Tuesday, 29 December 2009

Nocturnal Emissions

Last night I woke up, too hot under the duvet, sweaty skin tingling with cold outside it. The cover was too small for us. Virgil seemed restless. I lay awake thinking of my many failings and wished for escape back into sleep.

Virgil's sleeping hands wandered over my body, as they often do in the night. He also loves to grind his nocturnal hard-ons against my drowsing arse. I have woken in the night to find him asleep on top of me, pushing his way into my cunt, and I haven't stopped him. Fortunately he seems to have acquired a subconscious override on that particular drive.

I sat up to look for some water and he bobbed up too, asking in a clear voice with no sleep in it what was up. We drank. I told him that I was bothered because I was shit at my job, couldn't remember the name of someone's boyfriend and I didn't have a friend to bring to Virgil's New Year's party.

He comforted me. I was too hot. He was cold and needed to cuddle me, but where our bodies connected it burned. I shook out the duvet and then the pillows. We lay side by side and I worked out that I could stay the right temperature if his leg touching mine was counterbalanced by my opposite hand being outside the duvet.

We thought of the elements a modern day nativity scene might contain. Would the Jesus have been born in a shopping basket or wheelie bin chamber, attended by stray animals and three passing drunks in the light of the Star Food and Wine?

I wanted to give Virgil a blow job the other day. Without particularly needing anything myself, I had a desire to render him helpless with pleasure while I played with his cock and balls, to prolongue the experience until he gave himself up to me.

That morning we had started having sex and he had refused to fuck me until he had already made me come. I had resisted this for quite a while. I even considered pushing him away but I enjoy his mouth and fingers too much. He has a knack of finding his way into all the right places, so that he goes more and more gently and deeply, everywhere, until I have these strong, deep overwhelming orgasms. But after that being fucked can be something of an anti-climax.

I don't often come while I'm being fucked, unless it's from behind, with his cock stroking my G-spot and a vibrator on my clit. To come from fucking alone, missionary style, is one of my favourite things and a rare treat. I have to be really turned on and really relaxed, and then it can happen.

That morning I would have liked that, but I gave in to Virgil's mouth and fingers instead. Then I wanted to give the experience back to him later. So I kissed and touched and worked around his balls, thighs, belly. I made my palms slippery with spit and stroked and kneaded his balls as I wanked and sucked his cock.

A little less teeth, he gasped. Sorry, I said, and I concentrated.

I do love sucking his cock, playing with his body and feeling him respond. I get excited seeing and tasting the beads of pre-come that squeeze out of the tip.

As he got more excited we stopped and started a few times. I wanted to hold him near the edge of coming. I didn't want him to be either hurrying towards or backpedalling from orgasm. But as I slowed right down and started to tease his cock he pulled the hair on the back of my head really hard and tried to push my mouth down onto it. I didn't let him. He's not strong enough to force me.

Then he pushed me off and said, stop. You need to be less, like, complicated, when I'm really excited like this. Just simple sucking and wanking is good - the other stuff gets too sensitive and almost painful. I said ok. Sorry. We stopped, and I don't know whether that was what he wanted or whether he was too proud or cross or simply too sore to ask for it. I suppose I'm not as good at oral sex as I thought. Then again, there's something to be said for the spirit in which it's received.
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Thursday, 24 December 2009

Hot Chocolate

Virgil once told me that if one ever runs in to sex party people in real life it's at odd moments. So it was apposite that yesterday night, when he, my Mum, my sister and I came out of the theatre and were looking for somewhere to get a drink, we should be near __. This area is something of a black hole for nice cosy places for hot chocolate, and it was starting to rain.

Finally I remembered a small, independent gay cafe I had frequented in more female-centric days when I had a girlfriend and wore baggy Carhartts. It's really relaxed, with nice cakes, salads and herbal teas. It was right across the street.

We all trooped in. Virgil and the cute man serving at the counter exchanged smiles and a hello. We drank our hot drinks and discussed the merits of the lead actors in the musical we'd seen. As an aside, Virgil whispered to me that the man at the bar was the man at the sex party whose balls he had recently played with. At the party he had been playing a living doll. I remembered him from a kinky cafe that used to be nearby. He would bare his sculpted chest for the viewing pleasure of the clientele while he served them coffee and cake.
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Tuesday, 22 December 2009

Spanking Considered

Few things are as stimulating to me as being unceremoniously upended, clothes pulled roughly out of the way, skirt up or trousers and knickers down, across someone’s knee, there to be toyed with, chastised and spanked. A questioning finger, should it probe my pussy while I protest and squirm, will almost always confirm my excitement.

I like the itchy feeling of wool trousers against my bare thighs, the feeling of an arm clamped around my waist or pressing in the small of my back to keep me still. It makes me wet to know how undignified my position is, to know that the pale globes of my buttocks are under the hands and quite inescapably in the sights of the one who is going to mete out a beating on me.

A close second to this scenario involves ceremony and decorum. I might be ordered to strip or assume a certain position. I like my knickers to be taken down slowly. I might have to keep still and be good, or (excitingly) be tied in place so that I can take a harder spanking or beating than I would otherwise be able to keep still for.

I may obey instructions with docility or grudgingly and with argument. Again, the knowledge of my exposure is a powerful intoxicant. The anticipation of blows and pain to come heightens all of the senses. I may have to account for evidence of previous beatings and I enjoy doing so for it all adds to the experience of subjugation.

Spankings, as well as being erotic and shaming, should hurt. At at least some point, they should actually hurt too much, and this pain is cathartic, bringing a sense of relaxation and release.

I have mixed feelings about bruises and whelts. If a loved one has inflicted them, I like them more. If they are very impressive, I am impressed. If they are absent I probably haven’t been spanked hard enough. However, I don’t wear bruises as badges of glory and they are quite inconvenient with respect to my job and my hobbies. But I do so like the feeling of being tender the next day and to notice it as I lean back in my chair.

I was not beaten as a child - just the occasional back-hand of fury when I had goaded a tired parent into losing their temper. In everyday life I don’t submit easily to authority. Spanking is probably a situation in which I symbolically balance this out. I absolutely need to respect the person spanking me.

It helps, therefore, if I believe that they are wiser or cleverer than me, and I am drawn to people who have some kind of self-assurance or power (not bullies, though, and the idea that I am bolstering someone’s sense of self by allowing them to beat me is a huge turn off). I like the idea of a chastiser who is rather a lot older, although age is less important than brains.
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Monday, 21 December 2009

The Prospect of a Threesome

How would you feel about a threesome? Virgil asked me about a fortnight ago. I knew who he was talking about. Virgil likes Dee and she likes both of us.

Dee is a new acquaintance. She's very clever and funny and kinky. She's American and has a boyfriend in New York. She understands these things. I find D striking rather than beautiful. Physically she's not the type of woman I usually go for, but she has that all important edge and anyway I don't give too much credence to types. And, having done a certain amount of Facebook stalking of her, there's no doubt: she's hot in her pictures.

Virgil met Dee first at a sex party that he went to a month or so ago. I was working; he went in connection with some parties we are planning. Dee is involved in this plan too. There will be plenty of time and opportunity to get to know her. Anyway, Virgil told me about her, and then I met her and liked her too.

I'm thinking very seriously about it, I told him, but I don't know yet. The problem with a situation like this is this: Virgil and Dee have a mutual attraction. I've seen them spark with each other and it's cute. They may or may not have specifically talked about having a threesome, but enough has been communicated. It's in the air.

Today Virgil told me that he's seeing Dee tomorrow evening, 'although she's being terribly flakey and it might well not happen'. What the fuck? I thought. It's not Virgil who needs to see Dee: it's me. I'm the one who needs to spend some more time with her to decide whether I want this threesome or not. If they meet then they're racing ahead. But I kept my thoughts to myself. I trust Virgil. If he wants to see Dee on his own that's his business but I don't know what he thinks he might achieve from it.
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Saturday, 19 December 2009

Sin With a Grin

Peta and Jack were the classiest couple I met through the sex site I used to frequent. Their joint profile was so impressive that when I first read it I actually didn't dare contact them. Eventually they wrote to me.

It was mid-summer when I turned up at their flat one Sunday for dinner. The flat was Peta's but Jack had moved in, and together they had transformed it from a shabby Edwardian end of terrace to a 50s-inspired showcase of their good taste and originality. They were equally attractive: both intelligent, fun, articulate, interesting and sexy.

Owing to Peta having just one hour before started her period, it was only dinner. I left with the firm intention of visiting again soon. Peta, unfortunately, was about to go away for three weeks on business, but a week later Jack called and invited me to dinner. I asked if Peta would be there. He said no. I went anyway.

Cycling past a tube station in north London today, I see a face I recognize. Looking pretty and cold, with almost-black curls poking out of her wool beret, it's Peta. I think she sees me look back, noticing her. I should turn around immediately to say hello, but although I hesitate my first instinct is to hide and then, moving with the traffic, I've left it too long.

So I couldn't say hello to Peta because I had fucked her boyfriend without her and then I fucked them both together. That was weird and, in hindsight, probably one of the wrongest things I've ever done. Imagine pretending to someone that her partner was new to you; that you hadn't, a week before, in her flat, in her bed, used her sex toys, fucked her boyfriend, listened to his anecdotes... I'm not proud of that.

Actually, I can't remember how we did it exactly. I definitely did not make a point of exclaiming over the uniqueness of his cock or asking how he liked to be sucked. But maybe I should have because Jack told me later that Peta had had suspicions. That was unsurprising. He had of course denied it, and if she had believed him it was a measure of both the depth of her trust and his ability to deceive.

If Peta had recognized the side of my face under my winter hat she will have had her suspicions confirmed. If we had spoken she might have asked me and I would have told her the truth. Apart from a cup of coffee one day I never hooked up with Jack or Peta again, either together or separately. Jack told me that Peta had a 'one time only' policy with the people they played with. For myself, it just didn't feel right: the experience taught me that I don't like subterfuge.

Jack contacted me a few times, the last time to say that he and Peta had 'parted on good terms' - whatever that means. I have no idea what she does or doesn't know and cannot know which would be better. So here is a poem by Ogden Nash, which I think sums things up nicely:

Inter-Office Memorandum

The only people who should really sin
Are the people who can sin with a grin,
Because if sinning upsets you,
Why, nothing at all is what it gets you.
Everybody certainly ought to eschew all offences however venial
As long as they are conscience's menial.
Some people suffer weeks of remorse after having committed the slightest peccadillo,
And other people feel perfectly all right after feeding their husbands arsenic or smothering their grandmother with a pillow.
Some people are perfectly self-possessed about spending their lives on the verge of delirium tremens,
And other people feel like hanging themselves on a coathook just because they took that extra cocktail and amused their fellow guests with recitations from the poems of Mrs. Hemans.
Some people calmly live a barnyard life because they find monogamy dull and arid,
And other people have sinking spells if they dance twice in an evening with a lady to whom they aren't married.
Some people feel forever lost if they are riding on a bus and the conductor doesn't collect their fare,
And other people ruin a lot of widows and orphans and all they think is,
Why there's something in this business of ruining widows and orphans, and they go out and ruin some more and get to be a millionaire.
Now it is not the purpose of this memorandum, or song,
To attempt to define the difference between right and wrong;
All I am trying to say is that if you are one of the unfortunates who recognize that such a difference exists,
Well, you had better oppose even the teensiest temptation with clenched fists,
Because if you desire peace of mind it is all right to do wrong if it never occurs to you that it is wrong to do it,
Because you can sleep perfectly well and look the world in the eye after doing anything at all so long as you don't rue it,
While on the other hand nothing at all is any fun
So long as you yourself know it is something you shouldn't have done.
There is only one way to achieve happiness on this terrestrial ball,
And that is to have either a clear conscience, or none at all.
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Thursday, 17 December 2009


When Virgil and I met, over a year ago now, I was under the spell of a Dom. I would disappear off to south London and return with bruises and food for thought.

My connection with the Dom was going nowhere. It was an infatuation that had started in the summer when he wrote to me through a BDSM contact site. Getting to know the actual Dom, as opposed to the fantasy I had concocted, was a process of personal reeducation and some disillusionment. However, I did have some interesting D-s experiences with him.

I had really wanted to find a proper Dom to have a D-s relationship with and submit to, someone to punish and cherish me. When I tried to explain the appeal of it, my friend Marcia laughed and said that everyone needed the occasional day tied to the radiator. But increasingly, as well as Radiator Days there were days with Virgil. Virgil at that time was known to Marcia as the Boy Genius, and those days we called Chandelier Days.

Virgil got to know quite a lot about the Dom (they eventually met, although much later and under circumstances I could not have predicted). I didn't know it, but he had already fallen in love with me. I am sure that my other pursuits added to my initial appeal.

Virgil isn't my Dom, of course, but there isn't room for a proper Dom in my life now that I am in a relationship with him. I don't think there could be, although I sometimes wonder whether an occasional visit to a disciplinarian might be possible.

Virgil still likes to tease about my D-s adventures. He reacts with rolling eyes and gleeful derision to the Gothic accessories, hackneyed sterotypes and labels of much BDSM but he readily admits to lurking on the fringes of that scene. I am grateful that leather waistcoats and chaps are not for him. Instead he makes a wonderfully cruel and boyishly handsome Prefect. He also enjoys giving a good beating quite as much as I enjoy taking one.
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Wednesday, 16 December 2009

Stewing About an Argument About Sex

There are different kinds of sex. In the same way that I enjoy a varied diet of anything, I like them all - but none to the exclusion of all others. Virgil sends me a message yesterday saying I miss you. We are both working at home, me in quotation marks and him for real with his nose to the grindstone.

I decide to go and work in his warm spacious flat. This morning we lie in bed, curled around each other like sleepy mustelids, but we don't have sex. We are companionable but preoccupied. I get out my books. He sits at his computer. We work. Mid-morning we stop for sausage and scrambled egg.

My attention has started to wander. After breakfast I pull him into the bedroom and onto the bed. He pulls my legs off the bed and holding me around the thighs pulls down my tracksuit bottoms to expose my pussy. His tongue and fingers play around the top of my clit and I am straightaway very excited.

Virgil knows all about how to please me with his tongue but I don't want this and quite soon I push him away and tell him that I want him to take his clothes off so that I can touch him too. I say I want to lick his balls.

No, he says. We're playing clothed man naked woman and I'm clothed and you're naked.

I say that I want sex. He replies that we don't have time to do that properly but if I don't want a blow job I don't have to have one.

I agree and pull away, which I don't think he was expecting. I am angry. I don't want a fucking 'service'. I have been building up to an expression of discontent for some time. It's ok to be made to come with oral sex and then fucked for a few minutes. It's enough but it's not a feast.

For me, and many other women, good sex leads less to satiety and more to greed. Good sex makes me want more. To my disappointment I have never cracked the art of multiple orgasms (Hitachi Magic Wands don't count) but I can have a few. More important, it's the unhurriedness, the becoming absorbed in the act and in each other that I want.

I jump up and dress. I want to go. I'm turned on and annoyed. Instead Virgil makes me sit on the sofa and talk. I tell him some of the things that have been on my mind. I say that I understand that he's been working so hard recently but that he needs to understand that perfunctory fucks and oral sex are no substitute for the kind of sex that I need.

There are two unfairnesses at the core of today's heterosexual politics, at the very least in mine and Virgil's relationship. The first is that the male (Virgil) must spend a quite disproportionate length of time pleasing his partner. He must delay his own relatively meagre and easily attained blips of sexual gratification and focus instead on the female's sexual pleasure. He must help her (Harlot) to reach her full potential and find new ways and places in which to have more and better orgasms.

The other unfairness, unfortunately, is that in this electorate of two Virgil holds the casting vote on whether sex actually happens. It's not even simply that his cock is either hard or it's not. I cannot make him. I cannot even pressure him. Sometimes I writhe with frustration.

Virgil says he doesn't want to be in a relationship which is a war. I know he is right, that we are not on opposite sides but are in this together. I also feel guilty for trying to take him away from his work. I'm still horny and on edge. I'm not making a very good job at keeping my feelings to myself. I'm huffing and stabbing away at the keyboard as Virgil does something with Google Adwords and he comes to ask what is wrong.

I wish it was so simple to just go and get satisfaction somewhere else. I simply could not. To fuck someone else while I am angry with Virgil and in place of having sex with him is so beyond the pale that I can't stand the thought of it.
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Tuesday, 15 December 2009

Facebook Fear

Facebook is a horribly leaky situation for someone like me whose life is compartmentalised (to say the least).

A few months ago, Virgil, during a phonecall, pointed me in the direction of the Facebook page of "City Confidential - Exclusive Swingers Parties". I absent mindedly clicked through to it, joined, went off and forgot all about it.

When I came back to my laptop several hours later there was a smirky little message in my inbox from an acquaintance I know through work. It must have been announced on her news feed. My stomach turned over. I fired back a single interrogative for a reply and set about changing my privacy settings.

Now things are a little more secure, and work colleagues can no longer see my news feed, pages/groups I belong to, status updates and most of my pictures. Since becoming friends of the threesome on Facebook I have set up a new list called 'Party people' and they are not able to access directly my work/education information. Not that this is going to deter someone with a bit of intelligence.

Some days ago we wrote to Citycouple suggesting dates we would be available for a webcam meeting but we haven't heard back. I do believe the same has happened with the sexy young can't-spells for whom Virgil has suspended his usual insistence on good writing skills.
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Saturday, 12 December 2009

A Disappointment, and We Rescue a Damsel From a Distressing Situation

The party is on the ground floor of a new-build block of flats in a business district of the city. The venetian blinds are drawn but light comes round the sides. I say, maybe we should have a code word for if we want to leave. Virgil rolls his eyes and says, the code word is I want to go now.

We don't know the door code. I phone Bob and he comes out to get us. In fact, he's so fast that he might almost have been standing behind the front door. Simone comes to say hello wearing a black basque and G-string. She laughs and says she didn't have time to go home between work and the party... Agnes is wearing a chemise and french knickers with a woolen cardigan over the top.

Simone looks a bit intoxicated already. She's putting on a show, being a sex party hostess. I think of Alison Steadman in Abigail's Party. Agnes actually does look rather sexy. I am aware of other people in the background looking at us, the new arrivals.

Virgil says later that he knew within seconds that we weren't going to stay and get involved. It is the same for me. The room is over-lit and there is a light haze of cigarette smoke. The smell is almost the first thing I notice. A dozen or so people are sitting on sofas or standing around, and with the exception of one woman none look attractive or interesting.

It's the WAG aesthetic again. The girls are mostly wearing little party dresses with big heels and I imagine them in their bedrooms going online and connecting with people online. They look too young and blandly unoriginal. They are drinking a blue vodka drink and I don't want to talk to them.

We talk to our hosts, and I make sure that we sit next to the interesting-looking woman. We introduce ourselves to Avril, and find that the man who I had taken for her partner is just another guest and that she is here alone. She looks out of place and it's true: her attendance at this sex party is actually the result of a slight misunderstanding with Bob.

Half the people in the room are suddenly absent - they have gone to one of the bedrooms. In the respite this gives, we drink champagne, talk to Avril, and our hosts, and consider what would be the earliest time we could leave without appearing to bolt. A man wearing only pants appears and pays court to Avril on the sofa. He leans into her, making his point with some emphasis and gesticulating. Avril holds her seat but by the way her face is pulled right back she does not seem to appreciate his attention.

Our departure time arrives. We are going to go to a burlesque show in the East End. Virgil invites Avril to accompany us and she literally leaps to her feet. We realise with some concern that our coats must be in the action room. I am dispatched to get them because Virgil in a rare unchivalrous moment is adamant that it would look less creepy (I will have revenge for that).

Fortunately the room is an L-shape and when I enter I am screened from most of the people. There is a bathroom immediately to my left. Simone sees me and backs me into it with a gleam in her eye. There then follows a whispered negotiation in which she agrees to fetch the coats in return for a kiss and a promise that I will be in touch again. What can I do?

She goes to get the coats. I gently but firmly push away a grinning man who approaches, waving his cock at me. Simone can't find the coats: I have to go into the main area, where several couples are fucking on the bed while men stand around, cocks in hands, watching.

I retrieve our coats from the wardrobe. New-build bedrooms are tiny. We are grinning as we walk away. The fresh air is so good. Virgil is righteously annoyed at the lack of attention to detail and the poor quality of the guests. I am disappointed, having hoped that this invitation might have been an entree to good adventures, but mostly just glad to be gone.
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A Period Drama

We have been invited to a sex party. The hosts are a threesome. Their Facebook profiles say young, attractive and professional. The communication has been funny and friendly, first on the swingers site, then by Facebook and finally this morning I was drinking coffee and checking my email when a chat window popped up and it was Agnes, one of the women, saying hello. After a text chat with her I felt much more inclined to go and truly interested in meeting them and their friends.

Somehow the anonymity of a larger party is less threatening. But I think the smaller group would be sexier and the quality of the guests more certain. I had been anxious about the enforced intimacy of the situation, of being trapped (I messaged to Virgil after) with braying dunces. He suggested there should be an app for detecting braying dunces and I told him that after he'd finished writing our Christmas number one he could invent one.

My period is due the same day as the party. It's both a drag and a useful get-out card to explain deciding not to go. We haven't decided yet, anyway. On one hand, this circling around other couples on the internet feels slow, boring, ineffectual. The days when I rushed home to check for messages on my singles profile ended long ago, not long after meeting Virgil, who was my last conquest on that site (I was his first). Then again, to go to a sex party knowing that one isn't going to be able to do whatever one wants could present its own difficulties.

I'm a mixture of apprehensive and impatient. Part of my impatience with this situation comes from a sense that Virgil and I need to keep growing in our relationship, pushing boundaries and testing the strength of our attachment and suitability. I don't want to settle into complacency. It's too soon for that. I want to see how far we can go. I love him very deeply. I have never loved someone in the way that I love Virgil.

We agreed at the beginning that there would be space for other sexual partners in our relationship but that was some time ago now. At first the intensity of our discovering each other left no time or energy for that. Now acting on it will be part of how we evolve. I have never tried to share someone and let them go in this way.

It is, finally, the link to the last paragraph. I'm unsure about going to a sex party without being able to fully participate. I might get jealous or upset. It would limit Virgil in what he could do. We need to discuss this. Unfortunately we are both working evenings this week, and they are different evenings. I'm doing graveyard shifts at the scandalous rag. He's interviewing people on the telephone in America.
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Sunday On The Graveyard Shift

I have looked too much at Facebook and eBay.

I spent an hour this morning writing to Citycouple, responding to what they had written and adding some comments of my own. What an investment of time this thing is. No more writing to those two, anyway. We need to do some webcamming and find out whether it would be worth meeting face to face.

Ironically, Virgil and I have not even had the time recently to have much sex. When we are together we have been too tired, or out, or on our way out, it's too late, or early. Or I don't feel sexual at the time and then am frustrated as hell in the hours we're not together. I still have a great hunger for him and such feelings of love. I become distracted thinking about him. I feel as though I want to spend every hour possible, even if just to be in the same room companionably while we work, read, write. I have a sense that I should not try to rush through this phase though, and that to sate this hunger would be to eat myself sick.

I told Virgil that I'd been writing about this and he asked why I was not also writing about my own experiences, with my last relationship, then discovering sex sites, BDSM, the Dom and so on. Oh, so that is my recent sexual history in a nutshell: from sexual guilt and no sex, to sex sites and sex with men again; kink; the Dom; Virgil; orgy ambitions. I find it hard to write about anything that doesn't feel quite alive, which is why it is so much better to write as things happen, rather than the edited version my memory will create later. Back further than that?
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More Website Issues and a Reccy

Project Swing bumps slowly along, with almost no website activity and no one I'm at all excited about on the horizon. We have written to a few people so there is little to do as we wait for their responses. We like to set people homework and give them questions to answer. This is Virgil's idea and I approve of it.

We recently received a response from the female half of 'CityCouple' (not an inspiring moniker and I'm not turned on by their pictures but the correspondence has been reasonable) listing the three things she could not live without as 1. laughter (with a link to her favourite funny website. It's a risk. Lots of comedy isn't instantly funny: it grows on you - it's like trying to explain why Curb Your Enthusiasm is so hilarious to someone who has never watched it.). Items 2. and 3. were the sublime (or, as she put it, normal things that suddenly seem amazing) and her friends.

She's something of a romantic then, nourished by the intangible. His considered, much more crafted response, suggested a more materialist nature: good food, good company and the consumption of culture were his choices. We are also being pursued by a couple, who have sent us a note or two and an invitation to view their private photo album, in which the woman lolls on her back, fingers toying with her shaved cunt. I don't really like the photos. I especially don't warm to the photos of the man, who looks to be something of an amateur photographer, in which he pouts to left and right, trying out expressions for the camera.

For all that Virgil and I like to write, and have spent a fair amount of creative energy representing ourselves in prose, we have spent next to no time on portraiture, an omission we intend to remedy soon but never quite get around to. The pursuing couple look a bit too old - not too old for me, really, but too old for Virgil, who is seven years younger than I am.

Age is something we often disagree about. I cannot imagine having someone younger than, say 26, which is 12 years younger than me. I may appear younger than my years (when I'm not looking tired or cross), but I don't want to feel old in a group situation. Virgil has been writing to an attractive young couple, attractive enough that he's not deterred by their problems with grammar, punctuation and spelling, which he is usually a total stickler for. They sound nice though, and the photographs speak for themselves.

Virgil once introduced me to a much younger lover of his who wanted to experience other women sexually with the idea that we three might play. The nature of their relationship was one of pedagogue and ingenue. She wanted to submit and be used, while knowing nothing of the language and rituals of BDSM. There was a side of her that wanted to be tied up, gagged and raped, and Virgil was happy to oblige. The plot foundered largely because of the age gap, although we were also very different people.

Virgil said that he was motivated mostly by the desire to groom someone in order to share her with me but I know that he genuinely found her intriguing and had some kind of affection for her. At the very least he had a sense that what was happening between the two of them had its own course to run and that he owed it to her to do that. She was very young and startlingly attractive, uncertain of herself but in a process of becoming something. It wasn't clear what exactly, but she had potential. If she had not died, suddenly and unexpectedly, what kind of interesting situation might have developed?

Her family chose to bury her rather than wait for a full coroner's investigation. I accompanied Virgil to the funeral, where he looked gaunt and unhappy. So far she has been the only lover I've shared with him, as far as I know, and not for long at that. I wonder if I might have become jealous of her over time, if she and Virgil had continued some kind of relationship? It was at a time before we had acknowledged the bond that was growing between us and used the word 'relationship'.

What would my top three things be, apart from Virgil, the things I could not live without? Food. Sex. Books. The sun. Trees. We went to a queer cafe/social night last night in a squalid squat in the back of ___ called The Butchery, named after its original function. Apart from the crowd of ___ and queer alternatives, a sizeable film crew with some really fancy-looking equipment was shooting outside. It gave the proceedings, said Virgil, an air of being staged. We wondered if we were going to see ourselves in some documentary soon after.

The visit was in order to meet Lucian, who I wanted to involve in a sex party project. He would be a good link to the queer alternative set and has experience. He's also charming and hot, although I don't know how much women figure in his sexual preferences. We didn't actually get to talk at all as the night was unexpectedly successful and Lucian was being kept busy behind a counter loaded with vegan cakes, stuffed peppers and cans of cider.

An acquaintance of Virgil's also showed up, as well as quite a few of mine who don't know about the sex party plans and with whom I am not ready to share... so not a lot of talking got done but Virgil and Lucian got to shake hands and we promised a proper meet soon. There was a swaying-drunk but cartoon-gorgeous girl with pink hair and freckles who bared her small, pierced breasts at us (well, me more than Virgil, I like to think), ostensibly to show off a large tattoo of a Keralan Communist wearing a sari and waving a flag across her shapely torso.

Conversation lurched to a halt. I had no idea how to handle a girl like that, finding her both instantly beguiling and impossible to talk to. Virgil teased me horribly about it after and told me how obvious my attraction was and how wooden I was. What does one say in those situations? I have no idea, and generally descend into platitudes and insincere affirmations. I stared at her tits, and complimented her on her tattoo. Even though it was not attractive it was at least quite original I guess.
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Wednesday, 2 December 2009

As In, To Swing

Which is more important: sexual fidelity or trust? Would you rather discover that your lover had had other sexual partners besides you, or find that you had been deceived in some way, that your love had been unreciprocated or that you had been strung along in a relationship of not-equals?

It is one of our founding principals, as yet barely tested, that we are both free to seek out others for sex if we wish and so long as we do so in a way that is respectful of the feelings of the other. We wrote this into the constitution of our relationship. First and foremost, however, and maybe because the shoots and roots of our love are still so tender and green, we want to experience other lovers together.

We want to ‘share’ each other, we tell each other, and so we seek other couples primarily, maybe because four’s more interesting than three or because it gives both of us the chance to indulge our liking for same-sex sex. I have a sense that couples are safer, or rather the risk of emotional entanglement is more evenly shared. Also, a single, emotionally unattached playmate could be something of a loose cannon on the decks.

Unfortunately, with the exception of a couple of casual encounters, unsatisfying in their brevity and lack of intimate connection, we have yet to strike it lucky. Several sex parties and a variety of online resources, including the contact site through we met, have so far failed to yield people we can get excited about. We have had two dates with other couples. No chemistry was present at either of these meetings, and it all felt rather forced and tiring. There were more sexy, interesting-looking people on the night bus home from the ‘exclusive’ swingers’ social we attended not long ago than there were at the event itself.

Virgil, who has more experience of these things than I, says that it’s actually easier at proper sex parties where people turn up, lose their clothes and their social pretensions and just fuck each other. It is true that looking around one focuses on the clothes, haircuts and make-up of others. In general the female aesthetic is WAG-ish and the men look boring. We met one rather fascinating grouping of two couples and elicited from them a complex story of polyamory and partner-swapping. They were intelligent and sexy, but not interested in us – there was probably too much going on already in that corner.

Here is an example of some contact site correspondence between us and a couple whose profile we liked on a swingers site:

Original Email from us:

 Don't be so quick to dismiss the keys in a bowl... they looked good in The Ice Storm, or Shunt's show Amato Saltone. That said, you're right that there's something unpalatable about the term "swapping". We prefer to use the expression (and the service) "wife market". Sadly K is no longer worth enough for V to get the camel he always dreamed of. He has to come to SDC for humps. Then we found ewe...


K and V

They reply: 
We figured we'd take a fair bit of persuading on the keys in a bowl thing. But ever open.... we've just clicked download on The Ice Storm. Once we've watched it we can start haggling over camels.

P and L xx

(My reply) RE: RE: Keys in a bowl: I suspect V could sell owls to Athenians, but let's dispense with the animal japes. We're delighted to have such a speedy reply. That's a royal 'We', by the way; it's just me tonight. I'll text and let V know that you've written.

Can I suggest we avoid lengthy messaging and all speak on the phone or webcam sooner rather than later? My number is ___ and you can email us jointly at ___@gmail.com. Do let us know when would be good for you.


Well, Virgil grimaced at the owls to Athenians joke so maybe that was the reason we didn’t hear from this couple again. Can such a small thing be deal breaker? I suspect that what often happens is one member of the couple is responsible for initiating the contact. Usually one is more enthusiastic than the other about the other couple. This certainly happens with the two of us: I’ll take a shine to a profile that Virgil is barely interested in. He certainly adds couples to our favourites list who I don’t like the look of in the slightest. So promising-looking correspondence ends suddenly as the less-keen of the pair asserts their continued lack of interest and the matter is dropped.

It’s a little depressing though, especially on the very rare occasion that we are both rather interested in another couple, which actually happened recently. Quite a lot of time and creative energy goes into creating these sparkling missives, not to mention the hours spent trawling through profiles and out-of-focus shots of people’s genitals.
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