amaranthine border

The subject is a 50-something male.  In recent years prior to this experiment he had begun taking sildenafil citrate (the ingredient found in brands such as Viagra, and hereafter called Med 1) to counteract a natural decline in what, up to that point, had been an almost superhuman capability in terms of sexual readiness, stamina, and recovery time.  Anecdotally, the subject reports that when used for the first time, Med 1’s effects were relatively dramatic; at the one-hour mark, “it was like a switch turned from off to on.” While less dramatic with repeated use over time, Med 1’s effects have remained, with the occasional exception, more or less predictable and satisfactory.

Thanks to a prescription hiccup, the subject found himself in possession of both Med 1 and tadalafil (the ingredient found in brands such as Cialis, and hereafter called Med 2).  Upon first use, Med 2 created an effect similarly dramatic and yet physically different to that of Med 1. The subject reported a sensitivity more influenced by context in terms of opportunity and touch.  At the same time, the effect was described as more “rampant,” suggesting that the merest movement or touch of clothing could stimulate the desired effect. “It’s like being a teenager again,” the subject reported, referring to emotional and mental as well as physical response.

After consultation with his partner, it was decided that a series of discrete tests could help determine which pill serves its intended purpose most efficaciously.  The subject and his partner committed without hesitation to this admittedly arduous series of tests, selflessly dedicating a portion of their lives to expanding the frontiers of science.

Field notes:  Jamie and I have decided to embark upon this oh-so-scientific venture to decide which of the “boner pills” (as I so eloquently describe them) works best, or maybe if sex is better “au naturel.” Since he is the more logical of the two of us — or so I think, anyway — I will be writing the field notes for this venture.

Session 1: Non-pharmaceutical

As a control, the subject and his partner agreed to also enjoy the act of sex without pharmaceutical assistance.  The subject has reported that the greater frequency of sex, both in times per week and orgasms per day relative to the time before he met his current partner, has had its own, somewhat more subtle boosting effect: “It’s like my cock knows more is expected, and it has risen to the challenge.” The subject frames this phenomenon as a return to form more than an increase in prior capabilities. At the same time, the subject acknowledges relying at times on pharmaceutical assistance “just to make sure everything goes well.”

Field Notes: I walk into Jamie’s apartment four days after he last used pharmaceutical assistance. He thinks he is still experiencing the effects of the Med 2 pill. I am skeptical. When he embraces me for a kiss, I feel him stir below, which isn’t unusual; he likes me, I like him, we are very sexually compatible.

While preparing a meal, we steal a make-out session in his kitchen. He pushes me against the sink from behind. He pulls my panties down, pushes my dress up. I feel him behind me unbuttoning his pants, and then I feel his cock, already at attention, insistent against my slit. I bite my lip as he gently starts fucking me, then we think better of it and stop. Best to wait for better timing. However, we are off to a good start.

We both do domestic and professional work on our computers for a while, listen to some music, make some plans for our week. We steal looks at one another, waiting for later evening to arrive. I am wet and will be that way for hours.

Once 11 PM rolls around we quickly get naked. You know, for science. Our almost silent kissing and touching leads to my straddling him within mere minutes. He is already hard, so hard it is easy to lower myself on him in one long easy movement. I have an intense yet soundless orgasm on top of him and he rolls me over onto my stomach to enjoy me from behind. He pushes my right leg up so that my pelvis is turned to the side and starts to demonstrate the deliberate control of his physicality that I enjoy so much, fucking me completely while managing not to move the bed too much. He holds his hand over my mouth — god that’s so hot — when I begin to involuntarily moan, muffling my low tones of ecstasy. Finally it’s too much for him and he drives into me one last time, his cock emptying into me with quiet force, his breath stirring the baby fine hair at the nape of my neck.

He softens quickly (one telltale sign of the lack of assistance — he always stays hard for a while afterward when he is “enhanced”) and rolls over, ready for sleep. Tomorrow is a work day for him; he needs his sleep. I stay awake to read as is my habit but find myself sleepy by 12:30. I tiptoe back to the bedroom and fall asleep easily next to him.

Around 9:30 AM I awaken to the movement of him re-entering the room. He wants to fuck me again. Am I dreaming? I can’t see very well. My glasses are still on the bedside table, and the light from the window is muted. By the time he climbs on top of me he is already prepared, but I am not. He kisses my body, then neck then shoulders then clavicle then stomach then mons then his mouth is on me, on the core of me, teasing me wet and ready. Once he can taste my arousal he makes his way back up my body, scooping my legs into the crook of his arms on his way. He enters me with my legs and pussy spread wide, bucking against me with abandon. When I kiss him I can taste both of us on his lips and lick his mouth and chin clean of me. I feel the beginning of the wave of orgasm before he turns me onto my stomach again and drills into me until he comes, this time with intense groans of pleasure.

“Did you come?” he asks, and I grin. “No.”

“Aww, I left you hanging.” A sheepish look crosses his face.

“No worries, I don’t mind.” I really don’t. Hearing him come is reward enough for me, especially fresh from sleep. I finally reach for my glasses and mention coffee. He has already made it and already brought it to the bedroom. (Side note: I love this man.)

“I need to head to work,” he says, “but I am going to come back and fuck you one more time.” I nod happily and follow him into the living room. He has also made a smoothie and I drink that right after he leaves, grateful for the calories. We burn a lot of energy together. He has left me alone in his apartment. I put the dishes in the dishwasher and pad back to bed, happily exhausted.

I apparently fall asleep again and awake at noon to some funny work-related texts from him. I fiddle around on the internet until he comes back home around 4:30 PM. He has a little time before he has to run a few errands, so we fuck AGAIN, this time with some more oral for me to get me ready. Missionary with some modifications until I come around his perfect dick, and then more from behind.  “I am going to use you as a toy,” he says, and he does, and it is amazing. He doesn’t last long inside of me, becoming limp moments after orgasm, and we lie on the bed breathing hard.

We both have to leave minutes later. I feel his come begin to drip onto my thigh as I walk to my car. I wonder how much more I will feel at my Pilates lesson. I revel in the physical evidence of our union.

Summary: For a 25-hour period with no pill, I would say that everything was perfect.  His refractory period seemed normal and his hard-ons were more than satisfactory, if not as long-lived after the deed. I have a lot of experience with enhanced erections, so I know his were unassisted — they didn’t come and go as much as they sometimes can, but he also didn’t get as impressively rock-hard as I know he can be, either. Thank God. I don’t know if my pussy could have taken it. I think I need to ice myself before I see him again.

Session 2: Sildenafil citrate

A small tablet, Med 1 requires approximately one hour to take effect and is said to remain effective for approximately 6 hours. (The subject reports the occasional enhancement far beyond this time frame, but there is no indication whether the effect is medicinal or mental.)  Side effects include possible indigestion without proper hydration and/or timely intake of food. This effect can be exacerbated by alcohol intake. Med 1 has been noted to alter blood flow in ways other than that desired; effects include facial flushing and increased pulse rate.

Field notes:  I didn’t even get to the subject’s apartment before 8 PM. Work was intense that day. When I walked in the door with my bag, I saw the table. The subject had laid out some leftovers and fruit from previous meals, and a playlist of music I had sent him earlier in the day was playing. You may not think this terribly romantic, but I certainly did. He said, “I had to eat since I took a pill,” and invited me to enjoy his leftovers — the hummus and tabouli were spectacular — and we talked about the day.

We took to bed after eating and decompressing and proceeded to have an extended session with no less than three different positions and modalities. We began with me riding him, sitting up straight and letting my thighs do the bulk of the work. His hands were all over me while his eyes were closed. I would bend at the waist occasionally to kiss him, to breathe in his scent, to feel his scant five-o-clock shadow scratch my lips. He would press his fingers against the small of my back, activating whatever is there that makes me want to melt. I came, shivering, straddling him, and then he pushed me onto my stomach and held my hips while he drove into me from behind. This went on for quite a while before he pulled out and reminded me that I had told him earlier in the day that I wanted to suck his cock. Which I very much did want, and very much did. I performed admirably, he performed even more so, finishing in a much shorter time than previous attempts. Perhaps it was the effect of the medication, but Jamie — excuse me, “the subject” — is having a much easier time letting me pleasure him with my mouth. Every time I kiss his stomach and move towards his shaft it is becoming simpler to make him hard and keep him hard until he arches his back and comes on my tongue and I taste his mixture of sweet and salt and musk.

Always very confident when in bed with me, the subject was even more straightforward with his expressions of lust. Perhaps this is a side effect of him knowing that he is able to more easily get and stay erect.

Summary:  All in all, a spectacular test of Med 1, if maybe somewhat straightforward. Not that I’m complaining. All of this activity happened all at once instead of over several sessions, as the last experiment did. I wonder if that had anything to do with the results? I find myself not caring and just enjoying the ride, so to speak.

Session 3: Tadalafil

A small gel capsule slightly larger than Med 1, Med 2 requires approximately 30 minutes to take effect and can remain effective for up to 36 hours. As with Med 1, side effects can include indigestion without proper preparation, but Med 1’s other side effects — face flushing and increased pulse rate – are absent.

Field notes: Having not a lot of time on a Friday evening, we had a quiet yet spectacular session, mostly missionary position, holding each other closely. I had, maybe, three? earth-shattering orgasms. He had the one great firework at the end. We passed out not long after. I had work in the morning, but the subject had mentioned some acrobatic complicated coupling on the menu for the evening, and I was looking forward to his evil plan.

As the day wore on, however, I felt a strange fatigue take over, as if I were coming down with something but not really. By the time I got off work and drove to Jamie’s place I felt vaguely miserable, truth be told. To my surprise, the subject was feeling similarly. I knew immediately the acrobatics were on hold, and I felt somewhat grateful due to my lack of energy. We kind of kept the night quiet and ended up falling asleep without any sexual contact, something that has only happened maybe four times during the entire time we have known each other. Jamie told me later that during the night I ended up in a spread-eagle position (so sexy!) and he tried his luck by cupping my pussy with his hand. I apparently murmured “nuh uh,” in response. He backed off, later saying, “I know I have blanket consent, but it didn’t seem like the right time.”

We woke still feeling under the weather. We spent most of Sunday morning just trying to feel normal, both of us working on various things when we weren’t napping off the malaise. (I won the sleep award that day, I feel.) At some point in the afternoon, however, we were feeling more human than the rest of the day and decided to take advantage of the time.

Almost two days after the subject had taken Med 2, his cock sprung up to my touch as easily as it had when we were both feeling our best. The sex was still as utterly transcendent as it always is. Jamie made me squirm against his mouth before pushing my legs apart and entering me with no help. I came two more times in the next thirty minutes — or perhaps longer — as he slammed into me with more force than I thought he could, given how lackluster our general energy had been. I gasped for him to come for me, which he at first refused. I found myself wondering where he was getting the energy before realizing that I myself hadn’t noticed any ill feeling during the time we were busy. I can’t really attribute that to a drug — the sex we have is basically a drug anyway — but it was interesting to think about as he sat up and pulled my legs up against his shoulders. “I want to feel you,” I said as I grasped his waist.

The subject decided that that was the time and drove into me four, five more times before the final push. I could feel him get somehow impossibly hard before he began to soften as he rested against my body.

Summary:  On what seemed like an otherwise “lost cause” afternoon, Med 2 made sex not only possible but pretty much carefree. I think it’s a testament to the strength of modern medicine that the subject was able to get it up that afternoon at all. Thanks, science!

 Conclusions

It is worth pointing out that one of the benefits these sorts of medications provide is to bolster confidence in men who have found their sexual abilities enhanced or restored.  While intangible, such confidence in some cases might be considered as effective as the medication itself.  A swelling upward spiral, as it were.

If medication is deemed necessary, Med 2 offers a better experience in terms of length of effect and milder side effects.  Med 1’s shorter length of effect actually might offer benefits in terms of fitting the effect to the opportunity – for example, an evening romp as opposed to a weekend getaway.  At about $5 per pill (generic), Med 2 is far more expensive per use than Med 1 (about $1 per pill, also generic), which will of course influence the choice of which to use.

Field notes:  One of the best things about Med 2 is how it reacts much more to touch than Med 1. Usually with Med 1, the suggestion of sex happens and bam! Erection! But Med 2 requires more touching and teasing to be most effective, which leads me to believe it is the more erotically centered of the two.

For what it’s worth, erections seem to flag a little more on Med 1 than Med 2 – which is to say, I notice that Med 2 doesn’t require as much “bounce back,” so to speak.

Oh fuck it, I’m gonna stop trying to keep this prim and proper.

Um, Sophie….

I’ll be honest — I love fucking Jamie so much I’m willing to spend hours and hours writing about it and thinking about it and telling the world about it.

Focus on the science, Sophie.  The science!

I love fucking Jamie despite or perhaps because of his age and experience. I love fucking Jamie even when fucking Jamie means lounging around and simply enjoying one another’s company — that is to say I love fucking Jamie whether or not his dick works.

Hey, wait a minute.  When has my dick not worked?

His hands and mouth and ministrations and imagination are better than any physical experience I have experienced until now. The pills are a fun addition to what is already a joyous and completely full sex life, so honestly, all of this experimentation leads me to only one conclusion:

No pill is better than the simple reality of knowing him and him knowing me. There isn’t an erectile dysfunction pill that works better than perfect chemistry, honesty, and love.

The subject concurs…

Maybe Jamie and I should figure out a way to bottle our relationship. We could become billionaires.

…and wishes to stress that the intent of this study was to further scientific knowledge, not to establish any basis for material gain.

But yeah, we would bottle it if we could.  Further research awaits.

 

 

 

 

by Sophie

He had already shaken me with two powerful orgasms, and now it was his turn. His hands were on my legs, holding them up against his shoulders, and he drove himself into me with a final push, turning his head to the side and gasping the way I love so much. He hardened and stretched me and pulsated with a familiarity I have come to crave. A smile of satisfaction crept across my face and he kissed my neck, caressed my nipples with his thumbs. His hot breath stirred the fine small hairs that grow behind my ears.

And then, even as he softened within me, I had a rolling, soft, final climax, writhing beneath him. “The little tiny death,” I sighed. He laughed. “That’s a pretty good way of putting it.”

When I was ten years old I learned how to come. I didn’t know what any part of my sex was called or what my fingers were doing. My bare fingers on my naked clit felt too intense at that point in my life, but I just knew when I rubbed myself over the rough cheap cotton of my panties that it felt amazing and then more than amazing. Over the years I learned how to use many common household items to make myself come; my mother’s retired electric razor was a cherished impromptu first vibrator. I would hold the end that plugged into the wall against myself and feel the buzzing through the plastic-wrapped wire, through my underwear, into the secret parts of me. Kegels were an accidental discovery on a long road trip where I discovered I could make myself come just by flexing my internal muscles. The movement would shift the flesh of my crotch just so, my clit rubbing against the seam of my jeans. I would close my eyes and bite my lip and try to imagine what it would be like to let a man touch me. A few years later I would find out and I would come so easily against a man’s fingers and then against boys’ shafts and pelvises, rocking myself against them the way I used to rock myself against the seam of my jeans. But I also learned that my desire would fade almost as quickly as the orgasms arrived — as soon as I came I wanted to pull away, roll over, sleep.

By the time Jamie and I met, I considered myself a “one and done” kind of girl. I would always attempt to hold my orgasms at bay during my sexual escapades because I knew once they arrived there wouldn’t be any more — and I was okay with that. I had made my peace with being a singularly orgasmic woman. In my twenty years of experience I had never been able to have multiple orgasms. Or, I guess I should say, no man had ever aroused me enough to make them happen.

Jamie made very clear to me on our first meeting that I did not know myself as well as I thought I did. This is something that still makes him smug, makes him smile as he reminds me that I am not anywhere near as in control of myself as I think I am.

Not long after our first few evenings together I was talking to a friend of mine about orgasms and the conversation meandered toward the subject of multiple orgasms. “I have just recently been able to have them,” I said to my friend. The expression that crossed her face was one of both pity and pride. “What?” she exclaimed. “Multiple orgasms are amazing, addicting. Once they begin you don’t want to stop them — why would you want to?” I nodded in agreement and she began regaling me with stories of the many times she has enjoyed herself many times, but my mind began wandering back to Jamie and what it is about the sex we have that has unlocked my newfound ability to come again and again.

At first I think it was the sheer newness of our relationship insofar as it could be called one. We had emailed back and forth over the days before, him sending me pictures and descriptions of all the things he was going to do to me. “I like giving oral, among other things,” he said in an early email exchange. “Very much. I want my partner to come first and frequently. I am a guy — I know I am going to get mine. Pretty linear. But the woman’s body is the map of the experience. I want to explore the map.” Upon reading this I worried just a little about our compatibility. I had never been able to orgasm more than once, one big bright beautiful burst of ecstasy in a sea of pleasurable play. I worried that Jamie might find me boring, one-note, or at the very least frustrating.

I apparently needn’t have worried. Once we linked up on that fateful first night, my body was more than ready to enjoy him. That night he made me come with his lips and tongue and fingers, and once I came he didn’t stop even when I told him I had finished. He pushed right through the intense sensitivity I usually feel after orgasm and rolled me back into readiness for another. I remember being wetter than I have ever been, my thighs and crotch completely soaked. My clit was almost painful to touch but he expertly and softly licked and kissed me back into waves of mindless pleasure. He slipped his fingers into me with no resistance and fucked me with everything but his cock and I came again to my shock and delight. My next orgasm — the third that evening — occurred only moments later and I remember losing all control over the muscles in my legs, my thighs quivering with need as I finally pulled away from his face, trying and failing to catch my breath. “I have never done that before,” I admitted.

Jamie seemed surprised. Maybe he is just accustomed to making every woman he fucks come again and again. I don’t think I have rolled out of bed after fucking him without having come at least twice since we met.

I still haven’t sussed out exactly why he is able to make me do what hundreds of men couldn’t (or perhaps didn’t care to). In this case I think ignorance really is bliss. In the past months I have become accustomed to coming and coming, sometimes four, five times before Jamie finally lets go. I have on many occasions begged him for his release just because I didn’t think my body could take any more — and then he touched me somehow, somewhere, and my body was off again in a wet, shaking, moaning fit of bliss that my mind was unable to control.

Lately there has been a new development in my orgasmic education. The last few times we have fucked — which, with our crazy busy schedules in the past month, have been uncomplicated affairs, but not without their share of excitement and exotic spice — I have almost always come one last time after his orgasm. When he finally presses against me for the final stroke he likes to bury his cock as deeply into me as he can. He will often hold my stomach or hips still so he can fill me. When I feel him throb inside my cunt, the sensation has sent me over the edge without warning. I usually like for Jamie to soften inside of me — I tell him almost every time, “don’t go, stay” — but lately I have forced him out of me, my pussy pushing him out with the last few quivers of these soft-yet-all-consuming peaks. I have come to expect these little tiny deaths.

A couple of nights ago I turned my head to look at him as the end of his orgasm gripped him and said, “You made me come four times, Jesus Christ,” and he breathed, “So far,” against the top of my head. And with those two words I felt my wet heat pulse and beat, and the little tiny death came as he had just promised. I became incoherent as he stayed motionless inside of me, and I squirmed around his stiffness before collapsing under him with his hands still on my hips.

==

I sent this unfinished piece — everything before this paragraph — to Jamie last night before we went to bed. I told him I didn’t know how to finish it, and he said he would read it today and edit it a little bit. I trust him with the editing duties — excess is kind of my thing, restraint is kind of his thing. Nothing gets posted on this blog without our mutual approval, with the exception of a couple of sweet surprises one of us has left for the other.

Last night we made love and I experienced yet again the tiny bonus death inexplicably. This morning he made breakfast and we had a lazy Sunday late morning. At some point I retreated to the bedroom to read some blogs by other sexual adventurers — you know, for research. About an hour later he opened the door and flashed his adorable troublemaker’s smile at me. I noticed the bulge in his shorts immediately.

“Are you hard?” I asked, smiling my own mischief. “Of course I am,” he said, shedding his clothes with no small amount of urgency. “I just spent an hour reading about how I make you come. I almost finished your piece before I had to come back here.” He was definitely erect as he got into bed and began to pull my clothes off as close to frantically as he gets. Kissing turned to him pushing me onto my back and separating my legs with his knee. He nestled his dick hard as stone against my opening. I wasn’t quite wet enough yet, even though our scent from the night before was in the air. “Just push,” I said, “Don’t wait for me to be ready, I’ll be ready.”

“I don’t care,” he said as he sunk himself deep in one thrust. “How did you know I like it when you’re forceful?” I gasped against his shoulder. “I just don’t care,” he groaned again, and fucked me like it was a necessity, like my pussy was water or food. Of course I began to soak him. I could feel the sheets under me become damp. I tucked my knees into his side as he held my hands against the bed. His forehead rested against my shoulder as he concentrated on our mutual pleasure. I almost immediately came to his pistoning drilling force, squeezing him with my knees and straining my wrists against his restraining hands.

He shifted positions, sitting up on his knees and looking down at me almost sternly. He grasped me with his strength by the hips and roughly pulled me across the bed to him, plunging back into me effortlessly and shifting his grasp to my upper arms as he slammed into me over and over. Jamie’s muscles tightened as he turned his head to the side — I know what’s about to happen, I thought, and he came with an almost violent sigh and closed eyes and a rush of heat between our entwined legs. He collapsed on me instantly and I felt his gasps against my flushed breast and I thought momentarily that the little tiny death wouldn’t happen this time. Then he pulled himself up and rested his hands on the mattress beside my shoulders and looked down at me, giving me the leverage to roll myself against his pelvis as he softened. I could feel him against my cervix, against what I have always assumed is the “g-spot,” and it began impossibly quickly, the climb to orgasm. He saw it on my face and grinned as it shot through me like a burst of lightning before an evening summer storm. My hips lifted and ground against him as I sought to keep him inside. Don’t go, stay, my body said as my spine arched and pleasure ripped through me one last time.

Jamie rolled off of me and I lay on my back catching my breath. I said something about still not knowing what was going on but as soon as he began his speculative reply — something about women of a certain age having more intense experiences as they creep towards the end of their reproductive viability, a topic I will tackle at another time — I realized that he didn’t necessarily do this to me, I did it. My body knew what to do once I let go of my control and just rode the ride, so to speak. Jamie is just the perfect playground upon which to exercise my “new” ability to open myself up to all the pleasure in the universe. He also might be the best guide for the path, the best man to teach me how to give up my delusion that I control everything about myself all the time.

I’m starting to understand a little better that there are things in life I should hand to someone else. Of course I am always only going to have one orgasm if that’s all I expect of myself, and of course that’s all I’m going to have if the man helping me get there is only focused on getting me there once. For so many men, even ones who pride themselves on pleasuring women, a woman’s single climax is all they need to feed their ego and belief that they are good at sex in general and know what women want. Jamie, however, said it early on — my body is a map of the experience, and he wants to know the entire map, backward and forward, inside and out, and that requires exploration and testing, not just following one road to its obvious end. Jamie understands how to get me there because he doesn’t understand how to get me there. The journey is the destination, and I’m learning how to embrace the journey and all the peaks and valleys, both discovered and undiscovered. I guess that means we are sexual cartographers now.

That means we need to get busy traveling.

 

 

by Jamie

A guy died last week.  His name was Joe.  I have been thinking about him since the news of his passing.

Joe isn’t his real name.  It’s the name I have assigned to him (for reasons of convenience, discretion, and respect) in order to write this piece.  To be honest, I don’t know the guy except in the most random and fleeting way.  And yet, I think in some ways I do know him.  I think I have been him.

Sophie and I were out on a date recently when she had one of those “oh gawd” moments.  Some dude had found her not-private-enough photos on a social media platform and had reached out.  We’re talking regular photos. I’m visiting my home town.  I’m at a show.  I got a new tattoo.  I colored my hair.  He had reached out some months prior to strike up a conversation, and she responded with some version of Do I know you?  For whatever reason, he didn’t respond again until we were enjoying our relatively upscale meal.

Joe’s comments provided a humorously cringy counterpoint to the evening.  He offered her money to spend time with him.  Now, two things about that.  One, Sophie’s needle of the offensive is hard to move; and two, well, he couldn’t have picked a more practiced and disinterested recipient of what he undoubtedly saw as a shocking suggestion.  He was a sheep in wolf’s clothing.

After chuckling and shaking her head, Sophie decided to be curious.  She asked questions.  Why would you say that?  What do you hope to gain?  Has this ever worked for you?  She was doing blog research, you see.   Confusing her responses with actual interest, Joe bulled forward by first suggesting he was just kidding, and then saying he needed to keep things on the down-low.  Ah, the obvious and stereotypical situation.  A dude with a spouse or partner feeling brave behind his presumed anonymity.

Sophie quickly poked a hole in that presumption.  Dude, she said, do you realize I know where you work now?  And suddenly, for Joe it was no longer an innocent game.  Rather than lobbing sexual grenades at a random woman from a safely anonymous distance, he now had his own consequences to consider.  And to be honest, Joe didn’t handle it well.  He didn’t apologize or ask forgiveness.  He didn’t demonstrate any awareness of the line he had crossed.  He threatened Sophie with the ability to Photoshop her pictures in an unflattering way.  And then, bizarrely, he said he was passing the phone to his girlfriend – yeah, right – who then said they were both really interested in her and would she like to come over?

Please.  We laughed and opted for dessert.

If you’re a woman active on social media in any form, you probably don’t think this story is as funny as I’ve portrayed it.  And most likely you know it isn’t a bizarrely random occurrence.  It happens all the time.  Women get accosted by men online, men who think they’ve invented the chat-up, men who think their clumsy gestures aren’t transparent, men who, when being rebuffed, become verbally aggressive toward a recipient who didn’t invite or encourage the conversation.  I have talked to women who use social media for personal and professional reasons, always within the community guidelines, and the onslaught can be relentless.  I thought the collapse of Craigslist personals and similar avenues might have something to do with it, but no, apparently men have been dumb, clumsy, and horny since way before then.  A friend of mine recently claimed she has never been accosted that way, so I told her where to find messages on Facebook from people with whom you are not friends.  Sure enough, there in the queue sat an unsolicited dick picture from a complete stranger.  I ruined her day.

A few days after her conversation with Joe, Sophie shared the story with a friend.  When Sophie said Joe’s real name, the friend did a double-take, pulled out her phone, and said, Is this the same guy?  Apparently she and another friend shared a connection to Joe online.  And that is how Sophie learned that Joe had died over the weekend.  And that is how I learned that Joe was not just a clumsy creeper using social media to test his sexual courage.  The memorial words indicated that Joe was a good guy and a loyal friend who donated time and money to worthwhile causes.  Sophie and I marveled at how random and bizarre this turn of events had become.  We marveled at how small our big town is.

Joe probably has more good traits than the ones listed by his grieving friend.  He may have had darker secrets than a lame and offensive stab at online sexual prowess.  But the fact is, he’s gone now.  And whatever chance he had to become a worse or better person, to sow chaos or make amends, is gone with him.

In my recent #metoo essay, I talked about going back through the mental rolodex as a guy, working through memories in light of this more exacting critique of sexual behavior.  And while I have always tried to be honest and open about my desires and intentions, always tried to be respectful of the word “no,” the truth is that I am much better at it now than I was as a young adult.  And technology, such as it was when the modern Internet first took shape, was a useful and intoxicating tool.  It’s easy to reach out to recent lovers and flirtees with whom I am still in touch to clear up any possible misunderstandings from back in the day.  And yes, that has gone unfailingly well.  But there was a time longer ago, when a now-extinct email server allowed conversations with strangers, some of whom might not have appreciated the overture.  Those names are lost in the mists of time, and no apology can be offered to them directly.  And I doubt I would be received as positively by at least some of them.

So yes, I feel that I know Joe.  I feel that I’ve been Joe.  Joe was a dick and a douche, a symbol of so many things wrong with current society.  And while he irritated me by disrespecting and objectifying and threatening Sophie (not that she needs my protection), Joe was also a human with the capacity to learn, to grieve and to grow, to make amends given the time.  But that can no longer happen because Joe is dead, and I am sad that he won’t have the chance.

 

by Jamie

At first, she was merely a few words on the screen.  They were well-written words, clear and direct.  And I knew from a decade of Craigslist perusal that she was real – not a bot luring me to a pay site – and that we were looking for the same thing.  “Good sex on the regular,” I think that’s how she put it.

There are other sites, more serious sites, perhaps better ways to find a match, but Craigslist – dear, departed Craigslist – was my playground of choice.  I enjoyed seeing that wide swath of humanity mustering their courage (if not their sophistication) to reach out and try to make a connection.  I enjoyed the brief friendships that arose and melted into the fog of anonymity – usually just a conversation, commiseration, a shared laugh.  And yes, I met many good lovers (and some not so good, as no doubt some of them saw me) via Craigslist.

Sophie’s post caught me at the peak of a cynical spasm.  The current Craigslist effort was not bearing fruit.  The site was poisoned; for every 100 posts, 95 of them were fake.  And of the remaining five percent, not all of them were looking for what I wanted, or they wanted it from somebody different.  Usually that meant younger.

So I led with what I perceived to be the drawbacks.  I pointed out to Sophie that I was older than the age range she had implied, but otherwise we seemed to be a good match.  She responded, somehow plucking me from the tsunami of responses that all women receive after posting, and we exchanged messages and pictures.

And then she disappeared.  Later I learned that life simply got in the way.  She had things to do and people to see, and Craigslist had to take a back seat.  A few weeks later, on the verge of closing the current Craigslist chapter, I saw our exchange in my inbox and decided to make a final attempt.  “I want to talk to you,” are the words I used that got her attention.

And so we talked.  And from that reboot blossomed an amazing exchange about sex, music, and many other things (including, ultimately, this blog).  We confirmed what I suspected.  We were kindred spirits.

And so we met.  It wasn’t a date.  It was the end of a long hot day outdoors, somebody had stolen her phone, but somehow my suggestion to come over got through to her and sounded good.  I remember the dress she wore.  I remember the easy way we talked, our easy laughter.  I remember the first time she touched me, her hands both elegant and strong.  We kissed, we shed some clothes, we determined how well our bodies liked each other.  But we didn’t fuck.  That happened the next time, and many times afterward.  As I write this, it will soon happen again.

It is hard to talk about Sophie’s appearance succinctly.  She is a beautiful woman, turning heads on a daily basis.  She is also a bigger woman, carrying some extra weight that comes and goes.  I like the way she looks, and so do many other men.  But surface details do not define her beauty.  Her beauty is transcendent and comes from within.  She is a force of nature.  She is a ball of energy.  She is always in motion.  She is the hub of her social circle.  When I told her I wasn’t sure how to go about describing her in this piece, walking a line between accuracy and anonymity, she shrugged and said, “just say I’m fat.”  Such a loaded word, yet she was completely unconcerned.  Like any human she is not immune to vanity.  She loves praise, her face opening like a fresh flower when she receives it.  But she doesn’t need it.  I have never before met a person so comfortable and confident in her own skin.  I have learned much from this aspect of her, as well as others.

There are relatively few people in the world who have as much sexual experience as I do, but Sophie is one of them.  In fact, in terms of numbers her experience dwarfs mine.  (We are both proud that our efforts to remain disease free when it comes to sex have been successful.)  Undoubtedly for some people with this background, sex can become uninteresting over time, but not so with us.  Every time we fuck, it feels as if we’ve reinvented it.  We do not lack for invention and imagination, but even the tamest vanilla sex feels edgy.  With sex as with pretty much any other activity, Sophie is animated.  Her joy is evident and abundant.  Her pussy is muscularly tight and drenched, her labia and clit engorged.  Her orgasms flush her face, neck, and chest.  She makes no effort to remain quiet (as the neighbors have humorously confirmed), giving full-throated expression to her pleasure.

I like watching her walk through the door.  I like sitting across the room, chatting about what happened that day.  I like watching (and helping) her disrobe.  I like making her squirm and writhe with my mouth between her legs.  I like entwining with her like two snakes, rocking slowly, gravity and pressure doing the work of thrusting.  I like spreading her legs amazingly wide (thanks, yoga!), or bending her knees to her chin, or taking her from behind like a human piston.  I like watching her ride my cock, her entire body glowing with wonder and lust (her phrase).  And between sessions, I like watching her walk naked down the hall, looking for her glasses or phone or whatever got forgotten when we took to bed.  I like the ass she says doesn’t exist and the legs she downplays.

If Sophie and I took one of those HR personality assessments, I have no doubt we would land differently in numerous ways.  We move through the world differently.  Since Sophie started coming over, my small and quiet and tidy world has had to adjust.  Everywhere I look there are halves of things – a forgotten drink, an unfinished meal, myriad prematurely snuffed cigarettes – and multiples of things (four kinds of rice, three kinds of butter).  I have never been happier.  These differences are the spice that seasons our favorite meal.  What started as a quest for good sex on the regular has become an open-ended commitment based on mutual respect and, yes, appetite – and love.  Sophie has my back, supporting me through some dark moments, and she can always expect the same from me.

I could go on forever, but at the moment Sophie is waiting in my bed.  She playfully suggested that Round 2 would be delayed until I finished and posted my thoughts, and I chose to take the threat seriously.  So now I will stop talking about these experiences with Sophie and get back to enjoying more of them with her.

“I mean, accidental anal definitely happens. I can tell you way worse stories than this one.”

“At least there was lube? I have had some seriously bad encounters sans lubrication that were totally a freak accident.”

“You know he didn’t mean to do anything forceful or wrong, so it’s all good. In fact, now it’s funny. But for twenty minutes it was decidedly not.”

The above are quotes from the friends to whom I have told this story in person. All of them giggled when I got to the “punchline,” but I know Jamie doesn’t find it funny. I unfortunately have to break with him in a rare moment of disagreement. I think everyone has had an ultimately hilarious sex mishap. What I think sets this one apart is how starkly it placed in relief the intensity of our feelings for one another.

I have had lazy lovers. I have had inattentive lovers. I have had indifferent lovers. Jamie is none of these, and yet we found ourselves at the awkward end of an honest sexual mistake. Hey. Even the professionals have an off day.

++

Jamie likes to play with expectations, which is one of the reasons I love him so much. I don’t always know what to expect from him but until very recently I have always enjoyed everything he has imagined. When he ties me down and has his way with me there isn’t a worry in my mind. When he pulls out a toy I know he knows how best to use it to tease the absolute most ecstasy out of me. I trust him completely and in a way I have never trusted another lover. I know he has my best interests and complete pleasure in mind, and that everything that makes me happy makes him even happier. Until the other night, we had a 100% success rate with his sexual surprises.

This is the story that brings the average to 99%.

It’s not like I wasn’t prepared for some sort of anal play. He had reached for the oil and I had started my half-hearted protests that almost always lead to acquiescence. He had already poured it on me and slid his thumb into me gently, opening my ass as he fucked my pussy. (Jamie is exquisitely coordinated.) I was starting to warm to the idea of anal and he hadn’t even asked me three times if I wanted it yet. We seem to have an unspoken rule – he’ll ask, “are you sure?” at least three times if I say no to anything, knowing that usually by the second time I will have changed my mind.

(For the record — and I hate that I even need to disclaim this — I am changing my mind in those situations because I want it, and no, he doesn’t complain or force anything if I decide that no, I really don’t want to do the thing he is asking to do, because he is not a jerk. He just knows me well enough to know that sometimes I want something before I know I want something.)

We might have been drinking a bit that night. I might have been presenting myself to him, becoming aroused at the idea of him enjoying my ass. After all, we’ve had lots of anal fun. What would make this evening any different? Jamie might have already been fucking me pretty roughly and quickly from behind. The lighting might have been pretty dim. There are so many variables that could have contributed to what happened next.

Jamie pulled out of me on a fast out-stroke and I sighed with a bit of disappointment.

Then I felt the most searing pain I have ever felt during sex as his cock swiftly slipped, full bore, into my ass. I was too surprised to say anything for the first two strokes. Then I came to my senses.

“Ow, ow, Jamie, fuck, no!” I exclaimed, and he reflexively shushed me, I guess to keep the neighbors from wondering if I was dying. My rectum was on fire and full, so suddenly full of him. I felt a sudden sense of deep betrayal. In one confident thrust he had pushed his entire cock into my ass, and in one confident thrust I bucked him off of me, pushing him away violently.

“What did I do?” Jamie asked, completely bewildered. “Dude, you were in my fucking asshole!” I hissed before jumping up, standing beside the bed. His bewilderment was even more extreme as I stomped off to the bathroom and semi-slammed the door behind me.

I just stood there for a moment and fumed. I could hear him trying to say something but his voice was too soft to make out over the sound of the bathroom fan. What a dick, I thought. Is he really too drunk to realize he needed to move more carefully and slowly? Did I say something that made him think I was ready? What the fuck. My ass was on fire. After a few moments in the bathroom composing myself – and mentally composing the withering remarks I would make to him – I opened the door.

The look on Jamie’s face was one of absolute horror and sorrow. I had never before seen a naked man look so sad. “Soph,” he started, “I am so, so sorry. I didn’t realize I was in there. I wasn’t even planning to go there, I was just playing around.” He looked like someone had killed a puppy in front of him. Or maybe like he was afraid I was about to end things with him. All the anger I felt completely melted away, my frown softening and my brow smoothing.

“Wait,” I said, crossing my arms over my breasts. “You didn’t know you were in my ass?” I felt like a complete drama queen, having gotten overly upset at him before I knew what was actually going on, having expected the worst from a man I have called “the best person I know.” I was immediately embarrassed at my assumption.

“No!” he exclaimed, “absolutely not. I was just going and going and I guess I came out and just – went in, thinking I was in the right spot.” He looked down at his lost erection. “I am never playing with your ass again. I am pouring out all the rum. I am never drinking again.”

“Pssssssh,” I scoffed. My disappointment had turned to deep amusement. I sat – well, actually, kneeled, I couldn’t exactly sit yet – on the bed next to him and ruffled his hair. “You’re not pouring anything out. I had no idea. I thought you were trying to assert your dominance in a completely out-of-character way. Well, for you.”

Jamie looked back at me, his clear green eyes wide and sad. “I don’t ever want to hurt you. Not in any way. Especially not doing something like that. You deserve perfection. That was not perfection.”

Jamie’s obvious sadness at having hurt me made my heart swell. I cupped his head in both my hands, kissed his brow, kissed his crow’s feet — I love his crow’s feet — kissed his lips. “Physical pain is temporary. I’ll get over it.” Our lips met again, tongues teasing the other’s, gentle and sweet. “I love you,” I said, and meant it. The look he gave me when I came out of the bathroom was a strange love letter written across his face. “I could never harm you,” it had said. “I always want to protect you, to please you, to make you feel loved,” it had said.

I had been standing for a moment – because sitting was a bit too painful a proposition – and finally had a thought that made me laugh out loud. Jamie, while feeling better, was still a little sensitive, and gave me a puzzled glance. I shrugged.

“Hey,” I giggled, “If you couldn’t tell the difference between the tightness of my pussy and the tightness of my ass, then I guess I should be pretty flattered.”

by Sophie

I originally emailed this piece to Jamie months ago. I wrote it early in our interaction, when we were still getting to know each other by sharing stories about sex and numerous other mutual interests.  At the beginning of this one I wrote: “I have never, ever told anyone this story. This one is just for you.”

Oh how things change.

Jamie and I discussed the implications of posting this before we decided to go ahead with it. I know that this story could be construed as some sort of intense age-play fantasy. As the person who lived the experience, I reject that interpretation.  I know that some people will read this and decide that I am so fucked in the head that I am romanticizing a potentially inappropriate encounter with someone who was taking advantage of my youth and inexperience. And maybe I am, and maybe he was, but I don’t think so. I just think that I have always known what I have wanted, and what I wanted was this, and for me it was perfect — and perhaps set off a fascination with older guys that persists to this day.  Jamie and I have spent a little time exploring my love of mature men and we decided to kick off that exploration by posting this story, with more to follow.

++

When I was a teenager I spent a lot of time on the Internet. America Online was all the rage and I spent countless hours on it, much to my mother’s extreme displeasure. I still remember that my hometown had to adjust the long distance calling rates because to dial AOL you had to call the closest large metro area, which was a long distance call from my home. (Ah, the economic wonders of the internet.)

I played a lot of online text-based roleplaying games at the time, using chat rooms to become different people in places that weren’t small redneck suburbs. I had several good friends that were scattered across the country. One of them was a guy I will call James. We corresponded feverishly for months, I knew he was in his mid-thirties and he knew I was in my “late teens” — I think to convince himself that what we were doing was okay. We talked about all kinds of things, especially music — he introduced me to a lot of stuff that shaped my basic music taste — and books. He was also an aspiring writer and we would use the message boards dedicated to the game we played together to write these intricate fantasies that were read and enjoyed (at least according to their comments) by hundreds.

I’ll admit it — I had fantasies about flirting with this man. I wanted him to tell me he imagined me as a beautiful woman, or that he thought about me late at night when he was alone, but our interactions were always relatively innocent.

After six or eight months of this intimate-but-not-inappropriate connection, he finally took it there. It was a late spring night, a school night for me, and he sent me a private message at about midnight declaring that he was drunk and that he needed to tell me something. He then proceeded to tell me that he had no idea what I looked like — this was way before “selfies” and cameras on phones — but that he desperately wanted me. That he felt it was wrong because of the age difference and he knew if my father found out about it he might be in potential danger.

“But I don’t care,” the words burned on the screen, “I just have to know what it’s like to be inside of you.”

I remember everything. I remember looking at the screen in my darkened dining room, shocked. In my slowest, most private moments I had imagined us together, but I knew it wouldn’t happen. I never expected him to say out loud what I had been thinking. I wasn’t as good a flirt as I would later become, I didn’t know what to say back. I took so long to reply that he finally prompted me: “Soph? Did I scare you?”

My response was the equivalent of a digital stammer, clumsy.

“I haven’t been with anyone before.” As I wrote the words I felt that familiar ache, the one that coiled in my stomach and spread, hot to the core of me. The itch I had always scratched on my own, middle finger on my clit, eyes shut tight and breath catching in the darkness and privacy of my childhood bedroom. I bit my fingernails as I waited for his response. It came about four minutes later.

“Would you let me be your first?”

That question began a series of events that lead to him flying to my area a month later. He got a hotel room, and I skipped school. I remember frantically searching through my closet, looking for the most provocative clothing a teenager would own, choosing my black underwear and bra because I didn’t own anything lacy or sheer at that age. I remember the knots in my stomach at the thought of meeting him, my hands shaking as I started my car. The forty-five minute drive to the city was brutal. I was wet five minutes into the drive.

He worked in telecommunication in some way and obviously had a good job, for his hotel room was in one of the nicest hotels in the city, true luxury accommodations (circa 1998). The lobby at the time was lots of dark wood and gaudy 90’s chandeliers and ornate carpeting. I had never done something like this before. I pulled the piece of paper with his room number on it out of my purse with still-shaky hands and headed toward the elevator. I remember my skirt brushing the tops of my knees as I entered, goosebumps erupting, swallowing hard.

Oh god, I am just now remembering I still had braces.

When he came to the door, I was surprised by how tall he was. He looked at me for a long minute without an expression on his face. I worried immediately that I didn’t please him, that he had wasted his money on a plane ticket and a hotel room. He finally smiled and sighed a little — he had also been holding his breath.

“You’re gorgeous. You’re so young. Come in.”

I walked in, smiled, dropped my bag. I remember all the chairs in the room were too plush and I sank into the one I chose. He had already been drinking at two in the afternoon and offered me one — bourbon, the first drink I ever had. I told him so. He then nervously told me I didn’t have to take it, but I told him I wanted to. I remember the weird sweetness, the burn. I will always connect bourbon with sexual tension and pleasure.

We made small talk for a while. He was clean cut, professional. Wearing a button down, slacks, nice shoes. Brown hair, brown eyes, cute. I looked down at my beaten up Doc Martens with a bit of shame. He seemed very reticent to make a move, like he knew he was doomed if he did. Finally I stood and moved to the overdressed bed, sat again.

“I want you to touch me,” I said, imagining myself as some sort of wanton goddess with the nerve to see this through. He looked at me with surprise in his eyes.

“Are you sure?” I nodded. He stood up — so tall! — and said, “okay, I am going to touch you, please don’t let me do anything you don’t want. I don’t want to hurt you.”

He came to me and bent down to kiss me. It wasn’t my first kiss, but it was my first real kiss that was going to lead to something. His hands were on my shoulders, his lips firm and insistent. I was shy with my tongue, not sure how to do this. He seemed charmed by my inexperience, and slipped his hand under the neckline of the dress I had chosen for this occasion.

Clothes began to come off, at first slowly and then with urgency. Our breath became ragged and impatient. He expertly removed my bra one handed and said, “turn around.”

He pushed me onto my stomach while I wore only my panties. I could see he was still in his slacks when I turned my head to look at him. I could see the outline of his cock behind the fabric.

“I want to give you a back rub. I know it sounds weird, but that’s what I want to do.”

I tried to shrug nonchalantly. “Sure,” I smiled, and turned to look at the headboard.

At first he was on his knees between my legs, rubbing my back with his warm hands. They were focused on my shoulders at first, then moved slowly down to the small of my back. At some point when I wasn’t paying attention he had gotten close so his heat and stiffness was pressing against my soaked panties. I think he felt it then, because he hooked one finger into my underwear and started to pull them down, past my ass, onto my thighs.

I felt unfamiliar flesh begin to press against my pussy, I could feel my wetness clinging to the hair there. I heard him groan and he finally said, “okay, I am going to fuck you now. I can’t not. If you don’t want this, tell me now.”

I turned my head and looked back at him. It was the first time I ever saw the look I would see later on countless men, a mixture of wonder and lust. “I want you to.”

It took almost nothing for him to slide his cock — which I remember a lot like Jamie’s, though I may be projecting — into me for the first time, the first time anyone had ever been inside of me. It didn’t hurt at all. I didn’t bleed. I did cry out in surprise, which caused his cock to stiffen even further. I arched my back, naturally presenting myself to him.

He then grasped my hips and drove fully into me, sighing, “oh my God, you are so beautiful, I knew this would be special.” He only lasted about twenty minutes, but I only lasted about ten. His fucking was rapid and urgent and intense. The sheets were rolling away from the corners of the bed. We were sweaty and animal. When I came, I could feel my muscles roll over his cock. I almost passed out from the feeling. When he came, he warned me it was going to happen, and then drove into me one last time and cried out.

There’s more to this story, but that’s, technically, how I lost my virginity — to a guy in his mid-thirties who treated me as well as, even better than, a fumbling teenage boy more interested in his own pleasure than mine.

Maybe I do have a type.

 

 

 

By Jamie

The years I spent in graduate school were a sort of tug-o-war.  On one end of the rope, I wanted to keep reading the writers, the pioneers of poetry and fiction, that had inspired me to that point.  Of course, one of the first epiphanies to shatter my naïveté was that grad school is not about studying the writers you love; it’s about studying what other people say about those writers.  Still, for a while I found ways to stay engaged on my own terms.  On the other end of the rope, my free-range reading introduced me to numerous books and authors who burrowed into my brain and remain there today.  These squatters occupied the places inside me where postmodern literary theory was supposed to take up residence.  Ultimately, the power of my free-range discoveries proved irresistible, and I abandoned my naïve, perhaps misguided academic pursuits with little regret.

One of the books I rescued during one of my frequent secondhand-book forays was Henry & June, that cherry-picked sampling of Anais Nin’s diaries that focuses on her affairs with the controversial writer Henry Miller and his wife, June.  Eventually the book served as source material for a movie by the same name, which remains better known for receiving the industry’s first NC-17 rating than for its box-office or critical success.  When I bought the book, all I knew about Miller was that his work was attached in some way to overturning censorship laws in this country.  I knew even less about Nin or her work.  But titillated by the dust-jacket blurbage, I made the purchase.  I don’t remember when I started reading it – probably not right away – but once I started, I no longer could remember what life looked like before I did.  Anais Nin had superb writing chops and acute insights, and she applied these tools to the subject of her own sexual awakening.  She used the phrase “sacred completeness” to describe the blending of mind, imagination, and blood within her.

I still have my original copy of Henry & June.  Thumbing through it, I can see that I marked the pages more carefully than any text I used in graduate school.  The book has no table of contents, so I made my own notes listing page numbers and key words.  This book is like a time machine, taking me back to the roots of my own sexual awakening.  Memories flutter back to the surface.  So do feelings.  I remember feeling exhilarated to discover this description of awakening, so historical and yet so timeless and fresh and honest and real.  I now realize I also felt deeply frightened—the book served to peel away the vanilla mainstream assumptions by which I had already begun to live my adult life.  To embrace this new vision would be to embrace chaos, radical change, and the loss of certain kinds of stability.  But I had no choice, and the chaos came, and my adult life became an ongoing process of movement from one worldview to the other, and in some ways this blog is the ultimate result, a balance between chaos and courage.

Sophie jokes that I am making her read this book.  She has the freedom to read and respond to whatever she wishes, of course.  But I think, and I think she agrees, that Henry & June offers some parallels to our own efforts, sexual and creative, that are worth exploring.  She may not feel Nin’s work in the same way that I did.  But I think she comes to it and to me ready to take up the mantle, to honor the example, of these two fearless unblinking word warriors.  And I think maybe I have grown into my ability to do the same.  It’s nice to have friends, to have people who get us, even if they died long ago and the experiences we share happened almost a century apart.

The poetic element is so strong in Nin’s writing that at one point it seemed like the most natural thing to make one of her passages into a poem.  I don’t know whether this is an act of praise or presumption.  Benjamin Franklin taught himself to write superior prose by copying the good prose around him, so maybe that is what I was up to back in the day.  Certainly Nin is a writer worth emulating, and the life she lived is a model for honesty and self-awareness.  She may be the original ethical slut.  It is safe to say that whatever skills and attitudes of mine are on display in this blog, often praised by Sophie to my embarrassment, can trace their growth (if not their origins) to this book.

So with that in mind, the following is a passage describing “date night” of a sort between Nin and her husband.  Nin is struggling to reconcile her married love with the passion she feels toward Henry Miller and, to some extent, his wife June.  For her the answer was to get her husband “caught up” to her in terms of desire and exploration.  Along the way she discovers new avenues for her own growth.  This passage describes one event along that road.

==

32 RUE BLONDEL

Writers make love to whatever they need.
—Anais Nin

One evening I suggest to Hugo
that we go to an exhibition together,
just to see.  “Do you want to?” I say,
although in my mind I am ready to live,
not to see.  He is curious, elated.
We call up Henry to ask for information.

The taxi drops us in a narrow little street.
We had forgotten the number.
But I see “32” in red over one of the doorways.

I push a swinging door.  Noise.
Blinding lights.  Women surrounding us,
calling us, trying to attract our attention.
The patronne leads us to a table.
I feel that we have stood on a diving board
and have plunged.  And now we are
in a play.  We are different.

Still the women are shouting and signaling.
We must choose.  Hugo smiles, bewildered.
I glance over them.  I choose a very vivid,
fat, coarse Spanish-looking woman,
and then I turn to the end of the line
and call a woman who had made
no effort to attract my attention—
small, feminine, almost timid.

Now they sit before us.  We talk
oh, so politely.  We discuss each other’s nails.
I ask Hugo if I have chosen well.
He says I could not have done better.

We watch the women dancing.  I see
only in spots, intensely.  Certain places
are utter blanks to me.  I see
big hips, buttocks, and sagging breasts,
so many bodies, all at once.

We had expected there would be a man
for the exhibition.  “No,” says the patronne,
“but the two girls will amuse you.
You will see everything.”  The women smile.
They assume it is my evening because
I have asked to see lesbian poses.

Everything is strange to me and familiar to them.
I feel at ease only because they are people
who need things, whom one can do things for.
I give away all my cigarettes.
I wish I had a hundred packets.
I wish I had a lot of money.

We are going upstairs.  I enjoy
watching the women’s naked walk.
The room is softly lighted
and the bed low and ample.
The women are cheerful
and they wash themselves.
How the taste for things must wear down
with so much automatism.

We watch the big woman tie a penis
on herself, a rosy thing, a caricature.
And they pose nonchalantly, professionally.
Arabian, Spanish, Parisienne,
love when one does not have the price of a hotel room,
love in a taxi,
love when one of the partners is sleepy…

Hugo and I look on,
laughing a little at their sallies.
We learn nothing new.
It is all unreal
until I ask for the lesbian poses.

The little woman loves it, loves it
better than the man’s approach.
The big woman reveals to me
a secret place in the woman’s body,
a source of a new joy, which I had sensed
but never definitely—that small core
at the opening of the woman’s lips,
just what the man passes by.
There, the big woman works
with the flicking of her tongue.
The little woman closes her eyes,
moans, and trembles in ecstasy.

Hugo and I lean over them,
taken by that moment of loveliness
in the little woman, who offers to our eyes
her conquered, quivering body.
Hugo is in turmoil.  I say,
“Do you want the woman? Take her.
I swear to you I don’t mind, darling.”
“I could come with anybody
just now,” he answers.

The little woman is lying still.  Then
they are up and joking and the moment passes.
Do I want … ?  They unfasten my jacket.
I say no, I don’t want anything.

I couldn’t have touched them.
Only a minute of beauty—
the small woman’s heaving,
her hands caressing the other woman’s head.
That moment alone stirred my blood with another desire.
If we had been a little madder…
But the room seemed dirty to us.
We walked out.
Dizzy.  Joyous.  Elated.

One fear was over.  Hugo was liberated.
We had understood each other’s feelings.
A mutual generosity.  I had been able
to give Hugo a portion of the joy that filled me.
And when we returned home, he adored my body
because it was lovelier than what he had seen
and we sank into sensuality together
with a new realization.
We are killing phantoms.

 

 

“What a busy week.”

“Yeah, it got a little out of hand.”

“What are you working on right now, what are you writing? We’re having our editorial board meeting in front of everyone while I cook.”

“I’m working on a piece about how old you are. And how young I am, in contrast.”

“Well, I was gonna write some porn in response to your porn, but somehow I got fixated on Henry Miller and Anais Nin instead. Maybe that ties into your piece – he was twelve years older than she was, something like that.”

“Yeah, I know. I’m reading Henry and June for the first time, after your suggestion, if insistence can be called suggestion. But I am enjoying it. Moreso than maybe I should.”

“I’m glad.  What do you mean by moreso?”

“It wasn’t what I expected.  It’s very poetic.  It makes me realize that a lot of erotica today, by comparison, is sadly lacking.”

“Not if we can help it.”

“Heh.”

“I read Henry and June many years ago and felt it deeply; I had forgotten how deeply.  Opening it again, I am blown away all over again, only now with half a life of knowledge to understand it better. So maybe you’re writing about Henry and Anais too.”

“Things parallel – I am actually inspired by a conversation I had with a friend about the finer points of older men.”

“I’m glad to know there are some.”

“There are many.”

“Although I am the youngest older man you’ll ever meet.”

True. Maybe I should consider myself very lucky?”

“Maybe.  Who do you think we are?  In terms of an age gap, obviously I am Henry and you are Anais, but in terms of experience maybe we are both Henry?”

“No.  I am definitely Anais in terms of our dynamic.  Which you will get to read about soon enough.”

“Well, I won’t repeat how embarrassed I get when you brag about me, so I’ll just say I’m looking forward to reading it.”

“Oh, it’ll be embarrassing.”

“Great.”

“But I’m looking forward to seeing what you are going to say about Henry and Anais that hasn’t been said before.”

“I’m going to post one or two worshipful things about them, and then I’m going to pay you back with reciprocal porn.”

“You do owe me some porn.”

“I owe you some porn. Life – and other things that I wanted to talk about, such as #metoo – keep getting in the way.”

“And with limited time comes easy distraction. So now I’m frantically typing this with breakfast in front of me before I sprint off to work.”

“It’s nice that work has been busy, but I miss my writing time. I’m looking forward to finding the balance.”

“Well, we are going to have to carve out the time.  Relationships take work, and this one is more important than the jobs we are running off to. I will leave this for you to post.”

“Consider it done.”

 

By Sophie

Two days of driving, followed by four days of art and music and physicality, followed by two more brutal days of driving, has a way of making the mind wander and the body yearn for home. Sometimes “home” is the physical building that houses one’s possessions and memories. But for me, more often it is the people — a specific person, maybe — who touches our lives and makes us more than who we are, who we can be, by ourselves.

I had just arrived at Jamie’s place after my long cross-country journey, the radiator in my car still heated and pinging as I walked hurriedly to his door. He wasted almost no time showing me how much he was ready to see me. His hand held both of mine at the wrist, pinning them against the cool metal of the front door of his apartment, holding them above my head. Desperate kisses broke into desperate breaths as our bodies strained to become one. I could feel his heartbeat against my breast; the heat of our closeness was nearly unbearable. His free hand wandered to my crotch, into my panties, his finger expertly pressing against my already soaked clit. Everything south of my stomach was shaking with desire even as we were still wearing all of our clothing. The usually slow building waves of my climax were already beating against the shore, eroding my ability to hold my orgasm at bay. I had to gasp for breath between hard kisses. I had been out of town for ten days and inside his apartment ten minutes.

“No, I don’t want to come yet,” I managed to murmur against his mouth.

“Why?” he whispered between licks of my lips.  “We can always make more.”

++

A couple of days later I was walking back through that same door after a cigarette, exhausted from a day of work.

“Do you want to lie down?” Jamie asked.

I glanced at him.  “Yes, but I think we should go slow this evening.”

“Yeah, I feel that too. I think it’s the right thing for right now.”

++

Jamie seemed to think better of his original plan and stepped away from me. I opened my eyes and knew I was pouting. “You know, actually, if I make you come now, you won’t be able to do everything I have planned for you,” he playfully said as he gestured toward his dining table. “But for now, bend over.”

I flashed him a smile and a flirty glance before flipping my skirt over my hips and bending at the waist. His voice gave soft yet commanding orders from behind me where I could not see him. “Stay there. Don’t move. Stretch your arms over the table, palms down.” I responded with a husky half-laugh and extended my arms across the table. It was cold against the flesh of my chest. A million sex acts danced through my imagination in seconds. What was he going to do to me? Did I want to know? He had had an entire ten days to devise new and intense ways to extract his pleasure from me. The anticipation made my pussy even more slick. I could feel it in my panties. He could, too — his middle and index fingers were sliding against the silky material, pushing it into me with an insistent rhythm. One of his strong hands came to rest between my shoulders, holding me still, keeping me bent against the edge of the table.

++

The sheets were soft against our naked skin. A lamp in the corner perfectly illuminated the room — dim, but just enough by which to read either books or expressions. Unable to properly kiss –damn you, cold sores — our lips made alternate journeys across collarbones, necklines, jaws, shoulders. Our hands traced each other’s bodies, doing the work our closed eyes usually would. His fingers and mine moved in tandem, slowly, slowly down the opposite torso, until my fingertips brushed his cock, already at attention. Jamie’s index finger oh-so-gently circled my clit, stroked my lips, spread my juice to make me ready, but he wasn’t in any hurry, nor was I. The air between us and around us was humid and scented with our arousal. Everything happened so slowly as if in a daydream. Both our voices broke through deep breaths with the occasional low moan.

Over time, our legs tangled together and his penis pressed hard against the softness of my stomach. My fingers entwined behind his head, pressing his face as close as I could to mine. Our hearts were marching along with the same rhythm. I don’t think either of us opened our eyes for at least half an hour as we made out without ever touching our lips together, our tongues drawing patterns on the other’s neck and cheek and shoulder.

++

My panties were around my ankles. His fingers pushed into my shockingly wet pussy without hesitation. The hand that had been pushing me against the table now raked into my hair and pulled, at first softly, then not so. My hips involuntarily pushed back and he pulled his fingers out of my cunt and traced circles around my asshole. I couldn’t help but giggle – when I am aroused, sometimes I just laugh. I don’t know why.

“What’s so funny?” Jamie asked, now pressing his fingers into my ass, going slow when I could feel he wanted to go fast.

“Nothing,” I said, “You know I laugh when I am happy.”

I couldn’t see his expression from my position, I could only see the wall and the art hung upon it, but I could hear the smile on his face. “You’re about to make me happy. You’re about to wear something for me, for a while.” His fingers pulled away from me. “Don’t move. Stay there.”

His footsteps walked down the hallway quickly and then back and I heard him open a bottle — lube, I already knew. As if it were possible, my cunt became even wetter, and I could feel my leg muscles begin to shake with anticipation. “I’ll go slow, just relax,” he said. I laid my head, cheek down, against the table and closed my eyes, feeling the impossibly slippery tip of one of our toys prod against my opening. Jamie worked it slowly against my ass, into me, out of me, in measured strokes, and I sighed my pleasure and trepidation quietly. After what seemed like both eternity and no time at all he announced, “There isn’t any more to go in,” and had me stand.

Jamie placed his hands on my shoulders, turned me to face him, and neatly pulled my skirt back down. The plug was surprisingly comfortable even as it made it a little difficult to walk and sit. The flared end rested against my ass cheeks, a constant reminder that it was there.

“I need to make a phone call,” he said. “Make yourself comfortable.”

++

The long, slow make-out session had heated up considerably but was still tender. Both of my hands circled around Jamie’s firm cock and I could feel drops of come slide over his head. “You’re wet,” I said against his neck. He moaned in appreciation as I circled my thumb over his skin.

“Do you want me?” I asked, finally opening my eyes. His were still closed. He nodded. “Yeah, I do.”

“Do you want to be inside of me?”

“Yeah. I wanted to wait–”

“We can wait, if you want.”

“No, I want you now.”

He rolled over and on top of me, parting my legs with his. Stiff flesh met soft as he guided himself into me hands-free, his hands occupied with touching my stomach and breasts and face. We both sighed together, our foreheads touching, breath mingling, bodies undulating in the faint lamplight.

++

The phone call had ended.  Jamie had me on his bed, on my knees. I could hear him stroke lubricant onto his cock, a damp cadence of hand on shaft, as he bent to speak directly into my ear. “I’m going to fuck you now,” and without waiting or warning, he pulled the plug from my ass. Mere seconds later he was sliding his dick into me without preamble, pushing past my discomfort into the hole he had prepared for himself. “Welcome home,” he panted, pushing into me at a fever pitch. I cried out, whether in pain or surprise or pleasure I can’t really say. All I knew at that moment was endless and insatiable hunger.

His hands bore down upon my hips and thrust my ass into the perfect position to receive him. I curved my back, turned my head to look at him. He cupped my breasts in his palms and bent to kiss me, the sides of our mouths desperately searching for the other. We were as animals. I was dimly aware of my nonsense noises of desire, growing louder as he fucked me — and he was fucking me. There was nothing tender about what we were doing.

Jamie used me for his pleasure as the first of several orgasms began to rock me. My pussy grasped for a dick that wasn’t there, my whole body attempted to writhe as he held me down and pounded my ass with pent-up lust, his motions almost a frenzy.

As one climax crested for me another was just over the horizon, within easy reach. My orgasms flowed one into another in one unbroken chain of lust. “Come in my ass,” I begged, wanting to feel him pulse in that intimate opening. “No,” he growled, “I want to come in your pussy.”

And with that, Jamie pulled out and pushed directly into my cunt with hardly a pause, causing me to cry out once more and reach for the headboard. I now had a little leverage and was able to push my hips back against him. He reacted by grasping my shoulders and driving into me wildly, unable to stop himself. Firm became harder became rock-hard as I came over and over again, soaking his cock and my thighs and his whole pelvis. I could tell he was close to his own climax. I looked over my shoulder and smiled at him. He opened his eyes then, and upon seeing my expression, rolled his eyes back in his head and fucked me even harder, something I didn’t think he could do.

When it was time for him to come, he didn’t warn me about that either. There were last desperate thrusts and then his throaty groans, his mouth close to my ear. I felt pulsing heat. I felt his semen hit my cervix with considerable force. His fingers grasped my shoulder so hard I thought he might bruise me, and I shivered with one last orgasmic wave.

++

Jamie and I slowly rolled and rocked against each other. Our movements were the flow of a slow creek, or maybe clouds floating in a blue sky, unhurried, deliberate. Every inch of our skin that could touch was touching, his breath hot against my chest and neck. I was aware of my moans as a song of need, higher pitched and clearer than my usual low tones. He was singularly focused on enveloping me with touch, his hands wandering down my torso and delicately along my breasts, tickling my nipples and caressing my shoulders. I found myself grasping for his ass and hips, attempting to pull him even deeper into my aching slit. “I love you,” I surprised myself by crying out, but I didn’t care what was coming out of my mouth any more than what was happening outside the bedroom. The only thing that mattered at that moment was the sacrament we were performing together.

Our dance became gradually faster and faster, yet still purposeful and conscious. I could feel myself starting up the roller-coaster hill of my climax, but I hung on the edge of orgasm for what felt like forever, feeling it within my grasp and then out of it again. It was as if Jamie meant to keep pulling it from me, but I know my body was just waiting, waiting for him to get close. My body and mind wanted to share that moment with him. This time, unlike other times we have fucked, the waves would pull me close but then dangle me over the edge, so much so that one wrong move would have pushed me over, but none of our moves were wrong. Everything felt right, real, pure.

After an eternity of slow magic I couldn’t hold back anymore. I looked directly at Jamie and sobbed, “you’re going to make me come, I can’t–”

As soon as the words crossed my lips I crossed the threshold. Everything went white, bright, I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t think, all I could do was cling to him. Tears came to my eyes as I felt a part of myself separate from reality and float unmoored in a sea of pleasure and intimacy. I was still floating when Jamie joined me, his thrusts smooth yet firm and insistent. His climax was less of a forceful shot and more of a warm flood inside of me, filling me with ecstasy. As before, I felt one last powerful push of bliss as Jamie softly collapsed on top of me, cock still rigid and pulsing.

++

Jamie’s home is not necessarily mine. I don’t have a key; I always have to wait for him to open the door, or perhaps he’ll leave it unlocked while he hurries to take a shower while I battle the ever-present traffic to come to him. I know the locations of the important things — the dishes, the bourbon, the extra printer paper, the extra toilet paper. My own small stash of toiletries, brought early on when Jamie didn’t want to wait for me to stop by my place to grab my overnight bag, lives under the master bathroom sink, mostly hidden — though now my toothbrush has moved to the toothbrush holder, where it can properly drain. None of this matters. When I wake up in his bed — ours, for the moments it is still scented with us — I know exactly where I am, and that place is more home than anywhere else I can imagine.