Category Archives: erotica

A Slave’s Journey: The Training Of O

Julie Night outside the armory

Julie Night leaves the ordinary world before entering The Armory As Underworld

The Hero’s Journey” is a pretty standard narrative structure. It is also known as the monomyth or the underlining, cross-cultural structure of how we tell certain stories. There’s a lot about Joseph Campbell that is grossly overblown but it is an incredibly helpful model for understanding stories and why we tell them. When it comes to mythology of this nature, we think of the grand epic poems like The Iliad and The Odyssey or The Wizard Of Oz or Star Wars. We don’t really think of porn as ever stepping into the territory of mythology despite the fact that sex is fucking epic and we inextricable to the human and personal saga.

There was a time when The Training Of O was a hardcore, XXX, BDSM manifestation of the hero’s journey. Given that it’s about BDSM and leather sex, we’ll call it the slave’s journey because in this instance it plays out to similar ends. A lot of great work has been done on the website and I am not alleging that this is a list of “the best” TTOO shoots. I have no idea what “the best” would be. I would say that out of what I’ve viewed, these would be the shoots that best exemplified the hero’s journey and took on an ethereal quality where it was evident you were watching something different than your average porn.

In contrast, I would say that content currently being produced on TTOO under a new director is something more a “Slut Soldier’s Bootcamp.” It’s infinitely less Jungian and much more military in nature. Thing of it is, even during Mogul’s tenure the creative winds changed direction and that alone indicates a kind of intellectual and artistic merit. If it were just 4 days of a chick being beaten and fucked, it would look and feel exactly the same ESPECIALLY under the same director. Even someone without film training can pick up on the changing flow of production. In the case of TTOO, members debate to varying degrees of civility the evolution of the website and its evolution over time and leadership.

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Lady Porn Day: Must Reads “The Porning of America”

When I first looked at the cover for The Porning Of America: The Rise of Porn Culture, What it Means, and Where Do We Go from Here by Carmine Sarracino and Kevin M. Scott I was a little worried that it was going to be yet another poorly thought out and sex negative manifesto. I was deceived by the strawberry on the cover. “The Porning of America” is a sex positive text infinitely more focused on creating a historical context for pornography in America. It destroys the rose colored nostalgic glances to the so-called good old days before porn. It is fantastic read for anyone who is sex positive, pro porn, and anti-sexual shame but still sometimes feels conflicted by some aspects of the porn debate. It is an accessible text that encourages people to ask more questions and consider other possibilities.

“Porning” is a book about American porn and it is very assertive about creating a full context for the emergence of pornography in America. A large portion of this text is dedicated to exploring the historical precedent and taking time to note that although Los Angeles produces the bulk of pornography in the United States now, the US as a whole has only recently become the major porn exporter. Americans were not producing porn until after establishing themselves as a major global power in war in the early part of the 20th century. Where most anti-porn texts look wistfully at the “good girl” nature of the Pin Up girl, “Porning” is critical of her creation pointing out that erotic images of wartime women emerged from PSA’s for women to join the labor force and also notes that most of the “Rosies” of WWII were women of color with prior labor experience. When soldiers began painting bombshell babes on their war equipment it was a new twist on heterosexuality as a motivation to keep fighting the war which is also problematic. Within the same analysis “Porning” also points out how the “Rosies” in their 30s during WWII did return to working inside the home it didn’t last. It was the “Rosies” who re-entered the workplace in their 50s prompting new waves of feminist discourse.

The text takes the time to examine masculinity which is largely ignored in the anti-porn debate. Pornography is discussed alongside the fact that many young men went to war and were left to process their experiences within a framework for masculinity that does not allow for tears. Comic book images of sexualized damsels in distress are analyzed not just as depictions of women in bondage struggling against literally monstrous threats to their well being and happiness but also as depictions of men as heroes off in the distance as small and pathetic against the scourge. Comic book culture initially produced for children began taking on adult themes. Nudity and sexuality was a hallmark of a comic that was also likely going to include the politics of minority oppression, the nature of human evil, and other cultural anxieties. The chilling effects of political discourse in comics are noted as taking place after the Comic Book Code was introduced to censor sex and gore.

One of the greatest strengths of “Porning” is its ability to assertively redefine “porn culture” to discuss porn as a part of a historic, cultural, and sociological component of the American human experience rather than an external force set to destroy us. For those who are active sex positive critics in the great porn debate, read this book in good faith. The authors are using some terms predominantly in the domain of the sex negative camp. It took awhile for my knee to stop jerking when I would suddenly encounter some of the terms or language that have come to represent logical shortcomings, broad generalizations, and very bad data in my mind. These authors are using these terms very differently. After awhile I realized that my rhetoric often revolves around not using anti-porn terminology rather than actually engaging with it and opening up what those labels actually include. “Porn culture” is not something that should automatically read as a horror movie script where porno is the guy behind the mask with a machete killing teenagers. The words, “porn culture” should mean the culture of porn; its history, its process, innovators, popular trends, relationship to other cultural events and happenings, technology, growth, and development. Why the hell have I been letting people get away with using the words that best contain the conversation I want to have about porn?

Rather than relying on an emotional panic at the existence of sex on film being circulated widely on the internet and WHAT ABOUT THE CHILDREN?!?, “Porning” takes the time to ask that if childhood is eroding  it might not be because of sexually suggestive undergarments being marketed but because of news media. Sarracino and Scott examine the fact that all Americans are exposed to more information and news than ever before in human history. The news doesn’t really fit our model of childhood. Is it “Bratz Dolls” that are “destroying” childhood or is it the fact that most children have seen moving images of the grizzly reality of the adult world in full color? It goes on to remind readers that childhood as we know it is a cultural construct. Most children historically and globally today have not been afforded the privilege of an existence free from the harshness outside of the nursery. Class could afford that kind of sanctuary for a relatively short period of time but information news media is now immediate and increasingly global. It was so refreshing to see writing that doesn’t immediately panic at the fact that someone is selling thongs for 10 year old girls but considers the fact that it occurred in a context that includes more than just porn.

What is frustrating about so many discussions about porn is how utterly devoid of context they really are. Articles placing the blame of relationship breakdowns and cultural changes in expectations about sex and pornography fail to recognize that as a whole the way we relate to everything is changing all at once around us. Culture is no longer a slow moving glacier and we have such a limited understanding of what that fully means. Technology has changed every kind of relationship we have from ourselves to the most mundane of human interactions. Technology is also changing our relationship to information and to the past. The 1960s feel as if they occurred ages ago and yet 50 years isn’t even the full lifetime of your average American human. 50 years represents a greater abundance of technological advancements than any other 50 years of human history. It is helpful for me to step back for a moment to remind myself of what my context is exactly and I often do this by analyzing what it is not.

Access to pornography isn’t the only factor that could potentially effect relationships. The fact that I use my telephone as a telephone as little as possible is also changing the way that I relate to other people. I download software into my pocket computer that allows me to eliminate as many human interactions as I possibly can. I become visibly aggravated when I am denied access to information that I am seeking. I curse at JSTOR and Lexis Nexus when it cannot provide the minutiae that I am seeking. Americans are increasingly discontented with not knowing everything. Modern suburban parents cannot comprehend the notion of just letting their children run around unsupervised on the streets without any way to immediately connect with them. Previously unknown private habits of my friends are now broadcasted on the internet for me to watch and respond to with my own. Privacy is being redefined. All of these things contribute to relationship and sexual expectation changes. The book spends an incredible amount of time including details of porn culture that demonstrate that pornography is neither a frog in a boiling pot argument nor was it something that dropped onto modern Americans from a spaceship. There is no end point to culture, there is not goal. There is only a story of people reacting to changes in their environment.

Technology as a whole is something that has developed in a continuum of events. A lot of anti-porn rhetoric creates this image of porn as being something that started with Playboy and then somehow turned into graphic sexual acts on Sesame Street. It’s not a reasonable frame work for discussing the development of porn culture. It fails to remember that human behavior is not static. It develops alongside technological innovations that impacted every aspect of our lives and that our lives include sexuality.

Food cultivation technology changed human relationships. (And sex.)

Railroads, cars, and airplanes changed human relationships. (And sex.)

Photography changed human relationships. (And sex.)

War changes human relationships. (And sex.)

Simply panicking at the first site of change doesn’t actually introduce anything new to the conversation because humans are immediately reacting to and integrating new aspects of their environments in their lives. This is exemplified by discussing an indelible mark on the emergence of porn culture: nuclear war. Sex entered mainstream discourse formally after we split the atom and opened up an entirely new world of science. The 1950s are depicted paradoxically; white teenagers in blue jeans at the malt shops who also participated in nuclear attack response drills in high school. We started talking about sex a whole lot more in America when people were grappling with the very real potential of annihilating thousands if not millions of lives in a flash. How do you talk about Playboy without talking about The Cold War? Yes, people did have a growing secret stash of obscene materials. People also had secret stashes of supplies and shelter networks in the event of nuclear war. 8 year olds could look you in the eye and recite what they should do at the initial onset of a nuclear attack. Looking back you can see how that might start to put jerking off to dirty pictures in the bathroom a little more into perspective. “The Porning of America” is a study of pornography as a historical artifact to better understand all of mainstream culture. When Hays compiled his list of obscene things that should never be permitted on film he also created the pornography industry. At the conclusion of my reading, I had the sudden thought that conversations about pornography cannot be discussed in Freudian terms. Freud analyzed the hidden sexuality in day to day life but when we talk about fucking we’re very rarely actually talking about sex alone.

In grade school, literature was taught to me with multiple choice tests. The requisite question, “If you could re-title this story, which title would you choose?”  always annoyed me. There was always a correct option in the form of a declarative statement of the thesis, an option representing the antithesis, a superficial reading of the story, and a humorous non-related option. The wording of the question always annoyed me because if you’re asking me what I personally would re-title the story then I can’t very well answer in multiple choice form, can I? Despite the test maker’s horrible semantics it was the best way they could think of to evaluate someone’s understanding of a story by phrasing the question in such a way that it entices the answer from another portion of the human brain. I understood the purpose even as I hated the process. My conclusion in the form of an homage to the sex education I was given in grade school, if I were to re-title “The Porning of America” I would call it “Porn Doesn’t Exist in a Goddamn Vacuum.” If you’re looking for a good go-to primer on the historical context for porn in America, go pick up a copy of  The Porning Of America.

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Vintage Porn

I like my porn in black and white. I have actually begun a collection of 1920s and 1930s porn because I can’t get enough of it. A silent porn production made grainy from years of neglect in vault brought to light with its title cards and piano music in the background delights me. Vintage porn does not always mean “softcore” by the way. I have watched far more sexually adventurous porn that is from the turn of the 20th century than I see in today’s porn. In one picture, there was girl/girl sex immediately followed by boy/girl sex followed by boy/boy sex followed by boy/boy/girl sex all in the same movie with the same people.

Good luck finding contemporary porn that has both boy/girl and boy/boy sex. We are a niche porn society now and everything is part of a category. I’m not good at sticking to a single topic as you can see by my blog. I don’t just write about my sexual adventures, I don’t just write about art, I don’t just write about education. I write about sexuality and I am drawn to porn that is filled with sensual sexual images that transcend a label.

Vintage Porn

Top hats are really, really sexy

Furthermore, there is a distinct lack of top hats and tail coats in porn today. I’m also jealous of the fact that these porn stars have never felt the delicious sting of razor burn. Don’t get me wrong, I think a shaved pussy is hot. I would like to say that until you have experienced a Defcon 5 situation with bumps you have no idea that shaving is not complication free. I am on the fence about pussy hair, always. On some women, a shaved pussy is the best thing in the world. Other women are blessed with a gorgeous hair line on their snatch. I almost find it to be a crime when a red head shaves her hair. What I miss is the variation. Some women look really ridiculously hot with a groomed pussy but we miss that because the default uniform is bald.

B/B/G girl

I’m also fascinated by the photographic process of porn. In the early days of cameras and film printing, someone had to hold a pose for minutes at a time. I look at some Victorian porn prints and I’m astounded by how spontaneous they look. I imagine the man with a hard cock waiting patiently, I think of the woman bent over. I think of the person pausing mid-spank to catch that moment and I know that everyone brought their A-game to that set. I am part of a generation of immediate gratification. I’m annoyed when the internet signal on my cell phone takes more than 3 minutes to play a movie. The effort and deliberation behind vintage porn turns me on immensely. The fact that this was done with greater social ramifications than we have today is another thing I admire. There were pornographers who were literally put into Nazi concentration camps for doing nothing more than recording adult sexuality. While it sucks that people will immediately doubt my intelligence and capability for the sheer fact that I have had sex on camera, no one in their right mind would send me to die in a gas chamber for it in America. I am blessed and I admire those who did literally lose their lives to violence for my self expression.

More tail coats for me

Porn stars are always outlaws with a legacy. They are immortalized, forever. Some people see this is a bad thing. No matter what you do, where you go, or who you become you will always have these photographs in your wake. This is something I love and why I continue to pose for the camera. Even when my breasts sag, my hair grays, and my face wrinkles I will still be forever present as young and virile smiling and sexual. Even if my bones creak and I need a cane to walk, I will still be able to bend and contort myself into eternity. When I hit menopause and my pussy doesn’t gush with wetness anymore I will still flood. I am immortalizing my youth. I will never become asexual. These are ordinary people who did nothing more or less than happened in the bedrooms of the world over time but they will live forever in my imagination. I get to look about them and give them a story. With vintage porn, masturbation is a seance invoking the spirits of a sexual past.

The word “porn star” is so perfect because the fire and light of a galactic entity emits its power for eons. They will always flicker and burn throughout the course of mankind. They will never grow old, they will never die. Kings and Queens and Pharoahs have temples and tombs dedicated to them, why not me? Why not you? We are all immortal so long as someone on Earth remains to speak our name or gaze upon our visage.

I can't do this with my legs.

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Artists I love- Nancy Peach

If you haven’t seen Nancy Peach’s lush erotic art, you’re missing out on something special. I met Nancy in 2008 when I was starting out as a model. In many ways, she is part of my sexual yearbook because we were in a similar sexual freshmen class as emerging artists both taking those first timid steps of entering a world with the proclamation that sex is beautiful and that we want to share it with you.

Art by Nancy Peach

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Joie de vivre

We had already fucked twice that night. At first it had been hot aggressive sex after the pretense of conversation, drinks, and a movie had dissipated. It was Penthouse sex at its very core. We had fucked the bed into disarray and worked our muscles to the demands of the lustful drill instructor in our heads telling us to push past the quivering exhaustion to the finish line just up ahead. After a brief recess I had enthusiastically sucked his cock throwing his hands off my head and pushing him down onto the bed. There are certainly times and situations when I am more than happy to allow my face to become a passive receptacle for pleasure but in this moment his body was my territory and I wanted every sensational detail to be under my control. I dragged my nails down his legs as I let my teeth cascade down the shaft before twirling my tongue on the head of his cock. You wouldn’t interrupt Da Vinci at his canvas, would you?

Before the taste of his cum had left my mouth I was bent over the bed being fucked in the ass. In times of pure distilled lust I know that I am not perfect but I believe that I was meant to be. My body, our bodies, our lives with all of their perceived flaws and battle scars are a thing of marvel. We came to this city and forged a community with bonds as strong as the cables of the Golden Gate Bridge. I swell with pride for humanity because we can launch rockets into face and design front clasping bras. I am an atheist who is certain that sex without shame or regret is an exaltation to the universe. I know this because when I slide my hand under my cunt it feels like honey is pouring through my fingers onto the sheets and I laugh through his thrusting and his grip. Even after I feel the end of his twitching and I am unable to move out of my vulnerable pose, I am still laughing.

I am developing a bit of a reputation for this apparent delerium. It’s there in the dungeon as well as the bedroom or the occasional alleyway or freeway overpass (once in the choir loft of a church). I laugh because I have been present for strong minded individuals who can explain the basic tenets of nuclear fusion become literally incapable of forming sentences through their scrunched-up faces as they work so hard to obtain the intensity of a glorified muscle spasm. When we are primal, it is beautiful and it is absurd. I laugh.

I laugh through the sensory overload of an unexpected slap across the face from someone I trust implicitly because I’m too confused to scream. I laugh sometimes because my cat is yowling to the tune of moaning. I laugh because someone slipped on a puddle of lube. I laugh because I feel free from all the worry and stress I often carry on my shoulders like a bag lady and it is funny to feel suddenly so light. I laugh because I’m still here experiencing the joie de vivre heralded by broken capillaries like exploding fireworks.

When I laugh, things seem to suddenly stop. It doesn’t matter that I spent a full hour and fifteen minutes on eye makeup only to have it smear from my eyelid to my earlobe and that the hairspray I used has encouraged my hair to sit in a matted clump. It doesn’t matter that someone is going to have to clean up the giant mess left behind. I am human but I am made in the image of divine. If I am reclining in soggy sheets, sore but satiated, looking like an utter ruin of femininity then that must also be the style of the gods. I have been struck dumb with reverence for all of the things we are, it makes me happy, so I laugh.

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Bold as my marks

My favorite way to end to a long and intense scene is to recline in bed with my lover in mutual admiration. I play for those times when we have both used all of our physical resources and we can share the intimacy that comes with that. It is in those moments when I appreciate the differences in our displays of strength. It is then that my palm can rest on his sweaty forehead and my fingers can slip into his hair, down the back of his neck, onto his shoulders, and then cascade across his arms. His exhaustion is part of a fundamental and animalistic communication. He has shown me the power of his body and his unrelenting focus on mine. When my hands grip at his muscles I am touching an expression of his masculinity.
But SM not an expression of submission for me because I feel that I have responded with incredible feminine strength. I don’t go through the pain, the intensity, and brutality of a scene for him. I do it because I have commanded it from myself. My femininity in that moment does not come from a nurturing maternal nature, it comes from my strength to sustain harsh blows and remain standing. I maintain strong eye contact so that I can playfully and seductively dare anyone to take my place. Don’t let my soft curves deceive you because although my senses may sting and my blood vessels may burst they can still support me and everything else thrown in my direction. How can I be sure that I am strong unless I am challenged? The world is less frightening because I am not afraid to find out what I can withstand. 
I don’t experience subspace from an SM scene because I want to remain entirely present. I don’t want to control every sensation because I cannot control everything that exists outside of me. And when he runs a hand down the slope of my waist brushing against the welts and the bruises he can be certain that I can keep up with the rigors of the world and that I am as bold as my marks. 

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Stalked on BART

There are some very wicked men in the shadows of San Francisco. They could be anywhere. They lurk, just waiting for a girl like me to be conveniently dressed for sexy stalking on BART. 

There I was, minding my own business reading Nymphomania dressed up in a sexy little black sweater, short black skirt, garters, seamed stockings, and heels with my undies forgotten in a drawer at home when suddenly I got a text message telling me that I was being watched. I looked around, but I couldn’t see anyone I recognized. Who could be watching me? I thought it would be a good idea to pull out my compact and reapply some shocking red lipstick. If you’re going to be stalked on public transit, then you better make sure your pout is perfect.
What a setup for some fun. Truth be told, I’m almost always wearing all black unless I’m in jeans and seamed stockings are the perfect compliment to any day that ends in -y. I love public play and I’m a gambler who loves the game when the stakes are high. When my partner told me about this idea of his I practically melted. In my fantasy world I am wearing panties, but a strange man puts a knife to the back of my neck and demands that I hand them over right there on the back of the train. Unfortunately, I also happen to prefer that my playdates end up in bed rather a police station. Reality didn’t stop things from being sexy, though.
We did have precise arrangements, but things were changed up a little. He boarded my train before he said he would and had his eye on me long before I expected his presence. I was actually hunted by someone who knew where I was going and when I would arrive. There was someone watching me and thinking all kinds of deliciously dangerous thoughts that I was entirely unaware of at the time. I was a waiting little tart and when my eyes scanned the lines of the book retelling a young girl’s plea to a victorian physician about her need for guidance to be good because of her intrusive sexual thoughts I could only think, “How very true.” 
A text message came into my phone telling me to spread my legs. Even though I knew it would be coming, I suddenly felt a little bit afraid. I was wearing anything under my skirt. There were men on that late night train who could see that if split my legs apart even just a little. I scanned the crowd again. Everyone was facing away or asleep under the hoods of the sweatshirts. I tentatively parted my legs because I’m a sucker for a command like that and I wondered if there was an apparent glistening. I still couldn’t spot my stalker, he was good at hiding. 
I couldn’t focus on my book anymore, but it became a prop. I put it over my face and let my eyes sit over the top as I kept up my search. Was it that man by the door with a bike? Was it the man in the suit and the hat? Who was telling me to do this? I started blowing big pink bubbles with my gum until they exploded over my lips and running my hands on my legs trying to play dumb about the view I was creating for anyone paying attention to me. Were these people actually missing the show or trying to make it look like they didn’t notice? Could that camera see what I was doing? 
I kept getting little comments about what I was doing and what I was wearing. It started to unnerve me while also making me feel more bold. My hands found their way to my sweater. There must have been a draft that had gotten to my skin from the gaps in my strained garment, surely. I’m not really a bad girl, I just look really good when I play the part. I felt like an elevator with every single floor being selected by an invisible hand; all of my buttons were being pushed and all I could do was enjoy the ride.
It was just before our stop when I finally figured out the source. This allowed me to direct the show more pretending that I didn’t know. When we de-boarded I sashayed by letting my hips swing wide in my heels. I lingered, I teased, I waited to be attacked. He could have dragged me by the hair for 5 blocks and I still would have been just as eager to be fucked on the floor with my road rash. That’s how it is when the devil walks next to you everywhere you go. 
I was properly ravished. Then I was defiled, followed by a proper desecration, profaned, and then besmirched in every way. 13 orgasms must be the equivalent of about 100 stomach crunches, right? The kind of sex I need leaves me with a love hangover in the morning. I want to be sore with no desire to leave the bed in the morning (but don’t take that to mean I want to sleep all day…).
Wearing a spreader bar is sexy, breaking one is even sexier and sometimes my pussy gets so hot it absolutely needs to have ice cubes shoved inside of it otherwise the bed could catch fire. Leave the diamonds at home because a hitachi is really a girl’s best friend especially when someone won’t take it off of your clit for a moment. The toy I want next is a chess timer for orgasm duration. (Can you imagine how fun it would be to compile an excel spreadsheet of activities, partners, tools, and length of orgasm? Accounting will never be the same). 
It was a good night, to be sure. My gratitude to my sexy stalker for such an incredible time. It’s such a treat to be fucked and beaten to the point where all do is smile, giggle, and speak in tongues. 

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Old Town

An old faded ad for cigars painted onto the wall loomed over me as my body leaned back into the old exposed red brick. One stiletto heel ground into it and little bits crumbled and fell onto the cement where they echoed when they dropped. It’s decrepit in this part of town. The fire escapes do offer a quick route out of a building if you don’t mind falling a few stories on your way down, but no one really uses them anymore.

It wasn’t hard to ignore the cool air on my thighs with someone leaving hot breath and saliva trails on them. I had stripped him of his hat earlier in the night and because of its size it dropped onto the top of my nose covering my eyes. My hair was starting to feel sweaty and clumped under the brim. I had stopped worrying about aesthetics because we were well past that point.

It wasn’t out of nostalgia that we both wound up here, even though it was technically just a few blocks from where we met as teenagers. When ever I’m in this part of town and the familiar feeling of arousal hits me it seems only natural to wind up in this alley. We have a lot of public landmarks that belong to us. If you walk to the top of the alley and make a left at the pawn shop and keep going for a couple of blocks you’ll find a muffler shop where I gave him my first blowjob. If you make a right and pull into the parking structure, spiral your way up to the very top you will find the place where I lost my virginity. We picked the corner with the best view of the city lights.

The nostalgia isn’t in the place, it’s in the partner who had decided to get off his knees and pull me up with him. My hands searched for something to grab as my legs wrapped around his neck. I found the metal bars of the fire escape and I stopped thinking about their structural integrity. I just felt his face still clean shaven unlike the many others we knew that had decided to grow beards. The hat had fallen off of my head and I glanced off to the side for a moment as if I had been looking for someone that might have noticed us.

Down at that end of the alley, around the corner, there’s an art gallery that used to be a cafe. You could have sent me mail there. We smoked hookah and cigarettes all night constantly complaining about the lack of anything to do. That was before our friend Keith knew he was gay and Ashley started to go to therapy. Back then, they were dating and did any number of things that the rest of us thought were utterly crazy.

Keith couldn’t get off from fucking his girlfriend even though everyone knew she was a nymphomaniac. He said he had success once when he closed his eyes and grabbed her hair with one hand and her throat with the other. I was surprised by his lack of success at the time because I had assumed by the way Ashley could blow cigarette rings that she probably gave good head.

One night as we sharing some expensive cigarillos with vanilla at the tip, Ashley got up from her chair, walked about 50 feet away only to spread her legs and let a stream of urine fall out of her. She grabbed the front of her skirt to wipe her pussy and walked back calmly. When she climbed onto Keith’s lap she announced that she had always wanted to do something like that.

Once we had hit our twenties Keith had caught up in number of partners and both had a prescription for Xanax. No one was surprised.

Up against the wall I began thrusting my hips into his face. The jagged edges of the bricks were snagging into my sweater and scratching up my back. When I was forceful he answered by digging fingers onto the sides of my ass. We had reached the point of exhaustion were we had gotten clumsy. My knees banged into head and his grip started to slip. My arms were starting to shake from supporting my weight. It was at the point where I felt like I was going to be dropped that I started to cum. I shook several times before sliding down the wall that was trying desperately to steal my sweater.

When my feet touched the ground I realized I hadn’t asked him at all about his girlfriend, his new home in Oregon, or his career nor had I given any thought at all about the fact that this was the first time he had ever given me an orgasm. Curiously, I felt a bit of panic about the fact that it was long past midnight. He picked his hat off the ground and we walked back to the bar in silence.

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