I Take the Plunge!

I sat on the lowest step of the stairs leading up to my apartment, glumly contemplating a row of shoes. Should I wear my black heels or my other black heels to my first threesome?

The first pair of shoes were sling backs, with a lower heel, and spangles sticking to the velvet fabric. The other pair were my workday black heels: round toes, straps, a sort of wing tip cut out design decorating the sides. The whole threesome thing had been Jefferson’s idea, of course. The first pair were party shoes. We were due at Jefferson’s place at 8:00; it was just before 6:00 now. The second pair, with their round toes, seemed to announce my innocence of these matters. They said: I’ve never had a threesome! Look – I’m wearing Mary Janes! I put on the second pair.

Come to think of it, I needed chocolate too, my all-purpose panacea. Of late I’d been sticking to the high quality, 60% plus cacao dark chocolate, the kind that’s supposed to confer health benefits, or at least make the eater feel less guilty about eating chocolate. But not tonight. Tonight I was going straight to the source: Cadbury’s Dairy Milk. I bought two bars, and immediately opened one.

Like I said, it was all Jefferson’s fault. I’d been sitting at my desk on Friday, wondering why I hadn’t heard from Jeremy, when I got an email from Jefferson.

Since you don’t think blowjobs “count” as sex, shall I arrange for you to blow a
boy of my choosing?

I’d been booked for Jefferson’s birthday sextravaganza, and our appointment was for the coming Sunday, but I had thought it would be just the two of us, plus his arsenal of whips and lubricants. Oh, God.

I equivocated. The idea of a threesome frightened me, but then what’s the point of living dangerously if you’re not a little bit frightened? And then I thought, It would blog well. (The siren cry of a blog writer's ego) I thought of my readers (all 12 or so), who would surely appreciate this. And then I thought: Wait, I don’t want my readers to think I’m a slut!

But you are a slut, I reminded myself. And while I fretted it occurred to me that if I did this without being totally enthusiastic, then I was a slut in the bad sense, whereas if I entered into the blowing of strangers with great spirit, I was just living dangerously. Could I get into the right frame of mind?

At last I responded:

I trust you, but I don’t know where your friends’ dicks have been. Like I said, I don’t want to dampen the air of sexual abandon, but I’m not ready to blow a guy with an unknown sexual history. I hope you understand.

Besides, what if he’s ugly?

Unless it was The Boy in the Bathtub (that’s a good title for a book). In which case, yes.

Who is The Boy in the Bathtub? Well may you ask. This is he. I’ve never met him. But a) he’s cute and b) he’s the only one of Jefferson’s friends I have ever seen a photo of. That is, I could confirm that he was cute. The others I only know by reputation. And their reputations are intimidating. Also, I liked Jefferson’s description of the boy.

Anyway, it was time to leave, and I went off to meet Jeremy.

The next day, I met up with Daniel. When we were lying in my bed, I told him about Jefferson’s proposition. “I would do it,” Daniel offered casually. “If you were nervous of doing it with a stranger.”

“Well,” I said, “I don’t know if I’m going to do it or what.” I hadn’t heard back from Jefferson at this point, and generally he’s a pretty speedy emailer (one of the many, many things I appreciate about him). I wondered if he might have been annoyed at the way I was edging away from the whole scenario. Perhaps he’d found someone else willing to take him up on this. Very likely.

But the more I thought about it, the more I came to like the idea of bringing Daniel into the picture. After all, I trusted him, and I knew exactly where his dick had been. And I already knew he was cute. That night, as I still had not heard from Jefferson, I emailed him again, saying that if he was still game, I would do it if I could bring Daniel.

Jefferson called me the following afternoon, in the midst of my nervous IM to Daniel, asking if he’d be willing to join me chez Jefferson. “So you want me to cancel The Boy in the bathtub?” Jefferson asked.

“Oooh.” I sat down on my bed. “You got The Boy in the Bathtub?”

“Lily, this is what I do,” Jefferson said modestly. “I make these things happen.”

The Boy in the Bathtub! “Well…you see… I just…Now I feel bad about the boy in the bathtub!” Had I lost my chance with him forever? Damn my scruples!

“We’ll do that another time,” Jefferson promised. “So, Daniel.”

“Yeah, it’s just, I trust him, and…”

“Bring Daniel.”

“That’s OK?”

“I think it’s kinky,” said Jefferson, “You bringing Daniel.”

“You do?” Was it kinky? How could it be kinky for me to want to feel safe at My First Threesome?

Kinky or not, Daniel and Jefferson and I had agreed, and now it was time for me to prime myself for the kinkiest thing I had ever done, even though it wasn’t the kinkiest thing either of them had done. Not by far. Gloomily, I ate my chocolate.

***

Daniel and I clasped hands as we walked down the hall to Jefferson’s apartment. Daniel, a veteran of one or two threesomes, was perfectly calm. I was not. Also, I suspected that Jefferson would make a move on Daniel, and I wasn’t sure how to bring this up. Would this freak Daniel out? He didn’t have that much experience with guys… maybe he’d be better off in blissful ignorance, until Jefferson attacked.

Jefferson opened the door, and I was pleased to note that he was wearing shorts. Usually he just wears pajama bottoms, which I suppose is his version of Hugh Hefner’s smoking jacket, though not quite as tactile or as sophisticated, I must say. “Happy birthday!” I handed Jefferson his present, and kissed him, and introduced Daniel. They shook hands and eyed one another.

We all seated ourselves on the sofa, with me between the two of them. Oh, God.

“You’re wearing jeans,” Jefferson noted. “Is this the first time I’ve ever seen you in jeans?” He lifted my legs and put them in his lap.

“Maybe,” I said. I don’t wear them often.

“And you’re wearing stockings with jeans...” Jefferson stroked my black nylon toes. “Do you always do that?”

“Oh, the stockings,” I said. “No, they’re part of the outfit.” I paused, to raise suitable interest. “They’re thigh-highs. I figured it was your birthday, I wanted to go all out.”

“Really!”

“Yeah, and I’m wearing a thong too. In honor of the occasion. And a matching bra,” I added proudly. I don’t own many matching undergarments.

“Well, let’s see!” Jefferson sounded positively enthusiastic.

I wriggled out of my jeans, and promptly sat back down on the sofa.

Jefferson tsked. “Come on. Go stand over there,” he pointed, “So we can get a look.”

Gah! Grumbling, I put my heels back on (to give the illusion of slightly longer and leaner legs) and traipsed over to the light, so that Jefferson and Daniel could get the full effect.

“Ah.”

This was embarrassing. I was wearing a thong, after all. I covered my face with my hands and closed my eyes. I wasn’t just on display to Jefferson; it was a full on audience. Jesus!

“We’re not looking at you face,” Jefferson said in his sassiest Southern bitch voice. I rolled my eyes at him and grimaced, but as my eyes were still closed he may not have noticed this.

“Turn around,” Jefferson commanded.

Note to self, I thought, as I obeyed: Lose 15 pounds. My ass doesn’t bother me much, but that’s probably ’cause I don’t often get to see it. Whenever I do, I am reminded that a little exercise couldn’t hurt. And this thong was really small. It really couldn’t flatter my slightly dimpled ass, certainly not when combined with my too-big thighs. At least I had the thigh highs and heels.

“That’s a very small amount of fabric,” Jefferson commented.

When I judged there’d been enough show and tell, I traipsed back to the sofa. “What about the bra?” Daniel piped in.

Oh, what the hell. I took off my top.

“Oh!”

“It’s nice, isn’t it?” I glanced down at the matching pink bra with brown trim. At least my breasts were respectable. I settled back on the couch, while Jefferson disappeared into the kitchen for more alcohol. Daniel settled an arm around me.

Jefferson showed us the birthday cards from his kids, and then somehow we got to talking about comic books; about Gotham City and Metropolis and how Spiderman was actually set in New York City. I looked at Jefferson and thought, He really knows what he’s doing. It was like he knew just what to say to animate and relax Daniel.

“Can we see you with your shirt off?” Jefferson asked Daniel. Daniel obliged.

Then I cajoled Daniel into telling Jefferson the story of his gay and threesome experiences. Which got Jefferson onto teasing me about my lack of experience thereof.

“I don’t know,” I said, “I just don’t think I’d want to go down on a woman.”

“Are you saying you don’t think you’d like the taste?” asked Jefferson.

“...Yes.” Was this anti-feminist?

“So you think your own taste is bad?” he said, making a not illogical leap.

“Yes.”

“What do you think you taste like?”

“I don’t know!…”

Meanwhile Daniel had slid his fingers inside my underwear. Jefferson leaned closer. “I like this,” he said, reaching out to touch the pink fabric. “What do you call that?”

“I think that’s ruching.” (It was a kind of gathered fold).

“Very nice.” My bra came off, and he bent to suck my right nipple. Daniel sucked my left. I giggled.

After a moment or two Jefferson announced, “Lily, would you mind leaving me alone with Daniel for a minute?”

“What, really?”

“Yes, really.”

I glanced at Daniel; he nodded. “OK.” I stood up.

“Go into the bedroom,” Jefferson added.

This was the beginning of Act II, right? The action. “OK, OK.” I padded down the hall in my stockings and thong.

In Jefferson’s bedroom, as usual, I studied the bookshelves. At last they both came in. “Lily,” said Jefferson, “I want to make out with Daniel for a while. Is that OK with you?”

Now, even though I had suspected Jefferson would be all over Daniel, for some reason that hadn’t been on my mind when I traipsed down the hall. Aha! I glanced at Daniel. “Is that OK with you?”

Daniel indicated that it was, indeed, quite OK.

“Let me get my specs,” I said. I had taken off my glasses and put them on one of Jefferson’s nightstands. I wanted to see this properly.

I settled into the armchair next to the bed. Daniel got onto the bed and Jefferson slid on top of him. They kissed.

I leaned forward to see Daniel’s face. His eyes were closed, and his mouth strained towards Jefferson’s when Jefferson teased him by pulling away. Jefferson ran a hand over Daniel’s groin. I moved forward a bit more. I was literally on the edge of my seat.

Jefferson helped Daniel out of his pants and soon had his mouth wrapped around Daniel’s cock. Oooh. Then they switched, and I watched Daniel bury his face between Jefferson’s legs.

“Now come here,” Jefferson said to me. They lay next to one another, looking smug. I grinned and bent my head over Daniel’s cock, then Jefferson’s; just briefly, but the situation seemed to require that kind of acknowledgement.

“Daniel, you suck my cock, and Lily, you sit on my face,” Jefferson directed. This time, I watched close up as once again Daniel obediently bent over Jefferson’s cock and began working him over. After a particularly long suck, he boasted, “I don’t have much of a gag reflex.” I settled on top of Jefferson’s face and as he licked me I watched Daniel’s head bob up and down. Finally I motioned to Daniel so I could get him in my mouth, a sort of three-way suck off. The sensation was overwhelming. Not like Oh my God this is the hottest thing ever, but overwhelming in the sense of a real sensory overload: cock in my mouth and tongue and boy smell everywhere, it was like my skin and senses were being bombarded. But otherwise I must say I felt pretty comfortable, all things considered.

Here’s what I really wanted, and I don’t know why I just didn’t demand it. I wanted to be on all fours, with Jefferson fucking me from behind while I sucked Daniel off. Or possibly riding Jefferson (which I’ve never done. Once I asked, ‘Can I ride you?’ purely as a courtesy and he said, ‘No,’! Who says No?! I guess it was the dominant thing...) while he sucked my nipples and I sucked Daniel. Anyway, I’ve been fantasizing about the former position ever since I read a short story in which it happens. But I didn’t say it; maybe I was waiting for Jefferson to tell me to do it. Which was dumb.

“Lily, I want to see you fuck Daniel,” said Jefferson at last. I smiled, because I always like to fuck Daniel. Daniel settled back on the pillows and I climbed over him, and licked and sucked him for a bit. He was nervous; after all, we usually don’t have sex in front of an audience. I smiled and stroked him and was so glad I didn’t have to be the one worrying about my erection. Jefferson sat in the chair, which began to take on a new significance for me: that armchair was dirty: a voyeur’s chair!

After a minute or so Daniel was ready, and I slid on top of him. “Daniel,” I said, “Daniel.” I rocked back and forth, and I wasn’t at all embarrassed. “Jesus, Daniel,” I went on, as my legs started to shake. “Look at me. I get on top of you and already I’m practically coming.” We kissed, and I let my hair fall around my face to cover him. I felt very protective of him now.

I came pretty quickly. Daniel didn’t at all, but after a nice effort, he tugged off the condom and collapsed.

“That was really sweet and sexy and hot,” Jefferson said. I smiled at them both, because “sweet” is not usually a word to describe having sex in front of someone, but at the same time I felt very tenderly towards Daniel, who is, of course, Sweetheart Daniel.

Then Jefferson came and flopped on top of me; I started to giggle. I was sandwiched between two naked men, and, again, this was a sensation that was totally unfamiliar; my skin was covered from all sides. Jefferson laughed, and then Daniel did, too.

Then Jefferson tugged me to the edge of the bed and assumed the position I’m beginning to think of as the Jefferson Special, tugging my legs up around his neck and fucking me while he stands. As he fucked me I heard “Oh!”s and groans coming out of my mouth. I watched Jefferson’s face, and I was dimly aware of Daniel, sitting quietly in the chair.

“Your turn,” Jefferson rasped, and moved aside so that Daniel could assume the same position, with the exact same girl: me.

Oh, this I liked. It wasn’t the physical sensation so much as the knowledge that I was being fucked in turn by each of them. I liked it; I liked being this fuck object that two men could casually share.

Then Jefferson took over again and as he fucked me I caught a glimpse of my legs, sticking straight up around Jefferson’s body. My legs didn’t look half bad from this angle, I realized. My thighs looked more proportionate, anyway.

Suddenly Jefferson slapped my ass, hard. “No!” I cried, because it hurt. He didn’t hit me again, but kept on pumping his cock into me with a steady rhythm.

At last he pulled out with a sigh. I think Jefferson’s only come once with me. I really feel like I’ve failed if I can’t coax an orgasm out of a man; I love seeing that release of tension, that blissful collapse of sinew and muscle. I’d really like to make Jefferson come more often.

It was late now, after midnight. “I’d better go,” said Daniel. He had to go all the way back home, and get up early. Jefferson offered to have him stay, but Daniel declined.

I followed Daniel to the door. “Are you OK?” I asked. I had expected to be the scared one, but now I was worrying about him.

“Yeah,” Daniel smiled. He looked so cute and good. “I’m glad I could do that for you.”

“I wouldn’t have done it without you.” He looked embarrassed but pleased. Didn’t he know how much I trusted him?

When Daniel left Jefferson asked if I was hungry. “I can’t believe I’ve never cooked for you,” he said.

“I am hungry, but if I eat now, I’m going to be tired.”

“That’s OK.” Jefferson started retrieving food from the fridge.

“I mean, I’m going to fall asleep,” I clarified.

“That’s OK,” Jefferson repeated. “We can fuck in the morning.”

***

In the morning I went to work as part of Jefferson’s campaign for 44 blow jobs. I sucked him for so long, my lips were numb. Really! But no dice: “You’re in it for the long haul,” Jefferson informed me.

Oh, God. (Wo)manfully I went back to my task, back and forth over his dick, sucking and licking. I gagged on his dick, and swallowed saliva, and licked and sucked some more.

At long last Jefferson jerked and groaned. Had he come? He hadn't ejaculated.

“You came?” I hadn’t known that Jefferson could come like this.

“Oh, I came,” he assured me. “It’s not that common for me, this way, but I came.”

I was sort of afraid he had faked it because he was getting bored with my cock sucking. Truth be told, my mouth was exhausted. I smiled at him: "You're my favorite pervert," I cooed.

Finally we clambered into our clothes and headed for the restaurant I had tried to go to with Jeremy. To my great delight, we were seated right away. Jefferson and I grinned at one another over our coffees and biscuits and sugar cured bacon (Oh God, it’s so delicious, like bacon ice cream; I don’t even like bacon and I swoon over this stuff….). He could name all the songs that came on, which I appreciated.

When we left I said, hesitantly, “You know, I don’t fight you about everything you ask me to do on principle.” I meant all the hedging about the threesome, my adaptation of the invite and my telling him “No!” when he’d hit me last night. “I’m not saying no as a tease.”

“I know,” Jefferson said.

“It’s not that I object to fucking your friends,” I went on, “It’s just that this is new for me and I have to negotiate my comfort level.” I meant: I had to maintain some autonomy, or at least the illusion of autonomy with Jefferson, even if what I really wanted was to be told what to do; that is, not have any autonomy. “I don’t mean to jerk you around and hedge so much, but I want to go slow.”

“I know.” Jefferson said again, and smiled at me. I smiled back. And we walked together to the train station in the cold, talking about nothing.

Jefferson, Part Three

So, anyway, the date. NB: This took place before the entry titled I'll Call You Sometime: The Sequel. Excuse the lack of proper chronology.

Jefferson had warned me that he was out of liquor, so I bought some whisky. I am not yet blasé enough about going to a man’s apartment for the first time (especially to an apartment that sees regular orgies), or about submission, for that matter, to turn up without reinforcements in the form of mood-altering substances. I wanted Dutch courage. Of course, this involved some angst at the liquor store. I really didn’t want to spend much on alcohol (quantity, not quality is ever my motto), but could I really bring myself to show up at Jefferson’s door with a bottom shelf bottle of blended scotch whisky? I’m pretty vain – I didn’t want to be thought of as cheap. If I did buy El Cheapo brand, I would feel compelled to apologize for it. At which point Jefferson, being a well-mannered Southerner, would probably demur that it was fine. This dilemma took me a few minutes. Finally vanity won over frugality. As it so often does in my life.

Jefferson greeted me at the door in a t-shirt and pajama bottoms. I handed him the bag. “Maker’s Mark!” he said, sounding pleased.

“I read your blog,” I reminded him. I glanced around his living room. Lots of books, artwork by his kids: so, you know, not intimidating. I’m not quite sure how a few square feet could be considered intimidating, but apparently the possibility had occurred to me.

We settled down on the sofa with our whiskies and listened to Neil Young and then Emmylou Harris. I’d been thinking about music on the way over. I’d been playing T. Rex’s “Hot Love” again and again on my iPod. This seemed like an appropriate soundtrack to get me in the mood. As did, oddly enough, Billie Holliday’s “Strange Fruit.” Obviously not the lyrics, but the sinister air of melancholy, and the soft minor key melody seemed fitting as I contemplated being slapped, possibly quite hard, by a man I barely knew.

We talked and talked. Alcohol makes me quite chatty, and because, of course, it’s alcohol, I am a little fuzzy about the subject of our discussion. I think Emmylou Harris, the idea of being an artist and of the importance of loving one’s work were bandied about. I knocked back my whisky pretty quick.

When he brought me a second drink he sat a bit closer. “See, I’m sitting incrementally closer to you now,” he announced.

“Oh, right!” I said, and squeezed just a bit closer, myself.

“You’re getting better at maintaining eye contact,” he observed. He has very blue eyes.

“That’s the alcohol,” I said, giving credit where it was due. This became clearer when we started talking about his writing. “When I’m writing erotica, the sentences get shorter,” he explained. “It’s not ‘My penis did this…,’ it’s ‘My cock. My cock. And there’s no vagina, that’s what you take to the doctor.’”

“Yes!” I cried. “Cause, you know, a penis is flaccid, but a cock is hard. And you know what else?” I went on, inspired, “I think cunt is a perfectly acceptable word, but pussy is really dirty.”

“What do you mean by dirty?” Jefferson asked. I realized that using ‘dirty’ as a pejorative term might put a damper on our evening, which was supposed to be very dirty, indeed.

“I just think euphemisms are dirty.” The alcohol was making me more voluble, but, unfortunately, also less articulate. I tried to remedy that: “With cunt, I think it’s the hard ‘k’ sound, and the dentalization at the end that makes it sound clean. I mean, I like the dirtiness of pussy,” I added, not wanting him to think I was a prude or anything. “I mean, just now I got this kind of shiver down the backs of my thighs.”

“Really?”

“That’s also the alcohol talking,” I said, insightfully. “I wouldn’t otherwise be talking about why I think pussy is a dirty word.” I finished my second whisky. “I’m just going to use your bathroom.”

“It’s at the end of the hall.”

When I returned to the sofa he pulled me towards him and kissed me, sliding his hands all over me. I sighed. He slipped his hands up under my shirt. “This is the part I have trouble with,” he said, struggling with my bra. Like me putting on condoms.
But he soon got rid of the rest of my clothes, slipping my tights off my legs and, briefly, onto his left arm. Then he settled me next to him on the couch, and I curled up against him. He was still dressed, or rather, still in his pajama bottoms and tee.

We kissed. “I just want to smell you,” I announced. I was definitely drunk at this point. I sniffed the crook of his elbow. Nice. We kissed again. “And I’m going to stroke you,” I added, sliding my hand across his groin.

It was already after 8:00; he’d been making me comfortable for two hours at this point, and I was due to leave at 9:00. “OK,” he said at last. “Take your drink into the bedroom.”

So I did. Hey! I thought. This is where the orgies (parts of them, anyway) happen! I looked at the bookshelves, then sat on the bed.

When he came in he joined me on the bed, pushing me back against his pillows and reaching into the drawer of his bedside table. He slipped a mask over my head, where it snagged in my hair. It was the real deal, not one of those wimpy Virgin Atlantic sleep masks. I couldn’t see a thing, not even an impression of light. I sighed. He lay on top of me.

After a minute I felt his dick on my face. He rubbed it across my mouth, and I licked it desperately. I tried and tried to get my mouth around the head, but he wouldn’t let me. “Please?” I said. “Won’t you let me suck you?” He slapped my face. I gasped: “Ow!” I hadn’t expected it at all. I had thought the slapping would be limited to my ass. It hurt. I wasn’t wet. I might have been excited, but I could barely even think. It really hurt.

Then he turned me over and slid me to the edge of the mattress, and spanked me hard. Several times. It was really painful, and I heard my voice whimpering. But it went on.

I don’t know how long it lasted. Not very long, I don’t think. Afterwards, Jefferson lay me on my back and covered me up with his body. He took off the mask.

“Well,” he said. “So we tried that, and it’s not for you. That’s OK.”

“No,” I said. “It’s not that I didn’t like it…” I said. Lying, I think.

“That’s a lot of double negatives,” he pointed out.

“It’s that I let you do that to me,” I was nearly in tears. “I let you. I didn’t even stop you.”

He kissed my face, and was quite soothing. I’m not surprised he has such an active social life. Even though he hit me really hard, and his promiscuity makes me nervous, I think he’s lovely, and I’m going to see him again, no question about it.

He found a cigarette, an unfiltered Gauloise! (How French!) and we split it, with me slouched in his armchair, and him lounging on the bed. It was after 9:00.

“Sometimes I don’t think I’m actually submissive,” I said, returning to our conversation. “I think I like the idea of refusing to do what I’m told,” I said.

“Oh, so you’re a brat,” Jefferson laughed.

I wondered if this was an official term for this particular perversity or if I’m just completely weird. Do I just want to annoy my partners to orgasm?

It was getting late. “Don’t you have another date?” I asked.

“I’m actually headed out,” he said. “I wish we’d planned for you to stay over,” he said. I smiled.

We started to dress. It was at this point I realized I was very, very drunk. The term legless suddenly made sense.

We walked to the subway station. “Are you OK?” he said. I was not too steady on my pins.

“I think I’m going to get a cab,” I said. “I just need a cash machine.”

“I’m going to come with you,” he said. Thank God for that, I was in a real state. He saw me to a nearby ATM and then into a cab. I don’t remember getting home, and I can’t imagine how I managed to give the driver directions. I struggled out of my clothes and collapsed in bed, not even washing my face. I woke up at 4:00 am with a splitting headache, having dreamt about HIV tests given by cheery people who kept mixing up the results and giving them out in public. My subconscious isn’t all that subtle, it seems.

Walking to the subway station this morning, I checked my voice mail. The phone had rung while I was at Jefferson’s, but I’d assumed it was Marc, since I’d asked him to check in. But aha! It was Daniel. He’d called to see if I was free tonight. Since I was playing it cool, I called him back immediately and said I’d love to get together. I believe this is called self-sabotage. I’ll call you sometime, eh? Call me Tuesday night, pal!

Jefferson had threatened – or promised – to give me bruises that would last nearly a week. I hadn’t had the courage to ask him not to (how could this take courage? It’s my ass! What the hell is up with me?). I don’t want bruises because I’m seeing Jordan on Friday night and am not sure of proper sub etiquette regarding multiple partners leaving welts on one’s ass. I can’t see my ass, but I don’t think it’s bruised. I thought it would hurt to sit down. I was kind of excited about being constantly, physically reminded of my night. Which is strange, considering how ambivalent I was about being hit that hard. But anyway, while it stings, I can’t tell if it’s a response to the spanking or just the latent effects of lycra-heavy tights clinging to by skin three days running. If there’s any visible bruising presumably Daniel will tell me. Wow, I am a slut.

When I got to work there was a nice email from Jefferson. He’s lovely.

I Broaden My Horizons

So last night was my first time as a submissive.

Jordan was about half an hour late – he left a voice message for me at about 5:30-- which of course gave me ample time to get exceptionally nervous. When he did show up he was carrying a backpack (Is that full of … props? I thought, looking at it like it was Bluebeard's locked room) and wearing ridiculous tartan wool pants. Those are not seduction pants. We’re not playing golf, I thought, scowling. I bravely ignored the trousers, and we sat at the bar of the restaurant. I downed a glass of Reisling as quick as I dared. His arm barely brushed mine. We talked a bit about his work, and a bit about how nervous I was.

“I’m really excited to see what it’s like for an inexperienced female submissive,” he said.

“Well,” I laughed awkwardly, “You’ll find out!” I drank some more. “I’m really nervous.”

“You’re not going to do anything wrong," he said, gently, "And I’ll check in with you, OK?” he said.

“OK.”

“What are you afraid of?”

I considered. “I’m afraid that I won’t want to do something and…”

“You’re afraid that I’ll force you to?”

“No…” I wasn’t afraid of that … “I’m afraid I will say no, and we’ll just stop and stare at one another. Or maybe I’m afraid I really will like it. I dunno.” I shook my head.

Jordan took a couple of phone calls from work. By this time it was after 7:00, and I figured he needed to leave by 9:00 to be home at 10:00. I caught him glancing at his watch. Nevertheless, he’d spent more than an hour plying me with alcohol and had been prepared to bide his time and soothe my fears while I ate dinner. Of course, I was too fretful to eat. At this point I was anxious to get moving—the anticipation was taking its toll. Meanwhile he was arguing with a coworker, like the cliché of a obsessed businessman who keeps his mistress waiting. Eventually we left the restaurant and headed back to my place. His phone rang while we were walking up the dark streets, and he kept talking as he followed me to my place, I tried not to laugh. It felt so weird and formal.

Eventually we made it to my house, and I sent Jordan to my room while I went to the bathroom. When I went inside, he was sitting on my bed. I joined him. He slid back against the wall and pulled me towards him. We sat, facing one another.

He took my face in his hands, hard, like he was trying to fit my face into a square. Then he slid his hands underneath my top, and under my bra, grasping my breasts and tweaking my nipples. Hmm. “Take off your top,” he said. I obliged, and he unhooked my bra. He was fully clothed, in the tartan trousers I found so inexplicable. “Now take off your skirt.” I stood up, and did. I hadn’t said a word. I liked it, that I was getting naked while he was fully dressed. “And the rest ofdmsffll..” he mumbled.

“What?” we were whispering, even though no one else was home.

He gestured for me to take off my underwear – pink cotton bikinis. I had given some thought to my underwear. I didn’t have a matching black bra to go with my black underwear (the default color for seduction, I’d say), and I thought pink would be in keeping with my avowed personality: a good girl, inexperienced but submissive. I took everything off. “Now come here,” he said. I climbed back onto the mattress and straddled him. He took my face in his hands, hard, holding me close to him. I said nothing.

“Do I have your permission to spank you?” he whispered.

I hesitated, and he dropped it. “Stroke my cock,” he said.

He was hard and thick underneath his pants. I rubbed my hand along his dick, enjoying it. Eventually he put his mouth on mine, hard, and pushed me onto my back. As he kissed me, or rather rubbed his mouth into mine, I thought, Wait, this is dominance? I had thought the kissing, at least, would be light and teasing, even cruel, working me up. Instead he was mashing his face against mine like a horny ninth grader. I felt like I was recording what we were doing for later, taking notes.

“Open your legs,” he said, so I did. I was totally naked, and he was still dressed. I liked feeling exposed, and defenseless. He slid a finger inside me, and I inhaled sharply. “Ask my permission before you come,” he said. His voice was low and soft.

Fat chance. I knew I wasn’t going to come. It was weird, I was wet but my brain wasn’t turned on. I was a participant, but I felt detached, and strange. He slowly massaged me internally, and I watched him. His expression was, I don’t know, bored? Curious? Calculating? I closed my eyes and whipped my head to one side when his fingers flicked up against me in a teasing way I liked. I could hear that I was wet. For a moment I considered faking an orgasm, but I’m always afraid it’ll be obvious. Sometimes I watched him. Without his glasses, Jordan looked different, and less handsome. His face was rounder.

I know that detachment is a coping mechanism. I read that women who are being raped sometimes recount that during the act they feel like they’re outside of themselves, not involved at all. Of course, everything I was doing was consensual, it wasn’t at all a traumatic experience, but at the same time, I think I was putting that distance there. All along I'd been afraid that I'd be overwhelmed. I hadn't expected to feel outside myself.

Jordan pulled me up again and leaned back against the wall. “Do you want to be a good whore and suck my cock?”

I couldn’t help it: I nodded, beaming. I liked that: whore. “Undo my pants,” he commanded, and I fumbled with his belt and sighed as I touched his cock: it was nice and thick. I leaned down and slipped my mouth around him, my hair getting in the way. He took off his shirt. He wasn’t lean and muscular, like I like, but I wasn’t repelled by his body; it was just different.

“Now lie down on your stomach,” he instructed me after a bit, “I want to look at your ass.” I lay down. I liked it when he used words like ass, and pussy. “And stretch your arms out.” I did, my face buried in my pillows. I still felt peculiar: curious and excited without actually being aroused, maybe. You know, I think recalling this is turning me on more than the actual event. Or maybe I wasn’t prepared to actually enjoy it while it was happening…?

“Spread your ass with your hands, and hold it there.” That I’d never done before. I obeyed, tugging at my skin so that he could get a good view. He slipped a finger inside my asshole, and I jerked, for a moment I was terrified that he’d just begun fucking my ass without a condom. But it was just his finger, slipping in and out of my hole. I think Eddie might have done that before, but never for a sustained period. As Jordan’s other hand slid around to my pussy, I think I moaned.

This went on for a bit. “Do you want me to fuck you?” Jordan whispered at last.

“Yes…”

“Get me a condom.” I struggled out of bed and found the condoms (and the lube, this time). “Now put the condom on me,” he directed. I always fumble this bit. But, following Roger’s lead, when I opened the condom I blew on it to see the tip turn out. Then, without further difficulty, I slipped it over Jordan’s dick. He pushed me back onto my stomach.

“I need some lube, too,” I ventured. He slid some on me and I gasped at the coldness.

He fucked me, doggy style. That is such a vulgar expression, but that about sums it up. He pounded away, breathing against my ear. I enjoyed it, in my minimal way.

“I’m going to slap your ass,” he announced, and I didn’t protest. He slapped me. It didn’t hurt. It stung, but it didn’t feel bad. While I was considering this he slapped me again, and once more. I wondered if he was holding back, if he could have hit much harder. My Dad occasionally belted me when I was a kid. It’s taboo now, but this was the early 1980’s, and besides, my dad is from an older generation. No doubt his dad smacked his ass, too, on occasion. Not that being slapped by Jordan was an incest thing… my mind was wandering.

He pumped against me and I was relaxing into the motion when he came. I was a little disappointed that it was over so quick. I probably could have handled a few more slaps on my ass; I probably would have liked a few more.

Afterwards we both sat slumped against the wall, like two wallflowers at a party. “How was that?” Jordan asked.

“Good,” I said. I was a little breathless. And still felt so remote from the whole experience. We talked a bit, and Jordan detailed some of his inclinations:
“I know you said how that guy [he meant Pete] told you he wanted you to wear something, and how you said you were so wary of being dominated in any non sexual way, so I didn’t tell you this before, because I knew it would freak you the fuck out,” he said.

“Thanks for sparing me,” I grimaced.

“But, I’d like it, if, say, we were out, and I told you not to cross your legs.”

“Oooh,” I said, thinking about this.

“So you’d have to think about not crossing your legs, and you'd know you couldn't and would have to think about it. Maybe you’d cross your arms instead, and I’d touch them… that really turns me on,” he said. "And I liked having my finger in your ass, knowing that you were..."

"Yeah, I've never had anal sex," I said.

"You're a good girl," he said. "I liked that .... I wasn't holding back, when I spanked you," he offered. "I don't like holding back, it's a real turn off."

I was glad I'd been able to take it. Just writing that last sentence makes me feel very submissive. But I felt sort of like I'd proven myself, like when I deny myself a mild curry and order something spicier than I'm used to.

"And I like it when women shave their pussies," Jordan said, looking at my neatly trimmed but not fully shaven crotch.

"I've never done that," I said, as if he couldn't have guessed. We both stared at my unshaven pussy.

"Would you do it?"

"I don't know," I said. "It would probably itch a lot, growing back."

"Yeah," he said, and I heard the subtext: I'd like that.

I have mixed feelings about the Brazilian. First of all, I'm not into pain. I've never even had my bikini line waxed (though that would be tolerable, I suppose) and I can't imagine the way a full Brazilian would hurt. Also, of course there's the feminist ideological issue: why should I make my sex look childlike? Why do we fetishize the pre-adolescent look? I'm a grown woman, it's not shameful or unattractive to have pubic hair, right? So why should I cater to society's infantalizing fantasies about women? Blah, blah, blah.

Really, when did anyone other than strippers and centerfolds start waxing themselves bare? Not until I was old enough to think it was a silly trend. If I was twelve, maybe I would think it was an unexceptional, rather than a bizarre idea. But I'm not a centerfold or a stripper, and although I can respect (though not really admire) sex work and the people who perform it, I wouldn't want to be thought of as either. I don't even wear thongs because a) they're uncomfortable and b) when they're visible to the people walking behind you -- as they often seem to be -- it just seems inappropriate and suggestive. Suggestiveness belongs in strip clubs, not on the subway platform. I think. Like I think a thong or a g-string that's meant to be seen is a nod not to sexuality, but to the idea of objectification. It glorifies objectification. I kind of like being objectified (or at least told I'm gorgeous) but I think it's pushy and wrong to titillate on a public thoroughfare, you know? I also think coiffed pubic hair in the shape of hearts and Swavorski-crystal decorated pussies are exceptionally tasteless, too. Or, what the hell, maybe I'm turning into my mother. Oh, fuck it, I don't know.

I had to pee, but it sort of had translated into horniness. I wanted him to put his hand between my legs. He was very up front about the fact that it is domination, it is about control. He didn't dress it up or make it sound more palatable, although politically he's liberal, not a chauvinist, and, indeed, a nice man. “Although part of my pleasure is that you’re getting pleasure out of it,” he added. “I liked it when you sucked my cock.”

“I liked sucking your cock,” I said. Cause I had. I didn’t tell him to touch my pussy, instead I stood up, and started to dress. I really had to pee.

“Do you mind if I call a car service?” he asked.

“Not at all,” I said. I was relieved. I wanted to be alone, to process this. “I’ll get the yellow pages.”

He called a cab and I gave him my address, knowing that when he left I would crumple up the piece of paper, not wanting any evidence of tonight. When he left, I decided, maybe I’d take a shower. He hadn’t smelled bad, not at all, but I think he smelled wrong to me. I didn’t like the idea that his scent would be noticeable in my bed. Of course, he’d never turned down the covers: we’d fucked on top of my quilt. I considered dropping it off at the Laundromat on the way to work.

“So what did you think? Want to do it again?” he asked. I hesitated, “Or give it some thought?”

“Yes,” I said, relieved. Then we got onto the topic of whether or not blow jobs were submissive. “At first I thought it’s about a woman having power over me, but now I see it as a submissive act, all for my pleasure,” Jordan said.

“I think it’s a submissive act if you don’t like it,” I said thoughtfully. “I’m lucky, I enjoy it.” And I do mean lucky. Women who don’t like – or refuse to give – blowjobs are often dismissed as frigid, or prudes. I’m sure lots of women give head without really enjoying it. I love the sensation of a cock in my mouth. I love feeling filled up. I don’t think that necessarily makes me sexually open or mature, it’s just cause I have an oral fixation. I sucked my thumb well into childhood, after all. That being said, I don’t like the taste of cum. I find it acrid and bitter, but who doesn’t? I rarely swallow (in fact I’ve only done it once, with Eddie). I suppose that puts me in the middle of the oral sex continuum of depravity.

“At first I thought it was really submissive, but now I like going down on a guy and knowing I’m the one responsible for that pleasure, for his moans and whatnot,” I said at last.

A car honked outside.

“That was quick." We stood up. "Going to see me to the door?” he asked.

“Of course.” I accompanied him downstairs, and while he put on his shoes I waved out the door at what I took to be his car. He kissed me, and once again slid his hands underneath my shirt and pinched my nipples. I still wasn’t sure what I thought of this.

“Get home safe,” I said, and shut the door behind him.

My roommates were about by this time, so I joined them in the kitchen. I ended up giving them a brief resume of my evening. As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I regretted them. But I was in that weird place where you don’t pay attention to a habit of discretion, I guess. “I don’t know if I am submissive, or if it’s him,” I sighed to Jenny and Anna as I cut us slices of the sour cream cake I’d made on Sunday. Anna brought in her space heater, since our heat is on the fritz. We sat there, eating cake with raspberry jam and waiting for the hot water to boil for tea.

“What about that other guy?”

“Oh, Daniel?”

“He was your type,” said Anna.

“He was totally your type,” Jenny agreed. I didn't say anything. We just sat there, and drank our tea.

Coda:
This morning I had an email from Jordan, thanking me for last night and asking if I wanted to do it again. Last night I thought absolutely not, but I’m wavering a bit this morning. Now that I've had time to get over the initial terror, I can see the possibilities. I’m grateful to him. He made it easy for me, was totally generous and thoughtful. Maybe I’m not really ready for a submissive relationship. I have no idea. All I know is that I’m looking forward to seeing Daniel tonight. And I have to change my sheets ASAP.

Nerves

I'm really scared about tonight.

Even though on our lunch date I was perfectly comfortable (after it became clear that Jordan was not an adulterous slimebag), I'm absolutely terrified now. I've never had sex with anyone more than three years older than me. He's 39. He's an experienced dominant (is that a noun?). I don't mind reiterating that this is new for me, and that I want to go slow, and no doubt I will, but oh, I'm really nervous. I'm not afraid that he'd hurt me, but I am scared I won't enjoy myself but still feel compelled to go through with it. Or maybe I'm scared that I really will enjoy myself? Just thinking about this makes me feel sick. And we have a dinner to get through first. I can just picture the Outback Steakhouse on a Tuesday night -- a loud game televised at the bar, with a few regulars watching; a smattering of couples and families in the dining room, the out-of-place ambient lighting that doesn't go with the slow paced, super hearty staff in a restaurant without windows located in the interior of a mall, and, most terrifying of all, the prospect of our awkward conversation and my need for another glass of wine.

First Contact with New Boys: Urgh

I just got a call from Rick. As soon as I heard his voice I thought, Hmm, bet he’s an actor and, No. NO. No. Also, almost as soon as I said "Hi," he launched into this anecdote about the guy at his Laundromat sniffing his clothes. (Very strange: just noticed that Spell Check capitalizes Laundromat. I never knew it was a proper noun.) To be fair, the story was pretty funny, but I don’t know. I must have a weird hypersensitivity that makes me say, No. NO. No. Sort of like having allergies. I’m sure Rick’s not bad at all, and, after my first few moments of panic I calmed down, and I think he sounds OK. It occurs to me that on every first phone call with a guy I automatically think No. NO. No. I think that might be based more on the fact that I hate talking on the phone with men I’ve never met; I find it nerve-wracking in the extreme. So it’s probably more of a reflection on me than him. Anyway, we have tentative plans for tonight, though I told him that I do go to bed muy early, and we may end up rescheduling since he has lots to do before going out of town on Friday. He (or at least his voice) reminds me a bit of Eddie. Bad things about Eddie: a)totally flaky actor b)didn’t even get to break up with him since he disappeared on me. Good things about Eddie: a)kind of liberating to be involved with someone with whom I neither had nor wanted a future b)the sex.

OK, so if Rick is reasonably attractive, maybe I can parlay this into a casual kind of sitch?

And speaking of the future, I have a date with JAG (whom for the purpose of this diary I will term Ben) on Saturday afternoon. I much, much prefer first dates to be in a bar, where my nerves can be blunted with the judicious application of alcohol to the gullet. But he suggested Saturday afternoon, and The Rules say you’re supposed to let the man do the suggesting. I mean, I’m being facetious; The Rules are 1950s-era moral tenets disguised as dating etiquette, and I thoroughly disapprove of the book(s) and the(ir) authors, one of whom is named Sherry. I mean, really: Sherry. (That was really quite snotty of me, but as no one's reading this, I'll let it pass).

But I do prefer the guy to make the suggestion. For two reasons: a)takes the pressure off me and b)I like the idea that he’s given it some thought. Or maybe it’s just cause I am a CLOSET SEXIST. Ah, whatever.