Friday Night

Our plan:  go to a panel discussion on the representation of sex in “Mad Men,” conducted by a bunch of psychoanalysts; then, meet M and J, an Upper East Side couple who responded to a CraigsList ad; and then, go to the Gemini & Scorpi kissing party.  The only wrinkle?  We were both beat.  I had been at a play party with L the night before; T had had a long day of work, beginning at something like 6 a.m.

The “Mad Men” seminar was amusing – psychoanalysts using jargon as a toy while they masturbated in front of a crowded room of hot, well dressed people of 40 and under, sprinkled with late middle-aged Jewish psychoanalysts and their analysands.  Then, to the Upper East Side:  we met M and J in a LOUD bar.  J (he) is sexy, well built, tall, exotic-looking; M (she), petite, cute, demure.  This was (they said) their first ever explicit such date.  Conversation meandered – it was mostly T and J talking – and took a L-O-N-G time to get anywhere near the purpose of the evening.  When it did finally get there, it was tentative, gingerly, and we (and by we, I mean I) did all the talking.  I recounted our history with spousally approved extra-marital sex, described its benefits in T’s and my sex life, described the ways in which I find it compelling.  They were inscrutable.  Facial expressions and body language led both T and me to conclude they were intrigued, that they liked us.  But who can tell?  The farewell was chaste.

We headed home – foregoing the kissing party in favor of a fuck at home.  T crashed in the cab while I played Scrabble online.  We got home, paid the babysitter, and fucked like bunnies.  “Would you like J to fuck you?” I asked, as I pounded T.  “Yes,” she breathed.  “He’s got a great body, doesn’t he?”  “Yes.”  I pulled my cock out and smacked her cunt repeatedly as she gushed all over our poor, abused, soggy bed.

Moments later, she climbed atop me, and as she was riding and I was bucking, she asked if I wanted to feel myself inside of M.  “Yes,” I moaned, and let loose a gush of my own into her.

Cuddle, then text, to M: “T and I just had toe-curling-ly good sex. You both were very present…. N.”

As of 11 a.m. this morning, still no response.  Perhaps we misread their body language.  In any event, as I said over drinks with them, the best part of all of this, far and away, is the benefit that T and I derive in our own sex life.  Not that’s it not a ton of fun to discover a new person’s brain and body – but OUR sex is so much hotter when we’re contemplating the complexity and richness of new such discoveries – who actually needs to go to bed with those other people?

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