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I’ve been toying with how to approach this post for, literally, months. I apologize for my silence, but there’s a reason for it.

I was outed.

I don’t wish to go too deep into the details, but essentially, I received an anonymous e-mail from a “concerned citizen” that said, in summary, “Your name is [x]. Ashley’s name is [y]. Tell her the truth, or I will.”

It’s a harrowing sensation, being discovered like that, but really, what more should I have expected?  Since I began this blog, I have received a lot of support and met some wonderful people, but the vast majority of feedback I have received has been decidedly negative. Accusations, incriminations, and outright threats of violence at times. None of those things bothered me much, and I took them in stride. But this was different, mainly because they had obviously worked out who I am, and were threatening to give all of this to Ashley.

Like I said, I expected to get a fair bit of flak for what I wrote, as people tend to get really uptight about matters of sexuality and infidelity (sigh). And I should have expected to deal with this, because when you put things like this out in the public eye, surely someone is going to pick up on things. Hell, a truly dedicated and jilted person with a modicum of computer savvy can track you down with relatively little effort. So it shouldn’t be surprising that this happened. But, it was.

And, in a way, this is rather what I get for breaking my own rules. I’ve written before about how important it is to cover your tracks well, to plan for any possible complication, and to leave no loose ends. This blog is, essentially, one massive loose end. It’s the little black ledger from so many gangster movies, the one thing that, if the prosecutor got a hold of it, would guarantee a conviction. I tried to keep this anonymous, but clearly, nothing is perfect.

I’ve been torn as to how best to deal with it. I’ve toyed with various responses and reactions. But I have decided that the best course of action is to simply put an end to it. Time to shut this thing down and do something different.

I broke my own rules because I needed an outlet. I’ll miss the writing and the honesty that this forum provides, but mostly, I’ll miss the community. I started this so that I could maybe meet people similar to myself. I certainly found that in so many of you, and I consider myself lucky to have met the people who I’ve corresponded with for so long. You’re all wonderful people, and I wish nothing but the best for all of you. You’ll still be able to reach me through my e-mail (which I haven’t checked in a  while because of this whole debacle).

Take care, everyone. It’s been fun.

Oh lord, am I ever happy you only turn 30 once.  I celebrated this in the most debauched manner possible.  (I didn’t know my body was still capable of processing that much ethanol in one sitting.)  Fortunately, I survived, with a few more battle scars, and another notch on the ol’ bedpost.  Maybe I’ll share in the near future.  But, for now, here is the conclusion to my most recent memory.  Enjoy.

———————————————————————–

I lift my head and place two fingers under Jenny’s chin, turning her face toward mine.  Her eyes are closed, but she opens them as I place my hand against the side of her neck.  We look at each other, and I practically count the seconds as they tick by, waiting for the right moment.  But Jenny surprises me by lifting her lips to mine quickly, and with more eagerness than I had anticipated.  Her tongue grazes my lips, and I hear a faint sound of longing emanate from her throat as we kiss on the front porch swing.

She may not be skilled at flirting, but Jenny is a remarkably talented kisser.

She wraps one arm around my shoulders, and her other hand rests comfortably against my sternum.  Whatever hesitance had previously possessed her has gone; she begins squeezing my shoulders, my upper arms, my chest, almost as though exploring, testing the consistency, the “give” of my body under her fingers.  As her hands discover new places to examine, her kisses increase in intensity, the occasional lash against my lip developing into a full dance between our tongues, moving from my mouth to hears, with an occasional break when she ducks her head just enough to permit her to bite my lip, tugging it insistently, pulling me closer to her, maneuvering me with her mouth against mine.  Before I realize it, she’s pulled me to the middle of the swing and has vaulted onto my lap, straddling my waist.

She breaks the kiss and looks down at me, eyes glassy, lips parted as she pants softly for breath.  I place my hands on her hips and pull her down against me, knowing that her skirt has left only her undergarments between her skin and my jeans.  She rocks back and forth along my zipper, and the hardness beneath, and her glassy eyes almost roll back into her head, which falls back as she groans softly.  She grips my neck, bracing herself as she moves along with the motion I’ve established, and lifts her head to look at me again.

“We need a place to go,” she whispers between thrusts.  “Right now.”

I contemplate this, as deeply as my one-track mind will permit.  “Well… the bedroom is being used by the potheads, so that’s out…”  I glance toward the parking lot.  “We could take my truck someplace, if you wanted, but it will be cramped…”

“UGH.  FUCK that.”  She leans back and begins grappling with my belt.  It only takes me a moment to catch up to her train of thought, and I practically slap her hands away to more quickly free myself.  Jenny reaches under her skirt, and I feel her hand wrapping around my shaft.  Sensitive skin rubs against cotton, then against her own bare flesh, hot and incredibly moist.  She positions herself against me, adjusts the lay of her skirt to more fully cover us, grips the sides of my neck again, and relaxes her legs.  Gravity forces her down, slides my cock into her until I can feel her cervix pressing against me.  Her expression is somewhat pained at first, but as she begins to rock, her face gradually relaxes.  I try to match her movements, but the sway of the porch swing under us prevents me from from discovering a comfortable rhythm.  She is seemingly unbothered by the swaying, using it to keep herself moving with minimal effort, and is too caught up in the moment to notice my difficulty.  Instead, I slide my hands along her stomach beneath the tank top, enjoying the feel of baby fat beneath my hands, the softness diminishing as I move further up along her torso, her breasts small but quite firm beneath my touch.  I explore her body as she explored mine, testing the softness of her skin, the tension of her muscles as she rocks against me, as she finds her release, and I find mine.

Jenny catches her breath and slides off of my lap, groaning in the process.  She adjusts her clothing again as she sits beside me on the swing, then puts her head on my shoulder with a long, satisfied sigh.  “That was truly enjoyable,” she comments.

I sigh and give my own grunt of affirmation.  I slip my arm around her shoulder and pull her in closer to my side.  “Enjoyable, and thoroughly appreciated,” I answer.

Jenny gets situated against me, her head back in the follow below my collar.  I hear her say, almost timidly, “That was a one-time deal, wasn’t it?”

I look down at her.  “That depends,” I say, the concern obvious in my voice.  “If you mean, was that the beginning of an unexpected relationship… I’m afraid the answer is no.  But if you’re asking whether we can do this whenever we want… well, I suppose that’s up to you.”

“You have a girlfriend,” she says matter of factly.

“Which is why this isn’t a relationship.  Well, not yet, anyway.  I don’t know about the future.  I just try to bask in the present.”  I kiss the top of her head.  “And presently, I am thoroughly enjoying your company, and would have whether this happened or not.”

Jenny says nothing for a few moments, then she says, almost defeatedly, “That’s what I was afraid of.”  She turns her head and kisses my chest.  “For what it’s worth, you’re probably the most incredible guy I’ve ever met.  But I’m no one’s plaything.”

“I understand,” I answer honestly.

Jenny quietly rises from the swing, picks up her melted drink, and goes back inside.  I retrieve my scotch, also thoroughly melted, flick the june bug off the rim, and take a long, hard pull.

It seems I’ve been given a blogging award by NatureOfTruth.  I’ve seen similar awards on other people’s blogs, so I’ve come to understand that there’s a certain protocol associated with receiving such things.  Almost like a chain letter, except no one dies if you don’t pass it along, and keeping it going shows your appreciation to the giver, and those to whom you give the award.  And I’m all about showing appreciation.  So, firstly, thank you, Nature–as I’ve said twice already, I’m happy just knowing that anyone reads my blog.  That people actually care enough to comment, much less give me any kind of recognition, is more than I hoped for.

And the award is:

Damn those censor bars.


The TMI Blog Award honors those blogs that discuss everything in detail and do it well. These bloggers aren’t afraid to discuss their most awkward, embarrassing and intimate experiences with honesty, humor and little to no filter.

Hmm.  Think I’d prefer it without the censor bars.

The rules:

  1. Thank the person who presented you with the award.
  2. Link back to the blogger who presented the award to you.
  3. Share an awkward, embarrassing and intimate story in 250 words or less.
  4. Copy and paste the blog award on your blog.
  5. Present the TMI Blog Award to 5 – 10 deserving blogs.
  6. Let them know they have been chosen by leaving a comment at their blog.

So I give this award to at least five other people that I think embody the spirit of the thing.  Very well.  I give this to:

  1. Hyacinth.  My mirror image, a digital doppelganger, the person I would be if I had no Y chromosome.  We would be partners in crime if we actually knew one another–Butch Cassidy to my Sundance.  Hers is the most open blog I’ve ever encountered, and is also the most sexually invigorating read on the Internet.  Plus those pictures drive me mad.  A shoe-in for such an award.
  2. Lynn.  The first blog I ever read here on WordPress, and the only one of the first bunch that I still read.  She is unabashedly honest and possessed of a remarkable wit.  I’d almost call her writing catty or bitchy, if I didn’t detect a distinct layer of sarcasm and humor under everything she writes.  I love her blog, and her morals make me laugh every damned time.
  3. SexualLifeOfAWife.  Here’s a woman who has no qualms with telling you precisely what turns her on, what she and her husband have been doing lately, and whether it’s been amazing or a horrible let-down.  (Fewer of the latter, of course.)
  4. Fuck.  There’s not much I can say about Fuck, except the guy really is a Schmuck.  Another honest read, exceptionally arousing, with a steady dose of what strikes me as slightly black humor.  I’m a huge fan.
  5. Fun-Sized.  At once self-deprecating and uplifting, if such a thing is possible, she is quite adept at making her readers connect with her on an emotional level.  That she does so, I believe, unintentionally is all the more amazing.  I want to tuck her away someplace safe and tell her she’s pretty, because she is.
  6. Gillian Colbert.  Alright, look.  Not every athlete can be Michael Jordan.  Not every singer can be Sinatra.  And not every blogger can be Gillian Colbert.  This chick is one of the best writers I’ve ever had the pleasure of discovering.  I put her up there with my favorite novelists, and so I give her yet another award.  You owe it to yourself to read her blog.  Seriously.  Stop reading, and go check her out.

And finally, an awkward, embarrassing and intimate story.  I think this applies.  Quick, poorly written, but awkward indeed.  Enjoy.

——————————————–

I close the door to my dorm room, drop my bag on the bed, and strip down to nothing.  There is no ceremony to it, no hesitance.  I’ve had the itch all goddamned day, ever since the cute redhead in Intro Zoo asked for my number this morning, five hours ago.  My roommate won’t be back from class for an hour and a half, so I intend to scratch it.

A few deft swipes of the mouse, an eager keystroke, and I’m buried to my eyeballs in digital pornography.  I am consistently amazed by the amount and variety of smut available for free online.  Gone are the days of hiding a copy of Hustler under my mattress, Polaroids of an online friend I’ve never met in an old PlayStation jewel case.  Thanks to my university’s T1 broadband connection, I now have quick and unlimited access to all the visual aid I could ever require.

I select a link that seems promising–“Chasey Lain takes two studs in both holes”–and set to work.  A little lube in the left hand, freeing up my right to manipulate the mouse without dirtying the device.  A few tentative strokes along my shaft, a quick circle around the head, to apply said lube.  In another two strokes, my cock is ready, and I ease into my usual pace, slow and steady, with a clockwise rotation at the top.  I watch the always reliable Ms. Lain submit to the aggressive advances of two beefy guys who put my own length to shame, the redhead’s smile dancing in the back of my mind.

The sound of keys in the door lock shake me out of my pleasure-induced trance.  I quickly look for something to cover myself, but my clothes are in a pile across the room.  No time.  I simply close the window and pretend to be working.

My roommate steps inside and tosses his bag aside.  “Class was cancelled.  Let’s play some Counter-Strike.”

“Umm…”

I hear him stop moving.  A moment’s pause, and he says, “Dude, are you jerking off?”

“…………………………Yes.  Yes I am.”

“Oh.”  Silence.  Then I hear the door open.  “No skeet skeet on my pillow.”  And he’s gone.

I consider the moment, and look down at my now flaccid member.  I give it a tentative stroke, but the lovely tingling has passed.  I sigh.  “Dammit.”  I throw my underwear on, stick my head out in the hall, and yell, “Dude, you fucked it up.  Let’s play Counter-Strike.”

My roommate rushes back to the room and hops on his computer.  “Awesome.  I’d hate for the terrorists to win because you have to get your nut.”

I pull the rest of my clothes back on and fire up Counter-Strike, though somehow, my hand on the mouse suddenly feels much less rewarding.

I recently received a message from a reader asking me for any insight I could provide on the nature of our shared sexual compulsions.  Unfortunately, I was unable to provide anything more than the usual directionless rants I often place here (I am, after all, not the greatest source of wisdom), but it got me thinking a bit about the choices I make regarding my extramarital affairs.

I seem to have two distinct “types” of women I pursue.  I use the term “type” loosely (hence the quoties), as I find the notion of shoehorning anyone into a category distasteful, but there seems to be a distinct dichotomy in the personalities of the women I find attractive  I describe the differences between them as follows:

  1. The Rebel.  This woman typically captures my interest by first displaying a complete disregard for social niceties.  She doesn’t worry about what people think.  We all do this, but she takes it to extremes of which most people are incapable.  She has her own thing, and if you don’t like it, you can fuck off.  Or not, because she couldn’t care less either way.
  2. The Good Girl.  This woman intrigues me by being genuinely kind.  She worries about what others think and feel, maybe too much at times.  She may judge other people, but not openly, and not to other people–it’s her own internal monologue, and she doesn’t let it stop her from being kind to the people she dislikes.  She tries to be considerate and understanding of the rights of others to choose and do as they wish.

These may sound like common personality types, but I assure you, they’re not.  I find that people that think of themselves as “rebels” tend to do so out of a strong urge to be different, which, in so doing, makes them just like every other rebel.  They often claim to not care what you think, but only because they want you to believe they’re unique and/or misunderstood.  And the “good girls”, well, I’m sure most of you can think of any number of high school stereotypes to refute that one.

I realize that this probably makes me sound like a biased prick.  Well, perhaps I am, but that’s not my intent.  My point is, most people have a personal agenda, especially when it comes to being perceived by others.  Truly having no concern for others’ negative opinions is a rare quality, as is the type of kindness that you can immediately sense is born of a sincere interest in you and your happiness.  And it is the genuine nature of these two personality extremes that suck me in.

Actually, you know what?  I’m going to retract that previous statement.  It’s not the genuine nature I find so appealing.  It’s the rarity.

Hell, let’s go back a bit more.  I suddenly wonder if my “types” are actually a byproduct of selecting for rarity.  Because, now that I truly consider it, I can remember a single thing about each woman I have ever loved–hell, every woman I have ever fucked–that first caught my attention.  A shaved head.  A laugh that moves in musical scales.  An exceptionally petite frame.  Characteristics that by most standards are uncommon.  That’s what piques my interest.  The intellect, the capacity to maintain a conversation, is what usually keeps it and defines whether I will pursue a relationship with a person.

Well, that just completely dashed my thesis statement.  My type is not defined by social consideration.  It’s defined by intellect combined with rarity.

See, this is why I don’t like shoehorning people into categories, because upon inspection, such categories inevitably fail.  I feel like I should go back and delete everything I just wrote.  But damn, that’s a lot of writing.

This post has become my blog’s Leaning Tower.  It’s the Challenger.  A perfect example of what can happen as a result of poor planning and implementation, even in writing.

Perhaps there’s a way to salvage this shipwreck.

…………………………………nope, nothing comes to mind.

My original goal was to end at this point:  Maintaining clandestine relationships is exciting.  Can you see how I was going to get there?

That’s okay, neither do I.

I apologize, dear readers, for unintentionally dragging you through the disorganized clutter that is my thought process.  As recompense, I will have another post up tomorrow afternoon.  But you deserve some immediate reward for your patience.

Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Conway Twitty.

I fell through the ice today.

When I was a kid in high school, I read a short story by Jack London called To Build A Fire.  For those of you unfamiliar with it, the story describes a nameless man in the Yukon, a newcomer who has never experienced the cold of the Frozen North.  He travels in temperatures below -70 degrees across a frozen lake or pond, accompanied only by a large husky, and he constantly dwells on the incredible cold and the numbness it induces.  He ultimately dies after falling through the ice, frozen, unable to build the fire he so desperately needs to stay alive.  It’s a very good story.  But it doesn’t do the act justice.

I knew I was in trouble before anything really happened.  Ice freezing on a large body of water makes very strange, almost alien sounds.  A low frequency thump that sounds more like a whale’s song than any other sound I know of, that echoes under the ice and through the waters below.  As you walk on it, it pops and snaps occasionally, bending under your weight, protesting but holding solid.  The sounds of the ice tell you a lot about where you are, the stability of the thing, and reminds you to be wary of your surroundings.  You get used to them and eventually tune them out.

But not this one.

I heard a loud CRACK, almost like a gunshot heard from far away, that didn’t echo.  Just that.  CRACK.  I froze.  I listened.  The feint crackle of slowly breaking ice and snow.  And I knew the ice core I had taken fifty meters back wasn’t right, at least not here.  The ice was too thin.  I had to get away, follow the same path I took in back out on my hands and knees, like they taught me in my ice safety training course.  I would have turned and done exactly that, had the ice not given away under me.

Being under an ice sheet is like entering another dimension.  It’s not dark like you would expect it to be, but bright.  The ice somehow intensifies the light coming through it.  It would be painfully bright, if you could see, but the water is so cold it feels like I imagine hot coals would feel.  The water immediately below an ice sheet is about 34 degrees Fahrenheit, less than 1 degree Celsius, and plunging into it unexpectedly was like being punched in the chest by a heavyweight boxer.  Like being kicked by a horse.  It sucked every bit of air out of my chest and would have left me gasping, if my throat hadn’t suddenly tightened and blocked my airway.  I should have been grateful that I couldn’t breathe, but in that moment, my one thought was to get back up through the hole, and out of the water.

Fortunately, my coat and snow pants were very buoyant, and my head was only under the water for a moment.  I immediately rolled onto my back, floating belly-up in the water, coughing first, then yelling, not out of fear, but to keep my lungs working, to force my throat to loosen so I could breath normally and stop coughing.  Coughing in near frozen water can cause you to inhale the stuff, freezing your lungs and resulting in a quick death by drowning.  I yelled, first obscenities, then nothing in particular, as I bobbed in the water.

I waited until I had calmed down.  You can’t get out of the water if you’re not calm.  You will thrash, and scream, and break more ice, but you will waste your energy, and you will die.  So I waited and took stock of the situation.  It was sixty meters to the edge of the beaver pond, and another twenty to my truck, which was still warm from the drive and contained my thermos, a towel, a blanket, and a change of clothes.  If I could get there, I would be okay.  But as I waited for my breath to steady, for my shivering to be caused by the cold rather than shock, I couldn’t help but appreciate the very real danger I was in.

It’s easy to write about now.  At the time, though…  I don’t think I can fully describe the fear.  Training and knowledge are supposed to help you overcome it, and they did to an extent.  I knew what to do.  I knew to wait until I was calm.  I knew to keep on my back, to maneuver to the edge of the hole when ready, to pull my body up as far as I could without using my arms, to kick as though I were swimming while shimmying forward onto the ice, to immediately roll as far as I could in the direction I came from so as not to break the ice again, to get warm within twenty minutes before I became incapable of doing so without help.  But it’s hard to keep your focus on logic and training when you are surrounded by a cold so deep and penetrating that you can’t imagine what warmth feels like.  The recognition that my life could soon be ended was very real, very sobering, and very, very frightening.

Obviously, I got out.  I did the beached whale shimmy up onto the ice and rolled on my sides the full sixty meters to the edge of the ice, through the snow.  I trudged the remaining twenty meters back to the truck.  I stood in the snow and stripped down to nothing, dried off with the towel, and changed clothes in the warm cabin of my truck.  By that point my fingers were so cold that they would barely cooperate, and I warmed them with a cup of hot chicken broth from my thermos while I warmed my core under the blanket.  When I felt comfortable enough, I drove back to my basecamp, and my colleagues eventually returned after finishing their own surveys.  They laughed at my story.  It’s all a memory now.  The event itself is just a jumble of images, sounds, and sensations.  But I do remember being scared, and when I do, my chest tightens slightly and my pulse quickens.  I suspect that fear will stay with me for a while, and I know it will affect how I approach my work in the future, but it’s slightly exhilarating, knowing how close I came to an awful ending, yet I came away unscathed, with a new story of something that most people will never experience.  It also makes me appreciate more the things I have in life.

Sorry this entry doesn’t keep with my usual theme, but this is weighing pretty heavily on my mind.  I will resume the usual theme on the next post. Until then, stay warm, dear readers.