Ladies' Night

Since we're all well-aware of the fact that I approach my shiny new sex life the way I do all things, with the gawking wonder and boundless enthusiasm of a thirteen year-old girl at an *NSync concert (c. 1998), it isn't entirely shocking to find out that meeting my first non-Jefferson sex blogger was pretty "Squee! ZOMG, I love you, Lance! What do you think of my body glitter?!"

I told you, I'm largely a creature of habit.

He said he'd noticed that we ladies had been getting along swimmingly in our comments on one another's respective blogs, so he'd invited her over to suck some cock after work.

Only Jefferson can say things like this and not sound insane.

In fact, not only do these sorts of things sound decidedly un-insane, but they actually end up becoming the most logical, "Well, duh!" kind of ideas, simply in his voicing them.

It has to be the delivery though, because whenever I try regaling friends with my tales of debauchery, they often fail to see the genius behind it all. They just think I'm a crazy nymphomaniac.

Which I kind of am, I suppose.

So, deftly veering back on track, after fucking, sweating, and showering with Jefferson for the better part of the day, suddenly there I was, sipping orange juice on his couch and watching coverage of another flood on the 6:30 news, naked and waiting, nervous as hell.

I'd had another person in this very room with us just last week and there was no problem. I was like "Yep...I'm naked." and he was like "Yeah, I'm here to watch you." and I was fine with that.

Knowing she was a 'she' made a huge difference in my head.

It wasn't even the obvious 'Well, she's a female and I'm a female--does this mean Grandpa was right all along? Should I start listening to K.D. Lang? But my tits look awful in button-down shirts and faux-hawks are so freaking lame...' issue.

New to the whole sex buffet, I'm ready to have a little taste of everything. Plus, I'm currently in that boy/girl/chihuahua/martian/whatever phase of my twenties; I can experiment guilt-free without really stressing over questions of sexuality.

I was more panicked over what she'd think of me--y'know, in that cliquey high school way.

I mean, my high school experience kind of sucked for a reason. I was admittedly a bit of a freak.

Now, there's a lot of control in having a blog like this. I get to decide how much of myself all of you get to see. I can leave out the less desirable pieces and highlight the good under intense magnification, if I so choose, without you ever knowing.

Well, since I have a bit of a flair for self-deprication, that's never really the case, but still.

If I had fibbed at all, you'd know it after meeting me in the flesh.

What if she thinks I'm a gigantic slag, sitting here naked when she walks in? What if she doesn't dig on having naked chicks in her general vicinity? What if we have nothing to talk about and she ends up not liking me in person?

I was being ridiculous, of course. I do that.

She rang his bell and he buzzed her up and before I knew it, she was waiting there on the other side of the door and he was pulling it open. I stood far back at the end of the hallway, arms wound around my midsection, half-hiding behind the living room wall.

Then, suddenly, there she was--Ms. Janie Blooms herself, all bubbly and smiley with great fucking hair, her porcelain skin a bit pink from the walk over in the sweltering heat, looking very chic and New York in her black jersey dress.

She moved further into the apartment while Jefferson went to fix her a jar of cool water (you can take the hillbilly out of the boondocks...), dropping her bag down on the table and kicking off her shoes.

Wait, I have those shoes! I yelped in my head. Black with a bow, American Eagle by way of Payless--versatile, beyond comfortable, cheap as hell. This girl and I were going to get along just fine.

She turned to me and brushed her hair back out of her face, grinning and out of breath--"Well, hi there--I'm Janie!"

"Hi, I'm Mariella!" I gushed, still very, very naked, and very, very aware of it.

Ask her if it was a long walk! Ask her how work was! Say something!

This is why I've never been on a date, people.

Thankfully, Jefferson's reappearance eliminated the need for me to snatch a conversation-starter out of the ether, and I watched all shy and smiley as the two of them immediately tumbled into easy dialogue between sips of water, as old friends do.

He offered her a cold shower and she cocked her head to one side, her eyes widening, pretty bowed mouth agape, and called out an "Ohhhhh, yeah!" like my uncle might if offered the last deliciously crusty corner of grandma's baked ziti.

Not exactly dainty or delicate, but dripping with fun. My kinda girl!

I knew she'd be this cool from the first few sentences I read of her blog.

It was Happiness Sex, and it was immediately starred on my Google reader because it made me smile that much.

There's this description in there of her pussy sighing as Jefferson's cock slides into her, her first fuck after a long, self-imposed draught, and I re-read that line over and over again, floored, somehow knowing that feeling before ever having experienced it for myself.

Every word she writes simultaneously drips dry wit and absolute glee, and she's exactly the same way in real life.

I mean, he and I sat there on the couch, talking softly while she showered, listening to her flat-out giggle under the cool spray.

A fucking shower!

When my tongue flicked over her clit for the first time, she chuckled. She gave up this gorgeous deep-bellied laughter, deliriously happy, at each of Jefferson's sharp thrusts while he fucked her. Nipple-tweaking brought guffaws.

In spite of her claims to the contrary, I maintain that Janie gets a little bit of joy out of everything in life. That is really fucking hot, and so contagious.

So, she emerged from the bathroom a few minutes later sopping wet, smiling still, modestly holding the fresh towel she'd prodded Jefferson for earlier up in front of her body--and let me tell you, has she got a body on her! Irish ass and all!

We sat down for a bit. Janie plastered the aforementioned cute Irish ass of hers to the leather sofa beside our host, while I settled in across the coffee table from them, perched on the edge of one of those simple wooden chairs that usually surrounds his kitchen table.

We spoke of heat and traffic and nude beaches, and the more we talked, the more I eased into the whole situation. I started to chime in, regaling them with the same four stories I feel like I always tell, getting a couple of laughs, which always makes me feel less like a cretin around new people.

The wooden chair soon dug into my bare behind and became the bit of empty cushion left between the two of them. That eventually morphed into a pillow on the floor at Jefferson's feet, right next to hers.

We were of course there to suck cock--how silly of us to forget in all this "Ohmigosh, girlfriend!" coffee klatching!

Jefferson kindly reminded us, and we happily obliged.

Now, if you've ever read Janie's blog, you know that she totally digs on giving head--it gets her blood humming, gets her 'in the zone'--so, clearly, I was unreasonably excited to watch the mistress at work!

Wettest.

Sloppiest.

Hottest.

Fucking.

Blow job.

Like, ever.

She'd work up all of these little bubbles of saliva and then this gurgling would start-up, and it was just so damn cool!

Everyone was sort of praising my deep-throat that night, but I know every time I took his cock after her, I was trying to cover it in slobber like Janie did. Clearly, there was no comparison--she's a fucking pro.

We took turns at his cock, gagging and slurping, tasting one another with each swap, dashing off for water and tissues when things got really messy. We were the dynamic duo of dick and a really great team, if I do say so myself. Soul sisters.

Thinking back, I'm not sure what kind of crazy pills I was on, imagining two naked chicks could conceivably suck cock for a few hours without ever laying a hand on one another. They must have been fantastic though.

I wasn't really expecting the full-on threesome that ended up happening, but hooray for surprises!

Yep, fair readers--you read that correctly. First threesome, first girl; check, check. Still a champion.

Now, I hear 'threesome' and I think crazy, sweaty Bacchanalian animal sex, bodies melting into one another like candle wax; delirium, mild insanity. While part of that sounds incredible, it is a bit intense and overwhelming to consider, especially for a first-timer like myself.

For the most part, the tone of this threesome was more like the best sleepover EVER--the sort that comes complete with tickle-fights, raiding the refrigerator, and staying up to all hours gossiping about the boys we like.

We laughed the entire time, and talked--there was constant observation and encouragement and suggestion. It was interaction at its best and everything fucking two other people, and not a stone-dead brick wall, should be.

It wasn't perfect. There was retching; eyes watered. A bit of puke on the throw pillows. He didn't finish.

We were just happy to be together, happy to have lips and tongues and other assorted appendages be of some use to the others present. It was totally selfless and gorgeous and fun, and the more I talk to friends dissatisfied with their sex lives, the more I realize that I'm lucky to have sex like this.

I'm not naive enough to think that every lover I will ever have will possess the, ahem, in-depth education that Jefferson and his cohorts have, but I don't really think anyone needs chandelier-hanging, mind-blowing sex all the time.

Still, I think he was right when, as the three of us tromped together through the night to the subway station, he said that I shouldn't expect less than this.

Everyone deserves that laughter and patience, the sweetness and selflessness.

Everyone deserves that feeling of acceptance and belonging.

I'm learning more and more that the context you share with your lovers absolutely makes up for any floundering--those mis-steps and mishaps along the way. You can get better at fucking, you can learn how to swallow a dick, but you can't fabricate a connection that isn't there.

Great sex is essentially about the connection.

Those soul-deep shudders that ripple through the boiling blood in your veins as her tongue finally dips deep into your cunt, all while he stands over you, graciously feeding you his cock--that's gravy.

(Find Janie's account here!)