged the condom on, then rubbed myself a little more.

He climbed back into the bed and lay on top of me, spreading my legs wider and pulling off my bikini underpants. I caught his eye and held his gaze; he grimaced as he fitted himself inside me. “Good?” I prompted him as he sank inside me.

“Yeah….” he said, and pushed against me. “Oh, Lily.”

He leaned to kiss me but, fearful of my virus, I turned and gave him my cheek. He kissed each side of my mouth, then my cheek, and my forehead, and I wrapped my legs around his back. “Oh, yeah,” I sighed as his body wracked mine. “That’s good.”

Then he kissed my mouth, lightly, and I pushed against him as he fucked me. “You like that? Baby?”

“Lily,” he said. “Lily.”

Tuesday, November 27, 2007

Tonight's the Night!

A Charlie Brown Christmas is on ABC tonight.

Linus has always been my favorite, though apparently when I was three I insisted on being called Sally. I love Linus' s peculiar clear voice and the way he says “Charlie Brown,” with the syllables coming right from the front of his mouth.

Also, Peanuts on TV always makes me think of the old CBS Special Presentation promo and commercials for Peppermint Patties and Mounds and Almond Joy -- I think Peter & Paul sponsored the show. Does anyone remember these ads? “A York Peppermint Pattie gives me the sensation of a cool breeze...” Those were the days.

Saturday, November 24, 2007

Holiday, Schmoliday

This Be The Verse

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats.

Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself.

I mean, it's Thanksgiving and I love them, but years of therapy have only confirmed Larkin's conclusion.

I'm just sayin'.

Thursday, November 22, 2007

Good Manners Rewarded!

I was dreading my date with Paul.

It was cold and overcast, and I’d spent the previous night with Nick and wanted to go home; also my thoughts were on Dean and the thought of fucking someone new just did not appeal.

I’m sorry, I just threw up, I tried. This just isn’t going to work. I don’t want to be a slut anymore. I’ve had an accident. There’s been a family emergency.

But no. I’d already cancelled earlier in the week. I should have turned him down when he suggested it; it would be rude to back out now.

So you’re going to sleep with him cause it’s the polite thing to do? You’re afraid he’ll get mad at you? Think you’re a tease?

Huh. Apparently.


Paul had emailed Jefferson after Jefferson appeared in Time Out New York’s annual sex issue a few weeks ago. He’d checked out Jefferson’s blog and emailed him, saying he was interested. With a caveat: “I’m straight as an arrow,” he wrote, “And wouldn’t want to be in a boy-fest.”

All straight men seem compelled to remind Jefferson that they’re straight. Cause all bi and gay men want to fuck them.

When Paul wrote I was at Jefferson’s, dancing around his living room to “Too Drunk to Fuck”.

“Look at this guy,” said Jefferson. I peered over his shoulder, and looked at a photo of a dark haired, handsome man in a button down shirt.

“He’s cute.” I hopped around and did the swim – my default dance mode is always a ’60s mod move. I had recently been complaining that of late my sex partners had been disappearing: Alex’s girlfriend was back in town, Jefferson was always busy, and Jed was impossible to get hold of. I felt that for the sake of living somewhat dangerously, not to mention my as yet unsigned book deal, I ought to be fucking around with more people. And doing it as soon as possible.

“Let me at ’im,” I said. Well, not really. Instead I read their correspondence, which ended with Paul’s asking, “Do you know any woman who would be willing to ‘associate’ with me?”

“Tell him I’m hot,” I advised. “And easy!” I caught a glimpse of myself reflected in Jefferson’s window. I did the frug and a shimmy. I looked ridiculous.


Jefferson forwarded me the emails so I contacted Paul. We arranged to meet for a drink the following week.

That Thursday we met, as planned, at Vintage, where I’d gone on my first date with Dean back in July. When I arrived, I was met by a tall, thin fellow in jeans, with a messenger bag across his shoulder. Hipster version 2.0.

“Hi!” We shook hands. It was a mild evening so we wended our way to the back garden, where I ordered a Flirtini. I guessed Paul would order a Heineken or a glass of wine, but he opted for vodka and soda. When the waitress asked him what vodka brand he would prefer, he shook his head and said “Any” before agreeing to a Stolichnaya at the waitress’s prompting. This I approved of; I think it’s pretentious to ask for Grey Goose or Stoli (no one ever requests Crystal Palace, do they?). Though that’s just prejudice on my part. Just cause I can’t tell one vodka from another doesn’t mean others can’t tell if one brand is superior. Nevertheless, I stick to this reverse snobbism. But I digress.

So. Paul was lean and his hair was spiky and he had a mild, deferential manner. I pegged him at 43, tops. Then he told me he was 51. Fifty one!

“Wow,” I said weakly.

“I’m pretty healthy,” he explained.

He was a creative director at an ad agency and a native of Brooklyn. He had read some of the same books as me. He remembered the blackout of ’77, though, unlike me, he wasn’t four years old at the time. And, I noticed, his voice had a faint but unmistakable East Brooklyn tinge. What do I mean by this? I mean his voice bore a strange resemblance to Woody Allen’s! Good lord.

But despite that he was attractive. I mean, I’m not immune to lean, polite and articulate men with messenger bags. We chatted for a bit and after a discussion about the recent history of New York City -- always a turn on for me, come to think of it -- I decided that a) I would fuck him if he was game and b) he would make an admirable addition to Jefferson’s parties, despite being straight. He was attractive, personable and wouldn’t frighten the skittish (i.e. me).

So it was agreed: we’d make plans to fuck in the coming week. I went home, satisfied that I was doing my part to live somewhat dangerously.

But now we were meeting again and I was having second thoughts. I’d spent the previous night with Nick, it was rainy and cold, my feet hurt and the idea of spending a few hours fucking a near-stranger did not appeal. I sat on the uptown bus, loathing myself.

When I got to Paul’s door he welcomed me with a big smile and took my coat. “Can I get you a glass of wine?” he asked as I seated myself on his sofa.

“Yes please.” I figured alcohol would go a ways towards easing my doubts.

He poured me a glass of Riesling (he had, in fact, emailed me earlier to find out if there was anything I preferred and I’d been quick to lodge a request). It was slightly fizzy and sweet, and went down a treat.

“Oh, this is nice,” I said, leaning back against and feeling myself relax ever so slightly.

We talked and talked and my eyes wandered to a pile of books. I approved of his selections (mostly non-fiction, but still) and after a while I forgot that I didn’t want to be here. I did, in fact, want to be here. I drank most of the bottle of Riesling.

“Maybe we should take our clothes off,” said Paul at one point as I poured myself another glass of wine.

“Why?” I smiled. “Do you have to be somewhere later?” I mean, what was the hurry?

“No, I just thought it would be nice to continue talking naked,” he said, sounding embarrassed.

“Well, you’re not in a rush, are you?” But when he lay on the couch I slid next to him, and when he climbed on top of me I didn’t protest.

We kissed for a while. For a 51-year-old, he had a great body: lean, muscled, blah blah blah. He had a great body for a 30 year old, in fact. He took off my shirt and nuzzled my breasts. I smirked at the ceiling. Eventually, stripped to our underwear, we headed to his bedroom.

On the bed we lay next to one another, kissing. I straddled him and dangled my breasts in his face. He licked my nipples, then kissed the aureoles. “You have great tits,” he observed. He ran his hands from my waist to my hips. “You’re really voluptuous.”

I giggled. “You know what that means to a woman?” I asked. “Voluptuous? It means fat.”

“No, no,” he protested, “I didn’t mean—”

“I know.” I rubbed myself against his smooth skin. I mean, I did know. He didn’t mean I was fat, and that’s not what the word voluptuous means, either. But for an American female, words like “voluptuous”, “curvy” and even “healthy” have sort of double meanings, and those double meanings are apparent in everything from Glamour to Craig’s List.

And frankly I am kind of voluptuous – I have a small waist and wide hips (and, unfortunately, wide thighs, too). My tits are a reasonably-endowed B. I’ve got trim ankles, though, which is a weird source of pride for me and would definitely up my hotness factor if this were 1891.

But anyway. Paul was hard, and I was wet. I was sliding up and down against him, almost as if we were actually fucking rather than mimicking the actions our bodies would soon perform, that role-play of sex that often precedes the event itself. My cunt was tipped against his cock, I was close to opening up to him.

I rolled off him and he put on a condom, and I got back on top. I sighed as my flesh yielded to his dick. It felt great, even better than I’d expected. I rode him slowly.

“Ah,” he said.

“You like that? You like being inside me?”

“Yeah, I like your pussy,” he sighed.

Oooh, he’d said pussy. “You do?” I hinted.

“Yeah, you’ve got a sweet, wet pussy…”

I felt this warm, dreamy contentment steal through me, at odds with the physical urge I had to keep pushing against him. I was flooded with the disassociated bliss that usually follows sex before I’d even had an orgasm. I rocked back and forth absently.

“Is that good?”

“Yeah, I’m going to lick you pussy and fuck you and … ride my cock.” Paul looked pleased and secretive.

I did, and then I came. I collapsed onto Paul’s chest before tumbling onto my back so he could fuck me.

On top of me his cock pushed up against me. “This is the best time I’ve had all day,” he breathed into my ear.

“Well, I should hope so!” I would hope sex with me would trump laying off employees, which, Paul had told me, he’d spent the last few days doing at the behest of his higher ups.

“I mean, the best time I’ve had all year,” he corrected himself, laughing. I assumed that was a bit of an exaggeration, but I appreciated the sentiment.

I stretched against Paul’s comforter, enjoying the cool cotton against my skin. With a long, slow shudder, Paul came, and I lay there, smug and warm underneath him while the rain battered against the windows.

Wednesday, November 14, 2007

Nick Redux!

One Friday night I got an email from Nick, Anna Smash’s boyfriend – he was in town for a few days and asked if I wanted to get together. I was really pleased, because I regretted that I’d really been too drunk to fuck him properly when we’d first met, and I’d thought he was a sweetheart, not to mention hot and the possessor of a niiice dick.

Accordingly, the following Wednesday night I traipsed all the way out to NJ for our assignation at a Newark hotel. I felt this was pretty sleazy, though I was mollified by the fact that we were not meeting at a one-floor Super 8 but at a genuine hotel. Nick had texted me that he’d left a card key for me at the front desk, but I couldn’t bring myself to go to reception and announce myself; I felt like this would be declaring to the concierge that I had crossed state lines for sex. Which I had.

I used to go to London for sex; but that was when I was dating Luke Parker but we claimed to love one another and who knows, maybe we did. I was 25.

Wednesday was rainy and cold; the mild weather we’d been having seemed to be over for good. I took NJ Transit to the Newark air train and then a shuttle bus to the hotel. The shuttle bus was full of what I took to be genuine business people, not self-declared sluts masquerading as conference-goers. At the hotel I was relieved to find a bar and I immediately got myself a glass of wine before texting Nick to let him know that I was perched on a bar stool, awaiting his return.

He turned up not 10 minutes later and he clamped his arms around me in a bear hug, like we were old friends rather than near strangers. Which I liked. And I guess in a sense fucking someone breaks down the barriers that people who have only met once usually have between them, because I didn’t feel like he was a near stranger. He looked good. He went to park his car and when he came back he introduced me to one of his colleagues, and we went to store our stuff up in his room.

Upstairs we didn’t fool around or anything. There were two beds and I wondered if, like Alex and Katie, he and Anna Smash had rules about sleeping in different beds from the people they fooled around with. On the way down in the elevator Anna called. “Yeah, she’s here now,” Nick said, smiling into his cell phone. “No, you wouldn’t be interrupting ... call me later…” I pretended not to eavesdrop, since it’s not polite to listen to other people declare their love for one another.

We went back downstairs and settled ourselves at a table in the bar/lobby area. Some people he worked with joined us – two men and a woman, and we all ordered drinks and traded stories. After two drinks, I was fairly buzzed since I hadn’t eaten since lunchtime. I felt very mellow and cheery, and I liked Nick’s friends.

He sat between me and his producer, a woman named Karen, with his arm slung around the back of the upholstered bench we were sitting on. He rubbed my back a bit. Clearly his colleagues knew about Anna Smash, so I felt a little funny about this, since I assumed the fact that he and Anna had an open relationship was not common knowledge. I figured that even if his co-workers realized I was here to be fucked, they would be uncomfortable being faced with evidence of the fact. Or maybe I was projecting. I mean, if I went out with some co-workers and someone I knew had a girlfriend was looking cozy with someone not his significant other, I’d feel uncomfortable. But whatever. Maybe they all thought I was an old friend. Maybe they couldn’t have cared less (most likely option).

We ate dinner and chatted but eventually the others drifted off, leaving me and Nick still ensconced on the bench. He put an arm around me and we kissed, in full view of anyone who walked by. Then we headed back to his room. He poured us both bourbons and we sprawled on one of the beds. Anna called, and I closed my eyes and listened to him talk to her: “Yeah, I’ve got a beautiful woman here with me now …. How are you getting home? You’re not going to walk, are you? …. I love you, baby.” I smiled.

“How’s Anna Smash?” I asked. I marveled that Nick and she could feel secure enough to fuck other people and not feel that their commitment to one another threatened. I said as much.

He nodded, and trailed his hand along my leg, propped up on the bed. “I’m not jealous, and neither is she. I’ve never been jealous,” he said mildly. “Anna’s exactly what I’m looking for, and I think I’m exactly what she needs right now, too.”

In a way, it always amazes me that people find one another at all. I mean, think of the people you think are attractive – what are the odds that they find you attractive, too? Not great. Assuming that you both do fancy one another, what are the odds that you can declare yourselves and make it to a first date? What are the odds that this date will be successful and that this person’s attractiveness won’t fade when they reveal themselves to be rude to waiters or libertarians? Even if you approve of this person’s attitudes, what if she honks when she laughs or he wears cardigans or has any one of a million idiosyncrasies that you know are irrelevant but just totally turn you off? So it seemed wonderful, literally full of wonder, that Nick, who is from the south, and Anna, who is 15 years younger than Nick, both managed to find themselves in the same city, meet through roommates, be attracted to one another, single at the same time, and kinky enough for one another.

“I could never do what you do,” I said, a little sadly, “I mean, be in an open relationship.”

Nick gave me a curious look, and ran his hand across my stomach. “Let’s take these off,” he said, pointing to my stockings.

Obediently I unrolled them, then remembered my flawed striptease for Jefferson so many months ago. “Oops,” I said. “I didn’t put much into that.” I tossed the nylons to the floor and stretched back on the bed. Nick sloped towards me; we kissed.

We lay on the bed for a bit, our fingers trailing over each other’s bodies. “It’s nice to see you,” he said.

I slid my limbs across his torso. “It’s good to see you, too. I know I’m sort of passive, but I’m really pleased that I got another chance to fuck you.”

He leaned closer. “What kinds of stuff do you like?”

“I dunno,” I said. What I meant was: Be in charge. Order me around. Don’t inflict any pain on me. “I like being told what to do,” I said at last.

Nick kissed me again. He ran his hands up along my body, he had the lightest touch. I slid my fingers along his back, dragging his shirt over his head. He bumped his groin against mine; I was pleased to note he had an erection. I looked up at him and rubbed my palm across his crotch. He hoisted himself onto his knees and unbuckled his jeans.

“You’re not wearing underwear!”

“Well, not today…” We smirked at one another, and then he pressed himself against me and started kissing me again. Then he slid off the bed and stood facing me. With a sigh I turned onto my side and slipped his cock into my mouth.

“Oh, Lily.”

His dick was warm and silky and hard; I puckered my lips around it and gave him a nice long suck. “Ah,” he said. “You’re such a good girl.”

Just hearing that made me so wet; I do like being told I’m a good girl.

I licked the underside of his dick, just like Jefferson had shown me. “That feels so good,” he murmured arching his pelvis towards me. Then he slid his hand between my legs.

My cunt was all slick and soft. “Mmmmn,” I whimpered. I bobbed my head back and forth across his dick in absentminded bliss as Nick played with my clit. His index finger pressed gently against me. I sighed and tried to take him deeper into my mouth.

“Oh, you’re such a good girl…” Nick shoved himself a little bit closer. I wanted to be the best girl ever.

“Stand up,” he said at last. I struggled out of my dress, which had a side zip and got stuck over my breasts, but at last I stood in front of him, naked. He turned me around so I stood with my back against him and he put his hands on my tits. “You’ve got great breasts.”

I mean, you want to fuck me? Compliment me. I’m totally easy like that.

We lay down on the bed and pressed up close against one another. Then he reached into the night table drawer and brought out a condom and some lube. He slid the condom on and swirled a little lube on my clit. Then he pressed his cock inside of me.

He felt really big; I could feel him pressing right up against the swell of my abdomen. I had been spotting all day, though, and it kind of hurt. When he lifted my legs around his neck I actually gritted my teeth; that’s not something that I usually find painful.

He fucked me hard, with a steady, ramming push, and again, I was reminded of Jeremy, whose violent reaming had taken me completely by surprise back in December. After minute I indicated that I wanted to get on top.

As I slid onto his cock my whole body slumped in relief. We smiled blurrily at one another, and then I began rocking back and forth. “You like that,” I muttered as I pushed myself back and forth on his dick.

“Yeah,” he said. “You’re going to come for me, baby?”

“Uh huh.” He stretched his arms above his head, so I put my hands on his wrists and held them against the pillow. I stretched my tits towards his mouth and gazed at him from under my lashes. He lifted his head and took a breast in his mouth and I sighed and rubbed myself against him.

I don’t have much stamina these days; I start fucking, I want to come, and so I come pretty quickly and want to collapse. I used to come like a wave; my whole body would judder and I occasionally had multiple orgasms (I remember having a few with Michael). But now it was like my body just gave up the fight, and my orgasm slipped out of me. I slumped a little, and considered working myself up for another round, but after a bit of rubbing myself up and down Nick’s cock, I decided I was too tired. I gave Nick an unfocused smile.

“Sit back on my dick,” Nick said. So I slid back, swaying my hips up and down as I rocked back and forth. When I’m ready to come, I ride the guy by pressing my hips close against him and stretching my legs straight between his. It’s sort of snake position, yoga style, only I don’t stretch my neck and my tits are in someone else’s mouth, usually. But now I was sitting all the way back on Nick’s dick and again, I was aware of what really was probably my period (though this wasn’t fair, I was in the middle of my birth control cycle!). After a bit I slumped forward and indicated it was time for him to fuck me.

“Not until you come,” he said.

“Oh, but I did,” I said. Boy, this probably sounded like I was lying, like I just wanted it to be over, which wasn’t the case. “I did,” I repeated, worried that he didn’t believe me. “That’s why I stopped fucking you. I thought of going for a second round but I’m too lazy.”

He rolled off of me. “Hmm,” said Nick.

“Is there something wrong with the condom?” He had pulled it off.

“No, you’ve just been bleeding.”

Oh Christ, the white sheets were bloodstained. Nick slipped on another condom.


“It’s OK.”

“My blood’s clean, though,” I added. “I mean, I was tested recently.”

He smiled at me. “I’m not worried about that,” he said, and then pushed himself back on top of me.

“I really did come,” I repeated. “I wouldn’t lie about that.” I wouldn’t. I did once, I think, with Luke Parker, and never again, it’s not worth the stress of wondering if the guy thinks I’m faking it. Not to mention the effort of training one’s breathing. I almost always come with little effort, so if I don’t it’s not a huge deal.

“Lie on top of me for a second,” I said. I love having the weight of a man’s body on top of mine, it’s so soothing. But this time it was like I needed it, I felt jittery and tense; or rather, my muscles had relaxed but my skin had not. A peculiar feeling.

Nick obeyed, then after a moment he fitted his dick inside me and lifted my legs around his shoulders. “Ah,” he said. “Ah, yeah.”

The bed creaked a bit and the headboard banged against the wall, just as in the movies. When Nick thrust against me I let out a yelp. I clamped my hand over my mouth: “Sorry!”

“That’s OK. It’s a hotel,” he grinned.

But it kind of hurt. It never hurts when a guy puts my legs around his neck and fucks me hard, but tonight I felt this deep ache in my abdomen. Ow.

But I persevered, and dragged my nails down Nick’s back as he fucked me. His hair was damp with sweat, and as he burrowed inside me I clamped my arms around his back. “Come for me,” I commanded. Nick groaned. “Yeah, yeah,” I urged.

He came with a long shudder, a kind of cry, and I loved the desperate noises he made when he shuddered in my arms. Afterwards we lay there, tangled up in the sheets. The linen was bloody from my “spotting”. Fuck.

He wrapped his arms around me and kissed my forehead – he smelled nice – and I snuggled up against him. Then suddenly I got this deep, gripping cramp. It was like a windshield wiper was being slowly dragged through my gut. I rolled onto my stomach and pressed my body against the mattress, holding my breath. That felt more like food poisoning than my period, I thought. I mean, my cramps are a dull grind, not a crunching pain. Then it happened again, and I clutched my stomach.

But eventually it subsided again and I lay there in the dark, getting used to the scent of Nick next to me in the bed.


The alarm went off at 6:15. Nick and I rubbed against one another in a companionably fashion for a bit, and then he put me on my stomach and put on a condom.

“Stick your ass up,” he whispered. I did.

“Oh, god,” I said, “I’m sore.” I was; I felt achy, though I wanted him inside me.

“Hold on.” Nick rubbed a bit of lube against my skin and then pushed him cock back inside me. I sighed, “Aaahhh.”

“Stick that ass up,” he said again. I obeyed. “Yeah, that’s right.”

“Yeah, just like that,” he gritted, and a grin broke across my face as I buried my head in my pillow. “Yeah,” he grunted. I balled my fingers into the sheets and gripped hard.

“Yeah,” I muttered, “Fuck me. Yeah.”

Even though I felt raw and achy, it was still good. I felt extra sensitive, but also like my body was fighting the excitement. I shoved my ass against Nick’s stomach and listened to him grunt in my ear. “Yeah, yes,” I said. “Yeah, Nick. Fuck me. Come on, fuck me.”

It was still dark out and he pounded away at my pussy while I clutched the sheets and clenched my thighs in excitement. He came quickly, and then, after a moment of mutual awe (“That was hot!”) turned on the lights. We blinked at one another.

He took a shower and while I still had time I couldn’t go back to sleep. I was hungover and my body was raw but wired. I put my head under the down pillow and tried to relax, unsuccessfully.


The sky was a dark gray green and it was raining when I got out of the shower. Nick was dressed and checking his luggage. “I have to go,” he said.

I nodded. We looked at one another. “I’ll let you know about the party,” I said. I had been invited to a party hosted by Viviane, and Jefferson would be there.

“It was great to see you.”

“Yeah.” Awkwardly, gently, we kissed, and then I watched as he towed his bags to the door, and left the room.

Monday, November 05, 2007

A Lucky Accident

I gazed at my naked body. I had meant to clean myself up a bit, but instead I was shaved bare.

I’d slid my pink Daisy razor across my pubes, hoping this would result in a neater, more trimmed me, but instead it’d done what razors do and removed all my hair. I felt my hairless pussy. The skin was tender and soft and smooth, though the texture was slightly pebbly, like a plucked chicken. Huh.

Well. I guess it looked OK. I got dressed and climbed upstairs.

In the bedroom Dean was getting dressed. “I like your shirt,” I said. It was hot outside, but he was buttoning up a long-sleeved Oxford shirt, and wearing jeans. He looked really cute; I wasn’t used to seeing him in long sleeves. Most of the time he wore an Onion t-shirt that read The Sports Team in My Area is Superior to the Sports Team in Your Area.

“You do?” Dean turned to look at me.

“It’s a nice color.” It was pink.

“Yeah,” Dean deadpanned, “I’m secure in my masculinity.”

“Well, that’s a relief.”

We were on our way to a wine and chocolate tasting party. The combination seemed a little unusual, but I like wine and I love chocolate, so I was game. The party was hosted by Elaine, a friend of Marc’s (and mine, too).

At the door to the apartment we were greeted by Elaine, dressed, no joke, like Vegas showgirl minus the headdress. She wore a cropped, flimsy top and a ruffled asymmetric skirt that just skimmed her knees. Her long, straight hair hung halfway down her back. Elaine is about eight years my junior. She works as a financial analyst and likes to know how much everything costs. Her goal is to marry a managing director. She’s kind of endearing, though. She’s completely artless, and doesn’t seem to understand that not everyone wants to talk about what they paid for stuff.

Elaine was co-hosting the party with Paul, who is her ex-boyfriend. We were at Paul's apartment. According to Marc, Paul is weird. Looking around, I didn’t doubt it.

“This is the apartment of an old person!” I hissed at Dean as we each poured ourselves some white wine. Dean looked at me quizzically. “Look at the way it’s decorated!” I couldn’t quite explain. The walls were covered with a stiff royal blue fabric, and all the dark, wood furniture matched. It just looked the apartment of an elderly couple, circa 1948 or something. It did not feel like an apartment you would or could relax in.

Nonetheless, people appeared to be enjoying themselves – drinking wine and eating chocolates (there was also cheese and crackers for the less adventurous). I knew a bunch of people here – many of them were Marc’s co-workers.

Then I spotted Marc. Ah. I clutched Dean’s hand and dragged him over. “Marc, this is Dean.” They shook hands. I looked from one to the other. I wanted Marc to like Dean.

“Nice to meet you,” said Marc. “Lily mentioned you, but all she said was that you were tall.”

Oh, Christ. For a second I'd been afraid he was going to say something else. Because when I’d told Marc about Dean I’d said, “And I think he’s really rich!”

“Hey, you match,” said Marc, looking from Dean to me. I was wearing a pink top.

“Well,” I considered. “I guess his shirt is kind of a soft rose,” I don’t know where I got that phrase.

“Soft rose?” Dean looked pained. “I can handle pink, but soft rose?”


Eventually we said our goodbyes and headed out to the street. It had gotten dark, and we ended up at a sidewalk table of an Italian place for dinner. When the bill came, I excused myself. “Ah,” said Dean, “You always disappear when the bill comes.”

I felt really bad. I never pay for anything when I’m with Dean. “I’ll pay,” I said.

“I was kidding!”

“No, I’ll pay!”

He drew me to him. “Lily, who’s the trustafarian here? I was just deliberately being an asshole.”

“OK,” I said, cause I decided he was right. The thing is, I like being treated. I don’t mind the fact that I can’t contribute cash to the dinners, cabs, movies, etc. I don’t mind being poor or being indulged by a rich older man, which is what Dean is. I mind that he might think I’m greedy, or using him. I don’t think he does, actually, since I’m not. But we took the bus back to his place.

Back at Dean’s we climbed upstairs to the roof. I was dressed, Dean was in his boxers. We lay in the hammock, my head on his chest.

After a minute or so I slid my hand over his groin. I rubbed his dick lightly through the cotton, and then I scooted down and started to blow him.

“Come on,” said Dean hoarsely. “Let’s go downstairs.”

We made it to the lower deck, where he sat in his lazy-boy lawn chair and pushed my head between his legs before suddenly getting up and going inside. He came back with a long deck chair pillow and a cord, with which he tied my wrists behind my back. I slid onto my knees and took him in my mouth. He moaned.

“Yeah, yeah,” he said. I was so eager. I deep throated him, gagging as he thrust his cock down my throat. After a minute or two he stood up and motioned to where he’d put the cushion. He untied my hands and I lay down. He spread himself on top of me and, after struggling with the condom, pushed himself inside.

He smelled good, and his weight felt strong and solid. “I don’t want you to forget me,” I said fiercely, apropos of nothing.

“I wasn’t planning on getting rid of you,” he said, pausing between strokes.

I clutched at him, desperate to hold his dick tight inside me. “I’m just drunk and maudlin,” I panted. Well, I was.


In the morning I woke up before Dean, and I buried my face in his arm. This is the position we have adopted: him on his back with an arm around me, and me on my stomach with my face in the crook between his shoulder and upper arm.

“You didn’t notice,” I said when he woke up. “I shaved my pussy.”

“Oh!” He examined me, sliding a finger across my smooth bald pussy. Then he bent down, and touched his tongue to my clit. It didn’t feel noticeably different, or more sensitive. Oh well. “Kiss me,” I said, and he obeyed, before going right back to my pussy.

He tongue swirled around my clit. I groaned and shook, and then I came. That was a turn up for the books: I never come during oral sex. Suddenly it occurred to me that I’d been mistaken: shaving my pubes had given me some extra sensitivity. But I wanted more. “Fuck me,” I said.

“You’re so demanding,” Dean grinned. “Young trollop!”

“Ah, you love it.”

He undressed, and then put Bob Marley on the CD player. I shrugged out of my bra.

He put on a condom, and then a buzzing cock ring we’d spotted a few nights ago during a tour of a sex toy shop downtown. We’d tried it that night, and the battery had burned out after 10 minutes. Dean had since replaced the battery, but this one died almost immediately, too.

He pushed himself inside me and lifted my legs so that they were around his back. “Look at me,” I breathed.

He kissed my forehead and grimaced as he fucked me, staring at a point beyond my head. “Was that the first time you fucked outside?” he asked suddenly.

“Uh huh.”

“That deserves a blog entry, don’t you think?”

“Uh huh.” I struggled up against his cock, pushing back against him. I remembered what it had felt like last night, being on my knees on the deck, frantically sucking Dean off, with my hands locked behind my back. “I liked being on my knees for you,” I muttered, “And having you moan my name and shoving your cock down my throat...” I started to shake.

“Did you come again?”

Yes.” I had. I rarely come in missionary position. This bare pussy was really something.

Stir it up, little darling,” sang Bob Marley.

Dean rocked back and forth on top of me, breathing heavily. Now it was his turn. “Are you going to come for me?” I raked my nails down the side of his torso.

“Oh!” Dean cried. He jerked, and came to a shuddery halt in my arms. “That’s two for two,” he rasped after a moment, looking right at me. “We’ll have a rematch later.”