We were invited over by friends of ours for a little pre-New Year dinner and drinks. We haven’t seen this particular couple — Trent and Mary — for a while and we were catching up on each other’s lives over beer and then champagne and finally tumblers of cognac. It was nearing midnight and Lo was smiling and talkative. Her face was animated and sexy in the dim candlelight of the table. Her long dark hair radiated luminously. Her cheeks were flush and her lips were deep red. Our friends, knowing I’m a writer, asked me what new projects I’ve been working on. I was quite vague and, with a wave of my hand, I said, “Oh, this and that.”
“This and that?” asked one of them, dissatisfied with the answer. “What are you working on?”
I was about to be dissembling when Lo said, “We have a blog!”
“A what?” came the response to her surprise announcement, like saying, “We’re pregnant!”
“A blog,” she said.
“What kind of blog?”
“A sex blog.”
“A what?” was the question again.
“A sex blog,” Lo repeated.
“What’s on it?” they both asked at once.
“H.H. writes about my, I mean our, sexploits. Tell them H.H.” she said.
At this point I didn’t know what to say and so I just nodded, confirming what Lo had said. The writer was at a loss for words!
“No,” said Mary, intrigued, “tell us!”
So I said, demurely, “Well, it’s basically about an older man and his nymphomaniac girlfriend.”
“Is it about you or is it fiction?” asked Trent.
“It’s about us, but H.H. writes it with pseudonyms to protect the guilty, I mean, our identity,” Lo answered.
“What sort of things do you write about?” asked Mary. I could see that Lo was on the edge of her seat and just brimming with things she wanted to say, but I, realizing the dangerous precipice towards which we were veering, managed to change the subject. It wasn’t easy, but since we all had had quite a lot to drink, their attention was diverted and luckily they didn’t return to quiz us about it further that night. Catastrophe averted!
Lo and I got so inebriated that we had to sleep over, lest we put anyone in physical danger by trying to drive home. Lo was thrilled when I confessed to her that I wasn’t able to drive and I could see by the look in her eye that she planned on having some wild (and very loud) sex that night. To her disappointment, she and I both fell asleep fully dressed before we could cause any further scandal and we snuck out early in the morning before either of our friends had awoken.
In addition to these narrow escapes, there’s the continuing situation with Heather. You remember Heather? — the one-night stand Lo had last year. Well, Lo and I have remained friends with her, though we haven’t been friends-with-benefits for her. It so turns out that Heather is quite the sex addict. She’s turned to Lo numerous times after various encounters with men and women she’s met on-line have resulted in heart-break. (This is basically every weekend: Friday and Saturday.) She’s confessed to both of us that she has an addictive personality and sex-addiction is one of the monkeys on her back. After the desired lust-interest has been conquered and vanquished, she then feels regret and guilt to the point of self-loathing. Classic textbook case. But she doesn’t know the extent to which Lo is a sister slut. My third-person vantage of both these nymphets leads me to want to disclose to Heather the contents herein narrated. But I know my place. If Lo wishes anyone to know her true identity, then it is for Lo to divulge and not me.
So, the next time you hear a woman screaming in ecstasy from down the hall, or a distant apartment building’s window, or you see a woman’s bare feet up on the dash and her legs spread, or you come across a card with Lola’s name on it at a bar or restaurant, know that you’ve been touched by the pixie-lust of the Devil’s Angel of Desire doing good in the world by being bad.
[Excerpt from the story, “Superheroes, Fairies, and Pixie-lust,” from the blog: mysexlifewithlola.com]