The Night Before
My head feels like it might spontaneously drown itself, so this entry is written at about half of normal mental capacities. Also, I hate summer colds. Hate them.
In my previous post I promised sex, a blowjob, and homemade pesto. What I did not mentioned was that I had only one of these three things.Jefferson makes fucking awesome pesto.
May is going to demo bottom at the upcoming Floating World for Jefferson’s class entitled “G and P-Spot stimulation.” May and I share almost no intersections in our lists of Things We Will Not Do. Occasionally this fascinates me.
An email floated about. It suggested getting to know one another. The Biblical sense here is accurate.
May and Jefferson had dinner one Sunday a few weeks ago. Thursday evening was to have a more complete agenda. I considered myself tacitly invited.
Jefferson is sweet, enigmatic, and, I suspect, top of his charm school’s class. He is also, as I mentioned previously, a great cook and a very good host. We chatted art, the scene, and sexual degrees of separation. (Apparently May is now six degrees removed from Elvis.)
Eventually, after a bit of wine and sundry, Jefferson proposed the business at hand. Again, very charmingly. “I’ll give the two of you a minute,” he said politely before heading back to toward the bedroom. May and I looked at each other with vague suprise - Why would we need that? I was thinking - and followed him.
(In retrospect this impulse, which Jefferson repeated throughout the evening, makes a lot of sense. Most couples do not communicate non-verbally with our alacrity.)
I like the way Jefferson put his hands on May’s skin. (This is the number one thing I watch when I’m observing scenes, by the way. The intersection of the top’s hands and the bottom’s body.) I like that he was forceful and patient when he had May’s hair gathered up in his fist and the boy was gagging on his cock.
What I will remember most clearly from that night is the image of May’s back curled in a perfect arch as he leaned over and took Jefferson’s cock so deeply that his nose touched skin, while Jefferson leaned to his bedside table, picked up his glass of bourbon and sipped it, one hand on my boy’s head.
Eventually May came up, resting his forehead on the bed and breathing deep. His nose has been stuffed for a week; that couldn’t have helped. He giggled a little into the bedspread. “It’s easier than bottles.”
Jefferson looked mystified, but I started laughing. “I taught him to deep throat on Corona bottles.”
I was a contented observer. Briefly I came to the bed and kissed my boy’s skin and face, a simple check in. I watched the two of them fuck. I smiled at the visuals. Someday I should explore why watching boys fucking makes me smile, because it does. There’s attraction built in there, and visual sensuality is inevitable, but in the end much of that reaction is strangely indulgent happiness. I suspect this is rooted in affection.
The boys ended up in the shower. I ended up back on the couch. I poured a glass of bourbon, dumped a handful of raspberries in the bottom, and curled up to read Lolita until the boys tripped into the living room, naked, still dripping in places. The conversation picked up where it had left off with amusing ease.
Jefferson was momentarily absent when I leaned in to May and kissed his cheek. “Your deep throating has gotten a lot better.”
He touched a spot about halfway down the side of his throat. “I could feel his penis pressing here.”
“How did it feel having sex with a man for the first time?”
He shrugged a bit. “It didn’t feel any different than when you fuck me.” There was a bit of wonder in his voice at this.
As I mentioned in our last episode, Jefferson and I did, eventually, kiss. He also did, eventually, work his finger under the fabric of my boycut panties. I believe I grinned a lot. We did, eventually, cuddle. But then, just when you thought that maybe I was going to have some delicious sexual romp and then write about it for ya’ll to thoroughly enjoy . . .
Jefferson fell asleep. I think the boy and the bourbon wore him out.
It was pushing 2 am, rapidly abandoning everyone’s bedtimes, and the evening came to a perfectly timed close. On the whole it was delightful. In the elevator on the way down to the street I pressed May up against the wall and kissed him. “Is it weird that, well . . .” with another kiss, “Is it weird that that made me love you more?”
He tilted his head in recognition. “No,” he answered. “It did the same to me.”
The Morning After
In the next entry I shall write about the lovely night before. I solemnly promise sex, blowjobs, and homemade pesto. First, here’s the morning after.
We were walking to the subway the morning after our evening with Jefferson, holding hands. May tugged my arm as we crossed the street.
“I think I’m emotionally damaged,” he declared.
I turned this over in my head. I asked a clarifying question. He answered. Then I gave the inevitable response.
“Why do you think you’re emotionally damaged, my love?”
He shrugged. “When I went to the bathroom last night, and I came back and you were kissing him, and then you two were making out, for a lot of that I kept thinking about that thing I always talk about, you know . . . that people . . . that people make friends with me to get to my girlfriend.” He was staring at the curb as we walked.
“I didn’t read a bad reaction from you, I mean, it didn’t seem like your head was going bad.”
“No, no, it wasn’t. I wouldn’t have sat back down on the couch if it was bad. I just couldn’t help but think it, and I didn’t like that I couldn’t help it.”
I was walking sideways now, watching him. “You know, dear, I really don’t think that’s what happened last night at all. Jefferson is, well, he’s really just not that kind of person. I mean, for one, he’s far too sweet.”
He laughed a little at that. “No, people don’t usually fuck me first to get to my girlfriend. I know that wasn’t what was happening. But I still don’t like that I thought it.”
“I think ‘damaged’ is too strong a word, here.”
He shrugged again. “Maybe.”
Why am I posting this conversation? Because the shit my boy rails about, the things he says, they’re true. They do fuck with his head, and they do fuck with our relationship, and they shouldn’t.
He shouldn’t have to think this way.
Red Cotton Sheets, 2AM, New York City
I highly recommend this beautifully personal post about fantasy and reality which explains one reason why my boyfriend is so freakin’ skinny. I am currently a bit fried on intellectual pursuits.
So Eileen, how come you never talk about sex or scenes or sexy things in your supposed sex blog?
Wu-huh? Did I sign up for a sex blog? Oh. Right.
Friday night I went out into the ether of the East Village with May, Calico, and a professor friend of ours. We found a bar with $3 tequila shots, and when I kissed Calico later that night I could taste the shot on her mouth. I bit down and felt the flesh of her lips come up and meet me, propelled by the little moans and whimpers of hazy pain.
It’s been ages since I kissed a girl, and even longer since I kissed one who gives off little breathy moans and wriggles more when it hurts more. I like kisses that hurt. I like that I can smile and bite down at the same time.
She had climbed on top of me at first, but I flipped her down, spread her legs with mine and got very, very distracted by the skin between her earlobe and her collarbone. I licked it and felt as her back arched up to meet my stomach. Her torso is very long, as though her waist dropped and strung her body out like taut, silk saltwater taffy. She’s all hard oak wrapped up in feathers. I pressed my mouth into her neck and rubbed my teeth across the skin, then settled back to watch the bruises rise.
“Please fuck me,” she whispered. The edges of her mascara were smudged with the beginnings of tears. I looked down at her, her bottom lip swelling up, and couldn’t help it. I started laughing.
“Maybe,” I said between giggles, “Sometime when we don’t have an audience.”
We both looked over my shoulder to the professor and May, leaning back in their chairs by the end of the queen sized bed, grinning at us like teenagers at a sex-themed circus. The professor raised his beer in the air in a salute. I waved my ass in their direction. Calico and I sat up, and I put a hand to my face, shook my head, and laughed.
It wasn’t long before we started kissing again.
Later, Dater
I feel almost guilty to be bumping my strap-on post down so soon. I worked like mad on it, and it’s all inni’lectul and such. Seriously, if you are currently choosing between reading that and reading this, go read that. It’s got a thought process, and this is just silly stories about my hilariously strange date last night.
So I mentioned a bit back in my sex post how I was maybe-just-a-little-bit avoiding an extremely nice man from the sex positive community. And then we got thrown into a bunch of social situations together, and I realized I was also maybe being a bit of a dipshit for rejecting a man because he likes sex too much (shut up, I can be clueless too,) and we decided to have dinner. Which we did, last night.
He picked the restaurant. I wasn’t expecting that, used to meeting on a street corner and then hemming and hawing about saying things like, “Well, I’m really up for anything you’d like . . .” and “I mean, lots of the food is good here,” and “no, I’m okay with Indian really, I just had it two nights ago but I do like it quite a bit . . .” and such. If making social plans is a test of domliness, I fail. I totally flunk.
But he picked it, and it was good, and I remembered after a few minutes about the thing where my generation is socially stunted in the dating scene because we never go on actual traditional dates. At least that’s the case with everyone I know. So having him do that was sweet and very nice in a masculine “grr!” kind of way, except I totally wasn’t expecting it and the generation gap kind of threw me off my game.
Oh, did I mention he’s a top, by the way? That’s important to the story.
And then it was super loud. We had noodles (I had pad thai, dear god, I love pad thai. If I’m ever stranded on a desert island, just air drop pad thai, seriously) and the restaurant sat us at a long communal table. So that was funny, because I was trying to not-quite-shout “I like blood play a lot” while the girl next to me quietly choked in her soup. Him: “What?” Me: “Blood play!” Him: “Sorry, what?” Me: “Blood!” Girl next to me: *choke*
But conversation flourished along, helped out generously by him asking tons of leading questions in a very clever way which I totally noticed and was quietly amused by. (I also flunk at getting-to-know-you conversations, by the way. I’m totally resistant to getting to know people. It’s like a disease.) And we had a lot of fun, and talked a lot about the difference between the East Coast and West Coast communities, which was fascinating, and I reaffirmed my earlier suspicion that he is in fact a very nice, very articulate man. And very open, and very laid back in just the kind of way I find to be lovely, because it means not putting pressure on me. I get the feeling that this man has literally built up years of experience learning how to not put pressure on people. (Can I also mention as a sideline that I find that hilarious as well, because he was an interrogator? In the armed forces? Talk about putting pressure on people.)
And we turned to kink stuff, and he asked me what I liked, and I laughed and mentioned I’d just written a whole post about some of the weird shit that I like that I don’t tell people about when they ask me what I like. I ran the list off, and we chatted about fear play and emotional play for a bit. And then he said, “Are you the same way when you bottom?” To which I replied, “I don’t bottom.” To which he reacted, “Oh.” And conversation moved on with nary a hitch.
Now although I will occasionally kick and scream a bit over being pinned as a bottom because I wear dresses (note to me, write a post about subliminal orientations expressed through clothing) I wasn’t expecting that from him. (And bless his big burly heart, he didn’t even blink. Good for him.) Because, see, he’s seen me in kinky contexts before, and I’m just . . . not a bottom. And I’ve told him before I was a top, although I hadn’t realized that saying “I’m a top” is apparently not the same as saying “I’m not a bottom.” The term for that is switch, by the way. Which I am currently not.
I won’t kick and scream over being pegged, not this time. Because I actually think he asked me that because he’s the type of guy who just doesn’t assume things about the people he meets. (And okay, yea, maybe he wanted me to be a bottom, but seriously, plus several thousand points for not losing interest.)
Eventually we escaped the loud restaurant and the choking girl and sat on a bench in Union Square. After some chatter I figured to bite the bullet and said, “So, I have to tell you honestly that I just don’t see us being sexually compatible.”
Seriously. I actually said that. I’m so proud of myself. (In case you haven’t caught on, I’m actually not as blunt in person. In fact, I am maybe a bit obsessed with not offending people, but that’s an issue for another day.)
He didn’t blink at that one either. Instead, he talked about tops learning from each other, and expanded experiences. The he started in on a thought about wild horses. I think I can remember it pretty close to verbatim:
“And as for sexual experiences, y’know . . . I like to think of wild horses coming together, in such an incredibly strong beautiful union. And you see, the mare’s not the weaker of the two there, she’s just as powerful a being.” Although no, he said it better than that.
People actually say things like this! I now have proof! I find that amazing. And not in a scornful kind of way, but in a gratified, amused sort of “I can’t believe you just pulled that off and didn’t sound ridiculous” kind of way.
At this point I was thinking, Holy wow, that’s a great line, and you’re a great guy, and that’s so incredibly not arousing. And also Too bad you’re not submissive.
Which caused the logical part of my brain to step up for a moment and think, Eileen, that very attractive man just compared you to a mare and offered you wild-horse-style sex. Have you not been paying attention?
And I thought back, Um, yea, but . . . not submissive.
And the logical part of my brain went, SO??!
And then I realized that I have never in my life been sexually attracted to a man who wasn’t, in some way, submissive. Which was an amazing revelation I probably should have made several years ago, but for some reason hadn’t actually figured out. It was like watching part of my brain gel.
And the date ended with a hug, and we wandered off to separate corners of the night. He’s kind of an awesome guy. I think we’ll be friends.
