Recently it was the 200th anniversary of Herman Melville’s birth and just about every report of the event included the phrase, “died in near obscurity.” This phrase, “near obscurity” has been bouncing around in my head. What is meant by “near” exactly? I understand obscurity. By far, the vast majority of authors die in obscurity, that is why, other than those whom I have personally known, I cannot name any of them. But what constitutes near obscurity for an author? Nietzsche, too, died in near obscurity. One might even say that Thoreau died in almost complete obscurity. Same with Zora Neale Hurston, Emily Dickinson, and Sylvia Plath. For each of these luminaries of literature, at the time of their deaths, either the light of their past glory had faded or, like Kafka, they never had any fame during their brief tenures above ground but, due to unforeseen assistance from the universe, their stars began to rise only after their mortal flames had expired.
Like you, I have frequently seen the bumper sticker advice of: Dance like no one is watching. Recently, though, I came across someone whose blog bio read: Write like no one is reading. (Unfortunately, that author’s name has escaped me, and so she must remain, to me at least, obscure.) That quip really stuck with me, just like the phrase “near obscurity.” These two adages knocked around in my brain like billiard balls.
Writing as if no one is reading is a liberating thought. It is permission. It is license. It is dangerous and risky. And so, perhaps, living, writing, and even dying “in near obscurity” isn’t so bad after all.
(It’s also important to recall that “obscurity” has a second meaning as well: unclear, difficult to understand, complex. Maybe that characterization doesn’t apply so much to this blog, but much of my writing would be aptly described as “almost totally obscure” in both senses of the word.)
When I look at our blog stats and I see that there are over one million views and over a thousand comments on the blog, not to mention all the other eyeballs watching Lola and me in our most intimate prose in other platforms around the blogosphere, and leaving out all the books we have sold over the years, I suddenly realize that there certainly are readers of what I’m writing. Yet, when you compare the numbers, it is easy to feel as if no one is reading. Various sources state that in there are approximately 500 million blogs in existence as I write this. That means that even if we round up all the various platforms upon which we appear to five million views, then that doesn’t even comprise 1% of just the writers out there, let alone the readers! Yes, multiple blogs may be owned by one person and writers are also readers, but you get my mathematical point, right? – Though people are reading the blog, it is “nearly obscure,” given the vastness of the virtual universe.
But the injunction to write like no one is reading is not saying that I shouldn’t have any audience at all. It’s saying to write as if the audience didn’t exist, just as I might dance as if all of you beautiful people on the dance floor with me weren’t judging my awkward movements. If the music so moves me and it gives me joy to dance, however I might express that joy, then, by all means, I dance as if no is watching. Same with writing.
Yet you million or so people out there, and especially you lovely likeminded literary leches out there who write to us – you do read us and thereby keep us from the cold uninhabited reaches of the blogosphere where we would be in complete obscurity. For that we thank you.
The
next time we saw him, at a fundraiser reception in an art museum, Lo affixed
herself to him. Arm-in-arm they strolled
the corridors, pausing in dimly lit corners.
It was a nighttime event and the university spared no expense and was
eager to show off its faculty to the wealthy alumni and other donors. Because of the book I published long ago on
art, I was one of the featured speakers.
After a brief hello exchanged with Robert, I was left to review my notes
and consult with the university president about the order of the program. However, every once in a while, I’d catch a
glimpse of Lo leading Robert about, taking delight in the whispers and scandal
that she was causing among our petty and gossipy colleagues. I’d be lying if I said it didn’t irk me a
little bit. It would have been a totally
different story if I could have been with them, observing, commenting, and
teased by Lola’s cuckolding up close.
As
it was, they disappeared out of my sight.
I only heard later, while horizontal with Lo in the darkness of our
bedroom, impaling her with my rock-hard rod, between her gasps and groans, what
happened.
“I
walked with him as he politely escorted me through the various galleries:
Impressionists, Expressionists, Cubists, and so on. At each one he attempted to explain to me
what I already knew, but I flattered him with my oos and ahs and reallys? – as
if he were telling me something new.”
“You’re
bad,” I said. “I bet you do that with me
too.”
“No,
Daddy, never.”
Her
lies are transparent.
She
continued, “I knew the museum very well, of course, and I eventually led him to
the contemporary art gallery. I asked
him if he liked contemporary art and he admitted he didn’t really understand
it.”
This
was a rather intellectual conversation for pillow talk. But I was willing to follow her lead.
She
said in her sultry, seduction voice:
When we got
to the contemporary, I brought him to see Richard Prince and his ‘Girlfriend’
series. He looked very confused and
asked, ‘How can this possibly be art?’
Richard Prince, “Girlfriend” closeup
I asked,
‘Don’t you find it beautiful? The artist
was so in love with his girlfriend that he chose to photograph her nude and put
her up in an art gallery for all to see.’
‘That’s
exploitation,’ he said.
‘Not if she
likes it,’ I said.
‘A good
feminist like you? – How could you like
it?’
‘How could
I like being photographed naked and put on display for all to see?’ I asked to
clarify his meaning.
‘I mean,
how could you think that she likes it or that a woman likes it or. . .’ he
stammered uncomfortably, ‘how could you like this,’ he said, indicating the large photograph.
‘You know,’ I said, ‘HH does the
same for me.’
‘What are
you talking about?’
‘He likes
to photograph me nude and then share it with the world.’
‘What?!’ he
asked, shocked.
I looked down at his crotch to see
if he was getting hard. I think he was.
‘It’s
called candaulism. It’s a kink. I’m surprised you don’t know of it – an
educated man like you,’ I said, gripping his bicep. ‘It comes from an ancient Greek story about
Candaules, the king of Lydia, who was so proud of his beautiful wife, he
arranged to allow his minister, Gyges, to see her naked.’
‘Is that
so?’ he said, as if he were only academically interested.
‘Yes. It turned out that the queen, Nyssia, was
aware of the spying eyes and, according to legend, in order to teach her
husband a lesson, summoned her husband to come to the bed and pleasure
her. Of course she knew that the figure
in the shadows was not her husband, but, unable to escape, Gyges obeyed the
command of the queen and, in the dim light, approached the bed. All the while Candaules was secretly watching
with a curious mixture of arousal and jealously. Gyges entered the bed and then entered the
queen. She said all sorts of salacious
things as they made love in order to drive the point of her lesson home, and
that she did, wounding the suffering king with her cries of passion. Finally, at the climactic moment, the king
could hold back no longer and he made himself known to both Nyssia and
Gyges. Drawing his royal sword, the king
made to slay the dutiful minister, but Gyges narrowly avoided the steel blade
and, removing it from the king’s hands, impaled the king with his own
sword. A tragic tale, don’t you think?’
‘Yes, yes
indeed. And it should serve as a
cautionary tale for HH.’
‘Oh, but
that is all ancient history,’ I said, waving my hand. ‘What HH and I do together is very fun. Its proper term is ‘compersion.’ That is, the delight of seeing one you love
pleasured by another. Would you like to
see?’ I asked, pulling out my phone.
‘Perhaps
later,’ he said just as we approached the Koons’ sculpture. ‘Dear Lord!’ he exclaimed as he saw the
porcelain rendering of Woman in Tub, ‘What
is this gallery?! The Museum of
Pornography?!’
Not Koons’ “Woman in a Tub,” but Lola in a Tub – the inspiration
‘Oh, don’t
be so rigid, and hardened in your ideas of beauty,’ I said to him as I patted
him on the chest. ‘This is a classic.’
Jeff Koons “Lady in a Tub”
‘Oh yeah,
right up there with the Mona Lisa,’ he said sarcastically.
Having my
phone out, I snapped a shot. ‘It should
be,’ I said. ‘You’re just priggish in
your stodgy ole professor way. Don’t be
such a prude.’
Art Appreciation
“I bet you
weren’t a prude, were you,” I said to Lo as I continued my steady rhythmic
forays in and out of her puss with my cock.
“I got 99 problems, but being a slut ain’t
one.” she said.
They
returned to the courtyard of the museum where I was to give my talk and I
watched them sitting in the audience next to each other. Lo’s legs were crossed and she was proudly
displaying her beautifully shod foot. At
one point I saw them passing notes.
“What did
you write to him?” I asked her.
“I just
wrote that I found it incredibly sexy to see you up there at the podium in the
museum giving your talk.”
“Really?”
“True,
Daddy,” she said. “Do you like that?”
“I do.”
“And then I
wrote that I was getting too wet to sit still.”
“You
didn’t!”
“I did,
Daddy. That’s when I got up.”
I
remembered seeing her walk out on my speech.
The thought of the reason why was too much for the erogenous zone of my
brain to handle and I unleashed a torrent of my pent-up desire inside her.
“Oh Daddy,”
she said, surprised, “Stay in me while I tell you the next little part.”
“OK,” was
all I could mutter as I caught my breath.
I went to the Ladies Room and
quickly took care of my craving. When I
returned, I sat next to Robert and asked if I missed anything.
He said, ‘No, but I feel like I
missed something.’
‘Oh,’ I said, ‘What’s that?’
‘You,’ he said.
‘Me?’ I asked.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I missed you when you were gone and I’m
supremely curious as to where you went and what you went to do.’
‘Come with me,’ I said, ‘and I’ll
show you.’
We got up and I took him to the
Medieval room of the museum, and there, in the dim light, surrounded by the
muted reds and blues of the stained glass windows, I sat with him at a pew and
took out my phone to show him all the photos of me from the blog, most of them
of me masturbating.
‘Robert,’ I said, ‘Here we are in a
place of devotional art and you see all these beautiful images and the
illuminated manuscripts over there?’
Lola Down – 21st Century Devotional
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Well, this,’ I said, indicating the
images on my phone, ‘is HH’s devotional literature for me. This is the illuminated manuscript of the 21st
century. Sex is no longer sinful. Sex is spiritual. And I am a sex goddess.’
“How
extraordinarily pompous of you!” I said.
“You would have said the same,” she
retorted.
“You know me too well. But I think I’m rubbing off on you.”
“Rub off on me, Daddy! Rub off on me!” she pleaded as I was still
firmly sheathed in her dripping cunt.
“What happened next?” I asked as I
leaned into her, pressing my now tumescent cock deeper. She came and she came in massive orgasmic
waves. Clearly the memory of being the
object of worship was pleasing to her.
“Then he
took the phone and looked at it as he leaned toward me. Our lips touched and he held me tightly in
his arms as our tongues entwined. I saw
that, as he was kissing me, he was looking over my shoulder at the phone he
held in his hand, staring at my sexy photos.
I reached down and grabbed his cock and it was rock hard. His other hand reached down and felt my soft
leg all the way up to my panties. I
wanted so much more, but the event had just let out and we had to look
presentable.”
“That’s
when I found you with him walking over to me with that devilish grin on your
face.”
Just found out that the good people at tenben.com reviewed Match, Cinder & Spark, Volume II: MORE!
They said, “Lo is the sort of woman that always gets what she wants.”
“What will probably sell this book from a particular standpoint is that it is chock FULL of photos of the pair serving as story illustrations. There’s a lot of care being put into this.”
“Match, Cinder & Spark Volume II: More! by H.H. is an earnest expression of a couple’s sexual energy…and that energy contains the white hot passion of one thousand suns. Each individual story along with its accompanying pictures is equal parts fun and sexy, but to attempt to mentally splice the smut with the real life antics of this power couple would be a fool’s errand. If you and/or your partner have a wild sexual side you’d like to explore on paper, to explore your wildest fantasies in the comfort of your own bedroom, you’d be doing yourself a favor by starting with this dynamic duo.”
Finally a moment to relax. Some time to myself. A quiet interval to read for enjoyment before sweet sleep. I was deep into the Bukowski’s Notes of a Dirty Old Man, appropriately enough. As I tried to enjoy one of the short stories about a dissolute life, Lo lay next to me, naked, her legs spread, diddling her bean, clearly looking for attention. She spread her legs wider, putting her left leg up and over my legs. She inserted her finger and moaned. No response from me. She spread her legs even further until her left knee hit the cover of my book, knocking it out of my hands. She dipped all five fingers into her gaping pleasure patch.
Lo’s Bed Spread
“Hey,” I said, “watch it!”
“Clearly you’re not interested in watching,” she retorted.
“Is there something I can do for you?”
“Probably not,” she replied, cursorily, as she continued to fap with her five fingers.
“Then may I read in peace?”
“Why do you want to read now?” she asked.
“Well,” I said with some snark, “right now, I feel like it gives me a leg up, if you know what I mean.”
She raised her leg even further, across my chest.
“Watch out, dear,” I said, “you’re spreading yourself a bit thin there.”
“Thin?! Thin?! I’m a proudly thick woman,” she said.
“Look,” I said, “if you want me, then just use your words and ask for me to fuck you.”
“I shouldn’t need my words,” she said as she pulled out her fingers from her puss, “I’m using sign language.”
“And I’m using my ability to read lips.”
“See, we don’t even need words,” she said, “we can communicate perfectly well with body language.”
I got on my knees, pulled down my boxers, pulled out my hard cock and asked, “What does this body language express to you?”
Reading Notes of a Dirty Old Man
“Everything I want to know,” she said, “now dip your pen in my wet well and write your poetry all over me, you dirty old man.”
I was a little rusty. It had been a while since I was in the
classroom in front of a packed lecture hall of undergrads. To compound matters, I wasn’t even lecturing
on my specialty, art, but on literature.
You see, a friend and colleague of mine had taken ill and needed someone
to fill the gap as a long-term substitute for the second half of the
semester. The course was
“Post-Modernism.” I had jumped in just
as the syllabus was up to Donald Barthelme’s The Dead Father. Looking out
across the room full of bright, enthusiastic, eager, young faces, I was feeling like the dead father myself. Were colleges admitting younger students, or
was I just growing old? I know what Lo
would say.
The lecture hall was designed much
like a movie theater, with the students’ seats at an incline, rising about ten
feet from the lectern to the last row.
And it just so happened that in the third row was a very sexy and
seductive brunette seated directly in front of me, her knees level with my
eyes.
I must have tickled her fancy
because on the third day of classes she strutted in wearing high heels, a short
skirt, and a crop-top that prominently displayed her navel. As I was pontificating about the post-modern
condition, she was crossing and re-crossing her legs, allowing ample time for
me to see that she was clearly not wearing panties. I was even able to discern the dainty little
‘V’ shape of her carefully groomed pubic hair.
Trying my best to not stare, since a
hundred other eyes were on me as I looked out and up into those vessels waiting
to be filled from my fount of wisdom, I read from the text:
Class Pet
They stand before
the hole in the ground.
No
fleece? Asked the Dead Father.
Thomas
looked at Julie
She
has it?
Julie
lifted her skirt.
Quite
golden, said the Dead Father. Quite
ample. That’s it?
All
there is, Julie said.
Unfortunately. But this
much. This where life lives. A pretty problem. As mine as yours. I’m sorry.
Quite
golden, said the Dead Father. Quite
ample.
He
moved to touch it.
No,
said Thomas.
No,
said Julie.
I’m
not even to touch it?
No.
After
all this long and arduous and if I may say so rather ill-managed journey? Not to touch it? What am I to do?
Fan petting her Golden Fleece to Lo’s images
A suggestive passage, indeed. But what was I to do? The page had been earmarked by the professor
in whose stead I stood and the passage highlighted. After reading aloud, it dawned on me that
perhaps this was indicated for his personal pleasure and not for me to discuss in class.
Too late. The cat was out of the
bag now. Or the puss, as the case may
be.
My little class flirt raised her
hand. “Why is Julie’s pubic hair
depicted as blonde?” she asked, unabashed.
Perhaps even a little sadistically, as her question was intended to make
me squirm publicly.
“Excellent question!” I said like a
fool. “Maybe because the entire text is
harkening to Greek mythology, and the Golden Fleece is, well, golden?”
Unsatisfied, she followed with, “But
isn’t this just perpetuating the myth of white elitism?”
“It could be read that way, or it
could be read as a commentary or critique of those very origin stories that
propounded the European and, by extension, white supremacist beliefs.” I thought the answer not bad for an
extemporaneous analysis.
“And the centrality of the father,”
she said, “isn’t that really patriarchal?”
“You could view it that way, except
for the fact that the children are taking him to be buried. They are attempting to bury the patriarchy,
you might say.”
As I answered, she spread her legs,
very wide this time, and her right hand moved with grace and effortless flow,
down to her crotch and ever-so-briefly pet her labia, causing them to
spread. I knew where I wanted to bury my
patriarchy.
When the class was finally over, as
the students were filing out of the lecture hall, I called the precocious
student over to my lectern.
“Ms. uh. . .”
“Down,” she said, “Lola Down.”
“Ms. Down,” I said, looking into her
brown eyes. “I am sorry that you found
this week’s text so objectionable.”
“I didn’t find it objectionable,”
she said, batting her eyelashes at me.
“I just don’t understand men’s idealizing and obsessing over blonde
pussy.”
I was shocked, shocked! at her
forthrightness.
“Well, er, yes, um, I completely
understand,” I muttered, unable to compose myself.
“Don’t get me wrong,” she said, “I
like blonde pussy as much as the next girl, but it’s like ice cream. Why only taste vanilla when there’s also
chocolate and strawberry?”
“Well put,” I said like an
idiot. “I look forward to seeing you
next class.”
“I look forward to being seen,” she
said, knowing exactly what I meant.
“And,” I added, “I hope you won’t be
too offended by our assigned reading next week.”
“Lolita?”
she asked, displaying that she was well aware of what was on the syllabus,
“Don’t worry, I read it so many times in middle school that the pages fell
out. It’s my favorite!”
What
does it mean to be an “underground” author in the age of the internet?
Lately
I’ve been reading a lot of and about Charles Bukowski. Largely ignored for most of his life, he
submitted his rough, distinctly “low-brow” poetry to independent and small
press journals. Through these he gained an
“underground” following that slowly grew by word of mouth until other independent
and small press publishing houses printed his works in book form for that
“underground” fan base. Bukowski’s work
caught the eye of other writers and musicians, mostly in the L.A. and San
Francisco areas, until eventually he caught on nationally and even
internationally.
But
in today’s media world, what does it mean to be an “indie” author or to have an
“underground” following?
fan pic
This indie author, whom you are now
reading, dear valued patron, has a substantial following, or, shall I say, a
much larger following than I ever imagined would sprout from my initial blog
posts about Lola. As I have explained in
various interviews elsewhere, this compulsion, which borders on graphomania,
came into being because, after a few months with Lo, I discovered that there
was almost no literature out there about being in a relationship with a
nymphomaniac. Since no one else was
writing about it, I figured I’d toss my hat in the ring and give a first-person
account of what it’s like – the proverbial trials and tribulations as well as
the orgasms and titillations.
Before
I knew it, I was suddenly gaining a following and garnering the praise and
accolades of other fellow sex-bloggers.
Women were sending me fan mail and nudes of themselves, much to the
consternation of Lo. Men and women were
writing to Lo and sending her all sorts of salacious selfies, much to her lurid
enthusiasm.
The Beautiful Faye Daniels getting off to Lola Down
Our
subscriptions and unique visits to our blog went up and soon we were being
featured on sites like Bustle and Top Sex Blogger lists.
I
compiled various stories into books and those sold swiftly. And now, today, we have over 20,000 followers
on our various media outlets.
However
much those numbers might dwarf the reach and following of a Bukowski back in
the day, with the potential of today’s technology, that seems far less
impressive than it would have been when the only way to get your writing in
front of a reader was through the mimeograph machine.
Are
you, dear confessional confidant, part of an underground audience? Does it even make sense to speak of such in
today’s complex and multilevel media ecosystem?
Or is “underground” just a term that is used retrospectively to describe a core following of people that read a
certain author before he or she hit the mainstream? Is it something that can only be applied with
hindsight?
I
don’t know the answers to these questions and I suppose, on some level, it
doesn’t matter since I write about what I love and I love what I write about –
Lo. As long as the love is good, I feel
the writing will be good as well. And
though the letters and gifts from the readers are flattering and the money
(what little there is) earned from the writing is appreciated, what matters
most is that I really enjoy doing what I’m doing.
“Our vices always lie in the direction of our virtues.” – Thoreau, A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers
It
was a beautiful Saturday afternoon and Lo and I were about to go for a brisk
walk through the neighborhood when, as we exited the front door, we found a
package addressed to Lo.
“Were
you expecting a special delivery?” I asked.
“Not
that I recall,” she said.
She
picked up the brown box and we brought it inside, unwrapped it, and we found
two beautiful paintings of Lo somehow done on thick panes of glass. One was of her puss.
On seeing the
striking resemblance up close, Lo remarked, “The illustration really captures
my essence.”
Painting by Blackbook Artist
By now, it’s no secret that Lo has a
lot of admirers, both in person and virtually.
Her fans love to send her gifts and those gifts range from the common,
run-of-the-mill dick pic to beautiful original paintings and artworks that
arrive by mail at our doorstep. I have
no issues with any of her accolades. I
am more than satisfied to bask in the glory of her brilliance, like the moon illuminated
by the sun. I will also admit that many
of those admirers pay at least lip service to the writing. And, given that Lo’s lip service is something
I get on a regular basis, I have no reason to complain. But it is nice, every once in a while, when
an enthusiastic and attractive woman writes to me to express her appreciation for all the hard work I do.
This has happened on a few occasions
and, despite the disproportionate attention that Lo gets compared with yours
truly, it never ceases to amaze me that she still gets jealous.
Recently, I received an email from
an admiring female fan that read: “Hi there, HH, I recently came by your blog
through another site.” Interesting turn
of phrase – “came by your blog,”
rather than “came across your blog.” Do
you think she was intentionally ambiguous?
And our fans always say, “through another site,” but never say through
which site – perhaps embarrassed by the seedy sites and searches they use. I digress.
The letter continued, “Someone in my network was going crazy about how
they’re jacking off to LOLA and your stories about 50 times a day and how she’s
probably the most intense woman alive in our times. Of course, when I checked your website out, I was
blown away after reading the explicit as well as brilliantly written episodes.”
My darling correspondent was kind enough to purchase
our books and also take some photos with them and send some sexy pics to
me. I hardly have to add that Lo was
flattered by the letter as well (which is probably the only reason why it
slipped passed her watchful eye and was brought to my attention by her).
I will say, dear reader, that
missives such as this have dwindled in number since we began this little
sexcapade of a blog. I attribute this
diminished return to the rapid advances in technology. Not only can one watch porn on their phones,
but other porn progress, such as 3D porn and realistic porn video games, have
made the market for pure erotic writing with occasional still photographs a
quaint relic of our pornographic past, like Playboy Magazine and the pin-up
calendar.
Fan Submission
The digital age has afforded great benefits to authors
such as myself – a vast, almost instant platform to reach across the world, the
ability to communicate directly with one’s readers, and a streamlined mechanism
for typing. (Recall that Jack Kerouac
had to feed industrial spools of paper into his typewriter while he drank his
whiskey in order to not interrupt his flow by having to replace the sheets of
paper.) For all those boons, it’s hard
to compete in the age of digital diversion.
The smartphone has all the bells and whistles. All I have is my story. And yet, every time I go see some block-buster
action film in which the stunts and special effects are on steroids, I often
leave feeling let down. Sure, the visual
CGI was on a galactic scale, but the story!
The story! Without a good story,
all of the other stuff falls flat. It’s
like a cake composed entirely of icing, or a tricked-out car with no
engine.
Fan Pic
I digress again.
Maybe I should stick to my story.
I was telling you about my lovely letter from a fan. Though I write out of sheer delight, on
occasion (many occasions actually), it feels as if it is an obsessive
compulsion. But when I receive a
compliment from a reader, it seems to justify the excess.
“See that, Lo,” I said, “Maybe
it’s not just the scribblings of a madman.”
“Oh,
darling,” she said, “They’re lucky that you have something good, worthy, and
important to contribute, unlike most of the drivel that people write.”
I love a careful reader!
“You just
think that because I write about you.”
You see, dear reader, it is difficult to get an objective
opinion from Lo. But she is self-aware,
to a degree. Once, when I returned from
a business trip to New York City and was telling her of the nude women at Times
Square trying to turn a buck by selling a selfie with them, she said, “You’re just telling
me this to get in my pants.” She knows
that I know that her reaction to jealousy is to seduce me.
“How
did this become about you and sex?” I asked.
“Everything
is about me and sex. I’m a
nymphomaniacal megalomaniac.”
She
then undressed and reclined on the sofa.
I just looked at her.
“What are you doing?”
she asked, impatiently.
“I’m an author of erotica and a philosopher – I’m contemplating your navel.”
After
reading the letter from my admirer, I suppose I was grinning from
ear-to-ear. My delight triggered Lo’s
jealousy and I warned her that I would expose her bad side if she kept it
up.
“Bad
side?”
“Yes,” I said, “Everyone has a bad side.”
Lola turned around and showed me her ass and pussy
from behind and asked over her shoulder, “Is this my good side or my bad side?”
After reading this blog entry to Lo, she said to me,
“You know, we should have another tagline.
Instead of “The nymphomaniac next door,” we should say,
“Mysexlifewithlola – come for the pics, stay for the story.”
“That’s good,” I said.
“Or maybe,” she mused out loud, “Cum to the pics, stay
for the story.”
“Or,” I said, “you could cum for the camera, they stay
for the story.”
“No,” she said, “I like mine better.”
“You always do,” I responded.
She then fiddled out of her bra and cuddled up to me,
her nipples hard and erect under her blouse.
“Don’t you like mine better, Daddy?” she asked.
“I do think you persuaded me.”
“You never
can argue with me when I wear this. I
must have a couple of great points.”
Yes, you do make a couple of good points, I must admit.
To which I said, “I’ve got it! The tag should be: Lola Down – clever
lines, sexy curves.”
“You are beautiful.
Your eyes are beautiful. Your
mouth is beautiful. Your breasts are
beautiful. Your cunt is beautiful.”
Lola Down, spread wide
I was reading a message Lo received on her phone from
an admirer of the blog.
“A regular Shakespeare, that one,” I said.
“I think it’s sweet,” she responded, as her left hand
began to fondle her pussy lips under the covers.
“Sweet?! He
left out your hair, your nose, your neck, your shoulders, your tum, your ass,
your legs, your feet, and your toes!”
“I’m sure he was going to get there,” she said
matter-of-factly.
“Can I get there?” I asked, sounding a bit desperate
for affection, or her attention.
“Get where?” she asked, playing with me.
“Anywhere.
Between your legs, ideally.”
“Let’s see where this goes,” she said about her
internet friend, unfortunately, and not about my bid for her caress.
“I know where this
goes,” I said, putting her hand on my hard rod.
I was hard because her internet friend had sent a slew of photos of
himself jacking off to her pics and cumming all over them. She looked good in the sexy photos.
“Daddy,” she said, protesting, “I’m busy trying to
please my loyal fans.”
“I don’t mind, as long as you do it while spreading
your legs.”
“I’m spreading the love.”
“Can you spread the love wide enough for me to get in
on it?”
“Your pussy looks pretty and gorgeous,” wrote another
fan.
“It is pretty, gorgeous, wet and waiting to be
filled,” she wrote back.
“Me, me!” I said, “Pick me.”
“Calm down, Daddio,” she said, full of vanity fed by
her fans’ flattery.
“Tell me more about you,” wrote another internet
correspondent.
“Read the books,” typed Lo, “There’s
too much to tell and too many people to tell it to.”
“You’re hard, girl,” responded the inquirer.
“Funny, everyone tells me I’m easy,” quipped Lo, “and
that makes them hard.”
“I love your stories,” wrote one female fan.
“H.H. writes. I
inspire,” wrote Lo to her.
“Do you inspire with your body?”
“And my wit.”
“I’m inspired right now!” I said to Lo as I grabbed my
cock firmly. “They all are cumming to
you. Can I cum to you?”
“Cum to, on, in, with, over, under, around, beside – I
provide the pussy. You pick the
preposition,” she said, dismissively.
I got up on my knees and stood over her, jacking my
cock.
“Just don’t cum on my phone,” she said as she
continued to scroll through her contacts.
She continued to fondle herself beneath me for a while
before she said, “Daddio, lie down next to me.
I’ll help you.”
I lay down and she grabbed me by my shaft. “I’m your righthand man,” I said as she jacked
me off with her right and scrolled with her left.
“My wife is nothing like you,” wrote one desperate,
sad husband.
“You two should
read our blog together. It would open up
her mind. . . and pussy.”
“I could never
suggest it,” he wrote, “she’d freak!”
“But you like it?”
asked Lo.
“God yes,” he
sighed through the medium of type.
“Tell me what a young, sexy, slutty person such as
myself does for you.”
“I’d love to eat your yummy, sloppy, used, cum-filled
holes,” he wrote.
“Another bard!” I opined sarcastically.
“Shut up and cum,” commanded Lo as she tugged more
aggressively.
“Are you in a rush?” I asked.
“Both hands are full,” she said, “leaving nothing for
my snatch.”
“I’ll happily fill that gap.”
“You stay right where you are,” she ordered.
“Has she ever caught you jacking off?” wrote Lo to her
married man.
“No. It would
be a big deal if she did. It would be an
even bigger deal if she caught me jacking off to you and not to porn.”
“I am porn,” protested Lo.
“I mean, it’s one thing to get off to anonymous,
vacuous, impersonal, professionally produced porn and it’s quite another thing
to get off to you.”
“That’s more like it,” responded Lo.
“That’s it, I’m getting up and out of bed,” I said.
“But nooooo.”
“Yes. You’re
just treating my cock like it a joystick to your favorite video game.”
“A game I always win.”
She continued stroking.
“Are you into length or girth?” asked her internet
interloper.
“I’m into cock.
And cock gets into me.”
“Once again, I must protest!” I said. “You’ve got a very capable, compatible, and
coveted cock right here, but you’re not letting it into you!”
“What, ole man, my right hand isn’t enough for you?”
“Not when you’re teasing those guys about how fast and
loose you like to play.”
A new fan chimed in, “I
have to stop sinning. I’m religious,
that’s why I can’t go on doing this.”
“Sex is
spiritual. And I’m a sex goddess. Worship at my alter,” replied Lo.
“Now you’re
offering theology lessons?” I chided.
“No. Just encouraging them to be good
semenarians.”
“That was
terrible. Low hanging fruit,” I replied.
She cupped
my testicles and said, “Very low hanging.”
“Oh, does your wit never cease?!”
Now
she squeezed my balls to show me that I had better be careful about mocking
her.
Another
woman asked Lo if she liked taboo tales.
To which Lo responded, “How
taboo are we talking here?”
The woman said she was into watersports and bestiality.
Lo wrote back, “Let’s knot.”
“Don’t you mean. . . oooooh, I get it,” I said.
“Woof!” she said to me.
The woman, whose name was Mila Beijne., went on to tell a little story.
I was a model a
few years back and after doing a shoot I was talking a bit with the
photographer, the lighting guy and his assistant. They invited me to their home. I trusted them and liked them. We were all horny and I was willing, I admit. At the photographer’s home we had some drinks
and then they slowly undressed me. They
got naked too. They were all good looking men and one was really hung. They
kissed me everywhere and started fucking me in my mouth, pussy, and ass. I was very horny. After quite a long time,
they changed positions, each taking a different hole. Then they rotated again and fucked me a long
time again till I was exhausted. They
filled me up in every place they could. But
the fun was not over yet. One put me on
the floor and the other started urinating over me. Then the other two joined in.
It was a lot and all over my body and in
my long hair. There was no shower, so it
was a special experience driving home.
It was my first time doing that and I liked how the act showed their dominance
over me.
Mila asked to be included.Mila B. through the years
I could see Lo getting increasingly more excited as she read the short little story from Mila. She quickly wrote back, “Yeah, HH does that to me. I love it. Being below him, feeling his warm stream flow over my back and butt.”
“We haven’t done that in a while,” I
reminded her.
She ignored me because another fan
had written to her. This guy was
old. I mean, like twenty years older
than I and I’m in my 50’s! His name was
Bob and he wrote:
Hi Lola, and thank you!
You are an inspiration to me. I
hope you can give me some advice.
I’m in my 70’s and I’ve been in a relationship for over 25 years. No passion or sex for the last 20 years. I’m at a loss as it has become impossible to
talk about it with her. I’ve made the
mistake of combining our lives and living situations this whole time. It has become all about her for the last
several years. I feel I’m too old to
begin another relationship with a woman, yet I still admire all women and all
that I see on your blog. I’ve even
become curious about men as I feel that may be the only way to explore my
unresolved sexual fantasies. Yet I’m
still conflicted as I long for an intimate relationship that I’ve missed in my
life.
Do you have any suggestions??
Lola wrote back, “To tell you the truth, Bob, I’m just good wanking material, but I’m not a sex coach or a sex therapist. You might want to check out one of these trained professionals to get some expert advice on having more sex with spirit.” She provided a link. Then she added, “But if you’re looking for a real hotwife, cum to me.”
“What?!” I said to her, shocked that
she’d even offer that to him.
She ignored me and
typed, “I have a very soft spot for old married men whose wives no longer have
sex with them. Would you like to see
it?”
Of course he said
yes. Lo sent him a naughty pic of the
place between her legs that she was denying to me.
“Lo, that’s just
cruel!” I said.
“What? Soon you’re going to be that old and you’d
want the same from me. Wouldn’t you?”
“What’s cruel is
that I’m that old man who is being denied right now!”
“If what I’m
giving you isn’t good enough, then take matters into your own hands,” she
said.
As
she said it, another married man was singing her praises in a message that
read, “I’ve come to worship your holy holes.”
“See,”
she said, “I’ve got fans who know how to woo me.”
“Woo
you? They worship you!”
“What’s
the difference?”
After
some flirtatious back-and-forth, Lo asked to see a pic of the man’s wife.
He
asked why she wanted to see that and Lo responded, “I like to see who I’m
beating out when guys are beating off to me.”
The
guy sent a photo. His wife was
beautiful. But apparently she lacked the
‘personality’ of Lo. He wanted to know
more about Lo and he asked her questions.
“I’m
like an open book, there for anyone to read,” she responded, “You just have to
know where to find me. Are you familiar
with the Dewey Decimal system?”
“Like, in the library?”
“Yeah.”
“So, I can find you in my local
library?”
“If only,” wrote Lo, “I’m indexed
under XXX.”
“As in 30?” he wrote with a winkface
emoji. “Still pretty young.”
“Pretty, young, and slutty. I’ll tell you what, you can virtually finger
my folios at: mysexlifewithlola.com,” she said, “and you can also buy the books
there. I suggest you get a few copies of
each and donate the extras to your local library so everyone can spread my
centerfold for free.”
As Lo was typing, she guided my cock
to her mouth and wrapped her lips around the tip. She looked up at me as her hand continued to glide
back and forth from the base to her mouth.
I began to cum and she hungrily held me in place so as not to spill a
drop. I was so worked up that I couldn’t
control my convulsions. I began
breathing deep, heavy breaths. Lo looked
up at me and said, “What?! Are you having
a stroke?”
When I finally managed to catch my breath, I looked
down at her and said, “Yeah, I’m having a stroke. A really good stroke.”
Lo
wrote a final line to her fans: “Good night all you kinky sexy rogues. Dream of me in your debauched nocturnal
thoughts.”
She put her phone down, grabbed her Hitachi, lay back,
shut her eyes, and began vibrating until she was the one violently convulsing,
squirting, and gasping for air.
When she was done and had removed the Magic Wand from
between her legs, she grabbed my hand and placed it on her bare pussy for me to
feel how wet she was. She’s proud that
she can turn on the tap almost at will.
“Pull my pussy lips, Daddy,” she said. I stretched them. “Harder.”
I pulled more. “Harder Daddy,”
she complained.
“Lo, if I pull them any further they’ll be down to
your knees.”
“Try it,” she said.
She likes the pain or pleasure.
As I pulled I asked her, “What were you thinking about when you came?”
“I think about you.”
This line from her was as false as Marlow telling Kurtz’s
betrothed that Kurtz’s last words were her name.
“OK, that’s enough of that,” I said, calling
bullshit. “What did you really think about?”
“I think about you,” she said. “And I think about cock. I think about a lot of cock.”
“That’s it?”
“And pussy.”
I gave up there knowing that the
litany of licentious thoughts could go on endlessly. I sat silently and she mistook my silence for
judgment.
“You don’t know
what it’s like to be me!” she blurted out defensively.
“Oh yeah, you’ve
got it so hard,” I said sarcastically.
“I wish,” she said
even more sarcastically as she lifted up my flaccid member in her hand.
“You know,” I said, “your porn persona and your
personality are not consistent.”
“What are you talking about?”
“All those people out there thinking you’re a
nymphomaniac, thinking that I am so inundated with your pussy that I barely can
find a moment’s peace, yet the reality is that you denied me just now.”
“There’s no inconsistency.”
“How not?”
“Because I know you’re going to write about this and
so it will be part of my porn persona.”
Lo
got me up from my slumber. Well, part of
me was already up since she wouldn’t let me climax earlier in the night. She had been switching off watching episodes
of “Gilmore Girls” and MILF porn since I had nodded off. Now she was ready for a second helping and
she had been coaxing my cock to an upright and locked position prior to my
regaining consciousness.
“Daddy,”
she whispered sweetly, leaning over so take my meat in her mouth.
“Yes
Lo?”
“Can
I tell you what I was thinking about?”
“What’s
that, Lo?”
She
took a few more licks and then she lay down next to me, her fingers stroking
between her legs. That’s when she told
me what she had been viewing.
“I
imagine,” she began, “Jess and Dean arrive at Lorelai’s house at the same time,
each thinking that he’s going on a date with Rory. When they meet on the porch, each carrying a
bouquet of flowers, they stare each other down and then exchange some snide
words. Rory hears the voices and comes
to the door.” At this point, Lo began
acting out the scene. A little known
talent of Lo’s is that she’s a great actor, just not in front of an
audience.
Rory
– What is going on?!
Jess
– Why don’t you tell us? I thought we had a date.
Rory
– You and Dean?
Dean
– This is no time for jokes, Rory. You
and I had a date tonight.
Rory
– Wait here.
Rory
runs upstairs to Lorelai.
Rory
– I’ve got a problem that makes Elizabeth Bennet look positively quaint.
Lorelai
– Really Rory? I can’t find my coffee
maker. And you think you got troubles.
Rory
– You’re looking in your bedroom. Did
you try the kitchen?
Lorelai
– Of course I tried the kitchen. That’s
why I’m in the bedroom.
Rory
– Did you bring coffee to bed?
Lorelai
– Maaaaaybeeee.
Rory
– Why don’t you just go to Luke’s and get his coffee?
Lorelai
– And bring him to bed?
Rory – No! Anyway, can you help me or not?
Lorelai
– Not until I have my coffee.
Rory
– (Sitting down on a pile of laundry.
She picks up dirty panties and a bra and discovers a coffee maker.) Here!
Lorelai
– You are destined for Harvard!
They
walk downstairs.
Rori
– . . . and so I guess I told both of them I’d go out with them tonight.
Lorelai
– Nothing wrong with a ménage à
trois.
Rori
– Mom!
Lorelai
– What? I’m just saying, if it’s good
enough for Lou Salomé, it’s good enough
for you.
Rori
– Her name was Lou Salomé, but you know
everyone called her Loose.
Lorelai – Rory! You know I’ve taught you not to slut-shame!
Rori – Can we get back to the. . .
Suddenly they hear thuds from the porch. They run to the front door. Jess and Dean are throwing punches and
wrestling. Lorelai separates them by
getting between them.
Lorelai – Hey! Hey!
Hey! Calm down!
Both of the boys are roughed up and Jess is bleeding
from the nose and Dean has a black eye.
Rori runs to get a towel and ice.
She returns and gives the ice to Dean and applies to the towel to Jess’
nose.
Dean – Oh, so you take care of him and just give me
a cold sack of ice?!
Rori – He’s bleeding!
Dean – And I have a black eye!
Jess – And I’ll give you another.
Dean – Oh yeah?
Lorelai holds down Dean while Rory holds down
Jess.
Rory – I’ve had enough of both of you!
Rory runs off into the night.
Lorelai and the boys go inside the house and they
sit in the kitchen while Lorelai brews coffee.
Lorelai – I can’t believe you two. You act like cavemen. Don’t you know how to treat a woman?
Jess – [Ashamed.]
No. My mom was never around.
Lorelai – Oh yeah.
I forgot sweetheart. [She puts
her hands through his hair.]
Dean – I was just. . . well, I guess I just am so
damn jealous.
Lorelai – It’s not jealousy, Dean, it’s
hormones. You’re all backed up with
testosterone. When’s the last time you
jacked it?
Dean – Wwwwwwhat?
Lorelai – You know: chocked the chicken, spanked the
monkey, beat the meat.
Dean – I, I, I. . .
Lorelai – You see, you’re just too uptight. You have to learn to relax a little bit. [She runs her hand down his chest to his
crotch.] Look, I think I know how we can
find a way for the two of you to work together.
Follow me.
The three of them go up to the bedroom. Lorelai strips naked and pulls down their
jeans. She positions Jess in front of
her and Dean behind her and bends over.
The two of them are going at it with her and she’s about to cum when in
walks Luke.
Luke – What the hell is going on here?!
Lorelai – [With a mouth full of Jess’ cock.] I can explain.
Luke – Explain?!
Rory said you’d probably need me to break up a fight and make some
coffee.
At that point Lorelai positions Jess below her so
his cock is in her puss with Dean’s.
Lorelai – Come here, Luke. If you’re hung anything like Jess, then – I
never thought I’d say this – the coffee can wait.
When Lo was done acting all this
out, she pulled out her two dildos, putting both in her puss and taking me in
her mouth, going at me like never before.
I finally came deep in her throat and she came in convulsions that shot
out the two dildos followed by a cascade of girly juice.
“Holy shit!” she said.
“Holy shit is right,” I said. “You deserve an Academy Award for best
writing, direction, acting, and best picture.”
I write erotica. No. Scratch that. What I really write is love poems to Lola. Really, really, really long love poems. So long that, to the untrained eye, they read like prose.
Niel Gaiman once said, “If you’re only going to write when you’re inspired, you may be a fairly decent poet,but you will never be a novelist — because you’re going to have to make your word count today, and those words aren’t going to wait for you, whether you’re inspired or not. So you have to write when you’re not inspired.” I don’t have a problem with this advice in general, but part of the problem is that when I’m not inspired, a certain detached, disinterested, distant feeling comes over me with regard to my writing. I hesitate to say “objective,” because that implies a truth to the judgment and, for the life of me, I pray that that cold view of my writing is not true.
I struggle to capture exactly the feeling I get at these moments of disenchantment, but there are a few readily available examples of how I feel about my work that I can offer. If you’ve ever seen The Big Lebowski, then you may recall the “modern interpretive dance” scene where The Dude watches his landlord, Marty, perform. It is painful and comic to watch. But it means so much to Marty. That’s certainly part of it – if Marty was an author and not a dancer.
Another analogy is thinking thoughts when very stoned as compared to reading those thoughts when sober; some crucial élan vital is missing. A third analogy is that of being naked. One can be nude with one’s lover and that can be magnificent, or one can get caught naked in public, as often happens in humiliation dreams. The difference between nude and naked is as great as the difference between consent and coercion.
Being nude is easy. Writing is not.
But then there are also times like now. Last night Lola and I went out to a party with some friends. She wore her jack-pot top that prominently displays her cleavage and she wore her tight jeans with heels. She looked good and I wasn’t the only one to notice. Most of the evening her eyes sparkled and her teeth twinkled as she chatted and laughed, throwing back her long hair and touching the arms of those she liked. She flirts. And I love seeing it. I watched her from afar and occasionally I sidled up next to her sliding my right hand over her round butt. I wanted her all evening and the longer we stayed the more I wanted her. But I’m not as young as I used to be. The witching hour approached and my energy for performance and social settings dwindled. I felt fatigued on the ride home. Lo and I were traveling in the back of a cab and she was clearly not ready for the night to end. She kissed me and reached down between my legs. She reached between her legs and she enjoyed the thrill of being just out of sight from the driver as she made small-talk with him.
We got home and I got in bed, loving her, but needing sleep. She joined me, naked, and feeling dejected by my drowsiness, pulled out her Hitachi, phone, dildo, and began her nightly bedtime ritual of self-pleasure.
In the morning I awoke before she. She was curled in the fetal position facing away from me. I was wrapped around her, holding her tightly for it was a chilly morning and we needed each other for warmth. My hand roamed over her soft skin from her shoulder down to her breast, feeling the flesh of her tum and over her round hips. I wanted her. My rod was stiff between my legs, protruding into her. She was down for the count.
Desirous of her, but respectful of her sleep, I snuck out of bed, washed up, made my coffee, and set up my little writing nest on the couch and began to compose this lustful literary tribute to her, my muse. I know that when she wakes she will be full of passion for me as I will be for her. And when I read these words to her, she will find them flattering, beautiful, and inspired. That will make up for all the disenchanted moments when I look upon this massive encomium to Lola as if written by someone else. My love, my longing, my lusty imaginings and my self-critical eye will all be aligned. All shall be well, at least until the next wave of despair, alienation, and disenchantment plumes within me. But, until then, I’ll take what I can get – of Lo and of writing.
