Wednesday, January 6, 2010


I've been having lots of sex lately, at least on days when neither of the kids is home, and it's become impossible to chronicle it all, or at least, if I took the time necessary to write entries for every time I fuck, it would cut into the actual fucking time, and we simply cannot have that, can we? (Hint: the answer is NO.)

Besides, I've begun to get a little bored with reporting the same old sexual activities over and over. I don't ever get bored with the sex, of course, but sex is part of my practice, my meditation, my approach to the ineffable, so at some point writing about the details -- as fun as they were, and they were -- becomes like talking about chanting sessions, or something similar. "I walked the labyrinth again; it seemed unusually twisty today."

But I don't want to give up the pornographic non-fiction altogether, and I do need to be keeping notes. This past weekend, I narrowly averted hooking up a second time with a guy who I really don't want to hook up with again, and I only avoided it by memory. I should have been able to avoid it by referring to some sort of record, other than gmail. I have to come up with something, but is a puzzlement.

Among my hook-ups this weekend was a guy with the largest nutsack I have ever encountered. It was the size of a grapefruit, and it was beneath a rather small cock, which made it all the more impressive. It was shaped a lot like a grapefruit, too, as if there were only one supermassive nut inside. I asked the guy whether the nuts (I'm assuming there were, indeed, two) had always been like that, and he said they had.

This guy was otherwise rather uninteresting, and though he wanted to be fucked, he said, it seemed like the best option was just to get him off as quickly as possible and send him on his way. So we made out some, and I worked his nipples gently but intently, which got him leaking all sorts of precum, and I stroked him off until he came, almost violently. He thanked me and said that he would sleep well. It was all very civilized.

I encountered no fewer than three pairs of button-fly jeans this weekend. I can't remember the last time I hooked up with a button-fly-jean-wearing guy, so that seemed odd to me. It may have been that I was feeling extra assertive this weekend and got so many of the guys on the bed before they had a chance to remove anything: other times, they sometimes take off their pants before they hit the bed. But I don't think that explains the situation entirely. Two of these guys were in their early forties and one was in his mid-fifties, and they were otherwise very different from each other in looks and manner, so I have no common factor to explain the sudden spike in 501s and/or 501 wannabes. (I didn't actually check brands; in most cases, I was working on the buttons with my hands while I was making out with the guys, so I didn't actually look at the flies.) Perhaps they're more common than I realized, or perhaps there's a resurgence.

It's not a big deal, but despite how much I like taking my time when undressing a man, I prefer zippers.

My favorite hook-up from the weekend was a shy, smooth Asian who had driven all the way from downtown DC in a VW Beetle. (I didn't notice the car until he was leaving.) He had all the hallmarks of repressed sexuality, most notably timidity, vocal enjoyment, and being easily overwhelmed by passion. He was so tight that I wasn't sure I'd be able to fuck him, but I slowly opened him up, and I took my time getting into him, and the transition from "too thick!" to "fuck me!" was gratifyingly smooth. When I had fucked him in several positions for as long as I wanted, he still needed me to cum so that he could cum, and I finished myself off by hand as we kissed. I shot all the way to his shoulder, and he came very shortly thereafter.

I'm pretty sure, from how much he closed up after he came, that I'll never see him again, and that's a damned shame. He had the most amazing pair of full, soft lips, and he knew how to use them. Oh well: next!

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