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Another blogger commented recent on my post about feeling sexually deprived while still being surrounded by sexuality.  Because it was left as a public comment, I feel no compulsion to maintain the anonymity of chely5150, but it was lengthy enough that I decided to go ahead and respond publicly, as I have before.

I classify this correspondence as more misplaced rage, and I invite chely5150 to read that post, as it applies here. In summary, chely5150 suggests that Ashley’s lack of interest in sex is likely my fault. She cites her own experiences with an unfaithful husband and a lack of love and respect in their marriage as a reason for her own disinterest, and says that such could contribute to our situation. (It is worth noting that my and Ashley’s sex life has improved substantially from what it was in the roughly two years since writing the post eliciting her comment.)  Snippets and responses are as follows, and you can read the full comment on the original post.

I was, AM the wife who wants to explore and discover all things sexually together with my husband and we did, until the emotional covert emotional abuse began. After years of abuse, so perfectly concealed behind the facade of our perfect little family… I became Ashley. I no longer found that much pleasure [in the man] who adored and loved my body but NEVER could find the need to adore and love ALL OF ME!

I can certainly see how emotional abuse could make you lose sexual interest in your partner.  But let me be perfectly clear–that has never happened in our relationship.  For whatever problems Ashley and I may have had, we have never been abusive toward one another, and she has always insisted that I am the most loving, compassionate person she has ever known, and that I am an excellent care giver and provider for her.  One could arguably define my infidelities as “covert abuse”, to use your phrasing, but frankly, I wouldn’t. Sure, it’s scummy, but I would not go so far as to call cheating “abusive behavior”. (But I invite psychologists/counselors to provide evidence to the contrary.)

So, right out the gate, your experiences do not apply to us.  But let’s continue.

And I began to loathe the man who could treat everyone (pretty much) with such love and care and respect that I HATED evry thing about him.

If I understand you correctly, you’re suggesting that you hated him for loving and respecting everyone around him, but not yourself? I can also see how that might be painful. But it also strikes me as slightly selfish and demanding of you. I obviously can’t speak to your personal situation, and I have no desire to belittle or demean you, so I will simply let that comment stand as is.

And yet I loved him, I tried to leave him a couple of times but could never fully escape. After many years of depression I decided if we were going to stay together dammit I was going to make it better for us. And we did (yeah ah huh) and others thought too until the day I discovered his affair. And then weeks later when I discovered so much so- it has been excruiciating to say the least.

Ahh, and now we come to the point of this message.  Your husband cheated on you, and you see much of him in me and what I write.  Fair enough, I suppose.  Lord knows I’m a cheater.  But if I may ask, have you determined *why* your husband cheated on you?  Have you given any thought as to whether you may have done something, or a series of somethings, that might make him want to fuck someone else?  Or is it genuinely that he is simply a cheater?  Note that both are plausible, but given the resentment you display toward him, the evidence would suggest that unhappiness on his part might have caused his behavior.  Again, I don’t have the complete picture, so I can’t say definitively.  But have you considered that the fault may not lie solely with him?

They say I have PTSD, but I just go forward…..

May I encourage you to seek counseling for that?  PTSD following such an event is, to my understanding, a common reaction, and you may very well be suffering from depression.  Please, dear reader, see someone.  I suspect my close friend Hyacinth might be able to offer guidance here.

So while I fucking hate you with all my being…

I bet you’d love me if we met.

…I respect the fact that you are being honest…

Oh. Well, thanks.

…as much as one could expect honesty from a LIAR…

My, that’s awfully manic of you.

…being on the other side of those sheets and knowing but not knowing is probably the hardest thing to live with.

This is something that, again, doesn’t really apply to me.  If Ashley were to find out about my infidelities, I would own them.  Once caught, you’re done for.  Best to fess up to it and hope to salvage something from the wreckage than to pretend the boat didn’t crash.  But, in your case, you have my condolences.  Knowing but never receiving a confession is a good way to breed resentment and often prevents any sort of closure.

Maybe just maybe You had something to do with your wifes sex needs diminishing. If it went away there is a reason.

By Ashley’s own admission, her lack of sexual interest stemmed from three things: 1) experiencing physical pain from having sex with me due to my girth (which, thankfully, has resolved since we have begun fucking more regularly); 2) insecurity due to gaining weight post-marriage; and 3) a lack of sexual experience sufficient to keep up with my own interests.  She has since come out of her shell, remarkably so, and our sex life and marriage have never been better.

Who the fuck died and made you GOD? What makes you think you deserve to have your every desire fulfilled?

I never claimed to be God, or that I deserved to have my every desire fulfilled.  To suggest otherwise would imply you haven’t read all of my work.  (Not that I expect you to.  Hence, my response.)  I have long struggled with controlling my sexual urges, balancing them against my desire for a fulfilling and loving marriage.  But when you go months at a time without having sex, the ability to resist–hell, the *desire* to resist–disappears.

No man “deserves” to get laid, regardless of marital status.  A woman’s body is her own, and she gets to decide what she does with it, and when.  Period.  But, relationships are partnerships, and if one partner is not sexually fulfilled, well, don’t be surprised if he/she seeks that fulfillment elsewhere.

Maybe if YOU put as much effort into your marriage-not just sexually either, you wouldn’t have put yourself and Ashley (although unbeknown to her) into such a lose/lose marriage.

No one who knows me can accuse me of not putting effort into my marriage.  I haven’t written about it much, but Ashley and I have been to several counselors, alone and together, in pursuit of a “fixed” marriage.  We have spoken at length about it over coffee, breakfast, drinks.  We have cried together because we thought we were failing.  And we have celebrated our not-so-recent upswing.  And, from a domestic standpoint, she and I are true partners, sharing evenly the housework and financial burdens.  Not to brag, but she calls me “the perfect husband”.  (I am far from it, mind, but it makes me smile when she says it.)

Do yourself a favor decide which you want. Can’t have both little boy, don’t work like that! You should show Ashley the respect she deserves and let her choose for herself- No one gave you that privilege. It’s not right -if you love her as much as you say you do GIVE HER THAT RESPECT.

I don’t love and respect anyone enough to give them that, because I am selfish.

Please don’t let my differing opinion affect the fact that I enjoyed your writing, I find it brutally honest and appreciate knowing the thoughts of a sex addict as I am discovering that I have been married to one for a long time.

Well, I do appreciate that, though I would not classify myself as a sex addict.  I once wrote about that possibility, but I don’t think I am so deep into my compulsions to be considered a nymphomaniac.

I am in the deciding process in my marriage, is this what I want for the rest of my life? The jury is still out on that one.

I wish you the best of luck in that.  Choosing whether to continue or end a marriage is not a pleasant endeavor, and I truly hope it works out well for you, chely5150.

Pro tip: You have to take the venom out of your words and be less accusatory if you want me to refrain from responding with so much snark and sarcasm.  Though, admittedly, I use much less of both herein, maybe because I truly sympathize with what you’re experiencing.  Before I was the hopeless cheater I am today, I was cuckolded by the woman I loved, and it left a lasting impression, and I can tell you are hurting.  I don’t want to contribute to that.

Or maybe I’m just going soft in my old age.


UPDATE: This post was written about 1.5 hours ago. This is an open invitation to all, and I actively encourage anyone remotely interested to take part, either alone or with a partner.

If you would like to take part, I ask that you either comment here, or post on your own blog stating your intention. And, naturally, you have to confirm your participation after the specified time (or at, if you’re feeling adventuresome). A simple post on your blog will suffice. Or get creative. A link would be appreciated as well, but is not necessary.

Think of it like telecommuting for group sex.


For some reason, whilst receiving a blowjob, I thought of you.

As I type this post, there is a brown head of hair in my lap, and a warm mouth wrapped around my cock.  I told her that I needed to write something for work before we fuck, but to continue what she’s doing. So, she is sitting under the desk, sucking playfully and skillfully. I must keep this short because I want little more than to be inside her.

She began blowing me, and I found myself wondering if you were doing something similar. The thought made me shiver.

I pursued that line of thought and came to this conclusion:

I want to cum when you do.

So I offer the following.

Saturday night, July 12, at 9:15 p.m. Eastern Standard Time, I will be fucking someone.

Care to join me?

So, let’s examine the other side of the coin from my last post.

It’s no secret to Tina that my sex life with Ashley has historically been less than satisfying.  In fact, the details of our sexual relationship were one of the first things Tina and I discussed after finally admitting our shared interest in each other: the rarity with which I fuck my wife, her general lack of interest in sexual exploration, and so on.  Tina couldn’t fathom how Ashley could feel that way around me, because she had wanted me for years.  (I can be quite oblivious at times.)  So, she offered to help me relieve some of that tension.  Fast forward to a cold winter’s day reunion, when Tina and I fucked like there was nothing else in the world that mattered.  Our affair was born out of mutual respect, physical attraction, and an acknowledgement that neither of us were even close to living the sexual lifestyle we truly wanted.

When Tina started fucking her new lover, they established that they would tell each other any time they had sex with another person.  This affects him more than her, as he frequently fucks new and random people, and she wants to make informed decisions about her sexual health.  This is an entirely pragmatic arrangement in my mind, and she and I agreed we would be similarly open with one another.  It’s not been much of an issue because I haven’t had any new sexual partners in a while–just her, and Ashley–and she has only slept with him while she’s been away from me.  I understand that she sleeps with him on a regular basis, and I don’t expect her to tell me every time they fuck, but I do expect her to tell me if he sleeps with someone else because I, too, want to be informed about the risks to my sexual health as much as possible.

That’s our arrangement, in a nutshell.  We tell each other if we fuck someone else, share anything that could change our exposure to risk of STIs, and understand that we could be fucking our significant others at any time.

At least, I thought that’s what it was.

It came as a real surprise to me when Ashley suddenly became more sexually active.  For the longest time, literally years, she wasn’t at all interested in sex, and we would go weeks, if not months, at a time without being intimate.  Hence the topic of this blog.  Neither she nor I know what flipped the switch for her, but we now fuck much more regularly than we once did, and she has begun exploring new fantasies and activities with me, including BDSM, pornography, mutual masturbation, female dominance, and other fun and exciting things.  (This is likely the reason I haven’t had any new sexual partners in a long while.  I just haven’t needed them!)  I didn’t share this with Tina because I don’t ask her for similar details of her sexual escapades, and my understanding, as stated above, was that we know the other could be fucking their local partner at any time.

Boy, was that a mistake on my part.

Tina recently asked me who all I had fucked this year.  My answer: just her, and Ashley.  The anger and resentment that followed was truly astounding.

How could you possibly think I wouldn’t want to know if you had sex with Ashley.

What if my lover didn’t tell me he slept with someone else, you would be livid.

I can’t believe you would be so dishonest with me.

I reminded her that I don’t expect her to tell me when she fucks her other lover, and I assumed she felt similarly.  She argued that it was different because she shares a house with him, and she fucks him so regularly it just makes sense that she probably fucked him on any given day.  I countered with, I live in the same house with my wife, and married people fuck sometimes, which I took as a given.  She responded with a bitter comment about the “sanctity of marriage”.

Point is, it was a very, very unpleasant exchange.  She and I are still recovering from the events of that day.  It was a bit of a turning point for us, frankly, and our relationship hasn’t been the same since.  There is an underlying hostility and resentment in her words at times, roiling just under the surface, that she acknowledges because she “is slow to forgive, and never forgets”.  (Her words.)

I wonder, who is at fault here?  Was it unfair of me to assume that we had a mutual understanding?  Or was her response an overreaction to the obvious realities of being in a clandestine relationship?  Admittedly, I could have told her that my sex life with Ashley had been improving, but it seems perfectly reasonable to me that two people in a relationship will occasionally have sex.  I would have told her if I fucked a new person, or if Ashley had fucked someone else and thus exposed me to a new risk (not that that would ever happen, Ashley is depressingly monogamous)… but fucking Ashley is nothing new to me, and doesn’t change my risk exposure.  So I never shared it, because I often didn’t think to, and when I did, I simply didn’t want to chance hurting Tina.

Or, is assigning fault a useless exercise?  Emotions rarely adhere to strict reasonable guidelines.  Tina freely admits that she loves how receptive I am to her being promiscuous, and simultaneously admits that, though she wants me to have that freedom as well, she would probably be terribly hurt by me sleeping with someone else, because she wants me to be hers and hers alone.  So it is entirely plausible that her reaction was born from that jealousy, and thus assigning blame is simply a juvenile response to a natural human inclination.

Really, what it makes me wonder is whether Tina and I are truly compatible.  She is a phenomenal lover, and sex with her is arguably the best I have ever experienced.  She is a gifted professional and a remarkable woman, and I care much more deeply for her than I should.  I wonder whether that depth of feeling and our inability to act on it, and the exposure and vulnerability it brings to our emotional lives, makes us hypersensitive to things that would normally not bother us were we to be together regularly and in a committed fashion.  I’ve no way of knowing, obviously, and there are so many questions and unknowns that I can’t shake this sense of unease I’ve felt for so many weeks.

Perhaps I should just let it go, let the relationship end, but the thought of not having her in my life is extraordinarily painful.  So ever onward do I trudge through discontent and melodrama.

Perhaps I just need a vacation.

I recently chatted with an acquaintance I met through this site. Maybe not acquaintance–friend now? I’m not sure yet, and I hate assigning labels to developing relationships, but if you read this post, friend-quaintance, I think you’re just the best.

Man, I get side-tracked easily. Gotta work on that.

Anyhow. Said friend-quaintance commented that they admire my self-awareness and honesty. Though flattered, those are two qualities that I would never expect anyone to apply to me. I certainly make every effort at introspection, the better to understand myself and my interactions with the people around me, but I wouldn’t say I’ve been particularly good at it. And those times that I successfully nailed down whatever thing was stewing about in the back of my mind, I probably didn’t actually do anything about it because I am primarily driven by three desires. They are, in no particular order: 1) to learn and understand everything, 2) to avoid conflict at most any cost, and 3) to fuck as often and passionately as possible.

That last one is a real doozy, and doesn’t really mesh with the second one. Most people I have ever known don’t have my libido. My current lover, Tina, certainly does, and on our business trip we fucked every afternoon and evening, at least once, usually twice or three times, and would have gone for a fourth round if we hadn’t had to be up early for work.

What can I say, I have a really short refractory period. Multiple orgasms isn’t possible (*sigh*), but four times a day isn’t too difficult for me.

But that’s why she’s my lover. Most people don’t seem to be like that. So, when Desire Number Three kicks in, if my wife can not or will not satisfy the urge, and my lover is not available, then I have to find it someplace else.

…well, “have to” is strong phrasing. It’s not as though it’s a necessity. But I’m sure we can all agree that the need to fuck is a powerful motivator. Sadly, the other people in my life would certainly not take well to my promiscuous endeavors, and so I am driven to craft elaborate and entirely believable lies and scenarios that permit me to engage in my infidelities without upsetting Desire Number Two.

But, I sometimes wonder what it would be like, not to be dishonest. Not that I think I would be any good at true openness and transparency, mind you. Deception is too much a part of who I am at this point. But if I were to do that… what would it even look like? What would it take? I am only ever truly honest on this site, because this is about as safe and accepting a place as exists for me to share the things I think about and struggle with. I can’t really imagine what an honest relationship would be, because I’ve never seen or experienced one. I’m not sure they exist. Like a really communicative sasquatch.

I can say, however, that if I were to really try at that kind of honesty, it would only be for a woman who was every bit as sexual as I am. She would have to be able to read this blog and not be terrified. She would be accepting of how much I struggle with these things, and rather than judge me for them, she would experience them with me. She would share my sexually debauched lifestyle in every way. Swing by my office for a quickie over lunch. Bring home a random man or woman she met at a bar, and let me watch them fuck her. Wake me in the morning by straddling my face. Plan a weekend involving a premium hotel suite, pizza (because room service is for chumps), four bottles of wine, and an arsenal of new dildos, vibrators, masturbators, restraints, and lingerie.

Hmm. That last one sounds a bit pedestrian when you say it that way. But you lock me in a hotel room with my dream woman for 60 hours and there is no telling what will happen. They’d probably have to burn that bed.

It’s likely such a woman exists, somewhere, but sadly I’ve never met her. If I did, I imagine I would be willing to communicate anything and everything she wanted for another chance to ride that particular unicorn.

Or sasquatch, if I want to continue that metaphor. But “riding the sasquatch” sounds incredibly dirty.

Tina comes close. Probably closer than any woman I have ever been with. But she has her reservations as well, and is not nearly the go-getter I am when it comes to sex. She’s also not a morning person, so straddling my face first thing when she wakes up probably will never happen.

Which is a goddamned shame, because fuck waking up to the smell of coffee, I want to wake up to the smell and taste of a woman. Hence my previous post.

Though coffee is a close second.

My pillow shifts under my head. I grumble a little.

I feel your skin against my cheek. Have you moved your arm? I’m too tired to look.

There is sudden weight against my neck. I feel closed in by your warmth, and your smell. Soap from last night’s shower, mixed with the aroma of my cum and your juices. I know that smell so well.

Smooth flesh against my cheek and lips, gliding to and fro, leaves a cool, moist sensation on my skin. I open my eyes and see you in the dim morning light. You have mounted me, your knees on either side of my head, on my pillow. You are leaning forward, your hands on the wall. You wear only the camisole you wore to bed the night before. Your breasts hang heavily against the snug material. Your nipples are hard, excited, and you look at me wantonly. You rock your hips, your pussy against my lips and chin, dripping with anticipation.

“Put your tongue in me.”

I place my hands on your ass and pull you closer to my face. You shiver as my lips part. My breath is warm on your wetness, and my tongue moves sleepily across you. I tease you open with slow, measured laps. I tilt my chin up and slip my tongue past your lips, through you, as deeply into your center as I can manage. I tease your ass with my index and middle finger, never penetrating because you didn’t ask for it, but touching, massaging, while I pump my tongue into you. The taste of my cum in you lingers from the night before, and it is intoxicating.

You moan and whimper, and I watch you fall forward more, leaning on one elbow against the wall. You pull the top of your camisole down, exposing yourself to me. You squeeze your breast, tease your nipples, because you know I love watching you pleasure yourself. One hand moves to my head, holding me steady, and you begin to grind against me. I feel your swollen clit against my lip, and my tongue responds eagerly, pushing harder and faster into you. You moan into the silence of the room. I feel you tighten against me, see your stomach flex, hear your breath catch. And you fill my mouth, cover my face and neck, soak my pillow. I swallow all I can, and I dare not move my mouth away from you for a moment. Not until your hips slow, and you spasm gently, adorably.

You whisper my name, and I respond by nipping playfully at your swollen labia. You dismount, and slide down to lie against me. You kiss my cheek, and lick your juices from my lips. Your body presses against me, your arm draped over my stomach, your leg across my erection protectively.

As we drift back to sleep, surrounded by the smell of your sex, I promise myself I will not shower today, but will wear you proudly as my cologne.

If you’ve been reading this memory series in its entirety, you might think this was a very short encounter. Let me assure you, it wasn’t. But words can’t adequately relay the passage of time. Oh sure, I could say, “And we did that for about 20 minutes,” but where’s the joy in writing something like that?  (Though Hank is definitely a short-game lover.)

All things considered, from the moment Kelly gave me the toy to the time Hank left the room, it was about an hour and a half of non-stop shenanigans. There were more positions and activities than I describe here, and Kelly and I continued alone for several hours thereafter. But that’s not the point of the story, and it’s not what I took away from the experience. It was the first threesome I really remember having (the second in reality, but I don’t recall many details of the first), and that’s what I want the writing to stress. So I am cutting off the story early because the rest was just more of the same. Exciting at the time, and in memory, but not necessarily fun to write.

And now, the thrilling conclusion. (Thrilling might be a strong word, but if you say it in that 30s pulp radio tone, it’s catchy.)


The tone of Kelly’s voice, equal parts demanding and beseeching, sends a shiver up my spine. But I maintain my composure as best I can. I approach the bed, and as I do, she shifts her body, rotating on her lower back, her legs locked around Hank’s waist to force him to move with her without removing himself from her. He doesn’t make the shuffle easy, as he insists on continuing to thrust into her, but she gradually completes the movement. Her head hangs over the edge of the bed, and she tilts it back, exposing her throat and smiling at me, upside-down.

I step forward, still lightly stroking myself, and Kelly grasps my hips and guides me where she wants me to stand. I can’t see her face through my hand and shaft, save for her chin, but I feel the warmth of her tongue and breath on my sack. I can’t suppress the gasp. This isn’t something she normally does, and I wholeheartedly approve. The slightly rough, wet sensation glides across my flesh only for a moment before Kelly reaches up, moves my hand aside, and grasps me by the base of my shaft. She pushes my hips back and guides me down, into her open, inviting mouth. We groan simultaneously, me because she has a truly gifted tongue, and her because she enjoys fellatio as much as sex. I feel her tongue against the head of my cock. She alternates between circles and gentle flicks against the tip, and the underside of her tongue is remarkably smooth. It’s an entirely new sensation to me.

But I relish it only for a moment before Hank resumes his jack rabbit routine. This time he falls to lie atop her, ruining my view of their penetration. He takes her nipple in his mouth, and sucks on it noisily, almost hungrily. I find it utterly distasteful, again, and lacking in any kind of civility, and despite the pleasurable sensations I can’t help but be put off by his style. (Sure, there is a time and place for that kind of vigorous fucking, but when it’s the only tool in your belt, it makes you kind of a boring partner.) On the plus side, with each thrust Kelly’s body rocks toward me, effectively causing her to bob her head and run her mouth along my shaft. She treats it as such, sucking me as if she wanted nothing more than that. She moans each time he pushes into her, the sound muted by my cock, and I run my thumb along her jawline. She grasps my hand suddenly, squeezing tightly and turning her head to remove me from her mouth.

“Jesus I’m gonna cum again!” she cries out loudly into the room, eliciting a groan from Hank. I squeeze her hand back and say, “Do it, honey. Come on his cock for me.”

That does it for her. She gasps at the words, and as I finish the words she bucks and tightens her abs, pulling her torso up and off the bed. She cries out again, and she doesn’t need to say it for me to know this orgasm is harder than the first was. Hank cries out as well, and I know how hard the contractions must be around him, because I experience it regularly. But he can’t cope. He suddenly pulls back and away from her. I watch him grab his shaft and stroke frantically, releasing several long ropes of cum across her stomach, her breasts, her cheek…

…and my thigh, and my groin, just above the base of my shaft. I jump a little, but not far. It was unexpected, but… not entirely unpleasant. I suppress the urge to taste it, but only just.

Hank laughs and points at my leg. “Oh man… I don’t normally shoot that far. My bad, bro.”

I shrug. “It’s okay. I know someone who will help.” Kelly released my hand as her orgasm subsided, and I stroke her cheek again. She breathes heavily, almost panting, but she rolls onto her side and look at my groin. She stifles a laugh, but snorts through her nose. “I can definitely help with that,” she says sweetly, and runs her tongue heavily up my leg, cleaning Hank’s cum off my thigh. The second rope has begun to run down my groin, across my shaft, and she cleans there as well, diligently licking every trace of him off of me.

I lean down and kiss her, and I taste him on her. Salty, much more so than I expected, and aromatic. Definitely different from my own flavor. It might be distasteful if I weren’t so turned on. Instead I groan against her lips and slip my tongue into her mouth, tasting more of the salty flavor, and strangely, unexpectedly, loving it.

Hank laughs again and falls onto the bed beside Kelly. “Man, you two are fucking freaky.”

Kelly breaks away and scoops some of his deposit from her stomach with two fingers. She rubs it gently on the head of my cock, and just as gently removes it with her tongue. I shiver.

“No we’re not,” she answers. “We just don’t limit ourselves.”

“Never,” I almost whisper. She smiles at me again, and delicately kisses the tip of my cock.

I don’t feel old, but man, when I think about how long it’s been since this experience actually happened… woof. This was almost a decade ago, before Hank became a portly papa, and before my relationship with Kelly was obviously headed for the rocks. It was also one hell of an amazing experience. Totally a multi-parter. Enjoy.


Kelly sits beside the pillows on the bed, her legs hugged to her chest, her chin on her knees. Her eyes are closed. She breathes slowly, methodically. I can sense her tension from my vantage point across the room, in a not entirely comfortable armchair.

“You don’t have to do this,” I remind her gently.

She looks up at me, and smiles nervously. “No,” she says quietly, “I don’t. But I really want to.”

I nod. “Okay then. What can I do to help make you comfortable?”

She purses her lips, thinking, then turns away from me, toward the bedside table. “Maybe use this on me?”

She turns back and holds up the silicon dong we had purchased earlier in the week. It’s a bit longer and wider than I am, but it’s modeled after some pornstar whose name I don’t know, so I’m not really surprised. The box had described it as ultra-realistic, and it hadn’t lied. I would have sworn it was the real deal. Veins run along the shaft, the cyber-skin coating has imperfections akin to a real cock, and the package (haha) is complete with a pair of fleshy balls. I can’t help but be impressed by the thing. The only unnatural thing about it, aside from it not being attached to a dude, is the black nub sticking out of the base.

I smile and approach her. I take the dong from her hand. “Strip. Now.” It’s a command, but I say it with as much patience and kindness as my rising libido can permit.

Kelly takes another nervous breath, then stands on the bed. One deft movement removes the shirt, exposing her lithe dancer’s frame and petite breasts. Her nipples are hard, presumably from anticipation. She hooks her thumbs under the waistband of her shorts and gives a little tug, and they drop to her ankles. Her pussy is at eye level where I stand. I look up at her, and I know she understands what I want without saying it. We connect at that level. She steps to the edge of the bed and brushes her shaven mound against my cheek. I turn my head a little and flick my tongue out, stroking her swollen labia, teasing them apart, exposing her clit. I hear her gasp, and I continue only for a moment, until her lips are spread wide, her wetness inviting.

I draw my head back. “Lay down.”

She drops to her knees in front of me and kisses me gently before lying back on the bed. She situates a pillow under her head, and I climb onto the bed beside her. She watches as I place the dong in my mouth, lubricating it (and, honestly, getting a bit of a thrill from the feel of a cock in my mouth–that’s unexpected). I smile down at her and lightly rub the head against her center. She bites her lip and nods ever so slightly. I maintain eye contact as I orient the toy, and push, just enough to slip the head inside of her. She gasps again. Her brow knits, and her mouth opens slightly, a quiet “Ooh” escaping. I pause a moment, then push again. My saliva and her wetness are a perfect lubrication, and despite its size, the fake cock practically glides forward, into her. Another “Ooh” from her, this one prolonged, lasting as long as it takes for the toy to be fully inside of her. It takes me a moment to determine her moans are from pleasure, though I imagine the stretching is a bit more than she’s used to. I carefully slide the toy back, and she jerks a bit, grasping the sheets and arching her back slightly.

I pause. “Too much?”

She shakes her head. “No… it’s tight, but I like it…” She opens her eyes and looks at me. “Fuck me with it.”

I grin, and take a firm grip under the base of the toy. I begin pumping it slowly, to and fro. I am quietly amazed by how smoothly the thing glides within her–she must be incredibly turned on to be this wet. Kelly grips the sheets tighter and begins rocking against the toy. She breathes quickly, each inhalation short, and each exhalation a quiet “hah” into the silence of the room. I duck my head down, taking one nipple into my mouth. She thrusts her chest up toward me, and as I bite down with my incisors on the perky flesh, my middle finger presses the black nub on the toy. I hear the deep “thrummmmmm” of the motor as it activates, and feel the vibration through my arm, and even through my teeth as it travels up her body. Kelly instantly bucks against my hand, and she wraps her arm around me, clinging to me, her bare flesh warm and clammy. She moans properly, and says what sound to me like, “Oh holy God,” but it’s hard to tell through the groaning.

Then I hear a click from the corner, and the sound of old hinges squealing against each other. Kelly and I both turn to look at the door. Hank steps into the room, freshly showered and holding a towel in his left hand. He is nude, and his cock stands at half-mast, solid but not entirely at attention. I can’t explain the little thrill I get at seeing him there, and I make no attempt to hide the fact that I’m watching his member pulse, slowly growing more firm.

“You guys couldn’t wait, huh?” He towels at his hair a little.

I shake my head. “Nope. We’re way too excited to be patient.”

Hank tosses the towel aside, and grabs his cock, giving it a couple of quick, practiced tugs. I hear Kelly moan again, and I glance down to see her staring eagerly at him, wide eyes locked on his manhood. She stretches out her left hand toward him and makes a grasping motion. “I want that….”

The look in her eyes, the sound of her voice, Hanks’s presence in the room… it all feels so surreal, but my body practically tingles in anticipation, and my cock throbs eagerly against my boxers as Hank approaches the bed.

Another weekend camping trip (this time with colleagues from the university).  Two manuscripts submitted for publication.  Two new projects in the works.  Four years of movement data cleaned up and analyzed.  Buuuuuuuuuuusy busy busy.

Amidst the sea of responsibilities, and for the first time in about a week, I somehow remembered to check my e-mail account associated with this blog.  Seems my last couple of posts have struck a chord with several of my readers, as well as a few passersby, because the inbox was chock full of messages from people.  Some of them expressed support and anticipation for what’s to come.  Others were concerned that I might be putting myself at too much risk with Marian the Librarian.  (Who is not, actually, a librarian.)  But, as per the usual, most accused me of manipulating and using her to my own selfish ends.

Seriously, do my fellow bloggers in this sexy little circle not get the outpouring of nasty hate mail I receive?  If not, I wonder what it is about my blog that inspires so much venom.  I could certainly point to the fact that I’m describing my many marital indiscretions, but I know of other male-authored blogs doing the same thing, and I’ve never heard them comment on angry e-mails.  And the women, well… guys like promiscuous women, so I can’t see them getting the same response that I do.

So what is it about my particular blog that gets so many people riled up?  I’d love to hear what you think, readers.  Perhaps I can deemphasize those elements and reduce the hate mail.  (Or, more likely, I can focus on them and really piss off the populace.   I think that’s a little more my style.)

In the meantime, I figure it’s time, once again, for a public e-mail and rejected comment response.  If the influx of comments continues, I may have to make this a regular installment.  It might even get its own category.  Once again, names are omitted to protect the author’s identities.

Comment:  This Marian situation seems like trouble.  I’m worried about you, Bi.

Please don’t be.  I recognize, at all times, that my behavior is more than a little risky.  Regardless of whatever steps I may take to prevent being discovered, there’s always that chance.  Granted, Marian is… I dunno how to say it.  She’s uncertain about our developing relationship.  And that uncertainty may lead her to do something drastic if she feels unfulfilled or guilty.  It’s possible.  But I accept that as a possible outcome of the solution I’ve chosen to resolve the lack of marital intimacy.

To those of you who expressed your concern, I thank you wholeheartedly, and I truly appreciate that you care enough to worry about my well-being.  But don’t lose any sleep over it.  Come what may, I will survive.  I always do.

Comment:  How can you say that being happy in marriage is a bad thing?  I’m blissfully happy with my spouse, and it’s wonderful.  You’re obviously not happy, otherwise you wouldn’t say that.

You’re only partially right.  I’m not unhappy with my marriage.  I’m just bored, and a few disagreements now and again would go a long way toward making things more interesting.  It’s the lack of sex with Ashley that I’m unhappy with, and that alone isn’t enough to make me dissatisfied with the marriage as a whole.  It is, however, enough to make my genitals long for new and exotic locales.

Comment:  Marian sounds just like me: a little insecure, lonely, and looking for someone to care about her.  The fact that you’re using her loneliness to get laid is absolutely despicable, and that you’re married on top of it makes you the lowest form of life.


I’m not using Marian.  At least, I don’t think so.  I’ve been honest with her from the get-go.  She knows who and what I am, and that we don’t have any long-term romantic prospects.  Even if I were to leave Ashley, I wouldn’t pursue something long-term with Marian because of the way we began our interaction.  She knows this, because I’ve told her as much.  And she seems to have accepted that.

Based on my interactions with Marian, she’s nothing like you describe.  She’s quite strong-willed, independent, and comfortable in her lifestyle.  She doesn’t like being attracted to me, but she is, and she’s decided to let herself go and see what happens with us.  If that means I’m using her, then, well… I suppose I’m using her, which would indeed make me a despicable person.  But I don’t interpret our interaction that way.  I’m sorry that you do.

By the way, have you ever considered going to therapy?  Pseudo-scientific quackery if you ask me, but your self-image is so negative that seeking help might be beneficial.  Just sayin’.

Comment:  Real men don’t cheat.

On the contrary.  Real men cheat all the time.  Men who don’t cheat, according to recent surveys, are surprisingly rare, and seem to be most abundant in Meg Ryan movies.

Comment:  “Cumming on a girl’s shaved head looks like a Pollock painting.”  You’re disgusting.

But it’s true!!

Comment:  You hardly ever write erotica anymore.  I want to hear the juicy details!!

Yeah, sorry about that.  I’m rather self-conscious about my writing as it is, and I think that my attempts at describing sex are crude and ham-fisted.  I lack Gillian’s and Hyacinth’s sexual vocabulary and linguistic creativity.  (They’re sort of my heroes.)  But maybe I’ll write something more stimulating soon.

That’s all for now, dear readers.  Got to get back to the pile of data sitting on my desk.  Those GPS collars aren’t gonna upload themselves.

It’s been a long time since I publically responded to the e-mails and unapproved comments I receive about this blog.  I think it’s high time I did so again.  Here are a few of the questions and comments I’ve received over the past few weeks, in no particular order.  Names and potentially identifying information have been removed.

Question:  Why do you refuse to approve the comments I post on your blog?

The thing is, I don’t like bigots and judgmental assholes.  As far as I’m concerned, I’m the only person on this blog who gets to be a bigoted, self-righteous, judgemental prick, and I do that job well enough for ten people.  Why would I want your comments on here mucking up my dick-fu?

Question:  Are all of your stories true?

Yes, but only to an extent.  The nice thing about memory is, it tends to paint you in a better light the further from the event you go.  I can’t say with 100% certainty that everything I write is absolutely, perfectly accurate.  What I try to get across are the main points, the things that stick out.  The smell of a woman’s hair (Shelley’s shampoo).  The sounds of the surrounding area (the coffee shop in Asia).  The specific phrases that stand out to me (“You’re probably the most incredible guy I’ve ever met, but I’m no one’s plaything”).  The parts in between those elements have to be recreated to the best of my recollection, but I never purposely alter a story to make it more interesting, or to make myself out as a hero, or a victim.  Each story is a memory, and is told as honestly as I can.

Comment:  No one is that good at that many things.  You must be a liar.

I happen to be an excellent liar.  But not here.  (Who the hell would I want to impress on an anonymous blog?)  And frankly, I’m only quite good at a couple of things, but my career and education choices have forced me to develop at least a working proficiency in a number of fields.  Fortunately, I’m a very fast learner.

Oh, and fuck you.

Question:  Some of your stories sound awfully familiar.  Did you fuck my wife?

Seriously, why the hell do you want to even speculate on this?  I may have fucked a lot of women, but that number is a drop in a drop in a drop in the bucket of the total number of women in the places I’ve lived.  As much as I admire women and want to pursue intimacy with every one of them, the likelihood that I fucked your wife or girlfriend or sister or whatever is astronomically small.

Question:  Do you want to?

That, on the other hand, is entirely plausible.  [Author’s Note:  Yes, I actually had a man ask if I would consider sleeping with his rather lovely wife.  What an interesting and magical place the Internet has become.]

Question:  Why do you not post more frequently?  (Or, why do you not respond to my e-mails faster?)

Because I am remarkably busy.  I’m amazed I find the time to write the two weekly entries to which I’ve committed myself.  Please don’t interpret my silence as disinterest.  There just aren’t enough hours in the day to do everything I’d like.

Comment:  If you really loved Ashley, you wouldn’t cheat on her and then write about it here.

You have no idea how much I struggle with this.  I write about it because it makes me feel less horrid.  I imagine it’s the same sensation Catholics feel after confession.  Not that I think anything I write here qualifies as a confession, at least in the religious sense, but it evokes a similarly cathartic response for me.

I believe I love Ashley.  My heart tells me I do.  My mind tells me I shouldn’t.  And that’s all I want to say about it right now.

Comment:  Only cowards hide behind pseudonyms.

You may be right.  I’ve never claimed to be brave, and I certainly don’t consider myself to be so.

Question:  Why did you misspell the word “tendencies” in your username?  Was it on purpose, or are you stupid?

Fuck you.  That’s why.

Question:  Are you using this blog as a means of meeting women online to fuck?

I don’t use this blog to further my sexual agenda.  Frankly, I don’t need it for that purpose–I am more than capable of picking up women on my own, thank you very much.  (However, I confess that there are certain amongst my regular readers whom I find more than slightly beguiling.)

Question:  Are you currently seeing anyone behind Ashley’s back?

Yes, I am: a woman who works at my university, and a younger woman from the yoga class I help out with.  I’m sleeping with neither at the moment, but the temptation to do so is fairly overwhelming.


Think that’s enough for now, especially given that this is an extra third post for my week!  If you have any other questions or comments, feel free to leave ’em below.

Alright, let’s continue yesterday’s original train of thought.

I am a cheater.  Let’s never forget that, as it’s the impetus for writing this blog.  If I had to nail it down, I would estimate I’ve slept with well over 300 people in the past eight years, and likely 2/3 to 3/4 of those encounters overlapped with an ongoing “committed” relationship.  (Again, I use the term loosely because my behavior would suggest that I am anything but committed.)  This isn’t bragging, it’s just the numbers, and frankly, I think I might be underestimating.  It’s kind of a miracle that I haven’t contracted some horrible case of Rotten Crotch.

Of that 67-75%, probably 70% or more were people I refer to as “repeat offenders”, someone with whom I had more than a one night stand.  And, of that 70%, probably 10% were people with whom I maintained an ongoing relationship, short- or longterm.

Quick math.  300 x 0.75 (going with the upper limit to prevent underestimation) x 0.7 x 0.1 = 15.75.

Yeah, sounds about right.  Approximately 15 maintained clandestine relationships amidst a sea of flings and repeat offenses

It’s a worthwhile differentiation to make.  A one-night stand or single encounter is a fling.  Repeated encounters that otherwise hold no romantic overtones are repeat offenses.  And repeated encounters with a romantic component, the aforementioned maintained clandestine relationships, are affairs.

Thus, I have had approximately 15 full-blown affairs.  Some of them were as short as a couple of weeks.  Others were maintained for months.  The length was dictated by the nature of the relationship, the needs of the partner, and, of course, the quality of the sex.  Amazing sex, as is usually the case for most people I think, permitted me to overlook a lot of annoying things, whereas poor sex prompted me to end an otherwise lovely relationship.

For once, however, sex is not the main point of this post.  A quick search of WordPress and Google turns up dozens, perhaps hundreds of articles about why people cheat, and about how to start an affair.  I have no intention of discussing these things, because I simply can’t inform the first topic, and the second is an incredibly personal topic that could never apply to everyone.

Instead, I am going to discuss some of the ways by which people unintentionally ruin an affair.

Again, I can’t tell you why people cheat (hell, I barely understand why I do it), but I believe I can say that there is no single universal explanation for it.  Some people may be dissatisfied with the sexual component of their current relationship, or, like me, have an unexplained compulsion to do so.  Others may be seeking a more emotional connection.  Fuck, some people may just want a drinking buddy.  I don’t know.  But that, I think, is the first major mistake people make–not understanding what they and their partners in crime are each after.

To me, a good affair is like a high school romance.  Sounds cheesy, I know, but it’s the best analogy I can come up with.  You pass each other in the halls and share a look, maybe a quick dialogue, before rushing back to your other responsibilities.  You look forward to those precious moments of mutual excitement.  Then, when the timing works out just right, you sometimes sneak away to someplace private to explore your baser desires, knowing you only have a certain amount of time before you have to be someplace else.  Your encounters are fleeting, ephemeral things, short enough to never completely satisfy but just long enough to keep your hopes up.  That, I think, is the source of the excitement.

Consider, then, where high school romances go wrong.  One lover catches the other talking to someone else.  One forgets to call the other, or doesn’t return a delivered note.  Jealousy and insecurity run rampant, and it ultimately leads to awkward passes, uncomfortable silences, and distance.  Or, the alternative scenario, one lover suddenly becomes overly clingy or asks for more than the other partner is comfortable with giving (J.K. Rowlings’ Ron/Lavender relationship comes to mind), which ultimately leads to the same conclusion, though often with a more volatile setting.

I think this analogy holds quite well.  The key to a successful affair (or at least one with me) is to maintain those tantalizingly quick encounters while not succumbing to jealousy or demanding more of your partner than they expect from you.  Recognize that, by virtue of being “the other person”, you are not, and will likely never be, “the one person” for your accomplice, if history is any indicator, because to make such a change would require said accomplice to change everything about their life, particularly so when marriage is involved.

This may be bothersome for some people, but recognize also that you don’t have to have a deep and abiding relationship with your accomplice to get the physical and/or emotional attention you need.  You already have a committed relationship at home that, for whatever reason, is so incomplete that it drives you to seek companionship in the arms of another.  Do you really think anything will be improved by giving up one flawed relationship for another?  (And if you’re in one, please don’t tell me that your affair isn’t flawed.  Anything that must be hidden to prevent personal catastrophe cannot, in my opinion, be anything but.)

Personally, I find great satisfaction in watching a new affair develop and blossom into its own thing.  It’s exciting, not knowing what will happen, who your accomplice will turn out to be, whether they’re a good fuck.  As I told my most recent infatuation, it’s rather like gambling, only reinforced by the power of orgasms and human connectivity.  You will likely never land on trip sevens, but if you do… holy crap.

I want to make a crude double entendre about “playing the slots”, but I can’t find a good way to fit it in, so I’ll just include it here as an aside.  Play the slots.

Excuse me while I giggle like a five year old.