So I've joined some sexy adult dating sites and am having fun meeting some wonderfully open, twisted, free, loving, horny, odd, sultry and fascinatingly titillating folks...
I'm sure I'll post more about some of them here...but tonight I wanted to share with you a fun little comment I added to one of their blog postings. Not that it is oh so brilliant but I had fun writing it and figured I'd share here...
She is a blogger who has been told she is sexiest when she gets all philosophical...sounds like Miss Mary to me...though I've never felt the sting of this girl's hand...I somehow feel you are peas from a similarly twisted pod...so I introduced myself to her by way of the following...
"Stumbled on your profile and adore it. What I wouldn't give to sidle up to you and Hegel you up and down. I'd slowly slip my Sartre into your glistening Schopenhauer. You'd be all Ayn Rand-y by the time I tied you with your own Lyotard, pressing your voluptuous Hobbes down tight, until you practically Deleuzed all over yourself. I'd John Locke your ankles to the bedposts, you little Husserl, so you couldn't resist my throbbing Spinoza. 'Heidegger, Heidegger' you'd scream as I had taken sexy pictures with my hidden Camus. Perhaps, my friends would drop by and watch me de Beauvoir you repeatedly and even Chomsky you themselves with their mammoth Aquinas before we'd Descartes you across the room, to the big bed and Derrida you like you deserve. It wouldn't take much G.E. Moore before you'd uncontrollably scream 'Foucault me, NOW!'"
Aristotle, my ass...
(please)
Friday, November 23, 2007
Monday, October 29, 2007
C'MON LET'S GO
If I made love the way I dance, I’d never get laid. But I love dancing so much. OK, well, I must give myself the benefit of the doubt I’ve only been dancing for a year or so and I’ve been fucking for over 30 years. Last night I was dancing with a girl who wasn’t born when I started fucking. Why bring that up? Because it makes me feel good. Now, if I could only say some day down the road, “Last night I fucked a girl who wasn’t even born when I started dancing.” Well, maybe not. That would either make me a fetus-o-phile or have me in closing in on my 70s and her nearing 20…
Bottom line is, like sex, when you find a dancing partner with whom you have found a groove, the right music, the right moment. All time falls away and it is just pure unadulterated sexy fun.
My ex and I used to dance. Maybe one dance per wedding or once or twice a year if we were out in a bar and the band was happening. She had one particular “bounce” she did and it only worked with certain music so we were limited. Sure we could slow dance but neither of us were particularly adept at that. We’d just go in little circles. But I’ll tell you I sure loved those little circles with her.
And being a Deadhead and a musician, I never really did the whole dancin’-twirling-gyrating Dead-dance thing at shows. Not because the music didn’t move me but because the movement of my head impeded the absorption of every little musical nuance and my relationship with their music was very much one of study and detail oriented observation. So I missed a ton of a certain kind of fun at those shows. Granted, my wife didn’t attend either so twirling with my other “detail oriented buds” wasn’t something that came up. I loved watching hippie chicks go off though, spinning in all their see-through muslin freedom.
So why start dancing now? Well, I’d finally broken free of the depression of divorce and the angst of the first hellacious new post-divorce relationship (although on our last night together, she and I danced slowly in the hallway to the first song we'd ever sung onstage together years before and it was a beautiful moment, but I digress) and for the first time in my life I felt free. I felt loose and open and ready for whatever life had for me. I’d found myself at a gig by a friend’s Western Swing band and though I’d never attempt to actually “swing dance” I was discovered sort of cutting the rug near stage-side. Nothing too expansive but a bit more than my standard swaying of shoulders and never moving the feet concert/listening stance. Within a week or so, in fact, it was a year ago this month, I was at a friend’s wedding reception and the same swing band was playing. This time they had my favorite local drummer guesting and he really rocked them a bit. His date also was standing around looking ready to party and so she and I became dance partners by osmosis.
She’s a cool woman but always seemed one of the boys. A partier. Always dressed down in basic jeans and flannel hippie garb or some such thing. Not what someone would call a real femme chick. In fact, this was the first time in 20+ years I’d ever seen her wear a dress. At any rate, I’d never had so much fun dancing in my life. She and I were very responsive to each other. When I’d spin one way, she’d follow. When she’d dip a shoulder down, I’d dip the opposite up. I kept thinking, “Shit, so this is what this is all about.” We were like mirrors at times and just had a blast. Even the drummer commented, “You’re not bad out there. I’ve never seen you move so much before.”
In fact, I got a lot of nice compliments from people and in the next few months, I danced whenever the music moved me. I met a woman, Louisa, on Match.com who, while bumming me out by immediately stating that I wasn’t her type before ever meeting me, she also said we should meet for coffee and talk music since our tastes were very similar. We wound up at some concerts and bars together and found ourselves dancing and having a ball doing it. Now, that is our primary motivation for going out on the weekend.
So I’d spent my whole life not dancing. My excuse being that I didn’t want to look like an idiot. Now, who the fuck cares. I'm old enough to not be concerned in the slightest. Another factor has always been that, as at the Grateful Dead shows, I always listen intently to live music. As a musician whenever people are dancing you are either onstage playing or in the audience watching some other band and trying to pick up just what's going on. Are they any good? Any riffs I can steal? Are they making any mistakes or have any interesting ideas that might motivate my musicianship? So who had the time to dance the night away? Plus I hate being sweaty and what girl would look twice at a drenched dude? Well, now I see that girls who like to dance will...and there are lots of them out there waiting.
And recently when Louisa and I were among the first on the dance floor at a concert by a great Cajun guitarist, an old friend of mine came up and said, “I wish I could do that…I don’t have the balls to get out there and dance especially since I could never move like you guys.” Huh? Life is funny.
Then again there is always the big plus of being able to touch and hold women close without being bitch-slapped.
Bottom line is, like sex, when you find a dancing partner with whom you have found a groove, the right music, the right moment. All time falls away and it is just pure unadulterated sexy fun.
My ex and I used to dance. Maybe one dance per wedding or once or twice a year if we were out in a bar and the band was happening. She had one particular “bounce” she did and it only worked with certain music so we were limited. Sure we could slow dance but neither of us were particularly adept at that. We’d just go in little circles. But I’ll tell you I sure loved those little circles with her.
And being a Deadhead and a musician, I never really did the whole dancin’-twirling-gyrating Dead-dance thing at shows. Not because the music didn’t move me but because the movement of my head impeded the absorption of every little musical nuance and my relationship with their music was very much one of study and detail oriented observation. So I missed a ton of a certain kind of fun at those shows. Granted, my wife didn’t attend either so twirling with my other “detail oriented buds” wasn’t something that came up. I loved watching hippie chicks go off though, spinning in all their see-through muslin freedom.
So why start dancing now? Well, I’d finally broken free of the depression of divorce and the angst of the first hellacious new post-divorce relationship (although on our last night together, she and I danced slowly in the hallway to the first song we'd ever sung onstage together years before and it was a beautiful moment, but I digress) and for the first time in my life I felt free. I felt loose and open and ready for whatever life had for me. I’d found myself at a gig by a friend’s Western Swing band and though I’d never attempt to actually “swing dance” I was discovered sort of cutting the rug near stage-side. Nothing too expansive but a bit more than my standard swaying of shoulders and never moving the feet concert/listening stance. Within a week or so, in fact, it was a year ago this month, I was at a friend’s wedding reception and the same swing band was playing. This time they had my favorite local drummer guesting and he really rocked them a bit. His date also was standing around looking ready to party and so she and I became dance partners by osmosis.
She’s a cool woman but always seemed one of the boys. A partier. Always dressed down in basic jeans and flannel hippie garb or some such thing. Not what someone would call a real femme chick. In fact, this was the first time in 20+ years I’d ever seen her wear a dress. At any rate, I’d never had so much fun dancing in my life. She and I were very responsive to each other. When I’d spin one way, she’d follow. When she’d dip a shoulder down, I’d dip the opposite up. I kept thinking, “Shit, so this is what this is all about.” We were like mirrors at times and just had a blast. Even the drummer commented, “You’re not bad out there. I’ve never seen you move so much before.”
In fact, I got a lot of nice compliments from people and in the next few months, I danced whenever the music moved me. I met a woman, Louisa, on Match.com who, while bumming me out by immediately stating that I wasn’t her type before ever meeting me, she also said we should meet for coffee and talk music since our tastes were very similar. We wound up at some concerts and bars together and found ourselves dancing and having a ball doing it. Now, that is our primary motivation for going out on the weekend.
So I’d spent my whole life not dancing. My excuse being that I didn’t want to look like an idiot. Now, who the fuck cares. I'm old enough to not be concerned in the slightest. Another factor has always been that, as at the Grateful Dead shows, I always listen intently to live music. As a musician whenever people are dancing you are either onstage playing or in the audience watching some other band and trying to pick up just what's going on. Are they any good? Any riffs I can steal? Are they making any mistakes or have any interesting ideas that might motivate my musicianship? So who had the time to dance the night away? Plus I hate being sweaty and what girl would look twice at a drenched dude? Well, now I see that girls who like to dance will...and there are lots of them out there waiting.
And recently when Louisa and I were among the first on the dance floor at a concert by a great Cajun guitarist, an old friend of mine came up and said, “I wish I could do that…I don’t have the balls to get out there and dance especially since I could never move like you guys.” Huh? Life is funny.
Then again there is always the big plus of being able to touch and hold women close without being bitch-slapped.
FLIP THE SWITCH LETTERS #1: SISSY PIG/MISTRESS/SLUT/MASTER/BITCH/SLAVE
So you figure it out. All I can tell you is that my xxxploratory partner (EXP) and I are two flexible motherfuckers. We both like to switch roles. She is more experienced in the submissive role, me in the dominant in our previous relationships but we both feel like our real essence resides somewhere on the opposite side of our experiences. As “EXPs” one of our main focuses seems to have been to play on both sides to try and figure out where our preferences lie. So far, I think we both seem pretty happy getting the best (and worst-ouch) of both worlds.
Here is a sampling of some long distance correspondence. Seems I wrote some birthday emails for her which got sucked into cyberspace and she didn’t wind up getting them until later (I re-sent just them as the originals finally got through so she got double attention...mmm) So as in any good loving sub/dom relationship, we can find silly reasons for “punishment” anywhere…I’ll make her pay for doubting me…
Pierce:
OK so pretend you didn't get all of those birthday greetings (or were they emails that went missing?) I'd tried so hard to be the first to wish you HBD but of course I was a day early because I'M A FUCKIN' IDIOT.
But you know that and idiots can be more easily dominated, more easily convinced to do your bidding...I plead wondrous idiocy in the name of carnal pleasure....yee-yum-fuckin'-haw.
Happy B'day, baby.
XO---===>>>B
Miss Mary:
…But perhaps if you go into the bathroom right now and wash your hands clean of this horrendous sin…and then get down on your knees, freak..because that's where freaks should be…on their knees...and bend way over…because you are going to get a nice, hard (ok, telepathic) spanking from Miss Mary. One shiny red heel balanced on your spine to keep you still lest you flinch. Bad, baby, bad.
Swat.
Bad, Pierce, bad. Swat. What have we? You're wiggling your ass at me? Bad, Piercely, bad…what am I going to do with you? Swat. Swat. Swat. You know it didn't have to be this way…Miss Mary would have very much liked to have admired your cock tonight...yep, liked to have had it plump and ready for her tongue to roll it strong. She would have been happy to be the one on her knees backed up against the bathroom wall while you held her head strong and fucked her red, tired but still accommodating mouth, she would have loved to look up at you all innocent and coy while reaching for the your favorite latex penis (which I'm sure you packed for your trip) just in time for you to lube it with your drenching come and then Miss Mary would have liked to slide it oh so slowly into your pulsing ass ...
But no, ...no such rewards for bad boys who forget their Mistress.
Oh, well.. you did make quite an effort in your cover-up of the "missing missives" though. I almost believe you :)
You’re off the hook.
xoxo,
~M
Pierce:
I would never forget you Miss Mary. Please. Fuck me slowly Miss Mary. I’m sorry I sinned Miss Mary.
OW
OW
OW
OW
OW
OW
OW
OW
OW
OW
OW
OW
OW
YAAAAAAAAAAAAOW
OH
WAIT
OW
HARDER PLEASE
YAAA
AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH
STOP NO STOP IT
NO
MORE MORE MORE MORE MORE MORE
MORE
FUCK
YOU BITCH that HURTS
ENOUGH
WATERMELON, FUCKER! WATERMELON...UH, SISSY PIG!
OK, UH THAT’S FUNNY TO YOU?
COME here, YES I’m pulling your hair, you mean little slut. Get over here. Let me see those tits. Take that off NOW. Pierce is in charge now. You have a problem with that? No? Good. I think you like being bad.
So you doubted my attention? You thought I forgot about you? Now you will pay for doubting me!
Good. Good. Now get down on your knees. Is that floor too cold? Too fucking bad, baby.
WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU SMILING ABOUT?
OPEN YOUR MOUTH...
Yes. That’s right. You are being pierced yes, baby. Suck that big head, baby. I’ve been waiting for you to make me pay for being such a bad boy but sometimes you have to take a bit of your own medicine. Swallow that hard dick baby, now rub that wet cock all over your face. Yeah, that’s it.
Mmmm. Before I come baby, I’m going to pull your head back with a fistful of your hair and piss all over you. I want to see your face and soft neck and shoulders and those beautiful breasts that I dream about, all soaking wet baby. Ahhhhhhhh. Warm splashing all over your body. You’re such a little slut baby. Now grip that cock baby, slip it deep in your mouth and stroke me off...I want to shoot my hot paste in your mouth baby...yeah, suck it down Mary...mmmm. You’re such a nasty little girl.
Ahhhh. Yes. Mmmm. Here baby, let me lay down on the wet floor. Come on, lay on top of me. Yes. I’m still hard baby, yes. Kiss me. I want to taste all of that come. You feel so good all wet against me. I want to hold that ass in my hands. Let me squeeze that fucking ass, baby. Let me slip a finger up your wet snatch for a second....Soak it. Mmmm. Slippery. Now, I’m gonna slide it up that tight ass of yours...feel that?...yeah baby, fuck that finger with your asshole...let me kiss your neck... you taste like piss baby. Mmmm, feel that finger up you baby?...feel my cock poking up between your legs? Push those legs together. Squeeze him between your legs baby...yeah, I want you to pee on that hard cock baby...soak me baby...yeah, you kinky little bitch doing what your master says. Good girl. Rub up against that cock baby; I want to feel you come against that drenched cock. Feel those fingers inside your ass; pushing you towards that wet, hot cock...I love being your little whore Mary. Shiver on that hard cock baby...yes, that’s it...Kiss me, before I have to spank that ass...yes, I’ve missed you baby...hold me tight. Kiss me, baby.... kiss me.
------->>>>B
Here is a sampling of some long distance correspondence. Seems I wrote some birthday emails for her which got sucked into cyberspace and she didn’t wind up getting them until later (I re-sent just them as the originals finally got through so she got double attention...mmm) So as in any good loving sub/dom relationship, we can find silly reasons for “punishment” anywhere…I’ll make her pay for doubting me…
Pierce:
OK so pretend you didn't get all of those birthday greetings (or were they emails that went missing?) I'd tried so hard to be the first to wish you HBD but of course I was a day early because I'M A FUCKIN' IDIOT.
But you know that and idiots can be more easily dominated, more easily convinced to do your bidding...I plead wondrous idiocy in the name of carnal pleasure....yee-yum-fuckin'-haw.
Happy B'day, baby.
XO---===>>>B
Miss Mary:
…But perhaps if you go into the bathroom right now and wash your hands clean of this horrendous sin…and then get down on your knees, freak..because that's where freaks should be…on their knees...and bend way over…because you are going to get a nice, hard (ok, telepathic) spanking from Miss Mary. One shiny red heel balanced on your spine to keep you still lest you flinch. Bad, baby, bad.
Swat.
Bad, Pierce, bad. Swat. What have we? You're wiggling your ass at me? Bad, Piercely, bad…what am I going to do with you? Swat. Swat. Swat. You know it didn't have to be this way…Miss Mary would have very much liked to have admired your cock tonight...yep, liked to have had it plump and ready for her tongue to roll it strong. She would have been happy to be the one on her knees backed up against the bathroom wall while you held her head strong and fucked her red, tired but still accommodating mouth, she would have loved to look up at you all innocent and coy while reaching for the your favorite latex penis (which I'm sure you packed for your trip) just in time for you to lube it with your drenching come and then Miss Mary would have liked to slide it oh so slowly into your pulsing ass ...
But no, ...no such rewards for bad boys who forget their Mistress.
Oh, well.. you did make quite an effort in your cover-up of the "missing missives" though. I almost believe you :)
You’re off the hook.
xoxo,
~M
Pierce:
I would never forget you Miss Mary. Please. Fuck me slowly Miss Mary. I’m sorry I sinned Miss Mary.
OW
OW
OW
OW
OW
OW
OW
OW
OW
OW
OW
OW
OW
YAAAAAAAAAAAAOW
OH
WAIT
OW
HARDER PLEASE
YAAA
AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH
STOP NO STOP IT
NO
MORE MORE MORE MORE MORE MORE
MORE
FUCK
YOU BITCH that HURTS
ENOUGH
WATERMELON, FUCKER! WATERMELON...UH, SISSY PIG!
OK, UH THAT’S FUNNY TO YOU?
COME here, YES I’m pulling your hair, you mean little slut. Get over here. Let me see those tits. Take that off NOW. Pierce is in charge now. You have a problem with that? No? Good. I think you like being bad.
So you doubted my attention? You thought I forgot about you? Now you will pay for doubting me!
Good. Good. Now get down on your knees. Is that floor too cold? Too fucking bad, baby.
WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU SMILING ABOUT?
OPEN YOUR MOUTH...
Yes. That’s right. You are being pierced yes, baby. Suck that big head, baby. I’ve been waiting for you to make me pay for being such a bad boy but sometimes you have to take a bit of your own medicine. Swallow that hard dick baby, now rub that wet cock all over your face. Yeah, that’s it.
Mmmm. Before I come baby, I’m going to pull your head back with a fistful of your hair and piss all over you. I want to see your face and soft neck and shoulders and those beautiful breasts that I dream about, all soaking wet baby. Ahhhhhhhh. Warm splashing all over your body. You’re such a little slut baby. Now grip that cock baby, slip it deep in your mouth and stroke me off...I want to shoot my hot paste in your mouth baby...yeah, suck it down Mary...mmmm. You’re such a nasty little girl.
Ahhhh. Yes. Mmmm. Here baby, let me lay down on the wet floor. Come on, lay on top of me. Yes. I’m still hard baby, yes. Kiss me. I want to taste all of that come. You feel so good all wet against me. I want to hold that ass in my hands. Let me squeeze that fucking ass, baby. Let me slip a finger up your wet snatch for a second....Soak it. Mmmm. Slippery. Now, I’m gonna slide it up that tight ass of yours...feel that?...yeah baby, fuck that finger with your asshole...let me kiss your neck... you taste like piss baby. Mmmm, feel that finger up you baby?...feel my cock poking up between your legs? Push those legs together. Squeeze him between your legs baby...yeah, I want you to pee on that hard cock baby...soak me baby...yeah, you kinky little bitch doing what your master says. Good girl. Rub up against that cock baby; I want to feel you come against that drenched cock. Feel those fingers inside your ass; pushing you towards that wet, hot cock...I love being your little whore Mary. Shiver on that hard cock baby...yes, that’s it...Kiss me, before I have to spank that ass...yes, I’ve missed you baby...hold me tight. Kiss me, baby.... kiss me.
------->>>>B
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
"IT'S LIKE DISCOVERING PLUTONIUM...BY ACCIDENT."
I've had a difficult time blogging about my first real, non-imaginary, threesome...Instead, I have been luxuriating in the memory, reliving the details in rich, vibrant, Technicolor r.e.m. sleep as well as in conversation with all of my jealous male friends, thoroughly impressed and beautifully skeptical female friends...but sit down and put the details down on "paper" has been a bit more difficult. It's almost as if I take the time to actually write about it, I may realize that it really was just some kind of twisted Twilight Zone moment where I slipped through the cracks between 50 years of fantasizing and some truly blessed event...would I be able to discern reality from fantasy?
So tonight while perusing online Swingers dating sites--and just wondering, "Is this really me? Do I have it in me to jump in dick first to a whole new lifestyle? Will my loving and willing girlfriend Randi be as willing as she has seemed to be in considering all of these other radically less dramatic 'suggestions' I've thrown at her way this past year?"--I hear from the TV across the room an old rerun of SEINFELD which held the answers to at least one of the aforementioned quandaries...YES, here is my way through the writer's block...through the invisible wall of indecision which has held back my confessional needs...so I give you…the prologue, catalyst, cattle prod that will hopefully bear blog fruit as I begin to tell you about the wonders of triplicate sex...
Read on from the SEINFELD episode called “The Switch”...It starts with Jerry & George planning Jerry’s attempt to do the impossible, trying to switch from dating one girl (Sandy) to her hotter roommate (Laura)...
GEORGE: All right. Let's go over it again, one more time.
JERRY: All right. So I tell Sandy that I want to have a ménage a trois with her and her roommate.
GEORGE: That's right.
JERRY: And you believe this course of action will have a two-pronged effect. Firstly, the very mention of the idea will cause Sandy to recoil in disgust, whereupon she will insist that I remove myself from the premises.
GEORGE: Keep going.
JERRY: At this point, it is inevitable that she will seek out the roommate to apprise her of this abhorrent turn of events.
GEORGE: Continue.
JERRY: The roommate will then offer her friend the requisite sympathy even as part of her cannot help but feel somewhat flattered by her inclusion in the unusual request.
{George takes over.}
GEORGE: A few days go by and a call is placed at a time when Sandy is known to be busy at work. Once the initial awkwardness is relieved with a little playful humor, which she [Laura] of course cannot resist, an invitation to a friendly dinner is proffered.
JERRY: Huh. Well, it all sounds pretty good. There's only one flaw in it: They're roommates. She'd have to go out with me behind Sandy's back. She's not gonna do that.
{Another pregnant pause. George?}
GEORGE: You disappoint me, my friend. Sandy wants nothing to do with you. She tells Laura, "If you want to waste your time with that pervert, that's your problem."
{Final pause. Jerry?}
JERRY: It's a perfect plan. So inspired. So devious. Yet so simple.
GEORGE: {George, finger in the peanut butter jar}: This is what I do.
>>>>
LATER IN THE SHOW...
>>>>
Sandy's apartment
SANDY: What:
JERRY: You know, I don't know the exact pronunciation but I believe its Ménage A Trois.
SANDY: Oooo, that is a wild idea
JERRY: Uh?
>>>>
LATER IN THE SHOW...
>>>>
GEORGE: Hey, what happened with Sandy. I forgot all about it. Did you call her?
JERRY: Yeah, I did. In fact I went over there.
GEORGE: So what happened? She throw you out? Eh?
JERRY: No actually, she took it pretty well.
GEORGE: So what happened?
JERRY: She's into it.
GEORGE: Into what?
JERRY: The ménage. And not only that. She just called me and said she talked to the roommate and the roommate’s into the ménage too.
GEORGE: That's unbelievable.
JERRY: Oh, it's a scene man.
GEORGE: Do you ever just get down on your knees and thank god that you know me and have access to my dementia?
JERRY: What are you talking about? I'm not goin' to do it.
GEORGE: You're not goin’ to do it? What do you mean, you're not goin’ to do it?
JERRY: I can't. I'm not an orgy guy.
GEORGE: Are you crazy? This is like discovering Plutonium ... by accident.
JERRY: Don't you know what it means to become an orgy guy? It changes everything. I'd have to dress different. I'd have to act different. I'd have to grow a mustache and get all kinds of robes and lotions and I'd need a new bedspread and new curtains I'd have to get thick carpeting and weirdo lighting. I'd have to get new friends. I'd have to get orgy friends. ... Naw, I'm not ready for it.
GEORGE: If only something like that could happen to me.
JERRY: Oh, shut up you couldn't do it either.
GEORGE: I know.
***
....FOOLISH BOYS...OF COURSE THEY COULD...AND SHOULD....
So tonight while perusing online Swingers dating sites--and just wondering, "Is this really me? Do I have it in me to jump in dick first to a whole new lifestyle? Will my loving and willing girlfriend Randi be as willing as she has seemed to be in considering all of these other radically less dramatic 'suggestions' I've thrown at her way this past year?"--I hear from the TV across the room an old rerun of SEINFELD which held the answers to at least one of the aforementioned quandaries...YES, here is my way through the writer's block...through the invisible wall of indecision which has held back my confessional needs...so I give you…the prologue, catalyst, cattle prod that will hopefully bear blog fruit as I begin to tell you about the wonders of triplicate sex...
Read on from the SEINFELD episode called “The Switch”...It starts with Jerry & George planning Jerry’s attempt to do the impossible, trying to switch from dating one girl (Sandy) to her hotter roommate (Laura)...
GEORGE: All right. Let's go over it again, one more time.
JERRY: All right. So I tell Sandy that I want to have a ménage a trois with her and her roommate.
GEORGE: That's right.
JERRY: And you believe this course of action will have a two-pronged effect. Firstly, the very mention of the idea will cause Sandy to recoil in disgust, whereupon she will insist that I remove myself from the premises.
GEORGE: Keep going.
JERRY: At this point, it is inevitable that she will seek out the roommate to apprise her of this abhorrent turn of events.
GEORGE: Continue.
JERRY: The roommate will then offer her friend the requisite sympathy even as part of her cannot help but feel somewhat flattered by her inclusion in the unusual request.
{George takes over.}
GEORGE: A few days go by and a call is placed at a time when Sandy is known to be busy at work. Once the initial awkwardness is relieved with a little playful humor, which she [Laura] of course cannot resist, an invitation to a friendly dinner is proffered.
JERRY: Huh. Well, it all sounds pretty good. There's only one flaw in it: They're roommates. She'd have to go out with me behind Sandy's back. She's not gonna do that.
{Another pregnant pause. George?}
GEORGE: You disappoint me, my friend. Sandy wants nothing to do with you. She tells Laura, "If you want to waste your time with that pervert, that's your problem."
{Final pause. Jerry?}
JERRY: It's a perfect plan. So inspired. So devious. Yet so simple.
GEORGE: {George, finger in the peanut butter jar}: This is what I do.
>>>>
LATER IN THE SHOW...
>>>>
Sandy's apartment
SANDY: What:
JERRY: You know, I don't know the exact pronunciation but I believe its Ménage A Trois.
SANDY: Oooo, that is a wild idea
JERRY: Uh?
>>>>
LATER IN THE SHOW...
>>>>
GEORGE: Hey, what happened with Sandy. I forgot all about it. Did you call her?
JERRY: Yeah, I did. In fact I went over there.
GEORGE: So what happened? She throw you out? Eh?
JERRY: No actually, she took it pretty well.
GEORGE: So what happened?
JERRY: She's into it.
GEORGE: Into what?
JERRY: The ménage. And not only that. She just called me and said she talked to the roommate and the roommate’s into the ménage too.
GEORGE: That's unbelievable.
JERRY: Oh, it's a scene man.
GEORGE: Do you ever just get down on your knees and thank god that you know me and have access to my dementia?
JERRY: What are you talking about? I'm not goin' to do it.
GEORGE: You're not goin’ to do it? What do you mean, you're not goin’ to do it?
JERRY: I can't. I'm not an orgy guy.
GEORGE: Are you crazy? This is like discovering Plutonium ... by accident.
JERRY: Don't you know what it means to become an orgy guy? It changes everything. I'd have to dress different. I'd have to act different. I'd have to grow a mustache and get all kinds of robes and lotions and I'd need a new bedspread and new curtains I'd have to get thick carpeting and weirdo lighting. I'd have to get new friends. I'd have to get orgy friends. ... Naw, I'm not ready for it.
GEORGE: If only something like that could happen to me.
JERRY: Oh, shut up you couldn't do it either.
GEORGE: I know.
***
....FOOLISH BOYS...OF COURSE THEY COULD...AND SHOULD....
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
XXXPLORATORY SESSION #3A: RODEO GIRL (pt.1)
So in our cavalcade of sexual edification, i.e. sharing moments in our co-mingled search for new sexual self-definition and revelation, we come together for pointedly semi-specific "though" decidedly fun sexual encounters (consciously avoiding the "lab rat" syndrome where we'd feel poked and prodded for no reason other than "SCIENCE!" as Thomas Dolby would scream).
The very nature of the beast seems to be sitting refreshingly and comfortably thus far...or as comfortable as you can be when having our nether regions explored by some sexy Ponce de Leon/Amelia Earhart adventurer...
Session #3 found MY wishes, or as Mary likes to call them "demands", on tap for the evening. Things went swingingly...well, not literally, since there were no other couples or ceiling hung devices involved...
The plan was to fool a bit with the master/slave role-play (new to me, and fairly new to Mary). Being so used to sexual relations where all is based more on spontaneity of the moment and not excessive planning other than, "You around?" so much semi-choreographed scenario planning was interesting as hell…
Mary, as I am, is always one to slobber on about motives, rationale and such explanatory bemusements, so for her I add the following to the stew before continuing the ribald tale: Miss Mary, I want to travel with your thorough the burn, embrace our suffering and push you through our pain, look you in the eye as the tears fall. I want to lather my cock and your wet crotch with our mingled tears, sweat and cry for each other's ecstasy, cry for the pain, the life and the twisted calm that this sharing brings...closer to who we are as individuals, what we share as sentient beings, what we find as microcosms of all in orgasmic blissfulness. Through the pain to better understand the joy.
Saddle up, my beautiful friend...and so we did:
Instead of concentrating on cut-and-dried S-and-M wordplay, we skirted around its edges to lessen the severity for us naughty novices but tried not to be complete pantywaists.
She asked me three days before for a script. She wanted to be dominated and suggested I throw in anything I was intereste din trying. If she was hesitant about anything she'd let me know and we'd amend the script. I'm a writer and a chronic fantasizer so I figured I could rise th the occasion. For three days, I (to coin a phrase) slaved over my task at hand. Sending it off to her not knowing if I'd overstepped my boundaries or if I hadn't gone far enough. It came back to me with the reply, "All good." A few minutes before the proposed time for her to step onto my porch, Mary pulled into my driveway and as instructed, knocked three times on my door ("9:30pm, not a minute before, not a minute after") and undressed to panties and bra only there in the chilly night. I had placed a blindfold in a wooden box on the bench next to the door and she opened it and put it on as she'd been instructed. She had also found and wore her black leather and chain dog collar, at my insistence.
She was instructed to again knock on the door ("and I will answer it when I'm ready") and I took a few moments thinking of her on the porch feeling the night air on her porcelain skin. Of course, I was jumping out of my own skin dying to throw that door open but I made her wait. I was getting the hang of this.
When I finally opened the door there she stood, one leg raised slightly, a bit of a nervous posture and her shy, sweet smile peeking out from under the blindfold. Taking her hand, I led her a couple of feet into the foyer and closed the door with a bang behind her.
Mary's skin was glowing in the low light of the room, her ample bosom round and held firmly by her black lace brassiere. I have been enamored of the handful of dark moles on her chest since I first noticed them on our second date as I tried to peek glances at her cleavage, which she had hidden well on our initial G rated dinner date. I welcomed her, circling, taking her in. Her straw-colored hair poked out from underneath the blindfold and hid her face. She continued to try to keep from smiling and answered quietly or with the small shake of her head when I asked her question. "Do you find this funny?" she shook her head side to side but the corners of her mouth told me she was enjoying every moment.
Sticking my finger under the front of her collar, I slowly raised her head and lightly kissed her lips. Perhaps a wimpy move in such a scenario but I wanted to instill at least a modicum of trust as well as confusion in the first few minutes. She let out a long breath when I was through and jumped when I slapped hard on her robust and waiting ass. I walked behind her and pulled first left and then right wrists behind her back quickly slipping on my uncle's old police handcuffs, the key hanging from a cord around my neck. Her hands glanced my hard cock as it pushed anxiously against my silk short pants. I'd opted for comfortable wear since she wouldn't be seeing much of me until later in the evening.
In my written instructions I'd stated the evening's basic premise and possible activities, saving specific details for her imagination to fill in. Part of it read, "At the top of the steps, I will ask you one question, 'Right,' or 'Left'. If you choose 'left', some of the possibilities may include: you being tied to the headboard, pain play (possible leather flogging, nipple work, temperature variation, etc.), mutual simultaneous penetration with a new toy (mmmm), etc.
Choosing “Right” may find you experience being bent over a special piece of “leather furniture” that I think you may enjoy; possible spanking, flogging, anal play etc.
Neither left or right has exclusivity nor dedication to any of these activities so be ready for anything within limits. Either choice will involve some pain play, toys of some sort, some role-playing and perhaps safe sex fucking. She'd approved the menu.
After walking around her and squeezing her breasts hard for a moment I slipped my finger under her collar, or was it around the cuffs on her wrist...it's a bit blurry now as of this writing...and guided her carefully up the carpeted steps to the landing. I turned her around a couple of times and asked, "So you must decide...left or right?" She replied quickly and coyly, "Maybe right, or...perhaps, left."
"Don't play games with me. Since you seem unable to decide you will wait here until you make up your mind," and I turned her around and bent her over the thick, log rail her head hanging out over the living room below. I stepped up behind her and pressed my cock into her cuffed hands and slipped my hands around to first cup her breasts and the slide up to her neck. She squeezed my hard rod briefly and tightly. I whispered into her ear, "Do not move, I don't want you falling down the stairs."
I backed away and left her to consider the expanse below her for a moment...from under her blindfold...
...to be continued
The very nature of the beast seems to be sitting refreshingly and comfortably thus far...or as comfortable as you can be when having our nether regions explored by some sexy Ponce de Leon/Amelia Earhart adventurer...
Session #3 found MY wishes, or as Mary likes to call them "demands", on tap for the evening. Things went swingingly...well, not literally, since there were no other couples or ceiling hung devices involved...
The plan was to fool a bit with the master/slave role-play (new to me, and fairly new to Mary). Being so used to sexual relations where all is based more on spontaneity of the moment and not excessive planning other than, "You around?" so much semi-choreographed scenario planning was interesting as hell…
Mary, as I am, is always one to slobber on about motives, rationale and such explanatory bemusements, so for her I add the following to the stew before continuing the ribald tale: Miss Mary, I want to travel with your thorough the burn, embrace our suffering and push you through our pain, look you in the eye as the tears fall. I want to lather my cock and your wet crotch with our mingled tears, sweat and cry for each other's ecstasy, cry for the pain, the life and the twisted calm that this sharing brings...closer to who we are as individuals, what we share as sentient beings, what we find as microcosms of all in orgasmic blissfulness. Through the pain to better understand the joy.
Saddle up, my beautiful friend...and so we did:
Instead of concentrating on cut-and-dried S-and-M wordplay, we skirted around its edges to lessen the severity for us naughty novices but tried not to be complete pantywaists.
She asked me three days before for a script. She wanted to be dominated and suggested I throw in anything I was intereste din trying. If she was hesitant about anything she'd let me know and we'd amend the script. I'm a writer and a chronic fantasizer so I figured I could rise th the occasion. For three days, I (to coin a phrase) slaved over my task at hand. Sending it off to her not knowing if I'd overstepped my boundaries or if I hadn't gone far enough. It came back to me with the reply, "All good." A few minutes before the proposed time for her to step onto my porch, Mary pulled into my driveway and as instructed, knocked three times on my door ("9:30pm, not a minute before, not a minute after") and undressed to panties and bra only there in the chilly night. I had placed a blindfold in a wooden box on the bench next to the door and she opened it and put it on as she'd been instructed. She had also found and wore her black leather and chain dog collar, at my insistence.
She was instructed to again knock on the door ("and I will answer it when I'm ready") and I took a few moments thinking of her on the porch feeling the night air on her porcelain skin. Of course, I was jumping out of my own skin dying to throw that door open but I made her wait. I was getting the hang of this.
When I finally opened the door there she stood, one leg raised slightly, a bit of a nervous posture and her shy, sweet smile peeking out from under the blindfold. Taking her hand, I led her a couple of feet into the foyer and closed the door with a bang behind her.
Mary's skin was glowing in the low light of the room, her ample bosom round and held firmly by her black lace brassiere. I have been enamored of the handful of dark moles on her chest since I first noticed them on our second date as I tried to peek glances at her cleavage, which she had hidden well on our initial G rated dinner date. I welcomed her, circling, taking her in. Her straw-colored hair poked out from underneath the blindfold and hid her face. She continued to try to keep from smiling and answered quietly or with the small shake of her head when I asked her question. "Do you find this funny?" she shook her head side to side but the corners of her mouth told me she was enjoying every moment.
Sticking my finger under the front of her collar, I slowly raised her head and lightly kissed her lips. Perhaps a wimpy move in such a scenario but I wanted to instill at least a modicum of trust as well as confusion in the first few minutes. She let out a long breath when I was through and jumped when I slapped hard on her robust and waiting ass. I walked behind her and pulled first left and then right wrists behind her back quickly slipping on my uncle's old police handcuffs, the key hanging from a cord around my neck. Her hands glanced my hard cock as it pushed anxiously against my silk short pants. I'd opted for comfortable wear since she wouldn't be seeing much of me until later in the evening.
In my written instructions I'd stated the evening's basic premise and possible activities, saving specific details for her imagination to fill in. Part of it read, "At the top of the steps, I will ask you one question, 'Right,' or 'Left'. If you choose 'left', some of the possibilities may include: you being tied to the headboard, pain play (possible leather flogging, nipple work, temperature variation, etc.), mutual simultaneous penetration with a new toy (mmmm), etc.
Choosing “Right” may find you experience being bent over a special piece of “leather furniture” that I think you may enjoy; possible spanking, flogging, anal play etc.
Neither left or right has exclusivity nor dedication to any of these activities so be ready for anything within limits. Either choice will involve some pain play, toys of some sort, some role-playing and perhaps safe sex fucking. She'd approved the menu.
After walking around her and squeezing her breasts hard for a moment I slipped my finger under her collar, or was it around the cuffs on her wrist...it's a bit blurry now as of this writing...and guided her carefully up the carpeted steps to the landing. I turned her around a couple of times and asked, "So you must decide...left or right?" She replied quickly and coyly, "Maybe right, or...perhaps, left."
"Don't play games with me. Since you seem unable to decide you will wait here until you make up your mind," and I turned her around and bent her over the thick, log rail her head hanging out over the living room below. I stepped up behind her and pressed my cock into her cuffed hands and slipped my hands around to first cup her breasts and the slide up to her neck. She squeezed my hard rod briefly and tightly. I whispered into her ear, "Do not move, I don't want you falling down the stairs."
I backed away and left her to consider the expanse below her for a moment...from under her blindfold...
...to be continued
SHE'S A LITTLE HDD
She’s a little Hindu, Deadhead, dominatrix
Leather, whips and chains there in her toybox
With her Mala beads, her crystals, and her bongs
She’s got a Gibson Firebird in some Chinese tuning
And she’ll tie you down if you can’t play along
She’s a little Hindu, Deadhead, dominatrix
In her world, Ship of Fools is just a song.
She’s a little, Hindu, Deadhead, dominatrix
Her house is very comfy, very peaceful
Filled with candles, shrines and waterfalls and such
She’ll fondly wax your nipples while the Dead is playing Ripple
You don’t take her to dinner, but she might just have you for lunch
She’s a little, Hindu, Deadhead, dominatrix
Not sure what makes her spin, I’ve got a hunch
“Yes, please Mistress Mary” is my mantra
We talk about our favorite shows and when
She teaches me of love and peace and Tantra
And spanks me on the ass yet once again
She’s a little, Hindu, Deadhead, dominatrix
Tie-dyed, faux fur handcuffs, wears a collar
She is honest and she won’t play tricks on you
That is unless she’s asked to make you holler
Slap out “Iko” on your backside with her shoe
She’s a little, Hindu, Deadhead, dominatrix
A spike heel or a Birkenstock will do.
Note: - OK so she doesn't have bongs and prefers black leather and cold metal to tie-dye restraints but one must take a bit of poetic license...I'll work on some music to this...this is a first draft and will change, I'm sure.
Leather, whips and chains there in her toybox
With her Mala beads, her crystals, and her bongs
She’s got a Gibson Firebird in some Chinese tuning
And she’ll tie you down if you can’t play along
She’s a little Hindu, Deadhead, dominatrix
In her world, Ship of Fools is just a song.
She’s a little, Hindu, Deadhead, dominatrix
Her house is very comfy, very peaceful
Filled with candles, shrines and waterfalls and such
She’ll fondly wax your nipples while the Dead is playing Ripple
You don’t take her to dinner, but she might just have you for lunch
She’s a little, Hindu, Deadhead, dominatrix
Not sure what makes her spin, I’ve got a hunch
“Yes, please Mistress Mary” is my mantra
We talk about our favorite shows and when
She teaches me of love and peace and Tantra
And spanks me on the ass yet once again
She’s a little, Hindu, Deadhead, dominatrix
Tie-dyed, faux fur handcuffs, wears a collar
She is honest and she won’t play tricks on you
That is unless she’s asked to make you holler
Slap out “Iko” on your backside with her shoe
She’s a little, Hindu, Deadhead, dominatrix
A spike heel or a Birkenstock will do.
Note: - OK so she doesn't have bongs and prefers black leather and cold metal to tie-dye restraints but one must take a bit of poetic license...I'll work on some music to this...this is a first draft and will change, I'm sure.
Thursday, August 9, 2007
I'VE GOT A ROCKET IN MY POCKET
Men. We are an obsessive lot. Boobs, sports, beer, food…all right, I’ll vouch for the boobs and food thang…but the thing that makes us most crazy, the thing we can’t get enough of is our own penises. Size, shape, usefulness, angle, and of course most frequently, getting the little guy some action…any kind of action.
But size…here is the thing…we need to be reassured…no matter how much trim we get, how many hard-ons, morning, evening, afternoon wood we muster…it still has to pass certain criteria. It has to be functional and it has to be bigger. I know not all guys want their dicks to be bigger, and many will even lie to your face and say they are totally pleased being “slightly above average in size”. These men are either pole-vaulters, high singers in the locker room choir or just plain fibbers.
Ok, so I have always had a thing about the inadequacy of my cock. And truthfully, all but the hugest guys I know seem to want something more…longer, thicker, smoother, harder, smarter…we all somehow want something we don’t have. But then, I repeat myself.
Of course, I never thought about it ONCE until I saw my first porn film. Some old dusty 8mm flick with a guy we called “Quartz McGee”, the precursor to the fluid Peter North, he of copious quantities of copulative goo…And then there are the ever present surveys which seem to all claim that the average guy is somewhere between 5.5” and 6.5”. Ok, so the majority of us all caught our breath and felt a little better.
But in my own survey of approx. 20 friends, when asked what one thing they would change about their body if they could do so without surgery, the results were fairly one-sided: 7 of 10 men listed cock size in their top 2 answers. Of the other top responses such as weight, height, hair; only weight or “to be in better shape” had an equal rating in top 2 answers. Of the three whose penis didn’t factor into the upper echelon of their “change” graph, 2 of the three mentioned they’d change their penis size if they could although it was not a large a priority as other things.
So without extracting measurements from the guys, it looks as if most of us want what we can’t have.
Having always been a chunky fellow (body-wise), I always saw my third arm as looking a bit on the puny side. I got no comments from the first couple of women I was with but, yeah it was dark and we were young enough not to be so open in our sexual conversation back in those days. I really had not much to judge it against. Flesh magazines back then, at least the ones that I had access to, never showed hard cock or even soft ones. Penthouse hadn’t gone engorged yet and I wouldn’t have known where to find anything more risqué.
Now I didn’t frequent nude beaches not because of penis size but because I felt I was fat and, oh yeah, might become visibly bonorific at the sight of all of the perfect bodies that were there. When I finally went I realized that there are no perfect bodies and realized that if indeed there were “growers and show-ers” then I was distinctly in the first category.
Then suddenly, the video revolution launched porn into the stratosphere. In a short time everyone knew of the pre-bludgeoning John C. Holmes whether they’d had the chance to marvel at his donkeyness or not. Little did we know that in a few short years guys like Ron Jeremy would become MTV celebrities known for nothing more than the hip company they keep and the huge members they strap to their leg before hitting the Hollywood/Malibu party circuit.
So having seen the first glimmerings of bad scripts, worse hairstyles and clothes, horrid camerawork, forests of public hair and humongous dongs in the first round of 70s porn films, I was a bit pissed at my gene pool for dealing me the average card.
Then I met an amazing girl and on the day after our first meeting, (which also happened to be the first time either of us tried acid), we got together at my house and she showed me the joys of real oral pleasure. She said on unleashing my young throbbing fella, “Nice big head on you, Pierce.” News to me, but he rose to the compliment and I somehow felt better about things. Hard not to when you are down the throat of a thrill seeking woman who would date bullfighters for the next two years. She’d leave in a month for Spain but we spent a lot of time unleashing that beast wherever we could. But I’ll write about her in depth later.
My ex never once commented on the size of my cock other than saying, “How should I know?” Granted she was a virgin when I met her and she never watched porn so I guess I was barking up the wrong tree.
The first girl I dated post-divorce loved my cock. No complaints there and always said that I was “the biggest she’d ever had”. Now I know she’d only been with a half dozen men before me but I was pleased anyway. She loved what I did with it and we had some incredibly transcendent sex. In retrospect, she had a tendency to twist the truth to her own means and her ex-husband was a habitual, professional liar so I was never quite sure what to fucking believe.
I’m dating two women right now who both seem enamored by my cock. One says that she’s been with some endowed men but that I fill her mouth and pussy better than any of them (what ever that means…does it mean less painful and not gagging? I choose to concentrate on the word “fill”).
The other is a more experienced woman and I wouldn’t dare ask her about size comparisons BUT she did say “WOW” when she unleashed him for the first time and has called my winking pole-tergeist, “beautiful” and she’s been coming back for more so I must not be too laughable.
There’s a great book out there TALKING COCK, by a Brit stand-up comedian whose name I forget. It’s his answer to THE VAGINA MONOLOGUES and is a funny expose into the Man-think about their hamsticks. Not much on yambags but we’ll have to wait for THE SCROTAL PAPERS or some such thing. So I know I'm not alone in my questioning obsessions. If I were then there wouldn't be this hugely lucrative market in penis pumps, exercisers, miracle cream, ancient Indian dick grower herbs and such that seem to festoon the back of every men's magazine on the planet.
Even though he has his temperamental moments, my Wonder Boy is still always willing to great me and shake my hand each morning and still thrills at the prospect of more exercise and spelunking.
So I’m feeling pretty good about the little fella. Seeing my fancy-go-to-meetin’ cane in the small fist and grinning mouth of my new lady friend inspired this gibberish talk. Maybe it’s just that my hands are too big…yeah, that’s it.
It's all in the head...get it?
But size…here is the thing…we need to be reassured…no matter how much trim we get, how many hard-ons, morning, evening, afternoon wood we muster…it still has to pass certain criteria. It has to be functional and it has to be bigger. I know not all guys want their dicks to be bigger, and many will even lie to your face and say they are totally pleased being “slightly above average in size”. These men are either pole-vaulters, high singers in the locker room choir or just plain fibbers.
Ok, so I have always had a thing about the inadequacy of my cock. And truthfully, all but the hugest guys I know seem to want something more…longer, thicker, smoother, harder, smarter…we all somehow want something we don’t have. But then, I repeat myself.
Of course, I never thought about it ONCE until I saw my first porn film. Some old dusty 8mm flick with a guy we called “Quartz McGee”, the precursor to the fluid Peter North, he of copious quantities of copulative goo…And then there are the ever present surveys which seem to all claim that the average guy is somewhere between 5.5” and 6.5”. Ok, so the majority of us all caught our breath and felt a little better.
But in my own survey of approx. 20 friends, when asked what one thing they would change about their body if they could do so without surgery, the results were fairly one-sided: 7 of 10 men listed cock size in their top 2 answers. Of the other top responses such as weight, height, hair; only weight or “to be in better shape” had an equal rating in top 2 answers. Of the three whose penis didn’t factor into the upper echelon of their “change” graph, 2 of the three mentioned they’d change their penis size if they could although it was not a large a priority as other things.
So without extracting measurements from the guys, it looks as if most of us want what we can’t have.
Having always been a chunky fellow (body-wise), I always saw my third arm as looking a bit on the puny side. I got no comments from the first couple of women I was with but, yeah it was dark and we were young enough not to be so open in our sexual conversation back in those days. I really had not much to judge it against. Flesh magazines back then, at least the ones that I had access to, never showed hard cock or even soft ones. Penthouse hadn’t gone engorged yet and I wouldn’t have known where to find anything more risqué.
Now I didn’t frequent nude beaches not because of penis size but because I felt I was fat and, oh yeah, might become visibly bonorific at the sight of all of the perfect bodies that were there. When I finally went I realized that there are no perfect bodies and realized that if indeed there were “growers and show-ers” then I was distinctly in the first category.
Then suddenly, the video revolution launched porn into the stratosphere. In a short time everyone knew of the pre-bludgeoning John C. Holmes whether they’d had the chance to marvel at his donkeyness or not. Little did we know that in a few short years guys like Ron Jeremy would become MTV celebrities known for nothing more than the hip company they keep and the huge members they strap to their leg before hitting the Hollywood/Malibu party circuit.
So having seen the first glimmerings of bad scripts, worse hairstyles and clothes, horrid camerawork, forests of public hair and humongous dongs in the first round of 70s porn films, I was a bit pissed at my gene pool for dealing me the average card.
Then I met an amazing girl and on the day after our first meeting, (which also happened to be the first time either of us tried acid), we got together at my house and she showed me the joys of real oral pleasure. She said on unleashing my young throbbing fella, “Nice big head on you, Pierce.” News to me, but he rose to the compliment and I somehow felt better about things. Hard not to when you are down the throat of a thrill seeking woman who would date bullfighters for the next two years. She’d leave in a month for Spain but we spent a lot of time unleashing that beast wherever we could. But I’ll write about her in depth later.
My ex never once commented on the size of my cock other than saying, “How should I know?” Granted she was a virgin when I met her and she never watched porn so I guess I was barking up the wrong tree.
The first girl I dated post-divorce loved my cock. No complaints there and always said that I was “the biggest she’d ever had”. Now I know she’d only been with a half dozen men before me but I was pleased anyway. She loved what I did with it and we had some incredibly transcendent sex. In retrospect, she had a tendency to twist the truth to her own means and her ex-husband was a habitual, professional liar so I was never quite sure what to fucking believe.
I’m dating two women right now who both seem enamored by my cock. One says that she’s been with some endowed men but that I fill her mouth and pussy better than any of them (what ever that means…does it mean less painful and not gagging? I choose to concentrate on the word “fill”).
The other is a more experienced woman and I wouldn’t dare ask her about size comparisons BUT she did say “WOW” when she unleashed him for the first time and has called my winking pole-tergeist, “beautiful” and she’s been coming back for more so I must not be too laughable.
There’s a great book out there TALKING COCK, by a Brit stand-up comedian whose name I forget. It’s his answer to THE VAGINA MONOLOGUES and is a funny expose into the Man-think about their hamsticks. Not much on yambags but we’ll have to wait for THE SCROTAL PAPERS or some such thing. So I know I'm not alone in my questioning obsessions. If I were then there wouldn't be this hugely lucrative market in penis pumps, exercisers, miracle cream, ancient Indian dick grower herbs and such that seem to festoon the back of every men's magazine on the planet.
Even though he has his temperamental moments, my Wonder Boy is still always willing to great me and shake my hand each morning and still thrills at the prospect of more exercise and spelunking.
So I’m feeling pretty good about the little fella. Seeing my fancy-go-to-meetin’ cane in the small fist and grinning mouth of my new lady friend inspired this gibberish talk. Maybe it’s just that my hands are too big…yeah, that’s it.
It's all in the head...get it?
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