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Je veux être la fille avec la plupart de gâteau. Regardez-moi dans la glace.
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30 March 2005



Thomas took Friday off. His family was driving into town from Minnesota. I had a long break in the middle of my day and we’d been trying to find a time to get together for sex. I’d had my period the week before, he’d had meetings and functions all week, then his brother, sister-in-law and niece were visiting over Easter weekend.

Time for a Good Friday fuck.

It takes me exactly 29 minutes from my front door to his. Slightly more on that day, since it was raining.

He was doing laundry and vacuuming when I arrived. This boy is learning to multi-task with the best of us.

He took my coat and offered me something to drink.

“I would love some water; thank you, Thomas.”

He walked up to the kitchen and I followed. He got a bottle out of the fridge and opened it. Walked over to the dining room and handed it to me. I took a long drink, screwed the cap onto the water bottle and dropped it to the floor. In one movement he had my camisole in his hands behind his back; I was topless. He kissed me; rubbing his face into my neck.

I’m a copycat. I crossed my arms behind my back, holding onto my elbows. This would be good. I would be armless. Aphrodite of Melos.

“Unbutton your trousers, please,” I said. “I will take them off.”

As he was unfastening, I pulled my yoga pants off with my feet, wiggling them down to the floor and stepping out of them. I dropped to my knees.

With my teeth, I lowered the waistband of his pants. He stepped out.

With my lips I pulled the waistband of his boxers toward me, setting his cock free. I used my chin to ease the boxers down all the way around.

“Take off your shirt, please.”

He was breathing harder; saying nothing. Just looking at me and doing what I asked.

I stood up, nude. Started touching him on his mouth and worked my way down-- using my tongue, chin, nose, breasts-- to lightly touch him. I kept my arms locked behind me. He held onto my shoulders as I lowered myself back to my knees.

I was kneeling on the carpet in front of him. He had one hand on my head, the other around the base of his cock. He lowered it toward my mouth. I took it, deep and wet.

“Fuck! That looks so fucking good.”

I knew it did; I was very turned on by my self-imposed pseudo-bondage.

He fucked my face; I sat on my haunches and took it. My thighs were beginning to burn. My shoulders were getting sore. But I would not release myself. I wanted to see how long he’d let me stay like that.

Using only my mouth, and with no timeouts for hand jobs, my jaw was getting sore. I was salivating. Pressing and sucking with my lips and tongue until he stopped the thrusting and pulled my head to his pubis. I shook my head gently from side to side, letting him feel my throat around his dick Looked up at his face. Fuck!

He pulls out; tells me to bring him his pants from the corner. I walk over and do one of my favorite yoga asanas: Wide-legged forward bend. Feet placed wide apart, legs straight, ass pulled up, bent over at the waist; I lower my head to the floor. I pick up the crumpled pants with my teeth. Carry them across the room.

“Good girl. Have you been thinking about my cock in your pussy today, Madeline?”

“Yes. I have been thinking about you fucking me on my hands and knees in front of that window.”

“So my neighbors can see what a dirty slut you are?! Swallowing my cock?! Playing with your clit while I fuck you from behind and spank your ass and choke you?!”

“Yes. I want you to do that.”

He took a condom from his trousers and rolled it on. I was on my knees, my hands still behind my back. He moved my knees farther apart; lowered my chest to the floor. I turned my head to the side as he lifted my hips.

“Oh, you need to be able to play with your clit while I fuck you. Let’s free your arms.”

He slowly unfolded them, letting them fall to my sides on the carpet.
My shoulders ached. My arms were numb.

My pussy was wet. He slid in. Eventually the circulation would return to my arms and I would masturbate while he fucked me in front of the window.

After we showered, I dressed and left. We both remarked that that was about the fastest we’d done anything. Less than an hour; pretty fucking good. I drove home in the rain, ravenous.

I walked into the house and made myself a bacon cheeseburger and a salad. I got online. Chatted for a bit with my friend Matt on the east coast. Then an instant message from

Jefferson: Hey, sweet thing.

Madeline: Hi, you. I’m just finishing my lunch. I was starving.

Jefferson: What was for lunch?

Madeline: Salad and a bacon cheeseburger. In your honour.

Jefferson: For real? Show me the cheese and bacon.

I turned on my cam.

24 March 2005


Melt With You

The summer of my thirteenth year, before the Tommy mess, Colton left for college.

I was sad to see him go. He had treated me so nicely; even coming to my house the day after we were arrested to apologize to my parents. Such a nice boy! I figured he’d be back on holidays and summers, but I didn’t see him before my family moved out of state when I was fifteen.

My sophomore year in college, I started wondering about him. He was living in California the last I’d heard. Directory assistance. Telephone magic. We reconnected. Spoke for hours, a couple times a month.

That summer, he was driving back home from CA. My place was on the way. He came for a day and a half. It was so much fun, seeing him again. He was so sweet, like the older distant cousin you always thought was cute, but you were prevented from doing anything because he was your cousin. We were so comfortable.

I lived in an old Victorian house two blocks off campus. It was a great place, except that my roommates and I were remodeling it ourselves, and there was no air conditioning. Colton helped us move my friend Karie’s things in on Saturday, then fired up the grill.

There were six of us. We ate, drank and sat outside until the mosquitoes got the better of us. We moved inside to the living room floor. Someone suggested we play Spin the Bottle.

How dumb is that?? I had never played; why should I waste time with a stupid game like that? Nevermind. We played. Kissing only. Tongue mandadory. Ten Seconds' Rule. We were three boys and three girls: Cole, Mike, Kurt, Karie, Hollie and me.

The first few spins were boy-girl. Then Karie’s spin pointed to Hollie. My spin pointed to beautiful, tortured Mike. Yum. Mike’s spin landed on Cole. They each sat up onto their knees in the center of the circle, put hands on backs of necks and kissed. It was the hottest thing I had ever seen.

I withdrew my earlier “this is a stupid game” comment. Hollie got me on her next turn.

I had kissed two girls in my life: Debbie Benson in fourth grade, practicing with pillows in her room during a sleepover. We figured we should at least know if what we were doing would feel right when we finally did get to kiss a boy. The second was Annabelle Moreano, in my bedroom, seventh grade. She loved my freckles, I coveted her olive skin and dark hair. We were laughing about something, being silly. Sitting on the edge of the bed, out of breath, grinning at each other. She touched my leg. We kissed. Open mouths, no tongue.

Hollie and I were sitting next to each other in the circle. We turned face to face. Leaned forward and kissed for a full ten seconds. She tasted like lavender. I didn't really want to stop.

Cole and I never kissed during the game. Finally at 4 AM we all went to sleep. Cole slept in my room with me. It was so hot and sticky, even with the windows open and the fans on. I don’t think I ever fell asleep.

Pre-dawn, and I was propped on my elbow, watching him sleep. I remember thinking that I loved this person so much; that we’d known each other for so long, and he would love me no matter what. His eyes opened.

I kissed him. We made sweet, awkward, tentative love in my “room with the red walls.” He left after breakfast. Kissed my forehead. That was 1992. The last time I saw him.

Sunday, April 30, 2004
I was driving to work. Crossing the river, a song came on the radio. My head was flooded with images—feelings—myself at thirteen; then at twenty. Colton.

I got to work early, commandeered a computer and Googled him. Internet magic. I emailed him. He emailed back. We filled the space—twelve years since we’d seen each other—over the course of Memorial Day weekend. His short marriage and subsequent divorce; my marriage and move overseas, my kids and impending divorce. We talked about us- about what happened on that last morning. This is why I love him:

He writes:
OUR incident was sweet - and completely uncontrived - and about as innocent as it's EVER been for me. I remember thinking that I loved that you were my friend, and I could just more or less show up, out of the blue, and be so welcome in your life, as if not time at all had passed, which is in some ways how it feels to be writing you, and speaking with you on the telephone. I've often said that one of the grandest measures of friendship is how long one can take it for granted, and still be welcomed back without recrimination. It's also what I love about gin drinkers, and why I'm learning to drink it. A gin drinker will leave the house for milk and bread, and come back with no explanation FIVE YEARS later, but of course, with the milk and bread.

Sweet, huh?
He lives in Seattle with his girlfriend now. He enjoys a slightly vicarious sexual existence through me. We still talk about everything.

Today I was running errands. I called him.

Hey Maddie! What’s happenin’, gorgeous?
Hi, darlin’! I was just thinking about you.
Whatever were you thinking?? And how could I have been involved?
I was just driving past my old house, and I thought of you.
The house with the room with the red walls?
That’s the one!
The house where I kissed a boy?
The same house.
That was a good night. The morning wasn’t so bad, either.

You're the sweetest. I gotta go; have a fantastic day! Love you!
I love you, too, doll. Be good.

23 March 2005



Eighth Grade

Danni and I went to different schools once her parents moved out of the neighborhood. We still saw each other on the weekends, at the mall, but less and less frequently. At my junior high I was friends with the freaks and the geeks and everyone in between. At the time I felt like I didn’t belong anywhere; now I realize that I actually belonged everywhere. I was smart, pretty, athletic, played the violin and cello, did theatre, and oh, yeah- I had been arrested for trespassing at “Amityville” last summer. That did a lot for my acceptance with the freaks.

When I hung with the freaks, it was either across the street from school, where we’d sit on the corner and smoke cigarettes (I pretended), or at Aaron’s house. Aaron was in ninth grade and had a blond Mohawk which he froze into spikes with toothpaste. No shit. Once I licked my finger, touched it to his 'hawk and tasted it. Crest. His older brother had built a halfpipe in his backyard and all the skaters used it. We hung out at his parentless house in the afternoons listening to Black Flag, Suicidal Tendencies and Dead Kennedys.

In January of 1986, Aaron had a party at his house. Actually, I think it was his brother’s party, but Aaron’s friends got invited anyway. Their mom bought alcohol, and went on at least one beer run during the evening. The party was in their basement. Drunk and stoned junior high school boys eventually passed out on the couches. The high school guys faired better. Tommy Martinez was there.

I’d had a crush on him ever since he started dating Ana Leitz, my ex-boyfriend’s older sister. They were broken up now, and he was sixteen. I thought he was beautiful. he was slight, and had a sinewy build with the sexiest lips ever. Think Prince, without the facial hair. I had been flirting with him for the last six months.

It’s funny, but I don’t remember other girls being at the party. I was used to being the only girl in a group of guys, so it didn’t feel unusual to me. I laughed as one poor guy got his eyebrow shaved while he slept on the couch.

It got later, and eventually Aaron, Tommy and I were in Aaron’s room listening to music. Aaron left for some reason, and it was just Tommy and me. He kissed me. We’d kissed before, but not like that. I was shaking.

He turned off the light. My heart started to beat faster. But we were just kissing; just making out. He pressed against me and I felt his erection. I was at once sick and excited. I did not want to see or feel that penis.

But this is Tommy, I thought. He did this with Ana.

We were lying on Aaron’s bed, facing each other. He was kissing and rubbing against me. I was enjoying the kissing part, but I really wanted the lower half of his body to disappear.

His pants were off now, and I was trying to sit up. I couldn’t see anything but the outline of the window near the ceiling, where the heavy curtain didn’t cover the edges. The moon was bright outside. I wanted it inside with me. To wash over my body and take me away.

I scooted to the end of the bed and he caught my shoulders. Pushed me back and pulled my knees up towards him. My skirt was bunched up around my waist.

I felt him hard against my thigh, then on the outside of my underpants.

I wanted to call out, but who would hear me? Nobody who could get there fast enough to stop him from tearing my underwear on one side and pulling it down one leg.

He pushed into me; this hard, smooth, hot dick that I didn’t want. I could barely get the words out; I was whimpering, whispering:

“Stop. It hurts. I don’t want you to. Please stop. Please."

I kicked; tried to roll away. He pinned me down.

"You like it. You know you fucking like it."

22 March 2005


Stop the World

Summer, 1985

I was thirteen. My friend, Danni and I were joined at the hip. We shared everything: clothes, makeup, Love’s Baby Soft. When we weren’t sleeping over at one another’s houses, we were talking on the phone or spending the entire day at the pool. We both were on the swim team. Danni did it more to beat boredom; I was a fierce competitor. We had practice every morning at 10:00 until Noon, and then broke for an hour until the pool opened to the public. We stayed most days until 8 PM when it closed.

We were the quintessential girls of summer. Tanned, lean, and blonde. My hair lightened almost immediately when summer started, as my freckles darkened and multiplied. Danni's older sister helped bleach hers with peroxide. She took us to get our eyebrows waxed, in the back room of a beauty salon with weathered posters on the walls. I stuck needles through my ears for a total of eight holes (five on the left, three on the right), which I filled with cheap earrings from Woolworth’s. We rimmed our eyes with Wet-N-Wild black eyeliner, wore frosted pink lip gloss, sprayed our hair and turned our collars up. Our bathing suits were held together with laces at the sides, showing skin all the way up.

We were filthy. We were gorgeous.

Danni was Italian, and her mother’s New Jersey accent cut through the streets of our neighborhood whenever she yelled at her husband or other children. She yelled a lot.
My mother thought Danni was not the best influence on me, but thought I might be a better, more stable influence on her. It was not uncommon for her to show up at our door at 9 PM, asking could she spend the night? Her parents were fighting again.

Days at the pool were spent lying on our oversized towels, applying coat after coat of Hawaiian Tropic and flirting with Tommy Martinez and Jeremy Bodfield. We got into the pool only to cool off or do suggestive underwater acrobatic routines.

Being on the swim team gave us access to the inner workings of the pool and office, which meant close personal relationships with the lifeguards; most of whom had girlfriends, but we didn’t care. We knew we were hot; and in the summer, that’s all that matters. Let them have girlfriends during the school year. Summer was for fun. One night in August, we had way much.

Colton was eighteen, a lifeguard; about to leave for college in California. He drove a red 1965 Buick Skylark convertible with white leather seats. He would drive us home on occasion, or pick us up for practice in the mornings. My parents loved him. He was always polite, called them “Sir” and “Ma’am,” and never looked at their only daughter the way other guys did. (I was an early bloomer, and this was terribly difficult for my father.)

I was crushing on him, though. Ever since he drove me home alone one afternoon and played his Modern English tape. He took the long way so we could hear “Melt with You” through to the end.

I don’t remember how it happened, but we decided that on Friday night, we would go out. My parents gave Danni and me an 11:00 curfew; he got his 16 year old brother Jeff to come along. The four of us in the convertible cruised the main drag, played the stereo loud and acted cooler than everyone else, out in their parents’ cars.

Colton and Jeff started talking about going to “Amityville,” a mansion in my grandparents’ part of town. An old woman lived in the place, which was surrounded by a 7-foot wall and spanned a city block. The guys and Danni were game to scale the wall and walk around the grounds; I was nervous because not only were we a mere 6 blocks from my grandparents’ house, my grandfather was a judge. My protests were lame. Even to myself. We parked the car and the guys helped us over the wall. On our way back out we were caught by security guards, who called the police.

I cried the whole way to the police station. I wasn’t afraid of what my parents would do to me; I was unbelievably disgusted at myself for doing this to them. The police called our parents, who came to pick us up. We were charged with trespassing. For the three of us, this meant a meeting with a Juvenile Court officer, a suspended sentence and an expunged Juvey record; for Colton it meant a court date and permanent record shit.

Lucky for Colton he was fucking a woman who worked in the courthouse. Somehow it all just went away. Sometimes I wonder if she wasn’t also fucking a judge. Whatever she did, I was grateful. So long as she wasn’t doing my grandpa.

On Monday we were instant celebrities. Everyone at the pool knew about it. For years afterward, we called each other “partners in crime.” He left a couple weeks later for school. It would be five years before I’d see him again. But he left me that Modern English cassette, which I eventually ruined.

That was the summer that Danni and I were best friends. By the following June we would have nothing to do with one another.

18 March 2005



I was getting Jack’s coat on to leave preschool, when he stared begging me to take him to see his Grandma. “I wanna go ta GRAmmy’s! I wanna go ta GRAmmy’s!” It just so happened that I had cooked dinner for my parents in the afternoon. I was going to take it to my mom at her office after I picked the kids up.

My mom came over to the car and he nearly leapt from his carseat. She happily took him home with her. I now had 50% less children for the evening. Miles was upset that he couldn’t go, and started to cry. Then I explained that this meant we could have lots of fun, just the two of us. And we could bake cookies. He brightened.

We sat (!) at the table and talked over dinner. He told me about his day and that, while he liked the chicken dish I’d made, the toasted almonds on the top had to go. Well, alright! He helped with the dishes and got ready for bed. We made four cookies. Ate them hot from the oven with milk.

He chose three stories. I took my time reading them, asking questions, helping him sound out some words.

"Time to brush teeth!"
“Okay, Momma.”
What? No feet-dragging; no buying more time by staging a wrestling match. No one to wrestle.

"Momma, did I do a good job?"
"Yes, my love. You did very well! Let me just finish up for you. There you go!"
“Hey, Momma?”
“What is it, sweetness?”
“I like looking at myself in the mirror.”


This morning I slept until 6:45. Such decadence! Miles came into my room.

“Momma, are you going to get up?”
“Yes honey, I am going to get up in just a few minutes.”
“What will you do?”
“First, I am going to go to the bathroom.”
“And I’ll come with you! Because I bet you’d like the company!”

I think that my boys- Miles especially- will be amazing boyfriends and partners when they grow up. They are so loving and giving. But lately I’ve been realizing that they are only half of the equation. The trick will be finding people who appreciate being adored and who will reciprocate. For me, the adoration function is directly proportionate. I give more, I get more. The more I get, the more I give. And I know there are lots of people like that. What I also know is that people learn quickly to take one another for granted. To me, that is the saddest thing.

I want my boys to learn respect for others. I want them to witness my relationships with my parents, my ex, my future, my friends. To appreciate the power of words, art, beauty and love. To stand for their beliefs. To have the ultimate respect for themselves.

I have lofty goals.

By Seven-thirty Miles is dressed, fed and watching a video when my mom brings Jack home in his pajamas. I thank her for keeping him overnight as Jack runs down the hall to find his brother.

There is a loud whack from the bedroom. Howling ensues, followed immediately by a wrestling match.

15 March 2005



I took my boots off outside. His carpets are white, and had just been steam cleaned. They were cold and wet. We stood barefoot inside the door, kissing, touching each other through our clothes. He kissed my neck and I literally gasped. It had been too long.

“Um, Thomas, is there anyplace in your house that doesn’t have wet carpet?”
“Yes! This way, please.”

He led me to the guest bedroom, where I had slept on our first date. It had been too late and I was too tired to make the drive home, so I'd stayed there.

The dog followed us.

We kissed some more, then he pushed me onto my back on the bed, lifted up my shirt and kissed my stomach, whispering:

“You smell so good.”
“Thank you.”
“I want your pussy.”
“Take it.”

He unbuttoned my pants, slid them off and took off my panties. I’d put them on for him. I only wear them for him. I figure it’s not a hard request to fulfill; the man likes sheer panties, I have sheer panties. These were pink with a mesh front and a y-string back. He laid them aside and put his face between my legs.

It was early afternoon, and the room was on the south side of the house. Light poured in through the windows, which were covered only halfway up. I brought a pillow under my shoulders and watched him, noticing the bits of red in my hair when the sun shone on it.
I pulled back my hood and he sucked my clit-hard and slow. I turned my head to the windows and came.

He picked up my legs and pushed me further onto the bed. He was fucking me. He spread my legs, keeping them straight; bending me in half so that my ankles were on the mattress at either edge of the bed. My hips were raised; the angle was perfect. I came again. Not so quietly. He pulled out.

“Get on your hands and knees.”

Oh, goody!

It’s my favorite position because of the depth attainable, but also because I can masturbate erstwhile. Simultaneous clit, vaginal and g-spot stimulation…do I really need to say more? Plus, his hands are free to grab my hips, spank my ass or pull my hair. I said goddamn! (goddamn, goddamn...)

I’d been there nearly an hour and hadn’t had his cock in my mouth. I sat up and paid a nice visit. I knew we weren’t done fucking, and he wasn’t ready to cum, so it was more about me having a good time with his cock, and him watching and feeling good. I was lying between his legs, licking his balls and looking at him, when he sat up. He ran his hands down my back to my ass and said,

“Stay right there.”

He came back after a minute. I thought he had gone to get the restraints. We hadn’t done that for a while…I missed it. I was still facedown on the bed. He started kissing the small of my back, down to my ass. I heard the click of the lube cap. Oh, thank God! I tried to look back at him, but he kept my face turned forward. He lubed my ass and slowly pushed the plug into position.

He fucked my pussy from behind while my ass was taken up with the butt plug. It is the most intense orgasm for me. What can I say? Just fill me up. The only thing missing was something in my mouth. Hmmm.

I am shaking, but I want more. I turn onto my back. Throw my legs over his shoulders. He slowly takes the plug out and replaces it with his dick. I am looking at the paleness of my skin, the redness of his face. He’s staring at me. He can’t stop looking at my face as he’s fucking my ass. Enough.

We stop and walk to the shower.
The dog followed us.

I wash him and myself. I get onto my knees and swallow his cock. He fucks my face while I put pressure on his perineum, sneaking a finger back to his ass. I look up at his face. He nods. In it goes.

“Fuck! Aw, fuck!”

I massage his prostate- sucking, his hands holding my head- and I get a mouthful of cum. I smile, let it run down my chin, onto my chest. Slowly take my finger out of his ass.

Getting dressed, we chat about the rest of the afternoon. He’s going into work for a meeting, and I’m going home. We say goodbye in the driveway after he checks out my new car. I drive back to my town. But I’m not ready to go home.

I decide to take a detour to my favorite spot by the river. I photograph the downtown buildings in the distance, watch a pair of ducks swimming along, sit down and listen to a passing train. I phone a friend.


Things have been interesting lately with Thomas.

We’ve been seeing each other fairly regularly since January. We were very clear when this started that neither one of us wanted an exclusive relationship. We have great sex and he is very understanding about my life, which revolves mainly around kids. He’s never met my boys; I don’t think he will. It’s your average no strings rough-sex-on-a-regular-basis type of relationship.

Thursday evening:
Thomas had drinks with Jasmine, the woman he met online. Turns out she is very attractive, smart and sexy. Turns out she’s had an unpleasant experience as a third, but might be willing to trying again. Turns out he kissed her goodnight at the end of their meeting, and drove home.

“Did you have sex?”
“Hmm. Okay.”

She sent him a thank you note for the drinks. With a pair of her panties inside. Sweet.

Sunday afternoon:
I spoke with Thomas . He seemed concerned that I might not be okay with him seeing Jasmine. I said I was 100% fine with it, as long as she knows he is seeing other people (Well, one other person, who is seeing other people.). She knows. It’s fine. Great, I said. I’ll buy stock in Durex.

They met Sunday evening for dinner. She invited him over. He declined.

Monday evening:
“Did you not want to have sex with her?”
“No- I wanted to; I thought about it!”
“But then I thought, what you and I have is so great; why would I want to be with her? I have a crazy schedule, you have a crazier one, and she doesn’t have a lot of free time, either. And I am still interested in her joining us for group sex. Or sex with you. But you and I are so compatible in the sex arena, I don’t feel like I want to fuck anyone else. I just am feeling conflicted about it, and when I’m conflicted about something, I don’t do it.”

I was touched. I really was. But a little flag started to go up. I had to say it.

“Thomas, you know you are not the only person I’m sleeping with, right?”
“Yes. Of course.”
“And I really enjoy being with you.”
“And if you don’t want to see anyone else, that’s your decision. But I will still see other people. Not twenty other people, but certainly several.”

Tuesday morning:
It had been nearly two weeks since we had sex. He was home until 3 PM getting his carpets cleaned.

I had a new car and the day off. I drove the 30 miles at lunchtime.

13 March 2005



It’s the theme of the day.

Yesterday the kids just about sent me jumping from a bridge. Miles, who is four and a half, will not stop talking. Jack, the two year old, is learning to push my buttons. He is a quick study.

We ate lunch this afternoon and were playing Hot Wheels. I got a phone call and went into the bathroom to get away from the grating chatter of Miles’ mouth. It was Thomas, calling to say he missed me this weekend, how were things going with the kids, can we get together on Tuesday morning? He was in his car, so our exchange was brief; maybe 3 minutes.

I hang up and come out. Miles is quick to run to my side.

“Momma, look what Jack did in the kitchen!”

An entire box of Cheerios (And you KNOW I mean the giant box; not the regular-sized box that your gramma buys…) had been poured out onto the kitchen floor. Jack was sitting in the middle, tossing Os into the air and letting them rain down around him. When attempts to get him to clean up his mess failed, he sat in time out. Eventually most were swept up and tossed into the yard for the birds.

A few hours later, I was washing stinky heads of preschoolers' hair in the bathtub. Jack went first and sat in the tub while I washed Miles’. As I was soaping, Jack took a big plastic cup, filled it with water and poured it onto the bathroom floor.

Never has a kid gotten taken out of the tub so quickly. I handed him a towel.
“Wipe up the water, Jack.”


“I am going to tell you once more what you need to do. If you say ‘no’ to me again, you will sit on the naughty stool. You do not speak to people like that. Now, take the towel and wipe up the water you poured onto the floor.”


I pick him up and swoop into the kitchen where the stool awaits. I sit him down and set the timer. Miles has basically finished his bath and takes it upon himself to mop up the floor. I tell him to stop; that Jack made the mess and he needs to clean it up when his timeout is over. This Jack does, after apologizing to me for pouring the water.

Dinner. They are sitting, eating their pasta and salad. Miles asks for more milk. I go to the fridge to get it, and hear the sound of liquid falling onto the floor. Guess who. Jack had taken his full glass of milk, brought it to the center crack where the table leaf goes, and poured it along its length. Milk streamed from the tabletop down through the crack, onto a chair and finally the floor.

I didn’t yell. I barely whispered, my voice half-cracking:

“You are finished with dinner. Go to your room and look at books until I come to get you.”

I didn’t have the energy for discipline; I could barely contain my frustration. They both went into the bedroom and closed the door. I sank to the floor and cried over spilled milk.

Bedtime came early. I brushed teeth, read books and tucked in. Breathed a sigh of relief.

I have just poured myself a drink.


This post began as a comment on Jefferson's "Sweet Potato Says" post.

On the surface no one would peg me as a slut. To anyone who takes a gander, I am outwardly cute, friendly, funny and smart. My boyfriends' parents all loved me: the sweet girlfriend with a brain. I am the girl my older female clients want to fix up with their sons. Because I am such a caring, considerate person. Of course these things are true.

But, goddamn, I love me a good fuck.

I think to say that every good girl needs her "slutty phase" is probably true. I found that the reverse also holds. When I was married, I would never, ever have done anything which would have damaged my marriage (like having sex with someone other than my husband). So, even though I had always been perceived by others as a good girl, I actually became one for six years.

In the aftermath of all that, I have come to some realizations about myself when it comes to sex and relationships. Here are the biggies.

1. As an individual I am responsible for defining my own boundaries for what is and isn't acceptable sexual behavior within my relationships. This includes my own actions and the actions of others. (For me, monogamy is not the central issue in a sexual relationship; honesty is. )

2. I am responsible for explaining and laying out those boundaries to anyone with whom I have sex or the possibility of a sexual relationship.

3. As long as everyone is open and honest, we can avoid icky repercussions later. (Insert icky repercussion here.)

So if I am back to being a slut, fine with me. I'd rather be a contented slut than a miserable monogamist who's had the rules changed on her mid-game and without consultation.

My sex life is not on display in my real life. I am fairly known in my community, I am a single parent, I work hard at a job I love, and I try to balance the scales of sacred and profane every day. Very few people I know read this blog. Those who do know the sweet me and the slutty me, and they love us both. Kisses to you.

People who really know me- my parents are great examples- know that I have "eccentric" tastes in the bedroom and that I am not ashamed of it. While they don't necessarily condone my cocksucking and assfucking (Yes, I am still talking about my parents!), they know I am responsible about it. They know that I am a good person, a good parent, and that my kids are happy and adjusting to life inside a divorce.

Today I was at my folks' house watching college basketball. I had on a new t-shirt with a cute little retro design and the name of my team. I was showing it off when my father pointed out that the design's flanking stars were centered directly over my nipples. I hadn't noticed. My mom shrugged her shoulders and said, "Well, we are talking about Madeline here!" As in, "You know your exhibitionist daughter is forever appealing to the voyeur in others and will regularly do utterly shocking things." My dad winked. I love those guys.

Hey, Sweet Potato, it's fun being the one folks least expect.

And dearest Jefferson, I think the "madonna/whore" analogy is a good one; women are labeled as one or the other. That simply is not acceptable to me. I think there should be more categories.

I like "Madonna the Whore."

12 March 2005


Jason the College Boy

Friday night. I crawl between the sheets around midnight. My phone rings at 12:45. Does this sound familiar?

Lui: What are you doing?
Je: I am sleeping, Jason.
Lui: Would you like some company?
Je: You know, I really just want to sleep. I’m very exhausted. My mom had surgery this morning, I had a full client load and I had to deal with insurance and tags for my new car.
Lui: I would really like to join you. Just to sleep.
Je: Are you drunk?
Lui: No, I’m just alone.

Yes. I know the angle. It's been worked a million times. And this? This boy has got the cockiest attitude on any given day. He is a swimmer, has an impossibly lean body, is very cute, and is excellent at hiding his insecurities.

Except late at night, when he calls me.

I rouse myself, go unlock the door and get back into my warm bed. About 10 minutes later he walks in, takes off his shoes by the door and locks it behind him. He passes into my room, turning off the dim lamp I’d left on out of habit. I poke my head out of the covers.

"Hey. Scoot over."

We fall asleep. For an hour. Then there is an erection pressing into the small of my back. Okay, it was there before, but we said sleep only, right?? He needs me to tell him I've missed him. To feed his ego; make him feel better about himself. He needs to learn that it’s okay to be vulnerable.

He is kissing my neck. It’s nice. He wants to know if I want him inside me. I tell him that would be nice, too. I help him with the condom, and take him in. Two minutes later, he cums. He apologizes. I appreciate this, and I’m curious. I ask him when he last had sex.

Two months ago. Huh??

But what about all the blondes at school?? You need to have more sex than that, man! Also, I was fine with the whole sleeping bit before, but now I am primed for some serious pounding.

We lie together, talking about school, his friends and my kids. We laugh, and have an easy conversation. I am resting my left hand on my pubis, and my right reaches down to his limp dick- cos limp dicks are fun.

“Is this okay?”

“Yes…god, yes.”

I scoot lower down. “And this?” I lick his shaft, kissing the tip, then take his cock into my mouth.


No problem, there. I love it when a dick gets hard in my mouth.

I tell him I want him to fuck me from behind. A few minutes in, he tells me he wants my ass. Now, Jason the College Boy and I never had any assplay; he is a virgin giving as well as receiving. He wants to fuck my ass, and then let me play with his. He wants to give me his anal virginity.

Tempting as it is, I am not in Training Mode at 3 AM; it is too delicate a procedure to navigate with a novice. Plus, if I get assfucked, I will never sleep. And wasn’t that the point of this visit?

11 March 2005



At 4:52 I wake up wet.

A thin blond with beautiful eyes and a great smile is next to me, on my pillows. We’ve been sleeping together a lot recently, though he sleeps with another boy when he’s not sharing my bed.

I’ve been staying up too late. I’ve been waking up too early.

I am in the fog of near consciousness… God, why am I this wet? I roll over, turning away from him, putting my left hand between my legs, holding on, and willing myself to return to my dream.

His soft, slightly southern accent wakes me five minutes later.

“Momma, I had an accident.”

10 March 2005



Scot and I were acquainted through my brother, Daniel. They’d been friends since junior high. I’d always thought he was cute; a bit of a jock, but very sweet and mature for his age. He was 22. I was 31.

Another friend of theirs, Leslie- a girl Daniel had dated- invited us all to her birthday party. There were about 50 people- ranging in age from 21 to 55- on a club crawl. For a week leading up to the party, every time I saw Scot, he would make some comment about how it was so great I was going to be there. The party would take place on a chartered bus which would drive us all from club to club, drinking all the way. The party bus had its own sound system, and Leslie had made cds and jello shots for the ride.

The party started at a local pub; the party bus was owned by this place. I walked in, wearing jeans, a black top and my red snakeskin print sandals. Love those shoes. I wasn’t the only one. Scot was on his phone when he saw me. He waved, looked me up and down, smiled and said something into the phone. I found a few girlfriends and we ordered drinks. We waited for all the guests to arrive and piled onto the waiting party bus. It was November, and very cold.

First stop: Retro Night at a local spot. 80’s dance music played, and drinks were cheap. We were all on the floor, dancing. At one point, Scot started flirting and dancing with me. He came up behind me and whispered into my ear, "You are so fucking sexy."

Oh, my.

The bus driver kept us all in line, and after the allotted time at that club, herded everyone back onto the bus. It was dark. Scot was sitting with a friend across the aisle from me. We were “inadvertently” touching each other. A lot.

Next stop was a dive bar. Pool tables, pinball machines and absolutely no room to move. Standing at the bar, he stole a look down the front of my shirt. With the leer invented by college boys he laughed and said, “You have a great rack!”

Uh, thanks? My feigned disgust didn't deter him. I didn't figure it would.

We went back outside to the bus.

He kissed me. I kissed him back. He sat on the seat. I sat on his lap, facing him. I hadn’t made out like this since high school. We went at it for about half an hour. People started filing back onto the bus. I have no idea who saw us; I really didn’t care.

Two more stops, and who the fuck knows how much to drink, we were back at the starting point. I drove him to his place. I don’t know if he even invited me up; I was too drunk to notice, much less care.

Followed by: Drunken sex (Forgive me for not fleshing this out, as it were. If I could, I most definitely would. All I know is that it lasted a good long while.).

Followed by: Sneaking out of his apartment at 5 AM.

Followed by: Um, that was great, but it can never happen again. By the way, did I happen to forget my scarf at your place?

Followed by: Many text messages and phone calls about how we really shouldn’t decide anything until we have sex sober.

Followed by: See post entitled “Sneaky.”

07 March 2005


Sunday Evening with Miles

Momma, why can’t Daddy live here with us?

Because, darlin’. Daddy lives in Georgia now.

But WHY?? Why can’t he live here, with us?

Miles, honey, Momma and Daddy can’t live together anymore. It’s like Tristan, who used to be in your class, but it was very hard for him and he was very sad. And it was hard for the other kids in the class because he was so sad? But he’s in a different school now, and everyone is happier. That’s kind of how it is for Momma and Daddy. We get too sad and we have a hard time when we live together. We are both happier when Daddy doesn’t live here.

You should try better to be happy.

Baby, Daddy and I both love you and Jack so much. I know it is hard to understand. It’s hard for Momma sometimes, too. But I’m a better Momma this way. And Daddy is a better Daddy.

Am I your favorite boy in the whole world?

You are my favorite Miles in the whole wide world. And Jack is my favorite Jack.

Momma, I love you to the center of Planet Earth and back! Can we have pancakes for dinner?

05 March 2005



It’s 4:04 AM as I sit to write. It is Saturday. What the Fuck?!

There are several reasons for my being up and moderately coherent:

1) My kids’ dad is in town this weekend. He has decided that he is not comfortable staying by us when he visits. He has made other arrangements for himself, but feels the kids should sleep in their own beds. Actually, he thinks it’s “not a good use of [his] time” to be with the kids when they are sleeping. Huh?? So I am here, taking deep breaths, biding my time until the parenting plan is approved and ordered by the judge. Nerves are exposed, anxiety is a little high.

2) I had a date planned with Thomas for Friday night, which didn’t happen due to the above. I really could have used the sex. Then sleeping in. How I miss the sleeping in...

3) At 1:30 I got a phone call (I am in my bed sleeping at this point; Miles’ head rests on my stomach) from Jason the College Boy. He is in a hotel room in Omaha, having followed his school basketball team there for a game. He is not at all sober. He wants me to know that Spring Break starts for him on Thursday and he’ll be coming to town. Can we get together? Am I seeing anyone? Who?? Do I ever think about him?

Oh, sweet Jason. Not very much, to be honest. We slept together last summer for about a month; our sex was ultra-exciting. And that’s it. I felt like Mrs. Robinson. I was glad to see him leave in September for school several states away; where I hoped he’d meet and have sex with lots of young blonde girls. We traded phone calls a few times after he left, but I’d not heard from him in a couple months when, one afternoon in late December there was a knock on my door.

I thought it was my client, early for his one o’clock appointment. Shit! I opened the door and Jason was standing there looking smug. I was stunned. And pissed. I am not a fan of these types of surprises. I expressed my displeasure.

You could have called to tell me you were going to be in town/you could have waited until the evening to just show up at my house/I could have been with a client when you just walked up and rang the bell/this is disrespectful, et cetera.

I finished scolding him and sent him on his way. My client arrived two minutes later.

I didn't hear from him for the rest of his visit. Two weeks ago he called late at night. I saw the name and didn’t pick up. No message. Good.

This call was different; I picked it up before he even registered in my mind.

I was asleep and dreaming about someone else.


"Hey- whatt're you doin?"

"I'm sleeping. How drunk are you?"

"Haha. Very funny. I miss you. Spring break starts this coming Thursday."

"So that's good. Is your semester going okay? Are you ready to graduate?"

“Can I see you sometime when I’m in town?”

“It’s possible, but I can’t get to my calendar now; Miles is sleeping on me.”

“Okay, well, I’ll call you Sunday or Monday or something.”

“Sure. Have a good time in Nebraska, and stay out of trouble.”

I’m thinking I dodged a bullet there. Chances are good that he won’t call and my schedule will have filled up by the time he gets into town on Thursday. It is 1:45. I fall asleep again.

At 3:47 my phone is beeping and vibrating loudly on my bedside table, which is a metal typing stand. Jesus!

Message Received.
From: Jason
You should send me a picture of yourself. That will make me really hard.

I reply:
What are you doing awake? Go to sleep.

He replies.
Give me something to dream about and I will.

I know he is there with his roommate from school; I don’t send a picture. I know what would happen to it.

I sit up in bed, extricating myself from the mass of tangled limbs (both Miles and Jack have migrated to my full-sized bed at this point; they're sprawled out everywhere and I’ve been sleeping on a slice of mattress about 12 inches wide.) I am naked, and sweating from the extra heat they generate under the flannel sheets.

Walking through the apartment to the computer, I consider having sex with Jason again. You know, just to see if he’s learned anything new.

04 March 2005


Pebbles and Friends

I know people who worry about what they’ll lose in the course of a few good loads of laundry. Sock-eating dryers seem to be the bane of existence for so many folks. Not me. My washing machine consistently turns out new (cleaner) versions of everyday items stuffed into little-boy-pockets: pebbles (from the playground), rocks (from the parking lot), lollipop sticks and little balls of Hershey’s Kisses foil.

I really should be more vigilant about going through pockets before I throw their contents at the mercy of the agitator. It can't be good for those hard little pebbles scratching and spinning around in there... Since my children are both males, aged 2 and 4, this stashing habit will likely continue until well into adulthood. The hidden treasures will eventually include gum wrappers, pens, change, phone numbers, and notes from girls in 5th period Trig class. If I do my job well, I'll find drivers' licenses, cash from shoveling the neighbors' walks, receipts for condoms....

For now, though, I am faced with the dilemma of small plastic animals being lifted from their bins at preschool and spirited away in tiny pockets; only to be showered, soaped and spun clean in my Kenmore.

Yesterday there was an animal party in the laundry room: a grey cat, a beagle, a stegosaurus and a t-rex. These are not our toys, so I collect them from the washer bin, show them to the boys, tell them we don’t take things which aren’t ours, and we need to return them to school. They do this dutifully, always with the same,

“Momma, we promise we won’t do it again.”
"Yeah, Momma. We PRAH-miss!" (Solemnly nodding.)

In three or four days one or more of their little friends will have returned.

02 March 2005


Playdate II

Clearly it’s been far too long since I had sex. I know this because I was like a freaking junkie being presented with as much smack as she could do in an hour.

I’d just finished my shower, threw on an old white t shirt and started the washer. Music was on shuffle and turned up. I answered the door, and Thomas stood there, dressed in a trench coat, scarf and sunglasses.

“Ha! You look like a J man!”

“I’m here to continue my investigation.”

I pull him into the apartment; he takes my head in his hands and kisses my mouth. My hands are already working to remove his coat. Piece by piece, I undress him and carefully hang everything on the hooks by the front door.

My childrens' coats will hang there in three hours.

I go to my knees and untie his shoes; help him out of them and his socks. His trousers fall. I hang them next to his shirt. He keeps his hand on my head, then takes the neck of my shirt and pulls it off. We are naked.

His cock is hard, and in my face. There is already a drop of precum, which I lick off, then take him deep into my mouth. He holds my head and fucks my throat. It is so deep..past my gag reflex. All the way. I try to swallow and my throat closes around his dick. He is moaning; tears are running down my face. I fucking love this.

I walk over to the futon; he pushes me down and spreads my legs. Pulls me to the edge and kneels in front of me. I’m still panting from the feeling of his cock in my throat, so things are a bit fuzzy…there are lips, fingers, tongues and teeth involved… He keeps bringing me to the edge, then backing off…Goddamn it! Let me cum! He laughs, and does.

And we’re off. I’m bent in half, ankles by my ears, watching-- looking up to see his face. He’s very into this. He keeps an eye on my face as his hand is choking me… So considerate…

We don’t leave the living room. I get off several times. He gets carpet burns. I’m ready for him to cum. I work his dick with my mouth and hands, then sit back and watch as he strokes himself and looks at me.

Afterwards, we are walking around the apartment naked, washing faces, getting water, dressing. I go into my bedroom and return, holding my panties. Smiling.

They’re sitting in some corporate boardroom right now.


A client rescheduled her noon appointment today. I immediately rang up Thomas and invited him to come play. And this time I don’t have appointments scheduled later in the afternoon. An online date in the evening, but the afternoon is clear.

It’s a good thing I enjoy doing laundry.

I am chatting with Thomas as I write this. He’s suggesting he’ll be taking my panties back to work in his pocket. I’m suggesting he wear them- the ones he likes. The mesh front g-string.