CARNIVAL OF DESIRE

He had never been to a party like this before, an Eat-In that is. He had been to other erotic parties with me, but he was a One Leg Up Virgin. It was a few days before Halloween, so the theme, Carnival Masquerade, was fitting. My boyfriend and I were dressed to the sixty-nines for a night of erotic delight. In the lobby sprinkled with rose petals, I slipped off my trench coat and slipped on long pink evening gloves. We both put on our masks, the final touch. A single masked woman, who had arrived at the same time, complimented our costumes. We took the elevator with her and learned that it was her first time as well. Hmmm.

The elevator opened to a reception fronting a coat-check. We checked in some of our things with the sexy coat-check girl. (Why don’t all sexy coat-check girls wear lingerie?) Then we began exploring the space. It was black and red with gothic furniture, various racks and machines, whips and paddles, cuffs, straps and ropes hanging from hooks on the walls. We guessed it was either a dungeon or an apartment belonging to one kinky person. Yet the feeling in the air was sensual and mysterious. As always, One Leg Up goes over the top with the aesthetic spread of fresh fruits, veggies, cheese, breads, and chocolates, a classy counterpoint to the S&M décor. In my humble opinion, my masked love was the hottest guy there, and I felt sexy in my black corset topping a pink and white furry skirt that opened in the front like two curtains parting to reveal the window, the hot pink panties, the star of the show.

My show, that is, for him. If others want to watch, they may, as long as they make me feel good. They’ve already bought tickets and are entitled to a performance, although no one is obligated to perform. I have the power to withhold my theatrics from critics and hecklers. That’s the beauty of an Eat-In. There is no obligation to do anything other than respect your fellow performers and audience members.

It had been a long time since I attended an Eat-In, so I was reticent at first, standing near the food, observing guests hiding behind their masks. Like most sex parties, a One Leg Up soirée gives people the freedom to check out sexual prospects, without the fear of offending someone or feeling that the gesture is inappropriate to context. The whole point of an Eat-In is to pursue your desires and act out fantasies in a safe environment. If you cross the line of respect (touching before asking), there will probably be someone eager to teach you a lesson with a well-deserved spanking.

I received a proper spanking (just because I wanted it, not for lack of respect) on a beam-like structure called a horse. My spanker (I’ll call her M) was a professional domme who knew what she was doing with a paddle. She was so friendly and considerate that I felt as though I was in the presence of a doctor or professional masseuse. I trusted my body in her hands more than I trusted any other stranger I encountered at the party. It goes without saying that Palagia (the founder of One Leg Up), has a knack for hiring professionals. Earlier in the evening, Palagia suggested I tie my love onto a swinging table suspended from the ceiling with chains. M taught me the ropes (pun intended), and introduced my love to nipple clamps. He didn’t get the pleasure at first. Then I fondled his balls as the lovely masked sprite from the elevator appeared behind him, and he seemed to forget the pain.

The Sprite had been holding our attention since we arrived. She was pretty, hungry, fresh, and ALONE. We surmised that she would be open to playing with a couple, and as the party was dominated by heterosexual couples and I was not interested in any men other than my horny prince, I broke the ice with a strawberry. The idea came to me when I was feeling like a fish out of water, having been so long away from the scene, standing next to the fruit, hesitant and almost indifferent about approaching anyone. I was feeling out of the loop of lust. Then the strawberry gave me an idea. It wasn’t so much that I desired her. I didn’t want to leave disappointed. I especially didn’t want to disappoint him. My satisfaction didn’t matter so much. I had been to dozens of orgies, and this would not be the last. I could’ve gone home without a taste, but I didn’t want to taint his initiation into the world of One Leg Up. I knew that once I committed myself to a simple physical action, lust, desire and juices would follow in flow.

“I have an idea,” I said. “Follow me.”

Tease him with ambiguity. We walked into the room with the swinging platform. A muscular dude with a low-hanging cock tucked into a leathery pouch of a g-string was splayed against the wall. Various couples were scattered around the space. I was delighted to see a lone lesbian couple playing on the platform or swing or whatever it’s called. The butch was sitting on the swing, big breasts heaving beneath her black button-down shirt, her lover wedged between her legs. The butch reminded me of my ex-girlfriend. Then the feeling washed over me—that desire for women that soars beyond mere curiosity. I turned to the Sprite.

“Excuse me,” I said. “I’m having a problem and I was wondering if you could help me.” I looked away, feeling awkward and out of practice.

She smiled.

“I have this strawberry and I want to eat it, but it’s too big for my mouth. Will you help me?”

My Prince stood behind me, watching, letting me drive the action of the play. She smiled as I offered her the strawberry. Then she took it and fed it to me. She got my gist. The strawberry passed back and forth between our mouths several times. The dance had begun.

A little later, we found her playing with the dude with the pouched cock. He had been standing against this large metal X on the wall, stroking his cock since the party began. He had been hired as part of the live entertainment, but seemed to be thoroughly enjoying his work, licking something off the Sprite’s chest. We stood casually next to them, fondling each other. She turned around and presented us with a jar of chocolate sauce made specifically for skin. She dipped her finger in it and frosted my Prince’s nipple. We both licked it off him. X-man retreated into the background. Then the Sprite, the Prince, and I spent the next several minutes frosting and licking each other: breast, nipple, navel. I’m not sure what we enjoyed more—making a mess or cleaning up.

It wasn’t long after this human fondue experiment when Palagia blew her whistle to announce “undies time.” The fact that everyone must strip down to underwear at the same time is a unique part of the Eat-In. You could probably refuse if you want, but if you were shy about wearing nothing but undies among beautiful strangers, then you wouldn’t be at this party, now would you? At an event where nothing is structured, where etiquette is understood (hopefully) and unspoken, you can always count on undies time to bring everyone together. Maybe you’ve had your eye on someone since you arrived, but you haven’t had the courage to let her know you’re interested. Now you have an excuse: “I love your panties,” you could say.

I’m shy in some ways, but when it comes to communal stripping, I’m one of the first to start. In this case, something inspired me to turn it into a show. Maybe it was the sight of my Prince and the Sprite, already demasked and disrobed, sitting on the swing. I slinked into a sensual dance, unhooking my corset slowly as if I were doing a burlesque routine. The furry skirt took at least five minutes to leave my body; before I abandoned it, it became a flag for an imaginary bull, a veil for my eyes, a mink stole for my Prince. With my hot pink panties in full view, the party was now underway…

The Sprite became our girl of the night, drifting in and out of our space, leaving, but always coming back. There was an unspoken agreement to take care of each other; our connection was sealed. The rest was foreplay. She came and went, came and went, and finally came for good against my thigh, as I sat on my Prince’s lap upon a gothic throne in the corner of the master bedroom. She stood before me and moistened my thigh with her juices, letting out a sweet moan as I squirmed in my seat. Then he fucked me on the chair. Not bad for two virgins.

The night dissolved into sweet kisses and whispers between me and my Prince. We stayed until the lights turned on. Our Sprite was gone. No more naked bodies entwined in orgiastic bliss. No more music. No more masks. As the leather was being wiped down, we marveled that just an hour ago, the carnival of desire was in full swing. It seemed as though we were departing a dream. I’m looking forward to my next erotic adventure. Next time I won’t be so shy.

FORBIDDEN KISS READING SAT NIGHT! (OCT 11)

Sorry I've been away for a while...I'm a schoolgirl again, and schoolgirls have to do serious things like go to class, read books, do homework and make movies. Even naughty schoolgirls! Seriously, grad school takes up a lot of my time, so unfortunately this blog takes a back seat. But it's not going away! My posts may be shorter and less frequent, but just as committed, my darlings. Meanwhile, I'm doing this sexy reading on Saturday night! I'll be performing a period piece about Gatsby sex on Governor's Island.

Cheers...
Stephanie


FORBIDDEN KISS
The Erotica Series

Saturday, Oct 11 at 8 pm

Stage Left Studio
438 W. 37th Street, 5A, NYC.

Performers include
Cheryl King, Alithea Howes, Ruby Marez, Delrita Doyle, Carl Kissin, Chris Hoyle, Marlene Nichols, Stephanie Sellars, Brian Longwell,
and the Bitter Poet

Tickets $18, available at www.smarttix.com
Use discount code KISS... Read More to get $5 discount.

"Cheryl King, Artistic Director of Stage Left Studio, created this theatrical erotica series in September of 2005. Cheryl hosts this show, and begins each evening's performance with a brief selection from classic erotica, such as DH Lawrence, Anais Nin, Colette and other great writers.

She then introduces, in turn, artists presenting either original or existing works. These include, but are not limited to, poetry, spoken word, scenes and monologues, dance and songs. Forbidden Kiss shows celebrate the glory of the body, its sensuality, its beauty, and its astonishing capacity for pleasure."

Bonds of Love

Remember when my ass was blue?

While Charlie was prancing around Vienna with supermodels and gay movie stars for the annual Lifeball aids benefit, I went to a Chemistry party in Brooklyn. Like I said in a previous post, it had been a long time since I attended a sex party by myself. It was the perfect time to go, with Charlie out of town surrounded by hot models. I gave him freedom to seize any sexual opportunity that came up in Vienna, and he in turn gave me his blessing to go to Chemistry and “have a great time.” I must admit it’s far easier to handle his solo sexcapades when I have an equally exciting distraction.

The Chemistry people used to host sex parties in a grand loft way out in Brooklyn, but they lost that space due to legal complications or rent or something similarly unpleasant. The party I attended recently was the inaugural event at their new location, which also happens to be way out in Brooklyn (though in a different neighborhood). After a long, irritating commute via the L train, a shuttle bus (because the L train was mechanically challenged that night), the G train and a sketchy walk along deserted garbage-lined streets, I finally arrived at the unmarked metal door that opened to Chemistry.

The first thing I saw after climbing the dank, concrete staircase was a set of prison-like bars separating the foyer from the main space. How appropriate for the theme Caged Heat. Those bars were the most interesting piece of décor in the place, which had, at first glance, the damp, rotting appearance of a basement dungeon. Directly in front of the entrance was a red-painted room with mattresses on the floor where I could see a few couples in the heat of sensual play. The other guests were sprawled out in the main area, standing, dancing, talking, or on their way somewhere with drinks in hand, just like at any ordinary party…although by the looks of their outfits, any half-aware person who walked in would’ve guessed that this was no ordinary party.

I went straight to the bathroom to change into my Caged Heat costume: a tight pink and black leopard teddy with garters, black fishnet stockings, a cat tail, cat mask, and knee-high black leather boots. The bathroom was a hole in the wall that barely locked with a hook and string, but like Clark Kent in a telephone booth, I transformed from my understated stylish self to Super Sexy Cat Woman.

From the bathroom I made a beeline for the snack table and filled myself with pita chips as I observed the scene. I recognized a few people, but most of the faces I had never seen before. Looking exclusively for female prospects, I saw no one who made my tail twitch with desire. Although nothing exciting was happening in that room, I recognized an acquaintance standing near the bars, twiddling a flogger. I had seen him tie up women at other events and I knew he was good--highly skilled and experienced in the art of ropes and BDSM. I said hi and told him I might ask him to tie me up later. I said “later” because I had just arrived and needed to warm up. I wanted to scope out the rest of the premises to see if I might come across anyone worth a mingling. So I went up the creaky wooden staircase lit by a single bulb hanging from a dusty beam on the ceiling, to a narrow second floor where a bar was set up. I got a drink from a cute bartendress then stepped out onto the roof--cracked, dismal, with not much of a view, to check out the tent set up for outdoor play. One mattress filled the tent, but no one was inside.

I slinked back inside and down the stairs. A few female faces caught my eye, but not enough to inspire me to talk to them. Instead I fell into a conversation with a guy who asked me if I was bisexual. Yes…and was I there by myself? Yes…and might I be interested in playing with his girlfriend? "Where’s your girlfriend?" I asked. She’s over there, the blonde one, he said, pointing her out. She looked okay, but I couldn’t see her face. Possibly, I said. As I usually don’t like being propositioned by men looking for threesomes, I let the conversation meander into more neutral territory. So we talked about what we did for a living and sex parties in general. Had you been to Chemistry before? Yes, several times…you? Talking began to feel extraneous. I was far more interested in my friend over by the bars. No women were stirring my juices. Now was the time to stir my own.

I excused myself, saying, “I’m going to get myself tied up.”

I walked over to my friend and said, “I’d like you to tie me up now.”

“How do you want to be tied up?” He asked.

Just hearing that question turned me on. Having seen him in action before, I trusted him completely. Trust turns me on. He was attractive and familiar--that turned me on. His cool and steady voice turned me on. His professionalism turned me on. From the moment I put myself in his hands, totally at his mercy yet completely in control, I was turned on.

I turned to face the bars and clasped my hands around the cool metal as he began to slide rope around my body. He asked me exactly how I wanted it, talking through every step. As he looped the rope around my torso, knotting and tightening along the way, my muscles tensed and relaxed in complete submission to the process, and yet I felt powerful holding onto the bars, as though I were offering myself in a sacrificial ritual. As the rope encircled my breasts, I wondered if it would’ve been better if I had removed my teddy, but I like maintaining some modesty in an exhibitionist scene. Besides, the swish sound of rope gliding along satin was erotic music to my ears. Ropes slipped between my legs, one on either side of my unexposed labia, and found their ends in a knot somewhere along my back. It was exciting to feel the tightening, the pulling, the gliding, without seeing exactly what they were doing. (Yes, they! I sensed that more than two hands were creating this web of submission; Mr. Ropes had an assistant.) Even if I had removed my mask, I wouldn’t have been able to follow every movement with my eyes. Part of the pleasure of confinement is surrendering oneself to mystery.

After most of my upper body was confined in an intricate web, Mr. Ropes asked me how I wanted to be tied to the bars. I requested both wrists and legs. When all was secure, he picked up the flogger and lightly swished it on my ass…smooth, graceful, silky thrashes that warmed my blood. There was no pain at this stage, just sensations washing over me like a warm bath or prickly grass or a Swedish massage in the sun. I don’t know how many minutes passed before I felt pain. The swishing gradually intensified…faster, harder, more concentrated. Warming became burning became pain became pleasure. The pain dissolved into pleasure with the aid of a large vibrator rolling over my body and…what’s that? Are those hands? Vibrating hands? I looked down and saw a gloved hand gliding over my body with just the right amount of pressure. How surreal. Where did it come from? Did I ask for that? It didn’t matter now. I had asked for the vibrator. With all these sensations blurring together I was beyond permission. Although I am a stickler for permission when playing with strangers at parties, there is a point in SM play when submission takes over my brain. As long as no one is hurting me more than I can tolerate, as long as no one is touching my sexual parts with bare hands, as long as no one is attempting to penetrate me without asking, I’m okay. I trusted my handlers. They were good. They knew what they were doing. And they knew what I wanted.

They knew I wanted to be punished, but they also knew I wanted to come. “Make me come with the vibrator,” I said.

I peered through the bars and saw Charlie watching me. Though he was thousands of miles away, I saw him there, stroking his cock. Several people entered and looked at me. I lifted my cat mask so I could see better, not so they could see my face. No one stayed and stared. They smiled and nodded and moved on. Even when a friend of mine showed up in a sexy cop uniform, she stopped only briefly to speak some naughty disciplinary words before she was on her way. I’m glad she didn’t stay. She was too familiar. I wanted the illusion of Charlie in front of me. I wanted the trance of sensation out of time. I wanted the soft lips of a perfumed stranger…

So many hands and sensations, so much stroking and burning, that I didn’t realize when she started touching me. I noticed a shift in caressing. At first I thought that my handlers had lightened their touch and traveled up toward my neck. But this new touch was softer, more earnest. I thought maybe it was a female I knew, maybe my sexy cop friend. Then suddenly she was kissing me. No, I don’t know these lips. My mask was back over my eyes and I was kissing these lovely lips and I couldn’t even see her face. I didn’t even know her name.

I lifted my mask. She was delicate and dark. Pretty, yet androgynous. Asian, I think. It was hard to tell with her flesh inches from my face. “Who?” I stuttered. “Whose hands…was that y—” She covered my mouth with her hand before I finished.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” she said.

I surrendered to her lips for a few more moments. Then she was gone.

Meanwhile, the vibrator was steady between my legs. It had been there for a while, but they kept missing the spot. Adjusting was a challenge. I didn’t have much space to move. My joints were starting to ache. But I had to come. I just had to!

“You can stop flogging me now…continue lightly…then stop,” I said.

Now that I was feeling more pain than pleasure from the beatings, I knew it was time to stop. At this point it occurred to me that I might have some bruises. But that was of no immediate concern. My immediate concern was to make the conditions ideal for me to achieve an orgasm.

Through my peripheral vision, I saw a woman watching me with great focus. She was pretty and femme, and she stared at me with lusty eyes. I beckoned her to come closer. She came, and without any introduction, we kissed. Slowly we leaned in. Sensually our lips pressed together. Her lips tasted sweet, like an artificially flavored cocktail.

“I would like you to make me come with the vibrator,” I purred into her ear.

I alerted my handlers. They handed it over to her and she placed it on my pussy. She would surely make me come, I thought. When it comes to vibrators, women know best. We kissed passionately as she moved the vibrating ball around my clit. I surrendered to her, but I wasn’t close to coming. Whenever I approached the first stage of ascent, the vibrator moved and I was back at square one. As hot as she was, after several minutes of this, I decided that I had to take control of this instrument.

They untied my arms and she remained my muse. I didn’t want this to end without climax. Whenever a doubt popped into my head, I pulled myself back to the buzzing, to the idea of inevitable apex, to her lips.

But kissing her was not bringing me any closer to coming. I had to put all my focus, all my energy into the instrument in my hands. Ironically, the more I focused on my goal, the more I surrendered to her in the moment. I ran my free hand through her hair, pressed my lips against her chest, now drenched in sweat. I pressed my cheek against her chest and pulled her close to me as I exploded a million miniscule beads of ecstasy into the universe.

When it was over, I kissed her and looked into her eyes. “Thank you for staying with me,” I said. She smiled.

They untied my legs and released me from the web. The untying was just as submissively arousing as the tying, but it was a different kind of surrender. I surrendered to reality. I caved in to the relief of allowing my body to return to its natural state.

Although I was still buzzing and almost bowlegged, I couldn’t have been more satisfied. I walked over to the middle of the room and chatted with a friend about the 1920s porn being screened on the wall. A girlish woman tittered with excitement while watching her friend fuck a moustached man on a picnic blanket. The fast motion and giddiness made it seem silly, but I found the scenes erotic. The naturalism of it turned me on—the big bushes, the real breasts, the scraggly clothes, and stockings, oh the stockings. Yes, I was turned on, but more in my head than in my body. Now that the pleasant burning sensation in my ass was fading, and I had no other sensations or movements to distract me, it started to hurt. I rubbed my bottom and it was tender to the touch.

I hobbled over to a ratty couch and sat. Ouch. Suddenly I felt like an old woman with arthritis. God, am I going to be blue, I thought.

The pain lasted two days. Sitting was a bitch. It throbbed and throbbed all that night and the following day. When Charlie came home on Sunday, I pulled down my pants and showed him my welts without saying a word. Then, as we made love, I narrated my experience to him. I told him how he was on the other side of the bars the entire time. I told him how the women mysteriously appeared, and that once I was released from my prison, they were gone. As if they were fantasies. I related every detail, every feeling, every sensation. Then he told me about the two glittery gold-painted models he smooched and the gay celebrity who wanted to get into his pants. I felt as if I was there. I was in two places at once. So was he. As we plunged into each other’s memories, we bonded on another plane where our separate experiences became one. Later, as Charlie rubbed arnica on my poor, blue ass, I couldn’t have been more grateful for the pain.

Encouraging Words

Dear Readers,

Sorry I've been away for a while! I've been traveling a lot this summer, adventuring in Japan for two weeks and now finishing up a week in Utah before heading back to the sexy city...I'll start posting again next week. Meanwhile, I would like to share with you a kind letter from a fan.

"I hope you don't mind this "fan letter." I've been an avid reader and supporter of your work since your first New York Press pieces. It was important to me to write this because I know from your essays and blog posts how sensitive you are to the kind of criticism that has been coming at you lately. I find it astonishing that people could think for a second that you are arrogant when you respond so thoughtfully to words obviously intended to be hurtful written by someone without the basic courage to reveal his or her identity. To be honest, in a similar situation I would have responded in kind, with the literary equivalent of a raised middle finger. You were decidedly more classy and composed.

I could praise your work a lot more, but you don't need it. Your writing makes it clear that you know your own worth. What's truly sad is that these anonymous hecklers spend their time attempting to tear you down for supposed "arrogance" instead of investigating the source of their own unhappiness. Honesty is what we all need most, and from the very beginning you have always delivered that to your readers.

Thank you for always sharing yourself so honestly."

--Darcy F.

Thank you Darcy! Stay tuned for upcoming stories on exhibitionist bondage and Part 2 of Sunday in the Park with Charlie. Also mark your calendars for a Sex Debate on Sept 28 starring yours truly. And watch The Fold!

Lust Always,
Stephanie

On Attractiveness

Recent criticism from an anonymous reader inspired me to ponder the nature of attractiveness and ego. This is not the first time I received commentary accusing me of self-absorption and / or arrogance, particularly when I write about the topic of attractiveness. Some people seem to think that because I describe unattractive people at sex parties and acknowledge my own attractiveness, that I’m an egotistical snob. I can be a snob about certain things. I’m not going to deny that. I’m especially a snob about style, art, and culture. And grammar. Don’t I have impeccable grammar? As for the ego—it exists in everyone. So why not embrace it?

Ego is a problem when it blinds one to others; one becomes obsessed with oneself to the point where others don’t exist as more than mirrors to that person’s ego. A truly egotistical person is obsessed with proving one’s talents and abilities to others, and is so wrapped up in this mission that she is incapable of seeing people for who they are (this, too, is subjective; I mean the egotist is incapable of seeing others more objectively, without the self projecting “What can I do to make this person worship me? Me? And Me?”), making it impossible for her to give anything out of compassion or selflessness. The egotist is incapable of genuine generosity. The egotist is unattractive.

When I describe my attractiveness, I feel like I am outside of myself. I step outside of my ego and observe the effect I have on others. If people are drawn to me for whatever reason, I am attracting them. Therefore I am attractive. They may be attracted to my looks, my personality, my energy. It doesn’t matter what it is. If I were famous, I would attract certain people solely for that reason. If I brought drugs to a party, I would attract others for that reason alone. The point is that attractiveness boils down to either an innate quality or something you possess. People either want you or they want something you have. Simple logic. That’s one level of attractiveness.

The other level is subjectivity. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. That’s the most wonderful cliché in the world. It means you could be the ugliest person in the universe and someone will find you beautiful. But if you’re ugly and mean, the chances are slim. Unless you run into a masochist. But the masochist may be attracted for egocentric reasons; only the most disgusting people turn him on because deep, deep down he hates himself. When I say someone is unattractive, that means the person is unattractive to me. Why is it arrogant to admit that? And why is it arrogant to acknowledge one’s own attractiveness? This seems to offend a lot of people. It’s such a taboo to say, “I’m hot and I know it.” Yet it’s okay for women to gripe about their weight or say, “I’m ugly” because it inspires compassion in others. You want to say, “No you’re not. You have a lot of attractive qualities…” You feel sorry for them. How sad! Such victims of society’s high standards of beauty! You want to be the Mother Theresa of American pageantry, reach out and say, “That’s not true. You’re not ugly unless you say you are. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.” But when someone, especially a woman, acknowledges her beauty, how quick people are to tear her down and scream, “How dare you! How self-absorbed! That makes people who are less attractive than you feel bad!” Do you think I’m so one-dimensional that I must boast of my beauty to prove something? The embracing of one’s finer qualities is not always a reflection of conceit. The nature of the self and attractiveness is fascinating to me and it gives me pleasure to observe these elements of human nature at play, in others as well as in myself.

So now you think I’m a bitch for knocking women who complain about their looks. As an honest writer, I must anticipate such reactions. And I feel compelled to point out that attractiveness has more to do with energy and personality than appearance. But to deny the importance of appearance is inauthentic. Not to mention ridiculous. Naturally, I’m attracted to beautiful faces and gorgeous bodies. But not every beauty is beautiful. Out of all the people I’ve dated, only a few have been physical beauties. I’ve had sexual encounters with men many women would call unattractive. Older men. Flabby men. Men with bad teeth. But there was something, or several things I found attractive about them, and therefore deemed them worthy of my sexual generosity.

On the other hand, sex parties are playgrounds where people explore their sexual fantasies. You may be in love with a plain Jane or Joe, but the characters in your fantasy look more like Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt. (Neither of whom I find very attractive, by the way. Maybe it’s due to media overexposure. Or because their aura of perfection is boring to me. Anyway, that says something about the relativity of physical attractiveness.) So you and Jane go to this party and are naturally drawn to the guests who look most like your fantasy couple. Do you bother to get to know the pock-faced girl and her pot-bellied date? Most likely not. In other contexts you might make the effort, and after getting to know them, find them attractive. But not at first glance. At sex parties, there isn’t time to get to know people and develop crushes based on extended interactions that allow their attractiveness to expand and grow on you. So why waste time on getting to know people at a sex party? Of course I want to feel some kind of connection and feel safe with the people I choose to play with, but the point is to find people who appeal to my fantasies. Because I’m not there to look for a mate. Unless I’m among friends, I’m there to seek pleasure without any expectations to see these partners again.

Even after acknowledging the superficial nature of orgies, I feel I am open to people who don’t physically fall into my usual standards of attractiveness. The usual, for me, includes dark haired, dark complexioned handsome men with gorgeous dark eyes, men who mysteriously straddle the fine line between hyper-masculinity and feminineness. I don’t have a height preference—anywhere between 5’4’’and 6’ appeals to me. I like men who are in shape, lean and toned but not super-buff. With women I’m generally attracted to super-femme beauties that exude masculine energy as well as tomboys and butch dykes with pretty and/or cute faces. Androgeny is hot, regardless of gender. I like petite women with small breasts, but I’m also drawn to larger, voluptuous women with big natural breasts because they are such a contrast to me. I’m far more tolerant of body fat in women than in men; large women can be sexy, whereas large men are simply large. In both sexes, clear skin, nice teeth, great smiles, and balanced features are constant winners. Those are my physical preferences. There are always exceptions.

Sometimes it surprises me who I end up offering myself to. Since I desire connection and I want to feel safe at parties, after evaluating physical attributes I move on to the following: hygiene, energy, and attitude. Within a few minutes of interaction I have a pretty good idea whether someone is open or prude, honest or inauthentic, intelligent or vacuous, respectful or rude. And it doesn’t take more than ten seconds to determine whether the subject has washed his ass at least once in the past two days. Are you relatively secure with yourself? Do you know what you want? Do you have integrity? Are you interesting? Are you sane? If so, there’s a good chance I’ll overlook your less than stellar physique, your bald spot, your crooked nose. In exchange, you may find substance behind my pretty face. But if you want to fuck me for my looks, I don’t blame you. That’s what fantasies are for.

Did I say I was pretty? How dare I! I must be self-absorbed. When I shared my concerns with a fellow artist, he said, “That’s a criticism? I would take it as a compliment!” After further discussion, I came to the conclusion that any artist who creates from the well of personal experience is bound to some degree of self-absorption. Oscar Wilde said, “…the realization of oneself is the prime aim of life, and to realize oneself through pleasure is finer than to do so through pain”. He also said, “To become a spectator of one’s own life is to escape the suffering of life.” There is nothing objective about being human. So I look at myself “objectively” through the eyes of others. My intention is not to escape suffering, but invariably when I step out of my narrow self-perception, I feel more open and connected to the universe.

Unfortunately, I also happen to be sensitive to criticism (especially when it’s an attack on my character), so I obsessed about the anonymous critic who wrote these comments. Is it someone I know? Maybe it’s someone I met recently, possibly a writer I met at Yaddo (because the comments were so well-written). My fellow artist suggested that this commentator is probably female, because how often do men complain about women who shamelessly acknowledge their attractiveness, especially one who writes openly about her sex life? And if this commentator is a female, she’s probably insecure or jealous or envious or all of the above, and projecting her ideas about self-image onto my writing. Then again, maybe the person is a dirty old man getting back at me for snubbing him five years ago.

Whoever you are, I’m glad my Club Tantra experience got you so riled up. That means I’m doing something interesting with this blog. But arrogant! Please. Maybe if you knew how ugly I felt for years, that I didn’t have a boyfriend until I was eighteen, and that at my high-school reunion, a guy said snidely, “Since when did you become gorgeous?” you would read my words differently. Maybe now that I’ve revealed these secrets, you will understand why I embrace my attractiveness. And it’s not because I’m beautiful, dammit! It’s because I’ve learned to accept myself.

One more thing: any reader who chooses to call me arrogant and self-absorbed and doesn’t have the dignity to identify herself (or if she knows me personally, doesn’t have the balls to speak to my face) deserves to be spanked. I’ll gladly do the honor and hope she enjoys it.

Club Tantra: My Experience, Unabridged 5

After the porn scene, Charlie and I wanted to be alone. We returned to our original room, which was still empty. The side of the bed that we had claimed earlier was just as we had left it. While we were making love, Mr. Sputter Mouth and his date barged in, talking obliviously as though they were in a mall and had wandered into a new store. Do you think they cared that they were invading our space? Charlie and I, in perfect synchronicity, kindly asked them to leave. They did, without even the suggestion of an apology.

A few moments later, Anton popped his head in and informed us that the closing circle would be starting in a few minutes. No rush, he said, just letting you know. We didn’t mind. I revved up my engine and we came with enough time to rinse before returning to the main room.

The remaining guests were gathered on the floor. Anton led the closing Puja, an informal discussion of the evening’s activities with complaints and suggestions encouraged so that Club Tantra could continue to evolve. I made a point about the lack of condoms and such, which Anton accepted with agreement and understanding. “I don’t know what happened there,” he said. He seemed to have forgotten this minor detail in the rush of preparation. At least the catering was well done, I thought, as I nibbled on a mini turkey sandwich. To make up for the latex oversight, I give Club Tantra four stars for their fine selection of food and wine. Charlie suggested that the opening Puja include interaction between the women and men separately. That way everyone would be introduced to both sexes. Good point.

Although the party was officially over, Anton encouraged us to stay as long as we wished. There was plenty of space for sleeping if anyone wanted to stay overnight. We had no intention to stay over, but we weren’t quite ready to leave.

So we mingled with Blondie and her man. She was a Queens girl, accent and all. Charlie was fascinated with her nipples; they were enormous. The piercing makes them grow, she said. I winced when she told us that she was planning on piercing her clit, which meant she wouldn’t be able to have sex for a month. She was sexy in a trashy sort of way, although I found her boyfriend uninspiring. They were going to go into the other room to shoot a scene. Did we want to come?

Although I wasn’t really in the mood for more live porn, I went along, because, well, how often am I presented with this opportunity? The pornographer allowed us to shoot again. They wanted their faces shown. They were even skankier than we thought! (I respect the porn industry, but these improvised scenes were a bit too sleazy for my taste.)

When I gave up the camera, Charlie and I started making out. She leaned over me so I could suck on her tits. She wanted to lick my pussy. As tempting as it was, I refused. I told Charlie later that I didn’t want to take the risk, recalling her spitting and ungloved ass-fucking earlier. Seasoned swingers as they were, they didn’t seem to be very conscientious about safe sex. Who knows how often they get tested? I would have considered being more sexual with them only after having a frank discussion about their STD status. Even then, I would have demanded a dental dam. It was hot though, fooling around with her while she was being filmed. (Charlie and I remained off camera, so don’t even try to find us online!)

The pornographer eventually asked us to leave, for our presence was beginning to disrupt the shoot. We weren’t at all offended. We found an empty room, made a dry spot for ourselves, and had one last lovemaking session to wrap up our Club Tantra experience.

So the party as a whole was far from Tantric. Would we go again? Sure. Club Tantra has enough for any sexual adventurer to enjoy: tango, Puja, sexy surroundings and a fine host. Add some safer sex practices, screen the members, and save the cameras for another party. Otherwise, I would call it something else, like Club Kinky, or Last Tango in Porn City. As long as the organizers are open to improvement, Club Tantra may evolve into something I would be proud to frequent. I wish Anton and company the best in creating new possibilities for group sex in the city.

Grade: C

Club Tantra: My Experience, Unabridged 4

A room of our own. It didn’t belong to us. Nothing was familiar. Anyone could have walked in at any moment. And yet we owned it. We owned it. We owned it.

We owned it because we were there. Not resentfully there like the girl who disappeared. Not fearfully there like the woman who painted her face. Not almost there like we were in my bed a few days before. No. We were both there. Same time, same place. There.

Time for another adventure. From the corridor of lust, we peeked into another room. The pornographer we met earlier (before the tango lesson) was shooting a scene between Kinka and the blonde in garters. Our host was assisting with this amateur Penthouse performance. Someone handed him a dildo and a leather strap-on. He helped Blondie put on the harness and adjust the dildo.

Is it clean? I was waiting for someone to produce a condom. Wishful thinking.

Blondie spit on Kinka’s pussy. There was blood on the sheets. Spit and blood and various other excretions. No gloves. It was like watching an abortion in a third-world country. And it was all being captured on film for this guy’s website. Charlie and I watched in disgusted fascination. In spite of the sordidness we were witnessing, we liked the pornographer. He was focused and professional, intelligent and down-to-earth. He asked me if I would shoot while he adjusted the lighting.

No faces. Breasts. Pan the torso. Thighs. Close-up on the dildo going in and out...

Charlie shot some scenes as well. We weren’t the least bit aroused. Not our idea of tantra, but nonetheless an experience to be embraced. Now I can add pornographer to my resume. I guess I won’t be running for City Council next election.

Club Tantra: My Experience, Unabridged 3

After the massage, Charlie and I wandered through the corridor of lust, peeking into the rooms prepared for play. We walked into an empty room. Half the bed was soaking wet. We suspected Mr. Vinyl and his girlfriend (who was wearing the same dress, in white) were responsible for the mess, for we heard some butt-whacking, pussy-clenching screams earlier.

As we surveyed the room, we noticed there were no condoms or lube or any safe sex supplies in sight. Of course we brought our own necessities, but what a turn-off! Such accoutrements are standard protocol at every reputable swinger / public sex event. Their absence here was a sign that something was amiss. Still, we were here. So we covered the wetness with pillows and melted into each other on the clean part of the bed. Then we made love, healing our bruised hearts in the soft red glow of that unfamiliar room.

As we were basking in each other, Mr. Hunky and his girlfriend walked in. He asked if we minded.

“Not at all. Please stay,” I said.

We warned them about the wet spot on the bed. Then we cuddled and kissed while discreetly observing the newcomers. I watched them as they stood at the edge of the bed, undressing. He was soft-spoken and admirably considerate, alternating between seducing her and pacifying her nerves. She hardly uttered a word and never smiled. She was silent as he lowered her down next to us. They had beautiful bodies, classically ideal male / female archetypes. Her pleasantly tan skin shimmered in the rosy lighting. I observed her silence, the contours of her self-conscious form.

As he kissed around her pussy, he said, “I love it when you shave.”

Although I am not a fan of bald pussies, his preference and desire for her shaved twat turned me on. Her nervous submission turned me on. I wanted to experience something with them.

Just then the other young couple walked in and asked if they could join us. “It’s okay with me,” I said. Charlie added his non-verbal consent.

No one else responded. But it didn’t seem okay with her. The new couple began making out in a corner. A vague discomfort permeated the room. A few minutes later, they were gone. I’m not sure what happened. Mr. Hunky may have said something. Or maybe they left of their own accord because they didn’t feel welcome. People come and go at orgies, and it’s not always clear what makes them move. It boils down to communication and energy. Sometimes a change in energy is enough to make a point.

Charlie and I were on the same wavelength; we knew, without a word, that we had to initiate slowly with them. Mr. Hunky was far more amenable, but it was up to her. It was up to her and me. It’s always up to the women in group-sex situations. She opened her eyes and looked over at us a few times. So virginal in her curiosity! So unspoiled by the scene! She needed nurturing from a soft woman’s lips, the lips of someone who accepted her trepidation and allowed her to hold the reins in her silent, submissive way.

“May I kiss you?” I asked, kneeling next to her at a respectable distance.

She looked at me and nodded. Her kisses were soft and sweetly wet.

“I like the way you kiss,” I said.

She didn’t smile or react in any other way. She was so passive; I wasn’t quite sure what she was feeling. I wanted to move onto her breasts, but she closed her eyes and disappeared. I reclined to our side of the bed and relaxed as Charlie licked my pussy.

I watched them closely, even when I wasn’t looking. I watched them with my body, aligning their rhythms to my own sensations.

If I focus on someone else’s sexual experience, I am able to manipulate my own progression as a mirror to what I am witnessing, similar to the way in which a cerebral fantasy can direct one’s solitary journey through masturbation. In this case, I was focusing on Mr. Hunky’s experience. She was merely a vessel for his pleasure as I imagined his lust for me. Or maybe I didn’t imagine it. We had an intense connection during the Puja. Now our eyes connected again as he was fucking her and Charlie was bringing me to orgasm with his tongue. In my sexual mind, Charlie had become an aid for my connection to this stranger man. It wasn’t about Charlie and me. Nor was it about the female statue at my side. It was all about this beautifully subtle, soul connection between Mr. Hunky and me. We knew and understood each other completely in those moments, and nothing else mattered. I whispered a few standard lines to Charlie, while looking askance at Mr. Hunky. “My pussy is so wet…” and “It feels so good…” Mr. Hunky, in turn, uttered a few comments about her: “I love the way your pussy feels…”

Our consideration for our partners stopped when our conscious selves were no longer in control. No matter what we said or did, our partners weren’t included in the energy exchange that flowed through his hand clasping mine. It was as though he was fucking me, not her! I wanted to come for him. I offered my fingers to his mouth and he sucked with passion. Our eyes locked as orgasm ascended from the depths of my being…

“I’m coming…watch me come!” I said to him, squeezing his hand.

Afterward, we looked at each other. He smiled at me. I looked down at Charlie and thanked him. I looked back up at them and noticed that she had ceased responding to his thrusts. She had seen something she didn’t want to see.

“What’s going on? Are you okay?” He asked her in his soft, considerate voice. “Do you want me to lick your pussy?”

I don’t remember what else he said, but I’ll never forget the stone-cold look on her face. I’ll never forget how deliberately she extracted herself from him, how stoically she walked over to her clothes and started dressing. He followed her and tried to placate her, tried to find the source of her distance. He knew what it was, I’m sure, but he wanted to hear it from her. “Talk to me,” he said.

It was sad to watch this scene. She was so removed that he couldn’t bring her back. But she wasn’t really there to begin with. He gathered the remainder of their clothes and escorted her out. A few minutes later, he returned alone.

“I’m sorry about that,” he said. “She’s…never done this before…”

“That’s okay…I understand,” I said.

“It’s okay,” Charlie concurred.

Poor Mr. Hunky. How much more considerate could he have been?

“It was nice meeting you,” he said. “Enjoy the rest of your night.”

Then he left us to ourselves, to imagine the silent conversations that would inevitably ensue between them.

Club Tantra: My Experience, Unabridged 2

After the Puja, a few experienced couples went off to get freaky in the bedrooms down the hall, while most people sat around the main space, waiting for something to happen.

Charlie and I sat on the floor next to Mr. Hunky and his girlfriend, with the intention to gauge her interest in women. I tried to initiate contact with her, but she cowered close to her man. She appeared uncomfortably shy and ambivalent about being there. I suspected that he had convinced her to try this out, but once she arrived, the reality was far too strange and intimidating for her to relax and be present.

Anton produced some massage cream and said, “Somebody could make use of this rug…any one of you lovely ladies?” Guess who took up that offer? As soon as I sprawled out on the faux animal rug, the energy in the room shifted. Anton had been massaging Anya on a table. He came over and offered to massage my arm, while Charlie massaged my ass. When I turned over on my back, I felt many eyes scanning my flesh. Mr. Sputter Mouth asked if he could join. “No, thank you.” A few more men made offers, which I promptly declined. I requested Mr. Hunky to massage my leg. Then I asked Frenchie, who seemed unassumingly hungry for attention, “Est-ce que tu peux masser mon pied, s’il te plait?”

Those who were not directly involved in my massage seemed otherwise inspired by my initiative. Although I was in my own world, I sensed observation and movement around me; people were either enraptured by the scene unfolding before them, or beginning to create their own scenes. Charlie informed me later that everyone in that room was focused on me. A balding new-agey guy spilling fat from his open robe gave me a huge compliment: “It’s wonderful watching you and your man interact…you’ve got something magical between you…it’s beautiful.”

I always attract attention at sex parties, without much intention to do so. Ego aside, I am aware of the effect of my looks, my actions, my choices. I’m aware of my power to create a scene that will naturally transform into the most exciting attraction at the party. Maybe it’s because I do things that others are afraid of doing; I take initiative when I seem to be a wallflower and people are shocked at my unexpected boldness. Maybe it’s because I’m not obviously doing it for them, even though I know that my actions will be noticed. I am fully aware, but at the same time I don’t care. Perhaps that’s what leaves them in awe. If I were to act as though I were performing, I imagine they would be less interested, and possibly even annoyed. I would be quite the critic if I were watching myself perform to get attention.

The same thing happens when Charlie and I are at a party together. It seems that everyone wants to play with us. Maybe it’s because we are often among the most attractive people present. More than that though, I believe it is our comfort with each other, and our combined sexual energy that make us so desirable. We are, individually, highly sexual beings. Together, the dynamic is magnetic. People want us with envy. We turn down many requests. We are there for our own pleasure with the intention to find a couple or a woman or two who satisfy our eyes and complement our energy. We are there for each other; everything else is candy. And we eat only the finest truffles.

More to come...

Club Tantra: My Experience, Unabridged

The word “tantra” inspires visions of breathing through the chakras, full-body orgasms and spiritual oneness with a partner. So when Charlie and I set out for a night at Club Tantra, we expected to fuse our breath with some sexy people, exchange spiritual energy through sensual touch then make love in an orgiastic mass of soul-buzzing bodies. Instead, we got a tango lesson, bad hygiene, and amateur porn. Not that the evening didn’t have its tantric moments. It just didn’t quite live up to our expectations.

The tango lesson, though not tantric, was a beautiful introduction. Anton, the founder of Club Tantra, and his partner, who I will call Kinka, demonstrated the Argentine tango, which is arguably the sexiest dance in the world when done well. Watching Anton and Kinka dance was incentive enough to learn the sensual moves. Anton, who is also a former professional dancer and dance teacher, taught the basic steps. It was a wonderful opening act - not only did it stir up sensuality between the couples, it loosened our bodies and promoted social interaction, prepping us for the more intimate Puja.

The Puja is a sort of spiritual ice-breaker in which the participants connect through body language and communication exercises. Following the dance lesson, Anton and his lovely assistant Anya, dressed in a red lace body-suit, picked up a couple of mics and instructed us to form two concentric circles—women on the inside, facing their male partners on the outside.

To paraphrase Anton: “Look at your partner, gaze into your partner's eyes and feel all the love you have for him or her, send him or her all your love and gratitude that you are feeling in this moment…now men, look at your partner, take her in, and notice something about her body that you haven't noticed before...now ladies, notice something about your man that you’ve haven’t noticed before...” Dimple on my nose? You know, your earlobes are attached. I never noticed that. Wow.

The Puja continued with the rotation of men. With each new partner came a new exercise. Some were more inspiring than others (both partners and exercises). For example: “Find something attractive about your partner...then compliment them on that attractive part.” Nice and easy if you’re facing someone attractive. Or: “Touch your partner, stroke them, whatever you feel, however you want...” I don’t want to touch this person! Nor do I want him to touch me! Of course we didn’t have to touch the person, but the suggestion encourages people who may not think to ask before touching. Charlie and I agreed that this idea was ill conceived for making people feel safe among strangers (i.e. lecherous men).

Many of the Puja connections were forgettable, but a few left lasting impressions on me…

“The man standing before you is the man you've been waiting for your whole life...he can give you all the love you've ever desired, everything you’ve ever wanted and needed from a man, he can give you, everything you’ve ever wanted from your father, your brother, and your lovers…you’ve been waiting for him your whole life, and now he is here right in front of you.”

The man standing before me was at least 30 years my senior, so the father part was believable. Although I had no sexual attraction to him, I was somehow able to put myself in a state in which I believed all the things Anton suggested he was to me. It involved looking at him in a way so that I wasn't focused on one eye at the expense of the other. (Notice, the next time you make intense eye-contact with someone, that your eyes tend to go back and forth between that person’s eyes, seeking clear vision. However, if you allow yourself to gaze without manipulating your eyes through the uncomfortable blurriness, you can see the whole person.) This is called soulgazing. The eyes of this man who I had never met before, told me a story of loneliness and longing. I felt that he either had a wife who died, or that he never had a woman look at him the way I was looking at him. His eyes were wet. I felt profound love and compassion for him in those moments. I was everything to him and he was everything to me. Then we rotated and I never saw him again.

Charlie and I exchanged stories. I told him about the guy in a tight vinyl corset dress. I had to find one attractive part of him and say something about it. He was pasty and goofy-looking, with crooked teeth and blond hair all over his body. After he told me in expressive eloquence that I was beautiful with lovely features and gorgeous skin, I said matter-of-factly, "You have nice legs." This was all I could say, after looking him up and down. That was the truth. I meant it, in spite of his effeminate pose and clownish, expectant grin. He did indeed have nice, muscular legs. I appreciated them and silently wished him all the pleasure he desired that had nothing to do with me.

Then there was the guy who couldn't shut up. He had to comment on everything. "You look great...you're gorgeous...really...is this your first time here? Great, great, you look beautiful...love the outfit...it looks really sexy on you…did you come with your boyfriend? He’s a lucky guy…have a great time..." It was uncomfortably clear that he was overcompensating for his social awkwardness. I forget what we were supposed to do with each other, but whatever it was, he sputtered through it with forced interjections, as if he felt the need to impress me with compliments. As if he believed simply being there with me wasn't enough. It would've been enough for me. It would've been more than enough. I was as present as I could be, but by the time he moved on to the next poor woman, I had had enough.

Charlie told me about his experience with a woman who was so uncomfortable she couldn't look at him for more than two seconds at a time. She was overweight and unattractive, but physical flaws were the least of her problems. The issue was her red lipstick stretching so far beyond the lines of her lips that she looked like a scary clown. But even more disturbing than her poor make-up skills was the way she darted her eyes around in frenetic frenzy. They were supposed to look into each other's eyes. She was incapable of doing so. It turned out she was Mr. Sputter Mouth’s date. We couldn't help imagining the dysfunctional nature of their relationship. We didn’t imagine it for long.

So there were some unattractive people at this event. That’s what happens when there is no screening process at a sex party. If you pay to become a member of Club Tantra, you’re in. The lack of selectivity is great for diversity (a roomful of supermodels is far less interesting to me), but it risks creating an unsafe environment. Physical attractiveness is not the problem--that's subjective. I'm referring to people's energy and behavior. In unscreened group sex situations, you can't trust that everyone has the integrity to respect personal boundaries, even if rules are presented before the fun begins.

So we used our own screens to filter out the inexperienced, the disrespectful, the inauthentic undesirables, leaving us with two prospective couples in our age range:

1. A cute blonde in a pink and black garter get-up and her Latin boyfriend.
2. A poetically handsome hunky guy and his shy, sandy-haired Eastern European (or Russian) girlfriend.

I connected with the handsome hunk during the Puja, when for a few minutes I became the woman of his dreams. There was one other person who I was mildly interested in—a single French guy—young, cute, and quietly normal. I was interested in him for linguistic reasons. I could whisper les gross mots to him and no one else would understand. They would say to themselves, “Wow, she speaks French. That’s sexy.” Then they would want me even more. And to be perfectly French, I wouldn’t offer them one little morceau.

Charlie was also attracted to Kinka—cute, sweet, sexy and a little bit dirty. I knew her and felt connected to her through Anton. She was keen on both of us…a sprightly little flirt.

The Puja closed with the mutual feeding of aphrodisiac chocolates. After going through all those men, I was thrilled to be facing Charlie again. Charlie, my love! It seemed like we had just returned from parallel trips that we embraced and endured separately to grow as individuals and come back more grateful than ever that we have each other. I gazed into his eyes. Then he licked chocolate off my nipple.

To be continued...

Sunday in the Park With Charlie

Sexually speaking, there are two types of people - those who have fantasies and those who live them. It is certainly easier to be in the latter category when you have a partner who shares your sense of erotic adventure. So when I told Charlie I had been fantasizing about being taken by him in a natural setting such as a park, taken from behind in broad daylight as I lean against a tree with my dress up over my ass, while people are picnicking unaware beyond a cluster of bushes, invisible but near enough to hear a muffled orgasmic moan, he said, "Mmmmmmm...let's make it happen."

I had it all planned out in my head. We were going to a 1920s Lawn Party at Governor's Island on Sunday. I knew exactly what I would be wearing, and I knew that he would be looking dapper in rolled up shirtsleeves and parted hair.

Ragingly horny beneath our Gatsby-like decorum...we take a stroll, arm in arm, in search of a discreet patch of grass where we may satisfy our desires. We find the perfect place just when I realize I have to pee from all the wine and lemonade I drank at the picnic. Alas, there are no public restrooms. Just as I'm about to tell him I'm going to do it behind the tree, he grabs me and kisses me passionately. When I break away I feel some pee escape. Giddy with love and vague intoxication, I hold up my dress and let it go, releasing a hot stream right through my vintage black lace panties. Although I didn't mean to wet myself, I'm not embarrassed. I like the way it feels, and I like it even more because he's watching me and seems to be enjoying my performance. I can tell from the bulge in his seersucker pants. When I'm finished peeing, he approaches me and slips his hand between my legs. He rubs the wet silk over my pussy and moans as he begins to stroke himself.

I back up toward the tree. He turns me around and pulls my panties down to my white stocking calves. The next thing I'm aware of is a wet knob of flesh rubbing against my ass. I know he wants to be inside me. My pussy is aching for penetration. The risk of someone or several someones strolling our way, along with our covert style of public pleasure arouses me even more than if we were doing the same thing privately naked at home in our bed. So I bend over and push him into me and he fucks me ravenously as I use the tree for support. Maybe he pisses on my ass before he enters me. Maybe I play with myself and come with my cheek against the bark. Or maybe he finds the angle cumbersome or someone almost sees us, so he pulls out and whisks me around. Through discreet whisperings of desire, we find a more secluded spot in a thicket where he lays his jacket down before I collapse on the grass bed. There he screws me in a passionate frenzy, our rhythms reflecting every erotic moment we have lived before, in another time, another place, another body. We may be the stars of a vintage silent porn film that a 21st century libertine will watch at a sex party in 2008. He thrusts me into ecstasy and a few moments later pulls out and shoots his timeless load all over my cunt.

Chronology and details may vary, but in every version of this fantasy, one thing never changes: my stockings and shoes never come off.

Ten Years Ago

A college reunion is a useful prescription for nostalgia, but it has many side effects.

1. AMNESIA: On Friday night, my gay college friend Alec regaled our group with tales of yesteryear, such as the time he and I approached a frat house with the intention to partake in the cultural activities therein, and we were unceremoniously rejected. According to Alec, I sat down on the curb in front of the house. When a frat brother approached to shoo us away, I said, "Why do you assume I'm waiting for you to let us in? Maybe I'm just looking at the stars." Of course I was being snide. I don't remember this at all. Alec remembered incidents with startling detail, names and faces and conversations that had long ago disappeared into the bleak blankness of my confused youth. My other friends, though equally shocked at Alec's superhuman recall, still remembered far more than I did. "Oh my God! I have amnesia!" I announced. I remember more about my year abroad than my three years at Gettysburg. Maybe it's because I spent five years writing a book about that year abroad. Maybe it's because I remember what I don't want to forget.

2. NAUSEA: It wasn't just the Farnsworth Inn Civil War-Era Game Pie that tied my stomach in knots. It was the annoying couples with children who set up diaper stations wherever they pleased. (You look familiar, but I'm not acknowledging you because you have nothing to do with baby. Look at us though, just look at us! We showed up for the class photo just to prove that we came but we're skipping all the socials. No need for socials when you're a happy parent. Socials are for those sad people who don't have babies. Baby is everything! Nothing else matters! Who are you, and why don't you have a baby?) It was the young alumni who look exactly the same. They looked forty in college; ten years later, they still look forty. It was the class of 1983's unplugged version of Jimmy Buffet. It was the visual overdose of khaki pants and polo shirts. It was a middle-aged frat boy hitting on my married friend. It was the poster of Carson Kressley in the library (class of '91) juxtaposed with the LGBT reception of three: two plus me. It was feeling like I was the only one who had significantly evolved since college.

3. DISORIENTATION: I can't be fully self-expressed here. I haven't passed out a single "Lust Life" flyer. I didn't belong here then and I sure as hell don't belong here now. I belong with the other outcasts who never set foot on campus again since graduation, let alone consider attending a reunion. But if that were true, why am I here? I guess I belong in a bizarre sort of non-belonging way. My God, that was another lifetime.

4. EMBARRASSMENT: On Saturday afternoon, I attended the GALA (Gay and Lesbian Alumni) reception, naively hoping I would meet a young, sexy queer woman to invite back to the B&B. Sadly, only two other alums showed up - a gay man from the class of '58 and a lesbian from the class of '73. They talked about how challenging it was to be gay at Gettysburg when they were students. I told them I didn't even know I was bisexual at the time. I had attractions, but I repressed them. Even in the late nineties, queers were invisible at this predominantly straight, conservative college. Alec dated every gay guy on campus. I think he had three student lovers (wait, make that two; one was a college employee). Although the GALA event was embarrassing for the college, it was the highlight of my reunion. I met two fabulously fascinating people, including one former film critic for the LA Times. When I make my feature film, I'll send him a copy.

5. REGRET: Why did I go to this school? What on earth was I thinking? If I had to do it all over again, I would've transferred to...If I had to do it all over again, I would've applied to...If I had gone to a liberal university in an urban environment or a small women's college, I probably would've tasted pussy a lot sooner.

6. LUST: At the Saturday Night All-Campus Alumni Dance, a sorority chick flirted with me. She told me her husband thought I was hottest thing on the dance floor.

"Who is your husband?" I asked.

She pointed him out. I went right up to him and introduced myself.

"My wife's an asshole," he said.

I pretended not to know what he was talking about. "I think she's great," I said. "You married her."

I left him alone. A little later, she came up behind me and grinded against my ass. "That's for my husband," she said.

We bonded at one of the picnic table bars. "You know, if you're going to be with the same person for fifty years, you have to flirt," she said. "You can't just ignore that part...you know?"

"Oh, I know. I have a boyfriend, but we have an open relationship. We have certain agreements."

I almost told her I was bisexual. I decided to make a move instead. So I started dancing with her. I took her hands and she slipped right into the grinding thing again. I imagined she did more than grinding with her sorority sisters and she misses that now that she's married to a man.

"My husband's not here, so it doesn't matter," she said.

"Oh yeah?" I turned to face her. "You mean it doesn't matter because I'm a girl..."

"You're cute," she giggled.

"You like girls..." I said.

She smiled. I probed further, "Your husband would enjoy this, wouldn't he?"

"Oh yes, he would..."

That's as far as it went. I wasn't that into her. My flirtation was more for the novelty of seducing a sexually repressed straight woman. And to make a point about my sexuality. (Look at me! I like girls! I didn't admit it in college, but now I do!) And because I was missing my lust life at home where I'm not starving for lack of sexy queer women.

7. NOSTALGIA: On Saturday night, my friends and I sang our alma mater while watching fireworks rain shrapnel over Memorial Field. We all learned something that night. None of us ever knew that patch of grass behind the Bullet Hole snack bar was called Memorial Field. Isn't it wonderful? College education never ends. As softly the evening shadows are veiling the campus towers...ah, beloved Gettysburg! (Some side effects reflect the original symptom.)

8. RECONCILIATION: If I hadn't gone to Gettysburg, I wouldn't have met the fabulous friends who helped me survive my ten year reunion. If I had gone to NYU or Sarah Lawrence or Bryn Mawr, I probably would've conformed to the artsy open-minded norm and developed into a cliche feminist dyke. Or I would've felt lost and transferred to a more familiar school like Gettysburg. It doesn't really matter now, does it? One thing is certain: if I hadn't gone to Gettysburg, you wouldn't be reading this blog. A good story is always worth the price of regret.

Pain in the Ass, Peace in My Heart

What do you do when your ass is all blue?

A whole lotta Arnica and extra padding on the desk chair. Forget the pain relievers. I don't want to relieve the pain. This pain is my inspiration, my incentive, my story. This pain is for you.

It had been a long time since I attended a sex party by myself. At least six months. In fact, it had been a long time since I had been to a sex party at all...about four months. I took care of the latter with a trip to Club Tantra with Charlie last weekend. We became members back in the fall, and finally, finally made it to one of these events, after they moved into a new space and changed their policies and inexplicably left us off the mailing list. Meanwhile Charlie wanted to explore polyamory and I wasn't sure because it was all so old yet frightfully new and every mention of the p word or a date with another woman were like little knives in my heart. After I realized this was not what I wanted, I uncharacteristically spewed out my feelings uncensored and raw, throwing my truth onto his highway in the middle of rush-hour traffic. I could've made it unscathed or crawled away broken and left a part of myself to die at the side of the road. When you're already trembling, the worst possible consequences don't seem quite as scary. You either close your eyes and jump, not knowing where you will land, or stoke the volcano inside, which never did anyone any good. My love was at stake. It was time to jump.

"I can offer you so much! I can offer you me and threesomes and group sex and parties and kink and fantasies and all the sexual exploration you desire and more, but if you want to date other people and have other romantic relationships without me, I can't handle that right now. If that is what you want I respect that and I support you theoretically, but emotionally I don't support it. I can't explain it, it doesn't make sense, but this is how I feel. If you want to date other people one-on-one right now, I'm removing myself from the equation."

Through the quakes of our breath he uttered, "Stephanie, I want to be with you."

You could say I gave him an ultimatum. I hate ultimatums. The person on the receiving end is trapped in the ultimater's either/or with no real choice. But the universe works in magical ways. Just as I was stacking my cards of clarity and desire, he was thinking about the tryst he had experienced the night before. Lovely, but empty. Functional, but uninspired. Our epiphanies converged with perfection. My truth clarified his truth so he did not have to stop and think and weigh the options before choosing me and everything else. If I had offered only me and none of the extras, I probably would have gotten run over. But our bodies buzzed for each other and we were merely on the phone. Our bodies knew the truth before our minds. We couldn't wait to see each other again. It seemed like three years, though it had been only about 24 hours. What better way to celebrate our reconnected bliss than with a sex party sealed with a kiss?

The Final Act

It was a lovely Thai restaurant, quiet and serene. Aquariums in the corners, cushions on the seats. We chose a table in the back room, away from the crowded front, away from the windows and street. Only one other table was taken, across the room. And there was only one waitress, a sweet, middle-aged woman who couldn't stop grinning at us.

We sat next to each other on a cushioned bench, pawing each other like cats in heat.

"What if you got under the table and started sucking my cock..." Charlie mused. "Do you think anyone would notice?"

"Maybe."

"It's so outrageous, nobody would expect it."

"My feet would be visible though..."

I lifted up the tablecloth and ducked a little over his lap as if I were going to prove my point.

"You're not actually..."

"No, of course not."

We finished dinner. The other diners left.

"We're all alone now."

(kiss, kiss, meow, grrrr, cuddly buggly boo...)

"I want to fuck you."

Dessert came. One coconut custard and one sticky rice with mango. Delicious. We barely had a taste when the waitress came over to tell us she had to run out to make a delivery. She gave us the check and said she would be back soon.

We didn't waste a moment. Well, maybe a few.

"You could suck my cock right now."

"Just like this?"

"There's no one else here, besides the cook."

"What about the people outside..."

"They'll never think to look."

I leaned right over and dove in, looking up now and then at the passersby on the sidewalk.

"Don't worry, I'm watching...I'll let you know if someone's coming...oh yeah, oh god...don't worry..."

I wasn't worried. My furtive glances toward the street were expressions of titillation. If only they turned their heads and peered into this restaurant, what a shocking feast they would see! But who would stop to look in a restaurant that was practically closed? His castmates, perhaps? But who would even think sex was happening inside? Oh, but the idea that someone might, out of boredom or curiosity or despair, stop and look for a moment, and see my head bobbing up and down on his lap, made me wet. That and his divine cock, vulnerable as a stray dog in the rain. Exposed, exposed, exposed, with no one noticing but me.

"Even if they looked, they wouldn't see anything way back here anyway...I'll let you know...if someone's coming, just start laughing...they'll never know the difference," he said.

A few moments later, some movement on our right prompted me to lurch up and burst out laughing. He leaned over and started babbling, "Hmmm this sticky rice is so good, I think this is the best sticky rice I've ever had..."

"Oh yes..."

The cook went back into the kitchen, I went back to my mission, and he came in my mouth with time to spare.

"That was the best Thai dinner ever!" We sang praises to our waitress, who was still grinning when she returned.

Who would suck a cock at the table in a restaurant? Not under the table, but at the table?

Why, who else?

Total Woman

On Sunday I went to see my love Charlie perform in a play in upstate New York. After the show, I snuck into his dressing room. When he came in, he closed the door and locked it while I provocatively installed myself on the counter. He came over and his cock was in my mouth before he was out of his costume. We hadn't seen each other in three days (an eternity when you're in love) so we were both as frisky as squirrels in Spring. Charlie bobbed like a marionette at the mercy of an invisible string connecting cock to mouth and mouth to breast.

"I shouldn't be...ohhh...I can't...oh yeah..."

He should've been striking the set. But he couldn't stop stroking me.

How irresistible is the man who can't resist me! At the sight of a perky nipple or tuft of pubic hair, blood drains from his brain to his cock, and he turns into a helpless schlmeil. I don't mean that in a derogatory sense. What happens is this: the power of biology reduces male mental faculties to the fulfillment of a primary need. As this need dominates the brain, all other thoughts, needs, and obligations disperse into confused particles of intelligence that have no place to go. Even a genius is vulnerable to this twist of nature. If he is in the middle of saying something, and I slip a strap off my shoulder, accidentally revealing my breast, he forgets the words that were on the tip of his tongue. He tries to retrieve them, but he can't even remember the subject of the intelligent stream that moments ago, flowed smoothly from his mouth. His mouth regresses to infancy, wanting the breast and nothing but the breast. I'm no scientist, merely an observer of men. I can't think of a better way to describe this amusing spectacle.

Two more points on this subject.

1. A man is far more likely to exhibit this behavior around a woman with whom he's madly in love. (More pheromones = a greater gap between the penis and the brain).

2. A woman is far less likely to exhibit similar behavior around a man she loves...because women have different primal needs. She needs to maintain a higher intelligence throughout sexual play in order to choose the most evolutionary fit father for her children. If not, she may end up with children on Ritalin (or an undesirable lover if children are not on her conscious mind). Unfortunately, too many women ignore the "intelligence" nature has provided them.

I'm not saying I never become flustered when my lover gazes at me with his soulful eyes or plows toward me with a bulge in his pants. Oh I can be a bumbling fool at times, but I feel like I can always pull back--let me rephrase that--I feel like I can usually retreat from primal lust. He may be at the mercy of his cock, but I am not, unless I choose to play the submissive. My brain is almost always in command of my pussy.

On this occasion, I felt even more in command because I was on the first day of my period, when aching uterus and horniness combine to create an empowering feeling of female-ness. Full and tingling with the heavy hormonal lightness of being, my primal body enhanced rather than diminished my mental acuity. Hence a balance of forces simultaneously inflated and belittled by the almighty, insignificant COCK.

How he squirmed in my arms! He was caught between the pleasures of me and the responsibilities to his fellow castmates, while I could've stopped at any moment. There are few better aphrodisiacs than having this kind of power over a man, especially when in public, when our actions are within the radar of people who might find out, either through direct witnessing or speculation based on clues such as a closed door or a girlfriend sucking on a strawberry with Lolita-like suggestiveness, or the flustering gestures and overly compensating transparent words of the guy who was supposed to be assisting in breaking down a theatrical set.

How vaudevillian it was when he closed the door and ran to me with an arrow in his pants, then opened the door and pulled his shirt down and stuffed costume pieces in his bag while rambling on about what he had to do next! And how arousing it was when people walked by as I teased him with puckers of my lips and undulations of my hips! We knew they must've known, or at least had guessed that something unprofessional was going on, and this knowing was all part of our act. What happens on stage is not half as interesting without an audience, or at least the possibility of a witness to the action. Whatever might have been happening in the dressing room was undoubtedly confirmed by our displays of giddy affection in the theatre--our furtive squeezes and smiley kisses, our back and forth whispers of exciting things to come...how sickeningly cute we must have appeared.

So we made a plan.

While he was finishing up his actorly duties, I would await him in the lobby, where he would meet me and we would both slip into the ladies' room to resume the unfinished business we started in the dressing room. All went well as we successfully bypassed the lone wandering theatre employee, and planted ourselves in the handicapped stall, where I promptly began sucking his cock. He was maybe three minutes away from orgasm when the distant cries of hungry actors forced us to disband and join the cast for dinner. He exited first, feigning coolness. I heard him say, "It's in the bathroom with Stephanie." Then I nonchalantly emerged to find an actor wondering about his sweater which he had given to Charlie who had brought it into the bathroom...now why on earth would the sweater be with me in the women's room? The actor must have been wondering this but nothing was said.

Charlie and I laughed at the hilarious obviousness of antics unexplained as we headed off for dinner. At the grimy Irish pub, the undercurrent of suspicion flowed plainly through the banter and jokes and Charlie's several mentions of us having just drinks and an appetizer because we were saving ourselves for a romantic dinner for two at one of the classier joints up the street.

We tripped out of that pub with sex in our bones, and laughed at the inevitable gossip we left behind. They must have been skewering us! After all, theatre people live for subtext. The idea that they were laughing about the sweater made us even hornier, as we contemplated the whereabouts of an unfinished blow-job...

Dessert

Last night I did something I've never done before. I sucked a cock. In a restaurant. At a table. No, not under the table. At the table.

Prescription for the Sick and Horny

So there's this flu going around. And I, who usually avoid such infections of the masses, caught it from my lover Dr. Bigcock. When he came over for some TLC from his favorite nurse, he said sex was the furthest thing from his mind. What a rare condition! I witnessed his entire body limp, cock unmoved by my charms, that predictable drive to penetrate undetectable upon examination. The strangeness of the situation inspired me to perform a little experiment in the name of science. Could I cure him with a few strokes of my hand and some sexy words?

"You're welcome to try," he said.

I got a rise out of him in about two seconds. But that wasn't all. I massaged him until he expectorated all over himself. (He was so inspired that he offered me a position as his personal nurse at his home in the Hamptons, where I would have 24-hour access to his female staff). The evidence is conclusive: just because a patient is ill does not mean his sex drive is compromised.

If only my treatment took care of his flu. I let him spend the night in my clinic and the poor thing was up every few hours with coughing spells and trips to the bathroom. The next morning I felt unrested and a bit warm and woozy.

I gave him another treatment (internal, this time), at the expense of my own health. I have no regrets; that's the kind of devotion that makes a great nurse.

We've seen each other almost every day since I've been stricken with aches, pains, and all sorts of nasty expectorations, and something very strange occurred through our cross-contamination. Not only did I catch his flu, I caught his horny bug too. Never in my experience of sickness have I been so interested in sex. My case mirrors his exactly: it is not an obvious symptom, but triggered by our proximity to each other. For example, on a day when I was too sick to leave my apartment, he, being on the mend, went to the store to pick up some things for me. As soon as he appeared, he nearly collapsed because he had overestimated his strength. We curled up together and took a long nap frequently interrupted by phlegm-curdling coughs. Just before he was about to leave, I asked him to help me with a domestic task. He obliged. Afterward, to reward him, I sat him down on the bed and massaged his shoulders. Feeling ever so generous, I broke out the Hitachi Magic Wand and used it for what it was actually designed for: therapeutic body massage. I had no intention to turn him on. Even as I rolled the wand over his lower back, and he lowered his pants to reveal his ass, I didn't think my actions would lead to sex. The thought was there, of course, as a sneaky little naughty "what if I massaged a little lower" temptation, but I let it be. My focus was on making him feel better in a way that didn't involve inviting him to exert himself further through orgasm.

When I was done with his massage, I lay down and he began to return the favor. Then suddenly, impulsively, I directed the wand to my crotch. It was the gesture of one too weak and feverish to know the reasons for her actions, like a delirious patient reaching blindly for her dose of pills, or a drug addict stabbing a needle into her arm in a moment of crisis. One thing led to another...and we both got ourselves off with the aid of that wonderful wand. (Why doesn't every doctor have one? No wonder our health-care system is a mess!)

Western medicine teaches us that rest is the best prescription to combat colds and flus. I always thought that meant "no sex," since when the body is engaged in sexual activity, it is not exactly resting. However, according to other traditions such as Chinese medicine, sex is considered a powerful healing method when the sexual energy is focused on the afflicted areas. I don't know if our orgasms helped purge our infections, but the pleasure almost made me forget I was sick.

On other occasions while my love and I were glamorously lounging in our germs, and sudden sexual desire overpowered our bodies' need for rest, I didn't mind his feverish sweat drenching me as he pumped away. As long as we kept our lips to ourselves, and turned away to cough and spit, we felt that we were doing our bodies good. I've made some interesting discoveries through these experiments in sick sex. Whenever I coughed while he was fucking me, my pussy automatically squeezed his cock. Now he says, "Oh yeah, cough please! I love it when you cough!" (Even when you're not sick, ladies, next time your man is thrusting inside you, give him a little cough and watch his face.)

It seems that our biological drive to procreate trumps illness, according to Dr. Bigcock who claims, "I'd have to be in a coma or dead [to not be interested in sex]." Then again, I've never tried these experiments during a bad case of diarrhea.

In the case of general flus and colds, I recommend quiet sex with your partner especially if you are both sick. You both already got it, so no one is going to catch anything. And if only one of you is afflicted, consider this: wouldn't you rather catch it from your lover than some slob who sneezes all over you on the train?

To minimize your chances of infection, here are some guidelines:

1) No Kissing! There are more germs in the mouth than in other orifices!
2) No Oral Sex! (Same reason as "No Kissing")
3) No marathon sex or crazy positions or BDSM (That would be like running a mile while you're sick instead of doing some light yoga...)
4) Be polite: don't cough or sneeze or blow your noses on each other (unless that turns you on...GROSS)
5) In between sexual healing sessions, get plenty of rest and drink lots of fluids (cum doesn't count)

An orgasm a day may not keep the flu away, but it sure makes being sick a lot more fun.

JULIE AND THE CLOWN Screening This Sunday

First Sundays Comedy Film Festival

Sunday, March 2, 7:00pm
at the PIONEER THEATER
155 East 3rd Street (between Ave A and B)

Tickets $10, $6.50 for students
hosted by Jay Stern and Victor Varnado
Reservations or information: 212-888-5233

My short film Julie and the Clown plus five other short comedy films

afterparty at The Hanger Bar

A woman falls in love with her greatest fear.
It's queer, funny, sexy and kind of fetishy...

Update

Sorry it's been a while. I've been busy rehearsing, performing in plays, and staring at myself in the mirror (which eats up a lot of writing time). Seriously, I'm on sabbatical from this blog until I finish a book chapter which I was supposed to finish months ago. But don't go away...cause I'll be back soon, in a week or two. Till then, read Lady Chatterley's Lover by D.H. Lawrence, if you haven't already. It may just grab your soul with some of the raunchiest poetry in the history of the modern novel.

Sunday Reflections

In response to some comments from one dear, dear reader I wouldn't know from a vibrating monkey ass (have we met, Emily?), here are a few clarifications about my intentions behind this blog.

1. It's true, I did very well with a word count. But that was a newspaper; this is a blog. The beauty of blogging is the absence of structure. A blogger is free to be unrestrained in content and form. A blog is the quintessence of unedited, uncensored self-published writing, which makes room for scores of grammatically messy, rambling, boring nonsense on the Internet. However, with some writing talent, a blog can be a platform for useful information, revolutionary ideas, brilliant insights, provocative entertainment, stimulating creativity and so on, that you wouldn't find in a magazine or newspaper. That being said, I'm not claiming my blog to be anything but an honest expression of my erotic experience. Having spent a year and a half churning out weekly 800-900 word columns, I am relishing the freedom to write as many or as few words as I like without worrying about fitting into a preconceived arc. Actually, my column felt rather formulaic after a while, and though I shook it up occasionally with varying voices or tenses, the structure was basically the same: opening with a story, moving into general insights related to the story, then tying it all up in the end with a witty bow that refers back to the story. That's the beauty of a column. But I write a column no more. There's a time and place for word counts. Like when they are attached to dollars.

As for the editors, with the exception of the one who fired me, they hardly ever changed a word. So if I'm being tangential, it has nothing to do with the absence of a guy/gal hovering over me with a red pen. Rather, any changes in my writing from column to blog are evidence of my desire to create a new brand of Lust Life, essays that are less restrained, more personal and...well, I'll leave it for you to judge.

2. I think what many people interpret as narcissism and self-absorption is more often than not, a shocking dose of self-awareness. How many people are truly self-aware? True self-awareness is so elusive in our world--among the hordes of people going through the motions, or living as someone else's version of themselves, or in complete denial or ignorance of what makes them do what they do (early childhood influences, traumas, culture, society, media etc.) that when a self-aware person writes something honest, many a reader will balk and say, "Ha! That's so selfish! How narcissistic! What an ego!" Why? They don't know what to make of it. They forget, or perhaps don't understand that a narcissist doesn't care about anyone but herself. A narcissist would never fall in love with anyone but herself. If I were a narcissist, I would not write so rapturously about my lovers!

I wonder...if I wrote about anything other than sex (and my sex life in particular), if readers would still call me a narcissist. If this blog were about cooking, for example, and I went on and on about the sensations flavors impress upon my tongue, and waxed poetic about the myriad pleasures of cooking from shopping to preparation to getting down and dirty in the kitchen, with the occasional sidebar on the distinct variations of chiles or the origin of chocolate, then I would probably not be labeled a self-absorbed, rambling writer, no matter how many words I may exhaust in describing in great detail, how to make the perfect Sellars souffle.

3. The main drive behind this blog (if you haven't picked up on it already), is the sad reality that sexuality in America is too often intertwined with shame and guilt and sin. It is my mission to help turn over this puritanical insentience by communicating, not only through my art and experience, but through my very being, that sex is natural and beautiful and healthy, and the suppression of it--public or private, is poison to the soul. I believe that if we as a human race were not only more comfortable, but united with our sexuality, there would be far fewer wars. Consider my blog a call for world peace! From vanilla to kink and everything in between, sex, as long as it is consensual and as safe as possible, is a positive, powerful experience that makes life worth living. And why shouldn't I ramble on about something as valuable as that?

Thank you for reading. And thank you for your comments. Now I'm going to go sit by a pool and stare at my reflection.

Oversexed?

I never thought I'd write this, but I think I'm oversexed. Perhaps this isn't news to you dear readers. I wouldn't be surprised if some of you have been thinking I'm oversexed ever since you first laid your eyes upon my column in the New York Press, or since you first came across this blog in your Google search for porn. To be honest, sometimes I forget that I have not only a lot more sex than the average person, but I have way more sex partners, more varieties of sex, and more kinky sex in a month than most people fantasize about in their lifetimes.

For example, this weekend alone, I had at least seven orgasms. Friday night Charlie and I went to a Weimar Berlin theme party in Williamsburg. In the wee hours of the morning, we danced and made out with a woman dressed like Liza Minnelli in the movie version of Cabaret while Nazi films screened above us (without a doubt, the most authentically Weimar-spirited performance of the night). Then Charlie and I went back to our friend D's apartment, and with her blessing fucked in her tiny bathroom while she and her boyfriend hung out with their bi Burner friend and a couple of glittery-eyed queer boy dancers she picked up at the party. (We invited Nellie Minnelli but she had to get back to Brooklyn, via Manhattan.) Charlie and I rolled into my bed at around half past five, woke up before twelve on Saturday morning and made love until the early afternoon. After brunch, I watched Charlie jerk himself off with some butter and shoot his sauce on the last bits of toast and egg on my plate. "Part of a complete breakfast," I said, in between mouthfuls of cum-dipped egg toast.

One Hitachi wand-induced orgasm, two paragraphs of writing and half a dozen emails later, my love and I set off again (although I was effete and could have just as well stayed home) to a spankfest benefit for this play I'm in. With my riding crop dangling from my belt-loop, we mingled among the kinky theatre people (note the overlap between the two worlds...kink is inherently theatrical) and watched the show unfold: old men spanking lumpy middle-aged women in thigh-highs, young men baring their bottoms to the seasoned strikes of weathered mistresses. We had no desire to partake in these fundraising efforts. Instead we flirted with a gorgeous pro domme, then slipped into the men's room where we threw our own little cock-raising benefit for the New York Society of Public Blow-Jobs. Charlie wanted to contribute to the Lust Life campaign right then and there, but I declined on account of saving myself for patrons at the Pussy Convention taking place later that night.

So Charlie and I parted ways. I took the train to Park Slope where the Pussy Convention (a monthly queer women's and trans play party) was being held. Although I already had three orgasms that day, I was hungry for the touch of a butch woman or perhaps a cute trannie boy.

As soon as I stepped away from the coat check, I was in dyke heaven...a basement jungle of wild women and bois leading with their breasts, asses, and eyes, hunting for pleasure or a thrill, slinking through the narrow paths from room to room. It is a dungeon and speakeasy and 1920s brothel all in one, two rooms on one end and three on the other bookending a black-painted wood labyrinth of booths, some containing beds, others displaying contraptions like swings or hooks. The walls that reach the floor have peepholes. Other booths are built like bathroom stalls, with the bottoms of the walls at least a foot off the floor, so feet and calves can be seen from either side. None of the walls reach the ceiling. These spaces are the most secluded of all the play spots in the place, but no one who enters them can escape the voyeuristic eye of a passerby.

In the bathroom, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and giggled internally at the sight. It was not my intention, but I looked like a French dominatrix/spy with my black and white waist-cincher peeking out from my black fitted blazer, fishnet stockings, five inch patent leather heels, beret angled perfectly on my head, riding crop in hand. Everything was black, except the white lace garters, and the red stripes of my hipster panties matching my crimson lips. The effect was sophisticated, sexy and intriguing.

Who is she? I want to know her. She could turn the sluttiest outfit into a vision of class. No one else was dressed like her, not even me.

My exhibitionist self became titillated at the idea of turning heads. I wandered into a cozy square room with couches against the walls and a table of snacks in a corner. In another corner, near the ceiling, a fuzzy TV was showing lesbian porn. No sex was happening here; it was a social space. I noticed some women were holding pens and white cards. "What are those cards for?" I asked one femme in a purple corset. She vaguely explained that you fill them out and give them to people you like. I turned around and saw a poster with the word "Sexquest" at the top. I read the rules of the game, but I still wasn't sure how it worked. I was like a kid in a candy store, not knowing exactly what to do with those fireballs (suck, bite, chew?), but absolutely needing to have one if only to understand the mystery of the red tongue. So I asked the corseted femme, "Where can I get one of those?"

She directed me to a woman across the room. I got a card and she gave me a number on masking tape. I stuck it on my navel then moved into the next room to fill out my Sexquest ticket. The card had four headings followed by four columns of adjectives, phrases, acts, and things next to boxes to be checked according to your desires.

I Am:
# 28
Horny
Submissive
Dominant
Sex Slut

You Are:
Hot
Intriguing
Gorgeous
Sexy
A Goddess
(I filled this part out wrong, thinking reflexively, and so chose words describing the woman in the mirror, not that I wouldn't want someone who fits the same description).

I Want To:
Get To Know You
Kiss Your ______
Bite Your ______
Play Doctor With You
Be In A Dark Corner With You
Get/Give a Lapdance

A Few of My Favorite Things:
Massage
Watching You Pee
Puppies and Kitties
A Good Book
Learning New Things

Now I had to find someone worthy of my card and give it to her. No that's not how it works. The proper way to play Sexquest is to fold your card in half, write the number of the person you desire on the front and pin your card to the board. I wasn't ready for that. I had to choose carefully. And so I roamed, making mental notes of possibilities...petite, cute tomboy in skinny jeans...sexy androgynous bowling shirt loner...two adorable look-alike bois with irresistible male adolescent aura (are they a couple?). But I couldn't make up my mind. What if I chose a dud? I needed more time.

So I peered into some peepholes and stood in doorways. I saw a woman thrashing and screaming at each whipping of her breasts. I saw mounds of flesh jiggling to the punching penetrations of a glistening fist. I saw a woman naked upon an examination table, feet in stirrups, nipples erect, awaiting the next procedure. Observing these scenes felt like a dream in which the action is carried out by characters of my unconscious creation. I was all at once part of each act and on the outside, clearly visible yet unseen because the players were lost in their own kinky worlds.

I paused again by the bulletin board, which was now covered with cards. I thought I would just pick the petite tomboy, but hesitated. What if she isn't my type? What if she's not into it? What if someone more compatible is just around the corner? Why don't I just wait and see what happens? I slipped into a meditative state, cards and faces fading into the background of passivity. As I stood there, I heard someone calling out a number. It didn't occur to me to listen. My mind did not care to remind me I had a number on my navel.

Suddenly, it registered. Number 28. "Did she say 28?" I asked the person next to me. Yes, the woman had indeed called out 28. "Wait! I'm 28! Where is she?"

The woman who was calling out the numbers told me to stay in the room; the one who wanted me would be back. As I waited, anticipation pulsed through my breath. What if she's unattractive? I don't have to do anything, I could say no, but oh I should've just picked someone to avoid potentially unsavory circumstances...then again, she could be a dream...

A chubby boi with glasses, wearing a wife-beater and boy briefs, appeared in the doorway. She looked like the typical high school male dork, the cloying type who would fall in love with me if I asked him for the time. Oh no...not me, please. I was just starting to invent kind rejections in my head when the number announcer came in and said, "Number 28?" I stood up.

Then I saw her. She was gorgeous.

She was not any of the possibilities I had in my head. She was not a boi, nor butch, nor trans. She was not exactly what I was looking for that night. But she was just right. Although she was not butch, she was not overtly femme either. Short brown hair cropped close to her head, no make-up on her pretty face. Neither slim, nor fat--she had the full figure of a 1950's pin-up. She was wearing a black drapey blouse with tight skinny jeans and black leather boots that slid seductively over her knees. I remembered seeing her earlier. She had smiled at me. Our eyes had met more than once. Why didn't I count her as a potential? Every time I saw her, she disappeared, and I forgot about her because I was focused on other types. She wasn't a type. What would I do with a type anyway? I couldn't have been more delighted that she chose me: the girl in the mirror.

***

We found an empty booth with two chairs, sat side by side and smiled at each other. Despite the set-up, there was something oddly innocent about the situation. I had forgotten about the cards and had no idea what she wanted. She didn't know what I wanted either, nor did I. That's what was so delicious about sitting there next to her, in this almost secret space, like getting stuck in the closet with someone at a junior high make-out party. We laughed.

"This is strange," I said, referring to the chairs.

"It's like a waiting room," she said.

I was thinking that exactly. We were waiting for something to happen, without expecting anything to happen. So we eased into conversation like two strangers in a waiting room.

"Is this your first time here?" I asked.

It was. So we had one thing in common. She had been to a few play parties, but this was her first queer public sex event. I shared a bit about my experience...that I had been to private women's play parties before, but nothing like this. She asked me about my crop.

"Can I ask you a bold question?"

"Of course, this is the place for bold questions."

"Have you ever come just from that?"

"No, I never came from a spanking alone. But it can feel really good. I'm no expert, but one important guideline is to alternate hard whacks with light touches...after a hard slap, a light touch can turn the pain into pleasure...do you want to try it?"

She got up and faced the wall.

"It's better if you put your hands on the wall," I said, trying to straddle the chairs to get a good angle.

I whacked her a few times with the crop, demonstrating what I had just explained about the alternating pressure. "It would be more effective, of course, with your jeans off."

I put the crop down and stood up. We faced each other in the middle of the booth, waiting. I wondered if she would look as seductive in daylight. The red glow cast sex on everything, even those awful chairs.

We looked at each other with half-closed eyes. Then, the slow move in for a kiss.

"But, I didn't look at your card!" I said suddenly, pulling away at the last second.

"It doesn't say much," she said, amused at my sudden interest in the card.

Her card had fallen to the floor. I used the crop to slide it toward me. "A very useful tool," I quipped.

I Am:
# 40
Curious
Hungry

You Are:
Gorgeous

I Want To:
Be In A Dark Corner With You

A Few Of My Favorite Things:
You Hat (written in the blank space at the end of the list)

"Well, this is a dark corner," I said.

"Yes," she purred.

We moved toward each other, accelerated this time. When our lips melted together, time slowed into the softness of her skin. As we kissed, she slipped her hands beneath my jacket and traced her fingertips around the small of my back, sending visible shivers through me. This is what I needed. I didn't need to play doctor, or watch someone pee, or get all SM with the crop. I had enough kinky sex that weekend.

Not all women are sensual, but when I find one who is, it's almost enough to make me want to give up cock. Because no matter how sensual a man is, he can never match the sweet softness of a woman. This is what I craved that night. And how strange to find it here, in this peep-show porn palace dungeon, where the last thing you expect is an innocent kiss.

We kissed for several minutes, our lips like petals barely pressing, our arms draped loosely around each other, our fingers dancing across rose-tinted skin of nape, belly, back. All the contrasting elements around us, the hard beats of the music, the black walls, the slapping sounds of paddles and screams of pained pleasure, all this retreated. These things had nothing and everything to do with us.

"Did you come here with any particular fantasy in mind?" I asked.

"No," she said. "You?"

"No, I have no agenda."

Perfect. We couldn't have been more aligned.

"Would you like a massage?" I asked.

"Yeah."

We left our booth to find an empty bed. None were available, so we returned to the booth, and it was still empty, the two chairs just how we left them, side by side.

"Well, I guess we could use the chairs," I suggested.

I moved one chair to the middle of the space. She straddled it while I sat in the other chair directly behind her. I started to rub her shoulders. In a few moments her shirt was off and I was massaging her back, neck, and arms.

"Can I take off your bra?" I asked. (Better to ask than assume in these situations.)

Her bra fell to the floor. I slipped my arms around her and gently cupped her breasts--pendulous, soft, and warm, they melted in my hands when she uttered a quiet moan. I kissed her shoulders and massaged her closer, my breath skimming her ear. I removed my black vinyl bra and pressed my chest against her back, rolling my flesh up and down, remembering one of my first sex parties where I received a full body massage from a naked masseuse and how delicious it felt when she rubbed her breasts on me, dipping them in every curve.

Now we were facing each other, #40 and I, kissing and fondling. Even when she squeezed my nipples, she was sensual. Through my peripheral vision, I noticed that our walls had no peepholes. Occasionally someone pulled back the curtain, but quickly closed it again. I noticed when people passed; a pair of converse sneakers here, hiking boots there, stilettos and fishnets pausing, pivoting, then moving on.

She had her fingers on my cunt now, and the chair was getting damp. She slipped one, then two fingers inside me while her thumb made circles on my clit. For a straight girl leaning toward bi, she sure knew what she was doing. She played with my pussy for a long time, but I didn't come, so I played with myself, and I still didn't come, then her pants were around her knees and she leaned back in her chair and with one finger, moved aside her panties, touched herself and said, "I'm wet."

She held up her finger to my mouth. Her taste was sweet and tangy. God, it was so hot, with her feet on the floor and my legs stretched out on her thighs, as she rubbed herself with one finger while the other hand held her panties aside. I imagined her alone in her room, so overtaken with horniness that she couldn't even take off her underwear. She was so horny all she could do was pull it aside.

I followed her rhythm, feeling her sensations mounting through her breath. I tried to match her rhythm with my own, to imbibe her ascent through osmosis, wanting to come so badly. I had been going far longer than her. I should have come already, or at least be close. My legs were buzzing, but I was stuck on a plateau. Damn, I shouldn't have used the Hitachi wand today. Don't think, don't think, just focus on the sensation...focus on her.

At the beginning of this masturbate-a-thon, we periodically leaned forward to engage mouth to mouth and tongue to breast, but it was crunch time now, so we leaned back and resigned ourselves to our own bodies, our own sensations, our own live porn. Her breath was changing more frequently, I could tell she was getting close, and when she closed her eyes and panted rapidly, I knew she was experiencing tiny peaks. A few times, I thought she came, but she kept going.

And I kept going...nowhere. So what if I don't come with her? She could help me come afterward. But how could I not come with her? It was just too hot not to come while this gorgeous stranger was making love to herself before me, especially as there was no guarantee I would ever see her again. In relationships, there is plenty of opportunity to make up for missed orgasms. But in a situation like this, not coming is like feasting your eyes on a delicious meal, smelling it, tasting it, taking a few bites and rolling it around in your mouth, then having it taken away from you. It feels cruel and pointless.

But that wasn't going to happen to me here. Not with her.

I tried to forget about not coming and put all my energy into the sensations between my legs. Fantasies flitted about in my brain; at this point I didn't care so much about focusing on her. All that mattered was making myself come.

But I couldn't ignore her. She was too beautiful. Lost in her sensations, she slapped her free arm against the wall, mashed her head into her shoulder, and bit her own flesh. A few moments later, she gasped in high pitches and exhaled this refrain: "Oh fuck...oh fuck...oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck!"

Her body jerked up as she made little gasping screams, and I could feel her climax. I was there for her. If only I could make her orgasm my own.

She slumped against the wall. I continued touching myself, but it felt absurd, so I stopped.

"I didn't come," I said. "Maybe..." I picked up the crop. "Would you?"

I pushed her chair against the wall and knelt on it, supporting myself with one hand on the wall, while the other got busy with my pussy. She spanked me well, using the technique I had demonstrated earlier. But she hit me so hard a few times, I wanted to cry. Maybe it was because my ass hurt. Maybe it was because I didn't come and I was annoyed that it bothered me so much. Maybe it was because SM tends to bring up deep psychological shit. I wanted to cry, but I couldn't. Maybe it was all of the above. Maybe it was more.

The pain reverberated into burning pleasure, but still I didn't come. How long would she put up with this? She had her fun. She didn't know me. It was time to let go.

I stopped and thanked her. "I've been having trouble coming lately."

"It's okay...sometimes I get overstimulated."

"I think I'm oversexed. I used the Hitachi Wand today...have you ever used it?"

"Yes...I used to own one."

She said it was great for a while, but it was so focused, so concentrated, so mechanical, that although it did the job, it often made her numb, and almost made it impossible for her to come without it. So she got rid of it.

"Maybe that's what I need to do," I said.

"I have other vibrators that are less strong, but they work," she said. "Mostly I use my hands."

"Yes, sometimes less is more. Shall we?"

She followed me out of the booth, and we went to the bathroom. Then we wandered back to the social space, and I grabbed some pretzels, and as I was munching, she said, "Nice to meet you."

"Yes."

I got some more pretzels. When I turned around, she was gone. I didn't think anything of it, assuming she had gone to the bathroom, or went for a walk. But when she didn't come back, I decided to look for her. I went into every room and walked all through the black labyrinth and looked in every peephole, but she was nowhere. Bathroom? Not there either. So I went to the coat check and asked if they had seen a woman with short brown hair wearing a black shirt, tight skinny jeans and black boots. "Did you see her leave?" No, they hadn't. I returned to the pretzel room, lingering. Idle conversation did nothing for my deflated mood.

She was gone. Disappeared as she did in the beginning, before I even considered her. I thought we would exchange numbers. From the very first kiss, I wanted to see her again. Why did she leave like that, without even saying goodbye?

Maybe because she was not quite bi, she just wanted to get off. Maybe I need to enjoy the journey more, whether or not there's an end. Maybe I need to get rid of my Hitachi magic wand.

***

When I got home, I was too stimulated to sleep. I needed to give myself a quick release. So I used my hands. I turned back the clock in my head and saw her fingers sliding her panties aside all over again. I imagined myself coming with her, but coming did not come. So I tried one of my other vibrators. Ten minutes turned to fifteen, and still I did not come. Maybe I'll just use the wand and get it over with.
So I did. It did the job. I came twice, but it took thirty minutes.

The following morning I used the wand again. It worked, but it took forty-five minutes and nearly killed my clit.

Damn the wand! If I'm going to masturbate for forty-five minutes, I should be floating on Tantric waves from the feather-light touch of a finger-tip so that forty-five minutes means nothing in the perpetual orgasm of transcending time!

This is progress. I no longer think I am oversexed. Dear readers, I am.