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Interview With a Sex Addict
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Interview with a Sex Addict
AL gets a new monitor to look at Lo in hi-def while working from home, his wife in the next room
This week, we bring out our resident admitted and diagnosed sex addict, AL, who goes by “Al.” He graciously agreed to answer a few questions about sex addiction, for educational purposes. Lo enthusiastically put on her correspondent’s had (and nothing else) and went to work interviewing him and then, took off the newsgirl hat and teased him, as she does.
- How do you define “sex addict”?
Without Googling, I define a sex addict as someone who compulsively engages in sexual behaviors, despite any negative effects created by said behaviors. They’ve shaped/changed their arousal palette, neural pathways, and reward center to release that sweet, sweet dopamine when engaging in their desired sexual behaviors, even if those behaviors result in negative consequences affecting self, family/friends, job, etc.
- Do you consider yourself a sex addict?
Yes, and if not a sex addict—then definitely addicted to lusting after HH/Lo’s pictures and words! Some days I’ll wake up with Lo on my mind and even though I could just stroke right there and cum—I’d much rather click through her pictures and read their words, first.
- Tell me more. How did you come to the conclusion that you are a sex addict?
Obviously, I was living life under the self-delusion that I just had high sex drive and a wandering eye. But after multiple therapists—which were a waste of time in the beginning since I never was actually honest about the extent of my situation—I had one in particular suggest that maybe I have a sex addiction. She also stated that it wasn’t her expertise, so she couldn’t help me in the way I needed. After some reading and podcasts, I reached out to a CSAT (Certified Sex Addiction Therapist) and decided to “come clean,” which coincided with my “rock bottom.” It was through her that I was diagnosed as having a sex addiction.
- Tell me what “rock bottom” meant for you since we all have different bottoms (no pun intended).
What I mean by rock bottom…long story, short: I racked up multiple thousands of dollars on credit cards in my name (via webcam girls, buying girls things, etc.); I was constantly checking sites like PornHub, Xvideos, eFukt, mysexlifewithlola.com; stopping by strip clubs for lap dances; even seeking out guys with whom to share naked photos/videos of my wife; seeking escorts for random encounters; cheating on my (then) fiancée with girls that she hated.
- You’re married to a beautiful, sexy woman. How’s that relationship?
Yes, she is very beautiful and sexy. We’ve been married five years, and together for over ten. We’ve definitely experienced our share of ups and downs. It’s the downs that seem to linger, but that is part of the work. She picked up on some red flags but continued on (as did I). Historically, she hasn’t had a ‘high’ (or medium for that matter) sex drive, and mistakenly, I used to ascribe a lot of the blame on her for my acting out. That was wrong of me. Part of the process involved a ‘disclosure’ of all events/actions that I had hidden away—that was difficult, borderline catastrophic. I ended up making it worse by not being completely honest during my first disclosure, meaning I didn’t come clean to all the details until a second disclosure months later.
Ironically, we’re closer and more strategic (in a non-sexual way) with our relationship now that I’m in recovery. She also sees a therapist who is familiar with partner betrayal (which is very important, or else sometimes the partner receives an unfair share of shame and blame). She doesn’t fully understand (can anyone, really?) but she’s working hard, as am I (sometimes). We do not have sex often, as I’m sure one might wonder…in fact, I’m lucky if it’s once a week and not a quickie. I can see that a day doesn’t go by where it doesn’t hurt her, but life is complicated, and the goal is to be in a better spot than we were.
[Trigger Warning – non-consent]
- Did you have any formative sexual experiences in early life?
Yes. At age 3 or 4, my next-door neighbor—who was around 5- or 6-year-old—introduced me to kissing and touching. She would take me in to the closet and show me first-hand what she must have been introduced to by whomever was (sadly) showing her. Additionally, when I was six, I had a handful of experiences involving my cousin (same age) and her friend, “trying to be like adults.”
I would also add that access to pornography at a young age was formative in itself. The internet really changed things, as well. I grew up in an unstable household; I sought pleasure and seclusion. Given those needs and that environment, it’s no wonder to me that I latched on to the pleasures of ‘sex’ to escape.
- Best sexual experience?
This is a tricky one…my best sexual experience would most likely be with one of my exes— she was amazing in bed…always wanted to fuck, loved to swallow, and LOVED doing it in public places. I think we were at some random party and their bathroom suited us just fine!
- Worst sexual experience?
Is that possible? JK. One of the worst experiences would be one of my first escort experiences. The situation was shady AF, which only prevented me from getting (and remaining) hard. I hadn’t experienced that before, and it was awkward. I remember desperately trying to squeeze my flaccid condom-covered cock inside of her. She understood, but I ended up having to settle for a hand job.
- Who knows of your addiction, if anyone?
As it stands right now, five people are aware of my addiction: my counselor, my wife, my wife’s best friend, one of my closest friends from high school, and oddly enough, one of my professors from my first year back at school. I’ve debated sharing with my brother (I think he has some similar issues) and my 14-year-old son.
- How long have you been in treatment for sex addiction? And do you feel it has worked?
I’ve been in treatment for 3+ years now with a CSAT. It definitely helped me become more aware. I’m sure there are workbooks, strict plans, etc. Before disclosure, we simply identified the really ‘bad’ behaviors (escorts, strip clubs, webcam girls) and put in mitigation efforts (GPS tracking on phone, website filters on phone and laptop). That’s actually the easy part. The hard part is the act of disclosure (if you’re honest enough), and all of the ‘work’ when no one is looking—that’s where the real gains can be made (or lost).
- What would you say to people reading this who are asking themselves: Am I a sex addict or do I just have a healthy sexual appetite?
I would say: enjoy sex. I personally see it as a life enhancer (similar to good food or music); however, if things start getting bad and you’re hiding a lot from people, that can spiral and add so much (unnecessary) stress. Long story short, if there are bad things happening because of one’s sexual appetite, then one should at least look at their impact and see if any adjustments should be made. Life is much more fun being authentic!
- Have you ever met a female sex addict? If so, describe what that interaction was like?
I’ve only read about and been told about them, never meeting one in person. I know they’re out there, but the stereotypical addict seems to fall on males and the partner role is assumed to be female.
- Why do you think sex addiction has become such a popular topic lately?
I think it’s because sex sells and some people look at it as a crutch or excuse to do what they do. (Which is fine, unless you’re causing unnecessary damage as a result of it.)
- Have you read any literature out there about sex addicts or sex addiction? If so, what do you recommend?
Facing the Shadow, Patrick Carnes
“Sex Help with Carol the Coach” (podcast)
“Behind Closed Doors” with Dr. Kate Balestrieri (podcast)
- Would you prefer if you were not a sex addict? Why or why not?
I like being who I am, and I like what I’m into. What I’d prefer is being upfront with significant others, and saying: “Hey, this is me…like it or leave it.” I think I grew up in shitty situations, so I’d use sex, love, flirting, etc. as my drug. Throw in the internet, and being someone who is good at lying, and that’s a potent combination.
- Biggest trouble that sex addiction got you into?
This list is ongoing, but you’re only in trouble if you get caught! (JK) Gigantic credit card bills…I’m a sucker for spoiling a slut or camgirl, lol. Racking those up was the primary driver in hitting my bottom.
- You seem to be successful at your job and still married and a parent. Is there such a thing as a “high functioning” sex addict like there is for a “high functioning alcoholic”? Describe.
Actually, I do think there is such a thing. I was so intrigued by this question, that I even asked it of my counselor—she agreed. Part of being a high functioning sex addict would require being able to compartmentalize almost anything and any time. In doing so, you’re able to build a rationale on the matter. I also know the things I cannot do—although I want to: the strip clubs, seeing escorts, flirting with a slut. And so I am able to navigate the decisions I make, and the steps I take to cover up those decisions if they are of the variety that would ‘give me away.’
- Pros and cons of being a sex addict?
Pros: Good ol’ fashioned dopamine at a relatively inexpensive cost (not including the externalities); typically, a more open, and inclusive mind… Cons: Can be relationship killer, money-drainer, and/or source of depression if not approached correctly (is there a correct way? Asking for a friend, lol).
- Top five fantasy fucks?
#1 – You!
#2 – An all-night bang session with my wife and her best friend.
#3 – Be part of a gangbang…with some amateur local wife.
#4 – DVP (Double Vaginal Penetration, or two penises in the vagina) with my wife.
#5 – You!
- Sexual experience you haven’t had yet but would like to try?
I’ve always wanted to try a threesome, both MMF and MFF. Also, I’ve ALWAYS wanted to share my wife…I can think of multiple scenarios involving her…me watching, not watching, listening, being shown, etc.
- Bonus question: From what you know of me, do you think I’m a sex addict?
From what I’ve gathered, and if analyzed with the actual truths, I do. But do I think there are huge negative consequences affecting you? Probably not, given our society.
After our interview was over, Lo was naughty and engaged in the following interaction:
Lola: I wonder how your jacking off to me plays into your current recovery and relationship with your wife. For instance, what happens when I send you a photo like this?
Lola Teasing
AL: Besides the mini dopamine rush and flinch of my cock? Or, are you looking for how many times I’ve already clicked on the picture, to enlarge and admire it?
Lola: I like to know that you think about me when you stroke that lovely cock of yours to my photos. Now write about that experience. Include where your wife is. How you keep this solo session from her? How it makes you feel? How I make you feel?
AL: Right now, my wife’s sleeping next to me naked. I’m in the bed, hard as a rock, looking at your photos. To tell the truth, I forgot how hard I get reading about you; way harder than looking at porn, that’s for sure.
All solo getting off has to be done on the sly for me. My wife and I have a soft agreement that I’m supposed to inform her when I ‘take care of myself.’. . . I often seek out your photos to simply admire and your stories to see what you’re up to, but. . . one thing leads to another. I don’t always tell my wife when I got off alone and I certainly don’t disclose what I looked at/thought about, especially when it was you. But these behaviors do cause me to develop a guilt factor when I’m wanting to take care of myself—which I don’t necessarily like.
I am fully aware that you don’t help my addiction. However, I am also aware that I have needs too, and my mind is fully capable of rationalizing the fact that getting off to your pictures is a lot safer than the ‘acting out’ behaviors I used to engage in.
Keeping you – your pictures and your stories – hidden away from my therapist and my wife certainly doesn’t help my situation, but, as long as I am careful and respectful, it doesn’t necessarily hurt. I like to think it keeps me in somewhat of a steady-state (which I think is only possible because of the fact that I am ‘high-functioning’ sex addict, as you called it). Deep down, I know that these are behaviors that need to change in order to fully ‘recover.’ But I have to ask myself two things: “Is recovery what I really want?” and “Where’s the fun in that?”
Lola: So you’re saying that getting off to me is what we might call ‘harms reduction’?
AL: That’s an interesting take, but yes, sort of a lesser of two evils (although you’re not evil; naughty, yes, but not evil as far as I know, haha). It’s kind of like, I know it is still reinforcing neural pathways that I’m trying to change, but still I pursue that behavior because of my brain’s ability to rationalize and compartmentalize.
Lola: Thought experiment – what would happen if you were married to me and I constantly had guys (and gals) coming over in order to cum over, in, on, to, with, and for me and you were there to watch? Would that be a cure?
AL: Now that just sounds hot! If that scenario were real, and guys and girls were coming over to cum with, in, and on you, then I think I’d be in my happy place, as long as you (as my wife) wanted it, and so did I. (I do, btw, I very much do!)
Tits Out
“Lo, are you watching porn again?” I asked as I noticed her lying on the couch, legs spread, hand cupped in her thigh-gap, her mind keenly absorbed in the screen of her phone.
“No,” she said defiantly.
“Then what are you doing in that provocative position?”
“I happen to be reading an article.”
“Oh yeah? What article?”
“It’s about the pandemic and relationships.”
“I’m curious. Tell me more.”
“Oh, it’s just about how some couples realized that their relationship was in shambles once they were deprived of all the other distractions in life.”
“Hmmm, sounds interesting. What’s it called?”
“I forget the title.”
“But you’re reading it right now. I’d like to read it too. What’s it called?”
“Fine,” she said, as if caught fibbing. “It’s called, ‘First Comes the Pandemic Divorce, Then the Tits Out Summer.’”
“Tits Out Summer, eh?”
Lola’s Tits Out
“It’s educational.”
“I bet it is.”
“Do you plan on having a ‘Tits Out Summer’ this year?”
“This year, every year: summer, winter, spring, fall – never a bad time for tits out.”
“Take ʼem out now.”
“Don’t mind if I do.”
She reached into her shirt and pulled her breasts out over the top.
“You’ll stretch it out that way,” I said.
“Stretch what?”
“Your shirt.”
“Oh, I thought you were talking about something else,” she said as she pulled at her nipples, elongating them.
“Mind if I snap a photo or two? You look divine.”
I pulled out my camera.
“You know,” she said as she posed, “I’ve been called an attention whore for just this sort of exhibitionism.”
“You don’t say. Preposterous.”
“The way I see it, nudes have always been considered fine art. That’s just how I consider myself – a priceless museum quality piece that should be on display in a venue open to the public.”
“You’re a piece alright! Very open to the public.”
“What are you implying?”
“I mean, in our day and age, the internet is the democratization of culture, the dissemination of information, the museum for the masses.”
“Quite,” she said as she pressed her tits together. “And the masses have spoken and I am the embodiment of their collective unconscious vision.”
“Humble too.”
She slid out of her panties and spread her legs.
“I know a photographer who takes photos of naked women,” she remarked.
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
“You should introduce us. We have a lot in common.”
“Not really. That’s just my point.”
“How so?”
“Well, each of her models is ‘perfect’ in a traditional sort of way and therefore eminently forgettable.”
“I see.”
“I, by contrast, am unique in a memorable sort of way.”
“That you are.”
“Do you want to fuck me, Daddy?”
I put down the camera and picked up my notepad and a pen.
“Daddy? What are you writing? I asked, do you want to fuck me?”
“You’ve inspired me,” I said as I scratched away at my note before it vanished from my mind.
“Read it to me,” she said when I put the pad down. She simultaneously picked up her two plungers — pink and blue (“pink for pussy, blue for bum”) and attached them to the bed’s headboard.
Pink Plunger
“Are you going to engage in double penetration?”
“That’s the objective,” she said, sliding back on the ribbed handles.
“Adventurous.”
“I like to think that I’m open to adventure. Will you read to me?”
I read from the notebook: “The most beautiful thing in the world cannot be seen, touched, or apprehended by the senses. It can only be approached by the mind, felt by the soul, and embraced deep within the heart. It nourishes the imagination and quickens thought. It is the noumenal trace behind the phenomenal appearance of the nymphomaniac, the sexually confident woman, the eternal feminine open to receive, willing to give, abundantly generous, her glory simultaneously concealing and revealing, her naked resplendence overwhelming thought through her appearance, yet shrouding her in mystery that tantalizes because always unattainable.”
“How Platonic,” she remarked, “and therefore, disappointingly sterile. Don’t you want to have me? Don’t you want to approach my body, feel my tits, and embrace me deep within my cunt? Though I adore your words and ideas, right now I just want you to fuck me.”
Her withering criticism of my inspired panegyric to her dissuaded me from continuing. If I wanted to praise her, I had to do it apart from words and phrases. I had to express my love, preferably through my second most penetrating and pleasing organ.
She pulled forward from the headboard, surprising both herself and me as the plungers remained in her holes and became dislodged from the surface where they had been affixed with a sudden pop! noise. She looked like an animal that had been shot twice with large darts in the aft. She reached back, pulled the plungers out and lay flat on her back on the bed, playing dead, but for both her hands fidgeting with her pussy as her legs were spread. She resembled human Mercedes sign.
“I think I’m comprehending your needs,” I said as I removed my clothes.
“Sometimes you’re a genius.”
“My dear, I’m always a genius. Sometimes I do stupid things.”
“I think it’s the other way around.”
I got between her legs and berated her as she bore the full brunt of my blunt instrument.
“The two brothers aren’t enough, slut? The three brothers and their father couldn’t satisfy your hunger for humiliation? MILF Meri didn’t cure your craving for cunt?”
She just spread her legs further and took my meat and degradation with stoic equanimity.
For me, at that moment, she was the axis mundi. Not the world navel, but the hole at the center of the world through which all things emerge in their creation and return in their destruction.
Her hole was wide, taking and giving, full of fluid and overflowing. There was a sloshing and splashing as she climaxed, after which she simply said, “And now in my ass, Daddy.”
Ass Please Daddy
I pulled out, flipped her over, and slid into her second axis mundi; antipode to the first, the demonic inversion of the fecund orifice.
In one fell swoop I securely conjoined with her and I felt as she gripped my member with intensity.
She cried out in pain, “Now you’ve gone too far!”
“You can’t know where too far is until you get there.”
“You’re hurting me,” she pleaded.
I pulled back, relenting.
“I didn’t say stop,” she called over her shoulder.
I rammed her repeatedly from the rear until her rhythmic response of “oh, oh, oh, oh, oh,” transformed into a repeating release of “ah, ah, ah, ah, ah.”
She could tell I was rapidly approaching the point of no return and so she lunged forward, and with a catlike quickness, pivoted one hundred and eighty degrees, opening her mouth and taking my instrument of impalement deep into the back of her throat.
Instinctively, I pulled back, grabbed my manhood with my right hand, and let spew forth all of my liquid love for Lola.
She looked up at me as I painted her face the color of pearl and she said, “I only feel right on my knees, Daddy.”
I spread my legs wide and she got between them, snuggling into my thighs, and licked from balls to tip. She looked up at me and asked, “Did you like fucking my ass?”
Unable to respond, I put my hands through her thick mane and pressed her face close to my throbbing thermometer.
She opened her mouth and took it in, performing her practice of “cockwarming” as I slowly drifted off to sleep.
Did you like fucking my ass, Daddy?
Happy Families
The next morning, over coffee, while I was cooking up some eggs, Lo asked me completely out of nowhere, “You know what Meri told me when I asked her why the hell she is still with Scott, who has no penis to speak of?”
“No, Darling,” I said, “what?”
“Meri told me that she’s with him because, ‘He calls me: Daddy’s fat little babygirl.’ Can you believe that?”
“What’s not to believe?”
“What’s not to believe?!”
I flipped the eggs, looked at her, and raised my eyebrows in curiosity.
“I mean, well, she’s not fat.”
“That doesn’t matter.”
“He’s fat if anyone’s fat.”
“Again, maybe he just likes to think of her that way.”
“She may have put on a few pounds after pumping out three boys, but she’s not fat. She’s a sexy MILF. Sexy… MILF… Meri,” she said, gazing off, looking over the brim of her coffee mug.
“You still here or have you gone back down your rabbit hole?”
“And you know what else?”
“No, Darling, what?”
“When I told her about how none of the boys shut the bedroom door while they each had at me –”
“Toast?”
She nodded her head ‘yes,’ as if yesterday’s full day of fucking had famished her.
“She told me that Scott never shuts the bedroom door.”
I carefully put the two eggs and toast in front of her. I did the same for myself before getting up to grab two glasses and the O.J.
She licked her lips and dug right in, tasting it briefly before continuing.
“Did you hear me?”
“Yes,” I said, sitting across from her, taking a bite of my breakfast. “He never shuts the bedroom door.”
“Never, since the kids were small. They just fuck there. Doesn’t matter who sees, who’s there, who knows. She says that he believes it shows their love for each other, so why hide it.”
“I take it you disagree.”
“Yes, I disagree.”
“So fucking doesn’t demonstrate love?”
“You know what I mean. Certain things are not meant for children to see. Aren’t you shocked at all?”
She was nearly done with her food already.
“Lo, honestly, nothing about Meri really shocks me.”
“What does that mean?”
I finished up my toast, took the last sip of my juice, and got up to collect the plates and glasses.
“You can’t just say something like that and leave it there,” she insisted. “What do you mean by that?”
“Different families have different internal cultures and norms,” I said, philosophically.
“This is not a study in cross-cultural family units,” she objected. “This is your typical suburban middle-class all-American family.”
“Typical families are all alike – each has its own hidden little secret,” I said, poorly paraphrasing Tolstoy.
“Don’t you mean, ‘Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way’?” she asked. I love Lo because she’s one of the only humans on the planet with whom I can allude to literary lines and not only be understood, but be corrected.
“Show me a happy family and I will show you a family with a secret.”
“But that’s just it,” she retorted emotionally, “it’s like this family doesn’t have any secrets. They leave it all out there.”
“Is that so?” I asked snidely. “Then why have you and Meri been afraid that the cops or social services might rap on the door at any moment since you got back from your camping trip? If Meri leaves it all out there, then why is she living in fear?”
“That’s different. I mean, within the family, they all just live and let live.”
“More like fuck and let fuck.”
“Either way.”
“So?”
“I just find it interesting. Well, strange.”
“You said you don’t think it should be like that.”
“Maybe I don’t.”
“And clearly Meri doesn’t either.”
“What makes you say that?” she asked.
“Because she asked to use the brothers (or let the brothers use her) so that she could get her kicks outside of the family.”
“Or maybe she just needed bigger kicks,” remarked Lo, alluding to the genetic trait that Meri’s husband shared with his three sons – the trait that left Lo so unfulfilled.
Lo looked into her empty coffee mug and back up at me sadly.
“Something wrong?” I asked.
“What’s warm, wet, and makes you horny?”
Warm, Wet, and Stimulating
“Is this a riddle?”
She showed me her empty cup.
“Oh,” I said, comprehending. “You need me to fill you up.”
I poured more coffee in and she looked up at me seductively and said, “Just add cream.”
“Well,” I said to her, “I need something warm, wet, and stimulating to get up.”
“Here I am, Daddy,” she said with a twinkle in her eye.
“I was speaking about coffee, but really?” I asked because I thought she had been too well-worn to fuck.
“Well, I’m functional enough to give you a handjob.”
We finished our coffee and then walked to the bedroom where she reached down between my legs to assess the situation. She felt me and then reached down between her legs. I heard her smack her pussy a few times and then rub it. A little factoid about Lola – she never uses lube and certainly never spits in order to lubricate me or herself. She is almost always so naturally irrigated that she can always use her own secretions to get things slipping and sliding. She began stroking me. Despite the fact that she had showered and changed the bedding, I could still detect a whiff of the cum from eight people on her and in the room.
As she was distractedly stimulating me, she got a text. I heard her chuckle.
“What?” I asked.
She showed me a photo of her, naked, looking disheveled on the bed.
I want my family to see how I fucked you, slut
“After Meri had licked me clean, and was getting dressed, she said to me, ‘Did you like how I fucked you, Lola? Let me get a photo of you for my husband and my sons. They’ll want to see just how wrecked I left you, slut.’ She can be cruel sometimes.”
I looked at the photo and pictured all that happening as Lo coaxed me, “Cum. Please cum. That’s it, in my hand. Feel better, Daddy?”
Sweet Service
I had deposited a warm load in her palm. She licked it like a kitten cleaning her paws. I began to nod off as the waves of well-being washed over my weak body.
“Oh no,” said Lo, “No sleep for you! You promised you’d clean up all your books today!”
“I need a mancave to hibernate in,” I said groggily. “I’m just going rest for a little bit.”
“And I need a womancave!”
“Luckily, you have one.”
“And you’re not welcome in it until you clean up the books.”
I fell asleep.
When I woke up, Lo was going at both her womancaves with the plungers – blue in bum, pink in pussy.
Blue for Bum, Pink for Pussy
She was looking at her phone.
“DP? Really?” I asked.
“Oh, Daddy. You know I love double-penetration. And if you’re not going to give it to me, well, I have to get it somehow.”
“What brought this on? I thought you were too sore even for me.”
“It’s call desire.”
I was confused.
Once she noticed that I was watching her, she came and came hard, yelling out to me (and all the neighbors within earshot) that she was cumming in her ass and her cunt.
“I call it, ‘Desire'”
When she was done, I asked, “Desire?”
“Yeah,” she said matter-of-factly, “Scott and Meri each texted me separately that they want me.”
“And that’s what made you horny enough to ride dueling dildos?”
“Being desired is my aphrodisiac.”
Polyglot
Markus Apegren painting
“That’s one thick slick dick!” she said.
“Lo, I’m in my pajamas and I’m not even hard,” I replied.
“I wasn’t talking about you,” she said, not picking up on my sarcasm. “Look,” she said, holding her phone to my face so I could see the surprisingly serpentine appendage which had provoked her initial comment.
“An admirer?” I half stated, half asked.
“This whole COVID quarantine thing has been crappy, but it has also produced some unexpected yet pleasant surprises. I’ve never felt so connected to my fanbase as I do now.”
a hung fan
“Not connected enough, it seems,” I added, under my breath.
“Well, it’s true that I’ve been getting off to them, but the relationship is reciprocal. I’ve heard from guys, wives, husbands, single girls, older folks who live alone, even one coed who had to move back from college to live with her parents and was so horny that hearing her parents going at it in their bedroom turned her on.”
“Luckily she had you to turn to,” I said.
I don’t think she heard me. She was indulging her natural need for self-copulation under the sheets.
“And don’t forget your sister,” I added.
She came.
“Is that the whole shebang?” I asked, wondering if she had any desire left for me. You know, her ole man lying there next to her, in the flesh, ready, willing and able to gratify her every lustful whim.
“That’s the hole shebangs,” she quipped, slapping her puss. I could hear how very wet she was.
“The hole who bangs?”
“Anyone and everyone.”
“How about this one?!” I asked, thumb pointing to my chest.
“You want me, Daddy?”
“How did you guess?”
“Then have me,” she said, holding her phone in one hand, spreading her legs as she lay missionary position on the bed, allowing me to enter her.
“Are you seriously texting while I fuck you?” I asked when she raised her other hand to the phone and was going at it with her thumbs.
“Does it bother you?”
“I’d like maybe ten percent of your attention.”
“You have one hundred percent of my pussy. Go to town.”
I didn’t stop going to Lola Down town, but I was frustrated.
“Who the hell are you writing to?”
“I have a following to satisfy, you know.”
“When you look behind you to see your following, I’m the first in line!”
She didn’t respond. She was engrossed in her text exchange.
“Are you at least sexting? – telling someone about how amazing I am in bed?”
“Yeah,” she said, unconvincingly.
“Tell the truth, Lo.”
“Well, I was actually telling a couple how sexy they are when they mutually get off to my pics.”
In my head I heard the lyrics, “Cause if you like the way you look that much, oh, baby, you should go love yourself.” But loving herself (or fucking herself) was exactly what she had been doing next to me for the past hour or so. I wanted her to respond to me.
“How about you tell me something?” I requested, not politely.
Again, she didn’t hear me. She was texting.
I pulled out.
“What are you doing?” she asked, as if I had just splashed ice water on her.
“I’m stopping.”
“Why?”
“Cause you’re not into it.”
“I was into it. I was into you being in me.”
“I’m a whole person, not just a penis.”
“And I’m a hole for your penis. Put it in me.”
“Put down the phone.”
I was on my knees, looking down at her as her legs were spread with her knees on each side of me. She could see my cock dripping with her juices.
“Please, Daddy,” she whined. “Please fuck me.”
“Not until you put down the phone.”
“But it enhances the experience for me. Come on,” she said, reaching down between my legs and fondling my testicles, feeling how soaked they were. “You know you want it. I can feel how full you are. Just use me. Fill me up. Fuck me. Get your rocks off. Cum inside me.”
I couldn’t resist her voice, though I knew I should. I entered her again.
“That’s it, Daddy. Use your little girl. Drill that dirty whore.” She was saying the words as if reading a script. Her eyes were glued to her phone screen. She was typing again with her thumbs. “Yeah, Daddy. That’s it. Feels good, right?”
Speaking words to me, typing different words to some virtual lover. She was a polyglot.
I finally let myself go. I didn’t care anymore. I released my full load deep inside her. She held me for one second with one hand, pressing it to my back, and then was back at it – typing away.
I pulled out with a sploosh and she rolled onto her tum, her legs dangling in the air, her feet touching at the toes, her pussy dribbling my ejaculate out slowly.
She pulled her right hand away from the phone just long enough to rub it between her legs and then lick some of the cum off her fingers.
“I love you, Lo,” I said as I rolled over to go to sleep.
“You too, Daddio.”
Lola pumps
Swing
[The following story, which took place a few years ago, was published in the March edition of ENM Magazine – Ethical Non-Monogamy. Unfortunately, despite heroic efforts by its publisher, this month is the last month of its short existence.]
Lo’s Green Dress from ENM spread
Saint Patrick’s Day in Chicago, where the river runs green and the jazz of a bygone era still swings. Lo and I had gone there for Lily and Jim’s wedding. It was an extravagant affair. All the quaint rituals and odd practices of the public betrothal symbolizing holy monotony. I mean monogamy. I mean matrimony. Sorry, I struggle to find the right words sometimes. All the focus on the bride as an unblemished princess performing for her solid, stoic king. There’s just something about it that provokes the puckish prankster in me. Especially when I know that the beautiful bride in her pure white gown has a devilish desire for exceptionally large cock and that her groom comes up short.
But Jim is a good friend of mine and a sometime paramour of Lo’s, so we took added delight in the carnal knowledge that behind all the nuptial vows, the oaths of fidelity, and the pomp of the ring ceremony, both Lily and Jim hadn’t any plans of restricting their bodies and pleasures only to the one legally bound to them.
So, as all the other guests let out gentle expressions of awe and shed a tear in reflection of this display of love and affection, I grinned a wicked little grin as I sipped my expensive scotch.
Lo saw my mischievous look and rubbed her leg up against mine under the table, indicating that she had some ideas of her own.
We both knew Lily and Jim to be swingers and so, when the formalities were over and the dancefloor opened up for revelry, Lo missed no opportunity to scandalize the evening.
We sat at the table next to the newlywed couple. Rather than the usual choice of two entrées, there was a choice of four and so people were passing bites from their plates around for each other to taste.
“You are so generous!” said one guest to me after I let her have a bite of my food.
“Whenever I experience something amazing, I just want others to share in it,” I replied, rubbing Lo’s arm.
“I’m the opposite,” said the young woman to me. “Whenever I find something amazing, I keep it all to myself.” She also rubbed the arm of her partner.
“You can have him,” I thought.
Meanwhile, Lo was seated next to Lily’s Uncle Collin. He arrived to this event without his wife Suzanne and no one blinked an eye about it. The family was used to their “independent” social schedules. This wedding happened after the shenanigans that had taken place at Collin’s mountain cottage, so Lo was very familiar with ‘Uncle Collin’ and his love of young women and his E.D. issues. The whole night, any stranger would have thought that Lo was Collin’s date for the evening. Given the age difference, they might have thought Lo was his hired companion as his FGE – “Full Girlfriend Experience.”
They danced together – marvelously, I might add – and reminisced, quite loudly at the table, about the days at his cottage. He repeatedly alluded to Lo suntanning nude along side Lily, going to a farm and milking goats, and they laughed about how Lo lost her bikini bottoms while tubing behind his boat on the lake.
As they told these stories, Collin gradually drew the other guests at our table into their intimate stroll down Memory Lane. He is charismatic and a good storyteller, but the whole time I was silently fuming, ready to burst out with, “Yeah, you could read all about it on our blog! With photos!!! I wrote it better than he tells it!!!” But I remained silent and let the senior statesmen have the spotlight that he so craved.
He subtly hinted at, without giving too much detail, the nudity, sex, and other debauchery that took place at the cottage. He was in on the secret we shared with Jim and Lily – that they got married prior to this large ceremony to appease their Catholic families and that, though they lived “in sin” prior to the private wedding, Lily was and continues to be an A.O.L. girl (Anal Only Lifestyle).
After Collin regaled them with his tales of titties and sun, one of the young women at our table, noticing Collin’s wedding ring and Lo’s “hotwife” ring, asked, “So you two are. . . married?” She asked it hesitantly, knowing it was an inappropriate question that was only sparked by the gaping age difference between them. Yet the curious guest was inebriated enough to broach the subject and display her incredulity.
“Oh no,” said Lo, laughing and delighting in the twist of the knife that was about to take place, “I’m not married!”
“Oh, so you’re. . . ?” the woman’s half-formulated question hung in the air awkwardly.
“We’re just friends,” said Lo. “This is my partner, HH,” she added, as she put her delicate hand on mine.
The fact that they weren’t married, but had shared so much together, compounded with the fact that Lo was dating another, yet different, older man who was seated right next to her as she laughed about these sexperiences, seemed to blow the mind of our dinner companion.
“Oh,” she said, feigning comprehension, but displaying complete befuddlement.
The band began to play again and Lo begged me to dance with her.
I demurred, saying, “Dancing is emblematic of our relationship. When we dance, you do whatever you want. For me, though, the goal is to have fun. But all you do is criticize and then, when I stop, you criticize because you always have to have an object of your derision. Without it, you feel a tremendous void. And whatever I do – driving, cooking, dancing, cleaning – I’m your eternal object of derision.”
Lo replied, “Well, when dancing, it’s more fun for both partners if one is not stepping on the other’s toes.”
“That’s only possible if you’re dancing solo.”
“You’re right, dancing is emblematic of our whole relationship.”
As harsh as this banter sounds, it was all said lovingly, tongue-in-cheek.
One of our friends at the table overhead us and said, “You two should write a book chronicling your lovers’ quarrels.”
“That’s a great idea!” I replied “That way I could document my long suffering. I could call it, ‘The History of my Calamities,’ after Abelard.”
“Your calamities,” chided Lo, “you should be so lucky to have an Eloise like me!”
Having fully lost our audience with our theological allusions, Collin remarked, “You two have great erotic tension.”
“Yeah,” I said, “but no erotic release.”
“There’s a difference,” said Lo, “between erotic tension and sexual tension.”
“And what is that?” I asked.
“Erotic tension is in your head. And you have a great release for that – the blog. Sexual tension is between your legs and you have a great release for that.”
“What might that be?”
“My puss.”
“How’s your sexual tension?”
“I never have sexual tension,” said Lo casually, “I only have sexual release.”
“I suppose that’s what it means to be ‘a liberated woman.’”
She got up to dance with Collin some more.
Louis Armstrong’s “Just a Gigolo” was being sung by the crooner and Lo, wearing her green velvet dress in honor of the Irish holiday, looked stunning as she twirled and dipped with Collin.
As they kicked up a storm on the dancefloor, one of the women at our table sat next to me. “Aren’t you jealous,” she whispered in my ear. I couldn’t help but think of her as Iago. Though green was the color of the day, it was not the color I was seeing as I watched my Desdemona dance with her Cassio.
“No,” I replied with a smile.
“Not at all?”
“Not in the slightest.”
“Want to get some air?” she asked.
“Sure.”
I followed my femme Iago out onto the balcony of the hotel and, though it was freezing in the windy city, she offered me a few puffs from her vape pen. Not wishing to be rude, I accepted.
Suddenly my Shakespearean companion transformed into a jovial leprechaun and the next thing I knew was Lo, Collin, the sexy pixie elf and I were at The Green Mill, a dancehall throwback to the age of Swing. A big band was playing with a tall, lean black trumpeter in the lead. They were pounding out “Tain’t What You Do” as Lo was passed from partner to partner in the crowd that was jumpin’ and jivin’ to the beat.
In my mind, the spotlight was on Lo and her eyes were on the prize – the trumpeter who seemed to be singing the words especially for her, with a peculiar emphasis on them, changing the meaning from, “Tain’t what you do, it’s how you do it” to “Taint, what you do. It’s how you do it.”
“How you feeling now?” asked the leprechaun.
I felt as if a green wave was carrying my Lo further and further out to sea as I was stranded on the shore watching her recede into the distance.
There, far on the horizon, I saw her up by the stage, talking with the trumpeter who was standing, his crotch eye level with Lo’s face. She was looking up at him, saying something.
The band took a break and Lo disappeared, as did the band leader.
Collin returned to the table and I inquired about her whereabouts.
“It’s Saint Patty’s Day!” he said, “The luck of the Irish. I believe that Lo is getting lucky!” He slapped me on the back and bought me another drink that I didn’t need. “When in the Emerald City, anything can happen with a little magic from the Wizard,” he said, removing a teal handkerchief from his jacket pocket that suddenly turned into Lo’s satin panties. He handed them to me and said, “Improbable, yes. Possible, perhaps. With Lo, all is green go-go and Eternal Return of the Dame.”
When I heard these words, I knew that I was slowly losing my grasp on reality.
The last thing I recall from the evening was a Julie London song, “Hey Daddy,” being played by the band as an instrumental number.
When I woke up, I was in my hotel room in the bed and Lo was rising and descending on a large bottle of champagne.
Celebration Time
Groggily I rubbed my eyes and looked at her to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating. I then said, “Be careful darling, I wouldn’t want that bottle to break.”
“Not to worry. I’m wide, wet, and willing.”
As she proceeded to hump to her heart’s content, she said, “Will you order some breakfast from room service?”
Always the dutiful daddy, I said, “Sure, what do you want.”
“A bowl of Lucky Charms.”
Lo’s Taint
Surreal Sex
Feisty Married Couple Getting Off to Lola Together
“When are you going to publish something new?” asked Lola.
“For a nympho going through a dry patch, you sure have kept me busy with new material,” I responded.
“Dry patch! That’s the worst sort of insult you can levy at a nympho.”
“Well, I mean, you keep complaining that COVID is impeding your libido, but you have me wearing my fingers to the bone typing about you and MILF Meri, you and the brothers, you and your internet fans, you and your new dates, you and. . .”
“Don’t forget me and myself and I.”
“Your favorite three-some!”
“Well, why don’t you finger me and then we’ll bone. That sounds like more fun.”
“I thought you wanted me to post new stories.”
“It’s not me, Darling, it’s my fans. They are clamoring for more stories from the elusive, aloof, and elite author.”
“It’s not easy to keep up with the demand.”
“You’re telling me.”
“Do they want quantity or quality?”
“In my book, quantity is quality.”
“I’m talking about writing, not fucking. And furthermore, you know that’s not true, in your book or any other book.”
“Well, a little more quantity would help.”
“Are you talking about writing or fucking, Lo?”
“If I put your computer on my back, couldn’t we multi-task? You write while you fuck?”
“You’re absurd!”
“Absurdist literature worked for the Surrealists.”
“Do I look like a Surrealist to you?”
“More like Magic Realism.”
“How’s that?” I asked.
“I’m the magic, you make it real.”
“You know our world is going through a cataclysmic upheaval, a clash of epochs, a seismic shift, and you’re complaining about not getting fucked often enough.”
“Or long enough. Or deep enough. Or passionately enough.”
“I think you’re missing the point.”
“I am! I am! Give me the point, Daddy! I’m missing it so much!”
“This is no laughing matter.”
“I’m not laughing, I’m begging. A quicky. A fast fuck. A finger fuck. Anything.”
“I’ll tell you what,” I said looking up from my computer.
“Yes, Daddio,” she said batting her eyelashes at me.
“I just transcribed this little conversation. I’ll post it today. No rewrite or review, no context or explanation.”
“Well, our readers might enjoy it, but what about my puss? Your words are not flesh, no matter how delusional you are about your godlike qualities.”
“Get in the bedroom, spread your legs, and I’ll be there in five minutes.”
“Promise.”
“Solemnly swear.”
She stood up and, in a deep voice said, “Fuck.”
“What was that?”
“I swore solemnly. Now you’ll fuck me.”
Lo Pleases the Lady of the House
Blow with Lo
The Wife’s Panty Drawer
“Lo, you should be more careful about what you say.”
“I know. I had no idea he’d go through with it.”
“He is an admitted sex addict. What did you think would happen?”
This is the conversation that transpired between Lo and me after she received a photo set from her friend Al.
They chat on a regular basis and he loves to penetrate her dark and dirty mind, probing its depths, plumbing its recesses, and discovering what nascent naughty, nasty, nymphomaniacal fantasies, memories, dreams, and reflections he can conjure from there. Their chats are word porn or sex by non-physical means.
Recently Lo told him, “If you want to know how my kinky, perverted mind works, what I think would be really hot is if you would print out my photo, take pics of you jacking off and cumming on it while wearing your wife’s sexy thong panties, then leaving the photo of me and the dirty panties in your wife’s panty drawer to find later. I know you cannot possibly do that, but wow! – that would be hot!”
The suggestion sent his mind spinning and his cock twitching.
A day later, Lo received a photoset from Al: His wife’s thong; Printouts of Lo’s photos; Him jacking off to the photos and the thong; The thong on Al as he is hard-up looking at Lo’s photos; Al jacking off in the thong; Al cumming on one of the photos; Al putting thong and cum-covered photo in his wife’s panty drawer.
The Mrs.’s Panties (dirty)
Al, Lo’s photos, the Mrs.’s panties
Al Wearing the Mrs.’s (dirty) Panties
Al and Lola b&w
Big Al
Al in his wife’s (dirty) panties
Al’s sweet release on Lola’s ass
Hiding the Evidence Where it is Sure to be Found
“Al, won’t you get in big trouble?” asked Lo.
“She has been prancing around the house in her thong and nothing else, asking for a full-body massage, and masturbating to her own stash of porn, but she won’t let me get off. This is my passive-aggressive way of telling her that just because someone slapped me with the label of ‘sex addict,’ that doesn’t mean that I don’t deserve to have my needs met, especially with my wife, whom I adore and desire. It’s COVID times. I’m not allowed out of the house. She has managed to block almost all of my naughty websites (including your blog), and she teases me with her body. It’s like some sort of torture out of A Clockwork Orange!”
“Well, you really got my engine revving!”
“Really?”
“Yeah. I came to those photos about three times this morning before I even got out of bed. Poor HH. I suspect I’m doing the same to him as your wife is doing to you.”
“Again, if you were my wife. . .” he mused.
“I want to hear more! What if I was your wife? What would we do?”
“What would you like to do?”
“I’d like you to go to Victoria’s Secrets and bring one of those photos of me that you printed out. Say to the salesgirl, ‘This is my wife,’ as you show her my photo, ‘and I’d like to buy some panties for her. What do you recommend?’ She would bring you over to the thong section and show you lace, satin, and all sorts of skimpy shapes and colors. You’d get hard just looking at them and her, as she holds each one up for you to choose. You’d pick about a half-dozen. The salesgirl would say, ‘I can ring you up.’ You’d follow her sexy ass to the counter and you’d pay for the panties. But, as she’s putting them into a bag, you’d say, ‘Actually, where’s your fitting room? I’d like to wear these panties home,’ as you remove one from the bag.”
“Lo,” I say to her, “you didn’t tell him to that, did you?”
“Yes, Daddy,” she replies, all innocent, “why?”
“Because, you know that at the very first opportunity, he’s going to take a trip to Victoria’s Secrets.”
“I sure hope so!”
“You know what? You two deserve each other!”
Friends, Fans, and Fucks
Harder
His name is Al and he is a sex-addict.
“Hi Al.”
He writes to Lo on the sly. “You are my favorite slut.”
“I’m everyone’s favorite slut,” she quips back.
“I have a sex addiction. My wife keeps me under lock and key.”
“If I were married to you, I would not only allow your sex addiction, I’d be your #1 drug.”
“I have no doubt,” says Al. “But why are you such a slut? What explains it?”
Al and Lo
“My man, HH, he is a great guy, but we’re about 30 years apart and I’m a little slutty nympho who drains him of all he’s got.”
“Now you’re begging the question.”
“I never beg, except for cum.”
“So you’re a sex-addict too.”
“Addicts go to meetings. I prefer to say I’m sex-positive.”
“What is it you want?” he asks.
“I want my pussy pounded,” she replies.
“Besides that.”
Al and Lo
“There’s only one thing a woman wants from a man as he pounds her pussy. She wants it harder.”
“I guess I was asking a different question. I was asking about something deeper.”
“Yes – harder and deeper.”
“Let me ask the question this way: Isn’t there a down-side to too much sex.”
“Yes!” says Lo excited. “I was just saying this to HH last night. I let him have my ass and he said, ‘You’re so loose.’ I told him, ‘You’re the fifth guy I’ve had up in there today and not the largest by a long shot! I can’t even feel you.’ There you have it. That definitely is a down-side. The Lola Down side of Lola’s backside, if you will.”
“The fifth cock?! What are you, a prostitute?”
“I’m just your local neighborhood nympho. Word gets around.”
“Do you date these guys or just fuck them?”
“Dating is a journey, usually with a destination. I just enjoy the ride.”
“You are one exceptional woman!”
“I prefer sexceptional.”
“How would you characterize your relationship with HH?”
“He is my rock, I am his Circe. Or maybe his Pasiphae.”
“What does that mean?”
“Look it up.”
“You two have a good sex-life?”
“I Fuck HH when he’s up for it, flirt with others when he’s not.”
“Is that what you’re up to now? – flirting with me?”
“No, I’m fucking you.”
“What?”
“With my mind. You know I can orgasm without even touching myself?”
“Are you cumming now?”
“Do you want me to?”
“Yes.”
[Long silent pause.]
“There,” says Lo, proudly.
“You just came?”
“Yep.”
“It seemed, well, a little anticlimactic.”
“Not for me. Want to see?”
“Yeah.”
Lo spreads her legs to reveal the wet spot soaked through the crotch of her jeans.
Wet Spot
“Wow! Now what are you going to do about that?”
“About what?”
“Your jeans being all wet?”
“Enjoy it.”
“Can I ask you one more question?”
“You mean, in addition to that?”
“Yeah.”
“OK, shoot.”
“Why are you with HH?”
“Nothing better than a nymphomaniac and a dirty old man.”
“You call yourself a hotwife, but you’re not married. Why don’t you get married?”
“Have you ever read the letters of Eloise and Abelard?”
“I haven’t. Who are they?”
“Look it up. Anyhow, she was ahead of her time when she said to him, ‘I’d rather be your whore than your wife.’”
“And that’s how you feel?”
“That’s how we both feel.”
“Wow!”
“What?”
“That’s a radical take on marriage.”
“Well, I have met enough guys like you who entered into a marriage, but is it a marriage or a mirage?”
“Point taken.”
“Can I see a photo of your wife?”
“Why?”
“I like to know what my competition looks like.”
[He sends a nude photo of his wife.]
“There. What do you think?”
“I understand why you’re a sex-addict. She’s super sexy!!!”
“I wish she had your open mind to match her body.”
“More than my mind is open to her body.”
“Has COVID impacted you at all?”
“Yeah, a lot. That’s why I’m here chatting with you now. Most of my flirting and fucking has to be virtual these days.”
“What about the five guys from yesterday? Are they in your bubble?”
“They sure were yesterday! Far in. You could say that I am the original super-spreader – in a good way, of course!”
“In only the best way!”
Lo Super Spreader