Tuesday, June 28, 2005
FUCKING PANDAS AND ONE FANTASTIC GOAT, IN LOWER MANHATTAN
The first thing you'll notice about this funky little hotel in lower Manhattan is the art work, especially in the rooms.
The rooms are brightly decorated by artists of various genders, ilks and skill levels. One thing they all seem to have shared in common though, they must have ingested some damn good drugs somewhere before they were let loose to paint the walls of this place.
"Wild" barely begins to describe these rooms. There was a brilliant red room of such intense color you wonder if you're watching the burning of a great city or the rise of some supernatural sun. Another one shows a giant tortoise suspended in a sea of vast blue.
Our room had flying pelicans in one panel, in another was a beautiful leopard hanging over a tree limb, his very man-like legs trailing down. A donkey cavorted next to him, dressed up as a zebra. With a cigar tucked in a corner of his mouth and a bright purple fedora on his head. His ladyfriend actually is a zebra. Cross dressing with a vengeance, I guess we can call this. Other various animal motifs complete the decoration.
But the piece de resistance of this room are the fucking pandas. Yes, you heard right. Going at it in full bloom and living color. Such a nice changeup from the usual cuddly images we're exposed to about pandas.
It must have been the pandas that inspired us, because we had a number of sexual encounters there underneath their lustful gazes. And that was just the first day and a half. The animal motifs and the zebra lines painted between the panels seem to glow vividly when the light hits the room just right.
What tropical island have we landed on? They call it the Carlton Arms, and it is an island of funk on the other, larger island called Manhattan. Actually, the sign out front now proclaims it to be, "Ye Olde Carlton Arms."
D and I have managed to plot ourselves a long weekend together in New York City, benefits of his company. They flew me in from the San Francisco Bay area, while he trained down from his worksite in Hartford.
D has often stayed at the Carlton, it's colorful, and you can't beat the prices. $85 for a double in lower Manhattan? That is unheard of, apparently. It's on E. 25th Street at Third Avenue, in the Gramercy Park section. An interesting working class neighborhood with lots of reasonable food places, a number of good local bars, and an endless supply of people to look at.
Lots of interesting looking women, THIN women, who walk a lot, in clamdiggers and flipflops, the ubiquitous cellphone pressed to their ears. My kind of women. Intense, neurotic, thin. Especially thin.
From here we did lots and lots of walking, up to Central Park and then up the east side to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. A Diane Arbus exhibit was in its last weekend there, and a huge retrospective of Max Ernst was still ongoing.
Was Max Ernst a polyamorist? Part of his bio states that he had a number of wives. Trouble with the pussy, as my friend M liked to say. It was also mentioned that he moved in as a younger man with another artsy couple. My eyebrows went up at that one, especially since it came after a sentence proclaiming how handsome the young painter was, with strikingly blue eyes. If you read between the lines of stuff like this, as I tend to, it translates out, the boy was hot, and everybody wanted his ass.
The scope of his artistic output was indeed tremendous. He took on the challenges of different styles of creating art. At one point he embarked upon landscapes, painted in dense strokes with mysterious, almost supernatural overtunes. Strange animals peer out from his forests and settings. He could have been one of the muralists at the Carlton, who knows. This was in Europe in the early part of the last century. But his life spanned most of the century, he passed away in the early 70s.
Later in his life he moved to Sedona, Arizona, where he encountered those same landscapes in the southwestern desert. That tidbit I found fascinating. Perhaps our individual psychic "landscapes" follow us about throughout our lives, manifesting in the external world when we may least expect it. There are clearly times when inner and outer worlds blend together with amazing intricacy.
Part of the landscape D and I are working to create is how we manage the polyamorous aspects in our relationship. When we first hooked up nearly 15 years ago, we did not consciously sit down ever and debate how and whether we were going to be polyamorous together. But one of the unwritten rules that evolved over time was that I would not play with other men, he would not play with other women. But our own sexes were perfectly fine.
He was clearly bisexual and an avid practitioner. I was not about to tamper with that. I was too busy admiring it. And being a little jealous at times. I was more of a closet bisexual when we met, I felt the "girlie thing" had worked its way out of my system. But being with a guy like D kept that thread alive these years in me, and now it has started forth again.
In the past two years or so, that mostly unspoken arrangement has undergone changes. D has been working a lot on the road, I am now at home blogging away about sex. I think about it, I write about it. It percolates through my brain pretty much nonstop.
I am at a point now, on the eve of my 60th birthday, of wanting to incorporate more play in my life, still always trying to hook up with the women first, but if that option doesn't play out successfully, I have felt a yen to play with other guys.
I have brought up the subject of my desire to go to sex parties on my own when D is out of town, and try and hook up with women, and with men. I wanted his blessing in this endeavor.
D and I have debated this intensely over recent times. He has not always been comfortable with my feelings. He fears, even after 15 years, that my feelings may run amuck with me, I might find another guy and abandon him.
What is with this Guy Thing? They imagine there are always better hung boys around the corner, better cut, with bigger wallets, whatever, who will wander along and turn their girlfriends' heads.
My answer to D is always the same. Men aren't likely to do that with me, my interest in other men is mainly sexual and ephemeral. I think a lot like they do, it seems, which is why a number of them find me endearing and quite refreshing from most women. I can not only talk sports with them, I know what I'm talking about. I like sex with them and I don't require a Uhaul at my front door. I can have fun, and then pat their little butts affectionately on the way out the door myself.
One of our 3some boys, D in L.A., asked my partner, "Where did you find her?" A bi woman who likes to see men play together is kind of a novelty for most guys. Where can I find a woman like this, he wondered outloud.
I would never find another man I like as much who is as truly bisexual as D. That is a great bond between us, and attaches me to him more than anything else in our relationship. And I do like him personally, he is my friend, he is one of the rare people I can deal with day-to-day over a long period of time. Everything has always seemed so damn easy with D.
He mirrors me like few other men would be capable of doing, so I ain't going anywhere, really. He is it for me.
But women are likely to turn my head. Emotionally I feel more plugged into something in women. I could see kicking over my traces and running off with some woman I was enamored with. Chances are overwhelmingly clear that this won't happen, but my mind set has always been that it lurks as a possibility.
My jealousies don't run to D and other women. What would press my buttons is falling for a woman who then wants to take up with another woman. I can already see the blood-spatters on that wall. It might look like the Carlton.
TO BE CONTINUED
The rooms are brightly decorated by artists of various genders, ilks and skill levels. One thing they all seem to have shared in common though, they must have ingested some damn good drugs somewhere before they were let loose to paint the walls of this place.
"Wild" barely begins to describe these rooms. There was a brilliant red room of such intense color you wonder if you're watching the burning of a great city or the rise of some supernatural sun. Another one shows a giant tortoise suspended in a sea of vast blue.
Our room had flying pelicans in one panel, in another was a beautiful leopard hanging over a tree limb, his very man-like legs trailing down. A donkey cavorted next to him, dressed up as a zebra. With a cigar tucked in a corner of his mouth and a bright purple fedora on his head. His ladyfriend actually is a zebra. Cross dressing with a vengeance, I guess we can call this. Other various animal motifs complete the decoration.
But the piece de resistance of this room are the fucking pandas. Yes, you heard right. Going at it in full bloom and living color. Such a nice changeup from the usual cuddly images we're exposed to about pandas.
It must have been the pandas that inspired us, because we had a number of sexual encounters there underneath their lustful gazes. And that was just the first day and a half. The animal motifs and the zebra lines painted between the panels seem to glow vividly when the light hits the room just right.
What tropical island have we landed on? They call it the Carlton Arms, and it is an island of funk on the other, larger island called Manhattan. Actually, the sign out front now proclaims it to be, "Ye Olde Carlton Arms."
D and I have managed to plot ourselves a long weekend together in New York City, benefits of his company. They flew me in from the San Francisco Bay area, while he trained down from his worksite in Hartford.
D has often stayed at the Carlton, it's colorful, and you can't beat the prices. $85 for a double in lower Manhattan? That is unheard of, apparently. It's on E. 25th Street at Third Avenue, in the Gramercy Park section. An interesting working class neighborhood with lots of reasonable food places, a number of good local bars, and an endless supply of people to look at.
Lots of interesting looking women, THIN women, who walk a lot, in clamdiggers and flipflops, the ubiquitous cellphone pressed to their ears. My kind of women. Intense, neurotic, thin. Especially thin.
From here we did lots and lots of walking, up to Central Park and then up the east side to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. A Diane Arbus exhibit was in its last weekend there, and a huge retrospective of Max Ernst was still ongoing.
Was Max Ernst a polyamorist? Part of his bio states that he had a number of wives. Trouble with the pussy, as my friend M liked to say. It was also mentioned that he moved in as a younger man with another artsy couple. My eyebrows went up at that one, especially since it came after a sentence proclaiming how handsome the young painter was, with strikingly blue eyes. If you read between the lines of stuff like this, as I tend to, it translates out, the boy was hot, and everybody wanted his ass.
The scope of his artistic output was indeed tremendous. He took on the challenges of different styles of creating art. At one point he embarked upon landscapes, painted in dense strokes with mysterious, almost supernatural overtunes. Strange animals peer out from his forests and settings. He could have been one of the muralists at the Carlton, who knows. This was in Europe in the early part of the last century. But his life spanned most of the century, he passed away in the early 70s.
Later in his life he moved to Sedona, Arizona, where he encountered those same landscapes in the southwestern desert. That tidbit I found fascinating. Perhaps our individual psychic "landscapes" follow us about throughout our lives, manifesting in the external world when we may least expect it. There are clearly times when inner and outer worlds blend together with amazing intricacy.
Part of the landscape D and I are working to create is how we manage the polyamorous aspects in our relationship. When we first hooked up nearly 15 years ago, we did not consciously sit down ever and debate how and whether we were going to be polyamorous together. But one of the unwritten rules that evolved over time was that I would not play with other men, he would not play with other women. But our own sexes were perfectly fine.
He was clearly bisexual and an avid practitioner. I was not about to tamper with that. I was too busy admiring it. And being a little jealous at times. I was more of a closet bisexual when we met, I felt the "girlie thing" had worked its way out of my system. But being with a guy like D kept that thread alive these years in me, and now it has started forth again.
In the past two years or so, that mostly unspoken arrangement has undergone changes. D has been working a lot on the road, I am now at home blogging away about sex. I think about it, I write about it. It percolates through my brain pretty much nonstop.
I am at a point now, on the eve of my 60th birthday, of wanting to incorporate more play in my life, still always trying to hook up with the women first, but if that option doesn't play out successfully, I have felt a yen to play with other guys.
I have brought up the subject of my desire to go to sex parties on my own when D is out of town, and try and hook up with women, and with men. I wanted his blessing in this endeavor.
D and I have debated this intensely over recent times. He has not always been comfortable with my feelings. He fears, even after 15 years, that my feelings may run amuck with me, I might find another guy and abandon him.
What is with this Guy Thing? They imagine there are always better hung boys around the corner, better cut, with bigger wallets, whatever, who will wander along and turn their girlfriends' heads.
My answer to D is always the same. Men aren't likely to do that with me, my interest in other men is mainly sexual and ephemeral. I think a lot like they do, it seems, which is why a number of them find me endearing and quite refreshing from most women. I can not only talk sports with them, I know what I'm talking about. I like sex with them and I don't require a Uhaul at my front door. I can have fun, and then pat their little butts affectionately on the way out the door myself.
One of our 3some boys, D in L.A., asked my partner, "Where did you find her?" A bi woman who likes to see men play together is kind of a novelty for most guys. Where can I find a woman like this, he wondered outloud.
I would never find another man I like as much who is as truly bisexual as D. That is a great bond between us, and attaches me to him more than anything else in our relationship. And I do like him personally, he is my friend, he is one of the rare people I can deal with day-to-day over a long period of time. Everything has always seemed so damn easy with D.
He mirrors me like few other men would be capable of doing, so I ain't going anywhere, really. He is it for me.
But women are likely to turn my head. Emotionally I feel more plugged into something in women. I could see kicking over my traces and running off with some woman I was enamored with. Chances are overwhelmingly clear that this won't happen, but my mind set has always been that it lurks as a possibility.
My jealousies don't run to D and other women. What would press my buttons is falling for a woman who then wants to take up with another woman. I can already see the blood-spatters on that wall. It might look like the Carlton.
TO BE CONTINUED
Thursday, June 23, 2005
LET'S GO TO THE SEX PARTY (Part 7)
R asks if he can touch me down there, I give permission. Does he suspect I have rather large lips? Is this like what I wrote about earlier, that guys pick up on women this way in the same fashion I pick up on men with large dicks? I hope so. Anyways, R seems quite happy to thread his way thru my rather large bush and discover the hidden treasures. Elephant Ears, my partner D calls them, in what - I think - sounds like a moment of affection.
At those times, he can appreciate the fact I used to cycle 200 miles a week on a bike. I think it helps stretch out a woman's lips. But I don't know that Bicycling Magazine will conduct a survey anytime soon of the female cyclists out there to support my theory. Give them a little more time on this one.
"Have you ever shaved yourself," R asks me. "They would look great if we could see them." I get this sometimes, but my answer is always the same. I love "au naturel." I'm funny that way, I don't shave my bush, but I do shave my legs. Again, that's a cycling thing, because shaved legs hold a massage better, and if you take a spill, the abrasions heal faster without hair in the way. My underarms I don't shave, I don't like the razor feel there. But I do trim the hair with scissors, mostly down to nothing. So it's not like I have a thing about wanting tons of hair. I just don't want to be bald THERE.
I let my very first girlfriend, in London, talk me into letting her shave me. After all, she WAS my first girl, and you do stupid things like that when it's your first time. It looked really odd, I thought. But it felt even worse. It itched when it grew back, and I could swear it felt colder down there in the London temperatures we were having then. After that one time, I never repeated the experiment.
But anyways, here I am with yet another guy who wants to trim my sails. R is going ga-ga over my lips, he can't keep his hand away from stroking them lightly. The way you see Latin guys sometimes, freely putting their hands over their crotches. Just to keep them warm? To make sure they're still there? I thought this was pretty amusing when I first noticed them.
E comes to my rescue. Sort of. "Would you like to sit on my face?" he inquires, very politely, as if he were offering me a helping of scallops or something. At least it's a change of pace. I haven't sat on a good face for a while, oral sex is not my thing, especially when there are so many real toys for a girl to play with. So I put R's hand back where it belongs, and proceed to straddle Mr. E.
I used to think I liked oral sex only with women. I had this idea they were the only ones who really knew their business. And they do. But over time I have seen that the men I meet are pretty good at it too. And contrary to many womens' thoughts, I find guys like giving women oral. In fact you have to beat them away sometimes. But when I'm with guys, I like the Home Invasion ticket. The Heavy Artillery. This evening I make an exception.
As we play away at this, I am wondering what D is getting up to in the next room. Our host A goes and stands in the doorway, so he can watch the action in both rooms now and give me a good blow by blow account. "Well, your guy D is now on his back, and he's getting fucked good by S...and yes, it's quite a sight." I concur that it probably is. I am a little annoyed that I cannot witness D being the bottom he generally likes to be in these situations.
But that is for another party. Did we leave happy? We certainly did. D was happy, I was happy. Anytime you can enjoy oral sex, get fisted, fucked, diddled and face sit, I guess you've had a successful party.
Alright, so I left out sodomy. Next time, promise.
- - - - - - - -
At those times, he can appreciate the fact I used to cycle 200 miles a week on a bike. I think it helps stretch out a woman's lips. But I don't know that Bicycling Magazine will conduct a survey anytime soon of the female cyclists out there to support my theory. Give them a little more time on this one.
"Have you ever shaved yourself," R asks me. "They would look great if we could see them." I get this sometimes, but my answer is always the same. I love "au naturel." I'm funny that way, I don't shave my bush, but I do shave my legs. Again, that's a cycling thing, because shaved legs hold a massage better, and if you take a spill, the abrasions heal faster without hair in the way. My underarms I don't shave, I don't like the razor feel there. But I do trim the hair with scissors, mostly down to nothing. So it's not like I have a thing about wanting tons of hair. I just don't want to be bald THERE.
I let my very first girlfriend, in London, talk me into letting her shave me. After all, she WAS my first girl, and you do stupid things like that when it's your first time. It looked really odd, I thought. But it felt even worse. It itched when it grew back, and I could swear it felt colder down there in the London temperatures we were having then. After that one time, I never repeated the experiment.
But anyways, here I am with yet another guy who wants to trim my sails. R is going ga-ga over my lips, he can't keep his hand away from stroking them lightly. The way you see Latin guys sometimes, freely putting their hands over their crotches. Just to keep them warm? To make sure they're still there? I thought this was pretty amusing when I first noticed them.
E comes to my rescue. Sort of. "Would you like to sit on my face?" he inquires, very politely, as if he were offering me a helping of scallops or something. At least it's a change of pace. I haven't sat on a good face for a while, oral sex is not my thing, especially when there are so many real toys for a girl to play with. So I put R's hand back where it belongs, and proceed to straddle Mr. E.
I used to think I liked oral sex only with women. I had this idea they were the only ones who really knew their business. And they do. But over time I have seen that the men I meet are pretty good at it too. And contrary to many womens' thoughts, I find guys like giving women oral. In fact you have to beat them away sometimes. But when I'm with guys, I like the Home Invasion ticket. The Heavy Artillery. This evening I make an exception.
As we play away at this, I am wondering what D is getting up to in the next room. Our host A goes and stands in the doorway, so he can watch the action in both rooms now and give me a good blow by blow account. "Well, your guy D is now on his back, and he's getting fucked good by S...and yes, it's quite a sight." I concur that it probably is. I am a little annoyed that I cannot witness D being the bottom he generally likes to be in these situations.
But that is for another party. Did we leave happy? We certainly did. D was happy, I was happy. Anytime you can enjoy oral sex, get fisted, fucked, diddled and face sit, I guess you've had a successful party.
Alright, so I left out sodomy. Next time, promise.
- - - - - - - -
Monday, June 20, 2005
LET'S GO TO THE SEX PARTY (Part 6)
Some guys at these parties may think they're ready for bisexual activity with other men, but often when push comes to shove they get scared. D calls them the "Bi Orals," with a certain sarcasm. They love their dicks getting sucked by other guys, and maybe they reciprocate a little themselves. But anything beyond that clearly becomes Fag Stuff, and then they head for the doors.
D tries to avoid them, too much trouble. This is not about mentoring, it is about having a good time. D wants them up to speed, and pretty much a "see ya around" sort of thing when it's over.
My partner D now gets preoccupied with another Indian fellow from that Berkeley contingent. They start rubbing dicks together and touching one another. I would like to witness more, but the guy pulls D by his dick - ouch - into the bedroom, out of sight from my prying little eyes. The pulling doesn't hurt though, D is quite hard by now and ready to be pulled across oceans of time, we suppose.
I would have liked to witness more, but I suddenly find myself preoccupied with two new guys.
Where did they come from? Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. Mutt and Jeff. Laurel and Hardy.
I didn't recall them even walking in the door, but here they are. E is a stout Latin guy in his 40s, a big moustache. R is a lean runner-type, with a moustache. Apart from sharing moustaches, they look totally opposite types. They seem to know each other, but they appear not to play together. E seems pretty hetero, but R is clearly bi, we run across him at other parties. Their wives are off doing their own things on this evening.
The guys settle next to me and we start chatting. This happens too at sex parties. People actually do talk. Sometimes a lot. We start talking sports pretty quickly. I am really into that. E doesn't look fit enough to get a bowling ball down the alley, but his wife sounds great. She's gone to Las Vegas to run a marathon. If she's running a marathon, she looks nothing like her husband, I figure. Great. I can already visualize the kind of legs she travels with, so I make a squeak to E that it would be fun to run across her sometime at a party. R is a runner, he does the big Bay to Breakers annual run here in San Francisco.
They aren't really my types, but they are interesting and sociable, and their interest in me is something I can deal with.
TO BE CONTINUED
Wednesday, June 15, 2005
LET'S GO TO THE SEX PARTY (Part 5)
My partner D has been watching the proceedings from close by. This is one of the things he has discovered about himself at sex parties, how much he enjoys seeing me get poked by strange men. I am glad we are on the same page about this one. Guys are funny like that, it's ok (usually) as long as they get a front row seat. If they're not there (sometimes) then it's a killing offense! I suppose there is a lot of mirroring going on, as D sees himself in the other guy who's fucking me.
For my part, I know I have always wanted to see him get poked by strange men. So our interests have really dovetailed on this score. Part of the fun of these parties is being able to watch this, it's like a substitute for porn, which we both like watching a lot.
But I had never seen my partner of nearly 15 years get fucked by another man until this past year, so it is still a new and highly fascinating experience. He has often described his sexual encounters with other men to me, usually in bath house facilities. My usual response was to turn vividly green with envy, always, and to try and find a way to be the fly on the wall at such royal events. Partly because he describes himself as being such a different guy than the one I have sex with, and I felt like I wanted to see him in that state.
Once, when he was still living in NYC, D would visit bath houses and have such a roaring good time that waves of applause would often accompany his getting off. He yells and screams and talks dirty like you wouldn't believe. Everyone in the place knew when this guy came. Who says New Yorkers are blase all the time?
He and A eye each other, D gets the distinct impression that A wants to get fucked too as he's busy fucking me. Sandwich making time. But D just isn't into that right now, he was hoping to be a bottom too, at least with the men. He and A realized at the same moment that they were both bottoms. Oh well. Anyways, D is having too much enjoyment watching me get fucked royally. He'll get his soon enough.
A finally finishes with me. I turn to him, and in my usual facetious, often sarcastic fashion, say "Well A, thanks for dropping in." There is laughter in the room at this, especially from the big woman. People aren't too preoccupied to overhear what the rest of us are up to. Too bad she's physically not my type, because her sense of humor seems right on.
Now the boys on the sofa may get some peace and quiet. They're quietly sucking each other and playing like nice guys together. I keep wanting to look at Mr. Osama and that giant-sized cock of his. Hhmmm, I start wondering if I want to do things with it, or if I should. Tempting. Why not really scare the man?
Alright, so it finally comes out. I'm a Size Queen. I like playing with guys with big dicks, and I don't care what women think they like to say about that. I am sorry, mother. But size does matter. Visually and physically. Back before I met D, I would run across guys with the special packages. Joe Orton, the murdered Brit playwright, was correct when he wrote in his diaries that guys with big dicks do tend to wear it on their faces. Hell, I know I would! Advertise your wares, baby. I never understand it when women complain how they get "objectified" by men sexually at times. Because I know I do that with men myself pretty constantly. For me, it's just part of the doggy sniffing hello-how-are-you process.
Back before I met D, when I did hook up with guys, I felt my "good dyke" credentials would be called into question. So I had to overrule my sensibility that said, "this is just an momentary lapse of reason," to spin Roger Waters around a bit. Given that, I figured at least I may as well go all the way with life if I were going to hang out with a guy. So I wanted a guy with ALL the trimmings, thank you - big dick, big wallet, good drugs, good liquor. I did take those beer ads seriously, you know, the ones that advise you to "go for all the gusto" you can get.
But Mr. Osama on the sofa,I decide I had better leave well enough alone. He might freak out at a woman making squeaks in his direction. But I keep thinking lustful fantasies....like my Guantanamo Bay ones where I'm the blonde female interrogator, and try as I will I just can't keep my Pamela Anderson-style boobies from dragging across the detainees' faces.
If I had boobs like that. Which I don't, by the way. Is this too much political incorrectness? Sorry if it is, but after all, we are at a sex party, I do believe.
But on with the Games. There is a more beautiful boy who grabs our attention. P is the most gorgeous creature at the party. Nice slim lovely body, good looks, long curly hair well down his back. He seems very shy though, very quiet, rather innocent. He has been playing touchy-feely-kissy with the Big Woman on the mattress. But no sex yet with them. I don't know how to read their little situation.
P takes a break from the woman, and while he's temporarily freed up D smiles at him and starts to suck P's dick. P seems compliant, then D passes him to me and I start sucking him. D then puts a hand around that lovely backside. He claimed later not to have thought of fucking P at that point, the idea was a bit inchaote then. But just the hand moving there triggers defensiveness in P, who starts to pull away. For a moment we think he's about to say something, anything, he is so silent. But no words come out. Did we scare him speechless? Is he just into love chat with big girls on mattresses, but no actual sex? All of this has transpired without a word, which is kind of nice, we thought. We all seemed to be on the same page. But then it slipped away.
This was too much for P, who finally gets up and moves away somewhere. About ten minutes go by before we realize he's left the party. What was that all about? Surely he knows this is primarily a bisexual party for males? Or does he? D and I exchange a look, we scared him off.
TO BE CONTINUED
For my part, I know I have always wanted to see him get poked by strange men. So our interests have really dovetailed on this score. Part of the fun of these parties is being able to watch this, it's like a substitute for porn, which we both like watching a lot.
But I had never seen my partner of nearly 15 years get fucked by another man until this past year, so it is still a new and highly fascinating experience. He has often described his sexual encounters with other men to me, usually in bath house facilities. My usual response was to turn vividly green with envy, always, and to try and find a way to be the fly on the wall at such royal events. Partly because he describes himself as being such a different guy than the one I have sex with, and I felt like I wanted to see him in that state.
Once, when he was still living in NYC, D would visit bath houses and have such a roaring good time that waves of applause would often accompany his getting off. He yells and screams and talks dirty like you wouldn't believe. Everyone in the place knew when this guy came. Who says New Yorkers are blase all the time?
He and A eye each other, D gets the distinct impression that A wants to get fucked too as he's busy fucking me. Sandwich making time. But D just isn't into that right now, he was hoping to be a bottom too, at least with the men. He and A realized at the same moment that they were both bottoms. Oh well. Anyways, D is having too much enjoyment watching me get fucked royally. He'll get his soon enough.
A finally finishes with me. I turn to him, and in my usual facetious, often sarcastic fashion, say "Well A, thanks for dropping in." There is laughter in the room at this, especially from the big woman. People aren't too preoccupied to overhear what the rest of us are up to. Too bad she's physically not my type, because her sense of humor seems right on.
Now the boys on the sofa may get some peace and quiet. They're quietly sucking each other and playing like nice guys together. I keep wanting to look at Mr. Osama and that giant-sized cock of his. Hhmmm, I start wondering if I want to do things with it, or if I should. Tempting. Why not really scare the man?
Alright, so it finally comes out. I'm a Size Queen. I like playing with guys with big dicks, and I don't care what women think they like to say about that. I am sorry, mother. But size does matter. Visually and physically. Back before I met D, I would run across guys with the special packages. Joe Orton, the murdered Brit playwright, was correct when he wrote in his diaries that guys with big dicks do tend to wear it on their faces. Hell, I know I would! Advertise your wares, baby. I never understand it when women complain how they get "objectified" by men sexually at times. Because I know I do that with men myself pretty constantly. For me, it's just part of the doggy sniffing hello-how-are-you process.
Back before I met D, when I did hook up with guys, I felt my "good dyke" credentials would be called into question. So I had to overrule my sensibility that said, "this is just an momentary lapse of reason," to spin Roger Waters around a bit. Given that, I figured at least I may as well go all the way with life if I were going to hang out with a guy. So I wanted a guy with ALL the trimmings, thank you - big dick, big wallet, good drugs, good liquor. I did take those beer ads seriously, you know, the ones that advise you to "go for all the gusto" you can get.
But Mr. Osama on the sofa,I decide I had better leave well enough alone. He might freak out at a woman making squeaks in his direction. But I keep thinking lustful fantasies....like my Guantanamo Bay ones where I'm the blonde female interrogator, and try as I will I just can't keep my Pamela Anderson-style boobies from dragging across the detainees' faces.
If I had boobs like that. Which I don't, by the way. Is this too much political incorrectness? Sorry if it is, but after all, we are at a sex party, I do believe.
But on with the Games. There is a more beautiful boy who grabs our attention. P is the most gorgeous creature at the party. Nice slim lovely body, good looks, long curly hair well down his back. He seems very shy though, very quiet, rather innocent. He has been playing touchy-feely-kissy with the Big Woman on the mattress. But no sex yet with them. I don't know how to read their little situation.
P takes a break from the woman, and while he's temporarily freed up D smiles at him and starts to suck P's dick. P seems compliant, then D passes him to me and I start sucking him. D then puts a hand around that lovely backside. He claimed later not to have thought of fucking P at that point, the idea was a bit inchaote then. But just the hand moving there triggers defensiveness in P, who starts to pull away. For a moment we think he's about to say something, anything, he is so silent. But no words come out. Did we scare him speechless? Is he just into love chat with big girls on mattresses, but no actual sex? All of this has transpired without a word, which is kind of nice, we thought. We all seemed to be on the same page. But then it slipped away.
This was too much for P, who finally gets up and moves away somewhere. About ten minutes go by before we realize he's left the party. What was that all about? Surely he knows this is primarily a bisexual party for males? Or does he? D and I exchange a look, we scared him off.
TO BE CONTINUED
Friday, June 10, 2005
LET'S GO TO THE SEX PARTY (Part 4)
THE HAND OF ALLAH, (as it were)
In the background, I hear A ask my partner something. Basically, can he fuck me? Interesting he asks my partner, not me. Is it because he acknowledges we are a couple of many years and therefore thinks it better if he asks the Man? Is it because he takes one look at me and knows the answer already, and therefore asks my partner out of politeness? Of course, it's FINE with me. I don't feel slighted at all. He's done the proper thing, but I can't exactly say why.
I feel A's hand inserting several fingers inside me from behind, as I lie face down on the mattress on the floor. He starts working them around like he's been fisting dykes for years. Shit, this guy seems to know his stuff! Not that I am an expert, I can't recall anyone doing this before to me. Why I missed it I have no idea. Maybe two fingers at the most with a girl way back when. I suppose there were (usually) larger, better tools around at the time. I mentally send out a "thank you" to those hardcore girls back at Maud's, who clearly instructed this guy pretty well.
Anyways, A inserts about four fingers up me, and it feels really interesting. Those fingers go in and then around and you get a lot more different sensations going on than just what a guy's dick can accomplish. Fisting scared me a little before, I am a bit small and tight even after years with D, who is not exactly a shrimp boat. I would have thought that fisting involved a fair amount of discomfort. But it does not, lo and behold.
My friend N has actually given this subject some thought, she tells me how happy she was the day of her discovery that a fist adapts more naturally to the interior of a vagina than does a penis. The vagina widens at the end apparently, so a hand can fit near perfectly. I am going to persuade her to write about this someday, as I find that an interesting idea, with possibly even more interesting ramifications.
I am feeling really relaxed and half in half out of my body, as I am half on half off the mattress. I tend to get in these outrageous postures, don't ask why. I am limber enough that nearly all positions are comfortable to be in, depends how relaxed you are.
D tells me later on that I was starting to make lovely gurgling sounds. Apparently they prove disconcerting for the two boys on the sofa, who are trying to neck and pet and suck each other off. Too gay for words, and one of them - unfortunately the guy with the biggest dick in the entire place - has the sinister look of an Al Qaeda recruiting poster. Complete with the traditional style of beard. He's very nice though, rather shy, with a thick accent from God knows where. But he seems a bit uptight with me and all my girlie moanings emanating from near his feet.
A takes his time fisting me, then he decides he's going to fuck me. The guy is pretty damn big, so maybe fisting me first was the right preparation. And he's big and long enough to take me from behind without benefit of pillows or anything to elevate me. I'm ready for this, I make more interesting squeaks and gurgles. I feel for the boys on the sofa. Perhaps the night will seem better in retrospect, I hope. But right now I am something of a distraction.
Maybe the earth will open up and swallow me.
Inshallah.
TO BE CONTINUED
In the background, I hear A ask my partner something. Basically, can he fuck me? Interesting he asks my partner, not me. Is it because he acknowledges we are a couple of many years and therefore thinks it better if he asks the Man? Is it because he takes one look at me and knows the answer already, and therefore asks my partner out of politeness? Of course, it's FINE with me. I don't feel slighted at all. He's done the proper thing, but I can't exactly say why.
I feel A's hand inserting several fingers inside me from behind, as I lie face down on the mattress on the floor. He starts working them around like he's been fisting dykes for years. Shit, this guy seems to know his stuff! Not that I am an expert, I can't recall anyone doing this before to me. Why I missed it I have no idea. Maybe two fingers at the most with a girl way back when. I suppose there were (usually) larger, better tools around at the time. I mentally send out a "thank you" to those hardcore girls back at Maud's, who clearly instructed this guy pretty well.
Anyways, A inserts about four fingers up me, and it feels really interesting. Those fingers go in and then around and you get a lot more different sensations going on than just what a guy's dick can accomplish. Fisting scared me a little before, I am a bit small and tight even after years with D, who is not exactly a shrimp boat. I would have thought that fisting involved a fair amount of discomfort. But it does not, lo and behold.
My friend N has actually given this subject some thought, she tells me how happy she was the day of her discovery that a fist adapts more naturally to the interior of a vagina than does a penis. The vagina widens at the end apparently, so a hand can fit near perfectly. I am going to persuade her to write about this someday, as I find that an interesting idea, with possibly even more interesting ramifications.
I am feeling really relaxed and half in half out of my body, as I am half on half off the mattress. I tend to get in these outrageous postures, don't ask why. I am limber enough that nearly all positions are comfortable to be in, depends how relaxed you are.
D tells me later on that I was starting to make lovely gurgling sounds. Apparently they prove disconcerting for the two boys on the sofa, who are trying to neck and pet and suck each other off. Too gay for words, and one of them - unfortunately the guy with the biggest dick in the entire place - has the sinister look of an Al Qaeda recruiting poster. Complete with the traditional style of beard. He's very nice though, rather shy, with a thick accent from God knows where. But he seems a bit uptight with me and all my girlie moanings emanating from near his feet.
A takes his time fisting me, then he decides he's going to fuck me. The guy is pretty damn big, so maybe fisting me first was the right preparation. And he's big and long enough to take me from behind without benefit of pillows or anything to elevate me. I'm ready for this, I make more interesting squeaks and gurgles. I feel for the boys on the sofa. Perhaps the night will seem better in retrospect, I hope. But right now I am something of a distraction.
Maybe the earth will open up and swallow me.
Inshallah.
TO BE CONTINUED
Tuesday, June 07, 2005
LET'S GO TO THE SEX PARTY (Part 3)
At this particular party my partner and I are attending, the actual sex starts via the technique of group massage. This is how the party was advertised. We thought this was an excellent way to relax people and break the ice a little more. It's also a good excuse for people to undress nearly immediately.
There is one table for massaging, some of us use the mattresses too for massages. After about half an hour of this, we collectively settle in the living room, and then things start going.
How does a sex party start? Whether they are big parties, with 80 or more people, or smaller gatherings like this one, somebody still needs to kick the ball into play. My partner decides he's had enough hesitation, he pulls my legs up on the sofa and starts to go down on me.
We have talked about this ahead of time, the question of where and when we both wanted to get off. This may be one of the more important questions you need to ask yourself at a sex party, beause it can really help you plan your evening, as it were. What the hell is she talking about, you may be wondering. Don't you just go out there and try and have as many orgasms as you can?
Well, theoretically I suppose you could, but it doesn't always work that way. Just like in tennis, for instance, you don't walk out on the court intending just to bang the ball endlessly until somebody misses. You walk out with your brain functioning, and something called a game plan.
I find I'd rather work up to one big orgasm and that's it, the multiple ticket does not appeal to me really. I wipe myself out with a Big O and it takes a while for me to recuperate. My ass feels whipped. I suppose I could overcome that, but then I'd feel like I was competing in some athletic event and trying to score for the sake of racking up more points. So, given this, my partner and I decide I am going to get off early, then I can kick back and relax and enjoy all the physical sensations without HAVING to feel I need to come again.
I have found this is a wonderfully liberating experience. Of course, if I do come again that's great too, but I don't organize a Big Push to go there.
Don't let anyone tell you, if you are a woman, that multiple orgasms are a prerequisite to enjoying life. There is a certain tyranny to having an orgasm, I think sometimes. We are so pitched to achieve that, indeed, we are so pitched to be sexual altogether. If you can't get hot for sex in under ten seconds, something must be the matter. Maybe you should try a patch. We are constantly revving ourselves up in this testosterone-driven landscape of ours. Sometimes it gets kind of boring.
I feel like Ferdinand the Bull that way, if you remember the child's picture book about the bull who refuses to trample and gore the matadors in the ring. He simply wants to sit there and smell the daisies. That is a good way to be at times at a sex party. you can experience other sensations besides orgasms. You can listen to some really great music. I have heard a lovely solo soprano aria, I have heard Arabic trance. Perfect. And you have the ability to leisurely watch all the other action going on around you. A woman on her way to an orgasm is not going to appreciate any of that. She would scarcely notice if the room were on fire. Talk about a one track mind.
If I were that way all the time at a party, you would not be reading these descriptions, because I would not be capable of describing them. Or anything else for that matter. Aren't you glad?
When the dust settles, life becomes more manageable. Have you ever seen female cats after mating? They like to roll around luxuriously and stretch their bodies to the hilt. The Afterglow, if you will. Like when you give them catnip and they just starting going a bit silly. Well, I find I am very much like that, I feel totally relaxed, and ready to get pummeled in a lovely variety of ways. You could probably drive a Hummer up my twat in this happy state of mind.
Well I don't exactly get a Hummer up my twat, but pretty close. Having finished our encounter, D and I segue to the mattress on the living room floor, which is now being shared by the Big Woman and two boys.They seem to be having a rather quiet tete a tete with each other, intimate chatting but no play yet. Somehow I end up, half on, half off the mattress and on my stomach. Sounds damn uncomfortable, perhaps, but given my excellent outlook on life at this moment, it feels like bliss to me.
TO BE CONTINUED
There is one table for massaging, some of us use the mattresses too for massages. After about half an hour of this, we collectively settle in the living room, and then things start going.
How does a sex party start? Whether they are big parties, with 80 or more people, or smaller gatherings like this one, somebody still needs to kick the ball into play. My partner decides he's had enough hesitation, he pulls my legs up on the sofa and starts to go down on me.
We have talked about this ahead of time, the question of where and when we both wanted to get off. This may be one of the more important questions you need to ask yourself at a sex party, beause it can really help you plan your evening, as it were. What the hell is she talking about, you may be wondering. Don't you just go out there and try and have as many orgasms as you can?
Well, theoretically I suppose you could, but it doesn't always work that way. Just like in tennis, for instance, you don't walk out on the court intending just to bang the ball endlessly until somebody misses. You walk out with your brain functioning, and something called a game plan.
I find I'd rather work up to one big orgasm and that's it, the multiple ticket does not appeal to me really. I wipe myself out with a Big O and it takes a while for me to recuperate. My ass feels whipped. I suppose I could overcome that, but then I'd feel like I was competing in some athletic event and trying to score for the sake of racking up more points. So, given this, my partner and I decide I am going to get off early, then I can kick back and relax and enjoy all the physical sensations without HAVING to feel I need to come again.
I have found this is a wonderfully liberating experience. Of course, if I do come again that's great too, but I don't organize a Big Push to go there.
Don't let anyone tell you, if you are a woman, that multiple orgasms are a prerequisite to enjoying life. There is a certain tyranny to having an orgasm, I think sometimes. We are so pitched to achieve that, indeed, we are so pitched to be sexual altogether. If you can't get hot for sex in under ten seconds, something must be the matter. Maybe you should try a patch. We are constantly revving ourselves up in this testosterone-driven landscape of ours. Sometimes it gets kind of boring.
I feel like Ferdinand the Bull that way, if you remember the child's picture book about the bull who refuses to trample and gore the matadors in the ring. He simply wants to sit there and smell the daisies. That is a good way to be at times at a sex party. you can experience other sensations besides orgasms. You can listen to some really great music. I have heard a lovely solo soprano aria, I have heard Arabic trance. Perfect. And you have the ability to leisurely watch all the other action going on around you. A woman on her way to an orgasm is not going to appreciate any of that. She would scarcely notice if the room were on fire. Talk about a one track mind.
If I were that way all the time at a party, you would not be reading these descriptions, because I would not be capable of describing them. Or anything else for that matter. Aren't you glad?
When the dust settles, life becomes more manageable. Have you ever seen female cats after mating? They like to roll around luxuriously and stretch their bodies to the hilt. The Afterglow, if you will. Like when you give them catnip and they just starting going a bit silly. Well, I find I am very much like that, I feel totally relaxed, and ready to get pummeled in a lovely variety of ways. You could probably drive a Hummer up my twat in this happy state of mind.
Well I don't exactly get a Hummer up my twat, but pretty close. Having finished our encounter, D and I segue to the mattress on the living room floor, which is now being shared by the Big Woman and two boys.They seem to be having a rather quiet tete a tete with each other, intimate chatting but no play yet. Somehow I end up, half on, half off the mattress and on my stomach. Sounds damn uncomfortable, perhaps, but given my excellent outlook on life at this moment, it feels like bliss to me.
TO BE CONTINUED
Thursday, June 02, 2005
LET'S GO TO THE SEX PARTY (Part 2)
Our host A is a trim, tanned fellow, balding on top with a small white beard. He is 54, and he is in great shape, with smooth, supple muscles and a well-proportioned body. I saw his website where he seeks private dates, women preferred but he is definitely bi. Or as he puts it rather succinctly, he likes fucking and getting fucked. He has also posed for a gay male calendar of guys over 50. I have never been attracted to men around my age, but here's one I would go for if I weren't with my current partner.
At the start of the evening as we converse together, A and I take a trip down memory lane. He lives around the corner from where the classic dyke bar in San Francisco used to be, Maud's, it was called. It closed down a while ago, but in the late 60s and 70s it was quite the hangout. I became a really good pool player at Maud's, A became a really good connoisseur of dykes in the place. He told me he hung there a lot, chatting up the women, and often succeeding in picking them up. I can visualize him twenty or thirty years ago, and I can see him connecting with a dyke or two. He's open, interesting, with a well-developed female side but not a swishy type at all. For a bi man, this is important, at least to me. He is nearly a 50-50, like my own partner D.
A says that every time he took home a dyke, he had what he claims was the best sex of his life. Those dykes, don't they ever know how to do a guy good. He says this as he fixes me with a look. I suspected when I visited his website that he and I might connect. He is into thin thin women who are fit. I am lean and leaner with some muscles. I sense at some point he is probably going to want to leap on me. I am ready.
Other people start arriving, until we land a group of about 12-15. The flavor is very definitely bi to gay, as far as the guys are concerned. A couple of the guys are just too gay for words, I already start crossing some of them off my Fuck List.
The women are a definite disappointment, to me at least. The first one to arrive is M, and she is huge. I do a doubletake though when she introduces herself, her name sounds like a play on Minnie Mouse. There is nothing minimal about her though, she is one big girl with large pale rolls of fat that seem to cascade everywhere, all at once. She is amiable enough, and she is a regular apparently, and she does get action. Another woman arrives, L, and she is even bigger. My heart sinks, being the lean little squeak that I am. Big people scare me, it's a survival mechanism I suppose. And they probably take one look at me and figure, God, can someone feed this poor child once in a while? So, it is clear to me that I am NOT going to be here for the women. And they are NOT here for me. So, now that we all agree on that conclusion, in a moment of shared silence, the three of us head for the men, in unison.
More newcomers arrive, from Berkeley. The ethnic contingent. A good-looking older mixed black guy, and two younger fellows, one of them very Indian-looking. He makes eye contact with my partner D the minute he comes in the room. Given their druthers, they would soon be making a beeline for one another.
Unfortunately, the kid makes a comment that he's a cigarette smoker, and this sends our host A around the bend. A hates cigarette smokers, although he will let pot people smoke outside on the balcony. The kid says he can do that too, no problem. A is having none of it. Then the kid says he won't smoke at all, even outside. Doesn't matter, A asks him to leave, politely but very firmly. His invite for the party mentions that cigarette smokers are not welcome at his parties. I guess he means it. So the crestfallen young man exits, one of his companions offers to drive him home. Or somewhere else. The companion never returns either.
My partner D is crestfallen too. "Oh well, bye bye!" he waves humorously to the young Indian man as he is escorted out the door.
Was A too harsh about the smoking? Several people I have told this to think so. But his invite clearly spells out that cigarette smokers are not welcome. And we all know how cigarette smoke lingers on a person's body long after the butts are stubbed out. A must be one of those people who is ultra sensitive to obnoxious smells like that, and frankly I don't blame him for what he did. After all, when you host your own party, you get to make calls like that.
TO BE CONTINUED
At the start of the evening as we converse together, A and I take a trip down memory lane. He lives around the corner from where the classic dyke bar in San Francisco used to be, Maud's, it was called. It closed down a while ago, but in the late 60s and 70s it was quite the hangout. I became a really good pool player at Maud's, A became a really good connoisseur of dykes in the place. He told me he hung there a lot, chatting up the women, and often succeeding in picking them up. I can visualize him twenty or thirty years ago, and I can see him connecting with a dyke or two. He's open, interesting, with a well-developed female side but not a swishy type at all. For a bi man, this is important, at least to me. He is nearly a 50-50, like my own partner D.
A says that every time he took home a dyke, he had what he claims was the best sex of his life. Those dykes, don't they ever know how to do a guy good. He says this as he fixes me with a look. I suspected when I visited his website that he and I might connect. He is into thin thin women who are fit. I am lean and leaner with some muscles. I sense at some point he is probably going to want to leap on me. I am ready.
Other people start arriving, until we land a group of about 12-15. The flavor is very definitely bi to gay, as far as the guys are concerned. A couple of the guys are just too gay for words, I already start crossing some of them off my Fuck List.
The women are a definite disappointment, to me at least. The first one to arrive is M, and she is huge. I do a doubletake though when she introduces herself, her name sounds like a play on Minnie Mouse. There is nothing minimal about her though, she is one big girl with large pale rolls of fat that seem to cascade everywhere, all at once. She is amiable enough, and she is a regular apparently, and she does get action. Another woman arrives, L, and she is even bigger. My heart sinks, being the lean little squeak that I am. Big people scare me, it's a survival mechanism I suppose. And they probably take one look at me and figure, God, can someone feed this poor child once in a while? So, it is clear to me that I am NOT going to be here for the women. And they are NOT here for me. So, now that we all agree on that conclusion, in a moment of shared silence, the three of us head for the men, in unison.
More newcomers arrive, from Berkeley. The ethnic contingent. A good-looking older mixed black guy, and two younger fellows, one of them very Indian-looking. He makes eye contact with my partner D the minute he comes in the room. Given their druthers, they would soon be making a beeline for one another.
Unfortunately, the kid makes a comment that he's a cigarette smoker, and this sends our host A around the bend. A hates cigarette smokers, although he will let pot people smoke outside on the balcony. The kid says he can do that too, no problem. A is having none of it. Then the kid says he won't smoke at all, even outside. Doesn't matter, A asks him to leave, politely but very firmly. His invite for the party mentions that cigarette smokers are not welcome at his parties. I guess he means it. So the crestfallen young man exits, one of his companions offers to drive him home. Or somewhere else. The companion never returns either.
My partner D is crestfallen too. "Oh well, bye bye!" he waves humorously to the young Indian man as he is escorted out the door.
Was A too harsh about the smoking? Several people I have told this to think so. But his invite clearly spells out that cigarette smokers are not welcome. And we all know how cigarette smoke lingers on a person's body long after the butts are stubbed out. A must be one of those people who is ultra sensitive to obnoxious smells like that, and frankly I don't blame him for what he did. After all, when you host your own party, you get to make calls like that.
TO BE CONTINUED
