Friday, February 29, 2008

But Who's Counting?

Three questions today, readers, and the relevance of at least two of them will become apparent momentarily.

1. How many guys have to be getting it on before it stops being an n-way and starts being an orgy?

2. If the answer to number one is some number greater than five, and if you have five guys in the bed in the course of a couple of hours, but guy four leaves before guy five arrives so that there are never more than four people on the bed at any one time, do you have a four-way or a five-way?

3. Does anyone remember the Multiplication Rock song for five? Because I don't. I went and googled it, and I still didn't remember even after I read the lyrics and listened to a sample from the piece. Everyone remembers "Zero, My Hero," and "Figure Eight," right? (Not to mention "Conjunction Junction" and "I'm Just a Bill.") They must have played "Ready or Not, Here I Come" (the five song) three times and then given it up as a lost cause. Five is a very useful number, and it really deserved better, don't you think?

So last night, I hadn't really planned to have a four-way/five-way/small orgy, but, well, what I'd planned to do was to make a test batch of margaritas and invite my buddy Christopher over and get a little sloshed and have a nice berber (we're both tops) with him and ask him about his recent trip to New York and hang out. But then I thought that I wasn't being a very good host and that if we were going to romp, we might as well invite another guy along for the fun. So I put up a craigslist ad saying that a bottom to join us would not be entirely unwelcome. I may not have used those exact words.

I occasionally read about relationships between two tops, and these guys sometimes complain about difficulty in deciding who's going to be penetrating whom on any given evening. I believe I've even seen coin tossing mentioned. This sort of thing makes me roll my eyes because a) if you're willing to take it up the ass if you lose a coin toss, then you're no longer a top (at the very least, you're a versatile top), b) the idea that a dick has to end up inside an ass every time two guys get together is misguided, and c) just find a guy to be the meat on your skewer, already. Seriously, bottoms love to play with two tops. If you're a two-top couple, you are poised to rule the world. Men will stand in line to be your friend and enjoy your cocks. OK, mostly to enjoy your cocks, but surely you can get some of those guys to show up at your next party. Or orgy.

By the way, the answer to question #1 above is five. Four men is a four-way; five men is an orgy. What? You thought I wanted you to answer the question? As much as I love and appreciate your input, readers, let's not forget who the sexpert here is. You can handle #3 on your own, though.

Anyway, response to the ad was healthy, vigorous even. Some of the guys were your typical married men playing out their fantasies, but there were plenty of sincere offers from suitable men willing to travel deep into the burbs late on a Thursday evening. I was replying to emails, screening out guys who wanted to be the meat on our skewer but wouldn't do anything else, and having trouble deciding between a couple of guys. And then I thought that if one bottom is splendid, two bottoms are, well, whatever's more than splendid. Besides, given the nature of craigslist, I figured that it couldn't hurt to build in some redundancy. And both of the leading candidates were willing to be either the lone bottom or one of a pair.

I should point out here that I hadn't bothered to clear any of this with Christopher first. I'd asked him early in the day whether he wanted to come over for a drink, and he'd said yes. When b&c's out of time, "drink" always means "drink and a romp," and he's always up for anything, especially butt sex. I'll also take this moment to mention that one of the bottoms, Vic, was someone that I'd played with a few months earlier. He'd previously indicated interest in another session, but he'd not been very reliable, and I only half expected him to follow through. He's not very experienced, and I doubt he'd ever engaged in group sex.

Here's my (initial) margarita recipe:

1/2 cup fresh lime juice
1/2 cup simple syrup
1/2 cup Triple Sec
1.25 cups Tequila

Combine. Stick in the freezer.

I made the pitcher of margaritas Wednesday night, and because I'd had to heat the water and sugar to make the simple syrup, I put a whole bunch of ice cubes in the pitcher before testing them. I thought they were very good, but they might be too sweet for many people, maybe including me. In that case, you could go to 2/3 cup lime juice and 1/3 cup simple syrup. Anyway, I put the pitcher, ice cubes and all, in the freezer, and when I got home last night, I had a solid-frozen block of margaritas and ice cubes. I put them in the microwave on defrost for a bit and went upstairs to shower. Then I called Christopher and told him to come over when he was ready, and I got dressed and went downstairs to deal with the margaritas. They defrosted back into margaritas and ice cubes, but I unwisely threw the whole mess in the blender. What emerged was of the right consistency but very weak, so I added more lime juice and tequila and rimmed some martini glasses with salt, and since Christopher had arrived while all of that was going on, we had to stop making out long enough for me to pour them out.

I also had to keep stopping to check e-mail. See, I'd had a call from Shane (bottom #1) and given him the address, and I was pretty sure that he was coming, and I'd texted Vic (bottom #2), but I first hadn't heard back, and then at 8:45 or so (Christopher arrived shortly after 9, and I'd told Shane and Vic 9:30), I got an email from a local married guy who seemed very interested, and then I got an email from Vic saying that he couldn't make it and so I told the married guy he'd be welcome, and he kept telling me that he was shy and maybe would just watch but that he really did like showing off his ass, and then Vic called to say that he couldn't make it, even though he'd already emailed, and I said, "Cool; maybe another time" and hung up, and the married guy emailed that he'd be leaving his house soon and would call for the exact address, and I emailed back, "Cool," and then Vic called back to say that he wanted to come after all, and I said, "Cool; see you," and, well, all of this really made sitting on the sofa, sipping my margarita, and making out with Christopher a much more complicated activity than I'd anticipated. Still, I did get to spend some time with his back against my check, rubbing the crotch of his slacks and feeling his cock lengthen.

Shane drove up right at 9:30 and called me to tell me that he was outside, so I told him to come on in. I opened the door, said hello, grabbed him, and started the making out. See, I was being extra polite because I said hello first. Then I introduced him to Christopher, which was a little awkward because I almost called Christopher "Christopher" instead of his real name because I was having trouble remembering his real name even though he's a good friend whom I frequently hang out with. But I recovered, and Shane and Christopher had some brief tongue action, and then I grabbed Shane's ass and suggested we all go upstairs. I left the front door unlocked. I just figured it would be easier.

So here's how Shane described himself:
44, 5' 9", 180lbs, 8" cut, mixed race (wht & blk), fit, versatile, good stamina, d/d free, safe, discreet, energetic, outgoing, adventurous. I also enjoy oral and anal play, kissing, cuddling, massaging and body contact...

It appears to have been a pretty accurate description, though after having thoroughly explored his body, I probably would have said 165 or 170 pounds, but what do I know? Also, I think his definition of "versatile" is something like "I like having my cock sucked, but what I really want is for you to bend me over and drill me." But again: whatever.

So I squeezed his ass up the stairs and when we got to the bedroom, we stood and kissed and I got off his sweater and shirt and tossed him onto the bed and he started to make out with Christopher while I started to work on his nipples. Which were great, by the way, but not as great as his lips or ass. They were still kissing, and I was chewing one of Shane's nipples and stroking Christopher's cock when my cell phone rang. It was Vic saying that he was on Georgia Avenue and should be there in fifteen minutes. "Cool; see you then." Then I took over kissing Shane and fingering his ass while Christopher worked on his nipples for a while, and then the cell phone rang again. It was the married guy asking for the street number. And then I went back and was squeezing Shane's nipples with one hand and lightly sucking on Christopher's cock for a while, and the cell phone rang again, and everyone laughed. I got up from the bed again (why didn't I just put the damn thing on the bedside table instead of on the dresser?) and gave the married guy some additional directions, and reminded him that the door was unlocked.

I think I was kissing Shane and stroking Christopher when I looked up and saw another guy standing next to the bed. He'd come in very quietly. Here's how married guy described himself in his first email
41 6' 195 nice stats

I have no idea whether he was saying that he had nice stats or that he liked our stats. Anyway, he was standing there in a knit cap and a whole lotta clothes. He'd told me several times that he was "shy and discreet," but he did soon take off his jeans. He wasn't wearing any underwear. I squeezed his ass a bit, and it really was as nice as he'd claimed. Christopher pulled him down for a very quick kiss, and I fingered his ass a bit. Then Christopher went back to making out with Shane, and I moved my head so that I could suck a little on married guy's not very big cock, and he bent down to stroke mine a bit. I slid a hand under his shirt to find a nipple, and he moaned. My other arm was wrapped around his thing, and my hand was playing with his ass.

He walked around to the other side of the bed. I sat on the edge of the bed, and he bent his knees until his ass was rubbing against my cock. I started to play with his nipples, and Christopher and Shane stood up and were kissing him and playing with his cock, I think. It was a little hard to see. After just a couple minutes of that, married guy stood up and started to pull on his clothes. Christopher and Shane came back to the bed. Married guy said, "Sorry. I'm still a little shy." I thanked him for stopping by, and he left. I couldn't help laughing and saying, " I hope he had fun while he was here," and Shane said, "Well, I sure as hell am." So I went back to kissing him and then the three of us all kissed together (always awkward, always fun), and Shane told me that he wanted me to fuck him. "Not before I eat your ass."

So he squatted, and I shoved his cheeks apart and dove in. Shane had told me in advance that he wasn't into oral, but Christopher started to go down on me while I had my tongue in Shane, and I was liking it. (That last clause, readers, was an example of understatement.) We kept doing that for a while, until Shane said that his thighs were getting tired, so I asked Christopher to get a condom off the bedside table. This, alas, involved him finding his glasses, then finding the condom, all of which took just long enough to be really funny somehow. I wasn't complaining, though, because I still had my tongue up Shane's ass, and he was stroking my cock. Then I had the condom on, and Shane was trying to sit on me, reverse cowboy, while Christopher and I were making out, and he was having trouble getting me inside, so the whole process had to be repeated with Christopher finding the lube.

But before long, I and Shane were both slicked up, and he began sitting on me and bouncing up and down a bit, and then the cell phone rang, and I had to ask Christopher to bring it to me, and it was Vic saying that he was outside and asking whether he could park behind Christopher's SUV and me telling him that he could and that the door was open, and all of this conversation had to take place while a guy was bouncing up and down on my cock which would have been annoying if Shane's ass hadn't been so nice and if both he and Christopher hadn't been laughing so hard. You have to admire a guy who can laugh and bounce on your ass at the same time. I went back to kissing Christopher and pushing up into Shane for a couple more minutes, until Vic showed up in the bedroom. Shane said his thighs were a little tired, so he got off me and then stood at the corner of the bed and bent over. I got off the bed long enough to get Vic's clothes off and make out with him a bit, then I handed him off to Christopher and got behind Shane and started to fuck him. Nice and hard.

So that was all great. I was bent slightly over, holding onto his shoulders, and ramming him from behind, and Christopher and Vic were making out. It went on that way for maybe five more minutes, and when I stood up to take a breath, Shane said that he wanted Christopher to fuck him. I fetched a condom and handed it to Christopher, and then I pushed Vic down on the bed and started to kiss him. He was pretty worked up, and he got more so when I bit down on his nipple. I got a bit lost in it there, having so much fun, but I was vaguely aware of Shane urging Christopher on. Not that Christopher needed any encouragement. I went back and forth, nips to lips, on Vic, occasionally fingering his ass and earning louder moans.

Christopher and Shane took a bit of a break, during which Shane drove his tongue into my ear, making me totally nuts -- and making me bite down harder on Vic's nipple. Vic seemed unable to say no, but I could tell he would have liked to had he been capable of speech just then, so I eased up a little.

By the way, the answer to question #2 from above is that all five guys have to be present at the same time for the romp to qualify as an orgy. So what we had was really more of a rolling four-way. Or a four-way with shifting talent. Or some variation thereof. I'm not usually so easy about matters of language, but as long as your description includes "four-way" and some acknowledgment that there was a changing cast of characters, I'll let it slide. This time.

Anyway. Shane wanted Christopher to fuck him some more, so he lay at the head of the bed, sideways, and Christopher pushed his knees up to his chest and slid it on in. I pulled Vic down to the foot of the bed, pushed him on his stomach, spread his cheeks, and shoved my tongue into his ass, which caused him to make a fair bit of noise. I ate him that way for a while, then I pulled him around for some more kissing, then I situated him so that his face was at my cock and his knees were straddling my head, and I shoved him toward my cock, and he started to go down on me, and I went back to eating his very, very fine ass.

For a while then, we were more like two sets of two guys. There was some reaching out and cross-touching, but mainly, Christopher was fucking Shane, and I was playing with Vic. After really eating his ass thoroughly, I pulled him over for more kissing, and then I got up to put on a condom and get some lube. That didn't go so well, probably because I'd only pushed two fingers into him when I was eating his ass. I got us lubed up, and I had him on his stomach, and I pushed into him, and he took it, but after just a minute or so, I popped out, and his very tight ass had held onto the tip of the condom. I retrieved it, but I had trouble getting it back on right, and when I rolled Vic onto his side and shoved into him that way, I could tell it was very painful for him, so after a bit longer, I just stopped, and we went back to intense making out and nipple work with me stimulating his prostate with one and then two fingers.

Sometime soon after that, the other end of the bed got pretty loud, and I saw that Shane was standing on the bed, stroking himself, and about to lose his load on Christopher. He did that, then they both went to clean up a little, and then Shane very quickly dressed and left. Christopher came back to the bed, and we kept working on Vic. The two of them made out, and I sucked on Vic's very cute small and uncut cock for a while. Then I stroked him while I chewed on a nip. Then the three of us all kissed together (still awkward, still fun, fun, fun). It went back and forth like that for a while. I'd been stroking Vic pretty forcefully, but then I went to working on his nipples, and Christopher started to kiss him again. Vic started to stroke himself, and pretty soon, he unleashed many shots of cum. It looked really nice on his smooth brown body. He's a fairly dark Desi guy. If only Christopher had been half-Asian and half-Latino and the married guy had been Native American, I would have had most of the major food groups represented. Oh well, maybe next time.

Christopher was also stroking himself, and not long after Vic came, Christopher came. I got them both towels. I had no real interest in coming myself just then. I figured I'd jerk off later, and, besides, a lot of guys, particularly inexperienced ones, get weird after they cum. Shane had practically run out the door, and Vic lost no time getting cleaned up and dressed. He did let me kiss him some as he did it, but I could tell his mind had moved into another mode when he lost his load. Oh well: what, really, can you expect from guy's who don't even know your real first name? Christopher, at least, was plenty happy to lie on the bed and cuddle for a bit, and he even helped me pick up the discarded condoms (4) afterwards. Then we both got dressed and headed downstairs to finish up the margaritas and watch the rebroadcast of Make Me a Supermodel. Cute boys, margaritas, afterglow. Who could ask for anything more?

Thursday, February 28, 2008


The title of this post, readers, is no more relevant to my life than are today's pictures to today's content. It (the title, that is -- if I have never before issued a blanket apology for my occasionally horrific pronoun reference, pray let me do so now; I'm sorry; now get over it, ok?) does, however refer to the attainment of a small goal.

Many months ago, I wrote about Danny Sommers and in particular about a Danny Sommers video that was seminal (oh shut up) in the awakening of my homosexual identity. I lamented the fact that I no longer had the (VHS) video and my inability to find the title by googling based on my recollections of its content. And then, last night, after I'd sent YFU off to bed and during station breaks for Project Runway, I was going through my huge stack of old mail -- sorting it into the keep, toss, and shred piles -- and there were several of the semi-monthly circulars I get from a particular porn distribution house. I decided to go online and order some cheap porn, and while I was there, I used their search function, and (lo! and behold!) there was a list of Danny Sommers video (boy spent a lot of time on his back), including Crossroads, the very video I have long sought.

I won't mention the site I found it on because a) that would be too much like advertising, and why do that if no one's compensating me? and b) the site said that they had only limited copies of Crossroads remaining (it has been transferred to DVD: huzzah!), and I don't want anyone else going and buying my copy out from under me. Call me paranoid, but if you hear a loud, piercing scream emanating from the general direction of our nation's capital, you will know that I've gotten an email telling me that they didn't have it in stock after all, and, well: oops!

Ordering old porn carries some risk, of course. Even at the time I saw Crossroads, I recognized the horrible acting and worse production values, and it's entirely possible that I'll get it, watch it, and be disappointed. This is a risk with any sort of movie. I still remember when I bought the DVD of Diva. Diva first came out when I was in college, and I walked across the river four times to see it in the theater, and I thought it was the best movie ever, and then, years later, it was available on DVD, and I ordered it, and it arrived, and I put it in the DVD player and turned it on, and OMG! (Interjections show excitement or emotion: they're generally set apart from a sentence by an exclamation point, or by a comma when the feeling's not as strong.) it was still the best movie ever! In fact, if you haven't seen it, I insist that you stop whatever you're doing and go find it and see it right now. Do not eat, drink, or sleep until you have accomplished this. Especially if you have a big screen so that you can appreciate all the visual yumminess and read the subtitles. I wonder whether Thuy An Luu still roller skates.

Did I have a point here? Oh yeah: Crossroads is not likely to be Diva. But I'm still stoked about having found it. I may have ordered some other DVDs as well, but only to get the quantity discount.

By the way, I had a thoroughly unsatisfying experience Monday night. A mid-twenties fellow had said that he wanted to explore submission for the first time, and he drove all the way over from Northern Virginia, and he was very nice looking, though maybe a little too cute and too young and too tall (6'3, which works best for me if the guy's over fifty) for me. And everything was fine, and we'd been making out some, and I'd been working his nipples, and I had him halfway undressed and pinned down to the bed, but then I got up and put the blindfold on him, and he totally freaked out and practically ran down the stairs and out the door, though not before apologizing for wasting my time. Hey, I'm not the one who drove all the way the fuck over from Alexandria. Guys like that who want to explore submission should really date a nice top guy for a few weeks and then ask that guy to tie them to the bedposts. I worry about the younger generation of submissives and dominants, though. The transition was relatively easy for me because the first time someone asked me to tie him up, I had a closet full of old neckties, so I only had to go a few feet and spend a few seconds to prepare. Who wears enough ties anymore to have a stock of old ones around? Lawyers, I guess, but the last thing this world needs is dominant lawyers. Anyway, if you're thinking of being a dom (or a sub) sometime in the future, I recommend a trip to your local thrift shop, where you can pick up any number of old neckties at a very reasonable price. They'll be ugly as sin, of course, but when you need to use them, it'll likely be pretty dark, and your mind will be otherwise too occupied to notice. You really don't want to invest in restraints until you're sure you'll use them, and rope is intimidating to the beginner. Also: rope burns are very unpleasant and easy to get/cause if you don't know what you're doing.


Clearly I was very bad in a former life:

Afternoon TED,

Tom here at the Bijou Video order desk. We received your online order for Assablanca, Crossroads, The Roommate.

I am sorry but we are out of stock on these titles at this time. We will place an order with the distributors to get them for you.

Please allow 3 - 4 weeks for this selection to arrive and I will email you again when it is ready to ship.

Ok, Tom. I'm really, really busy right now, so you get a month. After that, I hunt you down. Don't even think you can come between me and my erotic history, dude.

Wednesday, February 27, 2008

Friday Massage

I may have experienced an attitude adjustment this past weekend. Or at least an adjustment in outlook. And please don't worry, readers. I didn't change anything fundamental: I'm not going to give up sex outside the relationship or start telling you that it's wrong to end a sentence with a preposition. I wonder if there's some sort of correlation there: is it possible that the false pedants clinging to a rule that never existed or made sensekind people who tell you that it's wrong to end a sentence with a preposition are the same uptight prudes kind people who insist on monogamy. (For the record, I was only joking about the "uptight prudes" part. I respect the monogamous few. The people who tell you not to end sentences with prepositions? Not so much.)

Anyway, sometime early last week or late the week before, I'd answered a CL ad from someone who wanted a massage. I hadn't given a massage in months, and I was missing it, so this seemed like a good idea. There was some trouble getting our schedules aligned, but we finally settled on Friday evening at 7:30.

I reckon this guy had had some bad CL experiences because he called, texted, and emailed me repeatedly in the days leading up to the massage to make sure I was coming. He also asked about music and oil and this and that. I told him some baby oil would be a good thing and that he should just play whatever music most relaxed him. He'd also sent me several pictures of his body. It looked good.

He lived in an apartment that was in the basement of a house in Hyattsville. You would call this a working class neighborhood. I love working class neighborhoods. If I could, I would live in Baltimore. In a row house on a long line of row houses. Surrounded by neighbors with friendly dogs. Dogs love me. No, not like that, you pervs. Anyway, the building and the placement seemed unprepossessing, but the apartment itself was nicely furnished, though it seemed like the sort of place where maybe he didn't spend a lot of time. The guy himself was obviously your typical Type A workaholic. He was wearing gym gear, and he told me that he sells nutritional products to gyms for a living. It was also obvious that he was considerably older than he'd claimed in his post, and while he did have a terrific body, the highlights weren't fooling anyone. He'd claimed mid-thirties in his CL ad, and I guessed he was pushing fifty, but if the guy's fit, I'm generally more comfortable with pushing fifty than with thirty-anything, anyway, so, you know: bring it on.

He was also obviously very nervous and had clearly imbibed a fair amount of cheap white to calm his nerves. He'd also made his small apartment very hot by turning on the oven and the stove burners. We chatted for a bit, but I was thinking we should just get to it. I had a lot to get done that night in addition to playing with him, and I figured he might take longer than I'd budgeted for: sometimes it takes a good bit of kneading to turn a Type A workaholic into a begging-for-it submissive. Which, I should add, had not been my original plan. My original plan had been to give him a good massage, slide a finger or two up his ass, kiss him for a bit, and then wank him to completion and be heading out the door within an hour. Best laid plans and all that, right?

Anyway, I maneuvered him towards the bed and told him to get comfortable. He stripped to his boxers (who do you think you're kidding, dude?) and lay on his stomach. He'd heated some oil with lavender, and I started to rub it on him.

So you know: standard massage. Oil, shoulders, deep pressure, moving down, boxers off, buttocks, perineum, thighs, firm pressure, calves, feet, long strokes over the entire body, buttocks and perineum redux, extra oil, one finger, prostate, two fingers, writhing, moaning, ass lifting off bed, and then it's time for the front side.

The prostate massage and, especially, all that wine, meant that he needed to piss after I'd finished his back. It was pretty hot in his apartment, and I was by now down to my shorts, and when he came back, I started on his front, and when I kissed him, he just said, "Thank you." After the shoulders and arms and anterior pelvis, I played with his cock for a while. He'd been talking throughout, telling me about his job and about how much he liked what I was doing to him. I decided to lie next to him on the bed and make out for a bit. Oily guy: fun, fun, fun.

It was all good, really, until he started to confide in me. He told me a lot of stuff that was very private. None of it was the sort of thing that was in any way embarrassing or shameful, but it was all the sort of thing that you probably oughtn't to share with a stranger, and I probably oughtn't to share with you. It was extremely intimate, and even if it was intimacy fueled by massage and alcohol, it was very pleasant. Even though I knew that a guy who gets drunk and shares those sort of secrets with you the first time he meets you is not going to meet you a second time. And, well, let's just say that he was the sort of guy whose life hasn't turned out quite the way he wanted. I know that's probably true of most people, but it was more acutely true in this guy's case.

There were many whispered confidences, punctuated by a good deal of making out. He was having trouble holding his erection, almost certainly because he'd had so much to drink, but it was still a good time. I played with his ass a lot, and when he said he'd like me to eat it, I didn't have to be asked twice. I did, though, have to ask for a damp washcloth. His ass was immaculate on the inside, but I don't want my tongue in massage oil. Anyway, I rimmed him for a while, and he was loving it but getting more and more tired from the alcohol. I told him that what all guys like him really wanted was to be tied to the bed and fucked, and he told me that he wished I would do that, right away. He was, from the first touch, putty in my hands, in several ways.

But I wasn't prepared. I hadn't expected to fuck, so I hadn't brought any condoms, and I hadn't brought lube. He hadn't been fucked in years, and he didn't have any of either. He was totally down with a bareback fuck aided by massage oil, but, well, no thanks! In any case, his ass was really tight. It'd been work to get two fingers in. To get four in really would have needed lube and more patience than I had. I told him that I could tie him down and fuck him next time, and he seemed excited, but I also told him that I was pretty sure there wouldn't be a next time because he would sober up and be embarrassed and never get in touch with me again.

It's an open question whether telling a submissive guy that he's never going to contact you is a self-fulfilling prophecy or an attempt to spur him into action. I tend to think that it's simply an acknowledgment of a fact. In any case, this guy was nice, and he'd probably have made a good lay, but there was plenty of potential for unpleasantness. He seemed kind of short on friends and short of interests: the kind of guy where you very quickly run out of things to talk about when neither of you is naked and oiled. I have a lot of compassion for people like that, but they are usually very resistant to make the few simple changes necessary to have a much better life, and if I'm going to insert myself into someone's miserable and fucked up life, I don't want it to be miserable and fucked up in a static or tedious way. And, hell, it was just supposed to be a massage.

Anyway, because I was feeling a little sorry for him and because he wasn't very well endowed, I put him on his back and went down on him for a little while. That was when he told me that he loved me. Twice. Fortunately, I didn't laugh, but only because my mouth was somewhat full. I sucked on him for a few minutes, but whenever I'd let him out of my mouth, he'd go soft again, and he seemed very out of it, so I told him I should go. He thanked me and rolled over on his stomach and went to sleep, or at least pretended to. It was hard to tell, and he was pretty wasted. I got dressed and headed out. I noticed that he'd left his door unlocked, so I made sure to lock it behind me.

There's something very satisfying about spending three hours, most of it naked, in close contact with a guy who keeps telling you that you can do whatever you want to him, even if you don't want to do all that much to him. Or at least the time goes by quickly and pleasantly, and when you're working and tired and stressed all the time, a three-hour interlude where you don't think about anything except what you're doing with your hands and what some stranger is telling you is very restorative. In a lot of ways, it's not the sort of encounter I'd seek out, but it turned out to be just what I needed, even if it did mean that I didn't get to sleep until nearly 4am.

The guy told me that he'd like to spend every Friday night that way, but I didn't expect to hear from him again, and I haven't. I have very much learned to embrace the NSA one-off. The struggle used to be not to mind when there wasn't a repeat. Now it's more to remain open to the possibility of a repeat. I don't think that there's anything wrong with disposable fun, but I wouldn't want to pass up either reusable fun or a friendship just because I go in with no expectations. Sex is a strange, complex, multi-faceted, and wonderful thing, whether it leads to an interaction of fifteen minutes, three hours, or years.

Monday, February 25, 2008

We'll Have a Dalmatian Plantation

I had one of those weekends that made me rethink my entire identity. Unsurprisingly, my identity-rethinking weekends are also always my sleep-deprivation weekends, so there will be no actual changes to my identity or behavior, except that I might take some Benadryl tonight to make sure I sleep.

In the interest of sparing my readers, I have decided to hold off on posting the tales of Friday night's massage/berber session until such time as I am coherent. Please do not hold your breath. When I'm well rested and the planets are properly aligned, prose flows from my fingers in a relatively free fashion. When I'm not, it's all drivel, all the time. I leave it to my betters to make writing about sex tedious. When I see crap showing up in the Blogger window, I know it's time to cut my losses. I'll go back to the draft in a day or two, delete 90% of what's there, and finish the tale for you.

Change of topic. Expect no transition.

YFU's twelfth birthday was yesterday. The birthday tradition for the kids (or for YFU, I guess, now that EFU is away at college.) is a family dinner with both parents and our respective SOs. B&c and I mostly dread this, but we do it for YFU. Because, you know, what's more exciting for a twelve-year-old girl than sitting at a table with four grown-up liberals?

Anyway, the real birthday celebration is next Saturday, when YFU and up to eleven of her closest friends will be descending on the chez moi for a party and a sleepover. This event was carefully timed to coincide with b&c's trip to Germany (he leaves Tuesday, having just returned Saturday from Haiti, where he was, apparently, not kidnapped), so it will be just me and a house full of eleven- and twelve-year-old girls.

There are probably worse ways to die, but I can't think of any offhand. Thank God I have the house cleaning and party decorating and cake baking to keep me busy this week, because otherwise, the sixty-five hours at work would leave me pretty bored.

Change of topic. Expect no transition.

I'll get into this at greater length, maybe, when I post about the events of Friday night, but I have, I think, fully evolved in my feelings about submissives. In the past, I got upset when I tied a guy down and he had a great time and then never wanted a repeat. Then I learned to accept, with some regret, that such was the way of things. Later still, I learned to be grateful for the one good session and not worry about whether there would be others. Finally, I have come to realize that a) the first session is always the best, b) these are generally people that I wouldn't enjoy hanging out with, and c) pretty much anyone who's lived to the age of thirty or beyond can be fascinating for a single evening. The upshot: it's best for all concerned, especially me, when these things happen only once.

Now that I'm free of even the expectation/responsibility of a receiving/sending a follow-up email, I can keep looking for new subs to play with. I very much like reporting what really happens with them here on the blog, but I'm thinking that some day I should use my notes here as a basis for a series of fictionalized accounts. I was thinking that One Thousand and One Submissives would be a good title, but I'll probably settle for 101 and either call it abridged or start referring to my subs by names more appropriate for Dalmatians. God knows I have the dog collars.

I reckon that all means my pseudonym will be either شهرزاد (hi, Eric!) or Cruella de Vil, depending.

Saturday, February 23, 2008


It being a Saturday, I had to be at work at 9 this morning. So last night's timeline was meant to go something like this:

7:00 leave office
7:30 arrive at some random craigslist guy's house to give massage
8:30 leave some random craigslist guy's house and head to market to buy ingredients for mole
9:30 arrive home, clean kitchen, begin chicken mole
12:00 zzzzzzzzz

Steps one and two went according to plan, but the rest of the timeline got switched to:

10:30 leave some random craigslist guy's house and head to market to buy ingredients for mole
12:00 arrive home, play farm hustle
12:30 clean kitchen, begin mole
4:00 zzzzzzzzz

On the plus side, the mole is really good, and I'm sure it'll be a big hit at the church dinner tonight.

And the three-hour massage will be an amusing story, if I ever wake up.

Thursday, February 21, 2008

Going Among Mad People

My friend Crazy Lance came over for brunch on Sunday. I made sour cream waffles and bacon and mimosas. I would normally make something a little more elaborate, but a) Crazy Lance specifically asked me not to make anything too fancy, b) I had to pick him up from the Metro station, so I had to make something ahead and/or cook it quickly after we got back, c) I had one of those no-alcohol hangovers that I sometimes get if I eat a full bag of Kettle chips in bed after midnight, and d) I'd gotten up really late and had to spend an hour cleaning the kitchen, so I didn't have time to go out and shop for anything better. That last reason was also why I didn't have any sparkling wine and so had to make the mimosas with a combination of orange juice, vodka, and ginger ale. They were still pretty good, I thought, and Crazy Lance loved them. After my first, though, I switched to a combination of oj and club soda and then straight club soda, because I was feeling a little dehydrated. Also, I think Crazy Lance is a lot more fun when he's mildly inebriated. Anyway, the food was much appreciated, and brunch was a lot of fun, in large part because CL is the perfect brunch guest when I'm feeling unfocused and unwell: he can talk indefinitely and requires only very limited input from me, and most of what he's saying is fascinating. Plus, he has a delicious West Virginia accent and a terrific body, so I can just sit there and listen and lust quietly. Which I did.

"Crazy" is tossed about pretty loosely these days, and -- uncharacteristically -- I don't have a problem with the many, many different connotations it's come to have. Usually when you say that one of your friends is crazy, you mean that he's eccentric, loud, wild, fun, funny, or some combination of the above. Crazy Lance, on the other hand, is insane. He himself will admit this, usually with a sort of semi-cheerful resignation. At the same time, he'll say it's the rest of the world that's really insane (a difficult notion to argue with, I must say). Anyway, when I say that he's crazy, I'm talking not so much about his truly beyond-the-pale opinions on every topic as I am about the fact that a couple of weeks ago he checked himself into a psychiatric institution for eight days to avoid having his insanity overwhelm him. He's on lithium now, and he's currently stable enough to be talking about getting his life back together, but about half the time when I talk to him on the phone, he still sounds like someone's sucked the life out of him.

Which, in a way, has happened. Crazy Lance spent about fifteen years in a three-way relationship with two other guys, Big Lance and James. Crazy Lance and I don't often get around to discussing the broad outlines of our pasts, but as near as I can figure, Big Lance and James were together from about 1970 on. Sometime later, Crazy Lance became involved with Big Lance. Later still, he became involved with both Big Lance and James and moved in with both of them. After more than ten years, he decided that he needed to live separately but still considered himself and James (but not Big Lance) partners. James and Big Lance continued to live together.

About a year ago, Big Lance had a fairly serious stroke, and Crazy Lance moved back in with the two of them to be the caretaker. Big Lance and James lived in a huge house on a huge lot, and Crazy Lance spent all his time there. He did the housekeeping, took Big Lance to his doctor and physical therapy appointments, and nursed him. Crazy Lance told me that it was demanding, round-the-clock work and that over a period of nearly a year, he only got back to his own house twice. But he also said that it was all fine as long as the pot held out. The weed gave him the ability to do all that and feel like he was accomplishing something, and Big Lance was getting better.

But then last summer, things began to fall apart. Crazy Lance was still doing all the work, but he didn't have the weed, so he began to notice just how difficult it all was. And Big Lance's health began to fail. Crazy Lance went through all of his savings, in large part, I believe on things that were, well, crazy. He told me that he sold his 70 ounces of gold so that he could loan the proceeds to someone for something that I couldn't quite understand. He sent all his silver (Yes, he was the sort to keep most of his savings in precious metals. He also supports Ron Paul. You do the math.) to someone in upstate New York so that it could be melted down and made into some sort of tokens that were to be used to allow people in some central Asian country to buy their way into heaven. (I'm not being flip here, but I think I didn't get all of the details right.) And he went through his entire 401(k) plan, mostly, I think, to make his house and car payments.

By the time the beginning of 2008 rolled around, Crazy Lance was broke, behind on his house payments, and despondent. I'm not exactly clear on the timing, but I believe that he got out of the psychiatric institution just a few days before Big Lance died. In the aftermath, Crazy Lance and James fought, physical violence erupted, and James told Crazy Lance to leave. Apparently, he drove Crazy Lance back to his own house and then left with the car, which is why I picked Crazy Lance up from the Metro station on Sunday.

After we'd eaten, Lance began to exercise. I knew from talking with him about it that exercising puts him in a good mood, and that what he most likes to do is to strap heavy weights onto his wrists and ankles and then move through and hold various dance-like or yoga-like positions. I was watching him do it for a while, trying to decide whether it would be rude to ask if I could take some pictures when he stopped and said, "So do you know any photographers?" I told him that I'd just been working up to asking him if I could take some, so I fetched my digital camera and began shooting. I got about a hundred pictures, and you see some of them here. Crazy Lance loves having his picture taken and admits to being something of an exhibitionist, so he soon went from clothed to underwear. And not much later, he said, "Well, since my cock is peeking out and since I love to show off, I'm just going to remove these, if you don't mind." I told him I would never mind, and we kept going. I think the best pictures came at the end, when he was just talking. When he was going through his positions, he was very conscious of trying to hold the position, whether I was using flash or not, and that made a lot of the pictures seem a bit forced. Which was odd because the whole thing was so much fun to watch, and not just because I lust after Crazy Lance. In fact, I found that as the session went on, I found him much less sexually -- but much more personally -- interesting. I think that's a good thing because (who am I kidding?) I would still love to jump his bones. But I know that likely won't happen and that it certainly shouldn't happen. Shagging a crazy person is doubtless hot, but it's major bad karma. And Crazy Lance himself told me very recently that he'd seriously considered asking me to do unspeakable things to him but that he'd decided against it because of his propensity towards addictive behavior.

Anyway, none of that is the point, though it is useful background. Also useful background is the fact that Crazy Lance told me that if I showed these pictures to people, I needed to let them know that he really is able to get much more extension in many of his positions. And he is. And now you know. And yet one more thing to know: Crazy Lance has never had any sort of training in dance or yoga or tai chi or whatever. He says that his form of exercise (which, again, is mesmerizing, even when he's fully clothed) is due entirely to pot. He no longer smokes pot, though. After he'd mentioned it a couple of times, I remembered that I've been wondering how I could get some, so I asked him whether he had a source, and he told me that he had to sever ties with his old weed dealer because he no longer approves of "pot booty calls." At first I thought that he meant that his dealer would have sex with him and give him a discount, but not so. He meant that he thought that his dealer was an interesting person and wanted to hang out with him and that he had told his dealer that if they couldn't be friends, he was no longer interested in giving him his custom. Crazy Lance said that the dealer wasn't at all enthusiastic about a friendship, so their interaction came to an end. Personally, I don't see being friends with your pot dealer as a particularly good or safe idea. And I don't see why a pot dealer would find it a good or safe idea to have a crazy person as a close friend. But of course, Crazy Lance and I don't see things the same way.

Which is mostly what I find so very attractive about him. I understand that his mental illness (which he's trying to get treated) makes his life very difficult and has cost him just about everything. And, truly, if I could find a way to spare him that pain, I'd give a fair amount to do so. (He seems to think that inviting him places is already doing more than a fair amount, but I always feel like I get the good end of that deal.) But when he's not incapacitated or severely depressed, he has a gift of vision that I'll never have. Most people I know, including myself, think that I'm very clever. But I have no special insight. Crazy Lance sees the world through a different lens, and what he sees and reports is sometimes terrible but usually wondrous. I covet his vision. He writes poetry that's wonderfully inventive, and he moves in a way that bespeaks a genius of physical grace. I can't help but think that if he had found a way to keep his demons in check and had had some sort of appropriate mentor, he'd be writing poetry or dancing now, maybe while teaching at a really fun college somewhere.

He's not, of course. He's getting ready to sell his house and apply for disability and probably move far away (this makes me sad), and he's talking about things like giving female soldiers in Iraq special diaphragms with razor sharp, hinged phalanges so that if they get raped, when the male soldier goes to pull out, he'll leave his penis behind. (I should note here that Crazy Lance is horribly misogynistic, probably because of his relationship with his mother. Fortunately, he seems devoid of other prejudices, which is fairly remarkable given his dirt poor West Virginia upbringing and all his talk of world government and black helicopters. You'd half expect him to say that everything is the fault of the Jews, but racism is blessedly absent from his psychological makeup.) He has a lot of other ideas about how to win the war, but most of them are even crazier. He once marched seven times around one of the VA hospitals and was disappointed when the walls failed to come a-tumbling down.

I hope it comes across that I like Crazy Lance a lot. He's beautiful and he's charming and he's very sweet. And he's a walking illustration of the nexus between creativity and madness. It's a great pleasure and blessing to be in his company and to see his point of view. And it's very painful to watch him struggle. I hope that he finds some way to be safe without losing his unique outlook and his childlike ability to appreciate things and his belief in his own ability to change the world. Right now, he's thinking about getting some schooling in hotel and restaurant management, (He used to have a six-figure government job doing some sort of financial analysis, I believe.) and it pains me to think of him managing a hotel somewhere unless he can go dance and write poetry in his off hours. When he's down, he talks about how maybe someday he'll have a life again. When he's up, he tells me stories about celebrating his birthday with his partners and having "HAPPY BIRTHDAY" written in lines of cocaine on a mirror. I am sometimes jealous of his experiences and his way of experiencing, though I more often have a very there-but-for-the-grace-of-god reaction to the same things.

Still, while there's much about Crazy Lance that invokes my protective instincts, there's something about him that defies pity. Take a look at this last picture of him:

Do you see the scarring on his chest? I'd been staring at it for the better part of an hour before there was a lull in the conversation that allowed me to ask about it.

A few years back, Crazy Lance was very upset about either don't ask, don't tell or some other aspect of gays in the military. He was convinced that the opposition to gays in the military came from the perception of gay men as weak, and he was determined to do something about it. He was also convinced that he had the power to do something about it and that if he could demonstrate how strong a gay man could be, the opposition of the military hierarchy would crumble. So he came up with a design to indicate strength and interconnectedness, and he bent copper tubing into the shape of the design. And he heated the whole thing red with an acetylene torch and then he pressed it to his chest.

When he recounts this story, he's not proud, but he's certainly not ashamed either. His main reaction is one of regret because he didn't realize that the design was flat while his chest was three dimensional. And regret because the pain was so intense that he could only hold the tubing against his chest for a moment. Because of those two factors, he didn't get the transfer that he wanted, and he thinks that's why we still don't have gays in the military.

What do you say to something like that? It's insane, but it's somehow strong. He was looking a little downcast, so I said, "Maybe you should take credit for what you did do rather than fret about what you didn't do." (That part was essentially the same thing that I'd said when he was upset that his forty-seven-year-old, untrained body couldn't do a perfect split. Yet.) And then I added, "But you're not Jesus, and you can't help anyone else by injuring yourself, so let's not do something like that again, okay?"

I'm not sure he was convinced.

Tuesday, February 19, 2008

Clearly, I Bring This on Myself

Simple truths are sometimes very hard to come by, especially when the truth is something you would very much rather was not the case. It's tempting to think, once you finally accept the unpleasant truth, that you've had an epiphany and that something has been revealed to you, that you have been enlightened. But, really, it's more likely that you've been putting the truth together and have gotten it bit by bit, and the only difference between now and all those other times is that you've finally managed to state it succinctly.

I'm aware that I'm not making any sense, but I'm working the logic out as I go along. I figure this entry will once and for all silence those people who just can't believe that I really don't spend time editing this shit.

I'm sure I've either said or hinted at here before that I have a lot of trouble with submissives. By which I mean that I have trouble keeping submissives coming back on a regular basis. And to some extent I figured that the problem was that I was too nice to people who didn't want to be treated nicely. But how long can you really act like a rotten SOB if you are not, in fact, a rotten SOB? If, as all good Unitarian Universalists do, you believe in the inherent worth and dignity of all people, how do you convincingly treat someone as if he's worthless?

And I had hoped that there was a problem with the premise of worthlessness. I'd hoped that the desire to submit came from a desire for great security and for freedom from choice. Because you could maybe reconcile wanting to feel very secure and not wanting to think with being a worthwhile person. (Consider monks, for example.) You could ask someone to tie you tightly and do all sorts of weird things to you just because it felt good to you and not end up afterwards being ashamed of yourself. I couldn't quite work out how I personally would let those things be done to me and still feel good about myself, but, of course, I recoil from the notion of submission, and I don't think my repugnance has anything to do with self-respect.

But today I had this conversation with a submissive. I've had some version or other of this conversation with this same guy three times over the past several years. I really, really, really would like to fuck him because he's dark and 5'7 and 145 pounds and has a big, beautiful ass, and his profile picture is of him lying naked, face down, on a boulder, and he's just hot, hot, hot. But then he also seems like a nice guy, so I generally approach him as a nice guy, and the conversation always ends up in the same place. Here's a transcript from today. Nothing has been changed except the screen names. This exchange doesn't cast me in a particularly good light, but TNWH is about both the ups and the downs of my erotic life, so warts and all, right?

TED: You're such a tease.
blacknutforwhitebolts: who me?
TED: No, the other guy with the gorgeous ass bending over.
blacknutforwhitebolts: hehehe
TED: Was that rock comfortable?
blacknutforwhitebolts: a towel underneath
TED: And here I thought you were hardcore.
blacknutforwhitebolts: nah
blacknutforwhitebolts: i'm a softy
blacknutforwhitebolts: lol
TED: I guess if you're a bottom it doesn't matter as much.
blacknutforwhitebolts: why?
TED: You don't have to get hard.
blacknutforwhitebolts: lol
blacknutforwhitebolts: thats tru
blacknutforwhitebolts: i'm a hole
TED: Holes are good.
blacknutforwhitebolts: i think so
blacknutforwhitebolts: -)
TED: Me too. Of course, it's nice when a bottom shoots while I'm fucking him, but as long as he works his hole right, it's not necessary.
blacknutforwhitebolts: i shoot sometimes when a man is in me, but it is just as satisfying to me that he gets his release... infact thats even MORE important to me ... because i am a hole!
blacknutforwhitebolts: u understand that?
TED: Well, I understand it, but I don't really get it. But I'm fine with it.
TED: Like I said. I like holes.
blacknutforwhitebolts: what don't u get?
TED: I mean that way of thinking is unlike mine. I understand exactly what you mean, but it's foreign to my personal experience.
blacknutforwhitebolts: ok
blacknutforwhitebolts: i am not really a man and not really a woman either, i am somewhere in between which is why i am a hole! lol
TED: It's like when I play with submissives. I can see how much they enjoy it, and I always have a great time, but I don't really get why they're submissive.
TED: It looks like a very good hole.
blacknutforwhitebolts: its good
TED: I have no doubt.
blacknutforwhitebolts: a sub can't help himself, neither can a yrue dom
blacknutforwhitebolts: true dom*
TED: I know people can't help what they like.
blacknutforwhitebolts: yup
TED: I don't judge. I find it all very fascinating.
blacknutforwhitebolts: do u think i really wanna be a sub?
TED: I don't know. Do you mind being a sub?
blacknutforwhitebolts: i can tell u i don't wanna be one! i wish i was a dom,but can't help it... i hate that men have that power over me... but like i said, i can't help it, i am compelled to do it. its my lot in life
TED: I think you should accept it and enjoy it.
blacknutforwhitebolts: it feels good, but i don't like it... i feel very uncomfortable about white guys crawling on top of me jizzin in my hole and leaving... i feel terrible about myself afterwards, but there i am the next day underneath another guy (or the same one) lettin them do it again
TED: Why does it matter that they're white? Do you think I like black men because of some racial prejudice? I like black men because they have gorgeous lips and asses. Otherwise, I'm relatively colorblind.
blacknutforwhitebolts: actually it doesn't matter what color they are, but thats who i usually end up spreading my legs for... they seem to have the most power over me
TED: I find it difficult to deal with subs sometimes because they're ashamed of themselves. I'd be happier if they just accepted that what we were doing made us both happy.
blacknutforwhitebolts: honestly, it would not matter to me whehter u were prejudiced or not, if i was horny and u wanted my sex, i would bend over for u.. pretty twisted huh?
TED: Having sex because you're horny isn't all that twisted, really.
TED: Besides, it's not like you don't have standards.
blacknutforwhitebolts: even if u know the guy is an asshole
blacknutforwhitebolts: ?
TED: Well, ok, if you know the guy's an asshole, that's a little twisted, unless it
makes you hornier.
blacknutforwhitebolts: i have had guys fuck me and tell me to leave whether i have cum or not -- and i have done it with them several times
TED: But don't you always turn down guys who have partners? Or is that just me?
blacknutforwhitebolts: what does being an asshole have to do with having a partner
blacknutforwhitebolts: are u an asshole too?
blacknutforwhitebolts: LOL
TED: I don't think so. But I could pretend to be one if it would help get me
in your pants. ;-)
blacknutforwhitebolts: LOL
blacknutforwhitebolts: u funny
TED: I try.
blacknutforwhitebolts: hehehe
TED: I can't help being a nice guy, but I'm still pretty good at dominating men.
blacknutforwhitebolts: thats cool
blacknutforwhitebolts: i only like being dominated tho if the guy is naturally dominant!! thats hot, but if he is not naturally dom, i would rather he just be himself, that can be equally hot too
TED: I don't know what naturally dominant means. When I was newly out, I was dating a guy, and he encouraged me to dominate him, and I just loved it. Does that mean I'm naturally dominant? I don't know.
blacknutforwhitebolts: just do what u feel
TED: Oh, that's easy. I feel like tying you down, making out with you, chewing your nipples, spanking your ass, eating your ass while you're going down on me, and then fucking you.
blacknutforwhitebolts: then i will do that 4 u man
TED: Sweet.
blacknutforwhitebolts: =)
blacknutforwhitebolts: u r married and have a parner, right?
TED: I have a partner. I'm divorced. I live with my partner. He travels a lot. We have an open relationship.
blacknutforwhitebolts: ok
blacknutforwhitebolts: i got a good memory huh?
TED: You do. I'm glad you remember.
blacknutforwhitebolts: your bf is white?
TED: Yes. Italian.
blacknutforwhitebolts: so u want a little brown sugar? hehehe
TED: I have yet to meet an ethnicity I don't like. But you are certainly very attractive.
blacknutforwhitebolts: thx
TED: I very much want to meet and play with you.
blacknutforwhitebolts: but u have a man
blacknutforwhitebolts: why not play with him?
TED: I do play with him. But he's a vanilla bottom, and I like a wider range. We both play with other guys.
TED: Besides, a guy can always use more fuckable friends.
blacknutforwhitebolts: hmmmmmm
blacknutforwhitebolts: see i don't get that, if i was lucky enuf to have a lover i would only wanna be with him and him with me
TED: Then I hope you get that one day. But we're all different. When can you and I get together?
blacknutforwhitebolts: thats a deadend
TED: What's a deadend?
blacknutforwhitebolts: u can't be my man... already have one
TED: So? We can still have fun. You said before you wanted to.
blacknutforwhitebolts: i do want to... but i really want my own man
blacknutforwhitebolts: ;-(
TED: We can hang out until that happens.
blacknutforwhitebolts: lookin4 a man 1st
TED: You just told me you sub for guys.
TED: I'll try to remember longer next time.

And every time this conversation happens, I get annoyed, even though I know exactly how it's going to go. He starts out all hot and heavy, and then he says that because I have a partner, we can't fuck. Today I came back at him for a second conversation and tried being as mean as I could, and he got really excited, but, of course, I couldn't keep it up. I mean, there are only so many times in your life that you can tell anyone that you want to fuck them with an unlubricated baseball bat and remain credible, and my number, apparently, is zero.

But the gods know that I adore the trappings of domination. I love seeing the submissive go into ecstasy when the first unexpected drops of molten wax hit his nipples. I love the way their bodies tighten and excite when their movement is restrained. I love the immense feeling of intimacy that happens when someone puts his physical safety into my hands. To some extent, I'm sure guys choose to do that because they know I can be trusted, but the fact that I don't abuse that trust seems to make it unlikely that they'll do it again.

So I was trying to work all of this into something about how self-disrespect and voluntary infantilization are incompatible with mature adult interactions, and I thought I had it, but I guess I don't, so let's all pretend that the clouds have parted, and the doves have descended with the holy fortune cookie, and I've taken out the little slip of paper, and it says:

Submissives are fucked up.

Happy Happy Joy Joy

It's really tough to post these days without whinging. I don't, mind you, think my life is especially horrid, and I do have other things to say. But the other things to say would take a long time to think through and write out. I do sometimes get bored of writing about my sex life or of posting mildly durbanbudesque ironies. Not that there's anything wrong with either of those genres, but there are a few topics that I'd like to address that I just don't have the time for. Plus, the job is just murder right now, so I could whinge about that.

I also don't want to make it sound like I'm knocking whinging generally. What would the blogosphere be without people complaining about their lives? And let's face it: schadenfreude may be an ugly emotion, but it's also the best thing going. It explains my love-hate relationship with reality television. On the one hand, the fact that some people actually watch The Apprentice and respect Donald Trump is fairly convincing evidence of the imminent fall of Western civilization. On the other hand, I only had to watch half a season of it to feel a whole lot better about the fact that I'll never be rich. It's the same thing with blogs: a really good blog is one that makes me feel better about my own inadequacies because there's someone who's so much better in some area but is still a miserable fuck. Because of the Internet, I can eat carbs and never go anywhere near a gym and feel much better about myself. I should probably send [Oh come on, you don't expect me to name names, do you? I don't believe in talking smack about other blogs. Anyway, you can probably make your own list of fifty blogs I could be talking about. I also don't leave comments on what I consider to be trainwreck blogs.] a gram of some illicit drug or other as a thank you. (I still do, however, view the fact that the beautiful-but-miserable bloggers get dozens of comments on an entry as further confirmation of the decline and fall.)

The thing about whinging on a blog is that it has to be earned. I've seen a bit of complaining on a few blogs over the past couple of days, and it hasn't bothered me because a) they're talking about real problems, and b) I've been reading those blogs for a while, so I have some level of familiarity with their personal lives, and I'm more likely to feel sympathy with than impatience at their trials.

I, however, have nothing but work to whinge about, and how dull is that? So while I have a couple of substantial topics for which I've started drafts, the only thing I really have to write about right now is the really awful blowjob I got last night. I'd tell you to just skip the rest of the entry, but it's a little late for that, innit?

Anyway, I saw this craigslist ad for a guy who wanted to give head. There are many such ads, of course, but this guy was on my way home from the office. And I'd had maybe five hours of sleep the night before, so lying back and letting a guy go down on me was about the most I could handle. So I emailed the guy, and he said to call and come by whenever. He mentioned the possibility of using his homemade glory hole, but I said, no, thanks, the recliner will be fine. And he mentioned the possibility of straight porn, but I said ewwwwwwwwwwwwwwww dude! WTF?, no, thanks, gay porn will be better. I dutifully warned him that going down on me typically involves at least thirty minutes of hard labor, and he said, BRING IT ON, so when I was done working at just before 9pm, I called him, got directions, and stopped by.

I have to say that I'm not a big fan of sex in unfinished basements. It's just so, you know, Silence of the Lambs. But when I got to the guy's place and called him, as instructed, he came out and led me down the concrete steps to the unfinished basement. I could see a so-called glory hole constructed out of cardboard boxes off to the side next to the partially obscured television screen that had a (quelle surprise) glory hole video running. But I just dropped trou and reclined in the recliner.

And it started out fine, but after ten minutes or so, he was clearly tired of sucking my cock. Which is fine, you know, but if you're used to sucking off guys who cum in two minutes, maybe figure that if a guy tells you it's going to take half an hour, you might not be up for the whole thing. He started to jerk me off after that, which would have been more pleasant if he hadn't been staring at me in such a way that his giant head blocked the entire tv screen, where one hot guy was eating another hot guy's even hotter ass.

Anyway, I blame myself. At some point, I should have thanked him and left. I mean, the head felt fine, and the hand job was okay for a while, but he got frustrated and it was more like he was beating egg whites than meat. After half an hour or so, I just took over for myself, and he stared at me some more. The combination of fatigue, basement, and big head made it so that even though I was very stiff, I had to pump myself so hard to cum that I ended up with a cramp in my upper arm. He handed me a bunch of Kleenex, and I wiped up and left.

Well, live and learn, right?

Fortunately, I don't dwell on these things. I drove home, had a snack, went upstairs, and masturbated while reading the sleazy gay novel du semaine. Apparently a bad hand job administered by someone else makes a good wank seem all the better. No joy without despair. No light without darkness. No dessert until you finish your vegetables.

Monday, February 18, 2008


I'll be the first to admit that I'm a guy who has trouble saying no when sex is offered. Or at least when sex with a new guy is offered. I have no trouble at all saying no to people who have proven themselves unworthy of my company. Just this week, in fact, I have had two text message exchanges with Kip who, you may remember, I actually had to kick out of the bedroom the last time he came over. For your (very mild, I'm araid) amusement, let me transcribe the exchanges. First, on Friday:

Kip: Hey how r u tonight? Kip
TED: Good. Just got home.
Kip: Same thing here! Just finished taking a shower, any plans tonight?
TED: No plans yet. Are you going out?
Kip: No I am not going out! We can meet f u want to
TED: Ok. Wear a jockstrap and bring your poppers.
Kip: No fucking though if its ok with you!
TED: As long as you suck my cock.
Kip: I can jerk you off
TED: Not good enough.
Kip: You know I don't really suck, coz I vomit when my uvula is stimulated
Kip: I vomit easily
TED: Suck halfway down.
Kip: I can kiss u passionately but not sucking though
TED: Never mind then. I don't want to be your bitch.
Kip: No problem

And then, on Sunday:

Kip: Hey horny here! Kip
TED: You should jerk off.
Kip: I will take your advice

But when it's a new guy, I almost say yes when the opportunity arises. A case in point comes from a week ago, when I had already arranged to tie down the very compliant submissive. I got a call from Will, a late twenty-something bisexual oral bottom who lives in my town. He and I had tried to hook up before, but we were never available at the same time. So when he called and said he had some time, I told him that if he wanted, he could come over and suck my cock for a while but that I wouldn't be able to give him a load. He was disappointed about the temporary no-load policy, but he agreed to come over, and he was there ten minutes later. Bisexual oral bottoms typically won't kiss, but when I grabbed him and moved in, he responded willingly. He was a pretty good kisser, but his breath was marginal. Then again, he probably wasn't expecting to make out.

I played with his nipples a bit, but I didn't realize how late the sub was going to be, so I thought we didn't have a lot of time, and I quickly dropped trou and sat down on the love seat and let him get to work. I don't know why some men respond so well to being called a cocksucker, but he certainly did. I grabbed his head and moved him up and down some, but mostly I just reclined and enjoyed. I got the impression that he was used to guys coming pretty quickly. In any case, after fifteen minutes, I was happy but nowhere near cumming, and he said he couldn't suck any longer. Since I didn't want to shoot, that was no big deal, so I sent him off with a handshake. He was cute, but I don't expect to see him again. He's clearly the sort that wants a load after three minutes or less. Never gonna happen, I'm afraid.

A similar situation played itself out late Sunday night. I was already in bed, reading a sleazy gay novel (just the sort I love) when I got a call from Brett, another guy that I've talked back and forth with many times (and for so long that I can't remember where we first ran into each other) but had never met. He said he was driving home and would be coming through my town in fifteen minutes. I was dead tired, but I didn't think twice.

I couldn't remember exactly what Brett was into, but I figured he must be a bottom. I vaguely remembered that he was married. When he showed up and I started to kiss him, he just froze, terrified, so I backed off and went for his nipples. That got him going. I told him to head upstairs, and when I reached up to grab his ass, he bent over on the stairs to shove his butt out at me and let me squeeze it harder. Cool. When we got upstairs, he immediately got naked and bent forward, with his hands on the bed. I appreciate a man who knows what he wants, but the combination of fatigue and no kissing had left me swollen but not hard, so I shoved him onto the bed, on his back, and started working his nipples again.

Despite his initial eagerness to get fucked, once I started playing with his nipples and cock, he clearly wanted to make the sensation last as long as possible. I had my mouth permanently attached to his right nip, with my tongue flicking back and forth, and my right hand was slowly stroking his very hard penis. I soon had the precum flowing, and when I took my thumb and rubbed the juice into his frenulum, he started to shake and pushed my hand away. I was sort of in the let's-get-him-off-and-out-of-here-so-I-can-sleep mode, but while I was clearly not going to fuck him, I was still having a pretty decent time on his very responsive nipples, so I relented and slowed down.

I did get hard when he went down on me, and he did that very well indeed. But by then I was starting to finger his ass, and before long I had three fingers inside him and was using my other hand to stroke his cock. He started to shake all over, and after not much longer, he was oozing a very large load onto my stomach. I got a towel, wiped myself off, and handed it to him. He said I'd made him dizzy. Then he washed up, got dressed, and left. I would maybe fuck him sometime, especially given his very responsive nips and ass, but if the occasion never arises, I probably won't even remember to miss it. He's probably the kind of guy who only has m2m sex once a year or so, anyway. We could hook up again in two years, and I might not remember that I'd done him before.

In fact, I had a guy Saturday night that I didn't remember at first. I'd been out seeing Persepolis with George, and I was hoping to play with this young Desi guy whose ad I'd seen on craigslist that afternoon. The ad said he wanted to be shaved, so I volunteered, and when he replied to my email, I recognized the address from a previous encounter. I told him who I was and sent him a picture to remind him, and he wanted to get together right then. I told him it'd be 9 before I was free, and he said that was fine and to text him when I was leaving Bethesda. I knew this meant that he likely wouldn't still be free by 9, and, indeed, when I texted him, there was no reply. No big deal.

I should have gone straight to bed when I got home, but I never do. Instead, I posted an ad on craigslist, and I soon had a hookup arranged with someone very different from Vic. This guy was older than me, barrel chested, hairy, and cut. But we are all god's creatures, and he sounded like fun, so I invited him over. When he showed up, I thought he looked familiar, but I wasn't sure. He asked for a drink, and as we walked to the kitchen, he said he thought we'd hooked up before, and I said I thought he was right. He wanted vodka, neat, and after two shots, I told him he'd had enough and marched him upstairs to get busy.

We'd been making out for a while, and I was sucking on a nipple, when he asked me if he could have some more vodka, and I said, "What? Are you nervous?" and he said that he was, and it was then that I remembered him: fifty-something divorced guy who doesn't have much sex ever. The other time he came over (more than a year earlier), he'd needed so much liquor to get comfortable that I was scared to let him drive home. He did, though, and then emailed me to let me know he was safe. He's a reasonably fun guy in the sack (good kisser, good head), but I remembered that he really needed someone to give him some lessons in basic homosexuality. I'd offered, but he was too shy to accept. Whatever.

Anyway, we had a pretty good time. After I'd made his right nipple good and sore, he went down on me, and I started working fingers into his ass. He was unsure about being able to handle my cock, but I wasn't unsure, so I put him on his stomach, slid on a rubber, lubed him up and made my way inside. It took him a while to relax properly, but then he got into it. I was pretty beat, so after ten minutes or so of fucking him in different positions, I pulled out, got rid of the condom, and spent another five minutes jerking off. I shot all over him, and he was impressed. He seemed sober when he left. I should email him to say hello and be friendly, but I probably won't.

I should really head straight home and to bed tonight, too. Maybe I will. There are, after all, still some scenes from Shacked Up that I haven't lost a load to.

Sunday, February 17, 2008

Barry Livingston, I Presume

My slow progression from animal to vegetable continues apace, readers. I know and remember that after April 15, humanity returns, but it doesn't feel like it. It feels more like one day you might surf over to the blog and read, "One morning, as TED was waking up from anxious dreams, he discovered that in bed he had been changed into a large Belgian endive. Much as I might prefer to quietly braise myself in a cream sauce, I recognize that hibernation is not an option, so I try to keep up with my friends. Generally, this involves seeing a movie, which does not require me to hold up my end of a conversation and allows me to fall asleep so long as my snore doesn't grow any louder than the sound of popcorn being chewed. Sadly, many of my friends will also want to get dinner. This is fine in groups of more than four people, where I can fall asleep under the table, and instead of thinking, "Geez, TED, go home and get some sleep already," my friends will think, "Thank God. It's about time he started practicing his oral technique." Though, of course, when no one yelps and says "Watch the teeth, willya?" they eventually become suspicious.

This weekend, though, b&c was in Haiti (still not kidnapped!), and I was too tired to round up a larger number of people, so when my friend George said that he was free for dinner and a movie on Saturday, I was trapped. George is a great guy, but he reads this blog (hi, George!). This causes two big problems: a) whenever we're in a group of people, I live in fear that he'll mention the blog (I deal with this fear by always having on my person a Bic pen barrel and a small dart laced with a horse tranquilizer, so that if he starts to say, "Oh yeah, I read...," I can say, "Is that Jared Leto streaking?" and, when everyone's looking the other way, knock him out unobtrusively), and b) I can no longer talk to him about my sexual exploits, because he's already read them all. And, of course, I have no other conversational topics. George can talk about his sexual exploits and about his job, but his job is interesting in its own right; plus, it regularly allows him to travel to the far east, especially Beijing, where he spends your tax dollars and mine chasing young Asian tops. He is, in other words, a Kung Pao chicken queen.

Anyway, we had dinner Saturday night, and then we made our way over to Bethesda Row, where we had tickets to see Persepolis, which I can recommend without reservation. I didn't nod off once, and I found the film both enlightening and entertaining. Plus, I got to hear a whole lot of French. And we even had decent seats. After that debacle last fall where I ended up with a sore neck and a bad attitude because George had to have a second glass of wine, I made sure that we were at the theater twenty minutes prior to the posted time. This gave me the chance to hear the latest about George's boyfriends.

I'm not exactly sure how it happened (I'm guessing a head wound, but who knows?), but George's formative years coincided with the long television run of My Three Sons, and George has somehow become convinced that he's Fred MacMurray as Steve Douglas. Except that instead of three sons, he needs three boyfriends. Three young, far eastern boyfriends, of course. For a while, everything was going according to plan. His first bf didn't get along with his second bf, but they were rarely in the same state, so it didn't matter. And, of course, there were times when all three of the bfs were too busy with homework or whatever to come play catch, but his tastes don't run exclusively to the young and the Asian, so he'd go online and run down an Uncle Charlie, and household order would be restored. But then Mike went and married Nancy, and suddenly he was caught in the hell of My Two Boyfriends, and, well, that's just wrong, isn't it? So the past few months have been a constant search for Ernie.

So far, that hasn't quite worked out, and while some people would say that two boyfriends ought to be plenty, I say that he might as well go for it. Heck, he's going back to Beijing sometime soon, so while he's looking for Ernie, he might as well go ahead and pick up Dody. The more the merrier, yes? But the particular story he told me last night happened back when he still, sort of, had the three original boyfriends. Apparently, George was over in Beijing and had picked up very cheaply a couple of very nice cashmere sweaters for bf2. But when he returned to Maryland, he and bf2 got into a bit of a spat, so bf2 refused the sweaters. Fortunately, all of the bfs are the same size (it makes buying the cheap foreign gifts so much easier), so he shipped the cashmere off to bf1. Subsequently, bf2 decided that he did want the cashmere after all, but George told him that he'd already had his chance and that perhaps he would come to understand that refusing a gift out of anger was not wise. This is the sort of thing that the older generation is always trying to teach the younger. As it happened, bf1 -- something of a clothes horse -- didn't really like the sweaters all that much. Bf3's closet was sorely lacking, so George asked for the sweaters back, but bf1 was only willing to part with one of the sweaters because he knew where they were going. Kids these days, eh? I'm pretty sure that at some point during this whole thing, bf2 (who, you remember, turned down the sweaters and so had none) was heard to exclaim, "Marcia! Marcia! Marcia!" Of course, it's hard being the guy in the middle: keeping yours inside one guy while making sure another guy's stays inside you is beyond the ability of many.

Anyway, it was an amusing story. I've been trying for months to pitch the whole situation to one of the networks for a sitcom. It seemed like an obvious winner: surely you'd be able to line up plenty of advertising from the condom and soy sauce manufactuers. It's been hard going, though. Maybe I've been pitching the idea to the wrong people. I reckon I should have done more research about which network I was targeting, but, you know, Fox and Logo sound an awful lot alike, don't they? Who knew their demographics were so dissimilar?

Anyway, I was sure the cashmere sweater story would put me over the top, so I tried again. And I was, well, partially successful. The networks loved the idea generally, but they insisted on a few changes. Instead of four gay men in the mid-Atlantic, they decided to go with four retired women in Florida. George does look an awful lot like Estelle Getty, though, so I reckon it all came out fine in the end.