A family of strangers are New York City's Sex Bloggers - online writers, telling tales of their sex lives in this City. Parents in their 40's, sex workers in their 20's, professionals with 9 - 5 jobs or stay-at-home dads - male, female, straight, gay, lesbian, bisexual - these writers' narratives have one thing in common: they are sexually explicit. You'll find stories that twist real-life narratives together: parents helping their kids with homework, then later, deflowering a stranger of his anal virginity; tensions on the train to work, then helping a friend's wife to orgasm. Their tangled tales of exploration and conquest, freedom, exhibition and love will be told aloud and in person for the first time when the bloggers show their faces and read from their work at the New York City Peverts' Saloon.

"knot it up a bit more"

Al Lewis -- Grandpa -- in "The Munsters" passed away a few weeks back. Dan Barry wrote about his amazing life and the questions raised since his death. In Hey, Whose Grandpa Didn't Tell Some Tales?, Barry wrote that Al Lewis said

he appeared in Olsen and Johnson's 'Hellazoppin',' the Broadway hit of 1938. He said that he championed the cause of the Scottsboro Boys, nine black teenagers who were accused of raping two white women in a profoundly flawed case. All this while working on a doctorate in child psychology, which he was said to have earned a Columbia University in 1941 - or 1949 . . . Lewis also said that he was a merchant seaman who had to abandon a torpedoed ship not once, but twice. 'You don't know what it's like to be in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean,' he told The Shadow, an alternative newspaper, in 1997. 'There is no more lonely feeling. You see nothing, nothing, nothing.' Maybe this was true. Maybe Mr. Lewis did meet Charlie Chaplin at John Garfield's house, as he claimed. Maybe he did ride shotgun while escorting W.E.B DuBois to the burial of Julius and Ethel Rosenberg. Maybe he did retain Charles Manson as a baby sitter.

And maybe he did keep a blog where he recorded his sexploits with men and women and wrote in great graphic detail about how hard his cock was; how the women swooned for it; how the men shrank from it; how the sun rose daily on new orifices and he only relented from his torrid pace to mainline Redbull; update his HIV test; and pen a few digital lines for his legions of diehard fans, masturbating at his every word.

And would all these fans be shocked and dismayed if Julius and Ethel didn't actually have a three-way with Grandpa Al, like he claimed? Would they demand his disinterment so that he could be flayed on Oprah, James Frey-like, for daring to besmirch the Blogger-lympic Flame of Truth.

In a veritable M.C. Escher print of irony, where life imitates art imitates life imitates art, there I was talking about truth in "blogging" and blogging the "truth" at the NYC Perverts Salo(o)n. And then a few nights later I had just begun a post on this very topic; the guts of which were:

I am of the opinion that our society has made a fetish of truth to the detriment of storytelling. We live in a world where the journalist has replaced the author as the principal voice to which we listen, and I think we suffer as a result.

Then I woke, not only to learn that Grandpa Al's fabulous stories have been exactly that - fabulous -- but Julia Glass in the Op-Ed section chimes in with "In the month-long fray over James Frey, one question has gone largely unexamined: Why do readers suddenly seem to prefer the so-called truth to fiction?"

Why indeed?

Here's the question that sends the masses howling like Grandpa's son-in-law, "Does it matter?"

Does it matter to your cock or your clit if your masturbatory fodder doesn't have the swear-to-tell-the-truth-the-whole-truth-and-nothing-but-the-truth seal of approval? When we read about sexblogger and sexbloggerette and their legions of sexblogger coquests, aren't we indulging in fantasy? Don't we project ourselves into those stories and imagine ourselves the cocksmen and cuntswomen of which we read? It's already a lie that we're bringing ourselves to pleasure with our own hands, while pretending to live someone else's sex life. It's a lie in which we're all deliciously complicit.

If our orgasms are true, what matters the truth of what made us wet or hard in the first place?

Oh, go on. Take the next logical step. How often are our face-to-face sexual encounters rife with something other than the truth? The stories we tell ourselves to get through the night -- or to extricate ourselves from the night. The stories that get us into bed -- or out of bed. Could it be that our fascination with truth at all costs is an unwillingness to be honest with ourselves about our own deceits? Would we be better to step away from the black and white of truth=good, fiction=bad and enjoy the best stories we can, regardless?

Wouldn't you rather give yourself up to the story? As Ms. Glass puts it:

"When I give myself over to a good novel, I surrender to the truths fashioned from one writer's heart, mind and soul. I do not waste a nanosecond wondering whether what I'm reading "really happened."

But she's talking about the relative the merits of fiction and non-fiction. She's not talking about someone writing fiction and pretending it's truth. There is something morally objectionable about lying, isn't there? There is a line that the James Freys of this world go beyond -- exceeding the limits of memoir and creating events out of whole cloth, and that is just wrong.

And you know what? You're absolutely correct.

But the question is "what are you going to do about it?" Do you throw out the baby with the bathwater? Do you squander your own growth as a person due to these stories because you find out that is "all" they are?

I came out as a blogger because I read blogs that made me think I could write about my life. If those blogs turn out to have shades of truth and tints of lie, that doesn't change the empowerment I have felt from putting my own words out there. I am grateful for the words that have helped me feel confident about expressing myself to the blogosphere, and have led to sexual decisions and experiences that otherwise I would not have tried or been exposed to. If those words are exposed as fanciful or fabulous, for me that doesn't detract from the paths I have taken as a result. Or to shift the metaphor, in this case, it matters nothow poisonous the tree is, if the fruits are that delicious.

"Fiction writers work tremendously hard to make things that are patently untrue seem as true as possible. 'Let me tell you a story that isn't true,' beckons the fiction writer, 'and I will show some of the truest things you'll ever know.'"

Thank you, Ms. Glass. That's got to be the right answer. The only answer. It's the story, stupid.

Or as Jeanette Winterson wrote in Oranges Are Not The Only Fruit:

"Of course that is not the whole story, but that is the way with stories; we make them what we will. It's a way of explaining the universe while leaving the universe unexplained, it's a way of keeping it all alive, not boxing it into time. Everyone who tells a story tells it differently, just to remind us that everybody sees it differently. Some people say there are true things to be found, some people say all kinds of things can be proved. I don't believe them. The only thing for certain is how complicated it all is, like string full of knots. It's all there but hard to find the beginning and impossible to fathom the end. The best you can do is admire the cat's cradle, and maybe knot it up a bit more. History should be a hammock for swinging and a game for playing, the way cats play. Claw it, chew it, rearrange it and at bedtime it's still a ball of string full of knots."

Freddie Mercury had it right too:

Is this the real life?
Is this just fantasy?

Knot it up a bit more, my friends. Knot it up a bit more.

Fan Fiction: A Twist in the Tale

It might be a little early in my blog for a guest host, but while working on my own creations, I thought I would follow Jefferson's lead and share a little something from an internet friend... there ain't many switches out there... but this one can sure write it.

(It turns out, this is shaping up to be "fan week" -- see here.)

*** *** ***

After reading your post, I went to my bedroom and turned on the lights. I lay on my bed wearing nothing but my panties, my eyes closed, imagining you naked and watching me, from a chair across the room. I imagine you watching me as I brush my nipples lightly, caressing them until they're as hard as your cock.I want to rub them harder, pinch them, I know how good it'll feel, but I control myself, my face impassive, my body otherwise still. I know you're watching, your cock hard, almost painfully so. I slide my hands down my body slowly, to the waistband of my panties, hooking my thumbs in and pulling them slowly down...

Then I stop, smile, my eyes still closed. My panties are still around my hips and you can't see any of my pussy yet. You moan impatiently, unable to stop yourself.

"Only when you're spoken to, bitch," I murmur softly, almost lovingly, pulling my panties back up.

"Now... when do you speak? You may answer," I stroke my stomach, slowly, tracing circles with my finger that dip lower and lower. I know how badly you want to touch yourself, make yourself come but I don't care. I know you wouldn't dare without my permission.

"When you tell me to, ma'am," you whisper, your voice strained.

"Remember that," I spread my legs just wide enough that you can see my panties are slightly damp. I don't have to see your face to know how much you want to beg me to allow you to remove them. To let you come while you're wearing them. You know that's the closest you'll get to coming in me as punishment for speaking out of turn.

I put my hand on my pussy. My clit is throbbing like a second heart. I rub it very slowly, very lightly at first, then harder, my face expressionless once more. I look into your eyes, holding them as I rub harder and faster. Out of the corner of my eye I can see your cock standing straight up, red and swollen looking, your body covered in a sheen of sweat. Your hands clutch the armrests of the chair so hard I can almost hear the wood splinter.

My heartbeat is speeding up already, but I control myself rigidly, refusing to show even the slightest interest in your, or my own, touch. I wait for you to lose control, come without permission so I can punish you, make you beg. You sit there, suffering but also not losing control. Even though I don't show it, I want to make you come before I say so. I get pleasure from making you lose all your control while I still have mine.

I push my panties to the side a little, giving you a glimpse of pussy, wet and pink. I expect you to moan but you just bite your lip and close your eyes, your face red.

"You were not given permission to close your eyes, bitch," I say, my voice cold, commanding. You squeeze your eyes shut tighter for just a moment, then open them, meeting mine.

I pull the crotch of my panties away a little more so you can see my clit. You can't help looking. I smile triumphantly. I bring my other hand to my mouth and lick my fingers, wetting them, thenglide them down my body once more until they're just over my clit.

You sit forward in your seat to get a closer look. I raise one eyebrow challengingly and you sit back, cowed. You watch silently as I finger myself, pulling on my wet, glistening clit, pushing my fingers into my pussy a little at first, then as far as they'll go. Though my face is still and disinterested my body is shaking slightly, my breathing almost as fast and ragged as yours.

You should have come by now, and I'm angry that you haven't. I know that I'm close to coming and that if I want to keep my control you must always be the first to come.

"My panties are so wet... would you like to wear them?" I ask, knowing that in the past nothing makes your get harder or come faster than wearing my underwear.

You say nothing, only stare at me desperately, biting your lip. I smile, pleased, "Good doggie... you may answer my question."

"Yes ma'am... I would. Please," your voice is husky and rough.

"You may remove my panties and put them on," I say, spreading my legs wider and arching my body up. You come over to the bed, shuffling slowly. You reach out and carefully snag the waistband without touching my skin and pull the panties slowly down my legs with shaking hands. Sweat is running down your face.

When you get to my ankles I lay back on the bed and lift my feet slightly so you can pull them off. You stand there for a moment, stroking the dampness, then hurry to put them on. The barely fit over your cock, the bulge straining the fabric so that I can see every line of your cock. A new damp spot appears near the tip as precum runs out of you.

"Stroke yourself, bitch." I command, my eyes as glued to my panties as yours had been. I refuse to let it show how much the sight of your cock pushing out the front of my panties turned me on."But don't you dare come until I say so."

Your face a combination of torture and pleasure, you begin stroking your cock very lightly. I laugh, "Harder, bitch boy, don't make me repeat myself," I snap at you, my eyes narrowed, my voice low and dangerous. You stroke harder, grabbing your cock roughly.

I can feel it building in me like a wave, the need to see you come, the need to let myself come but I fight it, not willing to give up my control for a moment.You stand before me, pulling, stroking, spanking carressing. I lay in front of you doing the same to my clit, my fingers and pussy dripping.

I know one of us has to give, sooner or later, and I know it's going to be you. So sure that when you finally cry out I know you've come, unable to resist me for long. Smirking at you victoriously I close my eyes and let myself come, now, around my fingers, my body shaking and thrashing as I give up control.

When it's finally over, I come back to myself, limp, sweaty and drained, barely able to move. I hear a creak and realize, you're on the bed with me, straddling my waist.

My eyes fly open. You're looking down at me, grinning like a chesire cat.

"Were you given permission to be on my bed, bitch?" I demand, my voice raspy and shaking, my body still vibrating, weak. You put your hand on your chest and slide it down. Further and further until you get to my panties, which, instead of being soaked with your come, are still only slightly damp. After giving me a moment to let that sink in, you push aside my panties to reveal your cock, just as hard as before, not even slightly limp.

To startled to command you, I say: "But - how - "

You put your hand on my breast gently then squeeze my nipple so hard I practically squeak.

"Were you given permission to speak, bitch?" You grind out, twisting my nipple just hard enough that I realize the last bit of command and control I thought I still had over you has disappeared.

Now you're in control.

You push my legs apart, still smiling. "You thought you could make me come first just like you always have, didn't you, slut?"

"I - " I begin, forgetting my new place. You reach for my breast again and I whimper, biting my lips, putting my hand over my mouth.

"That's better." Instead of pinching my nipple you brush it lightly with your index finger until it hardens.

"Bet you're wondering how I outlasted you."

You reach into my panties and pull out your cock, aiming it down at me as you stroke it slowly.

"You may say: "Yes, sir, I was wondering how you outlasted me," you command me indifferently, not even looking at me, now.

"Y-yes sir I was wondering how you outlasted me," I ehxhale, all in a rush. My face is burning, ashamed, angry.

You smile slightly, still staring slightly above my head. All of a sudden a few drops of clear, slightly yellowish liquid drip from your cock, onto my stomach and breasts. Then it becomes a thin but steady, almost hot stream.

I gasp, disgusted and humiliated, squirming to get away from you but grab me and turn me over, slamming me hard into the bed before I can fight you. Your warm piss trails down my back, down my ass and you push my legs apart.

"Were you given permission to fight me?" You push my face into the pillow. I almost moan, but remember I wasn't given permission to speak.

"Good," you put on hand on my ass and I feel your cock, slide into me. You groan as you pull out and thrust into me again, harder. A final jet of piss streams into my pussy like hot water, filling me, running out of me, the my clit and the sheets beneath me soaked. I don't fight you, but I moan again before I can stop myself. You push my face into the pillow again.

"I thought you wanted to make me shoot, bitch." You laugh as you thrust in and pull out of me, the bed creaking as you rock us back and for, pushing my body closer and closer to the headboard. Soon you take your hands away and the only part of you touching me is your cock, sliding in an out of me.

"Who's in control, now? You may say: "You are, sir." You sound just as bored as I ever had. I wonder if you were pretending, like I was.

"You are, sir," I say, my voice muffled by the pillow. The wet sheets feel rough against my sensitive clit and despite my humiliation and embarrassment I'm aroused, and soon I'm moving my pelvis a little, grinding into the sheet, my pussy tingling. I start moving with you, meeting your thrusts. When you realize this, you laugh contemptuously.

"Did I give you permission to enjoy this, you filthy whore?"

*** *** ***

And this, unbelievably, is where she left off...

"You mean you forgot cranberries two?"

James Frey Memorial Disclaimer - Some details have been changed to protect the guilty.


In this case it was a red bell pepper that sent me out into the rain and muck. But I often have that song in my head when dashing out to the store because who wouldn't want to run into a fabulous person in your average non-descript post-bodega arab grocery. And instead of Christmas, I was actually shopping for that uber-American holiday, the Super Bowl, when "to what to my wondering eyes should appear" that very same Beth who had recently bumped me down a tier.

She was resplendently slouchy in her courdoroy kangol headgaear and outrageous buffalo bill suede coat (with fringes). I knew she had seen the new leading man last night, so after the initial gush of hello I said, "Well, how was Simon? Wedding bells?"

Beth's grimace moved at the speed of light so I knew the answer to my question even before I heard her say, "It's over."

"Oh, honey. No. Really? Let me just see if they have a bell pepper and then I'll walk you home..."

No bell pepper later finds us on her stoop sharing her Marlboro Reds as she recounts the last 18 hours.

Simon, the man recently voted most likely to deliver Beth the white picket fence, had balked at dinner and suggested she just come over. I cocked an eyebrow, "He just wanted the booty call? I told you, you put out too early."

"Yeah," she agreed. "But he did come out and we had dinner and then I went back to his place."

"And was it good?"

"Oh, sure. But I stayed over."

"You SLEPT over?!!" (Beth never sleeps over.)

"It was horrible. I didn't sleep all night and then in morning I didn't even get any. I wanted to blow him but he wanted to sleep or something."

"Oh, honey. I'm so sorry. You broke your rule about sleeping over and you didn't even get to suck his cock in the morning?"

"No. Can you believe it? And I even invited him back to my place."

I said, "Jesus, you wouldn't even blow me in your living room and you're inviting him back to the temple of Diana for the night? What's the deal that you're violating all your taboos for this guy?"

"Well, I think I was trying compensate for it not being... so .... so, do you want to come up?"

"Sure."

We climb the steps to her apartment.

Once inside, our coats hit the floor and I pull her against me.

My hands push up her shirt immediately and I cup her breasts roughly in both hands.

"Ohhh," she moans.

"Oh, baby. You feel amazing. Your tits feel so big. Are you pregnant or something?"

"Mmmm.... mmm... fuck you...."

I put my head down to each delicious teat. Her nipples are hard against my palms. I pinch them gently and then harshly the way she likes it. She pushes against my hands. I lower my head to each and take them into my mouth and pull her flesh with my mouth and teeth.

With her breast tight in my mouth, I run my hands down her back and down her pants to hold her fantastic ass. She is moaning and pushing her pelvis against mine.

I am hard. I am urgent.

After grinding against her and feeling her body I push her down on the bed.

I strip down. And naked, pull off her pants as she wriggles out of her shirt.

I fall on top of her and continue to relish her smooth yielding flesh. Quickly and insistently we work ourselves into a state of desperate lust.

"Do you have a condom here?"

"Yes." She rises and I enjoy watching her naked body move to her bureau to retrieve one.

She returns to the bed and leans against the edge. I scootch (a sneetch-scootch) down so that my cock is in front of her. She takes it in her hand. I can't resist.

"Who has the nicest cock?"

"You do." (Thank you Beth.)

She strokes it. She has a great stroke. A perfect grip.

She takes it in her mouth and her head moves wonderfully up and down.

"This is the head you didn't get to give this morning... huh?"

She mumbles through a full mouth her agreement. Her eyes join in my joke.

I lie back and let her enjoy herself for a while. When she pauses to catch her breath I reach down and pull her back all the way onto the bed.

I open the condom and roll it onto my cock as she lies back. I lower myself onto her. I enter her quickly, filling her. Enjoying her tightness. Her warmth.

I fuck her hard. She loves to be fucked hard.

"Oh yes. Oh god. Oh god. Oh yes."

God bless her. She is so loud. The window is open. It is daytime. It is delicious to see her body in the sunlight.

"Oh. Yes. Oh, fuck me. Fuck me, Charlie. Oh god yes."

And bless me, I do.

I tell her how it turns me on that she had fucked another man just last night. I tell her what a glorious slut she is. And her head whips back and forth as I move above her.

"Yes. Yes."

She brings out the best in me. We stop frequently to take stock of one another. I love the look of incredulity in her eyes. The way she bites her lip and then tells me she wants more.

Her thighs spread to accommodate me and then her legs come up to rest on my shoulders. I lower all my weight on her to try to reach as deeply within her as I can.

"Ooooh god. Oooh god. Ooooh fuck yes. Ooooh fuck yes."

I alternate strokes. Hard and hard. And then soft and soft and soft.

I love pulling out almost all the way to tease her. To feel her entrance. To feel her pussy's hold on me slip away -- almost -- before I dance back in. I move in circles not because she likes it, but because it keeps her right on that edge. I think if she had her way, she would just like to be pistoned repeatedly.

And I do do that. Repeatedly.

We pause again and I roll her onto her side, moving to feel new parts of her. Slapping her beautiful white ass...

Which of course prompts me to move her completely onto her hands and knees.

She groans as she feels me touch her more deeply from this position. I enjoy the slapping sound and pulling her hips back. We move well together. I am overcome with a simple animal lust to rut. I squat now so that I can fuck her with more speed. Short hard sharp movements into her pussy. Holding her ass for support.

She is being pushed up against the headboard -- I take her hair in my hand and collect it into a ponytail and take a firm hold as she utters a gasp. I lean forward and my teeth find her shoulder and she groans again.

Her volme increases... her tempo increases.. her willingness and surrender increase.

I find my last gear and move faster and harder as she urges me on. We hold this place ... this place of speed and vigor and intensity for as long as we can and then I release her hair and press forward -- one .. two .. three... and cum with great release. There is a moment of tension and then collapse. I feel her beneath me... my cock lingering inside her for a bit... and then I withdraw gently.

"God." Exhale. "That was amazing."

"You too," she responds.

"Mmmm...."

We lie there enjoying the play of light and the bit of a chill over our warm bodies from the open window.

"Baby," she begins.

"Yes?"

"Do you mind if I finish up?"

"Of course. Do what you need to... do you want me to do anything?"

"No, but I need to get some stuff."

"Oh, are these your contraptions? I am so excited to watch."

"Do you want the whole show? It's three different things."

"The complete shebang. I'd be honored."

"Okay, but you need to turn around."

I stand up and face away as she busies herself at her endtable and then in bed. Finally...

"Okay, babe."

I turn around and she is laid out on a towel and is holding a gorgeous dildo.

"This is the dildo, I told you about. Isn't it fabulous?"

It is. And I know one day I'll be on the receiving end of it as well.

I then notice she has some sort of appliance with a serious business end. She switches it on and applies it to her clit.

"Isn't it totally Terminator III? This. Is. Awesome."

"Didn't you tell me the full panoply was 3 devices?"

"Yes. I have a butt plug in. Come here."

I move back to the bed and watch as she inserts the dildo with one hand while Schwarzenbrator grinds away. For a little while she wants me to use the dildo on her, but it is clear that what she wants is her own expert hand so I relinquish it and enjoy her show.

"Oh, yes. Oh. Fuck yes!"

She wants me to kiss her tits. I move closer, the show nearing its climax. I suck her sweet hard nipples and kiss her as she finds her finish.

"Fuck. Charlie. Oh. Fuck. Charlie. Fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck me."

Her body rocks and writhes and she shakes and then she is finished.

Deliciously finished. And complete.

She smiles at me.

"That was amazing," I say. "YOU. Are amazing. Thank you for sharing that with me."

She blushes and smiles and rolls over. Contented.

On her shoulder, where I bit her, I notice a circular bite mark. It is red and round.

Like a bell pepper.

where are my manners?

I'm way overdue in blogging a big thank you to Viviane for inviting me to the First Evar NYC Sex Bloggers Meet-and-Greet up. Viv was the consummate hostess: bustling about and making sure all her guests were chit-chattering and enjoying themselves.

Let me try to capture my highlights: Tony Comstock's observations about the intersection of memoir and porn -- Anakalia's adventures in immigration law -- PornoJim's explanation of his unique ouevre -- Chelsea Girl's ironic "No One Cares About Your Blog" T-Shirt stretched over a chest about which One Cares Deeply -- the erstwhile badmaninabadplace who is now a cautionary tale for the ages -- Les's full body lay out to retrieve Viviane's wine key -- debating the merits of lollipops and neckwear with Jefferson -- davening with Madeline -- and of course, talking relative New York City childhoods with my new best friend, Selina.

Luminaries that I missed out on but bathed in their glow included: Dacia, Cherry Bomb and J.

My apologies if I missed anyone with a URL.

For me it was an inspiring evening -- thanks to all for setting the bar so high.

pre-soiree musings

Why wait to talk about tomorrow night, when I can blog about it now?

I got invited to a sex bloggers meetup. Me. After 3 posts. I'm by far the mostest juniorest person in terms of posting quantity. I feel like I got invited to the cool kids' party in high school.

I remember as a kid, I used to think sex was going on all around me. I mean. All. Around. Me. I don't mean the regular kind of sex going on all the time. I mean, literally, if I was babysitting for a couple I would assume they were out somewhere having sex and that when they came home the moment they paid me and I was out the door they would be having sex. (It didn't hurt/help that I often would spend my time babysitting -- AFTER PUTTING THE KIDS TO BED -- masturbating in the bathroom with whatever pornography and panties I could find.) I assumed that when my parents sent me to bed when they were having a dinner party, that group sex was breaking out downstairs the moment they heard my bedroom door shut. I would look at houses as though I had x-ray vision and could see the people in their living rooms assuming positions that I only vaguely understood. My teachers, of course, were engaged in school day orgies in the staff lounge. Closed doors meant someone was doing something to someone. It's the way I saw the world.

Now, of course I KNOW this is how the world works...

or not.

But this world of blogging -- strike that -- this world I've been in where the sex I want to have I can have -- where there is sex I can say no to -- where the thoughts and desires and fantasies that sometimes will just stay fantasies, but sometimes not -- this world that I've been living in for 2 years... with many many many doors still to open ... this world is closer to the world in my head than it's ever been. Or, at least, I'm meeting more people who see the world similarly.

Dunno what tomorrow night will bring, but it's another door.

Knock knock.

not that kind of funk, alas

I confess I've been in a funk. For a newbie blogger like me, you want to only put your best foot forward.. I don't yet have the confidence in my writing or my readers to expose and explore the letdowns, failures and disappointments...

but hey... its a sexblog and in my life a lot of sex has been about letdowns, failures and disappointments... so...

first, my lovely new friend Francine is a dynamo... a pistol... a party girl par extraordinaire... met her through Craigs List with the pithy post entitled:

"a little bit nutty and a little bit slutty..."

she's certainly some of both. we went out after new years... and had a blast. she is all about having a blast. she's one of those girls that you just always go with the flow... she wants to bring a friend on the date... sure... she wants to suck face at the bar with patrons all around... she wants to pull you into the bathroom and shove lovely tongue in your mouth and then spin you around and say "face the wall, otherwise i won't be able to pee..."

she takes me home and wants my finger in her ass.. she does wondrous things to my cock with her mouth...


It's all good.

but then... a few dates later we each have crazy nights out separately.

and the next day, in the course of relaying my story, i tell her about a co-worker who was kind of shopping himself and his wife for a threesome and I told Francine that I was definitely intrigued because his wife is stunning...

well, that was the wrong thing to say.

Francine, with a gay brother, and many many gay friends, writes me an email that closed with,

"But, and i mean this in the sweetest way possible, without any judgment, I think we are best to be just friends because I do not enjoy men who enjoy other men and that is the bottom line."

Now, we've talked about it since then... and we may yet talk about it some more.... but my bottom line was disappointment. Not that I can control how people feel about these things, but to see a good thing come and go because of such a thing... such a thing that goes right to who I am understanding myself to be... well, that sucked.

And then the next night I saw Ann... good old Ann... she would buck me up...

and she did.

But not before telling me that my unwillingness to be monogamous was too much for her.. and that she was pursuing 2 other guys who each seemed to offer her, at least, a willingness to place her first in their lives... in other words, I went from "A" to "C."

And again, it's not anyone's fault. I get that. My marriage ending had alot to do with letting go and recognizing that good people who love one another sometimes just can't be everything they want to be to each other. And that's not anyone's fault.

But it doesn't make it less sad.

And so... that's my funk...