Pleasure

A couple of weeks ago when I was at L’s for a long weekend, we went to bed early after dinner and I went down on her, giving her mound, lips, clit everything I had, loving the taste and feel of her on my tongue until she came,  and then she gave the same to me, using her tongue to tickle up and down the underside of my cock. I put my hand to her face and I could feel her cheek hollowing out as she sucked waves of pleasure from me.

There aren’t enough words for “pleasure” in English.

What do you call the feeling when the woman you love puts her mouth to work on your cock, finding the nerve endings, applying the supple flesh of her tongue, even her teeth, to find all the right nerve endings?

“Pleasure” is a start.

* * *

L sucked waves of pleasure from me, but she didn’t make me come then.

She left my cock to kiss my lips once and pushed at my shoulder to turn me over.  I felt her tie something around my eyes.  It was the belt from her bathrobe.   She tugged my boxers down over the small mounds of my ass, and kneaded the cheeks, taking possession before she paused, reached for something and whipped my ass with a belt three or four times, making my heart and cock swell with pleasure.

The pleasure took another turn as I felt oil trickling in the crack of my ass, and then her fingers massaging, poking at my rectum, and then a finger pushing inside.  A finger or thumb, I wasn’t sure which, invaded me, explored, pushed past the sphincter to the open place inside.

“Does this hurt?” she asked softly.

“No, it’s strange,” I said.  “But good.”  She’d never done this to me before, and I loved it, and I knew she was reluctant to do this, but willing because she knew I’d like it.  “Good,” I repeated.

After a second, she started pushing the digit in harder, poking into me with hard, rapid thrusts. I liked being taken, abused, penetrated.  Fucked.  I really liked being finger-fucked.

* * *

I love to take L sexually, but sometimes I love to be taken.  Sometimes it is strange and wonderful to lie passively while I’m explored, hurt, tested, penetrated, abused by the person I love.  And if L didn’t like me, I don’t suppose she’d bother to beat me, pinch my nipples, bite the skin of my shoulder until I cry out,  invade my ass while I lay still, seeing how far she’ll go this time to mistreat me.

I think the pleasure goes both ways when that happens.

* * *

Sweet, dirty girl, to give me such unbearably intimate pleasure.  She pressed her cunt to me, moving her mound slowly against my hip, sliding her finger in and out of me for a minute before turning me over again.  I rolled onto my back willingly.

She lowered herself over me, taking me inside her perfect cunt and then she lay flat on me, her belly touching mine as she moved over me, riding me in, then riding me out, pleasuring her clit against my pelvic bone each time she moved up, then down.  She was wet and tight around my cock, and I pressed up against her in slow rhythm, gently enough keep our two mounds in synch, rubbing her clit between us in circular motions, in soft, wet thrusts.

 “I can tell this position works for you,” I said.

“Mmm-hmm,” she murmured, rubbing her cunt against me to prove it.  “Does it work for you?”

“Oh god yes.”

She fucked me slowly some more, and then she pulled the blindfold from me so I could see her lovely, hungry eyes before she rolled over, pulling me on top.  When I was firmly positioned inside her again I pulled her leg up, pressing her knee against her chest  so my dick reached deep into her.  I fucked her hard until the sperm shot all inside her, and then we fucked slowly as my fluid mingled with hers against the sweet flesh inside her, until I went gradually soft and we nuzzled and went to sleep together.

There aren’t enough words for pleasure.

Jeans

Dry-humping a girl when you’re both wearing jeans is just…  Well it’s everything that was good about high school.  Kissing and feeling up and dry-humping — that’s three reasons to get up in the morning, right there.  And a woman in jeans, the rough bulky folds curving into her mound, the thick denim that’s had enough wearings to conform to the shape of her ass and thighs, the waistband hugging her, and under all that is the panties, and under those… the soft peach I want to sink my teeth into…  Those are reasons to stay up for a while.

Dry humping in jeans is on my mind because L and I had occasion to do just that, recently, and I’ve been puzzling how jeans became mainstays of my erotic imagination along with panties and peaches and cleavage and soft, generous upper lips. Why jeans?  And why, to give me a rock-hard boner, are they are supposed to be Levi’s?

A few weeks ago, my blogging friend Ella posted this picture.  She said it’s okay if I post it here.  My comment when I saw it was: I am a product of the 70s, and there is nothing as hot as a beautiful woman in low-cut jeans and a black t-shirt. And if the t-shirt says something about fucking?  Jesus wept.

Seriously.  I am no smarter than Pavlov’s dog.  I know it has something to do with the time I grew up, when jeans were the uniform of free thought, dope, and good music.  In multiple ways I learned to associate gratification with worn, 5-pocket, blue denim jeans.  Wearing them and looking at them.

* * *

I have a very clear image of a girl’s ass at a softball game when I was 12.  She was somewhere between 12 and 75 –honestly all I can remember is her ass, the lines of the pockets curving around each cheek, the rough, faded blue cloth snug with thick folds where the roundness of her ass pushed out from her legs, the heavy seam in back disappearing into the sweet mysterious cleft between the mounds…

I think it’s okay that I’m still 12 years old.  I’m smart enough not to talk this way at work.

* * *

In an article in Reason, Charles Paul Freund says that jeans are an expression of “eroticized low-end culture,” meaning that jeans are only sexy if you never had to wear them to do hard work.  Possibly.  Or it could be a male thing.  L says she only thinks of jeans as sexy because men think they are.  “Or I should say, the kind of men I’m interested in think they are.”  But that’s enough to make the connection.  “So yeah,” she said, “Knowing men think they’re hot makes me feel kinda hot when I put them on.”

Good.  Because I want it to be all hot in there when I get my heart’s desire after waiting all night to run my fingers along the rough scratchy cloth, play along the lip of the fly, tortured by the canvas separating my fingertips from the soft girl-flesh inside, until finally the brass teeth ratchet apart with the zip sound that gave them their name, and the denim splits open, and it’s all soft and pretty inside.

So good, baby.  I want you to start feeling sexy when you’re pulling those jeans up over your sweet ass, wrapping it up in denim for later.

* * *

Marilyn Monroe is actually before my time, but it’s clear that even in the 50s, she knew what denim was for.  In my opinion, this is WAY better than the famous picture of Marilyn holding down her skirt as it flies up over the grate.

Just visually speaking, I could get all over that.  And how could anyone look at this other picture of Marilyn without mentally touching your tongue to the pink flesh along the coarse waistband, bringing a quiet smile to her lips as she reads?

* * *

Another thing about jeans is that they put women and men in the same uniform in an interesting way, and who doesn’t love androgyny?  Doesn’t make you gay.

Not that there’d be anything wrong with it if it did.

I’m sure the unisex look of jeans has always been part of the appeal — when women and men started going on dates both wearing jeans, there was an equality, an openness, that just took sex out of your parents’ generation.  She wouldn’t be waiting chastely within six layers of undergarments to be persuaded to let the man have his filthy way with her as long as he talked nice and paid for dinner; she’d be as ready for it as he was.

* * *

So, earlier, I meant to say something about dry-humping in jeans with L.

We got to the hotel in the early afternoon, exhausted.  We’d been driving when we should have been sleeping, and we were both wearing jeans and t-shirts when we fell into bed to nap fully clothed for maybe an hour, before we woke up a little and spooned up together, my hand resting on her hip.

The scratchy denim woke up a sense memory, ringing the Pavlovian bell in my half-sleep, maybe bringing back images, maybe taking me back to the age of 12 or 16 or 18, and my hand gently rubbed L’s ass.  “You’re spectacular in jeans,” I said.  “I’m kind of a freak for jeans on a girl.”

It was true, and here I am pondering the reasons, these weeks later.

My hand passed along her thigh, enjoying the curve of her flesh as well as the prickly texture of the cloth.  I trailed in the space between her thighs, up to the hard, bunched-up folds protecting her pussy, up along the fly, to touch the brass button, then to lay my hand flat on her belly and enjoy way the hard cloth restrained her, sheltered her flesh from my fingers.

Then I cupped her pussy through the jeans and squeezed, pressing in on the bones of her pelvis, the soft flesh of her mound, and she responded, pushing against my hand.  When I pushed the bulge of my firm cock into the crack of her ass she pushed back.  She parted her thighs and I rubbed her pussy, pressing the hard seam against the slit of her lips, rolling my palm against her, pressing her clit under all the layers, pushing and fanning my fingers across her mound, causing her to arch up and pant and say oh god as she came, without even taking off one piece of clothing.

Only then did I pop the button and part the denim and slide my hand inside to enjoy the softness of the panties, the wetness seeping from her.

She reached back to touch my cheek, then turned, and pushed me down and swung one leg over to straddle me. Hands resting on either side of me, she raised up a bit to modulate the pressure and rubbed her cunt-mound over my dick-bulge slowly. Then again.

Oh my god.

She put her hand down to feel my dick and said, “I want to ride this.”

Both jeans came off in an instant, like they had a will of their own, and then she was lowering herself over me, impaling herself slowly, her tongue showing a little pink point between her teeth.  When she had eased her full weight down, I was sheathed completely by her, and our eyes held each other as she raised and dropped, thrilling my cock with the touch of the wet, soft flesh inside her.

For as long as I could, I lay still, letting her drive us both crazy with her wet cunt sliding on my hard stick, making wet sounds every time she came down on me.  I reached to cup both breasts and squeeze through the shirt, through the bra, squeezing hard until she cried out, and then I said, “Oh fuck baby oh fuck,” through gritted teeth, and I had to grab her hips and push up against her, into her, raising my hips to meet her  and shove my dick as far inside as we could get it.  We went all rhythmic and wet and out of breath, fucking each other, and when my sperm shot up inside her I groaned and she was making sounds of her own, and we both kept fucking like machines for a minute, until the electric fingers playing arpeggios up and down our spines and privates settled down.

When we’d stopped, she pulled herself slowly free, easing herself off of me so gently that it felt like her cunt was taking a long, slow goodbye kiss from my dick.  She dropped with a thud beside me.

“Fuck that was good.”

“Fuck I love you.”

“Fuck yeah.”

Oh, fuck yeah.

Sometimes you get what you need

L came out of the bathroom in the Philadelphia hotel wearing a lacy white top and black panties and the long, gray wooly socks she’d delighted me with on a previous night.

She looked fucking awesome.

L is 55, but she does yoga and hikes a lot and was blessed by the gene pool, and her ass makes me happy just to look at, even before I touch her.

And black panties, did I mention those?

She gave me just a moment to take the vision in before she lay down on her side next to me, pushing her belly softly against mine. She parted her legs a bit and my thigh slid smoothly, automatically between hers.  Her fingers touched the roughness of my nearly-shaved head and she leaned in to whisper, “I missed you baby” into my ear and then her lips went soft and wet against my mouth, drawing my tongue inside, sucking the pleasure to life.

* * *

It had had been weeks since we’d been together, and we’re pretty romantic at heart, so I had imagined that the first night would be gentle and tender, even conventional while we reestablished ourselves.  I planned it to be all scaled back and tentative and respectful like a first time — soft music while we kissed tenderly then passionately, maybe one hand resting lightly on a hip, then gazing into the eyes before a gentle touch to the breast, followed by the determined cupping that signaled commitment to the follow-through, and then on to a slow, incremental disrobing, fingers and lips paying due attention to each patch of skin as it came to view, and all of it soft and slow, with hazy light and measured, deep breaths the way Juliet or Guinevere would have liked it.

But it didn’t turn out that way, really.

* * *

Some of our nicest memories don’t even involve sex; one of the side benefits of the long-distance thing is that we’re constantly meeting in strange places, exploring new cities that her work takes her to, finding restaurants and museums and looking out on unfamiliar oceans and rivers from hotel balconies.  Not that any of that is actually unrelated to sex; that’s what a “relationship” means, after all; it means that even when I’m changing a tire, I take moments to turn and look at the curve of L’s tits, her ass, her lips, all the physical bounty that she brings.

Sometimes I get hard just looking at the soft curves of L’s ass under jeans or a dress.  I remember an early date, walking behind her from one gift shop to another in St. Augustine, Florida.  She was in jeans and a worn bomber-jacket, and she smiled over her shoulder to say something, and I imagined that smile coming back as I’m having her–as I would be having her, because we were still new to each other. We’d hardly touched at that point, and I watched her ass rolling sweetly under the denim, and I started going hard right there on the sidewalk.  I had to focus on the tourists around us to take my mind off it.

* * *

In the hotel, my hands had just started exploring, waking up L’s flesh with fingertips that started out gentle, as I planned.

L said, “God I’ve needed this,” and breathed against my neck.  Her hand rested on mine as my fingers brushed her ribcage, the indentation of her waist, the curve of her hip, the soft roundness of her ass.

“I just need…” she said, leaving the thought unfinished as I slipped into her panties in back and gently, innocently traced the line between her ass-cheeks.  My finger skipped lightly over her anus, down to her pussy to moisten my fingertip and return to her perineum and circle there slowly.  I still believed I was there for the soft , itching, physical pleasure only, the enjoyment of the soft shape, the valley between her cheeks, her willingness to let me explore.

But there is a powerful twin urge that rises in me when I’m touching L’s body — to both worship and abuse.  I’m crazy about L’s ass, from the soft gentle globes, to the tender cleft hiding the treasure of her anus, all the way inside.

I bent to nip at her ass-cheeks gently, turning her as I kissed her there and along her waist and hips, and then pulled the line of her panties aside and ran my tongue in the crevice between her cheeks.  I tasted the rim of her ass softly as my finger made circles on her taint. When my thumb barely touched her anus, she pushed back slightly, so I pressed the thumb against her ass-hole and made gentle circles, probing the tender skin, scratching the itch, widening the opening and pressing inside by tiny increments.  When my thumb went all the way inside her ass and two fingers moved into the wet pussy and closed over the thin membrane to almost meet the thumb, L’s breath deepened with pleasure.

In tantra, I have read, this is called “Holding the World in your Hand.”

The black panties were pulled up in back, twisted out of the way to make room.  They didn’t come off until later.

* * *

If you’re over about 30, you know the title of this piece is from a Rolling Stones song.

You can’t always get what you want, according to Mick, but if you try sometimes you just might find you get what you need.

* * *

I slipped my hand down L’s belly and inside the black panties, dipped two fingers into her wet cunt again to lubricate them and brought them around to her ass and pressed in lightly and she seemed to open for me.  By that time, buggering was on my mind and she could tell, and she brought her hands down to her sides, palms flat against her thighs, and waited.

Her eyes were closed as I kissed the back of her neck and probed her ass with a finger, then two fingers, and then spread the fingers to open her up; she was surprisingly easy.  Her asshole was nearly wide enough already for my cock.  There was nowhere else to go at that point and she waited for me to take her.  I hoisted myself over her sweet soft mounds and slid just the head of my cock in next to my fingers to get started, then pulled the fingers free and pushed my dick inside her ass slowly, pausing for her sphincter to relax and let me all the way in.  I’m sure my voice was husky when I told her, “You’re an angel to let me have this.” I pushed my dick deeper inside, and there was no resistance, and it seemed like a quiet smile took up residence on her face.  I backed out, pushed back in, then out, then deeper. After pushing in and out gently a few times, I had my dick buried to the hilt in her ass, and I could see her tongue tracing her lips as the lines of her face tensed, then relaxed.

I said again, “You’re an angel.” I could think of no other word — only an angel would take my cock in her ass so happily.

It was overwhelming for me as I stroked in and out, rubbing the firm mound of her ass with one hand, clutching her breast with the other, then pulling at the nipple until she gasped.  Almost involuntarily, my hand went to encircle her throat and close off her wind as I began pumping harder into her ass.  I was rendered incoherent by the pleasure, and I told her unnecessarily, “I’m just going to come in your ass, honey.”

I came in spasms, clutching her throat and pounding into her ass; her breath made hard, happy complaints and her ass gripped me like a fist, squeezing the juice out of me.

I collapsed on to her, kissing her cheek, leaving my dick inside her as long as I could.  Finally, when her sphincter had pushed me out, she reached back to touch my hand and said, “That’s exactly what I needed.”

But she hadn’t come, I was sure of it, so what was it she’d needed?

* * *

In Mobile, Alabama once we ate fried shrimp and looked out at the Gulf of Mexico, chuckling because it was such a cliché when Jimmy Buffet’s voice floated down from the ceiling, singing about the ocean.  We passed a single beer back and forth, our ankles resting on the handrail, bare feet dangling in the sunshine.

There was nothing we needed right then.

* * *

I got up from L after a minute, and went into the bathroom to wash my hands and dick.

When I came back she was lying quietly on her belly, hands tucked under her head like a sleeping baby.  I bent to plant a kiss at the base of her spine, and pulled the panties down as I gently rolled her over and pushed her legs apart to make room for my face to nuzzle her mound.

She sighed and pulled her knees up; I licked the length of her cunt lips and tasted her inside, then went to work on her clit with my lips and tongue.  I ate her for a long time, and she came hard, slapping the sheets and saying my name.

“I needed that,” she said when her breathing slowed, and I moved up to lie next to her; soon I was hard again, and I said, “I really want to fuck you, but I feel like I should take a real, soapy shower first.”

I could have then gone to the shower, maybe dragged her with me, but we took the lazy path and lay silently until we went to sleep.

* * *

A 1988 movie called Colors has a scene where an old cop played by Robert Duvall tells young cop Sean Penn a story to illustrate the importance of patience in police work:  This old bull and this young bull are on a hill looking down at a herd of cows in a pasture.  The young bull says, “Hey, let’s run down there and fuck one of them cows.”  The old bull says, “How about we walk down and fuck ‘em all?”

I don’t know, the older I get, the more I like that story.

* * *

We spend so much time apart, so little time together, that I always want to make the most of it.  That means making the most of the closeness, comfort, intimacy, the sweet kindness of being with the person I have agreed to let my guard down with.  But sometimes making the most of it means breaking out the conceptual ropes and chains and heading off to the happy conceptual dungeon while we have the opportunity.

Making the most of it.  Rationing does seem to whet the appetite – for peaceful conclusions and disorderly ones.

* * *

L and I imagine living together — the easy, low-impact rhythm of waking up and showering and heading off to work with the contented knowledge that the person who makes me smile will be waiting at the end of the day.  It’s a dream of the future for now, like the dreams of the past that we fashion from days like the one in which we collected provisions from a NYC deli, crossed Central Park West to find a picnic spot in Strawberry Fields where we sat in the grass to eat egg salad sandwiches and take pleasure in the sight and sound of two little Asian girls playing a violin and a cello twenty feet away while young men played Lennon songs further off and we held hands and kissed.  “This is perfect,” L said to me as we walked around the lushness of the Park.  “Every Saturday should be like this.”

I know there is a way of seeing the absolute, undeniable perfection of every day, every moment, not just the awesome moments in Central Park.

I have not learned that way of seeing yet, though.

That day in Central Park is as much a dream now, as any fantasy of a perfect future.  I remember L stopping before a bed of carnations blooming white and red in the daylight.  Involuntarily, I squinted and held my hand up to shield my eyes in the bright sunshine.

“This is what I need,” she said.

That, too.

That’s also what we need.

The Innocence of Children

The innocence of children terrifies me, like a priceless crystal vase teetering on the edge of a shelf in an earthquake.

When she made the R-Rated Blue Lagoon, Brooke Shields was innocent, even for a 15-year-old; in fact she didn’t lose her virginity, she says, until she was 22.  So for the sex scenes in Blue Lagoon, an older body double substituted for Brooke, and for close-ups, director Franco Zeffirelli would stand off-camera and squeeze Brooke’s toe until the pain produced an expression that would pass for ecstasy.

Close enough for the movies.

* * *

L usually has her face turned away when I’m hurting her, because I’m usually hurting her ass.  I always forget, but I need to pay attention when I hurt her in front so I can look in her eyes and see if the expression is the same as the look that comes over her when she has an orgasm.  L is stunning when she has an orgasm.  Her voice goes strange and her teeth show and she has this expression…

I need to see if the same look is there when I pull her nipple hard, when I fit four fingers inside her and push the fingers in up to the knuckles where they can’t possibly fit, yet she doesn’t stop me.

L has said she thinks that pain, in a sexual context, is good for her in some almost spiritual way.  “It takes you closer to the darkness,” she said, “where you can encounter your fears, maybe deal with them.”

* * *

Getting closer to your fears may be better than running from them.  G. Gordon Liddy says that his father helped him overcome his fear of rats by forcing him to kill, cook, and eat one.

I wasn’t raised that way; I’m more likely to run.  L, it seems to me, has always been more like Liddy; she hunts her fears down like an angry mother protecting a child —  in that metaphor, L is simultaneously the child as well as the mother.  I think her “mother” side has probably taken more than one beating to shelter her “child” side.

* * *

Here is some of what I know about how L and I learned to handle things before we got together.

Our families started out in quite different circumstances, but wound up in southern towns a couple of hours apart. L and I could easily have never met, and even after we met, we could easily have never gotten together.

My parents escaped from a mining town in Kentucky to Macon, Georgia on the twin wings of the GI Bill and a football scholarship when I was three, and L’s family made the trek from Cambridge, Massachusetts to Savannah when L was about the same age.  My family was drawn south by the prospect of my father becoming the first college graduate in the history of his family. L’s parents, conversely, traded down their promising academic futures somewhat, in order to escape the embarrassment that her father’s gambling addiction had generated, creating scandals that the family and family friends –the “better” sort of New Englanders– couldn’t abide, in the sixties.

In Macon, I grew up somewhat solitary, artistic, bookish, babyish really, and the innocence that I had melted as my father, a happy, clean-living man who everyone thought was 10 years younger than his actual age, was shrunk to a mute, living skeleton by a series of unexplained strokes when he was much too young for strokes, and I was much too young to watch that transformation.  I clung, through those years, to Macon’s fine public library, and as I came to the end of high school, I learned to cushion my bruised soul with the bales of marijuana one of my friends drove up regularly from Mobile, augmented by suitcases full of PCP that another friend flew down from Detroit.

L’s course was a bit different.  Her father left the family as soon as he found a lady willing to accompany him to Florida, land of horse-racing and jai-alai, and her mother supported L and her two sisters on a community-college art teacher’s salary, spending summers painting Georgia landscapes and exhibiting at banks, schools, state fairs, gathering a salon of local painters around her, carving out her own Left Bank along the shores of the Savannah River where her longing for New England faded eventually and her dream of a painter’s life became real, a thousand miles south of where she’d expected it to take shape.

Throughout her childhood, L basked in the artistic spell cast by her mother, but by the time she got to high school, life had opened an empty place in her soul that had to be filled by self-destruction.  Expelled repeatedly from school for defying teachers, swearing at administrators, showing up to class drunk or stoned, L fled the magic of her artistic family, fled her own talent even, to explore the wild places on the streets of America in the seventies. Surrounding herself with similarly broken souls, L toured the shit-holes of the country, doing the things that street junkies do to support themselves.  She was a very cute girl, fearless and uninhibited, and I imagine she did well for herself.

I won’t say that my heart doesn’t ache for the innocence that I imagine she bartered away in squalid transactions with the ghouls who acquire their power by consuming the innocence of the young.

Occasionally I feel compelled to torture myself, imagining the young girl she was then, but realistically, I know the kind of innocence I’m aching for probably never existed in L or anyone else.  I’ve seen middle school pictures of L, before she started sticking needles in herself.  Was that lean, wild, self-assured young girl innocent?  The smile was spectacular, but innocent?  I wouldn’t say so.

* * *

At the same age as L was touring the cheap motels and shooting galleries of America, I was watching my father die a slow painful death.  Like the rest of my stoic family I took it stoically, but numbed myself chemically as much as possible.  Even my doper friends were sometimes taken aback at the sight of me sitting at a party when the thumb-thick joints we used to roll came around, too paralyzed from PCP to take the joint and pass it on. My buddy Leonard: Wow, Theo, you’re turning to stone again.  Hey, doesn’t Theo look like he’s turned to stone or something?

When I meet someone — like L — who isn’t paralyzed by heartache, who embraces the misery, who actually pursues it to the end, wrestles it to the ground and kicks the shit out of it, I am in awe.

* * *

L and I both turned away from our personal highways to hell in our twenties; I discovered that the Amoco manager would get crappy about handing over the paycheck after I’d spent the week at work napping and drooling on my shirt; L decided she’d woke up in enough county jails and emergency rooms for one lifetime. We cleaned ourselves up in our different ways, went to grad school where we met and became friends before marrying other people, joining the middle class, raising families, paying our taxes, becoming pillars of our respective communities.

* * *

And here we are, decades and divorces later, building a relationship on trust and tenderness.  And exploration of each other’s raw spots and dark mercies.

A few weeks ago, on the phone, we were planning for the next visit, pining for each other and complaining about the separation.  “It’s too long,” I said.  “I need to see you, baby.”

“I need you, too,” she said, and it could have been a simple, polite reply, but after a second, she said, “I’ve been having dirty thoughts about Theo.”

Since Theo isn’t my real name, calling me Theo invoked the side of us that appears more prominently in this blog than it probably does in life.  In life we spend a lot more time doing laundry and paying bills.

“So, what were you thinking about Theo?” I asked.

She made me wait a bit before she answered.  “Theo using me,” she said. “Forcing me, shoving his dick in my mouth…”

Be still, my heart.

When I did get to L’s place for the weekend, we didn’t go straight to bed; we had friends over with their small children to watch Toy Story while the adults sipped wine and chatted about the Fiscal Cliff and the children gorged on lemonade and popcorn.  It was at least the 50th time L and I had heard You’ve Got a Friend in Me, because we’ve both gotten our children past the Woody and Buzz years.  I was embarrassed when L caught my lips moving silently along.

When company was gone, we spent a half hour kissing and feeling each other up on the couch before we went upstairs to her bedroom. Standing next to the bed, we kissed again, my hand caressing L’s spectacular ass, feeling the soft roundness through the rough denim of her jeans. I was already hard just at the closeness, and then my fingertips found the studs on her belt.  The rows of cold metal tips were lined up like soldiers.

“Nice belt,” I said.  “I meant to say something earlier.”

Her fingers went next to mine as they traced the metal points.  “I’ve had it since high school,” she said.  “I got it out just for you.”

I pulled the tongue from the buckle and loosened the belt and drew it out through the loops and draped it over my shoulders as we kissed again and I unbuttoned her jeans and felt her all over inside, her ass, her mound, the line of her panties, before the two of us cooperated in shucking the jeans off her.

We moved to the bed and she lay down immediately, ass-up, leaving no doubt what we were there for.  I folded the belt so that the studs wouldn’t hurt her ass, the small of her back, the backs of her thighs.

She kept her arms still at her sides, flinching only a little each time I hit her with the belt, and then helped by raising up a bit when I pulled her panties down to uncover her precious ass.  I turned the belt so that the metal points faced outward, and I beat her with them across her ass and legs just a few times, and not very hard.  But even so, angry red stripes marked her flesh.

“Are you okay?” I asked, and she said she was.

“Will you turn over for me?”

She hardly paused at all before she turned over slowly.  She was still wearing her oxford button-down shirt, and she unbuttoned and spread it open, exposing her sweet breasts, extending her arms wide like Jesus on the bed.  Her soft belly and mound were exposed to me and her legs were parted slightly as I doubled the belt in my hand.

Something like innocence shone behind the hard light in her eyes as she waited.

Elevator Fiction

The elevator went black and shuddered to a halt just as Karen thought she’d make it home in time to throw together some dinner for her husband Daniel, and he’d never have to know that she’d taken the afternoon to visit their old high school friend in a nearly-abandoned apartment building, where she knew she shouldn’t have been, even if nothing did happen.  So she was ready for this elevator ride to be short so she and Ralph could get back to their respective lives.

But the elevator was definitely dead, and after a minute she heard Ralph’s shaken voice in the darkness:  “Oh, fu– damn.”  He sounded worried; he was in the same fix as Karen; he probably didn’t want to tell his wife he’d been stuck in the elevator at the Pembroke Towers all afternoon.  (“Why were you at the Pembroke, sweetie?  I thought that place closed down years ago.”)

“Give it a minute,” Karen said.  “There’s got to be an alarm going off somewhere across town, and then they’ll call the security guy to get us out.”

“I’m not 100% sure there is a security guy,” Ralph said.

“Well Maintenance, or somebody.”

“They’re running a skeleton crew,” Ralph said soberly.  “I don’t know if there’s anyone at all except the sales rep.  And he’s not coming around unless he has to show an apartment.”

“Well let’s hope you’re wrong about that,” she said.

Karen leaned back and took a deep breath; the elevator was small and she thought she could feel the Ralph’s warmth a couple of feet away, or inches away, or maybe she was imagining that.  She tried not to let the frustration overtake her, but she couldn’t help thinking that this was one of those situations that could have been avoided so easily — was there any good reason for her to even be there?

*

The Facebook request had come out of nowhere.  The little red outlined head and shoulders with a white “1″ caught her eye, as it was supposed to, telling her she’d had a “friend request”. Another?  She’d only opened a Facebook account that week because everyone at school teased her about living in another century — no cell phone, no Facebook, no Skype.   But someone pointed out that you could keep up with family on Facebook, and her sisters were scattered all over the country, so she opened an account, putting up a recent snapshot and a few lines about living life to its fullest (something she knew she did NOT do).  She let the program seek out “friends” for her, and within a week she’d been contacted by over a dozen people; in addition to her sisters, she heard from faintly-remembered acquaintances going back to high school and college.

After a week, she found herself checking Facebook several times a day, and was shocked to realize what she was looking for: old boyfriends.  Secretly, she wanted some of those boys from the past to contact her, to dredge up the teenaged passion that she hadn’t felt in years, old boyfriends to remind her that once, boys had spent money on dinners and even gotten into fistfights for the privilege of having time alone with her, to kiss, to press their luck, to dream that she’d allow greater transgressions.  And then, when some boy had been the lucky one to touch her so gently inside her pink-and-white bikini that her 15-year-old desire overwhelmed her fear of displeasing her mother, and she had invited the boy to take her, there in the coolness under the dock with tourists’ sandals scraping sand down on them through the cracks in the planking.  She touched his hard member before he slid it inside her, but did not see it, and she was surprised at how little pain there was.  And surprised at how little of the pleasure, too, was actually delivered that first time, although it did hint strongly of other times to come, when she began to understand what all the fuss was about.

That was what she missed, in her long marriage that had started out enflamed with passion before the flame dwindled so gradually that Daniel probably wasn’t even aware that it had been almost a year since they’d been together that way.

She didn’t think she was looking for a man to replace what had died between them.  She believed she was just trying to “catch up.”  So it surprised her when her heart thrilled just a little when she clicked on the red outline and saw that the friend requestor was Ralph, from high school.  Thrilled not over Ralph, she knew, but at the memory of Ralph’s friend Jimmy.  Jimmy had been the one who taught her how to do certain things, and taught her to love doing them.

But this wasn’t Jimmy, it was Ralph that was “friending” her; she clicked “Accept”, and typed a short note to him:  Long time, Ralphy.  Remember the “tuna” at Lake Hudson?  LOL.

Ralph generated no romantic or sexual images whatever to Karen, but she realized they were flirting pretty shamelessly in the IMs, although they tried to disguise it with nostalgic teenaged jargon:

I see you’ve got the same bangin bod you had when you were 16.

LOL.  You’re going blind in your old age.

Say, I’m wondering, did we ever do the horizontal bop at the Quality Inn, or was that just a dream?

ROFL.  Whose dream yours or mine? Tee Hee. 

The truth is that he had no reason to dream anything like that; she’d been Jimmy’s girl, or Daniel’s girl the whole time she knew Ralph, and nothing had happened to risk any of that.

Besides the age, the expression on his Facebook picture hinted that he’d grown sadder and wiser, and there were pictures of Ralph with a woman Karen’s age, who she thought was named Debbie.  Karen was almost sure this was the girl Ralph had started dating right after graduation.  There were several of Ralph with his daughter, who looked about ten, Karen thought.

Karen had no children as yet and she knew chance of having any grew smaller every month, but she’d become resigned to that, since she and Daniel had always agreed that there wasn’t room for children in their lives.  To Ralph, she messaged:

Pretty little girl, just adorable. 

Thank you, she’s the light of my life you know.

So how’s Debbie?

It was almost a minute before the answer:  She’s awesome.

And it was another long pause before:  Hey, want to meet up for drinks?

She did, somewhat to her own surprise.

It was a bit of a red flag when he suggested they meet at a condo he’d just bought, not a restaurant, but he messaged:

I’m a total gentleman, I swear.  I’d rather just relax and talk and not have a waiter buzzing around.  Besides, the view is spectacular.  You’ve got to see this place.  Bring Danny.

So she agreed to come, but didn’t bring Daniel, and didn’t mention the trip to him, since it was happening in the middle of the afternoon, when he’d be at the store anyway.

Ralph hadn’t lied about the view.  From the balcony, Karen saw the length of the city, split by the river lined with high-rises as far as she could see.  She wondered aloud how he could afford the place on a gym teacher’s salary.

“I got the place for next to nothing,” Ralph explained, “because the building owners are trying to sell, and they want it to look occupied. There are probably only 10 or 15 tenants in the whole building right now.  After the place gets sold and rehabbed, I’ll make a killing.”

And after that, they’d gone inside, drank most of a bottle of wine, and talked about times past, and somehow nothing improper happened.  Still, Karen caught herself looking too long at Ralph’s hands and wrists and muscled forearms, and the rounded thighs through the material of his trousers.  Ralph obviously took fitness to heart, Karen thought, and besides that, his eyes shone when he laughed, either from the wine or the pleasure of her company.  She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been alone and half-drunk with a man besides Daniel, and that thought alone caused her to press her thighs together and rub them slowly against each other as they talked.

Still, nothing improper happened.

*

Waiting in the blackness of the elevator made Karen even more light-headed than the wine alone. She listened for some sound of the elevator’s machinery; there was none, and she realized they’d grown silent in the dark, and it no longer felt like Ralph was inches away.  In the darkness it was like they were in different rooms.  She let her hand brush down her belly softly, stopping when the fingers touched the oversized buckle at the waist of the low-cut jeans she had bought just for this visit.

She knew she wasn’t thinking clearly when she headed to the Mall and shopped like she was dressing for a date.  She’d tried on pants, then a skirt and sweater, and then decided on the low-rider jeans, like the ones she wore when she was 15, and the thick braided belt with the heavy round buckle that she remembered from those days, the way a buckle like that could always be counted on to draw a man’s eyes.  In Macy’s, she’d examined herself in the jeans, front and behind, and thought that, yes, her 37-year-old body could still carry it off.

“Well, the phone’s out, too,” Ralph said.  “You’d think the phone would have an emergency battery.”

“You would,” she agreed.

“Just for events like this.”  He was obviously trying to keep his nerves under control.  “Who knows how long before someone figures out…”

“We’ll have to wait I guess.”  Her finger circled the buckle mindlessly and ran along the top of her jeans for a few soft inches.  She tried to imagine how that would feel to a man’s fingers.  Would a man — would Ralph – still enjoy touching her as much as Daniel seemed to in high school?  She realized her fingers were lingering over the fabric around her navel, testing the slight dip there — a bit rounder than high school, but soft and pleasant to touch.  Why wouldn’t a man enjoy that?

It was shameful, touching herself as they talked.  But she realized she was smiling.  Who could know?  Her fingers went down the fly of her jeans and touched as if it were a man’s fingers making the tentative first pass at the soft place between her thighs.

“You know I was so surprised when you friended me yesterday,” she said without ceasing to explore the denim, hoping her voice was steady. “It’s been what, fifteen, eighteen years?”

“Something like that,” he said.  “We were babies, weren’t we?”

They talked about people they’d known in high school, while she let her fingers run along the edge of her bra, remembering that she’d picked out the purple lace panties and bra to fit under the new jeans when she was going to meet Ralph; it was silly and adolescent of her in a way that almost embarrassed her, but for some reason she’d wanted to feel sexy, and she enjoyed the thought that under her clothes no one would be able to tell how naughty and pleasant she was feeling.

There in the elevator, she found herself picturing Ralph’s lips, and wondering why they’d never once kissed or even touched each other beyond a friendly hug, all those years ago.  Of course he was shy, then, and overweight, and he had a trace of acne, but that described half the boys she’d been around in high school.  Why hadn’t they tried to connect?

Feeling the lace under the silky shirt, her finger found the nubbin pressing against her blouse, and she pinched her own nipple hard enough to hurt.  Jimmy had done that to her once, and she’d slapped his hand away angrily, but she never forgot it.

Ralph’s buddy Jimmy wasn’t Karen’s first boy, but he was the first to make her come more than once, and the first who seemed to even try to make that happen. Jimmy was dirty in the good way, and that was probably his one good quality. In a theater once while they watched Hollywood stars skiing down a mountain, shooting crossbows and dodging trees, he’d started with his hand resting on her thigh, then by steps moved closer and finished by massaging her twat slowly through her shorts until she felt herself coming, had to squeeze his arm and bite her lip to keep from crying out.  No one had ever made her come in the dark like that, without a word, a kiss, even eye contact.  They could have been strangers.  At the time she’d been embarrassed for letting it happen; why did it seem such a sweet memory now?

But Jimmy couldn’t keep his eyes or hands off of other girls, even Karen’s friends, so that ended after half a year of the best sex Karen ever hoped to see in this life.  Soon after, Ralph introduced her to Daniel, who was nicer, more respectful of Karen than Jimmy had ever been, and after Karen got him started and gave him an idea of what was possible, Daniel evolved into a stallion, making love to Karen for hours every time they were together, raising storms of passion that brought her to tears and left her shaking and. satisfied

That passion lasted for close to a year, even took them past the wedding and honeymoon, but soon enough Daniel learned to channel most of his energy into selling furniture, and that meant staying until the store closed at 9:00.  Karen spent the evenings planning activities for her third-grade class at the same time as she was scheming to advance her career beyond teaching.  They were both exhausted at bedtime, and they even began going to bed separately.  Where had the stallion gone?

*

In the elevator, she pulled her hand back as soon as she realized she had begun gently to rub her own pussy under the hard fabric of her jeans.

“We should get all the guys together,” Ralph was saying.  “Have a reunion.”

“Let’s do it,” she said.  Her heart was racing; her pussy was electric.  She imagined moving in on Ralph, pressing herself against him in the dark, touching him. She knew men well enough to bet that would be a wet-dream come true for him.

What was happening to her?  This wasn’t the way she acted; she was the steady, dignified assistant principal who had a wide smile for everybody and thought about nothing but the kids, test scores, budgets, and signing off on cakes for retirement parties.  She didn’t touch herself in dark elevators, she didn’t enjoy the tender fullness of her breasts cupped in her own hands.  She didn’t –

The lights flickered on and back off, and the elevator began to hum.  She’d been leaning back with her shoulders against the elevator wall and her pelvis thrust forward, and she had time to stand straight and move her hand up to grasp the strap of her handbag before the lights came on and stayed.

“Well, there we are,” Ralph said in a cheery voice, and they both squinted against the light, sharing a momentary relieved smile for a second before looking away as the elevator came to a rest and the doors opened.  They stepped into the deserted lobby and in the second before they made their goodbyes, she had the crazy thought that anything, absolutely any crazy thing at all could happen in the next moment.

She held her breath as their eyes tried to meet a couple of times, but slid away instead.

No crazy thing happened.  They mumbled a few words, call me, message me, we have to do something together, and then they were off to their cars.  Separately.

She waited for Ralph to back out of his space; she leaned to look into her eyes in the rearview before she backed out.  Her eyes were the color of cherrywood, with lashes as thick as a child’s, and filled with lust.

“Oh my god,” she said, and then:  “Oh my fucking god.”

She didn’t usually swear like that.

*

Note:  This would go into chapter 1.  I think this girl needs to get her mojo back.

This morning after I made myself

This morning after I made myself come, I washed my hands, crawled back into bed with my phone, and thumbed a text to L:

I woke up thinking about you.  My hand is a poor substitute, but it’s all my lonesome self has to remind me of how good you are to me. Thinking about the socks, and your taste.

I left it on the phone, deciding whether to hit Send.  It was more graphic than L usually wants to get in messages and emails, and I’m still embarrassed to admit that I jack off sometimes.  But she knows I do because I’ve told her; if she’d been here, my erection would have touched her warmth as I explored her soft skin, and would have found release in her, and I would have brought her to orgasm as well, before we showered and ate breakfast and started our day.

But as it was this morning, I half-woke, and my hand had gone under the sheet to pass over my boxers, exploring my own growing bulge before I was even awake, remembering how her fingers tease me into hardness, stroke my balls, circle my cock gently; then my hand snaking up to pluck, pinch a bit of pain out of my own nipple thinking of L, then returning to tug on my dick through my boxers, to feel the strange, lonesome pleasure that is all physical–but really mental too, as I remember things she’s done for me with her fingers, her tongue, imagine things we haven’t done yet to her mouth, her pussy.  The joy of having each other when we’re together.  Her soft voice, almost like a little girl’s when she consented to my cock sliding lubed and hard into her ass the first time.  Her sweet face that smiles sometimes when I touch her.  The sticky come shot up and landed on my belly, spreading under my fingers as I milked out everything my dick and balls had inside, thinking about L’s sweet breath, her soft, willing lustful flesh, her happy, laughing spirit.

Remembering the socks.

* * *

L told me about the socks when we were Skyping, a week away from our next visit.  She got a smile on her face when she said, “I bought something for when you come up.”

“Let’s see.”

She waved something gray in front of the web cam.  “It’s socks,” she said, pulling one of them out to its full length.  “Long, long socks.”

“Oh my.  I have to see them on you.”

She put her laptop on the bed and left camera range for a moment; when she reappeared her pants were gone, and she placed one naked foot on the bed, the hem of her shirt draped so it just barely covered her snatch.

“Are you wearing anything under that shirt?

“You can just wonder about that, mister.”

And I did wonder as she performed a slow, reverse strip tease, easing one sock over her foot and up her calf then stretching the thing taut along her leg and smoothing it with a motion that was almost a caress, her fingers lingering to torment me on the three inches of soft thigh left exposed between the sock and the bottom of her shirt.

“Oh fuck,” I said.  “I wish I was there.”

“Me too, honey.”  She stood in front of the cam long just long enough for me to take in the image of those teasing three inches of thigh and then said, “Show’s over,” and sat back on the bed, resting against a pillow with her laptop pointed at her face.  “Just another week,” she said.  “You’ll be here soon, sweetie.”

* * *

When I came up, we had dinner with some folks and watched an episode of something, said good night to her roommate, and retired to L’s room.  She stepped into the bathroom and came out wearing a t-shirt and the long, gray fuzzy socks.  They were heavy sweater-material, like stockings except utilitarian, like something an Eskimo might wear on a cold night with a fur garter belt.

Do you like the socks?” she asked.

“I do.”

“Love the socks,” she said, sitting on the edge of the bed, crossing her legs and waiting for me to kneel before her cunt, which I was happy to do.  I touched her feet first, massaging, squeezing her arches through the wool, working up her legs, running my palms up the round of her wooly thighs, enjoying the softness of her, letting my fingertips take their time reaching, then passing, the top hems of the socks to touch the flesh of her thighs for the first time, lingering there, tracing the elastic around her thigh before moving up and letting one thumb trace the promising slickness along her cunt lips.

“I want to taste,” I said, looking up at her.  She motioned me up on the bed with her eyes, and as soon as I had climbed up and lay back and arranged a pillow under my head, L was hoisting herself over me, bringing her pink slit closer to my face.  I reached to spread the lips and reveal the glistening, purple hood around her clit as she brought her cunt closer for me to taste, running my tongue up the lips, then pressing inside, then teasing the clit out with my tongue, then sucking on the pink, salty bud while L rolled slowly against my face.  Her hands went to enjoy her breasts as she towered over me and I serviced her pussy with everything my lips and tongue could bring to it.

The rough cloth scratched against my face, and she pushed in over me so that I couldn’t breathe for a second.

* * *

Before L, most of the sex I had was tinged with sorrow and some form of intoxication.

Although I had physically had sex a couple of times before, the first girl that fucked me so that it made an impression was a friend’s wife, and that wasn’t a good thing.

My father had just died, taking a piece of me along with him on his slow death that I learned to endure by adopting a stoner’s sardonic exultation at life’s broken promises.  After the funeral I was sitting outside Mike’s trailer smoking dope and watching the first spark of light I’d seen in years, it felt like, pulling up the driveway in the form of Mike’s wife Shelley.  She got out of her VW Bug, walked right to me and put her arms around me while Mike patted my shoulder, and they both murmured, “Sorry, man.”

Mike had been my friend since grade school; he was like me – dying a slow death spiritually, although he wouldn’t have used those words, after finishing high school in a tiny southern town that wanted no more than to sell real estate and insurance and watch its children dope themselves into an easy oblivion.

And we both went along with that program.  We did smoke some dope and drop some acid and work some minimum-wage jobs.  Until Shelley became pregnant, and Mike’s father bought them the mobile home to move into, and Mike went to work for his father as a chronically wasted warehouse foreman.  He even hired me, although I disliked hard work and lasted less than a week.

Shelley went inside, and Mike said he’d have a lid to sell by the next day, and I took off.

When I came back the next afternoon, Mike wasn’t around, and Shelley told me to come in, and after she exchanged the baggie for my 20, she asked if I wanted to smoke one, and I did, and we talked a little, and then spontaneously fucked on the shag carpet.  I can’t say it was a thrill for either of us.

It’s true that I knew that Mike had never stopped sleeping with his old squeeze even after the marriage.  But that didn’t excuse anything, considering that I only knew that because Mike thought I was his friend.

I went to the trailer a second time when Mike wasn’t there.  We fucked in the bed this time, and afterwards Mike and Shelley’s toddler came in and stood at the foot of the bed watching us until Shelley took him into the kitchen for a fruit rollup or something.

Within a month, I had hooked up with Karen, another high-school friend, and we moved to Tampa, where we settled into a fine, sweet 3-year relationship, .until the night when Karen confessed that for weeks she’d been sleeping with a bartender at work.  I remembered Shelley, and in my heart I knew I had it coming.  The relationship died a 6-month slow death, and I went straight into a year with Rachel, whom I adored as much, it turned out, as she adored the professor who was guiding her Fine Arts thesis, and I knew I had that coming too, and after that it was maybe 5 or 6 years before I was with a woman and not drunk or stoned.

* * *

It took me a long time to start thinking that I might be the one creating broken promises out of an addiction to past misery — that I might be collaborating with life’s disappointments so I could believe I was controlling them.

L has pointed that out to me.

She has also said to me, “We’re grown up now.  We can get it right.”

* * *

I loved the scratch of L’s socks against my cheeks, and when she had ground my face into a wet, happy pulp, her hand moved down to give my balls a squeeze.  Her eyes smiled and her jaw pushed out a little as she watched my eyes to see when to stop.  She felt me, felt I was hard, and moved to lower herself over me.  She rode me into bliss, and after that she left the socks on while we played Scrabble.  I believe I beat her that time.

* * *

This morning I remembered all this and thought about grown men masturbating, and imperfections and betrayals, and the clean, honest thing L and I have built between us in spite of the distance.

I woke up thinking about you.  My hand is a poor substitute, but it’s all my lonesome self has to remind me of how good you are to me. Thinking about the socks, and your taste.

It is impossible to put anything important into words.  I tapped Send with my thumb anyway.

On the Couch

When L was here for a week around New Year’s, we snuggled on the couch one night, her soft ass tucked against me while we watched A Dangerous Method.  It was kind of a curious movie; much of its appeal was the intellectual interest of watching Freud and Jung invent psychoanalysis and play mind games and analyze each other’s dreams.  But then every twenty minutes or so, there would be a scene where Viggo Mortensen, as Carl Jung, would have to take a belt to Keira Knightley, his favorite patient.  And she was clearly on board for that.

Keira Knightly looked pretty, by the way:

When the movie ended, L’s fingers were resting on my hand, which was unconsciously rubbing the mound of her breast while we watched the credits and my semi-hard cock nestled along the crack of her ass.

“How did you like it?” she asked, meaning the flick.

“I always like Viggo Mortensen,” I said.  “But there wasn’t as much sex as I was expecting.  I read that it was more shocking than that.”

“I thought it was pretty hot, myself,” she said.  “I wasn’t expecting the belt,” and she leaned her head back against me so I could run my tongue along her ear.

Shit we can be lazy, languid sluts sometimes.

I kissed the back of her neck and breathed in the sweet aroma of her hair as I slid my hand inside her shirt and prickled the bumpy skin around her nipple until it stood up, thick and sensitive, ready as always when plucked or tugged or rubbed, to pass on the delight to L’s nucleus accumbens – her brain’s pleasure center.

“I love your tits,” I told her, cupping a breast and tickling the nipple. “I just want to make sure you know that.”

Then I tugged her shirt up to expose her breast and take a slap at it.  She breathed in sharply, surprised, and then settled back and I slapped the pretty thing again, harder.  I could tell her nucleus accumbens liked that too, so I gave it to her a few more times before I cupped her breast again gently and comforted the sore spot.  Her hand rested lightly on mine.

* * *

In the movie, Keira Knightley’s character was keen on the belt because it helped her process the semi-nude beatings she had received from her father as a little girl.  Somehow, replaying that scenario with a man who represented sanity and compassion was good for her.

L received no such beatings from her father, but he did abandon the family when L was young, and she gave herself a rough time when she was in her twenties — did some irrational shit that even she shakes her head over now.

Recently, she’s developed an appreciation for a nip, a pinch or a well-aimed slap.  And she’s given some thought to it.  “I think you can play with pain,” she said, “and it’s almost like encountering it helps assimilate dark things you’re having trouble with.”

* * *

On the couch, I reached to touch L’s panties and push her thighs apart so I could tap her mound lightly with three fingers, then again.  She spread her legs a bit in response, so I tapped with four fingers, then slapped her mound hard, and she raised up a little to meet my hand.

I had a moment’s desire to make her lie face down on the couch and lift her ass for me to whip with a belt, like Viggo and Keira.  But I felt too lethargic for that–I discovered later that I was working up to the flu–so I took a lazier path instead, working L’s panties off her and stroking her mound tenderly for a minute before I slapped her pussy again, harder than before, then pounded her right over her clit a couple of times with my closed fist, then touched her and found that she was really, really wet.  “You are a shameful girl,” I muttered, “A shameful, tasty girl,” as I went to my knees and spread her legs so I could lick the puffy lips, drink in the taste of her cunt, roll my tongue around her clit until she came, panting, chanting, “Oh, oh, oh…”

Because it’s easier to wash than the couch, I slid the comforter under L’s ass and put my dick inside that exquisite cunt and we fucked joyfully while L’s fingers went from mauling her own nipples to mine, and back.

* * *

I’ve always liked Carl Jung.  He wanted to bring his patients’ souls into the equation when he treated them.  He had lots of interesting things to say about souls, and he tried to map out some of the subconscious archetypes that he believed live inside us and shape our lives.

Two of the big archetypes are the anima, the eternal Woman who lives inside each man, and the animus, the Man who lives inside each woman.  Part of being sane, he believed, is learning to let the two sides of our hermaphroditic souls work and play well together.

So Jung would say that I’m having an endless relationship with my anima, eternally reaching for my mother, old lovers, every woman who has ever meant something me, the women who all intersect with the Woman inside me.  When I make L smile, I’m making the Woman smile.

And L, when she looks at me, also sees the ghosts of her father and every other man who made an impression on her, and in a certain way she is working out her relationships with them, as she shapes her relationship with me.

Besides that, Jung would say, the two of us are in a kind of foursome, as the Man inside L and the Woman inside me try to work out their own subterranean relationship outside the conscious awareness of either of us.

So every date is a double-date, he would say.

* * *

I believe that the animus in L is stronger than in most women.  L says she hasn’t been a woman for very many lifetimes yet, and is still learning to be comfortable with things like painting her nails.  She’s a really pretty girl in a dress, but I have to admit she looks just about right in jeans and a leather jacket.

I believe that the anima in me is stronger than in most men.  L says I’m the kindest man she’s been with.  Not the strongest.  That’s okay.

* * *

The next night L and I were in bed kissing, and I slapped L’s ass lightly and she pulled her lips free so she could roll on her belly and wait, face turned away and hands at her sides.  Motherfucker, that was beautiful.

I kissed her neck and rubbed her ass cheek softly for a minute before I slapped again, then rubbed again until she relaxed, then slapped again.  She made quiet sounds each time I hit her.  My desire for her becomes almost unbearable when she gives her body up like this.

After a minute I bent to look and I was surprised at the bright scarlet patch that covered most of one cheek.  “I didn’t really hit you that hard,” I said. “But your ass is all kinds of red.”

“You like that, don’t you?” she said.  She didn’t sound like she had a problem with that.

“Well it’s pretty in some strange way,” I said, petting the red place.  “You know I don’t want to hurt you really, but I love it when you let me.”  I rolled next to her and pressed my hardening dick against the red place, leaving a wet trail across her ass.  “If that makes any sense,” I said.

L twisted toward me and took my cock in her hand, speaking softly in my ear.  “I want this,” she said, spreading her legs so I could slide into her.

* * *

Jung also talks about the Shadow archetype, the dark, ugly side of ourselves that we don’t even want to admit exists.  He thought that we need to meet our own shadows, the killer, the lunatic inside.  If we don’t know the Shadow, it can sneak up on us and make our lives a nightmare.

His idea was that denying the dark side costs psychic energy and undermines us; recognizing it releases all manner of creative energy that can be channeled into taking care of the things and people we love.

I’ll stop with the book-learning now.  I’ll just say that my horror at the wild, senseless, self-destructive path L took herself on in her twenties is mingled with admiration that she survived to become the compassionate, creative, beautiful soul she is today.

* * *

In A Dangerous Method, by the way, Keira Knightley’s character got whatever she needed from the beatings and psychoanalysis, and became a successful therapist herself.  Based on a true story.

* * *

By New Year’s Eve I was in the serious throes of the flu, so we stayed in, celibate, sober, pathetic; I told L she should go to the party we were invited to, but she stayed in to nurse me.  On New Year’s Day, though, we invited Donna and Greg over, friends we’ve known for 30 years.  L fed them black beans and rice and something vegan to substitute for the ham-hock while we revived old stories of near-disasters back in the day when we were all drunks.

To avoid contamination I quarantined myself at the far end of the table and tried to breathe away from everyone, struggling to keep my eyes open because I wanted nothing more at that moment than sleep and liquids and Echinacea.  Greg and Donna laughed every time they looked at me sitting pathetically at the end of the table, and laughed again when L used a long fork to push a biscuit across the table to me.

Even in my fevered haze, I knew that was a piece of heaven.

* * *

When I see L again, I won’t be recovering from anything, so I should be up to my game.  When I see her again I may want to whip her more meticulously, if she’s willing.  A belt, maybe, so it leaves bright marks across her ass and legs, maybe a couple across her breasts or belly.  A belt that scares her a little when she sees it, because she can’t be sure how much it will hurt before I relent and turn the hurt into pleasure.  It would be a pleasant thing if she learned to get wet when she sees the belt coming, or even when I come home from work all dressed up and her eyes go to the buckle, and she thinks.

Fun

There is something special in the pleasant, innocent joy of watching my dick disappear into L’s mouth or her ass–like a magic trick or an optical illusion that includes happy neurons and nerve cells and wanton thoughts.  Or the satisfaction when I have done a good job of priming her with my hands and tongue, when I have raised her legs to open her up so I can pump all the dick I have into her, and I hear her low-pitched voice straining and I imagine what pleasure must be like for her….

There are many adjectives that fit these moments, and one of them is definitely “fun”, and I’m wondering if I always remember to give enough credit to how much sheer fun there is in getting mentally, physically naked with L and probing, testing, finding new buttons to push.

* * *

Not to make too much of a Zen rant out of this, but one of my goals in this part of my life is to learn to live in the moment, to be as present as I can be, wherever I am, whatever I’m doing; and fun, like sexual pleasure, is pure and immediate and absolutely itself. When you’re having fun, you’re right there in the body, in that moment, in that place.  In the moment like an animal that hasn’t learned how to be anywhere except in the moment.  When fun is happening there is no choice but to be physically and mentally present.  My mind is not wandering when I make an O of my lips and pull L’s clit in like a nipple, when L takes my balls into her hand and squeezes just exactly hard enough to bring me joy, when a slap to her breast or a squeeze on her throat makes her wet because we’re paying so much attention to her pussy and all the wires it’s hooked into that we can work it like a machine.

To be in the moment, and not my thoughts about the moment.  I don’t think I’m ever present in the moment any more than when I’m enjoying L’s flesh, when I’m enjoying her enjoying mine.

* * *

Sometimes when L is not around I console myself by getting on the internet and ordering clothes or riding crops or vibrators that we can have fun with the next time.

A few weeks ago, after L hadn’t been to my place for months, we were lounging in the afternoon, taking a moment to look over the outfits I’d bought for her in the meantime.  She took up a set to examine the lacy white top with a white thong.  It was at once erotic and almost virginal, like something she could wear on a honeymoon.  “This is beautiful,” she said.

I had imagined her in it, sweet, dirty girl coming to me in white, lying back as I took pleasure in the mounds of her breasts, delicately restrained by lace, touched the smooth white thong and went down to press my lips to the soft nylon snug against her mound, enjoying the smoothness before I pulled it aside to taste her sweet cunt…

I had seen all that in my head, but for some reason, I felt like saving the white outfit for another night; I didn’t know that I was about to come down with a case of flu that would take me out of circulation for the rest of her visit, so when she asked me to pick a set, I selected a more trashy, red and black thing with lace and cut-out panels and all manner of cheap Frederick’s glory.

“Okay,” she said, “Put it on me….”  Sitting up in bed so I could pull her t-shirt off over her head and slide the top over her raised arms to let it settle over her, then to pull the panties up over her ankles so she could raise her hips and let me pull up the black and red lace thong to fit securely over her hips, the lace cupping her mound, the string sliding up between the cheeks of her ass.

She rearranged the lace to fit comfortably, smiled and lay back on the pillow, ready to play the part she was now dressed for.

I kissed her lips, her neck, then ran my tongue along the valley between her breasts, taking them in my hands and thumbing her nipples through the lace.  She rested her hand on the back of my head as I moved down, pulling up the top so I could taste her belly, her navel, the skin over her hipbone.

When I started to pull the panties off, she stopped me, “They’re open,” she said.  “See?” And she guided my hand to the classic Frederick’s crotchless feature that allowed the 12-year-old in me have full access to her pussy without interfering with my panty-fetish. It’s such a ridiculous feature that there’s nothing to do but embrace the silliness.  I ran my tongue along the slit, then parted the cloth so I could do the same to the slit of her pussy.

The red and black lace panties stayed on as I buried my tongue in her cunt and found her clit to suck on; they remained in place when I moved up to part the cloth and part her slick cunt lips and slide my cock inside her while she clasped her hands behind my neck.

I’m pretty sure the crotchless panties took us both to some 1954 insurance salesman’s wet dream, and there was definite fun in the mix along with love and lust, when she raised her hips to meet me and I fucked her through the trashy Frederick’s slit, rubbing her tits through the cheap red lace, smiling into her smiling face while we took the insurance salesman and his secretary to a happy place in a cheap motel on the edge of town.

When we finished, L was almost laughing.  She pulled the panties off and held them in the air.  “I think these are single-use panties,” she said, and tossed them to the floor.

That was fun.

And there’s still the white set, the lacy white top and thong.  Like a honeymoon.  I still want her to come to me wearing that.  I still want to touch my lips to her soft mound through the sleek, white nylon.

* * *

Once L discovered I don’t mind, that, in fact, I love it if she touches herself when we’re together, she became uninhibited, once in a while, in allowing me to see her explore herself, to see her fingers softly cup and appreciate her own breasts, touching her nipples and areolae, watching her fingertips circle then pinch the swelling points…  Watching her find the pleasurable spots efficiently, watching with desire and envy at the way her long finger spins over her clit when she wants to come.

She must know this is excruciatingly erotic for me, allowing me to visit in my imagination the space she must create sometimes when she wakes up alone and yearning, when her fingers graze her tits and cunt and she gives in to the morning desire for release while her imagination conjures images of me, other men, other women fingering tasting fucking her in memory and fantasy.

 “Fun” is one word for that.

Also thrilling, and terrifying.  And happy that she has let me into that space where I can enjoy her joy.

 * * *

I apologize for the digression, but I just discovered while writing the previous section that areola is pronounced [uh-ree-uh-luh] and that the plural is areolae.  Isn’t life full of surprises?

* * *

While I’m digressing, think I may have to buy L a Hitachi.  I have heard good things, and Valentine’s Day is coming up.

* * *

Surprises are fun.

There was a night in a hotel when I was lying face down on the bed in jeans watching TV, and L came and lay on top of me and started grinding her vulva into my coccyx.  She held my wrists down and said in a husky voice, “Is this driving you crazy?”  It was fantastic, the sensation and the idea of her grinding against me, rubbing herself into pleasure on me.

L can grind on any part of me, any time.  She can rape my face anytime, dry-hump my mouth and chin, plant her pussy over my mouth so I have no choice but to lick her cunt lips, suck on her clit while she pushes her mound against me in twirling, rolling motions.

She can use me like a cat scratching-post if it makes her wet.  Because it’s fun to see her get off, using me like a whore.  It’s fun to turn off the brain and just be there to enjoy the pleasure of the moment.

It’s fun to be happy meat sometimes.

Theo and L: First Draft

I haven’t been writing because I’ve been busy, had the flu for a couple of weeks, and have been having too much fun to write.  General synopsis is that it’s all good, though.

I have decided to try and work these blog posts into a book.  I’m trying to think about structure and frames, and for this first attempt, I am thinking of building the story around the last year — blogging, L’s divorce, and the future we’re sketching out for ourselves. Within that frame, I plan to embed the chronological story, essentially, of how I discovered that I love to eat L’s pussy, or to put it more delicately, how we discovered passion and love over the last few years.

You are all spectacular writers of smut erotic romance, so I’d be happy to have any of your thoughts before I go too far down this path.

For now, this is how I think the book may start out:

By Way of Introduction

This book got started on a morning in March, 2011 when I was waiting on a brake job at Pep Boys, surrounded by an earnest discussion of Mitt Romney’s chances of winning the Republican nomination.  Everyone but me thought it was worth discussing, so I was happy I’d brought my laptop for diversion, and I wrote this:

Remembering this morning. We were kissing and her fingertip played with my nipple, then her lips and teeth, sucking and biting. So sweet and erotic, how I love it when she nurses at me; so strange, and wrong, and beautiful. Her hand on my dick. And this time she slid her head under the sheet, licked tentatively, then took me in her mouth and sucked there for a minute. So hot, such pleasure, so good beyond words. And then she reached to touch my butt, I thought she was just going to tease my ass a little but she pulled, prompting me to roll toward her –is that what she wanted? Yes, she pulled again so that I was over her. She opened her lips, tongue, throat, and drew me inside, sucking me while I stroked softly into her mouth, tenderly fucking her face like a pussy, careful, slow, using her for a fuck-monkey, like she and I love to be used, like she loves to transgress, transcend, touching herself while I’m touching her, humping my thigh, grinding her pussy into my face, dreaming. We use each other like hungry meat, spend ourselves and then curl up together loving, soft, and innocent as babies in a crib.

What I wrote surprised me.  I knew we had a spectacular love life, myself and the woman in my life, who is amenable to being put on display in this fashion, who has consented to being called “L” here.  I wasn’t surprised at the intensity of the sex I was describing, or the tenderness of our feelings for each other.  What surprised me was how easily the words tumbled out, and how they seemed as worthy of being written as any other deeply felt experience.

I looked up from my laptop and listened as one of my fellow automobile owners made a passionate case for either the liberal or conservative point of view — I forget which.  After a minute I lost interest and went back to my laptop and wrote:

There is nothing as true as the unexpected chaos of pleasure, annihilation, stillness that we bring to each other.

I believe I stand by that.

I sometimes wonder why pornography is so maligned — why this subject that, according to Freud and Madison Avenue, is a prime concern, consciously or unconsciously, of most of the people on the planet, is dismissed as “smut”.  One answer, I think, is that smut isn’t smutty because it’s detailed; it’s smutty because the writer was writing sloppily, making stuff up just because he thought it sounded dirty. I don’t really see why you couldn’t get as graphic and detailed as you want about how the skin and body parts feel during sex, and at the same time try to put into words how the heart and soul feel about the funhouse ride the genitals are taking. The words in this book are an attempt to accomplish exactly that, no more, no less.

In that vein, these words are a celebration of the extremely fortunate relationship L and I began in our 50s, that, to the surprise and delight of both of us, includes both deep emotional attachment and a gratifying level of sexual excitement and enthusiasm on both of our parts.

I want to share the physical side of that relationship here, in as much graphic detail as I can present, keeping to the facts as much as humanly possible, noting the mucus and the swelling and the heavy breath as accurately as words permit, while taking necessary strategies to disguise our identities because after all we do have co-workers, friends, and families who are as easily embarrassed as most civilized people, and who would be mortified or outraged, as we have all been trained to be, if anyone found out that their manager, offspring, parent, sibling, or best friend actually got a nut once in their lives.  Seriously, our lives would be professionally and socially derailed if the world found out how much we enjoy screwing.

And what is that about?

Despite the peril I have just outlined, I will do my level best to catalog the ways that L and I have enjoyed each other’s bodies, and also to put into words the emotions and thoughts that accompany everything from holding hands to intercourse with any body part you can name. I will admit that this is exhibitionistic, but also literary, and also a tribute to the woman who brings on this torrent of affection and smut.

Hint of Things to Come

After I’d started sketching out  my obsession with L’s pussy at Pep Boys, I picked up my ten-year-old son, Paul, from school and brought him home to have supper with L and me.  I made spaghetti while L showed Paul how to lay out Tarot cards for a reading. We were delighted to learn that Paul has a future in the arts.  Paul and I are skeptical about Tarot, but fascinated, because it invites magic into our lives.

Once on the phone, L was telling me that she’d been watching birds in the sky, and they seemed an omen to her, of good things to come.  “I do look for signs,” she said.  “You probably think I’m crazy, don’t you?”  It’s true that I’m not one to look for signs, probably because I don’t know how.

“You’re not crazy,” I told her.  “You’re magic.”

And magic, whether I understand it or not, is what this writing is about.  The magic born of surrounding ourselves with people we love, the magic of being connected with the world and not just sleep-walking, the magic of rediscovering passion at this point in our lives — we were both mid-fifties then — including the magic that we’d both lost in our respective marriages, the magic of having full, spiritual, fleshly lives imbued with joy.

L lives hours away, and we have spent the time since our respective spouses moved out figuring out how to work out a passionate long-distance connection, filthy when appropriate, and reserving space for my son, her adult children, her work, my work, our friends.

We ate, played Scrabble, told Paul about Woodstock, which fascinated him when he heard that L had actually been there as a teenager, and then I took Paul to his mom’s house, where he was staying that night.

When I got back I sat down next to L on the couch and opened my laptop.  “Want to show you something,” I said, opening the password-protected document I’d written while waiting for the brake job.

L took the laptop, and started reading.  She looked up and her eyes flashed after the first line but she didn’t stop reading. Her mouth was open just slightly as she read on and remembered and blushed. I asked her then, “Does it offend you that I wrote it down?”

“No,” she said after a minute.

“As long as I don’t identify us?”

“Please, yes, don’t do that,” she said, and looked up at me.  “I like it,” she said, and put the laptop aside, leaned into me, kissed me, bit my lip gently and rolled to straddle me on the couch. I touched, then cupped her breast while she kissed my ear and neck.  I pulled her shirt over her head and unsnapped her bra, and then her breasts were inches away.

“Are they big enough for you?” she teased, and I tweaked her nipples to bring them to full points.

“They’re perfect,” I said, and took one nipple between my lips and sucked to bring out the pleasure for her.  She reached to feel my erection, pulled herself free from my lips, smiled into my eyes and went on her knees in front of me and freed my cock from my jeans, took me in her lips and tasted, stroked, brought me to such a hard state that I could barely stand it. I pushed her to the floor, worked her jeans off her, kissed her mound through her panties before I tugged those off her too, tasted her sweet cunt until she made the sounds that told me it was time to spread her legs farther and give us both the pleasure of sliding into her warm, wet hole, and I tucked her knee under my arm so I could get as deep inside her as our bodies permitted.

We fucked happily, watched a movie and went to bed, and when we woke up, we fucked again, before L had to drive home for what we knew was a 3-week separation.

My First Week as a Cyber Slut

While we were apart, we talked or Skyped every day as usual, relating the mundane events of our days, and I started writing out more scenarios, moments in our sex lives that stood out in my memory, and I discovered there were a lot of those– moments when we tasted, touched, discovered the pleasure of pushing boundaries, discovered how much fun our bodies were turning out to be.

I spent hours one day, trying to put the taste of L’s cunt into words.

I liked what I was writing, not because we are sexual athletes or even more adventurous than lots of people all over town, it was just the pleasure of remembering, and finding the words that allowed me to relive some bare hint of the pleasure, while we were separated.

I liked it enough that I started a blog so that I could share my erections and the sounds L makes when she comes, with the countless beautiful strangers around the world who have internet access.

* * *

For the first week that I started posting my little stories, I got admittedly obsessed with the sheer pornography and exhibitionism.  I devoted probably too much time and energy to thinking about my cock and L’s cunt, but I found that I had come to love both of those deeply, and I drew on my writing skills, reveling in the memories, trying to recreate every lick and poke in words as accurately as possible. The online mechanics became fascinating, setting up the blog, posting, waiting for comments.  I wrote in my journal:

The icon pops up red, and it’s one of my new favorite bloggers telling me that the piece I just posted made her wet; a nice-seeming woman in France strongly implies that she just rubbed off while reading my post.  I think I like being a volunteer sex worker.

The particular pleasure was new to me. I’ve never engaged in cyber-sex or phone sex, but was this any different? It was satisfying in both an authorial and an erotic way to imagine that someone I didn’t even know (or maybe I did?) was getting off while reading about some of the sweetest moments of my life. It was filthy and seductive.

I’m especially proud, I wrote, to see that someone in France is clicking away on my blog, because after all the French invented the words frisson and connoisseur. And Pakistan? Someone in Pakistan has one hand up inside her burka at this very moment, scrolling down my blog with the other? Damn.

* * *

After experimenting a bit, I had seven blogs up, seven stories of our tongues and fingers and genitals and smiles, and I pretty much liked what I had written so far. I thought it was time to share with L.

So one night when we were Skyping and L asked me what I’d done that day, I said, “Remember the stuff I was writing about us? I put up a blog.”

“What?” The reaction could have meant anything.

I gave her the details and she started googling; she found Theo Black, and I got to watch her face on my laptop screen as her eyes darted down her screen, first curiosity, then surprise, mild embarrassment, then some other emotion.

“Which one are you reading?” I asked.

“The last one,” she said. “The First Time I Tied Up the Woman I Love”.” Her eyes got round as she read about the liberties I’d taken with her cunt, her mouth that night, not to mention the liberties I took again by writing about it and posting it. I know she remembered very well even though it was months ago, and I thought she was smiling. “What else…” she said.  “You wrote something called On the Road? I know what that’s about.” And she was definitely smiling then.

“You’re not mad?”

“What’s this one?” she said, and started reading the piece about how much I loved the taste, fragrance, feel of her pussy against my face. I watched her eyes. Since we were 1500 miles apart, imagining what was going through her mind as she read was the closest I was going to get to actually touching her just then. It had to be strange for her to see that written out at length. I’ve never been shy about letting her know how enthralled I am with her lips, her cunt, her tits, her ass, her belly, but it must be different to see it written in paragraphs after some wordsmithing and spellcheck.

In my first draft, I wrote: I’d like to embellish here, and say that the sweet woman I love put on a show for me then, absent-mindedly stroking her breast as she read, licking her lips whenever my cock was mentioned, reaching down to rub her pussy slowly, and glancing at me quickly then looking away shyly, allowing the webcam to tilt down so that I could see her fingers pull up her skirt, tug her panties down to her ankles awkwardly, spread her cunt lips and touch herself inside, flick her fingertip rapidly across her clit until she made the husky, whiny sound that she makes when she comes, and the laptop went to the floor sideways, and all I could see was her yellow tabby nosing at the screen while she moaned in the background.

But I can’t say that, because one the rules I’ve set for myself is not to make things up in this narrative, and the truth is that we’ve never done any of that webcam stuff. It’s one of the ways we keep the long-distance thing alive. Now I can see the appeal; I know people are jerking and rubbing off on webcams all over town, and loving it, and it sounds pretty damn hot. But this is our personal choice; we’re trying the best way we can to keep the fire alive.

What I did see was that, as she read, a huge happy smile took over her face. “I like this,” she said, and kept reading about our first night together, and then, “But this isn’t how it happened. Remember before the first time you joked that you only had six weeks to live; I went to bed in the other room and came into your room later and asked if you really only had six weeks…” She was right; it was one of the most charming moments of my life, and I made sure to update that piece accordingly.

“You left out the crying,” she says.

“What?”

“Remember I cried that first time?”

“It’s in there — remember it was dark; I didn’t know it at the time; you told me about that later.”

“Oh yeah.” Big smile on her face. “Shit, Theo, this is awesome…”

I wasn’t really surprised that she was okay with it. Obviously she has a dirty streak herself, and I have been careful not to leave any identifying information, in case somebody’s family or coworkers are out sniffing around the blogosphere for cheap thrills. But I wasn’t sure how she’d feel about having those sweet, intimate moments exposed even anonymously. She would have had every right to metaphorically pull up her jeans, cover her tits, and demand that I close the curtains.

But she didn’t do that. “This is all about stuff you’ve done to me,” she said.

“Yeah.”

“You need to write about some of the stuff I’ve done to you.”

“Oh, I’ll get there.”

Even on Skype you can make eye contact, and we shared a libidinous smile. We had found a form of exhibitionism that just might work for us.

She started going through the comments, chuckling appreciatively. “I think they like us honey… And look, she reposted you!” she said proudly. A big smile swept across her face. “Oh this is great.”

To give her one more chance, I said, “You know if this feels weird to you I’ll take it down right now.”

“Oh no,” she said quickly. “You need to do this. Somebody needs to write this down.”

Her eyes were scrolling through another post and a quiet smile played across her lips as she read how obsessed I am with touching, licking, fucking her in every imaginable way, how even when she’s not around, the memory of what we do together fills me with lust and tenderness. Why wouldn’t she like it?

“This is awesome,” she said. “Fucking awesome…”

I am one fabulous, inspiring, awesome, beautiful, lovely blogger.

It’s time to acknowledge these awards that people have been kind enough to bestow on me.  I will attempt to fulfill the requirements of each, although I may cheat a little.

I really believe in rules, and I think that everyone should follow ALL the rules for any award they receive.  However, when it comes to nominating the specified number of bloggers, I will be an ingrate and a hypocrite, and simply refuse to nominate 55 bloggers and copy urls for each one.  I do shit as boring as that all week at work, and I’m just not going to do it, Sam I Am.  Besides, I’d just have to nominate the same people who nominated me.  Instead, I will follow the lead of one of my favorite bloggers, Tin Woman, who always declined to single out particular bloggers, and I will rather nominate ALL OF YOU who have the courage and honesty to send your private thoughts and memories out to the infinite blogosphere.

However, everyone but me has to follow the rules and nominate recipients when they’re told to.

From a purely 12-year-old esthetic point of view, I do like the ass in this award image.

I was given the Fabulous Gutter Blogger award by three fabulous gutter bloggers, Fatal, Butterfly, and Delta Dawn. The rules are:

1. Thank the person who nominated you. (Written thanks,   kisses, oral sex, anal sex, all of the above – whatever seems appropriate.)

So, thank you Fatal. Remember that wet dream you woke up from on Tuesday morning? That was me, sending oral vibes via subspace delta waves.  So that was my payback in advance.

And thank you as well, Butterfly’s Joy.  May I call you “BJ”?  No?  Are you going to punish me for being so forward?  I offer you the gift of my sauciness, which will require discipline, I’m afraid.

And thanks to you, too Dawn, for the intriguing glances at your inner gutter life, framed in poetry and melancholy.  How do I thank you?  Dans mon esprit, je tu offre le plaisir, en aucune façon que vous désirez le plus.  (So sorry for the Googletranslate French.)

2. Link back to their blog in your post.
   done
3. Post the image of the Award on your blog.
   done
4. Copy and answer these six questions.
   1.What’s the kinkiest thing you’ve ever done?
   2.What do you now know about sex that you wish you’d have known earlier in life?
   3.Is there any gutter fantasy you’d like to try?(tell us what it is)
   4.What’s the funniest bedroom situation you’ve ever been in?
   5.Has gutter blogging taught you anything?
   6.What is your favourite post from the person who nominated you?
   See below.
5. Nominate nine bloggers, link to them and let them know they’ve been nominated.
   See my weasely excuse, above.

This looks a classy award, doesn’t it?

India, of workspousestory nominated me for the Very inspiring Blogger Award.

The rules for this one are:
1. Link back to the person who nominated you.
done

2. Post the award image to your page.
done

3. Tell 7 facts about yourself.
See below.

4. Nominate 15 other bloggers and let them know they’ve been nominated.
See my weasely excuse, above.

I don’t know about the unicorn; I’m not sure people are taking this seriously enough.

See, this one is classy, just like us.

Kayla bestowed on me the Meta-Awesomest-Blogger-Award and Beautiful Blogger award. 

The rules for being meta-awesome are:
1. Include the award logo somewhere in your blog.
done

2. Answer 10 questions you have about yourself
See below.

3. Nominate 10 to 12 blogs you enjoy. Or you pick the number.
See my weasely excuse, above.

4. Pay the love forward: Provide your nominee’s link in your post and comment on their blog to let them know they’ve been included and invited to participate.
I’m still a weasel.

5. Pay the love back with gratitude and a link to the blogger(s) who nominated you.
done

itsmindblowing and Kayla Lords ( a sexual being) both thought I was worthy of the One Lovely Blog award.

The Lovely Blog Award rules are:
1. Thank and link back to the person who nominated you.
done

2. Share 7 unknown things about yourself.
see below

3. Nominate 15 or so bloggers; contact your nominees to let them know and link back to them.
Still a weasel.

My Answers

So here are the combined 10 questions, 7 facts, 7 unknown things, including the 6 Gutter Blogger Questions:

(I know I’m cheating all over the place by combining all these, but what good is it being a smut-peddler if I have to follow all the rules?)

1. What’s the kinkiest thing you’ve ever done?
Writing this blog has to be the kinkiest thing I’ve ever done.  Seriously, I never thought I’d go to such lengths to make sure the world knew everything about where my penis and tongue went, and for some of these blogs, I made notes within an hour of when they went there. And what makes that kinky?  The level of pure, cheap thrill I get, every time I send the words “my cock” out to the internet.  I’m just like the unknown nine-year-old who drew dicks all over your 4th-grade desk.

2. What do you now know about sex that you wish you’d have known earlier in life?
I don’t know why I haven’t always known this, but especially after reading these blogs, I am beginning to think that just about everyone you see on the street would be happy if they could just have a hug and an orgasm from somebody they like.  And something about our culture depends on everyone pretending that isn’t true.

3. Is there any gutter fantasy you’d like to try?(tell us what it is)
Assuming that there actually is an elevator that takes you to the top of the the Eiffel Tower, I want my sweetheart to blow me on that elevator ride, while Le Marseillaise is blasting from the speakers.

4. What’s the funniest bedroom situation you’ve ever been in?
It hasn’t happened yet, but Le Marseillaise in No. 3 is still cracking me up. (You have to listen to the music, and imagine it.)

5. Has gutter blogging taught you anything?
Mainly that there are some really sweet people out there, who have love lives that may be any combination of lascivious, dirty, joyful, vicious, loving, ferocious, heartbreaking, eye-opening, and even sacred.

6. What is your favourite post from the person who nominated you?
It’s impossible to have a favorite blog from these talented, sweet, generous writers, but I will pick some that I liked:

Fatal described her idea of a fun day here.
I remember liking this very early post from Butterfly.
I can’t get this post from Dawn out of my head, for the exquisitely painful yearning in both the poem and the image.
I enjoyed itsmindblowing’s take on the fine art of necking.
This one from Kayla Lords is especially sweet.
I like this post by India of workspousestory, just because she’s exploring and having a lovely time inside and outside her head.

7. How large is your penis?
L tells me that my penis is perfect in every way, including both length and girth.  That’s how big it is.

8. Who was the first person to put their lips on your penis?
I don’t remember, but I know I was a scraggly, depressed, paranoid, unclean, overweight loser at the time, so I am eternally grateful to whoever was kind enough to overlook all that and take me to heaven anyway.

9. If you could change anything about your life, what would you change?
Other than a few times when I unintentionally fucked someone over, I wouldn’t change a thing because that’s how I got here, and this is pretty sweet.

10. What movie star reminds you the most of the person you love?
L doesn’t look particularly like either of these, but I have thought for years that both Judy Davis and Selma Blair are so breathtakingly desirable that it almost hurts to look at them.  I feel that way about L when I see a picture of her and she’s not there.

Peace and love.
Theo