Harry: A Trilogy – An Erotic Love Story by the Narrator of the Sex Toy Quartet

Part 1

I guess you could say that I had broken my own heart.

Still in love, I had sent him away.  In love, he had gone.

I nursed my broken heart in my luxury apartment on a posh block on Manhattan’s posh Upper East Side.

I am a writer – successful – large amounts of money there.  Jewish.   A vegan. 

He is a lawyer in the music industry – vast amounts of money there.

I’ll call him L:  Kind, funny, gentle, vegan when he was with me, never saw him eat animal products, thoughtful, considerate, generous, knew location and purpose of g- and deep-spots, had a strong tongue, would send his penis anyplace it was needed (which, ironically, turned out to be precisely the problem).

L is a sex addict.

By remaining with him, I made his disease my own.

So, I let him go.  Rather, I let go of him.  He is in his own hands.  I do not know whether or not he sought to recover from his condition.  It is none of my business.

This isn’t his story.  It is mine.

The broken heart?  Here’s the funny part:  Sure, I wallowed in it for a while.  Shed the obligatory onion-peeling-style tears, sogged-up the pillow cases, sported the sunglasses over glamorously grief-swollen eyes.  Suffered poignantly and magnificently.

It was marvelously dreadful.  My girlfriends were the perfect supporting cast, by turns gentle, sarcastic, loving, sympathetic, tough-loving and understanding.

But then “healthy” kicked in.  I was not sick with His Disease anymore and it felt good.  I began to feel clean and whole and renewed and free.  Hallelujah.

Before long, emo bloodletting lost its charm.  I found myself looking at men, first out of the corners of my eyes, and then straight on.  Flirtatiously, even.

I know.  You’re waiting for sex. We both know that’s why you’re here.

Sex was a long time coming.  (Oh, shut up – It won’t be a long time coming here: this is a story, for crying out loud.)

I went to dinners, openings, art exhibitions with men.  I went to the opera and philharmonic and ballet and poetry readings with men introduced to me by friends.

I kissed.  Squeezed a few balls.  Pressed against a few cocks.  Just the obligatory meaningless crap.  To tell you the truth, I was not once even marginally aroused.  The companionship was fun – these were accomplished, smart, funny men, but they could have been accomplished, smart, funny avocados for all the sexual interest they held for me.

About a year after I dispatched L from my life, I ran into Harry, an artist, at a Soho gallery opening.  No one introduced us.  I literally ran into him.

Entering the unisex bathroom at tea-fueled breakneck speed, I smacked fully frontally into Harry, exiting the unisex bathroom at pee-relieved normal speed.

My very first words to Harry, as I thrust him harshly aside, were, he eventually told me: “Move, pee.”

No, he wasn’t waiting for me, the madcap but lovable woman with whom he had fallen irrevocably in love at first sight, outside the unisex bathroom.  But he was, in fact, asking our host, the gallery owner, who and what I was.

When Harry approached me, I didn’t have any idea who he was until he spoke his first words: “You OK for the bathroom for a few minutes?”

Sex yet?????  Well, no.

Harry and I were like two old shoes right away.  Like two big kids who had grown up next door to one another.  It was uncanny.  We became best friends really quickly.  We e-mailed, IM-ed like teenagers.

Sex???  Wait.

Did Harry and I touch one another?  Only constantly.  I touched his arm.  He placed his hand on the back of my neck.  I kneaded his shoulders.  He stroked my hair.  I reflexologied or whatever it’s called his feet and he did mine.  He put his arm around my shoulders.  I hugged him.  We kissed, closed-mouth.

For months.  And months.

Secretly, I bought condoms, and kept them with me. (Lubed, ribbed.  So you know.)  (All right, let’s get this out of the way:  no partners since L; tested twice; negative; used condoms with L – so do shut up.)

I found out later that Harry, too, had bought and was carrying…but this is my story, so maybe I’ll say more about that and maybe I won’t.

Is it sex yet?  Almost.

H speaks real English.  As in United Kingdom English.  Not like my American New York Jew’s facsimile.  H’s accent excites me.  It has from the moment I heard his first words making sure that I did not have an immediate need to pee.  I love hearing Harry speak.

H loves hearing my voice when he is agitated – he is probably the only human on the planet who finds my tones soothing and comforting.

Harry and I love to touch and be touched by each other: even though our contact has not, in over a year of friendship, been overtly sexual, we cannot, by the time of our first lovemaking, keep our hands off of one another.

Is it sex yet?  Well, yes.

We were intimate.  We were best friends.  We had touched, stroked, massaged one another.  We had seen much of one another without clothes, although in bits and pieces.

It started as an ordinary day.  It turned out to be the day that Harry and I would acknowledge that our love for one another had different ramifications than we had mutually admitted.

Honestly, it wasn’t spontaneous.  I had been gathering courage for this.  We got to my house from a long bird-watching ramble in Central Park and while Harry headed for the coffee maker, I muttered something about a shower and headed for the bathroom.

No, Harry did not surprise me and ravish me in the shower.  He had no idea that things between us were about to change –- he would not have dreamed of doing such a thing.

I took a frantic and soapy shower.  I was not going to smell like a real human woman for this encounter if I could help it.

I made sure there was not an extraneous hair on my body.  It did not occur to me that I might end up looking like nothing so much as a giant slug.

I used copious antiperspirant – my armpits were going to smell like Juniperberry if it killed me.

When I walked into the kitchen clad in shorts and tank top, in a cloud of fragrance, the coffee was made.  Harry was sitting at the counter that divided my kitchen from my living room, a mug of coffee and the New York Times in front of him.  He rose to get me a cup of coffee and asked me if I wanted to order dinner in, go out or do something else.

I realized that I didn’t have a plan.  Should I take his hand and lead him to the bed, push him down and hurl myself on top of him?

I got hit by reality.  I was all gussied up for the sex of our lives and Harry did not have a clue that our lives were about to change.

I hadn’t thought this far ahead.  I was a trembling, aching, throbbing lover.  Harry was a guy thinking about dinner with his best friend.  Gee whiz.

I realized immediately that this situation called for a sophisticated, witty yet elegant, brazen yet entrancing tactic.  But I couldn’t come up with one.

I walked over to Harry, pushed away his coffee mug and the Times, took his face between my hands, bent my face to meet his raised one, kissed him with, for the first time ever, my tongue firmly, deeply and lingeringly in his mouth.

Well.  There you go.

I have to say this for Harry.  He was surprised.  But he was on it.  He stood up, taking me with him, still and always kissing.  Now I was really annoyed.  Harry could kiss like this and he had let me go all this time without it?!  Fuck that.  Instead of just enjoying that loveliest of kisses, I fumed about the lost time while other women out there knew what I was only just finding out.

It was almost painful when Harry broke away.  “More” was what I said.  “All night, if you want” and he took me to bed. On top of the bed.  I in shorts and tank top.  Harry down to shorts – so fast I didn’t see it happen.

No frenzy.  No ripping at stuff.  Harry took over.  All I wanted was that kiss.  The most earth-shatteringly skillful kiss I had ever known.

I lay on top of my bed, immobilized by my need for Harry’s mouth.  Then, Harry was there, dressed only in his shorts, and he was kissing me –- we were kissing.

There were other days and nights, and there will be more still to come.  And I will be telling you all about them.  Harry and I have learned together to bring one another to states of ecstasy that are often unintelligible from pain, but which result in such explosions of gratification that we are left weak with gratitude and love for one another.

But that night there was that kiss-to-end-all-kisses.  So let me finish that story.

We seemed to tacitly mutually decide to see where the kiss would take us.  By some sort of soul communication we did not touch except where our mouths met.  I was aware that his shorts were bulging and he had to be aware that my hips were making the movements of sex.  We were moaning in our throats.

Our tongues fucked one another’s mouths until our need for release became unbearable.  I worked off my shorts using a combination of my toes and my fingers in a contortionist’s maneuver which must have looked pretty strange.  I broke the mouth kiss to push Harry’s head down to continue his kiss on my clit which by now was engorged, pulsating and all but screaming with need.  Now, my clit was the tongue in Harry’s mouth and his plunging, swirling tongue and lovely cunt kiss made me cry out his name as I spasmed against his mouth.

Now it was my turn to turn my kiss into the instrument of Harry’s torment and, finally, relief.  I pushed him onto his back and took off his shorts.  His rock-hard cock popped up and pointed straight up at the ceiling.

I did for the glans of Harry’s cock what he did for my clit.  The poor guy was going not-so-quietly out of his mind.  I wanted him to beg for his orgasm.  I told him so.  And he did.  “Please.  Oh, please.”

Enough torture for the first time, right?  Right.

I had to cheat because I couldn’t get Harry’s entire cock in my mouth.  So, while I sucked and kissed the tip, I lubed my hand between my legs with my cunt juice and wanked Harry’s shaft fast and hard, base to where my mouth worked, until he exploded, roaring, into my mouth and down my throat.

After, suddenly stunned silent at our change of status, Harry and I slid into one another’s arms, where we lay without speaking until we fell asleep.

That’s how the sex between us started.  The rest of what happened is a good story, too.  But we both know that you’re here for the sex.  So that’s what you’ll get.

I will try to make it as good for you as it is for us.

You will be the third to know.  Only you. 


Part 2

I love to fuck.  But it’s not the most important thing. No, really, it’s not.  It’s just that I know that that’s why you’re here.  And I’m a writer, which means that I’m nothing without you.

Harry is an artist.  We met at a Soho gallery opening.  It was very glamorous:  we collided going in (I) and out (he) of a unisex bathroom.

 He speaks real United Kingdom English, but fortunately he is not much more naturally courteous than I.

We instantly connected and became inseparable – best friends for nearly eighteen months, with subliminal barely expressed physical attraction, until the night I seduced Harry as he drank coffee and read the New York Times seated at the counter which separates my kitchen from my living room.

Since that day, some eight months ago, Harry and I have become closer than each of us has ever been with another human person.  Best friends, lovers, siblings of a sort.  Soulmates?  Maybe.  Pretty scary.

We share interests and we share, equally, mutual disinterest.  Some stuff we do together:  art galleries, museums, opera, philharmonic, booksellers, poetry readings, bird watching, hiking, camping and cave exploration.  Stuff we do separately:  Starbucks chats, ballet, writing, grassroots political activism for me;  Painting, green-market shopping (he hunts them down with the diligence of Hercule Poirot), vegan cooking (he excels!); jazz recitals.

We maintain separate apartments, but we stay together in one or the other of them every night.  Usually mine, because his dog travels and my cat doesn’t.  My cat looks at me funny if I walk in at 8am after a night away, so I have pretty much given up on that.  Any minute now, Harry is going to move his stuff to my house (which is bigger and posher).

Our kids –- cat and dog –- accept one another.  We –- woman and man –- love one another.  This should work.

Where’s the sex, right?  Patience.  We have sex a lot, so there’ll be plenty for you.  I want to set the scene and I am in charge.

 So, on this day, we were at my house.  I forgot to mention that my house had the hand-held power shower whose powerful sharp spray can give me a clit orgasm and can bring Harry pretty close to orgasm, himself, but I’ll tell you about that some other time.

I write in the morning from 8 to 10.  Six days a week. It is my scheduled time and I stick to it as if I were going to an office.  Writing is my job and I approach it with the discipline I’d need for any job.  I sit at my desk and open my mind – and stab away as thoughts come and go.  Some days are more productive than others.  Writing is real hard work – much harder than most people realize – and at the end of two hours I can feel either exhilarated or drained.

It was Sunday. Harry came in from solo bird watching at about 8-ish.  I was writing.  Harry showered and went to his studio where he was painting the portrait (well, it paid the bills) of an upper west side prep-school boy who was coming to sit, resplendent in prep-school blazer. 

I wrote until nearly 10:30.  I got a mug of icky coffee dregs – Harry is the gourmet; I need only to dilute the blood in my caffeine stream.

I drank my “coffee” and picked up the Times Book Review, but I was asleep, Book Review draped over my chest, before I read a word.

 Next thing I knew, Harry called to me from the front door – he always calls out so I won’t be alarmed.  This may be some atavistic protective impulse.  I think it is sweet.  Actually, I’m glad he does it: I would jump if I heard only the key-doorknob action with no voice.

In seconds, Harry was looking down at me.  He smelled outdoors-crisp.  He gave off an autumn-apple aura.  He in fact carrieds a crackly brown sack of red apples (I’m a city girl: apples are red, reddish, yellow and green) and another of muffins from the vegan bakery.

 Harry bent over and gave me an autumn-crisp kiss on the tip of my nose, deposited the paper sacks in the kitchen, went in the direction of the bedroom and emerged with 14-year-old Lily for her slow walk around the block which she didn’t want to take (she is trained to use special pads in the bathroom) but which the vet said she needs to take twice a day.

 When Harry and Lily left, I headed for the shower.  I smelled like a working writer who had just taken a nap – not the worst smell in the world, but well, we were about to have sex and I wanted to be fresh.  Now, how did I know this?  Well, you ninny, of course, I didn’t know this when I stepped into the shower.  I’m writing this after the fact.  When I stepped into the shower, I merely wanted not to smell like a working writer who had just taken a nap.

I was getting out of the shower/shaving-leg/shampoo dealie when I heard Lily and Harry talking in the hall.  Harry was talking, Lily was using body language.

I put on my usual around-the-house tank top and sweat shorts and slippers and went to the kitchen to find Harry making a fresh pot of coffee – Starbucks Kenya.  When he got it going, he offhandedly said, “Shower,” and went in that direction.

 I got plates and muffins and applies and grapes set out for brunch on the counter that separates my kitchen and living room.  I thought: a quiet day.  A walk, maybe dinner with friends.  Sex was not in the air.

Harry in shorts, sans erection, joined me at the aounter and reached for a muffin.  Apricot ginger.  Lily slept soundlessly on the couch, Simon, my sixteen-year-old cat, dozing in the crook of her leg.  I raised my mug of Starbucks Kenya to my mouth and took a hefty pull.

And then it happened.

How to describe it?  Was it a sound?  Was it a force?  Was it an impact?  Was it an explosion?

The universe shook.  The sound enveloped us.  It came from everywhere.  The very atmosphere seemed to compress and smack into us.  It was too big to be called “a noise.”  The echo went on and on – as big as the skies.  Eventually, ordinary New York City sounds took over.

What had happened?  The world hadn’t ended: there was still stuff outside my window.

My building took on the atmosphere of a dormitory:  doors opened, TVs on, people clad every-which-way, hallways filled with humans, dogs and cats and a parrot named Humberto who sang “How Much is That Doggie in the Window.”

As usual, it was our weekend daytime doorman, Anatoly, who solved the mystery, which turned out to be the explosion of a Con Edison plant about two miles away from our building.

It looked as if the furor would go on for some time, but Harry, Lily, Simon and I retreated to 15 E.

The four of us looked at each other.  Lily and Simon yawned hugely and went off to resume their nap. 

Harry and I – more shaken than we’d realized – were suddenly in one another’s arms.  We clung tightly for minutes.  I felt reassured by how tightly we were pressed together.  And then I felt his erection.  I returned its pressure.  And still we clung to one another.

The large windows in my bedroom look out in the general direction of the exploded plant, a pretty scary view at the moment.  I don’t know if Harry would have minded, but he sensed that I would and he carried me, actually trembling, to my smaller room on the other side of the apartment where I write and where I have a bed so I can sleep and write as needed during the night without disturbing Harry when I’m on deadline.

Harry placed me on this bed, lay beside me and lowered his mouth to kiss me, all the time stroking my goose-pimpled right arm with his free left arm.  I have to tell you about Harry’s kiss.  Harry’s kiss is a sex act all on its own.  Before Harry, I never knew that so much could be done with a kiss, that so many love stories could be told with a kiss.

I believe that the day will come when I will reach orgasm simply with Harry’s kiss.

Harry lifted his mouth only to slide my tank top over my head and to wet my nipples with his tongue.  My nipples being directly wired to my cunt, this got my attention.  Harry didn’t stop orgasm-kissing me but reached back for the water-soluble lube we keep on the night table.  The fucker put a dollop of this miracle shit on each nipple and teased and tormented my poor hard nipples until, between that and the mouth-fuck, my pelvis was fuck-dancing all on its own and I was practically kicking the air in need.

I was so close, I felt like I could shut my legs tight and hump and come, but the bastard left off the mouth-fuck and the nipple-torment and positioned himself between my legs.  Please.  Please. O, god.

He reached up and over me for the lube.  He warmed some in his hands. Fuck, he had a lot of the stuff in his hands.  Harry began to caress and stroke my labia, never entering my cunt and never touching my clit.  He also exerted and released pressure on my pelvis as I raised and lowered it.

Then he stopped. He lay beside me and began his incredible orgasm-kiss while his right hand reached downward.  His fingers stroked and prodded the engorged walls of my cunt and when he saw my desperation he settled on his his first swollen, hard, strawberry-textured quarry with his middle fingers and his second quarry, my pulsating clit, with his thumb and he caressed and stroked and I flew roaring over my cliff, shaking and spasming all control gone.  But we were not done, my Harry and I.  My shattered, wracked body at Harry’s mercy, his middle finger sought yet the final quarry which would send me over the last cliff.

Here is where sex was no longer pleasure.  Here is where it was all.  Here is where it consumed a woman.  Here is where sex became terror.

Harry’s middle finger was inexorable stroking its way up my cunt and I knew that there would be no mercy.  He was going to make me have this orgasm.  This most fearsome orgasm which most will never know.

My head was thrown back.  My back arched.  My knees raised.  I belonged to Harry in this instant.

Harry stroked and prodded the area around my Deep Spot, the most sensitive area on a woman’s body.  I shuddered.  He reached the spot, leaned the pad of his finger into it, tapped and pulled down gently.

What happened?  You do not describe such an orgasm.  You survive it.

I splintered into a million pieces.  I shattered.  I screamed.  I trembled.  I spasmed.  I roared.

Yes. No. Maybe.

You do not describe such an orgasm.  You live through it and get to have another one.

Harry actually came from the force of watching me.  This does not always happen.  Since I barely knew what day it was, I was glad that it happened this way.

Try this at home.


Part 3

I don’t remember exactly when – or even why – I began recording certain of my lovemaking episodes.

I am a Jewish vegan.  I live on a posh block on Manhattan’s posh Upper East Side.  I am a reasonably successful writer.  I have an eighteen-year-old cat named Simon Rattle.  Yes, named to honor Sir Simon, himself, whom I revere.

I live with Harry, a reasonably – and increasingly – successful artist with a studio in Soho.  He has a sixteen-year-old dog named Lily.

 Harry and I met three years ago, became lovers about eighteen months into that time and have been living under the same roof for ten of the eighteen months during which we have been lovers. It’s not nearly is complicated as that sentence makes it seem.  Work it out.

Lily, Simon, Harry and I are a successful blended twelve-legged family

There.  Now that the details of our lives are out of the way we can get to the sex.  Which is why you’re here.

I don’t write it down every time we have sex.  The last sex I described was on the day the Con Edison plant exploded two miles from our building.

How often do Harry and I have sex?  Here’s the deal with us.  We don’t really care.  We are busy people: if we’re home at the same time – and we ignite, that’s great.  If we’re exhausted, we don’t have to perform.  If we pass in the night for a week or more – that’s ok, too.

The point is, our sex is so perfectly gratifying, our sex together so stupendous, that we can work around scheduling issues without a second thought, with the knowledge that when we have it, it will blow us away.

Do we masturbate when need overpowers us and we don’t have access to one another:  yep. And sometimes we share our fantasies, so we end up making an intimate moment even out of that.

What makes me decide to journal one sexual encounter rather than another?  Sometimes there is something, like the explosion of the Con Edison plant, which sets the occasion apart.  Sometimes it is a new technique we’ve tried with a spectacular outcome.  Sometimes something memorable has distinguished the occasion.

A friend invited us to use his country cabin for a couple of days.  Harry, Lily and I set off, leaving Simon to the ministration of our three-catted next-door neighbor.

This cabin is not exactly rough country living: there is a huge sheltered semi-outdoor hot tub in which Harry and I plunged ourselves about thirty minutes after getting to the place. We were in it side by side, we hadn’t fucked for two days and we were crazy hot.

I cupped Harry’s balls, which are large, heavy and hairy beauties– a balls-lover’s paradise – and batting them around gently and then less so in the warm water. Harry wanted more, but I was not about to do stuff in this guy’s tub that I wouldn’t want done in mine.  I wanted more, too, but the enforced wait made both of us hurt with need.

When we left the tub we washed with the jet-spray that when it hit Harry’s cock and his balls and his asshole made him moan and when it hit my cunt and my clit nearly made me come but not yet, not yet.

We went to our sleeping bags that we have combined, because this is what we wanted – to fuck outdoors with the sky as the roof and the air on our bodies. There was no luxury – Harry simply put a cushion under me to raise my cunt and he went to work on me and he ate and he ate and he ate and he was everywhere and I was fucking his face and first wrapping my legs now around his neck then loosening them to open wide to give him greater access, my feet stabbing the air now begging please please please oh Harry. And he licked and cajoled and teased. And it went on and on and on and on. Oh, god, Harry, I need to come so bad. Oh, please. I pulled his hair, his ears. I pounded his shoulders. Harry, harry, harry.

And then. Then. Oh, god, yes, now, now…the trees, the sky, the very stars heard my cry, my scream…

My miraculous lover ate through my come, through my thrusts, through my spasms. Then he lifted his cunt-wet face to kiss me deeply and to tongue-fuck my mouth with my own juices on his lips, as he moaned with need.

I was satisfied yet I still had a hunger. I pushed Harry over onto his belly, spread your asscheeks straightaway and dove right in there and begin simply to eat him alive with my tongue and my mouth on the rim and inside of his beautiful asshole.

Harry cried out and it didn’t take long for him to beg to come.  Fuck that, you fucker.  I’m not going to make it that easy for you, I told him.  You will weep with need, before I am through.

I lifted my face from his wonderful ass and I told him: I will suck and lick and I will find your man deep-spot-prostate with my tongue because it can’t hide from me and you will be crazy hot and I will cup your balls all the time and you will be frantic wild desperate to come little harry and I will say beg and oh yes you will beg please please make me come.

It won’t be good, baby, I tell him. It will be pure raw need. It will be desperation. You will hate me.  You will feel as if you will die without me.

I told him these things.  And as I said these words, I caressed and kneaded Harry’s heavy, engorged and massively aching balls.

And my lover’s face was a study in desperation, desire, passion and need.

I told Harry to lie on his back.  I straddled him facing his feet so I could ride his cock backwards.  Harry loves watching my ass bounce up and down and sometimes he puts a finger in me and slowly fucks my ass in rhythm with my movement.

Let me take a break in the action to tell you about my narrow ass-fuck-vibrator that is made like a stiff row of anal beads.  Its use at orgasm should require the precertification of a cardiologist.

I had this ass-wand with me – sure, we were camping, but, let’s not get carried away with “roughing it” –  and it took a second to slip on a lubed condom.  Harry didn’t know what was coming when I reached over and slid it into his asshole, fucked him for thirty seconds and then settled in on his man deep-spot.  I could almost hear Harry’s eyes  roll back in his head, the fucker, and Harry, who always has a glib and ready answer, was able only to roar and shudder and spasm and shake and on and on and on.

 More to come…











Part 3

Sex Toy is my lover.  Sex Toy is his name, a sort of demotion from L, which is the name on his birth certificate and by which I’d called him until learning, some weeks ago, that my L was in fact a sex addict — I mean Sex Addict, the real deal, the whole megillah — which means that, far from being “my” L, he was pretty much free-for-the-asking-just-stand-in-line L.

I’ve seen Sex Toy since the day I found out, but I wasn’t ready to talk about the big day, the day L was outed as Sex Toy.  So here goes.  This sucks the big one.  In a bad way.

How did I “find out?”  I’m pretty sharp.  You can’t get much past me.  It took only about a year for me to began to realize that L’s 6,000 provocatively posed photographs, many not even bothering to show L’s face — a usual feature of personal photos. in addition to the masturbatory videos which were charming renditions of L’s hand and L’s penis, with a glimpse of stomach and testicle — and, at the end, an eye-popping stream of white creamy stuff which in sheer volume seemed to have a life of its own – it took only about a year to begin to realize that this wealth of images of L’s nether regions and gallons of creamy white stuff might be a sign that there was something going on that I probably should know about.  The thing is,  L shared this with me; nothing was hidden; nothing was secret. Well, at least among these things, nothing was secret.

But there was a secret.  L himself.

Oy.  Wait.

So I asked L straight out: “Are you a sex addict?”  The fucker said: “Yes, I am.”  Open, disarming.  Well, fuck you, you fucking fucker.  (I am less calm and disarming than he at the best of times, which this was so not.)

I read up on sex addiction and I found the most stringent, diseased, dysfunctional description of sex addiction I could find, presented it to L and asked him, unpleasantly:  ” Is this what you are?”

He accepted the document·  Not too much time went by before L — who had become the most annoying man on the planet — returned to me the document I’d given to him.  That lying creep had calmly and precisely annotated the clinical text, indicating which of the elements of the disease applied to him and which did not.  Most of them did — I noticed that the two which he repudiated had to do with acts of violence.  I allowed a smug: “Well, look what he disavows!  What a surprise!”

At this point, L is calm, open, breezy and comfortable with life.

At this point, I am a steaming runaway train, hatred and disgust overpowering even the blood in my bloodstream.

I will make it short now, so we can get to the fucking, which is why you are here, right?  So while I’ve got your attention, I’ve gone in for a little talk therapy.  So sue me.

I make a quick decision, which is that I have to buy time because I can’t make a quick decision.

“Get the fuck out.”  Forceful.  Passionate.  Dignified.  Eyes flashing.

“Shall I come back later, this evening?”  Calm, poised, gentle.  Yech!

“Eight.”  There goes forceful, passionate, dignified.  Also departed: eyes flashing, since I’m now crying, and my eyes are gooey wet. Oh, charming.

It is 3pm.  I’ve got five hours to make A Plan.

If you’ve read other stories I wrote about L, you pretty much know what my plan turned out to be, so here’s the short form:

Since addicts are liars, unreliable manipulators, untrustworthy confidants, disloyal associates, the best thing is not to have them in your life.  If the situation exists that for some reason you find yourself having, for any reason, to retain an addict in your life, you must dehumanize dehumanize dehumanize. 

From now on, I will refer to L as Sex Toy.  I will not discuss personal matters, nor will I set up future plans, make promises or demonstrate effection.  The same rules bind Sex Toy.  I can at least try to make L as miserable as I.  Benefit:  I won’t have to wonder if every word out of his mouth is a lie if no words are coming out of his mouth.

I will tell L that I’m keeping him around for the phenomenal sex until a non-addict truth-teller signs on.  This is the story I tell myself, too.  Myself, however, knows that the deal is a tad more complicated than that.

 Eight pm.  L is prompt.  Always.  Infuriating.  He doesn’t know the new rules yet, so he has brought me grilled root veggies from a vegan place I love (I’m a vegan – L is a vegan when he is with me, but maybe he won’t be, with the new rules.)

We aren’t hungry.  For food.  But I move away from L and it isn’t difficult for me to remain cold while I give “instructions” because I’ve had hours to become cold with fury.

L, now Sex Toy, is placid as he unquestioningly accepts every stipulation.  I had hoped that he would cry.  But I had known that he would not.

I want him so badly that I am trembling.  I despise myself for this.  But there it is.  Sex Toy (ST, okay?) is hard as a rock -– his jeans bulge –- and his arms have gooseflesh.  I want to call him L, not Sex Toy, and, for this night only, I will.

The space between us vanishes and we are pressed as tightly against each other and kissing as deeply as it possible to kiss without our cells’ merging into a single being.

What is wrong with us?  Me, anyway.  I should want him to be at a million miles’ distance.  And just look at me.  Sheesh.

L and I just can’t separate even long enough to undress –- we simply cannot pull apart.  We have turned into veritable magnets.  I am coming unglued but I am turning into a magnet.

After a decade or so, L and I pull apart enough to one-handedly tear off stuff which puddles on the floor.  We help one another so there are essentially two hands for every task.

Eventually, we are naked.  L is wearing socks.  I bought these socks for him.  They are Mickey Mouse socks and he has underpants to match.  My lover is so virile and hot that in these Mickey Mouse duds he is simply the cutest most fuckable man on the planet.  I swear.

We make it to bed in a New York Minute, which is a lot shorter than sixty seconds, which if you have been to New York City you know.

There is nothing tender and premeditated going on here.  It is all rough and tumble.  Two people who are going to do what needs to be done to come as hard as possible.  Any which way.

So we fall onto the bed and we go right past subtle.  I place my hand on L’s head and push it downwards. “Now.”  L understands immediately.  Before descending, he takes the bottle of lube from the nightstand.

When L gives head (do you say that for a man?), he’s a take-no-prisoners kind of guy.  L’s tongue is strong and tireless. (Is there a gym for sex addicts or is sex addiction itself a do-it-yourself gym?  A need-to-know thing which I do not need to know.)  He laps fervently from asshole through clit until I am squirming in frustration.  It is fantastic/awful.

Now, L is everywhere at once.  Here is what I believe is happening:  A magically lubed finger which I guess is L’s left pinky is up my ass, fucking it slowly and gently.  What I take to be L’s left thumb is stroking between my asshole and my labia.  The fingers of L’s right hand open my engorged clit to his mouth and now he does this special thing that I feel sorry for every woman in the world who has not had this thing happen to her, except if she had it happen with L –- which is pretty likely –- in which case I want her off of the planet.

So here’s L’s clit thing.  He kisses it.  Actually embraces it with his mouth and kisses it with his tongue and all exactly as if it were a mouth kiss.  He does it gently, teasingly, erotically, slowly, deeply, quickly, dancingly and, when he’s ready to allow me to orgasm, firmly and strongly.  It doesn’t do to beg.  Oh, I beg, because it arouses us.  But I will come precisely when L decides that it is time.  Yes, he is that good.

The orgasm spills over me like molten metal.  My cunt spasms.  It is wonderful.  But not the shattering, full-body explosions which are yet to come.  I don’t have to wait long.  While I am still engorged, tender and throbbing, L exits briefly and quickly to thoroughly clean both hands (his scrupulous cleanliness and thorough consideration of me are two of his sexiest qualities).  Then he is back and copiously lubing his fingers.  We have not been talking.  The new sex-toy status, the new rules, the new constraints have affected us, and we have given over the night to sex without companionability or chattiness.  For me, it is painful.  For L, I have no idea.  I certainly hope that he is profoundly miserable.

L approaches me.  I open my legs wider.  He lies beside me.  We have not kissed since coming to bed.  He kisses me now.  I remain somewhat passive to his kiss –- it feels right, and, sure enough, it excites us.  L’s strokes my labia and slowly inserts fingers into my cunt, finger-fucking me and stroking the sensitive and aching walls of my cunt.  He passes over the g-spot, I gasp, but L moves on, ignoring my: “L, please?” spoken through the kiss into his mouth.

L strokes, presses, teases –- the whole circumference of my cunt which by now is so sensitive to his touch that each stroke draws a sob –- only stopping to graze, but not settle on, my g-spot, so that I can feel an orgasm building but can’t get there.

L moves upwards, still stroking, touching, caressing, patting.  He has left the neighborhood of the g-spot and is now agitating and exciting the upper walls of my cunt. I can actually feel the throb of my need, which is so intense that it feels like a series of small, painful spasms.  My cunt is fairly begging, crying out, screaming for release.

Only L’s middle finger is in me by now and he has reached base camp for my deep spot.  He is giving the surrounding region the same treatment he gave the rest of my cunt.  By now, I am nearly delirious. The point I love/hate.  Beyond pleasure.  Only need.

L approaches and lightly taps my deep spot.  I cry out.  But then he withdraws his fingers, covers me with his body, lifts my legs to his shoulders and proceeds to fuck me so hard and fast that I grab and hold on to his shoulders.

I am still alive to tell the tale.

This is the big one.  Here’s the deal.  Let me tell you so you can try this at home:

L has thoroughly, patiently, gently, lovingly (there’s that word), expertly “prepared” me – brought me, and my cunt, to the highest possible state of arousal. My g-spot and deep-spot are good to go.

Then he covers me with his body and I can see his face – his eyes – and he replaces his fingers with his actual cock, like which there is nothing else for fucking.  When L’s cock meets the walls of my vagina and my g-spot and my deep spot, well, the word “cataclysm” springs to mind before the word “orgasm.” I scream –- I flat-out scream.  (It sounds hoarse and scratchy and flat to my ears, but later L tells me I screamed “to wake the dead.”  Charming.)  I ejaculate –- profusely — I can feel it ooze between L and me, and I spasm and shudder and twitch and spasm some more. L keeps right on fucking me throughout my prolonged “orgasm”-cum-earthquake –- he does not stop until it is finished, and I sag limply and mutter: “No more. I can’t…”  (He does not come.  He expects more – and he will get it.) Only then does he excuse himself – he actually says “Excuse me,” the fucker –- to go take a shower –- for me, to be fresh and sweet for me. (If you think that this is the description of The Perfect Man, let me remind you:  “sex addict.”)

L’s shower is my nap time.  I will shower with him after his…turn.

L returns to bed all fresh and clean and smelling of my melon and cucumber soap.  His penis is limp, but not despondent.

I sit at the edge of the bed and take his divine cock in my mouth.  I love to feel it grow large and hard in my mouth – it’s like a magic trick:  put it in water and watch it grow to three times the size in thirty seconds or less!  Amazing real-life phenomenon!

When the real-life phenomenon has occurred, I pull L onto the bed.  From now on, he will do as I say.  He will come when I say he can come.  Yes, I am that good.

L’s ears are exquisitely responsive to my mouth, my tongue and my breath.  Licking, nibbling, suctioning a vacuum, breathing, moaning into first L’s right and then his left ear leaves him hot enough to urge me downward, but I’m not finished with the upper body.  L’s nipples – as sensitive as mine – are erect and taught: I cannot possibly ignore them. I take a handful of my trusty lube, which turns nipple play orgasmic, and go to work on L’s nipples.  Nothing outlandish: the usual stoke, light pinch, friction – you know the drill – but L’s eyes roll back into his head.  This man is hot.  Did my heart good to see it.  I almost giggled.

It won’t take much to make L come –- and I am glad, because my monster orgasm is catching up to me and I am suddenly exhausted.  I give myself a few minutes to relax by latching onto and sucking his balls.  Two benefits: L adores this; I get a rest.
During this time, I do nothing else.  I close my eyes. L is really into it –- has no idea that I’m having a doze.

“Hey,”  wakes me.  I have fallen asleep with L’s testicles in my mouth.  When he realizes, he laughs and strokes my hair. He is fundamentally such a good man. (Sex addict.  Sex addict.  Sex addict.  Sex addict.)

I decide to make him come hard and fast:  my mind is already in the sweet, comforting shower and then back in bed.  But my heart is wholly in making this man as wildly, desperately hot as he has made me.

I put pillows under L’s hips and separate his legs. I watch his face.  I know that in a moment it will be distorted in ecstasy, anguish, need and orgasm.

I lube my hands –- and I mean heavily. I insert my left index finger into L’s rectum and finger-fuck him lightly. With my lubed right hand, I lightly slap his balls and then begin to work his cock, base to tip, lightly, then firmly –- up, then back down –- slowly, then faster –- up, around and over the glans.

Simultaneously, my left index finger finds, strokes, pats and teases L’s prostate and my right hand works his rock-hard cock hard and fast and unhesitatingly base to tip, and back.

L’s back arches, his head thrown back as far as he can go, and he roars.  No words, just a huge sound which issues from his soul and seems to reverberate for hours –- which I will think I hear for days.

Sometimes I take L in my mouth as he comes: it gives him pleasure, it saves on cleanup and is low in calories (5-7 calories per teaspoon).

This time, I was stunned by the sudden force of L’s orgasm and I was overtired.  We tidied up, took a slow, sweet, fragrant, steamy shower and came back to bed to a sweet sleep (Sex addict.  Sex addict.  Sex addict.  Sex addict.  I dare never forget.  What on earth am I going to do?)

Part 4

My lover does it like no other man on the planet.  In the Milky Way, probably.  He is, flat-out, super-fuck.

 What makes it worse is that I love him.  Right down deep from where my soul is hiding out spreading out to the ends of the nerves which populate my epidermis.

 What’s so bad about this is not that I am suffering the pangs of unrequited love, or anything gothic like that, because my love gives every appearance of loving me, too. 

 If you’ve been keeping up with my stories where I’ve been pouring my heart out about my travails with my lover, then you know what the problem is.

 My love, L, is a sex addict.  Self-admitted.  After I sussed it out and confronted him.  After over a year together.  

 Why have I continued to “see” L in the 40-ish days since he confirmed his condition?

 In no special order ; Confusion.  Inertia.  Denial.  Hope.  Fear.  Love.  Sexual need.  Terror.  Insecurity.  Sloth.  Anxiety.  Dread.

Oh, I took steps to assuage the damage to my self-esteem (this was HIS condition, right, so why did it feel as if it somehow reflected on ME?  I knew that it did not, but I felt as if it did.  What the fuck was up with that?  Self-immolation, anyone?)

What were the steps I took?  I forsook “L” and took to calling him “Sex Toy,” in an effort to dehumanize him (I hated it more than he –- he thought it was funny).  Taking as my premise that the only reliable attribute of an addict is never telling the truth, I forbade Sex Toy to talk to me about anything except the moment we were in –- no tales of the office or his day, no promises, no commitments, no future plans –- nothing that could be “broken” or turn out to be a lie.

It didn’t really assuage anything.  It simply highlighted my misery.

The sex was –- the words out of this world, spectacular, explosive get close to describing it.  I hate to be a bore about this, but my stories about L and me really did go into this in a lot of detail, so it’s all out there. ( I really recommend reading them because you can even learn stuff because L and I are really good at this stuff.)

But the thing of it was that underlying it was always this dread, this fear, this sense of loss of safety.  Knockout sex with an underlay of pain.

L was coping better than I.  Was he a selfish, unfeeling, psychotic, sadistic fuck? Maybe he was, but that’s not what was going on now.

After all, he had known all along what was going on here.  The surprise was mine alone.  He had had time to prepare himself for whatever I might throw his way.  I was so disoriented that it actually took me a month to see that there was a vast difference in our preparedness. 

So, yes, I continued to “see” L.  I continued to “see” L’s entire body right down to the hairs which remained unshaven on his balls and down to the very opening of his asshole.  Yes, I did.

And L continued to see the same things on me.  Well, not the hairs on my balls, but you get my drift.

I had sex with Sex Toy –- I’m going to go back to calling him L any minute now –- about twenty times since I “found out.”  Twenty times in thirty-something days.  Normal for us.  Which shows you just how deep my denial ran.  Scary, right?  It wasn’t always sex –- sometimes L dropped in to say hi, but mostly we fucked because we just had to.

I told you about three times we fucked.  When you’ve heard about three, you’ve heard about thirty-three.  But I’m going to tell you about one more.  The final fuck.

I can hear you:  He’ll be back.  Just wait.  Yada, yada, yada.

Well, let me tell you about the Final Fuck as I need to call it.

This time, only I –- and not he –- knew what was coming.  This was a singularly minor — and very bitter — triumph.

Final Fuck was on a Saturday. Sex Toy –- I’m back to calling him L –- arrived at 8-ish.    We never sit down for a meal.  We nosh.  He brought some grilled portobello mushrooms and grilled sunchokes from a gourmet Italian place (I’m a vegan and L eats vegan when he’s with me –- I have no idea what he eats when we’re apart) –- I’ve always got a fridge full of interesting stuff to graze.  That’s what we do:  we graze off of the food and each other.

So, L arrived on Final Fuck night, but, as I’ve said, only I knew what night it was. As I put out the food, I thought:  Neener neener neener.  It was a mournful little neener neener neener.

I put the food on the counter which is a partition between the kitchen and the living room: dishes of olives, grilled veggies, hummous, eggplant salad, sesame paste, salad, pickled veggies, pita, plates, mugs, napkins.  L made Turkish coffee with cardamom.  We grazed and cuddled and cuddled and grazed and belched.

We hadn’t not eaten very much before cuddling became the main activity.  

I became aware that I was naked.  Not a big deal, since all I’d had on were sweat shorts, panties and a tank top –- and scuffs, which I was still wearing.  My three articles of clothing were on the large kitchen table in the middle of my kitchen. L’s work, clearly, since I’d have thrown them on the floor.  And I’d have remembered shedding them.  Maybe.

L got naked around this time and put his clothes somewhere –- maybe he tossed them over the divider onto the living room couch.  He bent me over the kitchen table, brandished the bottle of lube (huh?), which he used liberally, and penetrated and deep-fucked my ass while I held on to the edge of the table.  He reached around my pelvis, spread my legs, possessed my clit, which he teased and stroked with his right hand, until I moaned with a need that was painful. 

With his left hand, L stroked my labia until I begged him to finger-fuck me. Only when he was ready did he insert his fingers and began to caress the walls of my cunt. When my hips began to fuck his hands, he began to caress my clit and finger-fuck me regularly, firmly, calling me his bitch.  Oh, please, make me come, make me come. You’ll come when I say you can, bitch.  Always deep fucking my ass, slowly, steadily, background music, in time with my thrusting hips.

And then when I couldn’t stand any more his hands, his incredible hands, gave me an orgasm that made me throw back my head and cry out — just a wave of sound — and then, as I convulsed and spasmed and thrust and his hands kept working throughout, from deep in my throat: oh, god, oh, L.

When he knew that I had finished he didn’t let me rest.  He seized my hips and he plunged his cock — which had all this time been fucking my ass lightly and gently — hard and fast. His balls pressed my ass cheeks. Out and in again. He was fucking to come now. 

He didn’t care if he split me in two. He was so hot he was moaning and grunting. I had to hold on hard to the table. He pounded me. He was nothing but his need to come. I didn’t exist.  He trembled with need.  His entire body shook.  

And then he got there.  He reached the edge of his cliff and he went over.  The roar that came from his as he exploded was savage and frightening.  He came and he came and he came.  Then he sagged and draped himself over me and we both sagged wearily over the kitchen table.  We nearly dozed.  It was some minutes before we could drag ourselves to the shower and then to bed where, all clean and fragrant, we fell asleep naked pressed into one another.

And I hadn’t said a word.

We woke several hours later, ravenous.  We fell on the food, room temperature now, but still delicious to our hungry selves.  L made more coffee and I steeled myself to talk.

But how to open?  “By the way, remember the matter of your sex addiction?”  “I was just giving some thought to your sex addiction.”  “I’ve been thinking about this whole sex-addiction thing…”  “What are your thoughts on the sex-addiction situation?”  “Are you going to see a psychiatrist?”  “Are you fucking other women?”  “How many?”  “Who?”


“L, I’ve been doing some serious thinking…”  Oh, yay, me.  Strong opening.

L was facing away from me, making coffee.  He didn’t turn around.  But he heard something in my tone.  He got still.  He didn’t turn, he just stopped moving, his hands resting on the counter.  When I began to speak, he flinched slightly, as if he were expecting a blow.

It all came out:  This is not verbatim but it captures the spirit of incoherence, fear, stress, incomprehension, relief, misery, pain, regret, guilt, confusion, ignorance.

“I’m not a psychiatrist..I don’t fully understand…I can’t handle the doubts and uncertainties and lack of trust.  I know that this is not a matter of fault and blame but I understand that I am powerless over it and that all I can do is to take care of myself and leave you to take care of yourself and so that it is what I am going to do and I love you but I am going to let go of you because your condition hurts me.”

When I stopped talking, L still had not turned to face me.

When he turned around, he looked as if he had aged ten years.

I wanted to go to the movies and come home to find him gone.  It was about 4 am Sunday.  L had belongings all over my apartment.  Shit and doubleshit.  We looked wretchedly at one another.  Neener neener neener was gone.  I knew that I’d donned the same additional ten years.  Two haggard, weary, bereft, lost, confused, sick people.  

“I have never cheated on you.” His voice, unexpected, fell into the silence like an explosion.  “It was a struggle because my sickness wanted conquests.”


I wanted to tell him to stay.  That we would make it work.  I knew that I had to let him go.  That we could not make it work –- that it was a disease and that it would control us before we would control it.

I got into sweats and took the Sunday Times first to the twenty-four-hour coffee shop and then to Starbucks.  I dressed and left in a daze.  L was in a daze, too.  I asked him how much time he would need.  I guessed three or four trips would get everything down to his car –- anyway, it wasn’t my problem.  I knew it would hurt later.  Thank god, I was numb right then.  L said two hours.  I figured more like four.  My local Starbucks has a lovely clean bathroom, so that’s okay, and the vegan bakery opens at 8.

So off I went.  Caffeine-bound, bad news tucked under my arm, more bad news back in my apartment.

I spent about 5 to 9 am that Sunday morning reading the Times, drinking coffee, eating vegan ginger-apricot scones, peeing, talking to friends and their dogs.  When I got home, L was gone.

Sex Toy was gone, taking his sex addiction with him.

He is in his own hands.

I am free of the disease of sex addiction.

I am free.

Everything beckons.  Come with me.