Celebrities About Whom I Never Fantasized Until They Appeared in My Dreams and Who I Now Kind of Want

1. Michael Cera
2. Samantha Ronson

Yes, Michael Cera, of Superbad. What’s up with that, subconscious? Ever since this dream which I barely remember, I’ve found him more and more attractive. Which is, frankly, so weird. In fact, I may insist Sweetheart Daniel accompany me to a showing of Nick and Norah’s Infinite Playlist.

As for Samantha Ronson, well, if she was a guy and I was 15, she’d definitely be my type: scrawny, slouched, rebellious-looking. But really. How could I fancy a girl who's in love with Lindsay Lohan? I would think any lesbian crush I might have would have more refined tastes.

Note to brain: Cut it out!

Love Train!

I got an apartment! It’s small, and has a miniscule kitchen, but then, my literary hero, Laurie Colwin, once lived in a place “approximately the size of the Columbia Encyclopedia,” and if she could do it, so can I. And thanks to the generosity of my friend Marc, I am able to clear out my bank account and pay the first month’s rent, last month’s rent and broker’s fee! I move in October 1.

I watched the Democratic National Convention roll call the other night—it was like the Miss America pageant. Each delegate announced, “Madam Speaker, I’m from the great state of __[Montana, Missourah]___, home of the ______ mountain range [cheers]; _______ [nineteenth century politico or writer nominated for a Pulitzer in 1986] and _______ [really bad for you regional food]! Here with me are _______ [name of state comptroller, local officials who haven’t been indicted, etc.] And we cast _____ votes for Hillary Rodham Clinton and _____ votes for the next president of the United States, Barack Obama! [Cheers, cheers, cheers,as Molesworth sa.]

When Obama was nominated by acclamation, the O’Jays’ “Love Train” came on. Is that the campaign theme or just a CNN invention? Either way, I felt a little shivery watching Democrats wave their arms about and elderly civil rights leaders from Mississippi choke back tears. I mean, if I were running for office, I'd want the support of The O’Jays’ Philly soul, myself.

Then later I went to Jefferson’s shindig at Happy Ending. I was booked to sell raffle tickets, which I did not realize would involve me wrapping my arms around the waists, bosoms, etc. of strangers (the “around the world” option—$10 got you as many raffle tickets as your girth could supply). For a once and future slut, I’m a little uneasy about having my hands all over people. But I did my best. All for the cause, man.

It was lovely to see Viviane, Lolita, Boymeat, Callie, Wendy, Selina, and lots of others including a cool girl who told me all about this neat Neil Gaiman project. I also enjoyed two cheap and delicious Mr. Gingers (vodka, ginger ale, and lime juice, and I’d love the recipe). The very cutest boys there were, alas, friends of the bartender, but on my way out, I saw Mmmark, and, and I am sorry to say my intentions were not just tawdry but obvious:

Mmmark: (tapping me on the shoulder): Hey there.

Me: Hi! Hi!

We hug.

Me: How are you?

Mmmark: I’m good…. I’m moving….

Me: (thinking: Gosh, Mmmark looks great! Did he cut his hair?) Really? My best friend lives around the corner! He’s having a barbeque this weekend. You should come!

Mmmark: Hmmm. How have you been?

Me: Oh, well, my boyfriend and I broke up, so I’m dipping my toes in the water again… (thinking: Jesus, that’s subtle. Not.) I’d love to see you. (thinking: You are throwing yourself at him! Shut up, shut up, shut up!) Well, it’s late, I’ve got to run. Byeeee!

I run out before I actually start slobbering.

But I’m glad my libido is showing signs of life.

Whinge, Whinge, Whinge

I spent the weekend apartment hunting, which was completely demoralizing. I’ve been in my current apartment for three and a half years, and it is cheap, cheap, cheap. But I have two roommates, who are not particularly neat, and I’m desperate to get my own place. In most cities, working people can afford to do this before the age of 35. OK, in New York City, most people can afford to do this before the age of 35, too, but not me. It’s only in the last year that I finally got a full time editorial job and paid off my credit card debt. Anyway, I decided that at last I would get a small studio or one bedroom in a quiet neighborhood in an outer borough—I wasn’t aiming for anything too desirable. It didn’t even have the have a laundry room, just be reasonably near a subway station and not disgusting, in a basement, or the size of a cubicle.

But even though I’m out of debt (I mean, except for my student loans, natch), I’m still poor, and I discovered that my budget had been very optimistic. For what I wanted to pay, I was eligible for very little. So I resigned myself to paying close to half my salary in rent, but even with that, I’ll be lucky to get a cramped fourth floor walkup studio.

I’m too old for this.

I’ve always hated August. When I was a kid, I think I had my first depressive episodes at the end of the summer. One August, every time I heard a plane overhead I was sure a nuclear war was about to start. I lived near two airports.

August is almost over, and I’ll find a place I can afford and be comfortable in eventually, it’s just that I have so little patience these days. I’m cranky and maladjusted and resentful. I don’t even cry. I just check my email and mope. And wait. For what, I don’t even know. To grow up, probably.

The Cycle of Grief: Boring and Probably Lengthy

It’s been just over three weeks since Dean and I broke up. After the first four days, I didn’t even cry. Which is unlike me. For about two weeks my emotional state would best be described as detached. I thought of him, but it was along the lines of “Well, this is for the best, now I can date someone with an actual job.” Or: “He doesn’t want kids.” Then a few days ago I thought of him, and I decided he probably wasn’t thinking of me. This made me angry.

I remember what he said to me the night we broke up, regarding our future: “I’ve been meaning to talk to my shrink about this…” meaning, he knew that I’d been thinking about the future, and he wanted to discuss his feelings with his shrink and then bring it up with me. Only he never did, and all of a sudden, this statement infuriated me. He’d been meaning to discuss it? It just never came up in conversation with the person he discusses his emotional life with? Of course not, he was too busy talking about poker! It just underlined how low on his list of priorities I was. And to top it all off, then he went and told me he hadn’t gotten around to talking about it, like I would understand that this was a chore he’d been putting off. And I think of him now: maybe missing me a little, but mostly just relieved that it’s over and he can go back to playing poker online and trying to stop his mother from decimating the family fortune.

He emailed me a week after we broke up. He wrote, “I don’t know if you want to hear from me right now, but I’m thinking of you…” and signed it Love, always, Dean. I was relieved, pleased to hear from him. We exchanged a few emails but then I stopped—it didn’t seem like a good idea. Then, that weekend, I forwarded him a New York Times article I wanted him to see, because that’s the kind of thing I’d done in the past and it seemed harmless enough. He didn’t respond. I hope he didn’t get it, because a) it’s not like him to ignore an email and b) that would really be mean, wouldn’t it? We haven’t been in touch since.

But he has some of my clothes and I have several books and a power strip of his. And I know, just know, it will be up to me to initiate this exchange. He’s not going to contact me, because he’s in the process of putting me away. This is what I started thinking a few days ago. And now tears well up in my eyes and I want to wring his neck and although I haven’t actually wept, I’ve come close.

I looked up the cycle of grief during a breakup and it goes like this:

1. Shock and Denial


2. Great Emotion


3. Acceptance, Reorganization, and Reintegration

I guess I was in shock and denial and now I’m inching towards Great Emotion (in my case, anger). For a while I felt OK, knowing that I will never sleep with him again, never have him pull his fingers through my hair; call me sweetie; insist I snuggle with him; drink kirs with his father and stepmother; listen to him complain about his brother; play Scrabble; trade entrees; hear his name on my voice mail. But maybe that was the Shock part. And now I’m furious that he couldn’t love me enough to even think about marrying me. Or pretend to. Furious that his priorities didn’t really include me, even though we made each other happy. I thought that our romantic contentment ought to be appreciated as a rarity. I mean, it is in my life. I’ve had a number of boyfriends and have loved several of them, but we’ve rarely made one another happy. At least not on a regular basis.

But I bet Dean’s not going through any Great Emotion now. He’s not thinking about me when he can’t sleep, he’s not considering under what circumstances he could possibly call me in the middle of the night. (Last night while I wasn’t sleeping I determined that if one of my parents died, I would feel comfortable calling him. He’d be good about that.)

I have to avoid his neighborhood. I was there recently, and of course there were memories attached to every store, ever street corner. Unfortunately my therapist’s office in on the edge of neighborhood, and my shrink’s office is literally three blocks from his apartment. Luckily I only have to see my shrink once a month. Still, I think. Still.

New Blogroll

I added a few sites (and deleted one; sorry, Google News) from the blogroll. Check them out. Especially I Can Has Cheezburger. Come on! LOLcats are awesome, man.

I'm an FOJ (Friend of Jefferson)

Yikes. I copied this from Viviane's Sex Carnival. Jefferson could use your help:


An important member of the sex-positive community urgently needs our help.

Jefferson—blogger, educator, and dear friend to so many of us—is at this moment fighting a court battle with his ex-wife, who is seeking full custody of their three children.

Jefferson’s love for his children has been well-documented on his blog One Life, Take Two for years. His ex-wife has stated in court that he is a “great” father who loves his children.

However, among her claims is that his bisexuality makes him an unfit parent.

Jefferson needs our help now. As a writer, his resources are limited. The costs of fighting this case are mounting quickly—and will certainly run into the tens of thousands of dollars.

As of today, there is an urgent and immediate need for at least $20,000 to cover costs associated with attorney fees and those of the law guardian who has been appointed to represent the children.

If he is unable to pay these fees by August 11, he will be forced to relinquish custody of his children.

This case is of concern to anyone whose sexuality does not fit the standard mold—because it could happen to you. This case is of concern to all writers, because Jefferson’s blog is being used as evidence against him—and that could have repercussions for our First Amendment rights.

Here’s how to help:

Make an ANONYMOUS, TAX-DEDUCTIBLE contribution to Jefferson’s legal defense by visiting the Sexual Freedom Defense and Education Fund at:
www.sfldef.org.

There you will find out how to donate to Jefferson’s Defense Fund via PayPal or if you prefer, check or money order.

Please note that you MUST mention that your donation be used for the JEFFERSON LEGAL DEFENSE FUND.

In the coming days, www.onelifetaketwo.com will be relaunched with information about Jefferson’s ongoing case. Be sure to visit his blog for updates. In the meantime, you can contact Jefferson directly at friendsofjefferson@gmail.com.

Feel free to copy this and post it to your blog or any email lists, or link back to this post. More graphics may be found here.

Reunion

To GMG

The train platform looked right out of a movie – a romance set in the 1940’s, maybe, where women with hairsprayed curls and tailored suits fling themselves into the arms of tall, handsome men with crew cuts.

The train was late, but last it chugged up, and its honk was the exact same bullhorn whine that I remembered from the Long Island Railroad and the Metro North, the sound of commuter dads arriving in Croton-on-Harmon on a summer evening. I forced myself not to run to the platform.

He was one of the last to get off the train, and he looked just as I’d imagined, in his red sweatshirt, blue jeans and baseball cap, lugging a bag over his shoulder. Our eyes met and I waved, and when he reached me I wrapped my arms around him and he picked me up.

“Dean,” I said. I hadn’t seen him in two weeks. I’d missed the smell of his neck. He kissed me, and then he kissed me again.

***
I was attending a writing program at a college some hours’ drive from New York. Dean and I had parted in Las Vegas after the 4th of July weekend, which we’d spent sneaking into hotel swimming pools and wandering through air conditioned lobbies. Dean had played poker in tournaments and cash games, while I’d visited the hotel gym, read novels, and won a cool $45 at blackjack.

I don’t think we had been apart this long since we started dating. In fact, we’d be dating a year this weekend.

We checked into the bed and breakfast decorated in Early English Tchotcke, and then I drove us into town, where we had a few drinks at the lavish old hotel on the main street. The college was in a Victorian spa town, and it was heavy on the charm, with gingerbread houses and expensive antique stores.

After a late dinner I drove back to the B and B. I undressed and I climbed into the queen-sized bed with its many, many throw pillows.

Dean slid on top of me and it was such a relief to have his body against mine, the long, lean length of it. I buried my face in his shoulder.

Often when he kisses me he mashes his mouth against mine, but this time he kissed me softly, teasing me, and I was grateful as well as excited. He bent over me and instead of plunging his tongue inside me, his nose just brushed against my clit. I gasped, and wriggled up against him. Thank God Dean has such a long, aquiline nose. “I love you, Lily,” he said in hoarse, tender voice he gets when we’re having sex.

“I love you, too,” I whispered. He held my hands down as I shook beneath him. I missed you, I thought, but I didn’t say it. After all, he hadn’t.

***
On Saturday morning I rubbed my head against his shoulder, like a cat. We lay facing one another, blinking at the sun slanting through the too-thin curtains. He slid inside me.

“Can I put my finger in your ass?” he whispered.

I nodded. “Go slow.” He did and we lay with our legs entwined, fucking. “You like to penetrate me?”

“Uh huh!” When he came I felt a little cheated. Huh!

“Let me get on top,” I said, and we rolled over. I pushed myself against him. “Lick my nipples,” I ordered, thrusting my tits at him.

He started to buck beneath me. “No,” I said. “You already came. Now it’s my turn.” I rocked back and forth, measuring my breath. “That’s right, suck them. Like that.” I came almost immediately, and we lay clasped together in the bed, my face clamped against his chest.

***
In the afternoon we went to a nearby county fair. I beat him at the whack-a-mole and we spent close to $20 on an addictive arcade game in which you insert quarters, which are supposed to then push previously inserted money over the edge of a metal ledge and into your hot little hands. We found this game terrifically compelling. We were the only adults on the bumper cars, and a foray into a partially-closed house of mirrors ended after just a minute when we easily picked our way through the maze. We stood outside the fun house, dazed at how easy it had been. “As a metaphor,” I said, mindful of all the short stories whereby couples get lost in the fun house, “That sucked.”

We got on the ferris wheel, and I was reminded of our first trip to Atlantic City, soon after we met last summer. We’d held hands on the boardwalk, which I’d found disconcerting, though I’d liked it, and I’d gone on my first ferris wheel. We kissed in the pastel-colored car as it gently swung back and forth. We kissed on this ferris wheel, too, and I looked out at the green fields below.

In the evening we drove back into town and ended up at the same Victorian hotel we’d had drinks at the first night. We headed out to the back garden, seated ourselves in Adirondack chairs, and ordered drinks. Dean studied the paper while I read one of my classmate’s short stories.

On my second planter’s punch I took the plunge, figuring I’d rather bring this up when drunk. “Dean, I have to talk to you about something,” I said. It was a beautiful evening, dusk just falling, the air mild and clear.

“I know,” said Dean. “You’re afraid I’ll give you advice about your writing at the reading on Sunday.” Writing students had been invited take part in a reading the following afternoon. In a fit of boldness, I’d signed up. And I’ve been very wary of having Dean read my writing. He can be a harsh critic—I’ve seen the notes he’s written on other people’s work, and I’m not anxious to submit myself to his tutoring, however good or well-meaning it is. My feeling is that as my boyfriend, he should keep to a cheerleading role. As in: “Lily, your writing is great!” rather than “No, sweetie, this doesn’t make any sense.” That’s what editors and instructors and writing classes are for. Honeys are for unmitigated moral support. In my opinion, anyway.

“No, no,” I said. “It’s not that.” I swallowed.

“Do you want to talk about it back at the B and B?”

As I was drunk and feared my nerve would not withstand the onslaught of sobriety, no. “Let’s talk about it now,” I slurred. He put down The New York Times.

I gulped more of my drink. Dean’s face blurred. “You know,” I dipped my head, meeting Dean’s eyes and then looking away, “We’ve been dating for almost a year now…”

Oh, God, I was actually saying it. “I love you, and I’m really happy with you, but, I want. I want,” I paused. “I want to have children.” Lest he get the wrong impression, I rushed on: “I mean, not now. I’m not ready now, but in, like, five years, and I want to know…”

Dean took my hands. “I know,” he said. “I know you’ve been thinking about it. I’ve been thinking about it too, and I’ve wanted to bring it up, too.”

Seriously, he had thought about it? Had he discussed it with his therapist? I’d had the distinct impression that I did not come up much during the course of Dean’s four-times-a-week therapy sessions.

On one hand, this galled me. I talk about Dean all the time with my sainted therapist, Caroline. On the other hand, Dean had a lot of stuff to work on, in part because he’d apparently spent the first 35 years of his life avoiding therapy. I figured I was a source of happiness for him, and he wasn’t bringing me up with his shrink because our relationship didn’t need the help of a licensed psychotherapist. I mean, Dean does have serious issues to deal with. Like his mother, who, in my wholly unscientific opinion, suffers from one or more Cluster B (dramatic, emotional, or erratic) personality disorders, as per the DSM-IV. Like his father, whom Dean resents. Like his older brother, who is successful and not very interested in Dean, and whom Dean really, really resents. (I suspect his brother dominates a good portion of Dean’s sessions). Like the sister with a lot of problems. Like his stalled career. Like his poker strategy, the discussion of which also allows him the opportunity for personal reflection. For instance, if Dean loses money at poker, does it mean he’s sabotaging himself because he doesn’t have enough self confidence? Does his future lie in tournaments or cash games? And other interesting questions.

“I mean, I’m not ready for kids now,” I reiterated, in case he hadn’t got that part, “But I want to be in a relationship with someone with whom that can happen…”

“Lily,” said Dean. “I love you, too, and I want you to be happy.” And then I realized what was happening. “I’m not going to be ready to have kids in five years. And maybe not at all.”

Our heads were bent close together, and our hands were clasped. I was close to tears. “Dean,” I said.

“Sweetie,” he said, and his face kind of collapsed. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.” Then I covered my mouth with my hand, as though this would keep me from talking, or crying. “I know you love me, but I’m not a priority for you.” He nodded. “I want to be a priority.” Dean’s current priorities include trying to become a professional poker player and dealing with his mother. I wanted our relationship to be more than a pleasant distraction to him.

“Don’t cry,” I said, and then I started to cry, too. This had not been how I planned this discussion, not how I planned it at all. Then I changed my mind: “Thank you for crying,” I wept. “I didn’t think you’d have any tears for me.”

“I’m ambivalent,” Dean wiped his eyes. “And you deserve to be with someone who’s not ambivalent.”

“Oh, Dean.” I clung to him, and the garden swam in front of my eyes.

Thus our breakup.

We left the hotel and walked along the main street. It was dark but warm, and people were everywhere. I felt raw and stiff, like my chest was sandwiched between two pieces of plywood. I was afraid if I breathed too deeply, or moved too much, I would start to cry again. I gripped Dean’s hand, and he gripped back. We swam among the crowds. “What’s that noise?”

A crowd had gathered outside of a Borders, where a young boy stood in the lamplight. I squinted; he was playing the guitar. “Layla,” he cried in a heartfelt, off-key tenor, “You’ve got me on my knees!”

Dean and I looked at each other. The crowd appeared impressed, not by his singing, which was atrocious, but by the very fact of a kid not more than 14 crooning Eric Clapton’s heartbreak classic with technique-less abandon, and playing with some skill. “He’s got a terrible voice,” said Dean, with some admiration.

“But he’s a good player.” And, indeed, if he wasn’t just playing Guitar Hero but was instead really strumming, he was a talented guitarist. After a moment, we started walking again. It occurred to me that there were lots of literary metaphors here, after all.

We were seated at an outdoor café, where I promptly started to weep again. “Sweetie,” Dean began, then bent over, wiped his eyes, and blew his nose into a paper napkin. I was relieved not to be the only one crying. I didn’t know how I was going to make it through the meal without breaking down every five minutes, but I only cried intermittently, which was something.

Afterwards Dean drove us back to the B and B. I took a shower, letting my tears mingle with the cool water, and then I climbed into bed, naked. Dean showered. I thought we’d have break up sex. In fact I was looking forward to Dean being inside of me one last time, of him whispering, “I love you, Lily,” while I tearfully clung to him, but instead I lay chaste and sad underneath the chenille bedspread. I thought I might go to sleep early. I turned off the light, while Dean stared at his laptop.

I turned onto my side but tears leaked out of my eyes. “Sweetie, don’t cry,” murmured my ex-boyfriend.

“I wish,” I sniffled, turning on the light, “I wasn’t quite so in touch with my emotions.” I started to cry in earnest once again.

“Lily,” said Dean. “Lily.” He wrapped his arms around me. His voice cracked. “You know we’re going to have a lifelong friendship.”

That sounded very, very unappealing, as well as weirdly formal. “I don’t want to be your friend,” I wept. “I love you.” I wanted him to be jealous of other men I dated. I didn’t want us to be companionable.

“I love you, too.” He stroked my hair.

“I guess I think that if you loved me more, you’d want to try.” And that, to me, was the crux of the matter. He hadn’t even had to think about it when I brought it up. I hadn’t gotten a chance to say the rest of my spiel, which was, This isn’t something you have to decide now. Think about it, and let’s talk in a few weeks. And what that meant was: I love you. I don’t want to break up. But as soon as I brought up the idea of the future, he jumped right to the break up, like he was relieved. He’d already made up his mind. He’d sooner break up with me than even consider the possibility of us getting married and having a family. That hurt.

“It’s because I love you that I don’t want you to miss the boat on this. Having a family.”

“I know.” And that’s true. But. “It wouldn’t be so bad if I weren’t convinced you’re going to get married and have kids.” Because I am. I think he’ll do just as his brother did: meet a woman 15 or so years his junior when he’s close to 50 and grown up enough. And because she’ll be so smart and beautiful and accomplished and he’ll be so aware of how lucky he is, when she says, “I want to have children,” he’ll realize he’s onto a good thing and ought to land her quick. So they’ll get married and have children. And I swear to God, if he does this before I do, I won’t be responsible for my behavior.

He shook his head. But I think that’s what’ll happen. “I wish I could have made you happy,” I said in a small voice.

“Don’t say that,” he said, almost harshly, and then he started to cry again. “Don’t say that. You’ve made me really happy.”

What I meant was: I wish that you’d loved me enough to be unwilling to let me go. I wish having children with me didn’t seem like too high a cost for keeping me by your side. I wish keeping us together was your priority.

Here’s a story. I work with this woman named Lara. She’s 42. She met her now-husband a few years ago. She told me that after they’d been dating for six months, she asked him, “Where are we going?” He’s ten years her senior, childless, and divorced. He said to her: “I don’t love you, I don’t want to marry you, and I don’t want any kids.” (How incredibly harsh!) So Lara said, “Well, you’re giving me nothing to work with. I guess we’re breaking up.”

Two days later he showed up on her doorstep, red-eyed, and begged her to take him back. “So he got some therapy,” concluded Lara—the optimistic ending to most healthy modern romances, it appears. They wed a year ago, and last month she had a baby.

The point isn’t that she got her way, or even that what Lara wanted wasn’t too high a price for Jim who, despite not seeming to want anything that Lara did, eventually agreed to everything Lara desired. The point is that Jim seems really happy now. She had to convince him, but he seems pleased with how things turned out.

“I’ve just broken up with two women who made me happy,” Dean continued. “Lily, I’m fucked up.” Well, I knew that already, and plus, I wanted to say, This isn’t about you! This isn’t about your issues! And anyway, how could his ex have made him really happy? She wouldn’t sleep with him! Of course, she is younger and prettier than I. And I think she went to Harvard. But anyway, what was the point? Maybe, for Dean, this was just another anecdote on his journey to adulthood. Maybe this would be a stick he could beat himself with in therapy. Maybe, for Dean, the real point was why, as a fortysomething with a degree from an Ivy League college and no serious drug problem, he lives the life of an independent teenager.

***
The next morning we checked out of the bed and breakfast. “Did you have a good stay?” asked one half of the polite, mustached male couple who ran the place.

“We had a great time,” Dean said.

“Except for the breaking up part,” I whispered as we edged out of the chintzy living room towards the door.

Outside, it was overcast. I was glad; I didn’t want to see the sun today. We walked to the car and once more, tears welled up in my eyes. “Sweetie,” Dean said helplessly. “Sweetheart.”

I blinked. He’s called me Sweetie since the night we met. He won’t call me sweetie anymore, I realized. Or if he does, it will only make me want to cry.

**
When I pulled up in front of the train station it was raining lightly, and I followed him to the entrance to the station house. He put his hands on my shoulders, and I burst into tears for what felt like the twentieth time in less than 24 hours. “Sweetie, sweetie,” Dean said again, earnestly, and I could see my tears might get a little wearing. “I love you. You’ll be fine. I’ll call you in a week or two,” he said firmly, kissing me, and I knew I’d be waiting for his call.

He went into the station and I went back to the car but I didn’t drive away. I sat there, watching the rain beat on the windshield. What if his train was really delayed, like it had been on Thursday night? Maybe I should offer to drive him back to the B and B. Only now I was no longer his girlfriend, and there was no rationale for me to think like that, to take his comfort and convenience into consideration. Eventually I turned the engine on and drove around to the parking lot, where I watched the train pull up.

Dean was easy to spot – he was undoubtedly the tallest person there; he is probably the tallest person wherever he goes. I watched him climb on board, and then there was nothing else to do, nothing else to wait for. I turned on the engine on again and edged the car towards the exit. And it occurred to me that for weeks I’d hear his laugh from stranger’s mouths. Then I drove off into the rain, waiting until I started to cry again.

My Brush with Greatness

So last night I was at this restaurant with Dean. It’s near his apartment, and we go there a lot. And next to us is a couple, clearly on their first date. And then an older woman enters and goes up to a man I’ve just noticed — he’s sitting parallel to me on the banquette, so I can't really see him. She leans over to say something to him and I think, “How nice. Two old folk on a blind date, we’re all on dates here...”

But instead of sitting next to the man, this older woman then goes to another table by herself and starts reading a magazine. It’s then that what she said to him finally registers with me. It was, “Are you Philip Roth?”

Unfortunately I hadn’t heard his response, so I nudge Dean and ask him if he thinks the oldish man with graying dark hair is Philip Roth and we both surreptitiously sneak a look. We’re pretty sure it's him, and then we're really sure a few minutes later, when he's joined by a very pretty, very young woman.

Say it Again

We were lying in Dean’s bed, having just exhausted ourselves in the approved-of manner. I was feeling sex-dazed and sleepy. It was, as usual, late for me (after midnight). At Dean’s, I always make a bid to get to bed early, and it never works.

I smirked at Dean. But then he looked at me in a funny way and before I could get much further than raising an interrogative brow, he said, “I love you, Lily.”

My skin went hot and I thought, Say it again. I said, “I love you too.” I felt flooded with a rich, sad tenderness, as if I might cry. Then I added, “But you can say it again.”

So he said, again, “I love you.”

I rubbed my cheek against his shoulder, and he stroked my hair. “I love you, too. But you knew that, right?” I mean, it was pretty obvious how much I dote on him. “Didn’t you?”

Ah, Romance

Interior: Dean’s bedroom, late at night. I collapse on top of my boyfriend in post-coital exhaustion.

Dean: Why, young lady, if I didn’t know better, I would say you just came.

Me: (panting) Nah, I was faking it.

Your Good Deed

Hey there.

Most of you found my blog via Jefferson, charming orgy host and mentor of sluts throughout the U.S and abroad.

As you probably know, he's in a jam at the moment and is hurting for the bucks.

Since Jefferson has been so good to me, what with the orgasms and cute indie boys and amusing anecdotes, I sent him some cash. I bet he's been good to you too, what with the nekkid Australian girls and erotica and songs. Not to mention the stories. So please do your best, and send him some lovin' (and by lovin', I mean money).

And next week, it's back to my slut beginnings in the far-off days of March 2006....

My Year in Review

As Lou Reed once noted, “Sorry it took awhile.”

2007 Round Up: The Year in Living Somewhat Dangerously

Most “Holy Smokes, I Can't Believe this is Happening!” Moment: My First Orgy. Well, duh. Was it the writhing crowd on the bed? Jed’s dick? Jefferson’s unflappability? The cookies Callie baked on the living room table? At any rate, just attending made me feel cool and subversive. Hooking up with Mmmark and then Jed, both of whom are so cute and nice, was likewise thrilling.

Things About Jefferson that Made Me Laugh: The sight of him, naked, in lace up black leather boots with a pink ribbon around his balls; his “Daddy Likes” t-shirt; and that when I, worried that a mutual acquaintance had slept with almost 100 people, making him, in my opinion, sorta out of my league, Jefferson said, “Yes, but when you hit 100, the odometer goes back to zero.”

Dumbest Thing I Did (a tie): Stalked Jeremy/Revealed my secret identity as Sex Blogger Girl to Dean on our first date.

Most Ridiculous Conversation:
Me: How's Mmmark?

Jefferson: I don't know. And I should. After all, I publish the fanzine.

Me: The fanzine! What a great idea.

(I am picturing something akin to J-17, with headlines like, “Mmmark: What He Thinks About Global Warming!” and “Mmmark's Tips for Getting Along with Your Parents.”)

Me: It could be full of Mmmark news and tips! Like, “Boys and girls, don’t be afraid to approach Mmmark at an orgy! He’s really nice!”

Jefferson: Or, “How's Mmmark? Still Hot!” And, “What's Mmmark's favorite color? Still purple!”

Me: (chanting): “What's Mmmark's favorite food? I have no idea!”

Biggest Firsts for Me:
My First orgy!
My First Anal! (thanks, Jed)
My First Threesome!
My Second Threesome (etc.)!
My First Foursome!
My First Girl!
My First (and Second) Fisting! (Jed again).
It was a busy year.

Sex Aid I am Most Grateful For: BabeLube.

Most Surprisingly Satisfying Casual Sex: Paul. I was sorta dreading seeing him, but we were well-matched. Sadly, he went AWOL in November.

Most Surprisingly Unsatisfying Casual Sex: Alejandro. The most noticeable thing about it was how unmoved I was.

Nicest Surprise: That I'm still friends with Sweetheart Daniel. Oh, and the poem Jim wrote me.

Most Terrifying Moment: Realizing I was about to seduce a virgin (Jim).

Worst Part of Living Somewhat Dangerously: Brooding/crying over Jeremy.

Second Worst Part: Wondering if the Evan (Mr. Cult) affair was indicative of a total lack of judgment/normalcy on my part.

Best Part of Living Somewhat Dangerously: Having a secret when you’re bored on the subway feels good. I also met so many great people and got nice emails from readers. Thank you.

Things I Like About Dean: His terrible puns, his kindness and the funny Pillsbury Doughboy squeak he makes when I poke him in the ribs. Also he's really smart and tall and cute and likes to stroke my hair and hold my hand and takes me out for nice meals.

Worst First Date: Mr. Knucklehead. What a jerk.

Best First Date: Dean. He still has a scar by his eyebrow from when we fell off the stoop.

Sluttiest Episode: Ahem. I went for a drink with Jefferson, and ended up having sex with him, Anna Smash and Anna Smash’s hot boyfriend, Nick. The following night Jim came over and I fucked him, too.

Sexiest Sex: Riding Dean (sans condom!) while Sam Cooke sang “Bring it on Home to Me.” Usually I can't listen to music while I'm fucking as I find it distracting, but I came really fast and really hard – I mean, it was Sam Cooke. Then I sucked Dean off and he came in my mouth really fast and really hard. So that was nice.

Runner Up: Jed muttering dirty things to me.

Who I Had Sex With:
Sweetheart Daniel (sex partner #10)
Jefferson (sex partner #12)
Jeremy (sex partner #13)
Mmmark (sex partner #14)
Evan (sex partner #15)
Jim (sex partner #16)
Jed (sex partner #17)
Will (sex partner #18)
Jacob (sex partner #19)
Alex (sex partner #20)
Dean (sex partner #21)
Jessica (sex partner #22)*
Anna Smash (sex partner #23)*
Nick (sex partner #24)
Alejandro (sex partner #8)
Paul (sex partner #25)

*Oral sex only. As I've mentioned, like Clinton, I think this doesn't really count.

Who I Hooked Up With:
1. Simon.
2. The Other Jake. According to Jefferson his dick is “like a jackhammer, and it's total porn star sex.” Which I did not get to experience. Though I guess that was just oral sex, too.
4. My Friend Jake.
5. Jessica's adorable boyfriend Sean.
6. Thomas (we just kissed, alas).

Other Notable Facts about 2007:
I got a full editorial job. And some freelance assignments! Hallelujah.
I became an aunt for the second time.
I started revising my novel.

I would like to continue this blog, but frankly I think it's a bad idea to write about Dean since he could, if he chose, read everything I post. It gives him an access to me that is both more and less than honest, and I'm not comfortable with the idea. I think whatever I want him to know I should tell him.

Besides, this is supposed to be a sex blog, and the more I have sex with someone, the less I have to say about it. I think it's because when I'm fucking someone I don't know well, the whole experience is exotic and frequently hilarious. But when I'm having sex with someone on a regular basis, I'm less observant because I'm not thinking about the sex as a blog entry. There's more room for emotion. What I mean is this:

“I too, if I may mention myself, have always known that my destiny was, above all, a literary destiny—that bad things and some good things would happen to me, but that, in the long run, all of it would be converted into words. Particularly the bad things, since happiness does not need to be transformed: happiness is its own end.”

Jorge Luis Borges wrote that, and the last part, in particular, has always applied to me. That is, I tend to write more when I'm unhappy. Right now I'm enjoying myself a lot. I am superstitious and suspect that by writing about my life, I will ruin it. If things start to go pear-shaped, I will certainly record it.

On the other hand, I started my year of living (and writing) somewhat dangerously in March of 2006. Which means I have several months' worth of unpublished adventures sitting on my hard drive. Stay tuned.

I Handle Uncertainty With a Certain Aplomb. Not Really.

It was the day I was to hear from Dean regarding my proposition. He was to consult with his therapist and give me an answer. And then I might have a boyfriend! Alternatively, I might spend the next few weeks convinced that I was a love pariah, in the words of my favorite diarist.

I felt kind of queasy, though perhaps it was all the Swedish fish I'd had for breakfast. I keep my email account open on my desktop at work, so every time a new message hits my inbox there’s a ping! As soon as I heard the sound I would click on the window, only to find annoucements from The Body Shop or a newsletter from my college.

When did Dean see his shrink, anyway? The later it got, the worse my odds, I figured. If he wasn't interested, he might put off writing to me, whereas if the answer was yes, he had no reason to wait. I thought the earliest I might hear from was about 12:00 noon.

Noon came and went. At two o'clock I had decided if he hadn't contacted me by 5:00, the answer was no.

Time passed. I read other people's blogs. I read The New York Times. For variety, I did a little work. Just before 3:30, my computer pinged.

He had emailed me. The subject line was Very Well, Young Lady!

I thought, !!!

I opened the email: Yes, Dean had written, he thought it would be a good idea if we were to see one another exclusively. I read the words again. I guess his shrink had approved. I pictured Dean's shrink, seeing him with a beard and a strong resemblance to Sean Connery. I really, really liked his shrink, I decided.

I was happy, but also incredibly relieved I wouldn't have to spend the next few days valiantly trying not to be upset.

So I wrote back to say that I was really pleased.

Then I emailed Jefferson to give him the news.

I Gird My Loins and State My Case

The minute I left Dean’s apartment I placed a phone call to my sainted therapist: “Caroline?” I bleated to her voice mail. “This is Lily. I’ve precipitated a crisis with Dean. Can you call me back as soon as you get this?”

Then I went to work in the (mild) November rain, where I did what I always do when faced with romantic confusion: I emailed Jefferson. I had confided my crush on Dean to him some months ago, and he had been unfailingly kind in allowing me to blather on about it. Jefferson has also been the patient recipient of my more inane ramblings, like my astonishment at coming across a reference to Lesa Aldridge in an old Smithsonian magazine (kind of obscure: Aldridge is the onetime girlfriend of Alex Chilton -- he of the super-awesome Big Star, The Box Tops, and that Replacements song) as well as my disgruntlement at my sister’s choice of name for my newborn nephew (she named the baby after our grandfather. But that name was earmarked for my as-yet-unborn son!) Best of all, Jefferson always responds to my emails, and in a timely manner. Truly, yea, he is a paragon. And then, after some cathartic whining, I composed an email to Dean.

It was a very nice email, but it said that I was dumping him on the grounds that I didn’t think he wanted to be my boyfriend, and the casual nature of our relationship was turning me into a nervous wreck. I waited for Caroline to call me back before I sent it, since I never do anything without her approval. When she phoned I recounted my conversation with Dean. She suggested that perhaps instead of dumping him as a preemptive strike, I should instead ask Dean if he wanted to date me seriously.

“I don’t want to do that,” I whined. “That gives him the chance to reject me.” Also, it would make my email an ultimatum, which meant I was the kind of woman who gave ultimatiums: manipulative, scheming ... female. I preferred to see myself in a more flattering light.

But Caroline prevailed, since she is the therapist and I am the neurotic. I thanked her and then I sent the following email:

Dear Dean,

Hi. I cannot tell you how much I regret our conversation last night. I revealed information I suspected you did not want to hear and painted myself into a corner. But I learned my lesson, and that lesson is Lay off the pinot grigio. I'm still hungover. Jesus.

But the corner. As I said, I want to date you seriously, exclusively, whatever. But you said you weren’t sure you were capable of being in a relationship, which, alas, didn’t sound like a yes to me.

I think that the more I see you, the more I will want that kind of intimacy. So there are two options. One is I stop seeing you. Frankly, my nerves are shot and if we continue to date casually, there is a strong likelihood of a repeat of last night’s theatrics. I’m not up for that. The other option is you give some thought to us dating exclusively. And then you say, ‘OK, sounds good.’ That means we take our personals profiles down and you think of me as your girlfriend and when we get together we make dumb jokes and have sex.

…

Anyway. I’m sorry I haven’t got the nerve to talk to you about this in person. I will be disappointed if you don’t want to give it a go, but I will understand. (This part was not really true: I would have a hard time understanding. For once I was the victim of high self-esteem; I thought he ought to want to date me). I will miss you. I like you tremendously and think you’re lovely and, if this is it, I really hope everything turns out well for you. Take care. Many kisses.

Lily

I sent it and decided I would not check my email until the following morning. To facilitate this, I went home and went to bed. It was not yet 7:00 pm, but I’d had a trying 24 hours.

The following morning there was an email in my inbox from Dean. He too apologized for the conversation, said he liked me very much, and needed to discuss my proposition with his therapist. See? I thought, We have so much in common!

So then I settled down to wait for his answer. I didn’t cry, though. I’m done with that. At least I hope I am.

Ohh, Technorati

Claim me, baby: Technorati Profile

In Which In Vino Veritas ... !@#$

As usual, Dean and I were eating dinner and sharing a bottle of wine. His knee was sandwiched between my legs. We had just finished comparing parent horror stories (sexy!). He swallowed some linguini. “Anyway,” he concluded, “I’ve decided that I won’t have children…”

I looked at my plate. And then I sipped my wine. I stared at Dean, and then I looked at my plate again.

“You look really displeased,” said Dean. “I guess this isn’t something you want to hear about.”

I hadn’t realized I looked displeased. My policy is to maintain a totally noncommittal expression whenever Dean says something that flummoxes me. After all, it’s none of my business. We’re not a couple. Also, I don’t want him to know that when he says, for instance, “I’m not having kids,” that I think, “Oh, yeah? Well, I’ve picked out the names for mine!” I mean, I’m sentimental and dreamy, and I feel this is a character flaw. So I make a big effort to appear normal.

But my emotions had been detectable! I gulped down some more wine. “Well,” I said, and my voice sounded belligerent. “Are you saying this, or are you saying this to me?” Meaning, was he trying to tell me something?

“I’m just saying this. I’m just talking.” He clasped my hand. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“No, you didn’t –” He hadn’t upset me, had he? Oh. He had.

“Sweetie—”

I narrowed my eyes. “I mean, what are you saying to me, Dean?”

“I’m not—”

On our first date I had given Dean this blog address, and I’d regretted it mightily ever since. To compensate, I’d been pretty close-mouthed about my feelings both in person and online. But now, thanks to a bottle of wine, I was about to precipitate a discussion I didn’t want to have. That is, I was going to be honest.

It got a little convoluted, but this is the upshot:

1. I blurted out that I really, really liked him, and wanted us to date exclusively.
2. He said, “I didn’t know you felt that way; I had no idea.”
3. I thought, Oh, thank God and then said, “Well, how do you feel?”
4. He said, “I like you a lot.”
5. Note the lack of enthusiastic Yes! on the idea of us dating exclusively. Something in me collapsed a little. So I said, “Listen, I like you tons, but dating you is very stressful for me.” No joke. I would wonder, Hmmm, who else is Dean seeing? Is she prettier than me? She can’t possibly give more enthusiastic head – though admittedly that last insight did provide some comfort. I had started to think I’d developed an anxiety disorder, but now I realized it was just romantic neuroses.
6. He said, “Lily, I don’t even know if I’m capable of being in a relationship,” and took my hand.
7. I swallowed and half-whispered, “Dean, this isn’t going to end well for me.” Then I pushed my chair back. “I think I should go,” I said, melodramatically.
8. He said, “Sweetie -- sweetie. Don’t go. I’m so sorry I upset you.”
9. I said, “Excuse me,” and flounced off to the bathroom. Unfortunately it was occupied so I could not fling myself in there in sulky outrage. Instead I fidgeted in full view of Dean until the bathroom was free. Once inside, I cursed myself for being such a drunken moron. I’d been honest and if Dean wasn’t interested, I was going to have to dump his ass. I mean, I couldn’t go on dating him casually, knowing he didn’t want a relationship with me. For the past few weeks I’d suspected this discussion was only a matter of time. But now I’d gone and done it. Apparently my nerves couldn’t handle the limbo of wondering how (if at all) Dean felt about me.
10. I sheepishly returned to the table, and Dean, after ascertaining that I hadn’t been sick, paid the bill.
11. We left the restaurant and, outside, Dean wrapped his arms around me and stroked my hair, “I’m so sorry,” he said. “Please don’t be upset. Don’t go. Come home with me.”
12. “Why?” (I was fishing.)
13. “Because I want to be close to you and lie next to you.…”
14. And I whined into his leather jacket, “You knew I would say yes.”

So then he took my hand and we went for drinks and didn’t say any more about it. I drank two glasses of dessert wine but did not touch Dean’s passion fruit sorbet, which as a rule I make pretty quick work of. I was mortified and thought I might as well go the whole hog and get really wrecked. I was going to have to break up with him.

Walking home, he reminded me that I’d agreed to visit him in Atlantic City, where he was planning a 10-day poker trip in a few weeks. “OK,” I lied.

I appreciated the gesture, and he might have meant it, but I’d just told him I wanted us to be a couple and he’d not given me a terribly enthusiastic response. We weren’t going anywhere together; there was no way my ego would allow me to hang around him after this. I had forced my own hand. Damn you, pinot grigio!

Back at his place I hurriedly drank a glass of port, which I hate, and joked with him like everything was fine. We went upstairs, curled up on his bed and watched most of an old Fawlty Towers episode. When Dean smoked a bowl I joined him, which I never do. Like I said, I was determined to get really ploughed.

Then he kissed me and I went at him with a ferocious longing. I gave him a very ardent blow job and then he fucked me. I thought: This is the last time he’ll be inside me. He fucked me quickly and steadily. I couldn’t look at him. He breathed heavily in my ear and said my name.

Afterwards he clasped me close and I breathed him in, thinking, I’ll never lie here next to him again, because I am very self indulgent. When I shifted away he wrapped his arms around me and pressed my head to his chest and stroked my hair. I craved the comfort of him, the physical closeness he initiated. Maybe that is what I like best about Dean – how physically affectionate he is, how easy it is for him to take my hand and tell me I’m pretty and cuddle me.

I didn’t sleep well, but instead concentrated on the intangibles I anticipated missing: Dean’s scent, the way his fingers felt in my hair and the funny chirps he made when he snored.

**
In the morning I was wide awake and overtired, examining my broken-out complexion in his mirror as I applied my makeup.

“Want to see a movie on Thursday night?” Dean asked after I’d said, “I’m headed out,” and waited for him to kiss me goodbye.

“OK,” I lied again. I slipped out of the apartment. Dean, clad in his boxer shorts, peered at me from behind the front door as I clopped off down the stairs. I was going to have to do the rest of my truth-telling via email.

In Which I Am Rudely Awakened

“I bought a new bra and panties,” I said, tugging off my top to reveal my new, 34C (!!) maroon bra and matching low rise bikinis, courtesy of The Gap. “And you’re the beneficiary.” The 34C had been a surprise. My mother had pointed out that I ought to try on the bra – usually I just buy a 34B, and I realized that I had no idea when I’d last been measured for a bra. So I tried on the 34B. Truthfully, it was tight around my ribs, not my breasts. The 36B fit fine, too, suggesting I’ve gained a little weight in my frame rather than my breasts. Alas. But the 34C fit nicely, too, so vanity won out. A 34C! I was pleased.

“Very nice,” said Paul. He stretched out on the bed and moved over to let me in, and I climbed in beside him. He pulled off his shirt and pants and, again, I was amused to note he wore tight bikini underwear. I feel boxers are the most appropriate undergarments for men, but I guess he had his reasons. Still, he had such a nice body – muscular arms, a tight stomach – totally impressive. It seemed churlish to mind the underwear. He pulled off his bikinis and his dick stood out, erect and slightly curved. I smiled.

Paul leaned forward to kiss me, and with one arm unhooked my bra. “Are you impressed?”

I giggled. “Could you do that cause you’re an older man?” I still can’t get over the fact I’m sleeping with a 51 year old. Fifty one!

He smirked: “I have years of experience.”

Naked, we pressed our bodies against one another. I felt great – the rough softness of the blanket, the give of the mattress, the silky hardness of Paul against me in the dim room – I felt like purring.

Paul slipped his mouth across my skin and down my belly. He tugged my underwear down my legs and then off. I stiffened a little, cause getting head tends to make me anxious. “Mmmm,” he said, burying his face in my pussy. I sighed and twitched as his tongue flickered against my clit, fighting the nerve ending-jumps I felt.

It was OK, but I really wanted to go down on him, so after a moment I pushed him away and got right on my knees. When I wrapped my mouth around his cock he moaned: “Lily…”

I liked hearing my name, and I liked the feeling of his warm, firm dick in my mouth. He wasn’t huge, but well-sized, and I had no problem taking him all the way in, my throat was relaxed and I was eager. Paul jerked his pelvis at me, accompanying his thrusts with moans. None of this was very out of the ordinary (though it was the first time Paul and I had gone down on one another), but I couldn’t get over how good everything felt – my skin felt sensitive only to pleasure, and I was just basking in his touch and my eagerness for him.

After a moment Paul slid his fingers between my legs. I was afraid I wasn’t wet enough, but after a minute I was slick. The blood throbbed in my groin. I moaned a little, too.

Paul whispered, “I want to do nasty things to you.”

I smirked. “You can. You can do whatever you like,” I breathed.

Paul lay on top of me and angled his cock towards my pussy, the tip just touching my cunt. “I want to — just for a —”

I shook my head. No way. Jesus, we weren’t teens: Let me put it inside, for just a minute! Gah.

“Then let me get a condom.”

I nodded, and sank down into the mattress. “You know what?” I said. “I think we have to turn off the music.” I get very distracted. We were listening to the soundtrack to American Gangster, a movie both of us had recently seen, and liked.

“Really?” Paul sounded disappointed. “OK.” He dutifully shuffled over to his laptop and turned off. Then he got back into bed and rolled on the condom. “You want to get on top?”

“No, I mean if you—”

He chuckled. “Get on top!”

“Well, OK then,” I said, and dreamily slid down his dick until he was all the way inside me. I rested there for a moment, his solidness opening me up, making me all liquid.

I rocked myself slowly against him, and my hair swung forward, hiding my face. I shifted until I could see Paul again, smiling up at me. “Does this make you feel good?” he whispered.

I stretched my thighs against his legs. “You make everything feel good.” It was true. My body seemed incapable of anything less than a kind of exquisite comfort; a sexual relief and happiness that had nothing to do with love, or even with lust. My brain was engaged only enough to notice that I felt fantastic. Maybe it was the quiet of Paul’s bedroom, with his big neatly-made bed and dim lights? Maybe it was Paul, who is so polite and enthused? At any rate, we were murmuring at one another, and my skin hummed.

“My baby’s going to come for me,” Paul muttered, and I vaguely registered that as my body worked towards an orgasm. I came with a cry and then I pressed myself close to Paul, waiting for my breathing to return to normal. After a bit I rolled onto my back with him still inside me, but then he said, “No wait,” and pulled out. He got on his knees. “I want you like this—” he said, so I turned over, and felt my stomach sink into the mattress as he found his way back inside me.

“Ahh,” I said into the pillow.

He thrust at me, “I’m going to come soon,” he noted ruefully. “I’m going to come fast.” I thrust my ass up at him. When he came he collapsed on me and his weight felt great, but he quickly pulled out, even though I wanted him to stay right there, inside me.

I felt blissed out and serene. Paul put his head on my shoulder and his solid compact body against mine, and we lay there quietly. After a while his breathing changed; he had fallen asleep.

Was this ideal casual sex? Paul is lovely, but I’m not in love with him. The person I feel most strongly about is Dean, who doesn’t get me off with such easy pleasure. And this didn’t feel the least bit weird, like sex with Alejandro had. It wasn’t particularly kinky, and didn’t require angst, like fucking Jed sometimes did. It was just pleasurable.

I was laying there, feeling pleased with myself and wondering if this was some sort of sexual nirvana – no attachment, no pain kind of thing, when Paul shifted in my arms and raised his head. “Do you have to go soon?” he asked. Then, “Wow. l asleep. Did you?”

I slid out off bed. “No I didn’t,” I said, and stalked off to the bathroom.

Under the bathroom lights I managed to squirt liquid soap all over myself. When I had cleaned myself up I went back to the bedroom. Paul was sprawled out on the bed. I picked my bra up from its lonely stay on the floor. “That was unnecessary, and rude,” I said, struggling to hook myself in. “‘Do you have to go soon?’ This is the second time you’ve said this to me.” (True. He’d said the same thing after our first encounter the other week, when I’d also been congratulating myself on the ease and simpatico-like qualities of our sex.)

“That’s not what—”

“Don’t worry,” I said, stepping into my underwear. “I won’t overstay my welcome.”

“Lily, wait. That’s not what I meant.” Paul grabbed my arm. “I’m sorry. I just worry about you getting home. It’s late.”

Sure.

“You know, I remember New York when it wasn’t safe to get on the subway after nine. I just worry about you being safe.”

Well, that was nice, only if he was really worried about my safety he could have walked me to the subway station three blocks away. Or, you know, the elevator. He had just kissed me goodbye the door to his apartment. He could have seen me out properly, you know. I didn’t say anything.

“That’s not what I meant,” he repeated, and tugged me into the bed next to him. I relented as he spooned me. It felt good. “I’m sorry,” he said again.

“It’s OK,” I said. He was allowed to want me to leave, just not to express it, I thought. And I guessed he wouldn’t express it again.

Probably Not What They Mean By an Epistolary Romance

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

xxx
Young lady

**

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

The rules to Mafia seem most fascinating. …

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

xoxoxox
-Sir

**
Dear Sir,

I think Mafia will be lots of fun, though it can run on and you have to be able to tolerate annoying people -- not always my strongest point...!

I hope your trip is successful, and that images of my naked, card-adorned (full house? flush?) body occasionally flit through your brain as you kick poker ass.

xxx
Young lady

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

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

xoxoxo
-Sir

**
Dear Sir,
Congrats on your big win, that's so impressive! I would like to think I played a small, yet pivotal role in your success. So I'll think that, evidence notwithstanding.

I’m looking forward to seeing you tomorrow night, too. I want to ask you about my extra credit assignments. It’s important for me to get an A in your class, if you know what I mean by this heavy-handed metaphor. And I think you do ;-)

xxx
Young lady

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

xoxoxxo
-Sir

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

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

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

“Ah, yes. Sit down, Miss…”

“Vereker.”

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

“Yes, I was very disappointed.”

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

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

Et cetera.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Lily,” he said. “Lily.”

Tonight's the Night!

A Charlie Brown Christmas is on ABC tonight.

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

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

Holiday, Schmoliday

This Be The Verse

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

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

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


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

I'm just sayin'.