[Read Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, and Part 4.]

What Happened: Wherein I finally share what killed the friendship, then lie down and make snow angels in my empathy, anxiety and (probably unjustified) guilt.

cw: intimate partner abuse.

The last time I saw Glenn or Alexandra was October of 2019, when I traveled to their city to spend a weekend with Alexandra in a moderately-priced hotel room. Soon after, COVID intervened, our relationship stalled, and in spring of 2021, about a month after suggesting I come see her once we were both vaccinated, she changed her mind and said she didn’t want to do weekend getaways anymore.

I had been expecting this; soon after our time together in late 2019 the emotional and sexual intimacy in our relationship began to wane, and while we remained friendly, it was evident that things were changing. It didn’t feel like we were simply in a holding pattern waiting for the pandemic to blow over; the pull-back that occurred over the course of eighteen months wasn’t something I’d ever experienced during all the time I’d known her.

Jill suggested the possibility that Glenn had forcd her to break it off with me. To this day, I don’t know whether that’s true; I have no evidence, circumstantial or otherwise, to suggest either way, and it doesnn’t matter. Whatever the reason, after five years we segued into a different phase of our relationship. We remained close friends and confidants, but just that and nothing more. We continued to talk (via online messaging) every single day until November 2021 – more than five and a half years since our relationship began – and after that, while the conversation continued, it wasn’t necessarily on a daily basis.

The first time we skipped a day, I wondered if Alexandra had outlived her need for my friendship. After all, once our relationship went platonic we continued to talk daily for months. But she still needed my friendship and whatever comfort it provided her, and I wouldn’t know why or how seriously for almost another year.

In summer 2022, I went an entire month without hearing from her. By this point the Twitter account she shared with Glenn was long deactivated, and she was inactive on other social media. I’m not one to pester somebody with repeated messages; if I send a message and I receive no response, I tend to assume the other person doesn’t want to write back and I leave it at that. All I could do was hope she was okay.

In August, Alexandra replied to the message I’d sent her, and she had a lot of news. She and Glenn had separated and would be getting a divorce. This was a shock, though not much of one, as prior to her monthlong disappearance, she mentioned that things had been difficult between them, but they were trying to work it out. They’d always had a volatile relationship and to hear her tell it, in its early days her relationship with Glenn was abusive in both directions. But now, with their relationship in the past she told me that it was all him.

I understand the instinct to lie for the benefit of a toxic partner one does not intend to leave or cannot leave. With the understanding that leaving an abusive relationship can be difficult and even dangerous, remaining in one makes a person look weak or foolish, or more accurately makes the abused party worry about being perceived as such. On the other hand, if the abuse is equal on both sides it becomes more understandable that they would stay. The abused party goes from being a victim to being a complicated person who’s presumably managed to overcome their demons.

Obviously the revelation was huge and tumultuous. As I adjusted to the news I had to determine how I could best be of support to her. The first thing I intended to do was cut off all contact with Glenn, as remaining friendly with your friend’s abuser means you’re not actually a friend of your friend. However, I was somewhat pleased to find that he disconnected from me on social media before I could.

One day soon after Alexandra’s return, I was out shopping when she sent me a very long message. I’m talking about a message of the kind of length most people would send as an email. This wasn’t unusual; sometimes when Alexandra had something deeply personal to get off of her chest she would test out a rough draft of a social media post by sending it to me to get my thoughts before sharing it publicly with a limited audience. In the message, she described in great detail the abuse she had suffered over the course of her relationship with Glenn. While I am not aware of any physical abuse, what she endured ran the gamut from emotional and mental abuse including gaslighting to sexual abuse often in the form of coercion and manipulation. She described him saying that it didn’t matter if she wasn’t in the mood for sex and that as her spouse, he was owed it.

I read her message with interest, but also with great apprehension. Of course I didn’t want to imagine my friend and former partner going through what she went through. I didn’t want to feel the fear, the pain, and the sorrow she undoubtedly felt. And as I read, I felt my heart racing. Anxiety gave way to panic, and I found myself struggling to breathe. I fought back nausea as I leaned against a shelf and tried desperately to ground myself before I passed out, or worse.

Yes, I was angry for all that she had suffered, but that wasn’t the main cause of my panic attack. I thought back to Glenn playing matchmaker between his wife and I almost a decade earlier. I thought of his maneuvering to get the two of us together. Had I unknowingly been a perpetrator of the sexual abuse she had suffered? He loved to watch; did he make her have sex with me for his pleasure? What had Glenn made me a party to?

In the moment, Alexandra always seemed into it, and we’d spent all those weekends in hotels, just the two of us, with Glenn nowhere to be found. It didn’t seem like she was there for any other reason than because she wanted to be. Had he forced her to go along with it, to put on a happy face and pretend that she was choosing to hole up with me for a couple days, performing for me sexually against her will just as she had for him? What would that make me, exactly? Without intending to, or even realizing it, I would still be a sexual abuser. Without any malice on my part, I would still have had sex with someone who didn’t want it. How could I possibly live with what I’d done?

When I asked her point-blank whether that was the case, she quickly indemnified me. She assured me that she wouldn’t have entered into and maintained our relationship if it wasn’t what she wanted. Although I could see clearly that the man I considered a friend was in actuality the worst sort of villain, Glenn hadn’t put her up to it, and Alexandra and I never had sex at a time when she didn’t want to. Her assurance provided me a measure of relief, though I was still furious over what she’d gone through. I remain furious, in fact.

To be concluded.

[Read Part 1, Part 2, and Part 3.]

The Incident: Wherein I reflect on an unpleasant episode from the past and realize I should have known then, if not before.

cw: Jealousy, possessiveness, controlling behavior, and possible intimate partner abuse.

Our summer 2017 road trip was the first time we visited Glenn and Alexandra after Glenn semi-broke it off with Jill. I use the prefix “semi” because Glenn was still willing to have sex with her; it was only the emotional content that he couldn’t provide. It wasn’t really a breakup per se. Knowing how important Alexandra was to me, Jill was willing to spend a sizable chunk of her summer break encouraging our relationship rather than in Disneyland, Vegas, Honolulu, or any of a number of other places that would have been more fun for her.

The first day of our visit, Jill and Glenn stayed at the house with the kids while Alexandra and I went out. What we were doing isn’t important, and in any case, I don’t remember. We had probably taken a drive; it had been months since we’d seen each other, and with three kids about – our one and their two – it wasn’t feasible to find an unoccupied corner of the house for a quick makeout session. Again, I don’t remember the details, but after so much time apart, the sexual tension that came with finally being in the same physical space grew too great to bear and we detoured spontaneously to the empty hotel room where my family and I were staying.

While taking a breather in the midst of some very exciting and long-awaited sex, Alexandra stopped to check her phone and found a text from her husband. I don’t know whether it was something they’d agreed upon beforehand or if Glenn had decided out of the blue, but she was forbidden to go back to the hotel with me. I, of course, was not privy to this; I have to assume that if she knew about it when we left the house she would have told me when I made the suggestion. Anxiety overwhelmed me as we got dressed and, like two teenagers who’d stayed out beyond their curfew, hurried back to the house to face the music.

When we arrived, Glenn wasn’t violent or even loud. While I’m sure he was one to raise his voice if not necessarily his hand in anger, I never saw that side of him. Still, it was apparent that he was angry about what had transpired. Not at me; he quickly made that clear. He was angry at Alexandra, and decisively pulled rank, ordering her into the shower with him in the middle of the afternoon, and for what, exactly, I wasn’t about to ask.

His behavior was shocking even if I didn’t acknowledge it as such at the time. In the moment, I was too busy processing my own guilt with regard to this incident. I blamed myself for getting my partner in trouble with her husband even though I should have placed the blame elsewhere. Depending on whether the prohibition of sex was agreed-upon beforehand or spontaneous, I suppose the blame could have been laid upon Alexandra or Glenn, respectively for the lack of clear communication. Regardless of which possibility is the correct one, much if not all of the blame belongs to Glenn for his inability to handle what he essentially set in motion between Alexandra and I.

Why did this happen? Why had Glenn set such an inexplicable, negligibly-expressed boundary, and then lost control so spectacularly when it was violated? He’d always been supportive of Alexandra’s and my relationship, and it’s not as though they’d closed their marriage since we saw them last. I never got an answer of any kind, though it likely had something to do with the fact that since having her hopes of a similar relationship with Glenn dashed the year before, Jill had moved on. She had no intention of having sex with him during our trip, and warned him of this in advance. If he wasn’t going to get laid, why should his wife and I be allowed to?

This episode is what Jill cites when demonstrating Glenn’s true nature. Publicly he was charming, gregarious, caring, radically left, and feminist, an ally whose progressivism didn’t seem to be merely performative. However, rather than being a one-time lapse, his jealous, controlling behavior was him showing who he really was. It wasn’t the first time he exhibited what I might describe as unusual behavior, though it was the first time I saw anything that I’d consider problematic. The red flags were there, but I didn’t want to acknowledge them.

I am reminded of filmmaker Joss Whedon, whose public persona – and physical appearance – was not unlike Glenn’s. Raised as a radical feminist, Whedon told stories of female characters who are stronger than the male characters with whom they share the screen in television series such as “Buffy the Vampire Slayer”, “Dollhouse”, “Firefly”, and “Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.” The feminist themes in his works inspired an academic field of study, and countless articles and books have been written on gender studies with regard to Joss Whedon’s filmography. For many years, it seemed to fans that a more fiercely feminist male voice in the entertainment industry would never be heard.

Of course, Whedon’s feminist cred turned out to be a shield for antisocial behavior including but not limited to misogyny, racism, and general cruelty inflicted against his cast, crew, and family. In 2017, his ex-wife Kai Cole wrote a blog post in which she exposed him as a serial cheater. Since then, accounts of Whedon’s abuse circulated on social media and in interviews; Charisma Carpenter and Amber Benson told of his toxic behavior during the production of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, while Ray Fisher and Gal Gadot told similar stories about their experience making the Whedon-helmed films Batman v. Superman: Dawn of Justice and Justice League.

With the truth about Whedon revealed, former fans began to re-examine his career with knowledge of his true nature in mind. His works were seen to feature sexist tropes and racist stereotypes, trivialize LGBTQ characters, and oversexualize their female characters to appeal to the male gaze. Why had so many of Whedon’s fans failed to find fault with or even notice these elements of his TV series and films until he was revealed to be a misogynist hiding his true nature behind fake feminism? Presumably it was because without the knowledge of this nature, most fans – who had made an enormous emotional investment in those works – simply took the man at face value.

Following Glenn’s tantrum, the rest of the time we spent with him and his family was pleasant. We had dinners out, took a day trip to the beach, and engaged in other fun family activities. Alexandra and I even had a dinner date one night, though no sex was had. Perhaps feeling guilty about his outburst, or alternatively having exerted the necessary control over his wife, Glenn okayed it. But knowing her husband’s duplicitous and jealous nature, and having paid the consequence for disobedience just days earlier, there was no way Alexandra was going to take the risk. Still, it was a fun evening, and given all that I know now, I’m sure she needed it even more than I did.

In the next post, I’ll bring you up to speed. I’ll reveal when, how, and why the friendship ended. I’ll discuss the state of my relationship with Alexandra as well, and perhaps most importantly I will consider the possibility that I was unwittingly a party to the awfulness I didn’t even realize was occurring. The next one’s going to be dark, but I’ll lead with a content warning.

Continued in Part 5.

[Read Part 1 and Part 2.]

Glenn: Wherein I assess the titular friendship, in particular its humble beginnings and its evolution into something that was temporarily very gratifying.

My friendship with Glenn (that’s what I’m calling him; it’s not his actual name) began on Twitter, where my wife and I encountered him for the first time a decade ago or longer. He and his wife shared an account, though she seldom used it; for a very long time whenever we would interact, it would be with him rather than with her or with both of them.

Glenn and his wife – Susie? Samantha? Shannon? I use a lot of “S” names to refer to women I cannot actually identify due to privacy issues, so I think I’ll call her Alexandra. Anyway, Glenn and Alexandra were swingers. They didn’t identify as polyamorous; it was very clear that they were fans of sport-fucking without any pesky emotions. And for years, Glenn was a big proponent of the four of us hooking up. Yes, he was attracted to my wife – why wouldn’t he be? – but it was pretty clear that his priority was watching me fuck his.

As Glenn and Alexandra weren’t local, I thought little of his overtures. He’d shown me a couple pictures of his wife and I found her attractive, but as I hadn’t interacted with her at that point, and in fact had no idea whether she was even aware of his machinations, she held little tangible appeal for me. Though I’m not and never have been demisexual, I do prefer to know what somebody is about before I have sex with them, or at least to talk to them a bit and get a sense of whether they are even into me.

A year or two later, I interacted with his wife for the first time. I noticed her commenting on my sexy tweets with enthusiasm, and eventually we took the conversation private via Twitter DM. Our interactions were often intensely erotic in nature. I found her sweet and sexy, though reserved. I looked forward to occasional communication with her – her reservations lessened the more we talked – and I felt excited by the prospect of getting to know her and maybe even meeting. Time passed, and by 2015 a meeting between the four of us seemed a foregone conclusion.

The first meeting of many occurred in 2016. While passing through their city on the way home following a week-long road trip, the four of us met for a very enjoyable breakfast loaded with fun and flirty conversation, genuine excitement, and surprising feelings of connection. When we left the restaurant after four hours, Glenn and Alexandra invited us back to their place for a four-way. It was our first time doing same-room full-swap, and a great time was had by all. By the time Jill and I left their house and continued on our way, we were about nine hours behind schedule, but neither of us had cause to complain.

My wife was very interested in Glenn, and the feeling was mutual. Before we left their house that evening, they indicated they’d be open to seeing us again; we saw them three more times in 2016 alone. We swapped, of course, and even paired off and spent the night together in separate locations (Alexandra and I at our hotel, Glenn and Jill at Glenn and Alexandra’s house). We took day trips and did fun family-friendly stuff. Our kids became friends. Between visits, we stayed in touch, often sending flirty messages and sexy pictures.

During the fourth and final trip we took to see them that year, Glenn told Jill that he didn’t have the same feelings for her that his wife had for me, and vice versa. In other words, while he enjoyed having sex with her, he was unable to reciprocate her emotions. She was hurt; beyond the rejection she undoubtedly felt, there was surely a modicum of envy for the connection I had made. At the time it seemed that Glenn had let her down in the most earnest, ethical way imaginable. We all remained friends, and the eventual cessation of our annual summer road trips to their city was due only to COVID.

I enjoyed Glenn’s progressive values. Sociopolitically and socioeconomically, he leaned far left. Perhaps even farther than I did, in fact. He had a great sense of humor, and was sex positive, not obsessed with cars, and barely interested in sports if at all. This meant that I didn’t have to fake interest in football any given Sunday that we happened to be visiting. He was an unabashed geek, a die-hard fan of Lord of the Rings, Doctor Who, and Star Wars among countless other pop culture properties. This was someone I was fine watching fuck my wife, or for that matter having join me in fucking her. He was the first guy whose balls touched mine.

Around him I didn’t feel uncomfortable or inadequate despite his greater stature, his unwavering confidence, and frankly, his bigger cock. Above all, I didn’t worry that this man was going to turn out to be a problematic creep because it just didn’t seem possible. He supported my relationship with Alexandra, at one point gifting her a trip to California to spend a few days with me in a hotel. In retrospect his consistent encouragement may have blinded me to various red flags.

Despite my confidence to the contrary as demonstrated in the previous post, this makes me wonder if sex does motivate my friendships after all. Am I more likely to accept a guy as a friend if doing so provides me with some sort of sexual perk? Most guys I’ve known would not encourage a sexual relationship between me and their significant others, and if they did it’s unlikely that said significant others would be interested anyway. But what if they did? Would I be more likely to embrace a guy whose friendship brought with it the occasional three- or four-way?

Once again, I don’t really think that’s true. I don’t care what kind of perk you offer – free concert tickets, a twenty percent discount at Target, weekend barbecues at your rustic mountaintop home overlooking the San Francisco Bay – if you’re a MAGA hat-wearing racist who thinks women exist to breed, or for that matter a self-important corporate douchebag who excels primarily because of his privilege, kindly go fuck yourself.

Still, it doesn’t hurt to check in with oneself from time to time and re-assess. Make sure that your heart is in the right place and your motivations are as pure as they can possibly be. At the very least, I feel like really lousy people – the worst of the worst – rarely if ever bother to introspect.

In the next post I’ll explore one particular episode in our friendship that should have clued me in to the fact that all was not as healthy and functional as it first appeared. And would have clued me in if I was capable of seeing clearly, i.e. if there was sufficient blood flowing to my brain.

Continued in Part 4.

[If you’ve not yet read the intro, kindly do so.]

The Early Years: Wherein I examine (toxic) masculinity through the lens of my upbringing.

I grew up in the 1980s. In fact, I became a teenager the year the ’80s came to a close. In the United States, nine of those ten years saw a Republican President in the White House, and Republicans controlled Congress for much of the decade. Crack cocaine and AIDS were allowed – encouraged, even – to wreak havoc on the Black and LGBTQ communities, respectively. It was a time when consumerism held sway over the American people and wealth and material were highly prized.

Conservative values dominated the country, with so-called traditional gender roles the norm, and casual bigotry including misogyny and homophobia sadly allowed to thrive. Straight white male privilege was so widespread that it went generally unnoticed by straight white males. It wasn’t commonly acknowledged; it simply was. While author Tom Wolfe coined “the ‘Me’ Decade” to describe the 1970s, it seems a more fitting descriptor for the greed and apathy of the 1980s.

Growing up, I saw casual misogyny. I saw homophobia. I saw racism. I saw unnecessary male aggression toward virtually anyone or anything. When you experience something enough – whether first-hand or otherwise – it can easily become normalized, even when it’s not something you support or agree with. In other words, if you attend a school where students are often bullied, you may not like the behavior but you will probably acknowledge that that’s just the way it works at that school.

The unnecessary aggression I describe wasn’t always directed at women, people of color, or LGBTQ individuals. I may be a straight white male, but I was short, I was frequently overweight, I was soft-spoken. I was awkward, and probably perceived as effeminate at times, no doubt the result of having a close relationship with my mother since birth. In short, I was an appealing target. Virtually all of the people who antagonized me growing up were boys or men. At the time, I didn’t know how to describe this male meanness – “bullying”, I probably would have said – but today it falls under the umbrella of toxic masculinity.

As a result of these experiences, today it is very difficult for me to have an ongoing friendship with a guy in part because it’s difficult to trust that the prospective friend has values that are at least somewhat in proximity to my own. It doesn’t have to be as overt as storming the Capitol or carrying a tiki torch through Charlottesville. It doesn’t have to be a closet full of Nazi memorabilia or having attended Klan rallies. It can be something as low-profile as harassing women under an assumed identity on social media. It can be trolling to compensate for one’s own shortcomings. It can be posting revenge porn. Hell, it can be mistreating waitstaff or otherwise refusing to care about one’s fellow human being.

Beyond all of that, it has traditionally been difficult for me to maintain friendships with guys because I don’t care much about sports or cars, and it seems like 90% of conversations I’ve had with men revolve around one of these two things. Sure, I know enough to fake it most of the time, but if we’re at a party and the men are mingling with the other men while the women are mingling with the other women – because suburban living is nothing if not conformist – chances are that my social anxiety is through the ceiling because I know I’m likely to get roped into a conversation about sports or cars.

In fact, in decades past very few of my conversations with other men involved pop culture, with the occasional exception of the most mainstream films, television shows, video games, and music. This is because up until fairly recently it wasn’t socially acceptable to be a geek and to have interests including but not limited to comic books, roleplaying games, and science fiction. In the 1990s, when I was a teenager and a young adult, bringing up any of these topics was a likely path to widespread derision.

Now, it may seem like I just wasn’t hanging out with the right people, and I can’t honestly say this wasn’t the case. But given how many people of my generation now talk openly about playing Dungeons & Dragons in the 1980s, or standing in long lines to buy multiple copies of Jim Lee’s X-Men #1 in 1991, it seems more likely that at least some of the guys who would have shoved someone into a trash can and rolled them down a hill for having geeky interests were probably into the same things but just couldn’t admit it. Lest they too be shoved into a trash can and rolled down a hill.

Anyway, why would I want to hang out with people who just want to talk about the same basic bullshit? And when the conversation wasn’t in the “sports and cars” realm, I still felt the need – and still do, in fact – to be on guard for casual racism, misogyny, and homophobia. Even when I’ve spent sufficient time in a man’s company to determine that he’s unlikely to express bigotry toward others, I still keep my guard up because heaven forbid I decide someone’s cool and let my guard down only to find out he voted for Trump.

(I realize that non-toxic masculinity exists and always has existed. I realize that there are other men like me who would rather not contribute to the problem. Decent, well-adjusted men are out there. But sometimes looking for male friends doesn’t feel like a worthwhile endeavor.)

Hanging out with one guy is risky enough, but with a group of guys the risk becomes exponentially higher. With one guy, there’s actually a pretty good chance that he’ll be decent. At least fifty-fifty odds, I’m thinking, though I have no statistics or other data to back that up. But let’s say you’re hanging out with a group of five guys. What are the odds that none of these five is a piece of shit? Again, I have no basis for any of this other than my own experience, but I’ve got to think that at least one of them (and probably more – maybe four) has disregarded a woman’s lack of consent, has participated in a hate crime against a member of the LGBTQ community, and/or would express umbrage over his daughter dating someone from a different race or ethnicity.

It’s for these reasons that I’ve always been closer to women and had more women friends than men. I find it easier to let my guard down with women, and even conversation comes more naturally. After all, there have been relatively few women who’ve failed to make me feel at ease around them whereas with men there have been relatively few who’ve succeeded. At times, I’ve wondered if this predilection was less altruistic: “Do I have women friends because I’m wary of toxic masculinity, or because I’m straight and women are more useful to me sexually than men are?” I try my best to always be self-aware – perhaps to my own detriment – but I’ve consistently come to the conclusion that that isn’t the reason.

It’s been hard to overcome the programming to which I was exposed during childhood and adolescence. Even though I never liked what I would come to know as toxic masculinity, it seemed a fait accompli. It was all around me, seen not only in the people around me but in the entertainment and other media I consumed, and that’s what I thought I was expected to be. Supposed to be, even. I didn’t fit in with other guys, and this led to identity issues, and intense introspective analysis. “IS this what makes a man?”

Sure, I had guy friends over the years, but generally speaking I saw it as taking the bad with the good. The way I saw it, every one of them had some antisocial dysfunction I was not yet aware of. Such dysfunction was part of being a guy. The question, once I sussed out what that dysfunction was in any given one of my male friends, was could I live with it?

I know the above is a very superior and fucked-up attitude to have. If it was true that some manner of toxicity was inevitable, was part and parcel of being a guy, then surely that meant I had something wrong with me too. Alternatively, if I am fairly well-adjusted – and I’m not saying I am, but if I am – surely other boys and men are too. Still, being exposed to terrible behaviors that have been condoned and even normalized by the collective, it becomes very easy to assume the worst of others.

In the next post I’ll talk about the now-dead friendship. I’ll demonstrate why it was such a breath of fresh air when compared to other male friendships I’ve had. I’ll revisit how the friendship began, how it evolved, and the benefits I enjoyed as a result. And because it’s me, I’ll introspect. A lot. Stay tuned.

Continued in Part 3.

Intro: Wherein I give an overview.

On a global scale, 2022 was an eventful year. The world population reached eight billion. Russia invaded Ukraine. Queen Elizabeth II died at age 96. Former Japanese Prime Minister Shinzo Abe was assassinated. Conflicts in Myanmar and Ethiopia caused more than 20,000 deaths. The U.K. saw the appointment of three prime ministers in as many months. Unprecedented protests swept through Iran following the murder of Mahsa Amini, a twenty-two year-old Kurdish-Iranian woman, in police custody. Russia returned WNBA player Brittney Griner to U.S. soil after the WNBA player spent more than nine months in captivity. Argentina won the FIFA World Cup.

Here in the United States, Ketanji Brown Jackson was appointed to the U.S. Supreme Court, which less than one week prior overturned the landmark 1973 case Roe v. Wade. The FBI raided Mar-a-Lago in search of classified material taken from the White House by outgoing president Donald Trump. The G.O.P. embarrassed itself in the U.S. midterm elections when the threatened “red wave” failed to materialize and most of the far-right Republicans running for office were defeated. Elon Musk purchased Twitter, spending approximately $43,999,999,700 more than the social media platform was worth and in the process devaluing both it and his brand. More than 267,000 COVID-19 deaths were reported in the U.S. alone. Will Smith slapped Chris Rock at the Academy Awards.

Some of these events were controversial. Some were widely condemned. Some were celebrated. Many shocked the world. All of them were front-page, above-the-fold news, or would be if anyone still read newspapers. And yet in spite of all of this tumult, I was somehow more affected by a personal matter, namely the loss of a very close male friend.

Before I go any further, I must clarify that despite the ominous wording of the previous sentence, the friend in question was not lost in the sense that he has passed on from this world to whatever lies beyond. Nor did the friend marry somebody who keeps him on a tight leash – “whipped”, if you will – and won’t let him hang out with the guys anymore. We didn’t have a huge falling-out over some aspect of pop culture or another and end the friendship in an acrimonious and geeky fashion. He didn’t dis my mother. He didn’t fuck my wife.

Okay, actually that last one isn’t true. He did fuck my wife, but I was there when it happened and so was his wife. Everyone was cool with it, and it was actually a hell of a lot of fun, so it didn’t have anything to do with the breakdown. The truth is, my friendship with this person ended passively, without a final confrontation or even parting words, once I learned that the person he’d led me to believe he was didn’t actually exist, and he’d conned me for nearly a decade into believing otherwise.

It’s no secret that I don’t have many guy friends, nor do I suspect it’s a secret as to why that is. But just in case it is, over the next several posts I will examine my upbringing in the 1980s with regard to the societal values that shaped me into the man I am today. I will explain why I find male friendships so difficult to make and maintain. I will give you background on the now-defunct friendship, I will tell you why this person seemed like a near-perfect guy friend, and why the friendship was so important to me. I will describe what caused me to throw off the friendship with great force, and I will give you my current thoughts on the matter.

This won’t be as sprawling and in-depth a story as Losing Joan, but nonetheless I hope you’ll enjoy reading it. (Perhaps moreso because it’s shorter.) And if you don’t, that’s okay too because my main reason for writing all of this is to get the feelings out.

Continued in Part Two.

Since 2010, we’ve taken at least one sexy picture of Jill every Christmas. Most are posted here at the blog, and I’d link each one but it’s 9:00 on Christmas Eve and I’ve got presents to wrap. Here’s a Twitter thread containing all of them through 2019. Check it out while the app still exists!

See who else is being sinful at Molly’s Daily Kiss!

You know that last second just before you kiss, when the anticipation is so intense it’s almost unbearable and your mouths can’t meet fast enough? It’s almost as exciting as actually kissing, isn’t it?

See who else is being sinful at Molly’s Daily Kiss!

Read Part 1
Read Part 2
Read Part 3
Read Part 4

Satisfied with your work, you turn around to face me. Still on your hands and knees, you open your mouth and swallow me to the base of my cock. I can feel your tongue moving all over me as you draw me deep into your throat, and instinct takes over. My hips begin moving back and forth, and before I realize it I am thrusting again. Your hungry noises compel me to fuck your mouth harder and deeper; I know how much you love it when I do.

Without stopping what you’re doing or even slowing down, you reposition yourself at the edge of the lounge chair and sit upright. Then you look up at me, savoring the pleasure on my face as the head of my cock bangs against the back of your throat. I become aware of my hands hanging uselessly at my side and; they would be put to better use at the back of your head, so that’s where I place them.

You can tell that I’m getting close, and when I let you up for air you tell me you would like to wear my cum this time. Just hearing your words brings me to the edge; my breathing quickens and gives way to moans. You stroke me faster and faster, and as I cum you let me take over. You stick out your chin, and you exult as my cum rains down all over your face, neck, shoulders, and breasts.

The intensity of the cheers from our audience is matched only by that of their moans, which rival my own. I look down, taking in the lasciviousness of your smile as I admire your dripping face. The shyness you exhibited earlier in the night is gone, replaced by an attitude that can only be described as pride. You are very pleased with yourself, and with good reason.

“I’m so very proud of you,” I say lest you believe you’re the only one feeling so fulfilled and satisfied. And just to make your heart do that thing you like, I add, “my beautiful whore.” With those words the wantonness falls away from your expression and I see only happiness. You reach up for my hand and bring it to your mouth, licking and sucking my fingers clean.

“I can’t believe you’re still this voluminous,” you say between licks. “How many times have you cum?”

“I don’t know. Three or four?” I reach down to your breasts, trailing my finger through the cum that dots your skin.

“Three or four times and you’re still – “

I interrupt you with a dripping wet finger you can’t help but wrap your tongue around. As I watch you lick and suck it clean, I collect more cum from your neck and your chin with my other hand; you are just as enthusaistic about cleaning it off when I bring it to your mouth. In moments, all that I gave you has been swallowed.

You finish your thought: “I just can’t believe you’ve still got so much!”

I tell you that I’m not finished cumming yet, then maneuver you back into doggy position. Before I join you on the lounge chair, I come around to the other side, where the toy bag lies open, and I pull out the Magic Wand. It is fully charged and ready for your pussy. I, on the other hand, have a different hole in my sights.

I hand you the toy with the instruction to turn it on and hold it on your pussy, so you do. I look back at the spectators, all of whom have a clear view of you kneeling across the lounge chair. I picture your gorgeous body from their vantage point. I imagine what you look like at that angle. But I have second thoughts.

“Turn,” I say. “I want your head here” – I indicate the lowered back rest at one end of the chair – “and your feet there.” I indicate the other end of the chair, then nod toward the crowd. “I want them to see.” The first signs of blushing appear on your face and upper chest, so I tell you how proud of you I’ll be if you do as I ask. You comply immediately, and lower your face and chest back down so that your ass is higher, your holes in the air for everyone to see and for me – only me – to use.

I place my hands on your ass, spreading you open. The plug catches the light as I expose it, and I immediately begin rocking it back and forth and slowly tugging. At the same time, I can feel the vibrations from the Wand. I know your pussy is raw and sensitive; I’ve put her through her paces this evening. But I know how much you want to please me, and I whisper in your ear. “I’m so proud of you.”

Someone watching cums noisily. Then someone else cums, albeit more reservedly. “Do you hear that?” I ask. “Everybody here wants you.”

“But I’m all yours.” I know words don’t come easily for you right now; the sensations are too overwhelming. I pull the plug partway out, then push it back in. I know what you want. I want it too. But I want you to say it, so you do.

“Please fuck my ass.” After a request from me to beg for the privilege of being ass-fucked, you go on. “Please, please fuck my ass.” Your voice is ragged, shaky with pleasure. “Please cum in my ass. I need your cum.”

“Louder. I want everyone to hear.” I know that the only way anyone will be able to hear you over the sound of the Wand is if you’re screaming, and I don’t want you to lose your voice, but my request does the trick: You raise your voice and speak as clearly and as decisively as you can, almost demanding, just as your first orgasm with the Wand hits you. I know there will be more; I should have brought the spreader bar.

I know you can’t stand the anticipation any longer, and I finally relent. Before you are aware of what’s happening, the plug is out, discarded on the lounge chair, and my cock is deep in your ass. The gasp as you feel me is the sweetest sound I can imagine. I barely hear the thunderous applause that accompanies the switch.

As I adjust to the snug quarters, you cum again. The way you squeeze and then release, over and over again until your climax has passed, sends an erotic shock through my body, and I want to feel it again, constantly, forever. I begin to fuck you slowly, almost tentatively, until I feel you moving with me, meeting my thrusts. The way you slam your ass into my cock lets me know you are ready for more, so I pick up the pace and increase the vigor of my thrusts. Gone is “gentle”. Gone is “patient”.

I am so proud of you for riding the Wand as I fuck your ass. I love how the vibrations feel, and as your body tenses again I know another climax is near. Your moans are loud and unrestrained, and as they give way to groans you tighten around me again. Your sounds of release are more wanton, even ferocious, as your ass grips my cock, contracting and then relaxing until I too am at the brink of climax.

I grab your hair and pull as the first waves of release come over me. More than my orgasm, I am focused on your reaction to it. Your moans intensify, joining mine as I fill your ass, still pounding you the whole time. And you never stop bucking against me, meeting my hips with every thrust. You constrict and relax rapidly, effectively squeezing out every last drop of my cum. It’s all for you. It’s always been yours.

As our orgasms subside, your hips keep undulating against me before slowing to a stop. You sigh heartily, then you lean back and tell me not to pull out yet. And anything my good girl wants she gets.

Read Part 1
Read Part 2
Read Part 3

You comply, so I give you what you want. You take me in your hands and I gaze down at you, watching you savor your juices and my own, licking up one side of my length and down the other. Your desire is palpable, your appetite vast; you are a woman who must have what she needs at all costs. As they behold this sight, another excited murmur spreads among the horny people watching.

And here I had all but forgotten our audience was there. I glance back to see whether they’re enjoying the show. One spectator straddles another in one of the small chairs off to the side of the patio, trying to keep the pace with us. There is a woman leaning against one of the tables with her dress up, getting it from behind. Most of the other guests sit in available chairs or stand as they masturbate.

You take me in your mouth and start sucking again, hungry for more. And while I’d love another blowjob right now, I’m not through with your pussy just yet. I pull my cock out of your reach, and before you can pout about it I brush your mouth with my fingers. You lick them softly, then take them in your mouth. You are so seductive. You know how much this turns me on. But right now I just want the moisture.

I turn you over. Now you are kneeling at the edge of the lounge chair, your chest down and your ass up. Your shoulders brace you at the other edge of the chair as your head hangs over the side. I move close so you can feel my cock graze on your pussy lips, and I watch you tremble. You want me inside you as badly as I want to be there. I see no reason to make my whore wait for me again, and I grab your soft ass in both hands and spread you apart. The sight of both of your holes open and ready for me makes me throb. I can see rivulets of cum running out of you, gathering on the lounge chair underneath us, and I can scarcely believe that it is mine. But I only gaze for a second before plunging back inside you.

You gasp as you feel me slide all the way in. At the same time, I begin to rub your unoccupied hole with two wet fingers. You moan, knowing what is in store, and begin to move your hips toward me, meeting every thrust.

“Please.” You speak softly, almost fearfully. Your voice is shaky. “I want it. Please give it to me.”

“Tell me what you want.” My voice is louder, authoritative.

“Please fuck my ass.” The plea is spoken softly, but now your voice is less shaky. There is confidence in your words. All at once I push my finger inside and begin to move it back and forth in sync with my cock. Your moans sound like satisfaction now, and you urge me onward.

I continue pumping my cock into you as deeply as it will reach. At the same time, I continue fingering your greedy ass, first with one finger before introducing a second. You reach back for me, but I’m not close enough for your hand to find me blindly, so I lean over and suck on your neck as I double-fuck you.

“I’m so full,” you manage to say through moans and gasps. Even without looking at you I can see the joy in your eyes. I can hear it in your voice This is what you’ve long desired. You say it again, then ask me if you can play with your clit. When I give you permission, you waste no time before bringing yourself to climax and then, momentarily spent, you move your hand out from underneath your body and let it hang off of the lounge chair where your fingers glance against the cold, hard ground.

“Does my good girl need a rest?” I ask, hoping you’ll say no.

You don’t say no, but I can see you shaking your head. Then, after a moment’s quiet, you finally speak: “Please don’t pull out. Not yet.” Then you reach for the toy bag, unzip it, and pull something out. The shiny metal gleams under the flood light as you reach back to hand it to me. Without any words, I pull my fingers out of your ass and push in the plug. In no time at all the hard metal fills your ass, and my still-hard flesh fills your pussy. You are so slick, so slippery, so full of cum that it feels as though my cock is swimming inside you.

I grip your ass, pulling you back to me with every thrust. I lean forward and whisper in your ear. “This is for me. I don’t mind if you cum, but this is entirely for my pleasure.”

“Yes. Please cum for me. I need more.”

“I love using your holes.”

You correct me: “Your holes. They are just for you.”

“Yes. You are mine, my angel.”

You coo happily as you hear my words, and I lean back and thrust harder. My fingers dig into your ass, the pillowy skin dimpling under the pressure. I move one of my hands to your plug, slip a finger inside the ring, and begin tugging at it. As I move it back and forth your moans rise in intensity. All the while, I continue fucking your pussy. I know how much you love being this full.

I am so focused on manipulating your plug that I don’t notice you digging around in the toy bag. But the crowd starts to cheer, and when I look up I see you deep-throating a particularly large and girthy dildo. I wonder how much of that is you showing off – because your deep-throating skills are truly second to none, and it makes sense that you would want everyone to see – and how much is a genuine need to simply have all of your holes as full as they can be.

As I watch your head bobbing up and down, my cock throbs; when you reach the bottom you hold the toy at the back of your throat, gagging as you instinctively fight for air. I drive my cock into you even deeper and harder than I had before, and at the same time I move your plug in and out of you faster, desperate to help you realize this fantasy. Then when I am buried inside you I grab your hips, pull you onto me, and ask you how it feels to be this full. That’s all it takes to make you cum again.

Your release is long, loud, and explosive. As I feel you squeezing me I know I’m close to cumming as well.

“Are you ready?” I ask. You say nothing; your moans are the only sounds I can hear. But you nod your head emphatically as it hangs over the side of the lounge chair, and your enthusiasm sends me over the edge. All at once I erupt again, gushing with all I have to give, painting the inside of you. My moans give way to a low growl as we both feel me emptying out.

Read Part 5.

Read Part 1
Read Part 2

I wasn’t planning on having my first orgasm so soon, but I should have been; you never fail to bring me right to the edge. As I have told you before, just watching you suck my cock is more erotic and exhilarating than actually feeling others do it to me. I know I am close, and you know it too. There’s no holding back.

“Where would my good girl like her reward?” I ask. “Would you like to swallow it, or wear it?” I expect you to take me out of your mouth to tell me. I wonder if you’ll pretend to think it over a bit before giving me your answer, which you’ve undoubtedly decided before we even got started. But instead you keep your lips closed tightly around my throbbing cock. Your point made, I keep fucking your throat. I’m so close I almost can’t stand it.

As my hands tighten in your hair you know your reward is close. It takes me only a few more forceful thrusts to erupt deep in your throat to a score of intense, impassioned moans. You don’t stop sucking until I am completely drained, and the sounds of your own pleasure and satisfaction are unmistakable. My thrusting slows, becomes more shallow and less assertive – almost passive – and then stops altogether. As you clean me with long, deliberate licks, the audience applauds. There are even a few stray cheers.

As the ovation dies down, you fall back against the lounge chair. The back rest is lowered all the way, giving us a completely horizontal surface to fuck on. As I catch my breath I watch your breasts slowly rise and fall. Then I look out at the crowd and see some of our spectators pulling their pants back up and gathering their personal effects. I clear my throat and address the congregation.

“We’re not finished!” At my words, the spectators look toward us again. Those who appear to be heading for the door stop in place. I pause here not for effect or emphasis but because I really don’t know what to say. I hadn’t planned on anyone leaving after my first orgasm, so I hadn’t rehearsed this announcement beforehand like I did my previous one.

I continue: “In fact, we’re just getting started. I am known for having no refractory period.” At this, I gesture to my cock, which is still standing upright, the head red, swollen, and angry. “So we’re going to keep going for awhile. If you’d like to continue watching, you are all welcome to stay.” I consider reminding them of the rules I set forth at the start of our performance, but so far they’ve done a good job being respectful, and at any rate, security knows what to do if anyone gets rowdy. I see no reason to reiterate the point like they’re children.

Now I turn to you. “Where would my good girl like my cock?” My voice is loud enough to be heard, but it’s clear that I am speaking to you and for you, not for our audience.

“In my pussy first, please.” Your legs spring open, and I look over at the crowd in the hopes of feeling their excitement as you show them everything that belongs to me. They are excited; clothing is once again being doffed, and now there are fewer spectators fully dressed than partially naked or even completely naked. I imagine their pleasure, even as I acknowledge that it will be nothing compared to ours.

I get onto the lounge chair and kneel between your legs. We both ache for me to fill you, desperate for that first moment when I slip inside your pussy. So naturally I take a few minutes and tease your lips and your clit with the head of my cock before giving you what you need. Your defiant whining is punctuated by moans of pleasure. You pull me close to you, we kiss, and soon I am home.

I move your legs up onto my shoulders and thrust, my fingers playfully strumming your clit. My cock is so deep inside you that your breaths become gasps. With every movement, the head of my cock glances against your G-spot. You grab my hips and move me back and forth, a gesture of assistance that is as exciting as it is unnecessary. I feel you squeezing me, pulsing around me, and it occurs to me that the audience might like to watch us both cum at the same time. But the thought barely registers in my mind before you climax noisily.

I can feel your nails raking my hips and my waist as your body goes rigid. You take your legs off of my shoulders and wrap them around my back like a great big hug, pulling me even deeper inside you. Your moans are an erotic cacophony, an orchestra piece that has reached its zenith and is winding down. But I don’t wait for your orgasm to subside before I place my hands under your thighs and move us into a sitting position so you can ride me on the edge of the lounge chair.

My hands are at your waist, lifting you up the length of my cock and then letting you slam back down repeatedly. You roll your hips under my fingers, and I can already feel your legs shaking. You throw your hands around my neck to anchor yourself, and I move my hands down to fondle your breasts. There is some hollering from the crowd now, nothing obnoxious. However, I realize they are facing the foot of the lounge chair, which means their view is your ass moving up and down on me, your hips rolling and rippling as your pussy swallows me whole.

Someone in the crowd moans. Then someone else. As their moans reach a crescendo, a third spectator gives in and cums as well. Our performance is having the desired effect. And the chorus of satisfaction must be enough to take you over the edge once more, because your body tenses up and you ride me harder, your legs pressing against my sides as you throw your head against my shoulder and wail in ecstasy.

Your lips meet my neck, kissing and sucking softly, and the sensations bring me close. I am not opposed to you making me cum while on top of me, but I think it will excite you more if you are on the bottom, looking up at me as I release inside you. Without warning, I pick you up, rise from my seat, and set you down on your back with enough force to make the chair shake underneath you. I pull your legs apart before you even realize what’s happening, and thrust harder than you’ve ever experienced. My movements are decisive, with purpose. You know what’s about to happen, and you goad me with your wanton words.

“Cum in me. Cum in my pussy. I need it so badly. I want to be so full.”

Anything you say after that is drowned out by a primal, guttural roar. I can’t say your name, though I try. I can barely form rational thought. All at once I let go, my cum pouring into you one thick, ropey spurt after another. I can’t be sure, but I think that feeling my release is what triggers your own. I don’t stop thrusting, even when I’m sure I’m spent. But my movements eventually slow, and you kiss me hungrily.

Then you whisper two breathless words: “Give me.”

I pull out of you, taking a moment to gaze down at your open pussy, my cum pooling inside you and dripping down your thighs. It looks beautifully used, and ready for much more. But my good girl has made a request, and anything my good girl wants she gets. I get off of the lounge chair and stand by your head, helping you into a sitting position so that you can taste both of us on my cock. But before I’ll give it to you I close my fist around it and stroke it just out of reach of your tongue.

“Say please.”

Read Part 4.