May 262016

I like scrubs. I like how their looseness invites speculation, but how they remain taut enough to reveal basic form.

That is all.

May 252016

L sent me this ridiculous article about summer lesbians in the Hamptons. I mean, it’s not ridiculous: I’d be the last person in the world to question a woman’s decision to fuck her trainer. And it’s not news that women’s sexuality tends to be a bit more fluid than men’s.

What’s ridiculous is that I want to be the pussy whisperer.

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May 252016

She’s cute. In her early twenties. Plump, sexy, energetic, vivacious. She is a fuckload of fun in bed. No doubt. As I paid for my bagel, she – on break – was chit-chatting, loudly, with the woman behind the register. “My roommate keeps using my shampoo, so today, I used hers, and I love it! It has bergamot in it! I love the smell. I don’t know what it is, but I love it.”

She and I had a brief conversation about bergamot. Not particularly interesting.
Continue reading »

May 252016

Elust 82 Header
Photo courtesy of Teachers Have Sex

Welcome to Elust #82

The only place where the smartest and hottest sex bloggers are featured under one roof every month. Whether you’re looking for sex journalism, erotic writing, relationship advice or kinky discussions it’ll be here at Elust. Want to be included in Elust #83 Start with the rules, come back June 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!


~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~

Take Me

How Do I Love Thee:On Comparing Relationships

Asking all the questions…



~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

Erotic Fiction: Fishnet Queen

I Manage My Expectations

~Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~

You really should consider adding your popular posts here too

Wanna Have Sex With Me? – Here’s how
All blogs that have a submission in this edition must re-post this digest from tip-to-toe on their blogs within 7 days. Re-posting the photo is optional and the use of the “read more…” tag is allowable after this point. Thank you, and enjoy!

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May 242016

“I have to meet a friend half an hour away at 11:45.”

“How late are you prepared to be?”

Jenn doesn’t live here. She is headed out of the country shortly. There was a bit of “now or never” to it.

It was 10:35. We had never met. Our Tinder correspondence had begun twelve hours earlier. She had come for me multiple times over the course of the morning. I was about ten minutes away. I thought. Turned out to be more like twenty.

“I’m 10 minutes away And I would like to make use of you, briefly. To give you a taste. If you have to leave by 11:15, I’ll make that work.”

“Say yes, and I’m on my way.”

“Time keeps on ticking….”

“lol this is crazy,” she typed. Damn. I hate “lol.”

“So yes? Tell me your room number.” She did. Continue reading »

May 202016

I’ve mostly avoided writing about my physical pain, but… for well over a year, I’ve suffered from significant physical pain. I had hoped, for a while, that I might reasonably be able to hope for an end to my pain, but that hope seems to be fading. It’s becoming evident that part of what it means to be me is to suffer from fairly constant, fairly significant pain.

The physical consequences of this are straightforward. I can’t bend over. Tying my shoes is hard. I can’t lift, or twist, or engage in much of any sustained physical activity. It affects the kinds of sex I can, or could, have. Or even fantasize about.

The emotional consequences of this are much less straightforward. I’m sad, because I’m having to come to terms with the loss of much that I value, in terms of physical comfort and capacity, yes, but also in terms of my self-conception.

Continue reading »

May 172016

She’s in her mid-twenties. She’s 5’4″. Her face is angular, long. Her skin, olive. Her eyes are hazel, brownish. She’s wearing no makeup, she looks natural, in a compellingly sexual way. She is reading the Times on her iPhone. She’s engrossed, not happy, not sad. Just engrossed.

Her slacks are black, cotton. Not tight, not loose. I can’t make out much of her form, because she’s wearing a thigh-length beige cashmere cardigan, hanging open, obscuring the curves beneath.


Except her breasts.

The cardigan is shoved unceremoniously to the side by her breasts. They’re big, but proportionate. They’re round. They’re incredible. I can hardly look away.

They’re under a nearly sheer black blouse, and a tragically opaque black bra. But they could not be more perfectly framed by her cardigan, and accentuated by the necklace and headphones dangling in the space between them, ending an inch below the bottom of her bra.


Not her, but her top….

May 142016

I tolerate a lot of ambivalence among women who want my cock in their mouths. In fact, sometimes, I even find that ambivalence hot (if it’s internally generated, rather than ambivalence about me).

Tamora possesses tremendous ambivalence. Not about me – no, she knows she wants me. But she often isn’t sure just what role can or should play in her life. I don’t entirely understand this. I don’t need to. Except that it affects me, in the following way: she’s canceled more dates with me than we actually have had. It’s not even close. And yet, and still, I keep going back.


Because fuck, her mouth. (Also, her breasts. And her ass. And her personality. But you know, fuck, her mouth.)

The date began with lots of extremely un-sexy talk. About aging, about relationships, about politics. See, we like each other, and we like talking, and we have some stuff in common. I learned – as an example of just how un-sexy our small talk was – that she was about to have surgery on her sinuses.

We had two drinks. We dissed the waitress. Tamora is a bartender, and appreciates good service, and her sympathies naturally lie with servers over customers. This is admirable, and appealing. But this chick was in the wrong job.

We read the notebook that some drunk tech worker had left in the booth in which we sat. Blah blah blah Facebook. Blah blah blah advertising. The tech worker was at too low a level, obvs, for the notebook to contain anything interesting to the likes of me. I had a brief fantasy of scanning the notebook, or just a page or two, and including it here. But meh. It really wasn’t interesting.

Tamora’s not naturally submissive. She doesn’t particularly want me to tell her what to do, how to dress, etc. It’s not that she doesn’t want to please me – she does. She dresses very self-consciously to please me (she was wearing a soft cotton dress, for example). But she experiences instructions as stressful. She worries about – I’m not sure what – but it makes her nervous for me to tell her what I want from her. So I don’t. On this night, I asked her: “Sex club? Or hotel?” We had previously established that the Liberty Inn is too sleazy for her. At least, too sleazy for her with me. Another thing I don’t exactly understand, but respect.

She told me she’s curious about the sex club, but for another night…. So I dialed up Orbitz, we finished our drinks, and we headed out. “May I have a cigarette?” she asked. The last time we saw one another, I was smoking, and she and I shared several cigarettes. This time, I wasn’t. “Sorry,” I said. “I’m not smoking.” We discussed Chantix, the drug I’m taking to help me stop. (It’s been a few weeks, now.) The dreams. I handed her a twenty – “Buy some,” I said. She bought American Spirit Yellow, the brand I smoked most recently. I wasn’t even tempted. But her breath became that much better.

We checked into our hotel. I tossed her on the bed and devoured her. Her cunt was sweet, warm, wet. She came. She really likes my mouth on her cunt. Which is nice, and seems fair.

We switched places. She devoured me. I could write more, but is it, honestly, all that interesting?

I told her that I not infrequently imagine the sensation of her mouth on my cock. That’s true.

I filled her mouth with my cum. We talked some more.

What’s she so nervous about?!?!?!?


May 132016

I text you the room number. 1704. You take the elevator, you walk down the hall, and you find the door open, prevented from closing by the deadbolt. You enter, but the room is empty. You’re alone.

Your phone buzzes with another text.

“Undress, please. And please be sure the deadbolt is still keeping the door open.”

In spite of yourself, you do as I ask. You find yourself standing there, nude, wondering what’s next.

Some minutes pass, it seems. Maybe you fiddle with the radio. Maybe you adjust the temperature. You wait.

Your phone buzzes. “Please lie face-down on the bed. Please spread your arms and legs. And please close your eyes.”

Again, you find yourself doing as I ask. You’re acutely aware of your vulnerability, of the open door.

You wait. And wait. And wait.

You hear the door creak open, and then you hear it latch shut. You hear soft footsteps.

And then you don’t.

May 122016

She tells me she’s a good teacher. She’s certainly a hot teacher.

I hope to learn if she’s good, if she can teach me.

In the mean time, she did play with herself, but did not come, for me. And for you.


Soon, I’ll let you hear her come.

And this isn’t her. But it looks like her… she chose it.