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.
“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.
“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…”