Jefferson Plays Matchmaker, With NC-17 Results

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No one’s cold like that!”

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

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

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

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

Half-Naked Thursday, and Kink For All

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I like it!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah,” I mumbled.

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

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

“Uh, I do!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you want me to fuck your ass?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In Which Various Verbs Happen to Me

Hey, can I booty call you?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sorry!”

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

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

“Hmmmp!”

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

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

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

“OK!”

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

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

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

I Fall Off the Wagon

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you want to come to the hotel?”

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

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

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

He clasped my palm and smiled.

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

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

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

“Yeah?”

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

“OK.”

“Did you say ‘why’?”

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

“Oh,” he kissed my neck.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You don’t want me to—”

“No.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I admit, I was tempted: “We’ll see.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Well, that was unexpected. “You should?”

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

“Oh,” I said. “OK.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I Dismiss The Cosmo Kama Sutra

Sunday night doesn’t feel like a night for assignations. So I felt weirdly sneaky as I waited for Aaron in his lobby. After several minutes the elevator door opened and there he stood, wrapped in a white terry cloth bathrobe. “Sorry,” he said. “I was in the shower.” We kissed hello.

I mean, he could have just buzzed me up.

At his floor, we walked down the hallway, and luckily no neighbors saw a guy in a bathrobe ambling around. Then, in his apartment, we sat at his kitchen table, which was located (conveniently) next to his bed. “Do you want to go out?” he asked. Our previous meetings had all involved me eating a meal or three.

But I’d already had dinner: “I was thinking we could fool around.”

“Oh, OK.” Aaron’s smile lit up his face. “You had me there.” He leaned in to kiss me and we shuffled back onto his bed.

He went down on me almost immediately, sort of dove in, and frankly it’s great to be with a guy who so enamored of the … hmmm…. scent/flavor that I am sure I must emit. I lay back on his soft mattress, my eyes half closed.

But I had other things on my mind, and after a bit I indicated he should get on his back. “It’s my turn now,” I explained.

I went down on him, nuzzling his balls and lightly sucking the loose skin there. I rested my head against his thigh, fresh from the shower and smelling of soap. His dick stood stiffly in my fist. I gave him in what I hoped was a wanton, alluring gaze.

“I’d really like you inside me,” I hinted not very subtly.

“Well… sometimes…it’s not the desire…” and after some hemming and hawing he said that sometimes he had trouble getting an erection.

“Oh, OK,” I said. That’s nothing unusual, I could deal with that. As I’ve said before, I don’t feel like it’s sex unless there’s penetration (how old school), and I really did want to fuck him.

I kept on sucking him until he was hard, which he was pretty quickly. I worried that he would be pipped at the post, so to speak, but the condom didn’t cause any problems. I dabbed a little lube across my pussy and he entered me.

I was on my back and he was kind of straddling me. For some reason, we were lying with our heads at the foot of the bed. His face went slack, like he’d just put down a heavy package. I liked that. Then he bent forward and started rocking against me.

After a bit we switched so I could get on top. I twisted and sank on to him with a sigh. I assumed my usual position: legs flexed against Aaron’s, arms on the mattress supporting my upper body. I like it when a guy holds my hips, doesn’t move much (it helps me control the pace), and talks dirty. Aaron didn’t talk dirty, but I came pretty quickly anyway.

While I was recovering, and we’d sorted ourselves out so that our heads were on the pillows, Aaron said, “I never did it that way. I’ve done reverse cowgirl, but you didn’t straddle me… where did you learn that?”

I dunno. It’s my default for orgasm. Dean and I made some efforts with the Cosmo Kama Sutra… With Dean I was keen to try everything out, even thought I knew that any number of the positions would be uncomfortable (why would I want to have sex while touching my toes?) or sexually unrewarding, but when I’m with someone new I want the security of a familiar position with a high chance of orgasm. And it occurred to me that I felt comfortable in this soft bed, next to this sweet-smelling boy ten years my junior, wrapped in his terry cloth robe and smiling sleepily. Sunday night seemed like a comfortable time for an assignation, all of a sudden.

“I dunno,” I said. “It’s just the position my body wants to be in.”

He looked at me with a new respect, like I was this woman of the world. I suppose that compared to him I was. I smiled, closed mouthed, and motioned him towards me.

“You want to fuck me?” I asked, like it was a casual question, like I didn’t care.

He leaned into me, and I breathed in his warm, sweet scent. “Yeah,” he said. I angled my hips towards him and then he swam back inside me, smiling all the while.

I Get Back in the Swing of Things, Sort Of

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

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

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


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


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

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

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

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

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


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


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


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

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

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

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

I had been expecting this: “Sure.”

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

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

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


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


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


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


“Bu—”


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


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

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

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

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

“It was good to see you.”

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

Housewarming (A Double Entendre!)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No. I just liked the color.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ah!” I said, “Oh, God.”

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

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

“You’re welcome.”

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

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

Younger Men and Black Framed Glasses: My Weaknesses. Apparently.

Jefferson had set me up with a 25-year old he’d been fooling around with. He’d emailed me the link to a story featuring Aaron in Time Out New York. I read the article. “Has he been rehabilitated?” I asked Jefferson, then told him he could give Aaron my email address.

Aaron sent me an amusing email and his spelling was fine, so I was inclined to meet him, even though I hadn’t seen his photo. When Jefferson suggests something I generally do it — he’s my excuse to do kinda reckless things that often turn out surprisingly well. And, until I was waiting for him at the bar where we’d agreed to meet, I didn’t even feel nervous. Am I becoming blasé? I think the fact that he was 25 and clearly able to construct a joke reassured me.

The thing is, he lives in Dean’s neighborhood. The bar we met in was two blocks from Dean’s apartment. In fact, I’d had dinner here with Dean not too long ago (we meet for dinner. We make out. He tries to feel me up; I tell him to cut it out. You get the idea. More on this another time). My sense of place is very strong — one thing I never do in this blog is identify neighborhoods. I think I once indicated that Jeremy lived on the East Side, but that’s not even true. I feel like your NYC neighborhood is a very important clue to your identity. For instance, before I met Jefferson I guessed where he lived without much effort. I even narrowed down his former neighborhood with his ex and kids. Anyway, I was on Dean’s turf, a turf I’d been familiar with for most of my life, and one I thought was particularly suited to the life I wanted to live, and thought I might live, with Dean. That is: a settled, married life with a couple of kids and a co-op. I was half afraid I’d run into Dean, though we’d never been to this bar together.

Aaron was almost on time and just a little bit taller than I am. He wore jeans and a boiled wool blazer and the hipster style black-framed rectangular specs I find so irresistible. I thought Aaron was pretty cute, even without the specs.

And smart and nice. And, as it turned out, a native New Yorker (always a plus). I asked him where he went to high school, he told me, and, without thinking I said, “Oh, do you know Eric Martin?” Since my friend Polly’s brother went to the same high shool and is about his age.

Aaron frowned. “I think he was in my class. How do you know him?”

Oh God: “I used to baby sit him.”

We both sniggered, me a little self-consciously. Note to self: do not say the first thing that occurs to you. Polly’s brother was a bright, talkative kid. I saw him last year at Polly’s wedding. He’s married now, like almost everyone I seem to come across these days. He grew up nice.

We finished our drinks. “Would you like to come over?” He asked. Where was my sense of fear, of self-preservation? Nowhere to be found: “OK,” I said gamely. I was completely at ease in Aaron’s presence. We bought a bottle of wine and headed to his place. I’d walked past his building many times on my way from Dean’s place to the subway.

Aaron had a nice apartment — the building and neighborhood would have suggested he was an older, more financially established professional. His largish studio overlooked a park across the street. There were no shades on the windows. He put on some music and settled on the couch. There was a pile of Time Out New Yorks on the sofa. “Oh that one’s old,” Aaron said, a little self consciously. “I kept it cause I’m in it.”

I didn’t want to tell him I’d read all about the coming without warning and the mood music fiasco. “Really?” I said. “Wow.”

On the sofa we sat near each other, and I went so far as to slip off my shoes (mules anyway), but I wasn’t going to make the first move. My boldness apparently extends to going home with guys I’ve just met but no further. Taking the initiative on the first kiss? Never! Eventually Aaron leaned in and we sat there, making out. Nice.

It helped that it was a studio with a big bed in the center so it wasn’t an awkward trip to the bed. I excused myself to pee and when I came back his kiss had a mouthwash-y taste. He’d used Binaca! So cute. Also unnecessary. I hate the metallic alcohol tang.
He lay on top of me and as we kissed I peeled off most of my clothes; he followed. As his tongue slipped towards my nipple I lifted my head from the pillow: “I don’t sleep with guys on the first date.” I mean, I have, but in general I don’t. Not at the moment, anyway.

“That’s OK,” he said, and turned his head back to my body. His tongue slid rapidly down. I wriggled out of my underwear, as did he. Then he levered himself between my thighs and put his face close to my pussy, like he was inhaling me, which I guess he was. Then his tongue began to slowly circle my clit, starting with my outer lips and then moving to the fleshy plateau (I can’t write mons pubis in a sex blog) above. His tongue dripped inward. I swallowed, my pussy pulsing. Aaron looked up at me and grinned. When his tongue reached my clit I sighed aloud, straining my hips towards his soft mouth. I felt like I was sinking into the mattress.

While he ate me, he shook his head back and forth, pressing his face to either side of my cunt, like a dog shaking water from his coat. Like he couldn’t get enough. I stroked his hair.

This went on for a while. I thought he might feel compelled to make me come, which I knew was unlikely. “Hey,” I said at last. He looked up sleepily from my thighs. “Don’t feel obligated to keep going,” I said awkwardly. “I never come from oral sex.” Anyway, I wanted to go down on him.

“I like this,” Aaron said, his voice muffled. He went back to eating my pussy. Well, who was I to argue?

SIDEBAR
I think I’ve come from oral sex once. This is funny. In mid 2003, prior my career as a slut, I went on a date with this guy Marco. He was Brazilian. We met for coffee, and then agreed to dinner. I went to his apartment kind of wondering at myself – I was going to a strange man’s apartment! I don’t even like him that much! What was I doing?

Marco was staying in a small apartment with the sort of modular blond wood-and-fiberboard matching furniture you see in your better college dorms. We ate dinner, started to watch a movie on his laptop, then started fooling around on his extra long twin bed.

Anyway. He went down on me and his tongue was so light and fast. I have no idea what he did, maybe some secret Brazilian tongue trick, but I came, to my great surprise. Then I got him off and we tried to sleep in the narrow bed. When I left in the morning I knew I would never see him again, and I was relieved. But to this day whenever a guy goes down on me, I usually murmur “Um, faster… lighter…” at some point during the proceedings.

SIDEBAR ENDS

Eventually Aaron got on his back and I straddled him. “You could sit on my face,” he suggested. I’d never really thought about it but sit on my face definitely had a dirty, euphemistic quality that I really liked. I mean, got me hot. I pictured myself literally sitting on his face, grinding myself against his eager mouth. But wait: “I want to get you off,” I announced.

So it was my turn to slide my tongue down the landscape of his body, making pit stops to lick the mountain of his nipples, kiss the valley of his bellybutton. Then I scooted down between his legs and moved my tongue across the scoop between the veins in his inner thigh. I licked him.

He had a nice dick. I trailed my fingers up and down, then moved my mouth around the head. Aaron stretched closer. I did as I’ve been instructed by various guys: a firm hand at the base, tongue on the sensitive bit under the head, rapid up-and-down strokes with my hand and mouth. To no avail. He wasn’t hard. “Is there anything I can do?” I asked at last.

“Um,” said Aaron politely. “You could hold my dick a little tighter. You know, squeeze it.”

I obliged and his dick stiffened right away. I grinned and sucked on his cock some more, my mouth and hand pulling at his cock, now properly engorged. Very soon Aaron gasped, “I’m going to come,” (I guess that Time Out New York lesson had taken). Then his come spurted out at me while I leaned over him, enjoying his expression. Our eyes met, and I brushed my breasts against his cock, and stomach, then rubbed it on my tits. I licked a drop off his dick.

“Do you want me to lick that off you?” he asked.

Taken aback, I spoke without thinking: “Oh, that’s OK.” But I liked his eagerness, and the implicit salaciousness. Then we settled back against the pillows and made out some more. I turned onto my stomach and he lay against me, bucking slightly. He slid a finger inside me and he moved his hips back and forth so I could feel his dick against my thighs. His dick felt stiff, the skin silky. I felt my pussy start to pulse again, and I reflected that maybe having sex on the first date wasn’t such a bad idea.

But instead we stayed like that, me feeling hot and liquidy. Then we relaxed into not-fooling-around mode and Aaron got a bowl of chocolate ice cream, which I polished off quick. I got the impression he felt chocolate ice cream was the proper food to serve following sexual activity. But I was starving, so we ventured out to a café. We sat at a marble-topped table, and I ate all my granita and most of his chocolate cake. When we left he walked me to the corner, where I hailed a cab.

“I don’t have any more money,” Aaron said. He’d bought the drinks, the wine, and the desserts. I wouldn’t have taken cab fare from him, did he think I expected it? I’m 10 years older, perhaps I should’ve paid for him. Or not. “That’s OK,” I said, nonplussed. We kissed next to the taxi. I got in and as we pulled away I saw him cross the street, his figure illuminated by the streetlamps.

I leaned back against the leather seats of the cab. I was looking forward to fucking him.

Settling In

“Daniel?” I bleated. “I need your help.”

I surveyed my newly painted studio apartment: small, sunny, and mine alone, but currently jammed with cardboard boxes full of books, electronic equipment, clothes, and the Noritake dinner service for 12 that my grandfather bought for his mother in the 1930s, still wrapped in its original quilted cases.

Normally, when I’m overwhelmed I retire to bed with a bar of chocolate and a book. Unfortunately, my bed was currently under a pile of kitchen equipment. I whimpered. “Can you come over?”

Daniel was with his family, but promised to help me settle in during the week. When he turned up two nights later, much of my things were unpacked and put away. Even better, I had bought a bed.

For the past three and a half years I’d been sleeping (and, uh, other things) on a mattress on the floor, since when I’d moved into my last place the box spring wouldn’t fit through the door of the room and I had vowed not to buy another. I had meant to buy a platform bed, but never seemed to have the money or inclination. But now that I’d moved to an apartment with less space than my previous bedroom, I would buy a real, grown up bed. Wood, not metal frame. With a headboard.

When Daniel arrived, I had just ordered a cherry-stained pine bed (when it arrived at first I was puzzled by the antiseptic smell before I realized it was the untreated wood supporting the mattress) with three under-the-bed drawers and a headboard. And it was a bit cheaper than similar ones I’d priced online.

Daniel helped me organize some of my stuff (“Did you your closet door sticks?” he asked, shutting and opening it again. And again. “Don’t you have a night table?”) while I lined the shabby, sawdusty kitchen shelves with paper and tried to find a place for the spices I’d collected. Then I took him to dinner. I was very pleased with myself: I had an editorial job, my own apartment in a shabby chic neighborhood and, should I ever have need of it, a gravy boat (the Noritake service was pretty extensive) plus Daniel, my friend and sometimes sex partner. I remember the halcyon days of late 2006 and early 2007: playing The Settlers of Catan! Vigorous and satisfying sex! Attempts at swing dancing! I would have someone to bring to parties! We could —

“So, Ashley and I are probably going to date exclusively,” Daniel interrupted my reverie.

“Really?” I feigned enthusiasm. “Wow. That sounds great.”

I knew he’d been seeing someone, but I’d gotten the impression he wasn’t that interested in her. At one point, he’d been seeing another woman as well, one he’d seemed very taken with, but now she was dating someone else.

“What about you?” Daniel stabbed a shumai with a chopstick. “Are you interested in anyone?”

“No,” I admitted. “But I’ve decided I want to get married. Did I tell you about my tarot card reading?”

Daniel looked taken aback, as well he might be. I gulped my water. “Well, after Dean and I broke up, I went to see a tarot card reader. And she told me I was going to meet my soul mate within a year, and that he’d be a good dancer, and we’d have children and a swimming pool.”

I’d gone to see this woman in the college town where my writing program was held, less than a week after Dean and I parted at the train station. This woman, who had stringy gray hair and an earnest, hesitant manner, told me a lot of things. After she’d turned over the first card (the Five of Cups), she turned to me and said, “Did someone die?” When, after more sober cards appeared and I admitted that my boyfriend and I had just broken up she said, “Well, you’re not going to get back together.” Which I knew, but still. “He doesn’t want to,” she added. Unecessarily, I thought.

She turned over some more cards. “You haven’t met your soul mate yet.” I loathe that term. I mean, really. I don’t believe that there’s just one man out there for me, my other half, etc. If there’s just one person I’m destined for, what are the odds of us meeting? Isn’t it likely that my soul mate is a Mongolian goat-herder or something? So I prefer to believe it’s about timing, and, the ability to be happy. I like to think I have the latter, though I suspect my timing is off.

But she was a tarot card reader, so maybe soul mates were part of her stock in trade. “You have angel blessings,” she added, pointing to some smiling figures on another card. Needless to say, I don’t believe in angels, either. “You just have t be patient, and have some faith,” she said, pointing to the Two of Swords. She turned over a few more cards and said, “I’m seeing Florida here. Do you ever go to Florida?”

Which tarot card symbolized Florida? “Ummm…” My aunt and uncle live there, but really, how could my soul mate be in Orlando? I imagined my soul mate/the hilariously funny and kind/British/Jewish/independently wealthy/dark-haired/tall/skinny/pediatric oncologist of my dreams somewhere more cosmopolitan. Somewhere with a lower obesity rate.

Then my tarot card reader took out an ephemeris (an astrological/astronomical calendar) and thumbed the pages. “I think you should go to Florida in March,” she said at last. “Sometime between the thirteenth and twenty-seventh.” I wrote this down. Then she told me that me and my soul mate would be very happy together and have several children, which is, of course, exactly what I wanted to hear. Then she told me I should wear a red hat and scarf in the winter.

I related all this to Daniel. “Now I’m supposed to be patient. But I don’t feel patient. I feel very ready.” I ate the last of my teriyaki. “I want to be in a serious, long term relationship. I want to get married.” The domestic and romantic nature of my mostly positive relationship with Dean had confirmed that for me.

Dating, on the other hand, horrified me: Scanning the crowd for a guy who somewhat resembled his photo. The awkward greeting, and the inevitable conversation about pop culture over a drink that I finished too quickly. The uncomfortable feeling that this fella was not very smart/over his ex/thinks I’m plain/doesn’t know how to talk about anything other than himself. The relief when I hug him briefly and say goodbye.

“Aww,” said Daniel. “You’ll meet someone soon.”

I hope so. Cause I don’t want to be that stereotypical single (Jewish) thirtysomething: urban, neurotic, anxious to wed, and unintentionally comic. I hope my comic-ness is always intentional, at least. I’ve always prided myself on being more amusing, more sympathetic, and smarter than average, but most people feel that way about themselves. Maybe my recent sluttiness has been a rebellion against the idea of myself as a Nice Jewish Girl. Or maybe I just like cock.

Anyway. Back at my apartment we repaired to my mattress, now free of books and covered with clean sheets. “I can’t stay tonight,” Daniel said.

“OK.” Daniel and I always spent the night together. Except for the last time, when a rogue bedbug left me covered in bites and I’d called a cab at 2 AM.

We kissed, and I decided to concentrate on the pleasurable feel of his mouth against mine. His breath was warm and sweet, and I nuzzled against the soapy tang of his neck.

I traveled my lips down his torso. When we pulled off our clothes I sighed at the sight of his dick, big and now stiff. I put my nose to his groin. “Daniel,” I said, sort of sultrily, “It’s been so long since I’ve had your dick in my mouth…” I licked the underside of the shaft, then glanced up to see his response. He smiled and lifted his hips. I bent my head and wrapped my mouth around his dick. He was so big and firm, it was a nice, filling sensation.

After I’d sucked and licked for a while, I remembered something: Daniel’s not very aggressive. I cleared my throat: “You want to fuck me?” this being about as dominant as I get.

“Sure,” Daniel smiled — or smirked — and I marveled at how easily Daniel and his dick respond to my demands.

He put on a condom and dabbed a little lube on my clit. I straddled him, arched my back, and tried to angle myself so that I could sit down right on his dick. “Aah,” I said as I felt his dick push up against my hole. I bent forward a bit, settling down. “How’s that?” I looked at Daniel. “Is that good?”

“That’s great.”

I rocked a little, trying to find the right spot… there. I rocked some more. “Like that?” I panted. “Hmmm?” I thrust my tits at his mouth: “Lick my nipples.” Daniel obliged. I watched him lap at my nipples, his eyes closed. “I love watching you suck my tits,” I gasped, cause frankly I think it is really hot.

It didn’t take much for me to come, and after a minute or so watching of Daniel’s eager tongue, I shuddered to a stop and sunk against his chest.

After a minute (“Thank you.” “My pleasure!”) Daniel pulled out, and sat up. He gestured for me to do the same.

Daniel crossed his legs and I sat in his lap, my legs wrapped around his waist swung. I don’t think I’d ever fucked Dean like this … and suddenly I remembered fucking Daniel in my old apartment, just like this, the two of us pleased with our athletic (and, we thought, possibly tantric) powers. Just like before, I could feel Daniel’s deep up inside me, poking me in the abdomen, it felt like. “Hey,” I said. “I can feel you right here.” Daniel smirked.

After a minute he slipped out and I slid onto my back. I fixed my eyes on his and breathed deeply as he pushed inside me once again. “Are you going to come for me?” I asked, like I always ask. He thrust faster.

“You wanted that?” I scraped my fingernails across his back — Dean loved this, it was guaranteed to raise a pleased shudder — but did Daniel? I couldn’t remember. I dragged my nails down his side, beneath his armpits. “Come on, Daniel.”

“Ahhh,” he grunted, his body stuttering. I looked at him but his gaze was fixed over my shoulder. With a “Nhuh!” his breathing changed, and he collapsed against me.

We lay with my head against his shoulder, and his arms around me. Very familiar and comfortable. So familiar and comfortable, apparently, that after a minute I heard Daniel’s breathing deepen; he had dozed off. I rested my cheek against his chest, and waited for him to wake up.