Sep 032015

Brown roots, blonde hair, in a topknot. Big, big brown eyes. Caramel skin, smooth. A black lacy tank top, exposing just a quarter inch of midriff before her torn jeans start. Her C-cup breasts are big for her tiny body. She’s maybe five feet tall.

Her ass, too, is big for her build, but it’s perfectly round. She has just a little bit of a belly.

Her eyes are her defining feature. They’re intense, sharp, piercing even. Her expression is serious, until she sees a familiar face, and it softens, opening up into a wide, beautiful smile.

Sep 022015

Virtually, and IRL.

 Posted by at 11:00 am  Tagged with:
Aug 312015

“Excuse me. Sir? Sir?!”


She’s attractive, African-American, in her late twenties or early thirties. She wears a very short white minidress, her large breasts straining at the fabric. Her skin is dark, glistening, and her hair is short, straightened, greased back against her head. She wears dark purple lipstick, very precisely applied.

“You like white people porn or black people porn?”

“Excuse me?”

“You like white people porn or black people porn?”

“Um, I like both.”

“But which do you like more?”

“Why do I have to choose? I like porn.”

“This is important. The people in black people porn are ugly. I’ve watched. I’ve seen.”

I’m thinking about what she’s saying. Is she right?

“It’s much more interesting to watch white people porn, or to watch interracial – a white guy doing a black girl, don’t you think?”

“I like watching porn,” I said.

There were a LOT of people around. Was she propositioning me? Or was she just off? I suppose I’ll never know.

Aug 312015

I want so much from you.

More than anything, I want to possess you. To own you. To own not just your parts, but your pleasure. I want it all for me. I’m jealous that way. (Don’t mistake my profligacy for indifference: that’s not how it works for me. I want it all from you, all for me.) I’m realistic, though. While that’s what I want, I will (un?)happily settle for what you (can) give me.

I want you to do as I say, to give me what I ask, to want me to have what I want.

I want to take from you, to give to you, to share with you.

I want to see you, to touch you, to taste you, to use you. To mark you, to hold you (down), to push you (down), to pull you. To feel your body yield to the gentlest nudge of mine, like the finely tuned sports car that you bring to mind. To slide into you, to pound into you. To fill you, to fatigue you, to wear you out, to leave you sore, spent, aching.

For more.

I want to devour you, to overwhelm you, to challenge you. To explore (with) you, to taste you, to feed you. To defile you, to worship you. To watch you, to listen to you, to learn about you, to map out further what I know, and what I can’t know, about you.

I want you.

Do you want me?

 Posted by at 1:07 pm  Tagged with:
Aug 302015

I’d met Cricket months ago, but she’d been in a monogamous relationship since then. Fresh out of one, we met for a drink. She wore short black shorts, a white/grey striped top, soft, not quite sheer, but close. I’d asked her to swap out the nude bra she’d been wearing earlier in the day, and she’d done so, switching to a fancier, black and purple/red? thing. I could see the faint outline of the bra through her shirt.

She sat at the dark, empty, sumptuous, bar waiting for me, along with the drink I’d asked her to order. We talked for two drinks’ worth – about our lives the last few months, and about how, soon, she’d be sucking my cock. Her pussy was wet (she told me) – her shorts didn’t really give me much access, even though the bar was deserted.

Less than an hour after we’d met, I had my hand on her throat, pressing her up against a wall. I had asked Sofia for a sexual “request” for our evening – she wanted me to have Cricket against a wall, her hands over her head, while I attended to her body, but only with Cricket’s o.k. I had brought up the idea in the bar, and Cricket was enthusiastic. Cricket’s not small, but she’s not big. Her jet-black hair hangs down to her shoulders, and her eyes dance, dirty. Her breasts are full, and she’s got just enough meat on toned body to grab a handful of her ass.

So I pressed her up against the wall and plugged in the Hitachi Magic Wand she’d brought. I pressed it against her cunt and, in no time, she was writhing. She had not come for a couple of days, at my request, and she was quite ready.

I stripped her nude, and tossed her on the bed. I spread her legs, and dove in, feasting on her pristine-ly shaven (waxed?) pussy. She tasted sweet, clean, yummy. She’d told me her “safe word” would be red, and I collected two or three utterances of “red” between the wand and my tongue, her thighs squeezing my head.

After the final “red,” she said to me, “Um, you don’t have an Advil, do you?” Her eyes were closed, and she clearly was in not-insignificant pain. I went out and fetched some Advil for her. She was apologetic, and regretful. My cock hadn’t been sprung loose from my trousers, and I was visibly hard. But she was in no state to get me off. “No worries,” I said. And I meant it. I had had a blast between her thighs, and was happy to send her on her way, even if I was still high and dry.

Shortly after our evening together, I received the following from her: “Apparently, sex headaches are real. And awful. I write this as I’m en route to the hospital…. I’ll keep you posted. This ought to be interesting.” She included this link. At the hospital, they told her she had a “status migrainosus.” I almost feel guilty. Almost.

No doubt, she will make it up to me…. I’m looking forward to that.

Aug 302015

Chryssie Hynde (whose music I love) has set off a bit of a kerfuffle by suggesting that, sometimes, women are to blame for being raped. She says, in an interview with the Sunday Times, of an incident in which she was assaulted when she was 21 by a member of a motorcycle gang:

“Technically speaking, however you want to look at it, this was all my doing and I take full responsibility. You can’t fuck about with people, especially people who wear ‘I Heart Rape’ and ‘On Your Knees’ badges … those motorcycle gangs, that’s what they do. You can’t paint yourself into a corner and then say whose brush is this? You have to take responsibility. I mean, I was naive.” She continues, “If I’m walking around in my underwear and I’m drunk? Who else’s fault can it be?”

The kerfuffle is predictable, of course. No one ever deserves to be raped, a woman has the right to wear whatever she wants, whenever she wants, and to say “No” to anyone, at any time, for any reason. And she has the right to expect her “no” to be honored. And Hynde is wrong. What happened to her wasn’t her “fault.”

The problem is, while this all is true, it’s also true that sometimes we do stupid things.

I was mugged when I was much younger. It was late. I was ridiculously, visibly, intoxicated. I was walking down a dark, abandoned street.

Did I “deserve” to be mugged? Of course not. Were the muggers within their rights for what they did to me? Of course not.

Was I stupid? Of course.

I’m a huge fan of the idea that rape prevention starts and ends with men, that women (have to) have the right to walk anywhere, at any time, dressed however they wish, in whatever state of inebriation they may find themselves.


That doesn’t mean it’s not dumb to put oneself in a position in which it might reasonably be understood, by anyone paying attention, that bad things might happen.

As a political question (and, as a criminal question, ideally), there is no question. Rape is always wrong, always the perpetrator’s fault, never the victim’s.

But that doesn’t mean a woman can’t feel retrospectively that she did something dumb. I wish Hynde had shown more nuance in what she said. The limits to what one can say and not be pilloried on this subject are stringent – and with good reason. But while she didn’t deserve what happened to her, it’s too bad that the way she articulated her regret obscured the point that, however much we might wish it were otherwise, a woman is in peril if she puts herself in certain situations.

Let’s all work to make that not be so.

Aug 282015

Prelude: as I’ve written, I find it (increasingly) hard to write powerfully about sex. I write reasonably well about anticipation, about ideas, but describing who put what where in a way that’s hot is not always easy for me. This post is short, and it doesn’t do justice to the pleasure I felt in Isabel’s mouth, with her pussy. Suffice it to say, she’s fucking hot, and we had a blast. To compensate for my poor writing about the sex part of the evening, I hereby present you a couple of photos of Isabel, so you can see how very hot she is. At the end of the post. Winking smile Just to keep you reading.

After the light changed colors, we moved to the massage room. The room was big, we weren’t actually that close to one another. My massage therapist, a young, sexy, tomboy-ish, brunette, ministered to my sore body for an hour. I was grateful. I’d incorporated a massage in our date because fuck, I really needed one. I had a few minutes of concern when she flipped me over that my cock might lift the sheet embarrassingly, and I got to think that through. I decided that, if it happened, I actually wouldn’t be that embarrassed. I’m sure she’s contended with that before, and she’s a professional. And it wouldn’t be her for whom my cock was hard. Isabel lay fifteen feet away, her body being ministered to by an older, less attractive, woman.

The massages finished, we dressed, and got in a cab to the hotel I’d selected. Tragically for Isabel, it was in a neighborhood in which she knows lots and lots of people. Isabel lives in terror of being seen with me. I only partially understand this. She’s not in an exclusive relationship. She’s allowed to date. True, I wear a wedding ring, so I can imagine that might be off-putting to some – but only if she introduced me as her date. There’s no rule says that’s how she’d have to introduce me if we ran into someone. Anyway – I went into the hotel and checked in, Isabel hanging her head low, hoping against hope not to be spied by any passersby.

We went to our room, and the fun began. And it was fun. She commenced her audition for the job in earnest, devoting herself to devouring my cock hungrily, expertly. Her mouth was soft, warm. Her lips pressed on my shaft, her tongue, on my frenulum. One of my favorite things Isabel does is to take my entire cock into her mouth and swirl her tongue around, pressing against all the different parts of if while I’m surrounded by her wet warmth. Yum.

Some hours passed. There were several orgasms on her part, just the once on mine (I am, generally, once and done, a trait for which I compensate by lasting forever before that once). And we kissed one another good night and headed home, spent.

I’m pretty sure she’s hired for the job. But I might need to give her a callback interview.

Aug 262015

Some people like ’em. (I’m looking at you, Hy.)

I got nothing against women – or men – who like their men hung. To each her/his own, I say.

My cock, though, is on the smaller side, as I’ve written.

For much of my life, this was a source of great insecurity to me. I raged against my father, whose paltry Y chromosome condemned me to my under-endowed fate. I worried about undressing in locker rooms. I dreaded my cock’s revelation to new sexual partners. (Would they run from the room laughing? Talk about me behind my back? My fears were anything but small.)

Somewhere along the line, something – maybe a combination of experience, maturity, and scientific knowledge – gelled in me and I realized: there certainly are women for whom smallness is a turnoff. There are some who are indifferent to penis size. There are some who prefer smaller penises (“the better to lick and suck, my dear”). And there are some who notice, who care, but for whom penis size is one of a gazillion factors determining attractiveness.

A nice thing about this blog is that, by the time a woman goes to bed with me, 99% of the time, if she cares about penis size, she’s learned all about mine. No surprises.

Presto! Inoculation against all my fears!

Aug 242015

I sent her this note:

Tonight will be relaxing, and exhausting.

You will dress for an interview for an office position. You will bring, on your phone (if at all possible), a photo shoot of your choice (a new one, that I haven’t seen) intended to persuade me of your suitability.

You will bring a number of pairs of panties, a couple of other pairs of shorts, and a few t-shirts.

And you will under no circumstances be late. We have plans that require you to join me at 8:45 promptly. Precise location to come.


“Wow and wow,” Isabel replied.

At the appointed time, I waited for her outside a bar, in a car. I texted her to join me.

In the back of the car, I interviewed her. I asked her questions about her suitability for the position, her enthusiasm, her experience. She was shy. The driver could hear. She didn’t want him to.

Shortly, we arrived at our first destination – a massage parlor, at which I had scheduled a couples’ massage. She seemed confused, puzzled. She wasn’t sure the place was legitimate. (It emphatically is.)

We undressed, but our massage therapists were delayed. “Would we like a hydro?” our hostess asked. “What’s a hydro?” I asked.

“It’s a whirlpool bath,” she explained. “Forty-five minutes.”

“Sure,” I said. The night would be late. But it would be fun.

We were shown to the very back room of the spa, a wood-paneled, dark space, with a huge whirlpool in the corner. We were told the light would change color when our time was ending. We were invited to enjoy ourselves.

We deposited our towels on the chaise longues, and lowered ourselves into the hot, bubbly water. My cock was hard. Isabel’s breasts, round, full, were pale. Her body looked exquisite.

I asked her to position herself on the ledge of the tub, and I dove into her cunt, lapping up the bubbles that had gathered from her brief dip, and focusing on her clit. In no time, she shuddered with her first orgasm, and I invited her to switch places with me, and her audition for the “job” began in earnest. She lowered her mouth onto my cock, licking, flicking, tickling, sucking it enthusiastically, if a little abashedly. She pulled her head back: “What if someone walks in?” she asked. “I’m pretty sure they won’t,” I reassured her.

They didn’t. More sucking. More licking. She came again, I think. We showered. We got in the tub again. We showered again.

And finally, the light started to change colors….

Aug 242015

As I walked toward a coffee shop, I noticed a beautiful young woman – in her early 30s, I’d guess – in black spandex leggings and a black tank top. She was walking a little quicker than I, but toward the same destination. I admired her ass – full, round, not small at all. Her hair was shiny, jet black, shoulder length. She wore artificial eyebrows, giving a cheap taint to her otherwise spectacular presentation.

On line, waiting to order, our eyes met. She looked familiar. Her eyes lingered on mine just a little too long. Was she flirting?

Suddenly, I realized.

She wasn’t flirting. She was having the same memory I was having, just a second or two earlier.

“A lifetime ago,” as she put it, we had known one another. We had “met” twice, actually – first, in a massage parlor I once frequented. And then, surprisingly, coincidentally, she answered an ad I placed on CraigsList. I was seeking a submissive partner in crime. I was paying, of course. When she walked up to me on the street all those years ago (and it was a long time ago), we recognized one another. We both professed relief, and even excitement.

For a few months, I paid her to dress as I asked, to suck my cock, to let me lick her pussy. She was the second woman I paid to fuck, the last woman I paid to fuck, before my world came crashing down, before I began the process of ending that chapter of my life.

Occasionally, I’ve wondered what became of her. “You’re a trainer, now?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said. She asked about me, where I live, what I’m doing. We had some small talk. We smiled, and said good-bye.

It was a lifetime ago.