I had always liked wearing a suit, but didn’t much wear them unless someone died or got married. A few interviews and big meetings at work, but that was it.

I was shopping and I picked out a vivid purplish pink paisley tie. I’d never owned a tie like that before. I paired it with a pinstriped DKNY shirt. A little expensive for me, but I tended to be a little blue collar.

I went to the wedding in my suit and tie. Decided at the last minute to add a vest. I stood a little straighter. I felt a little more in control. Confidence and strength through fashion? I liked it. That week I bought four more ties.

A few years later and I have around fifty of them. A closet full of dress shirts. Cufflinks, sweater vests, a new suit, collar stays and lovely colognes and so on.

I’ve been through this all before. Yes, Jack likes ties.

Enter my friends Sara and Zac and their 500 Hammers Project, which is a endeavor to “designed to highlight the ways in which small, useful objects shape – and are shaped by – our lives.”

Sara interviewed me about what kind of tool might help me in my life. All parties involved seem to come to the same conclusion simultaneously that a tie rack would be the best choice.

Sara, Zac and I went back and forth and I sent them a few crude drawings of how I imagined a metal tie rack to look. Zac incorporated some of my ideas, but came up with something wonderful and original. I was shocked when just a few days later Sara sent me pictures of the nearly finished product!

A few days after that I came home to find a box with hardware and a few simple instructions. Fifteen minutes of work with a screw driver and an hour or so figuring out a concise, aesthetically pleasing and useful organizational ordering system, my ties were up

Empty Rack

Tie Rack Up

Tie Rack Down

Tie Rack with Book Shelf

I love the rack. Not only is it a great place to keep my ties, but it is a lovely piece of artwork in my room and a conversation piece. Unique and well made, beautiful and functional. Everything I wanted and more.

Thanks Zac and thanks Sara. I can’t wait to see what new things Zac makes and read the interviews and behind the scenes stories of how these tools are decided upon and imagined.

A month later I found myself cornered in my best friend’s kitchen. He presented us to each other, like some landmark meeting of the minds. I suppose we were both sort of big personalities so everyone wanted to know how we would react to each other.

We eye each other. We circled each other. We asked some pointed questions about books and music. We fell into banter. We sat down on the floor and started a long conversation. We sang some songs. We tested each other. Eight hours later we were best friends.

That’s how it went in high school. I had this close group of friends and we all dove headlong into this incestuous relationship somewhere between friendship and something more. Every moment was swooning over an intellectual crush or a sexual one or trying to figure out which was which. Everything was blurry lines and cuddle piles.

Months went by and Jill and I talked every day. We talked for hours. We talked about everything. So At some point I fell in love with her. In some ways it was the first time I fell in love, or at least the first time I fell in love with someone for more than physical or situational reasons. It was confusing and weird and awkward and wonderful.

Jill mostly dated girls, seemed to have a crush on my friend Lindsey, but very obviously had a crush on my best friend Martin. Lindsey had a crush on Martin as well, but Jacob had a crush on Lindsey. No one had a crush on me, or at least not that I knew of. This was the way high school was.

So That summer I decided to seduce Jill.

Jill and I, more than any of our friends, had the most in common when it came to music and literature. We were also both writers, where most of our friends were musicians or artists. We talked about stories we were working on, we obsessed over poetry, we locked ourselves in her room and listened to The Doors. We were angsty and horny and we though we were so very deep.

This was the first time in my life I became aware of the changes that came over me when I wanted someone. Later on I would realize that this was my form of seduction.  I take someone apart, find their buttons, find out what they want, find out what they like and then I become that as much as I can. I figure out the puzzle of their desires and then I show it to them, tempt them with it until they ask me for it and think it was their idea. That’s how it works.

I’m not sure how that worked in my teenage mind. I suppose I thought since she liked women I would be more emotional, more vulnerable, chatty and catty and soft. I wasn’t very subtle,. I started listening to Melissa Ethridge and telling her how I had a gay Aunt and how I identified with her “so much.” It was silly and juvenile and she saw through most of it.

Still one night we laid in her bed and I massaged her back and traced little patterns on her arm with the soft pads of my fingers. I touched her so lightly that we could feel my fingerprints flutter across in the tender insides of her elbow. Her eyes closed and my touches grew bolder. I traced up her leg and across her belly and even circled the dark outline of her nipples through her shirt. I moved closer, not sure if she was asleep and kissed the side of her mouth.

The next day she gave me a letter. She asked me if I thought she was asleep. She asked me if I liked her circle-yes-or-no. She quoted songs. She showed interest.

I really wish I had a copy of the letter I sent as a reply. I don’t remember it all but it was long and it was as eloquent as I could muster and in the end I told her that I loved her and that I wanted her in my life in any capacity, but she needed to know. I told her that I wanted her and that I needed her and that she was amazing.

We met at Martin’s house and we stood on the porch shyly. She asked if I meant it all and I wrote to her. I did. She asked if I was going to kiss her and so I did.

And my heart exploded in fireworks.

We fell into the a strangest practice. You see, We were sexual people. We liked to kiss and we liked to touch, but we were also scared and awkward and dramatic. Plus there was the fact that neither of us was really sure she liked boys. So somehow we ended up going back to her room every day after school and I fooling around and I would always end up going down on her.

You see, Jill was pretty comfortable with her body. I on the other hand wasn’t comfortable with mine. She didn’t seem to mind this because she really wasn’t sure what to do with a penis. I liked making her feel good; in fact I loved that it. Plus she was multi-orgasmic.

So it came to be that for part of a school year and half of a summer I would go over her house every day and we would make out and then I would go down on her for an hour or two. I don’t mean this facetiously or even proverbially; it was literally between one and two hours.

Initially she showed me how she liked it. She told me where to lick and where not to lick and when to go slow and when to go fast. Once I knew the basics I improvised well and soon my world became the incense she burned and the light smell of her sex and the tuft of blond hair and her thighs closing around my head and her hands in my hair and the power rush I got from making her come over and over again. Sometimes it was twenty times in an afternoon.

We tried other things, sexually. She occasionally, awkwardly, reached into my pants and toyed with my penis. She didn’t seem into it and so I wasn’t very interested. We even tried PIV sex, but she was super tight and didn’t like penetration particularly and it ended up being painful for her and weird for me. Really I just wanted to eat pussy all the time. Honestly, I still do.

The physical part of our relationship was lovely, if a bit unorthodox. We had conversations about love, art, poetry, literature, philosophy for hours on end. We hung with our friends, life was good.

Until the walk.

We were walking one day, holding hands and some of her other friends were down the block. Her queer friends. She immediately dropped my hand. I didn’t really think about this at the time, but it stuck in my head for days after. There were other ways I was segregated from parts of her life. We both had a lot of friends in various cliques and so on. We were social butterflies and social chameleons. There were very clearly parts of her life in which I was not welcome.

I was living Chasing Amy.

The insecurities started there and grew and by the end of the summer we were broken up. From then on we were on and off friends and eventually when I started college as she finished up high school I was on my way to becoming an angry young man and deemed her an undesirable.

Still I think about her a lot and that Summer remains this strange defining moment in my life. It was when many of my curiosities about sex were addressed and the desired that were building inside of my teenage mind finally got acknowledged.

And ever since I’ve told people I was trained by a lesbian.

If you have any other erotica or sex blogs that you think fit my aesthetic, please share them with me.

Daisy Danger

Oh Miss Danger. Her stories are hot and dirty and sometimes more than a bit sad. They are scratched photos of scenes that are extraordinarily intense. I can’t recommend her enough.

She also tends to hit on a lot of my personal kinks.

I Hear the Back Door Open

Quickies in New York

Sometimes I read things that just piss me off because I wish I wrote them. Guy writes really well and paints vivid scenes that are often far too close to my own fantasies and experiences. From what I hear around town we have similar tastes.

She Always Called Me Sir

SugarButch

It’s really not fair at all. Sinclair is this brilliant activist and gender theorist, he writes so much awesome and intellectual stuff. Why is it that he can also write totally hot smut too? It’s supposed to be one or the other and frankly he’s making me look bad.

Sinclair is really amazing, go read his stuff. The latest sexy post is honest and vulnerable and intimate.

Sweat Summer

Heartbreak Nympho

I recently met Wilhelmina Wang and that prompted me to reread her stuff. Damn there is some hot stories on that site. I like the switchiness of it. I like the way she words things. Also, she is gorgeous.

Subspace

Stuffies

Her style may be a bit more straight forward, but Molly Ren gets the point across. I may be bias because she has written about me. I like to read the perspective of fetishists, especially fetishes that I don’t fully understand. I also like when fetishists are open to a variety of kinks.

She wrote about when we peed on a boy together.

Piss Play

Longing’s End

Mina and Sylvanus write about various parts of their sex lives. I’m a bit partial to Mina’s stories and pictures, especially all the Daddy girl play. Honestly that part is bitter sweet because it makes me think about things I no longer have and miss a lot.

Still, good stuff. Honest and pretty words with hot photos.

Ass Training: The Reward

There are many more, but these are the ones I listed on the train this morning, so this is what you get.

Also, since we are talking about sexy sex blogs, you should nominate me for the Sexiest Bloggers of 2010 list. Nominations for Sexiest Bloggers of 2010. Nominations close on July 31.

I saw her every day. She was this cruel, beautiful, petulant, bossy little thing. I went over her house every day after school with my cousin.

Amy was my cousin’s best friend and she tolerated having me in her home because I told amusing jokes and because I was smart enough to figure things out that she and my cousin couldn’t. I could do things like talk people’s parents into things and fix their computers and so on.

Amy, of course, would never be seen with a chubby geeky boy like me. Plus we were the same age and obviously she could only date seniors, if not college boys. Still, I had some things she wanted, music, better notes from classes we shared, money to buy the silly things kids like, so she occasionally put on a smile and cuddled up to me and asked me nicely for things. That’s the way kids are.

I would basically do anything for her. There were a variety of reasons for this, her looks, her attitude, her coolness, her casual sexiness.

Eventually my cousin got a boyfriend and didn’t want to go over Amy’s house after school. It was closing in on summer and I wondered who I would hang out with. At lunch Amy passed me a note that I should still come over. She also told me not to tell anyone.

Thus the game started.

I went over Amy’s house every day for two months. We were alone from 3pm to about 5pm when her father got home from work. He was, to this day, one of the scariest men I’ve ever met. Tall, white hair, bulging arms, a scar across his cheek, a incomprehensible Baltic accent of some kind. Still that added to the thrill of it.

When you are a fifteen year old boy you aren’t alone with a girl very often. She saw my nervousness and my attraction and it gave her a taste for power. She would boss me around, she would tease me unmercifully, occasionally she would corner me in her room and ask me if I wanted to see her breasts. I shook my head like an idiot.

She showed me, watching my face, watching how I drank in the first taste of a real girls breasts. A week later she let me touch them. A week after that she let me put my hand down her pants.

We didn’t know what we were doing exactly, but we had good instincts. She let me explore a little, moving my fingers around until I hit a spot that made her gasp. Everything was suddenly wet and those teasing eyes were changing to pleading.

She shifted and I got spooked, pulling my arm away. She told me I didn’t have to stop. My mind was racing, my skin was tingling and I felt this rush I’d never known.

I told her I wanted to see, but she was embarrassed. She turned off the lights and took off her pants. She kneeled on her bed in underwear, twisting and turning to take off her bra without taking off her thin cotton shirt.

The gray light of a Spring afternoon barely came through her windows, but it was enough. She laid down and I laid next to her, she didn’t like to kiss usually, but we fell our lips awkwardly touched. Then my mouth was on her neck and she was cooing and pulling at my arm, pushing my hand back to where it was supposed to be.

I pulled the scrap of panty to the side and felt her soft hair, then the wetness of this unspeakably amazing thing. I played, toyed, watched her responses. I wanted to kiss her every where, take her, fuck her, I didn’t know what to do. I just rubbed. I rubbed and rubbed until her hips were pushed up at me and she pushed her head into my neck and made little bird cries.

Then she pushed me away, half laughing but half scared. She made me leave. She wouldn’t look at me.

The next week we went back to watch television and doing homework. By that Friday we were back in her room, back on the bed.

“Let me see yours,” she said, which was new. She never cared about my body or my pleasure.

She grabbed it hard, too hard, when I protested she laughed and then touched it gently. She looked closely but didn’t really do anything to it.

“Make it hard,” she commanded, but I was far too scared.

She kissed me, though she hated kissing or at least hated kissing me. She whispered warmly into my ear. “Make it hard, I want to see,” and it was done.

She pulled the curtains closed and then I felt her next to me in the bed, the room now pitch black. She climbed on me and I felt her naked hip brush my leg. She pulled off my boxers and grabbed my hand, pulling it to her naked crotch. She was wetter than last time, wetter than anything I’d felt.

She held my hand against her, grinding against it. I kissed her neck and she gasped so loudly it scared me. Then she was pulling me on top of her, we were rolling around on the bed, I was hard and scared.

“Do it. Do you know how?” it was a mocking joke, but also a serious question.

“Yeah, but we need… I mean we shouldn’t,” I didn’t know what I was saying, but looking back I am impressed I could even manage a protest.

“I’m on the pill. Do it,” she wrapped her arms around me.

I knew somewhere in my head it was still a bad idea, but then she shifted and the tip of my cock brushed against the wet heat of her. I moved and tried different angles, different positions and then it was suddenly half in her.

She grunted and clawed at my back.

“Do it!” she growled.

I pushed it in, now that it was wet it moved slowly in and all I could think was how hot it was, how I’d never felt anything so hot. It was this hypnotic burning and throbbing.

I pushed it in and out and I moved down to kiss her, but I got her neck. I pushed it all the way in and howled at the pleasure. My body didn’t know what to do, every nerve was overloading.

It went on, not long, but it seemed like hours. When I started to come I tried to say something and she pushed me off of her. I tried to hold it and ended up coming into my hand, the sudden change from fucking her to crouching on the floor next to the bed confusing me.

“Gross,” she laughed, but her voice was darker now.

I stood up and looked around.

“Bathroom,” she said flatly.

I went to the bathroom, giddy, confused, wet with her. I washed my hands and my dick and my face. I heard a flop and then a door slam. I looked in the hallway and saw my clothes.

“Get out,” she said from behind her door. She laughed and then locked her door.

I dressed, a cold numbness suddenly filling my veins. All the adrenaline and hormones and lust all shut down at once. I felt stupid and ugly and fat.

She didn’t speak to me at school after that. Not unless other people were around and then she would tease me. I never asked her about it or tried to go over there again. That summer she went away with her family. The next year we moved on to other friends.

Sometimes though she would run into me and say something cruel. Not the normal insults teenagers say to each other, but something really personal and mean. It was a message. I wasn’t even supposed to think about telling anyone. I was to learn my place and be thankful for the scraps I got.

Frankly I was thankful. It was years before I ever even thought about how cruel and strange the whole thing was.

Some of these things I’ve known for years, but haven’t really thought about in depth. In most situations these leanings and proclivities can be hidden by the normal dynamics of sex, especially casual sex, where every position and combination isn’t going to be attempted anyhow, so brevity aids omission or at least camouflage.

Power and control are a lot more important to my sexual pleasure than I once thought. I am realizing I have a lot of trouble giving up control, or, more accurately, giving up what I consider control. That seems somewhat normal — after all, I’m a mostly-straight guy who is primarily a top. By most social norms I should be used to being in control. Still, my ideas about control seem a little warped when I look at them more carefully.

The act of being brought to orgasm by someone or even giving yourself an orgasm in front of someone is, in some fundamental way in my head, a submission. It is showing your out of control side. It is being vulnerable. It is being needy. It is everything that little Jack was taught was bad.

Intellectually I know that this is nonsense. Still, a lot of our reactions during intimacy are non-cognitive, deeply emotional and hard to understand without some real processing.

For example, it’s rare that I have an orgasm through oral sex or manual sex. The exception is that if I am also stimulating my partner

during this, I can focus on that long enough to make me forget. Does that make sense? Like the sex lives of most kinky people, sex is complicated.

I would say I get off far harder making people have orgasms than having them myself, with the exception of really intense penetrative sex which is usually awesome for me.

Fingering a woman, performing oral sex and using sex toys on them all turn me on in a huge way. I’ve gotten into what is probably my favorite activity, making women squirt, in some other posts. There is also “forced orgasm” which is in many ways the apex of my kink, i.e., making someone come over and over again until they can’t stand it anymore and are so overwhelmed by the orgasms and the sensation overload they are left a quivery mess.

I’ve written about that, though. What I haven’t written about much is my own reactions.

I’ve had partners comment when I don’t have an orgasm or don’t even really get into my own physical sexual gratification in a scene. I can do a whole scene mostly clothed while the bottom has been stripped, tied, roughed up, made to come several times. I can go away from a scene like that completely aroused and satisfied. Really, bringing my penis into the situation would make it less of fun time. I get off hard in a scene like that, and the somewhat less important desire to have an orgasm not only gets in the way, but gives the bottom far too much power over me.

There are different ways to play, though. That is describing one mood and maybe one character I let myself slip into: the super observant

reaction top who notices everything, mocks everything, punishes, pleases, and plays for his amusement and to take the bottom somewhere. When I am in that head space I want to force reactions. Pleasure, pain, humiliation, lust, need and even catharsis.

Other times I can be more playful or more mean. Sometimes I just want to fuck and the kinks that go along with that game, spanking, manhandling and pinning down hands, are very different than a full on scene. Sometimes I want to have relatively vanilla sex, but still I am taking it.

To receive pleasure I have to be in a very different place. I have to be with someone I trust to be vulnerable with and that doesn’t happen very often. It has happened though, in long term relationships with people I am in love with and care about enough to show that side of myself. Even then, it is a pretty temperamental thing.

This is also because of the lingering fingers of the Catholic guilt from my childhood. It marks many of my desires with guilt and embarrassment. Along with guilt are the lessons taught both overtly and subconsciously through my childhood by my father: that it is weak and wrong to show emotions. Both factors conspire to taint things like public displays of affection, talking about my emotions, saying “I love you” and showing desire towards men.

My mixed feelings towards sex with men are some of the most violently guilt ridden and humiliating, which leads to them also being ones I read about and think about secretly. Thus my fascination with slash.

Where do I go with this information?

For the last six months I’ve been trying to do things that are out of my comfort zone. I’m testing myself and having adventures and trying to break the barriers that keep me from doing everything that I want. I feel like I am really exploring my own desire and the desires of others. I’m shaky and wide eyed and having a lot of fun. Some of the things, like bottoming, make my fears and mental blocks much more apparent and cumbersome.

A good example of this is how when I am bottoming I feel like I am good at taking pain and force and aggression, but the cuddling afterward makes me want to escape. Receiving pleasure, especially

when I can’t control it or return it, is almost enough to break me out of the whole scene. When I am really turned on my hands shake with the need to take control. When I am confronted with “giving in” and being “made to come” my head twists and turns and won’t let my body do it.

That being said, I am more than willing to try. I even think trying is important. Breaking down the barriers to pleasure is as interesting as reveling in the sublimations my head has come up with to work around the blocks.

It’s interesting to think of how far I’ve come, so to speak, in discovering my sexuality. From looking at dirty stories online as a horny fourteen year old to writing things and doing things I’d never imagined I’d do. It will be interesting to see where my life will go from here.

Truth be told the way the place looked is important, certainly, but not vital to the games I wanted to play. I think of it like the library I go to, the one near my office. Twelve blocks away there is the most beautiful library in the city, possibly the country; the Main Branch of The New York Public Library on Fifth Avenue and 42nd Street. It is huge, a marble monument to knowledge. It is atmospheric, with history and vast ceilings painted with murals. It’s epic, but you can’t borrow books from it unless you have special permission.

A block away from my office there is a very small, very dingy library. It is painted institution green and mostly has large print best sellers, but they will order any book I want from any library in the city and they have all of the things I need. It is easy to get to, it is easy to use. It is handy, like the dungeon.

The dungeon is a place where you can play. Where you can scream as loud as you want and hit as hard as your partner can take and you don’t have to worry about neighbors hearing or roommates coming home. You can just play.

You can play and you can watch people play. You can lay low in a corner somewhere and close your eyes and catch the rhythm of a spanking or a flogging. You can take in all of the reddened skin and bruised flesh, the bitten lips and raw need. Acres of naked skin at a time. It’s not a free-for-all, but that only makes the exposed breast or the sweet swell of a pubis or even the rare cock more forbidden and alluring. You can lose yourself in the visceral world of pain and pleasure and sweaty naked lust.

And lately, for better or worse, I’ve been wanting to lose myself.

A Boy

What to call him? My boy? I suppose ‘the boy’, since he isn’t mine. Sometimes he’s not a boy at all, with his wig and is lipstick and all, but I haven’t met her yet, so to me he is just a boy. A chew toy, a boy who can take a beating, bottom to the world.

Truth be told, he is far more experienced at this than I. Perhaps not in years, but in acts. I still feel like a novice in some ways, especially with boys.

In a way I always feel like I am holding back with people. This is a good thing in a lot of ways. I like being in control, even of my own emotion; especially of my own emotions. I thought with a boy it might be different. I thought I could give it my all and let go. Maybe it just isn’t in me. Maybe I’m just not ready yet. Maybe I don’t trust myself or my knowledge or my ability.

Still, it has a lot to do with the women I play with. Most are deliciously soft. The boy on the other hand is hard. Well, not rock hard, a little doughy actually, but harder than any of the girls I hit. His ass is a solid target, as opposed to the luscious bubbles and curves I’m used to. I like them both, but more than that I enjoy the contrast.

One might think I just wanted to try it and he was as good as any other, but since before I met him, when I’d only heard about this quiet boy who had such horrible things done to him, I was curious. Upon meeting him I was even more intrigued because he looked like so many people I grew up with. He was forgettable in his blue collar attire.

Still, we fell into a flirtatious banter and I liked it. I liked it for what it was, flirting with someone who under their shy and coquettish manner was fiercely intelligent and perceptive, and I liked it, admittedly, for the novelty of it.

The plan was to co-top him. A girl and I would beat him up, rough him up. Something pretty basic but fun. Somehow when it started, the girl sort of faded into the background. This was about the boy and me. We’d talked about this for a long time and I wanted to get my hands on him already.

Sometimes girls just get in the way.

He stays very still, goes where he is moved, but when his hair is pulled his body writhes and turns. When I slap him across his face his whole being recoils. I’ve never been with someone who was so effected by a scene, if that makes sense.

He doesn’t really like pain. At east that’s what he says between telling me stories about ball-busting and whips and beatings the likes of which I can’t imainge. That the little switch in his head that turns pleasure into pain hasn’t been switched the way it has with some serious pain sluts I’ve met. It still registers as pain, but he is willing to take it. Sometimes begging to take it. Yearning to do what people want, to submit.

I try not to assume too much about him anymore. Our heads are very different places. Wrong or right, I at least feel like I can read women. At least the kinds of women I like to play with. Maybe that is one of the key elements that attracts me to them, a certain tell that I can pick up. The boy is, in many ways, a mystery. He submits for reasons I can’t fully wrap my head around. His kink is different from mine in some very root way.

Still, our drives may be different, but I can still tie him up and hit him. As I throw him against the wall and slap him again across the face, I think of our common ground.

It isn’t so much that he doesn’t react as it is that he reacts in ways I am not familiar with. While there, in the scene, my head doesn’t work the way it works now, typing and thinking. When I am hitting someone, everything is action and aggression and go. He is reacting, but not succumbing. It makes me angry. It makes me want to rip him apart.

I suddenly wonder if I could take him in a fight. I’ve beaten people I couldn’t take in a fight before, certain nearly six foot tall roller derby girls come to mind, but never before did I really want to test it.

I like throwing him against the wall and I like marks on his skin. I want to spit on him but instead I laugh at him. I make him take out his cock. I laugh at it. I show it to the people who have gathered around. There are more people watching than I realize. Later I will be told that even more came in.

The dungeon is many things, but it is not particularly queer, at least not on a night like this. There are different, separate nights for that. Two boys playing now is a novelty. I’m glad I was unaware of this.

I am somewhat lost without breasts to torture. I slap the little flabby bits caught between my rope, but it doesn’t do more than sting. I turn him around and find a good bit of meat between his back and his arm and I bite it hard.

I am rewarded with a scream. I do the same on the other side. His skin feels good between my teeth. I claw at his back, then I slap the spots I just bit. All those hoarse whimpers are musical.

I tell him that he is pathetic. He isn’t good at being a boy or a girl. He isn’t good for anything. He is a waste. No one wants him. No one knows what to do with his little dick except laugh at it.

I feel mean and it makes my blood pump fast and hot. What whirling guilt and desire that comes with tasting what it is like to really be cruel slips into my head and makes me tipsy with power.

I like him. He is a sweet boy. There is something fragile in him, even though in very clear moments I see the man in him. I see an animal strength in him too, like something wild being cornered. I even see the little girl in him. I like him much more in that moment, seeing the multitudes. I feel like we are three dimensional people in a suddenly very two dimensional place.

Looking around I see that I’m even wrong about that. For all of it’s cliché and kitsch, this place has been the gateway to so many people finding out big things about themselves. It certainly isn’t perfect, but it’s a start.

His whimpers brings me back and the insults keep coming even while the part of me that just wants to hold him closes in on me. I shut up. I slap him. I turn him and slap his ass over and over again. I focus, I make sure every blow is in the same spot. I want maximum sensation.

There is more, the flogger, the whip. I know in his mind these things are rudimentary, so in that moment they seem trivial to me as well. We always end up back in that corner.

There comes that point, the ending.

In the dungeon there are rules. No sex, no jerking off. At home, play and sex are very tied together. When I play, their climaxes or mine are good places to stop or move to some other game. They are natural endings. Another ending would be pushing someone to their limit, which I doubt I could do with this boy. Stronger people than I have tried.

So it ends in a hail of smacks and slaps. I turn him around and untie him. I touch him in comforting ways. I hug him. The differences in girls and boys seem smaller to me; insignificant. He is just someone who needs to be hugged. Surprisingly, I need the hug more than usual.

In some way I got away from myself there. Maybe because I am in a fragile place right now, perhaps not ready to play as hard as I am trying to play.

With a deep breath it is over and we are back in the dungeon. Bad music and lovely moans and whimpers. No more thinking about the hows and whys of hurting someone. The politics and strategies of this sort of primitive one on one power play are done. Back to thinking about everything else.

He is glowing and happy in a fun and childish way. He got what he wanted. Like we just played cowboys and Indians for a while. I smile as he goes right to someone else. Some other top going to take him back to that place he loves.

I can’t stop thinking. Over and over I am telling myself to let go. I’m telling myself to submit, but I really have no idea what that means in this context. I tell myself to relax while every fiber of my being tightens and closes up. Some instinct in me is forcing me to protect my center.

I’m tied to a chair, my wrists bound behind me with thin hemp rope and she is hovering above me; interrogator, torturer, top, woman, beauty. Those eyes are unwavering. I wouldn’t say they are cold, but they are certainly unnervingly calm and predatory. Those are the eyes that made me want to do this. Those eyes are studying me, figuring me out. Figuring out how to take me apart.

Her nails rake my chest, then a hand in my hair pulling my head back, then a solid punch to my chest. My jaw clenches and I ready myself for this. I can take anything she can give me. I am a rock and I am unbreakable. She is this immense dangerous force, this powerful, intelligent woman, but I can take anything. I want to take it from her. I want to show her how tough I am.

The punches are a warm, dense hurt. Nothing much really until the tenth or eleventh in the same spot, then it is a burning muscle pain. When I can’t take much more she rakes her nails across the now sore spots and my back arches and I try and swallow my scream.

Her sharp fingernails pinch my nipples. Such a simple thing, but it’s a new pain. I gasp, my fists tighten, wrists pull against the rope. I feel the pain, but I can move it in my head. It’s just a thing; it’s just a sensation; it can be what ever I want it to be. My breathing calms and then she digs her nails into my nipples three times as hard.

“No, no you don’t get to stay in that place,” she laughs her throaty laugh.

My face is in the cool cotton of her white tank top. I laugh too.

“I keep forgetting you’re smart,” I growl into her shirt.

I can almost see the pain like the needle of some gauge on a dashboard. I see it fluctuating, nearing the red. Suddenly it is white hot, it is searing my brain. The pain it everywhere.

“Please-” I whisper. I know the word, but it is impossible. It is more than impossible, it is weak and I can’t be weak, not in front of her.

“Ye-”

Maybe I can take it. Maybe I can ride it and find that place again, but then there is even more pressure and the word spills out.

“Yellow.”

When she lets go my head flies forward. I have to protect my chest. No more. Her breasts are against my cheeks. Want is there, somewhere in my head, but too far away to really grasp at. Every part of this is different than what I am used to, even the desire. My mind doesn’t know where to go. Still the image of her pressing her breasts, fruit-like to my mouth and ordering me to suck and please her awaken some new element in this.

I’m not here to seduce her. I don’t even think I know how to do that from this position. I’m not here to break her down and make her my toy. I’m the toy. What does that mean? Can I even be a toy? Would someone want me for a toy?

The idea makes me shy. It makes me nervous and fragile and vulnerable. Something inside of me wants to succumb. I know I’m not okay with it, but I am doing it anyway and that makes me feel brave. I don’t want to be closed to this. I don’t want to let pride and stubbornness dictate what I can be.

And then there is the need to be hurt, which is new and potent.

She walks away and comes back with two things. She shows them to me with a crooked smile before she puts them down. The knife and the stun gun. Like it or not I’m going to get what I want tonight.

“Yellow is a good tool, but ‘please stop’ is something we can play with. I’m aural. I like to hear people beg. I think you’d be good at begging.”

It’s one of those many moments when part of me is overwhelmed by the power she exudes. Part of me almost ready to beg. The other part of me, the part that never shuts up, is impressed at what a perfect line that is. I know one day I’ll use that line.

She doesn’t like it when I drift off. It’s something I take for granted in a scene. I can do pretty much anything I want in a scene, but not here. Here I can do what ever she wants.

She grabs my face and I close my eyes. Her fingers around my jaw, moving me this way and that, examining me again. Then I feel the knife drift across my skin lightly. I can feel the sharpness of the blade, the danger of it. My whole body tightens again.

She traces lines across my stomach and my chest and then she stops right on my collar bone and presses the tip of the blade into my skin.

It’s a odd pressure. I don’t like it as much as the other sensations and although I know that I am theoretically safe my heart starts pounding. My blood is rushing and I am trying to will my suddenly squirming body not to move whole the blade is digging into to me.

Then it is off. Tracing again. She is testing my reaction. Gauging my thresholds. When she comes down and drags the blade across my stomach her lips are millimeters from mine. I’m suddenly overwhelmed with the desire to kiss her. I’m also hit with the idea that in this place I feel like by ability to initiate anything has been taken away. I can take nothing, I can only beg or accept.

When she takes the black rectangle out of its little case the fear left over from the the knife doubles. I’m gasping and she is smiling wider now.

“You okay?” she laughs.

“I think so,” suddenly shuddering with a nervous giggle.

She pets my head and pulls my hair, then she moves down and kisses my ear softly. She sucks at the top of my ear and then bites down on it. I’ve never been bitten there and it is a sharp hot pain. She stops when I start to whimper and gasp and calms me before I hear the crackle.

I brace myself, not sure how much it will hurt. When it comes it is surprisingly mild. Closer to the violet wands I’d played with. She hits me with the stun gun again and my body awakens to the white hot needle like pain. Somehow I’m laughing through it.

She goes again and again a little longer and my laugh becomes a short hoarse scream. Again and my body jerks against the ropes. Again even longer and now it is cutting through all my defenses. This fucking hurts.

“How ya doing,” she laughs into my ear. She sounds like she thinks I’m close to my limit.

“Does.. it go any.. higher?” The words come out and I almost wish she didn’t hear, but she laughs and laughs at this, her eyes wide with genuine surprise. I am melting with pride. I’m good, this is perhaps the newest part, the desire to please her like this. The desire to be her good boy.

She hits me for a few long shocks that send pain and pleasure dancing in my head until everything is white fuzzy sensation.

She laughs some more, my comment still lingering in both of our heads and the tension is broken. I feel like I just drank a liter of espresso. My body is alive and wired and I feel like I can breath for the first time in hours. I’m twisting and fidgeting now, my body full of a new nervous energy.

I ask for some water and she smiles and goes to get it. When she gets back something has changed. The spell is broken, not in any bad way but an organic sort of end to that part of the scene.

We really weren’t planning much tonight; we just met up after work and decided to play a little. This was only our second time but it felt far more comfortable. I know that next time thugs will be far more intense. I can see the inevitability of my submission. My understanding of what that means.

She unties me, hugs me. She takes me to the bed and cuddles me. I try and relax into this embrace, but I am too wired, being pet and hugged now makes me feel too vulnerable and weak. Some part of that switch has turned back. Still I try and accept her comforting, knowing she needs to give it. For me this is the hardest part; suddenly still in her arms I feel like I am pretending for the first time.

After, at home, everything has a new dimension. I see both sides of the equation in new ways. I want to try things she did to me on other people; not the specific acts, but her demeanor. It’s like learning from a different school of thought.

That night I fall asleep in minutes, my bed suddenly feeling like cool and safe, my body feeling calm and sinking into the softness of the sheets. All the tension of the week was zapped and punched out of me. My mind is still for the first time in a long time.

We saw movies. That’s what we did. We saw movies and went to museums.

I met Elise when she briefly worked in my office. She was one of those girls who grew up rich, but Upper West Side rich, not Upper East Side rich. The difference was super-preppy private schools versus super-intellectual immersive savant schools. She went to the latter and left with a rich inner life and a love of art and music and books that most people had never heard of. That, and the inability to really connect with most anyone.

There were the phobias; elevators, undercooked meat, docks, public speaking, crowded spaces, dark alleys, Antarctica, gum. Her worst fear was that she would swallow a piece of chewing gum. She told me she thought about it constantly, though it didn’t stop her from constantly chewing the most sugary, garish pink stuff she could find.

Then there was the OCD and the ADD and the cocktail of pharmacology. She was not trapped within the rigors of counting things and washing hands, but there were little things, more than quirks but less than crippling. There were also the daddy issues because he was like God to her, and the mommy issues because her mother told her she was fat when she was 12. There was a lot going on in this girl’s head.

Oddly, for every phobia there were three fascinations. She loved to travel and had been around the world. She had dipped her feet in the Ganges, but would have nightmares about diner kitchens. She had been to Mecca and the Great Wall and Paris at midnight, but she couldn’t order pizza on the phone without writing out a script first.Ę There was clumsiness and the propensity to stare at people. Also the odd choice of clothing that ranged from “old man chic” to downright strange: combinations of thrift store, knitwear and crumpled couture acquired abroad.

We weren’t dating exactly. I think we were studying each other in hopes of writing papers at some later time. She was certainly aware that I had dalliances all over the city and occasionally interrogated me about the details. She never showed jealousy. Yet in some strange, fundamental way our relationship couldn’t be classified as friendship. There was a “date” quality to our outings, and at the end of the night sometimes we’d stop and kiss in front of her doorman.

She was so complex and unusual; I was endless amused and intrigued, devoting three or four days a month to following her from wing to wing of whatever museum she wanted to see. There was also the fact that I was nearly consumed with curiosity about what this creature would be like in bed. For all of her awkwardness, both social and physical, she had indisputable beauty under all of the cardigans and worry. For me that beauty was amplified by all the self-consciousness. Then there was the seemingly never sending curiosity with the minutia of the world. It was that curiosity that made me want her the most.

As intrigued and confused as I was with her, she seemed equally fascinated by me, my writing and my occasional brashness. She noted over lunch one Sunday that she thought I was all at once sexual and safe. I was alternately flattered by the first part and a bit insulted by the second.

As Elise and I brunched one afternoon, our conversation moving from the United Nations’ near powerlessness to the benefits and shortcomings of a panopticon, to her philosophical musings about her ant farm, to the ethics of cloning, to sex. We met on topics of literary theory, politics, art, but near the edges of our interest Venn diagram she leaned towards entomology whereas I preferred power dynamics.

As we finished and got up to leave we found ourselves alone in the corner of the restaurant and face to face. When I moved in to kiss her she froze a bit and her eyes went wide. I instinctively pulled back. Her eyebrows wrinkled with confusion.

That always seemed to happen; all the signals I am used to reading were always missing with her. She was mute to the language of seduction and blind to the politics of negotiation. I tend to err on the side of caution when it comes to being forward, so this always left us both unsatisfied.

As we left the restaurant we discussed how we’d seen all the good movies out. We’d been to the Met and MoMA and the Guggenheim and even the Morgan Library and the Frick. We had been contemplating the botanical gardens, but it started to rain.

“What do we do?” she said with the intense seriousness most people reserve for emergencies.

I turned to her, with faux seriousness, taking hold of her shoulder and looking her in the eye.

“We have exhausted all other options, Elise. We’ll have to have sex.”

Her eyes opened wide and she bit her bottom lip.

“Oh, I see,” she said with a seriousness that I couldn’t tell was real or comical, since her normal seriousness looked comical on its own.

I laughed a little, but she didn’t.

“I suppose your apartment would be better, right? I mean, I have a roommate and she has two cats. Plus I only have a twin and you have a queen,” she said, ready to reel off a hundred more reasons.

My gut reaction was to be shocked, to ask if she was serious, to laugh, but I stifled all of that. I nodded somberly, then I turned around and hailed a cab.

*

Now it may seem, from all this data, that Elise might be a virgin, but as I learned in one of our earliest and most interesting conversations she was decidedly not. At 22 she had had no fewer than four lovers and had, at the age of nineteen, lived with a professor of hers who was fifteen years her senior for a little over sixteen months.

From what she told me the sex was awkward but occasionally interesting. Her desire seemed to come and go, like all of her obsessions. She hit on a patch where she was very curious about men and sex, met a variety of gentleman through Craigslist, found two of them to sleep with. Neither experience was negative, but neither were they exactly what she was looking for.

On a dating site she found a woman her age whom she was irresistibly drawn to. They went out a few times, became good friends, and although both were very passive, they did make love once with the aid of tequila and a Portishead concert. After that she decided she saw little difference in her attraction to men and women.

*

She gave my apartment the usual thorough examination she gave all new places. I wondered what strange protocols her mind adhered to in new situations. Was she checking for cobwebs or mapping the fastest way out?

She took a long time looking over my bookshelf. I always consider this a good sign.

She then took off her coat and sat down on my couch and sort of just stared at my television, which was turned off.

“You know, you sort of send out mixed signals,” I said, trying to sound casual as I searched my refrigerator for drinks.

She frowned.

“I have beer, wine, mango juice-”

“Vodka?” she said without an ounce of humor.

“I have that.”

“Vodka and mango juice. And ice,” she said.

She wore a long brown corduroy skirt and a blue t-shirt with some sort of Japanese octopus eating noodles with several pairs of chopsticks. Over that a brown and maroon cardigan that she knit herself. Peeking out from her black work boots were loose beige socks.

I found myself suddenly very curious about her underpants. What kind of bra and panties would a girl like this wear? What would be the state of her pubic hair?

I put the drink down in front of her and she gave me a crooked, wholesome smile, sitting on her hands, looking nervous.

“Coaster?” she asked with wide eyes.

I laughed so hard I nearly went down on one knee. There was just something ridiculous and amusing and cute about her. I wanted to fuck her.

“So, sex. That should be interesting,” I said taking a sip of my drink and sitting down next to her, but not right next to her. I was trying to stay conversational. Where was this going?

“Oh? I suppose it can be. Especially the first time with someone new,” she remarked and took a long drink.

There was an awkward silence, but since there was so much awkwardness already it was like a drop of water in the ocean.

“I know I give mixes messages. I pull away when I want to kiss. It’s like I don’t speak that language,” she admitted between quick sips of the cocktail.

“You don’t speak body language?”

She gave me the crooked smile again and shrugged.

“You should be the aggressor. I know you think I’m a little prude, but I assure you there isn’t much you could do to me that I don’t want you to do.”

I perked up at this notion and laughed. “I don’t know, I’m sure–”

She cut me off. “Jack. Sex is sex. I like sex. With all your spanking and rope and sex toys, it’s still all just sex. The worst you could do is try and hit me really hard and I probably wouldn’t mind that, even. In fact it’s been a long time since someone hit me. It sort of clears my mind.”

She finished the drink with a gulp.

“You’re not the first person who’s ever been to an orgy, you know. You just talk about it and write about it all the time. Most people keep that stuff private.”

There it was. A wide range of things that I did that made me feel edgy and different: just another curiosity for this seemly innocent girl.

I shifted closer to her and she folded her hands in her lap and looked down at them.

“That came out wrong. I mean, there’s nothing wrong with writing about it. A lot of people who do that kind of stuff just don’t. I like that you think about it. I think about things too much, too. Not really sex, though. That’s just something you do.”

I took her chin in my hand and pulled her to face me. I kissed her and got the same sort of tight lipped kiss I always got when ever I started kissing Elise. I pushed her back and kissed her full on. I kissed her until she gave in and kissed me back.

I didn’t know if I was supposed to shake her or hold her down or slap her, so I just kept kissing her. I moved in on her, slipping my arm around her waist, kissing across her jawbone and then down into the hidden tender skin of her neck.

It was only when I bit and sucked on her earlobe that the wall started melting. As we moved around on the couch her hair brushed my lips, the smell of shampoo and somewhere in the distance the smell of her sex, just for a moment.

I kissed her again, finding her thin lips more giving. I smoothed a hand over her back then dragged my nails across her cotton covered skin. I wanted more of her, I wanted to break her mask and show me the fragile raw thing I spoke to outside of her cage of reason and neuroses.

*

I probably place too much value on sex. I often see it as a way of figuring someone out. I remember trying to explain it to a friend once, how people learn all kinds of things from their parents and from their friends and from school and so on. People don’t really learn to have sex, though. I mean, you can watch porn and read erotica, but the nitty gritty of taking off your clothes in front of someone and touching your bits is telling because it is such an unrehearsed act.

Sometimes I think it is the only honest interaction people have left.

So when Elise pulled away from my kisses and then bent down to peel off her tan socks I sat back and marveled. This girl who hid under layers of clothes and quirky affectations was now putting as many of those things as she could aside.

Though nervous and hyperactive, there was an edge of something new in her face. Lust was starting to glaze over her eyes. She looked up at me through thick lashes and just one corner of her chapped lips curved into a different more seductive smile.

I knelt by the couch, in front of her, and helped pull the thick skirt off. She smelled like tea and flowers. Not sweet perfume flowers, but real ones. Grass and honeysuckle.

One of her knees was bruised purple and yellow.

Her legs were covered in fine soft hair. Light little dirty blonde hairs. There was something particular about that, it made me smile. It made me want her.

The elusive underwear were a bit ratty. Loose boyshorts style, beige silk with lace fringe. They seemed vintage, though I wondered how used underwear fit into her compulsions. I left them on.

Pulling at her shirt, I saw a matching top. Not really a bra, but more of a shift. Transparent, so the tips of her nipple showed through.

I pulled the top off, hungry for more skin. Her nipples were puffy, large and a soft coral pink. When I touched them she squirmed and pushed her breasts into my hands. The mere friction of my fingertips rubbing against the powder smooth skin of her nipples seemed to make her whole body melt. Her skin was fever hot and suddenly the parts of my brain that was studying her like a science project all started flipping over to baser thought processes.

“I have a herniated nipple-areola complex. It’s a form of Nummular Nipple Hypertrophy,” she explained, though only half the syllables made it into my brain. “It’s nothing bad, it just means my nipples are-”

I sucked one slowly and her words trailed off.

“I know what it means. You have puffy nipples,” I said between sucks.

She gasped a little and nodded. “Yeah.”

I toyed with them, watching her face, feeling her body squirm under my fingers. I pinched harder and her eyes rolled as she whimpered. I kept pinching as her face went through the transition from pleasure to uncomfortableness and then she let it linger in pain, longer than I expected.

“Okay!” she said pushing my away. Rubbing at her nipple, but smiling at me through glossy eyes.

She twisted and turned on the couch, suddenly on all fours, facing away from me. She arched her back, butt in the air as I pulled her shorts down, the last bits of her clothes. A little patch of light reddish brown hair, neat, shaved around the lips but a tuft at the top. As she pushed her bottom back her sex was so close to my face I couldn’t help but taste it. I moved forward, licking my lips and extending my tongue and then she gasped.

“No! I… I don’t like that, I mean, I don’t want that.” she said, apologizing with her eyes.

I smiled at her. “It’s fine. It’s more than fine. Whatever you’re comfortable with.”

She got shy for a moment, her eyes cast down; she bit her lip.

“I’m sorry. You can do almost anything, that just makes me feel weird. Also you should ask first.”

I nodded.

“You’re right. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that without asking you. Are fingers okay?”

She gave me an embarrassed smile, looking over her shoulder at me. I leaned over her body and kissed her,

“Yes. Fingers are very good. Just don’t lick them first. It’s wet enough, I promise.”

You never get used to how different women feel. The tightness, the curve of them, the delicate topography.

She was wet with a thick slickness that made me think I could slip three or four fingers in. She pushed back on my hand, Her hands on the back of the couch, her back arched, her head to the side looking over her shoulder at me.

Her face changed completely as my fingers explored the neat folds of her sex, hovering around her clit, her eyes closed and her mouth slightly opened, her bottom lip quivering.

When my fingers pressed in again she let out an animal groan and looked back at me with wild eyes. I knelt there, trying to find the right pressure, the right rhythm, shocked at how she bucked her ass against my fingers, grinding into me and giving herself completely to this simple act.

My other hand groped for her ass. Her butt, like her thighs and even arms and legs, seemed padded with a soft layer of baby fat. It was cool to the touch, she grunted when I spanked it once and then took a greedy hand full of it, squeezing and kneading as my fingers worked inside of her.

“F-finger fuck me, harder and grab my ass, please,” each command was also a desperate plea. The dirtiness of the words sounding foreign on her tongue. Even in this intimate sexual moment have voice seemed over formal and a amusingly awkward.

I pushed and pulled my fingers in and out of her, following the motion of her hips as she moved against me. I slapped her ass every time my fingers drove in and then grabbed it hard.

Her eyes opened, but were glazed, unfocused. She turned away from me, head down and ass higher in the air. I wiled my fingers in and out quickly but steadily. Her body reacted to the constant rhythmic sensations.

I pushed my fingers deeper, bending them hard with each thrust, feeling her g-spot primed and swollen. My fingers slid along the same trajectory over and over. She reacted perfectly, pushing her body back against me, then grabbing my other hand and hitting herself on the ass with it again, reminding me to keep spanking her. I smiled and couldn’t help letting out a little laugh.

When I started twisting my fingers inside of her on each trust, trying to find the angle that would bring her to the next level she let out a high pitched whine that made me stop.

“No! Don’t stop. Keep twisting like that. Wow, I think- I think, you’re gunna make me come,” she whispered, more than a hint of surprise.

When she started to come, she suddenly got nervous. I had to hold her there as my fingers kept going, my wrist and fingers starting to burn from the exertion. Just when I thought my hand would give out she shivered against me, thighs tightening so hard they nearly crushed my hand.

She tuned and pulled me up onto the coach with her gasping for breath, her face bright red, she smiled and let giggles bubble out of her. She pushed me back and laid on top of me, both of us sighing.

“Condoms?” she asked, head up and eyes scanning the room.

I twisted under her and looked over at my dresser. She untangled herself from my limbs and when she stepped off the couch her knees gave way for a moment. Then she walked slowly over, looking back at me before opening the drawer.

“Go ahead, I like how much being nosy satisfies you.”

She gave me another crooked smile and pulled open the drawer. I walked from the couch over to my bedroom and sat on the bed watching her.

Her face shone with an acutely childlike curiosity. She pulled out a black lacquered box and opened it to find a thick metal curve laying on red satin.

“It’s a sex toy,” I explained.

“How- I mean- how do you clean it?”

Of course this would be her first question.

“I boil it in one part bleach to four parts water. I clean them between uses, unless I am using them on the same person, then I just use soap and water.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“What about the case?”

“I only put it in the case after it has been boiled. In between I keep it in a ziplock bag. All my toys can be sterilized.”

She considered this. Wheels seemed to be turning on her head. She seemed to decide my precautions were acceptable and so she picked up the heavy stainless steel toy and marveled at its weight.

“Interesting, but not tonight,” she said more to herself than to me.

When she was done she perused various other objects, but soon grew bored and snatched up the box of condoms, turning to give me her sort of geeky, sheltered version of a come hither stare, which was adorable more than seductive but worked just the same.

She entered into sex the way she entered into all things. She let herself be consumed. She gave all of her massive focus to it. She lost herself in the current fascination. We could have easily been at MoMA with her taking my hand and pulling me over to an exhibit she had to explain to me.

She came back and handed me the box, then laid on my bed, spreading her legs far apart. As I turned to her, taking in all of her nakedness, she caressed her breasts, the nipples still puffy, but the tips hardening into points.

“Sorry about the licking thing. It’s just,” she considered, “one of my things.”

I was at the bed, looking down at her as she pinched her nipples and winced, looking up at me, biting her lip, making a show of it all.

“It’s fine. I like lots of things, I don’t mind at all if you have things you don’t like to do. It was just a little confusing. I’m trying to figure out your- particulars, because you seem to like kissing a lot.”

“That’s just different. The mouth has a million germs. My pussy- I’m just really particular about what touches my pussy.”

She absently moved her hand down her body and let her fingers slip across her sex. I pulled away a little and watched. She swallowed and sort of half smiled.

“It takes a lot to make me come.” Her voice was low, almost sad. “I was surprised when you did it.”

“Tell me what you want me to do now.”

She rubbed little circles around her clit, her eyes briefly closing.

“Just stick your,” she thought of what word to use, “um, dick, in. But just a little. Just the tip, in and out, slowly.”

“Cock,” I corrected. She eyed me, with big adorable brown eyes.

“Right, sorry. Cock. Stick the tip o your cock in me,”

I knelt between her legs, watching her fingers move over the pinkness of her pussy. She closed her eyes and I took a condom out of the box she brought me. I ripped the blue packet, pulled the thing out and dropped the foil on the floor. I slipped it on carefully, my eyes on her fingers the whole time.

I watched the covered head of my penis push against the slick pinkness and then bit my lip as the head slip in. I watched her fingers move faster. I moved until I felt the head of my cock pop completely in and then I pulled back. She was tight enough that there was a moment of excruciatingly wonderful pressure.

I started a rhythm like that, popping the head in and out as she fingered herself fast and faster. I watched at that face which was always either serene or worried contort cutely with the pleasure and the frustration of wanting to come.

“It’s… close. Like, when I come, you should do it hard. Really hard and deep,” each word came out between labored breaths.

This was the very core of what I loved about sex. There was that zone when you are so into the other person’s pleasure that you ride it like a wave. My eyes were on her wet fingers, then her swollen nipples, then her tightly closed eyed and bitten lips.

I felt her orgasm building and I forced myself to keep going; I wanted to plow into her, but I kept the pace. I felt her tightening, her legs pressed hard against mine as I kept up the slow pace that was driving me insane.

“Now, please. Fuck me now,” she whispered, then a long whining moan escaped her lips.

I bent her legs up, bending her in half. Her back on the bed., but her ass raised up, her knees touching her chest. I held her like this with one arm, the other hand moving to her hip. I dug my fingers into the meat of her thick ass, pulling her into a deep thrust.

The long drawn out teasing fuck made her wetter than I could have imagined. She tried to writhe under me, but I pinned her. She mewed and shuddered and then broke the silence of the room with a loud moan.

Our eyes met for a moment as her hands balled into fists and she fought me pinning her down. She tensed under me, but I held her fast. She smiled and arched her back. I smiled back and then felt her shift in some subtle way under me. I was suddenly hitting some new spot inside of her and she let out a long, loud, almost frightening moan. Then words poured out of her. The nonsense “fuck me, more, harder, coming again” string of lovely dirtiness from this serious and innocent girl.

I kept fucking, my muscles starting to burn. I felt my orgasm rushing as I did, then suddenly she let out a squeak and I felt her gush, wet against my thighs, wet against my legs and I kept going. My grip on her wrists the only thing keeping me from falling on top of her. I kept going until my fingers tingled and the world went numb for a second except for the explosion inside.

I heard myself yell, a gruff horse “fuck” as my muscles contracted and I tried to keep my legs from buckling.

Then I was letting her go, getting tangled in her limbs, laying on the bed beside her. She buried herself in the hollow of my chest, shocking me with her seeming comfort with my sweaty hairy body. She seemed to want to burrow into my warmth though, so I wrapped her up in my arms and kissed her forehead until we were so relaxed we were almost asleep.

“I’ve had never had an orgasm from only penetration before.”

I nodded and smiled. Things like that made me happier than they ought to.

“And I’ve only squirted twice before and it took a lot of work and a big bendy toy and a Hitachi.”

I tried to hold it in, but I couldn’t. I started to laugh. There was just something about the seriousness of how she stated these things.

“Well, good. I’m glad you enjoyed it,” I said, shifting from her.

She watched me. “You like doing that. You think it means you understand my body better than I do.”

I turned, letting her slip off me and then moving on top of her, pausing there for a moment looking down at her and then standing, picking up my boxers and slipping them on.

“Maybe,” I considered, “it is a nice bit of control.”

“Maybe there are things you just need two people to do. It isn’t inherently you, it is just another person.”

I shrugged. “But you did say it never happened before.”

She sat up, looking at the wet spot still on the bed and giving me a apologetic wince.

“I did say that. Why are you getting dressed? Are we done?”

I laughed again. “Are we not done?”

She considered this. “No, we are not done. We should have snacks and then you should try and do it again, to see if it was a fluke. This time with towels.”

She popped up, completely unselfconscious about her nudity. She skipped over to my kitchen and opened my refrigerator.

I stood watching the light reflect off her wet thighs and I sighed deeply. I felt good, but suddenly old. I was an old man who was about to do his best to keep up with a younger woman who took all things with an almost disturbing intensity.

I twisted my sore neck and laid back on the cool sheets and sighed. There were worse problems to have than trying to keep up.

Sideshow: The Queer Literary Carnival is serious literature for ridiculous times, curated and hosted by Cheryl B. & Sinclair Sexsmith.

Every month on the second Tuesday at The Phoenix, 447 East 13th Street @ Avenue A, in the East Village of New York City. Doors open at 7:30pm, reading promptly at 8pm. FREE! But we will pass the hat for donations to the performers.

Here is the text from my reading on 6/8/2010

How I Found my Inner Butch

Hi, my name is Jack and I write about sex on the internet. We are a rare breed.

I was a little taken aback when Sinclair asked me to speak at Sideshow. I was also honored and scared and impressed with him. You see I’m not particularly queer in the way I feel a lot of people use the term, though I’m certainly not straight, or hetero-normative or what ever the opposite of queer is.

Queer is, at this room demonstrates, very much a spectrum.

Anyhow, let me explain to you How I Found My Inner Butch

Like many of my generation I was a boy raised by women. It’s like being raised by wolves, only with synchronized menstrual cycles.

I grew up in a two family house with, at different points, three to five women living in it and me being the only male.

My mother, forgive the possibly politically-incorrect term it is hers not mine, is a fag hag. A full on Will and Grace hag with a cadre of gays and a collection of Barbara Streisand records.

Then there was my aunt, the intellectual lesbian who lived out different but equally well defined stereotypes with her “pulled up her her breast” pants and her blasting the Indigo Girls and moving in with her girlfriend on the second date. People can and are often very happy being caricatures.

There was my mother’s best friend, a gynecologist, I’m serious, and her best friend’s two teenage daughters who would make me sit in their bubblegum pink room as they had fashion shows and did there hair.

So yes, I was raised by women, it was a childhood very much infused with estrogen. As well it was infused with feminist thought. I was very much in a household that was in the middle of a first wave vs second wave feminist debate and I was often dragged into the conversation. I grew up understand woman as peers and I went out into the world treating them as such.

Sex and sexuality were pretty common topics at the dinner table. As were gynecology, obstetrics, abortion and various other lady-part topics that seem to make men cringe but I simply found as charmingly anecdotes.

What I’m trying to say is that it took me twenty something years to figure out how to “be masculine.” I learned to shave by watching razor commercials and TV shows. I learned to tie a tie from a webpage. I learned to be a act like a “man” from reading books.

So, much to my mother’s chagrin, I ended up liking girls. I like them a lot. I like boys too, I mean, not just in general, but in a sometimes I kiss them sort of way, but I think it would be a stretch to call myself bisexual. All these titles are are ambiguous as they are limiting anyhow.

As difficult as it was to figure out how to be a man, figuring out where I fit into society, queer or straight society has been an even rockier road. I didn’t understand for a long time that identity has little to do with biology, especially things as complicated as butch or femme.

So that leads me to the theme of tonight. You see, I never owned a suit, I mean I nice suit, until a few years ago. I had a funeral tie and a job interview tie and I never really figured out how to exert my identity. I came to think that’s what the internet was for.

How I came to find my butch self is a strange story in itself. It’s very much tied into how I found out I’m kinky. It was also very much a part of me taking a look in the mirror one day and seeing an ordinary exterior of an extraordinary person and wanting to do something about it.

At some point I found myself in pink ties and dark suits. I found myself in cufflinks and straight razor shaves and all of this traditional masculine things that were so very foreign and exciting to me. I found my strut and I found my confidence. I found the outside to match my inside and it has made me a much more complete person.

So here I am, trying to become a dandy. I’m not sure how dandy fits into the spectrum of butch/femme. Was Oscar Wilde butch? Perhaps he is somewhere in the middle of the path between Marilyn Monroe and Leather Tuscadero. Playing with my little span of the gender spectrum and fucking with gender as much as I can and it is an adventure. Identity is a very strange thing, especially now where we are so aware of it.

I look around and feel excited to be part of tonight, like in some way I’m more accepted by a group I’ve always felt both a part of and separate from. I’m excited to have people recognize that idea of butch can very much be someone dressing their cis-gender. That queer is more than LGBT; that the letters go on and on. What queer really is, is the opposite of limited. It is the opposite of binary only. It’s always what I’ve been and always what I’ve looked for in others.

I entered three logos and I think they are pretty good. It would really help me if people went over and voted for them.

Mine are numbers 7, 14 and 15.

I’d really appreciate it. Plus going to The Floating World would mean going to the largest dungeon on the east coast and who knows what kind of stories I would bring back from that.

It takes about 10 seconds and you’d be making my summer way more awesome.

Vote here!