DSD: The Learning Series

We’re launching a new monthly meetup for anyone who is interested in sexuality!

Come join us at the LGBT Center, Room 410 / Thursday, Sept. 9th, 8-10pm. It’s open to everyone! Sliding Scale: $0 – 7.

Dov will be presenting for one hour on Crazy Glue Invisible Bondage and Infibulation!

Crazy glue is steeped in the depths of urban legends of late night rushes to the emergency room to unglue hapless victims who didn’t heed the warning on the label: “WILL BOND SKIN INSTANTLY.” This class is about demystifying this fun pervertible for mindfucks. We will discuss and demonstrate many wonderful perversions with this super-strength glue for bondage. We will also cover safety issues, some theory/chemistry of its function, and its intended medical usage.

After the lead presentation, DSD participants will give their own presentations and start conversations about topics they want to teach and/or learn about.

There is no need to sign-up!

dsdnyc.org

FetLife Group: fetlife.com/groups/19294
FetLife Event Page for the first class: fetlife.com/events/27545

For an additional fee I will send you audio of me reading your story. Alternately you can have your story read by a female reader.

Stories take about two weeks to write and three weeks if you want audio recordings.

Personalized Erotic Story: $25-$50
Audio Version: Story cost + $50
Female Audio Version: Story cost + $100

Note: This story is written to your specifications, but you retain no copyright to the story and I may publish or sell the right to publish said story.

Email me at mrjackstratton at gmail.com for more information.

I haven’t said it out loud, but it keeps repeating in my head. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

That’s why you get hit, right? You were bad. And even though I am really sorry for all that I did and all that I deserve I also know that this isn’t punishment. Punishment is too easy. She is hitting me because she wants to hurt me. She is hitting me because I want to be hit. This pain is not a consequence, it’s an act all of its own. That makes it scarier because punishments have definitions, limits, sentences. This is pain for pain’s sake.

The issue really isn’t the pain though, it’s the frustration. The pain becomes just another sensation, like an itch or a kiss or pretty lights. The problem is that when it comes on hard and your hands are tied behind your back you can’t stop it. Then it takes over.

When she straddles my hips and takes out the long thin metal shim they call an “Evil Stick” the pain she inflicts is a white flare of brilliance. The first few times it is dazzling and sucks my mind into that place that’s new and old at the same time. The pain is hot and sharp and I love it. I love it. Then it is too much, like teeth on the head of my cock. It is too much and I can’t do anything about it. My wrists hurt from sudden straining, my muscles tighten. I shake my head but there is no escape from it.

The searing prick of the metal pulled back and then snapped against my chest is a flare. Once would hurt, but over and over again the experience becomes agonizing.

Yellow is at the tip of my tongue. It is both the thing I don’t want to say and the thing every part of my brain is screaming. When she pauses, moves to the other side of my chest my senses collapse and realign. Breath, breath, breath. Focus and control. I can take it. I’ll show her. She’ll see how tough I am and how I can take more than anyone else. I’ll show her and she will reward me and her eyes will sparkle and she’ll kiss me. A real kiss not her cruel half kisses or the deliciously mean biting kisses. She kiss me and pat me on my head and tell me I’m a good boy.

Why is that attractive? It’s silly. It’s stupid even. When I’m there it is like winning the lottery. It is like my birthday.

The thought is lovely, but the Evil Stick brings me back. There is no room for thought when the frustration and pain is everywhere.

No, no, no, no, no. There are these little invisible markers and every time one passes my body reacts without my permission. The hurting moved into some new level and I feel this cool font well up in me. I don’t understand it. It’s like suddenly all these emotions caught up with the situation.

Then comes the fear. I can’t cry. I can’t show her that. I have to be tough. I have to be a man. Men don’t cry. I have to be in control. It won’t stop though. The pain is everywhere. Her face covers above me. She isn’t going to stop. I have to break one way or another. I can give in, I can give up or I can give myself to her.

I am whining because I don’t want to cry. I don’t want to let her see that, even though I know she wants it. Some tiny little voice says it has to be like this. Some part of me is becoming small and frightened and timid. I want to hide behind the pillow. I want to kiss her hand even as it hits me. All I am is want and pain.

Then the hot tears are in my eyes. She is stopping and she is kissing me. She knows, she knows.

You have been warned.

The whine was a little girl noise: a pouting, stubborn groan of frustration. I heard it when I opened the door and let the light from the hall break the spell of darkness in her room.

On the pink bed, the girl was covered in blankets, pillows, comforters, even stuffed animals. She sniffled somewhere under there and in a voice that sounded much more adolescent than what a college student should sound like, she whined, “go away.”

I had to laugh. I left the door open a little, enough to see at least. I crept over to the bed, looking around at the bowl of half eaten soup and cups of tea.

I took off my pants as she pulled the blanket down enough to watch me with furled eyebrows and pursed frowning lips. I took my shirt off next and placed it with my pants on the chair next to her bed.

It was actually somewhat cold in her room, college kids in cheap apartments with shitty heating. I shivered and took off my boxers and socks, then I slipped under the blanket with her.

“I’m sick. I called you to take care of me,” she whined.

I pulled the blanked back to see that she wore a very old pink shirt. It was the same shirt she had worn to bed back when we briefly lived together. She wore long striped pink and white socks that came up to her thighs.

“You texted me ‘come over’ and then sent me a picture of your tits,” I corrected.

She shrugged and looked away.

I slipped my arms around her thin waist. She relaxed into my chest. She was hot, feverishly hot. I pulled the covers over us and kissed her neck.

“You can’t kiss me, you’ll get sick,” she whispered, but she was already under my control. Kissing her neck was like putting on a collar for her. She was already moaning by the time I got to her ear.

Pulling up her shirt I found miles of almost too hot skin. Her smooth back, the little curves of her love handles, the roundness of her small tummy. I stopped just below her breasts, my obsession. They were like that favorite part of dinner you saved to eat last.

“You’re supposed to take care of me, not fuck me.”

She tried to sound mad, but it wasn’t convincing when she gasped and moaned through the sentence.

“Nope. You are a big girl, you can take care of yourself. I’m just here to use you.”

She pressed her face to my neck gasping at the thought. I pulled her face up, looking into her green eyes.

“Maybe I don’t want to be a big girl,” her lip quivered.

I kissed her cheek, then her forehead. Her hair smelled like shampoo. She showered just before I got there. She knew exactly what was going to happen when she sent me the message she sent me.

“Ok, you don’t have to be a big girl. You can be a little girl and I can use you.”

My hand moved down, into the depth of the blankets. The heat radiating from between her legs was boiling, moist, molten.

“You’re mean,” she said, voice changing, that bratty little girl affect I’d come to know slipping in.

“You’re wet.”

She shook her head and clamped her legs shut as I tried to slip my hungry fingers between them.

“You’re not supposed to,” she whined.

The light stubble brushed my fingers and then her slick silk skin. The thick harness of her clit, the chubby folds that made me wince with desire.

My fingers moved but my mind remembered what it felt like to fuck her. The tip of my finger pressed past merely moist skin to the wetness of her. She grabbed at my arm and lot out little wounded bird sounds, tiny begging chirps.

“You’re sick, I should stop.”

She mumbled “please,” but I was pulling my hand away. She held on to it, trying to push it back, then when she couldn’t she pulled my hand to her mouth and licked it clean, looking in my eyes.

I pushed her down, pinned her down, kissing her deeply. She tasted like tooth paste and cough syrup. Then I moved down taking each eager nipple into my mouth, relishing them.

There was no other girl like this for me. For all her little girl charms and bright mind, it was her body I came back for. She was perfect, my ideal, my clumsy sweet little girl with the thin waist, but the little belly that stuck out, with the bubble of an ass that was designed for my hand and the cunt that was so tight, so neverendingly wet, so ludicrously tasty.

I sank down between her legs and she cooed and pulled at my hair. I traced up one lip and down the other. I let my breath wake up every molecule of skin. I slipped my tongue out just enough for her to push her pelvis forward, pushing the pink button on her clit against my mouth. Holding my hair as she lifted her ass and moved her body so that little knot brushed against my tongue over and over.

I let her play, looking up at her closed eyes and bitten lip. I let it go on until she started climbing, the wall in need. I pulled away.

“So- close,” she whispered sadly.

I moved up and kissed her. She sucked my lips, hungry for her own taste, just like she always was. Then she twisted and turned and crawled out of my grip. She fumbled on the side of the bed, then came back with a condom package and pushed it into my hand.

Her hands moved to my waist and she pulled me back on to her.

“We shouldn’t,” I whispered.

“We used to. You used to be my bad daddy. You weren’t supposed to. You were a bad daddy.” She purred this into my ear while she wrapped her legs around me, my cock just barely brushing the stubble on her sex.

“That was before. We were together and we still shouldn’t have,” my voice cracked. I remembered the unmercifully wet and tight feel of her when my naked cock slipped in, inch by inch. I remembered her tightening as she came and the how the pleasure of my own orgasm was so intense I would sometimes punch the wall or rip sheets.

“Remember I used to say, please daddy, you can just put it in for a minute. I won’t tell, I promise. Just for a minute, just to see how it feels. Please daddy, just for a little tiny minute.”

I slapped her before I what I was doing.

Her eyes glazed and a slow smile arose over her red mouth.

The games we were playing were old games.

I disengaged, slipped from the tangle of her legs and claws and dangers. Stood unsteady in her floor, with its dirty socks and pink panties. She pulled off her shirt. This wasn’t going to end well. The game was on; who could tease who into breaking the rules.

She kneeled, leaning back with her legs half open and her face drawn down and her eyes flashing at me.

“I bet I can make you,” she said, not sounding like a little girl at all.

“Your not supposed to call me that anymore,” the spell was a little broken, but not all the way. I was just worried.

She let out a loud huff and pounced on her bed.

“No fun!” she said into her pillow, beating on it and kicking her legs.

“You know it’s not a good idea,” I started, my voice turning serious.

She sighed and laughed. “I knew you wouldn’t do it. I knew you would come over and then you would get all depressed and dumb instead of just fucking me like I want.”

I narrowed my eyes at her. She deflated. She laid back down and sighed.

“Just fucking hold me then.”

We were spoons again. My face in her hair and my lips on her neck and she pulled my arms around her, holding my hands. Then she moved my hand on top of her breasts and suddenly my cock was hard and nestled right between her thighs, rubbing.

“Tell me no,” I whispered into her ear.

She whined and tried to turn to look at me. I rubbed and rubbed, the head just missing her wetness which threatened to pull me into her.

“Say it.”

She whimpered and tried to pull away.

“Don’t,” the word was just a breath, but her hands came behind her and she pushed at me.

I pulled back, I opened the packet, pulled the condom over my cock. The familiarity of it all was strange. I slipped back behind her and she tried to squirm away. I slipped between her thighs. My cock found source of her heat and I push in a millimeter. Half her body fought to get away and half pushed back against me.

“No no no,” she said punching back at me me until I grabbed her arm and twisted it behind her back. Her other hand was pinned under her.

I slipped further in and she shook her head furiously.

“No! It’s bad, stop, please! You’re not supposed to!” She was crying a little, her face hot and red, her nose running from the cold and her tears.

I pushed hard into her, wanting friction, but she was so wet it was like rubbing oiled hands together. I put my leg over hers, pushing her thighs together tighter. I fucked her like that, growling into her neck as I held her arm and kept my hand in her hair.

I fucked her harder and she forgot to fight, she pushed her ass back at me with every thrust, she moved so her hips were at the perfect angle.

“Tell me you want me to come inside of you.” My voice didn’t even sound like me, it was hoarse and dark.

She shook her head and squeaked out a “no.”

“You fucking say it right now!” and I smacked her ass hard, then her hip, then her breasts. I slapped her breasts as I fucked her and she screamed and cried.

“Do it!” she said in frustration and desire and submission.

“Say it right.”

I fucked her and she turned her head and looked me in the eyes.

“Come in my pussy. Come in me. Shoot your come in me,” eyes bold and rebellious.

I grabbed her by the throat.

“Say please,” I stared right back.

She was scared of my hand on her throat; she tried to turn but I held her there.

“P-please. Please come in me. Please please come in me. Use me like a dirty little whore. Please-” the next word hung in the air, the most forbidden.

“Please what?” I slowed, not wanting to come but feeling it charging me.

“Please- come inside my little cunt,” she said and smiled a little.

I slapped her in the face. It was hard from the angle, but I got her firm on the cheek. I slapped her once more and she lost it. She came hard, the way I remembered. I felt her tighten so hard she pushed my cock out of her. I pushed it back in and fucked her harder.

“I’m not supposed to say it anymore, you said.” She laughed her bratty little laugh. I slapped her harder across the face and her eyes rolled back.

I turned her around, laying her on her belly, legs together tightly. I pushed her down on the bed, pulling her arms behind her back. I slipped my cock between the softness of her ass and found her cunt again. I fucked her hardest this way. It was impossibly tight.

She howled and pushed her ass back.

“You want me to call you daddy, like before?” she sobbed, tears and bratty laugh and moans almost choking her.

“Yes.” It was a long hiss from my lips.

“Fuck me daddy. Please daddy. Daddy, daddy, daddy,” she said low, like a mantra with every thrust.

“Daddy don’t come in my pussy, please. Don’t daddy, it’s bad, you promised you wouldn’t. Please don’t daddy don’t,” she got louder and louder until she was begging.

The orgasm was like lightning. I came so hard I yelled nonsense, I grabbed a pillow and threw it across the room, punched the mattress hard just to stop myself from screaming. I came with every molecule of my body.

When it was over I found myself on my back, unsure of how I got there. She was cuddled next to me smiling like she’d won.

I fell asleep with her. The next day I had a fucking cold.

Anonymous asks: You’ve mentioned that British girls tickle your fancy. What other girls are you into? Are age and race factors?

Well, in the last two years I’ve dated people from 21 to 33, and that sounds about right for my age of attraction. I’ve played with people as young as 18, though I find it hard to connect with people that far from my age in a relationship so the connections are usually pretty physical. On occasion I don’t mind that at all.

Race? I’m attracted to all sorts of people. I’ve mostly dated white girls, more because of cultural similarities than aesthetics. I’ve certainly been attracted to, played with and dated people of various races. For some reason I attract and am attracted to a lot of Jewish girls and lot of half-Asian half-European girls. I try to stay away from midwesterners for a variety of reasons. Also I tend to not get along with people from L.A.

Aesthetically, I tend to go for girls who are curvy, buxom, though a variety of different weights and heights. I’ve dated girls who were 5’11″ and 4″10, sizes 2 to 22. I like variety. I find if I date someone for a while the next person I date will be very different looking.

Glasses are always a plus. As are tattoos. Curiosity and intelligence trump all physical characteristics.

Boys are a whole different story.

Anonymous asks: As a follow up then, what kind of boys do you like?

Not really sure yet. It’s pretty new. Very little experience.

So far i would classify them as: Boys who like me.

Anonymous asks: Have you find that there is any connection between having a fetish for spanking, and having been spanked as a child?

I was never spanked as a child. I was never really hit in any way, except for perhaps during my super rebellious teen years, when I may have been smacked across the face once or twice. I was certainly never spanked.

Spanking has always been a kinky and
sexual thing for me. Hints of overpowering an innocent. Familial discipline that seemed removed from my own life. Something from another time or culture that I could appropriate for my own fantasies. Something sexual with some inherent social weight to it.

The real draw is the physicality of it. A hand in someone’s ass, the embodiment of dominance. Their head turned away or face down. The motion very much the rhythm of fucking. Your fingers inches, sometimes centimeters from their sex. The heat of their skin once it starts. The subtle, manicured violence of it all.

It is intimate and personal and sexual and psychologically loaded.

I haven’t asked many of the partners I have spanked if they have been spanked as children, but I have gleaned that most weren’t, though some were.

Anonymous asks: I’m not sure if you’ve touched on it on your blog, but, what was the first kink you discovered that you had? Also, what gives you the courage to be so open and honest?

I don’t feel particularly brave for being open. Honestly I don’t know any other way to be. Plus, how would meet people to do these things with if I don’t talk about them?

First and foremost I write to seduce.

I don’t know of I can pinpoint my first kinky experience. When you are a child, all sexuality is kinky and forbidden. I was very much a hyper curious and sexual youth.

I haven’t talked about them, but there were several sexual encounters when i was a child, i.e prepubescent. Perhaps the most telling in happened when I was around seven.

I had this babysitter. A female babysitter. She was around fifteen. I used to try and follow her into the bathroom. Sometimes she would let me.

What followed for perhaps a summer was an inappropriate relationship. It was show and tell, doctor, what have you, but it progressed to some touching. Kissing. A bit more.

That early sexual exploration effected me in very obvious ways. I still like nothing more than looking, touching, exploring and most of all figuring out someone’s body. What they like, what can make them moan or shutter or come. Knowing someone’s body better than they know it.

Even the ageplay I do and desire to do leans toward an early teen mindset. Inappropriate touching. Dirty games. Playing out the seduction of someone playing the character of that babysitter, but now with the tools of my adult mind.

I would certainly say my kink life started with words. I got a Penthouse when I was perhaps twelve and although the pictures intrigued me, the stories in the back of the book are what really caught my attention.

I read then over and over. They told of sordid things, wide people doing forbidden acts. The pictures were just fake and glossy women, lifelessly spreading their legs in front of convoluted backdrops.

When I was around thirteen I got a computer. The first things I looked for were dirty stories. I read kinky things online from the time of BBS’s and Usenet. That was my kinky life until I was in my early twenties.

I had a good amount of sex in my early thirties, but the kink was not much more than playful spanking. Perhaps slightly rougher than average sex.

I wouldn’t say I was kinky or did particularly kinky things until I was 30. After my six year relationship ended I found myself, online and off.

As our cab pulled up to a seemingly random corner I paid and we wandered out cautiously. I checked my phone for the hundredth time and found the address. As I was told it was above a deli. The building looked just like everything else there; gray, empty, foreboding.

I took Zonah’s hand and we shared raised eyebrow amusement at the shadiness of this whole situation.

Next to the deli was a door with a row of anonymous doorbells. I pressed all of them. In a second a weak tinny buzz croaked and the door clicked open.

Up two flights of dirty but not really filthy stairs until we saw lights and an open door. A twentysomething boy, pretty, shirtless, slightly drunk, came out and opened his arms.

“Welcome to the sex party!”

A few weeks before this I had heard about a party. Invitation only, kinky, sexy, with a relatively young crowd. I managed to get an invite and a delicious friend of a friend to go with me. Zonah, a smart, buxom, political, sexy girl who a friend had connected me with.

There is nothing as lovely as a girl you play with recommending you to one of her friends.

As I laced up Zonah’s corset and teasingly kissed her neck we wondered what the night would hold. It was easy to get her worked up and I liked her wet and squirming. Before we left I pushed her face down on the bed and pulled up her skirt.

“I want you to wear something else tonight,” I growled, pulling her panties to one side, licking a finger and then circling the pink of her ass. She mewed and whimpered.

The small metal plug was not very substantial, but it would do the trick. A dab of lube and a little twisting and it was in. Her eyes were bright with lust and that little tinge of humiliation that made us both hot.

We headed downtown followed by lecherous and disapproving looks. I don’t think it was my stunning purple shirt and tie combination, but her miniskirt and corset. She squirmed on the train, the attention and that mix of feminism and her own fantasies of being called a whore swirling in her head, aided by a few whispered dirty words from me.

When we changed trains and were left on an empty platform for a few minutes I threw her against a tile wall and pawed at her breasts. She made little meek noises like a kitten when she was pounced on. Sometimes I found it cute, but now it made me want to pull up her skirt and fuck her right on the tracks.

There was something delicious about her and her lack of shame. The way she seemed to constantly dare herself to be provocative. It was a few minutes before the train came and we were both bothered, flushed and ready. Still, when I reached behind her and pressed the metal ring of the plug she whined and blushed hot pink.

The ride seemed to take forever and our stop was closed for repairs so we ended up taking a taxi the last few blocks. Between the lust and the heat outside we were crazed my the time we got to the building.

My friend Alice is a bossy top whose kinks are a bit foreign to me; foot worship, all of that femme domme stuff that strays so far from my aesthetic. She stood in a nearly transparent negligee looking slightly bored and talking to a man in a suit. She brightened when I came in and we somewhat awkwardly kissed each other on the lips hello.

We met the man who ran the party at the door and he collected our money in a transaction that felt oddly like a drug deal. A forty-something woman came down the stairs in lingerie and looked me in the eyes, touching my chest as she passed me.

“Oh excuse me,” she said in a dreamy voice. “I love your tie.”

Zonah and I looked at each other again.

“I think that’s what a swinger looks like,” I whispered into her ear. She laughed and squirmed closer to me.

“There’s a sex toy demonstration going on upstairs, we’re still setting up down here,” said the shirtless boy.

There was something surreal about the atmosphere, part porno, part frat party, part potluck.

For those readers not in the know, a “play party,” which is what we were expecting, is a gathering where people engage in all sorts of BDSM activities, but usually not sex. Different parties have different rules, but most of the parties I’ve been to had a “no penetrative sex” policy. A “swinger party” as I had heard and was soon to find out is a relatively non-kinky event where people are very much encouraged to fuck. Fuck the people they came with, fuck others, fuck in groups, watch each other fuck.

Heading in the first open section we saw a few rooms, one with a medical chair, one with a few mattresses on the floor, one with a couch and a spanking bench. There were some crops and floggers hanging on the wall. Condoms everywhere, bottles of lube, paper towels.

We saw two women and a man kissing on a couch, the women in panties and the man in pants. In another room a very buxom, very cute woman in a red corset carrying a crop with a pink heart at the end pushed a boy around.

Mostly though it was half nude heterosexual couples kissing, watching each other and sweating. The place was ridiculously hot. Only one room had air conditioning and a few others had fans, but the upper floor was almost a sauna. There was a building smell of sex and latex.

Going back to the mattress room I saw that a couple on the bed had stripped and were kissing and absently caressing each other.

I didn’t know what to do exactly. I wanted to play with Zonah, because she is ridiculously fun to play with, but I was a bit nervous. This was not my kind of party. I turned and told her to bend over the rickety bench. I pulled up her skirt and started pulling down her panties. I leaned over her hands slipping around and under her, cupping her breasts, whispering into her ears.

“I’m going to take down your panties and spank you, is that alright?”

She nodded quickly. It was sort of a silly question for us, but we were in public, in a different setting than we thought we would be in, so I checked in with her.

I stood up and went to that familiar place in my head. Spanking is

like kissing for me. I liked to do them both almost more than what comes after. Rope, which was like a new love for me, is a close second. But spanking is the standard. I never feel as in control of someone as I feel when they are bent over my lap with one hand in their hair and one hand slapping their ass.

As I warmed her up I watched the naked blond on the bed look up with interest. This was new and intriguing. She watched as I spanked Zonah and I locked eyes with her a few times. She even kept watching as her partner laid back next to her and took his cock out. She only briefly stopped watching as she his cock in her mouth.

It was around this time that my friend Alice came back with a thirty something guy. He was very happy and sort of innocent looking. She smiled at me and put the guy on one of the other mattresses. She then gave him one of the tamest spanking I’ve ever seen.

He laughed and blushed and made little comments. It was like watching someone pretend to get spanked. For some reason it made me a little pissed. What kind of party was this?

I spanked Zonah harder, watching both couples as I slowly got carried away before I heard a little squeak of “Yellow.”

I swallowed and leaned over her, kissing her neck and soothing her ass.

“You okay?”

She smiled back at me and nodded, pushing her ass back against my hand. Her eyes were far away now and she practically purred under my hands. I faced her towards the action and pinched and twisted at her nipples through as we both watched the blond climb on top of her friend just as he slipped on a condom.

Before sliding down on him the blond looked around for something and frustratedly cursed. Alice, who was also watching, grabbed a bottle of lube from another table and squirt it into the blond girl’s hand.

The whole thing was silly and awkward and sexy and weird. I was amazed.

The guy had gone limp at this point so the blond worked him with her lubed hand. Alice watches with friendly concern.

Eventually he got hard enough and the blond mounted him. His hands were on her as as he pushed up into her downstrokes. It was surprisingly sexy. The awkwardness of the moment before fading as Zonah and I watched them fuck.

It’s something I haven’t seen that many times up close. Not in full light with perfect strangers, at least. Watching his cock, thick and pink, slip into her. The dirty blond neatly trimmed hair of her sex. The people milling about, coming in and out of the room. Alice on the floor giving her boy some rather exact instruction about how she wanted to be fingered. It was all a bit much to take in.

So we watched. I saw the guy on the bed gasp and moan as he came. I felt I was a little unclear on the etiquette, suddenly. How much can I watch, how closely? Should I join in one of these pairings?

I turned and Zonah’s lips met mine. I fe1l into the familiar but still new sweetness of kissing her. My hand drifting over her breasts and corset and then lower. A felt myself hard from watching and now even harder from kissing. I wondered if I should just jump into this whole swinger party thing. I wondered if I could.

So, I’ll be frank. This is a frank story isn’t it? Sometimes in this new life I’m leading I have been in situations that blow my mind. Example, two woman so beautiful and sexual that I’m not sure why one of them would play with dorky old Jack, let lone two. When they are naked, making out, looking over at me and asking me to fuck them it can be a little intimidating. I have to pull myself out of that last remaining bit of timid shell left.

What I’m saying is sometimes I get a little stage fright in high pressure situation, not often, but it’s happened once or twice. I had a feeling being in a room full of naked strangers I might get a little nervous.

I watched my friend Alice on the floor spread her legs and tell her man to finger her while she used a small vibrator on her clit. It was intimate, more so than sex, because this was often how casual sex was. Tinkering with toys and telling each other what you wanted. No grand thrusting and simultaneous orgasm.

It was strange as well to see my rather platonic friend’s vagina splayed, pink and pretty as her friend fingered it, rubbed it with lube, then mounted with his freshly condom covered cock.

They fucked briefly. Alice gave him more instructions. The couple on the couch still red faced glanced over. As Alice’s friend’s back muscles flexed Zonah started unbuttoning my shirt. I pulled the cups of her bra down and we kissed while we undressed a bit.

After Alice and her friend were through they made room for us on the mattress and I whispered in Zonah’s ear if this was alright. She smiled and shrugged. I started feeling that jittery fear or doing something far out of my comfort zone as I took off my pants. Looking down at Zonah, squirming and wet, then up at the blond on the bed, slowly fingering herself and watching me, that worry was loosing out to the hotness of the situation.

Once I started I really didn’t notice everything around me anymore. Zonah’s tightness, her moans and lips and breasts and heat made everything a blur.

So I fucked a girl in front of a bunch of people. Like a rockstar.

Later on I learned that someone I like and respect but hadn’t met in person was watching. Alice was watching too. It sort of freaked me out a bit. More because of self consciousness about my body than anything else. I’m working on that.

After we fucked we walked around a bit more. We tried to get Zonah to come, but a Hitachi was no match for the awkwardness of party and the constant motion around us. We left soon after, the silent streets feeling normal and real after the oddness of that secret place.

So that was my first swinger party. I enjoyed it, though I’m not sure if I would do it again right away. Still, I’m not opposed to it. Watching people fuck up close is far more interesting than I imagined.

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.