Three Eight Six: Wellington, Rain

 You must've read this before. This is a story the leggy Jill in NZ sent me long ago-- maybe as long as a dozen years ago. I may have posted this before, but I'll post it again. 

As stories go, this is wonderful. Very powerful, very erotic, very shattering. It's a story that evokes jealousy and envy both. I'm hard-pressed to find stories in my own life that can match Jill's adventures in her mid-twenties.

I have no idea where Jill is now, but let's go to a rainy night in Wellington NZ back in the 20-teens--

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 shaky. 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, no underwear, 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 skinny, muddy 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. 

Caitie, just as a note, was the girl Jill was dating in those days.

I really do love the story. I wish there were still lovely, wicked girls out there over the aether who wanted to tell stories about their Adventures. I don't even know if there are still girls out there who want to have Adventures, let alone craft them into stories to excite future lovers. 

If you're reading this, what are the Adventures you'd like to have? What are the Stories you'd like to be able to tell? I know that 2024 is very different from 2012-- in this time of holy war and holy dread --but why do you think we seem nowadays to avoid adventures and transgressions and experiences?

Three Five One: Flavors

 Jill in Wellington wrote me once upon a time with a story from her teen years, a story about Julia, the first girl she had sex with. I miss Jill's stories, and miss the spirit of adventure she brought to her stories:

I have quite a bad memory in general, but especially when i've been enjoying drinks & drugs. but i remember one night with julia, an old friend from school. i was about 15 and staying at her apartment in town while her mum & her mum's lesbian lover were away. we raided the liquor cabinet and were really drunk. we were out on the balcony and i was licking her clit and had my fingers in her cunt. she came and pissed at the same time, and a bit got in my mouth. i was not into it at all, i grabbed our bottle of tequila and had a few big gulps. Julia apologised several times...but also said how good it felt to cum and piss at the same time. i'm always very open to new experiences so i gave it a try...and it felt amazing. it made my orgasm so much more intense. Julia loved it too...

Later i discovered pissing while purging which is also amazing. 

I do feel sad that she abandoned her past. It's always sad when a beautiful girl who has a Slutty Party Girl past filled with wicked stories decides in her early thirties to pretend those experiences never happened. It's always sad when a beautiful, wicked girl decides that she now needs to be a Grown-Up and put sexual adventures aside. 

Jill told me once that Julia left school a year or so later and now lives in a council flat with two half-Maori children by different (and unknown) fathers. That could be (and probably is) a sad story-- all the more so since Jill hasn't seen Julia in years. 

Nonetheless, Jill has a good fifteen or twenty years worth of stories in her diaries and memories. It's sad that she's tried to erase them.

Three Five Zero: Essentials

A lovely friend wrote this back in 2013, in response to a List I created for her-- a List of 20 Essential Things Every Gentleman Should Have. You'll have to tell me what you think of her List...

 I've been inspired to write a short list of things every girl needs to have. So, here it goes:

1. Black skinnies. Goes with everything and can be dressed up or down; I like Gap as their sizing is the most consistent and the prices are reasonable.

2. Black flats. Same as above, APC makes a delightful pair, as does Bloch.

3. A strip-tease song. Mine is "Nightcall" by Kavinsky from the Drive soundtrack- wonderfully sultry and slow enough keep a sensual and fluid rhythm.

4. At least one foreign language. How else will a Ghostgirl communicate in the Far Foreign? French is a must (obviously) and another should be unique, specific to your interests. I love Russian and Korean, however Arabic or Japanese are perfect as well.

5. A small book to carry around in one's purse. Perfect for reading on the quad or at a cafe and is a great conversation starter. Mine lately have been "Invisible Cities", "Discipline and Punish", and a copies of n+1.

6. A good vibrator. Need a girl say more?

7. A lighter. For the impromptu post-sex cigarette or lighting a stranger's--- a great way to get to know someone.

8. A brand of cigarettes. This becomes your signature and reveals a lot about your personality. I smoke organic American Spirits (liberal arts, humanities educated, "concerned about the environment", and upper-middle class). Please don't be a Parliaments or Menthol girl. Just no.

9. Some knowledge of wine. Being an oenophile is sexy and can really impress a date. Choose one that fits most dishes and is in the $15-30 range. You never want to be cheap when it comes to wine--- girls who buy $8 bottles of Moscato are almost always virgins. My favorites: Garnachas, Tempranillos, Sangioveses, Cabernets from Napa.

10. An animal friend. An animal companion can instantly lift one's mood; my Dmitri is my everything.

11. A troubled past. Provides for great stories and a better understanding of the human condition (at least in my experience).

12. A passport filled with visas and stamped to oblivion.

13. A few favorite artists, poets, directors, etc. that one can discuss in-depth. A few of mine: Mikhail Vrubel, Neruda, Almodovar.

14. Red lipstick. I wear YSL Rouge Volupte (so creamy and it smells like mangoes!). Classically sexy and an easy way to vamp up any look.

15. A signature perfume. YSL Opium for going out and Viktor & Rolf Flowerbomb for the day for me. Always be careful when applying: you want someone to only smell your perfume when they lean in close for transgressive suggestions.

16. Some ability to sing or play an instrument. I did choir for 5 years and have a fairly good voice and played piano for 9 years. Also, have a favorite composer. I love playing Chopin and Rachmaninoff.

17. A reliable pen for writing down potential lovers' contact info, random thoughts, and Lists (in a Moleskine, of course). I prefer Pilot G-2's.

18. A cast iron skillet and good chef's knife. That being said, know how to cook. Nothing is sadder than a girl who lives on takeout and can't chiffonade for shit.

19. A moneyed lover. Naturally.

20. Sharp cheekbones, jutting hipbones, and long legs.

I'll note that she listed black skinny jeans but didn't list any lingerie. That's a good thing. Beautiful young girls should habitually be panty-free. 

Tell me what you think of her List. I may have to find my own original List for Gentlemen, or at least attempt to reconstruct it. I'll post here if I do, of course.

Three Four Seven: Morning, Rain

 I've posted this before. It is one of my very favourite stories from Jill in Wellington. It's been eight years or so since she first wrote me about all this, and the story is still amazing and shattering. It's been a major fantasy image for me ever since. I want it saved, and I only wish Jill could be here to tell me more.

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 skinny, muddy 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. 

Amazing story. I fell in love with it as soon as she sent it to me via email. I always loved stories from Jill's Slutty Party Girl past. Caitie, by the way, was Caitlin, the girl Jill was dating at the time.

It floored me a couple of years ago when she started backing away from stories of her past. It wasn't that she was rejecting having had promiscuous, often random, sex with strangers and Older Men in her teens and twenties, it was rejecting the stories themselves. She was crossing the bar into her early thirties, and she saw herself as a serious professional, as a chartered accountant at a high-powered boutique firm in Wellington-- and someone like that wouldn't have stories like that. Stories about sexual adventures and encounters, however powerful, however hot, weren't something she should be telling people. She didn't want to be tagged as a Posh Slutty Party Girl now that she owned a house and was trying to be made a partner in her firm. 

I live through stories-- my own and others'. Stories are the way we present ourselves to the world. I liked Slutty Party Jill, Jill who could sit at a Wellington bar or lie next to you in a hotel bed and tell stories of adventures and encounters. I could understand her not devoting her nights to drinking bourbon and sleeping around now that she had a professional life to build, but I couldn't (and still can't) understand her redacting her past. 

I do miss her, and I miss her stories. I miss her telling me stories that would become shared fantasies for us. I miss the sound of her voice taking me into her memories. Right now, here in my flat, I miss the days when lovely, long-legged, underwear-averse girls would share stories and lives with me.

Three Two Two: Celebration

 An email notice from Good Vibrations in San Francisco ("Educate, Explore, Empower") arrived this weekend. The notice informs me that May is "National Masturbation Month". What can I do but sigh in exasperation?

That notice isn't meant for me. I'm absolutely not the demographic for the ad, let alone the celebration itself. I'm male-- cishet male.  Everything that I am falls outside the target demographic. I'm a gentleman of a certain age, of course, and I'm sure that aging cishet white nominally-middle-class males aren't aren't the people Good Vibrations is targeting.

Educate, Explore, Empower... All good things, I suppose. But masturbation is not something that aging white cishet males are supposed to engage in...or even admit to. It's assumed in popular culture that males don't need any education in the activity, since it's something they've obviously been doing compulsively since something like age twelve. It's also assumed that any exploration in the activity by males, aging or otherwise, is by definition creepy and unacceptable. All male sexual fantasies these days are considered to be creepy and tantamount to sexual assault. And male participation in the activity-- in the Solitary Vice --is regarded as pathetic, creepy, and risible, and never as "empowering". 

Male participation in the Solitary Vice is regarded as a sign of sad failure, never about learning about pleasure and what to tell a partner about how your body responds. Sex toys and masturbation aids designed for women are seen as charming, sexy, something to be proud of. Women of the target demographic can talk about favourite vibrator or dildo preferences (Lelo seems to be the choice of hip, late-twenties young ladies in the know). It's impossible to imagine anyone male-- straight or gay --talking about Fleshlight or inflatable doll comparisons.

Consider the moment in "Stealing Beauty" where the young Liv Tyler is almost discovered masturbating by Jeremy Irons, who's in the next room. She's reasonably blasé about what she's doing. Her concern is about being seen three-quarters naked by a stranger, not about what she's doing. Compare that with the moment in "Pulp Fiction" when John Travolta mutters to himself that he won't risk making a pass at Uma Thurman-- his boss' wife --and that he'll just go home and jerk off. The audience is supposed to laugh at him. The very terms used for the male Solitary Vice ("jerk off" or "wank") are regarded as pathetic and open to instant mockery.

At my own advanced age, there isn't a way I could indulge in the Solitary Vice without feeling the instant lash of self-contempt. Admitting that I found physical pleasure in any activity (sexual or non-sexual) would be far too risky. I am not now and will never be in any sort of target demographic for someplace like Good Vibrations. I suppose I might be a target demographic for the Blue Pill or ED clips or penis pumps, but that's yet another reason why I'd never go into any shop that markets sex toys.

Here this May I have nothing whatsoever to celebrate about my body, or about sex, or about avenues to physical pleasure. I wish I could find a good cultural history of attitudes towards male masturbation in the last hundred or so years...or even since the 1960s. How did the male version of the Solitary Vice become so treated with contempt and derision? How did male desire itself become derided as inherently creepy? I'd read about those issues. A monograph with the full academic panoply of footnotes would mean something to me. Educate, Explore, Empower can't (by definition) mean anything to me.

Three One Seven: Salle D'Armes

 My lovely long-legged blonde friend Jill in Wellington NZ told me once about her high school friend who became a nationally-ranked fencer. The girl was good enough to get invited to fencing competitions and fencing master classes all around the Pacific. The girl's name-- I think --was Sarah.  My NZ friend knew at least two other girls named Sarah when she was at her posh private school, so I may be wrong about the name.

But what I do know is the fencer girl (we'll call her Sarah anyway) went off to a fencing training camp in China and had a very hot, fairly public affair with a "much older"  and rather famous German fencing coach. Some things remain unclear in the story. Was the man her coach or just one of the coaches at the camp? I can't decide which would be hotter--- having a torrid affair at 16 or 17 with her mentor at fencing (foil? épée? sabre?) or meeting and hooking up with an internationally-rated German coach while in the Mysterious Orient. So-- I know she was sixteen or seventeen (Jill was just turning seventeen when she and Sarah were emailing about Sarah's adventures in China), but I don't know if she was in Shanghai or Beijing. I don't know what "much older"means here, although given Jill's own tastes in those days, I'd suspect that "much older" means that the man would've been in his forties. 

The story (or as much as I know of it) really is hot. And I would love to know more. Backstories matter, mind you, just as Details Matter. Context and setting are always key. It matters how they met, and how the flirtation began. It very much matters who made the first move. 

My friend at McGill in Montreal told me that she'd gone to university very much in order to have affairs with distinguished and literary older academics, but she was always brought up short by the feeling that she didn't know the correct procedure for initiating an affair with a distinguished Older Man. Was she supposed to look young and vulnerable and wait for him to be predatory? Was she supposed to drape herself on his desk in something slinky and offer herself up as muse and sacrifice? What, she asked, were the procedures in these matters? Who was supposed to initiate? What costumes and poses did she need to know about? Importantly-- which of her female friends should she tell, and how dramatic should her announcement be?

The athletic world-- and especially something like fencing, which strikes me as a fairly incestuous community --might be a place where physical affairs were carried on fairly openly. After all, as an athlete, everything you do is about your body: you're focused on the flesh, and on competition. It may also be a place where mentor-mentee relationships are common. Maybe. I have no idea how age-disparate relationships are seen in China, or what age gaps are regarded as acceptable. And...what are are rules for overseas training camps? Remember the old naval saying: No sin below the equator? Did something like that hold true? If you're a few thousand miles from school and home, training and competing amongst foreigners, are all the usual rules suspended? My Montreal friend laughed once and told me that at Comparative Lit conferences in New York or Vancouver or London, the accepted thing was that quick affairs and gender experimentation were perfectly fine. Distance made everything seem permissible...and hotter.

I do wonder about whether Sarah and her coach spent whole nights together, or whether they sneaked off to dorm rooms or offices or showers for sex. What were the mechanics of the affair. Jill in Wellington had given up underwear by seventeen, but had Sarah? Could she be wickedly panty-free in a fencing costume? How easy would it be to get out of fencing togs for impromptu sex? These are the things I wonder about, after all. And...was the man married back wherever home was? Did he laugh over drinks and tell other coaches about Sarah?  How did Sarah tell her fencing companions...and what did they say? She fired off dozens of emails to Jill about what was happening, but did the fencing authorities in Beijing or Shanghai know what was happening? I'm under the impression that Sarah's affair with the coach was fairly open, that she loved being on the man's arm in public, or at bars. Jill's circle at school did love shocking their audiences, so there may have been some of that.

I have no clue as to how long the affair lasted, or if Sarah ever saw the man again. All I know about Sarah is that she lives in Melbourne these days and has a practice as a physiotherapist.  Before the pandemic, Jill would fly over to see her once or twice a year. 

I wish I knew more, and that I had photos of both of them from those days. There's a very hot tale to be crafted from the story of Sarah and the fencing coach...and a very hot film to be made. I might suggest casting Kenna James and Mick Blue in the video...or maybe Riley Reid and Mick Blue.

Any thoughts?

Three One Six: Austral Summer

 My city is dealing with a sudden winter storm. Roads are closed,  the city is largely shut down, neighborhoods are dealing with loss of power and water. 

Today, though, I found an email from a travel blog that focuses on New Zealand. Today's article was about wine festivals in the North Canterbury hills on the South Island. I did sigh over that. 

Years ago, my lovely posh long-legged blonde friend in Wellington wrote me about her own adventures in the Wairarapa wine country north and east of Wellington one afternoon in the early Austral summer. She'd have been twenty-four or twenty-five when the Adventure happened, and I do wish I could get her thoughts about how she feels these days about the things she did in those days.

I'm assuming that the North Canterbury hills are a different kind of wine country from  the Wairarapa--- pinot noir rather than sauvignon blanc. I do wonder if the sorts of things that happen on wine tours there are as drunkenly wicked as what happened up on the North Island almost a decade ago. My friend described her afternoon like this---

Oh, yes! went to Wairarapa wine country for a festival and had a lot of naughty fun between the vines. 

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 vines 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 can re-read that now and wish I'd asked more questions once upon a time. She used "we", meaning that she was with one of her girlfriends. What did her girlfriend do? Was she engaged in her own Encounters, or did she just watch? Were phone numbers exchanged with the two fifty-something men?  When she got back to Wellington, who did she tell? She always claimed to have a tight circle of girls she'd known from school and uni, feral posh girls who shared their adventures over drinks. 

No, I never saw the photos. Though I wish I had...and that I could've advised her and/or her girlfriend on how and what kind of photos to take.

Last Sunday was Valentine's Day. Valentine's is a holiday I try to avoid. I'm not likely to have a Young Companion these days, and it's been a while since I had a Valentine's opportunity to share champagne and kisses, or to lick chilled champagne off a lovely girl's erect nipples. I don't miss the sex itself as much as I miss the idea of ritualized romance and the idea that a lovely girl would want to be seen with me in public. I miss the social markers of romance...and the markers of sexual value, 

It's the austral summer in NZ. My posh blonde friend will be haunting the beaches and living in a bikini. Sauvignon blanc time for her, and freckles and a dark tan on those long legs.  

Tonight in the city where I live it'll be just under twenty degrees Fahrenheit. Of course I wish she could be here--- in just a man's faded blue denim shirt...and maybe the merino socks she always wears in cold weather. I'd wish her here to drink pinot noir with me while she curls in my arms and tells me about her stories from austral summers in the first decade of the century. Stories do matter, just as details always matter. 

Winter here still, and I'm unlikely to sleep next to anyone on a winter's night. I have stories tonight, and hot chocolate. But I wish I had my blonde posh Wellington friend.

Three One Five: Sleep-Out

 My lovely posh blonde friend in New Zealand, my long-legged Wellington girl, once spent a long night telling me stories from her past. I've written about some of those before, and you can go back a year or so and read over some of her adventures. 

I've always found her stories to be amazingly hot, although I have developed serious doubts about some of her stories--- the ones about foreign travel, or being swept away by millionaires, or about adventures and encounters in risky or exotic places. 

She did write one brief note, though, that I find believable. I asked her about her introduction to anal sex, and she wrote to say it was with a Maori boy she knew, one who was slightly older. I'm not clear whether he went to her posh school or whether she knew him from her feral party girl life. The story she told me was:

I was 15, both of us drunk as fuck, we'd been at a party together, then went back to his house, he lived in a sleep-out at the back of the garden, we'd fucked a few times before this night, but never in the ass....he was big, and he just went for it, tiny bit of spit for lube...i screamed...he almost stopped, and i screamed at him to keep fucking going!...i was crying and screaming and moaning and loving it...he spit in his hand, then rubbed his dick with it... he came in me and i moaned and cried as hard as i could.  Tama-te-rangi, I still remember his full name...he was gorgeous.

A sleep-out in New Zealand is "a single-storey detached building up to 30 square metres", or "typically a building separate from the main house which is used as extra accommodation. It does not contain cooking or kitchen facilities and usually shares facilities with the main dwelling. Its used in association with the main house and isn't a standalone/ self-contained accommodation option." So there's that. 

I do wonder whether they did the Jill's Introduction to Sodomy experience in the garden or in the sleep-out itself. It does matter where exactly it happened. I'd like it to have happened outdoors, or maybe on the porch of the sleep-out. A risky place, anyway. My friend claims that she always enjoyed the idea of risking being discovered having sex, whether by parents (hers or the boy's), friends, or strangers. And she's never been shy of being naked outdoors.

It matters, too, that the boy was Maori. Jill told me once that the posh girls at her school loved the idea of exotic partners, whether Maori or Islander, and that she loved the whole golden-brown skin tone thing. Telling me that story fifteen years after it happened, she was proud that her first anal experience was with someone exotic.

The sleep-out reminds me of the girl in Baltimore having sex in the carriage house in Silver Springs. Which of course makes me think of where that girl is today--- somewhere in South Brooklyn, I believe.

My one shred of doubt here is that Tama-te-rangi is a fairly famous name in Maori culture. It's also it seems a name given to a fair number of Maori boys, so it's possible that it was simply a common Maori name there in Lower Hutt and Wellington. But I'll never quite be sure.

It does leave me saddened that she didn't tell me the extended story, the story of how she met him, of how they started having sex, of what her girlfriends at school thought, of what happened after he finished that night. How long did they keep up a FWB relationship? And how much older was he? All those things matter... 

I'll always remember her for having amazingly hot stories. I only wish I knew more of them.

Three One Three: Boxes

I've been going through boxes and looking for ghosts from my past. I found the journals Levin gave me, and I've spent nights sighing over them. It's odd--- I have so few photos of Levin. I have her pencil and pen-and-ink sketches in the Pentalic journals, and she did lovely self-portraits. What I regret, though, is not taking photos of her. 

That's always been a regret for me. There are really no photos of me, let alone any of me with lovely young companions. I've always avoided being photographed. I can think of only two that I know exist. One is of me at my brother's wedding. The other is me standing outside the house where I'd rented rooms while I finished my doctorate. One of me in a tuxedo, one of me in black blazer and black long-sleeved tee. Two existing photos in all these years. I suspect you can guess the reasons. I'm not fond of my body or my face. And to be photographed next to a lovely young companion would only emphasize how I don't belong there next to her. 

The first time I went to Europe, I flatly refused to bring a camera. A camera, I thought, would mark me as a mere tourist, a rube from the provinces. And so I have no record of my life in Vienna. A year of my life might as well not exist. I feel the same way now about photos of girls I've been with, girls I've loved. I've no clue if any of them contrived to get photos of me, or if they managed to get photos of the two of us together-- though I know that I didn't get any.  Back in the day, I'd have been terrified of being photographed, terrified that any photo of me with a lover would be a kind of mockery of the stories my young companions and I told ourselves about who and what we were. I'd have been terrified that her friends would see photos of me and feel only disdain and contempt. 

Levin and Liberty were able to be muses for older lovers. Miss Ginny in Montreal, too. They were all of them proud of being someone's muse. For Levin that was the painting professor, the man who did that nude portrait of her. For Liberty it would've been the gallery owner in Santa Fe. And for Miss Ginny, it was an aging Russian emigre who played chess with her, taught her to do vodka shots, laughed at her obsession with Swinging London and the early Sixties, and gave her a couple of cartons filled with old issues of Cahiers du Cinema. I'm sure they each had other older lovers for whom they were muses and inspirations, but I keep thinking of that portrait above Levin's bed and about Miss Ginny sitting on the floor of her rooms near McGill, going through articles about half-forgotten French and East European films. Or of Liberty in just a man's shirt, being taught how to paint desert light. 

Liberty told me about her mysterious journal with its "My Older Lovers" chapter, about the entries she'd been making since she was sixteen about the things she'd learned about older men and about how to manage older lovers. I never asked to see it, of course. I certainly never asked her what she said about me--- or if I was in her entries at all. But I do have visions of Liberty sitting cross-legged on a sofa in just a pair of faded, cut-off denim short shorts, brushing that mass of red-gold hair off her face and reading from her notebook on older lovers. I always loved her voice, and I can imagine her doing a kind of podcast, telling her stories out over the aether. Liberty was always very direct and straightforward, always very earnest. It's easy to imagine her reading out her guide to older lovers not as regrets or even as erotica, but just as a clear set of memories--- an operator's manual with clear descriptions of procedure.

Miss Ginny claimed to have something similar, by the way--- written in French, like a good Montreal girl, and bits of her father's Polish ---with lists of books and films older admirers had told her about. Miss Ginny, though, would have focused on the books and films. She wanted, she told me, to sleep with at least one famous academic and one rare book dealer. She wanted the lists, she said, wanted to have a bibliography, an annotated bibliography, to go with her life and experiences. 

There are boxes somewhere in rooms wherever Liberty and Miss Ginny and Levin are tonight. I have to believe that they still have boxes, that they've kept journals and notebooks all these years, that they treasure the stories and the lists they made.  All three girls told me that they set out very deliberately to find adventures and experiences, that they  spent their late teens and early twenties keeping notes and lists, finding raw material for the art and the books they wanted to create.

I miss them. I miss that attitude. I miss the way each of them saw my age as a positive thing, the way each of them set out to design a world for herself, the way each of them kept notebooks and lists. 

Three Zero Eight: Lessons

 I'd thought that I might be writing tonight about sex in hotels, but I decided in the end to write about what I'd learned in my life from porn. I suppose we can include written erotica in that.

I've been reading things on line about people's sexual problems, and one of the recurring themes in the comments is that people--- meaning of course cis straight white males ---have to stop learning about sex from porn. That immediately sent me to PornHub to do a random tour of categories. I spent a while looking through PornHub clips and trying to recall what I'd learned from porn.

I know that I learned some things. Though in my long-ago youth, it was harder to do. That was before the web, of course, long before there was anything like PornHub or its sister sites. To see porn in my youth I had to sneak into actual backstreet cinemas to watch movies. I was probably in my twenties before I saw porn on satellite channels, and I never had much of a porn collection on either videotape or DVD.  But I did learn things from porn. 

That makes sense for me, of course. I learned about so much in my life from books and films.  Novels and films shaped who I am. I read books to learn about what to wear, which wines to drink, how to behave at dinner parties. So why not porn?

I learned from porn (yes, from a book first, from "Story of O") that there were beautiful girls who didn't wear underwear. I learned that there were girls there in the ordinary world who were deliciously bare under skirts or shorts. I learned that I could suggest to lovers that they be panty-free. I learned that I could whisper to a lovely girl and tell her to wear nothing at all beneath a sundress while she walked with me down a beach or a city street--- learned that this could be an adventure. And it has become a signature thing for me--- asking girls with whom I'm involved to give up underwear, at least while out with me.

I learned that there were beautiful girls who slept naked.  I may--- may ---have learned that first from the early James Bond films, but certainly it was porn where I found that sleeping naked was something beautiful girls seemed to do everywhere. I watched that and knew--- even in my early teens ---that this was something I'd be asking lovers to do lifelong. 

Porn showed me new positions to try. Porn showed me new places for risky and thrilling encounters. Porn showed me that, yes, oral and anal did happen...and showed me how to do both. And the same is true for various kinds of s/m. Until I read about something, until I see it on a screen, it isn't real. 

Porn gave me an incentive to try things, to think that certain kinds of adventures were possible. It gave me the courage to offer up ideas and suggestions to lovers. Were the things that I asked about or found fascinating "unrealistic"?  Maybe. Or even probably. But "realistic" has never been what I was after. 

Porn offered me raw material that I could shape into things I could share, things that I use as guides to adventures and to creating stories for myself and a lover. Porn showed me what I could like, showed me things that I didn't know I'd like. 

I never thought that porn was a guide to what a girl looked or sounded like while having orgasms. I never thought that porn showed how large or how hard a male was supposed to be, or how often a male could perform. But then I wasn't interested in those things anyway.  I did think that porn showed me how sex should be lit, and how bodies can be posed for maximum visual effect. Porn taught me how sex could look. And I'll always be grateful to certain porn directors (e.g., Andrew Blake) for that.

Three Zero Zero: Debriefing

 I wrote here earlier in the summer that:

Liberty told me that all through her teens and into her twenties she'd collected experiences and kept a journal about what she was learning about the world and about lovers. She claimed to have kept a separate "Older Men" chapter with notes on what men in their thirties and forties had taught her and on how to deal with them. Did she really? I'll never know, though I hope she did. I hope she'll find that notebook when she's forty herself and read it through and see if she agrees with Liberty-at-twenty's observations. 

I wish I could have both Liberty and Levin write down the things they'd learned from older lovers. My friend at McGill--- I know how she'd answer. She'd list the names of authors and directors, the titles of books and films. Reading Deleuze, she'd say: that was a big thing. Not quite the physical things Liberty claimed to have learned (light s/m, foot fetishes)... or how she learned to paint Southwest desert light. Not quite those things... but still lessons that my Montreal friend saw as crucial to her constructed self.

Now I do recognize that I've been a source of some kind of lessons and experiences for girls like Levin or Liberty. I'd like to know more about what lessons and experiences they'd been looking for, and how they did use them (whatever they were) to construct selves later. I'd like to know what counts as a lesson, too.  And I'd especially like to know how each girl sees the older men they were with all these years later.

I'd love to see Liberty's journal and its "Older Men" chapter. She always saw affairs as learning experiences, and she was very earnest about that. It mattered to her that each lover, male or female, left her with more knowledge about the world. And, yes, I'd love to know what all those things were. I'd love to know what categories she put experiences into. I think I'd especially like to read the very early entries, to read the entries were Liberty was deciding what she wanted to learn and what avenues she wanted to explore.

I wrote this, too--

What I'm also thinking about is what each of them--- Liberty, Levin, even the Young Medical Student in "Altered States" ---wanted from the experience. We'll learn things, Liberty said to me. When Levin first stayed over in my rooms, she spent time prowling through my bookshelves and asking about books and authors. My friend at McGill told me that she expected any older lover she took to have a bedroom full of books and a whole fund of knowledge about 1960s French and East European films. 

I do wish I knew how each of them defined "experience". The stories Levin and Liberty and my NZ friend Jill told me were often extremely hot, but what I'd like to do is get at the underlying structures, to get at the decisions each of them made to seek out and be open to experiences. Why this particular lover, this particular thing? I'd very much like to know what Liberty's chapter on Older Men says--- what makes someone worth/not worth being a learning experience. I'd like to go through her checklist of things she did to manage Older Lovers, to properly utilize them. 

Backstories matter, just as details matter. The why of something is as important as the thing itself. 

I'd also like to read the letters another friend has been sending out during the season of the Red Death. You know the backstory:

A friend in Scotland wrote to tell me that she is appalled at the way The Discourse seems to be turning age-disparate affairs into signs of evil and exploitation. She's always preferred her lovers to be older and experienced--- "worldly", she says ---and has acted on that for half her life. She feels awkward and apologetic not for having the affairs she's had since she was sixteen, but for putting men who taught her so much and meant so much to her into the role of the villain. She tells me that she's called and written lovers from her past  from her quarantine house near Edinburgh to reassure them that she cared about them, learned from them, and will treasure them in her memories. Do not, she told them, ever be ashamed of being with her. I do admire her for that. I really do. 

I'd love to read those letters, to read what she thanked them for teaching her. One of the letters I know would be to the much older man who told her when she was sixteen that she needed to stop being afraid and actually make the effort to be admitted to Oxford. That affair re-shaped her life, and I'm taking it for granted that she wrote to tell him that. She told me once that what she has now--- a business of her own, a resume that includes political consultancy, a couple of terms as a town councilor ---owes so much to the older lovers who told her that she was capable of doing anything, who took her to bed and talked about the world. I'd very much love to read those letters with her memories. Yes...I wish I was a recipient of one of those letters. I do envy anyone who was worldly and knowledgeable enough to be chosen as one of her mentors. 

Bildungsroman, Erziehungsroman... and whatever those things are called in French. I'd like to know how Levin and Liberty and Jill constructed the tales of their lives--- my friends in Montreal and Edinburgh, too. How have they structured what Older Lovers taught them? What things in particular did they want to learn, what things did they learn, what checklists and outlines have they drafted...? 

Experiences have to be crafted into stories, into essays, That's always key for me: taking experience and trying to make it mean something. Liberty's journal, maybe whatever was in Levin's Pentalic sketchbooks and notebooks--- those are all things I'd love to know.

Two Nine Eight: Preludes

My friend in NZ sent me this back in the spring of 2012--- a memory of an adventure she had in 2002 with two slightly older boys. The full story is in a May 2018 post here, a post called "Two One Zero: Lookout". I printed off her original email and had it bound into a collection of emails and blog posts I'd assembled. It's something I want to keep, something I want to remember.

It says something about me that what fascinates here is the Range Rover. It matters to me that this all happened in a Range Rover, in a particular kind of vehicle. It matters, too, that it happened at a lookout up above the city.  Posh teens in a posh car, looking down on one of the wealthier suburbs--- the stage set mattered:

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.

Reading the story now, thinking of it as a story, I wouldn't have had Metallica playing. I'm no fan of heavy metal. There is that. But I do love it that it all happened in a Range Rover. And I love the image of Jill in the front seat, inevitably in tiny cut-off denim shorts, bare feet on the dash. There's something so deliciously alluring about that. Tanned legs, bare feet, tiny faded shorts... I have to wonder what she was thinking. She was in the front seat with Jake, so she would've counted as his date. Did she want a three-way to develop? Was she wondering why Jake had brought another boy along? Was she just indifferent to having Hadleigh watch her with Jake? In their circle, when kids made out or hooked up at parties, did anyone worry (on beaches, in spa pools, on sailboat decks) about being seen?

Did she know that he was driving her up to the lookout to have sex with? Was it a decision that she made before or after they parked and the RTD bourbons went round? When she climbed into the Range Rover that evening, was she expecting that at least one of the boys would fuck her? That does matter to me--- knowing when the decisions were made, knowing whether she'd done any planning, knowing whether she'd done anything with either of them before. Jill at fifteen or sixteen still (sometimes) wore underwear but rarely bothered with birth control until she was at university. What planning was she doing? Or was she just utterly passive, and waiting for bourbon and a joint to make the decision for her. Bare feet on the dash--- was she flexing cute, dark-tanned toes with impatience during the drive, or just as a distraction to the boys? How did Hadleigh in the backseat decide to take the risk and stroke himself while watching Jill with Jake? Had he wanted Jill before?

The story itself isn't entirely implausible. I'd be suspicious of how easily the two boys experimented with each other--- even in NZ, even in a city that prides itself on being a hippie town, even years and years after my own teens, that's hard for me to imagine. I did find a website for her school and scrolled back through their years of sports teams to find that there was a water polo boy named Hadleigh who graduated the year before Jill--- a boy who went on to be some sort of developer in the city. So at least that one point has some plausibility

No...not entirely implausible with rich, bored, drunk kids. But what does interest me is the prelude to it all. Or preludes. What interests me is what each person in the Range Rover was thinking, and what each person thought would happen. The actual events are hot, yes. But what I'd like to know is whether it just happened or whether any or all of them planned it.

Any thoughts out there over the aether?

Two Nine Three: Lessons

Last night I watched "Altered States"--- a film from c.1981 that I've always rather liked.  If you haven't seen the film, I will recommend it.

There's a moment in "Altered States" where Wm. Hurt has the first physical symptoms of regressing into some kind of archaic hominid. He's in bed with one of his students at the time (she calls him "Dr. Jessup" when he leaves bed and dashes to the bathroom to look at his transformation in the mirror). The actress is named Ora Rubinstein; her character is billed only as "Young Medical Student". I like that...and wonder if you'd still still have that character if you re-did the film in the Year Twenty. Could you still have Dr. Jessup sleeping with one of his students? The film takes it for granted that he'll have affairs with students, and one of his senior med school colleagues says off-handedly earlier in the film that he has to go, that he has a date with one of his students,

Which once again takes us back to Levin and her painting professor. That affair was something that happened long ago, and certainly long before #MeToo. Levin had no objection to sleeping with her professor, and no particular thought that she was being exploited. She found some of his stories pretentious and self-involved, but that just went with being in the art world. What I'd like to know is the full backstory. At what point did she sense that his interest in her was a seduction? How did she react to the discovery--- surprise, amusement, excitement? Did she ever think she was being exploited or used (in a bad way)? Did she laugh at how cliched it all was--- art student and her professor? Did she decide to sleep with him early on, or did she make a quick decision that night in the studio when he asked why she wasn't naked yet?

I asked her once when she made that decision about me, and she shrugged and told me she'd decided early on, when I was telling her what films and books I liked. Just seemed like you'd be interesting, she said. I mean, I'll take that as a compliment and a perfectly valid reason. But I did wonder when she'd made a decision and what criteria she was using. 

Levin was a fine arts major. I do wonder how her criteria compare to Liberty's.'s criteria. Liberty was a coastal ecology major--- a science girl, albeit in what was regarded as a "hippie science". From what I could infer, all the "soft" sciences--- the ecology programs, anthropology, biology ---were very sexually active. Funny thing--- "Altered States" gives the same impression, that the physical anthropology students and faculty are more sexually active than the hard sciences or even the liberal arts. I need to look into the accepted mores of various academic departments. 

I of course was a History major--- a department not noted for carnality. Fine Arts and Comparative Lit were of course notorious for both ambisexuality and teacher-student affairs. Neither Levin nor Liberty ever seemed to find sleeping with faculty to be anything out of the ordinary, mind you. And both seemed to have accepted bisexuality as perfectly ordinary since their teens. Okay, yes, great--- I'm now thinking about a survey and analysis on sexual criteria by academic major back to the Sixties. Somebody get me a research grant and a Netflix deal.

What I'm also thinking about is what each of them--- Liberty, Levin, even the Young Medical Student in "Altered States" ---wanted from the experience. We'll learn things, Liberty said to me. When Levin first stayed over in my rooms, she spent time prowling through my bookshelves and asking about books and authors. My friend at McGill told me that she expected any older lover she took to have a bedroom full of books and a whole fund of knowledge about 1960s French and East European films. 

Though I suppose it's possible that they wanted the idea of "experience" more than any particular concrete experience. Levin was part of the art world, and there's still a strong master-pupil attitude there, the idea of learning by transmission from some older figure with talent. That may be part of it all.  Levin and Liberty (and my friend in Montreal) liked the idea of having experiences,  of collecting experiences that they could use to form themselves. I suppose I felt the same way in my own late teens and undergraduate days. The idea was to be able to say that, yes, I did this, or that I'd read that, that I had a range of experiences (all approved in novels or films) that I could use to become (or become seen as) the sort of character I wanted to portray.

Liberty told me that all through her teens and into her twenties she'd collected experiences and kept a journal about what she was learning about the world and about lovers. She claimed to have kept a separate "Older Men" chapter with notes on what men in their thirties and forties had taught her and on how to deal with them. Did she really? I'll never know, though I hope she did. I hope she'll find that notebook when she's forty herself and read it through and see if she agrees with Liberty-at-twenty's observations. 

I wish I could have both Liberty and Levin write down the things they'd learned from older lovers. My friend at McGill--- I know how she'd answer. She'd list the names of authors and directors, the titles of books and films. Reading Deleuze, she'd say: that was a big thing. Not quite the physical things Liberty claimed to have learned (light s/m, foot fetishes)...or how she learned to paint Southwest desert light. Not quite those things...but still lessons that my Montreal friend saw as crucial to her constructed self.

Now I do recognize that I've been a source of some kind of lessons and experiences for girls like Levin or Liberty. I'd like to know more about what lessons and experiences they'd been looking for, and how they did use them (whatever they were) to construct selves later. I'd like to know what counts as a lesson, too.  And I'd especially like to know how each girl sees the older men they were with all these years later.

Two Eight Nine: Disclosures

I was sitting outside with a lovely neighbour here at the lakeside flat the other night, talking and working our way through a bottle of Belvedere vodka with iced tea. How Deepest South is that, do you think? I'll note that we were in separate deck chairs on the upper deck, and that we were properly socially-distanced. This is the time of the Red Death, and I've been socially-distanced and properly masked throughout. My neighbour herself is a lovely girl. She's been here in my apartment complex for almost four years now. She has long, toned legs, a mass of reddish hair, and is something of a party girl, though she's no one's fool. The night itself was good. Cool for the season here, with the scent of earlier rain still in the air.

At some point she confided in me that she was and always had been "a total sexual deviant". I hadn't heard the word "deviant" in twenty years, and I was immediately intrigued.  She reached out one arm and tapped her glass on mine and drunkenly repeated that she was "such a deviant". Of course I asked. How could I not ask? She told me that she'd lost track of how many people she'd had sex with, and asked me if I remembered my own body count number. I do, of course, but that's because I've always written such things down, all the way back into my teens. Everything is written down, everything is annotated. I did become a trained historian, after all. I didn't ask whether she didn't know her own number because it was so large or simply because many of her encounters had been drunken couplings that she barely remembered. Please note that I'm not imposing any moral judgment here, and I never would.  She's lovely and probably thirty or thirty-one. I can make a guess at what the number might be, but the only significance it would have is if she and I laid bets on whose was higher at her current age.

She then told me that she felt like a deviant, too, because she'd had girls in her past. She'd always loved girls, she told me, though she hadn't had the nerve to hook up with more than a few--- which of course is very much like my friend Jill in NZ.  How odd that she finds being at least occasionally bi to be so wicked that she can only admit it after several large vodkas.

She looked at me and shook a finger and told me that she just knew I was someone who tied girls up and whipped them. I had to laugh at that. Good guess, I told her. Very good guess. But of course I do love playing with blindfolds and silk scarves and riding crops and candle wax with lovely young companions. My neighbour told me that I was just so obvious, that that was something all men my age who had "all those bookshelves" liked. I did shrug and tell her that with age you learned to rely to technique and style rather than raw physicality. That was all okay, she said. Older men came up with interesting things to do. And you, she said, I'll bet you're really good at doing scenes and telling stories with girls. That's something I was proud to hear.

This does not--- let me emphasize that ---end with the two of us in bed, or with her on my couch being whipped. It doesn't. It ended with us clinking glasses and just talking until two or three in the morning.  In a non-plague year, it would've ended with a long hug and maybe--- maybe ---a goodnight kiss.  But it wasn't a night that was going to end in bed. It didn't need to, and while I love flirting shamelessly with her, I'm not going to step outside any bounds.

But it did make me think. During the night out on the deck, we talked about our respective experiences and pasts. I've usually been someone to whom strangers in bars or on trains confide their secrets, and my neighbour found me to be a good listener and a safe confidant. I'm glad that she does. Importantly, she hasn't been embarrassed or nervous around me since. That matters, too.

Nonetheless, it is an odd thing. She told me that she hasn't had anyone who'd understand about her secrets in years. I've been feeling the same thing lately. Confidantes are hard to find lately. Certainly harder than when I was, say, twenty-five or thirty. It seems much less safe these days to admit anything to anyone. In the time of the gender wars, admitting anything to anyone seems like putting a weight on their shoulders or, worse, like some kind of demand or threat.

I've always loved the whole experience of drunkenly telling one another secrets, about disclosing one's past and interests and fancies. There's a delight in that, in the sharing. Sharing fancies and obsessions is very often better than sex-in-the-flesh. Mutual surprise, the moment of laughing with someone at shared things, the electricity of being on the borderline between flirtation and seduction--- all those things make disclosures fun.

Yet it feels less safe now. Not just because the other person might be turned off, but that they might be angered. I'm less and less sure these days about such things. It's hard to offer up compliments, of course, although my neighbour is fine with my obviously appreciating her legs. But it is harder to tell the stories girls and I would've talked about twenty years ago, or maybe even ten. The world has changed around me and sometimes I haven't followed along with it.

Two Eight Five: Pedagogy

Someone told me once in passing that a certain kind of erotic linkage underlay all education. They were talking about Plato and the Symposium, but I understood what they meant--- that the desire for knowledge and erotic desire are often hard to separate one from the other. Falling in love with a certain kind of knowledge is easily transmuted into desire for the person with the knowledge. Having one means having the other. Or so any number of French coming-of-age novels and any number of films about teacher-student affairs tell us.

Back a while ago I wrote this about my friend in New Zealand:

My lovely, long-legged, posh blonde friend down in the Land of the Long White Cloud wrote me once upon a time to answer questions about her adventures in her teens. Her life as a posh bad girl has always fascinated me, and I did send her a master list of questions about the things she did when she was a self-described wicked schoolgirl.

I asked her the obvious question about encounters and adventures with teachers--- something that's the stuff of any number of coming-of-age films (right now I'm thinking of Mischa Barton and her teacher in "The O in Ohio" or Kat Dennings in "Daydream Nation").

This was her response to my question about whether she'd ever had sex with one of her teachers back at her posh private school in Lower Hutt:

I slept with a teacher a few times...but he was sort of a family acquaintance. But he was also my science teacher, so it totally counts! (I was sixth form, so 16 when I did it)  

She also wrote me to say that:

At 15, i sucked a maori trainee-teacher's cock behind the school gym... just sucked him that one time...i would have loved to fuck him though!


I'm wild to know all the backstory for each encounter--- how it happened, what she thought and felt during and after, if she discussed doing either thing with her circle of close female friends. I'd love to know if she was ever discovered--- by parents or staff ---doing schoolgirl-teacher things.  Those questions do matter to me. She was I think thirty or thirty-one when she answered those questions, and I do wonder how she sees her fifteen or sixteen year old self, and if she has any regrets.

I think I noted before, too, that I've come to suspect that not all the stories she's told me over the years have been true. So while I'd very much like those stories to be true, I just can't be sure. It's sad and disturbing that I can't just believe her outright these days, and all the more so since for years I've known that I'd run off and live with her or marry her for the asking.

But let's assume it's true. Let's assume that she did have sex with her science teacher. And that she gave head to a Maori teacher-trainee behind the gym. Those are great stories, and I can add them to my list of teacher-student stories from girls I've known.

Liberty of course slept with her coastal ecology instructor when she was at university. From all I understand, the environmental sciences department (regarded as a haven for hippies) was notorious for things like that happening. I do love the idea of the sleeping bag and the dock (see my earlier entry), and I'd like to know if she slept with him again after the field trip. I suppose it's possible that it was only that the rules are suspended on field trips, but it's something I wish I knew. And if she was ever jealous that the instructor (oh, obviously and inevitably) slept with other co-eds in his classes.

Levin told  me once that she'd slept with one of her art professors. In some ways the affair had been a perfect art school cliche--- she'd even modeled for him. She was rather proud that he'd painted and sketched nudes of her. She had one framed in her bedroom. She was proud of being his muse, proud of being painted. The affair (and it lasted for a while) was art school cliche and filled with art school drama. Levin discovered that the professor had also slept with a boy she'd dated her freshman year...and who was now living with a girl Levin had once had a fling with. I nearly fell off her bed laughing and applauding.  She agreed with me that it was funny, although it made her feel that  art school was far, far too claustrophobic and incestuous.  I'll note here that I found that whole round robin thing far easier to believe than some of my New Zealand friend's stories, if only because I'd spent enough time around art school undergraduates and faculty in my clubland days. Art school always seemed to me to be a mix of indie mumblecore movies and Arthur Schnitzler's Reigen.

I will say, too, that the framed nude she had in her bedroom was very, very good. Very evocative, very powerful, very alluring. I did envy her art professor's skills, and I envied him for seeing all the things in Levin that he'd put on canvas.

Marsha told me once that she'd  had a thing with someone who was almost her teacher. She was in geometry in Grade 10 and he was a student teacher doing his required couple of weeks of classroom teaching. She ran into him away from school the next semester (memory says at a pizza place) and he remembered her. All the stories I've told here about Marsha involved cars--- the vintage MG in Thessaloniki, the Triumph along the river road here, the police car on the  levee ---and so does this one. They first had sex in a parked car here, though I'm unclear whether it was around the lakes by the university or atop the levee along the river road. I do remember her telling me that the car was a battered old hatchback, and that he had an ice chest with beer (dark beer, she remembered-- Heineken Dark?)  in the back. She got her skirt up and rode him in the car, and of course there was road head.  They may have done it at his parents' house a few times, and once she made him park at night in the school parking lot and do her with the seats lowered. He'd have been maybe twenty-two. His people, she told me, were "wild Hungarians", and his name was distinctively Magyar. Memory says that he went to Colorado, and of course in some perfect world (or at least a rom-com world) she'd have met him again when she was as the Colorado School of Mines. That didn't happen, but it should have. She told me the story just before she and I went to her senior prom together, possibly to make me just jealous enough to be competitive. After all, he was older and almost her teacher.

Teacher-student affairs do intrigue me. Or maybe it's that I'm interested in how girls see them a decade on. My NZ friend, Levin, Liberty, and Marsha all seem to have taken the encounters in stride. None of them was (or thought she was) in love, none of them felt 'groomed' (or at least felt that that was a bad thing), and all of them liked having the stories to tell later. Levin and Liberty certainly saw their academic affairs as just part of their lists of adventures, and certainly not as anything traumatic. My friend in NZ saw her affairs as competitive markers amongst her friends, who were notorious posh bad girls.

If any of you out there reading this have experiences that you've turned into stories, do tell me about your own academic encounters. Tell me how they happened, and what you thought while they were happening. Tell me how the memories feel to you now, some years on.

Two Seven Nine: Threads 12

Let's remember Marsha, the girl in the stories I recounted about the Electra Palace hotel in Thessaloniki and the cop on the levee.  She was a part of my young life that I do think about a lot these days. I've been told that she's teaching at a tech school--- geology, maybe geochemistry ---these days. I'm told that she's planning a wedding for her daughter. I have to sigh at that.  Still, she is in my thoughts--- or at least the stories I know from her past keep coming to mind.

I saw "Once Upon a Time in Hollywood" not long ago. I had to note that Marsha reminded me of Margaret Qualley's character--- the hippie girl Pussycat who was one of Charlie Manson's followers. Marsha was never a hippie girl, though she was an outdoors girl. Not quite so tall as Margaret Qualley, and with larger breasts, but the same long, slender legs and a preference for short shorts and sandals. I'll have to think here for a moment. If not quite Margaret Qualley's character, then maybe Kat Dennings in "Daydream Nation". In any case, excellent legs and long, dark-brown hair. I've always preferred long legs to large breasts, but she was a 36C, which went with the outdoors girl look.

Back in January I wrote about her adventure in Thessaloniki with the rich Greek boy, the one who drove her up above the city in his vintage MG. Marsha did have a thing for sports cars. She had posters of exotic ones--- Aston-Martins, Bugattis ---on her bedroom walls at home along with posters from ski resorts. I'll suspect that as soon as the Greek boy showed her his MG, he was three-quarters of the way to getting her shorts off...and certainly set to get road head.

Memory says that there was a boy--- older than she was, of course, in his mid-twenties ---with a sports car that she knew here. He had a sports car, naturally. I can't recall what kind, though I think it was a Triumph rather than an MG.  My own knowledge of vintage sports cars is minimal at best, and all I can think of would be a Triumph Spitfire or a TR-6. He had one, though, and she was stunned and thrilled to be able to ride in it.

What do I know about the boy? Very little, really. She was fifteen or sixteen when they met; I think he was twenty-four. Her first sports car, and her first older man. His name was Tony--- I do remember that. He was called Tony T, though I have no idea what the the T stood for. Marsha met him through her older sister, who briefly dated him. I think Marsha decided to make her own play for Tony after  her sister broke up with him, but the mechanics of it all are a mystery. Marsha's sister Pamela (a film devotee) described Tony once as looking a bit like a younger version of Richard Harris' King Arthur in "Camelot".  These days, I have to to rack my memory for what that would've meant.  I'll note that I stayed friends with Pamela long after Marsha and I had gone our separate ways. I don't think I ever asked her outright about Tony and Marsha, but she may have told me things over the years. Anyway...what else do I know? Older than Marsha. He rented a small house down by the river. He worked offshore, and then or later he worked as a diver around offshore rigs.

She did tell me that he was her first road head. Not her first oral experience, not by any means, but certainly the first in a moving car. Watching Margaret Qualley blithely ask Brad Pitt if he wanted her to give him head while they drove did make me wonder how her first road head happened. Did she offer him her favors to get a ride in the Triumph? Did Tony tell her that the price of admission for a ride at speed down country roads was a blowjob? I'd like to think that he looked at her over the inevitable aviator Ray-Bans and told her that there was a price for a place in the passenger seat. I'll expect that his smile was insufferable, but just what a tenth-grade girl would've swooned over.

Marsha did spend a lot of time at his house, she told me later. Drinking Heinkens and smoking weed, of course.  Cutting school to go do that with a hot older boyfriend was exactly what just what every bougie girl at our school would've thought was a perfect weekday afternoon. They spent a lot of time in bed--- and of course his bed was two mattresses on the floor. Well, at least it wasn't a waterbed. There have to be limits. Always. He liked her FDAU--- face down, ass up ---and he was the first one to introduce her to sodomitical practices. He liked feeling her squirm, and as the older man, he was a bit nervous about getting an underage girl pregnant. Not enough to do anything about contraception, she told me, but certainly enough to get him to do anal sex a fair amount.

Driving with Tony was always about him fingering her down her shorts or under a short skirt. Marsha's usual habit when driving was to kick off her sandals and put her bare feet up on the dash. She'd never heard of a foot fetish at fifteen or sixteen, but she knew that Tony (and a few other older men later) always wanted her barefoot. But having her feet up on the dash made it easier for him to get a hand up her skirt. The Triumph was too small for sex in the car, but Tony knew all the places along the river roads to get out of the car with a picnic blanket.

I used to have visions of Marsha with her shorts off, standing barefoot on the seat of the convertible Triumph, hanging onto the roll bar while she wrapped her legs around Tony. Probably not a viable position, though he could have used it to go down on her. Alas, though, I suspect that vintage Triumphs didn't have roll bars in those days.

Not  a lot of drama to the story, mind you.  She spent a few months sneaking off from school to Tony's house, and he spent a fair number of afternoons speeding down country roads with her giving him head.  In the end, I suppose, they both grew bored.  I wonder if she'd  had sex in a Triumph and wanted to move up to something else, whatever that may have been in those days (a Porsche?)...or if she had a pregnancy scare...or if she worried about being caught skipping school.  I do wonder what would've happened if her parents had caught her with Tony. The drama I think would've been worth seeing.

My lovely long-legged blonde friend in NZ told me that she always took the opportunity to be naked in a fast car with an older lover behind the wheel. My friend in Asheville once pulled off her sundress and drove home naked down back roads one summer night in a battered old pickup truck. I'd like to think Marsha was naked in at least a few sports cars in her teen days. She didn't try being without underwear until later--- something I persuaded her to do ---but I like to think that she'd launched at least a few pairs of bikini panties into the wind and sat with her legs open and sandals off on sunlit drives down the highway.

Two Seven Four: Threads 8

My lovely, long-legged, posh blonde friend down in the Land of the Long White Cloud wrote me once upon a time to answer questions about her adventures in her teens. Her life as a posh bad girl has always fascinated me, and I did send her a master list of questions about the things she did when she was a self-described wicked schoolgirl.

I asked her the obvious question about encounters and adventures with teachers--- something that's the stuff of any number of coming-of-age films (right now I'm thinking of Mischa Barton and her teacher in "The O in Ohio" or Kat Dennings in "Daydream Nation").

This was her response to my question about whether she'd ever had sex with one of her teachers back at her posh private school in Lower Hutt:

I slept with a teacher a few times...but he was sort of a family acquaintance. But he was also my science teacher, so it totally counts! (I was sixth form, so 16 when I did it) 

She also wrote me to say that

At 15, i sucked a maori trainee-teacher's cock behind the school gym... just sucked him that one time...i would have loved to fuck him though!

I'm wild to know all the backstory for each encounter--- how it happened, what she thought and felt during and after, if she discussed doing either thing with her circle of close female friends. I'd love to know if she was ever discovered--- by parents or staff ---doing schoolgirl-teacher things. 

I'd like to know much, more about other stories she's mentioned in passing. One of her close friends was a girl named Sarah who was a competition fencer--- good enough to have competed on a national  level and to have gone abroad to study sabre. Sarah is supposed to have gone to some kind of high-level fencing camp in Shanghai at 16/17 and had a notorious affair with a well-known and much, much older fencing coach. My friend tells me that Sarah is now a physiotherapist in Sydney, but the two girls are still in touch and still remember the volleys of emails they sent one another about their exploits when they were 15-18.  

There was also mention of a girl called Kelly, who my friend looked up to as a role model for wickedness with Maori or Islander boys:

Kelly at 14! She was so advanced for her age...and she loved all the islander boys. She was very hot...tall, blonde, skinny. I think she got pregnant to an islander at 17 or 18 & moved to Australia.

I'd love to know so much more. There are two questions here, of course. 

1. How much of her past is real? Her stories over the last dozen years and more have been deliciously hot and wicked, but how much of any of them can I believe? 

2. What happens if ever she becomes monogamous and domestic-partnered? Will she stop telling stories from her past? Will she reject her Bad Girl days? Will she regret them. And...will she regret telling me stories?

Two Seven Three: Hearts

The weekend began with Valentine's Day. In other circumstances, in other worlds, that might've been a good thing.

Of course, for those of us who were solitary at Valentine's, there was that nagging sense of social failure--- failing at one of those arbitrary but nonetheless important social expectations. Being solitary on Valentine's leaves a dull, heavy sense of failure around one's neck. However manufactured the holiday itself is,  the sense of failure remains. No partner, no one taking part with you in the rituals of romance, no formalized and formal kisses.

Throughout Valentine's Day, there were social media posts by women announcing that, for them, V-Day stood for Vibrator Day and not Valentine's Day. Girls I knew via social media posted entries saying that their vibrators were fully-charged and ready, and that they would be their own lovers that night, that Lelo had given them the ability to find pleasure alone--- pleasure that was certain, authentic, and probably more intense than they could find with a date. Vibrator Day as a meme was passed along from girl to girl, and they cheered each other along.

Needless to say, that's not an attitude anyone male can have. Any male announcing that he would be celebrating Solitary Vice Day in lieu of a partner would've been mocked mercilessly as pathetic or creepy. It's simply a social fact. No one male can indulge in the Solitary Vice and be regarded as doing anything positive. The Solitary Vice, for males, is always a sign of failure and lack of social value. Only sad losers or creepy perverts indulge in the Solitary Vice, and anyone male doing that deserves shame and mockery.

The girls whose social media posts I was reading chatted back and forth about their favourite vibrators and discussed their performance stats--- USB chargeable! longer battery life! perfect texture! choice of colours! Most, just as a note seemed to favour models by Lelo--- apparently the brand of choice for hip, educated twenty-something girls all over North America and the Anglosphere. There's no male equivalent for that, of course. No males at social media were discussing the relative merits of different artificial vaginas. No males at social media were discussing which make or model of inflatable doll was best. No one was saying that he had photographs of favourite actresses or models to tape onto his choice of doll--- at least no one not at some dark web site for wannabe serial killers was saying that. (See how easy it is to instantly assign mockery and contempt to any male admissions concerning the Solitary Vice?)

Years and years ago, I did see a Seventies horror film where the creepy male main character had some kind of doll that he'd fill with water. He'd tape photographs of girls he'd stalked onto the doll's face and have sex with it. At the climactic moment he'd inject a syringe full of blood (his own? some hapless victim's?) into the doll, and he'd have some version of orgasm while the blood swirled through the water in the doll. The film was, I think, from sometime in the early 1970s; it may have been called "Private Parts". In any case, the film was a perfect depiction of social attitudes regarding any male who indulges in the Solitary Vice. The film was disturbing enough when I watched it a lifetime ago, and the memory of it still leaves me deeply uncomfortable and shamed.

Socially, males can't admit to any need for solitary pleasure, and the act itself is regarded as shameful and some mix of sad, disgusting, and risible. This is something one simply has to accept. Even phone sex or chat sex with a lover is regarded as pathetic and shameful, and webcam sex is regarded as obviously shameful and easily-mocked, at least for any male participant. On a day devoted to the social rituals of romance--- or on any other day of the year ---you are socially policed against admitting that you need to give yourself pleasure. Pleasure for anyone male must come from external validation--- being seen in public with a lover, having a lover make time for you in her life and bed. There's no male equivalent for "empowerment" by solitary pleasure, and there's certainly no acceptable way for anyone male to pursue pleasure for its own sake rather than pleasure that's set by arbitrary social rules.

Two Seven Zero: Threads 5

A few more adventures from my lovely blonde friend down in the Land of the Long White Cloud--- tales from her twenties in Wellington...

In March 2011 she wrote me about this. She'd have been twenty-five that spring--- or NZ autumn ---and back at university, getting an accounting degree after her English Lit degree:

i had a delicious older man's cock in my mouth this morning. i love starting the day with a mouthful of cum. i missed my first class, i was having so much fun...

She did tell me more about him. His name, she said, was Shane---


...he's around 45. he's tall and strong. he has short dark hair and a cute, stubbly face. he owns a sand blasting and spray painting business and is a client. i'm not sure if its common practice in the US, but here young lawyers and accountants have to spend quite a bit of time out on secondment, getting to know the way their clients businesses work etc. so, thats how we met a few years ago. we ended up at the same function at the marina a few nights ago and one thing led to another.

 the first time, he bent me over the bonnet of his car and fucked me from behind. it was so hot. he came in my mouth then carried me inside. he lives by the beach. his bedroom had big windows overlooking the sea. he had a beautful cock, big and thick and hard. it felt so good in my mouth and hands. he licked my cunt and i came so hard. he fucked my ass and cunt and told me i was beautiful.

i must have fallen asleep around 3, and had a terrible nightmare, because i woke up screaming and shaking. he pulled me towards him and whispered 'its ok, its ok' over and over in my ear. he ran his finger through my hair and spooned me for the rest of the night.


in the morning he was so gentle and lovely. i sucked his cock and he came in my mouth again. he made us both smoothies then fucked me in the shower and drove me to class. i'm meeting him for a drink after work tonight. he's gorgeous and funny and i want him.  

Was I jealous? Oh, certainly. He had a house on the beach in a hip suburb called Seatoun, and she more-or-less lived there during the affair. A few months only, but ones she still wrote about years later. 

There were always other older men in her life. In November 2013, she wrote to say---

I did think of you on Friday night, drinking Makers that seemed to set my blood on fire. Lying naked in a strange bed, all I could think was this isn't really me. i'm not really here.

I stayed until the morning and walked home in the dawn light.

Drinking bourbon feels like coming home.


He was a lawyer. I was Alex the florist, sexy & uncomplicated.

"Drinking bourbon feels like coming home..."  That's a brilliant line, and one that I'll be passing on to lovely friends. It's one I want my friend Ash in Bo'ness and London Town to use.

A couple of nights later she wrote me to say that---

The lawyer asked me out for dinner Friday night! I am tempted to say yes, as he made me come about 5 times and had a very impressive collection of books.

I wonder if she kept up her identity as Alex the Florist when she was with him---  blonde Alex, simple and easily bedded, with no complications of intellect. That he gave her five orgasms isn't the buried lede here, of course. What matters is that she created Alex the Florist, a blonde girl I was wild to meet. I very much wanted to get to know young Alex, to see how well she brought the character to life. And of course I wanted to sample Alex's oral sex skills in some dark corner of a Wellington bar (the Bangalore Polo Club was her favourite in those days)--- in a dark corner, or in the alleyway behind the bar, where she notoriously would take handsome bouncers on midweek nights...