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Je veux être la fille avec la plupart de gâteau. Regardez-moi dans la glace.
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27 December 2006



Sex toys become more numerous in my home around the holidays.

Sure, I replace the bullet vibes and Orchid G when needed, and I’ll pick up a pair of SmartBalls on a mid-July whim, but as I noticed this morning, my collection grows considerably in late December.

Last year at Christmastime I bought a few silicone dildos from Blowfish, ecstatic at the way they worked with my badass harness. The year before, it was my ever-loving Rock Chick and the aforementioned Dynamic Duo double bullet vibe. Maybe it’s because I’m online anyway, shopping for gifts and ogling the goodness I’d like to be gifted with.

And while I like fuzzy sweaters and sparkly jewelry on other people, my personal taste runs to technology and sex accoutrements.

Oddly enough, my love for gadgets and tech doesn’t transfer to my love for body-stiffening orgasms. I thought I’d be wild over the Internet-Enabled Rabbit vibrator I got last summer and, well, meh. I loved the flashing, swirling lights and the idea that my friend Meg was controlling the piece of plastic in my cunt from a thousand miles away was pretty awesome, but alas, it was unwieldy and the bunny and I are not anatomically suited. So, it sits in the bottom drawer of my sex cabinet. I don’t know what to do with it.

The rabbit experience taught me what I already knew: that sometimes simplicity is best. If you’ve been in my home you know my affinity for clean design and minimalism. There are no afghans or doilies or silk flower arrangements. I like it simple, slick and maybe a little bit hard.

Quelle surprise, eh?

On Friday, December 22, I was finishing some work and preparing for a date. It was one of those easy, day-long preps: getting smooth, polished, trimmed and moisturized accomplished at a languorous pace as I answered emails and holiday phone calls. My skin was still dewy and my toenails still wet when I heard a heavy rumble outside. I threw on a robe and skipped to the window.

A brown cargo van of deliverance was parked in front of my building. Of course it was there for me. On December 22, who else would be receiving a package? I smoothed my hair and waited by the door.

The exchange—my signature for a five-pound box the size of a loaf of bread—went smoothly enough, and I nearly slammed the door in my excitement to get it in the house. I even hurriedly echoed my driver’s “Merry Christmas!” which I never do.

After tearing open the box and reading the Very Sweet Handwritten Note I set my three heavy, satin lined boxes on the futon and snapped a photo.

So simple. So slick. So hard.


I looked at my clock and decided that I had time to try one of them. It was, after all, Global Orgasm Day and I’d be spending the night elsewhere. Besides, after reading the Very Sweet Handwritten Note and noticing that the one of the Njoy boys has the same last name as my own Jeffrey, the boy who taught me to suck my very first cock, I was feeling sweet and wistful and not a little bit horny.

I hefted the steely, cold Pure Wand from its satin lined case and went to the bathroom to clean it.

19 December 2006



The lake was crowded Saturday and Sunday, but now the working folks had vacated their lakefront houses for the week. It was midnight and we were alone. We held hands and walked down to the dock.

The night air was cool on my skin as he tugged off my shirt. My hands pulled at his shorts as I stepped out of the skirt he’d pushed down to my ankles.

Our hands traveled over our bodies in clichéd, slow motion. I felt the smooth skin on his shoulders as one of his hands weighed a breast and the other gripped my ass. We kissed.

We were nighttime kissers. During the day our affections were limited to casual brushes of fingers as one of us handed the other a drink, or suggestive smirks behind sunglasses as we sat on the boat with the five younger kids tubing behind us. Nanny always sat nearby, and along with Lynn the Girl, Rachel and Jefferson’s brother Jesse, flashed knowing looks.

Only when the kids were out of eyesight did we steal kisses or even glances which might suggest a level of intimacy above fond friendship. The tension had a way of building over the course of a day. Something about being so close, wearing next to nothing, unable to do anything about it. Something about being so casual and normal together.

And so, come nighttime, once children were bedded, we were more than anxious to be naked together.

Except that, instead of rending garments in ravenous response to our daytime denial, there was a comfort and languid ease in our after-dark couplings. The self-imposed chastity took its toll, but it was a reminder of the reality of our relationship. Our visits to each other most often do not include our children and it's easy to sink into "let's lie in bed all day." And we do that a lot.

That we were vacationing with family meant that life would revolve around the kids. We would have extremely limited privacy and be up with the sun. I sort of loved it.

I smiled into his mouth as we kissed, naked on the dock, and imagined his mother, Honey, watching from her bedroom above. She could totally hate me. She could totally disapprove of my relationship with her firstborn. But she didn’t.

I have the advantage of coming into Jefferson’s life after his divorce from Lucy. I hadn’t realized just how vitriolic Honey’s feelings ran toward his ex. On our first evening I found out.

I had come out of the guest house to join Jefferson, Honey and Nanny on the porch. They were talking about Jason’s outburst earlier, when one of Frank’s kids had said something about “Maddie, Uncle TJ’s girlfriend.”

“Oh, dear,” I said, looking at Jefferson, “is Jason okay?”

“He’s fine, I talked to him, and it’s my fault, for not telling him sooner that you were coming,” said Jefferson. “We talked about it, and he’s fine.”

I made a note to be extra sensitive to Jason.

“Maddie,” Honey began, her head cocked to the side, “d’you know Lucy?"

“No, ma’am, we haven’t met,” I admitted.

“Well, y’ain’t missin’ much,” she said, rolling her eyes and turning away.

It was uncomfortable because I’m uncomfortable talking about someone I’ve never met and about whom I am incapable of drawing my own conclusion. I smiled and changed the subject. Jefferson nodded slightly to me, smiling as Honey's focus was redirected. I wasn't ready to hear her opinion on the mother of his children. It would have been embarrassing.

My face was in his hands now, our bodies pressed together. He started walking me backwards to the end of the dock. He bent down and got a foam noodle. He tossed it out and lowered himself into the lake, pushing off the dock and out to the green cylinder floating in the water.

I smiled. It had been years since I went skinny dipping in a lake.

I sat on the edge of the dock and pushed off, dropping in feet first with hardly a splash.

The water was cool underneath, warmer on the surface. I made my way to him as he waited with his arms folded over the noodle in front of his chest. I swam up and draped my arms over his, facing him. Our faces were wet. I kissed him.

Sometimes when we’re together I forget the circumstances of our relationship. I forget how hard it is to be so far apart. And because we are so similar in so many things, I forget the absolute serendipity of having struck up a conversation with someone whose writing I admired and, six weeks later, flying twelve hundred miles to meet. And then to have things be so easy and normal and then to discover that we are so much the same.

I forget to mark the time when we’re physically together as different from the time we spend apart, because to me, we’re never really apart.

But tonight as I write about the night when Jefferson slowly and silently frog-kicked his way across the inlet with Madeline’s legs wrapped around his body, their faces together, their lips touching, I think, “That was something. That is a memory I want to have forever.”

In the few minutes it took to reach the other side I realized that I got it. I understood him. I understood us. It was so simple.

The back of my head hit metal. The ladder on the dock opposite ours. I giggled and climbed up, being careful not to splash. The rungs were slimy and I made sure to move slowly so as not to lose my footing.

The moon was just past full, and bright. I stepped up onto the dock. There was a wrought-iron table with four chairs and a football, left behind by someone who’d been there over the weekend. Jefferson climbed out and walked toward me, smiling.

Hands were on the backs of necks, pulling lips to lips.

I shivered.


“Li’l bit,” I whispered, my teeth on the verge of chattering.

He pulled me close, wrapping his arms around my back and waist. I could feel his heart beating.

“Come here, baby,”

He lowered us to the slats and I couldn’t say anything. I wanted to. I wanted to tell him that I understood. That I wasn’t worried about what his family might think. That I don’t care what anyone on the goddamned Internet thinks. That we are something.

He straddled my left leg as I lay on my back, my shoulder blades pressed against the soft, rough wood. His mouth was on my breast and his hand between my legs. I gasped as he bit down. Hot pain seared from behind my eyes and I exhaled, sighing. I could feel the warm wetness of my cunt spreading, slicking his fingers within the folds of my lips.

A kiss, and he pulled back to look me in the eyes.

I knew that look.

He moved his body further down mine.

“No. . . baby . . . you . . .”

My clit fairly jumped at the greeting of his mouth, his tongue flicking across it as his fingers sunk deeper into my body. I turned my head and looked back at the house where our six children slept. One of my hands was on his head as the other cupped my breast and squeezed as his thrusting got deeper and more insistent. My legs extended, back arched, lips pursed together. My breath was forced through my nostrils as my throat tightened and I let out a muffled shriek.

I was about to come. Hard.

He sat back on his haunches and pumped his hand inside my cunt and swirled his thumb on my clit as my feet struggled to brace themselves on the wood, driving my knees up and forward. My eyes closed and rolled back as I gave into his fingers. My hips writhed and I kept my mouth shut, so that I think the only sound coming from me was an epiglottal hiccup each time my body convulsed.

His hand pulled on my G-spot and my voice was a deep "ohhhhhh" vibrato with his rhythm. Then the growl which only happens then: when things are about to get very wet. I couldn’t keep it in.

My come gushed down his arm and between the slats, raining onto the water below us. I could hear it splashing.

He mumbled something about God.

My orgasm subsided; he retrieved his hand from my cunt.

I lay still, lips parted, eyes still closed, and a tear running along my temple towards my ear. I let my knees drop to the side and lay there spiraled.

I looked up at him. He was lying on his side and stroking my cheek.

"Look at you. You are so fucking beautiful.”

15 December 2006


Where's My Gin and Tonica?

Happy Chanukah.
**Update: More photos here.

05 December 2006


Interviewed at Chilli Vanilla

Well, if there was ever a week to get to know Madeline Glass, this would be the week--on the internet, anyway.

While my smart ass has been hanging out over at Tom's house, my smart brain's been rubbing up against Para at Chilli Vanilla. We finally coordinated our schedules a couple weeks ago for an interview and I let him ask me anything he wanted.

Then I asked him a couple of things.

Mostly I behaved.

You can go read the entire interview here, but here's a bit to whet your appetite:

PK: And what has you motivated now?

M: Well, I got bored just detailing my encounters. I like approaching the writing as writing, which happens to have a lot to do with some very hot sex. Anyone can write about sex I wanted to do it well, and see how that went

PK: More often than not. Much like your sex life, your writing is both fun and varied. You’ve shown a lot of freedom to write in that world between poetry and prose. How do you view your style?

M: My writing style, like my personal style, I guess is eclectic. Verbose, but stripped down when it needs to be I like playing with language and seeing where it goes

PK: You have a certain fatalistic sense of humor in your writing, that a lot of times comes out at the peak of a lot of your stories. What brings that out?

M: What do you mean?

PK: For instance, in your recent stories about William/Billy, you never quite seem to take it completely seriously, in spite of the unbelievable intensity of what is actually happening.

M: Well, I don’t believe in taking fucking so seriously. It’s fun, it’s enjoyable. William was fun, because he, like most people I’m attracted to sexually, didn’t take himself too seriously. It was intensely charged, but a whole lot of fun. Plus, I have a great sense of irony. (more)

So, yeah, it was a good time. Para was super-duper and dorked around with me, which I appreciate. I think it reads very well, and gives you a pretty accurate sense of how it is to have a conversation with me.

I'm coming up on two years of writing this blog, and I'm so glad that Para requested this interview. It seems a fitting way to go into the holidays and to approach the second anniversary of Madeline in the Mirror.

I love that many of you have become my friends. I love that some of you have become much more. Thank you for your concern when things have been rough, and for backing me up when I'm feeling all incensed and broken and shit. But mostly, thank you for reading.

Seriously, y'all, my heart is swelling.

I said my heart.

03 December 2006


The B-Word

At the lake, breakfast was consumed in roughly three shifts: The early bird adults and children, the natural rhythm kids and their parents and finally the teenage stragglers.

Papa and Nanny were always up first, around 5, followed shortly by Jack, who needs less sleep than any child in the history of children, and then slowly, the rest of the younger kids and us.

The teenagers slept until at least 10.

The bacon needed to last through all three shifts. Pancakes could be mixed and cooked on the griddle, eggs could be scrambled, grits would keep on the stove, but bacon was cooked first and saved between paper towels on a plate to be distributed evenly amongst the breakfasters.

Have I mentioned how Jack eats bacon?

If he could have but one food in this life, Jack would choose bacon. Closely followed by cheese. He would eat it for every meal and snacks. If they made a bacon lollipop Jack would have one every day.

When breakfast was over one morning we prepared to go down to the water.

The smaller three were finishing up breakfast as Honey played Solitaire on her computer in teh dining area off the kitchen and Nanny washed up. I'd gone to change into my suit and Jefferson was filling the cooler with ice and beer.

It was 9:30 AM. We'd be on the water until dusk.

Usually, the kids would swim and play around the dock, Jefferson and I would read our books and jump in occasionally to cool off. Around lunchtime someone would go upstairs to make sandwiches and bring them down to everyone else. On that particular day Jefferson was the Kitchen Man. He asked who would like to help him make lunch for everyone. Collie jumped up.

Jack scowled. He'd been crushing on Collie all morning and was not happy to see his new friend desert him.

"Jack, you can come help us, too, baby," Jefferson said.

"No! I don't like Honey!"

A collective gasp rose from the dock. Everyone fell silent.

"What do you mean, you don't like Honey? Everybody likes Honey."

"Nuh-uh, she's mean."

"Why on earth do you say that, baby?"

"Because she told me I couldn't have more bacon this morning and I wanted some! She said we had to save some for the big kids. She's mean!"

We laughed, knowing that he'd had more bacon than anyone at the breakfast table. Jefferson tried convincing Jack, to no avail, of Honey's merits. Collie tried plying him with promises of Fla-Vor-Ice from the freezer while his dad made sandwiches, but nothing would convince Jack to go.

Jefferson flashed me a knowing glance and announced their ascent up the steps.

Lynn The Girl shouted, "Y'all, don't forget the chips!"

I sat back in my chair and watched her and her cousin Rachel in their bikinis, lounging on their floating chaises in the water.

In my book, Roosevelt and Churchill were on their way to the historical meeting of the "Big Three" in Yalta. Churchill insisted on meeting Roosevelt's ship when it docked en route in Malta. He joked to the President that Stalin had sent a cable which read, "I said Yalta, not Malta."

I smirked in recognition. I love how Churchill was constantly impressed with himself and certain of his opinions concerning right and wrong. I love how he could turn such elegant phrases in his essays and speeches and letters and then be unable to resist making such an obvious pun. It is what most delights me about him--this love of language--because I share it.

Miles and Jack were playing in the shallow water with Lillie, looking for mollusks, while Jason read Catcher in the Rye on the boat.

The day before I flew down, I'd asked Jefferson if there was anything I should bring. He asked if I had a copy of Catcher in the Rye.

"Of course I do. Why, did you finish your book already?"

"No, but i thought Jason might enjoy it."

"Oooh, teenaged angst. Yeah, let's give it to him," I tossed the trade paperback into my suitcase.

Normally I'd have thought that a boy of twelve might be too young to comprehend, much less handle J.D. Salinger, but this was Jason, who is extremely sensitive and gentle and smart as hell.

He devoured it in a day and a half.

The beads of sweat were becoming annoying on my forehead and between my breasts. I stood and stretched, walking over to the diving board, grabbing a foam noodle on the way.

I tossed the noodle out toward where the girls were floating and dove in.

The water was cool and my cheeks burned as I surfaced, wiping my eyes with my fingertips.

"Hey, Maddie!"

"Hey, ladies," I smiled as I swam over, "what's all the whispering about?"

"Oh, we're just talking about you and my dad. You guys are so cute together."

"Aw, thanks! That's sweet of you to say. . ." I glanced over at the boat. Jason leaned against his hand, lost in his book. The youngest kids were speaking to each other with bossy authority about something or other as they waded shin-deep near the reeds. I turned back to Lynn The Girl.

"Maddie, it's true! Uncle TJ is like, totally in love with you! It's so obvious!"

"Seriously, Maddie, I've known my dad a long time, and he is way into you."

I smiled. It was nice to hear. I knew how we felt about each other and it was nice to know that others saw it, too. I also knew that there were other people to consider. Jason had balked when someone used the term "girlfriend" to refer to me the night before, and had gone off by himself.

Jefferson had followed, and got him to talk about what was troubling him. I don't know exactly what he said, and it really doesn't matter. I know what it's like to have a sensitive oldest child. Miles' advantage is that he was two and a half when his father and I separated. Jason, poor baby, was nine.

My boys were totally in love with Jefferson as my friend, but they are very young and have no memory of a life with two parents.

Lillie and I were pals. Collie and I traded Star Wars trivia and shared a crush on Han Solo. Jason was sweet to me and polite, but we'd met once, very briefly, before now, and it was unfair to expect anything from him but tolerance of my children's and my presence at his family's vacation home.

I looked at the girls, so carefree: Lynn paddled absentmindedly forward and back, Rachel shielded her eyes from the sun and squinted, her braces glinting, smiling at me.

"You know, it's so awesome being here and meeting you all finally," I said, "but can I ask you two to do me a favor?"

"Sure! What?"

"Could you keep the boyfriend/girlfriend talk to a minimum around the younger kids? It's a lot for them to digest, and we're really okay with being 'friends' around them."

"Oh, totally, yeah," quipped Lynn The Girl.

"Absolutely," added Rachel, "but you two are totally sneaking off and skinny dipping sometime, aren't you?"

I rolled my eyes, grinned and swam back to the ladder at the end of the dock, hoisting myself out of the water, creating cool puddles on the wooden slats as I walked across to my chair, water streaming down my legs.

Jefferson and Collie were nearly to the bottom of the steps when they called out to us, "Lunchtime!"

The girls paddled in, and Lillie and the boys chose the land route back to the dock. Jason put his book aside and came over to the table, which Jefferson and I were clearing of hats, sunscreen and BUST magazines.

"What's for lunch?" asked Jack.

"Peanut butter and jelly, potato chips and watermelon and--hey, Jack, come here!"

Jefferson bent down and grinned conspiratorially at Jack, hiding something behind his back.

Jack advanced, curious as a kid at Christmas.

Jefferson produced the hidden booty: A Ziploc bag containing six strips of bacon.

"Honey asked me to give this to you," Jefferson said, very seriously.

Jack's eyes lit up, "Bacon! Yay! Honey gave me a bag of bacon!"

"Now, do you still think Honey's mean?" asked Collie, winking at me.

Jack shook his head, the bag in one hand, the other holding a bacon strip to his lips, "She gave me a bag of bacon," he whispered, grinning.

"Hey, Miles! Honey gave me a bag of bacon!"

01 December 2006


Want a Piece?

So, Tom Paine (How I love that pseudonym) has posted a Virtual Top Ten of sex bloggers and well, there's no delicate way to put this: My ass is up there.

Tom wrote to tell me he'd posted my profile photo over at Polyamorously Perverse as Nicest Ass, along with his nine other favorite sex blog categories.

I much prefer admiring my legs and my tits to my ass, but if the sight of my thong'd and garter'd derriere makes you smile, please to enjoy.

Thanks, Tom.