I’ll call her Red because she wore red pantyhose and she never did give me her real name. I suppose I could have found out what her name was. I suppose it wouldn’t have mattered. They come up a lot, stage names do. Everyone has a part to play.
“I was hoping you’d come,” she said, smiling at me. “I enjoy your writing.” It’s always a little jarring to hear this. She had my dossier. I had nothing on her.
The broad, multi-hued horizontal stripes on her tight dress were the sort of thing only petite women can get away with. The front of the dress was zipped only half way, revealing a sports-bra that strained to keep its heavy payload in place. Red’s curly hair framed a kind and intelligent face.
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A sexy reader by the name of Kate inserted the following into my inbox:
I’ve been an avid reader of your blog for several years now. At long last I’m dating a lovely gentleman who shares my proclivity for swinging. What we are now discovering is the minor issue of how one goes about pursuing a swinging “lifestyle.”
We have been very fortunate in that a mutual female friend has resulted in several threesomes. Sadly she lives in Florida and is not available on a regular basis. So I thought I’d consult an expert on how we could meet someone/several someone’s who would be interested in our desires.
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If I am an orgy guy I am ambivalent about it. The sublime is what I am after — the kind of transcendent experiences that stay with you — and if these pleasures are more rewarding than self-gratification, they also require empathy and patience. Fuck and run just doesn’t cut it.
I try to keep my non-monogamous karma in balance by attending a polyamorous event now and then. Really though, when people tell me about their loves and lovers (and I blanch at the thought of all the scheduling involved) I start to feel like polyamory is an in-joke I’ll never get. Maybe I’m a contrarian, but I am always looking for a third way.
I hadn’t given much thought to what to do about the date — it had all been so heady and unexpected — but we did share a philosophical skepticism about things and a common love for my wife’s perfect ass. So when I decided to drop by the poly cocktail hour I invited her along.
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“[W]e are not bad at it, not at all. To be sure, alone neither Brigitta nor I is ever quite so cunning or brave, but together it seems that we strongly reenforce one another’s waywardness, and, as the nights go by, become more and more adroit at charming perfect strangers. Yet no matter how skillfully, how professionally, we come to maneuver as a team, I still go a little weak and dizzy when it appears that we have actually succeeded in finding a willing third…
— Philip Roth, The Professor of Desire
You are a fool.
Trapped in your delusions, you never fail to miss the obvious. You set your sights too low. You never take things far enough. It always comes as a revelation that someone, somewhere might take an interest in you.
You want her number. She wants to fuck you.
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It started with a tentative slap across her backside as she leaned over the counter. Encouraged by her little yelp of delight, I cupped my palm and delivered another blow, and then another, each strike more furious than the last. Leslie joined me, each of us working a side. Our date’s cheeks turned crimson; my hand felt like it had fallen asleep. She gasped when I bit down on the pale, lovely flesh above the crease between buttock and thigh. She purred when I clamped my teeth around her nipple.
I am not certain what prompted the spanking but this pretty newcomer had coaxed something out of hiding. Like Leslie, she was agreeable and giving and just shy enough that her depravity was a delightful shock to me.
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She started this.
She started this but she is yours now.
Take her on a tour of the apartment. When you reach the walk-in closet, grab her by the loops on the waist of her jeans and press her ass against the aching monstrosity in your pants. Her voice is high and sweet: Oh! This is what you wanted to hear.
Lead her to the front door and prepare her for your wife’s return. Remove her top. Admire the ski slope curves of her breasts. Take one large nipple and then another into your mouth. When your wife opens the door she sees the two of you and she purrs.
Remind yourself that most wives, upon witnessing this scene, would file for divorce.
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My life is a parade of threesomes and eager sexkittens and orgiastic delights.
Except for when it isn’t.
I never see these moments coming, the moments that leave me battered and bruised, the moments that make me want to find a dark corner and hide.
The lithe young woman rode my leg, reverse cowgirl, mashing her lips against my wife’s, moaning as my fingers slipped into her black panties and up her shorn but not completely shaven cunt. The three of us stood in a bright stairwell. People smiled as they pressed past us. I cupped a heavy breast in my palm and whispered something into the young woman’s ear.
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Go down in your own way
And every day is the right day
And as you rise above the fear-lines in his brow
You look down
Hear the sound of the faces in the crowd
Pink Floyd, Fearless
Niagara. I remember, a few years ago, meeting two women in the tiki lounge on the lower level, a blonde and a brunette, both of them striking amazons. Some guy was trying to wow them with silly magic tricks and, being all balls and no finesse, I blew up his game only to crash and burn myself.
The blonde’s name was Hogan, believe it or not. I made a joke about Hogan’s Heroes, a joke she didn’t appreciate in the least. Said she owned a motorcycle. I asked her about the size of her engine and she launched into a tirade about how she hated that line of inquiry. For a while my foot was lodged so firmly in my mouth I was only able to say, “Mmmph? Mmmph!” Finally spat out my foot and asked the two girls how they knew each other. “Oh, she takes care of me,” the brunette said, grabbing her girlfriend by the waist. I swallowed. “You guys are way outta my league,” I said, and then slowly backed away.
If only I knew then what I know now. If only they’d taken me back to their lair and forced me to go down on them all night. I’ve always had a set of vaguely submissive fantasies, not silly spanking nonsense but something more subtle and more dangerous than that. I’ve never met a woman who fancied being in charge. Well, there’s Jen, our dominatrix friend, but I tower over her. Or maybe that’s supposed to be the kink of it.
Niagara. We met Jack, Jill and two married college friends down there on Saturday. Jack and Jill brought along a pretty brown-haired girl they’d met on craigslist—just for kicks I’ll call her Layla. When I greeted her she smiled brightly, “I’ve heard so much about you.” Oh boy. You just know that’s trouble. The two of us ended up sitting on a leather bench downstairs as everyone else milled about. She used the word “lifestyle,” which is unusual for a single woman—a sign she’s more than just a dabbler.
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sexy | admin, June 21, 2009 8:26 am | 
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