The last night of the year, and I'm thinking of stories told me by young companions down the years. I do want to remember the girls who told me these things--- lovely voices and presences gone missing over the years. Well, let's put a few more stories into my archives.
The first one is from a girl I knew back in the lost world of the early Nineties. The tale actually came by letter. I still have the actual letter, complete with a Van Nuys postmark. A letter close to thirty years old now. I have no idea what became of the girl who wrote it--- vanished into domesticity somewhere in southern California, I expect. But the story itself is fun and highly visual, something done in blues and greens and black:
Hi! Mmm-- new tales to tell! I actually had sex in a laser beam! It was basically a starfuck. This band (all black) called Voodoo Posse played at After Hours, the dance club at Magic Mountain where I'm working this summer. So I met the drummer after the show, and we ended up at Mystic Lake (in the park still...) where the fireworks/laser show is. We ended up skinny-dipping and swam out to this one platform where a laser (green) shines down on a plume of smoke that rises steadily. Fortunately, a couple of weeks before, I'd talked to a tech I had sex with a few times about how it all worked. So I ended up fucking the drummer, surrounded by smoke, in the middle of a laser. Have you ever seen a laser mix with smoke up close? It's really intense! This is the second black guy I've had sex with, and he was so much better than the first--- and he was one of the juiciest guys I've ever felt inside me. The oral sex was amazing! He was just crazy with me! Lots of trying new positions in the water!
I remember that her name was Gen--- Genevieve ---and that she was a lovely, brown-haired girl with soft pale eyes. I have no idea where she is now, and certainly have no idea how she remembers her past and her adventures.
The second is from a posh girl in Colorado from the early Noughts. She'd gone to St.-John's out west, the western branch of the liberal arts college with a curriculum based solely on the Classics. I remember that she graduated, kicked around Europe for a while, was dumped by one lover in some roadside village in Brittany, and mugged in a railway station in Paris. She was last heard of living in Ireland. I'd written asking her about her adventures, and she responded with a few tales, including these---
Q.: Where and how did you first make love outdoors? What was it like? Was there risk involved? How do you feel about being naked outdoors?
Outside Christ Church College at the University of Oxford. I was on a school trip and certainly was not supposed to be fraternizing with the locals - inside or outside - so there was plenty of risk. The campus itself was imposing and lent the whole situation a gravity and drama that I have rarely felt since. I didn't get completely naked, as I was wearing a short white skirt with no underwear that could easily be thrown up (though it did take some athleticism and flexibility to avoid getting grass stains on that skirt).
Q.: Where is the riskiest/most public place you've ever made love? Whose idea was it? What was it like?
The European headquarters of Opus Dei. I've always been privately smug about this one and wish I could tell more people because it delights me in so many ways. It was in the evening, and we were walking back from a movie. I had been teasing him throughout the movie and on the trip back, and I guess he just couldn't restrain himself anymore. We jumped over the fence for what I thought might be a quick blow job, but he threw me on the ground. It was very passionate and rough, naughty and forbidden. We were collapsed on the grass when someone caught us and we had to run, me carrying my bra and my jeans half on, cum smeared all over my shirt and jeans. The man was shouting at us, and he said something about our souls being cursed or perhaps he cursed our souls - something rather violent anyway.
This one is a bit more harsh, but it's also from Maegan, something from when she was sixteen, back in the first year of the new century. She told me the story maybe nine or ten years ago. I've never had any follow-up on it:
Hmmm, most guys I've met are a bit squeamish about their own taste....they're fine with it all over a girl's body or mouth, but seem to prefer it to stay there.
I was at my first ever rave with some friends, and this older college guy kept hitting on me and dancing with me, but I wasn't interested. After awhile, I went to use the bathroom, dumb little naive girl that I was. It was upstairs through a dark hallway, and I had no idea I was being followed, but shortly after I sat down to pee, I heard someone else enter. I assumed it was another girl, but he kicked open the door, slamming my head against the wall in the process. I fell back and of course managed to pee all over bare legs. I wasn't wearing underwear, or they'd have been soaked. I was rather dazed and didn't quite understand what was going on, but before I had any idea of who it was, he had grabbed my hair and wrenched my head back (I had two french braid pigtails). He kept hold of them and used them to yank my head forward as well as control what I did the entire time. Naturally with him forcing me like that, I kept gagging, but he didn't seem to mind. He nearly gave me lock jaw, and he shoved his cock as far down my throat as he could; I have no idea who he was. After he left, I was shocked, stunned, and could barely walk. I went downstairs as best I could and stood by someone's car in the parking lot. I gagged for a while and cried. I wouldn't tell anyone else this, but I have masturbated to this story over and over since then. I keep remembering the sound of my own gagging and wondering whatever became of him and how he remembers me now. I can tell you, but no one else.
Four stories, here on the last night of the year. I miss the voices that attach to the stories. I miss a time when stories about adventures were offered up as gifts and introductions, when stories were exchanged over the aether.
My hope is that in the new year, we'll all feel free enough to have adventures again, and to tell stories about both the past and our plans and hopes and fantasies.
Monday, December 31, 2018
Wednesday, December 26, 2018
Two Two Three: Kayak
I'll be trying to end the year with stories lovely young friends have told me of their adventures. And why not? Memories matter, just as details do. And good stories deserve to be written down, to be kept for the future.
So, then. By way of introduction, this is a story told to me by a very lovely and much-admired friend who's been sharing her December with me. We'll call her Liberty. She's tallish and gifted with lovely grey-blue eyes and a mass of strawberry-blonde hair. I've known her for a couple of years, actually. We met when she poured drinks at an oyster bar I've been known to frequent downtown. She was rather young--- just on the edge of graduating university ---and for some reason found me interesting. We had a brief fling before she went off to Florida and back to her old haunts in New Mexico. A few months ago I ran into her again, tending bar at a new place near my rooms. She remembered me--- she was wearing a sweater that used to be mine, after all ---and we've been keeping company.
I knew that I wasn't the first older gentleman of her acquaintance, and one night not long ago I pulled her close and asked her about her first older lover. She laughed and tapped her glass--- a Negroni ---on mine and told me this...
Her first encounter with an Older Man happened when she was sixteen. Her family lived in the Pacific Northwest in those days. Her parents were hippies, and while they weren't posh, her dad owned a successful landscaping business and her mom ran a greenhouse/plant nursery. So when she was sixteen, they told her she could have her own kayak. She'd been kayaking on the local rivers and streams since she was small, but they finally gave her money to buy her own. She went to a couple of the outdoor life and river sports places near where she lived. One of the places was a shop that specialized in kayaks and kayak tours, and the guy running it was supposed to be very good.
She went over one summertime morning early--- drove up in a battered old SUV from her father's company. When she went in, the owner was there, and when he saw she was serious about kayaking, he started talking with her and showing her boats.
At sixteen, Liberty was no virgin. She'd been fucked (halfway consensually, she says) at fourteen, and she'd fucked boys at house parties and after school. But she hadn't had anyone older than maybe 20. The owner of the shop was in his early or mid-30s--- she says she guessed at like 32 or 34 ---and apparently good-looking: tall, in good shape, stubbly, handsome. So she liked talking with him and started thinking he was interesting. She has really never been shy or coy about sex. She's always been very straightforward and earnest and serious. Her hippie upbringing, maybe. She just stood really close and kept making eye contact and holding herself to make being bra-less obvious. Summertime, and she was wearing short shorts and a racer-back tank. She was a full 34C at 16 and she had (and still has) very good legs, so he at least was looking.
She told me that the idea of trying an older man was really appealing as a challenge. She asked if he could show her some of the kayaks in the back, and he took her back to where the boats were on racks. She hopped up on a work table and listened to him talk about places he'd been kayaking and how she really needed to learn sea kayaking. He was clearly looking at her legs and clearly trying to impress her with stories of kayaking in the Andes and the Yukon.
Anyway, the shop owner asked if she smoked weed, and when she laughed and said sure, he took a joint out of the pocket of his denim shirt and lit up. It was a weekday summer morning, and she thinks there may only have been one or two other people in the store--- people who worked for the owner. So they smoked and laughed and he flirted with her. He started touching her hair and tracing a finger along her legs. She said she slid forward on the table and started kissing him.
He told her that he knew she was underage and she couldn't tell anyone about this. She just shrugged and said that was cool. They kissed and she kicked off her little flip-flops and got her legs round him. He played with her soft breasts and pushed up her singlet. Liberty said she just reached down and pulled it over her head and told him to kiss her tits. She squeezed him through his jeans and got him out. She remembers telling him that she didn't care if anyone came back into the rack area, and he just said no one would anyway. She stroked him and got off the table to take him in her mouth. Once she had him down her throat he played with her hair and tits and took a couple more hits on the joint, Then he picked her up and put her back on the table and got her shorts open. I thought she'd probably be in tiny, ragged, faded cut-off jeans shorts, but she told me they were khaki shorts--- short and probably old and dirty, but khaki not denim.
She wasn't wearing underwear ("I know you'll like that part," she told me) and the owner laughed and asked if she'd forgotten something that morning. Liberty just told him no. In the summer, she told me, back in her teens, she mostly didn't bother--- too hot once the sun got up, and mostly in the mornings she just showered and pulled on shorts and a t-shirt or a singlet and didn't much care about shoes, underwear, or bras. Anyway, he got her shorts off and tossed them on the floor and leaned over her while he pulled her into the right angle for entry.
He didn't ask her about condoms or being on the Pill, and she was pretty unconcerned about things like that anyway. She got her legs back round him and he pushed into her while they kissed and he squeezed her breasts. She told me it was rough in the good way--- she felt taken but still appreciated. Good fuck, she said. Good size, good thickness, good hip motion. He pushed her legs up and got them over his shoulders. He had two fingers in her mouth, which was probably good--- she is seriously loud when she has sex, and there were at least a couple of people out in the front of the store.
He came in her, which felt good. She wanted him to turn her over and fuck her from behind, but they both worried about time. He finally apologised for not using a condom, and she told him not to worry, that it was no big deal. She told me she remembered that while he was fucking her, she could look up at the closest rack and see the label on the kayak--- a Riot Kayak 11-LV Day Tourer. She still remembered that eight years later, and I wrote it down in my Moleskine. Anyway...she got her singlet back on and found her shorts on the floor and stepped back into them. She kissed his cock and kissed him and thanked him.
She said she stepped into one flip-flop but couldn't find the other--- it must've gone under one of the racks. They were $5 cheap rubber ones, so she just took the one she had and tossed it in a trash can and stayed barefoot the rest of the day. He laughed at her and told her she should come see him again and buy a boat.
She told me she did come back, and she did buy her first kayak there--- the 11-ft. Riot Day Tourer model just like the one on the rack. That's about a $US 700 boat, and she used it for a long time. She took it with her the next year when she fell out with her newly-religious parents (another story) and moved in with her then-boyfriend's family. She fucked the owner off and on most of that summer. She'd come by the shop or meet him at his house or down at one of the docks on the local rivers. She said it was all very casual--- she had other things in her life that kept her busy, and she dated a few people or hooked up at parties. She said the best time was once when she and her best friend April went kayak camping and she arranged for the owner to meet them where they'd be camping. They all drank lots of whiskey and smoked weed and he spent the night in a sleeping bag with Liberty. Did she and April do a 3-way with the man? She elbowed me when I asked and told that of course they had, both that night and few other nights, that it was all about learning new things and enjoying the summer. She loved driving to the store and just hanging out, being the barefoot girl with headphones sitting on the owner's desk with her iPod and a smoothie...and a flask hidden in her little daypack.
Anyway, she decided she liked Older Men, or at least was comfortable with them. That made it easy when she and I first started talking a couple of years ago, when she was at the oyster bar. She thought I was interesting and the age thing meant pretty much zero to her. When I told her my age--- she just shrugged. What mattered, she said, was that I was interesting. We'll use each other for the stories, she said. We'll trade stories and we'll learn things. Something I was very comfortable with.
Well, Liberty herself is very, very interesting. Her stories range from the Pacific Northwest to New Mexico and Colorado, to North Carolina and Florida. She has a degree in environmental sciences and is looking forward to doing an master's in coastal wetlands management. I can be there with her in the dark and listen to her tell me tales of her past and her thoughts, and she's taught me kayaking and how to play pétanque. I should like to keep her in my life, and I very much hope she'll whisper more things to me on winter nights.
So, then. By way of introduction, this is a story told to me by a very lovely and much-admired friend who's been sharing her December with me. We'll call her Liberty. She's tallish and gifted with lovely grey-blue eyes and a mass of strawberry-blonde hair. I've known her for a couple of years, actually. We met when she poured drinks at an oyster bar I've been known to frequent downtown. She was rather young--- just on the edge of graduating university ---and for some reason found me interesting. We had a brief fling before she went off to Florida and back to her old haunts in New Mexico. A few months ago I ran into her again, tending bar at a new place near my rooms. She remembered me--- she was wearing a sweater that used to be mine, after all ---and we've been keeping company.
I knew that I wasn't the first older gentleman of her acquaintance, and one night not long ago I pulled her close and asked her about her first older lover. She laughed and tapped her glass--- a Negroni ---on mine and told me this...
Her first encounter with an Older Man happened when she was sixteen. Her family lived in the Pacific Northwest in those days. Her parents were hippies, and while they weren't posh, her dad owned a successful landscaping business and her mom ran a greenhouse/plant nursery. So when she was sixteen, they told her she could have her own kayak. She'd been kayaking on the local rivers and streams since she was small, but they finally gave her money to buy her own. She went to a couple of the outdoor life and river sports places near where she lived. One of the places was a shop that specialized in kayaks and kayak tours, and the guy running it was supposed to be very good.
She went over one summertime morning early--- drove up in a battered old SUV from her father's company. When she went in, the owner was there, and when he saw she was serious about kayaking, he started talking with her and showing her boats.
At sixteen, Liberty was no virgin. She'd been fucked (halfway consensually, she says) at fourteen, and she'd fucked boys at house parties and after school. But she hadn't had anyone older than maybe 20. The owner of the shop was in his early or mid-30s--- she says she guessed at like 32 or 34 ---and apparently good-looking: tall, in good shape, stubbly, handsome. So she liked talking with him and started thinking he was interesting. She has really never been shy or coy about sex. She's always been very straightforward and earnest and serious. Her hippie upbringing, maybe. She just stood really close and kept making eye contact and holding herself to make being bra-less obvious. Summertime, and she was wearing short shorts and a racer-back tank. She was a full 34C at 16 and she had (and still has) very good legs, so he at least was looking.
She told me that the idea of trying an older man was really appealing as a challenge. She asked if he could show her some of the kayaks in the back, and he took her back to where the boats were on racks. She hopped up on a work table and listened to him talk about places he'd been kayaking and how she really needed to learn sea kayaking. He was clearly looking at her legs and clearly trying to impress her with stories of kayaking in the Andes and the Yukon.
Anyway, the shop owner asked if she smoked weed, and when she laughed and said sure, he took a joint out of the pocket of his denim shirt and lit up. It was a weekday summer morning, and she thinks there may only have been one or two other people in the store--- people who worked for the owner. So they smoked and laughed and he flirted with her. He started touching her hair and tracing a finger along her legs. She said she slid forward on the table and started kissing him.
He told her that he knew she was underage and she couldn't tell anyone about this. She just shrugged and said that was cool. They kissed and she kicked off her little flip-flops and got her legs round him. He played with her soft breasts and pushed up her singlet. Liberty said she just reached down and pulled it over her head and told him to kiss her tits. She squeezed him through his jeans and got him out. She remembers telling him that she didn't care if anyone came back into the rack area, and he just said no one would anyway. She stroked him and got off the table to take him in her mouth. Once she had him down her throat he played with her hair and tits and took a couple more hits on the joint, Then he picked her up and put her back on the table and got her shorts open. I thought she'd probably be in tiny, ragged, faded cut-off jeans shorts, but she told me they were khaki shorts--- short and probably old and dirty, but khaki not denim.
She wasn't wearing underwear ("I know you'll like that part," she told me) and the owner laughed and asked if she'd forgotten something that morning. Liberty just told him no. In the summer, she told me, back in her teens, she mostly didn't bother--- too hot once the sun got up, and mostly in the mornings she just showered and pulled on shorts and a t-shirt or a singlet and didn't much care about shoes, underwear, or bras. Anyway, he got her shorts off and tossed them on the floor and leaned over her while he pulled her into the right angle for entry.
He didn't ask her about condoms or being on the Pill, and she was pretty unconcerned about things like that anyway. She got her legs back round him and he pushed into her while they kissed and he squeezed her breasts. She told me it was rough in the good way--- she felt taken but still appreciated. Good fuck, she said. Good size, good thickness, good hip motion. He pushed her legs up and got them over his shoulders. He had two fingers in her mouth, which was probably good--- she is seriously loud when she has sex, and there were at least a couple of people out in the front of the store.
He came in her, which felt good. She wanted him to turn her over and fuck her from behind, but they both worried about time. He finally apologised for not using a condom, and she told him not to worry, that it was no big deal. She told me she remembered that while he was fucking her, she could look up at the closest rack and see the label on the kayak--- a Riot Kayak 11-LV Day Tourer. She still remembered that eight years later, and I wrote it down in my Moleskine. Anyway...she got her singlet back on and found her shorts on the floor and stepped back into them. She kissed his cock and kissed him and thanked him.
She said she stepped into one flip-flop but couldn't find the other--- it must've gone under one of the racks. They were $5 cheap rubber ones, so she just took the one she had and tossed it in a trash can and stayed barefoot the rest of the day. He laughed at her and told her she should come see him again and buy a boat.
She told me she did come back, and she did buy her first kayak there--- the 11-ft. Riot Day Tourer model just like the one on the rack. That's about a $US 700 boat, and she used it for a long time. She took it with her the next year when she fell out with her newly-religious parents (another story) and moved in with her then-boyfriend's family. She fucked the owner off and on most of that summer. She'd come by the shop or meet him at his house or down at one of the docks on the local rivers. She said it was all very casual--- she had other things in her life that kept her busy, and she dated a few people or hooked up at parties. She said the best time was once when she and her best friend April went kayak camping and she arranged for the owner to meet them where they'd be camping. They all drank lots of whiskey and smoked weed and he spent the night in a sleeping bag with Liberty. Did she and April do a 3-way with the man? She elbowed me when I asked and told that of course they had, both that night and few other nights, that it was all about learning new things and enjoying the summer. She loved driving to the store and just hanging out, being the barefoot girl with headphones sitting on the owner's desk with her iPod and a smoothie...and a flask hidden in her little daypack.
Anyway, she decided she liked Older Men, or at least was comfortable with them. That made it easy when she and I first started talking a couple of years ago, when she was at the oyster bar. She thought I was interesting and the age thing meant pretty much zero to her. When I told her my age--- she just shrugged. What mattered, she said, was that I was interesting. We'll use each other for the stories, she said. We'll trade stories and we'll learn things. Something I was very comfortable with.
Well, Liberty herself is very, very interesting. Her stories range from the Pacific Northwest to New Mexico and Colorado, to North Carolina and Florida. She has a degree in environmental sciences and is looking forward to doing an master's in coastal wetlands management. I can be there with her in the dark and listen to her tell me tales of her past and her thoughts, and she's taught me kayaking and how to play pétanque. I should like to keep her in my life, and I very much hope she'll whisper more things to me on winter nights.
Sunday, December 16, 2018
Two Two Two: Booth
This story comes from the days of long ago, from my friend Tara, who's now doing a performance art thing in St. Paul. The story is from 2004, when she was an undergraduate and did a study-abroad semester in...Mongolia. I've never been quite clear about that. Why Mongolia? It may be that, yes, she was a dual major in Anthropology and Art and wanted to see the culture. It may be something as simple as cost--- she wanted to go abroad for a semester, and Mongolia in those days was the cheapest program. In any case, she went to Ulan Bataar (UB, the expats say) and enjoyed the trip. Part of that was an encounter with a local, a UB policeman who'd discovered American co-eds. Tara's version of the story went like this---
Well....let's see.
The boy in question was, in addition to being an apparently well known
detective for the Mongolian police force, Mr. Mongolia 2003--a title
one earns by winning bodybuilding competitions. He was probably in his
mid to late twenties.
I mean, bodybuilding isn't hugely popular there, but still! That was
a lot of muscle!
The clothing aspect of all of this is not particularly sexy, because
it was December in UB. I was wearing warm hiking boots and warm wooly
socks, a pair of fleece tights (but not panties), a pair of low-rider
jeans, a fitted olive green shirt, no bra, and a green turtle neck
sweater. (The green shirt looks fantastic without a bra underneath.)
He was also wearing warm boots and socks and a pair of warm pants
underneath his jeans. He wore a button-up shirt with short sleeves
under his sweater and jacket. I wish I could say I remembered the
colors but I don't. I think they were just greys and browns and
things. I think the button-up shirt was the same one he wore to the
club when he followed us home and I think it was a rather strange
pattern of yellow and black.
We were at the movie store and looking at videos, trying to pick
something out. He kept trying to pick a porn flick but ultimately we
got the original Bourne Identity. I didn't really think porn would be
necessary to set the mood.
In the room there was a bench along the wall opposite the television
and then a small cube to serve as table, foot rest, etc. When we got
in the room, we sat next to each other on the bench with his arm
around me. The movie started and about 10 minutes in he was starting
to fidget quite a lot. He started nuzzling my hair etc., so I turned
to face him and we started kissing. He put a hand on my left breast
as we kissed...I am trying to remember the transition from making out
into fucking....I believe he put a hand against my crotch through my
pants and was making me come that way. I was wet enough through my
tights to wonder if the denim would get wet, too.
After I came I believe I either asked him if he wanted to fuck or I
showed him the condom that I had purchased earlier. He spoke a little
bit of English but not enough to really hold a conversation....so
probably I just showed him the condom, even though we didn't end up
using it. He pushed the cube up against the door and I took off my
sweater. I handed him the condom and he looked at me and tossed it
away as I pulled my jeans and tights down and put my hands against the
wall behind the bench. I was actually glad about the condom, since
despite what all the girls in the program kept saying about having one
at all times, I hate condoms. I certainly never used them in high
school.
He entered me quickly and started pounding me, his hands on my hips.
He was thick, more thick than long. He was uncut, like most MongoI
men, which made it feel better. I braced myself against the wall and
occasionally put a knee up on the bench for stability. I wasn't
particularly quiet and I think he was a little bit distracted by the
possibility that one of the (very cute) female video clerks would come
in. I think it was pretty clear to them that we were there for the
purposes of fucking so it's unfortunate they didn't decide to
investigate.
The unfortunate part about Mongolia is that most people live with
their parents until marriage. But this meant I got another chance to
have semi-public sex.
So...he was fucking me from behind, his pants just opened and mine
pulled down a little bit. I kept asking him to fuck me harder and he
seemed to understand that. I also reached back and pulled my
asscheeks open. He pulled out once and started probing my ass. He got
inside maybe an inch or two, since i was very dry. I pushed back a
little but he seemed to have chickened out because he then started
fucking my cunt again. Part of the way through I felt the skin at the
back of the opening of my cunt (the part towards the asshole) tear a
little bit but obviously a girl doesn't stop because of that. I think
I came at least two but probably three times. He came after maybe 6
or 7 minutes of hard fucking.
We lounged against one another as we got our breath. We watched maybe
another 20 or 30 minutes of the movie when he starting touching my
breasts again. This time we made out longer....we kissed slowly for a
while, as he got touchy-feely. He felt me breasts over my shirt and
then under my shirt...a little after he went under my shirt I started
rubbing his uncut cock through his jeans. I lifted my shirt off and
he acted like he liked their size and that I was bra-less. American
girls were all supposed to be sluts, after all. So he started sucking
and biting my nipples. I straddled him then, and we kissed that way
as he handled my breasts. He was a little rough with them, and very
eager. I pushed my cunt against his cock through our jeans, grinding
on him. His attitude changed a lot then and he started kissing me
harder, kissing my neck and my shoulders and cupping my ass. I asked
him if he wanted to fuck again and he nodded. I stripped myself
completely. The floor was sharply cold once I was without boots and
socks. He took off his pants too (white briefs--that's what he was
wearing) and his underwear, and I licked his balls and he squeezed my
breasts while I knelt. He had handcuffs on the back of his belt, and I
kept wishing he'd handcuff me.
I straddled him then and he put his hands on my waist. I pushed
myself onto his cock without kissing him. I remember smiling at him as
his eyes got a little wider. Then I started riding him as he groped
my breasts and my ass....if only he had thought to put a finger in my
ass! I should have learned the words for that off the bat. I rode his
uncut cock to two orgasms and I think he was just sort of surprised
about what was going on because he didn't make a noise and his hands
just shifted all over me. I, on the other hand, was very noisy and
excited about the whole thing. After I came twice, he pushed me off
of him and onto the bench. I masturbated for him briefly and then he
ate me out. Again--too bad one of the lovely attendants hadn't walked
in to see me there on my back, legs over his back as he ate me out and
finally did push two fingers in my asshole after I guided his hand.
Then he got on the bench and, with my legs over his shoulders, he
started fucking me. He didn't bend over, but instead was mostly
upright and perpendicular to my body as he fucked me. How gloriously
slutty! After a few years of misguided monogamy, here I was being
fucked by a cop! I hope to fuck a cop in the States soon, to get out
of a traffic ticket or something like that. All my American friends
knew about my boyfriend back home, they all knew that the Mongolian
had fucked a couple of the other American students and they had all
seen me getting ready for my date. So--these things were in my mind
as he fucked me there on the bench. He was going pretty steadily at
it and had put one hand on my clit, the other holding my right leg as
it rested on his shoulder. I came again in this position, louder than
before, and right after I came he bent over, put his hands against the
bench and started fucking me really forcefully. My butt was a little
bit off the bench, suspended by my legs, which were still over his
shoulders. I couldn't really move much, as he had me pinned on both
sides by his arms and he was driving his cock into me....I love not
being able to go anywhere. I came again and then he came shortly
afterwards. He put enough into me for it to run down my thighs. I
don't think we even finished watching the movie, we just got dressed
again and left. When we drove up to the residence building, I opened
his pants and licked him clean there parked on the street.
When I got home, the bravest of the Americans asked, "Did you bone?"
And my answer was, "Yes, of course." Most of the room was shocked, but
I'm not sure why...It had been clear as soon as Emmy (the other
American) was done with him that it was my turn. Emmy was into
cutting and that sort of thing in bed...so it was quite a shame that
she wasn't interested in fucking both of us.
I've loved the story since she first told me about it. I'd love to talk with Tara again and ask how she looks back on things fifteen years late. How does Tara at thirty-five regard her nineteen-year-old self and her adventures? I have follow-up questions, too. Did she ever see the detective again? Did she ever sleep with Emmy? How many of the other girls at the residence had sex with the detective? UB seems a place where expats can indulge in things that'll never follow them home, where you're far enough away from the world to just be free to both explore and (yes) relieve the boredom. I think I will ask girls I know about stories of affairs and one-night stands while abroad in exotic places. After all, Adventures are part of the point of travel. Let's see what stories I can find out amongst my friends and acquaintances and lovers.
Well....let's see.
The boy in question was, in addition to being an apparently well known
detective for the Mongolian police force, Mr. Mongolia 2003--a title
one earns by winning bodybuilding competitions. He was probably in his
mid to late twenties.
I mean, bodybuilding isn't hugely popular there, but still! That was
a lot of muscle!
The clothing aspect of all of this is not particularly sexy, because
it was December in UB. I was wearing warm hiking boots and warm wooly
socks, a pair of fleece tights (but not panties), a pair of low-rider
jeans, a fitted olive green shirt, no bra, and a green turtle neck
sweater. (The green shirt looks fantastic without a bra underneath.)
He was also wearing warm boots and socks and a pair of warm pants
underneath his jeans. He wore a button-up shirt with short sleeves
under his sweater and jacket. I wish I could say I remembered the
colors but I don't. I think they were just greys and browns and
things. I think the button-up shirt was the same one he wore to the
club when he followed us home and I think it was a rather strange
pattern of yellow and black.
We were at the movie store and looking at videos, trying to pick
something out. He kept trying to pick a porn flick but ultimately we
got the original Bourne Identity. I didn't really think porn would be
necessary to set the mood.
In the room there was a bench along the wall opposite the television
and then a small cube to serve as table, foot rest, etc. When we got
in the room, we sat next to each other on the bench with his arm
around me. The movie started and about 10 minutes in he was starting
to fidget quite a lot. He started nuzzling my hair etc., so I turned
to face him and we started kissing. He put a hand on my left breast
as we kissed...I am trying to remember the transition from making out
into fucking....I believe he put a hand against my crotch through my
pants and was making me come that way. I was wet enough through my
tights to wonder if the denim would get wet, too.
After I came I believe I either asked him if he wanted to fuck or I
showed him the condom that I had purchased earlier. He spoke a little
bit of English but not enough to really hold a conversation....so
probably I just showed him the condom, even though we didn't end up
using it. He pushed the cube up against the door and I took off my
sweater. I handed him the condom and he looked at me and tossed it
away as I pulled my jeans and tights down and put my hands against the
wall behind the bench. I was actually glad about the condom, since
despite what all the girls in the program kept saying about having one
at all times, I hate condoms. I certainly never used them in high
school.
He entered me quickly and started pounding me, his hands on my hips.
He was thick, more thick than long. He was uncut, like most MongoI
men, which made it feel better. I braced myself against the wall and
occasionally put a knee up on the bench for stability. I wasn't
particularly quiet and I think he was a little bit distracted by the
possibility that one of the (very cute) female video clerks would come
in. I think it was pretty clear to them that we were there for the
purposes of fucking so it's unfortunate they didn't decide to
investigate.
The unfortunate part about Mongolia is that most people live with
their parents until marriage. But this meant I got another chance to
have semi-public sex.
So...he was fucking me from behind, his pants just opened and mine
pulled down a little bit. I kept asking him to fuck me harder and he
seemed to understand that. I also reached back and pulled my
asscheeks open. He pulled out once and started probing my ass. He got
inside maybe an inch or two, since i was very dry. I pushed back a
little but he seemed to have chickened out because he then started
fucking my cunt again. Part of the way through I felt the skin at the
back of the opening of my cunt (the part towards the asshole) tear a
little bit but obviously a girl doesn't stop because of that. I think
I came at least two but probably three times. He came after maybe 6
or 7 minutes of hard fucking.
We lounged against one another as we got our breath. We watched maybe
another 20 or 30 minutes of the movie when he starting touching my
breasts again. This time we made out longer....we kissed slowly for a
while, as he got touchy-feely. He felt me breasts over my shirt and
then under my shirt...a little after he went under my shirt I started
rubbing his uncut cock through his jeans. I lifted my shirt off and
he acted like he liked their size and that I was bra-less. American
girls were all supposed to be sluts, after all. So he started sucking
and biting my nipples. I straddled him then, and we kissed that way
as he handled my breasts. He was a little rough with them, and very
eager. I pushed my cunt against his cock through our jeans, grinding
on him. His attitude changed a lot then and he started kissing me
harder, kissing my neck and my shoulders and cupping my ass. I asked
him if he wanted to fuck again and he nodded. I stripped myself
completely. The floor was sharply cold once I was without boots and
socks. He took off his pants too (white briefs--that's what he was
wearing) and his underwear, and I licked his balls and he squeezed my
breasts while I knelt. He had handcuffs on the back of his belt, and I
kept wishing he'd handcuff me.
I straddled him then and he put his hands on my waist. I pushed
myself onto his cock without kissing him. I remember smiling at him as
his eyes got a little wider. Then I started riding him as he groped
my breasts and my ass....if only he had thought to put a finger in my
ass! I should have learned the words for that off the bat. I rode his
uncut cock to two orgasms and I think he was just sort of surprised
about what was going on because he didn't make a noise and his hands
just shifted all over me. I, on the other hand, was very noisy and
excited about the whole thing. After I came twice, he pushed me off
of him and onto the bench. I masturbated for him briefly and then he
ate me out. Again--too bad one of the lovely attendants hadn't walked
in to see me there on my back, legs over his back as he ate me out and
finally did push two fingers in my asshole after I guided his hand.
Then he got on the bench and, with my legs over his shoulders, he
started fucking me. He didn't bend over, but instead was mostly
upright and perpendicular to my body as he fucked me. How gloriously
slutty! After a few years of misguided monogamy, here I was being
fucked by a cop! I hope to fuck a cop in the States soon, to get out
of a traffic ticket or something like that. All my American friends
knew about my boyfriend back home, they all knew that the Mongolian
had fucked a couple of the other American students and they had all
seen me getting ready for my date. So--these things were in my mind
as he fucked me there on the bench. He was going pretty steadily at
it and had put one hand on my clit, the other holding my right leg as
it rested on his shoulder. I came again in this position, louder than
before, and right after I came he bent over, put his hands against the
bench and started fucking me really forcefully. My butt was a little
bit off the bench, suspended by my legs, which were still over his
shoulders. I couldn't really move much, as he had me pinned on both
sides by his arms and he was driving his cock into me....I love not
being able to go anywhere. I came again and then he came shortly
afterwards. He put enough into me for it to run down my thighs. I
don't think we even finished watching the movie, we just got dressed
again and left. When we drove up to the residence building, I opened
his pants and licked him clean there parked on the street.
When I got home, the bravest of the Americans asked, "Did you bone?"
And my answer was, "Yes, of course." Most of the room was shocked, but
I'm not sure why...It had been clear as soon as Emmy (the other
American) was done with him that it was my turn. Emmy was into
cutting and that sort of thing in bed...so it was quite a shame that
she wasn't interested in fucking both of us.
I've loved the story since she first told me about it. I'd love to talk with Tara again and ask how she looks back on things fifteen years late. How does Tara at thirty-five regard her nineteen-year-old self and her adventures? I have follow-up questions, too. Did she ever see the detective again? Did she ever sleep with Emmy? How many of the other girls at the residence had sex with the detective? UB seems a place where expats can indulge in things that'll never follow them home, where you're far enough away from the world to just be free to both explore and (yes) relieve the boredom. I think I will ask girls I know about stories of affairs and one-night stands while abroad in exotic places. After all, Adventures are part of the point of travel. Let's see what stories I can find out amongst my friends and acquaintances and lovers.
Saturday, November 24, 2018
Two Two One: Carousel
This is from an e-mail sent me a couple of years ago from an expat friend who now works in London Town. It does seem that her experience in the world of educated professionals is NOTHING AT ALL like mine. I'm just worried about my runner getting the daily lunch order right. As for my friend---
I've been having a bad summer.
The back story is that several years ago a gay friend of mine introduced me to his then pupilmaster (they are now both barristers at the same Chambers) on his birthday. This married barrister and I fell madly in love at first sight and had a long-term affair, obviously complicated by the whole married-with-children thing. The next year, on the very same date, the same gay friend introduced me to his friend who is a young, badly-behaved, copper-haired heiress. She and I also fell in love pretty much at first sight (my gay barrister friend is at this point getting slightly bemused). I introduced her to the married barrister and they got along fabulously. All was, if not well, broadly functional.
So you'll appreciate the soap operatic shenanigans that followed. A month ago, my lesbian lover ran off with the husband of the pregnant clerk at the Chambers where gay barrister and married barrister are both based. She is now being all housewiffley off in Zone 4, and the Chambers is in a kerfuffle coping with a pregnant, depressed, wronged woman of a clerk. (Gay barrister friend is wondering exactly how he became the one introducing all of the scarlet women into Chambers life.)
Then, married barrister, who had claimed he had basically left his wife and was merely sorting out practical details, tells me he is going on a hiking trip in the alps with his friend. I have no reason to disbelieve him.
While he's away, my landlady/flatmate tells me she wants me to move out ASAP (I only moved in May, at her insistence) so that her anorexic sister can move in so she can keep an eye on her and make sure she's eating. So I am suddenly frantic to find a new place to live. It is difficult to get in touch with married barrister who is without mobile phone access most of the time because he's hiking in the bloody alps...or so he says.
For no particular reason, I have the sudden revelation that he has lied to me and is away with his wife and kids, not hiking with his mate. I am absolutely certain of this (I do get these occasional flashes of intuition). I'm heartbroken and furious,but I decide I have to get conclusive proof that he lied before I do anything. I stalk his friend online to find his work number, ring it up and then hang up when he answers. Confirmed. I email married barrister and tell him I never want to see him again. (Turns out they're in Italy.) At this point he offers to fly back immediately and send emails to his parents/friends/everyone he knows saying that his marriage is over and he wants to be with me, but it is too late.
So things are bad.
Yesterday, I was chatting with a gay friend who is based in Delhi about the whole thing. He told me I should run away to Paris and have a threesome with our friends Albert and Olivier (both quite attractive Frenchman--Olivier I've slept with already). So I am going to Paris on Friday. We shall see.
I've been having a bad summer.
The back story is that several years ago a gay friend of mine introduced me to his then pupilmaster (they are now both barristers at the same Chambers) on his birthday. This married barrister and I fell madly in love at first sight and had a long-term affair, obviously complicated by the whole married-with-children thing. The next year, on the very same date, the same gay friend introduced me to his friend who is a young, badly-behaved, copper-haired heiress. She and I also fell in love pretty much at first sight (my gay barrister friend is at this point getting slightly bemused). I introduced her to the married barrister and they got along fabulously. All was, if not well, broadly functional.
So you'll appreciate the soap operatic shenanigans that followed. A month ago, my lesbian lover ran off with the husband of the pregnant clerk at the Chambers where gay barrister and married barrister are both based. She is now being all housewiffley off in Zone 4, and the Chambers is in a kerfuffle coping with a pregnant, depressed, wronged woman of a clerk. (Gay barrister friend is wondering exactly how he became the one introducing all of the scarlet women into Chambers life.)
Then, married barrister, who had claimed he had basically left his wife and was merely sorting out practical details, tells me he is going on a hiking trip in the alps with his friend. I have no reason to disbelieve him.
While he's away, my landlady/flatmate tells me she wants me to move out ASAP (I only moved in May, at her insistence) so that her anorexic sister can move in so she can keep an eye on her and make sure she's eating. So I am suddenly frantic to find a new place to live. It is difficult to get in touch with married barrister who is without mobile phone access most of the time because he's hiking in the bloody alps...or so he says.
For no particular reason, I have the sudden revelation that he has lied to me and is away with his wife and kids, not hiking with his mate. I am absolutely certain of this (I do get these occasional flashes of intuition). I'm heartbroken and furious,but I decide I have to get conclusive proof that he lied before I do anything. I stalk his friend online to find his work number, ring it up and then hang up when he answers. Confirmed. I email married barrister and tell him I never want to see him again. (Turns out they're in Italy.) At this point he offers to fly back immediately and send emails to his parents/friends/everyone he knows saying that his marriage is over and he wants to be with me, but it is too late.
So things are bad.
Yesterday, I was chatting with a gay friend who is based in Delhi about the whole thing. He told me I should run away to Paris and have a threesome with our friends Albert and Olivier (both quite attractive Frenchman--Olivier I've slept with already). So I am going to Paris on Friday. We shall see.
My friend has a life that sounds exhausting yet definitely worth recording. She will not, she says, be writing her own autobiographical novel because she would like to keep her job and at least a few friends. Nonetheless, I do rather fancy having her in my archives.
Sunday, November 18, 2018
Two Two Zero: Forklift
Long ago--- back in the lost springtime of 2007 ---a lovely friend wrote me an email about her rantan week in Wellington, about a week where she'd partied hard and done things she'd never done before. One of her more intriguing notes was that she remembered being with a Maori forklift operator--- her first Maori adventure, and one that gave her a decided taste for Maori one-night stands ---and riding his face while taking long swigs from a bottle of Maker's. I've been asking her for details ever since.
After all these years, she finally wrote me with the details. I'm definitely keeping this for my records. She does tell good tales of her Adventures. And as I've said these last sixteen years, Details Matter:
I met him at a dive bar. I can't remember exactly how old I was, but very early 20s I'd say. Maybe 19? His name was Tane (tar-nay). A friend was working at the bar, and she told me she liked the look of him. I remember her being pissed off at me later when she found out I fucked him. I actually can't even remember her name now. She was Australian. I went to her flat a few times to drink and smoke weed. I remember the night I first met her she was talking to my friend Fergy about how fast she used batteries in her vibrator. I was out that night with Stella and Libby and a group of their friends from the bookshop they all worked at.
Tane had just moved to Wellington from somewhere up north. He was working at a factory, operating a forklift all day. He was cute and very polite. The type of Maori boy from up north that was raised by his grandmother. Early 30s. He was solid and strong looking. He was at the pub alone. I started talking to him. After the pub closed we all went back to my house - the bookshop guys and girls, plus Tane. We had a few more drinks, the others left, he stayed. I was happy drunk, single, and he was hot. We fucked in my bed.
I don't know that I'd ever really tried face-sitting before. I remember being a bit self conscious at first. It's an intimate position, especially with a stranger. But he wanted it and was so into it that I just relaxed into it and enjoyed myself. He was so focused on making me cum. He was a good fuck, and he had a nice cock. But what I remember most was his tongue on my clit and in my cunt. I don't remember if I sucked his cock or not. He stayed the night, and I rode his face in the morning. I remember how much more confidence I had in the morning, from tentatively sitting above his face the night before, to moving and grinding, my hands on the headboard and his hands on my ass.
He texted me the next day, and a few times after that wanting to hang out. We never did. I saw him again about a year later, at the same pub. He gave me a kiss and a flower that I tucked behind my ear.
I do love keeping the stories of her Adventures and Encounters from her posh party girl Past. She's been known to tell me the stories and laugh and say that knowing I was trained as a historian and a lawyer makes it so obvious that I'd be asking for lots of stories, and that she loves being part of the histories I'm keeping.
After all these years, she finally wrote me with the details. I'm definitely keeping this for my records. She does tell good tales of her Adventures. And as I've said these last sixteen years, Details Matter:
I met him at a dive bar. I can't remember exactly how old I was, but very early 20s I'd say. Maybe 19? His name was Tane (tar-nay). A friend was working at the bar, and she told me she liked the look of him. I remember her being pissed off at me later when she found out I fucked him. I actually can't even remember her name now. She was Australian. I went to her flat a few times to drink and smoke weed. I remember the night I first met her she was talking to my friend Fergy about how fast she used batteries in her vibrator. I was out that night with Stella and Libby and a group of their friends from the bookshop they all worked at.
Tane had just moved to Wellington from somewhere up north. He was working at a factory, operating a forklift all day. He was cute and very polite. The type of Maori boy from up north that was raised by his grandmother. Early 30s. He was solid and strong looking. He was at the pub alone. I started talking to him. After the pub closed we all went back to my house - the bookshop guys and girls, plus Tane. We had a few more drinks, the others left, he stayed. I was happy drunk, single, and he was hot. We fucked in my bed.
I don't know that I'd ever really tried face-sitting before. I remember being a bit self conscious at first. It's an intimate position, especially with a stranger. But he wanted it and was so into it that I just relaxed into it and enjoyed myself. He was so focused on making me cum. He was a good fuck, and he had a nice cock. But what I remember most was his tongue on my clit and in my cunt. I don't remember if I sucked his cock or not. He stayed the night, and I rode his face in the morning. I remember how much more confidence I had in the morning, from tentatively sitting above his face the night before, to moving and grinding, my hands on the headboard and his hands on my ass.
He texted me the next day, and a few times after that wanting to hang out. We never did. I saw him again about a year later, at the same pub. He gave me a kiss and a flower that I tucked behind my ear.
I do love keeping the stories of her Adventures and Encounters from her posh party girl Past. She's been known to tell me the stories and laugh and say that knowing I was trained as a historian and a lawyer makes it so obvious that I'd be asking for lots of stories, and that she loves being part of the histories I'm keeping.
Wednesday, October 3, 2018
Two One Nine: Kink
There is such a thing as kink-shaming.
Kink-shaming is not something I know much about, mind you. It's not something I've ever done to any of my young companions, and it's not something I can imagine doing.
The circles I moved in for most of my life took experimentation and certain recherché tastes as a given. Now I'm not naive. There were certainly social rankings and unspoken rules. It couldn't have been easy for many friends to be gay or bi back in the days of my lost youth. There was always that. But I remember being in my twenties and taking it for granted that certain things--- a taste for at least s/m fashion and poses, say ---were perfectly ordinary. I took it for granted that girls with whom I was involved were fine with blindfolds and candle wax and riding whips. I took it for granted that most of the girls I knew at university or in grad school had at least tried three-ways. I certainly took it for granted that part of sex and romance was adventure and experimentation--- risky places, new positions, new roles, new toys, new costumes. I remember that seductions and flirtations were very much about exchanging fantasies and seeing how you'd fit into one another's fantasies. There was a certain thrill in seeing what each of you might think about trying.
That feels gone these days.
In my university days and into my twenties and thirties I had no problem at all telling girls what I liked. I had no problem with that, and certainly no problem listening to a lovely young companion explain about her own tastes and interests.
Not so very long ago, a friend said off-handedly that she couldn't imagine me ever being shy about telling a lover or a potential lover what gave me pleasure. Well, not with her. That much is true. But it's harder and harder for me to admit to any particular tastes or interests.
I'm not sure what I'm afraid of. That I might horrify a young companion with the sheer depravity of it all? Probably not that. A girl with whom I'd discuss those things has already decided to be close to me, and just in being with me at all she's shown herself to be willing to defy most of the usual strictures against depravity.
Maybe I'm afraid that male desire is now regarded as shameful tout court. Maybe I'm afraid that any male sexual interests, even the most vanilla, are regarded as gross and disgusting and threatening. That's always part of it, I suppose.
Maybe it's that I'm afraid that if you say you like a particular kink, that'll define you permanently. I may be afraid that you're not allowed under the current social rules to experiment, to try things and then move on. So much nowadays has to be authentic--- interests and kinks have to speak to some underlying permanent truth or identity. You can't say you really like X on Thursday and then prefer Z on Sunday.
Maybe it's that I'm afraid that there's a social rank-ordering of kinks, that certain kinks are regarded as more pathetic or lower-class or less stylish than others. That might be it--- fear that any kinks or fetishes or preferences won't be good enough, that they'll mark you not so much as depraved but as a loser. That may be a real fear on my part.
You'll note that I rarely talk here about the details of interests and adventures in my life. That at least in part is based on a fear of having the wrong interests, having ones that don't fit with the life and image I've constructed for myself.
If I had to guess, I'd assign most of my fears to the idea that desire, male desire, is now regarded as dangerous and gross rather than alluring or passionate. It gets harder and harder to imagine telling a young companion what I like or what gives me pleasure. I'm always willing to try whatever pleases my companions. However not? That goes with being the Older Lover, the roué. But I'm now increasingly uncomfortable with talking about my own desires and increasingly unwilling to discuss what gives me pleasure. I'm afraid of being kink-shamed on any number of fronts, and I do find myself becoming increasingly silent and withdrawn around lovers.
Kink-shaming is not something I know much about, mind you. It's not something I've ever done to any of my young companions, and it's not something I can imagine doing.
The circles I moved in for most of my life took experimentation and certain recherché tastes as a given. Now I'm not naive. There were certainly social rankings and unspoken rules. It couldn't have been easy for many friends to be gay or bi back in the days of my lost youth. There was always that. But I remember being in my twenties and taking it for granted that certain things--- a taste for at least s/m fashion and poses, say ---were perfectly ordinary. I took it for granted that girls with whom I was involved were fine with blindfolds and candle wax and riding whips. I took it for granted that most of the girls I knew at university or in grad school had at least tried three-ways. I certainly took it for granted that part of sex and romance was adventure and experimentation--- risky places, new positions, new roles, new toys, new costumes. I remember that seductions and flirtations were very much about exchanging fantasies and seeing how you'd fit into one another's fantasies. There was a certain thrill in seeing what each of you might think about trying.
That feels gone these days.
In my university days and into my twenties and thirties I had no problem at all telling girls what I liked. I had no problem with that, and certainly no problem listening to a lovely young companion explain about her own tastes and interests.
Not so very long ago, a friend said off-handedly that she couldn't imagine me ever being shy about telling a lover or a potential lover what gave me pleasure. Well, not with her. That much is true. But it's harder and harder for me to admit to any particular tastes or interests.
I'm not sure what I'm afraid of. That I might horrify a young companion with the sheer depravity of it all? Probably not that. A girl with whom I'd discuss those things has already decided to be close to me, and just in being with me at all she's shown herself to be willing to defy most of the usual strictures against depravity.
Maybe I'm afraid that male desire is now regarded as shameful tout court. Maybe I'm afraid that any male sexual interests, even the most vanilla, are regarded as gross and disgusting and threatening. That's always part of it, I suppose.
Maybe it's that I'm afraid that if you say you like a particular kink, that'll define you permanently. I may be afraid that you're not allowed under the current social rules to experiment, to try things and then move on. So much nowadays has to be authentic--- interests and kinks have to speak to some underlying permanent truth or identity. You can't say you really like X on Thursday and then prefer Z on Sunday.
Maybe it's that I'm afraid that there's a social rank-ordering of kinks, that certain kinks are regarded as more pathetic or lower-class or less stylish than others. That might be it--- fear that any kinks or fetishes or preferences won't be good enough, that they'll mark you not so much as depraved but as a loser. That may be a real fear on my part.
You'll note that I rarely talk here about the details of interests and adventures in my life. That at least in part is based on a fear of having the wrong interests, having ones that don't fit with the life and image I've constructed for myself.
If I had to guess, I'd assign most of my fears to the idea that desire, male desire, is now regarded as dangerous and gross rather than alluring or passionate. It gets harder and harder to imagine telling a young companion what I like or what gives me pleasure. I'm always willing to try whatever pleases my companions. However not? That goes with being the Older Lover, the roué. But I'm now increasingly uncomfortable with talking about my own desires and increasingly unwilling to discuss what gives me pleasure. I'm afraid of being kink-shamed on any number of fronts, and I do find myself becoming increasingly silent and withdrawn around lovers.
Sunday, September 30, 2018
Two One Eight: Overtures
When the #MeToo movement broke, there were lots and lots of articles by male writers demanding to know how they could approach women without being immediately tagged as harassers, predators, or creepy pervs. How, they asked, could they talk to women?
I would've thought that by a certain age, any male would've seen that the obvious answer was...politeness and courtesy. Not so very hard a thing, is it? I understand that the point of these essays was to pretend to naivety, to pretend to a kind of haplessness and terrified cluelessness.
Now I will note that there are changes in the social air. Still...if you're, say, forty-five years old and writing of those essays, how did you manage to carry on flirtations and seductions for the last thirty years? You made it through the Eighties, the Nineties, and the Noughts. Didn't you adapt to changes over all that time? I have a hard time imagining anyone still sidling up to a lovely girl in a bar and asking what her sign is. Or ordering her a Harvey Wallbanger.
Learning new rituals is always hard. That much is true. But, again--- if you're forty or forty-five now, you've gone through shifts in wardrobe and looks, you've gone through shifts in what counts in assigning social value. Grunge to metrosexual to lumbersexual and beyond--- you made it through that. Surely you can do a bit of research in the right magazines and master new habits. It can't be that hard.
My own thought is that where the post-#MeToo essays weren't being deliberately disingenuous, they did have a small bit of actual unease. My own thought is that the writers were feeling guilt not so much for any actual moments of manipulation or coercion in their pasts, but rather for the fact that what they were trying to do in talking to women was initiate a seduction. They were feeling guilt over male desire.
Many of the responses by female writers were quite clear. Women, they responded, weren't demanding that interactions with men be totally sexless. Women, they wrote, liked sex too. In the right setting and at the right moment, they'd be as interested in initiating a flirtation or seduction as a man. What they wanted, the response essays argued, was honesty and recognition that women were people with rights, value, agency. All of which is very true. And perfectly obvious.
And yet...and yet...as a gentleman of a certain age, I can sympathize with that. Male desire as such is suspect these days, and no matter how polite and courteous an approach is, there's something like guilt. I don't know how to articulate it exactly, but there's a certain amount of guilt attached these days to making an approach at all. Be very clear here--- there's a clear set of social obligations about behavior. Respect for the person you're approaching--- always and ever that.
I'm not sure at all where the guilt comes from. Is it guilt that I see every social interaction with an attractive woman as having some subtext of at least pro forma flirtation? Is it guilt that I'd be...imposing...sex by someone who looks like me on an attractive woman? Is it that in some way I feel guilty for wanting sex at all? Is it that I've accepted some social idea that all male desire is wrong?
This is all something to consider. I'll continue to believe that basic courtesy and respect are requirements for being out in society at all, let alone for trying to spark a flirtation. But I will have to think about my own feelings of guilt and what prompts them.
I would've thought that by a certain age, any male would've seen that the obvious answer was...politeness and courtesy. Not so very hard a thing, is it? I understand that the point of these essays was to pretend to naivety, to pretend to a kind of haplessness and terrified cluelessness.
Now I will note that there are changes in the social air. Still...if you're, say, forty-five years old and writing of those essays, how did you manage to carry on flirtations and seductions for the last thirty years? You made it through the Eighties, the Nineties, and the Noughts. Didn't you adapt to changes over all that time? I have a hard time imagining anyone still sidling up to a lovely girl in a bar and asking what her sign is. Or ordering her a Harvey Wallbanger.
Learning new rituals is always hard. That much is true. But, again--- if you're forty or forty-five now, you've gone through shifts in wardrobe and looks, you've gone through shifts in what counts in assigning social value. Grunge to metrosexual to lumbersexual and beyond--- you made it through that. Surely you can do a bit of research in the right magazines and master new habits. It can't be that hard.
My own thought is that where the post-#MeToo essays weren't being deliberately disingenuous, they did have a small bit of actual unease. My own thought is that the writers were feeling guilt not so much for any actual moments of manipulation or coercion in their pasts, but rather for the fact that what they were trying to do in talking to women was initiate a seduction. They were feeling guilt over male desire.
Many of the responses by female writers were quite clear. Women, they responded, weren't demanding that interactions with men be totally sexless. Women, they wrote, liked sex too. In the right setting and at the right moment, they'd be as interested in initiating a flirtation or seduction as a man. What they wanted, the response essays argued, was honesty and recognition that women were people with rights, value, agency. All of which is very true. And perfectly obvious.
And yet...and yet...as a gentleman of a certain age, I can sympathize with that. Male desire as such is suspect these days, and no matter how polite and courteous an approach is, there's something like guilt. I don't know how to articulate it exactly, but there's a certain amount of guilt attached these days to making an approach at all. Be very clear here--- there's a clear set of social obligations about behavior. Respect for the person you're approaching--- always and ever that.
I'm not sure at all where the guilt comes from. Is it guilt that I see every social interaction with an attractive woman as having some subtext of at least pro forma flirtation? Is it guilt that I'd be...imposing...sex by someone who looks like me on an attractive woman? Is it that in some way I feel guilty for wanting sex at all? Is it that I've accepted some social idea that all male desire is wrong?
This is all something to consider. I'll continue to believe that basic courtesy and respect are requirements for being out in society at all, let alone for trying to spark a flirtation. But I will have to think about my own feelings of guilt and what prompts them.
Friday, August 3, 2018
Two One Seven: Horror Vacui
Last time I talked about adventures from long ago, about my friend Marta and her adventures on the Alaskan cruise. I do recall sitting in a Montrose bar listening to her recount her summertime tales. I was envious, of course. It was a good story, and I envied her her sense of having Had An Adventure. I envied her determination, too, her willingness at seventeen or eighteen to just do something.
I like having stories like that in my archives. I like being able to imagine invisible bookshelves filled with tales of delights and unexpected thrills and the sense of the new. I like imagining that the world is made of stories, not atoms.
The stories aren't necessarily mine, and may not even usually be mine. But they are part of the world around me, and discovering the stories means at least as much as having my own. I may be of an age and status where stories of my own where stories will be far and few between, but the world is filled nevertheless with stories, scaffolded with stories of youth and adventure and beauty.
I remember sitting with Marta over drinks and listening to her account of losing her virginity in that cruise ship gymnasium and picturing the things she told me--- the way the Jamaicans' dreads felt swishing across her bare back; the way the gym machine bench felt as she bent over it and hands straightened her body; the sense of being someone newly transformed when she walked barefoot and half-undressed back to her cabin. All those things became part of my memory palace, as did her grin there in the half-dark of the bar as she called up tales from almost a decade before.
My lovely blonde Kiwi friend wrote me once upon a time to say that her grey and rainy day had brightened:
It has really brightened up actually! and i just had a lunch date, which was very fun. i'm wearing black tailored pants, a blue and white striped shirt, and a black cardigan...very officey. I'm not wearing anything under either top or bottom, which I know you'll approve of. My lunch date was s a friend of a friend, up & coming young lawyer. i will probably fuck him, but i do think i like him more as a friend. very funny and cute. I haven't been in any new beds recently, but now that summer is coming on, I think I'll come out of my reclusiveness.
I loved (and still love) her self-assurance. I never did hear the follow-up to her story, though. Whatever became of the "up and coming young lawyer"? Did she sleep with him? What counts as "young"? And and as important as when and where and how she finally had sex with him is her own set of internal monologues: what were her decision protocols, exactly when and how did she decide to make herself available? I suppose I should follow up on her brief mention from three or four years ago. It matters that I have archives of stories, that I have information and backstories.
I do worry about something, though. I worry that I'll run out of stories, that voices one by one will fall silent out across the aether, that the world I'd like to write about (or experience vicariously) will narrow down to nothing.
I do worry about running out of things to write about. I worry about the world becoming empty. The last two years--- let me stress this ---have been a grim time here at the end of the American republic. It may be getting harder and harder to write about sex and delights and adventures. Everything in daily life seems jagged and depressive and threatening. Is there room right now for memories of lovers and encounters, of moments of excitement and exploration?
There are things that still catch my interest. A lesbian friend--- a very out-and-proud butch lesbian ---is angry at the trans community because, she says, the trans world wants to erase both lesbians as such and the idea of being butch. That's something interesting. That's a potential conflict that I'd like to hear more about. There are endless articles in the post-Weinstein world where women mock men who've written to say that they don't understand the rules of flirtation and seduction in a #MeToo world, and I've like to write about that particular male fear.
The world is made up of stories, not atoms. I don't want the world to empty out. I want there to be stories and histories and memories that I can share in, that I can write about. I do have a horror of being in a world where the memory palace has been emptied out, a world without stories.
I like having stories like that in my archives. I like being able to imagine invisible bookshelves filled with tales of delights and unexpected thrills and the sense of the new. I like imagining that the world is made of stories, not atoms.
The stories aren't necessarily mine, and may not even usually be mine. But they are part of the world around me, and discovering the stories means at least as much as having my own. I may be of an age and status where stories of my own where stories will be far and few between, but the world is filled nevertheless with stories, scaffolded with stories of youth and adventure and beauty.
I remember sitting with Marta over drinks and listening to her account of losing her virginity in that cruise ship gymnasium and picturing the things she told me--- the way the Jamaicans' dreads felt swishing across her bare back; the way the gym machine bench felt as she bent over it and hands straightened her body; the sense of being someone newly transformed when she walked barefoot and half-undressed back to her cabin. All those things became part of my memory palace, as did her grin there in the half-dark of the bar as she called up tales from almost a decade before.
My lovely blonde Kiwi friend wrote me once upon a time to say that her grey and rainy day had brightened:
It has really brightened up actually! and i just had a lunch date, which was very fun. i'm wearing black tailored pants, a blue and white striped shirt, and a black cardigan...very officey. I'm not wearing anything under either top or bottom, which I know you'll approve of. My lunch date was s a friend of a friend, up & coming young lawyer. i will probably fuck him, but i do think i like him more as a friend. very funny and cute. I haven't been in any new beds recently, but now that summer is coming on, I think I'll come out of my reclusiveness.
I loved (and still love) her self-assurance. I never did hear the follow-up to her story, though. Whatever became of the "up and coming young lawyer"? Did she sleep with him? What counts as "young"? And and as important as when and where and how she finally had sex with him is her own set of internal monologues: what were her decision protocols, exactly when and how did she decide to make herself available? I suppose I should follow up on her brief mention from three or four years ago. It matters that I have archives of stories, that I have information and backstories.
I do worry about something, though. I worry that I'll run out of stories, that voices one by one will fall silent out across the aether, that the world I'd like to write about (or experience vicariously) will narrow down to nothing.
I do worry about running out of things to write about. I worry about the world becoming empty. The last two years--- let me stress this ---have been a grim time here at the end of the American republic. It may be getting harder and harder to write about sex and delights and adventures. Everything in daily life seems jagged and depressive and threatening. Is there room right now for memories of lovers and encounters, of moments of excitement and exploration?
There are things that still catch my interest. A lesbian friend--- a very out-and-proud butch lesbian ---is angry at the trans community because, she says, the trans world wants to erase both lesbians as such and the idea of being butch. That's something interesting. That's a potential conflict that I'd like to hear more about. There are endless articles in the post-Weinstein world where women mock men who've written to say that they don't understand the rules of flirtation and seduction in a #MeToo world, and I've like to write about that particular male fear.
The world is made up of stories, not atoms. I don't want the world to empty out. I want there to be stories and histories and memories that I can share in, that I can write about. I do have a horror of being in a world where the memory palace has been emptied out, a world without stories.
Saturday, July 7, 2018
Two One Six: Cruise
I've been using this space to archive stories from girls I've known over the years.
The last two years have been a bitter and depressing time, and so few people have had the energy to write about stories and encounters from the past. Nonetheless, even here as the American republic is imploding, there should be time to remember beautiful girls and their encounters.
It's probably too much to expect lovely friends to send me lots of new stories here, but there are still parts of the past worth archiving.
Years and years ago, a girl in Houston told me this story over drinks. Not a story sent me via letter or email, but one I'm trying to remember from a long conversation punctuated with tequila shots.
What I remember is that her name was Marta. She was a friend-of-a-friend, and I can't for the life of me recall how we ended up drinking at a rooftop bar on a spring night. I do recall her story, though.
Marta graduated high school, she told me, as a millennium girl, a graduate of the Class of 2001. Her parents had promised to send her to Europe that summer, but for some set of reasons, they ended up backing out of that--- probably worry that Marta would spend time in London and Paris partying and being debauched by foreign boys. So they took her with them on a cruise up the Alaskan coast. A disappointment to Marta, of course, who had been looking forward to expanding her horizons in Europe.
The trip itself began in Seattle and meandered up to Alaska. I've never been to Seattle or Vancouver, and I suppose I would like to see both cities. Alaskan landscapes might be lovely things, too. But I can understand how Marta was increasingly bored and restless. At some point she began chatting with some of the waiters and stewards. There were almost no people her own age on the cruise, and the waiters were at least sympathetic to her plight.
One night one of the waiters invited her to meet him later in the ship's gym. Marta went. He was Jamaican, in his later twenties, handsome, and had that accent. The Jamaican part helped, of course--- one more thing that would defy her parents' beliefs. So Marta sneaked out to meet the Jamaican boy there amidst the gym equipment. It went pretty much like you'd imagine. They talked, laughed, drank from a bottle he'd brought. Smoked a bit of weed. Which led to making out on the gym floor and to Marta's shirt and shorts coming off and being flung away. Which led to her losing her virginity while on a gym machine bench. She was amazed that she was actually doing this, but even just out of high school she knew that while this wasn't a flat in Paris or London, it was pretty hot. This, Marta told me, was what whiskey and weed were for, for giving her the nerve to just defy her parents and do things none of her friends back in southeast Texas would do.
She did it again with the Jamaican boy the next night. She told me she loved sneaking back to her cabin, shoes in her hand, shorts barely buttoned, her long hair smelling of weed and sex. On the third night, the Jamaican boy brought a friend, another Jamaican. Marta told me that they listened to music on a boombox in the darkened gym, passed spliffs back and forth, and finally did a three-way thing. She wasn't scared, she told me. She'd pretty much guessed that the friend had come along exactly for a chance to join in. Years later, telling me the story, she told me that she'd almost laughed. The friend, she was pretty sure, had provided the first boy with the weed, and he was trading weed for a chance with the white teen girl. They were both handsome, she said, and it was her chance to finally do something in her life.
So there was a three-way. She recalled being bent over one the benches while the two boys took turns, and she remembered being on the floor with the new boy while he explored another entrance. That was Marta's phrase--- went in another door. I had to laugh at that. She said the major thing she remembered was that when she was bent over the bench , the two boys would shake their heads and whip her bare back with their long dreads. Years later, she remembered that as one of the great sensations of her life. She tried all the three-way positions as well as riding each boy and having her legs over their shoulders. She told me that she'd walked naked around the empty gym after sex, doing stretches. Being naked in a gym, being naked out in a risky place, she said, was actually easy. Her first Jamaican kept asking if she wanted her shirt, or at least her underwear, but Marta told them she was fine. She only wished there was a pool she could skinny-dip in.
Sitting there at a rooftop table, she tapped her glass on mine and told me that she hadn't made it to Europe until her last year at university, but that she had come home and told her friends, who were some mixture of appalled, amazed, and envious. She'd gone off to university at Austin in the fall and felt experienced and daring. I ordered more drinks for us and told her that I was very impressed. I did ask her my usual question--- after the three-way, when she walked home, was she wearing underwear? Nope, she said. She'd just left them in the gym. And the boys had had to urge her to put her shirt back on--- she'd wanted to walk topless for at least part of the way back to her cabin.
Am I as much of a wild girl as you hoped? she asked. All I could do was laugh and tell her that I was impressed. Very impressed.
The last two years have been a bitter and depressing time, and so few people have had the energy to write about stories and encounters from the past. Nonetheless, even here as the American republic is imploding, there should be time to remember beautiful girls and their encounters.
It's probably too much to expect lovely friends to send me lots of new stories here, but there are still parts of the past worth archiving.
Years and years ago, a girl in Houston told me this story over drinks. Not a story sent me via letter or email, but one I'm trying to remember from a long conversation punctuated with tequila shots.
What I remember is that her name was Marta. She was a friend-of-a-friend, and I can't for the life of me recall how we ended up drinking at a rooftop bar on a spring night. I do recall her story, though.
Marta graduated high school, she told me, as a millennium girl, a graduate of the Class of 2001. Her parents had promised to send her to Europe that summer, but for some set of reasons, they ended up backing out of that--- probably worry that Marta would spend time in London and Paris partying and being debauched by foreign boys. So they took her with them on a cruise up the Alaskan coast. A disappointment to Marta, of course, who had been looking forward to expanding her horizons in Europe.
The trip itself began in Seattle and meandered up to Alaska. I've never been to Seattle or Vancouver, and I suppose I would like to see both cities. Alaskan landscapes might be lovely things, too. But I can understand how Marta was increasingly bored and restless. At some point she began chatting with some of the waiters and stewards. There were almost no people her own age on the cruise, and the waiters were at least sympathetic to her plight.
One night one of the waiters invited her to meet him later in the ship's gym. Marta went. He was Jamaican, in his later twenties, handsome, and had that accent. The Jamaican part helped, of course--- one more thing that would defy her parents' beliefs. So Marta sneaked out to meet the Jamaican boy there amidst the gym equipment. It went pretty much like you'd imagine. They talked, laughed, drank from a bottle he'd brought. Smoked a bit of weed. Which led to making out on the gym floor and to Marta's shirt and shorts coming off and being flung away. Which led to her losing her virginity while on a gym machine bench. She was amazed that she was actually doing this, but even just out of high school she knew that while this wasn't a flat in Paris or London, it was pretty hot. This, Marta told me, was what whiskey and weed were for, for giving her the nerve to just defy her parents and do things none of her friends back in southeast Texas would do.
She did it again with the Jamaican boy the next night. She told me she loved sneaking back to her cabin, shoes in her hand, shorts barely buttoned, her long hair smelling of weed and sex. On the third night, the Jamaican boy brought a friend, another Jamaican. Marta told me that they listened to music on a boombox in the darkened gym, passed spliffs back and forth, and finally did a three-way thing. She wasn't scared, she told me. She'd pretty much guessed that the friend had come along exactly for a chance to join in. Years later, telling me the story, she told me that she'd almost laughed. The friend, she was pretty sure, had provided the first boy with the weed, and he was trading weed for a chance with the white teen girl. They were both handsome, she said, and it was her chance to finally do something in her life.
So there was a three-way. She recalled being bent over one the benches while the two boys took turns, and she remembered being on the floor with the new boy while he explored another entrance. That was Marta's phrase--- went in another door. I had to laugh at that. She said the major thing she remembered was that when she was bent over the bench , the two boys would shake their heads and whip her bare back with their long dreads. Years later, she remembered that as one of the great sensations of her life. She tried all the three-way positions as well as riding each boy and having her legs over their shoulders. She told me that she'd walked naked around the empty gym after sex, doing stretches. Being naked in a gym, being naked out in a risky place, she said, was actually easy. Her first Jamaican kept asking if she wanted her shirt, or at least her underwear, but Marta told them she was fine. She only wished there was a pool she could skinny-dip in.
Sitting there at a rooftop table, she tapped her glass on mine and told me that she hadn't made it to Europe until her last year at university, but that she had come home and told her friends, who were some mixture of appalled, amazed, and envious. She'd gone off to university at Austin in the fall and felt experienced and daring. I ordered more drinks for us and told her that I was very impressed. I did ask her my usual question--- after the three-way, when she walked home, was she wearing underwear? Nope, she said. She'd just left them in the gym. And the boys had had to urge her to put her shirt back on--- she'd wanted to walk topless for at least part of the way back to her cabin.
Am I as much of a wild girl as you hoped? she asked. All I could do was laugh and tell her that I was impressed. Very impressed.
Saturday, June 30, 2018
Two One Five: Rantan
The girl who's the heroine in this story sent me this a long time ago. It was one of the earlier emails we exchanged. She'd have been twenty-one at the time, still at university doing a degree in English Lit. We were involved in the rituals of getting to know one another and exchanging our first sets of emails. We'd talked about books and films and visions of escape from where we each lived. She'd have been in a rented house in those days; I was living in a house that I'd inherited and kept briefly. We'd flirted just a bit, and I was trying to get a feel for who she might be involved with, and what her adventures and past had been like. One April morning I did find this in my in-box:
I have been on the rantan lately. In the space of 8 days I had sex in an alley, I had a threesome in a hotel room, went home with a Maori forklift driver and was generally drunk & debaucherous.
I'm not usually like that. I'm in a very, very close group and it's not usual that I'd stray from it. But something happened a few weeks ago that threw me off. It was a man. But of course. A man who I've never written back about, never really talked about. There's nothing particularly special about him, or about me. Except I think we might be in love. A tragic, doomed kind of love. He told me he loved me. And all I wanted to do was be with him. But I know we can never be together. So I ran. But I'm sick of sad stories.
Tell me about when you were 21...
Years later, we talked about her adventures again. By then I knew what rantan was, and what it meant. Years after that first email arrived, she laughed and remembered this:
I remember that so well! I remember sitting on the Maori forklift driver's face while I took swigs of Jack Daniels from the bottle. I remember breaking into the hotel pool with the two much older men I was with, and swimming naked after they had taken turns fucking me, bent over the hotel bed. And I remember the alley, the grazes on my hands and knees the next morning.
The two older men, yes, I'd like to know more about that. One I think was the (married) owner or manager of the little hotel where the threesome happened. She did make one further comment on the event:
Wow! Good memories. Yes, I still remember that week! The threesome was actually with the married man I was talking to you about today, and a friend of his. Whenever I saw his friend after that, which was usually every Friday night, he'd give me one of those metal cigarette tins full of weed. I did sleep with him again, but never in a threesome. I think my married man liked the idea of it more than the reality. I remember the Maori forklift driver too...he loved me sitting on his face. The part I can't remember is whatever (really, whoever) inspired this particularly debaucherous week...I shall have to browse my old LJ to try & figure out who exactly had broken my heart.....god, 21.
There are still stories left unexplored there. I wish I knew more. I wish I knew more about her life at twenty or twenty-one. I wish I knew who in fact did break her heart and send her off on her rantan, her "debaucherous week". I want to know about the alley, too. Grazes on hands and knees--- I want to know about alleyway sex positions.
I have been on the rantan lately. In the space of 8 days I had sex in an alley, I had a threesome in a hotel room, went home with a Maori forklift driver and was generally drunk & debaucherous.
I'm not usually like that. I'm in a very, very close group and it's not usual that I'd stray from it. But something happened a few weeks ago that threw me off. It was a man. But of course. A man who I've never written back about, never really talked about. There's nothing particularly special about him, or about me. Except I think we might be in love. A tragic, doomed kind of love. He told me he loved me. And all I wanted to do was be with him. But I know we can never be together. So I ran. But I'm sick of sad stories.
Tell me about when you were 21...
Years later, we talked about her adventures again. By then I knew what rantan was, and what it meant. Years after that first email arrived, she laughed and remembered this:
I remember that so well! I remember sitting on the Maori forklift driver's face while I took swigs of Jack Daniels from the bottle. I remember breaking into the hotel pool with the two much older men I was with, and swimming naked after they had taken turns fucking me, bent over the hotel bed. And I remember the alley, the grazes on my hands and knees the next morning.
The two older men, yes, I'd like to know more about that. One I think was the (married) owner or manager of the little hotel where the threesome happened. She did make one further comment on the event:
Wow! Good memories. Yes, I still remember that week! The threesome was actually with the married man I was talking to you about today, and a friend of his. Whenever I saw his friend after that, which was usually every Friday night, he'd give me one of those metal cigarette tins full of weed. I did sleep with him again, but never in a threesome. I think my married man liked the idea of it more than the reality. I remember the Maori forklift driver too...he loved me sitting on his face. The part I can't remember is whatever (really, whoever) inspired this particularly debaucherous week...I shall have to browse my old LJ to try & figure out who exactly had broken my heart.....god, 21.
There are still stories left unexplored there. I wish I knew more. I wish I knew more about her life at twenty or twenty-one. I wish I knew who in fact did break her heart and send her off on her rantan, her "debaucherous week". I want to know about the alley, too. Grazes on hands and knees--- I want to know about alleyway sex positions.
Two One Four: Formation
I've very probably written about this before, but since I am posting archived tales, I'll post this again as one of the best memories a lovely girl has ever shared with me. It's certainly a story that leaves me jealous, envious, and depressed. I do wish I could mean this much to the lovely girl in question, and I wish my own life could yield up stories with this much power. This story makes me all-too-aware that there isn't likely to be anything in my own life to ever match her story--- and certainly not in what's left of my future.
My lovely friend sent me these stories--- her darkest secret, she averred ---a few years ago. She told me that she's tried to cut clear of the man in the stories, but somehow she ends up on the phone or on web chat with him far too often. I don't know if she's seen him in the flesh these last three or four years, though it's possible. She calls him B. That could be anything--- Brian, Bob, Bill. The name doesn't matter, of course. It's the power in the obsession and the stories that matters.
Her first discussion of him, in an autumn a few years back---
I can't stop fantasising about my uncle (for clarification - he's my mothers cousin, but I shall refer to his as my uncle for convenience). He must be...62ish now. He's tall and tan and solid. He owns a pub in the outback in Australia. I first met him when I was in my mid teens, he taught me how to blow smoke rings, we drank sambuca and we fucked. Now I can't stop thinking about the last time I saw him...it must have been 2008? Or 2009? It was at a family funeral. When I saw him after the funeral I went up to him and hugged him. Brushing my hands around his waist, I felt something like an electric shock. 'Hey there, beautiful' he whispered in my ear, then kissed my cheek. An hour or so later I noticed him watching me, and nodding his head towards the bathroom. I swallowed the rest of my gin & tonic and walked ahead of him. I was wearing black heels and a black skirt. After he shut the door, he ran his fingers up my thigh, lifted my skirt and kissed my bare cunt.
I need him again.
And again, the next April---
it has been years. but there will never be anyone else. i met him when i was 17. not so young, i suppose. but give me a girl at an impressionable age and she is mine for life. cards on the table, right from the beginning. first cousin once removed is the technical term. and thirty-odd years between us. our first night together i was drunk. sambuca flowed through my veins. but it was electric. i knew at the time it was different to anything i'd ever felt before. i didn't know that i'd never feel anything like it since. it was a cheap motel room. we fucked countless times that night, then the next day he flew back to australia. a month later he flew me to his pub in the outback. we had a whole month together. to date, that was the longest time we ever spent together. i started to understand that it was love. we'd pour drinks at his bar all night, then take a bottle upstairs with us. we would drink and talk until dawn. the sex was amazing. he went down on me for hours. i'd had men before...but not like this. i felt so powerful, so needed, and so loved.
we've been together all over the place. vancouver, tokyo, auckland, sydney, the outback, fiji, wellington. we steal long weekends. we fly each other wherever, whenever we have the chance. for a long time i wouldn't let him cum in my cunt. my mouth was fine, preferred. i got over that though. its been ten years now. and nobody touches me like he does. nobody looks at me like he does. he is the only man i want, and i can never have him.
“The only obsession everyone wants: ‘love.’ People think that in falling in love they make themselves whole? The Platonic union of souls? I think otherwise. I think you’re whole before you begin. And the love fractures you. You’re whole, and then you’re cracked open.”
and i have tried to not let it consume me. i slept with men his age. boys my own age. girls. there is only him. i've had long-term boyfriends, who thought nothing when i flew to fiji for a 'girls weekend' and spent four blissful days with his tongue in my cunt and his arms around my waist. when i flew to vancouver with friends he arranged to be there for a weekend too...i told them i was catching up with my uncle, and had his hand in my cunt in the lift up to his hotel room. another time we were together for four nights in auckland. we stayed at a house in devonport, and it was like this 'what we could have been' experience. we cooked for each other, and read aloud to each other. we played cards, and mixed each other drinks. we walked around naked. we bathed together. we came together all week. it was agony to catch the plane home after that.
he is my addiction. we're a chemical reaction.
“The only way to get rid of temptation is to yield to it.”
some nights i stay up late, drinking straight bourbon and smoking. habits i learnt from him, of course. they aren't my only bad habits. on those same nights i might cut and purge. i didn't pick up those habits from him, but i'd say he inspired them. it would kill him to hear me say that. what we have together chokes me. it annihalates me. it is everything, yet it can never be anything. how did it end up like this? i was young and drunk, our first night together should have been just that, a drunken regret. not the start of an affair which would come to both doom and define me.
and a few weeks ago i got a text. i will see him soon.
this is my secret.
I feel deeply jealous, of course. Always that. I want her drinking Sambuca in my bed; I want her flying to spend weekends in rented beach cottages with me. I want to mean that much to someone, to have that kind of obsessive value to someone.
I will archive stories here, though I suppose that's a painful thing. Still, I was trained to create and maintain archives. There's always the chance that in a few years I'll read these again. I wonder what I might make of them then. There's always the chance, too, that some unknown reader will find this--- a ghost blog, abandoned on the aether ---and read this and tell herself stories in her head about the tales I'm saving here.
My lovely friend sent me these stories--- her darkest secret, she averred ---a few years ago. She told me that she's tried to cut clear of the man in the stories, but somehow she ends up on the phone or on web chat with him far too often. I don't know if she's seen him in the flesh these last three or four years, though it's possible. She calls him B. That could be anything--- Brian, Bob, Bill. The name doesn't matter, of course. It's the power in the obsession and the stories that matters.
Her first discussion of him, in an autumn a few years back---
I can't stop fantasising about my uncle (for clarification - he's my mothers cousin, but I shall refer to his as my uncle for convenience). He must be...62ish now. He's tall and tan and solid. He owns a pub in the outback in Australia. I first met him when I was in my mid teens, he taught me how to blow smoke rings, we drank sambuca and we fucked. Now I can't stop thinking about the last time I saw him...it must have been 2008? Or 2009? It was at a family funeral. When I saw him after the funeral I went up to him and hugged him. Brushing my hands around his waist, I felt something like an electric shock. 'Hey there, beautiful' he whispered in my ear, then kissed my cheek. An hour or so later I noticed him watching me, and nodding his head towards the bathroom. I swallowed the rest of my gin & tonic and walked ahead of him. I was wearing black heels and a black skirt. After he shut the door, he ran his fingers up my thigh, lifted my skirt and kissed my bare cunt.
I need him again.
And again, the next April---
it has been years. but there will never be anyone else. i met him when i was 17. not so young, i suppose. but give me a girl at an impressionable age and she is mine for life. cards on the table, right from the beginning. first cousin once removed is the technical term. and thirty-odd years between us. our first night together i was drunk. sambuca flowed through my veins. but it was electric. i knew at the time it was different to anything i'd ever felt before. i didn't know that i'd never feel anything like it since. it was a cheap motel room. we fucked countless times that night, then the next day he flew back to australia. a month later he flew me to his pub in the outback. we had a whole month together. to date, that was the longest time we ever spent together. i started to understand that it was love. we'd pour drinks at his bar all night, then take a bottle upstairs with us. we would drink and talk until dawn. the sex was amazing. he went down on me for hours. i'd had men before...but not like this. i felt so powerful, so needed, and so loved.
we've been together all over the place. vancouver, tokyo, auckland, sydney, the outback, fiji, wellington. we steal long weekends. we fly each other wherever, whenever we have the chance. for a long time i wouldn't let him cum in my cunt. my mouth was fine, preferred. i got over that though. its been ten years now. and nobody touches me like he does. nobody looks at me like he does. he is the only man i want, and i can never have him.
“The only obsession everyone wants: ‘love.’ People think that in falling in love they make themselves whole? The Platonic union of souls? I think otherwise. I think you’re whole before you begin. And the love fractures you. You’re whole, and then you’re cracked open.”
and i have tried to not let it consume me. i slept with men his age. boys my own age. girls. there is only him. i've had long-term boyfriends, who thought nothing when i flew to fiji for a 'girls weekend' and spent four blissful days with his tongue in my cunt and his arms around my waist. when i flew to vancouver with friends he arranged to be there for a weekend too...i told them i was catching up with my uncle, and had his hand in my cunt in the lift up to his hotel room. another time we were together for four nights in auckland. we stayed at a house in devonport, and it was like this 'what we could have been' experience. we cooked for each other, and read aloud to each other. we played cards, and mixed each other drinks. we walked around naked. we bathed together. we came together all week. it was agony to catch the plane home after that.
he is my addiction. we're a chemical reaction.
“The only way to get rid of temptation is to yield to it.”
some nights i stay up late, drinking straight bourbon and smoking. habits i learnt from him, of course. they aren't my only bad habits. on those same nights i might cut and purge. i didn't pick up those habits from him, but i'd say he inspired them. it would kill him to hear me say that. what we have together chokes me. it annihalates me. it is everything, yet it can never be anything. how did it end up like this? i was young and drunk, our first night together should have been just that, a drunken regret. not the start of an affair which would come to both doom and define me.
and a few weeks ago i got a text. i will see him soon.
this is my secret.
I feel deeply jealous, of course. Always that. I want her drinking Sambuca in my bed; I want her flying to spend weekends in rented beach cottages with me. I want to mean that much to someone, to have that kind of obsessive value to someone.
I will archive stories here, though I suppose that's a painful thing. Still, I was trained to create and maintain archives. There's always the chance that in a few years I'll read these again. I wonder what I might make of them then. There's always the chance, too, that some unknown reader will find this--- a ghost blog, abandoned on the aether ---and read this and tell herself stories in her head about the tales I'm saving here.
Sunday, June 24, 2018
Two One Three: Prologue
Read along with me for a while.
What I'm quoting here is the beginning of something, a prologue. It's from the spring of 2012. The girl who wrote it is...well, names don't matter. And these days she's no longer the girl who wrote this. This is from a previous life, a previous iteration.
But read along with me.
I can't explain this accurately or in a way that makes sense. I only meant to tell you I'm obsessed with pageantry. I choose my running routes or the tube carriage I sit in because of the men. It's like, I orbit around them or they're orbiting around me and the gravitational pull increases the closer I get. I'm approached and talked to and whistled at all day. All day. All day. All day. It exhausts me and fuels me and then I exhaust myself...
Now I'm teeth biting the concrete.
Now I'm face shoved into the pillow.
Now I am back against the alleyway wall.
Now I am ass-up and torn.
Now I am searching for my next hit.
No room for love.
I'm not the kind of girl you'll be seeing in the morning.
Nobody controls me, but I am under control.
No one writes like this any longer. The girl who wrote this erased seven or eight years of her life, erased her life from something like 2007 to 2014. She's someone else now, someone whose life is about upward mobility and professional-class domesticity. She doesn't write like this any more; she doesn't recognise herself in her stories.
No one writes like this any more. There's no dark allure, no sense of late-night confessionals, no sense of the power of desire and dark exhilaration. I really have no idea of what stories are being told late at night these days.
Read along with me. Tell me about what's being confessed in the dark nowadays. Tell me about what the nighttime city is like these days. Tell me what happened to the stories from other times and other lives.
What I'm quoting here is the beginning of something, a prologue. It's from the spring of 2012. The girl who wrote it is...well, names don't matter. And these days she's no longer the girl who wrote this. This is from a previous life, a previous iteration.
But read along with me.
I can't explain this accurately or in a way that makes sense. I only meant to tell you I'm obsessed with pageantry. I choose my running routes or the tube carriage I sit in because of the men. It's like, I orbit around them or they're orbiting around me and the gravitational pull increases the closer I get. I'm approached and talked to and whistled at all day. All day. All day. All day. It exhausts me and fuels me and then I exhaust myself...
Now I'm teeth biting the concrete.
Now I'm face shoved into the pillow.
Now I am back against the alleyway wall.
Now I am ass-up and torn.
Now I am searching for my next hit.
No room for love.
I'm not the kind of girl you'll be seeing in the morning.
Nobody controls me, but I am under control.
No one writes like this any longer. The girl who wrote this erased seven or eight years of her life, erased her life from something like 2007 to 2014. She's someone else now, someone whose life is about upward mobility and professional-class domesticity. She doesn't write like this any more; she doesn't recognise herself in her stories.
No one writes like this any more. There's no dark allure, no sense of late-night confessionals, no sense of the power of desire and dark exhilaration. I really have no idea of what stories are being told late at night these days.
Read along with me. Tell me about what's being confessed in the dark nowadays. Tell me about what the nighttime city is like these days. Tell me what happened to the stories from other times and other lives.
Sunday, June 10, 2018
Two One Two: White Lines
More archive materials from the past. I am posting these as messages-in-a-bottle, as memories from other days, from times when I was regarded as a good listener, as an interlocutor for lovely, sometimes self-destructive girls.
These notes are from a girl named Alessandra, someone I knew in another world, someone I knew when the century was still young. Some of the notes are about her friend-and-lover Alys--- yes, Aless and Alys. Red Alys, if I remember, with striking red hair. I have no idea where she is now. I'd heard that she finished university, taught English for a couple of years in Japan, and went on to law school and an MBA. I have a vague sense that she's doing something corporate these days, something in a high glass tower near open water, something that sends her overseas a lot. I have no idea what she remembers about her past. The last time we spoke, we talked about Heath Ledger's death and a film Ledger had once made about drug life in Australia, a film from an Australian novel called "Candy".
I remember these stories, though, remember them from another, better summer long ago.
Oh, I wasn't happy with where my life was taking me in 2007. I spent half my time dreading going to class when I wanted to change universities anyway, and the other half actually in class and miserable. I was isolated and doing tremendous amounts of coke alone-- in my private dorm room, in changing rooms at boutiques, in cubicles at the school library. I was in my first serious relationship with a girl, one who had previously mainly been my best friend, and it was long distance. She (Alys, obviously) had been in a relationship with some Russian pre-med, eight-language-speaking genius, and I broke them up/she left him for me. She had a pretty bad coke problem at the time as well, and I was entirely emotionally dependent on her-- this accounted for MONTHS of being at one another's throats.
While physically thrilling and fascinating to many, our relationship was beyond emotionally tumultuous, whether it was our age/immaturity, the distance, or the fact that we were two people who were already prone to anxiety who were strung out on coke 24/7, I don't really know. But it was a series of mind games and changes in voice tone resulting in both intentional cruelty and despair on both sides. I remember one night when we were actually together in bed, her becoming cross with me about something and saying that she wished her Russian genius boy would love her again-- I promptly took an x-acto knife and put gashes in my inner thighs. I hadn't been a cutter before, and I haven't been one since, but it was practically an automatic form of release.
My behavior lost that bit of exhilaration at being young and pretty and turned into a very bitter, very deliberate form of destruction that took its toll quickly. One acquaintance commented that when he saw me in Toronto in December '07, I was "electric"-- I hardly weighed anything, but was mercurial and alive, my eyes were huge and always darkly lined, and I was just burning with frustration. By the end of my freshman year in May '08, all of that had taken a toll. I no longer looked electric as much as I looked completely haggard-- completely drained.
Also, that particular highly-charged emotional restlessness made me emotionally dependent on others in a way that I generally try very hard to avoid. I'll always be a little reckless, I'll always be a little too daring, but I find joy in the balance of being those things as well as self-contained. I prize my ability to detach and withdraw more than anything.
Alys and I are still very good friends-- best friends, actually. She has a tendency to spoil me wildly, and we only recently (well, I say recently, but within the past, I guess, 6 months) have actually begun sleeping together again. It's easy to fall back with her--- it's easy and it's not fruitless, because I care about her more than anything else, and she's bright and very powerful in her own way. We just work at keeping things separate--- and who knows how well that goes, but so far (recently) we've managed.
Those notes are almost a decade old now. I have no real idea where she is now (Toronto? Vancouver?), and only hints that she's very corporate and flying to take meetings in cities filled with silent glass towers. I'd love to sit with her over drinks in some neutral city and listen to her tales of her life over the last dozen years. In the last exchange of notes we had, back years ago, she noted that Alys was returning to Halifax from Bermuda aboard a racing yacht with one of her father's friends, following up on the inappropriate glances she and her father's friend had been exchanging since Red Alys was in high school. I have no idea how that played out or whether there was any truth in it. I'd like to think it was true. Sailboats and posh girls and inappropriate affairs are perfect ingredients for stories.
These notes are from a girl named Alessandra, someone I knew in another world, someone I knew when the century was still young. Some of the notes are about her friend-and-lover Alys--- yes, Aless and Alys. Red Alys, if I remember, with striking red hair. I have no idea where she is now. I'd heard that she finished university, taught English for a couple of years in Japan, and went on to law school and an MBA. I have a vague sense that she's doing something corporate these days, something in a high glass tower near open water, something that sends her overseas a lot. I have no idea what she remembers about her past. The last time we spoke, we talked about Heath Ledger's death and a film Ledger had once made about drug life in Australia, a film from an Australian novel called "Candy".
I remember these stories, though, remember them from another, better summer long ago.
Oh, I wasn't happy with where my life was taking me in 2007. I spent half my time dreading going to class when I wanted to change universities anyway, and the other half actually in class and miserable. I was isolated and doing tremendous amounts of coke alone-- in my private dorm room, in changing rooms at boutiques, in cubicles at the school library. I was in my first serious relationship with a girl, one who had previously mainly been my best friend, and it was long distance. She (Alys, obviously) had been in a relationship with some Russian pre-med, eight-language-speaking genius, and I broke them up/she left him for me. She had a pretty bad coke problem at the time as well, and I was entirely emotionally dependent on her-- this accounted for MONTHS of being at one another's throats.
While physically thrilling and fascinating to many, our relationship was beyond emotionally tumultuous, whether it was our age/immaturity, the distance, or the fact that we were two people who were already prone to anxiety who were strung out on coke 24/7, I don't really know. But it was a series of mind games and changes in voice tone resulting in both intentional cruelty and despair on both sides. I remember one night when we were actually together in bed, her becoming cross with me about something and saying that she wished her Russian genius boy would love her again-- I promptly took an x-acto knife and put gashes in my inner thighs. I hadn't been a cutter before, and I haven't been one since, but it was practically an automatic form of release.
My behavior lost that bit of exhilaration at being young and pretty and turned into a very bitter, very deliberate form of destruction that took its toll quickly. One acquaintance commented that when he saw me in Toronto in December '07, I was "electric"-- I hardly weighed anything, but was mercurial and alive, my eyes were huge and always darkly lined, and I was just burning with frustration. By the end of my freshman year in May '08, all of that had taken a toll. I no longer looked electric as much as I looked completely haggard-- completely drained.
Also, that particular highly-charged emotional restlessness made me emotionally dependent on others in a way that I generally try very hard to avoid. I'll always be a little reckless, I'll always be a little too daring, but I find joy in the balance of being those things as well as self-contained. I prize my ability to detach and withdraw more than anything.
Alys and I are still very good friends-- best friends, actually. She has a tendency to spoil me wildly, and we only recently (well, I say recently, but within the past, I guess, 6 months) have actually begun sleeping together again. It's easy to fall back with her--- it's easy and it's not fruitless, because I care about her more than anything else, and she's bright and very powerful in her own way. We just work at keeping things separate--- and who knows how well that goes, but so far (recently) we've managed.
Those notes are almost a decade old now. I have no real idea where she is now (Toronto? Vancouver?), and only hints that she's very corporate and flying to take meetings in cities filled with silent glass towers. I'd love to sit with her over drinks in some neutral city and listen to her tales of her life over the last dozen years. In the last exchange of notes we had, back years ago, she noted that Alys was returning to Halifax from Bermuda aboard a racing yacht with one of her father's friends, following up on the inappropriate glances she and her father's friend had been exchanging since Red Alys was in high school. I have no idea how that played out or whether there was any truth in it. I'd like to think it was true. Sailboats and posh girls and inappropriate affairs are perfect ingredients for stories.
Monday, June 4, 2018
Two One One: High-Functioning
A summer's evening here, warm and hazy. One more archived note, written originally almost sixteen years ago, drunkenly sent to a friend overseas in the austral summer.
The girl who wrote it reminds me that this is
an email from [me at 16], drunk and so stupid...
jim was an older, high-functioning-ish alcoholic that I fell in love with at sixteen...
The email is to a friend of hers, who was in China with her fencing team. So...let's go to a beach house on an austral bay in December of a lost 2002:
heyyy
wat the hell how come u sent Sarah 2 emails and me only one? that's so mean. i'm so drunk already its like 9 o clock here. it's my birthday tomorrow. ive had like 12 gin and tonics. i feel kinda out of it. we were having drinks and i got so upset i started crying. i was real gutted Christmas is so upside down ya know like spending Christmas with people that i never fucken see like my dad and his girlfriend but im not seeing the poeple i really love, its so gay. but jim looked after me and we had mad drunk sex. good to know. haha. Sarah just rang me and shes at a party at Telfords or something and Bradley Jacques is there and last week i went to Woolsworth and bought smokes and condoms off him and he's like real religious and shit and he didn't look to impressed with my fakey but he still sold to me. haha i dont care. so how is the Far East? how is the fencing? ya know its my birthday tomorrow. i'm 17 tomorrow like not a kiddo anymrore. by the way i had such a cool time last night me and jim picked me up and went in his car to Petone Beach and we just sat there for ages just talking and shit it was fucken rad. and i sucked his cock in the front seat ;) then we came back here cos im home alone and shit. Well i was last night and we just hung out, did lines and danced in the kicthen. he is so cool. ur like my best friend ya know and i'm not just saying all this shit cos i'm drunk. you are actually really cool. like not a cardboard cutout like Jingan and Juliana the Asians. You have like a personality. personalities are good. it will be so cool when you get back and we can go the Hummingbird and you can come to the Angus with the boys. oh my god, i keep having weird dreams about Fat Tony like i want him real bad but don't think i really do ya know. i can't believe you have not yet met jim. jim = light of my life, fire of my lions, my sin, my soul. ha ha just kidding that is Lolita. so what the hell loser EMAIL me!! why you email Sarah and not me? that sucks babe ya know. im a bit drunk so sorry if i upset you. you are rad as fuck.
hVAE A good christmas in case i don't talk from you before then. i'm going to town tomorow for my birthday its tomorrow but jim's not going coming, i'll see him in morning instead. i wish he was coming i wish you were coming too. i know you think i just use jim and he just uses me but maybe it was kinda a little bit of that at the start but now i really quite love him a lot and he's cool as. He even knows about the venting and is a-ok. i've gotta go now. email me back or i'll be so gutted. tell your sister.
laterhh
Sloppy drunk the night before she turned seventeen. I suppose I wish I'd known her then, just as she was launching out into her Bad Girl years--- her Bad Girl decade, really. I like her sloppy drunk, for whatever that's worth. She's a fun drunk, though prone to tears out of both sadness and happiness. I've no idea what became of Jim, though "high-functioning alcoholic" isn't something anyone sustains for long. How much older was he? Hard to say--- old enough to have a car in a country that tries to keep anyone under eighteen from having a "full" driving license. I also have no idea how long the affair lasted. Long enough for his inevitable collapse into being the non-fun kind of alcoholic?
Still...I've always envied her her past. Posh parents, inevitably divorced, money and precious little adult supervision in her teens, a life by the beach, a life in posh neighbourhoods where long-legged blonde girls were given a great deal of leeway. She's a successful professional now, with a lovely reno'd house of her own and three rental properties providing her with a private income. A girl who flies to island countries for long weekends and takes her long weekends in elegant little retreat cabins by the shore in hilly wine country. Someone to whom I will always feel de bas en haut, forever and always.
I do envy her all her teen adventures--- envy, not jealousy. That says nothing good about me, but then I'm not likely ever to be described as "high-functioning" in any way whatsoever.
The girl who wrote it reminds me that this is
an email from [me at 16], drunk and so stupid...
jim was an older, high-functioning-ish alcoholic that I fell in love with at sixteen...
The email is to a friend of hers, who was in China with her fencing team. So...let's go to a beach house on an austral bay in December of a lost 2002:
heyyy
wat the hell how come u sent Sarah 2 emails and me only one? that's so mean. i'm so drunk already its like 9 o clock here. it's my birthday tomorrow. ive had like 12 gin and tonics. i feel kinda out of it. we were having drinks and i got so upset i started crying. i was real gutted Christmas is so upside down ya know like spending Christmas with people that i never fucken see like my dad and his girlfriend but im not seeing the poeple i really love, its so gay. but jim looked after me and we had mad drunk sex. good to know. haha. Sarah just rang me and shes at a party at Telfords or something and Bradley Jacques is there and last week i went to Woolsworth and bought smokes and condoms off him and he's like real religious and shit and he didn't look to impressed with my fakey but he still sold to me. haha i dont care. so how is the Far East? how is the fencing? ya know its my birthday tomorrow. i'm 17 tomorrow like not a kiddo anymrore. by the way i had such a cool time last night me and jim picked me up and went in his car to Petone Beach and we just sat there for ages just talking and shit it was fucken rad. and i sucked his cock in the front seat ;) then we came back here cos im home alone and shit. Well i was last night and we just hung out, did lines and danced in the kicthen. he is so cool. ur like my best friend ya know and i'm not just saying all this shit cos i'm drunk. you are actually really cool. like not a cardboard cutout like Jingan and Juliana the Asians. You have like a personality. personalities are good. it will be so cool when you get back and we can go the Hummingbird and you can come to the Angus with the boys. oh my god, i keep having weird dreams about Fat Tony like i want him real bad but don't think i really do ya know. i can't believe you have not yet met jim. jim = light of my life, fire of my lions, my sin, my soul. ha ha just kidding that is Lolita. so what the hell loser EMAIL me!! why you email Sarah and not me? that sucks babe ya know. im a bit drunk so sorry if i upset you. you are rad as fuck.
hVAE A good christmas in case i don't talk from you before then. i'm going to town tomorow for my birthday its tomorrow but jim's not going coming, i'll see him in morning instead. i wish he was coming i wish you were coming too. i know you think i just use jim and he just uses me but maybe it was kinda a little bit of that at the start but now i really quite love him a lot and he's cool as. He even knows about the venting and is a-ok. i've gotta go now. email me back or i'll be so gutted. tell your sister.
laterhh
Sloppy drunk the night before she turned seventeen. I suppose I wish I'd known her then, just as she was launching out into her Bad Girl years--- her Bad Girl decade, really. I like her sloppy drunk, for whatever that's worth. She's a fun drunk, though prone to tears out of both sadness and happiness. I've no idea what became of Jim, though "high-functioning alcoholic" isn't something anyone sustains for long. How much older was he? Hard to say--- old enough to have a car in a country that tries to keep anyone under eighteen from having a "full" driving license. I also have no idea how long the affair lasted. Long enough for his inevitable collapse into being the non-fun kind of alcoholic?
Still...I've always envied her her past. Posh parents, inevitably divorced, money and precious little adult supervision in her teens, a life by the beach, a life in posh neighbourhoods where long-legged blonde girls were given a great deal of leeway. She's a successful professional now, with a lovely reno'd house of her own and three rental properties providing her with a private income. A girl who flies to island countries for long weekends and takes her long weekends in elegant little retreat cabins by the shore in hilly wine country. Someone to whom I will always feel de bas en haut, forever and always.
I do envy her all her teen adventures--- envy, not jealousy. That says nothing good about me, but then I'm not likely ever to be described as "high-functioning" in any way whatsoever.
Saturday, May 19, 2018
Two One Zero: Lookout
Something else that I need to put here to be archived, I think. A long account of an adventure a lovely posh blonde girl in the Antipodes sent me once--- a story from her teen years, back in 2002, in an email dated 29th March 2012:
They were water polo boys... I think I was 15, they were 16 or 17. We were driving round aimlessly in a Range Rover, parked up at the waterfront for a while, then drove up to the lookout. We passed cans of RTD bourbon around. One of them rolled a joint. I was in the front seat, bare feet up on the dash. Jake, who was in the driver's seat, started kissing me & putting his hands down my top. Hadleigh was in the back. They were both blond, swimmers' bodies-- lean & muscular. Hadleigh was just on the verge of being drunk, Jake hadn't had too much to drink. I remember Jake leading my hands down to his cock, which felt so hard through his jeans. I undid his fly and took him out of his jeans. Hadleigh was watching everything from the backseat. I leaned over and started sucking Jake. He was running his fingers through my hair, gently guiding my head. Jake came in my mouth, and as I sat up and swallowed his cum with a mouthful of bourbon, I could see Hadleigh with his cock in his hands. He was so big and so hard. He pulled my arm and I climbed over to the back seat. I sucked Hadleigh's cock and swallowed his cum as it shot down my throat. I still remember Jake watching from the front seat.
Jake rolled another joint and climbed over and joined us in the backseat. Metallica was on the radio, we had a few more bourbons. There were always a few gay rumors floating around school about Hadleigh. I sat on Jake's lap and put my bare feet on Hadleigh's lap. Then some three way kissing just...started. I was just...filled with pure delight and amazement when Jake & Hadleigh first kissed. The way they looked at each other. Jake had his fingers in my cunt at the time, but I could tell they'd never kissed before. Things progressed, and I watched fascinated as Hadleigh sucked Jake's cock. Jake had his fingers intertwined with mine, and he squeezed my hand so hard as he moaned and thrust and came. They kissed afterwards, then there was a moment when Jake and Hadleigh were looking at me. I thought I knew what Jake wanted, so I took Hadleigh's cock out and slowly started sucking. He was already hard. I sucked him, my eyes on Jake, until after a few minutes Jake leant down and kissed me, then took Hadleigh in his mouth. I sat back and watched again, so wet. It was incredibly hot. I had never experienced this before, and it was beautiful. Hadleigh came hard. Jake didn't swallow, the cum trickled out of his mouth, then he leaned and wiped his mouth with his sleeve.
I was like, gagging for some attention by this point. I climbed on top of Jake and rode him on the backseat (17 year old boys do have some good points...they recharge fast!) I finally got my orgasm too. They had both been fingering my cunt during the night, but I wasn't quite there quite yet. It was my first three way, and I fucking loved it. It wasn't until a few years later that I finally had two cocks in me at the same time, which was a game changer. But I will always think fondly of my night with the water polo boys.
The story isn't entirely implausible. My blonde friend went to a posh private high school that managed to be written up in her local paper on a regular basis for scandals involving sex and drugs. Not entirely implausible, though I might question the dates: I'd be readier to accept the story at face value if she'd been 16 or 17 herself. And I wonder if the boys wouldn't have been older--- getting cans of RTD bourbon at 17 shouldn't be a problem for any reasonably clever kids (it was no problem in my own school days), but American kids get driving licenses at 16 and I think where she lives, a "full" license, a license for driving at night is something that usually takes a couple of years longer to get. So I do have a few doubts. But I've had the story in my email for six years now, and it very hot. It's worth archiving here. Even if it turns out not to be literally true, I'm intrigued that she chose to use these images to make herself hot.
Any thoughts of your own?
They were water polo boys... I think I was 15, they were 16 or 17. We were driving round aimlessly in a Range Rover, parked up at the waterfront for a while, then drove up to the lookout. We passed cans of RTD bourbon around. One of them rolled a joint. I was in the front seat, bare feet up on the dash. Jake, who was in the driver's seat, started kissing me & putting his hands down my top. Hadleigh was in the back. They were both blond, swimmers' bodies-- lean & muscular. Hadleigh was just on the verge of being drunk, Jake hadn't had too much to drink. I remember Jake leading my hands down to his cock, which felt so hard through his jeans. I undid his fly and took him out of his jeans. Hadleigh was watching everything from the backseat. I leaned over and started sucking Jake. He was running his fingers through my hair, gently guiding my head. Jake came in my mouth, and as I sat up and swallowed his cum with a mouthful of bourbon, I could see Hadleigh with his cock in his hands. He was so big and so hard. He pulled my arm and I climbed over to the back seat. I sucked Hadleigh's cock and swallowed his cum as it shot down my throat. I still remember Jake watching from the front seat.
Jake rolled another joint and climbed over and joined us in the backseat. Metallica was on the radio, we had a few more bourbons. There were always a few gay rumors floating around school about Hadleigh. I sat on Jake's lap and put my bare feet on Hadleigh's lap. Then some three way kissing just...started. I was just...filled with pure delight and amazement when Jake & Hadleigh first kissed. The way they looked at each other. Jake had his fingers in my cunt at the time, but I could tell they'd never kissed before. Things progressed, and I watched fascinated as Hadleigh sucked Jake's cock. Jake had his fingers intertwined with mine, and he squeezed my hand so hard as he moaned and thrust and came. They kissed afterwards, then there was a moment when Jake and Hadleigh were looking at me. I thought I knew what Jake wanted, so I took Hadleigh's cock out and slowly started sucking. He was already hard. I sucked him, my eyes on Jake, until after a few minutes Jake leant down and kissed me, then took Hadleigh in his mouth. I sat back and watched again, so wet. It was incredibly hot. I had never experienced this before, and it was beautiful. Hadleigh came hard. Jake didn't swallow, the cum trickled out of his mouth, then he leaned and wiped his mouth with his sleeve.
I was like, gagging for some attention by this point. I climbed on top of Jake and rode him on the backseat (17 year old boys do have some good points...they recharge fast!) I finally got my orgasm too. They had both been fingering my cunt during the night, but I wasn't quite there quite yet. It was my first three way, and I fucking loved it. It wasn't until a few years later that I finally had two cocks in me at the same time, which was a game changer. But I will always think fondly of my night with the water polo boys.
The story isn't entirely implausible. My blonde friend went to a posh private high school that managed to be written up in her local paper on a regular basis for scandals involving sex and drugs. Not entirely implausible, though I might question the dates: I'd be readier to accept the story at face value if she'd been 16 or 17 herself. And I wonder if the boys wouldn't have been older--- getting cans of RTD bourbon at 17 shouldn't be a problem for any reasonably clever kids (it was no problem in my own school days), but American kids get driving licenses at 16 and I think where she lives, a "full" license, a license for driving at night is something that usually takes a couple of years longer to get. So I do have a few doubts. But I've had the story in my email for six years now, and it very hot. It's worth archiving here. Even if it turns out not to be literally true, I'm intrigued that she chose to use these images to make herself hot.
Any thoughts of your own?
Wednesday, May 16, 2018
Two Zero Nine: Rain
I'm going to be posting a few stories young ladies of my acquaintance have told me over the years.
I suppose these will be stories that I envy a bit, stories where I wish the male player could've been me. Or they may be stories I envy simply because they're hot and delightful--- stories from a world I wish I could be part of.
They're also here simply because this is an archive of sorts, because I want to be able to have records of these things, to have them saved in a place where I can read them again over the years.
This is a story from August 2012, a story told me a posh blonde girl in a distant city, and it's one of the hottest stories a girl has ever told me:
rain was pelting on the windows. i woke up on the floor, naked under a kid's toy story blanket. dry mouth, pounding headache, very shakey. i sat up, and looked around for my clothes. an asian girl was snoring quietly on the couch. there were bottles strewn everywhere. i felt sick and dizzy. my black jeans were in the corner of the room, covered in mud. my keys and $650 were scrunched into my pocket. weird, i never carried that much cash. i pulled them on, then vomited into a pot plant. i couldn't see the top i thought i'd been wearing, so i grabbed a men's shirt that was hanging on the back of a chair and buttoned it up. i had no idea where i was or what i'd been doing. i wandered through the small apartment. there were three men asleep in one of the bedrooms. in another bedroom was a few weed plants. i looked in the fridge and took out a beer. one of the men woke up and asked me if i wanted a smoke. we stood on the balcony, under the eaves, and smoked in silence. i have no idea who you are, he said. i just shrugged. you're wearing my shirt, he said. i just looked at him. i was feeling too dazed to put a sentence together. you can keep it, he said. he flicked his butt off the balcony, and offered me another. he lit it for me. can i see your tits, he asked. i nodded, and he undid the buttons on his shirt. can i take a photo, he asked. i nodded. he took out a battered iphone and took a few pictures, then started slowly sucking my nipples. he was tall, and dark haired. he had a beard and green eyes. i fucking love your tits, he said. do you want to suck my cock, he asked. i undid his jeans and took out his cock. i got on my knees and took him in my mouth. i was still feeling sick and almost vomited once or twice, but i loved the feeling of him in my mouth. do you want me to fuck you, he asked. i nodded, with his cock still in my mouth. i stood up and he bent me over the balcony and slowly peeled down my muddy skinny jeans. he kissed my neck and fucked me in the rain. the motion of it made me vomit over the balcony. i moaned at him not to stop. it felt so fucking good. his hand was rubbing my clit and his cock was deep in my cunt. i had purged and felt light and pure as air. he came, and rested his body against mine. he pulled my jeans back up, and buttoned my shirt. he put another cigarette in my mouth and lit it for me. i walked to caitie's apartment in the rain barefoot. i wasn't so far from there, 4 or 5 blocks.
In November 2013, the same girl sent me this intriguing note:
Last night, smashing Jack Daniels, riding a rough bogan boy so damn hard, kissing his neck tattoo & thinking is this how I live now?
Still have morphine in my pocket, still wearing yesterday's clothes, still thinking about you.
You'll never believe me til you're on your own.
The same girl sent me this a bit later, a lovely expansion of what she'd told me about what happened:
I got dragged to drinks at an apartment in the city by a friend who wanted to score some eccies. I was seriously not in the mood, but I know how it is when you need to score, and figured I'd go along for a little bit. We got buzzed up to the apartment floor, and as soon as I walked in I got a really great vibe. This was a seriously expensive apartment, huge, with a great view over the city and waterfront. There were heaps of people there...this bogan boy from up the line was doing the rounds of the room...I think he had some other stuff besides eccies, I wasn't paying too much attention. My friend paid for her eccies and we left. We'd just gotten into the lift when he came out of the apartment and called out 'Hey darlin', come for a drink with me?' We ended up at an irish pub, doing shots of jager & jack daniels. He took me back to his hotel room, and we did a few lines. I felt really hot, so I just took my top off, kicked off my ballet flats and sat on the floor looking at him, topless, legs wide open. I can still picture the exact look in his eyes as he fell to his knees and grabbed my anlkes, lifting my skirt, then pulling my legs as far apart as they would go. He went down on me until I came twice, hard. I took his cock out of his jeans and started sucking him there on my knees. He came hard in my mouth, I swallowed most of it but some came spilling out my mouth and running down my chin. I wiped it with my finger then licked it clean. I could tell he loved that. We had a few more JDs, sitting naked facing each other on the floor, until he said if he didn't fuck me soon he was going to explode. I pulled him onto the bed and rode him hard, my cunt almost aching from it. He came deep inside me, his teeth around my nipple. He wanted me to stay the night, said he needed more. I shook my head, pulled my top & skirt back on, kissed him on the lips & cock and went to leave. He told me to wait, and gave me a hundy bag, and $50 for a taxi. He wrote his number on my upper thigh, and told me he'd hook me up anytime he was in Wellington.
I envy her sitting at a desk in her new house in a posh hip suburb of her city, looking at the hard drive where she keeps all her memories, seventeen years worth of them, all the way back to being fourteen. And I'm always both envious and jealous, thinking of all the stories she has there on that drive. I envy her being able to sit in her outdoor living space on the deck behind her house and sip bourbon and feel the wind in from the harbor as she loses herself in memories.
I suppose these will be stories that I envy a bit, stories where I wish the male player could've been me. Or they may be stories I envy simply because they're hot and delightful--- stories from a world I wish I could be part of.
They're also here simply because this is an archive of sorts, because I want to be able to have records of these things, to have them saved in a place where I can read them again over the years.
This is a story from August 2012, a story told me a posh blonde girl in a distant city, and it's one of the hottest stories a girl has ever told me:
rain was pelting on the windows. i woke up on the floor, naked under a kid's toy story blanket. dry mouth, pounding headache, very shakey. i sat up, and looked around for my clothes. an asian girl was snoring quietly on the couch. there were bottles strewn everywhere. i felt sick and dizzy. my black jeans were in the corner of the room, covered in mud. my keys and $650 were scrunched into my pocket. weird, i never carried that much cash. i pulled them on, then vomited into a pot plant. i couldn't see the top i thought i'd been wearing, so i grabbed a men's shirt that was hanging on the back of a chair and buttoned it up. i had no idea where i was or what i'd been doing. i wandered through the small apartment. there were three men asleep in one of the bedrooms. in another bedroom was a few weed plants. i looked in the fridge and took out a beer. one of the men woke up and asked me if i wanted a smoke. we stood on the balcony, under the eaves, and smoked in silence. i have no idea who you are, he said. i just shrugged. you're wearing my shirt, he said. i just looked at him. i was feeling too dazed to put a sentence together. you can keep it, he said. he flicked his butt off the balcony, and offered me another. he lit it for me. can i see your tits, he asked. i nodded, and he undid the buttons on his shirt. can i take a photo, he asked. i nodded. he took out a battered iphone and took a few pictures, then started slowly sucking my nipples. he was tall, and dark haired. he had a beard and green eyes. i fucking love your tits, he said. do you want to suck my cock, he asked. i undid his jeans and took out his cock. i got on my knees and took him in my mouth. i was still feeling sick and almost vomited once or twice, but i loved the feeling of him in my mouth. do you want me to fuck you, he asked. i nodded, with his cock still in my mouth. i stood up and he bent me over the balcony and slowly peeled down my muddy skinny jeans. he kissed my neck and fucked me in the rain. the motion of it made me vomit over the balcony. i moaned at him not to stop. it felt so fucking good. his hand was rubbing my clit and his cock was deep in my cunt. i had purged and felt light and pure as air. he came, and rested his body against mine. he pulled my jeans back up, and buttoned my shirt. he put another cigarette in my mouth and lit it for me. i walked to caitie's apartment in the rain barefoot. i wasn't so far from there, 4 or 5 blocks.
In November 2013, the same girl sent me this intriguing note:
Last night, smashing Jack Daniels, riding a rough bogan boy so damn hard, kissing his neck tattoo & thinking is this how I live now?
Still have morphine in my pocket, still wearing yesterday's clothes, still thinking about you.
You'll never believe me til you're on your own.
The same girl sent me this a bit later, a lovely expansion of what she'd told me about what happened:
I got dragged to drinks at an apartment in the city by a friend who wanted to score some eccies. I was seriously not in the mood, but I know how it is when you need to score, and figured I'd go along for a little bit. We got buzzed up to the apartment floor, and as soon as I walked in I got a really great vibe. This was a seriously expensive apartment, huge, with a great view over the city and waterfront. There were heaps of people there...this bogan boy from up the line was doing the rounds of the room...I think he had some other stuff besides eccies, I wasn't paying too much attention. My friend paid for her eccies and we left. We'd just gotten into the lift when he came out of the apartment and called out 'Hey darlin', come for a drink with me?' We ended up at an irish pub, doing shots of jager & jack daniels. He took me back to his hotel room, and we did a few lines. I felt really hot, so I just took my top off, kicked off my ballet flats and sat on the floor looking at him, topless, legs wide open. I can still picture the exact look in his eyes as he fell to his knees and grabbed my anlkes, lifting my skirt, then pulling my legs as far apart as they would go. He went down on me until I came twice, hard. I took his cock out of his jeans and started sucking him there on my knees. He came hard in my mouth, I swallowed most of it but some came spilling out my mouth and running down my chin. I wiped it with my finger then licked it clean. I could tell he loved that. We had a few more JDs, sitting naked facing each other on the floor, until he said if he didn't fuck me soon he was going to explode. I pulled him onto the bed and rode him hard, my cunt almost aching from it. He came deep inside me, his teeth around my nipple. He wanted me to stay the night, said he needed more. I shook my head, pulled my top & skirt back on, kissed him on the lips & cock and went to leave. He told me to wait, and gave me a hundy bag, and $50 for a taxi. He wrote his number on my upper thigh, and told me he'd hook me up anytime he was in Wellington.
I envy her sitting at a desk in her new house in a posh hip suburb of her city, looking at the hard drive where she keeps all her memories, seventeen years worth of them, all the way back to being fourteen. And I'm always both envious and jealous, thinking of all the stories she has there on that drive. I envy her being able to sit in her outdoor living space on the deck behind her house and sip bourbon and feel the wind in from the harbor as she loses herself in memories.
Sunday, April 22, 2018
Two Zero Eight: Caramel
I'm leaving notes here on a springtime afternoon. I have been thinking of how disconnected I feel from everything and how empty the year has felt.
Let's begin with---
My friend who teaches abroad was once picked up by a chic Foreign couple in London Town. Nothing so terribly out-of-the-ordinary for chic couples to do in clubs there, of course--- bring home a lovely girl to play with. What made this story different is that the couple were from the Maldives--- he was some kind of junior cabinet minister; she was an official in some NGO or other. Wealthy Muslim husbands loose in LDN have been known to sample the local versions of depravity, but having the active participation of their wives, and especially a wife who works with some Islamic women's NGO...that makes for a rather more interesting story. Well, both the minister and his wife were Oxbridge-educated, so that may explain a lot. My friend would certainly have approved of the accents and the tailoring...as well as the exotic looks ("sculpted caramel", she enthused). She didn't tell me if the minister and his wife had any particular kinks; that's something I must ask about.
No. I have no idea if they paid her. I'd like to think so, if only because I rather like the idea of my friend's services being charged to the Maldives Treasury. My friend does identify with Riley Keough's character in "The Girlfriend Experience". That shows good taste. Ms. Keough was strikingly lovely in that.
My friend watched "The Girlfriend Experience" and laughed. Why, she said with perfectly poised sarcasm, this show is so...unbelievable! A beautiful girl with an academic background like that becoming a highly-paid companion to wealthy Older Men! Who'd ever believe in a such a character? I mean, in someone whose life was...exactly...like mine? If I'd been across a table from her in London Town, I'd have risen to my feet and stalked out of the bar without another word. Though I couldn't have had the satisfaction of sticking her with the check. She probably has a credit card from one of her Patrons. Or an envelope of cash. Though I wonder sometimes if my friend doesn't have enough of dark side to be more like the heroine/narrator in L.S. Hilton's "Maestra"...
That story is one about wealth and class markers. This one is darker. A friend down in the Land of the Long White Cloud wrote me in November 2012 to say---
My story probably isn't very remarkable...I was 16, drunk, high, at a party. He was someone's older brother. I didn't want him, didn't want it. He held me down and pulled my underwear down. At one point he had his hand around my throat, then in my hair. He was small, I remember that. He felt so small, and barely hard. He came on my thigh.
That's all. No description of what the party was like, no description of how he got her (presumably) alone, no description of what came after. She's never returned to the story. All my instincts argue that the context is what would make the story work--- what happened before and after. I suppose I never will know.
Yet I did ask the same girl if that was her only non-consensual experience in her teens. She wrote back (this was in May 2016) about a boy named Garrett:
he was tall, dark haired, rugby players strong build. the first time, he forced me to suck him. we were at his house, we'd been in his spa pool and watching movies when he pushed my head down and told me to suck him. I was 14, i think. he said you know you want to and that i deserved it. he came in my mouth of course. he is a big shot banker now...he emailed me a few weeks ago to help him work out a child support settlement! he never properly raped me later, but we fucked for years after that, i wanted him so badly!
She was fourteen, she says. No idea about Garrett's age, or how often or for how long they did have sex. No idea about the key question, either--- whether they had sex again in 2016, when she was doing financial work on his child support settlement.
She always leaves mysteries, my friend does. This final one is from March 2014. Max is her golden retriever, still just a pup in those days:
did i tell you about the gorgeous maori boy i'm fucking. he's tall, with short dark hair & lovely brown eyes, light brown skin... he works at the doggy day care place max goes to, so he picks him up & drops him off every day. he was dropping max home one day and i was sitting in the garden drinking a beer. we started talking, and he showed me how he taught max to play dead. max was his last drop-off for the day, so i asked him to stay for a drink. he loved it that i don't wear underwear. his cock is beautiful.
Again, a mystery. Was it more than the one time? How did the two of them transition from the garden to the bedroom or the sofa? More mysteries. I'll have these notes, but I wish I had more context, more follow-up on the stories, and of course more detail.
Let's begin with---
My friend who teaches abroad was once picked up by a chic Foreign couple in London Town. Nothing so terribly out-of-the-ordinary for chic couples to do in clubs there, of course--- bring home a lovely girl to play with. What made this story different is that the couple were from the Maldives--- he was some kind of junior cabinet minister; she was an official in some NGO or other. Wealthy Muslim husbands loose in LDN have been known to sample the local versions of depravity, but having the active participation of their wives, and especially a wife who works with some Islamic women's NGO...that makes for a rather more interesting story. Well, both the minister and his wife were Oxbridge-educated, so that may explain a lot. My friend would certainly have approved of the accents and the tailoring...as well as the exotic looks ("sculpted caramel", she enthused). She didn't tell me if the minister and his wife had any particular kinks; that's something I must ask about.
No. I have no idea if they paid her. I'd like to think so, if only because I rather like the idea of my friend's services being charged to the Maldives Treasury. My friend does identify with Riley Keough's character in "The Girlfriend Experience". That shows good taste. Ms. Keough was strikingly lovely in that.
My friend watched "The Girlfriend Experience" and laughed. Why, she said with perfectly poised sarcasm, this show is so...unbelievable! A beautiful girl with an academic background like that becoming a highly-paid companion to wealthy Older Men! Who'd ever believe in a such a character? I mean, in someone whose life was...exactly...like mine? If I'd been across a table from her in London Town, I'd have risen to my feet and stalked out of the bar without another word. Though I couldn't have had the satisfaction of sticking her with the check. She probably has a credit card from one of her Patrons. Or an envelope of cash. Though I wonder sometimes if my friend doesn't have enough of dark side to be more like the heroine/narrator in L.S. Hilton's "Maestra"...
That story is one about wealth and class markers. This one is darker. A friend down in the Land of the Long White Cloud wrote me in November 2012 to say---
My story probably isn't very remarkable...I was 16, drunk, high, at a party. He was someone's older brother. I didn't want him, didn't want it. He held me down and pulled my underwear down. At one point he had his hand around my throat, then in my hair. He was small, I remember that. He felt so small, and barely hard. He came on my thigh.
That's all. No description of what the party was like, no description of how he got her (presumably) alone, no description of what came after. She's never returned to the story. All my instincts argue that the context is what would make the story work--- what happened before and after. I suppose I never will know.
Yet I did ask the same girl if that was her only non-consensual experience in her teens. She wrote back (this was in May 2016) about a boy named Garrett:
he was tall, dark haired, rugby players strong build. the first time, he forced me to suck him. we were at his house, we'd been in his spa pool and watching movies when he pushed my head down and told me to suck him. I was 14, i think. he said you know you want to and that i deserved it. he came in my mouth of course. he is a big shot banker now...he emailed me a few weeks ago to help him work out a child support settlement! he never properly raped me later, but we fucked for years after that, i wanted him so badly!
She was fourteen, she says. No idea about Garrett's age, or how often or for how long they did have sex. No idea about the key question, either--- whether they had sex again in 2016, when she was doing financial work on his child support settlement.
She always leaves mysteries, my friend does. This final one is from March 2014. Max is her golden retriever, still just a pup in those days:
did i tell you about the gorgeous maori boy i'm fucking. he's tall, with short dark hair & lovely brown eyes, light brown skin... he works at the doggy day care place max goes to, so he picks him up & drops him off every day. he was dropping max home one day and i was sitting in the garden drinking a beer. we started talking, and he showed me how he taught max to play dead. max was his last drop-off for the day, so i asked him to stay for a drink. he loved it that i don't wear underwear. his cock is beautiful.
Again, a mystery. Was it more than the one time? How did the two of them transition from the garden to the bedroom or the sofa? More mysteries. I'll have these notes, but I wish I had more context, more follow-up on the stories, and of course more detail.
Sunday, April 15, 2018
Two Zero Seven: Cars
My friend far away across the seas once sent me this note:
So many nights spent driving around with boys...I got my licence quite late, so if I wanted a ride somewhere I had to text a boy...and I liked to make it worth his while.
I do love sucking cock, I always have. I have friends, even now, who hate it, and I just can't understand that. It is so hot, and such a powerful, sexy thing to do. I get so wet with a cock in my mouth, before I've even been touched. And I love the feeling when a man comes in my mouth.
She always claimed to have been the girl in her high school class who offered up instruction to boys:
Best memories... God, so many nights in cars...I was able to practice on boys just a few years older than me, so when I started spending time with much older men I was very good. And I like to think I returned the favour -- teaching 16 year old boys just how to eat pussy.
I do remember one night...when I sucked two boys off while the other one watched... I loved that, and so did they. After I'd sucked off both of them and we smoked a joint, they did each other, which made me so wet... We were in the back of a car, and later I did ride one of them... But I still wish I could have had them both at the same time.
She wrote me later about the story with the two boys. It's not a bad story. Back of a Range Rover, parked at a lookout high above her home city. The extended version of the story is excellent and very hot. And plausible, mind you. I've always loved her tales of her teen adventures, and I want to know more, to know about more nights at lookouts or parked on beaches. My only question about her stories is that she always portrays herself as very blasé about being seen having sex, as open to being naked around more than one person. I do wonder about that. Fifteen or sixteen seems to me to have been a time when people are easily embarrassed and usually very uncomfortable with their bodies. And my friend was ana/mia off and on through her teens and early twenties. I need to explore that issue.
In any case, the stories do make me deeply envious and jealous. I wish I could've been part of her teen adventures. I wish I could've been the one giving her rides. And I wish I could've been part of stories like that in my own teen years.
As much as I do love her stories, I find myself reading them and feeling glum. My teen years were nothing like hers. I do worry that she judges me for not having stories like hers, stories of her adventures amongst her city's posh teens. I worry that I'll never have the social and sexual points she amassed in those days.
So many nights spent driving around with boys...I got my licence quite late, so if I wanted a ride somewhere I had to text a boy...and I liked to make it worth his while.
I do love sucking cock, I always have. I have friends, even now, who hate it, and I just can't understand that. It is so hot, and such a powerful, sexy thing to do. I get so wet with a cock in my mouth, before I've even been touched. And I love the feeling when a man comes in my mouth.
She always claimed to have been the girl in her high school class who offered up instruction to boys:
Best memories... God, so many nights in cars...I was able to practice on boys just a few years older than me, so when I started spending time with much older men I was very good. And I like to think I returned the favour -- teaching 16 year old boys just how to eat pussy.
I do remember one night...when I sucked two boys off while the other one watched... I loved that, and so did they. After I'd sucked off both of them and we smoked a joint, they did each other, which made me so wet... We were in the back of a car, and later I did ride one of them... But I still wish I could have had them both at the same time.
She wrote me later about the story with the two boys. It's not a bad story. Back of a Range Rover, parked at a lookout high above her home city. The extended version of the story is excellent and very hot. And plausible, mind you. I've always loved her tales of her teen adventures, and I want to know more, to know about more nights at lookouts or parked on beaches. My only question about her stories is that she always portrays herself as very blasé about being seen having sex, as open to being naked around more than one person. I do wonder about that. Fifteen or sixteen seems to me to have been a time when people are easily embarrassed and usually very uncomfortable with their bodies. And my friend was ana/mia off and on through her teens and early twenties. I need to explore that issue.
In any case, the stories do make me deeply envious and jealous. I wish I could've been part of her teen adventures. I wish I could've been the one giving her rides. And I wish I could've been part of stories like that in my own teen years.
As much as I do love her stories, I find myself reading them and feeling glum. My teen years were nothing like hers. I do worry that she judges me for not having stories like hers, stories of her adventures amongst her city's posh teens. I worry that I'll never have the social and sexual points she amassed in those days.
Sunday, April 8, 2018
Two Zero Six: Grapes
Long ago, in the lost Year Eleven, a lovely young friend far away beyond the seas wrote me that:
oh, yes! went to Wairarapa wine country for a festival and had a lot of naughty fun between the wines.
She went on to say that
we met a group of guys early in the day and had a few drinks together, then came across them again at the last vineyard of the day...i sucked two cocks between the wines as the sun was going down...and scored 3 Es!
I asked if this had been two separate encounters, or if the two men had watched each other. Her reply was that
they both watched each other...then one of them licked my cunt...he was incredibly good considering how drunk he was. i was on the ground, in a black and white striped summer dress, low cut and short, no bra or panties...i actually took a photo on my iphone of him licking my cunt...i have a shot of the top of his head, then another of him looking up & smiling...i love waking up in the morning & seeing photographic evidence of the night's depravity! they were both 50ish...and they both came in my mouth.
I found that story today in my email archives. Seven years old, it seems. That is a long time ago. My friend would've been twenty-four or twenty-five at the time. She and I are still active correspondents (we've known one another for a dozen years now), and I suppose I'll remind her of the story. All these years later, I'd love to hear her own years-later take on what she told me once upon a time.I have asked myself whether I believe the story. It's not inherently implausible. She lives just south of the wine country, and she does enjoy driving up with her girlfriends for festivals. She does like older men, and she likes having more than a few drinks.
Of course, I'll never really know if the story is true. There's no way to do that, not at a distance of seven years and almost eight thousand miles. I'd like to think it's true because it's a good story, though I will admit to a gnawing, painful mix of jealousy and envy.
Jealousy? Well, that's obvious. In a better world, she'd have been doing things out amongst the vines with me. In a better world, she and I would've taken E and sampled wines and done wicked things. Envy? Well, as a gentleman of a certain age, and as someone whose social calendar hasn't been full this season, I envy her both the visit to the wine country and the adventure there under the grapes. I'd note that it's the stories I envy as much as the sex. Sex with my friend would've been a delight, but having the story to tell--- sex with strangers! sex in a vineyard! wine country sunset! ---is even better than the act itself.Now I have said that for most of my life. The story is better than the act itself, and the story lasts for a lifetime. I will envy her being able to tell that story to her girlfriends over drinks for years.
oh, yes! went to Wairarapa wine country for a festival and had a lot of naughty fun between the wines.
She went on to say that
we met a group of guys early in the day and had a few drinks together, then came across them again at the last vineyard of the day...i sucked two cocks between the wines as the sun was going down...and scored 3 Es!
I asked if this had been two separate encounters, or if the two men had watched each other. Her reply was that
they both watched each other...then one of them licked my cunt...he was incredibly good considering how drunk he was. i was on the ground, in a black and white striped summer dress, low cut and short, no bra or panties...i actually took a photo on my iphone of him licking my cunt...i have a shot of the top of his head, then another of him looking up & smiling...i love waking up in the morning & seeing photographic evidence of the night's depravity! they were both 50ish...and they both came in my mouth.
I found that story today in my email archives. Seven years old, it seems. That is a long time ago. My friend would've been twenty-four or twenty-five at the time. She and I are still active correspondents (we've known one another for a dozen years now), and I suppose I'll remind her of the story. All these years later, I'd love to hear her own years-later take on what she told me once upon a time.I have asked myself whether I believe the story. It's not inherently implausible. She lives just south of the wine country, and she does enjoy driving up with her girlfriends for festivals. She does like older men, and she likes having more than a few drinks.
Of course, I'll never really know if the story is true. There's no way to do that, not at a distance of seven years and almost eight thousand miles. I'd like to think it's true because it's a good story, though I will admit to a gnawing, painful mix of jealousy and envy.
Jealousy? Well, that's obvious. In a better world, she'd have been doing things out amongst the vines with me. In a better world, she and I would've taken E and sampled wines and done wicked things. Envy? Well, as a gentleman of a certain age, and as someone whose social calendar hasn't been full this season, I envy her both the visit to the wine country and the adventure there under the grapes. I'd note that it's the stories I envy as much as the sex. Sex with my friend would've been a delight, but having the story to tell--- sex with strangers! sex in a vineyard! wine country sunset! ---is even better than the act itself.Now I have said that for most of my life. The story is better than the act itself, and the story lasts for a lifetime. I will envy her being able to tell that story to her girlfriends over drinks for years.
Monday, March 26, 2018
Two Zero Five: Casual Encounters
I read today that Craigslist has shut down its Casual Encounters areas. I have to say that I'm saddened by that.
I was never a user of Casual Encounters. I've never been someone who uses hook-up apps. I've never been at Tinder or Match.com or any of their kin. For all the obvious reasons, I've always been too afraid to go to use hook-up apps. It's hard--- impossible, really ---to imagine that anyone would swipe whatever the direction is to show any interest in me. Tinder and its rivals aren't places where whatever strengths I have can be brought to bear. The things that I've spent a lifetime working round--- age and looks ---are on immediate display there, and none of my strengths show up in a profile photo and a two or three sentence biography.
Back in the days of my own lost youth (or at least back at the end of the last millennium), I did visit Nerve.com a fair amount. I've no idea if Nerve.com still exists, or if it still has a Personals area. I'm actually wondering if Personals style ads are still done, here almost twenty years into the new millennium--- if a world where even text messages seem like a lot of trouble to do, does anyone under, say, forty have the energy to sit and construct a Personals ad? I also wonder if the corporate panic that's caused Craigslist to shut down Casual Encounters will spell the end of Personals sites (where they still exist).
Nerve.com marketed itself as an erotica-for-intellectuals site. You were encouraged to talk about your interests in books, films, politics, art. I suppose that did encourage a bit of pretentiousness (cf. the old New York Review of Books personals) but it also gave someone like me a chance to be seen as useful. It also brought out a fair number of lovely undergraduate and early twentysomething girls who prided themselves on being both bookish and sexually adventurous.
I did meet a few interesting partners there. There were telephone encounters, and one or two webcam encounters. One girl--- a lovely girl in Cincinnati who went on to joint degrees in Law and Library Science ---did become deeply important to me. I've only come close to marrying a bare handful of times in my life, but she was very much on the small list of girls I'd have been proud to marry or partner with. I remember exchanging messages with her at Nerve.com (she called herself SmartChick in those days), and I remember that first night when we spoke by phone. We stayed on the phone for hours and hours, and for almost two years we never slept (together or apart) without long, long conversations in the dark.
Casual Encounters was always something I'd read for amusement more than any thought of placing an ad. The ads were a strange mix of the hilarious, the hopeless, and the grimly earnest. There were disturbing ads that could've come straight from a novel about serial killers and affecting and sad ads that had such obvious backstories of loneliness and empty days. I'd read Craiglist Casual Encounters sites in cities all over the world and try to gauge what the sexual tastes of the lonely, the adventurous, and the desperate were out there across continents and seas. I read the ads the way I'd read short stories, and I'd laugh or sigh or just try to build up an image of who the characters in the stories were and what they were life in what's known as Real Life.
I've seen a couple of eulogies at on-line magazines for Casual Encounters. One girl now in her late twenties wrote about her freshman year at university and realising that she could summon sexual partners to her residence hall and never have to leave the building or put shoes on. Another girl wrote about how Casual Encounters could produce scary results and dull ones both, but how the ads let her finally accept that sex could be adventurous and exciting, let her experiment with all the half-formed hopes and fantasies and dreams she was having. Casual Encounters, they both argued, allowed a belief that there was a world of sexual (and, yes, romantic) experiences and partners out there. The Casual Encounters ads let you believe that there really was someone out there whose interests would mirror yours. That's no small thing, really.
Anyway... I will miss Casual Encounters. I'll miss the possibilities it offered, the sense of adventure implicit in the idea of following up the ads. For all that so many of the ads were silly or stupid or incoherent, Craigslist Casual Encounters did make the world seem more open to experience and pleasure and excitement. Those ads made sex (and romance) seem more accessible, more possible. Our world will be a bit less delightful without them.
I was never a user of Casual Encounters. I've never been someone who uses hook-up apps. I've never been at Tinder or Match.com or any of their kin. For all the obvious reasons, I've always been too afraid to go to use hook-up apps. It's hard--- impossible, really ---to imagine that anyone would swipe whatever the direction is to show any interest in me. Tinder and its rivals aren't places where whatever strengths I have can be brought to bear. The things that I've spent a lifetime working round--- age and looks ---are on immediate display there, and none of my strengths show up in a profile photo and a two or three sentence biography.
Back in the days of my own lost youth (or at least back at the end of the last millennium), I did visit Nerve.com a fair amount. I've no idea if Nerve.com still exists, or if it still has a Personals area. I'm actually wondering if Personals style ads are still done, here almost twenty years into the new millennium--- if a world where even text messages seem like a lot of trouble to do, does anyone under, say, forty have the energy to sit and construct a Personals ad? I also wonder if the corporate panic that's caused Craigslist to shut down Casual Encounters will spell the end of Personals sites (where they still exist).
Nerve.com marketed itself as an erotica-for-intellectuals site. You were encouraged to talk about your interests in books, films, politics, art. I suppose that did encourage a bit of pretentiousness (cf. the old New York Review of Books personals) but it also gave someone like me a chance to be seen as useful. It also brought out a fair number of lovely undergraduate and early twentysomething girls who prided themselves on being both bookish and sexually adventurous.
I did meet a few interesting partners there. There were telephone encounters, and one or two webcam encounters. One girl--- a lovely girl in Cincinnati who went on to joint degrees in Law and Library Science ---did become deeply important to me. I've only come close to marrying a bare handful of times in my life, but she was very much on the small list of girls I'd have been proud to marry or partner with. I remember exchanging messages with her at Nerve.com (she called herself SmartChick in those days), and I remember that first night when we spoke by phone. We stayed on the phone for hours and hours, and for almost two years we never slept (together or apart) without long, long conversations in the dark.
Casual Encounters was always something I'd read for amusement more than any thought of placing an ad. The ads were a strange mix of the hilarious, the hopeless, and the grimly earnest. There were disturbing ads that could've come straight from a novel about serial killers and affecting and sad ads that had such obvious backstories of loneliness and empty days. I'd read Craiglist Casual Encounters sites in cities all over the world and try to gauge what the sexual tastes of the lonely, the adventurous, and the desperate were out there across continents and seas. I read the ads the way I'd read short stories, and I'd laugh or sigh or just try to build up an image of who the characters in the stories were and what they were life in what's known as Real Life.
I've seen a couple of eulogies at on-line magazines for Casual Encounters. One girl now in her late twenties wrote about her freshman year at university and realising that she could summon sexual partners to her residence hall and never have to leave the building or put shoes on. Another girl wrote about how Casual Encounters could produce scary results and dull ones both, but how the ads let her finally accept that sex could be adventurous and exciting, let her experiment with all the half-formed hopes and fantasies and dreams she was having. Casual Encounters, they both argued, allowed a belief that there was a world of sexual (and, yes, romantic) experiences and partners out there. The Casual Encounters ads let you believe that there really was someone out there whose interests would mirror yours. That's no small thing, really.
Anyway... I will miss Casual Encounters. I'll miss the possibilities it offered, the sense of adventure implicit in the idea of following up the ads. For all that so many of the ads were silly or stupid or incoherent, Craigslist Casual Encounters did make the world seem more open to experience and pleasure and excitement. Those ads made sex (and romance) seem more accessible, more possible. Our world will be a bit less delightful without them.
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