A Bad Man in a Bad Place

• Music Video: Benny Benassi - Satisfaction
  Brilliant use of tools.
  (tags: Sexy music techno dance)

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I'm off to California. I'm not going to email Surfette. Nor text nor call.

But I might (just might) see The Cuban.

As I've been going down memory lane since seeing The Beauty, I figure I should share the story of how I met the woman that kicked this whole thing off. This is the story, written shortly after it happened in 2002, of meeting The Cuban.
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She sent me an email, on New Years Eve, when I was off with the Beauty. I laughed at it - just my luck to be getting email like that on a day when I'm off with the one girl I've wanted for nearly a year.

I mostly ignore it, but I flag it for followup. Something catches my eye. She's read my website, seen the various friends I've had and their websites, and wants to meet me for a drink.

"what's was my point again? ah, yes, if you ever feel like meeting up for a drink and making a new friend in the city, feel free to write. no worries, i'm totally normal. 24. art director. cute."

What the hell, my life's gone surreal already, I'll email her back and we'll have a drink.

I suggest we drink at the wine-bar/coffee shop around the corner from my apartment. Two reasons - first, it's around the corner from my apartment. Second, it's downtown enough culturally that if she's as upper west side as she seems, I can flee into the "well, I'm a hipster" prickishness that I've taken as my own.

I got there early, pick a seat with my face to the door, and wait. I start in on a glass of Cote de Rhone while I wait, and read up on drafting wills in New York, because I'm a law student. That

Every time the door opens, I hold my breath... is it her? Is it her?

Each time, it's couples. Or men.

Five minutes after Eight, the door opens, and a scene from a movie walks in. A stunning and elegant woman, hair trailing behind her in the breeze, looks around the room. She spots me. Under my breath, I protest "non ce posso." She starts walking towards me, and I freeze. I tense up. I start to relax when she tries to kiss my cheek. In standing to give her that kiss, my chair falls from the weight of my bag and my coat.

She scurries around the table to help me with it. I'm awestruck and speechless. Women like _her_ do not troll the internet. Women like her spend time on St. Barths with the money from the settlement of their first divorce.

We sit. I'm utterly tense, and she asks me questions about a topic I know a lot about (me) and I start telling her stories, some of which she's already read. I start to relax. And then I notice something.

She's staring at me.

don't stare at me like that. Not with those lips. You mentioned being friends. Your lips are going to make it impossible to befriend you. Because I'm going to try valiantly to kiss them. And that hair. And your face. I'm getting distracted.

The Colombian calls, to warn me that she's at my bar. It's bad form to bring a woman whom your attracted to out drinking at the bar where your sort-of-girlfriend is lurking with her friends. She's not my girlfriend, really, but she thinks she is, and I haven't dissuaded her from thinking so, for whatever that's worth.

Instead, I try to take her to Plant bar, and we hold hands when we walk out the door. Who is this woman? She's driving me insane. I'm feeling things I haven't felt for a woman in years, maybe ever. And we've just met.

We make it to Plant, only to be disappointed with the DJ. So it's off to a local hideaway spot, where the lights are so dark that even I am attractive.

We sit down, me with my whiskey, her with her scotch, and I realize that what's happening is that I'm rapidly falling for a girl I've barely met. I will control myself. I will not take her home. I will be good and respectful and see.

She's paying for all the drinks. Mine and hers. "I invited you out to drinks, so I'm paying." I offer her cash, and she pouts, offended. "Next round" she faux-scolds me.

There is a lull in the conversation. "Now is the time when I make us both uncomfortable and ask you if I can kiss you. Can I?"

"Not yet" she responds. I throw my hands up in mock surrender.

"On your time, then."

"You're extremely attactive" she responds. I start to blush. It's not often a woman makes me blush. I deflect it.

"I think you've had too much to drink. Have another."

"You don't have any idea how attractive you are, do you?" she says, processing that fact.

"I have an inkling." I'm not going to tell her that I'm on the peakof the single longest string of new sexual partners I've ever had - a grand total of three in a month. But compared to her, I'm nothing, dirt. She's blown me away.

"You make me nervous" she confides. "I was nervous after I emailed you, and when you emailed me back, and when you called. I mean, you could've been like 'wow, who is this freako' or something." I was glad that I hadn't thought those things.

"I make _you_ nervous" I replied? "You've gotta be kidding me. You're ridiculous."

We continue to talk, and I'm feeling a connection unlike what I've had with women in the last several months. It's not so much the sex, although she oozes sex. It's more of a desire to become whole with this other person. I've just met her. I think I need less to drink.

I relax. I let go. I talk, and we chit chat, and idly banter, and generally have an amazing time. Eventually, it's time to go, we both have work in the morning, and we're both more drunk than we'd anticipated. At one point, I'm not quite sure when, her lips, soft and warm and wet and as nice as anything I've ever felt, are on mine, kissing me, her tongue gently probing my mouth, seeking I'm not sure what.

We kissed in the bar for an hour. I eventually got uncomfortable, since the only other patron was a guy hitting on the bartender, and we were the spectacle of the evening.

I suggested we leave. We made it as far as the outside of the front door and just past the bouncer when one of us, and I'm pretty sure it was me but not certain, threw the other into the wall, and I had one of the most passionate kisses I've ever had in my life. I grabbed a handful of her hair and pulled it, eliciting exactly the moaning response that I was hoping for. We stopped back in the bar to retrieve my scarf, and for kisses in the warmth, and then stumbled home to my apartment, kissing each other on the way, throwing each other into walls, unable to penetrate one another deeply enough, not able to get enough of what the other had, desperate to have more.

"Would you like to come home with me?" I asked her when she got to the front door at my apartment.

"Another time. Not yet."

I kissed her again. "How about now?"

"No."

"Would you like me to stop?"

"No."

"Come into the vestibule, or the front hall, where I can kiss you without freezing."

We went into the vestibule, kissed for a half an hour, put on a show for the neighbors, put on a show for my poor neighbor who was trying to get into the building.

"Are you sure I can't entice you to come upstairs?"

"Not yet. I want to, but I hardly know you."

"Wow. Ok. Will I see you again?"

"Definitely." We make plans to see each other again soon, and she's off into the night, catching a cab and flitting off into the middle distance.
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Back to the present, we had a brief fling and it didn't work. I can look back now, look back on what I did wrong, how much growing had to do, and how badly off I was at that time in my life. A week that started with The Beauty ended with meeting The Cuban. The Cuban and I would eventually have a magnesium relationship - as bright as it was short. Years later, though, we've managed to be friends, and I hope to see her this weekend. One never knows, though. Even if not, I always liked this story. Picture perfect meeting, even if it was for a brief moment of my life.

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In looking for a blindfold (I used to have a whole bunch, where the heck did they go?) I found my bondage tape. Heh.

Looking for a blindfold to wear on the redeye I'm taking home from California - sometimes a cigar really is just a cigar. But usually it's a cock.

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I've had some free time lately, so I've been doing a bit of reading. Here are sites that I am pleased to welcome to my blogroll.

Puppy Tales - Spotted by M. H. - an excellent view and very hot from the bottom.
An Insecure Dominant - Brand new blog from a dominant man.
A View from the Floor - I think that the image on the top of this blog is indescribably hot. I haven't had a chance to delve in much yet, but I'm looking forward to it.
Bound to get into trouble - Another sub with a penchant for writing. I like the style here.
kitten's Master - I haven't had a chance to dive as deeply into this one as I'd like, but I appreciate his perspective and plan to read more.
Naked Truth - I had a chat with Zephyrine the other day and have been digging into her archives. She was very wise and gave me sage advice for dealing with certain issues I've got right now.
College Callgirl - I'm fascinated with sex workers and sex work. I've never paid for time with one, but have had some friends who are or were. This one is well written and worth a look.
Kinkerbelle - appears to be for S&M what Just One Bite used to be for polyamorous perversity.
Bad Bad Girl - Possibly the best URL on the internet.
The Lustful Quality of Watching Her Erotic Demise - A kindred spirit and an excellent writer.
A Controlled Girl - As the title implies.

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I saw The Beauty tonight after a long absence, several years, interrupted by one brief lunch.

She and I were talking about love, love lost, love found, and I told her about this blog, although not the name or how to find it. I told her stories of my recent encounters and

"You're not the boy I knew."
"I know. I grew up."
"I liked that boy."
"I did too."
"You had such a crush on me."
"I know. I was a puppy."
"It was beautiful, I didn't think anyone like you could have a crush on me" mental note - absolutely fucking beautiful women have self doubt too.
"You knew the whole time?"
"Of course I did. Remember when we went up to that cabin?"
"Of course I do." I posted it here. I remember it well.
"You were so nervous, it was so cute. You had me on such a pedestal. I remember sitting on the couch and you just talking and talking and talking. What did I say to you? 'Do you want to sleep with me?'"
"I'm pretty sure you said 'It's really cold in my bedroom. Come and cuddle with me, and keep me warm tonight.'"
"Really?" She laughed at me, and herself.
"Not that I remember it verbatim or anything."

We spoke some more about my ascent from timid boy to bad man, about how she missed the boy but was impressed with the man. Any validation I'd ever sought was there, summed up in that moment.

"I hope that that weekend we had was in some way instrumental."
"Honey, that's what started it all off. That weekend is what gave me the ability to seduce The Cuban. And after that, well, that's how it all came to be."

She seemed pleased with that. We talked for awhile longer, about her lover, my sadistic urges, and on and on and on for five hours. Eventually, I told her I had to get dinner (it was 11 o'clock) and that she should walk me there. She took me by the arm, and we walked down the street to my destination. A few doors away, she realized friends of hers were bartending, so she gave me a kiss and a hug and said goodbye. And then we started talking a little more, and another hug, another kiss, and I considered things for all of one split second before disentangling myself, smiling, and walking away. She'll always have a place in my heart, and I'll always have a place in hers. That'll be enough.

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What a difference an afternoon can make.

Two things happened that have cheered me up.

The first - M.H. left me a link to Puppy Tale, which is fantastic and a pleasure to read. Thanks M.H.

The second was getting together, quite unexpectedly, with Princess. (For background on Princess, see here, here, and here) We caught up on things - her boyfriend, why my last relationship fell apart, our lives generally. I remembered tying her up for the first time, briefly, and smiled that I brought that into her life.

Princess was the first girl who introduced breath play into my life. Her arms were tied behind her, she was straddling me and riding me for all she was worth, and she looked down at me and said something like "choke me." At first I wasn't prepared to do it, but a few seconds later I was. And I liked it. And so did she.

Trouble is, it was addictive. I wanted to do it again, and some of the women I've met have been into it, others, less so. What I've realized lately is that I can't deny my nature. I want to do certain things. When I haven't been able to do them (as with certain exes) it created a hole in me that I filled with things that aren't so good for me - drinking, for example, tamps down the desires that I've got. So. To indulge myself, instead of the alternative of fucking the random women that I find just because they're beautiful and begging for it. It's my life, I'll use myself any way I want to.

Now, I'm not Deity, as I haven't taken these choices to their logical and fullest conclusion. But it is my fervent hope to do so someday.

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I've been stuck in my head for about three days now, I haven't been talking to anyone new, I haven't been doing anything new, I've been boring myself.

I should point out that I recognized that I wasn't trying hard enough because I haven't been rejected in months.

Soundbyte asked:

Seriously - can I have your life for like, a week or two?

Sure you can - you can have it this week when I'm full of insecurity over absolutely nothing. Went out last night to a bar where a friend was bartending, had the usual (Club Soda) and talked to him for awhile. Didn't talk to any of the other people at the bar even though they were all talking amongst themselves.

I have a few ideas about what set this off, but it's strange - I slept with my neighbor, I hooked up with July 4, I had other random experiences, and yet, still, I haven't been going out and doing things.

I was talking to Wing a few weeks ago and I mentioned a mutual friend of ours who has a woman habit. When I told our mutual friend that I wasn't seeing anyone and wasn't really interested in doing so that week, he got all defensive and questioned whether I was truly a man. I questioned whether he was an addict seeking his next fix, instead. Having a few women that are rotating through your life can be fun, if a lot of work. Needing a few women to be rotating through your life is a little weird to me.

I do, for whatever reason, think it's strange that right now I'm not going out and meeting new women, and the ones that I took home this month I've tried to cut off. Is it residual from never properly grieving the end of things with The NewYorker? Or is it that the women I met weren't what I was looking for? Chet keeps telling me that I've been punching below my weight. I agree on my neighbor who is totally not my type (except for her juicy, zaftig, luscious ass) and July 4 who, while extremely hot, is a little too old for me right now.

Last night I went for a meandering and wandering blade around town. Left my apartment at 9ish and got back at 11ish. Up First Avenue to the UN, up Park Avenue to the 80s, down Fifth along the park, through Times Square, and all over downtown. I hoped that it would shake this feeling of - I can't describe it - cotton wool around my life? Instead, I found my "we broke up in the early 90s" mix and played through that.

At 37th and First, I stopped for a few minutes - the light was perfect with the full moon - Brooklyn was there and beautiful, the UN was lit up, and it was just a beautiful moment. I wanted to share it with you, until I realized that there is no you for me right now to share that kind of thing with.

While the music was playing "one of these things first" came on - the Liberal's theme song - and I found myself not thinking of her nor caring. GoldDigger came on and I had pangs of missing The NewYorker. I will note that The NewYorker wasn't a gold digger, it was a running joke between us.

I've got more to say but I'm having a lot of trouble with the words right now. So I'll leave you here. Any suggestions that might cheer me up or help shake this feeling of blah-dom are most welcome.

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I do all of my work on a Macbook core duo - I was kicking myself for getting the macbook instead of the pro because it's so damn slow.

Today I went out and got an extra gig of ram. Now I have two.

That made all the difference, now it doesn't hang between applications. So much better. Quicksilver works. Ecto works. The computer works.

Fantastic.

And in the spirit of this site - what the hell is with the Soho Apple store that the women there are fucking stunning? Every day of the week that I've been there there are stunning women all over. Very strange to me. Not as much at the Fifth Avenue Apple store. Not sure why. Thoughts?

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Anyone have a suggestion of a place to do lunch or dinner in Monterey California with the woman from my past who sparked this whole damn blog off? In Monterey? So I can see her engagement ring?

Anyone needs me, I'm off in the corner punching myself in the testicles. And not calling Surfette. She knows I'll be in Monterey, she can call if she wants.

In other news, while out with Lex last night, the first thing he said to me was that the bartender, a six two amazon, was reading The Game. Within five minutes of starting a conversation with her, I pointed out that white food isn't good for you - it made sense at the time - and she pointed out to him that semen was white and that was fine stuff. Clearly, she was buying whatever Lex was selling. And from where I was sitting, he wasn't selling anything. Whenever we get together it seems that we have that sort of thing happen. We both go out to talk to each other and things end up going a different direction through no action or fault of our own.

I got up and went two seats down the bar, giving them space to do their thing. She called me the best wing ever. I laughed. I wondered if it was the wedding ring or something else. I have my suspicions.

In still other news, and the final bit this morning, welcome Fleshbot readers!

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I'm going to California for Labor Day weekend - my question to you all is whether or not I should contact Surfette. For those of you who are new readers - see here, here, here, and here. Despite that last link, she texted me a happy birthday totally unexpectedly, and I told her before I flew out to LA that I would be getting in touch when I was in Monterey, and reminded her again as I was leaving. She seemed receptive and in a "we'll see" mood.

So, dear readers, should I email her? I probably have time to see her, but not to get to LA, only if she comes up to Monterey.

UPDATE: Due to comments and emails, not going to email her. Have, instead, entered her into the "life updates" mailing list that I keep so she doesn't get totally forgotten, but as was pointed out, Monterey is 6 hours from LA, which is, in my world, like saying "I'll be in DC, want to to come to NY for dinner and a fuck?" Not outside the realm, but I don't think she'd go for it.

So. Onward and upward.

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Pru over at A London Ebony Escort asks:

I haven't read all his blog entries so the answer to this question could be buried within his blog archives. But I wonder, has he ever paid for sex? (Paying for a woman's meal or buying her a drink at a bar doesn't count as paying for sex). Or is he always so lucky (and not just with his neighbour)? There's a myth that good looking men don't have to pay for sex and I'm wondering if he fits that stereotype. But a lot of my clients are hunks. It's about the right woman in the right place at the right time, including escorts. And escorts make sex as complicated or uncomplicated as you want it, when you want it. Most of the time.

Athena asked me the same question when we first started fucking. And when I told her that I had never paid for it (why pay for what I get for free?) she pointed out that the complication-free sex that I was seeking was best achieved in some sort of bargained-for exchange. Instead of expecting a relationship or love or any of the myriad other things that we look for in a partner, an Escort brings the purity of seeking cash. I respect that a great deal, but it's not for me. So Pru - to answer your question - no, I've never paid. The closest I've come is paying for a woman's cabfare home after I convinced her to come over, broke, in a rainstorm. I don't think that's what you're thinking of.

Part of the fun for me has been the thrill of the chase. The word "Swashbuckling" comes to mind, even though it's not the right word. I like meeting new women, talking to them, the flirting, the back and forth, the escalation, the furtive touches, the grazing each others bodies as we talk, the electricity of a first kiss - either tentative or aggressive - undressing, whatever comes next, the mystery, her body in silhouette against the light when she gets up in the morning. I don't crave the mechanical sex, I crave the mystery, the fun, the story, AND the mechanical.

I was talking to a friend from law school the other day who had recently broken up with his girlfriend. He told me that he had "been with over a hundred women, scratching that itch nicely" and he made a point of saying that some were paid and others weren't. I took that as an interesting data point, although he did spend a lot of time in Russia. As he said "whether I'm paying for dinner, drinks, and the whole evening, or just paying for the sex, I'm always paying."

Longtime readers of this blog know that I believe in the opposite tack. I believe in not paying on a first date - in part because I'm a feminist. Also, in part, because I don't want to bribe a woman to spend time with me.

Incidentally - no one could mistake me for a hunk. I'm not overly muscular, in fact, quite the opposite. For those of you playing the imagine-at-home game, I'm 6' tall and ballpark 155 lbs. I'm not ugly, but I'm not Brad Pitt either. Maybe I'll ask someone else I know, maybe a friend who reads the blog, to describe me for you.

Either way, I don't pay, never have.

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Future, who I met a few times a few years ago and have great respect for, has a fantastic post on why having a large set of balls is good for you. Money grafs:

The next day, she would tell me over the phone as I sped away from Los Angeles, "I'm so glad you followed through. You're not the first guy to yell at me in a lobby or even get into the elevator. But for most guys, that's where it ends. You followed through and just got better and better and better. It was pretty impressive."

To which I replied, "Wow. You just paid me a serious compliment! You seriously like me! Damn. That was a really serious admission. You are like, WAY into me, you fucking stalker!"

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• Damsels in distress
  (tags: bdsm NSFW)

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The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #94? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form. Participants, repost the link list within a week and you’re all set.

This Week’s Picks

Mr. Sugasm Himself

Editor’s Choice

Erotic Writing and Experiences

Sex Audio & Podcasts

NSFW Pics & Videos

Sex Work

BDSM & Fetish

Sex News & Reviews

Thoughts on Sex and Relationships

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Out at another one of "my" bars, drinking club soda since I'm on a drinking hiatus. Out with new friends from grad school, and one of their exboyfriends. Dimly lit bar, raining outside, quiet night.

Text message from July 4 - "Hey. How are you?"
"Good. Chillin' with friends from grad school. You?"

An hour after the first text, another text saying that she was going to be visiting the bartender at the bar I was at. Ignore the text.

Get up at around 10 to go to the bathroom, and there she is. Still pretty, still tall, still long chestnut hair in a sweeping ponytail. And she didn't see me, so tap her on the shoulder, say hello, and go to the bathroom.

Come back and talk to my friends some more, wrap the night up with them and go stand with her at the bar. Talk about friends of hers that I'd met, our mutual friend the bartender, and why I'd given her the brush-off.

We start holding hands, and she found that mine were cold. She offers to warm me up in the back room. I give her a look which brooks no challenge, a look that says "didn't we just talk about my not being interested in anything serious right now?" And she smiles at me and goes for a smoke. This is not the sort of woman that men say no to. I'm not the sort of man who cares.

At around 12:30, after waiting with her for reasons that remain a mystery to me, we leave together onto the cold, rainy streets. Making out on the street, and then a cab to my place, up the stairs and into my apartment.

Naked in the first minute and in bed seconds after that, we make out like teenagers, hungry for skin but unable to form a meaningful connection. I don't want to have sex with her, too many complications, too much history of going from just-meeting to thinking we're in a relationship.

Hours of making out pass, playing with her ass, never touching her pussy. Explaining that I've recently come to grips with my penchant for dominance and inflicting pain and remembering that she is one of the "you can do anything you want to me" women I don't press it too much further - although after the ass, what is further anyway? No sex, nothing much, and I don't want to break her so I don't push anything farther. Eventually, fall asleep entwined with one another, waking up a few minutes after passing out realizing that we're entwined and scurrying off to my side of the bed.

Wake up in the morning to more kissing and fondling but again I refuse to have sex with her, even after she begs. I send her on her way and get my day started.

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TaiChi and I went out to dinner last night for burgers at Stand and the conversation inevitably turned to women. As my wing and a natural red blooded Latino male, TaiChi has, for many years, been a partner in crime and wing. We've gotten into a fair bit of fun together, talking to strange women in bars, on the street, in parks, at the movies, wherever. TaiChi approaches with Machismo, and I lean back like a spider in his web, waiting as they are driven to the more harmless looking of the two of us. And then I strike.

Imagine my surprise last night when he revealed that his girlfriend of four months, the one from Ireland, is pregnant. And he's the father. And they're getting married after the birth.

What?

Apparently, European is the new blond.

We had a long talk about his proclivities, his impending fatherhood, my lifestyle choices, his choices, and at the end of the day, I'm happy for him. I'm surprised, I have to admit - he struck me as a perennial bachelor. But I met his girl, or bird as she would call herself, and the two of them together were pretty good. They got along well, she made him happy and kept him on the path.

I wish him well.

As we were leaving dinner and walking through Union Square, I pointed out the upside of this for me, which is that he's not going to be able to fight his nature, he's going to continue to rampantly flirt. And there I will be, looking harmless, like a spider in my web, waiting.

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Two very hot women making love to the camera, but it appears, not each other. Despite that, this Raven Riley and Liz Vicious Gallery is very hot. I like the juxtaposition of the two skin tones, Liz's pale and almost translucent skin with Raven's darker Southern California skin. What's strange is that they don't look like they're having any fun. Two hot women, hot poses, sex with the camera and possibly the viewer with their eyes, no fun at all.

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Adriana's Secret is back. That makes me very happy - she was always incredibly sexy. Not that there's a dearth of sexy women on the net, it's just that I like what I like. New players like Kinkerbelle are hot (VERY hot), but I miss some of the women I remember who are gone now - Dirty Whore (Eden) is totally gone, Sex Kitten seems to be on hiatus, and even Dirty Talkin' Girl hasn't posted since July. Come on ladies - I'm back after what, two years away? Maybe you should come back too...

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Via Deity of The Lustful Quality of Watching Her Erotic Demise:

That is, i told him that i like to spank and tie up girls and tell them how to behave. He was shocked (as are most folks who know me and i inform them of this or meet me for the first time once they've learned of my kink; i just have that sweet and angelic of a face), but not appalled. In fact, rather excited about assisting me in finding some girl i could torment.

I've been reading Deity's archives (and you should too, he's got a way about him) and it reminded me of when I was 17 years old.

When I was 17 years old, my very first girlfriend, The Singer, played coy and flirty with me for two weeks after I first met her. I mustered up the courage, asked her out, and we went on a few dates. When she discovered I was a virgin, she got a gleam in her eye and decided to "deflower" me. That story is for another day. We stayed together for a few months after that, getting more and more creative in our play, and more and more violent. We were only 17 and we were totally wrapped up in our relationship. Long car rides to nowhere to fuck in tall grass, caught getting a blowjob in my high school, caught fucking on the roof of the town's garage... we were having a blast.

About a month after we started fucking, she brought me a pair of handcuffs. Not the soft silky kind, not the fur-laced kind, but the hard, cold, metal kind.

Since I was a senior in high school and she was a bit of a bad girl, we'd skipped school on a Wednesday and snuck into my parents house for a good fuck. I remember going to my bedroom, telling her to strip, and cuffing her hands tightly behind her. I remember her large soft breasts hanging perfectly down, her nipples starting to harden, the pink shrinking and her giggle. I pushed her onto the bed.

"What are you doing?"
"Tying you up."
"Oh good."
I smiled. Showed her the key and put it in my pants pocket. Took off my belt and lashed her ankles together.
"Hey, wait a minute."

I just smiled a half smile. She grinned with that magnificent grin of hers. I wasn't sure, at 17, what the logistics were going to be of fucking a girl on her back all tied up like that, but that wasn't what I had in mind anyway. I figured I'd untie her before fucking, just thought I'd play with her for awhile and then untie her and let her have her way with me to show her gratitude for being unlocked.

Fate, however, intervened.

The phone rang. I went to the other room and answered it - it was my father. He wanted to borrow my car for the day. I don't remember why, since he had a perfectly good car, but it hardly mattered. Thinking wicked thoughts, I went back to my bedroom and looked at my beautiful naked girlfriend. I pulled off the tie I'd worn to school that day and tied it around her eyes. And from the closet, another one around her mouth. Bound, gagged, blindfolded, and on my bed. Now that, that was a sight.

And then I left. Wordlessly.

Walked downstairs to my car, got in, drove to my father's office, had a chat with him, and exchanged keys. Back to my house in his car. My father's SUV had a very distinct sound - low and rumbling. My car, a sedan, hit a much higher note. I drove up, parked the car, walked into the house, turned off the alarm, and then stomped to the basement, doing the best impression I could of heavier feet than my own.

In the basement, I picked up clothespins - then up the wooden stairs, stomping to the second floor, and into my room.

She was just where I'd left her, although she'd managed to squirm into a fetal position. I didn't say a word as I walked in and roughly grabbed her breasts and put the clips on them. It wasn't until after I'd clipped her that I took off the blindfold and the gag.

She looked at me with wide eyes. First processing, then comprehending, and then her eyes almost sparkled.

"That was amazing, you are a disturbed young man. If that was your dad I was going to completely freak out." I leaned down and kissed her deeply. I untied her legs. "I mean, I think I could have covered myself with the blanket, but jesus." We both smiled. I stripped naked and rolled her over, feeling just how wet the entire experience got her. I grabbed her by the hips, pushed her face into the pillow, and fucked her until we were both a sweaty mess on the sheets. Smiling to myself the entire time.

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Thanks to both Fleshbot (and more to the point, Chelsea Girl) and Viviane's sex carnival for linking to me and more particularly this post. If you're new here, please feel free to take a look around, I hope you enjoy it.

--Bad Man

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• Lifty's
  Not safe for work. Also? False advertising. On the part of the user. Interesting, though.
  (tags: sex Sexy breasts)
• Confessions of an English Gentleman: Looking, being looked at
  Thoughts on looking at submissive women.
  (tags: Blog blogs bdsm NSFW)

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Birthday came and went as did birthday party. An unexpected text from Surfette made the day complete. Also made me consider my situation.

I still don't know why Surfette went from 60 to 0 in the span of six minutes. She couldn't have thought that I was trying to get a relationship or anything out of the situation - I live across the country and have grad school next month. I assumed that she'd developed a boyfriend in the time between our first night and my travel out there. She never told me about him if he was there, but something suggested that that was the situation, like when friends of hers asked if I was her boyfriend. Could have been hitting on me, could have been wondering if I was the guy she'd mentioned. Don't know, and frankly, don't care.

Many years ago I came to grips with the fact that not everyone shares my belief that there is a spectrum of intimacy. It's all about what you want and agree on, not what everyone else says you have to do. I had friends who I would kiss hello like a lover, and lovers I would be very cold to in public because that was our arrangement. As long as everyone involved was on the same page and everyone knows and agrees on the boundaries, it's fine. As I told The Evil One - it's only cheating if you lie about it or we didn't agree on it. She and I broke up because of exactly that - she didn't tell me what she had done and that was a betrayal. When I found out, I didn't care, except for the lie.

I have conflicting impulses, which is part of the problem. My parents pair bonded at age 20. It was a different era then, and they've been inseparable ever since, hardly ever even sleeping in different beds. I have an impulse in that direction, but my impulse to the contrary is also quite strong. Before I met him, Lex was an inspiration (as he is for many men, I suspect) and of course, now he's a friend and inspiration. Similarly, one of my friends asked me yesterday if I was comfortable with his wife sleeping with The NewYorker. I told him that was fine with me, and probably would have been fine while we were dating too.

I heard from Star the other night, who lives in Chicago. Readers of the predecessor mailing list to this site will recall that she is the woman I had a three night stand with just before I met The Freshman. She and I were talking about distance and picking up where we'd left off seven years ago. Her boyfriend of several years just precipitously left her, and we joked about her flying in for the weekend to relive old times. While we aren't going to do that, it reminded me that the rules we follow are the ones we set.

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My Neighbor emailed me at 4am on Saturday, clearly at the end of a drunk spell. She apologized for her behavior in July, decided that she didn't want to never talk to me again, told me that we should be friends, and was generally contrite.

I told her to meet me for dinner at Mermaid Inn for some fish. She agreed and was waiting at the bar when I got there.

We sit, catch up on the last several weeks, and talk about our respective life situations. I tell her about the misadventures with July 4, the text message ending that non-relationship, and that I'm not in a place to be available to most women for anything other than a romp or two. Same thing I told her when she asked if I could ever have a relationship with her. When I point out that July 4 was 38, she asks "why are you sleeping with 38 year olds when you could have 25 year olds?" It's clearly on. Make clear that I'm not relationship-ready right now.

Finish dinner, stoop sit for a bit, upstairs to my apartment for her to give me a massage. Which leads to kissing, inevitably, and a handjob. I start exploring, discover wetness, and as ever, one thing leads to another. Her on top of me, and an embarrassing minute later, it's over. I laugh at myself - "I owe you one" I tell her as I roll over and pass out.

Morning comes, alarm set for 8 am. Up at 6:30 with her arms around me, a way I don't sleep unless I'm emotionally invested. I am not incredibly into this. Awake and alert now, so I may as well enjoy myself. Legs slung over my shoulders for 10 minutes, on her stomach for awhile, and then rolling behind her. Now it's 7:15 and I'm actually looking at the clock to make sure I've been going for more than a minute. She finally tires of my antics and we roll me onto my back, her sitting on top of me and giving me my favorite view. She's clearly done her kegels, I can feel that through the condom. Minutes later, it's over. "If you'd've done that last night, I'd've been able to sleep" she teases me. Roll over for more sleep.

She slings her arms around me and I'm not having any of that. "You're going to have to deal with that" she tells me. "No, I'm not" I say in my best 'bad puppy' voice. She retreats to her side of the bed and promptly passes out. The alarm wakes us both, and she walks to the shower, cleaning off last night, and out to work. I shake my head at myself wondering why I've done this again. Let her out and lock the door behind her. "Talk to you soon" and she's on her way.

I scratched the "belt notching" itch many notches ago. For awhile I was approaching women because it was fun and scary in and of itself, as an unintegrated part of my life. That served me well enough - I met the girl from reunion that way, and a few others, although nobody who lasted. Chet's been telling me that I need to start applying a filter to the women I meet, that I'm "punching below my weight." In some instances, like last night, I think he's right. Clearly, in others, he's wrong.

I need to learn to say "NO" and mean it.

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My hand is still sore.

At 10, I invited Ms. Holloway to chat. At 10:30, we started chatting. At 11, I told her that I was watching Planet Earth. And told her that she was to come over and watch it with me.

There were logistical issues - a cab ride for her - ice cubes to buy for me - and she was over by midnight. So much for going to sleep early.

A comfortable conversation filled with missing pieces and anecdotes about growing up and learning what each of us needed. A nice walk down memory lane for me, and some interesting data points for both of us.

And then a silence filled the room. A purposeful silence, it seemed. "I was wondering when you were going to tell me to do something or hurt me."

"Go sit on your knees, facing the television, while I go to the bathroom." Silently, she went. "Straight up, don't lean back."

I put a DVD on and walked away. Made myself a drink. Looked over to make sure she was still on her knees. Sat down on the couch behind her and admired my handiwork. And then realized I hadn't really done much in the way of handiwork.

"One important question - marks or no marks?"
"Light marks are fine."

Pulled out some rope. Wrist to wrist, ankle to ankle, ankles to wrists.

Admired my handiwork again. Grabbing a fistful of hair, exposing a vulnerable neck, wondering what to do. We've only just met, but there's a comfort that I'm quite pleased with and what appears to be trust. Sex, or any semblance thereof, isn't on the agenda for the evening, but my self indulgence is. This complicates matters, and makes them interesting.

Slaps on the stomach and back, exploring soft places. Slaps on the inside of the thigh, the outside of the thigh, and then pushing down into a crouch. Considered getting a blindfold, but I'd rather leave room for growth.

Inspiration strikes at the strangest times. Off to the kitchen to get a chopstick. Slaps with a chopstick on the tender soles of the feet. Moans in exchange. This is going well.

Untied, more slapping, and now spanking. Hard spanking on a hard ass. Loud smacks rewarded with high pitched moans. The harder I hit, the happier she seems, and the happier I get. I start to tear loose with the spanking and then remember the light marks admonishion, so I dial it back a bit.

While on her knees, bent at the waist, she put her hands through her legs so they were nearly touching her ankles. Beautiful. So tie those there to keep that position. Harder spanking again, enjoying myself and my company. Not a word has been spoken in an hour.

And then the choking. My fingers snaked around her neck gently at first, tentatively. Eye contact. Five seconds of cutting off her breath. More eye contact. Again for ten. I think, and hope, she's enjoying herself. This is a very welcome development.

We'd set boundaries but no safeword and I was in danger of going beyond the boundaries. Twenty minutes after the choking started, I stopped everything to give her a cooling down period. Held her tightly and we made eye contact and just sat there breathing.

"The choking, I started to black out a little bit. It was like getting high."
"That's the point."
"I liked that."
"Be careful - it's a dangerous thing - it makes everything better, but turns the volume down on everything else when you're not doing it."

More small talk until another silence emerges. It's clear she's waiting for me to do something. Good. Let her wait. More of the same, escalating, harder hitting, culminating in a bout of choking her while slapping exteremly tender flesh for which I am again rewarded with a moan.

Eventually, at 5am, we slow to nothing. I am alternately hyperactive, energized, and exhausted, and she looks happy and expectant.

"I think that's all for tonight. I'd like to do this again sometime."
She agreed.
"I'm here for you, you know where I live and how to find me."

I didn't want the night to end, so I suggested breakfast at a nearby diner. We talked about nothing in particular, reminiscing about the few old times we'd had, when she told me that I could order for her.

"Mushroom omlette for her, sausage omlette for me."
She looked pleased. When our food arrived, I casually mentioned that she should "only eat half of that."
"The eggs, or the eggs and hash browns?"
"The whole thing. Only eat half." And then back to conversation.

Eventually, as with all good things, the night had to come to an end. The sun was up, I had a meeting at 11, and she had things to do today. I sent her home with a standing open invitation.

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heh. Another great smile.

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I'm busy wrapping up my former career right now so for this minute, you get hot pictures, found on the internet. Till tomorrow night. Promise.

I like the look in the eyes of the girl in white and wonder what spooked the girl in black.

Feel free to caption in the comments

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• A London Ebony Escort Blog
  (tags: adult blogs escort)

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My birthday has significantly picked up since Viviane linked to me and some other things happened that made me smile. I also realized that a link that doesn't go to any good content is a wasted link. Here's a piece I wrote many years ago, before I was the Bad Man. In fact, this story was instrumental in taking me from mild mannered nice boy to the Bad Man I eventually grew into. If you prefer to read about the man I'd become, 2004 was a pretty busy year.

The distinction between the two is fascinating, to me at least. I hope you like it, at the time I called it "Nothing's Perfect."

-----

It was yet another show at Brownies, which smelled to me of stale beer and puke, just like every other music venue I’d been to while following the band.

When I walked in, Rock Star Designer sideswiped me with a Wild Turkey on the rocks. He said that I looked like I needed it.

He was right, because the person standing next to him was my ex-girlfriend – “The Evil One.” She was at the show unexpectedly.

I knew she liked the band, but I thought we had a sort of unspoken agreement: I’d gotten custody of the shows and she got our mutual friends.

I was 24 years old, still in law school, and still totally in love with her. She’d dumped me over the summer because I didn’t have a job, and she "couldn't support me any more." I didn't bother reminding her then that I was just a student.

I had lined up an entire crowd of people to go with me, thinking it would be better to have a lot of my friends at the show than a lot of random strangers. I'd had a crush on one of my friends for about six months, which included the two months at the ass end of things with The Evil One. I planned on making my "big move" that night. I called her "The Bosnian" because she'd survived the war there, and somehow managed to land a modeling contract while the whole country was in turmoil. As fate would have it, she showed up while I was still talking to The Evil One, who took one look at her and said, "Dude, she's totally cute, go hit on her. Now!" Remembering the old days, when she'd cruelly dare me to do things like that just to prove to herself that I couldn't muster the balls to hit on other girls, I screwed up my courage and approached her.

In the middle of my conversation with The Bosnian, the next band came on stage. I was, however, mesmerized – ohmygodIamtalkingtoaformermodel… For all I know, they were a Hardcore Partridge Family cover band. Rock Star Designer, his hand like a side of beef, slammed me on my shoulder and growled - "you have to come downstairs, we need to take pictures with you."

For background - at the time, I ran a different website – which easily identified me. This was in 1999, long before anyone knew what a "blog" was. It was new, it was exotic, and all of my friends read it. The photo shoot was supposed to be me and the band that I would then post on the site. They got free publicity, I got to feed my ego.

I excused myself and left The Bosnian to quickly slip downstairs.

When I got back from my "photo shoot," I was startled to see that The Evil One had disappeared and The Bosnian was looking bored. I turned to a friend and asked him what had happened to The Evil One, and he told me she had actually said, "I didn't think he'd really hit on her!" and disappeared.

I turned back to The Bosnian for one second, and just as I opened my mouth to talk, there was The Evil One, standing behind her, looking destroyed. My heart broke seeing her looking so sad, and I walked over and asked her what the problem was. My crush waited in the crowd, looking vaguely bored, while I padded back to my lost love like a faithful puppy.

"I didn't actually mean you should go hit on a Model while I was standing right there. I was kidding. Christ." I chose that exact moment not to remind her about our most recent college reunion. That was the one where where she'd been picked up by a random guy while she and I sat at a table together. He sat down and tried on my cowboy hat (don't ask), right before asking her out to dinner. I also didn't mention that she'd borrowed twenty bucks from me to pay for a cab so she could get home after she was done at his place.

Instead, I just said, almost pleading "I'm sorry, I thought you were serious, I thought you were over me, finally." She had dumped me, after all. And clearly, I'd left my balls in my other pants.

She asked if we could just please leave? The badn was about to go on, but afterwards, they were going across the street to Kurova. I told her that I'd meet her there.

Kurova seemed an ideal choice for cocktails with The Evil One. It's Clockwork Orange meets alcoholic, with white chairs, strange lighting, and a constant feeling of dread. It also had five dollar shot and a beer specials, a particular favorite of those of us who were still poor.

I told my friends that I was going there, hoping to tell the Bosnian last and walk out with her on my arm, or at least to have her meet us there. I was torn, though. The model, or my lost love?

As fate would have it, I couldn't find The Bosnian. I scoured the club twice, checking for any sign of her or her friends. I asked a friend, Good Looking Guy, if he saw her, could he tell the Bosnian where I was going.

I left, and outside, The Evil One was waiting for me. She asked if everybody was coming, and I said yes, but that I couldn't find my crush. I told her that I'd asked Good Looking Guy to look for her for me, and she told me that "Good Looking Guy is trying to get her into bed. He's not going to help you with her, man. Hell, he even tried to get me into bed."

I waited in the cold January air for a few minutes hopeful for The Bosnian, now that I knew I might get stabbed in the back. I sent our group of 20 or so across the street ahead of me. When I got there, The Evil One had stripped down to a t-shirt and was standing at the window, coyly curling one finger in the "come on in, it's warm and you're cold" gesture and smiling seductively.

I followed her into the bar like a rat to the pied piper. I was handed another Wild Turkey, and sat down at the bar. She sat next to me, and we made small talk. About the fact that she couldn't seem to get promoted, that I should TOTALLY come to her party the next night, and eventually, my still abiding love for her.

And then she dropped a bomb in my lap. She told me that we were never meant to be lovers, we were always supposed to be "just friends." *pause*

The needle came off the record with a screech in my mind.

Bull. Shit.

I didn't buy that for a second. And minutes later she said "You know, I wouldn't trade my time with you for anything in the world. I still love you so much, but I'm not in love with you anymore." Whatever that meant, I didn't know, but my heart was sinking into my stomach faster and faster.

I couldn't speak honestly with her anymore. I mistook my naive desire to protect her for love. I couldn't say "yes, the reason that our passion died is because you decided it would be fun to go fuck around that asshole stoner and then lie to me about it. I couldn't tell her that I assumed she felt guilty for a year, and had clearly fucked everything up between us

Instead, I held my tongue in my mouth and my balls shriveled further. She pointed out women at the bar that she'd kissed during college. The tall lithe brunette with curly hair and a Prada fetish, the beautiful blonde with a cocaine addiction. Others.

I listened sympathetically and enviously. I wanted her to talk about me with the passion she had for these other girls.

She pointed out a guy that I vaguely knew, one of the campus studs, and told me of the night she fucked him, and how he was possibly the worst lay of her life. And then she said, "and fuck you. I've been totally unsatisfied since I left you. I don't know what you fucking did to me, but nobody else has been able to [and that part I'll leave out, because it sounds way too much like hubris] since you. Fuck you."

I just looked at her with big sad eyes.

She shook her head and said, "yeah yeah, I know, You still love me."

I didn't want to admit that, particularly after that selfish display. Instead, I told her "No. I was just thinking that nobody in my life has ever hurt me quite as badly as you have. You tore my fucking heart out and stomped all over it, you bitch." I tried to pass it off as a joke with my tonality, and I failed.

"Hey, two of us got our hearts broken that day" she accused. I wasn't sure how dumping me hurt her, it seemed more premeditated than that.

Until that moment, though, I never believed that she really loved me. She's got such a tough girl exterior. It was hard to realize when she'd been hurt.

The music got so loud that it started to hurt my ears. It was clearly time to leave, and I was on the verge of tears anyway.

We walked back across the street, and she asked – "are you up for a walk back to the PATH with me?"

"No" I moped "but I will anyway. You know that I'll still do anything for you." It was true. I would. I felt so broken.

"In that case, I guess I should leave you here." I gave her a hug, kissed her cheek, and as she walked away, I yelled "Hey, it's ok, I'll see you tomorrow night at your party."

She walked back to me - "Oh God, Please don't come to my party" she pleaded. "I know I invited you, but I'm gonna be dressed like a hootchie momma, and I really need to get laid. You don't want to see that."

"No, I don't." I told her I loved her. She just looked at me and said "that's fucking it. Go home, I can't take this." I turned to her jokingly and said "Want to fuck in a church?"

That had worked last time.

She laughed and told me to fuck off.

I turned down First Avenue, and got fifteen paces before something inside me gave out. I refused to let that be the last thing ever said between the two of us.

I turned around and she was gone. I caught a glimmer of her in the distance – she was almost to Second avenue while I was just past First. I knew she was aiming for the PATH, so, after some drunken math, I realized that I'd make it, if I walked quickly. Sixth and Ninth was a long way off.

I was afraid I'd lose her, maybe forever this time. I was too far to make out any detail; I just knew that she was the one with the backpack. I kept walking, single-mindedly aiming for the PATH station, hoping to catch her beforehand. I would walk all the way to her apartment in Jersey City if necessary. I didn't want the last thing ever said to me by the woman I'd loved to be "Fuck off." I hadn't let go that much yet.

I turned the corner at Second Avenue, and my pocket vibrated. Someone was calling me at three in the morning. That didn't make any sense to me, so I ignored it. I was a man on a mission. I lost her around a corner, and charged forward, pocket still vibrating, afraid I had lost her. Until I saw her, and she was at a payphone booth. "I was just calling you" she said, sounding choked up.

"I'll save you the twenty five cents." I felt cheesy a second after I said that, but I didn't care. "I just couldn't leave you like that." We hugged and held each other in the freezing January air. My heart, as always when I saw her, was on the verge of bursting and breaking. She was in my arms again, even if only for a minute. I held her as tight as I could.

Minutes passed. Eventually, she told me that she had to leave, and pushed me away the same way I did to her months before. She turned, said a quiet "I love you," and left.

I walked home without looking back, and without crying this time, although I knew the next night she'd be getting fucked by some new guy. I made it back to my apartment and called her in Jersey. She obviously wasn't home yet, so I left a message. "You know, I know you said it a lot, but I don't think I told you tonight. I love you, too."

I hung up and went to sleep.

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It's been a strange day already and it's only 8am.

Been up since 5:15. After going to bed at 1. Thunderstorm. As beautiful as it sounded, I couldn't sleep through it.

Tried to sleep and couldn't. Watched old episodes of Buffy on my Mac to soothe my weary mind. And then, at 6:30, the fire alarm went off. Incredibly loud. In the hall. I felt the door, and it was cool, so I opened it and it wasn't fire, it was water. Flood.

The roof had partially collapsed.

I dressed and left the building, since there's no fire, there's no rush. In front of my building, I saw my next door neighbor, one other couple, and nobody else. Either the rest of the building drowned or my building is full of people who can avoid ear splitting noise. Either way, I called my landlord who sent someone right over. Who says that New York doesn't have good landlords?

I ordered breakfast at the corner bodega and they got my order wrong.

So now, at 8am, I'm already having Worst. Birthday. Ever.

And then, like a bolt from the blue, salvation of the day.

Pru, of A London Ebony Escort blog got my uncouth email asking her to update her links from my old blogspot site to this one, and she said she would update. So. My birthday present? Traffic.

Here's hoping for more presents just like that one.

How's your day going?

Update:
Viviane sent me traffic too! An excellent present, traffic. Other presents have come in through the day, some real, some potential. I am very happy with them, very happy indeed.

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• Least I Could Do
  A Web Comic detailing the life of... well... it's worth reading.
  (tags: adult blogs Sexy women webcomic humor webcomics)
• A Brooklyn Bachelor
  (tags: blogs brooklyn newyork nyc)

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Hot post over Easily Aroused - reflections of an ovesexed Englishman

As longtime readers (and I hear you breathing out there... ) know, when I don't have much to say, I post links. So - I post links.

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I've been off rereading April and May of 2004. The archives here are rich with content. I'm sorry that the old comments got deleted, I had some very thoughtful readers back in the day - Jagg, Rob (who is back), Frank, Eden and others. I'm pleased to report that I've got some new (and some returning) commenters now. If you're lurking, feel free to delurk - this place is often as much a conversation as it is my soapbox.

I've got a boatload of work to do today so I'm not going to be able to post about last night any time soon. Having said that - comments are open for your pleasure.

Open Thread topic - take a walk down memory lane and report on your favorite hooking up experience.

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Over at her own blog, Matisse recently linked to an older post of hers - a lengthy post about meeting women.

Money:

So you’ve gotten the okay, I’ll talk to you signal from her. Here are some other ways to avoid being kicked back to creepy weirdo status: do not ask her name for at least five minutes. Do not ask her last name, period. Do not ask where she lives, or where she works, or any other potential-stalker information. Basically, don't a lot of personal questions.

There's a lot there. Go read.

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This is a placeholder to remind myself that I had an excellent evening. 230 Fifth - good venue. Good company. Good time. Even if sometimes you just keep the story to yourself at the end of the night, it's good to remember that it happened. The parts about having someone stand on one foot, for example, would make an excellent story, but for another time. Discretion. Valor. All that.

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I read an excellent article on 8 things women suck at in bed. Everyone I've been with since the New Yorker has fallen into some of these traps, particularly annoying is the not moving one, and also the "Communicating pleasure" one. Not sure what I mean? Go read the article. I'll wait.

Lately, I've also been facing a 9th one that is driving me fucking crazy. As you know, I like things to be wild and crazy, like two crazed weasels trapped in a backpack, going at it. If we both end up with battle scars, well, that means it was a pretty good night.

Lately, I've been having the following conversation
Her: You can do whatever you want to me.
Me: Excellent. *procedes to indulge himself
Her: Ow! Stop! (You're pulling my hair/You're crushing me/You're in too deep)

So - the 9th one - if you don't want me to tear loose, don't suggest I tear loose.

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Was supposed to give The NewYorker back some of her stuff tonight and she stood me up.

Strangely she called at 8:30. Not to apologize, but because she had a technical question, and a problem with her computer.

Yeah, that made sense. For reference, I haven't seen her in months nor spoken particularly either. In the immortal words of Jon Stewart - Whaaa?

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