Sound

Sex has a soundtrack: noise from outside the sexual space; noises from within.

At the Liberty Inn, traffic on the West Side highway starts, streams past, stops, starts again. Inhuman noise, in the distance, nothing more than a buzz track. The sounds of cleaning in other rooms and in the hallways comes nearer, but still stays outside the door of the room. Only the shock of the call from the desk-clerk penetrates - and usually I am in the shower or dressing by then.

At the Kew, it is common to hear loud fucking from other rooms, as well as the industrial-strength vacuum-cleaners, carpet-scrubbers, and air-circulators that are part of operations there. Listening to others fucking is an uneasy experience; it is hard to know what it is that is being overheard. Real people fucking or a porno-movie on the television? If the fucking is real, are the shrieks and moans nevertheless staged, as in porn? Is she a pro, or someone fucking for pleasure? Over time, both D and I have become noisier, and by now I suspect that others forced to listen to us assume that we are porn actors or faking.

Rooms away from the street at the Seton - I was there fairly recently with D - are quiet, as are off-street rooms at the Herald Square, the Grand Union. These rooms may have clanking or hissing steam-heat, or in summer noisy window a/c units. Overheated rooms at the Herald Square have sometimes to be cooled with a/c if the windows will not open. But still these rooms are typically quiet.

J's apartment: at some times of day the noise of children in the playground of a nearby school drifts in, and it is slightly odd to overhear the play of children while engaged in strenuous adult play. The walls are thin, so we can hear her neighbor's television, and the footsteps of the woman who lives upstairs.

F: the street is quiet, but there is plenty of distant city noise. Here too the walls are thin.

Offices are quiet, but also enforce quiet. Quiet - being quiet, staying quiet - is a deep and complicated topic that I cannot face here; here I am dealing with sound, not its absence.

The soundtrack of car-sex depends a lot on the season. In winter, the engine and heater running, the windows sealed, not much sound penetrates. In mild weather, with the windows cracked, noises of traffic or birds enters. In summer, with the engine and the a/c running, the quiet of winter returns.
What about noise from within the sexual space? At F's, the radio is typically on, tuned usually to WFUV, Fordham's station. The music is nearly always tolerable, and very often good or even great, but we do not listen to it much, and the talk is an intrusion (though a useful time-keeper). With Q at her house, the radio has also been on - again some version of PBS, I think. With F and Q, part of the point of the music is to mask the sounds of fucking. To F, who has a roommate, and neighbors through the thin walls, ceiling, floor, this is a courtesy as well as a precaution, like those white-noise machines that populate therapists' suites, ensuring that everyone can talk with no fear of being overheard. Q's radio serves a similar function if there is someone else in the house who would be puzzled by overhearing sounds of sex. Music as background, not chosen, not listened to, but sometimes noticed, usually with pleasure.

With D (and this was true sometimes with A, back in the days when she and I were still fucking) music is not white noise but integrated into sex itself. This is so especially during MBJs (musical blowjobs) and their close equivalents. The music is not listened to so much as felt; dancing is an obvious comparison. It dictates the rhythm, the tone, the temper of sex. Aggressive, pounding anal sex requires a different soundtrack from slow, feathery lip-and-tongue cunt-teasing.

Beds squeak, creak, bang against walls, often in time with fucking. Desks are sturdy and silent surfaces, as are floors. There are noises from sex itself: the slap of bodies against each other, the liquid slosh of a cock in a wet cunt; grunts, moans, retching. And on top of that, the repertoire of calls and cries that shade over into the full-blown and articulate language of sex-talk, which is not noise at all.

Some women are louder than others. I am very quiet, though when stoned and frenzied I have been known to bellow. D claims that I am loudest in the car, but I think this is partly an effect of the small space. She is at her loudest when sitting on my face. B is a classic 'Yes-woman', punctuating her ascent to orgasm with a series of 'Yes' calls that rise in pitch and volume until she hits the top. Without this feedback it might be hard to track exactly how close to coming she is, though there could be little doubt about the climax itself. It is a sexual response, like the tightening of her cunt around my cock as she approaches the peak - again, not noise at all.

Cashmere Bouquet

Sometimes I feel as if I spend half my life unwrapping bars of cheap soap. Because I bite my fingernails, the unwrapping is an ordeal, and drives me half-mad. But what I object to is the cleaning-up itself. At the Liberty Inn, or the Kew Motor Inn, or at the Herald Square, the last few minutes of any encounter must be given over to washing away the residues of sex. I hate this soaping and rinsing. I wish I could carry away the smell and the sweat, the film of cunt-juice on my face, the seed smeared on my body, the blood under my (bitten-down) fingernals. Instead, I leave with Cashmere Bouquet clinging to me. Oddly, I feel this as an outrage committed on what should be, an outrage far more grotesque than any other I commit - a lie I cannot excuse, if you like. Perhaps some shame lies at the back of this that I do not comprehend, but the surface shame I appreciate entirely - something is deeply wrong if I can glory in sex and yet not glory in its traces.

For the record

Yesterday, C and I had a brief intra-marital fuck in the morning before I left for work. In the afternoon I had nearly three hours with D at the Kew Motor Inn, with just about all that time spent in one sexual act or another.

The week had begun on Monday with a similar, and similarly relentless, session with B, at the Liberty Inn. This was the most intense time I have yet spent with B, and as I get used to her and she to me, the fucking gets better. Like D, B can come repeatedly while fucking, so I can fuck her through each orgasm and onto the next. A distant analogy might be negotiating white water: dramatic, frenzied passages which, when they are over, yield to calmer stretches; but these calm stretches last only for a while, as the water gathers speed again. I am not sure why this seems a more natural analogy than the one that springs to mind fucking Q - that of riding out across country, with her frequent and successive climaxes like hedges or fences that need to be leapt in order to keep going. Perhaps it is just that fucking Q is somehow more collegial and friendly, less infused with the conventional sensibilities of the passionate, secret affair.

On Tuesday I spent the afternoon with D. On Wednesday I spent the afternoon with Q. On Thursday I spent two-and-a-half hours with F, and much later in the day met D for a drink and then a quick, unplanned fuck in a fitting room at Lord & Taylor. When necessary, as on this occasion, I can come very quickly: D yanked her hose and panties down to her knees, I unzipped my fly and took my cock out, she bent over and leaned against the wall, and I fucked her from behind. We watched ourselves in the mirrors on either side. After I came inside her, I pulled out and zipped up. She turned around and opened her legs while I kneeled down so that I could lick her clit until she came. I doubt we took longer than two minutes start to finish.

B

I responded to this post on CL:

YOU ARE: Tall (5'8" or taller), Age 35-55, but look fantastic for whatever age you are. You take care of both your body and your mind. I AM NOT INTERESTED IN A PHOTO OF YOUR DICK. I'm more interested in why you want to meet me, how you plan to court me, and how you plan to please me. Please be well educated and well spoken. Nothing turns me off faster than stupidity. THIS IS NOT A FANTASY ABOUT HOW TO PLEASE A MAN. I am curious about how you would choose to serve and please me. If you DO NOT UNDERSTAND this concept, then leave now. If you don't know where or what the clitoris is, please click out of this e-post immediately.

Please realize that I am an educated, very attractive, classy, professional woman. I am not interested in boring "hook-ups" with tawdry, common, uneducated men. And If YoU WrItE LiKe ThIs, you are retarded and should stay WELL away from me. I want remarkable. I want someone seductive. I want someone with an education and a vocabulary. I kiss fantastically, and I am very sensual. I love my lips, my hands, my mouth, my body, and I know how to use them. I want a lover who is a sensualist...competent in many areas of lovemaking. My body is a temple. Do you know how to worship? Do you deserve to? Education, cunning, attraction, good manners and depravity will always beat youth, good intentions and ignorance.

My mind is my most fertile sex organ. Entice me and you'll go far....bore me and you won't get a response.

A promising photo and e-mail from you. I'll reply in kind if I like what I see and read.

More than any other sentiment in the post, it was "Education, cunning, attraction, good manners and depravity will always beat youth, good intentions and ignorance" that sold me on its author, so I wrote back, and a correspondence ensued. We then met a couple of times (a drink, breakfast) before setting a date to meet at the Liberty Inn.

B was late. On a first fuckdate, it is inevitable that thoughts of being stood up loom large. People get cold feet. So I spent almost forty-five minutes, a little stoned and sexed up, enjoying the wait, the uncertainty, the anticipation. Meanwhile, couples came in and went out, and I felt extremely happy that other people were doing what I was hoping to do. Sex is good.


B finally arrived, and over the next two hours we had a delightful time. B is a voluptuary - the word could have been invented for her. Her sensuality and sexuality is redolent of burlesque: corsets, stockings, elbow-length gloves and cigarette holders, and the throaty, ripe eroticism all that evokes. She is mired in a marriage that does little for her sexually, and so her appetite has gone unsatisfied. First times are exciting, but also challenging; I quickly gathered that, at least this time, B wanted to be pleased through being taken. So I went at her forcefully, first of all going down on her, to demonstrate that I was intent on devoting myself to her pleasure. Though each cunt is different, and each woman has her own preferences, her own thresholds of discomfort, her own patterns of stimulus and response, I was able to find my way into B's sexual response, bringing her to a good, solid orgasm.

Then I put on a condom and we fucked. B fucked me back energetically, and it was immediately obvious to both of us that we were going to have a lot of fun together. I do not have any good explanation as to how this happens, and I suppose it is part of what is often labelled 'chemistry'; whatever its etiology, it is wonderful - the joint recognition of a joint capacity for joint pleasure. Nothing else is much like this kind of union, though dancing, making music together, working alongside others all have some affinities.

B fills a gap between A, whom I no longer fuck, and C. With D covered, the next vacant letter is E. Any takers?

Mirroring

D and I always mean to compile a catalogue of the rooms at the Kew Motor Inn, with room-numbers paired to brief descriptions; but we always mean to do this only when we are leaving, and then it is too late to start. The next time we arrive there we are intent only on fucking, and so forget all about the project. The Kew differentiates Mirror Rooms from Deluxe Rooms, and the former always have a ceiling-mirror above the bed, and a wall-mirror along one side of the bed. Most have also a mirror on the wall facing the foot of the bed. Many Deluxe Rooms also have wall-mirrors. There are occasional rooms that have mirrors placed on opposing walls in such a way as to generate those multiple, receding images that so fascinate children. Gently curving away into the distance are multiple couplings, perfectly synchronized - as if an infinite number of sexual acts were occurring simultaneously. But without the catalogue, I cannot tell you which rooms those are.

Metaphors of mirroring and reflection are among the most fertile for thinking, talking, and writing about sex. I find the sight of myself vigorously fucking D slightly unsettling, for she looks quite a few years younger than her age, and I look quite a few years older than mine (I can, for example, ride Amtrak as a senior without raising any suspicions, though I am in fact fourteen years shy of the qualifying age). A clip featuring D and I sent in to a free porn site would probably be labelled 'tasty MILF gets banged hard by old guy', even though we were born just six months or so apart. But apart from that unease, I like mirrors a lot, and with D in particular I enjoy seeing her being well fucked, and like to watch her watch herself being well fucked. I like to see her seeing how good she looks being fucked. But already, the reflection here is intellectual and emotional as well as visual, a matter of feelings, desires, thoughts, intentions as well as of light-rays, shapes, hues.

There are mirrors on some of the ceilings at the Liberty Inn, and I was in one such room with a new partner in pleasure just before the holidays. B is a lot of fun, with a complicated and interesting sexuality that hardly overlaps at all with D, Q, or F. We had met for a drink one evening, and for an almost entirely innocent breakfast, and then set up an assignation at the Liberty Inn. I will try to post about that in the next few days.

Back, though, to mirrors. Mirror-sex mirrors the kind of mirroring that goes on anyway in sex that is any good, for sex aims at the pleasure that happens between two people, not the pleasure that a person can have on their own but prefers to have in company. I use a mirror to shave, and it helps to shave with a mirror, though I can also manage without if I have to. Sex is often like that. I used to have sex like that. It is definitely better to have sex of this self-pleasing sort with another than with oneself, but it is not radically distinct. If the feedback loops tighten around me when I am fucking a woman who fucks me back - when we are truly fucking each other - sex is not self-pleasing at all, though I do of course get a huge amount of pleasure from it, and that is presumably a large part (or all) of my motivation. The difference is not visible. It cannot be seen in pornography. It does not show up in the mirror. Nevertheless, when I look at the reflection of, say, D and I fucking, I am in some way both inside and outside the sexual act, feeling what cannot be seen and super-adding it to the image in the mirror. What I feel is not my pleasure but our pleasure, the pleasure we get from pleasing each other and being pleased by the other, the giving and taking of pleasure that is reflected back and forth between us.

It is very unusual for me to have sex in the dark these days. Intra-marital is mostly in the mornings, extra-marital mostly in the daytime. I like to see the person I am fucking. I like to look her in the eye. This has many of the features of mirroring, for as I drive my cock deep I can also see that depth register. Q, who thinks a lot about sex, is very interesting to fuck in this lights on, eyes wide-open manner, and there is something very pleasing about the way that we can communicate through our glance as well as through the fusion of cock and cunt. It is also fun to watch her repeatedly climb to the tipping-point of orgasm, when her eyes roll up and her steady gaze - visual, intellectual, emotional - is broken. If I am not coming myself, I can ride out her orgasms while my gaze holds steady, and that kind of watching is very like watching in a mirror: I see, I feel, I notice, I attend, but with a kind of detachment or distance that is an analogue of the distant image in the mirror.

The metaphor or mirroring has its limits. Mirrors facing each other can generate the appearance of infinity, as the image bounces back and forth, and sometimes sex seems just like that. But in order for there to be an image at all, there must be something placed between the mirrors - the thing whose image is to be multiplied indefinitely. And this thing, whatever it is, blocks the light-rays, preventing multiple reflection. If sex is relentlessly and exclusively other-pleasing, there is no reflection, just as if it is entirely self-pleasing. But between people who delight in both the other's pleasure and their own, sex really can generate something multiple, joint, and inexhaustible. Of course, with the mirrors, you can angle one slightly, and then repeated reflection takes place. But fucking does this even when the mirrors are precisely square on. That, anyway, is how it often seems.

Enough

I understand what it means to have had enough to eat. I also understand what it means to have had enough to drink, though acting on that understanding is sometimes difficult. A long day's work is often quite enough work for one day; perhaps even more often, half a day's work or less is enough work for one day. I do not have enough money, but still, I think there is such a thing as enough money, and I have almost enough. In all these uses, 'enough' makes sense to me; I know how the word works. But 'enough sex' is an expression that is dead to me. I cannot imagine what it means.

I suppose that having had enough sex would manifest itself in not wanting any more - and that is not something that happens with me. If I cannot get it up, and so cannot fuck, still I can be fucked myself, or else I can use my mouth or my hands on the person I am with. If I am not capable of being pleased myself - but that is not something that I understand either - still I am capable of pleasing, and that is enough to make it true that I have not yet had enough. If I could have sex 24/7/52, I would at some point opt for something else. I would read, would listen to music, would walk in the park. But as sex is not available continuously, there is plenty of time for those other activities anyway. And some time does have to to be devoted to work, to family, to sleep.

I have mused before on the notion of addiction in relation to sex, and how different so-called 'sex-addiction' is from classic forms of addiction such as alcoholism or smoking, where the treatment model for overcoming addiction is total abstinence. This model would only make sense for sex-addiction if sex is in itself bad, and justified only for the purpose of reproduction. I do not think this is a crazy view, and it seems to have been St Paul's position, and that of many other Christians. But as there is no reason to think that sex is bad in itself, and as we can easily sever the connection between sex and reproduction, this view can be ignored.

Someone who spends a few hours a day masturbating, taking time and effort away from work and family and friends, would probably be thought to have a problem. I am not sure why. It depends on how they jerk off, I think. If it is wanking fuelled by violent pornography or degrading fantasies, done guiltily and furtively, accompanied by shame, it is problematic. But if done happily, out of love for one's own pleasure and the joy of sexual self-expression, I cannot see much that could be wrong. Addiction to bad sex is bad, but addiction to good sex is good: that means it is not a case of addiction at all.

Can there be too much good sex? Only if there is an answer to the question: how much good sex is enough? When D and I have had a long time together, we have fucked about as much as it is humanly possible to fuck in the time available. Our trip upstate more than a year ago, for example, contained about as much fucking as could have been fitted into the time, given the need to travel, to eat, to sleep at least an hour or two. But that was a special occasion, honeymoon-like. The nights or weekends that I have been able to spend with D or F or A are also unrepresentative, setting a sexual pace that could not be maintained over a longer period. For a more representative sample, take a few days at random; say, yesterday, today, and tomorrow.

Yesterday: I fucked C in the morning before going to work - fifteen or twenty minutes of fucking, in the course of which she came and then I did. Then in the afternoon, D came to my office and we went at each other for about seventy-five or eighty minutes, with hardly a break. Cunt-fucking, ass-fucking, cunt-eating, cock-sucking. She came any number of times, I came just once.

Today: somewhat excessive, as I spent two hours with Q at the Liberty Inn, which was quite stunning. The active sex was perhaps only ninety minutes, but a huge amount got done in that time. Then, somewhat later, I spent a brief hour with F, all of it devoted to one sex-act or another. And then I spent approaching two hours with J, though chunks of time in that period were spent talking.

Tomorrow: as far as I know, the day's activities will be confined to a visit to Q at her home, for around two hours.

Too much? Well, today I was a little stretched out even by the time I got to F, as Q is really amazing, and a big drain on resources. But even with J, I managed to get it up for long enough to give her a decent fucking - the best fuck she has had since the last time I fucked her, she said.

I understand that, in the absence of wealth sufficient to permit it, a life devoted entirely to sexual pleasure is not possible. I have to work, and given that I have to work, it matters that I do it well rather than badly. So one criterion for assessing whether some amount of sex is too much is whether it has a deleterious effect on my work. And that is hard to determine - it is true that I shirk some duties in order to fuck, and others I do more hastily, less carefully. On the other hand, it is easy to do about as well as anyone else does while maintaining an over-active sex-life. I may be a shirker, but so are many of my colleagues, and they are not having as much fun as I am (or at least, they surely don't look as if they are).

I have more sex than most people do, and perhaps that is all that 'too much sex' means. But I like sex, and I am quite good at it, and there is not much else that I like that I am good at. So it is not surprising that I devote more time, energy, and attention to it than most people.

Rosh Hashanah

Schools close, work is disrupted, alternate side of the street parking regulations are suspended, and the routines of adultery have to be abandoned. What is normally possible becomes impossible - but some things that are normally impossible become possible in exchange.

On Thursday, I saw J, who I have not fucked in a long while, in part because our schedules make it difficult. But I did not get to fuck her very much; I could not sustain a decent erection. We still managed to have a lot of fun, but J is someone who likes to be fucked very long and very hard, and that I could not do. I had somewhat similar problems a couple of weeks ago with Z, but then I was also dealing with condoms, which are for me a major detumescent. In Z's case, the fact that the circuit of pleasure is broken by her lack of sensation below the waist is presumably part of the cause. But then what is going on with J? She is a huge woman. I find her vastness extremely pleasing. So I do not think it has to do with that.

On Friday, I spent the afternoon with D at the Liberty Inn, where I have not been for a while. I got stoned while D remained unstoned, and we had a lot of fun. I wrote to her:

Dear, devoted, delightful D,

You were the one not stoned, so really the recap of yesterday is your responsibility. But I will tell you some of the highlights for me - though of course it was all highlights, from the moment that you began sucking my cock while I was smoking the joint and slowly getting stoned. That was a great blowjob, and then much later we had the deep-throat blowjob. I do like to force your head down on my cock, if you will not take it quite as deep as you can without me doing so. But I also love it when you force yourself to take my cock as deep as you can.

Well, that first blowjob flowed into the fucking, with you sitting on my cock and it was then that I talked about having someone film us so that you could watch yourself fucking me. When you came - it seemed like a long, long orgasm, with you riding the shaft of my cock with your clit and working the head of my cock inside you - you turned and watched yourself fucking and coming in the mirror. So sexy, so natural and right.

You did not sit on my face in the way that you usually do until right at the end, but of course we had the 69 before that. You said that you really cannot do it, whereas I can, but I don't think that is right - perhaps if we had both been stoned. For me, I felt like I needed to focus on your clit until I got going, fell into a rhythm, and then I could open up to what you were doing to my cock and add it to the mix. But it is easy for the blending to stop, and I am so happy when I am devoting everything to your cunt that my own sensations in my cock cannot add very much to my pleasure, if you see what I mean. But just as I ate you out while I was fucking you the other day at the Kew, I think some time I will be able to fuck you while I am eating you out, my cock in your mouth and my mouth on your cunt.

What else yesterday afternoon? When we were having a conversation about the threesome, you gave me a handjob, and I kissed you, played with your nipples, and then fingered you - and that led into one of those sequences of over-the-top orgasms in which I was working your g-spot (if that was what it was) with my fingers while licking and sucking your clit. I do not know what more I can do to take you higher, or deeper - but if there is anything I can do, I will do it. I fantasise about you squirting - and you really should just piss all over me sometime too, as I want you to let everything go, give me everything that you have.

Lots of fucking, in your cunt, your ass, your cunt again. Very hard pounding, in your cunt and your ass. Also long, rhythmic strokes, which seem sometimes like a brush sweeping over the same spot again and again, slowly deepening the colour and intensifying it. I love that aspect of stoned fucking - repetition of the same thrust or the same movement always adds something to the previous thrust or movement, so it is like climbing a staircase - and a real staircase rather than a Stairmaster because we really are climbing together, getting higher and higher.

I came all over you. That is always fun - I sprayed seed on my face, your face, your hair, your breasts, your belly.

D, you are incredible, amazing, wonderful, spectacular.


Meanwhile, F has been a little sniffy with me, after I made the mistake one day last week of telling her that I had fucked C in the morning before coming to see her at lunchtime. She asked that in future I cancel visits to her if I have fucked C beforehand that day, which I in turn reacted badly to, reminding her that C is the one I have commitments to, rather than her. I am sure this will blow over.

Location, location, location

Women like F, who is a single mother, and J, a single woman, raise no location issues. I have only ever fucked them in their own beds. But with other, married women, the problem of where is often almost as intractable as the problem of when.

A is married but childless and jobless. What work she does, she does from home. But she lives way out in the suburbs, a journey of more than an hour each way. I have visited her at home quite a few times by now, but doing so requires me to have a robust alibi, and also one that puts me about the same distance from home in terms of traveling time. A used to come into the city very often, and then we used one or other of the short-stay hotels listed below. A has visited me at home when my wife is away and the children out of the house, and even spent a weekend a few months ago (one that began with a delightful threesome with K). I think the only other place A and I have fucked is at her sister-in-law's apartment in the city.

In-laws have also come in handy with D. We spent a long afternoon while back fucking our way around her mother-in-law's condo somewhere out on Long Island. D I have also visited at her own house in Nassau county two times, and she has visited me at home a few times as well. But with D the vast majority of our many times together have been at the Kew Motor Inn, or in my office, or in her car. I have also fucked D outside, and we have on a number of occasions managed to spend nights together.

M, with whom I am not in contact at the moment, is also married. I have visited her at home once, and we have also made use of her mother's apartment once. Otherwise it has been my office or one of the hotels. (Correction: M pointed out to me that we had also fucked in the restroom of a bar.)

Offices are problematic in terms of privacy and comfort. Sex does not require a bed, but long, varied, energetic sex is surely best had in a bed, rather than on cheap carpeting and desks. Particular acts and positions do work well, though. Yesterday D was in my office for a while, and I spent a long time eating her out while sitting in my desk chair, as she lay back on the desk. This is more comfortable and less of a strain than eating her out on a bed, though perhaps no easier than when she sits in a chair with her legs spread and I sit or kneel on the floor between them. Another great advantage of the desk is that when I am done eating her out I can stand up and stick my cock in her, as a standard desk is just about the right height.

D is the only woman I have fucked in a car in several years. When I first met C she had a large American car that we fucked in quite a lot, and we have fucked in odd rental cars a few times since, I suppose. D's Pacifica, with the middle row of seats folded down, offers a decent amount of space for fucking, and because it is possible to gain a lot of purchase with feet and hands, I have fucked her very hard in the car. The Pacifica has black-tinted windows in the back, and we have fucked in the middle of the day while parked on relatively busy streets without anyone being aware of us.

Homes are good to fuck in, but raise clean-up issues, and of course there are risks. D's older daughter returned home unexpectedly when I was there, and so I ended up in the classic French farce position of hiding in the closet. As far as clean-up is concerned, I find hair the most troublesome. But the lint-roller is an excellent tool for picking up hair - better, in my opinion, than most vacuum cleaners.

Hotels are a huge topic, and one day I will try to produce a decent guide to NYC hot-sheet hotels, no-tell motels, and short-stay places. If they were cheaper and more reliable, they would be ideal. I have never been made to wait at the Kew Motor Inn or at La Semana (which is a dump) but I have been at the Liberty Inn. I have been turned away at the Seton more than once. The hotels that rent rooms for a few hours on the side are often full with overnight guests, and rooms tend to be available only in the middle of the day, in the window between check-out and check-in times.

A randomized list of hotels/motels I have fucked in: Grand Union, La Semana, Liberty Inn, Herald Square, Seton, Kew Motor Inn, JFK Airport Inn (?). I have never been to the St Mark's. M once booked a place online, paying a reasonable overnight rate, and we just used it for four or five hours in the afternoon/early evening; I don't remember its name.

If money were no object, I would rent a small studio apartment. As it is, I need a wealthy benefactor to agree to subsidise my lying, cheating, and adultery, or else someone to offer me daytime fuck-space for free. All over the city, beds are unused while their owners work 9-to-5, or, if they are lawyers trying to make partner, 5-to-9. It is a terrible waste. Think of the use to which these beds could be put. And afterwards, I promise to go over everything with the lint-roller.

Addendum: Yesterday I visited F, but some workers were fixing something in her apartment, so we went across the hall to her neighbour's place - F has keys - and fucked there. We have keys to a couple of friends' apartments, but I have never before thought of this as a way of securing fuckspace. Interesting.

Room 303

I met L, a very beautiful Iranian woman, for lunch, after which we walked to the Liberty Inn, and checked into Room 303. Though I would have liked to go slow, her need was altogether too great, and so within a very short time - after just a brief bout of oral - we were fucking. I was amazed at the grip of her cunt on my cock, how strongly she arched up to me, sucking me in. It was incredibly erotic, and she made me come very quickly - something that really does not happen to me these days. But perhaps because it was rather dragged out of me and anyway I was having such a good time, I stayed hard enough to continue fucking for a good while. Then we rested a little, I went down on her, and then we fucked again, though she did briefly suck my cock before I put the second condom on. At some point while resting, though, I lay on my front and she sat on me and massaged my back, and then we swapped places, and I worked on her, ending up with my thumb in her cunt. It was that, in fact, that led directly into the next fuck.

The next fuck, even though it lacked the urgency of the first, was really more spectacular, as we talked and joked, lost ourselves in fucking, talked more, and so on, for a long, long time. I have given up worrying too much about orgasms, my own or anyone else's, as they are in a way a distraction from the pleasure of the moment, but it did seem that L had quite a few over the course of the afternoon, both fucking and when I went down on her. She also described the sex as the best she had ever had, which I took with a pinch of salt but I suspect was the truth.

L is remarkably beautiful. She is tall, slim, her body is very well toned, her skin is practically flawless, she moves well, is highly sexual, has a very lively, active cunt, strong muscles, good hips, long legs; altogether a woman who if she were in bed next to me every night and was game, I would be jumping all over. Her husband has no interest in her at all. He will not fuck her even when she begs, turns down blowjobs, has no desire for her and regards her sexual needs as crazy. And yet, quite clearly, she longs for him to desire her, and doubts her own desirability because of his lack of interest. Perhaps he is gay, perhaps he is simply asexual, or perhaps he finds her sexual desire improper because of some strange views about women, and so denies sex to her to punish her for those desires. It is so sad, and so strange. But perhaps it is not that unusual, as there are many similarities between L's situation and A's. A, however, is fucking me and other men pretty much at will; L is still very hesitant, and although she had a very good time today, she says she does not want a repeat performance until the spring! We shall see about that.