Instructions

She told me she wouldn’t fuck me. I told her to take it back. We’ve recovered nicely.

A late-night conversation that didn’t end nearly soon enough.

Desire is strange: compliance medicates a deep, dark wound, and photo #126 of her ass is every bit as thrilling as the first.

T and I find ourselves with rare, kid-free hours, and spend them in a tangle of laptops, oral sex, emailed fantasies, and the complicated arithmetic of compersion.

A hotel room, a pillowcase, a tie, a belt, and a dress that doesn’t survive the evening.

I don’t review porn, but this morning I stumbled on something I need to share.

P is spreadsheeting her orgasms for me, and every time she updates a cell, I get an e-mail. So. Fucking. Hot.

Twenty minutes. Go.

I know what I want. And I ask nicely.

A different kind of lazy Sunday.