Staten Island

D and I took the Staten Island Ferry. First we walked down through Battery Park, with only the vendors wheeling their barrows into place at the start of the day for company; then we stood at the rail and looked out over the harbor towards Ellis and Liberty Islands; then we sat on a bench and I fingered D until she came, pinching one nipple and sucking another in order to bring her off quickly; then we took the ferry.

It was a fine September day, one of the days leading up to the High Holy Day of 9/11 - in other words, at that time of the year when any crisp, clear day spent downtown is loaded with sadness, but also thankfulness. It remains, to me, something barely short of a miracle that so many, many people were saved on 9/11. Watching the first tower fall on television, I assumed tens of thousands dead. Instead, tens of thousands had been saved. A day to give thanks, as much as a day to mourn.

D's next orgasm came sitting on a bench by the waterfront in St George. It was quiet but public, with occasional runners and walkers passing on the path, intermittent cars moving in the parking lot, and a young blond woman sitting on a bench close by, who was surely well aware of what D and I were up to by the time that she left. Neither of us knew of anywhere more private that we could go, and both of us wanted to make out there by the water, with the flatness of Newark Bay out to the east, and Jersey City, Manhattan, and Brooklyn away to the north.

D had her period, her skirt needed protection from stains, so we had to be fastidious. Nevertheless, once we got a little high, we had a lot of fun, talking each other through various sexual acts that we could not, without risking an arrest for public indecency, carry out on the bench on which we were sitting. D is not quite at the point where she can come at my command, but she did manage to come a couple of times when all I was doing was kissing her and pinching her nipples, while she worked her cuntlips against the pantyliner between her thighs.

We took the ferry back, standing at the front of the ferry on the lowest deck, closest to the water, watching the city build in our view. And while the ferry nudged its way slowly into the slip, fighting the run of the tide, I talked my cock into D's cunt, urging her to feel the last few feet until the ship was locked into place as the last few moments before I was fucked as deep as I could be inside her.

We took a cab to the Liberty Inn, D giving me a pleasant handjob on the way, and fucked there for three hours before parting.

Interruption

Writing to D, I became very aroused, so I signed off with a promise to jerk off in my hand and then swallow the resulting pool of come. After logging out, I freed my cock and began to fulfil the promise. A key in the door, a premature return from the gym with news of importance, put an end to that. I put my cock away. My arousal diminished and then disappeared.

A promise made to oneself can be broken. But I had made my promise, in writing, to D. So, later, I kept it. Stoned, and with my pants at my ankles, I came in my hand, at the climax - the first climax - of a wonderful jerk-off session in a bathroom at the gym. Lowering my face to my hand, I gulped the pool of seed down, licking off the residue. Because I had feared overshooting, I had held back a little at the point of ejaculation; the seed thus reserved I soon released in a second climax, this time into the sink.

If I were to write a sex-column, the advice I gave would be extremely simple: make sex your religion. Treat its promises as covenants, its paraphenalia as relics, its acts as rituals; treat your lover as an object of devotion. This advice is not aimed at the maximization of pleasure, but it will, I am sure, result in it. What is does, I think, is invest meaningless sex with meaning, or at least disguise its meaninglessness convincingly. Without this cover of seriousness, pointless sex not merely is pointless but also appears so, even as it happens.

This is not, unfortunately, good advice. It will lead, very often, to the end of meaningless sex. Nothing is more human than to succumb to religion, and so end up believing that the promises really are covenants, the paraphenalia relics, the acts rituals, your lover truly a god or goddess. We should make sex our religion, then, only so long as we can remain religious hypocrites.

The advice is bad advice for a further reason: few people are in a position to make use of it. Most non-religious people are utterly ignorant of religion. Not knowing how to be religious, they cannot make sex, or anything else, their religion. Those who are already religious presumably know how to be religious, but they already have one religion and do not need another. So the advice is of use only to those who are not religious but know how to be. There are not many of us around.

Blocked

When a writer has nothing to write about but the inability to find anything worth writing about, it is time to stop writing. For this reason, I have not written anything for a while, and likely will not for a while longer.

It is not that there is nothing worth writing about - there is the afternoon of sex in Forest Park with D, for example, which included a brief act of penetration from behind while standing on the stage in the bandshell, in full view of what, had there been one, would have been the audience; or several nights spent with D, either at home or a nearby hotel, any one of which would be worthy of a write-up, had I not written up many similar occasions before. I do not feel the urge to write as an aide-memoire. I have few readers to disappoint. And I am thinking about things other than sex, even though I am still having plenty of sex.

I misunderstand the point of a blog, I am told, if I think that I should write only when I have something worth writing about. Bloggers are just those who write whether or not they have anything worth writing about. And this post is, indeed, a nice proof that I understand that point after all.

Talking about fucking while fucking

I have not seen F for several weeks; it is unlikely I will see her again. What, about sex with F, will I miss the most? Perhaps, the way that F and I often talked about fucking while fucking. That it is possible to talk while fucking is one reason why fucking is superior to any sex-act in which the mouth is busy. Cunt-eating and cock-sucking are delightful, but conversation-stoppers all the same; the lips, teeth, and tongue do one thing at a time.

Talking with F about fucking while fucking was mostly a matter of swapping self- and other-congratulatory remarks about how good we were at fucking each other. Fucking is always fun to talk about, even if it cannot sustain conversations of any great depth or complexity. Fucking is of course a lot more fun than merely talking (or reading) about fucking, but the one does not exclude the other. We can talk while fucking, so we can talk about fucking while fucking.

Not every kind of talking about fucking while fucking adds to the fun of fucking. With F it was the manner of this conversation that I enjoyed - happy, matter-of-fact, frank, open, thoughtful, unswayed by convention or artifice or insecurity. The content of the conversation was, for the most part, trite or banal. But together with the fucking, it accomplished an intimacy, and a joy, that seemed to flow immediately from the union of our bodies, without passing through any of the usual filters, putting us in direct contact with age-old human experiences, making us feel as if we belonged - belonged accidentally to each other, for these moments, but through this accidental and momentary belonging, belonged essentially and eternally to everything natural and good.

F found her way into this happy, natural part of herself through sex. She longed to share this part of herself with someone who wanted to share more than just sex with her. She wanted me to be the right person to share herself with, but saw clearly that I was not the right person at all. Reconciling desire to reality, she hoped for change in me. She hopes for it still. That hope is futile, but F, a recovering alcoholic, believes otherwise: she changed, so why shouldn't I? But this entire complex of attitudes fell away in the midst of fucking, and F and I could then talk easily of our desire and admiration for each other. And it is that talking about fucking while fucking that I will miss most.

Cynical restatement (to save Candy the work): I miss fucking F; I could only stand talking to F while fucking her; the rest of the time she was a pain.

New, red bikini

D was going on a cruise, so she bought a new, red bikini. Buying a bikini is the easier part, though; the harder part is feeling entirely good while wearing it. In order to wear a red bikini and feel entirely good while doing so, you are supposed to look like this:D, modeling her new, red bikini for me in a room at the Kew, did not look like that. She looked like this:And from the back, she looked like this:
Real women are sexy as women in pictures are not and cannot be. Women in pictures are not women at all, but pictures. D, walking about in her new red bikini, was a woman not a picture. She looked very, very sexy.

Some of that sexiness can be credited to the bikini - to its clever, minimalist modesty, which hides very little from the eyes, but leaves a lot to the imagination; to the silver mock clasp - branded 'Calvin Klein' - on the front, between the breasts, nudging the mind towards thoughts of unclasping; to the ties
at the neck and in the middle of the back, each begging for a light tug on one loose end of the knot; to the neckward upsweep of the halter, which by flattening and lifting the breasts, makes it seem as if the back were already arching in surrender or abandon;
to the stretch and cling of the cloth - one of those amazing lycra or lycralike elasticated fabrics - over breast, belly, ass; and to the neat, tight pouch covering the cunt-hair, compressing the cunt-lips, clearing a slot between the legs. But a bikini borrows most of its sexiness from the woman it barely covers. Wearing it for me, D felt very sexy, and it showed. Could she feel as sexy wearing it for herself, and for the strange men and women who would see her wearing it?

D walked about the room, while we talked about what it would be like walking about by the pool on the boat, or on the beach in Jamaica; she lounged in a chair, and on the bed, while I played the stranger, eyeing her from my nearby lounger, or from a nearby spot on the sand. Men, and women also, look at her as she walks by; they watch her as she lounges, in her red bikini. What do they see? If they are looking, they see what I see.

And what did I see? I saw a woman for whom, in the confines of the sexual space, I would do and say just about anything, so long as it remained in the sexual space and did not leak outside it. A woman who wanted to be fucked by me as much as I wanted to fuck her; who wanted to fuck me as much as I wanted to be fucked by her. A woman whose cunt, resting squarely on my face, was capable of stopping all thought. But the random men, and women also, at the pool, or on the beach, would not see any of that. They would simply see a woman who looked damn good in a new, red bikini, and who obviously knew that she looked damn good; a woman happy to be looked at because she knew she was worth looking at; a woman worth lusting after. That she was happy to be looked at was clear, because there she was, by the pool, on the beach, with nothing on but that smart new red bikini, completely easy and free in her body. Was she happy to be lusted after - well, that was not so clear. But she looked damn good in her new, red bikini, and as I lusted after, I reckoned that any man who was looking would be lusting after her as well.

We proceeded, over the course of the next couple of hours, to consecrate the new, red bikini. D was bleeding, so that was added to the mix of sweat and seed and spit, of cuntjuice and come, that we used for anointment. I fingered her through the crotch of the bikini, until it was bloody and wet; I hooked the crotch aside and ate her cunt; we fucked, with the briefs pushed out of the way, and then stripped off altogether; I reached into the halter to pinch and twist her nipples, and then untied it and flung it aside. Later, after D had been naked for a while, I wore the bikini - it fitted nicely - and was fucked wearing it. At another time, I pounded D's ass while she was wearing it, and we watched ourselves in the mirror. D watched as I fucked her while I was wearing the bikini, my ass held tight in the cloth as I drove my cock into her. The red bikini came off me, went on her again; or I had one piece, while she had another. I sniffed and sucked at the bloody crotch while fucking her. I tied the halter in place, untied it to suck at her nipples, tied it in place again. By the time we were done, there was hardly a sexual act that could not be linked to D's new red bikini; every time that she put it on, she would be as sexy as when wearing it for me; whenever she wore it, she would feel as sexy as she in fact is.

An alternative account of this activity would interpret it as territorial marking, or taking possession: whenever D wore the bikini, no matter who looked at her, no matter what she did while wearing it, or who she took it off for, she would still be mine. I prefer my reading, in which, thanks to me, she would feel as sexy as she in fact is whenever she wore it. Either way, it was an interesting, and enjoyable, afternoon.

Normal service

I returned from family vacation on a Wednesday afternoon. By 11.00 am on Thursday, I was in a room at the Herald Square Hotel with D, working my impatient cock into her anxious cunt.

In the two-and-a-half years of our affair, we have never gone quite as long - two weeks - between fucks. We were delayed on our way to the hotel by a meeting with D's sister, who was on her way to her very first extra-marital encounter but interested beforehand in setting eyes on the man who has been fucking her sister; delayed at the front desk at the Herald Square, which is increasingly unwelcoming to short-stay customers; delayed by the slow, slow elevator to the eighth floor: D and I were desperate to fuck the second the door of the room closed behind us. With a high bed for use, we went straight into an edge-of-the-bed fuck. I hiked up her skirt, stripped off her panties, dropped my pants to my ankles, lifted my shirt, took aim, and with my eyes locked on hers, drove my cock steadily into her cunt, all the way to the root. D angled down on my cock and took herself straight up to her first orgasm. That was the start of three hours of continuous sex, followed by another three hours of equally intense, making-up-for-lost-time sex the next day at the Kew Motor Inn.

Sexual pleasure is typically understood as issuing from the satisfaction of desire, and sexual desire is typically interpreted as an appetite, like hunger or thirst. In this model, pleasure comes from the satisfaction of desire, but the desire is not itself a source of pleasure: sexual desire is like hunger, sexual satisfaction like a food that quells hunger, at least for a while. The distinction between good sex and bad sex is like that between good food and bad food, having to do not with the character or strength of the desire but with the manner in which it is satisfied.

This account gets sexual pleasure and sexual desire almost entirely wrong (and isn't much better as a model of food and drink, hunger and thirst). Sex is as much about wanting as it is about getting; getting fuels wanting as much as it feeds it. But going without for a little while definitely does add an edge, as intense hunger can intensify the pleasure of a meal, prolonged thirst make the quenching of that thirst more delightful. After two weeks of not fucking D, it was wonderful to re-establish the circuit that runs through her cunt and my cock, through my body, my eyes, her eyes, her body. So for three hours one day, three hours the next, we rode the delightful urgency of our desire for each other, as if something huge had been pentup, and now was released.

I wouldn't choose, in advance, to go two weeks without fucking D, in order to enjoy the particular pleasure of fucking her after two weeks without. But I am glad to have had the pleasure of fucking her after two weeks without, and so am glad, looking back, to have gone those two weeks without fucking her.

Now, things are quite back to normal: forty minutes of car sex with D on Sunday evening; an intra-marital handjob on Monday morning; another three-hour session at the Kew with D on Tuesday involving her new red bikini, about which I shall post when I have the narrative in good shape; a quiet Wednesday; and a delightful but brief intra-marital fuck on Thursday morning.

Without salt

My recent remarks on body hair (Shaven, lasered, plucked, waxed) brushed over the important and interesting distinction between body hair and facial hair. Nearly all women in modern, mainstream, Western culture remove or disguise all facial hair besides their eyebrows (which are typically minimized) and eyelashes. But the cultural norm is more complicated than this, for women who remove their facial hair must also remove all the evidence of removal - hence waxing and plucking, electrolysis and lasers, rather than shaving. Many men also remove all facial hair besides their eyebrows and eyelashes, and in certain subcultures being clean-shaven is effectively the norm for men, but it is never important for men to remove the evidence of removal: a five o-clock shadow at five o-clock, or a little stubble, is fine. Among men, no opprobrium attaches to having to shave, even when opprobrium would attach to going unshaven. This shows that the norms governing facial hair on women are quite different from the norms governing facial hair on men.

What norms do govern facial hair on men? Because so many men are clean-shaven, no simple correlation between hair and masculinity holds. There are very few norms in place in modern, mainstream, Western male culture. Men who are not clean-shaven typically manage their facial hair - a moustache but no beard, a beard but no moustache, goatees of Fu Manchus, sideburns with neither beard nor moustache, or with just a beard, and so on. But there is not much more to this than a general norm in favor of tidiness, and even this is relatively relaxed, depending on subculture. On the street, you are within the norms if you look like the man on the left, outside them only if you look like the man on the right:


This is how it should be for women - few norms about hair, whether on the head, or the face, or the body. The fewer the norms, the greater the freedom. But the chance of this happening any time soon is, I think, extremely small. Attitudes about women's facial hair do not seem to be significantly different even in cultures where a woman's face is routinely veiled in public. This gives the lie to suggestions that veiling frees women from the tyranny of the male gaze: all veiling does is restrict the number of men who tyrannize a woman with their gaze, while depriving the rest of the men of the pleasure of looking.

Meanwhile, clean-shaven myself, I enjoy the contrast between my mouth, with its smooth surround of cheek and chin, and the tangled undergrowth around D's cunt. This delight in the contrast between hairy cunt and shaven face presumably rests on the underlying resemblance between mouths and cunts. A cunt is like nothing more than it is like a mouth; I shave around my mouth; yet I prefer hairy cunts to shaved ones. Perhaps men with beard and moustache enjoy going down on a shaven cunt for reasons of contrast as well.

In my experience, kissing clean-shaven men on the mouth is rather different from kissing women on the mouth, and rather more like kissing clean-shaven women on the cunt. K, who took a very long time to come, was clean-shaven, and that meant stubble around her cunt, just as around the mouth of a clean-shaven man. I spent a very long time kissing her cunt, and at the edges of my sensibility, even when I was engrossed in playing with her clit with my lips and tongue, was a reminder of shaving, and hence of men.

Since my teenage years, I have never gone more than a couple of days without shaving. Whatever longings I have to kiss men - I have some - are directed towards men who shave about as often as I do. I would not eat an egg without salt, but I prefer, if I am to kiss a man at all, to kiss a man with no moustache.

Chatfuck

4:59 PM d: did you get this I sent it in chat

5:00 PM me: Yes, I am still here

d: Hey you

me: I can't call you at home.

But I can chat in this way until you decide I suck too much at it

5:01 PM d: Yes, could be coming up very soon

me: I can't fuck you this way

So it is no good to me

d: Oh.. did you get my email about tomorrow

me: I did

d: sorry babe

me: OK

5:02 PM d: So... I really have nothing to write about

me: I know. Same here.

If I could touch you or taste you

d: In chat, you have to write lol when something makes you laugh

You are making me laugh

lol

5:03 PM me: Nothing makes me laugh except myself

I am very funny, I think

d: So now you see why I would be tempted to use the lol phrase

Because you are so damn funny

me: Right - because I am veyr funnyh

'But my typinc sugcks

d: Yes, it does, but your foot rubbing skills are pretty good

5:04 PM me: Then let me rub your feet, instead of typiocn

d: Mmm... that is so nice to think about, can I go pour myself a drink

5:05 PM me: Go and pour yourself a drink, and lie down on the cucumber suded couch, and rub your feet, and imagine me doing it for you.

d: Sick of chat already

me: 'suded' = 'suede'

Yes I am. I want to go jerk off.

d: lol

YOu are SUch A Sexual Brat!!!!!!!!!!!!!

5:06 PM Jesus!

me: If I cannot fuck you I want to jerk off thinking about fucking you. What is brattish about that?

5:07 PM d: Ok... Nubia is still here... but later I will get stoned and write you a very sexy email

me: OK. I will try to write to you again also.

d: Think about pounding my ass and eating it

Can you jerk off where you are at the computer

5:08 PM me: I will think also about coming in your ass and then licking it out of your asshole.

I can jerk off here but it is not as pleasurable as in bed.

d: Yes... I can write you what I would like you to do to me while you jerk off

Can't you bring your laptop in your bed

5:09 PM me: OK I will jerk off and you can type.

d: Yes... give me one second

5:10 PM you there

5:11 PM me: I am here but at my desk

d: So, you are in my bed waiting for me when I get home, you are all naked and hard

You tell me to take off my clothes and come and sit by you on the bed

I sit with my legs crossed in front of you ... I have just my very thin lacy panties on so you can see the lips of my cunt sticking out

5:12 PM You reach over and start to pull on my lips and taste me with your fingers to your mouth

Then I yank my panties off and climb on top of you to ride your cock, but I'm so tired from my long day so I jut kind of fall onto you and ride you with my body pressed up against yours , rubbing back and forth ontop of your chest.

5:13 PM That just builds up a frenzy as I feel my clit start to swell and rub up against your stomach

And I moan because I'm about to come with your cock deep inside the walls of my cunt... I'm coming for you baby

5:14 PM I'm coming all over your hard, fat cock .. you are deep inside me .. feeling the walls of my cunt close around you

Wow.. I'm getting excited .. when you finish you might have to do the same for me

5:15 PM I want to climb up on your face so bad... sometime when I'm riding your cock I feel an impulse to stick my cunt in your face and have you drink up all my wetness.. sometimes I don't even care if you drink me I just want to smear my juice all over your face and rub my cunt lips all over your lips

5:16 PM I know you like being under my cunt... watching it get closer and closer to your tongue... I know you love to lick your come out of me and then have me orgasm all over your face

Hmmm... Oh I love you when you're eating me like that.. swallowing me whole with your mouth and your tongue.

5:17 PM me: I am coming for you now

d: Spraying on my tits

5:18 PM You are drinking it all up right now aren't you

me: I am all done

d: Well what about horny old me

me: I thought you were waiting until Nibia had left

Nubia

5:19 PM d: Fuck that shit, I can lock myself in the basement

me: Well, I would love to help out but unfortunately I need a nap

d: You are kidding me? Is this your sense of humor or your pompous assholeish behavior?

5:20 PM me: All of the above. Plus, I am a very slow typist, remember?

I have to punctuate correctly.

Even when I am chat-fucking you.

d: Well... so now it's twice... first the wham bam phone sex and now the fuck her and leave her chat

5:21 PM me: Yes - rather amusing, don't you think?

d: Oh so funny

you sick fuck

me: I mean: radyt?

d: huh

Oh I got it , I'm a little chat retarded

me: rather amusing don't you think in txt msg

5:22 PM d: Yes, we've already established how funny you are

But I'm so wet and throbbing

me: I will lick you then

d: Where

me: I will slowly lick around your lips

5:23 PM And gently poke the tip of my tongue into your cuntmouth

Flick and lick my tongue at the mouth of your cunt, tasting you, smelling the cuntjuice trickling out from your cunt

5:24 PM Then I will lick my way up towards your clit, nudging the flesh aside with my nose, my lips my tongue, until I can get at you

I can flick my tongue across your clit, leaning gently into you, finding you right there

5:25 PM d: Fuck me now!

me: And then my hands will reach for your nipples, as you know. Reach towards, them, circle them on your breasts, get ready to take them between my thumb and my fingers

I am not going to fuck you until you have come for me

5:26 PM d: Fuck me, fuck me

me: I will fuck you once I have felt you coming under my tongue, pinching your nipples

Pulling your nipples and working your clit, grinding my face against you harder and faster

d: Lick me all up then

me: Flicking at your nipples until you can't stand it any more

5:27 PM d: I just came all over your face you maniac

You type nipples really well!

me: I want to drink you up when you come, lick and suck at you, take you into my mouth, swallow you down

Did you in fact come?

d: ummmm... Oh... I taste so good

Oh yes... very hard

5:28 PM with just my fingers... but one was playing with my ass

me: Good. Now I will fuck you, if you like.

d: I want you to really fuck me

me: Then I have to pin your legs back and work my cock into you slowly, feeling the aftershocks of your coming in my cock

5:29 PM I am working my way all the way into you, inch by inch

d: I am spread nice and wide for you

me: And you can feel my cock growing even harder and thicker inside you as I open you up

d: I"m very tight.. but oh so wet

5:30 PM me: Once I am deep, then I can start to grind against you, to screw and bump you, to shaft you, to feel your wet cunt gripping my cock

Every time I draw back your cunt clutches at me for fear of losing it

d: mmmm

I want that cock

me: Every time I thrust back into you you feel like you are being split in two

d: Go for it

5:31 PM me: You want to feel my bone bumping up against you

d: Just keep fucking me like this

me: You want the grind on your clit, the nudging, the banging, anything that will work you up again to the next come

d: I need to come

5:32 PM me: You want to come round the base of my cock, clamping me inside you, so you can come hard on my cock, come on the head and the shaft, feel your coming on my cock, feel my cock jumping inside you

I am poking you deep, grinding your clit

d: tear me up inside

me: You are reaching back to me, fucking me back

d: I want you so badly

5:33 PM You've never been fucked like I fuck you

me: Nothing will stop me now, D

d: Good

me: I will fuck you so hard, so well, so smoothly, so fast and deep, so slow and good

d: My cunt

me: Whatever you want to feel, you can feel it now

5:34 PM d: I want to feel everything you give to me

me: Your cunt. So wet and good to fuck, so alive and tight

dana: Yes, that is my cunt

me: I am fucking you, always

d: I am fucking you, I am fucking you back

5:35 PM me: Then we are fucking, right?

Yet I am her and you are there

d: We are fucking ... we are beautifully fucking

me: I am here rather than I am her - but the slip is suggestive

d: We are together though miles apart

lol

me: I am you, you are me when we fuck

5:36 PM d: Yes my love

me: We are each the other

d: Yes, that is true

me: I am just about out of time and chance here

d: Thank you for this

me: I want you to go rest and rub your feet. Have a bath

d: hmmm5:37 PM

me: Goodbye

d: lol

5:38 PM No... like a sweet goodbye

Something like goodbye my darling

work on it

me: Goodbye, my sweet love

5:39 PM d: lol... goodbye my darling... I'm going to get stoned and I'll read this chat over and it will be nice. Enjoy your bath... I miss you.. D

Spermophilia

I had a nice little fuck with C in the morning, snatched while the cleaner was at work in another room. C was still in her nightgown, I was already dressed to leave for the office, so I unbuckled, unzipped, and fucked her with my pants around my knees. She, efficient as ever, came promptly. I left my own status vague; that is, I gasped 'Yes' a couple of times, in a manner that could be interpreted either as encouragement - 'Yes, come!' - or announcement - 'Yes, I'm coming!' - or both. I stayed hard, I certainly had not come, but C seemed quite content for me to withdraw, upzip, rebuckle. And I was content - I was more than content - myself. I had felt C coming around my cock at the start of the day, but I had reserved my seed for D, who I was set to meet later.

I like fucking but not coming, though I do not do it very often. It makes me feel useful and unselfish. It redresses one imbalance between the genders: all the data suggests that it is women who do nearly all of the fucking but not coming. Most of all, I like coming when it really counts - when the seed I spill gets, if not top billing, at least a line to itself.

C, even before she began using lubricants to counter post-menopausal dryness, was a woman whose instinct - perhaps not her first instinct, but definitely her second or third - is to wipe up after sex. I enjoy watching her pluck some item from the laundry-basket - her black underwear, or my white, or whatever comes to hand - with which to wipe her cunt, sopping up the lube and the juice and the seed. I have been known to dig these items out of the basket later on and sniff at them. But there is nevertheless a repudiation in this wiping-up: why doesn't she dabble around inside herself with her fingers and lick them clean afterwards? Why not sit on my face and drip the mix of my seed and her cunt-juice into my mouth, as D loves to do? Why not spend the next few minutes, or hours, leaking here and there about the house? The Astroglide now provides an excuse, but C was not much inclined to these things even before she began using artificial slickeners. She does not find semen distasteful, but neither does she love it; she is neither spermophobe nor spermophile. Seed is not wasted on her, exactly - but neither does it do for her what it does for others.

With D, later, in my office, I came twice. The first time was at the climax of a long, long fuck, one that began with me on top on the floor; continued with her on top, still on the floor; moved then to the desk; and finally moved back to the floor, again with me on top. With a couple of pints of beer and a countermanding nibble of Viagra in my system, I was able to drive gradually and steadily through D's series of orgasms up to a long, stretched-out orgasm of my own. The first spurt, coming at the deep end of a long thrust, triggered those rhythmic, clamping cunt-spasms that seem designed by nature to milk a cock dry. With those spasms dying away, I kept fucking, easing seed out of myself and into her. D's cunt was awash - splashy and warm - so there was no hesitation about what to do next: I climbed off and lay down, and D immediately sat on my face, feeding me my seed along with her cunt-juice.

After a while, and partly because her knees were chafing on the harsh office carpeting, D moved to the red office chair, where I continued to eat her out. After she came a few times, I wanted to feel her cunt with my cock again, wanted to come again myself. I was only half-hard, but after D has come many times and is wet and open, I can usually slip inside her and then fuck myself hard. This time, though, the beer had the better of the Viagra. After some delightful but directionless fucking, and with the clock ticking, we opted instead for a classic money-shot: I stood while D sat in the chair and jerked me off until I came, spurting seed in her hair, on her cheek, and on the wall behind her.

D hates to clean up after sex. She likes the clumps of seed in her hair, the film of come dried on her face or her tits. She enjoys leaking from her cunt or her ass as she drives home. If she could wipe herself with something from the dirty laundry, she would be likely then to put it on. Perhaps she delights in my seed in part because I cannot. I have to clean up. I cannot go home smeared with cunt-juice and come. She has an oblivious husband rather than a suspicious wife, and so can do what she likes.

Porn, working only with sight and sound, and geared mainly to an audience of guys jerking off, treats male ejaculation as a visual climax. Often, the man stops fucking, pulls out and then brings himself off, coming on the woman's breasts or belly or face. This gives semen a prominent place, and I am all for that, but something is awry. Who, except when re-enacting porn, fucks like that? But then, who would watch porn in which, after an invisible ejaculation, the woman nimbly hops out of bed and goes directly to clean up?

Family vocation

I am going on vacation. Two weeks, or thereabouts, of being truthful, honest, and faithful. Isn't it amazing that the only thing making the difference between truth, honesty, and fidelity on the one hand, and lying, cheating, and adultery on the other, is which cunt my cock goes in? I am afraid I have no vocation to family life - and yet I find myself called to family vacation.

If there are entertaining intra-marital sexual encounters to relate, I will do so on my return - a couple of weeks from now.

Recapitulation

D sometimes recaps one of our times together; more rarely, I do so myself. These recaps are not part of the sex that they recap, but nor are they apart from it. The sex is a capitulation; fucking, we each capitulate to the other. The recap is a recapitulation, just as its name says.

Capitulation to each other in sex is physically mediated. It is done in, with, and through the body. I give my body to you, and you take it. I give it because you want it, and because I want you to take it. You give your body to me, and I take it. I take it because I want it, and because you want me to take it. The expression, 'give and take' ought to be useful here, but it is not. It means flexibility, balance, equipoise - not at all the same thing as giving everything that you have, and taking everything that you can get.

[What about sex that is not physically mediated? 'Phone sex? Chatfucking? These complicate the picture. They are ways of having sex that are quite new, so there may be little that is sensible and stable to say about them yet.]

Without bodies to mediate capitulation, we must fall back on recapitulation - on sex remembered, reflected. Memories are fine recapitulants, but memory is partial and needs help. Mementos work wonderfully as recapitulants - secretions and stains, things borrowed or given, and best of all, marks on the body itself. But mementos are mostly denied to me; I am a liar, cheat, and adulterer. My recapitulants cannot be physical things. Returning from LCA-land, I must be found in the same condition in which I left, clothed in the same way, carrying nothing inexplicable, smelling just the way I should smell.

Hence, words as recapitulants. Words are not in any ordinary sense physical things, but words must be recorded if they are to persist. For most of human history this meant either committing the words to memory, or writing the words down. Writing the words down produces a physical record: a journal, say, or a bundle of love-letters. And these, like mementos, must be hidden. If well-hidden, they are very hard to find, and things that are hard to find are almost always hard to get. This makes the words themselves hard to read - locked away in a safe-deposit box, or stored high up in a closet, or stashed out in the woodshed, they are well-hidden, but no longer ready to hand.

Now, though, it is possible to hide the words well and yet have them ready to hand. Words can be easily hidden in a place where they are very hard to find, and from which they are easily recovered to do their recapitulary work. They can be hidden where no-one else can find them, or read them.

Why, then, are they here, rather than hidden? How come you are reading them?

The proper response to the second question is, 'You aren't.' This blog gets fewer than fifty hits each day. The words are not here because you are reading them but because I am writing them and not hiding them. Why I am writing them, I am not sure. Nor do I know why I am not hiding them.

Country matters

Responding to a comment from S, I promised to post something on sexual vocabulary. But the topic is too vast. Here, though, are few thoughts:

A person's sexual vocabulary is the list of words and phrases that a person uses comfortably in writing, talking, or thinking about sex for themselves; the words and phrases that a person uses with the people they have sex with; the words and phrases that best capture, for them, their sexual responses to their own body and to the bodies of others, and to the sexual acts that they engage in.

The list is necessarily open-ended.

My sexual vocabulary: fuck, cunt, cock, balls, cuntlips, foreskin, clit, breasts, tits, nipples, ass, asshole, cockhead, shaft, suck, lick, mouth, tongue, tonguefuck, assfuck, grind, pounding, ball-slapping, blowjob, cocksucking, facesitting, cunt-eating, go down, ride my cock, orgasm, come, climax, seed, spurt, spray, cuntjuice, wet, tight.

Words and phrases that are less comfortable (often uncomfortable) for me: vagina, penis, anus, pussy, making love, dick, screwing, shagging, bonking, jugs, abbreviations like 'pits or nips, jargon like teabagging or eiffel tower, euphemisms like male member or man-part.

Words like armpits, lips, mouth, nipples, tongue etc are words that have many, many non-sexual occasions of use, and so are unlike cunt, fuck, blowjob. No-one finds these words uncomfortable except when used sexually, and typically there are no alternatives for use in a sexual context. Nevertheless, a person who cannot say to a partner, 'Lick my armpits!' does not have the word 'armpit' in his sexual vocabulary.

Sexual vocabulary, because its use is so restricted, is highly variable and plastic. Two people whose non-sexual vocabularies are the same may have non-overlapping sexual vocabularies. One person may use a different sexual vocabulary with different audiences.

Another person's sexual vocabulary, when it is significantly different from one's own, is either risible or offensive. Not much offends me; there is a lot that I find risible. My sexual vocabulary would probably offend many, and be thought risible by few. Most of the sexual terms that qive me qualms are of the 'jugs' or 'shagging' sort: these may bother me because they seek to avoid offence by being jokey instead, and so they pretend not to be euphemisms while still doing euphemistic work. (I am a prig about sexual vocabulary, Candy, as well as a pedant.)

Some people's sexual vocabularies are much larger than other people's. Some people can barely even whisper the word 'vagina' without flushing with embarassment, even when they are on their own, and cannot write it at all, or only as v****a or the like. For such people, the word 'cunt' is unutterable, and someone who utters it freely unutterably crude. To me, the word 'cunt' is not merely utterable, but an utter pleasure to utter. I like cunts, so I like writing the word 'cunt' and saying the word 'cunt'. But I can say 'vagina', and have only slight qualms about the word 'pussy'. These are words that are outside my sexual vocabulary not because I cannot utter them, but because they do not express anything sexual for me; I would not express a sexual desire of mine using these words. I would not ask a woman, "Can I taste your vagina?". These are non-sexual words for me, not part of my sexual vocabulary. But they are part of the sexual vocabulary of others, and if I have sex with such a person, these words may end up being part of our joint vocabulary. And any even modestly articulate sexual connection requires a joint vocabulary.

The word 'cunt' is Exhibit A in most discussions of sexual vocabulary because it regularly shows up as the one word that reliably outstrips 'fuck' in offensiveness: more people find 'cunt' offensive than find 'fuck' offensive; people find 'cunt' more offensive than 'fuck'. To me, this linguistic terrain - cunt, cock, fuck - is flat: when I fuck D, I put my cock in her cunt; D fucks my cock with her cunt; I fuck her cunt with my cock. I can't see how one of these words stands higher than the others. I love the word 'cunt', as I have said. I love it more than the word 'cock' but I think only because I love cunts more than cocks. Its etymology is contested (A Blunt History of the Word Cunt: being a prig, I utterly repudiate the offensive joke about yeast infections at the end of this piece) . But Chaucer uses it (spelled 'queynte'), and that's good enough for me.

If I were to walk up to a strange woman in the subway and ask her if her cunt is wet, I would certainly offend her. That is why I do not do it, even if I am curious as to the answer to the question. A rather small and uninteresting part of the explanation of the offensiveness of my question has to do particularly with the word 'cunt'; nearly everything there is to say about why my question is offensive will apply if instead I ask if her pussy is wet, or if her vaginal secretions are of such a character as to render entry of the erect male member into her vaginal canal easy.

'Cock' is, to my ear, just a little bit cocky, and I like to connect it to ballcocks or a cocked rifle rather than the barnyard strut of the rooster. But the etymology is not on my side here. Still, 'cock' in this root sense means no more than 'male' - as in cock-robin, cock-sparrow. 'Manhood' is slightly risible to me, but I can see the sense of it as a term for a cock, and the reverse-formation, 'womanhood' for a cunt would say something true sexually as well. To be a man is to have a cock; to be a woman is to have a cunt (these claims are true, as Aristotle routinely says, 'either always or for the most part').

'Fuck' is one of the great words of the language, an atom that bonds very freely with others to make sexual compounds of dizzying variety. The only problematic uses of 'fuck' are non-sexual, used simply as verbal fist-pounding or in the sense of 'fuck-up'. Its use to mean exhaustion I like; after a long, hard session with D, I do feel fucked - but not fucked-up.

Small sample size

The study of female chimp copulation calls discussed in a recent post was based on a very small sample: just seven females. Chimps fuck quite a lot; a total of 287 fucks were observed, of which 104 elicited calls. The chimp community under study contained 25 adult females, but only ten of those were sexually active during the study, and three of those fucked fewer than fifteen times and so were left out of the analysis.

I fuck a lot, and, necessarily, I observe each fuck, though I may not remember them for long. The fucks that make it into this blog constitute a small sample. Plenty of fucks get left out of the analysis. The ones left out are not bad fucks - I am not really sure there is such a thing as a bad fuck for me - but the fucks that provoke the least thought, or no new thought. About most routine intra-marital fucks, there is little new to be thought, and so little new to be written. Times with D, though almost always astounding, do not always yield new material for reflection. So it is not surprising that the steady drumbeat of posts from the last half of 2006 and much of 2007 has slowed to a patter. This is not because I am much less sexually active, but simply because much of what I have to write I have written already. This betrays, I realize, another of my misunderstandings about blogging, part of the point of which is to say the same thing again and again.

Intra-marital sex is on a gentle uptick. C seems a bit hornier, and I have enjoyed fucking her. Deep into summer, her armpits are still unshaven. This morning we were interrupted a couple of times while fucking. That was fun, having to break off to deal with an unanticipated visit, then going back to it after that was dealt with, and then needing to take a 'phone call mid-fuck. C is coming harder than she used to, or I am better at feeling her come, at giving her my cock to feel herself against while she is coming - a talent that I have honed mainly with D, though I would give considerable credit to Q as well.

Extramaritally, I take whatever opportunities arise easily, primarily with D. After a hiatus of a few weeks, I am back to fucking F again, and I have had a couple of very fun sessions with J recently also. Alibi drought is always a problem in the deep summer, so it is the lowest-hanging fruit that gets picked - the local, the flexible, the reliable. In terms of sheer pleasure, each one of these encounters deserves to be written up. Each deserves its own recap, its own essay. But though each deserves it, it is not my duty to give it to them, and I am too lazy to do it even if it is my duty. At most, I can present a small but representative sample.

Euphemism

A recent, and helpful, comment by Lady Shay referred to my cock as my 'man part'. This is the kind of euphemism that I hate, and that I think extremely harmful.

If sex is a bad thing, and shameful, then euphemism is of course called for. Torture is bad, and shameful, and this is why the torturers at Guantanamo refer to it instead as 'enhanced interrogation techniques'. The massacre of civilian populations in order to suppress guerilla forces living among them is vile and reprehensible; this is why it is referred to as 'collateral damage'. If sex is a good thing, and not shameful, then euphemism is not called for. I think sex is a good thing, and not shameful, so I do not think euphemism is called for - it is fine to call a cunt a cunt and a cock a cock.

But perhaps it also fine not to call a cunt a cunt, and a cock a cock, out of respect for those who do think sex is a bad thing, and shameful? If the people who thought sex shameful and bad were an aging, dwindling minority, clearly on the losing side; if euphemism served merely to avoid rubbing their noses in their inevitable defeat; if the tide ran strongly and implacably against them, and their grip on the culture steadily weakened: then I would be happy to have cunts called 'female parts', cocks called 'man parts' - or whatever silly little expressions you prefer. But these 'ifs' are mere 'ifs'. The sex-haters are not withering away. Idiotic campaigns in behalf of virginity and chastity are commonplace. Marriage is extending the monotonousness of its sexual diet to gays and lesbians. Women are still oppressed by the requirements of socially acceptable feminity, men still limited by the frameworks that govern exploitationist pornography. No-one who matters celebrates unconstrained sexual play between adults as delightful, beautiful, deep, loving, human.

We should, in front of the children, and perhaps in front of our own grandparents, watch our mouth. There is no need to offend where offence does no good. But among adults we need not watch what we say any more than we need watch what we think. If you don't like cocks and cunts, and find them too shameful even to mention, you should be offended by them as often as possible. Cunts and cocks should be waved in your face, literally at least. It may not bring you round, so that you begin to love cocks and cunts, but at least it will hamper your efforts to make other people hate them as you do. The best way to instil hatred of something is to forbid the use of its name; the best way to combat that hatred is to glory in the use of its name. If there is one exception to this (but I do not necessarily admit that this is an exception) it is the name of God.

We can argue over 'cunt' versus 'pussy', or 'cock' versus 'dick' or 'prick'. That is a discussion worth having. But 'man part'?

Copulation calls

chimpFemale chimps make noise while fucking - not every time they fuck, but often. Biologists want to know why: why they ever make noise while fucking; why they don't always make noise while fucking. In other words, they want to know what the noises are for.

One explanation that few biologists entertain is that noises made by female chimps while fucking have no effect on anything, and so are not for anything at all. This explanation is scientifically implausible: making noise while fucking is bound to have some effects, as the noise is heard by chimps and non-chimps in earshot. Chimps have rather few predators and are not primarily hunters, so biologists ignore the non-chimps and focus on the chimps. Among the chimps, they focus on those that matter - not the infants, juveniles, or adolescents, but the low-ranking and, especially, high-ranking males and females whose protection is worth having, whose animosity is worth avoiding.

By making noise while fucking, female chimps let any chimps who matter who are in earshot know that they are fucking. The question, 'What are the noises for?' thus becomes the question, 'What effect does it have when a female chimp lets any chimps that matter in earshot know that she is fucking?' The male chimp being fucked then drops out of all consideration; he already knows the female is fucking, for he is being fucked by her. The noises can't tell him anything he doesn't know already. So the noises must be directed at the wider audience - not the male chimp being fucked but the other chimps, and especially the high-ranking ones, in earshot.

Biologists, hampered by the explanatory requirements of their discipline, are forced to reconfigure the question, 'What are the noises for?' in this way. They cannot accommodate the thought that noises made by female chimps while fucking express pleasure. But chimps are closely related to humans; noises made by humans while fucking are known to be expressions of pleasure; so it is very likely that the noises made by female chimps while fucking express pleasure as well.

If the noises made by female chimps express pleasure, then the most likely audience for them is the one the biologists are forced to ignore - the male chimp being fucked. This is a neat account of what the noises are for, in my view. It explains straightforwardly why female chimps only sometimes make noise: only some fucks are pleasurable. But pleasure is biologically inert, and cannot be measured. This kind of account is irremediably unscientific. It cannot be confirmed or falsified. We cannot establish that the noises made by female chimps while fucking express pleasure, or that they do not, unless we have a way to tell whether the fucking is pleasurable or not that does not depend on listening to the noises the female chimps make. And we have no such way to tell. Human females tell us that they enjoy fucking not just by the noises that they make while fucking but also when we ask them whether they enjoy it. They can confirm that, yes, they moan or gasp or wail or cry because it feels so good, and the moans and gasps and wailsand cries express that pleasure. We can't ask the female chimps if they enjoy fucking, so we can't confirm, or deny, that the noises they make while fucking express pleasure.

We might, though, have evidence that counts against the 'expression of pleasure' explanation in its simplest form. A recent study, published in the online journal PLoS One and written up in the New York Times and other newspapers, found that female chimps are noisiest while fucking high-ranking males, and quietest when high-ranking females are in earshot. This suggests that the noises are not simple registers of pleasure. Why should fucking high-ranking males be more pleasurable than fucking low-ranking males? And how could the fact that high-ranking females are in earshot make fucking less pleasurable than it would otherwise be?

To take the first question first: high-ranking males might be better fucks than low-ranking males. Perhaps one way males gain rank is by being a superior fuck. If so, the females may prefer fucking high-ranking males just because it is more pleasurable. But it is not here the rank that really matters; the males are good to fuck, and so gain rank, but gaining rank does not make them any better to fuck. Or perhaps high-ranking males are cockier, more relaxed, get fucked more and so are more experienced at being fucked, better to fuck, and so on. Here rank really matters, because gaining rank makes a male a better fuck, losing rank makes a male a worse fuck. The 'expression of pleasure' explanation need not be abandoned because females are noisiest when fucking high-ranking males. But the fact that female chimps are quietest when high-ranking females are in earshot suggests that the noises made by female chimps while fucking are under some control; female chimps can fuck quietly when they have reason to. This is turn suggests that they can fuck noisily when they have reason to. If a fuck is really good, they can keep quiet about it. If a fuck is bad, they can still make a noise about it. This complicates the question, 'What the noises are for?' considerably. But I do not think it dooms the 'expression of pleasure' account of the noises altogether.

Suppose that the noises female chimps make while fucking communicate pleasure, rather than simply expressing it; suppose, in other words, that male and female chimps who hear the noises understand them as expressions of pleasure. Suppose also that communications of pleasure from a female while fucking are pleasurable to the male she is fucking, perhaps by increasing the pleasure of the fucking itself, or by making the male chimp feel good in some other way. The males are pleased by the pleasure of the females. The females communicate their pleasure to please the males. Were all this so, faking it while fucking high-ranking males would make perfect sense. The high-ranking males are the males to please above all others - the males whose protection is most needed, whose animosity is most to be avoided. These males will be pleased by communications of pleasure from females while fucking them whether those communications reflect the pleasure of the female accurately or not. So the females have good reason to fake it.

If female chimps sometimes fake it, that helps explain why female chimps are noisiest when fucking high-ranking males. We know that female humans sometimes fake it, and humans are closely related to chimps. So it hardly seems unreasonable to suppose that sometimes - when they have reason to - female chimps fake it too.

Why, though, are female chimps quietest when high-ranking females are around? Shame, perhaps, or just embarrassment. Perhaps they don't want to hurt the other female chimps' feelings, or don't want to make them jealous. Perhaps it is a gesture of respect, or deference. Or perhaps trying to be quiet makes fucking more pleasurable, or the female chimps enjoy fucking on the sly. We are used to these kinds of feedback loops between pleasure and its expression in humans; perhaps something like it goes on with the chimps.

This whole account, however, is biologically inert. Pleasure, expression, communication, understanding, faking, shame, embarrassment, sympathy, jealousy, respect, secrecy: every one of these categories is scientifically intractable, and hence useless in scientific explanation. Biologists can do nothing with them. Instead they explain the noises female chimps make while fucking in terms of effects on survival and especially reproduction: by making noise while fucking, female chimps advertise their sexual receptivity to other males, in order to get to fuck those other males, in order to confuse paternity; or they advertise, in order to fuck other males, in order to bring about sperm-competition; or, by making noise while fucking, female chimps incite male-male competition, in order to bring about a more efficient sorting by rank among the males, in order to then select the best males to fuck; by being quiet while high-ranking females are around, female chimps minimize female-female competition, in order to improve access to high-ranking males, or gain the co-operation of powerful females. To the biologists, the audience for the noises female chimps make while fucking cannot be the male chimp being fucked, for that male surely knows he is being fucked anyway. The noises must serve to alert other chimps that fucking is going on, and the benefits of so alerting those chimps is what the noises are for.

I prefer to think that the noises female chimps make while fucking are communications of pleasure, directed mainly at the male being fucked. That is what I think about noises made by female humans; why not think the same of female chimps? In the human case, these communications of pleasure are sometimes sincere, even if they are sometimes insincere. If female chimps enjoy fucking - and why wouldn't they? - these communications of pleasure are sometimes sincere as well.

Shaven, lasered, plucked, waxed

D succumbed to summer and shaved her armpits. So one of my special joys in her has gone. But the greater loss is hers; she delighted in herself unshaven even more than I did. She felt sexier. She was sexier. What, though, is a woman to do, working out at the gym, going to the beach, or on a cruise-ship for a week with her mother and daughters?

Sexual dimorphism is mild in humans compared to most other primates. Girls and boys differ hardly at all, men and women remarkably little. Hairiness is one of the very few aspects of bodily appearance in which there is a significant divergence between the sexes after puberty. Through plucking and shaving, waxing and trimming, this divergence is accentuated and extended. While the boys become hairy men, the girls do their best to remain hairlessly girlish.

Studies of depilation in the US, Australia, and the UK show very high rates of body-hair removal or minimization. Eyebrows are plucked, pubic hair trimmed back to the bikini-line or further, legs and underarms are shaved bare, and facial hair removed. The onset of puberty immediately confronts girls with a clash between their own bodies and the cultural ideals of femininity, and most women begin removing or minimizing body-hair at or before the age of sixteen. An excellent study, 'Body hair removal: the 'mundane' production of normative femininity', published in the research journal Sex Roles, gives the following figures for hair removal or reduction among women in the UK: underarms, 98.6%; legs, 93.6%; pubic region, 85.6%; eyebrows, 82.4%; face, 41.3%; nipples or breasts, 12.5%; stomach, 11%; arms, 8.1%; toes, 2.3%. Anything done by more than eight women in ten is clearly culturally normative, so men like me, who prefer women unaltered, are out of luck.

D's armpits are still sexy if she eschews deodorant, so that I can still go down on them with my mouth, licking and sucking and nipping, tasting her sweat. And they remain for her an erotic zone - I triggered three or four orgasms while fucking her by working them with my mouth just a couple of days after she shaved. But none of that compensates entirely for the sad look of her armpits bereft of the dark, wiry hair that I so loved.

D has recently had much of her leg-hair removed by laser, leaving her thighs and calves smooth and soft. She loves them this way, having hated her hairy legs for almost forty years, and I admit that it is delightful to lick and suck and kiss my way up her legs, moving slowly towards the line at the top of her thighs where her thick, tufted cunt-hair begins. Smooth is much better than stubble, even if unshaven, unlasered, unwaxed is best of all.

[The picture is of Madonna, or so the caption says. Few things made me angrier last year than numerous cruel and shallow remarks about facial hair on her daughter, Lourdes, who is clearly going to be as sexy as her mother.]