27 February 2007

TMI Tuesday #7: "Linger" Lost

I almost bailed on the TMI Tuesday meme in favor of Wet Wednesday. I've been disappointed in TMI Tuesday's quality of questions. But they got a reprieve this week ... I was actually able to work with these questions. So, thanks, TMI, for stepping it up a little bit.

1. Commando: Sexy or disgusting? Do you have a "best" commando story?

I love the way going commando feels. No true commando story, but occasionally on a weekend, Amy would discovered much to her surprise (why was she always surprised?) that I wasn't wearing underwear. (I've also occasionally discovered that she had no underwear on, but it's rare and usually only happens when, say, the panties load is in the washer.) There's a whole "porn star" aspect to going commando: So many male porn stars prove when they disrobe that they have dispensed with the totally unnecessary underwear. Their cocks pop right out, waiting to be serviced.

Sometimes I do it because I like the way it feels, but sometimes I don't wear underwear in hopes that the discovery will start something. The truth is, that never happens. Since I do this on the weekends, that's a time of the week usually fraught with pressure of trying to accomplish everything in our home life that we were too busy or tired to handle during the week. This was hard before we had kids. Now, with weekly classes or activities scheduled on Saturdays, the idea of sexual spontaneity is almost impossible to imagine.

There's a deep-seeded fear I have of going commando, courtesy an old episode of The Rockford Files. Jim is attending (or, more likely, crashing) a high-class suarée when masked gunmen break in and rob the guests of their money and valuable jewelry. Rather than demanding the male party-goers hand over their wallets, the robbers tell them to remove their pants. All trousers are collected, accomplishing two goals: The wallets are stolen, and any party-goer who is feeling heroic is less likely to pursue the robbers when he is pantsless.

Of course, every single male at the party is wearing underwear. In fact, every one of them is wearing boxers. Much less revealing, pretty much just like wearing a thin pair of shorts. (Remember those ten minutes or so in the 1980s, when some women wore men's boxers as their outerwear?) Even when I was 13, this seemed odd to me. Not one pair of BVDs in the group? Was this a status thing?

Anyway, whenever I pull my jeans up over my bare ass, carefully zipping up to make sure not to catch skin, this Rockford Files ep pops into my head. And I wonder: Is today the day that someone walks up to me on the street, pushes a muzzle into my ribcage, and demands my pants? Not that it stops me. But it does give me pause for thought.

2. Foreplay: Is there such a thing as too much?

Considering I was in a relationship (in college) in which there was nothing but foreplay for two years — and I loved it — I'd have to say: Never enough. Though I think Amy feels differently. She gets edgy after we start down the road to Orgasmville. She's totally impatient. She wants me to cut to the chase — or even the end of the chase — a.s.a.p.

Nothing would make me happier than Amy and I having a day where, from the moment we woke up, she told me, "You are spending the day with your face in my cunt." I wouldn't need more than that for quite some time.

3. Oral sex: Good if you are getting? Good is you are giving? Equally ewwwww?

Good if it is happening. And happening slowly. Luxuriously. With a sense that the giver is savoring the moment. When Amy gave me the coupon for a "mind-blowing blowjob," this is what I envisioned. One where she really makes a big-ass deal out of how great it is to suck my cock. Where she makes lots of eye contact. Moans. Whispers. Drools on it. Where her tongue plays with my balls ... endlessly. No goal of orgasm for some time ... Just letting arousal build and build.

This would be truly special. Most times — due to time constraints, or exhaustion, or a desire on her part to get to the fucking, or just other things on her mind — the blowjobs can be rushed. And the truth is, her mindset has invaded mine to some extent such that more often than not, my own time spent going down on her is similarly rushed. The concept of the lingering, unrushed orgasm, sadly, has slipped out of our grasp. Maybe a day will come when it can be found again.

4. Orgasm: Is one per night enough, or does the first one just get your motor running?

I don't get to find out very often. Amy is usually sleepy or moving on to something else after one. Not since the early days of our relationship has she been interested in having several sessions / orgasms in a row. I think this speaks to the level of interest she has in sex in general. She got hers, and now she either wants to get to sleep (if it's late) or get back to doing something around the house (in the middle of the day).

Amy rarely relaxes. I consider it one of my major goals in this marriage to help her find more ways for her to let go and kick back.

5. Morning sex: "Oh hell yes!", "Well if I have, too." or "Just get in the shower and go to work."

It's another time of the day when, from the moment she wakes up, Amy's head is not in the sex game. The times that we've had morning sex are the (all too rare) times when she has woken up without a child already present or without the pressure of a mental pages-long to-do list. I suppose one person in the relationship needs to be responsible, right? Probably an okay trade-off for not having morning sex.

I know, I know: Who the hell am I kidding?

Bonus (as in optional)
: Have you ever had anonymous sex? Have you ever had an orgasm without at least knowing your partner's last name?

I've never done either of these things. Not that it wouldn't be fun to try someday. Actually, what would really interest me is watching some anonymous stranger having sex with Amy. That would be most enjoyable.

24 February 2007

Laying Groundwork.

I received a couple of comments on my blog entry about our night at a formal party that I found a little disturbing. Not "disturbing" in the sense that I was repelled by them; rather, they sent ripples across the surface of my understanding of my sexual relationship ... and of the purpose of this blog. For several days now, I have been turning things over in my head. This entry is more for myself than readers. I'm thinking out loud, I guess.

The first comment came from the illustrious Tom Paine, who, upon reading the entry, simply noted:

Very nice the way you two are moving along. Good luck.

And then, very recently, Mike of Shared Cindy wrote a similar comment:

I am an avid follower of your progress.

Seemingly innocuous notes, maybe; but to me, they force to the front burner an issue that I need to sort out: What, exactly, am I progressing toward? I'm not sure if these readers intended or assumed with their comments that I have a specific sexual goal ... say, inviting others into our bed, or watching Amy fuck another man. While both of these examples are deep-seeded fantasies — shared to an equal or lesser extent by Amy — they're really beside the point.

I'm writing because I want to "explore the issues that grow out of the aging sexual relationship." (A quote from my inaugural post.) Interestingly, I haven't ended up doing a lot of that exploration yet, because I've (unexpectedly) been writing about all the actual sex we've been having. (A pretty great problem to have!) I imagine this more "active" period is fleeting, and that the underlying issues that brought me to this blog in the first place are still there, waiting to be dealt with.

There's a big part of me that is envious of what Tom Paine (and C.) and Mike (and Cindy) have. But so many factors make that kind of relationship entirely unrealistic for Amy and me. Primary among them is Amy's feeling that sex isn't ... well ... as important to her. While she might indulge me in some of my fantasies sometime, the fact remains that her libido is maybe a tenth of mine. She's good, giving, and game ... but not necessarily looking to push the boundaries.

I will keep pushing boundaries, though, both during sex and through conversation. If it's possible, I want to help Amy rediscover her sexual self, to glimpse the woman I find so stimulating, so electrifying. This can't be accomplished if Amy is feeling uncomfortable in any way, so the whole boundary-pushing thing has to be handled with care. No sudden moves. No unexpected surprises. In short: Trust. Now: If, down the line, through further discussion, we discover that there is a more "non-traditional" activity we'd like to really try — say, inviting another couple or individual into our bed — then I would be more than game (if I was convinced that Amy was truly into the experience).

In reality, my expectations are low in that regard. We are a long way from that kind of play. In the meantime, the increased communication that would be part of this examination of our sex life may naturally improve things. As we discover more about what turns us on, what we're willing to do, and what we really want, the quality of the sex could reach a higher level than we've ever imagined.

Ever the optimist, eh, Denis?

22 February 2007

V-Day, Night Two: Movie, Dinner, Dessert.

A date.

A date!

Unbelievable. Date clothes! A gift from Amy last Christmas, but not worn until I had good reason. That reason came last Saturday night.

A babysitter! We sprung for one! An extravagance, when you figure in the cost of movie and dinner. Reserved for truly special times ... like, say, Valentine's Day.

A movie! One that isn't animated!

Dinner! In a restaurant with nary a pizza or grilled cheese sandwich on the menu! A wine list! Valet parking! Waiters who don't write down your order! Lookatme, Mom — I'm a grown-up!

I had hoped that Amy would be wearing her new Valentine's Day present tonight, but as it turned out, the bra was running a little small. So she'll return it for something that we both like, and in the meantime, she put on an incredibly hot sheer black bra front-closure bra she picked up yesterday ... So delicious that there oughta be a law. I'm talking, of course, about the law that would state she's not allowed to put anything over it when she wears it. Amy wasn't particularly dolled up, going casual (at my recommendation), but she still looked ravishing. Which worked out well, seeing as a ravishing was on tap for that night.


The movie was Pedro Almodovar's Volver. It was a little piece of joy. (Thank God! When you rarely go out to movies, seeing a film worth the money feels like a matter of life and death.) Like most of Almodovar's films, it had a strong erotic undercurrent -- though this time there isn't a hint of sex, or even a romance. Almodovar accomplishes the sexual charge through his camera lens' infatuation with Penélope Cruz. Or at least her body. He costumes and films her as if she's a modern-day Sophia Loren, complete with the most delectable cleavage I've seen on screen in ages. (At one point, a character asks Cruz, "Where did you get that chest?... Are they real?" Indeed, it was a question I asked myself throughout, distracting myself into trying to remember what she'd looked like in the other films I'd seen her in.)

On a couple of occasions, Almodovar indulges the audience in extended aerial shots, angles that shoot straight down into a most inspiring open blouse as Cruz does seemingly mundane things like washing dishes or walking up a stairway. And there is a moment in this film when she walks up a cobble street pulling a small shopping cart, her hair perfectly up-yet-tousled, that feels like something straight out of the 1940s. Cruz is so glorious, so delicious that I told Amy afterwards I just might have to drop someone off my laminated list to make room for her.


I had kept the dinner location a secret, but Amy asked for one hint and easily figured it out. It's an old, romantic haunt of ours from our pre-children days. A storefront type that opens into a lush, cozy space that looks bigger than you'd think from the outside. The decor is eclectic but tasteful. They've added live music since we were last there too, adding a new element to the ambiance. I dropped Amy off and drove away to find a restaurant with valet parking (It's the only way to park in this neighborhood), and by the time I got back, Amy was already seated, raving about the singer/pianist, who had just laid down a pretty damn good version of Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah." Throughout the night, he brought out renditions of Billy Joel and Elton John songs, sung in a lower register than usual, which brought a new facet to songs that otherwise would have been pretty tired.

Fingers were crossed that the food was as good as we remembered. We weren't disappointed. I enjoyed a salmon filet with a light saffron wine sauce on a bed of spinach and some terrific gourmet mashed potatoes. Amy's dish blew us away: a sauteed tilapia with a sauce that included raisins, tomato marinara, and white wine. The waiter gave us a tremendous recommendation on a red wine; if I hadn't been driving, we would have easily finished off two bottles.

We talked a lot about Volver during the dinner, remembering the moments that resonated. We also did a good amount of people-watching (though we didn't scan the room for a fantasy fuck-buddy). Eventually, I couldn't resist bringing the conversation around to ... well, you know.

"I'm trying to decide if I'm going to cash in one of my coupons tonight," I started.

Amy laughed. "You know," she said, "I can't really remember what I wrote. Well, I can remember one of them."

"Would you like me to recite them, verbatim?" I asked.

We ran through them. (It was the anal sex coupon she remembered.) I reiterated the effect that they had had on me. She asked my thoughts on the "wildcard" coupon, and I just said that my I was too overwhelmed by the options to think clearly about it right now.

Amy changed the subject: "I completely forgot to tell you something about your Valentine's Day present: I didn't tell you how amazingly fun it was to try those on."

This was a nice surprise. When I imagined what that shopping experience must have been like for Amy, "fun" was not the word that sprung to mind. Based on my previous shopping excursions with her, the harsh lighting and mirrors in most dressing rooms only seemed to dampen her spirits. Not this time, apparently.

"I was actually getting turned on while I tried them," she admitted.

"That's so cool," I said. "You were there for over an hour, it seems like you tried on a ton of stuff."

"Oh yeah," she said. "The lady helping me really got into it, too, helping me find stuff. I tried on a lot, but the cool thing was that even the items I didn't take, it wasn't because they looked bad on me; they just didn't look as good as the outfits I came home with."

This is an amazing development, on two fronts: First, that she was so comfortable with her body that she had no problem trying on sexy clothes; secondly, that she was actually turned on while doing it.

"In fact," she revealed, "on Valentine's Day, at work, I got to thinking about what we were going to do that night, and I actually got really aroused. For the first time ever at this job, I was trying to figure out where I could go to ... take care of things."

"Did you?" I had to ask.

She laughed. "No, no. But it felt really good to feel ... eroticized again. Like, I'm coming back in touch with that part of me again."

Um ... I'm sorry, give me a moment. I need to wipe a tear from my eye.

Okay. I'm back.

Maybe a corner has been turned. Maybe things are shaping up. But what changed? Was it just her? Or was it something that I did, something I'm projecting, that's changing the equation? There's a part of me that says, Don't overanalyze it. But it'd be nice to know what slight tweak turned up the volume on the sexual dynamic ... if only to understand how to sustain that change well off into the future.


On the drive home, out of the blue, Amy brought up a porn movie we'd watched together some time ago. She described a scene she had been thinking about a lot, where porn starlet Chloe gets fucked in her office by her boss, right in front of a vindictive (female) co-worker doing her best to ignore the action going on only a few feet from her. (The movie was Antonio Passolini's Unreal.)

"So, what is it about the scene that turns you on?" I asked. "Is it the office setting?"

"Maybe," she said. "I don't know, really. It just works." Getting Amy to pin down why something turns her on is always a challenge, just like it's difficult to get her to clearly identify any kinks.

At home, when I returned from walking the babysitter to her car, Amy stood in the kitchen. We embraced, kissing passionately.

"You want me to find that movie?" I asked, and she nodded a mm-hmm. We got more comfortable — there would be no tearing off clothes tonight, probably because mine were new! I donned a robe, while Amy put on the second of the two Valentine's Day outfits she'd decided to keep. I was not able to find the video anywhere (which worried me greatly: Had I left it out somewhere where my kids or babysitter might have found it?), so we oped for a movie I had on my computer. Down to the basement we went, with Amy settling in between my legs, her back against me, the laptop on her lap.

It turned out that the movie wasn't our cup of tea. It's what the industry commonly calls a "couples film," which means that it's shot with all beautiful models. It would have been considered "hard-core" (penetration, money shots, etc.), but instead of really getting to hear people in true throes of ecstasy, you get lots of Enigma-like music playing over their slow-motion machinations. It's staged, dressed up, and extremely slow-moving. It's the kind of movie that men just introducing their wives to watching porn together would try ... but we're way past that. We found ourselves fast-forwarding through all the seductive posing and lip-licking to get to some action.

Finally, there was one scene that started to work for Amy — a beautiful woman being lavished with attention by two men. I finally saw a hand disappear into her thong when that scene got going.

"Who would you be doing that with if that were you?" I asked. "Who is joining us?"

She moaned. "Graham, a new guy in our office," she whispered. How very interesting!

"Oh yeah? Is that Graham's cock you're sucking while I get ready to fuck you from behind?" I was playing with her tits through the camisole, and she was starting to writhe. "Or maybe," I continued, "Graham is here, between your legs. He's licking that wet, hot cunt of yours while you and I both watch. He can look up and watch me squeezing your tits while he eats you. Would you like that?"

She groaned. We murmured for awhile about her new young workplace stud. I wondered if she'd ever really fantasized about him. I'll have to ask her another time.

The movie, which was already pretty much a dud, was becoming less and less interesting to us.

"Once you fuck Graham and me, are you going to return the favor?" I asked into her ear. "Will you share my cock with another woman?"

"Yes," she breathed.

"Who gets to suck my cock with you?" I asked.

"Who would you like?" she asked.

I have to admit: I was stymied. I spend all this energy fantasizing about Amy that when she asks me what other woman I'd like to do, I'm at a loss. "You can say it," she urged, as if I had someone in my head but was withholding. But there was no one!

Finally, I came up with a couple. "I'd love to watch you and Cynthia go at it," I suggested, indicating a high-ranking co-worker in my department. "Or maybe you and Shelley," the woman who, along with her husband, Amy had suggested (though not seriously) as foursome partners in a sex coupon. "Between her tits and yours, I could be a very happy boy."

The laptop suffered no damage, but it was pretty much kicked away. Amy threw open my robe and got to enthusiastically sucking my cock. Later, I requested a 69: Few things excite me more than her trying to suffocate me with her pussy while she blows me. I was so worked up with all the talk that it didn't take long, once we were in that position, to spray a helping of cum all over her tits and my stomach.

Amy gave a victory giggle as I came, enjoying the fruits of her labors. She crawled into a position where my head was in her lap, as I slowly came down. She hadn't come on this night, but she was fine with that. I vowed to even that score as soon as I could.

We talked for quite awhile, about the night, about the rest of our weekend, about previous Valentine's Days. This one — or perhaps should I say, the two-part celebration — was definitely the most fun in recent memory. It wasn't anything extravagant or original, but when so rarely and get to be a couple out in public, extremes of romantic ingenuity aren't necessary to re-capture that lightning.

20 February 2007

V-Day, Night One: Fashion Show

For the first time in I-can't-remember-how-long, I knew exactly what I was getting Amy for Valentine's Day .... wayyy ahead of time. The gift revealed itself unexpectedly when I sat in our kitchen one morning. I always need to read something with breakfast — can't just sit there — and I was feeling too lazy to retrieve that day's paper. The only thing within reach was a department store catalog, so I randomly opened it up to a page, and boom: a spectacular bra-and-thong set. Department store catalog lingerie layouts don't normally catch my eye. (I prefer my wimmen nekkid!) But this set not only turned me on, I also knew that Amy would like it too. It had been years since I bought her something sexy to wear. I was resolved.1

Even more remarkable than knowing what I was going to get her was the fact that I actually purchased it a full two weeks before Valentine's Day. Unheard of! While I was at the store, I made the comment that my wife wasn't crazy about thongs, but that the set was so beautiful that I would take the chance. The saleswoman said, "Oh, this style comes with a regular panty too, it's just not in the catalog." Excellent! As much as I love Amy in a thongs, my Valentine's sacrifice was to go with what would make her more comfortable.

My gloating that her Valentine gift was set struck Amy with fear. "I have no idea what I'm doing for you," she whined.

"You don't have to work very hard," I assured her. And I was serious. But Valentine's Day is a big deal for Amy, and on the Sunday before, she enacted her plan at a local mall, forcing me to bugger off for an hour2 while she shopped for my gift.

With V-Day falling on a Wednesday this year, we knew we weren't going to truly celebrate the way we wanted on a weeknight. So we decided instead to do the gifts-and-cards thing on the true Valentine's Day ... but really celebrate it the following Saturday. As it turned out, due to work we had to do for our respective jobs, February 14th almost escaped us without our even opening the gifts. It was 11:30 before we tore ourselves from our computers and settled on the couch with two boxes ... from the same store.

"I have a feeling we got the same thing," Amy said with a wicked grin.

"I should be so lucky," I said.

She opened hers first, and loved the underwear. But she didn't try it on; she wanted me to get to my box. At this point, I knew what it had to be.

"I couldn't decide on just one thing," she said. That's textbook Amy: She purchases, on average, three outfits for every one she actually keeps. In this case, my gift box contained not three, but four different sets of lingerie. "I thought it was time I had more sexy clothes to wear," she explained.

"It's nice when we're on the same wavelength," I commented.

I examined and commented on each ensemble. I had to laugh that two of them had thongs, after I had gone to the effort of avoiding them with my gift. I finally said, "How am I supposed to decide?"

"I thought we'd do a fashion show downstairs," Amy suggested.

Off we headed to our exceedingly comfortable basement, with the rarely used but versatile, large sectional couch. When we head down there, it's usually because we want a place where loud, no-holds-barred sex won't wake up the children. Amy told me to grab the Astroglide before I headed down. My high-school brain kicked in and I let out a long Yesssssss inside, stretching the word out from my head to my loins.

Amy's first outfit3 was a straightforward camisole-panty combo in a grey-blue. She emerged from an adjoining room with a tiny, insecure giggle. But once she came around the couch to me, she'd taken on more of the seductress's demeanor, absently running her hands over the fabric of the camisole and squeezing out a wry smile. I spun my index finger to indicate my supermodel to turn around. I appreciated her ass with my hands, simply commenting, "Nice." She turned back around, took my face in her hands, and gave me a deep kiss. Then, off she went.

Number Two was a little busy: A 1960s-inspired psychedelic print of pinks and purples, with a high slit up each side and little faux-ribbons "tying" said slits together. The cups were trimmed with pink lace. We both decided quickly it wasn't working. As she walked away, I yelled: "Hey!" She dutifully came back and gave me another kiss. I wasn't gonna get shorted!

Third up to bat was a fave: a seafoam-green number, a really soft camisole with a sexy thong. And for extra measure, it came with pajama bottoms of the same material as the camisole. Amy liked this one because of the pajama option; I liked it because of what the pajamas hid. I had her turn around, and I inched down the pants. I tasted each globe of her ass. She laughed, turned around while pulling the pajamas back up. Again, a kiss as she held my head, this time lingering to tell me: "I'm not sure I can wait for the last outfit."

"Yeah?" I whispered, my teeth grabbing at her lower lip. "Why's that?"

"I can't stop thinking about all the ..."


"... nasty things I want to do to you."

I kissed her again. "Go ... get ... the last one ... on ... now."

The final outfit was a winner, too, probably for it's simplicity: A solid periwinkle cami-and-thong thing. She looks great in this color. Honestly, I spent less time studying this one than the others; I wanted to eat this woman alive by now. She was similarly worked up. She plopped right down in my lap, straddling me. Our lips and mouths hungrily explored.

"I can't decide between the last two outfits," I moaned into her mouth. One hand was on a silk-covered breast, the other playing with the thong and the crack of her ass.

She worked over to my ear and, with some extra breath, hissed, "Nothing says I can't keep more than one...." She ground her crotch against me. Her tongue probed my ear, causing my hips to inadvertently thrust upward.

She backed off and told me she wanted to suck my cock. But when she started unbuttoning my pants, I stopped her. "I want to see you in another position. Get on your knees." Amy smiled and turned around, ass toward me, arms on the couch. "No," I corrected her. "Turn around. Face me." She did so. "Now suck my cock."

I rarely get her in this position, and it's really too bad. I enjoy the master-slave quality to it ... the fact that she's in a position of service. And service she did. "Look at me while you suck me," I ordered. She's always had a hard time getting in the position to do this, but she gave it her best shot. It was more important for me — and apparently for her too — to voraciously work on my cock.

After awhile, her knees were getting tired, she slid up and sat on the couch without taking my dick out of her mouth. The new angle allowed the opportunity for me to seriously do her mouth, but I wanted more: I pushed her back until her head was against the back cushion, and I crouched on the couch, hovering over her, continuing to piston in and out of her mouth. She was hanging on for dear life, but she was enjoying the treatment. I finally fell back in slow-motion onto another section of the couch, winded — but brought her mouth with me, and the assault on my cock continued: She even used her teeth a bit — a little hard, a little painful, the good painful, increasing the energy in the room, and seeming to hone my focus.

"I think I deserve to have my pussy licked," she said after awhile. No argument from me. I kissed her abused, tender mouth, gently ... and then tore off her new thong as quickly as possible. She was sopping. She was steaming. She was delicious. I could not keep from moaning like a starving animal as I tried to get as much of her cunt in my mouth as I could. I can never get enough. I finally settled down into a rhythm, working the pearl and sensing her movements, finding the motion that worked best tonight. Which, tonight, seemed to be a fluttering tongue tip. She bucked into my face as she came, lost in the fog of her peak.

"I need to fuck you now," I growled, and then ordered: "On your knees." Wordlessly, still coming down off her orgasm, she moved into position.

Once I entered her, I stood up and, crouching down, fucked down into her from above. This seemed to work nicely for her, along with the spanking I was administering (with lubed hands, for extra noise and impact). I spanked her in one place over and over again on her right buttcheek, leaving a clear, red impression of my hand on her ass. Happy with that handiwork, I dribbled some lube down her crack, and thumbed her asshole for awhile. Occasionally, I'd grab her hips and concentrate on deep, hard fucking.

"Not ... long ... now" was all I could muster at this point.

"I'm close!" she said, hoping again for the ever-elusive orgasm-during-intercourse. It was not to be this time either. But all she had to say was "Fuck me ... harder!" and I was there, jetting my cum deep into her cunt. And holding myself in her, as long as I could. Not wanting this to end.

"I think ..." I panted as my spent member slipped from her, "... that the gift was a success."

Later, she came back from the other room with the other outfits.

"So the last two are keepers?" she asked. She also asked me if I wanted her to try on the bra set I'd given her. I told her to save it for Saturday night, when we went out for our belated Valentine's Day celebration.

Because, you know ... this wasn't the celebration. This was just ... a fashion show. Right?

1There another part to her Valentine's Day present, too: The first chapter of a multi-part erotic story starring Amy, based on a fantasy she described to me once (in an effort to get me off). My real-life commitments have prevented me from completing the story, so it'll be a fun thing to surprise her with one evening soon. Sorry:I won't be sharing the story here. I know this may come as a surprise when I say that some things need to be kept secret. [Return to where you were in this entry]

2 I ended up in a bookstore, looking at a bargain-book display, when I noticed a copy of Us Weekly lying discarded. The cover story promised proof that Britney Spears was a lesbian. How could I resist? So I'm here to tell you now, Dear Reader, the three indisputable pieces of evidence that prove Britney munches carpet: 1) She was seen walking out of a "known lesbian hangout" with a woman; 2) She kissed Madonna on the MTV Music Awards (3-1/2 years ago, but don't confuse the issue); and 3) most damning of all: a papparazzi took a picture of her looking at a copy of Playboy magazine. And what heterosexual woman would ever do that? So there — it's a fact! [Return]

3 My descriptions of these outfits are hobbled by my Y chromosome. I had to fall back on similar looking items on lingerie web sites to figure out what words to use. Forgive my deficiencies in this respect. [Return]

TMI Tuesday #6: The Truth About (Most) Bloggers

If you want to play along with the TMI Tuesday meme, head on over to tmituesday.blogspot.com. And while you're there, tell 'em to come up with some better questions! I mean, Mike Tyson? Come on!

1. Would you rather be famous now & forgotten after you die or forgotten now & famous after you die, forever? & Why?

Look at it this way: I have a blog. (Actually, more than one.) Blogs are not the most permanent form of recording one's life experiences and thoughts. I would wager that most bloggers want a certain amount of fame. We'd all just be writing in diaries otherwise, right? By simply having a blog, I've already established that fame (which becomes less and less important as I get older) would be better served up sooner rather than later.

2. Would you rather give blood or read Hamlet? Why?

I never give blood without having something to read (and try to talk them into turning off the ever-present television when I'm there). I would probably kill two birds with one trip and read The Danish Play while the leeches did their work ... and get free cookies, crackers and juice!

What? I have to choose. Fine, then. I'd give blood. I've read Hamlet, and while it's amazing, it would take an unusual set of circumstances to lead a reading of Hamlet to save three lives.

3. Would you rather be extravagantly rich but hated by others, or well-loved and admired, but dirt poor? Why?

Again: I have a blog. I know that part of the reason for sharing what I share here is to work through my issues about sex and my sexual relationship with my wife. But if I'm honest with myself — and if most bloggers are honest with themselves — one reason for a blog is the desire for acceptance, or love, from one's peers. I'll take dirt-poor and loved, thanks.

4. Would you rather be imprisoned for the rest of your life or kill someone? Why?

Oooh. A toughie. I am vain enough to actually consider staying out of prison in exchange for taking someone's life. That says more about me than anything else I've written here. (For the record, I don't think most bloggers would kill someone.)

But in the end, I don't think I could bring myself to kill someone. Looks like I should prepare to be someone's bitch.

5. Would you rather fight Mike Tyson or talk like him? Why?

I'll take the fight. I'm not sure how much damage he can do to me when I'm curled up in a pathetic, whimpering ball in the middle of the ring. The ref would stop the fight before all my ribs were broken. And the whole time I was healing, I'd be thinking to myself: "Yeah, everyone who saw the fight knows I'm a pansy now ... but at least I don't talk like Mike Tyson!"

19 February 2007


Last night. We're on the couch. Amy says, "Could you get me some ice cream?"

"Only if you let me go down on you later," I reply.

She smirks. I don't move.

"It'll be good for you," says Dr. Denis.

She gives me a pleading look. I don't move.

"You won't regret it." I say this in a you-know-this-from-personal-experience-so-stop-fucking-with-me sort of way.

She offers: "How about I give you a 'distinct possibility?'"

I lock eyes on her. I give her the impression that I'm studying her, trying to ascertain if her "distinct possibility" is a smokescreen to keep me out of her pants. Of course, this is utter bullshit. I'd take "distinct possibility" any day of the week. She got her ice cream lickety-split ... and I set my sights on my lickety-split later.

Cut to bedtime. It's later than we both wanted, but we had work to do. I'm already in bed, and she comes to me and starts like this:

"It's not like I don't want to...."

Here we go, I think. My eyes think it too, and she reads them. Which gives her explanation more of an edge. It got late ... we have an extra-early day tomorrow ... we've been up really, really late the last few nights, and she'd like to feel rested going into the week. And she really wants to do this, she just wants to be smart about it.

And none of this can I argue with. So I don't.

"I just want to be into it," she says, almost pleadingly, now almost making me feel guilty.

"I want you to be into it too," I tell her. "I'm not interested if you aren't going to be into it." It's hard for me not to get huffy about this.

"Don't be mad at me."

"I'm not mad at you. I'm mad at the six million things we had to do tonight that are now keeping this from happening."

"How about if I sleep naked tonight?" she offers. Amy, The Great Compromiser. Naked is almost as good as sex.

And all of this over eating pussy! Really, I just want to get her off, down and dirty. I hadn't gotten the chance to do it when we'd had sex over the weekend. All day long, I had imagined a scenario where I unexpectedly yanked down her jeans, pushed her down on the nearest furniture, and ate to my heart's (and her orgasm's) content. No talk. Well, no coherent talk, anyway.

We're miles away from that now.

In the dark, spooned against her, a breast filling one palm, I realize the dichotomy of this situation: I live to have our naked bodies pressed together, but the whole thing has become such a tease now. I whisper, "I'm getting you in the morning."

She giggles. "Okay. Sounds good."


It's seven this morning. One child ensconced in front of the television. The other blissfully asleep -- hopefully for awhile, still. I've already showered and breakfast is in the works. I take a break to sit on the side of the bed, gently wake her up.

"I don't wanna get up," she says sleepily.

"Then let me wake you up slowly." Clearly, I really, really want to eat this woman.

"You can do that," she says, even sounding like she thinks it's a good idea.

And it is. It's a glorious, deep, warm, wet, sweet, raw, impassioned, quivering, juicy, session of gobble. She starts by pulling the covers over me, up to her chest, on the off-chance that a child would stroll in. (It hasn't happened yet, knock wood.) But by the end, she's tossed them away, and she's writhing as quietly as she can, and not too successfully. I watch her nipples grow as my tongue and lips bring her up and over the mountain.

It's a quick descent, by necessity. Only ten minutes have passed, but every minute in the mornings is valuable. She embraces me, kisses me deeply.

"Thank you," I say as I head back to the kitchen.

"The pleasure was all mine," she responds on her way to the bathroom.

"That's what you think."

But she's out of earshot.

18 February 2007

King's Night

What's the best thing about The World's Softest Pajamas™? When Amy straddles me and slowly, seductively unbuttons the oversized buttons on the top.

This was a King's night tonight: my chance to lie back and enjoy being "tended to" by my wife. Amy's was "out of commission" for another couple of days, but that didn't stop me from asking her if she would blow me before we went to sleep. As she slipped on those pajamas, she surprised me with a "Sure," considering how late it was.

I liked that she was putting a little thought into it, notjust going for the standard-issue, get-him-off-fast head. Or, perhaps she's smart enough to know that playing the seductress gets the job done faster in the long run, thus getting her to sleep faster.

Regardless, here we were: My wife, now hovering over me, her breasts peeking from behind the opened front of her pajama top, going for a full, soul-exploring kiss while grazing her fingernails over my chest. She silently started to move down toward the bottom of the bed, pausing to suck on a nipple, and then driving me absolutely wild via warm, wet kisses on my sides. (I've never told her what this does to me, by the way. It seems like an odd area to set off such erogenous feelings ... yet it isn't quite strange enough to earn the classification of "kink.")

There is that moment, before she takes me in her mouth, when the anticipation can make me giddy. Some nights, as she did tonight, she kisses around my cock. Or she goes further down and kisses my thighs. Or her nipples trace along my legs, causing her hair to inadvertently tickle my dick. I am in awe of expectancy. This is the moment, if she were on top of her game, when she would ask me for something I might not be giving her. (As if there were ever anything I would give her!) Note to the authorities: If I'm incarcerated and you need the information I've been withholding, bring my wife in, get me to this point, and then ask your most probing questions. I am putty.

Luckily, she didn't stop there. She slipped just the head in, suckled the helmet for a second, and then began the "lip walk" down the shaft. I wish I had a recording of the exhale that escapes me; I'm sure that breath sounds unlike any other I take during my entire day.

There are times that I honestly think I could have survived my entire life without ever having fucked someone, as long as I could give and receive oral sex. On this evening, Amy brought out her A-game: nibbling and sucking up and down the side of the shaft, tonguing my balls lightly, consuming them at times, with an involuntary grunt. Working hard and fast ... backing off slow, seeming to savor my cock. And at some point in the process, that cock always manages to find its way between her breasts, squeezed and massaged, lubricated with her saliva. Groan-inducing, indeed.

It's hard not to sound cliché after a blowjob like this, but I can't help it: As she lies back next to me again, and I feel the fresh deposit of cum on my stomach and dripping down my softening member, I kiss her deeply and say with as much import as I can muster: "God, do I love you!" It always brings a laugh, and I'm probably playing to the humor ... but I do truly mean it. I'm a lucky man.


It's been a ridiculously busy couple of weeks for me, and the pressure of keeping up with Real Life and still blog as much as I wanted was too much. The timing was awful, seeing as the Sugasm thing last week increased visitors to this blog tenfold — literally — and then, just as suddenly, new original content seemed to stop. So it goes.

The funny thing is, at the same time that my life got all packed, Amy and I actually had sex three times in a seven-day period. Not an amazing thing for many of you, but for us, it was a truly remarkable feat. Of course, two of those can be attributed to Valentine's Day. But something else has happened, too — something in Amy's mind. You'll get to hear about in an upcoming post. I know I'm champing at the bit to write about it. Until then, you'll have to put up with the above vignette from last Sunday's encounter.

15 February 2007

Sugasm #66

Sugasm #66Thanks to those of you who voted for me this week -- this was oh so kind and entirely unexpected.

The best of this weeks blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #67? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form. Participants, repost the linklist within a week and you’re all set.

This Week’s Picks

Black Tie Optional; Cleavage Required. (http://middleurge.blogspot.com)
“It had been so long since she’d worn something like this, I had to keep checking in and making sure she was really comfortable with appearing in public looking this… well, sexy.”

Don’t Be A Blog Playa (http://marketingwhore.naughtyblog.net)
“Blogging is often treated like dating, where folks fall in love with setting it up, posting some ramblings, and when no one gushes and fawns all over them, they move onto the next one.”

Eclectic Slut part one (http://junohenry.wordpress.com)
“As we lay, limbs entwined and tangled, realising that we couldn’t stop touching each other even for a second, the conversation returned to one we’d started earlier… about control and submission.”

Mr. Sugasm Himself
5 Ways to Keep Your Blog Off Digg (http://sugarbank.com)

Editor’s Choice
The Shirt…

More Sugasm
Join the Sugasm

Thoughts on Sex and Relationships
Green with envy (http://hard-and-fast.blogspot.com)
Judgment Call (http://lafillemariee.blogspot.com)
Originality, Fellatio and the Chicago Bears (http://lostinperversion.com)
Random Things
Smut, politics, and community and a little story called “Auschwitz Blowjob” (http://lustylady.blogspot.com)
Tit-Elation (http://shayssexcolumn.blogspot.com)
Valentine’s Day Is on the Way (http://www.taratainton.com)
When In Doubt, Refer To #2 (http://perverselypoly.blogspot.com)

NSFW Pics (& videos)
Bad Girl HNT (http://stilettodiaries.blogspot.com)
Charly & Klara (video) (http://myhotbox.blogspot.com)
Cockslut Column #2 (http://themilfblog.blogspot.com)
Finally Did a Naked Photoshoot (http://totalsensuality.blogspot.com)
Half-Nekkid Cleavage (http://www.tarasnaughtyshop.com)
Nora Marlo New Nude Photos (http://eroticandy.blogspot.com)

Sex News, Reviews and Interviews
Masturbation Interview (http://sabrinainstockings.com)
Review: Best American Erotica (http://www.radicalvixen.com/blog)
Waterproof iVibe Rabbit Vibrator Review (http://darkside-journey.blogspot.com)

Sex Work
Outcall (http://thismuse.blogspot.com)

BDSM and Fetish
Breast stroke, cane strokes (http://pandorablake.blogspot.com)
Douleur érotique (http://dopaminedreams.blogspot.com)
Esmerelda (http://blog.myspace.com/tit_elation)
The Foundry (http://blog.atlantabondage.com)
So Good I’m Boring! (http://emiliegirl.livejournal.com)
What you can do to please me (http://principalquattrano.com/blog)

Sex (and Sex Blog) Advice
Cracked Jaw (http://inkserotica.daria.be)
Reader: What’s your take on love? (http://smutandsteff.com)
The Sheep from the Goats (http://alwaysarousedgirl.blogspot.com)

Sex & Politics
Jon Stewart on Ted Haggard (http://dausa.blogspot.com)
When is it Rape? (http://deliciously-naughty.typepad.com/my_weblog)

Erotic Writing and Experiences
Awoken by the beast (http://dirtylittlecockslut.blogspot.com)
Breaking the Ice (http://loladavid.wordpress.com)
First AFF Adventure, Pt. 2 (http://unfetteredcravings.blogspot.com)
Mind Play - An Erotic Poem
What Man Turns Down Two Women? (http://fourstate.blogspot.com)
Yeah, it’s a little stiff. (http://gentlygently.blogspot.com)

Flirty fishnet shirt photo courtesy of How About Now?

13 February 2007

TMI Tuesday #5: Now with Protection Against Athlete's Foot

It's a tough TMI Tuesday for me this week. I am just snowed under with work, and though I have a billion posts lined up and waiting for the kind attention of my muse, I'm afraid that The Real World must come first. And no, that does not mean that I have prioritized a shallow MTV reality show ahead of my blog.

Also, this is one of those weeks that the TMI questions show how dreadfully dull my life is, based on the amount of this one that is total b.s.

1. Have you had sex with another person in 2007?

You mean, besides you? No. You're the only person I've fucked this year. How can you know for sure? You'll just have to trust me.

Have you passed on an opportunity to sex with another person in 2007.

Oh, honey. Where to begin? Let me just put it this way.
There, I've said too much already.

2. What is the funniest thing you have ever said or done during sex? (Orgasmic facial expressions do not count.)

Well, not so much a funny thing I did, as a funny thing that was done to me: This woman I was seeing for awhile had a sadistic kitten. We had mutual hate for each other, the cat and I. One night, While girlfriend and I were furiously fucking on the floor (it was as arousing as it was alliterative), the beast took a flying leap off of her bed ... right onto my back. Needless to say, the party broke up.

3. What is the first thing you notice about a member of the opposite sex?

I notice her blood iron levels. And then her cuticles.

4. What is the best pick-up line you have ever heard? Ever used? Ever been used on you?

I can remember my favorite response to a bad pickup line:
Him: How do you like your eggs in the morning?
Her: Unfertilized.
I don't believe I've ever knowingly used a pickup line myself.

And the most effective pickup line a woman has ever used on me to get me into bed: "Hi."

5. Where is the most unique place you have ever had sex?

In my wife's ass.

(Oh, come on. You had to see that one coming. It's not even original!)

Bonus: Do you pee in the shower?

Yes. And some would say that I'm in the minority, but I think a lot of people lie about this. After all, for awhile there, peeing in the shower was de rigeur. Have we all forgotten Madonna's storied visit to the studios of David Letterman several years ago? Allow me to reacquaint you (I'm not making this one up):
Madonna: Did you know that it's good if you pee in the shower?

Dave: I'm sorry?

Madonna: I'm serious! [crowd reacts uncomfortably] No, seriously, peeing in the shower is really good. It ... it fights, um, um, athlete's foot. I'm serious, no, urine is like, is like ... is like an antiseptic. It's all got to do with the enzymes in your body.

Dave: Don't ... don't you know a good pharmacist? [laughter]

Madonna: Ummm ...

Dave: Get yourself some Desenex! Or whatever that stuff is.

Madonna: I wanted to share something that I knew with you.

Dave: Okay, well, thank you very much. Ah, I going to try to wrap this up.

If so, has any SO known that you pee in the shower?

I was really hoping we'd keep this between us.

Has any SO peed in the shower?

Perhaps, but I'm betting most of them are part of the 58% that are too demure about it to come clean. So to speak.

09 February 2007

Proof of My Sainthood as a Husband.

I just got back from the pharmacy, where I picked up Monistat for Amy.

Complete with a pharmaceutical consultation1 on which formula would be best for her.

In a crowded pharmacy. (Is this where America hangs out on Friday nights?)

With big, burly men standing directly behind me, waiting for their prescriptions. And, most likely, guffawing into their hands.

How did I get through this? By utilizing the spousal equivalent of imagining your audience naked when battling stagefright: I kept declaring to myself: Think what you want, assholes, but I'll bet a paycheck that I'm getting better blowjobs from the recipient of this medication than you'll ever dream of.

The downside for you, of course, is that it'll likely be several days before you get to read about more indisputably intoxicating accounts of our matrimonial copulation.

(And yes, I realize that actually blogging about my "act of heroism" draws so much self-congratulatory attention that my chance at sainthood is soiled. You know what? It was worth it.)

1 There was this classic moment, after the male pharmacist fumblingly handed me off to the female pharmacist, when she locked eyes on me while holding one box and said with rapt intensity: "As a woman ... this is what she wants." Later, Amy suggested: "You should have asked her: 'But what would you recommend as a man?' "

08 February 2007

Sugasm #65

Sugasm #65

Mon 5th Feb, 07

The best of this weeks blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #66? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form. Participants, repost the linklist within a week and you’re all set.

This Week’s Picks

Motel Meeting (http://lafillemariee.blogspot.com)
“As always though, coming together for us meant first holding, then kissing, groping, stroking, and suddenly, there we were, as always, naked, lying together, limbs intertwined on DG’s bed under the cozy, thick white duvet.”

My breasts are not safe for work - welcome to the pink ghetto (http://lustylady.blogspot.com)
“I love to find out things about people’s sex lives and thinking about sex that make me see them, and the topic at hand, in a new light, and often I learn about myself that way.”

Richard Evans Lee (http://www.sex-kitten.net)
“An increase in sexual empathy. Being able to put yourself in the other person’s heart would curb everything from infidelity to homophobia.”

Mr. Sugasm Himself
Sexual Chocolate (http://sugarbank.com)

Editor’s Choice
Midnight Conversations at the Tick Tock Diner (http://perverselypoly.blogspot.com)

More Sugasm
Join the Sugasm

Erotic Writing and Experiences
Decay (http://blog.myspace.com/tit_elation)
Fuck Me First (http://loladavid.wordpress.com)
Hands (http://onlyamirage.blogspot.com)
Heels, Stockings, Girdle, Bra, Face (http://aslipofagirl.blogspot.com)
Horny… Period! (http://dirtydetails.blogspot.com)
How Hip Swingster Got His Groove Back (http://fourstate.blogspot.com)
Reluctant Mary - Part Two (http://eroticjournals.blogspot.com)
Sex Party Redux (http://plum001.blogspot.com)
Trade (http://turnthelampsdownlow.wordpress.com)

Sex Advice, News, Reviews and Interviews
33 Days, 33 Posts: Prologue, or, This Is Gonna Hurt (http://dausa.blogspot.com)
Apple, sex toys and the genesis of the iPhone Vibrator (http://sextoysinsider.com)
Reader: But Will She Love My Penis? (http://smutandsteff.com)
Taco Tuesday: Toy Review 1 (http://themilfblog.blogspot.com)

BDSM and Fetish
Anxious Fuck (http://dirtylittlecockslut.blogspot.com)
Caution! The Story You Are About To Enjoy Is Extremely Hot - Part Two (http://stilettodiaries.blogspot.com)
Introducing Prisoner #4228 (http://pandorablake.blogspot.com)
The Itch, Part The Last (http://udoj.wordpress.com)
Little Miss Sunshine (http://sweatshopsissy.wordpress.com)
Meeboguest confesses: “I have been a bad boy again…” (http://anawtymouz.blogspot.com)
Quiet The Hum Part Five (http://kissingcorporalkate.wordpress.com)
Spanking on Honeymoon (http://www.spankingwriters.com/blog)

Thoughts on Sex and Relationships
Being Bisexual (http://eroticawriter.blogspot.com)
Cop a Feel, Show Me the Love (http://middleurge.blogspot.com)
Eyes Wide Open for Sexual Possibility
The Feminist Who Wanted to Be Fucked Like a Whore (http://brooklynrake.blogspot.com)
How About Now? (http://thismuse.blogspot.com)
Polyamory: The Great Sexual Alternative Lifestyle (http://www.model-chat.com)

Sex Work
A Lackluster Coming Out (http://www.radicalvixen.com/blog)

Sexy Humor
Meow (http://hard-and-fast.blogspot.com)
Seduction Outtake #17 (http://sabrinainstockings.com)
Who would YOU want to make submit? (http://principalquattrano.com)

NSFW Pics (& videos)
Angela Taylor Naked (http://eroticandy.blogspot.com)
Beautiful french maid upskirt (http://upskirtr.blogspot.com)
For Odysseus Love, Penelope (http://marriedexploits.blogspot.com)
Happy HNT - Dungeon Bondage Chair (http://darkside-journey.blogspot.com)
January’s Cartoon Babe of the Month! (http://secretbrain.blogspot.com)
Slaving Away (http://kitchen-girls.blogspot.com)
Stella & Sandra (movie) (http://myhotbox.blogspot.com)

French Maid Upskirt pic courtesy of Upskirtr.

07 February 2007

Black Tie Optional; Cleavage Required.

"How are the contacts?" I asked Amy as we drove to the birthday party last Saturday night. She doesn't wear them very often -- they're often more bother to her eyes than they're worth.

"Fine. Of course, I can't see very well at night...."

"Then, you're not driving tonight," I ordered. "Which means you get to drink all you want tonight. Go for it."

Though she was looking out her window, I could tell she was smiling when she commented, "You just want me to get loose."

"The thought hadn't even crossed my mind," I insisted in mock shock.

Many impure thoughts had been crossing my mind for much of that afternoon. We had gone dress shopping for this event. Specifically, it was a friend's fortieth birthday, and the invitation said, very prominently: "Black Tie Optional." While it's rare that we go to grown-ups-only parties at all at this point in our lives, it's unheard of that we find ourselves at a party this formal. So Amy and I had spent a few hours at an upscale department store. We had narrowed it down to two dresses, both of which showed off her cleavage beautifully. It had been so long since she'd worn something like this, I had to keep checking in and making sure she was really comfortable with appearing in public looking this ... well, sexy.

"Well," I said, talking to Amy but raising my eyebrows at the saleswoman who had been helping us all afternoon, "you can bet I have no problem with it." The sales associate laughed, only slightly embarrassed. I'm sure she'd heard worse.

She decided on a flashy teal-and-brown number, with some sharkskin-like shimmery material highlighting in places, and some colorful beading. Her final touch, added just before we left for the party, was a necklace I had given her a couple of Christmases ago: a silver chain, with a second silver strand attached, and a black pearl dangling from the end. It worked beautifully, though Amy pointed out that the necklace essentially pointed to "the obvious" below. I noted that it wasn't likely that people were going to miss that cleavage, necklace or not. She didn't dispute me. I'm sure she also knew that I was going to enjoy the view all night. She had even assigned me the responsibility of letting me know if the dress had shifted, showing the strapless bra during the night.

"We should have a code phrase," I suggested.

"Just tell me, if it's alright, that you just checked in and 'the girls are fine.'" Perfect!

I dropped Amy off at the party and went to park the car. The first person to greet her was the birthday boy's wife, who instantly said: "Wow, you've got great cleavage. I'm so envious. I could never pull that off." When Amy told me this upon my arrival, I mentioned: "You have to figure, if the women are commenting on it...." She just smiled, but with an underlying boldness. She was gonna be fine.

As it turned out, cleavage was in no short supply at the party. One woman had been so daring as to wear a very nice navy pant suit with the coat buttoned up to only partially hide a red push-up bra. It sounds more slutty than it actually was ... she pulled it off nicely. Another woman, most definitely falling under the category of BBW, was working her benefits to the best of her advantage as well. But -- and this is a completely unbiased opinion here -- no one had pulled off the "revelation of the bosom" with as much class and flair as my wife.

The party was a low-key affair, held in a space inspired by 1920s France, with wall-to-wall red velvet, period fixtures, and Folies Bergere posters galore. It felt opulent, decadent. Though we knew hardly anyone there, Amy's outgoing personality attracted a couple, Adam and Maria, to our table, and we spent most of the night getting to know each other. They were about four years our junior, and really quite the gorgeous couple.

An astrologer had been hired as part of the entertainment, and Amy and I signed up for readings, as did our new friends. Amy got her reading first while I looked on. She was accurate on all the insanely general things ("You're feeling some stress in your life right now") and pretty wrong every time she tried to narrow in on more specific information. But at least she had a lovely British accent.

She asked Amy if she had any specific questions, which caught us by surprise. ("I didn't know we had to study for this test," I commented.) That gave me time to figure out my questions, and when it was my turn, I was prepared. My question about the health of a family member flustered the astrologer a little bit. (She wisely disclaimed everything she said by saying, "Of course, I'm not a medical doctor.") But then I really did a number on her when I looked over at Amy and said, "What I really want to know about is how my sex life is going to be in the future." Everyone at the table laughed, the astrologer most nervously.

"I want to know that too!" exclaimed Amy.

This emboldened me. "Okay! That's what I want to know!"

The astrologer, with a silly grin, couldn't stop giggling. All she could do was shake her head. She wasn't gonna go there. What a wuss! I asked some vague question about my job, and of course I was assured that everything was going swimmingly but that "there would be some change" coming. (Ya think?) We wrapped things up.

Later, as songs from the celebrated gentleman's birth year played over the P.A., we compared notes with Adam and Maria about our silly astrology readings. Conversation moved on to culture, work life, parenting. It was hard for my mind (helped along by two glasses of wine, a Tom Collins, and probably too little food) not to wander away to thoughts of us with this couple. Maria had these girl-next-door good looks, a natural beauty that looked slightly uncomfortable in this more formal setting. (I surmised she would have been happy to get out of her dress, and I was betting that Adam and I would be only too happy to oblige.) Adam had those chiseled features that reminded me of someone, and at some point during the night, I figured it out, bent to Amy's ear and whispered: "Sting!" She nodded agreement without breaking her conversation. I wondered if Adam's thoughts had wandered at all, courtesy Amy's, um, necklace.

In the car on the way home, Amy was feeling hungry. "Cheese fries sound decadent and amazing," she suggested. "Don't they?"

I slowed down -- we were just about to pass the exit we would need to take to get the best cheese fries in town. "That's a possibility," I said. "Another option would be a big bowl of buttered pasta after I'm done having my way with you tonight."

Amy half-smirked; she knew that overture was coming sometime in the evening. "That sounds good too. I can't decide. It all sounds good. Fries, pasta ... Either is fine. Regardless of your having your way with me." My zooming past the exit made the decision for us: Pasta it would be.

We arrived home after midnight, and I ran the babysitter back to her place. By the time I returned, I passed through the kitchen and saw a pot of water already heating on the stove. Amy was on the couch, still wearing her dress. "I thought we shouldn't delay getting the water going." I turned the burner down to simmer and proceeded to the living room, kneeling next to her. "I left my dress on. I figured you wanted to remove it."

"How astute."

She stood up and I turned her hips so that she faced away from me. Zipper down. Straps off shoulders. Dress sliding past the waist. Legs stepping out. I pressed my cheek against the small of her back as I reached up and cupped her tits, still clad in her strapless. I felt this internal release. Almost as if it was a relief to be here again. A hunger about to be sated ... finally. How long had it been? Days? Weeks? Years?

And what the hell was that bra doing still on? Away it went.

Amy was feeling tired from the long day and asked to lie back down on the couch. We continued kissing as I rubbed her nylon-clad legs. Her neck was deliciously warm, and tucking my face in there, I felt like it was a favorite secret place. I noticed that as we kissed, Amy was doing something she doesn't normally do at this stage in the evening.

"You're really playing with your tits a lot tonight," I whispered. She was kneading them with both hands, rubbing them with flat palms. "What are you thinking about?"

"I'm thinking about these tits rubbing against you...." she moaned. "Your chest ... Your cock...."

"Show me."

She sat up. "Lie down."

Once I was on my back, my wife kissed quickly down my chest while undoing my belt. Soon the pants were history, and she rubbed her face against my cock and balls. Somewhere in there, as if by magic, my cock was deep in her mouth -- and then, just as suddenly, feeling the air again. And then quickly enveloped by her tits. It wasn't a tit-fuck so much as it was a breast attack ... rubbing all over, with intermittent cock-sucking to keep things lubricated. When she didn't have her mouth full of cock, it was full of words.

"I'm thinking about another man fucking me," she hissed, "while I suck this cock."

"God, yes," I encouraged. "I'd love to see him drilling you back there."

"He's filling me with his hard dick," she moaned.

I had to hand it to her, she was giving it her all. Maybe too much for her, in fact: She seemed almost restless, rushed. She stopped after only a short while, insisting: "I need to really get fucked." She stood up long enough to inside-out the pantyhose, and then she was straddling me. Without further "ado," she shoved my cock into her cunt. No lube, no other prep.

I'm losing count of how many times recently she has become the aggressor. And for the first time -- just for a moment -- I was a little bothered by it. In my version of how things would go tonight, I had imagined that I would be the one in control. Yet, here we were again, with her fucking me. Not that it was difficult to adjust my expectations! But just for a moment, I wondered if she was using the control as a way of keeping something else from happening, something she didn't want. For the life of me, I can't imagine what that would be.

Was this a case of getting what I had asked for? I had wanted her to be a little more aggressive in bed, to tell me what she wanted, to take it rather than always waiting for it to be handed to her. On the grand scheme of things, this is an extremely minor issue, not even rising to the level of "complaint." More an observation, something to be aware of.

Meanwhile, the fucking continued, hard and fast, but again, not for long: She popped off of my dick and moved up the couch until her pussy was pressing against my face. I caught her oh-so-subtle hint and went to town on her with my tongue and teeth. Her pussy was delightfully soft, tenderized by the frantic fucking. She ground hard against my mouth as I worked her pussy to an orgasm that temporarily tensed every muscle in her body. The tension was followed by a sigh, a balloon slowly, soundlessly releasing all of its air.

Aware that I hadn't gotten mine yet, Amy laid down in the opposite direction on the couch, sort of curling herself around my dick and beginning some serious oral with intent. I encouraged her: "That's right ... nice and sloppy. Let me hear you sucking my cock. Suck your husband's cock 'til he shoots his come all over." I tried playing with her pussy a bit as she blew me, but she nudged my hand away.

When I got close, I told her I wanted to come on her tits, and her approval came in the form of a moan that moved me quickly to the goal. Soon she was pushing my cock between her breasts as I squeezed out a few shudder-accompanied spurts. "Sorry the angle wasn't better for getting it all over my tits," she said.

"No need to apologize." I pressed her against me, feeling my cum on her chest, now on mine as well. "It's not like I was going to take the time to reposition us just for a money shot." At least not this time.

She snuggled up against me. "So how about that pasta?" she asked.

"I'm on it," I said. But I didn't move, and shortly we had both fallen into a light slumber.

Some time later, we roused, and Amy asked, "Do you still want the pasta?"

"Not really," I said. "I'm feeling pretty fulfilled at the moment." She still wanted something, so we settled on a grilled cheese sandwich, which I prepared in the nude. It's not the safest thing in the world, but if I'm not, say, cooking bacon, I love cooking in the nude. And it's not something I get to do too often anymore.

Amy was sore the next day -- not using lube turned out to be a slight mistake. But it did lead to her making a comment as we drove to work Monday morning: "I'm sorry we're not having sex more often ... But you have to admit that it's pretty amazing when we do."

Yes, I guess I do have to admit that. And hardly begrudgingly.

06 February 2007

TMI Tuesday #4: Suspicious Minds

Come join the fun sometime. It's better than a sausage wrapped in a pancake and stuck on a stick. Unless you've got something to hide. Which I don't. Really.

1. Have you ever had sex in a friend's house/apartment/car/whatever... but not with that friend? Does your friend know?

I've never done this. Why? Should I? Is it totally worth it? Do I add it to my "wild card coupons" fantasies? Christ almighty, this is gonna keep me awake at night, trying to figure out how this scenario would be arousing.

I can tell you that I've DEFINITELY had sex with someone else other than my friend ... in my friend's mind. I don't know if it was hot. I'll have to ask him.

2. Have you ever sat at your computer naked?

Well ... um ... yeah. Why do you ask? Is that unusual? Titillating? Am I a freak? Is it surprising? Or are you looking for a cool story about that? Well, let me try one and we'll see:

Hey, this reminds me of this one time I was sitting at my computer ... naked! While I sat there, I answered some email. I got one with the subject line "Hey, neighbor!" and I opened it, and it was a link to a porn site that involved sex with people who dress up like Barney Fife. (Which was kind of arousing, though I always thought of Don Knotts as a bit of a limp fish.) And then I paid a couple of bills online, and went to bed. When I got up, I got that kind of "ripping" sound when my skin peeled away from the leather upholstery on the chair.

So. How's that working for you? Yeah, me neither.

3. If you are sure you WOULD get caught, is there anyone (known personally, celebrity, fictional character) you'd cheat with?

Wait, why would I want to get caught? Would my wife think that was hot? Or are you suggesting she'd be laughing because that celebrity was wayyyyy out of my league? Are you saying you don't think I'm good enough for Connie Britton?

Yes, you heard me right. I want to screw her so hard she's seeing Friday night lights. Why Connie? 'Cause my wife would walk in on us ... and say it was justified. And she'd be right. Free pass right there, buddy.

4. Have you ever photocopied a body part?

Hands. Face. Uvula. That's it. I'd heard too many horror stories about copier glass breaking to get more lewd than that.

5. Just how rigid are your standards: Is there anyone out there (say, a celebrity), that you'd do, just to say you scored? (We aren't talking a dreamy celebrity i.e. Brad Pitt or Jennifer Aniston; we are talking Mick Jagger, Dick Cheney, or the Queen of England.)

Again with the celebrity thing. Does this really turn you on? Are you sitting around imagining me doing Crispin Glover? Nancy Pelosi? Mandy Moore? Matt LeBlanc? Monica Lewinsky? You're just trying to catch me in the act, aren't you? You want to watch! You. Sick. Perv.

But to answer your question: If my "standard" is "rigid," it sounds like I already want to do the celebrity. Still, a boy has his limits: I draw the line at Rummy.

6. Have you ever contacted a “lost love” years later?

I've stayed in touch with most of my lost loves. I'm on good terms with all of them.

Why? Did one of them say something to you? Which one? I bet it was that bitch Carole. Oh sure, I was friendly when I found her myspace page, but I didn't believe for a punch-drunk second that she was glad to hear from me. Some people just can't let go, can they? One little time that I misunderstand her and she never forgives me. I can still hear her screeching. "I said in my rear, you idiot!" Fine, fine, whatever. I even paid for the audiologist's bills. What more do you want, Carole?!

7. What was the worst thing your SO ever caught you doing?

Amy has caught me jacking off so many times we couldn't possibly count. You'd think I want to get caught, but actually, masturbation for me is a pretty private thing. Unless, of course, it's part of a session of sex play. But I'm talking about times where she's walked in on me. If I started solo, chances are I meant to finish that way.

What was the worst thing your parents ever caught you doing?

Same answer. Dad caught me jacking off once. He acted like he hadn't seen anything. Backed out of the room. It was like it had never happened. Like I'd told him to look directly at the red light.

Did you ever do either of those things again?

I have never, ever, ever masturbated again.

Unless you count every day of my life since the age of 12. But let's not get caught up in technicalities.

8. What is the shortest period of time you've ever gone between sex with two different sexual partners in separate sessions (that means threesomes don't count unless they are separate threesomes)?

I've never juggled like that, never had more than one thing going at a time. The closest I can come is the time I was in a spontaneous 69 with an ex-girlfriend on the floor of my apartment, and the phone rang. I let it go to the machine (I'm not an idiot!), and it was this woman from work with whom I'd made a date that night. I had completely forgotten about it. But phone woman and I didn't have sex for another couple of weeks.

9. Besides the usual (lingerie, sexy shoes, etc.), what's the sexiest thing your SO can wear?

One of my work shirts. (Yes! Denis proves yet again he is a walking, talking, ejaculating cliché!)

10. Have you ever masturbated with a household object (other than a sex toy)? If so, what?

Why do you want to know? Did someone tell you something? It was our cleaning woman, wasn't it? She found the cardboard toilet paper tubes covered in petroleum jelly, right? Dammit, that's not fair. That was totally an experiment based on something I saw on the Internet. It didn't even arouse me that much.

In all seriousness ... There aren't a lot of really good objets de ménage for a boy to use. Or maybe I'm just not feeling creative enough when I need to get off to stop and wonder if I should try, say, sticking my dick in that vice grip downstairs. My guess is that women have more interesting answers to this one than I could possibly provide.

05 February 2007

Pick A Card, Any Card

Amy and I were grabbing a quick bite at a Chipotle. Well, as quick as you can ever be when you're trying to eat one of those obscenely large burritos.

"So, there's this game I play sometimes," I started, "when I'm sitting in public places. Buses, libraries, like that. I look around the space I'm in, and I pick from the people within sight the person I'd most like to have sex with."

I didn't have to ask Amy if she wanted to play -- it took her less than ten seconds to look around the room and then gesture with a toss of her head to her right: "The cop," she said, and she took another bite of her burrito.

"Wow. That was easy for you." I checked the guy out. He was of Hispanic heritage. Stocky. A round, boyish face. "I was thinking more of the guy up at the counter, getting his food now."

"Him?" she asked incredulously. "He looks old and boring."

"I thought he looked ... distinguished," I sheepishly defended myself. My fantasies involving Amy with older men are spawned from an actual event, a one-nighter she had in her early twenties, at a Denver airport hotel after a canceled flight. She discovered the pilot of the flight that had gotten her to Denver in the hotel's bar, and they spent the night in her hotel room. He was married and at least 25 years older than her. Amy had never told me a lot of details about the night (She claims she doesn't remember them!), but that didn't stop me from clocking tons of mileage out of my imaginary, sweaty-sheet, noisy version of that night.

I realized that Amy's pilot and the cop sitting a few feet away from us did have one thing in common. "So, is it the uniform that does it for you?" I asked.

"Yeah, that's part of it," she confirmed. "So, who's your choice?"

"Interestingly, it's the woman with the cop," I said. She was also Hispanic, with a little weight on her in all the right places.

Amy rolled her eyes after checking her out and remarked: "Of course."

"What?" I re-checked my choice out and realized she had a big chest. "Oh, no, no, no -- it's not because of that. I think she's got a cute face." And I also thought that face would look pretty hot lost in an orgasm. "Anyway, it's between her and the woman at the stool over there, with the purple hat." My other choice was a little on the skinny side, but her black hair was done in short braids sticking out from underneath her hat. A stack of papers shared her tiny table with her burrito. It looked like she was grading them, which probably meant she was a graduate TA or something. Which meant she was probably really smart. Don't even bother adding water -- I'm instantly aroused.

A few minutes, I noticed the cop and his lunch date chatting by the door.

"Well, that seals the deal," I said, and indicated with my eyes where they were standing. "Now they're even sexier." As they stood together, their heads bowed slightly toward each other. They were breaking through the comfort wall. Their relationship was not platonic. (Neither Amy nor I bothered to look for rings on fingers.) The body language we were seeing from the couple now suddenly made them more than just a couple of strangers. Now there was a little piece of back-story. But just a little. Were they married? To each other? Someone afraid to take the leap? I didn't get the sense that it was a new real love. Nobody looked starry-eyed.

The couple kissed, held hands briefly, and then they were out the door of the restaurant, headed in separate directions. Amy and I weren't far behind them, heading back to our respective offices.