Sunday, June 03, 2007


My fantasies are of you.

When I come home, you are naked, seated, by the window, one leg over an arm of the chair. Open. Eyes closed. Your fingers circling the center of your pleasure, the middle two. I watch and take of my clothes. The two fingers disappear inside and you press your palm onto your sex. You spread your lips as you withdraw those fingers. Glistening. The wet rhythmic smack resumes, accelerates, contrapuntal to the muted scritch-scritch-scritch sound of the coarse hair caught in your act. I can smell you; intoxicating. My belt buckle jingles when it hits the floor. Your eyes languidly open, look at my face, see where I'm looking. Your gaze drops to my cock, alive with my pulse, rigid, ready. Again to my eyes, then you roll yours up and close them as the tension arches your back and your abdomen trembles. I nuzzle your fingers gently aside and catch your release as I dance my tongue where your fingers played.

You use your mouth on my nipples. A tongue. Teeth. My cock in your hand, rubbing the head, pumping slowly. My balls, fingernails tracing, a squeeze. You offer me your breast, nipple touching my nose, lips. My one hand slides over the small of your back and over your round ass. I press the palm of my other hand onto your unoccupied nipple, circling becomes a slight pinch. My tongue flicks. You turn and offer your sex to my mouth. As I suck and flick your clit, you masturbate me. You switch from hands to mouth. My fingers penetrate. You turn again and settle back with me inside you. Rising and falling then writhing and pressing. Watching your breasts bounce and shake, I catch the nipples and roll them in my fingers, draw you down to my mouth. As you tremble, I thrust and my release comes.

Saturday, January 06, 2007

Fantasy 01

When you set free your imaginings, what might they be?

I was walking along a wooded trail with a friend on a hot summer day. We were lapsing into and out of conversation when I noticed a distinct moan and whispered encouragements coming from a little grotto on the trail ahead of us. My friend was (is) a bit deaf and missed these utterances. I figured I had several choices: to continue along the trail quietly and possibly catch (and certainly embarrass) the couple; or to discretely warn them of our approach thereby giving them a chance at privacy. I suppose I am not the unrepentant voyeur; I asked my friend (a bit louder than usual) if he knew what type of tree this was? He didn't. It was a beech. Our pause along the trail and raised voices signaled the couple who hastily arranged themselves and continued along the trail.

This sparked my imagination. When I was younger, I was several times the male half of such a couple locked in amorous adventure. These days, I walk softly and carry a camera. So...

The trail follows along a old collapsed dry stone fence line. It was a utilitarian fence interrupted by occasional piles of stone thrown from the fields. Sometimes these piles were robbed for building more fence or small outbuildings. Other times, long gone trees pushed aside the stone. In either case, small, private alcoves are found in the meandering fence. Arrangements have been made and she is there hidden from any viewers on the trail. She'll be nude and masturbating slowly in the dappled sunlight. I can smell her arousal and hear the rhythm of her fingers slipping across wet flesh. As she approaches her climax, her back arches, thrusting her breasts upward. Her hand speeds about her ministrations, fingers now penetrating, now rubbing. Legs open. Lips swell. Fingers and sex glisten with her juices. Her breathing is now irregular, insistent, seeming always toward sharp inhalation and moaning or sibilant exhales. With a final deep breath, her legs shake and belly ripples with her release.

My fantasy is to watch and photograph.

Wednesday, December 27, 2006

Saying no to a stripper

I tipped her while she was dancing and at the end of her set she came over to whisper "Thank you." into my ear. As she leans in, her loose scoop-necked blouse fell away from her chest. There they are, up close and personal, her large, full breasts with dark brown nipples gently swaying against the cloth. She kneels in front of me, hands on my legs and asks, "Do you want a couch dance?" (That's the two-for-one special during happy hour.) At this point, I suppose one might say my problem is that I've seen her naked: she's enhanced with tattoos and too many extra-curricular piercings for my liking. There is no denying she is young and beautiful, but just not what I prefer to spend my money on.
"Not right now, thanks".

That night, a slender, small-breasted blond, a bit older, but sans decorations, got my money. I've previously enjoyed her delectable distractions.

Saturday, August 12, 2006


Our animal heritage has given us a genetic pre-disposition for the importance and appreciation of the female reproductive organs, the cunt. This appreciation, however, doesn't lead to understanding. And, unfortunately, a cunt doesn't come with an assembly or owner's manual either. We all, male and female, become empiricists, exploring and prodding, and having a few eureka momements.

There are unmistakable signals that harken back along the dim evolutionary trail. She opens her legs. Females of many species display their readiness and willingness to mate by the public display of their genitalia. From Deer to Baboons and Chimps, when she turns and exposes herself, you're in. Maybe. Sometimes you have to prove that you are the baddest male in the herd, troop, whatever. With human females, there is another signal indicating consent. Allan Sherman wrote in "Rape of the A.P.E." that women have a point of no return. At some point, a woman will make a decision and indicate she is ready to advertise by opening her legs. That final indicator of "yes" is lifting her ass; unless she lifts her ass, you (or she) can't remove her panties. For those who haven't read it, Sherman was specifically referring to the site of the mating rituals that destroyed the American Puritan Ethic ("A.P.E."), the backseat of the family car. (You probably didn't own your own car back then.)

So, she decides and lifts her ass. You remove her panties. Maybe it is only a touch, an excursion, but the knees separate as she leans back and her sex is exposed. Hirsute or shaven, the slit is unmistakable but the rest is complicated.

Men are undeniably simple: just show up naked and we have a handle. Touch it, taste it, slip it inside until it jerks and spurts, in the sexual arena, that's the main thing we want. OK, some feedback that we are on the right track wouldn't hurt. Porno dialog isn't particularly useful: "Oh! Yeahhh. Fuck me big boy." "Touch me there" and "that feels incredible" are instructive and better.

Open, swelling, wet, tasty, aromatic, slick. The cunt is a delightful treat. That's not all a woman is, but, if you could figure out either the woman or the cunt, you'll be much better off.

Friday, July 14, 2006


There is just something about a hot summer day, an icy glass of lemonaide, a thin cotton dress, and a woman. It is one of my fantasies to photograph such a scenario.

Cotton print dress: buttons, front, neck to hem, top three open. Early evening rain, whispering straight down through vivid green trees. Lemonaid, the heady bight of rum. Drops fall from glass and sky. Sipping. Fabric translucent in spreading circles, now here, then there. Cool. Wet. Nipples tumescent. Ice cube, dripping even colder. Light touch, here, there. Hands slow and languid then one by one, no buttons. Open. Ice on flesh; electric shock. Fingertips, slide, rhythmic. Slow tensioning. The sigh of release.

Sunday, July 09, 2006

Musings on a piercing

I paid a young woman to show me her pussy. This is, of course, standard practice in "gentlemen's establishments" where nude lap dancing is offered. I'm old enough and sufficiently set in my ways to ask for exactly what I want and will pay for it. I much prefer women with natural, unenhanced breasts; big or small, I don't care. As for piercings and tattoos, the fewer the better. I'm not being judgemental. A stripper's body is definitely her personal artistic space. I just don't want to pay for a roadrunner tattoo to be waggled in my face. This particular stripper, the one who was displaying herself to me, had short blond hair and glasses, a unique and intriguing quality. She was enthusiastic and petite. As I sprawled on the couch, she definitely knew she had an effect on me. At various times, her breasts, ass, and pussy were rubbing on my erection. If not for my pants, she could have been penetrated. I'm NOT hung like a porn star, but everything of mine works just fine (thank you). Appointments with bouncers are untimely and unpleasant, so I dutifully keep my hands (et al) to myself.

During the course of the entertainment, I noticed she was delicately pierced. A small gold ring was imbedded in the hood of flesh above her clitoris. I'm sure she did this for her personal pleasure. As I observed her writhing and enjoyed the pressure of her body on mine, this ring set me to wondering , what is the nature of her pleasure? Cynically, I'm a walking cash register of minimal interest to this woman. By feel, she knows she can please me. Over the course of an evening, however, does she get turned on by anything or is she jaded to the extent it is simply a job that pays better than McBurger's? In an all nude establishment, what does a stripper do when she gets turned on and wet? I don't specifically want to turn her on, but I do want to believe she somehow continues to enjoy sex somewhere and with someone. Masturbation, a lesbian friend, a male lover, someone who cares enough about her to give her the pleasure the little ring deserves.

A reader might reasonably wonder why I visit such establishments. I love my wife very much and am not interested in sex with anyone but her. However, she is a fuck-in-the-dark person. I, on the other hand, am visually oriented. I'm generally disappointed in mainstream porn. Those fingernails? YES!, YES!, UMMMM! AAHHH! YES! (for how long?) Can those silicone breasts get any more rigid? So it is, that I occasionally go to a local strip club, pick a woman with natural breasts and minimal tattoos or piercings, and spend my money for a beer and get to look at her all I want.

Saturday, July 08, 2006


Welcome to the little place where I let my id out to play. This is my place to say "fuck." I'll be posting musings on sexuality, erotica, and anything else I damn well please. The id, or "das Es," is the reservoir of need-gratification impulses such as the primitive instinctual drive of sexuality (see Wikipedia).

I'll begin with a short piece of writing I submitted for a story contest to Desdmona:


I suggested, “Remember that movie with Sharon Stone where she uncrosses her legs, pauses, and then crosses them again? She sucked the power from the men in that room into her pussy.”

The hotel bar is in an open atrium. I order two bourbons, neat. When served, I take one and begin lazily swirling it, warming the liquid and releasing its woody aromatics. I watch the consierge at his station. The elevator chimes and doors open. Her entrance is announced by the staccato impact of her stiletto heels on the polished marble floor. The consierge looks up, a minimal effort to break the ennui of the muted babel filling the lobby, and he can't stop looking. She advances with fluid, measured steps. Male and female, guests and employees, they all follow the lead of the consierge and discover her.

The heels make her appear taller. She wears a black pinstripe jacket with a red rose in the lapel. Under the jacket, she has two items: a white silk dress shirt and a red sash. That's all. I know. Only the shirt's bottom button (the one that usually tucks below the belt) is fastened. It is hidden by the knotted sash that rides impossibly low on her hip. Like a ship, languidly rolling, tilting left, then right, the sash rises and falls, a hypnotic pendulum. Her leg pushes the shirttail hanging in front to one side and then the other. The treasure beneath remains imagined.

Only the audience can't keep their eyes on her hips. Exposed skin, bounded by loose silk, draws their gazes upward. Her undulating breasts tease, curves disappearing behind the seams, hinting at the possibility of full disclosure. As she navigates the lobby, the jacket opens slightly to reveal an erect nipple pressing into the cloth. Maybe it is guilt, but once again, they have to look higher where they meet her green eyes. As she approaches them, she looks from one to the next. Like a sniper, she picks each one off; watches them redden, acknowledges that they are caught looking, frozen, and helpless. She crosses the lobby in only seconds of time suspended.

She stops at the table's edge, legs slightly apart. She takes the other drink. We tap our glasses together and drain them in a wordless toast to reckless adventure. She bends to meet my lips in a kiss, just enough to lift her shirt tail. After the overture, the curtain rises and the play starts. The audience watches as my fingers caress the inside of her leg and drift upward to the curves and slit of her revealed sex. Just as I warmed the bourbon, I cup her sex and slide my fingers over her moistening cunt. The plot is revealed; everyone knows she is groomed completely smooth.

We stand. I look at my watch, smile, drop a $50 on the table, and we exit. The limousine is on time. She is on top this evening.