Attention to detail

Like so many other people, I love the show Mad Men. I love the clothes, the art direction, the tightly wound writing, and as someone who used to make a living by paying attention to details, the impeccable attention to detail. Everything from the underwear to the cigarette lighters to the tax stamps on bottles of liquor, no detail is left unattended.

The men on the show are written with such precision and depth, but I sometimes have a hard time identifying with some of the female characters. Joan is sexy and rules her domain--I am neither. Betty is frosty and long-suffering, but has moments of willfulness--getting closer.

But Peggy Olson. I get Peggy. I understand Peggy. I am Peggy.

Peggy is plain and silent and chooses all the wrong moments to stand up for herself. She's brittle and hard on the outside, a facade that protects the thoughts and desires roiling around inside of her. And she's silently screaming inside for someone, anyone, to notice her, to pay attention to her. When Duck tells her that "all the times I walked past you and never noticed you," you can practically see Peggy's heart melt. Duck knew exactly where her vulnerable spots were: Peggy wants to be notable in her work and to be noticed by men, and I understand that so much.

Plus, since Duck is a teetotaler, it's really sexy and intimate when he tells her that he loves the taste of liquor on her breath. See? Attention to detail.

Good Ol' Fashioned Nightmare

Indeed, that's what my life is right now.

Girl, I know how you feel

Drowning Girl, by Roy Lichtenstein (American, 1923-1997).

Although it bears mentioning that I called my old therapist today and asked her if she'd start seeing me again.

Summertime blues

It's the height of summer. I spent the weekend at the shore in a bathing suit, the Phillies are in first place...and yet I feel even lower and lonelier than usual. I haven't had sex since April and I haven't been on a date since May.

(That said, I'm going on a blind date on Thursday. The fellow is coming to Philadelphia from Ohio and taking me out to an extremely expensive dinner, which makes me feel like I owe him something. Katerade already knows I've been in knots over it for weeks.)

I've been watching a lot of Mad Men lately, trying to get caught up on the last two seasons before the new season starts in August. Since I can't find a clip of the scene in question, watch this. Start at 7:45. I want to say this to a man someday and mean it.

Coulda woulda shoulda

I could have had sex tonight. I could've met my favorite go-to fuck buddy and gotten righteously pounded until my shoulders, back, pussy, and jaw ached.

But no. I had to come down with my annual summer cold/sinus infection this week. Instead of screaming at the top of my lungs, I'm moaning in agony with a warm compress over my eyes because my face hurts so much. Instead of choking on a meaty cock, I'm lying on the couch listening to the Phillies choke against the Jays.

Tomorrow I have to go to a bridal shower. Kill me now.

The nice Jewish boy

I emailed him because the picture of his cock was so nice. A meaty fistful, arching gently upward. The picture looked so good I wanted to lick it.

We traded emails for weeks before we finally went out for the first time. I brought him home and he freaked out because he could hear my roommate yapping in the next room. He still came hard in my mouth, on my bed, spilling a hot load down my throat for me to swallow greedily.

You want to know how he fucks me, huh?

It always goes the same way. We have a couple of beers and go upstairs. He peels my dress off and plays with my tits while we kiss. I undress him (he has to do his belt, I always struggle with it) and he pushes me to my knees to take his cock. I like the cognitive dissonance between his polite Jewish boy-ness and his big, gorgeous dick. I suck him while he plays with my hair and then he pushes me to the bed.

We always fuck with me on all fours--he likes to fuck me like he doesn't like me. I know he doesn't like me. But I like how he fucks me. He teases me with his cock first before he gives it to me. I always whine, "What are you dooooooing, don't you wanna fuuuuuuck me?" And he always says "I'm teasing you. Now play with your clit for me." So I do. Eventually he slides his cock into me and fills me up all the way on the very first thrust. He spanks me and pulls my hair when I ask, and fucks me until I come over and over and over. "Did you come?" he always asks. "Can't you tell?" I always say. Then he grabs my hips and pumps until he finishes inside me.

One time he came to my house before he went to work and he was so hot for me he lasted all of 45 seconds. That was flattering and disappointing at the same time; flattering because he was so turned on he couldn't hold off, disappointing because his cock feels so good I really wanted him to make me come.

He'd make a fine boyfriend--gainfully employed, owns his own house, wears nice shoes, has a fabulous dick--if he didn't live so far away. And he didn't dislike me so much.

The Kid

In the fallout from the Red situation, I created a profile on everybody's favorite fuck site, Adult Friend Finder. I figured if one guy wanted to fuck me, maybe others wanted to too. Maybe I could fuck Red out of my system.

The Kid's profile photo was a shot from his shoulders to his knees. His torso was ripped, and he was wearing blue boxer briefs. I was impressed that he hadn't used a cock shot like so many guys on AFF do, and his profile was thoughtfully written. He seemed remarkably mature for a 22-year-old college student.

After trading a few messages, I gave him my IM handle and he IMed me at around 10 one night.

The Kid: What are you doing right now?
Me: Watching the Phillies game.
The Kid: Want to come over?
Me: What, now?
The Kid: Yeah, why not?
Me: ...OK.

I changed into a raspberry-colored cashmere sweater and jeans and drove over to The Kid's house. He lived in a middle-class cul-de-sac and as I was parking, I thought, "This is an odd neighborhood for a college student to live."

I saw a head poke out of a front door and I knew I had found his house. He let me into the house after I parked my car, admonishing me, "You have to be quiet, my roommates are sleeping upstairs." Well, hello to you too.

He led me to a well-appointed living room--Oriental-style rug on the floor, brass and glass coffee table in front of the couch, an Olan Mills portrait on the wall--and I realized, "He doesn't have roommates, he has parents." I was going to fuck a kid while his parents slept upstairs. I was horrified...and wet.

We sat on the poofy white leather couch and he watched The Daily Show for a few minutes before he turned to me and asked, "Can we make out a little?" We kissed for a few moments and he shoved his hand into the neck of my sweater to grope my breast.

As we kissed, I thought, "I want to get this over with as soon as possible." So I turned on the charm, straddling him on the couch and sinking my teeth into his neck. "You're really into this, aren't you?" he asked.

I didn't answer, just unbuttoned his jeans and worked them down to his knees.

He knelt and pushed the coffee table out of the way to make room for us on the floor. I got on my knees and pulled his underwear down, and I found myself face to face with the biggest cock I had ever seen in my life. Long, thick and gently curved, it was like a Pringles can. I didn't even try to suck it--I would have gotten maybe a third of it into my mouth--just licked it all over.

My attention to his cock got The Kid incredibly hard, and he dove to the floor, pushing me down on my back. He grabbed my sweater and pulled it over my head, and pulled my bra up, popping my tits out for him to suck on. He was terribly enthusiastic, so I let him work on me for a few moments, then I pushed him off so I could retrieve a condom from my coat pocket. I kept them handy there for exactly this reason--he was so ready to fuck he couldn't find the rubber he stashed in his pants. Cooler, more experienced heads will always prevail.

He rolled on the condom and entered me. Whoa. He filled me up completely on the very first thrust. Jesus. It was like fucking a baseball bat. He pushed my knees to my chest and fucked me like this for a little bit, before he gasped, "You're so hot, I don't want to come yet."

"So do something else."

He pulled out and went down on me. Ah, now this I enjoyed. He worked two fingers inside me as he flicked and sucked at my clit, and just as I thought I would come, he pulled his fingers out and started fucking me again. I wriggled my hand down between us and stroked my clit while he fucked me, and I shoved my free hand into my mouth so I'd be quiet when I came.

And come I did, with a wet, squishy spasm and my teeth sunk into my fist. I was so wet I thought I'd left a puddle on his mother's nice rug. He thrust a few more times and finished inside me.

"Did you come?" he gasped. I hate being asked that question. It speaks to a selfishness and a lack of concern for and observational ability of one's partner of which I don't approve. I was terse: "Of course I did." I wanted to get out of there as fast as I could.

I pulled my pants back up and rearranged my tits in my bra. "Could I have a glass of water?" I asked. He brought me my drink and I chugged it as fast as I could. I handed him back the glass, and told him, "That was fun. Take care."

I was out of there before Your Moment of Zen.

I had another one

I had another weird sex dream the other night (or morning, I should say; I always wake up from them in the morning) and I can't even blame it on dirty IMs before bed.

I was in my old college dorm room in Tower C. The room was dark except for the light in my closet, and I thought I was alone but I felt another presence there with me, which was strange, because I'm not someone who "senses things." I believe in omens (example: If you find a good parking spot at the mall or the grocery store, you'll have a productive shopping trip) but not in, like, spirits or the undead. It was also strange because my cube at work is larger than my old dorm room, and how could someone have hidden in there?

Anyway, I tried to shake off the feeling, but as I peered into my mirror, I felt the shock of a hot hand gripping the back of my neck and shoving my face roughly into the mirror. I could see the look of shock on my face, my mouth an O, the color draining from my cheeks.

The hand held me there, my forehead against the glass, and my assailant's face swam into focus behind me. It was the pretty Irish actor Cillian Murphy, who hissed into my ear with his lovely baritone burr for me to shut up because he's going to fuck me and I'm going to like it.

OK!

So he did; His hand still at the back of my neck, he yanked my skirt up and my panties down, and spat into his free hand to get his cock slick. No need; I was already wet like that and arching my back for him. He fucked me roughly from behind for what seemed like forever, his hand around my throat or yanking my hair back. I played with my clit and whined for him to fuck my ass.

Wait, what?

Fuck my ass?

OK!

I've been known to talk in my sleep, so it's a good thing I had the house to myself; I can only imagine myself whining "Fuck my ass, come on, fuck me harder!" in my sleep. I woke up with my face smooshed into my pillow and proceeded to get myself off four times with my Magic Wand before work that morning.

I know I have "make friends with anal" on my life list. I'm not so big into it in real life but apparently my preconscious is dying for it. I just bought myself a new butt-specific toy this weekend, so maybe I'll be able to tick that item off my list sooner rather than later.

Yes, please!

Cause and effect

Cause: Torrid sex IMs with an old pal before bed.

Effect: Vivid sex dreams all night.

I had a tremendously strange one the other night; I was hired to perform in a porno. I don't remember with whom, and I don't remember what I did. Then after we finished shooting my scene, the cast and crew went out together for karaoke. That I remember; I sang "Tears Dry On Their Own."

The next day, I read my reviews, and Fleshbot was more surprised by my karaoke performance than by my sexual prowess. The review boiled down to "We knew she could fuck, but we had no idea she had a voice like that!"

I don't usually remember my dreams, and the ones I do remember are always the anxiety ones. What does it mean?

Red, conclusion

A few hours later, I opened my eyes and the room was dim. A cold, gray light filtered through the window shade, and I could hear the wind whistle down the street. Red's arms were still around me, and his face was resting against my shoulder. I realized I had fallen asleep in his arms.

SIDEBAR: I do not spoon. I cannot spoon. I hate to do it; I'm certain the other person is disgusted by me, doesn't want to touch me, would rather be anywhere else than with me. My mind races the whole time and I can't relax. I lie there awake all night, hating myself.

Huh. How about that.

This meant something to me. That I felt relaxed enough with this man to fall asleep in his arms. To become vulnerable. I was warm and comfortable under his blankets with his arms around me. I never wanted to leave.

I had to get out of there.

He felt me stir. "Hi," he said.

"What time is it?" I was wearing a watch, I could have answered this question myself.

"Seven. I think."

"I should go."

"Do you really have to?"

I was incredulous. I thought for sure he'd see what he was lying next to and want me out of there as soon as possible. "Well, no...you want me to stay?"

"Yeah."

"OK, I will."

So that was that. I would stay.

We rearranged ourselves so that I was now the big spoon, my arm draped over his waist. I stretched out and kissed the nape of his neck and nuzzled my face into the space between his shoulders. Our feet tangled together.

I dozed off again.

---

When I woke up later, my head was throbbing and I desperately needed to pee. I wrapped myself in one of the blankets we had kicked off the bed the night before. It had Sandra Boynton illustrations all over it. I chuckled.

I tiptoed through his anteroom and cracked the door open to peek if the coast was clear. I would be so embarrassed if his roommates caught me. I ducked into the bathroom and returned to Red's room without anyone spotting me.

When I got back to his bedroom, Red was stretched out his stomach, his giant feet poking out from under the blanket and hanging over the edge of the bed. I noticed a flash of blue and red on his right calf, and I flipped the blanket back to reveal an enormous, abstract tattoo swirling up his calf from his ankle to his knee.

"Huh!"

"What?" he said, sleep thick in his voice.

"I didn't notice your tattoos."

"Yeah...I have three."

"Really? Huh. I don't have any." I slipped back under the covers and scooted next to him.

"I noticed."

"Oh, you did, did you?" I felt objectified, in an extremely good way. He had looked at me. He had taken me in and liked what he saw, flaws and all. I smiled broadly.

"Yes." He smiled back and kissed me.

He stretched his arm out under my neck and pulled me to him. I curled up into his side and kissed him under his ear. I nibbled his ear and he sucked in his breath. "Oh, that's really good," he murmured. He did the same to me and I giggled and sighed. "I couldn't resist," he said. "It looked too good not to."

Red laid on his back and I curled up next to him, his fingertips resting on my side. The curve of my waist and the small of my back are incredibly sensitive--touch me gently there and I will laugh because it tickles, and get wet because, well, I don't know why. Fingertips up and down my back just drive me crazy. I kick and squirm and giggle and twitch and act like a spaz. Very sexy.

When he started making little circles on my side I shivered. I gasped when he dipped his fingers into the small of my back and ran them up the valley of my spine between my shoulders. Up and down, up and down, over into my waist, I gasped every time. He kept going, and I got wet again. I threw my arm and leg across him and rubbed myself against his hip.

He palmed my ass. "You do that, you better be willing to give me a spanking." There was a smile in my voice--I didn't think he had it in him, because he was kind of passive--but if he had bent me over his knee and spanked me until my ass and his palm were bright red, I would have died of ecstatic surprise right then.

Red had gotten me off again and again, and now I knew it was my turn to return the favor. I wanted him to come as hard for me as I had for him the night before. I got on all fours above him and bowed my head to kiss him, sucking on his ears again and kissing his neck. I crawled backward and worked my way from his neck to his chest, and scrubbed my face back and forth in the thick thatch of blond fuzz on his chest.

He gasped and arched against me and breathed, "Ohhhh...you found my spot" when I licked his nipples. He gently put his hand against the back of my head to hold me there and I reached down to feel his cock. I stroked my thumb over the head and felt the precome there.

I was getting this gorgeous boy off. I could not have been prouder of myself.

Kissing and licking and nipping at his sides, I slipped out from under his hand and worked my way down his stomach. I nuzzled my face into his groin and the fold between his leg and his torso, and nudged his knees apart like he did to me.

I settled down between his legs, nipped the insides of his thighs, and gave the underside of his dick a long, slow lick. I thought of College Callgirl's outstanding post on how to give an exemplary blow job. I wanted this to be a barnburner. I wanted the cliche about how fat girls give good head to be true. I wanted him never to forget me.

I got to work, spitting crudely on him (ooh, very nasty) and stroking him a few times to get him really nice and hard. He fit perfectly in my mouth; I could smoothly take him all the way in without gagging. I'd take him all the way in and breathe through my nose into his groin, and as I slipped him out of my mouth, I'd slide my tongue from side to side on the underside of his dick. I wrapped one arm around his thigh, and I played with his balls with the other.

"Your...mouth...is...magic..." he gasped. Best compliment ever.

I propped myself up on all fours and looked him in the eye. "I want you to come on my tits."

He looked a little surprised, but he was right there with me. "OK!"

While I sucked him he began leaking a lot of precome, and he tasted delicious--remarkably sweet. I played with his balls and stroked his taint, and he jerked against me and warned me that he was close; I pulled back and jerked him off until he came all over me with a deep groan.

And come all over me he did: It was an enormous, hot, watery load that ran down my neck and over my chest, and I could swear he hadn't released in weeks--the volume was just that great. "Ohhh, wow! That was amazing!" That was me, saying that!

I gave him a few moments to catch his breath before I asked, "Um, could I have a towel or something?" Instead of a few puny squares of Kleenex, he got up and gave me a giant fluffy bath towel, and as I wiped myself off, I thought about the lady at the laundry who'd have to wash his come-stained towels.

I had worked up a sweat, and I smoothed my hand over my sweaty hair to get it off my face. I used the wrong hand to brush my hair back, though, and ran a handful of come through my hair for my trouble. I cringed when I realized what I did.

Red curled up next to me, sated and content. I don't understand how in, oh, six hours, I went from "stop touching me" to "I can't get enough of you touching me." Something in our mutual chemistry, maybe. He propped himself up on an elbow to look at me and did something very dear: He ran his finger down the bridge of my nose and over my lips. He did it again and I arched my neck up to take the tip of his finger in my mouth.

---

We laid in bed talking about graduate school, his childhood in the South, his flannel sheets (he sheepishly said that he had nicer sheets but he hadn't been expecting anyone to see them), and the NFC East (I'm an Eagles fan, he roots for the Cowboys...blech), his hand on my breast almost absentmindedly. We began to kiss again, and when he was on top of me, I wrapped my legs around him, trying to get his warm skin against mine. I craved the feeling of him between my legs, inside me. I rocked my hips against him, hoping he would take the hint.

He pulled back and looked at me. "What do you want?" he breathed.

"I want you. To fuck me."

He got an inscrutable look on his face, and reached across me to retrieve a condom from his nightstand. I guess we had tried the previous night--when I first woke up that morning there was an empty condom wrapper on the pillow by my head--but then I realized his fervent attention to my pussy with his mouth and hands must have concealed the fact that he had suffered a touch of whiskey dick.

No matter, he was hard and ready for me now. Finally.

I opened my legs wide and Red entered me shallowly. I was so wet that he slipped right out again, and he thoughtfully grabbed my ankles and placed them over his shoulders and he entered me. I liked that he was willing to try different things. We found a rhythm, briefly, but broke it again. We rolled over slightly on our sides. This was good. He was deeper inside me, and he found a good pace. With one arm around his shoulders, I grabbed the back of his knee to hold myself in place. I sucked in a deep breath, and whispered, "Yes, yes, just like that, oh, fuck yes."

He rolled me back so I was lying flat again and as we changed positions I yanked the pillow from behind my head and shoved it under my hips. Maybe that would help. It did. He fucked me harder and faster again, wrapping his long arms around me as I clung to him, cheek to cheek, legs around his waist, arms around his neck.

We fucked like this for a while, kissing sometimes, me breathing slutty encouragement in his ear. "Ugh, yes, oh fuck, that's really good. Don't stop."

Eventually Red buried his face in my shoulder. His skin was hot and damp, dewy with sweat. The room smelled of sex. I raked my fingernails up his back and tightened my grip in his coppery hair. This must have done the trick: After a few more hard, deep thrusts, he came inside me with a few heaving gasps.

He laid on top of me, spent, and I felt comforted by his weight holding me down.

---

Red and I would take our leave of each other after we showered (he checked to see that his roommates were gone so that I wouldn't have to meet them wearing only a blanket) and ate breakfast--lunch, actually, since we didn't get out of bed until after noon!--at a little diner around the corner from his apartment. Over pancakes, he shyly asked me with a lopsided grin, "So, uh, can I have your number?"

I asked him to walk me to the subway, but he did me one better: He drove me into the city and dropped me off at the train station in his zippy little VW. Now, every time I see a white Golf with the turbo package, my heart skips a beat. We held hands and kissed goodbye, and as I got out of the car, he shouted after me with a smile, "Call me when you get home so I know you got home OK!"

We kept in touch for a few months, and I would see him one more time. I'd never hear from him again after that.

---

Katni asked me if writing this was therapeutic, and I told her I didn't know. There are things I do know: The time I spent with Red was hot, dirty, and--forgive the cheese--a little romantic. It was everything good sex should be. At Red's side, I felt pretty and smart and funny and like I had sex appeal.

But Red is not walking through that door. I will never see or speak to Red again unless he contacts me--I'm too proud and stubborn to chase him. I should content myself with those brief moments of happiness, this beautiful little flame that burned too hot to last. I know three men who like me, want to date me, tell me things like how smart I am and how beautiful they think I am, and yet I know I do them a disservice because all I can think of them is you're not Red. And I hate myself for that.

Sometimes I wonder about how Red would have handled the things that happened in my life last year. Would he have helped me move after I got thrown out of the house I was renting? Would he have taken care of me after I had my tonsils out? Would he have danced with me at my college roommate's wedding? Would he have rejoiced with me on October 29? And I just don't know.

I don't want to be alone. I want to be happy. I have to find a way to be happy without Red in my life. But if Red called me or emailed me tomorrow and asked me to come to him, I would go, wherever he was. After getting a bikini wax first.