In Which I Am Subject to a Terrifying Premonition!

In the tub I examined my stubbly legs: Should I shave them? Nah.

I mean, what were the odds? Tonight I would have my second date with Brian, but I didn’t imagine we’d get up to much. Our first date had been marked by nothing so intimate as a hug.

I’d met Brian via the Nerve personals, and after a brief email exchange, we’d agreed to meet for a drink one Friday night. Brian’s photo made him look handsome and genial, and he seemed pleasant enough.

When we met I was disappointed (though not surprised) to note that he was quite a bit shorter than the men I usually date, and surprised and not at all disappointed to discover that I found him very easy to talk to. We’d swapped stories about our jobs and our secular Jewish backgrounds. I am also a little embarrassed to admit that I was impressed by his high-powered job: Brian is the second-in-command to a very powerful media mogul and clearly a high achiever. He oversees dozens of people and actually travels outside the country for work. Also rich, I assumed.

Anyway, our brief first date had ended with nary a kiss, and I’d been bemused to discover I’d like to see him again. Then I’d gone off to this party. When Brian contacted me and we made plans for a second date, I figured we would take things veeeerrrry sloooowly. So my legs remained unshaven.

This time we met at a bar downtown. I was early and waited for him to arrive before ordering a drink because I read somewhere that to do otherwise was rude, not to mention it might make you look like a lush. He was almost on time, and seemed pretty edgy. I mean “edgy” in the sense my father would use it; that is, on edge, jittery, and not particularly cheerful. (I think “edgy,” meaning cool or avant garde, is very poseur-y, personally).

I was sitting at a stool at the bar and he sat next to me, his body all clenched up (edgy, you see). I remembered something I had read: Mirroring other people’s body language puts them at ease. So I ducked my head forward and twisted one leg around the other, though I drew the line at hunching over my drink in such an uncomfortable-looking position.

Things got better when we started paying attention to the music – when I recognized The Velvet Underground and then Neil Diamond playing over the speakers, he seemed to relax a little. Ha, I thought. I can stun and disarm you with my knowledge of indie pop culture. Why yes, I can argue about Robert Altman’s The Long Goodbye. For a businessman, Brian sure knew a lot of obscure stuff – the kind of stuff I picked up as a teenager in my attempt to win over shy, discerning boys, come to think of it. Not that that worked.

Eventually we moved next door to the restaurant, where we were seated by a young waitress with henna-red hair in braids and a glazed, beatific smile. Beaming at us, she recited the specials. She seemed absolutely thrilled to be our server. When she had floated off, Brian and I looked at each other: “Is she on ecstasy?”

“Maybe she found Jesus?”

“Or maybe the food here’s really good!”

When I excused myself to go to the bathroom I stared glumly at my reflection in the mirror. Why did I suspect I was going to marry this guy? Was it because despite his height, I found him attractive, meaning that at last I had met someone I could put aside my shallowness for? Because he was Jewish? Obviously wealthy and successful? At any rate, the thought filled me with dread.

But in the amber candlelight everything looked better. Especially me, apparently. “I think you’re beautiful,” Brian said as we drank our wine. “I don’t know if that’s because I like you or if you really are beautiful. Do other people think so, too?”

“No, I’m not beautiful,” I said. “You might think that because I’m friendly, and talkative. I have a mobile face,” I added, as if in explanation. I do have an expressive face, though I can remain impassive if necessary. Still. He thought I was beautiful. Why was I arguing with him? What was wrong with me? “Thank you,” I added.

I didn’t eat much of my pasta, but we finished the bottle. When we were headed out the door, he leaned over and kissed me, briefly. Outside we didn’t take one another’s hands, but walked down the crowded street in polite silence.

Around the corner it was quieter, and Brian looked at me again, then backed me up against a shuttered metal grating. Our mouths opened up, our tongues mingling. Then he took my hand. “Do you want to come back to my place?” he asked. “I mean, just to make out on my sofa, not to have sex. I’m kind of a prude,” he explained as we climbed into a cab.

“I’m kind of a slut,” I muttered as the driver pulled into the street, but I don’t think he heard me. I slid across the seat until we were nestled together. Then I placed my lips close to his neck and listened to him breathe.

***

“Oh, it’s a mess,” Brian said when he opened the door to his apartment. I looked around curiously as I followed him into the living room. What it was, was bare – a few papers on the floor, but mostly just empty. It had a stale, old apartment smell.

We collapsed on the sofa and started kissing. He pulled off my top, and my bra, and unzipped my knee-high boots. As he started to tug off my tights I giggled: “I didn’t shave my legs!”

When we were down to our skivvies he picked me up and carried me down the hall into his bedroom, depositing me on the bed. But not before I had caught a glimpse of his lair: “How long have you lived here?” The bedroom was empty, too – there was a bed, an upturned cardboard box that served as a bedside table, and a suit jacket hanging over the door, that was about it.

“I know,” he said. Then he lay on top of me. Brian is small and solidly built—not my usual type. Try as I might, I couldn’t catch the scent of his neck, which I always find so important. We kissed, and he started to go down on me but I stopped him—I wasn’t ready. Instead I clasped his dick. As he tautened in my hand it occurred to me that I hadn’t really seen it yet—I didn’t know if he was big or small or thick or what; the room was dark (there was no lamp, either). As he got stiffer I leant down and gently licked him but he shifted on top so that he could eat me: “We’re both givers,” he said, and I could hear the smile in his voice.

***

At 4 AM we rolled towards one another. He climbed on top of me and whispered, “I’m really looking forward to having sex with you. You have a great little body.”

I swallowed. “Yeah. I want to feel you inside me,” I said.

We were pushing against one another, his cock stroking the scooped-out hollows my thighs create when I open my knees. His precum was slick on my skin. He held my arms above my head. Is he dominant? Does he realize it? I thought: I’m doomed. I’m going to marry this guy.

I kept thinking he was going to slip inside me, and it was kind of a tug-of-war between my pussy and the rest of me, because I was really wet. But he didn’t. Instead he moved between my legs and seemed to fumble. “Is this OK?”

“What are you doing?”

“Putting my fingers inside you.”

“Oh no, that’s fine!” I felt my muscles pull him in, and clench around his forefinger. I was really wet. He pulsed the pads of his fingers inside me, and dialed his fingertip against my skin. Then he leant down and licked my clit. I let out a groan, my head whipping back and forth on the mattress. His fingers and tongue kept up a steady pressure, and my legs started to shake.

His tongue tapped against my clit and I heard myself gasp. Because his mouth was full and I didn’t know how to tell him, I start talking to myself, silently, saying dirty things: You slut. You little whore, opening your legs to a stranger. You like that? I do, I do. My legs shook more, and I came with great relief. Brian’s tongue kept on at my clit, slow and steady, soothing me as my limbs returned to normal. “Thank you,” I choked when he came up for air. He chuckled.

Then it was my turn, so I slid down the mattress and squatted between his legs. I took the glass of water from the cardboard box-cum-nightstand, and then I wrapped my wet mouth, full of warm water, around his dick. I still hadn’t gotten a good look at his dick and as it was now in my mouth, I wasn’t going to anytime soon.

“Oh,” he said softly. “Oh.”

I licked the underside of his shaft as gently as I could, cause I loved that “Oh…. Oh…” It was not quite a groan, just a sigh. I loved the silky feel of his dick in my mouth, against the bruised flesh of the inside of my lower lip. “Oh,” he said again, “Oh.”

My head bobbed—now I could smell him, that damp, warm smell of boy groin. I licked his balls and the join that leads from his dick to his ass, then returned my mouth to his dick. Brian was breathing hard, and soon he said, “I’m going to come.”

I assumed this was so I could avoid having his come in my mouth, so I stopped sucking but continued to lick until he said, “Just…” and I understood. I placed my fingers around the base of his dick and breathed on his dick, and then he came. My hand was covered with a thin, slick streak of liquid.

Since we’d both orgasmed I felt this was a successful evening. I went to the bathroom and when I returned he asked, “Do you prefer this side?”

“I do,” I said gratefully. I like the left side of the bed, because I sleep on my right side and, if I spoon, must be the outside spoon. “That’s OK?”

“I don’t mind,” he shifted so that I could settle in. “I’m such a neurotic person, but I don’t care about that.” I laughed, and turned on my side. Again I tried to catch his scent, and again, it was impossible. He drifted off, and I thought, Abject terror, repeating the phrase to myself. I imagined our children, and how I could possibly adjust to living in a barren apartment with a bathroom that boasted the original 1950s fixtures. I turned onto my stomach and waited to fall asleep. You don’t have to marry him, I reminded myself, and the silliness of comforting myself about a possibility that didn't even exist made me see straight for a second. The notion that this personable, intelligent stranger was my future resolved itself into what it really was: an idea I’d used to frighten myself.

Because I am frightened. I’m ready for love, so ready that I’m afraid I’ll commit myself to the first eligible guy who crosses my path. I wish I could stop thinking, I thought (ironically). Is it a sign of my capacity for happiness or my emotional neediness that I can sleep contentedly in a stranger’s arms? Of course I wasn’t dreamily asleep in Brian’s arms, I was lying beside him, terrorizing myself with an imaginary marriage. How can I relax? I fretted as I shifted again, trying to find a comfortable position. I just decided to get married! To the strange man asleep next to me.

Adventures in Offensive Dating; or, eHarmony, I Hate You

When I cut Dean loose and got serious about finding someone I could love and marry, I decided to quit banging my head against the wall with FastCupid (a.k.a. Nerve) and join eHarmony, even though I feel it’s tacky. I got a ton of remarkably unattractive matches, many of them in NJ. But I got one kind of cute guy, and here is our correspondence (edited for spelling, and general writerly incompetence, except for one really appalling instance):

Lily:
You just found the topic of your upcoming New York Times best selling biography -me! We can go 90/10 on the sales profits. Ninety % for me--I am a fair crook. I like your pictures but the red dress is very aggressive. Can you guarantee me you are not one of those online stalkers, or even worse, some guy pretending to be a woman?
Mark

I thought this was rather bombastic. Also, he described himself as a “surgeon” and I didn’t believe he was, if only because most of the doctors I’ve met online (not that there have been many) have referred to themselves MDs, or Physicians. I think if he was going to be specific, he would have been more specific, as in neurosurgeon, or, (my preferred career for a mate) pediatric oncologist (shows both serious clinical knowledge and care of children).

And we won’t get into the part where he suggested I might be a stalker, or insulted my shirt. I mean, I assume this wasn’t meant seriously, but why start a conversation with insults? I’m immediately put on the defensive. I’m not prepared to be on the defensive with a complete stranger. I reserve that behavior for someone I’m already fucked up over.

I thought I’d better ignore him.

Two days later I got another email:

Lily:
What's up? Do you have writer's block? I think the way it works is I send you a message then you send one to me. Unless of course you already know everything about me and therefore have no need to ask me anything. But how, other than stalking me, could you get this info. I knew it, you are a stalker! Well, I'll give you some help with the biography. Reserve chapters 1 - 6 for my life up until now. Chapter 7: The Humphry [sic] Bogart/James Bond hybrid (that's me) began noticing the Lady in Red (that's you) everywhere. In his rear view mirror. Behind him in line. Outside his apartment in the bushes... (LOL).
Mark

The tone here was slightly more amiable, so I felt moved to respond:

Mark,
Well, gee, I didn't know quite how to respond to your email. Do you always come on so strong? Most of my boyfriends have been shy, self-deprecating geeks. You're not like that, are you?
Best wishes,
Lily

Next I received:

Lily:
I feel for you. Most guys JUST DON'T GET IT! But that's their problem (and yours if you end up with one of them).

Went to a nice little shindig with some friends last night on the Jersey Shore. Do you ever come out this way?

So... After all that time I gave you to think about me your big question for me is, "Am I a geek ?" Hmmm... Can I have more time to think that one over (LOL), please ?

My questions for you are: Where in NYC do you live? Where do you hang out? When women at a club excuse themselves from the group and go to the ladies room, what the heck do they talk about? It doesn't take 30 minutes to take a leak. (You seem like the type that would pull this one).

Now do you think you can try to come up with some cool questions like that for me. Before I double click on the close match tab.
Later,
Mark

You seem like the type that would pull this one? Threatening to close the match on me if I don’t respond ASAP? Jackass.

Two days later:

Lily:
Are you playing hard to get? If you are I understand. I use that move all the time myself. So here I go again. How many more e-mails do I have to send until you are done playing - just give me a number so I can mark the day on my calendar. Or are you intimidated by me? All joking aside, many women are. But you don't have to be. It will be OK. I give you my word. Or do you have too many other e-mails to deal with? Delete them. Most will be dead ends anyway. Email me or send me your phone number and I'll call you some time. You seem like a daddy's little rich girl, but I think I might like you.
Later,
Mark

This pissed me off, as I suppose was the intention. I wrote back the following day:

I'm not playing hard to get, I'm busy. Also bewildered as to your flirting technique- threatening to close the match unless I respond quickly, accusing me of being a daddy's little rich girl (don't I wish!). Let me spell this out for you: I don't respond well to provocation, even if that's your preferred method of courtship. Finally, your photo — is it recent? You don't look 41. That's a compliment — you look very youthful.
Lily

Ha ha! Note both the puzzled primness and the back-handed compliment — that last part hoisting him with his own petard, I felt. I bet it was an old photo.

He slunk off, and I never heard from him again. I thought he was just a hostile lunatic, but then it occurred to me that he was a Game-r — a practitioner of seduction by boorishness (called devaluation, I believe. See also this article). I hope Mark went back to his guidebook or consulted his pickup artist mentor and they scratched their heads over how to deal with women who are too old to mistake obnoxiousness for romantic banter. Also, “daddy’s little rich girl”— Do many men secretly dream of mastering a daddy’s girl, as all women are supposed to want to tame a bad boy (a.k.a. hoodlum/lead guitarist/tortured vampire)?

Mark’s emails were calculated to make me feel a) as if he’s doing me a favor by bothering with someone he clearly thinks so little of and b) flattered that he’s spending his time telling me how I might impress him a little more. From his first email (“Can you guarantee me you are not one of those online stalkers?”), my instinct is to defend myself against his accusations, and prove him wrong. I’m inclined to go to great lengths to show him what a down-to-earth, domestic beer-drinking type of girl I am, and in the process of proving myself I end up believing that defending my character against the insults of a total stranger is a worthwhile enterprise. And I might have believed it, if I were, say, mean, popular, and 16 years old. (I think it’s assumed that the subject of any such attempts is indeed mean and popular, though hopefully not 16). These methods might also be effective with a romantic, articulate teenager who hasn’t had much experience with guys; someone primed to mistake attention for interest — that is, someone who’s seen a lot of the Hepburn-Tracy movies in which this scenario plays out. Needless to say, you can imagine what kind of teenager I was (that kind).

But now I’m torn between amusement and real irritation: This is a calculated, mean-spirited way to get a date. I’m also insulted, since he thought I would fall for this. Does anyone have any firsthand experience with this? Readers?

I've had other dating issues with eHarmony men (besides the fact that they’re invariably stocky general contractors from central Jersey. One guy, Tom, sent me this message:

Hey Lily,
Where do we go from here?
Tom

Well, nowhere, if you expect me to start the exchange you apparently wanted to initiate. This was shortly after the Mark episode and, once again, I was a little annoyed:

Dear Tom,
Well, usually you tell me you like my profile/photo/great wit, and I respond in
kind. Some awkward banter follows, and then possibly a date. But you contacted me, so it's up to you to start.
Best wishes,
Lily

I probably won’t be hearing from him again either. But really, if you want to have a conversation with me, don’t ask me to start it for you.

Finally, last night I went out with Ted, also from eHarmony. A decent guy, and very bright (U. Chicago, Berkeley, U. VA) but he asked me to dinner, suggested the restaurant, and then, when the check came, asked if I minded splitting it. This was after I had explained that I was on a budget, which was why I couldn’t eat out as much as I liked and hadn’t traveled in years. I hadn’t been planning to see him again, anyway, but Jesus! You ask someone out, you offer to pay. (This is my dating guide, and it is correct). If you balk at the thought of spending $60 (the cost of our dinner, including tax and tip) on someone you may never see again (or, if you’re an angry man, “on a spoiled princess who treats you like an ATM”), you ask her for coffee. If someone asks me out, he doesn’t have to shell out much, but Jesus! “Do you mind if we split this?” Yeah, I mind— I wouldn’t have chosen a vegan Korean restaurant if I knew I was going to be paying $30 for the tofu clay pot and a cup of date paste tea. “No, not at all,” I lied.

I don’t want to become bitter, or jaded, or pessimistic about my prospects for the whole bourgeois marriage dream — me and an employed, kind, smart, loyal and tall adult male with only minor issues to work out in therapy, and our two kids, two jobs, and three bedrooms, maybe in the East Twenties — but sometimes I hate dating. And dating websites. Grrr, arrgh.

Old School

It was only the second party since the gatherings (or, if you want to be technical about it, orgies) had started up again, but it all felt very familiar, walking down the block to Tilda’s building. When I’d first started attending Jefferson’s parties back in 2007, I’d been nervous. But now I was mostly just looking forward to seeing the people I considered friends. And, um, getting laid.

I’d meant to be fashionably late, but as it turned out I was early: the only people present were Tilda, Jefferson, the server boy — a new one this time — and Byron. We all said hello. I settled on the sofa next to Byron, where I calculated my chances of bedding him. He put an arm around my shoulder: pretty good, I estimated. I’d just had a very chaste date, courtesy of Nerve, and was feeling game. Or, you know, horny.

I ended up near the food, a strategic move on my part since Byron was hovering nearby. We exchanged pleasantries and ate extraordinarily large (biologically engineered, no doubt) strawberries. He leaned against the arm of the sofa, so we were at eye-level. I looked at him, and he grinned at me; we did that teenage-y thing where you sort of punch the other person on the arm to indicate interest. It was like an illustration from a book: Seduction for the Socially Awkward. After a bit of knocking one another on the shoulder, I finally managed some face contact.

I am much better at kissing than I am at the run-up to the kiss. My lips traveled the way stops to his mouth: his temples, the left cheek, the ears and that tender spot just below the ear, behind the jaw. Then I found his mouth and we kissed. This was interspersed with more eating of the mutant strawberries and sniggering at one another. Like I said, it was strangely reminiscent of junior high. Of course, in junior high I never kissed anyone; I was too terrified and inept to flirt. Instead I hung around the sidelines, pestering the DJ to play Depeche Mode, and pretending I was dating Andrew McCarthy.

I was flirting like the teenager I had never been, but the lights in the room were bright, and I feel a lower wattage promotes a more seductive atmosphere. Also, the room was filling up, and I may be a slut, but I like the pretense of privacy, at least.

“We could go into the other room,” I mumbled to Byron. While a few more people had turned up, none of them appeared to be getting undressed, and I felt a little flagrant, fooling around with Byron in front of the canapés.

Toby arrived with a female guest I hadn’t met; she wore a white fur cape and knee high red boots, giving her the look of a burlesque superhero. Her name was Marianne. We chatted for a few minutes, but when they’d moved off, Byron turned and pushed me against the wall: “I’m going to rip your clothes off,” he grinned, and really, the correct adjective here is “devilishly.”

But I was still channeling my inner eighth grader, so I pushed him away. We tussled. Finally, after he’d tried to pull up my shirt for the second time I smirked at him: “Listen, you can be an exhibitionist, or you can get laid.” Then, trying not to laugh, I swanned off to the bathroom.

I had high hopes for this more straightforward seduction technique, but when I got out of the bathroom, he wasn’t there. So I sat on the edge of the sofa, because something was Going On: Toby was flogging Marianne. She had taken off the cape, and was wearing just knickers and her leather boots. She was bent over, facing the corner of the room and Tilda’s bookshelves. This was the same position Lisa had been in last time. Tilda, in her black party dress, went over to them and crept underneath Marianne’s prone body. Her face spooled towards Marianne’s clit.

“Tilda!” Jefferson warned, ever etiquette-wise. “That’s Toby’s scene! Ask permission!”

Some murmured discussion followed, and soon Tilda was permitted to nuzzle Marianne’s breasts and clit, as Jefferson and I watched.

But wait — I wasn’t here to watch — I had a boy to fuck. I caught Byron’s eye, and we traipsed into the middle room, where Toby was hard at work, thwacking Marianne’s ass. I had my eye on the back room, for some privacy, but it was a railroad flat and required some travel.

“Want to try?” Toby asked Byron. He handed him the flogger.

The flogger is, as I’ve noted, a sort of crop with tassels attached. These were soft leather. Byron struck Marianne experimentally, and was rewarded with an “Ooooh.” Her face wasn’t visible, but her ass was turning pink.

Toby raised his brows at me. “Oh, I’m not—” I said. Byron handed me the flogger.

I held it in my hand—it was heavy. I stood as if I was going to swing a bat, my knees bent. I squinted, and snapped, and the flogger sailed through the air, hitting nothing at all about a foot from Marianne’s ass. I have never been very good at any sport requiring hand-eye coordination. Or any sport at all, really. “Sorry,” I said.

“That’s OK,” Marianne didn’t seem too concerned.

I held the flogger out to Toby — after all, Marianne should be enjoying herself, getting flogged by someone who knew what he or she was doing, not an amateur who was going to interrupt herself to apologize every time she screwed up.

“Have you ever held a tennis racket?” Toby took my hands and placed each in the proper position: one at the top, another at the bottom. “Go ahead.”

Well… This time the flogger swiped Marianne’s outer thigh, apparently a big no-no. “You don’t want to hit her there, you could injure her,” Jefferson explained. “Are you OK?” he asked Marianne.

“I’m fine.”

“Here, try this,” Toby handed me another flogger. This one was lighter, and certainly felt easier to handle. To my surprise, when I flicked it, it met Marianne’s ass with a satisfying slap.

“Oooh!” she said.

I felt a surge of pride and looked a little more carefully at Marianne’s ass. Pink stripes were appearing in criss-crosses across her pale flesh, and I felt a strong urge to see evidence of my own efforts on her skin. I hit her again.

“Ahh!” she said.

Frowning, I changed position a little, to get a better aim. Thwack. Thwack. I hit her ass several times in rapid succession. One actually drew a squeal of real pleasure.

This is easy, I thought, as I aimed another slap at her pink ass. Nothing to it at all. I missed, slicing the air near her. Huh. I tried again, and was rewarded with my loudest slap yet.

I hit her again, thinking, This is no big deal. And that’s when I stopped. Not because I wasn’t enjoying it, but because I was enjoying it as a technical exercise, like when you practice taking shots with a pool cue. I could go on and on, perfecting my wrist flick and watching the pink stripes blossom.

That was disturbing, and not only because I’d thought I was submissive. I stopped, and handed the flogger back to Toby. “Your turn,” I said.

Then Byron and I went into the bedroom. I felt a little dazed. I sat in Tilda’s desk chair, which was hidden from the door: no one could see us unless someone tucked their head in to look. “That was kind of freaky,” I said.

“Yeah?” Byron had his hands on my knees. I nodded. I felt kid of freaked out, as I said, not because it had been such a big deal, but because I’d found it easy, and satisfying. And also because I’m a bit of a drama queen, and I wanted (or needed?) acknowledgement.

But soon Byron and I fell to kissing, and without much ado we stumbled towards the bed.

I like kissing Byron so much. And when he took off his shirt I almost swooned. I thought, These freckles. They just undo me. I liked the idea of being undone.

But the freckles — what’s up with that? This is not the first time I’ve seen Byron’s freckles but, as Laurie Colwin says, “its effect… was not dimmed by repetition.” But they are just a splay of marks, a testament to uncovered shoulders at the beach. But I find the sight of them weirdly moving.

What other body parts of the men I’ve slept with (“lovers” would be the shorter, and more accurate term, but I just never use that word) have made me feel all tender? I thought about this as I kissed Byron’s stomach.

Sweetheart Daniel — well, everything about him sort of made me swoon, cause I had an enormous crush on him. I guess I’d have to say the contrast of his very pale skin against his very dark, very abundant hair. He was always clean shaven (no five o’clock shadow there) so if I hadn’t seen him shirtless I never would have guessed at how hairy he was (even his back). I found that pale skin against the dark hair moving.

Jed — Well, I loved Jed’s long curls and how his hair would get all matted and sweaty when we fucked.

Dean — Dean had very little hair on his chest. But he did have a few long hairs sprouting from his nipples, and they were gray. Despite his seven-year advantage, in some ways (like you know, in terms of personal maturity) Dean was very young — he was the baby of the family; he had no financial responsibilities and had, let’s face it, an adolescent attitude towards his brother. He used “Just For Men” to cover his gray hair. I don’t think he was particularly vain, but he had trouble being an adult. Those gray hairs revealed just how hopeless his efforts to remain young were.

And Michael — Oh, Michael. He had a series of stretch marks running up his sides, the legacy of a sudden growth spurt at age 13. Those pale, accordion-like slivers of skin! Michael, through the year and a half of our relationship, had never felt about me as I had about him, but the stretch marks made him seem vulnerable to me. Perhaps that’s what makes me sick with longing? A physical symbol vulnerability that has nothing to do with weakness but everything to do with the way the past marks the body? Oh, I have no idea.

Where was I? Oh right, on my knees. I tugged off Byron’s gray briefs, and then I murmured, “I was at work today, wondering if I’d get the chance to do this.” It was true, I had done just that while sitting in a meeting.

“You did?”

I wrapped my mouth around his dick and sighed, tasting the sweet heat of him in my nose. “Uh huh.” I slid my mouth up and down. “I was hoping I’d get to have you in my mouth,” I murmured in between sucks.

“Oooh…” said Byron, “Ooooh, Oooooh.” I love how verbal he is, how expressive of excitement. I smiled into his groin.

My head bobbed back and forth while I licked his balls and the hairy base of his dick. When I started to suck him off again, I pulled him in as far as I could before gagging.

“Hey!” said Byron, sounding pleased, “You took a lot!” I hadn’t quite deep-throated him, but I’d wanted to. Maybe next time. But now he was removing my clothes.

We fell onto Tilda’s bed. I could smell the clean sheets, and felt a little guilty at the thought of sweating all over them. But not much. We were both naked and his skin felt very smooth and soft against mine. In the other room, I could hear people talking. “Hey, let’s turn out the lights,” I suggested. It just seemed more intimate that way. I had also taken off my watch. That, too, had struck me as the proper way to fuck. I wanted to give it due respect.

He switched off the bedside lamp and brought his face close to mine. I stretched up towards him but he scooted down between my legs where he very briefly licked me. I remembered how he’d gone down on me while I sucked Jed off that last time, how much I’d enjoyed his tongue on my lips, so was sort of disappointed when he didn’t linger there. Instead he loomed up over me.

He put a condom on and slid inside me, very easy, not at all unfamiliar territory. In the next room, I could hear voices: My Friend Jake and company had arrived. “Uuuhhhh,” said Byron.

I was breathing heavily, wishing I could block out everything else. “Get on top,” Byron urged.

I started riding him. He was dripping with sweat—another trait I find oddly endearing. His hair gets wet from the sweat, it’s like stroking the hair of someone who’s just been in the shower. “Ahh,” I said, clenching my pussy tight around his cock and then releasing. “Can you feel it when I do that?”

“Yes!” I rode him back and forth while he licked my nipples, I knew I wasn’t going to come. I don’t know if it was the awareness of people in the next room (that hadn’t stopped me on other occasions) or what, but even though my legs were stretched tight and twitching, it wasn’t going to happen. After a few minutes my muscles sort of juddered to a halt and I lay down next to him.

Then Byron fucked me and oh, I loved the weight of him and the solid thrumming tick of his dick inside me. I felt wound up again.

He groaned and twitched and buried his face in my neck, then stopped, and pulled out. We lay next to one another. “Don’t you want to come?” I asked, not very delicately.

“Nah,” he was breathing heavily. “I had a wank before the party, so I can keep going longer.” So English, wank. We both giggled a little. “I’ll come in the morning.”

This was one aspect of preparing for a sex party I hadn’t thought of. (Truthfully, mostly I just tried to remember to wear nice underwear — a matching set, if possible).

“Some other people arrived,” Byron said.

“I heard them come in.”

After a bit we got dressed and put on the lights and then, with matted sex-hair, we slithered back to the party.

Back in the main room was My Friend Jake and a number of people he’d brought. I knew most of them; I’d introduced Jake to Jefferson. I settled on the sofa next to Jefferson, who looked a little worse for wear. And as Byron disappeared into the back room with Tilda, and I chatted with a much younger man in a suit about the House of Representatives, I wasn’t sure what was missing. Other than someone being lashed to Jefferson’s bed. Well, Mmmark wasn’t there, but I hadn’t seen him in ages, anyway.

It wasn’t until I was in the cab on my way home that I realized what had been so unnerving: out of all the people at the party, I was the one who’d been attending the longest, after Jefferson. I was officially old school. I had been so used to being the newbie, and, as awkward a role as it is, it was comfortable for me: I thrive on being a geek. Only several years had passed since I first traipsed into Jefferson’s living room and gleefully sucked off two strangers, and as the circumstances and the guests and the location had changed, I wondered if it was time for me to change, too.

Jefferson Plays Matchmaker, With NC-17 Results

I
On my way to Tilda’s, I considered whether this was a second date, and, if so, did it count as sleeping with someone on the second date if said date took place at an orgy?

See, in order to get over Dean, I had to start dating. Ashley had told me that she’d grasped the nettle and told all her friends she was interested in being set up, so I thought I’d do the same. I asked Jefferson if he knew of anyone suitable. It did strike me as funny that I thought the self-described pervert who’d orchestrated the majority of my risqué activities since 2006 would know anyone “suitable,” but I trust Jefferson.

Jefferson came up with the goods fast. He emailed me, “I traded notes with your new boyfriend and he’s glad to hear I recommend you to one another. So let me tell you a little about him. Byron is a 30-something Brit with a good job. He’s a lovely, personable, entertaining fellow and he's one of my favorite drinking buddies of late (Cabernet). …. Here’s a pic. Cute, right?” He added that Byron would be at the party Tilda was hosting on Friday. As would I.

Byron and I corresponded and agreed to meet for a drink the day before the party. Then I approached Jefferson with a sensitive question: “Is he bald?” I asked. “I'm wondering, cause he’s wearing a hat in the photo. Also, how tall do you think he is? Just curious....” (for just curious read: I hope he’s tall).

Jefferson was quick to assure me that Byron did have a full head of hair. He went on, “And he’s taller than me — I guess six foot? I don’t meant to make him sound perfect, so let me come up with a flaw . . . oh, he cares too much.”

II
When I met Byron on the Thursday night, I was relieved to recognize him at once—he looked just like his photo (I have a hard time recognizing people. For instance in December I went to Marc’s office’s Christmas party and, according to Marc, I “totally blanked” Will. I hadn’t recognized him at all, and we’d been fairly familiar with one another not so long ago. On the other hand, I always remember people’s middle names.)

Byron and I sat at a table near the window, and I ordered a ginger ale. I’d felt mildly nauseated all day. I’d been afraid I was coming down with a stomach flu, but eventually I twigged—I was nervous. Duh.

Byron had sandy hair, blue eyes, and a large, broad nose. He was my age, and from the north of England. I liked his voice a lot; I think a Northern accent is sort of rounder than a Southern one. I sipped my ginger ale. We talked about our common friend, and his blog, and then Byron asked, “Do you have a blog?”

“Hnnnnnnnnugh,” I said. “Well, I do,” I admitted finally. “But I’d rather not give you the address.” Dean had always had access to my blog, and I’d (mostly) censored what I wrote about him because of it. I didn’t want to do that anymore. I wanted at least the possibility of normal dating, whereby one person’s most intimate (and hopefully amusingly written) thoughts and feelings are not available online. I never would have been able to say what I did about Sweetheart Daniel if he had known about my blog, for instance.

“That’s OK!” Byron said. He smiled. He had a wide, sweet smile, and I relaxed a little.

“Do you have a blog?” I asked. Yes, he did. “I won’t ask you for the address.”

“I think that’s kind of nice, actually, you not wanting me to see your blog.” He did? Well, OK.

I eventually had a few glasses of wine, and when we parted outside the restaurant we kissed. It was open-mouthed, with a hint of tongue, but not quite a full-on make-out session.

And now, less than 24 hours later, we would be meeting again, only this time we’d be at a party held expressly for the purpose of having sex.

III
At Tilda’s I was met by a man I took to be Tilda’s boyfriend, but who I later discovered was the servant boy for the night. It was his job to fetch us drinks and attend to our needs, as it were.

In her apartment I was greeted by Tilda, wearing a fifties-style dress (very cute), and Jefferson, resplendent in shiny black pants: “PVC,” he explained. “Where else does a respectable father of four get to wear such togs?”

It was early and there weren’t many people here. I saw Marla, who figuratively and literally sparkled (she was wearing lots of shiny things) with her new boyfriend. I met Miss Molly Ren. I was suddenly starving and scarfed a lot of cheese and crackers. While I was stuffing my face, Byron arrived.

We greeted one another and drifted off into a group of people standing near the refrigerator. I was introduced to Toby and Lisa. Lisa was a little taller than me and looked distinctly underwhelmed by this gathering, while Toby looked like he’d just smoked a lot of weed. I (stealthily) positioned myself near Byron. Once I switched from Diet Coke to alcohol, I felt a little bolder. A tall fellow all in white wandered in, and it took me a minute to realize it was Jed (his short hair still surprised me). He came to greet me and we hugged. “Do you want to go into the other room?” he asked, sotto voce, as I poured myself a glass of wine.

“I’m kind of showing Byron around,” I explained, euphemistically.

Then the lights dimmed, and people started undressing. I remembered how, when Jefferson hosted orgies, on Mmmark’s arrival he’d say, “Oh look, Mmmark’s here! He’s the catalyst for the orgy, because he’s so hot.” Then he would add, “Or because he’s late.” But Mmmark wasn’t here tonight. Byron and I were leaning against the refrigerator, and I wondered if he was ever going to kiss me. I looked at him from under my lashes (the flirtiest thing I consciously do), giving him my best come hither glance.

Byron noticed: “You have very expressive eyes,” he said.

Yeah, and they’re saying kiss me. But eventually he did, so I could stop being nervous and anticipatory and start being relaxed and anticipatory. By this time people were in various states of undress—I spied Jefferson in the other room, naked (natch). Byron and I made out, my back against the refrigerator. He slipped his hand beneath my shirt and, after several attempts, managed to unhook my bra. I liked his awkwardness. “Ah,” said Toby, who, I realized, had been standing nearby with several other observers, “At last. We were taking bets on when you would get that off.”

I folded my arms across my breasts. Partially because I was embarrassed, and partially because I felt that being modest at an orgy is my shtick, my way of differentiating myself. Not that it’s not real; I am uncomfortable flashing my tits at a roomful of people who I’ve just met. And so when Toby asked to see my breasts, I demurred. I wondered: Is this modesty or marketing?

Byron and I kissed for a while, and then we made our way to the next room, where Toby and Jed were whipping Lisa’s ass (literally). She was bent over, her face to the corner, naked but for striped boy shorts. “Now put your legs together,” Jed commanded in a pleasant, paternal voice. He raised the whip. I swallowed hard.

But very shortly thereafter Jed ambled over and I wound up on the sofa with both Byron and Jed. Why hadn’t I thought of that? It was if the three of us synchronized our watches or exchanged sonic Yeses. Because without really looking at one another, I kissed Jed, and my jeans came off (I had finally uncovered my breasts). Then Byron slid his mouth down my belly. He looked up at me briefly before dipping his tongue against my clit. I couldn’t help it: I moaned.

It was agreed that we could “stretch out” (or, you know, have a threesome) in the back room, so we trooped across the apartment and settled on a futon, with Byron on my right and Jed on my left. Jefferson was on the bed next to us, with someone’s bare limbs wrapped around his back. I was fizzy with drink and enjoying myself immensely, with Byron’s tongue gently probing my clit and labia. My hips swayed towards his mouth, while I sucked Jed’s dick enthusiastically. I was dimly aware that other people were in the room, but I concentrated on Jed, while he murmured all the dirty words I love to hear. He came all over my tits, and I lay there dazed as he stroked a cloth over my chest, cleaning me up. I curled up against Byron, peaceful as a cat.

When it was time to get up I realized that there were six other people in the room, of whom at least three had been watching us with some interest. I found myself back in naïf mode, and I blinked and said, “Christ.” I ran my hands through my sweat-stung hair. “Ah.”

Now it was late and, as I’d successfully hooked up, my mission was officially complete. I could go home and go to sleep. However, I wanted to go home with Byron, but I couldn’t bring myself to say, “So, um, I was wondering, um, if…” Luckily Byron just called a car and took my arm, and he and Jed and I got into a cab together! But that was only because Jed and Byron live near one another. The cab dropped Jed off first.

When we got to Byron’s he opened the front door, “Oh my God, it’s so messy,” he said, sounding sincerely mortified. It didn’t look messy to me, though admittedly I would hardly know if it was; my housekeeping is casual at best. We went into his bedroom.

Alone, I could concentrate on his body. I hadn’t seen much of him, since I’d been occupied with Jed during our recent futon engagement. Byron had a warm, soapy smell, long limbs, and a lovely splay of freckles across his shoulders and back. He was uncircumcised, like most European men. I lay down on the flannel sheets, and when he pulled out Trojan Magnums I rejoiced.

He felt good inside me though I was too tired to get on top or indeed do anything the least bit strenuous. Byron, on the other hand, seemed prepared to keep going for some time. After a while he pulled out, and stroked my arm and kissed my nipples. I listened to his lovely (he pronounced it luvflee) northern voice. Did I want a glass of water? Something to eat? Was it too warm?

Then he got inside me again and broke out in a sweat all over—even his scalp was damp as I clutched his head close when he came.

IV
In the morning we moved from the bed to the sofa, where I did climb on top to fuck him. I like this position very much—I have control, but there’s so much more upper body contact. I came quickly, my legs shaking furiously. I thought it was clear I had come, but Byron asked, “Are you cold?”

“No one’s cold like that!”

We went back to his bed where we fucked some more, then into his lavish bathroom where we soaked in the hot tub-sized tub. He leaned back and I slumped next to him, my hair curling damply from the hot water. I lay there placidly, as if I usually spent my Saturday mornings lounging in a stranger’s oversized bathtub. I recognized this feeling: It was identical to a carbohydrate coma, a very pleasant state.

Then we went to brunch and when he drove me home the conversation wandered around the subject of relationships. “And what are you looking for?” He asked as we neared my apartment building.

“Well,” I said. What I wanted was not really the kind of thing you’re supposed to talk about on the first (or second) date, even if that date did involve sex and brunch. But fuck it, I wasn’t ashamed: “I’m ready for a serious relationship,” I said. “I’m 35, and I want to be committed to someone. I’m monogamous by nature.” True, though there’s not much evidence of that in this blog. I thought, briefly, of Dean: “I’d like to get married, and I want to have children, too, though not for a few years. Three or four years,” I concluded. Awkwardly.

“That makes sense,” he said, mildly, and pulled onto my street. We kissed goodbye several times, smiling at one another like sex-drugged accomplices. Then I trudged up the stairs to my apartment, where I took off all my clothes and climbed into bed. The last 18 hours had been eventful, and I needed to get some rest.

Half-Naked Thursday, and Kink For All

Like everyone, I had a fab, fab, fab time at Kink For All NYC on Sunday. Originally, I was hesitant to attend, since I am not really kinky. But I did go, and really enjoyed myself. Plus I ate delicious toffee-covered Saltines.

Kink for All was “unorganized” by SaraEileen and MayMay, and I went to presentations by them, Sascha, a Kinky Jew, Boymeat (who spoke very thoughtfully about leather stuff), Sinclair Sexsmith, Barbara Carrellas, Tilda (graphic genius--her slide show, and MayMay's nerdy gender tech talk were probably my favorites), and lots more. Plus I saw Calico, Viviane, Lolita, Axe, and several people I was too shy to approach. But my favorite moment was during Nickel Dakota's fetish filmmaking presentation when he explained, “I think, for the female armpit fetish films, I'm going to have to switch to HD.” Indeed. Then I pulled, but that, as they say, is another story.

Anyway, you may have noticed a few changes to my blog. Namely, you can now see me half-naked. It's all part of my subtle plan for Total Blog Domination Via Tasteful Nudes, and I hope you like them. The pictures are of me, and were taken by My Friend Jake (not to be confused with Jacob or Big Jake). Thanks, Jake!

In Which The New Year Suddenly Doesn't Look So Bad

When Jed turned up I was feeling low. It was a bitter Tuesday night, and I’d finally kicked Dean to the curb. Worse, he hadn’t even protested.

On New Year’s Eve I’d decided on the following resolutions:

• Maintain weight loss
• Write for one hour (or at least one page) every day
• Pitch and write at least two freelance articles
• Meet man I will love, make happy, and eventually marry (and vice versa)
• Continue good work on the gym-going and money-saving front

Number four was the big one, obviously. Shortly after Dean and I had broken up back in July, I’d decided it was time for me to settle down, and I thought that officially committing to meeting someone — and believing I could commit to meet someone as I’d committed to losing 15 pounds — ought to work. But this plan to meet someone else was currently stalled, since I was spending valuable dating time making out with my ex boyfriend.

“Um, I don’t know if you want to hear this,” Ashley had said a few weeks back, when I’d told her about my impending Christmas visit with Dean and his family. “But I don’t think things are really finished between you two.”

I smiled sheepishly. But in fact I was pleased: If we weren’t finished, then there was more to come.

But January had turned my head around: Dean didn’t want to get back together; for that matter, neither did I. I wanted to get married, and Dean had made it clear he didn’t, at least not to me. And I saw that the more I hung around with him, sitting in restaurants with our knees pressed together under the table and splitting a bottle of wine, the less time I would have to meet an employed, non-pothead adult male who might want to fuck me silly and have kids.

So one night early in the New Year I told Dean this: “Look,” I gulped my wine. “I’m going to have to cut you loose,” I said, after he had once again mentioned the possibility of us returning to Mohonk for a romantic President’s Day weekend.

He raised his eyebrows; I touched his arm. “Dean,” I began. “I couldn’t love you more,” I said at last. True. “It’s not that. It’s just that I don’t think it’s a good idea for us to spend time together. I want to find someone, and the time I spend with you is time that I really should be looking for someone else.”

He didn’t even blink: “I totally understand,” he said, squeezing my shoulder. “I want you to be happy, you know.”

I mean, he didn’t even have any regrets!

This was all very informative for me, since, as I later told Ashley, I’d sort of been hoping he’d say, “Oh, Lily, I don’t want to give you up, let me think about this…” Since July, I thought we’d both been responsible adults who’d been forging a new friendship. Instead apparently I’d hoped I had an ace up my sleeve. And why? I didn’t want to marry someone with Dean’s sense of entitlement and disinclination to grow up, did I?

Anyway, the point is, I went back onto the personals site on which I’d met Dean, and reactivated my profile. So had he, I discovered—and he’d managed to shave nine years off his age! Now he was younger than I!

“That’s appalling!” Ashley exploded when I told her of this development the following day at work. “I mean, that’s just gross. What kind of a Peter Pan thing does this Dean have going on, anyway?”

In Laurie Colwin’s A Big Storm Knocked it Over, the main character’s best friend, Edie, has a really unpleasant family. Sometimes, the heroine, Jane Louise, will insult them on Edie’s behalf. And Edie says, “Thank you for hating my family for me.”

I said now, “Thank you for hating my ex for me.” Then I went back to work, my righteous indignation providing a little warming flame in the arctic wasteland of my romantic prospects.

**
So the next night, while I was glad to see Jed, I was still smarting a bit. But I feel casual sex is generally good for taking one’s mind off of serious romantic problems.

When Jed arrived, I couldn’t help feeling better—it’s a real pleasure to see someone as enthusiastic and as interested in the world as he is. “You look great,” he said, which I always like to hear. “It’s good to see you again.” Jed’s compliments always make me feel a little bashful, even if they’re as innocuous as these—there’s just such an energetic sincerity there, it’s very flattering.

“You, too.” Jed settled himself in a chair and pulled it across from me, sitting on my bed. He hooked his legs around mine and smiled at me. “You cut your hair!” I said at last.

He grinned, and ran his hands through his short ’do. What had been blond curls was now shorn close to his head, a blondish brown. “I tried to dread my hair, but it didn’t work,” he explained.

“I like it!”

He looked more grown up with short hair. We sat there, our legs linked, smiling. I was glad to see him—he made Dean seem far away. We were both quiet for a minute. Then Jed said, “I’ve forgotten: Do you like being dominated?”

“You’ve forgotten?” I’m afraid I smirked. “Yeah, I like it.” He smiled at me, and leaned forward.

**
He pushed me gently back against my mattress. I stared up and him, waiting. “Take that off,” he said, pointing to my sweater. I obeyed. I felt … smug, satisfied, like he was doing what I wanted when he told me what to do.

He lay on top of me and I could feel his erection through his jeans (more smugness on my part). Jed started to undress, and when he had dragged off his jeans and was just in his underwear, he leaned over me to kiss my belly, my thighs. I was thinking that this was sort of an unusual move on his part—in fact he’s never gone down on me (though I’ve never asked, either) and mostly we sort of devour one another’s mouths before I just impale myself on his cock. I was thinking that when he slipped a finger across my clit. I was (satisfyingly) wet. Then he sat up on his knees and thrust his dick at me: “Suck my cock.”

I sighed with pleasure and stroked my mouth along his silky skin. “Suck that cock, Lily,” he said again. I think I got a little wetter just hearing my name. “Good girl.” At that I felt the walls of my pussy start to clench in excitement, and I slipped my mouth around as much of him as I could manage and sucked it long and slow. “You’re such a slut!” Jed sounded pleased. I smiled into his thighs.

“I’m going to ram my cock into you,” he went on thoughtfully. I thrust my whole upper body forward, licking the underside of his dick with a staccato rhythm. I was wet and almost frantic. I wanted Jed to leave my apartment thinking, “Oh my God, Lily gives the best blow jobs ever!” When he shifted slightly I got onto all fours in front of him, wagging my tits as I sucked him. “Oh, God, Lily!” Jed said again. “Get a condom.” I obeyed (again, smugly).

“You like that? You like that?” he muttered as he drove his cock into me. He’s such a good fit, big but not too thick (like Big Jake). Jed’s dick seemed to push me open in all the right ways.

“Yeah,” I mumbled.

“You like fucking me?” Jed pushed my hands to the side of my head and held my wrists. I groaned a little. We stayed like that for a while. My eyes never left his face, while the rest of our bodies jerked and twisted across my bed. “You want to get on top?” I nodded.

I levered myself against him, stretched my legs out, and then I pushed myself against his cock, the tight thick tension bubbling inside me. “You’re my cum dump,” Jed whispered. “Just a little hole for me to use. How do you like your little body being used by me? Do you like being used by me?”

“Uh, I do!”

“I’m just going to pump my cum into you,” Jed went on. “You want me to come all over you?”

“Yes,” I gasped. “Come all over my face!” I don’t think anyone’s ever done that, come to think of it. But I would like it if Jed did. I rocked back and forth, so close to orgasm. My legs were shaking and I was sweating. But it was draining, this pleasure, and I didn’t know if I could sustain the muscle spasms that are both necessary and a sort of internal signal for me to come. “I wish I could have you in my mouth and my pussy at the same time.”

“I bet you’d like to fuck two guys at once.”

“Yeah. I could suck one guy while you fucked me.” The idea made me shake violently: I saw myself on all fours, blindly sucking a stranger’s cock while Jed rammed himself inside me. “Yeah,” Jed went on. “Two guys using you as a cum dump. I’ll call up one of my friends and say, ‘Come on, let’s fuck Lily.’” That’s when I came really hard.

“Anytime you want a threesome, just let me know,” Jed offered after I’d recovered my breath. I squirmed a little, a little aftereffect of orgasm.

After a glass of water I slid down to nuzzle his dick. I stroked my fingers, then my tongue, across his balls. At last I slid my index finger back and gave his ass a tentative poke. Jed shifted to give me more access; I knew this was his favorite. Soon I had worked two fingers up his ass and Jed was breathing heavily: “Oh, Lily.”

“Do you want me to fuck your ass?”

In reply he took out a thick, red-orange dildo. Jesus, it was big! “Pass me the lube,” he said. (Jed always brings his own Babelube when he visits. I ought to invest in some myself. I probably have it to thank for the pain-free and generally incredibly hot sex we have. After all, nobody else has fucked my ass. Anyway.) I doused the dildo in lube. It really looked too big to fit into Jed’s hole, though I assumed this was the equipment I’d fucked him with before.

“OK,” I said, “You direct me.” I was afraid I’d shove it in too fast.

“Just push it in slowly.” I pushed and met a solid wall of resistance. “Up,” he said, so I adjusted the dildo. I was able to push it in a bit. “More lube,” Jed croaked. He splashed lube all over it and lay back down, lifting his ass up for me.

“Look at you,” I murmured. “Just look at that ass.” It was getting wider.

After a few more stalled starts the dildo slid in and, at Jed’s command, I pulled it all the way out, slowly. Now I could see his asshole stretched wide open—this puckered hole. Christ. Then I pushed it back in, and started pumping it back and forth.
“Oh God, that feels good!”

I smirked. “You like that? You like being fucked?” I was using almost the same words he’d said to me. I was on my haunches on an old beach towel, ramming an enormous dildo up Jed’s ass. “God, look at you,” I was a little wet.

“Yeah, I like having you fuck me,” Jed said breathlessly. “That’s really good.” He tugged at his cock. “Ah….” And then: “I’m going to come.”

“You’re going to come for me?” I squeezed the walls of my pussy, watching him struggle. “I want you to come.”

“Oh, Lily,” he cried, and came, splashing his stomach with come. I smiled at him, and then I did something I rarely do. I bent over and licked a drop, while Jed watched me under lazy lids. It tasted sort of sweet, actually.

In Which Various Verbs Happen to Me

Hey, can I booty call you?

This instant message had appeared on my computer screen the previous Saturday night, and it was from Big Jake. We’d had sex a few weeks previously at a party at which I got so unbelievably drunk — Suffice it to say I had sex with Jake, and I was sorry I was not sober enough to enjoy it (or, who knows, not enjoy it). This was just before Christmas, and of late we’d been in touch.

On Saturday night I was tired and already in my pajamas, so I declined. But when he emailed me Monday and asked what I was doing on Tuesday night, I told him to consider himself booked.

We met at this Mexican place right near me. I had walked past it literally dozens of times and had never noticed it! Anyway, we had dinner and gossiped. On the way back to my place we stopped off to buy condoms, because though I had some, Jake needed Magnums!

Back at my place we settled on my bed. We were both dressed. We talked about nothing in particular, and slowly his hand slid towards my arm, and my foot nestled against his leg. I couldn’t—or wouldn’t—kiss him, I wanted to be the one kissed. Jake appeared to have no problem just sitting around chatting, though his hands did stray towards my thigh. When I managed to finally lean my torso against his, I explained, “This is about as bold as I get.”

We started to kiss and, still fully clothed, we strained towards one another… oh, who am I kidding? We were dry humping. Rubbing ourselves against one another, my corduroy against his jeans. My rayon blend against his cotton. I was really turned on (by the humping, not the fabrics).

Our shirts came off and I dove into his skin, trying to decipher and claim his smell. “Be sure to tell me what you like,” I murmured as I trailed my mouth across his chest.

“You can bite my nipples,” he volunteered. I obliged. “Harder.” I bit so hard I was afraid I’d break the skin, but he just moaned. I liked that. I smiled into his skin and latched my teeth to his nipples, again.

Eventually we were naked and Jake went right for my pussy, his tongue slipping across my clit. How can I say this? It was Big Oral Sex. I can’t describe it, except to say his tongue seemed to cover all of my pussy at once, it was like being washed. I came, and when I’d caught my breath Jake bent over me once again and, with a finger slick inside me, made me orgasm a second time.

I felt completely drained, and he hadn’t even penetrated me. I didn’t think I could manage another orgasm. I decided to go down on him.

Big Jake is, of course, Big. His dick is as long as Daniel’s but thicker, and when we’d fucked that night some weeks back, it had hurt a bit, having him inside me (not to mention that he’s a really pounding kind of fucker—a relentless, solid thrumming). Afterwards, I’d been very sore. Not to mention that my lower lip was actually swollen and bruised from sucking him so much. Yes. All in all, not my finest hour.

I just stared at his dick for a bit, then attempted to suck him. I couldn’t get much of him into my mouth, and my tongue and the insides of my cheeks were dry; he hadn’t produced any pre cum.

But soon enough he put me on my back and opened my legs. “Go slow!” I ordered, the memory of being sort of bludgeoned by his cock still fresh in my mind.

“Don’t worry,” said Big Jake—I guess he’s heard that before. And then he very slowly slid inside me, and I relaxed my pussy as much as I could, my legs stretched around his back. It still felt pretty big. Once he was in me he started thrusting. It was a kind of painful pleasure, feeling him sliiiiiiiiide in and out. And as he was fucking I thought, He’s attentive and polite, but I can’t imagine cuddling. I wasn’t at ease.

This surprised me, because previously I’d always found Jake very engaging. He’s sort of wholesome looking, with close-cropped hair and a good-natured face, and a big, solid body. He looks like someone who’d be glad to help you move your heavy furniture. Anyway, prior to fucking him some weeks previously, he’d always been friendly when we’d run into each other. But in my bed, that warmth was absent. I wondered about this. Callie speaks highly of Jake, and makes him sound like a total sweetheart. But I wasn't getting that vibe from him tonight.

He put my legs close together so that I could feel his cock rub against my thighs while he fucked me shallowly. He held my hands above my head, which I would have loved if the pummeling his dick was giving me wasn’t quite so athletic.

“Do you want to get on top?” he asked. I nodded. He pulled out, and I clambered up. I breathed deeply, and slowly sat down on his dick. I started riding him and he (like every other guy I’ve fucked) immediately started rocking beneath me. “Let me do the work,” I croaked. This sort of worked, but for some reason I was incapable telling him the rest of the things that make me come: Talk dirty. Lick my nipples.

But he sucked my nipples, and made an effort not to buck beneath me. “I love being inside you,” he rasped. My legs were trembling, and I realized that they’d been trembling for what seemed like ages. I was close to orgasm, but I didn’t think my muscles had it in me to come again. And then I had to stop, I was just worn out.

Jake put me on all fours (a position that’s usually uncomfortable for me) but he was thrusting faster and faster and I could tell he was about to come, so I didn’t mind—I wanted to see (and feel) him come. He pulled my hair. “Ow! Not my hair!” Seriously, that’s painful.

“Sorry!”

I like the idea of being on all fours more than I like the mechanics. I love the thought of being in such a submissive, animal-like position, but (again, I think this is because of my tipped uterus), it just doesn’t feel comfortable. Jake breathed in my ear.

I turned my head: “You going to come?”

“Hmmmp!”

“Yeah, I want you to come inside me,” I gasped between thrusts. “Come for me, Jake.” He gripped my shoulders tight and his body jerked against mine. I felt satisfied, like I’d achieved something.

**
Afterwards we lay next to one another, and he stroked my hair. I wondered if it felt strange to him, because it felt strange to me. I mean, I like having my hair stroked, but it feels intimate, and tender, and that was one thing Jake was not. At least not tonight. We chatted in a desultory manner for a few minutes, then he said, “Want to sit on my face?” Sort of casually, like, Want a Coke?

“I don’t think I can take it,” I admitted. But shortly thereafter I went down on him again. I bent over and licked the length of him, bringing my eyes up to meet his “Oh,” said Jake, “I like to see you like this.” Ooooh, that’s the kind of thing I like to hear. I went at him more eagerly, and I think he called me a “good slut” (always welcome) then he sat up, “I want to fuck you again.”

“OK!”

Jake fit on another condom and briskly pushed inside me. He wrapped my ankles around his neck, and kissed my ankle. I liked the ankle kissing (how come Dean never did that?) but with his dick, I just could not have him that deep inside. “Ow!” I gulped. “That’s not—” So I slid my legs down to Jake’s waist. He kept pounding me with his cock. The pain was close to pleasure, but alas, not as close as I would have liked. My head banged against the headboard, and I hoped my neighbor wasn’t home.

I whipped my head back and forth, like I was struggling to get away, and then Jake pinned my arms down, which soothed me a bit. I could feel my face twist into a strange grimace. “Oh, you’re so hot,” said Jake. Then, “I’m going to come.”

“Yeah,” I breathed, “Yeah.” Jake’s face was screwed up and it was the only time I’d seen him out of control. I felt warmly towards him then, and when he came hard in my arms I stroked his back and murmured his name.

I Fall Off the Wagon

After being dumped by two men in the space of five days, I began to reflect. Well, first I felt sorry for myself, but eventually I began to reflect. And what I reflected was that I missed Dean.

Which was really only natural—I had been dallying with Aaron, and Jed, and Daniel—lovely boys, all—to keep myself from thinking about Dean, whom I missed, and loved. Because I hadn’t cried much, and thought I had come to terms with the fact that we had no future together, I’d thought I’d put him behind me.

Since our breakup, we’d gotten together sporadically for dinner, and after the first, awkward meal, our dinners had been punctuated by lots of kissing and cuddling. I had, however, refused to sleep with him. My feeling was, if we didn’t have sex, there was no emotional danger. My feeling was, also, why should I have sex with him? If he wanted to fuck me so badly, let him attempt to get me back. Shallow, but true. So we hung out, and held hands, and he gently tried to cajole me into bed, which put me in the comfortable position of denying him and feeling superior—for either denying him or for not wanting to have sex with him, I didn’t know which.

But I hadn’t seen him in a few weeks. Dean had cancelled on me on election night—we were supposed to watch the returns together, but instead he stayed in Atlantic City to play poker, and I’d been angry, unwilling to express my anger, and frustrated and lonely. When we finally did see one another, it was almost Christmas. This time last year, we’d been an official couple, planning to spend the holiday together.

“I didn’t realize that not wanting to get back together with him didn’t mean that I don’t miss him,” I announced to Ashley, the recipient of all my Dean-related musings.

“You haven’t really mourned him,” she pointed out obligingly.

So when we met to see a film, I was anxious. We had some time, so stopped for a drink at a sushi place first. I sat there sulking, wondering if Dean was seeing anybody else.

We discussed our Christmas plans. As usual, Dean was spending the holiday with his mother and one of his sisters, something he viewed more as penance than a cause for celebration. On the other hand, he was going to the resort where his family had spent the last umpteen Christmases, a place I’d visited with him last year. It was a wood and stone nineteenth century hotel about two hours from New York City. They had a spa, and the night we’d arrived, we’d sat in the outdoor hot tub overlooking the mountains, sleet melting on our warm faces. The hotel was still owned by members of the same family who’d founded it over a hundred years ago, and they ran it like a very lavish summer camp, with group activities and assigned dinner hours. We’d stayed in a room with a four poster bed and a wood-burning fireplace. Christmas had been like a Victorian dream, complete with tree-trimming parties and ice skating, and I’d loved the hotel so much I hadn’t wanted to leave.

“Well, on Christmas Day, I’ll probably go to the movies and out to dinner with my parents.” This is, of course, the traditional New York Jew Christmas.

“Do you want to come to the hotel?”

He’d asked me before, and I’d demurred – I’d loved being asked, but thought it a terrible idea. But now, I really wanted to go. “Do you want me to come?” I asked, like a passive-aggressive teenager.

Dean gave me a look. “Yes, of course.”

So probably he wasn’t seeing else. At least no one he expected to be sleeping with over Christmas. “OK,” I said sullenly, and tentatively stretched my hand towards him.

He clasped my palm and smiled.

**
I went up the day after Christmas, and Dean met me in the hotel’s lobby. He was wearing the same sweatshirt and jeans he always wore, and when he hugged me it felt like nothing had changed. He took my hand and we traipsed up the oak staircase to the room we would be sharing.

This room also had a fireplace, and the thin wooden shutters on the narrow windows were open to show an expanse of snowy lawn. “I have presents for you,” said Dean. He gave me a copy of Holidays on Ice, and a Scrabble travel edition. We started a game, and he ate some of the cookies I’d made him. But this was mostly a prelude to the energetic wrestling the queen-sized bed seemed to invite. We rolled around for a bit in the late-afternoon semi-dusk, nipping and kissing like a pair of kittens.

“I have an idea,” Dean whispered. He was lying on top of me.

“Yeah?”

“The winner—” he gestured to the abandoned Scrabble game nearby, “Gets to decide if he or she wants to sleep with the loser.”

“OK.”

“Did you say ‘why’?”

“What? I didn’t say why! I said ‘OK.’”

“Oh,” he kissed my neck.

“Really, Dean,” I gazed at the ceiling. “Of course I’m going to sleep with you.” I sniggered. “How churlish would it have been to accept your invitation and not have sex with you?!”

“Oh, so you’re going to have sex with me to be polite?” Dean looked skeptical.

“I wanted to come up here. If I had to sleep with you to do it, so be it,” I said virtuously. I buried my mouth in his neck.

**
Later we joined the rest of the party: his mother, sister, family friends—just like old times, I thought, half horrified, half delighted. At dinner, with his hands tugging my hair, and exchanging kisses and jokes like any happy couple, I wondered if the others knew or care that we were not actually dating, because we sure were acting like it. After dinner we all went for a walk in the moonlight, our feet crunching over the snow. Dean and I held hands in peaceful silence.

He was so familiar. But back in the room, making out, unbuttoning my cotton jersey and wrapping his mouth around my breasts, I felt detached, and I wondered if that was the price I was going to pay for having sex with Dean: I was going to be aware of just how stupid an idea it was not just after but while we were fucking.

But meanwhile his skin felt good against mine. He turned out the light, and started to go down on me. Then I froze: I was willing to fuck him but apparently oral sex was a bridge too far. “Stop,” I croaked.

“You don’t want me to—”

“No.”

“But you’re so yummy.” I shook my head. Dean licked his fingers, and rubbed his index finger across my clit. Suddenly, I was annoyed: he should know better. “Lighter,” I hissed.

And then it was all too familiar, the way he fitted his dick into me, the way he lay ¾ on his side, the way we pressed against one another. “Oh, sweetie,” he said, his voice hoarse. I waited.

“Oh, Lily,” he said. I clutched his shoulders. “Do you want to get on top?”

“No, it’s OK,” I said, but he insisted. I had no interest in coming: I wanted to stay uninvolved, which is probably something I should have realized before we started fucking. I rode him a bit but, even though he knows how, in order to come, I need my partner to stay as still as possible, moving only to lick my nipples or, you know, moan my name in a sexy manner—but despite all that, Dean clutched my breasts clumsily and jerked beneath me. Perversely, I was pleased. “It’s OK,” I said at last. “You come.”

We rolled back so that he was on top of me again. “I love you, Lily,” he said. This was what I’d been waiting for, and I forgave him everything, everything. “I love you, too,” I whispered.

**
Thus our weekend. The following night we sat in the hotel bar – a dimly lit place with plush seating and plum-colored cocktails, and Dean said, “Well, now that we’re having sex again—”

“Dean,” I said, taking his arm. “This is a one-off. I mean, this is wonderful, but.” We looked at one another. “This isn’t daily life.” I mean, again, if we weren’t dating, why should I have sex with him? Why should he have all the benefits of a relationship without any of the attendant requirements, like seeing the person on a regular basis?

“So we could come up on President’s Day weekend and have sex then?”

I admit, I was tempted: “We’ll see.”

And instead of articulating I miss you, this is hard, I just told him that I’d been having a rough time. Until recently, I hadn’t really had the chance to miss him—we’d been seeing one another. If I had called him and said I must see you, please come over, he would have done it. And I didn’t want to get back together with him but he smelled so good, and was so funny and kind and he loved me and I’d been happy with him.

That night again I wouldn’t let him go down on me, and when I rode him and he pushed up against me, interrupting my rhythm, I said, “Dean, you know how I like it,” in a distracted, irritable way. Then I ground myself against his cock until orgasm.

“I love you, Lily,” he said, jerking against me. I felt a wave of love and despair.

"Oh baby,” I said sadly, “I love you, too.”

Is the Universe Telling Me Something? And If So, Why Is It Being So Blunt?

NB: I am still catching up on old entries. This is (ahem) quite an old one.

I
I had a pre-Thanksgiving dinner. I invited Ned and Olivia, and Sweetheart Daniel. We sat at my foldaway wood table from Target and ate roast turkey, baked sweet potatoes, cranberry applesauce, salad with pecans and goat cheese, string beans with shaved almonds and gingerbread. Not an exhaustive menu, but a reasonably expansive one for a Tuesday night dinner party of four. We watched A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving and Dancing With the Stars (my new favorite TV show). After Ned and Olivia left, I settled into my new wooden bed next to Daniel.

Was he wearing cologne? Ever since we started hooking up again I’ve been puzzled by his scent. Because I remember being almost intoxicated with the sweet, musty smell of his neck, but now, while I still like how he smells, it unfamiliar. I sniffed him: “Are you wearing cologne?”

“No.” I think Daniel’s a little bemused by the amount of attention I pay to the hollow of his throat. It just seems important to me.

I curled up next to him and rested my head against his chest. Although I wanted to have sex, I felt sort of distracted—like maybe we could just go to sleep and fuck in the morning. I was tired. I kissed the side of his mouth, and then his mouth, keeping my mouth closed.

“I’ve been thinking,” said Daniel. I gave him an encouraging nod. “It’s not you or anything—” he squeezed my shoulder. “But I think I should take a break from casual sex.”

Well, that was unexpected. “You should?”

He grimaced. “Well.” He paused. “I’m trying to kind of get things in order, and maybe look for a serious relationship.”

“Oh,” I said. “OK.”

I mean, I was OK with it. Though I don’t think that having casual sex with someone precludes you from looking for a serious relationship with someone else. (My fellow blogger Badman has been discussing this here.) But if that’s how Daniel sees it, then that’s reasonable.

We settled back against my headboard, in talking rather than making out mode. “Are you seeing anyone?” he asked.

I sighed. Besides Daniel, and Aaron and, one occasion, Jed, “I see Dean,” I admitted. “And it’s sort of hard.”

And it is hard, but not cause it’s a constant battle to keep from tearing his clothes off or anything. It’s hard, I explained, “Because he gets my jokes and we get along and he’s smart and nice and we’re comfortable,” I said glumly. I know there’s no future and since we’re not sleeping together—despite his persistent, not very strenuous efforts to get me naked, which I find flattering if uncompelling; we make out and he tries to feel me up—I feel then opportunity for inflicting emotional damage is limited. On the other hand, seeing him is distressing. Again, not because I miss him (which I do) but because, frankly, I think he’s throwing his life away and it’s heartbreaking to see an intelligent, talented, good natured guy squander his talents due to pique at not being as successful as his brother. He’s sacrificed a career to his ego. Which makes me want to hit him. Last time I saw him I told him he was going to end up bitter, which he took with good grace and every semblance of having heard me. But really I doubt it’ll have an effect. But, as my co-worker Ashley says, this is no longer my problem.

I said some of this to Daniel and he squeezed my shoulder again and told me I’d meet someone else soon. Well, yeah, probably. I don’t need that kind of reassurance, I want some other kind, I thought fretfully. Or maybe I just want sympathy. Or, you know, dick.

“Well Daniel,” I said. “I am sort of surprised that you waited until now to tell me.” I meant his decision regarding casual sex with me. All that time making conversation with Ned and Olivia! All the time he’d helped me glaze the gingerbread and watch The Simpsons. He’d known all along but hadn’t said anything. That felt weird, and I felt strangely embarrassed. As if I should have been embarrassed for not knowing.

“Well…” said Daniel. “It just didn’t seem like a good time.”

We sat there quietly for a bit longer, and then Daniel said he had to leave. I wasn’t sorry. When he left I curled up alone under my thin quilt, waiting to fall asleep. I didn’t feel like I had the right to be angry with Daniel, or the right to feel anything in particular.

II
On Sunday night my other twentysomething boyfriend, Aaron, came over. I hadn’t seen him in a few weeks and I felt a little shy when he showed up at my door, his skin cold from the wind. He kissed me lightly on the mouth, and I was pleasantly flustered.

But over dinner we each had a drink and by the time we’d finished I was relaxed and looking forward to getting at his mouth—smelling his neck, sucking him off—all the tings I like to do to boys I find attractive. We ambled back to my apartment and sat on my bed, and then Aaron said, “Are you seeing a lot of people?”

Dean had gone AWOL recently, which was just as well, and Daniel had cut me loose; I’d been on one date with a guy I’d met online. We’d met at a bar and he’d left his belt hang loose around his pudgy waist after a trip to the bathroom. This man had recently sent me an unsigned text message on my phone, and I’d had to thumb through my date book to find out who it was.

“Um, sort of,” I said finally. “Never mind. Are you?”

“Well,” said Aaron, “I’ve been seeing about four people…” He went on to talk about having all these sexual experiences (with Jefferson and others). I nodded emphatically, but it took me a good three or four minutes to realize what he was getting at: he was dumping me! I was being dumped again!

“Listen,” I said at last in my most mature, woman-of-the-world voice, “We don’t have to hook up.”

He smiled, looking mighty relieved. “See, one of the people I’ve been seeing … she never said she wanted me to stop seeing other people, but now I feel guilty … and you know, even if you only see someone once a week…”

I tried to look like I was listening hard, but I was thinking, “I’m not going to get laid again?!” And frankly, part of me though he could have done this via email. By traipsing out to my apartment, he’d gotten my hopes up for sex and a fun evening, even though the visit showed he was trying to do the right thing by breaking things off in person. And of course if he had just disappeared, or dumped me via email, that would have been really disrespectful and I’d have been offended. But here we both were, all awkward, and me sexually frustrated to boot. So we hugged and when he left I stared at my face in the mirror, having been dumped by two younger men in the space of five days. If I keep this up, I’m going to start to think I’m undesirable. I grinned at myself hideously.

III
I told my co-worker Ashley about this. Ashley is a genius. She is extremely pretty, with long, fine blond hair, deep blue eyes and perfect, poreless skin, with what Fitzgerald would have called “a lovely high color” (pink cheeks). When I first met her, she was so well-groomed I pegged her as a former Delta Gamma pledge chair, but in fact she is not very sorority-like, though she does play beer pong and occasionally says “Dude!” in all seriousness. Anyway, mostly we chat about our boyfriends and our diets. She’s awesome.

I relayed to her the demoralizing dumping by two younger men. She gave me a you should know better look: “The universe is telling you to date someone age-appropriate,” she said.

“I don’t want to date,” I said, horrified. I want to meet someone, fall in love, plan my low-key, semi-formal afternoon wedding and have a few kids (one boy, one girl)—not make small talk and worry that I’ve got something orange in my teeth. Then I sighed: “You’re probably right.”

If my interlude of casual sex with amiable younger men was over, it was time to get serious. It was time to go after what I claimed to want. It was time to go back online, to cut Dean loose, to polish my manners and shoes. “Urfh,” I told Ashley.

She looked up and gave me a crooked smile: “I know,” she said.