Tag Archives: reading

Performance Art

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Lola at Eroticon

I get in bed.  I think Lo’s asleep, but she isn’t.  She unbuttons my pj bottoms and pulls out my cock and grips it tightly with one hand.  Her other hand is between her legs.  She begins stroking my rod up and down.  She spreads her legs and moans.  I begin to maneuver myself over her body in order to penetrate her, but she says, “No, Daddy.”

            “No?”

            “No.  Just lie on your back.”

            “But, don’t you want me?”

            “I want dick.  I want to hold it.  Just stay just like that,” she says.  I give in to her request to lie on my back as she grasps my member with her left hand while stroking herself with her right.  Her eyes remain closed.  Her breathing accelerates.  Her breasts heave.  After ten minutes or so, she begins convulsing.  She lets go of my phallus and grabs the sheets beneath her with her left hand as her right hand is plunging in-and-out of her gushing pussy.  She moans, screams, and cums in waves. 

            After she has a moment to catch her breath, I ask her, “What were you imagining?”

            “It’s bad, Daddy.”

            “I like bad.”

            “I was envisioning us,” she says enigmatically.

            “Us how?”

            “I imagined that we were going to the Erotica convention and that we were headlining for a reading of Match, Cinder & Spark.  It was at a dingy theater in a foreign town.  Up on the marquee it read, in big red letters, ‘LOLA DOWN READS XXX.’  We were backstage.  I had you peek out from the wings at the audience.  It was slowly growing in number – men and women.  Finally, about five minutes after the show was supposed to start, the host or MC for the evening took the stage and announced the rules, ‘No photography!  No recording!  Yes, masturbating, as long as you don’t make a mess of the seats.  Please turn off your cell phones and give a warm, wet welcome for Lola Down and H.H.!’  The place erupted with applause.  You and I walked out onto the stage.  There was only a rectangular table and two chairs.  On the rectangular table was a microphone and a tall glass of water and a pitcher of water.  We bowed and sat in the chairs.  I opened Match to one of my favorite passages and began reading.  I was wearing only a sexy red dress with strappy heels.  No panties.  No bra.  I began with my legs crossed.  I continued reading and I uncrossed my legs.  I gave the audience a quick flash of my puss.  I continued reading.  I spread my legs again.  I dropped one hand down to my crotch and began masturbating.  With the other hand, I held yours.  I paused for a moment.  I took a sip of water and looked out into the audience and said in a breathy voice, ‘It’s getting hot in here.’  You lovingly pulled the shoulder straps of my dress off of my shoulders and I pulled my arms through them.  I continued reading.  You slowly pulled down my red dress to reveal my breasts.  I continued touching my puss as I wiggled and wriggled out of the dress until it lay on the floor at my feet.  Finally I was naked and I continued reading the passage but, at a certain part I stopped.  I was beginning to climax.  You took over.  At the sound of your voice I came and I came hard – screaming and squirting.  You finally finished the passage.  You invited people up to the stage to have their copies of Match signed by the two of us.  As each person came up, they stopped before me with the book open to the page they wanted signed.  Usually it’s opened to a full color picture of me doing something naughty.  Some of the men asked if they can masturbate to me.  ‘Now?’ I asked.  ‘Yes,’ they said, politely.  I agreed.  They pulled out their cocks and they began jackin’ it over me as I sat naked in the chair.  You sat and watched.  They came.  They came on my body, on my face, in my mouth, in my hair, everywhere until I was cum-covered.  After everyone got what they wanted, you took me backstage.  There, some women who were part of the convention were waiting and they got clothes and a bucket of warm water and they cleaned me off.  ‘Was I good, Daddy?’ I asked you as they were tending to me.  ‘You were wonderful,’ you said.”

Lovelorn, Loveporn

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            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.”

Writing Down Lo

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            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.