Jun 262016

Over the las4619448117_afd4d4c07a_bt couple of days, stats on this blog have been booming. I couldn’t figure out why. I looked, and it seemed all my visitors were coming by way of Google. And they all were landing on this page – the first time I wrote about Le Trapeze. And the second result if you Google “Le Trapeze,” right after the institution’s web site itself. And right before the Yelp review.

It occurred to me that, perhaps, there had been a news story about the venerable institution. So I went to the Google news results for “Le Trapeze,” and I learned the news: Le Trapeze is closing. The article provides no details, other than to say that the owners of the club couldn’t afford a new lease.

I can’t say I’m surprised. The building it’s in is lovely, and it’s in a tony district. I’m surprised both that the place survived economically as long as it did, and that the landlords tolerated it.

Oh well. I’m sad. I suppose I’ll have to squeeze in a few final visits before it’s gone.

I hope my new visitors enjoy their stay, and look around. There’s a lot more here than just a review of a single swingers’ club.

Jun 262016

I am dictating this post as I walk down the street, following a deeply unsuccessful and unsatisfying date. Please forgive typos. I’ve tried to clean it up, but I’ve done so while walking, and at least a few sheets to the wind.


The date, and the woman with whom I had the date, have left me reeling. Were I sane, I never would have gone on this date. I had more than enough information to know that nothing good could possibly come of any interaction with this woman. And yet, today, I tried, for a second time, to place my cock in her mouth.

Continue reading »

Jun 242016

I could describe her hair (brown, curly, long), her eyes (hazel, round), her lips (moist, thick, full).

But none of that matters.

She wears a pink cotton dress, with a dozen buttons down the front, followed by a deep slit that reaches nearly to her cunt. And it’s a constant struggle for her as she sits to avoid revealing more than she wants. Every so often, she adjusts the skirt, closing the slit, but honestly, it’s not working. She doesn’t seem troubled by it, though.

The dress would present less of a challenge if her curves weren’t so dangerous. Her thighs, muscular, thick. Her hips swelling beneath her waist. Her breasts testing the strength of the buttons.

I can’t look away.


[Note: I spent a ridiculous amount of time looking for the dress she was wearing online, and found nothing even close. These were the closest, but, as my description makes clear, I did a pretty poor web-surfing job. The model on the left starts to approximate the build, if not the look, of the woman I’m describing.]

dress2 dress

Jun 232016

She’s incongruously spectacular.

Her hair is brown, lustrous, with a hint of curls toward the bottom, as it hits her shoulders.

Her eyes, brown, are huge, and almond-shaped. They’re deep, and captivating.

Her face is long, angular, and perfectly symmetric. Her nose is long, but proportional. Her lips are full, pouty, and moist. Her skin is transcendentally clear.

Surely, when she walks into a room, every head turns.

But somehow, her self-presentation counters her beauty. She wears distinctly unfashionable jeans. A top that is a shade of maroon that looks as if it faded in the sun for just long enough to look old. And a cheap knock-off faux silk patterned scarf that clashes badly with the top.

Her nails are painted, sloppily, with a shade of blue you might expect to see on an Oldsmobile. And she wears a clunky white plastic watch that looks as if she bought it in a drugstore for $12.99.

Jun 232016

Recently, I sat in a coffee shop as a woman whom you haven’t yet met masturbated for me not ten feet away. Her name is Jade. And this is what she looks like:


Actually, that’s not what she looks like. It’s her. Her skin is dark. She is curvy, thick. She’s not at all my type, at least insofar as my type is petite. She had told me about this, and she had sent copious photos, so I had a sense of her body before we met. Her mouth will fit, or would fit, very nicely around my cock. I’ll get to why I’m not certain that it will fit in a moment. But first… Continue reading »

Jun 232016

I’ve been having fun with Allie. Though she’s far away, we are managing to have a lot of adventures. She confessed to me that she’s been hungering to go down on a woman, so I’ve asked her to start swiping chicks on Tinder, and sending me those she finds compelling. I like directing her dating life, just a bit.

Also, too, she’s been coming for me. A lot.

Wanna hear?

Jun 222016

Is she one? I don’t know. She’s a Tinder babe, she’s very forward. Her pictures are pretty. She has glasses, a pigtail. Her eyes are hungry. She asked me to choose her name from between “C” and “Hellian.”

I choose Hellian.

Enjoy listening to her come for me

I sure did.

Jun 212016

Each of the women below has gotten my adrenaline running, has gotten my dick hard. And each has disappeared. These pictures aren’t of them. But they’re of women who remind me of them. This post is the first of a series of posts on the ones that get away, the ones that ghost, that disappear on me.



Nina (not her real name – even though she ghosted on me, I like to preserve anonymity), a stunning young woman with whom I matched on Tinder. We had a brief flirtation and then, poof, she was gone. She began with a fundamental misunderstanding – “I’m afraid we don’t seem compatible sexually :/ I’m submissive…” she wrote. I set her straight. She executed one small task for me. A task that got me hard, that got her wet. And then, she stopped responding. I presented my second task (to pick a post from my blog that she liked and to tell me why), and she was gone.



Ellen (again, not real name), a spectacular, spectacular blonde. She appears too good to be true. Her blonde hair is curly and hangs down just to her clavicle, in her profile picture. Her teeth are gleaming, perfect. Her smile, insanely sexy. She looks like… well, like the woman Tinder would use to advertise the riches that await us within. Her other pictures have a stylized, almost photoshopped look to them, leading me to wonder if she wasn’t, actually, a bot. A significant proportion of women’s profiles – and a higher proportion of those who match with me – are bots. But quickly, she confirmed she’s not a bot. And then, equally quickly, she confirmed that she’s not (interested in being?) a reliable correspondent. In no time, she announced her departure to far away. Asked for my phone number, to connect on WhatsApp, and to send me pictures. (Which was odd, given where our conversation had led.) And then, she was gone….



Meg: She was the most promising of this batch. We had good conversation – as good as one can have within the confines of Tinder. And then she disappeared for a few days. And then returned, explaining she’d deleted Tinder, but now was back. Ah – an ambivalent woman. I like ambivalence. She too answered some questions of mine, executed some requests. And disappeared again. And reappeared again. This time, she gave me her number, so we could be in touch when she disappeared again. But of course, after just a little back and forth, she stopped replying to my texts.



Rose: She’s far away. I like her. She and I clicked well initially. But then, she realized that she couldn’t give me what I want, that I’m too demanding for her. Which is odd, because what I’d asked her to do was minimal, and I’d given her over a week to complete a task that would take all of three minutes. Maybe even one. But she was gone. That said? I have a fantasy that she and Allie might connect. They live near one another, and Allie’s in the mood to go down on a woman. I’m hopeful that I might facilitate an orgasm or three.



Anya. She comes and goes. Lately, she’s asked me not to be in touch with her. I’m always respectful of her requests, but I’ll note that she always comes back, sending me sexy selfies and professing hunger. We’ve met, now, twice, each time, chastely. I trust she’ll be back.



Luna – the spectacularly beautiful, spectacularly intelligent, woman with whom I had so much fun a few summers ago. It was Luna who inspired, who demanded, my very useful code of conduct. She sends me the odd Snapchat, but never replies to anything I say. My dick gets hard just saying her name. This morning, I saw her doppelganger on the street, and it set my mind to running….



And, of course, Jenn. Jenn, whose clit I licked for twelve minutes, who promised much, and then, having collected her pleasure, was gone. I remain hopeful that she’ll swallow my cum before the summer is out.

I’m sad to have lost all these women. I’m hopeful that at least a couple will return. And I’m grateful for the adrenaline, and the erections, they’ve let loose in me.

Jun 202016

collarCollars have a long history in the BDSM community. There is, in fact, a large social network of kink enthusiasts called “CollarMe.” Or there was. It seems, now, to be defunct. Or at least, my browser isn’t successfully rendering it.

A woman wearing a collar, generally, is presumed to be communicating something fairly straightforward: I am, at least while wearing this collar, the property of another. (One day, maybe I’ll write something in which I engage full on with the challenge of such a conceptualization, at least in a country with a horrible history of slavery, but this isn’t the day. For now, let it simply be known that I think a thoughtful person can’t help but at least think through the meaning and implications of asserting ownership of another in a historical context.)

So anyway: collar = property. Plain and simple.

Continue reading »

Jun 192016

large_hnwEQCSPKz0rvHkOz4I3DNh568uI’ve written before about how central the concept of overcoming obstacles, resistance, is to my desire. For me, there is something lifeless, flaccid, about unobstructed desire. A sure thing can be hot, once or twice, but for me, the very sure-ness of a sure thing is corrosive over time.

Some months ago, I went to a bar, the bar I’ve written most about. I seated myself next to an attractive caramel-skinned woman who was nibbling delicately on chicken wings, and I greeted John, the bartender. He introduced me to the new (female) bartender, yet another in the parade of flirty hotties they put behind that bar. I was in a good position, hotness to the left of me, and hotness in front of me.

John told the other bartender to take good care of me, that I’m “important.” He’s good at his job, at making guests feel known and valued. He greets regulars, of which I’m barely one (I’m there every two weeks or so), with familiarity and warmth, and he remembers everyone’s favorites.

The conversation between me and my neighbor began haltingly. We both were intermittently on our phones. And I should say, a) I’ve only once in my life picked up a woman in a bar, and b) I very quickly established in my mind that tonight wasn’t going to be the second time. She wasn’t interested in me. And I, honestly, wasn’t trying.

There was a moment early on when I actually had a negative reaction to my neighbor. I don’t remember what caused it – maybe her too-long flirtation, across me, with the twenty-something Italian guy from Bensonhurst (for readers familiar with the connotations of New York neighborhoods) from central casting. But I lost that negative reaction – completely, and quickly, as her leg pressed against mine, and as our conversation turned inexorably toward sex, toward this blog.

As she read this post, and then this one, I could see her body respond, and it was fucking delicious. I could see her recoil at each occurrence of the words “cock,” “cunt,” “pussy.” But I also could see that the words had another effect on her. Even as she described herself as fairly non-sexual, I could almost smell the effect my words were having on her cunt. She was activated, in a way she herself didn’t seem to understand, by my particular style. At one point, she expressed a desire to lose just a little weight. “Stand up,” I said. “I want to look at you.” She did. “Turn around.” She did. I know that as she was doing this, as I was drinking in her delicious, curvy body, she was feeling that same combination of anxiety, discomfort, and arousal.

And this particular combination – a sexual reticence informed by just a dash of shame, and desire – and intimidation – for me, and for what I offer, and what I represent – is fucking catnip to me.

The evening proceeded, the conversation continued. I drank five, or six, or seven scotches, and she kept drinking, too. I don’t think it really gelled for me what was happening until quite late, but she was actually becoming interested, in spite of herself, in how I might make her body feel.

Not her navel

Not her navel

Somehow, my slowness on the uptake was helpful. We walked out, together, both fairly tipsy. She wasn’t yet ready to kiss, but she had given me her number (I hadn’t asked), and as we traveled our opposite directions home, we continued flirting by text. She sent me two selfies – one, of her thighs, and one, of her belly, and the top of her pubis. They were hot. Our texts were hot.

“You know what I like?” I asked.

“I have no idea,” she replied.

“Knowing that I make your pussy wet. And knowing that you wince as you read that word.”

“I did just wince reading that. And it also felt pretty good.”

We made a tentative plan. And then, the next day, she texted me that she had been “tipsy,” that she had very much enjoyed our conversation, and “all of a sudden I’m thinking I want to have sex with you.” But the next sentence was, “But I don’t.” The text concluded that she would like to see me again, but that “sex is out of the question.”

I recently wrote a series of posts on “safe dates.” The dates were inspired by a lunch I had with Anya. I had fun writing the series. And the truth is, I didn’t want to have sex with this woman in the bar. That’s not what I wanted from her.

What I wanted from her was something like what the “safe dates” posts are hinting at. I wanted to explore her limits, her boundaries, with her. I wanted to milk those dual sensations she experienced when reading my text, the wincing, and the good feeling. I didn’t think we ever needed to fuck for us to have a lot of fun exploring. I think she has a lot to learn about her own sexuality, and I wanted to do that with her. That’s what I wanted from her.

So my rejoinder to her was this: I agreed that sex is out of the question. It’s not what either of us wanted. But she had to be open to one of my safe dates. If not? We wouldn’t be meeting again.

We didn’t meet again. She asked me not to contact her again. I clearly butted up against something uncomfortable in her. I’m good at that….

As much as a “sure thing” can get old, sure rejection is even worse.