Wednesday, April 29, 2009

Not Enough #8

And with that late night foray into forcible pleasure we moved further away from the relationship we used to have, drifting away from each other in different directions, she seeming to work harder and harder at looking like some seaside slut on the prowl, as I compensated by making my world smaller and smaller, trying hard to exclude what didn't fit comfortably into the framework that she presented for me.
The sex we had together no longer had any element of lovemaking in it at all, but rather became a series of random encounters marked only by the spirit of opportunity that presented itself in passing periodically. We tacitly agreed, after that late night adventure, to use each other when and as the urge presented itself, in whatever room of the apartment and at whatever time the feeling struck, with few or no holds barred. Early in the morning, after I knew she had been out late carousing, I would reach across the bed to suckle her breasts, and she would lift her tanktop and roll over on her side facing me, allowing me to suck away to my hearts content, all the time barely waking up, periodically changing the angle she lying on, making me change from nipple to nipple without so much as coming to full awareness, her hand as always snaking down between her legs to play with herself just as I did, each of us masturbating away in our own private fantasy world.
We would pass each other on a Saturday afternoon while making lunch in the kitchen, and I put my hands on her shoulders, forcing her down to her knees as I unbuttoned my jeans. She took the zipper in her teeth and pulled down, reaching between my legs with both hands to pull down my underwear and then took my cock deep in her mouth, her hands now resting on her thighs as she started a different kind of blow job. A hand came up to brush aside her hair from her face in an imitative movement, and I could see that she had been watching some porn star in action. She worked hard to get more and more of my cock into her mouth, beginning to fuck her mouth with my cock, now reaching between my legs again to clutch each buttock and pull me deeper, her saliva thickening as she gave up more and more of her throat, the tears of effort now dripping from her eyes, the mucous flowing from her nose as she abandoned herself to raping her throat with my cock, truly making the blow job about her and not for one minute about me. When I spasmed and came, she choked down as much of the cum as she could, taking her mouth off my cock so that the last few spurts flew across her face, her head flopping down from the effort, the cum dripping down her chin.
At times when she wasn't out late drinking with her girlfriends, she would spend an incredibly long time in the bathroom, only to enter the bedroom, climb up on the bed on all fours and mutely present me with a wide open view of her anus, her tiny rosebud hole already lubed up and stretched wide open. She had never been a huge fan of anal sex, but now it seemed to be par for the course, so to speak. She would reach behind her with both hands, pulling her butt cheeks wide open, clenching and unclenching her asshole, posing like the slut that she was becoming, inviting me in. And I always succumbed to her teasing, my cock becoming hard in an instant as I would move forward and put the head quickly in, always eliciting her guttural moan. We were no longer being nice and kind to one another, just using each other for the physical sensations we could garner, and so I would ram forward the entire length of my cock, getting the heartfelt moan as she buried her head in the pillow and I began to move my hips back and forth. Instantly her hand reached between her thighs and started to scrub away at her clit, first rubbing away with a flat hand and then curving her fingers and strumming away. It was yet another movement she had learned from her furtive porno viewing habits, and I wondered where she was watching the porn, and with whom. I invariably came quickly when I fucked her asshole, the friction and pressure and general sluttiness of it being more than I could handle. I would pull out and leave her kneeling there, the cum and lube now leaking out, as she held the pose for just a minute longer than was necessary.
And so we continued, each using the other in the search for base gratification, until the night when I was awakened by the sound of multiple voices from the den.

Wednesday, April 22, 2009


I've listened to the Metropolitan Opera on Saturday afternoons since I was in college. At times I pay attention and sometimes it's just background music for something else. I've never studied the music, never learned the plots, always just listened and enjoyed. Two Saturdays ago, the opera was Siegfried by Richard Wagner, and during one of the lengthy intermissions, several extremely well known singers, Rene Fleming among them, came on and talked about the encouragement that they received as winners of the Metropolitan Opera Auditions.

This post is just a thank you to the people at fleshbot, who three times this year have selected something I've written to include in one of the postings. It's nice, no it's wonderful to be recognized for something you do, and being picked to be featured makes my heart soar. Thank you, thank you, thank you. I' m not really a numbers slut, and if I'm lucky I may gain one or two permanent readers for my periodic musings, but the recognition factor makes my heart soar like a hawk, as Chief Dan George said in the movie Little Big Man.

Thursday, April 16, 2009

Random Thoughts #6

As a CPA, the last month or so has been hell on wheels, and as almost every fellow professional is agreeing, the worst tax season in memory. It's the economy, stupid we've all said. And so frequently, the only time I've gotten out of the house is to either go to the post office to mail stuff off, to go to the bank to deposit my hard earned fees, or to the gym, if I could force myself out of bed in the morning to start the day off right. I decided that I would make a project out of listening to everything on my 4 gb Ipod, from #1 to #837, perhaps not in their entireties, but certainly touching on everything. The music goes everywhere, from 15th century polyphony to Ali and AJ, Mozart to Miles, Spanky and Our Gang to Junkie XXL. And along the way I rediscovered music that made me smile out loud, and forced me to play the track over and over and over, like Mr. Blue Skies by ELO, Gotta Get Up by Harry Nilsson, and numerous others.
Another byproduct of tax season was that I had little time for sex, often working until almost two in the morning, often getting up at six to continue or to escape to the gym. And it wasn't that bad really, because She had a wicked infection (the name of which I can't remember), which put Her in dry dock until Her vagina could repair itself (it turned out that She hadn't been to the OBGYN in over 1 1/2 years, but this is truly another story for another time). She's healed, I've rediscovered my libido, and so over the weekend, we rediscovered sex, sixtynining for almost 45 minutes until She decided that She'd had enough and decided to cum. The best part is that Her vaginal repair means that the way She tastes and smells is back to how it used to be, and so I walked around with Her aroma stuck in my nose all day Monday.
Which leads to talk about aromas---a few weeks ago I rediscovered the motherlode of all Indian/Middle Eastern grocery stores here in NYC, an emporium called Kalystyans...great sandwiches for cheap, every packaged food imaginable, fresh halvah custom cut. One of the things I bought was their own private blend of assorted dried fruit, to discover that the smell, the aroma, the pungent nose tease makes me swoon and makes my heart beat faster, almost as if it were a sexual smell. It is by far the strangest phenomenon that I've experienced in many a moon, and wonder if anyone else out there has ever had such a strong sexual reaction to a non sexual smell. Tell me about it, please.

Tuesday, April 14, 2009

The Other Marilyn

Marilyn Chambers died yesterday. One of the original porn stars, along with Linda Lovelace and Georgina Spelvin, she made porn films in the early '70s, back when everything didn't go, there was no anal sex or fisting (at least on the East Coast), and pornos actually had plots, however minimal. Her notoriety came from a commercial sketch of her that was used on the Ivory Snow box, at least until the soap company found out what else their model was doing.

Her best known commercial film was entitled Behind The Green Door, and although I may not have known it then, opened the way for me to understanding submission and its lure.

But her reputation was carried forward by the films she made of shows at the O'Farrell Theatre in San Francisco, where no holds barred sex shows were had, for a price. Most of these films never made it to DVD, and their grainy reproductions decreased in quality as the years went one. She exhibited a certain joyousness in performing, her lithe body often performing seemingly undoable tasks, and she seemed to be smiling all the time as she did them. My favorite was an anal fisting scene while standing on her head. Seriously.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The other Marilyn's death puts me in mind of a surreal experience I had with Her. She and I have been together for longer than most of you, dear readers, have been alive, long before there was an internet where sex and porn were openly distributed commodities. To watch porn, we had to go to seedy theatres with seats with minimal cushioning and threadbare carpets, with poor projection systems and unknown smells. The movies were of questionable quality, and usually frequented by men only, each one sitting alone, usually with a coat over his lap. Ya get the picture.
All this changed for about a year in the early '70s, when Deep Throat first opened. Somehow the suit and dress crowd got a hold of this one, and it became "alright" for civilians to visit the local porn theatre. In New York, it was the World 49th Street, where lines stretched down the block to watch Linda Lovelace mash her nose into Harry Reems's pubic hair, swallowing his cock aaalll the way down her throat. And so She and I went one Friday night, and in truth it was a little boring, a little slow, but cute and quaint. When we came out there were a couple hundred people of the uptown variety waiting patiently on line for the next show.
But here's the surreal part. As She and I were walking down the stairs into the subway, two really tough looking guys are coming up. I'm born and bred here, and know how not to look someone in the eye and antagonize them, and so I take here hand and continue descending the stairs. One guy walks up right in front of Her, puts both hands on her breasts, and starts to feel her up. We alone on the stairs with these two guys, I'm half their size, and one guy is feeling Her up.
I put my hand on his arm, a categorical no-no, and say to him, "Hey man, that's my wife," and he turns to me and says,"Oh, sorry," takes his hands away, and continues up the stairs, like feeling Her up was a normal thing to do if She weren't my wife.
Ya can't make this stuff up.

Saturday, April 11, 2009

Not Enough #7

I continued to wait for the other shoe to drop, so to speak, watching her become more overtly sexual on a daily basis. She had taken to idly caressing her sex as we lay in bed reading before going to sleep, her fingers absentmindedly reaching down between her legs to stroke back and forth as she read, dreamily causing herself to become more aroused. We had long ago stopped making love, but still had sex when she was in the mood, which was more often than not these days.
It all changed one Thursday night, when she came home late once again, long after I had given up waiting up for her. I understood that she was out with her friends on the prowl, drinking to excess and relearning the art of flirting. I was dead asleep, lost in my own private dreams, when she came in, overloaded once again with alchohol, thrashing around again while undressing and getting into bed, banging into furniture and making enough noise to wake the dead. She crept into the space that I had left for her, kneeling on the bed, pushing my shoulder once, then again, harder, until I woke up, half in this world and half in dreamland.
"Wake up, dammit...wake up!!" She pushed again on my shoulder, until I rolled over onto my back, trying hard to clear my mind and open my eyes long enough to look at her. "I'm asleep, leave me alone and go to sleep yourself. Your night is over." "It's over when I say it's over...not when you tell me," she replied, anger and frustration creeping into her voice. All of a sudden, she crawled up on the bed and straddled my chest causing my arms to spread wide.
"You're always so boring and vanilla, so ordinary, so run-of-the-mill. And right now I'm soooo fucking horny." She looked down at me with increasing anger, her eyes squinting in the darkness of the room. I could feel her skin against mine, the heat of her body cascading down on me as she knelt across my chest, her sex warmer still, the dampness just touching me. I could smell the sharp acrid odor of her pussy, the days accumulation of juices and perspiration and pee all still lingering on her cunt. She put her hands on either side of my head and forced me to look her in the eye. "Eat me, for chrissake. Eat me right now," she hissed at me, and I shook my head no. "Now, dammit, right now," and I shook my head no again.
"Don't you fucking tell me no. You'll do it right now," she said, and she scuttled forward so that her knees were high in my armpits, leaning her full weight against them to pin my arms high above my head on the bed. She put one hand behind my head and tried to elevate my mouth to her wetness, and when I resisted, she grabbed a handful of hair with one hand and pulled hard, then harder, until my mouth was hard against her sex.
"Now lick, make me cum," and when I didn't open my mouth, she reached behind her like a bullrider in the rodeo and grabbed my cock, yanking it towards herself until I gave and and started to eat her out, taking long slow swipes between her lips, finding her clit easily, rolling my tongue around the elevated stub until it stood up higher and harder. She finally let go of my cock, grabbing my hair with both hands and directing my mouth back and forth along her slit, her juices now flowing freely. In spite of myself I became hard, as she increased her rhythm, now moaning in time to the movements of my mouth. With a sudden surge she came, and I eagerly lapped up the juices.
She fell off me, coming to rest on the bed, asleep almost instantly, as I jerked off next to her, cumming in one massive burst, semen coursing across my stomach and part of the way up my chest.
The other shoe had started to drop, and we had definitely turned a corner.

Thursday, April 2, 2009

The Public Library

I've been a big fan of the library ever since I was a child. We would do every Saturday as a child. It was always a magic place, with its own smell and feel, a place where I could always find a book that would transport me. I took the Boy, for the first time, when he was less than a month old, knowing full well that he couldn't really see the library for what it was, but knowing also that he could learn its smell and sound, and would return to it as he got older. He repaid me by getting a PhD in Modern American Literature.
I've read two books lately that are worth passing on, one quite new, and the other written in 1967, seemingly not translated from the German until 2000. Both came from the New York Public Library, a source of great joy and treasures, and as I recently found, a bastion of civil liberties as well. I know this because when I tried to go back in my reading history to find a book whose title I had misplaced, I was told that the NYPL doesn't track reader histories, inasmuch as revealing what a person has been reading might be revealing information that they don't want shared...and I believe them.
The new book is the one I can't remember the title of. It's non-fiction, and I thought the title was The Edge of Desire, only to check to find out I was mistaken. The book is in four different sections, each one devoted to the story of a sexual deviant of some sort---one an extreme foot fetishist, one a man sexually aroused by women with truncated legs or missing legs, the third a child lover and worshipper, the last a female sadist. I found the last particularly breathtaking, and discussed it with my friend viviane, who has met the woman.
The older book was titled Dark Spring, the autobiographical novel of an artists companion, model, mistress who was deep into the bdsm world, and who ultimately committed suicide, much as she had written about her character in the novel.
Both are fascinating reads, and I would recommend them highly.