Tuesday, January 20, 2009

I Get Back in the Swing of Things, Sort Of

We’d been trying to get together for a while now. After Dean and I broke up, I emailed him—I’d heard he’d had an injury and, in addition to propositioning him, I did want to know how he was doing. He assured me that all was well, and he’d like to get together.

Then followed a month during which he was out of town; I was busy; he called too late one night, and now here he was. Tall, lanky, long-haired Jed: the closest I will come to Marc Bolan. We hadn’t seen each other in about a year, though we spoke once or twice and emailed via facebook. I am fond of him; he seems genuinely interested in so many things; his enthusiasm is very appealing.

But tonight I didn’t know what to say. I was out of practice with Jed, and part of me felt like crawling under the covers and forgetting about sex until … until what? Until I stopped thinking about Dean, I guess. Dean.

We hugged—I felt a little awkward, but he was friendly and relaxed as ever. And when I opened a bottle of wine I found myself in a better frame of mind. Some cheese and crackers also helped. In my new apartment with the warm spice (orange) walls and my very own kitchen, I wanted to be a good hostess, so hors d’ouevres seemed appropriate.

We sat on my bed and talked—I gave Jed the lowdown on Dean, and he told me about his girlfriend (he is in an open relationship). I will never be in an open relationship. I was just telling myself this when he leaned in to kiss me.

He tasted nice. I tugged his lip into my mouth and nuzzled him. “I just want to get rough with you,” he said thoughtfully, and pushed me back against my pillows. I gazed at him from under my lashes, my patented Come hither, I’m submissive look. But I didn’t feel that jittery fear and anticipation that I’ve felt before, the excitement I derive from the taboo or implicit threat of being dominated. Perhaps I was getting used to being dominated. Or perhaps I was used to Jed. That is, Jed didn’t intimidate me. Which is just as well, since he is quite a bit younger than I am and not really an intimidating person (aside from his looks, which are pretty arresting)…

Jed stripped off and then stood up, naked. He looked down at me, still sprawled out on the bed.

“Suck my cock,” he ordered, and despite my declared lack of submissive-derived excitement, I found myself only too happy to obey. I bent over and slowly swiped my mouth across his cock.

“Yeah, yeah, that’s good,” he said after a minute. I pictured us from above: my head bobbing up and down as I sat hunched on the mattress, ardently sucking him.

“Oh yeah, you really know how to suck cock, don’t you?” Jed murmured. Positive reinforcement is a good motivator; I nodded without taking my mouth from him.

After a bit Jed said, “I want to fuck you,” and when I pulled off my clothes, “You’ve got a great body.” Compliments never fail to have their effect; I smiled. And without further ado, he slid on a condom, rubbed some Babe Lube (which I gather he brings on all his dates, which is just as well since I don’t have any) over it, dabbed some on my clit, and leaned over.

He slid inside me easily, and I sighed, a physical Ahhhhhh. “You like having my seven and a half inch cock in you?”

“Oh, yeah,” I gasped. Funny, I remembered him referring to it as his eight inch cock. Had someone said “Jed, that’s not eight inches…” or something? I wondered why he had resized himself.

“You want to get on top?” he offered. Too intent to speak, I nodded. I rolled on top and slid rapidly up and down the pole of his cock, thrusting my nipples into his mouth. We stretched towards one another, towards that mysterious summit. Jed pushed my buttons pretty easily, and before I knew it the bucking tension rushed up inside me and spilled over. I gripped Jed’s shoulders when I came, and slumped against his chest, panting.

We lay there peacefully in my dim room. Then, after a few minutes, Jed asked, “Can I fuck your ass?”

I had been expecting this: “Sure.”

He applied Babe Lube to his fingers and slowly probed my ass with one finger, then two. I breathed slowly. It wasn’t painful, just a strange pressure. Anal sex is, for me, a side dish. I think I’d enjoy it more if I was sucking or fucking someone else at the same time. The idea of being totally engulfed by cock, swollen with it, appeals to me…. The pressure would focus my mind. But now I was just aware of the throbbing emptiness of my pussy, the ache that comes from unfulfilled sexual promise.

Jed came quickly and once again we lay back on my bed, breathing hard. Then he said, “Do you want to fuck my ass?”

But I was tired, and the thought of more effort exhausted me. “Next time,” I said, “I promise.”

Almost immediately Jed stood up. “Oh well, I think I’ll go now.”

I sat up. Was it something I said? Apparently. “Well, you don’t have to,” I said, sort of bewildered.

He pulled a shirt over his shoulder. “I just kind of feel like you’re rejecting me,” he explained.


“No, it’s not your problem, it’s mine,” he said earnestly. “I just feel like you aren’t interested.”

I just stared at him. I could have said, Well, I could say you only want me so I can stick a dildo up your ass. And I wasn’t rejecting him, I just felt unequal to sticking a silicon cock in his ass at this moment. But I didn’t say anything, I don’t know why, except he’d already made his mind up. Jed was dressed and ready to go.

I felt guilty, and taken aback. I pulled on a t-shirt, determined to be a good hostess, even if I couldn’t give my guest exactly what he wanted. “Do you know how to get back?” He had ridden his bike here.

He stuffed the Babe Lube into his leather bag, and squinted thoughtfully. “I just need to know how to get to…” [he said the name of a main drag nearby].

“Oh, you just take a left at the streetlamp and then bear right,” I said, glad I could be useful. I trailed him to the door.

“It was good to see you.”

“You too,” he said. We kissed briefly, chastely, like old friends. Then he left, and so I was alone again.

Sunday, January 04, 2009

Housewarming (A Double Entendre!)

I moved into my studio at the end of September, painted the walls warm spice (a.k.a. orange) and guava juice (pink), which looks much better than it sounds. As I settled into my new home, I discovered that I did not hate to cook; what I hated was sharing a kitchen. My parents helped me hang pictures. Then, armed with my new wooden folding-leg table from Target, I decided to throw a housewarming party on Halloween.

I bought Martha Stewart Living and made paper cut outs of bats. I draped a cobweb over my bed. On Halloween, I left work early, made apple crumble and headstones out of Styrofoam (mine read Lily Vereker: Crushed by Vending Machine in Altercation Over Lost Quarter) and stocked up on beer. I mixed non-alcoholic and hard cider with rum in my crock pot and waited in my apartment for guests to arrive.

My dear friend, sometimes banker, and regular supplier of British confectionary, Marc, arrived first. He was dressed as the masked guy (I mean, V) from V for Vendetta (I was, again, Death). He brought beer, and I urged him to eat the apple crumble, the salami, the cheese, all nicely arrayed on my new table from Target. I was afraid no one would show.

Though I’d sent out invites, there weren’t going to be many guests from my secret life. Though Marc is aware that I have a somewhat demanding sex life (when I first started sleeping with relative and actual strangers I would call him to check in. He loaned me A Round-Heeled Woman, leading me to dub my project Operation Round Heels), he has only read carefully selected (non-sexual) excerpts from my blog. Sweetheart Daniel was expected; he’d met Marc and a number of my other non-slut friends a few times. And Aaron, he of the chocolate ice cream and TONY notoriety, had also said he’d come. “I’m sorry I can’t host you,” I written, delicately. “I have a guest staying over.” Meaning Daniel.

“Hey,” said Marc, “Did you paint the walls orange for Halloween?”

“No! I just liked the color. Don’t you think it looks cozy?”

Others dribbled in, and soon there were about 10 of us sitting around, eating and gossiping. People were very nice about my apartment, my apple crumble, the books on my shelves. “Hey,” said my friend Miles, “Did you paint the walls orange for Halloween?”

“No. I just liked the color.”

More people arrived, and when people had to start angling their shoulders sideways in order to move across the room, I decided my housewarming was a success.

Daniel turned up as the devil, complete with horns and toting some papers headed “Lucifer Morningstar, Acquisitions Officer.” Below, in a Gothic font, was a contract for the signer’s soul. At the bottom of the page, in small print, it read: Desires to be fulfilled in 4-6 weeks. Not responsible for ironic interpretation of wishes. “I would never sign that, even as a joke,” I told Daniel. You know, just in case. In case there’s an afterlife, that I have a soul that can be sold, that the devil exists, that Sweetheart Daniel is a proxy for him, and that the contract is legally binding in the state of New York. It’s a long shot, but I wasn’t the only person unwilling to ironically sign the contract, get an ironic fulfillment of wishes, and lose my soul: Though copies were passed around, no one else signed, either.

After about an hour Daniel looked at his watch. “I’ve got to head out soon,” Daniel said.

I was taken aback: “I thought you were staying.”

“I’m sorry, I thought I told you I couldn't stay.”

“Oh.” But he hadn’t told me, because I would have remembered, and I’d told Aaron we couldn’t hook up on that assumption. “OK.” I said. Well, maybe Aaron would sleep over instead. I felt a little guilty thinking that—as if they were interchangeable.

By the time Aaron arrived things were noisy. “Hey!” He gave me a brief hug. “Happy Halloween!” Aaron was dressed as Joe the Plumber, carrying a plunger and wearing a latex wig that made him appear bald. He followed me down my guava juice-colored hallway to the main room. “Hey, did you paint the walls orange just for Halloween?”


Eventually, the party started to wind down, and everyone except for Aaron and I headed up to the roof to smoke or hang out with smokers. He came over and stood very close to me. Our noses almost touched. “Where’s your friend?” he asked.

“He had to leave.” Aaron’s just a little taller than I am, and our bodies fit together nicely. “You could stay if you want to,” I added diffidently. He smiled. We kissed, and I wondered if my guests were watching us—we were clearly visible from the roof. I could hear the hum of their conversations.

It was late, and I was looking forward to being alone with Aaron. Too late, I’d realized my fatal flaw as a host: I like to go to bed early. I started gathering empty beer bottles, and Aaron helped. When we kissed again, he tasted of Binaca.


After everyone left, for a moment we looked at one another. “I’m going to brush my teeth,” I said.

When I came back, he was sitting on my bed, in his boxer shorts. I undressed, casually, like we did this all the time. I was too tired to strip seductively. I sat next to him on the bed. Then we slid onto our backs, and started to kiss. He slipped his hand down my stomach and slid his fingers gently across my pussy. His light touch got me very excited, very quickly. After a minute, I decided that this was enough foreplay for me, and I scooted down to his groin. I wrapped my mouth and hand around his cock, and I was gratified to see it respond accordingly. I was hungry to have him in me; there was this empty, clutching sensation where I wanted his dick to be. But when I reached for a condom, he lost his erection. Since by now we were both exhausted, we agreed to resume activity in the morning.

When we woke up, he got right down to cases: eating me, another really dirty-sounding phrase. Clearly this was a position he enjoys. I thrashed around the bed as his tongue probed my clit and the folds of skin beside it. I gazed at the top of Aaron’s head as he tongued me.

“Ah!” I said, “Oh, God.”

Aaron looked up at me under half-closed eyes: “I love having your juices on my chin,” he said. Juices sounded … sloppy. Could he sort of drink me? Normally I don’t get excited about oral sex, but his enthusiasm and thoroughness was kind of thrilling.

He dipped a finger inside me, and I squirmed. He licked the finger thoughtfully, then slipped it back in. He moved one finger, then two, in and out of me, all the while keeping his mouth on my clit. I fought the rising wave of tension. I usually come as I fight the spasms that are a prelude to orgasm for me, and this time was no exception. “Oh God!” I said again, and arched my hips to meet his mouth. I came with a long shudder. I gazed at Aaron with a new respect. “Thank you,” I panted.

“You’re welcome.”

But now it was his turn. After my breathing returned to normal, I slid down and took his cock in my mouth, like I was starving. Remembering what he’d told me the last time, I tugged hard and held his dick tight as I sucked. I was rewarded with an immediate erection and, shortly thereafter, an orgasm.

We lay there in polite silence. I was replete, dazed with satisfaction. Still, there was another appetite to be fed. “Want to get something to eat?” I asked. “I’m starving.”