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



I really am choosy when it comes to lovers.

I like a lover to be at least a few years older than me. Looks are important, brains are more so. I want someone who is at least my equal intellectually, is interesting, funny, charming, intense, and who can fuck. Well. Dominant, kinky and secure enough to experiment during sex.

I prefer men with normal bodies in good shape. (Too many muscles means too much time at the gym means too little confidence in yourself means self-loathing and obsession means you’re not paying much attention to me, now, are you, sweetie?)

Also, there’s the whole issue of Manscaping. I am definitely pro ball-and-asshole-shaving, but please don’t be shaving every last hair on your body. Besides looking a little odd, it’s dangerous! And, let’s face it: getting razor burn while sucking a man’s nipple is not my idea of fun. I don’t like completely shaved pussies on a grown woman, and I like my men with some (trimmed, if necessary—trimmed is good.) chest and pubic hair.

I love the way pubic hair holds onto the scent of a man; trapping it, keeping it warm and moist. I love the way it feels on my mouth and nose when I’m taking his cock down my throat: Soft and wet. My saliva mixed with his sweat. Maybe there’s some girly juice there, too, just for good measure.

This list is by no means exhaustive, and while it may seem like a tall order (actually it IS a pretty tall order!), I have managed to find two such men and lure them into my little web. It is all so good. I have but one tiny little complaint:

The geography sucks.

We all agree that I need a fuckbuddy. Thomas has gone off on his quest for a soulmate, and we still chat now and then. He’s just not as available as I need for him to be. We may hook up again, but right now it’s just not in the stars. Jason the College Boy is back in town, but has a new girlfriend, blonde and cute. He still sends me text messages, but they’re always at inconvenient times. I really need someone whose schedule will accommodate my own. And who has many of the above-listed qualities. Okay—some of them.

So this guy Mark sent me a wink on I had posted my profile a few days earlier and had been getting lots of responses, most of which I wasn’t interested in pursuing, for personal, choosy reasons. But this guy was fairly intelligent, judging from his writing. Nice body; a bit overly muscular, but for a fuckbuddy I can forgive that. He was interested in some of the same kink that I was, but mostly wanted a girl to hang out with and have sex with a few times a month.

Okay, sounds a little vanilla, but again, fuckbuddies can be less than perfect. Good.

We started chatting, and exchanged more photos. I sent him a face shot, since none of my online photos include my face.

He had killer tattoos on his back and shoulders, and some extra nice artistic nude photos done by a friend did his body loads of favors. We decided we were interested in meeting. He suggested I come by his club (yes, he owns a club; a club which I’ve frequented on occasion.) later that evening. My ex had the boys, and I was going to my nephew’s baseball game and to dinner with my folks. I said I’d try, but time ran short and I had to phone him with my regrets.

The next morning, Mark and I chatted and made arrangements to meet later that afternoon. I was going to drop some of my business cards by for his clients. When I phoned him around four, he was getting ready to go for a run. He had been “lifting” that morning. (I started wondering if he drinks those protein shakes, too…)

“No problem, Mark,” I said. “I’m in my car not far from you. I’ll just meet you there in a minute.”

I pull into the lot where he’s parked, near the river. I spot him on the other side of the lot, bare-chested, wearing red nylon running shorts and stretching his hamstrings. He sees me, and starts walking toward the car. I open the door and get out.


“Hey, Mark! How’s it going?” I walk toward him, extend my hand and shake his, looking him straight in the eye.

No fireworks…no heart flutter…no dry mouth. This guy was definitely not doing much for me.

“I’m Good,” he says, looking me up and down, obviously following the outline of my swimsuit through my slipdress. He laughs nervously, “You’re gonna think I never wear clothes!”

He was pretty unmistakable with the washboard abs, the tight ass, the tattoos, the broad shoulders, the close-cropped Caesar haircut, the huge pecs and ….

Oh, Dear Dog.

The chest hair stubble.

28 June 2005



My recent sublimation efforts have resulted in something wonderful: I found the USB cable for my digital camera. It had been taken to a safe place by one of my children. . .

The floor of their closet, which I uncovered today. No doubt, they were pretending it was a snake and buried it under the sleeping bags and stuffed animals.

So here are a couple of photos from my recent nylon fetish session. I was supposed to have gone to a bdsm/fetish party a few weeks ago, plans fell through and I ended up staying home.

But the goddamn stockings felt so good, I decided to keep 'em on and take pictures.

It's what I do.

27 June 2005



So here we are. Or here I am. And there you are.

You come at me, palms on my shoulders, pressing me against the wall. Your hands move to either side of my face, keeping my shoulders pinned back with your forearms. My lips are aching I can hardly breathe your eyes search mine. How long we’ve waited, I can’t remember, because in my head it is like we’re always together. You have to stop looking you have to kiss me you have to.

Our faces are so close; I can feel your breath on my mouth. I feel the low hum building inside you before I hear it; a growl that rises up from your toes and through your chest.

Your kiss is furious; potentate.

I want to move my head; want to run my lips across your face, down your jaw and neck, to your nipples and beyond, but I only manage a nibble on your lower lip. I only try once or twice more to move; but I--

like your hands holding me in place.

You move your lips to my ear. Whisper. I nod, my eyes welling with anticipation and my breathing quickening.

Undress me. Yes. Piece by piece. Like a child. Yes.

Your finger traces my collarbone as I shiver in the air conditioning and turn my eyes to the rope.

“I’ve waited a long time for this,”

I nod, breathless, “Please, hit me…please.”

“Turn around.”

My back is to you, my hands clasped behind it. I stand perfectly still, waiting, knowing. The rope touches my skin, crossing the top of my chest, pulling my shoulders back. You work slowly, methodically; every turn and pull and knot exact.

My arms are fully bound behind my back. The rope digs into my skin, but doesn’t hurt. It would hurt if I struggled. I don’t. I trust you.

I start to feel my consciousness letting go, the boundary between rope and skin disappearing. It is part of me. We are the same thing. I slip underneath my surface, watching myself from below.

Turn me around, back against the wall my nipples between your fingers oh your teeth on my neck my legs pressed together, holding, pulsing hips rocking fuuckk

Hand to my cunt, one on my throat, eyes staring oh I'm
on my toes, legs shaking fingers pushing, stroking, flooding, running fuck digging fuuck gushing unh, yeah, fuck me.


Ngah…Blind white light, face hot, …warmth spreading. smile …do it again oh please do it again. Unhh….i love you.

Push me onto my knees feed me your cock hold my hair fuck my face and fuck I can’t breathe I don’t care move my head pull me up by my hair throw me down on my side pull my leg up Fuck. fuck me my cunt is soaked and hot and slick I’m pulling you in and holding on Spank my ass I’m coming and coming and laughing and crying.

Come boy, come to me

kiss my tears (ssshhhhh, baby) Softly, gently.

Unbind my arms. Kiss the rope paths. Whisper. Eyes burn, blinking tears. Spoon me, right arm under my head. Left arm draped over my side. Breathing on my neck until morning.

24 June 2005



I woke up at 9:00 on Sunday. I was still cramping, but not really bleeding anymore. The free Tylenol was still in the brown paper bag I’d brought home, along with more samples and a prescription. Fuck Tylenol; my roommate Kira had Percoset left over from having her wisdom teeth pulled. Oral surgeons rock.

I got up and went downstairs. It was early March, and the hardwood floors were cold on my bare feet. I put the kettle on and got my teabag ready. Kira and her boyfriend were passed out in the living room of the Victorian house we shared. The place smelled like bongwater. I opened a window.

The kettle boiled and I took my tea upstairs and set the mug on the antique chest in the bathroom. I’m not supposed to take a bath; that might introduce infection. I shower, the water as hot as I can stand, soaping and feeling my still-tender breasts and nipples. I let the water hit me straight in the face, then turn around and let it pound my lower back as I bend slightly forward.

I am remembering the first time I had sex, with Tommy, and what I did when I got home that night. The hottest bathwater ever, and half a bar of soap, and I still didn’t feel clean. I smile at the irony today, seven years later.

My mother calls, but I don’t feel like talking or doing anything. She wants to apologize for my father. I don’t care.

I keep thinking the phone will ring again. It doesn’t.

Around Two in the afternoon I am reading The Epic of Gilgamesh for Western Civ. Kira and Michael are up and loading the car with gear.

“C’mon, Maddie. We’re going to the lake. It’s so nice out. We’re gonna barbeque. You’re coming with us.”

“I don’t know if I really feel like it.”

“Put these on,” Kira throws me a sweatshirt and leggings. “You’ll feel better if you get out.”

We spent two hours at the lake cooking out, drinking beer and playing on the playground. I spent most of my time on the swings; they're lots of fun after a Percoset and a beer.

When we arrived home we unloaded the car and Kira started a load of laundry. I was unpacking the Tupperware containers in the kitchen when the phone rang.


“Hey... How’s it goin’, babe?”

“Hmmphf. Great.”

“Cool. So what’re you up to?”


“Well, I haven’t seen you for a while. I thought I might see if you wanted me to come over…”

“I’ve called you five times in the last week and you never called me back.”

“Yeah, sorry, babe. I’ve been really busy.”

“Oh, right. Me, too.”

“Really? Good weekend? Whatcha been up to?”

“Oh, you know, the usual: homework, studying for midterms, having an abortion- that sort of stuff.”


“Oh, wow…um, ahem, uh, how did it go?”

“It was fine. Great. My mother went with me.”

“Oh, that’s good. I wish I would have known it was this weekend….”

“Then you should have called me back.”

He makes some lame excuse and gets off the phone.

I never heard from him again. I saw him once or twice, driving. I took every opportunity to tell everyone I could what an asshole he was. I think about it now and I realize that I was probably really hard on him; he was 23, I was 20. But back then it felt like he was so much more of an adult than I was. And I was forced to be more of an adult than I ever wanted to be.

About a year ago I worked at a health club in my town. His parents were members. Several times I was tempted to introduce myself, and ask after their son, “And make sure to tell him that Maddie Glass says hi!”

I didn't.



My life is returning to normal. I am working off the banana split, Panang Curry and the copious amounts of bourbon ingested in the hours following my divorce (My Divorce!). I had a couple of days to be without the boys, alone at home. Cleaning. Thinking. Purging.

The state of my apartment had accurately reflected the state of my mind in the week leading up to this one. I couldn’t bring myself to make order out of the chaos. I think maybe I wasn’t supposed to.

Because now, these days are therapy; I am systematically going through each room, chucking everything that I don’t love. Clearing away clutter and freeing my soul. I can feel the emotional associations attached to stuff, but realize that memories are often better than the physical things. I can release the things which are crowding me. I feel lighter. Relieved. Almost giddy.

I also find that I’m recognizing deep feelings of anger and resentment and sorrow and hurt. And I’m forcing myself to deal with them. They come from different places, at different times of my life and anything can cause them to bubble to the surface of my otherwise pleasant state of consciousness.

I think about what caused them, and how it relates to what is happening now, in my life and in the lives of other people; some of whom I don’t even know personally. I look at Dacia’s experience this week and I am reminded of a time when I felt I had to be brave, even though I was scared to death. And though I put up a good front, inside I was hurt and resentful and afraid and angry at the universe for allowing it to happen.

So I work. I scrub. I write. I cry, and it feels good.

22 June 2005


Wishful Thinking

At four o'clock I was officially divorced.

At four-thirty, Bella and I were eating banana splits to celebrate. I went home after that to shower and revel in my new status.

By ten-thirty Maya and I were alone at the pub. We had gone with another friend to dinner at our favorite Thai place, then walked over to the bar for drinks outside on the sidewalk. Kat was meeting her boyfriend at the theatre, so she left about 9:30. Maya and I finished our drinks and left.

On the walk back to Maya's place, she stopped in the middle of the street and said, "Oh, my God, Madeline. Look at the moon!"

Huge. Bright. Round.


I gasped.

"Maya... I was MARRIED on the full moon."

"Fuck! And you just got DIVORCED on the full moon. AND the Solstice."

"This is so fucking perfect. This is the perfect symbol. I'm like the moon: Ripe for change. Full of potential. Influential. I'd better be careful what I wish for tonight."

We walked the last block in silence. We spent the next two hours drinking and smoking on her porch. Around midnight, I gathered my wits and my strength and drove home.

Marcus and I had spoken a couple weeks ago about how I really should have a friend come with me to court for the divorce. It isn't exactly something one does every day, and certainly not a lot of fun. We decided that it would be poor form for him to come, as my boyfriend.

Later, that same night, I had mentioned my friend project to Jefferson.

"Marcus thinks that it wouldn't look good for him to be there. You don't bring your boyfriend to your divorce hearing. Too bad, though, wouldn't you say? It could be a lot of fun!"

"Well, if BOTH your boyfriends showed up, and wore matching t-shirts and held hands in the front row, it wouldn't look so bad. We'd have 'em all hoodwinked."

I related this to Marcus. He cracked up.

Now, walking through my front door I am reminded of the hour time difference which separates us.

Jefferson is hosting a gathering tonight; the perfect way to commemorate my divorce, I said, when earlier in the day I told him I'd be on the next flight.

Marcus has his kids and is probably asleep at this hour, since they usually get up early.

The whole evening feels vaguely anticlimactic.

I decide to risk it and dial Marcus's number anyway. He answers.

"Hi, baby."

"Hey, I just wanted to hear your voice before I go to sleep."

"Did you go out with the girls?"

"I had a lovely time. And I'm a little drunk. But I am happy."

"I'm happy for you. I miss you."

"I miss you, too. And I am going to sleep in tomorrow. My kids are with their dad. I'm getting into bed now."

"Let's talk tomorrow, then. I have to get the kids up early. Congratulations, sweetheart. I wish I was there."

"'night, Marcus. Me, too."

21 June 2005



Tap, tap, tap.
Momma, I’m hungry! Wake up, Momma!
Jack is butting my leg with his forehead and standing beside my bed. It is 6:15. I have to get them dressed and to daycare. The day hasn’t even begun and I’m already anxious.

Tap, tap.
I turn over my shoulder and see Bella standing beside me. She gives me a big hug and says “Hello, sugarplum.” She is ready to sit in the courtroom and glare at Daniel at the appropriate moments. I’m glad she is with me. Last week in a phone call she said that it felt appropriate for her to be here today, since she had been there when we were married.

I found this note from her yesterday in our wedding album. I’m saving it for my kids:

Dearest Madeline, Dearest Daniel,
Knowing you apart, knowing you together has been a wonderful time for us. The road felt rocky and long sometimes, Madeline, but the end was dazzling. Daniel, darling, you know how much we adore you and you will love and cherish Madeline for yourself and for us as well. We wish you great joy and a long and fulfilling life. With all our love, Bella and Martin

Bella, my attorney and I are waiting for the courtroom to open up. Daniel walks up with his attorney. We exchange a few looks and make small talk, shifting uneasily. He shakes my hand. His palm is dripping.

In the last couple of weeks I have been thinking about this day and what it will mean. I have at once looked forward to and dreaded it. Change is hard. And even though Daniel and I have not lived together for two and a half years, this is a life-changing event, this fifteen-minute court proceeding.

All day I have been receiving emails, IMs and phone calls from friends and family wishing me well. Many of them, like Bella, were at our wedding.

I take one last call before going into the courtroom, turn my phone off and take a deep breath.

I am overwhelmed by hope and excitement, relief and sadness; I will myself not to cry. Once that faucet opens, it’s hard to shut off.

I have to state my name and address and the ages of my children. I have to say why there is no hope for my marriage.

My attorney is speaking. Her lips move, but the sound is lost to me. His attorney says something, and I start to hear the grownup voice from Charlie Brown: “wah-waaah, wah-waaah..”

I sit, looking at my folded hands on the blonde wood table. I am careful not to shift in my seat; Daniel’s attorney just did that and it made a terrible noise. I am just breathing. I start counting the lengths of my inhalations and exhalations, lengthening each one.

The judge is speaking:

“On this, the Twenty-First day of June, 2005, the marriage of Madeline and Daniel is officially dissolved. Due to irreconcilable differences between the parties, divorce is hereby granted.”



Operational Intelligence

Note to readers: discussion about my personal feelings on monogamy and honesty in relationships can be found here.

And then.

I found this left open on my computer:

From: Collette
To: Daniel
Subject: None
Date: Tue, 31 Dec 2002

Truly my Daniel-chan,

After last week’s sexual encounter, I already have fantasies of what I want to do with you, to you when next we are together. I hope you want to see me soon. Not only “want to” but WILL. I’m waiting, impatiently.

Always thinking of you each and every day. Counting. Breathing. Going.

With love, yours.


Here's what I thought my marriage was. I was content to be the "She." God, I miss Harry Chapin.

20 June 2005



Daniel and I were sitting in a Middle Eastern restaurant downtown, eating falafel with hummus, when he, very unceremoniously, said, “Hey, Maddie! Let’s get married!”

“Um, whah???” My mouth was full of food, and I kind of forgot which I should do first: chew, speak or breathe.

We had been seeing each other for five months, living together for three, and had been friends for the last three years, a time which included the unraveling of my relationship with Craig in Detroit.

We were in love; and had fallen in with each other so easily when I left Michigan. Daniel had decided that I was “the one” and that he was ready to “settle down,” so why wait? We had a good thing, we love each other; it follows that we should get married. Like, the sooner the better.

I never make on-the-spot decisions.

Three days later I said yes.

He wanted a civil marriage at the courthouse. "No way," I said, "I am my parents' only daughter. And I want a wedding." With a bent toward the unconventional, while maintaining the solemnity of the occasion.

We decided to have the wedding in the summer, to keep the guest list as small as possible. I wanted it on the full moon, which meant our dates were limited. We planned and executed an amazing event in just over eight weeks.

It was an outdoor wedding in July with 100 guests, at dusk on a small hillside farm in the country. Our families were there (his came from the Middle East for a week), along with close friends. Our friend Evan was the photographer, his wife Nancy did the catering. My brother’s best friends served the food, and our pal Sammy was the DJ.

We called in a million favors—flowers, my dress, music, chairs and decorations all involved friends or family—and when we were finished, it was all so sweet and lovely.

Exactly what I wanted. The person I loved and wanted to be with forever was with me under the stars before the people who loved us most.

He thought I was amazing, smart, spectacular. I was in awe of his charisma, his infectious energy and his love for me.

We ate, drank and danced; eventually moving the guests inside the barn, remodeled and fitted with air conditioning and plumbing. There was a guest bedroom inside, where we would sleep that night. The whole evening was like a dream. No one wanted to go home.

Family members started to leave around midnight. The dancing continued until 4 AM.

The party lasted five years.



Late, late, late.

Viviane tagged me! Would that it had been in person...

I'm not following the rules. So there.

Answer the first four items on your journal/blog and then send them on to five other bloggers, to whom you'll link when you make your blog entry.

1. Total number of books I've owned

For real?? Conservatively, now. 2,000? I have no real idea. Plus, I am a fan of libraries and librarians. I don't like this question.

2. The last book I bought

Middlesex by Jeffery Eugenides

3. The last book I read
The Heart is Deceitful Above All Things by J.T. LeRoy

4. 5 books that mean something to me
The Giving Tree, Shel Silverstein; Where the Wild Things Are, Maurice Sendak; The Mists of Avalon, Marion Zimmer Bradley; Forever, Judy Blume; Sexual Personae, Camille Paglia

5. Tag 5 people and request they fill this out on their journals
Okay. I don't know five people who 1) have blogs and who 2)haven't already been tagged by this. So do it in the comments section, if you'd like. or put it on your page. Whatever.

09 June 2005



We arrive back at the hotel after the Beatles festival; two of the four boys had fallen asleep in the car. It is early evening and we are planning on a late dinner. We settle the boys in for a short nap. Marcus lies down with his oldest, Max, who is tired and has a headache. My boys are on the floor, crashed on their sleeping bags. Adam, the youngest, has made himself a place to rest in front of the tv.

I am hot and sweaty from being out all day. It feels like the entire city has deposited itself on my skin; it is sticky and grimy. I walk into the boys’ room and lightly touch Marcus’s foot.

“Marcus, I’m going to take a shower; I feel so gross.”

“Oh, okay,” he looks up from the pillow next to Max.

In our room, I peel off my clothes, noting the slight sunburn on my chest and neck in the mirror. I lean close, counting freckles across my face; this is something I’ve done since I was old enough to remember. My scalp is pink where my hair parts. “Damn,” I think. I really should have worn a hat.

I turn on the water—lukewarm—and step into the tub. The water stings when it touches my head. I adjust the shower flow to “gentle rain” and turn slowly underneath it.

I am rinsing my face when I hear the door open, then close. There is ice clinking, and a glass is set on the porcelain toilet lid.

I really hadn't expected him to join me.


“Hey, beautiful! Can I come in?”

“Are you kidding me? Of course! Are the kids okay?”

“Everyone’s fine. Damn, you look nice.”

He hands me the glass. I take a drink, and then set it back on the edge of the tub. He steps toward me and I take his hands, wrapping them around my waist and holding them behind my back. I can feel his breathing. The shower spray is splashing off my shoulders, hitting his face and chest.

We kiss. I am licking and sucking and tugging on his lips. They are salty. His chin is stubbly and stings my sunburned face. His cock is sandwiched between us. It is growing hard against my stomach. I reach down with my right hand and cup his balls, pressing them up against his body. His cock twitches. He sighs.

We trade places in the shower, and I push him under the water, still kissing. My fingers trace his collarbone down to his nipples. I pull on them gently, then lick and suck each one in turn, while massaging his cock with one hand.

Marcus grabs the soap and starts washing my body, kissing my neck. He holds me at arms’ length and stops.

“God, Maddie, your body is so ripe.”

I am four days before my period. Everything is a bit swollen, fuller and more sensitive. “Ripe” is the perfect word. Up until about five years ago I would have worried about being premenstrual and bloated in the ohmygod,mybodyissougly kind of way. Since I’ve had my kids, that stuff is secondary. I still have insecurities about my body, but they are not related to fucking.

Being naked and fucking is totally related to childbirth for me: When there are nine people in the delivery room all crowded around, putting their hands inside you, talking and explaining and focusing on your cunt and what’s coming out of it, it’s hard to have many reservations about getting naked in front of someone.

I back up, against the back wall, putting my right foot onto the edge of the tub. Marcus reaches down and finds my clit, pressing it between two fingers. I gasp, and kiss him hard.

He has fingers inside my pussy and moves to his knees. He sucks me off hard, as I grind myself onto his face. I come, and he stops, just pressing his hand over my clit.

“Fuck, that feels so good..”

My vaginal muscles are still contracting. His fingers slide back to my ass.

He starts massaging around my anus, using light pressure, then gradually increasing it. His fingers are slippery with soap. I take a breath, and then exhale, bearing down slightly to let his finger in.

He turns me toward the wall, and I arch my back into his finger sliding in and around. He folds his body around my back, reaching around front for my clit. A finger in my ass and one on my clit…thank god he is holding me up.

My cheek is pressed against the wall, and I’m looking back at him through the water spraying into my face. I come again. His cock is hard between my legs.

When I turn around, all I can think about is his dick in my mouth.

I sink to my knees, looking up at him. I take a long lick up the underside of his shaft, then swallow his cock, hitting the back of my throat, getting it slick. When my mouth reaches his pubis—when his cock is all the way inside—Marcus has a different moan. I especially like this one.

I alternate between deep throating him, sucking, jerking and sucking his balls. I can hold his cock up to his stomach, grab his sac, and take both balls into my mouth, rolling and sucking them. This gets me off almost as much as it does him.

Marcus and I have discussed the topic of sucking cock at length.

I think the longest I’ve ever sucked cock is about 30 minutes (Someone correct me if I’m mistaken, but I think that’s about right.). I truly enjoy it, but after a while, I like to switch things up a little. When I mentioned this to Marcus, he said he felt the same way; there are so many other things to do, and after a good blowjob, he’s eager to do some fucking. And since he’s very good at delaying his orgasms, the fun never ends.

We get out and towel off. I brush my teeth and watch him getting dressed in the mirror. We are taking the three youngest boys to the hotel pool. Marcus puts on his Versace swimsuit (thanks, sugar mama!)

Kids are in bed after dinner.

We are exhausted, but insatiable. He starts by telling me to suck his cock. Then to climb on top and ride him. I do this slowly, and he thrusts up, making me drip. He grabs my tits (ouch!) and slaps my face for protesting.

We roll me onto my back, and then flip my legs over to the side. He likes fucking me this way. My eyes are rolling back in my head, he pounds so hard. His pubic bone hits the top of my femur (my “sit” bone) so hard, and so many times, he has bruises.

He pulls out and moves to the foot of the bed.

“Come down here. Spread your knees.”

He stands on the floor and starts fucking, holding my hips with both hands. I am moving my chest and head down to the mattress.

He slaps my ass.

“Get up! Look over there. Look, goddamnit!”

I turn my head to the left. The double doors of the closet are mirrored. I could come at the sight of us. My back is arched and his hands are pulling me back toward him. Soon I am pushing back with as much force.

I reach down, finger my clit and am soon yelling into a pillow.

He literally has to move my limbs for me, I am so sexed. I want more; I always want more. I’m just not functioning at that high an intelligence level right now, and I’m not sure I could figure out how to get more.

I’ve been positioned at the side of the bed closest to the closet. I am sitting on Marcus’s cock, straddling him with my feet on the mattress, arms wrapped around his neck. He is watching the action over my shoulder. I have maintained a fair amount of muscle control, despite my general state, and I tighten my cunt on the upstroke, releasing and sliding down again.

He throws me back, and is on top of me, fucking me and looking at my face, then behind me. He nods to the mirror, “Look how beautiful you are.”

He pushes me back so my head falls off the side. I look at us, upside-down.

My legs are straight and wide, my hands holding my heels. My face is flushed.

Slowly, I am inching further off the edge of the bed. I put my knees over his shoulders and reach back with my arms. My torso is upside-down off the edge of the bed. My breasts look amazing. Full. . . as if i were wearing a tight bodice and on the floor . . . like Madonna in that video, you know the one I mean?

With every thrust, they heave toward my neck. I am watching our faces as we fuck.

I can't take my eyes off us.

08 June 2005



Marcus enjoys a good cigar.

On Saturday, we navigated through town to the Abbey Road on the River Music Festival. After several attempts to get to the venue through entrances which had been closed for security purposes, we finally made it to the ticket table.

“Two adults and four children, please.” The adult tickets were $16, and kids were supposed to be admitted free.

Here is a sign of the times:

One child could be admitted for every paid adult ticket. ONE child??? So, like, the maximum nuclear family size is now four?? There were six of us!

“We can sell you another adult ticket; then you could all get in.”

“What’s the difference between adult and child admissions?? Everyone’s wristband looks the same.”

“Everyone’s wristband is the same, sir. Those are just the rules.”

Me: “So, let me understand: We are being penalized for….breeding?! What is that about?!”

Marcus: “Oh, fine, let’s just get in there already. We’ve been fucking around out here for long enough. The kids are hungry, and I want to sit down!”

If not for Marcus, I would have left in disgust, on principle. He bought the wristbands, and we walked in.

During the course of the weekend, we encountered a fair number of stares. After all, we looked like a family. Two hot parents, and four boys, aged 2, 4, 9 and 13. Usually, encounters with other adults (especially women) went like this:

(she smiles) “FOUR BOYS?”

(I shrug and smile) “Well, what’re you gonna do?!”

(She turns and glares at Marcus. I don’t think she realizes it, but she does.)

I looked over at Marcus, “Can you imagine what they would have had to put up with if Jefferson and his kids had been here? Three adults and SEVEN kids?! Okay, toss in Rachel, his oldest daughter, and you’d have four adults. Any way you look at it, we’d still be buying extra tickets.

Once we got food into the kids, and a place to sit in the grass, we really started enjoying the day. The atmosphere was nice, the weather was perfect. Marcus and all the boys eventually lost their shirts and went bare chested. We watched the neo-hippie girls dancing up by the stage in their broomstick skirts and shrunken tank tops which revealed the requisite tattoos on their lower backs.

The aging hippies and yuppies hung back and drank beer. Marcus and I sat, content to keep watch over the flock of boys, who had invented a new game: taking the empty water bottles and pelting each other. They ran around, wrestled and had a great time.

As we sat in the grass, listening to Instant Karma, Marcus lit his Robusto cigar. As he sat next to me and smoked, the smoke drifted around my head and I breathed it in. I love the smell of a good cigar. I love to watch a man enjoying a good cigar. He had been carting the thing around all day while we made our way from the car to the river, then along the river to the festival. He savored that Cuban. I found myself making silly comments to myself about Bill Clinton and Monica Lewinsky (How did that cigar factor in, again?!)

Hanging out all day with each other and being in parent/referee mode put us into odd moods. While Marcus and I would walk side by side or with his arm over my shoulder, the physical contact did not extend to anything else. We were very aware that we were not touching bodies, kissing mouths, twirling hair…all those things we want to do when we’re together alone. Marcus found it frustrating. I thought it was hot. It really made the waiting for bedtime all the more intense.

At a point, late in the afternoon, the kids were all up and running around. We were both tired. I was half-leaning against him with my legs extended; ankles crossed.

My face turned toward the hollow of his throat. I was just wanting to smell his neck; the mixture of sweat and Aveda Man. He bent down and kissed me. Three seconds, maximum. It was the only time his lips touched mine in front of the boys.

And, as it turned out, we didn’t have to wait for nightfall to taste each other again.

07 June 2005



On Tuesdays, kids eat free at my favorite Mexican restaurant. There are also margaritas for a buck. Coincidence???

I don’t go there often; the last time was in February. But tonight I am too tired to think about cooking, much less cleanup.

The boys and I walked in and were given a table directly across from the child-height candy machines. Bad idea.

“Um, could we get another table, please? Something maybe not so close to the dulces?”

We were led across the restaurant to a booth by a window. Sufficient entertainment for a three-year old while he’s waiting for his food. Jack was pleased.

Our server came to take drink orders. He was Mexican, like all the servers here. Very handsome guy: pretty eyes, chiseled features and full lips. His chest was just discernible underneath his polo shirt. I'd guess he was 26 or so.

Jack kept asking, “What’s YOUR name?” Finally, the poor guy bent down close to Jack, so he could see the printing on his shirt.

“AL-ba-rro. Me llamo Alvaro. Can you say it? AL-Ba-Rrro.”

My kids speak two languages, or at least are used to hearing two languages at home. Neither language is Spanish, though they are both excellent mimics. Jack doesn’t miss a beat, “Al-Ba-rrrrro.” He rolls the R perfectly.

“Muy Bien!! Perfecto!”

Another one bites the dust. Charmed by my youngest son, servers across this fine town have fallen victim to the longing gazes and waves from across the room. The small blond boy summons one and all to his table to say hello. Mark at the Thai place. Chrissy at the deli. Amber at the sports bar. They are all among the smitten. When it comes to striking up conversations with folks in the food service industry, Jack has no problem.

Miles, who has none of this bravado, leans in and whispers to me, “Momma, ask Alvaro if he knows about Dora!”

The server is trading “high fives” with Jack.

This is very cute, I think. I say, “Excuse me, Alvaro, but did you know that there is a cartoon show about a girl named Dora?”

“Si! Dora la exploradora! I know her!”

Now Miles is smitten with Alvaro. He hides his face in my dress.

We order our dinners and sit, as Jack makes conversation with the couple in the adjoining booth. They are a young couple, and clearly don’t have any kids. They engage him in his antics and wind up having a difficult time finishing their meal. I say they are clearly kidless, because anyone with small children knows that “booth talk” is like a death sentence. You will not have two minutes alone with your sweetie as long as you make eye contact with the small child flirting with you from over the seatback.

Let them learn.

Our food comes while we are in the restroom (It works, even with kids!). We come back to the table and start to eat. Jack is searching out Alvaro. Smiling and waving. “Hola, Alvaro! Gracias! Alvaro! Gracias!” He knocks his drink onto the seat next to him. At that moment, another server, Silvia, is walking by. She picks it up and wipes up the bit that spilled. “Hola, muchacho! Que tal?” She tousles his hair.

Jack smiles.

“Say, ‘Gracias, Silvia,’” I say. Silvia turns to me, surprised, “Usted habla espanol?!”

“No realmente; un poco.”

“Usted no tiene un acento!"

I shake my head, smiling; I know I don’t have an American accent when I am speaking Spanish. Or French. Or anything else. Still, it’s nice to hear it and act flattered.

Silvia walks away, shaking her head and laughing. I see her talking a few minutes later with Alvaro. Soon she is back.

“You have two boys, si?”

Si, Miles is almost five, and Jack will be three in a few days.”

“You are married?”


“Ah. My friend, Alvaro, he thinks you are… muy hermosa,” she smiles.

“Oh! Thank you…that’s very sweet…tell him thank you.”

“How old are you?”

(This is turning comical)

“I’m 33.”

“No! You look, maybe like 27. Maybe!”

Gracias! I really am 33.”

“Where do you work?”

“I’m a massage therapist. I work at home.”

“Oh! I like very much the massage! How much money do you take? Can I have your number?”

I give her my card.

“You know, Silvia, when Miles was Jack’s age, we came in and you were our server. Miles could not keep his eyes off you. He kept staring at you and calling your name, ‘Siiiiilbia!’ He fell in love with you. And you were very good with him. Thank you.”

Silvia smiles and blushes. She walks off again toward Alvaro, armed with my bio and phone number.

I wonder which one will call me first.

As we are leaving the restaurant, Jack makes the rounds to all the servers and says “Adios.” To Alvaro he gives a hug. Alvaro picks him up and kisses his forehead. Jack lays his head on Alvaro’s shoulder.

“Tell Alvaro you’ll see him next time! Adios!”

Adios, AL-ba-rrro!”

Alvaro smiles at me as he sets Jack down on the tile.

“Adios, Corazon…”



“Miles and Jack! Come put on shoes! It’s Monday morning, and we are going to be late for school!”

I hear shrieks of terror coming from the kitchen, where Jack has been eating a snack of dry cheerios. Miles has been teasing him.

“You’re not three yet! You’re not three yet!”

“I AM free. I’m in Twacy’s woom! Dat means I’m free!”

WHAP! Miles whacks Jack with a toy sword.

Crying ensues.

“Miles! Come out here now. Jack, finish your cheerios and let’s go!”

“Ah ayum! Ahm cuuhhmin’.” This little one has the strangest Southern accent I’ve ever heard. And a tendency to speak with his mouth full, making the accent all the more strange.

They both tear out of the kitchen, Miles chasing after Jack, who is hollering in fear, and running toward me.

His breath catches in his throat.

He is retching, trying to cough, and not breathing. His mouth is full of cheerios.

His eyes are wide and terrified.

I bend down, listening for sounds of breathing in his throat…nothing. I pick him up, holding his head down toward the floor at an angle. With my right hand I deliver several blows to his back.

He coughs.

Wet cheerios on my feet.

Five minutes later

He continues to breathe.

He just told me to “shut up.”

03 June 2005



“Fuck, Maddie, your pussy is so hungry..”

Marcus and I are fucking in our hotel suite. It is 5 AM and the kids are sleeping in the other bedroom. We have the baby monitor set up by their door and the receiver on my side of the bed.

Sneaky Sex and the Single Parent. I should write a fucking book.

Marcus has stuffed a pillow between the headboard and wall, since I separated them last night.

We had put the kids to bed and Marcus poured bourbon. Brought it in as I was sliding between the sheets.

“Oh, sweetie, thank you!”

“You’d better have a nice long drink from that, Madeline; you never know when you’ll get your next chance.”

(déjà vu!)

I take a long draw, swirling it in my mouth and letting it slide down my throat. “Nicely done, Marcus! This is very good bourbon.”

“Put your glass on the table.” He is looking at me intently.

I smile, take a breath and set the glass on the desk. Marcus flings the sheets to the foot of the bed. The lights are on.

Normally I prefer the dimness of candles or sunrise when I’m having sex, but this incandescence suits me fine—especially this weekend.

This weekend we are in parental mode; each of us dealing with the strange dynamic between brothers. We get frustrated; we raise our voices above the cacophony in the back of the car. We put kids in timeout. We commiserate. We are exposed in the glare of reality.

So leave the fucking lights on.

Marcus takes me by the shoulders and pushes me back. He reaches down and pulls his duffel onto the bed. Unlocks it with the combination. He proceeds to pull out a blindfold, the clitlicker cockring and minivibe, nipple clamps and that perennial favorite: the dual egg bullet vibe. Sex toys and lube, safely hidden from small hands and curious minds; it’s what we parents do.

Last time I wasn’t thrilled with the clitlicker, and this weekend I am premenstrual, so my nipples are extra sensitive. Toss the clamps and the cockring, honey.

Marcus starts with a finger on my clit, then two. Replaces them with his tongue and lips as his fingers slide into my cunt. He is using two.

“I need you to rub my g spot…curve your fingers up, sweetie.”

He does, and soon I am cumming with his fingers deep inside me. I hear the sounds of his licking and sucking, drinking. He comes up to kiss me, his face wet with girl. I kiss myself from his lips.

Kneeling between my legs, Marcus blindfolds me. I can feel my legs quivering from my orgasm, and my heart beating in my chest. I am keenly aware of his presence, and my breathing quickens as he moves up and sits astride my right leg. His left hand holds my wrists together as his right begins slapping my pussy.

I can feel myself getting red. My clit is swollen with blood, and my lips are stinging from his slaps. Then. Ripples. Waves. The low beginnings of my orgasm starting in my belly and spiraling upward to the back of my throat and down toward my toes. The giggle turns to laugh turns to silent hysterics.

I hear the tearing open of foil once, then again.

His hand is on my inner thigh, then my perineum. He turns on the dual bullet vibe. The eggs clack against each other on the bed to my left. I catch my breath, turning my head toward the sound.

Soon I have a condom-wrapped vibrating egg in my cunt. Soon after, the second is in my ass. Marcus is sucking my tits and playing with my clit. My entire body is humming.

Suddenly, he stops touching me. I hear the tearing of more foil. (What could he possibly be wrapping now??) The eggs are still going, and they feel so fucking good inside me, but my clit is protesting. I reach instinctively with my left hand to finger it.

My hand is slapped away and pushed to the mattress. I know this game. He knows it, too. I bite my bottom lip and wait a few seconds. I reach down again. He slaps my hand away and plunges his cock into my pussy.

I am gasping, he is moaning; thrusting deeply and slowly. Fuck, he has the tip of his dick sliding up against a vibrator nestled inside me…

The blindfold comes off, and he is kissing me, and then throwing his head back, fucking. I am holding my heels aloft, rocking up to meet him. “Fuck, yes…thatissofuckinggood.”

His right hand encircles my throat, fingers along my neck just below my left ear, thumb resting on my right carotid artery, poised.

This is where it gets really good.

The intensity of the choking is not dependent upon the pressure he uses on my throat; it is about my ability to make myself believe he is actually choking me, and the way he watches my face while he does it.

At no time am I deprived of oxygen for more than a few seconds; he squeezes and releases my throat, never looking away from my face, never breaking his fucking rhythm. It’s another euphoric rush. It is waves of lightheadedness and intensity. When I’ve had enough, and if I can’t speak with his hand on my throat, I blink my eyes several times while looking at him, and he stops.

I have only done this with a few people. And then only when I trusted them implicitly. One of the greatest things about kink is how dependent the physical realm is upon the mental. How suggestible the physical body is when the mind psyches itself out. It’s the idea that he could strangle me with his hand that is so powerful. He doesn’t even need to come close to it for me to be incredibly turned on.

He switches to fucking my ass. Again with an egg vibrating on the tip of his cock with every thrust. He is pushing my legs back and fucking me hard. I reach down to finger my clit. This time he lets me.

He slows down, and then stops, eyes gleaming. Opens another condom. And another.

He pulls out of my ass and retrieves the egg from my cunt. Marcus takes one of the condoms and rewraps the egg. Lubes it. Reaches around and inserts the egg into his own ass. Stops, gasping, mouth wide open.

“Ngaaaah…ahhh, fuuuck.”

He replaces the used condom on his dick with a fresh one and sets to fucking the hell out of my pussy while both of our asses are buzzing.

This is when I pull the headboard off the wall.

Let me tell you something about Marriott hotels (at least the Marriott hotel where we stayed): the headboards are just big slabs of wood hung over brackets on the wall. Yes, they are fucking heavy, but when the fucking gets heavy and a girl needs to grab hold, the Marriott headboard is definitely not the way to go.

I am writhing underneath him, my legs hung over his shoulders, my hands reaching over my head to grab something for leverage. I feel the bottom edge of the headboard. I hook my fingers between it and the wall. As I grab the board, the top edge comes away from the wall and off its bracket.

The thing is heavy. I can’t hold it up, and I just let it fall to the floor between the bed and the wall. It slides down and hits with a thud.

We laugh, and fuck until we can’t. He pulls out and removes the eggs from our respective baskets. When we’ve both regained our speaking abilities, I look at Marcus.

“What the fuck was that?”

“That was insane!”

“Have you ever put that vibrator up your ass?”

“Never! I didn’t even plan it; it just seemed like a good idea! And while fucking!”

“Well, I guess you’ve added a new trick to your repertoire.”

“Shit, girl. That was some crazy sex!”

He is right about my pussy being hungry. It can’t seem to get fucked enough lately. In a few hours we will start up again, before dawn, with the door locked and an ear to the baby monitor.

02 June 2005



Marcus called me last Thursday afternoon.

“Hey, I just tried to call Jefferson; what’s he doing?”

“Dunno; I think he may have a date.”

“Does he have the kids this weekend?”

“No, he had them last weekend. He has sex plans all weekend, I’m pretty sure.”

“Damn, I was hoping to drive up with the kids and hang out with him.”

“Oh, you two DO need a weekend!”

“So I wonder if his plans are for, like, all weekend long or what?”

“Last I heard, Meg is coming up for Sunday and Monday threesomes. I imagine Shelby will also appear at some point, but I am not certain; best to just ask Jefferson.”

“Well, let me ask you this: what are YOU doing this weekend?”

“Barbeque with the ‘rents on Saturday. That’s it. Nothing, really. You?”

“No plans—I really wanted to do something fun with my kids. You know, other than video games and movies…Hey! I have a great idea! You start driving toward me, I’ll drive toward you, and we’ll meet in the middle! I’ll call Jefferson and see if he can spare some time and maybe the whole group of us can get together!”

I am still getting used to Marcus’s spontaneity. In the context of fucking, it is a lovely quality; I share it. But in the realm of life, I am not a fan of quick decisions and last-minute plans. Last-minute decisions always seem like big decisions to me, and I am more comfortable with no decision at all if I feel pushed to the wall.

Don’t misunderstand; I enjoy taking risks, I just like to have some time to consider them beforehand. I made a somewhat risky decision to fly halfway across the continent and meet Jefferson for the first time.

I planned it six weeks in advance.

So, I tried to think of a reason I shouldn’t toss my boys in the car and drive ten hours to meet Marcus and his boys for the weekend. So many things to do beforehand: car serviced, laundry, packing, apartment cleaning (I can't leave a messy house for a vacation.), and so on.

Marcus managed to point out, facetiously, that the kids probably wouldn’t have any fun together, and that I was right; staying home and doing nothing was better than the possibility of an unfun weekend.


I get it. I'm being silly. When I have nothing standing in the way of a cool trip to someplace I've never been, why should I talk myself out of it? Especially since my boys have never been on a roadtrip, and boyfriend sex sounds much nicer than sex which is random or nonexistent.

I am glad to have a force like Marcus around me. He reminds me of the importance of fun for fun’s sake. He reminds me that I can choose the course of my life, and that every decision is not as weighty as I'd like to make it.

So we consulted with Jefferson, who didn’t have his brood, but who did have a lot of sex planned for the weekend. He was a little surprised by the suddenness of the proposed itinerary. Jefferson and I are more alike in our desire for structure and planning. Meg’s weekend had been planned for weeks, and Jefferson was host. He would not be joining us.

Friday morning I baked brownies, packed sandwiches, fruit, crackers and drinking water, got my oil changed, burned roadtrip cds, saw my last client, retrieved the boys from daycare and headed out.

I left the dishes drying in the drainboard.