Friday, August 23, 2013

The fluffer

"Jennifer" was a beautiful girl, 5'5, 100 pounds, killer body, strawberry blond hair, the younger sister of a friend. She came from a comfortably affluent family. Deadly normal. This caused her to flee when she was on the verge of beginning her freshman year at the University of Washington.

She drove to Los Angeles, a city she had visited many times before. At first, she crashed with friends and said she was determined to become an actress. After all, she had excelled in theater in high school and everyone told her how good she looked, how she was a natural. The real world was much tougher. Everyone in LA, at least in "the industry," was more beautiful, more connected, richer, thinner. When she finally found an agent, she knew it was too good to be true. And it was. She went to a second-floor walk-up office in a dingy building on Van Nuys Boulevard. There was a job for her, all right, but it was in adult films.

"I should have run away right then," she told me later, "but I didn't."

Why not? Why do any of us do stupid things when we're young? An internal dare. Rebellion. Facing our fears. Convincing ourselves it will lead to something better. "I just wanted to," was all she offered.

Her "audition" was perfunctory. She was told to get on her knees and suck the cock of the "agent," a sweaty fat man with a small penis. And she did, bringing him off quickly. Jennifer had been hooking up since early in high school and was quite proficient. He seemed impressed, and not. "You're gonna have to learn," he said.

Two days later, the man picked up Jen and drove her an address in the Valley, an ordinary suburban house, a little down on its heels. Inside, however, it was a studio for filming adult videos. A dozen people were inside, some dressed (the crew), some not. "This is your new fluffer," the man said to another man she learned was the director. She had never heard the term. It would be her job for the next year. Although "fluffer" is often associated with gay porn, it's also a job in straight adult film. Usually teenage girls, fluffers are there to help the male porn stars get hard for their scenes with the women. Jennifer was 18 but looked younger. She wondered if she would be asked to disrobe. She was comfortable with her body, even an exhibitionist. She was not, at least not at first. As the job was explained to her, she also felt a little let down. Although adult videos were not "Hollywood," she at least assumed she might be featured as an actress. Hell, it couldn't hurt. Other adult stars had crossed over. She might meet important people. But, no. She was just part of the crew. A very special part.

She was lectured by the director and his assistant, a woman: Your job is just to get the guys hard when they can't do it on their own. Never bring him off. It became obvious that the men, even though they were quite handsome, were "props." The women were the stars, and most of them had little patience for male co-stars who couldn't get it up. That's where a fluffer came in. There were three studs that day, each one with a bigger penis than she had ever seen before. She dutifully stimulated two of them during the multiple takes. The third seemed rock hard all the time ("if you have an erection lasting more than four hours..."). That first day, it was "phat" to be there, sucking the cocks of strange men. They were all clean and had great bodies. As far as she could tell, the "plot" was a husband who tries to defend his wife from a gangbang and fails. The female stars ignored her.

In good months, she might work every day, making enough money to get her own place and buy clothes without asking for help from her parents. As far as they knew, she was getting work doing commercials for local television (that way they couldn't look for her). On big shoots, there might be two or even three fluffers. But Jen was the most attractive and skillful. Only once did she get so involved with a stud — and he with her — that she brought him off in her mouth. That led to a hard slap from the director and a black eye that lasted two weeks. She was a beautiful girl, and a few of the studs came after her when shooting was done. She enjoyed being fucked by such skilled lovers, once she learned how to handle their size in her pussy — there was a difference. Somehow she thought the adult industry required regular checks for STDs. Later she learned this was not necessarily true. The money and productions got better as she got a reputation as one of the most skilled fluffers in the business. Her agent took a percentage, of course. Eventually, she was cast in a few videos, always as a teenage cheerleader, babysitter or, in the creepier plots, a daughter who got fucked by "daddy" and his buddies. Truth was, she liked the sex. She liked the scene as some of the women actors warmed to her. When she came on camera, it was usually real.

But this is a sad story. The fluffer did not become even an adult video star. She was not a young woman in charge of her wild side like my friend, Mary Beth. A second-tier actor became her boyfriend and introduced her to cocaine. Unfortunately, she loved it. By the time I found her, she was wandering Hollywood Boulevard (true story) at one a.m., high as a 747, dressed like a cheap prostitute. In fact, that was what she had become. There was an echo of her beauty left, but the life was gone from her eyes and her 22-year-old face looked 40. Her sister had asked for my help. As I was half dragging, half carrying her to my car, a big dude came up. Her pimp. He made a couple of threats before I kicked him in the balls and, as he bent toward me, drove the heel of my hand into his nose. I could have arrested him, but who needed the paperwork and the suspicion of the local cops? I took her back to Seattle. She's been in and out of rehab ever since. That's my fluffer story, gentlemen. Wish it could have been a turn-on without consequences.

Friday, August 2, 2013

The voyeur

Here's a story I've never told you. When I was married, my husband and I did **everything**. He was the man who got my anal sex cherry. But he was always pushing the envelope, and over time he kept wanting to see me fuck another man. I had my worries and warned him that he might not really like it if it happened. We talked about this extensively — he knew all my sluttish past — but he kept after me. So I agreed.

One afternoon, I brought home an old boyfriend, assuring him that my husband was on a business trip, and took him to our bedroom. I'll call him Tom. Unbeknownst to Tom, my husband was sitting in our walk-in closet, in the dark with the door cracked open. It had a great view of the bed as Tom and I got it on. My husband had an average size penis, but quite nice and really knew how to use it. Tom, on the other hand, was very well-endowed. He carried a log: Almost nine inches, thick and uncircumcised. Once we were naked, I put on quite a show, pulling my long red hair over one shoulder and licking his big dick like a lollypop and then gently lowering the foreskin and taking his sensitive head in my mouth. This went on a long time. I was so wet from the knowledge that my hubby was watching all this.

We fucked in all sorts of positions: Missionary, me on top, him taking me from behind and then him on top again with my legs pulled over his shoulders and then pulled tightly toward me in the crooks of his elbows. I had not forgotten what a good lover Tom was — how sweet that log felt inside — and I must have come four times, each orgasm more intense than the previous one. We fucked for about 45 minutes. When he finally came in me, my mind was floating somewhere up on the ceiling, the walls echoing from my screams. I completely forgot that my husband was in the closet.

Afterwards, Tom had to go. He was like that. Not one to stay and hold me. I had never liked that part. When I came back to the bedroom, my husband was still invisible. "Come out, come out, wherever you are," I said. He appeared and sat on the bed, an expression on his face I had never seen before. The room carried a very strong smell of pussy and semen, a stranger's semen.

After a long time, I asked, "Do you want to talk?"

No, he wanted sex. I was only wearing an old Harvard T-shirt, my nipples pressed against it, my red bush flaming in the ambient light, and he kept that on as he pushed me down and licked my pussy. I came almost instantly, but he just held on and kept the tongue work going. He tongue-fucked me, tasting Tom's come. My pussy was throbbing with arousal and electricity. Then he fucked me on top, very hard, and turned me over and raised up my ass, fucking me even harder from behind. I didn't expect it when he slid his cock into my ass, which was only lubricated by my juices, thrust a few times and came with his own guttural scream.

He reached into the bedside table, pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit up. He hardly ever smoked, but when he did he chose expensive Dunhills, a reminder of a trip we had made to London. He offered me a drag and I took it. We sat in silence. I was very sore. Come was seeping out of my pussy and ass.

I was trying to stay awake.

"Are you still happy we did this?" I said.

"You looked and sounded like you were really having fun."

I hesitated and then told the truth. "I was."

After more silence, he told me how he felt. He was and is a very articulate man. I'll paraphrase because of course I don't remember it exactly. He felt all sorts of things: Jealousy, arousal, humiliation, anger, arousal. He needed to fuck me "to take back my woman." I told him he had never lost me, and gently reminded him that this had not just been his idea, but something he had been pushing me to do. "I know." His tone was unreadable. He was very curious about how it felt, especially how Tom's large penis felt inside me. I did my best to describe it. He wanted details. And how was it different from when we fucked? And was I turned on by knowing he was watching? We talked a long time. I told him he was my best lover, which was true, but I knew he didn't believe me.

Our marriage settled back into its normal patterns and we didn't do this again. I felt bad for him, because as much as the experience satisfied his appetite for kink, he had watched himself be cuckolded, watched his wife not just like it but lose herself to it. And, as with any man, the big dick really stuck with him. I'll never know how much this played into his later infidelity. I think he felt he had to prove something. And I am in no position to judge.

Friday, January 25, 2013

He's changed

I'm totally exhausted from the inauguration. No time for sex. I forgot to tell you about going home to Seattle to see my crazy family. Mom always wants me to stay at their house, but I like the freedom of having my own hotel room downtown. I did make time to see my friend and former lover Mike, who is still stationed up there. He's gotten married, but agreed to have a drink. Knowing him, I didn't think a wedding band would stop him, especially with the miniskirt I was wearing, and I would get a good submissive fucking like he used to give me. Our affair is chronicled here, here, and here.

Even over martinis, he seemed very different. More mellow, actually interested in me, talked lovingly about his wife. Still, he accepted my invitation to come back to my hotel room, we took off our weapons, and eventually got into a mad makout session on the couch. I kept feeling his big, hard cock through his slacks, feeling my pussy getting very wet. Memories of our affair were bombarding me. I had his shirt unbottoned and loved the feeling of those washboard abs. He was breathing heavily. At any minute, I expected him to throw me to the floor, hike up my skirt and fuck me from behind. But he didn't.

"Come over to the bed."

" should go..."

"I'm not the morality police, Mike. I can feel your cock. I know what you want." I sure as hell knew what I wanted.

I took his hand and pulled him toward the bed.

He grabbed my shoulders and looked at me a long time. I could see him wrestling with himself. Then he gently sat me on the bed and pushed me down. Getting on his knees, he stoked my legs and took off my shoes. Then he pulled off my panty hose without creating a single run. I was shivering with arousal as he sucked my toes, licked the tops of my feet and ankles, then started kissing and licking up each leg. Just when I thought I would feel his tongue on my pussy, he just brushed it with his face.

"I love your scent," he said. "I never forget that."

"I want you inside me," I commanded, but it probably came out more as a begging whimper.

Instead, he just kept teasing for the longest time. Then I felt his tongue lightly tracing along my vulva. I almost came right then. He could sense it and pulled back, nibbling on the inside of my thighs. When I was cooled down a little, he would lick me again. I had the beginnings of a massive orgasm, my feet burning and seeing colors through my closed eyes. And he backed off.

His tongue came back again, so lightly. I was clawing the sheets, reaching for his hands, but he kept them on my ass, holding my firmly in place. His entire face was hidden by my skirt.

Suddenly, it felt like my whole body exploded. I could hear some woman screaming. It was me. Pulses of orgasm radiated out as he just kept it going and going. When I was completely spent, he tongue-fucked me into another orgasm. Then he licked me gently for a few more minutes as I lay whimpering.

"Fuck me."

"I can't, Linda." He didn't even call me "Sue," as he used to do to irritate me.

"Let me suck your cock.

I reached for his zipper, but he just took my hand and kissed it. Then I heard the door closed. For about an hour, I just dozed, completely satisfied. Well, not completely. But it was pretty damned sweet. His wife is lucky.

Monday, January 14, 2013

The pickup artist

Between work and life it's difficult to keep up with this blog. But I get so many nice emails from men — and some women, that I'll keep trying.

So I've been trying to get my young man hooked up with women his age. We've been to bookstores, art galleries and even bars (which I don't think work that well). I've coached him. Before we go out, I give him a great cock-sucking, but I won't let him come. I want him to be motivated. So far, not much. He's not bad looking. He's smart and emotionally intelligent. We were at one gallery when he started talking to a woman, an attractive brunette, while I hovered in the distance. Pretty soon she's got her hand on his arm. As I paid more attention, I realized she was my age. So I went over and broke it up. He was mad at me, but for God's sake he doesn't need to go from one fortysomething to another. He's got his whole life ahead of him.

It made me call my ex-husband for advice. He reminded me that he never had luck with women his age when he was in his twenties. It was only in his thirties that he learned how to talk to women (get them talking about themselves, be a great listener, dress well) and flirt ("Linda? That's my favorite name"). He said if he could go back to his twenties with the knowledge he learned later he would have "cut a swath through the young womanhood of the East Coast). Instead, he was initiated into the arts of love by older women. "Don't let him fall in love with you," he cautioned.

Back to the problem at hand. I've made him talk about the girls in his classes that he lusts after. I've made him start to go to parties at school. He hates small talk. I'm trying to fix that. Young women don't want to talk about government dysfunction or the demise of the Whig Party. I keep coaching — and fucking him. I probably shouldn't do the latter, but he's safe and fun.

It is still hard for men. I've been hit on since I was thirteen. When I was in college, especially, I was so overwhelmed by the offers, come-ons and my own horniness that it just seemed like a blur of cocks inside me and my legs in the air. But unless a guy has a certain look and way of carrying himself when he's that age, say the cool bad dude persona, he likely won't get easy access to young women. Would I have been attracted to my young man when I was his age? Probably not. I was stupid.