…and I suppose that we owe all of you – if anyone’s still reading – an explanation as to our whereabouts.  First off, this isn’t like that time we disappeared for more than a year.  Back then we had no Twitter accounts, and were essentially unreachable.  I assume that those of you who followed our blog back then figured that we’d run off and joined a commune or something.  This time, however, we’ve generally been active on Twitter, and were also reachable via email and Kik during our blogging hiatus.

Our blog went quiet in June.  Granted, we weren’t blogging much during the first six months of the year.  But in June we stopped blogging.  It was announced by Google that all adult blogs that were monetized – that is, for profit – would be deleted without warning.  The rumor was that Google was actually planning to delete all adult blogs, regardless of whether they were monetized.  Terrified by the prospect of losing five years of writing and erotic photography, we immediately exported this blog to WordPress.  We’d had a good run at Blogger, but no way in hell did we want to see our sexy legacy unceremoniously trashed.

Our new blog opened shortly thereafter.  We opted not to self-host, setting up a rudimentary home through WordPress itself until we had a chance to work out the logistics, financial and otherwise, of having our own domain.  Time was also an issue; we spent most of July traveling and were unable to focus properly on self-hosting.  However, shortly after our WordPress blog was up and running they announced that, like Blogger, they would also be shuttering non-self-hosted adult blogs.

Are you fucking kidding me?

We were about to embark on a cruise when this announcement was made.  With little choice, both of our blogs were quickly made invitation-only until we could return home and figure out what to do with them.  Sure, self-hosting is a popular option.  But we had published less than fifteen posts since the first of the year.  Was it really worth it to drop in upwards of a hundred bucks for a couple years of hosting for a blog we weren’t even sure if we still wanted?

We didn’t have time to address the situation before the end of our summer break, and by late August I had even stepped away from Twitter due to a number of obligations both foreseen and unforeseen.  Most elective activities took a backseat to real life, which was suddenly racing by at a breakneck pace.  With the number of things that required my immediate attention, blogging was unfortunately less than an afterthought.

One thing I did notice during this time was the vast number of adult blogs Google hadn’t deleted.  Many of our blogging friends remained at their original Blogger homes.  This made it clear to us that, at least for now, for-profit blogs were the only ones being deleted.  We’d received many requests for invitations, so a week ago we decided to make our blog public once again.  And here we are.

So welcome back, if you’re a returning reader.  If this is your first visit, thanks for stopping by.  We hope you enjoy what you find here.

– Jack

On Thursday, a fellow blogger asked me what happened to our blog.  I replied that it still exists – the fact that you’re reading this post is proof of that – but that over the last few months I’ve had far too many obligations to post much, let alone blog on a daily basis as we did in 2012.

These days, my desk is cluttered with a variety of writing projects – spec screenplays, in-progress novel manuscripts, short fiction, non-fiction works, and even a commission.  I am buried in work, much of which sits undone because my stay-at-home Dad schedule kicks my ass every day of the week.

However, one thing I have conscientiously pushed myself to do every single day, at least for the last month, is masturbate.  I know that some of you reading this are scoffing at the pride with which I tout this accomplishment.  For you, masturbation isn’t something one somehow manages to do despite various other responsibilities.  For you, masturbation is the top priority.  I know; I used to be just like you.

Being a parent to a toddler, as I’ve mentioned elsewhere on this blog, can put a serious crimp in one’s masturbation schedule.  Toddlers are unpredictable.  They’re always on the move.  They’re vocal.  They’re needy.  It’s easy to compulsively masturbate when your child sleeps most of the time, or at least naps once a day.  My child, however, doesn’t nap.  She is independent, but at the same time she likes to be able to see me.  If I leave the room for too long she comes to find me, and there is no lock on our bedroom door.  Even if there was she’d simply knock, yell, and cry until my erection not only deflates but retracts into my body cavity like a frightened turtle.

So while I used to be very proud of my busy masturbation schedule, I’ve accepted the fact that most of the time it’s just not going to happen.  Frankly, if by some miracle my toddler actually naps, I’m usually too busy decompressing to even think about having an orgasm.  Under those circumstances masturbation is the sort of thing that I tell myself I’ll do later, after I’m finished decompressing.  Of course, the last three years have taken such a toll on my mental health that I’ll probably never finish decompressing.  I acknowledge that sometimes I just need to say to hell with decompression – it’s time for an orgasm.

And make no mistake, were I allowed an hour – hell, thirty minutes – of uninterrupted “me” time every single day, my sanity wouldn’t be stretched thinner than a worn rubber band.  As my child sometimes grants me a bathroom break, I suppose I could excuse myself and go jerk off in there, but the last time I checked I was a full-grown adult, and not a deeply ashamed thirteen-year-old.  Other than on occasion when the mood strikes me during a shower, I’m no longer one to masturbate in the bathroom.  I’d like to think I’ve outgrown the practice and, dare I say, I deserve better.

In the past, when my daughter was content to play in her room with the baby gate denying her egress, I might have ventured naked onto our balcony, sat in a patio chair and stroked myself to a very satisfying climax, likely while conversing with a sexy friend on Twitter or some instant messaging app on my phone.  It didn’t matter if the sun was shining, or if it was pouring rain.  Being outdoors afforded me a minor exhibitionist thrill that invariably intensified my play.

But you know what didn’t intensify it?  What nearly brought it to a screeching halt, in fact?  The eventual nagging worry, as I got lost in my pleasure, that my child might hurt herself in her bedroom, and I wouldn’t be able to hear her cries because the glass door to the balcony was always inexplicably closed.  But our across-the-hall neighbors would have heard.  Unbeknownst to me, they would have called the police who, upon hearing a hysterically-crying child inside our unit, would have kicked open the door and come to her rescue, finding me on the balcony mid-orgasm and inhibiting me sexually for the rest of my life.  In case you skipped the second paragraph, I’m a writer.  I have a very vivid imagination.

Eventually my kid outgrew the baby gate.  Letting her roam free throughout the house while I retreated onto the balcony meant there was no way she wasn’t going to come knocking on the glass.  So the balcony eventually lost some of its appeal as a masturbation location.  These days, the only thing that’ll do me is to stretch out on my bed, read sex blogs (or Twitter) on my phone, or fire up some porn on my tablet while focusing on my goal of all-encompassing pleasure.

Yes, I’m watching more porn than I was a year ago.  No, I’m not proud of this.  Make no mistake, I’m not ashamed of it, either.  I like porn.  But I’m also the sort of person who prefers to be stimulated mentally:  Some intense flirtation, a sexy chat, whatever.  I’m as turned on by a hot visual as I am by a good blow job, but I prefer to let my arousal build gradually, whether I’m masturbating or having sex.  I love the anticipation that comes from waiting for an instant message that I just know is going to be hot.  I love the sound of an incoming video call on Skype.  I love progressing through a sexy chat, knowing the other person is every bit as aroused as I am.

However, I’m not always afforded the luxury of time.  That’s why, at least half the time, when I am looking to get off I simply select a favorite porn clip and get to work.  If my child is awake elsewhere in the house, occupied perhaps with a few books or a television show, I am aware that she may come running in at any second.  If she does there’s no chance she isn’t going to climb up on the bed where I have hopefully wrapped myself in a blanket the instant I hear her approaching footsteps.

The smart thing to do, of course, is to wake up early and get it out of the way while she’s still asleep.  However, given my penchant for late nights I find it difficult to haul myself out of bed before my daughter wakes up and comes wandering into my room.  Additionally, while I know that a quick orgasm first thing in the morning will help me stay focused throughout the day, and thus be a better dad and generally more productive, I realize that there are no guarantees.  Arousal dogs my every step.  There’s no rhyme or reason to it.  One minute I might be perusing legal documents, scrubbing the grout in our bathroom, or preparing lunch for my daughter.  The next minute I may well be contemplating my sudden erection, wondering why it seems to be mocking me.

With all of this in mind, the fact that I have managed to masturbate daily throughout May – that’s right, every single day of Masturbation Month – is actually quite impressive.  In fact, most days my body has cooperated fully, granting me my usual short refractory period and allowing me another orgasm or three, time permitting.  Some mornings I have one.  Other mornings I have none, and must get creative in order to manage one later in the day.  Some mornings I have five.  And let me just say that at age thirty-six, the volume of my fifth ejaculation over the course of an hour and a half is much greater than I would have thought it would be.

Sometimes I wonder if position has any effect on ejaculation.  Masturbating on my back is a relatively new thing, and I really enjoy it.  Not only is it fun and relaxing, but it also facilitates my orgasm when Jill is riding me, something that has been fairly elusive in the past.  On the other hand, if ejaculation is affected by position, it stands to reason that masturbating on one’s back might lessen the volume, given that the semen must flow upstream, as it were.  It seems like ejaculation would be assisted by gravity, meaning that kneeling or standing might result in greater volume.

On the other hand, I’m relatively certain that when I masturbate while kneeling, sitting, or standing up I rarely observe my ejaculation.  I’m not sure what my eyes are doing – probably rolling back in their sockets, if I had to guess – but I generally don’t focus on my cock as it’s erupting and I therefore can’t accurately describe my load.  On the other hand, lying supine affords me a better vantage point, and I can admit that as I’ve been utilizing this position my eyes are generally drawn to the epicenter.  I enjoy watching myself ejaculate, and am generally content to let it fly, rather than inhibiting the flow of semen as I might when on my knees or perhaps sitting in a chair.

To those that might worry that stay-at-home parenthood – or parenthood in general, for that matter – must in some way limit one’s sex life, specifically one’s masturbation regimen, I am here to disprove the rumor.  Yes, my relationship with my cock has evolved over the last three years, but we aren’t estranged.  My urgent need for regular sexual release has caused me to alter my masturbation habits, and in my opinion that’s always a good thing.  Routine is the enemy of anything worth doing.  Little Jack and I are rekindling our relationship, finding new ways of keeping the fires lit, and just because Masturbation Month is drawing to a close I see no reason to lessen the momentum.

I will leave you with a link to last year’s Masturbation Month post, wherein Jill shares her thoughts
on self-pleasure and a sexy video wherein she brings herself to climax – and ejaculation – with her Eroscillator.  If you haven’t yet checked it out, now’s your chance.

Tweeted this on Tuesday.  It didn’t get much of a response, but even if it had, it bears repeating.

Just walked into the children’s section at my local library, where storytime had just let out. A huge group of moms were gathered.
— Jack (and Jill) (@jackandjillcpl) March 26, 2013

One dad playing lovingly with his child amidst a sea of moms. I might as well have been the hairless werewolfboy from Twilight.
— Jack (and Jill) (@jackandjillcpl) March 26, 2013

I like the idea that I will inspire many vibrator-assisted orgasms amongst these ladies when they get home.
— Jack (and Jill) (@jackandjillcpl) March 26, 2013

Not only is stay-at-home fatherhood a great opportunity to bond with one’s children, but it can also be an enormous ego boost.

– Jack

In our last post, published way back in mid-February, we talked about an “anti-Valentine’s Day party” thrown by some friends of ours.  We’d been invited to said party despite the fact that we assumed it was a singles-only event, and while I joked that we might be set upon by a crowd of bitter singles and mutilated beyond recognition, I can say for the record that we did attend the party and we are still alive.

Beyond that, we managed to have a pretty good time.  We were, despite my assumption to the contrary, the only couple in attendance.  The gathering consisted mainly of women, though there were a handful of single males as well.  Some people I knew, though some I did not.  Some of the attendees were members of my high school graduating class, others were people I knew from elsewhere – friends of friends and such – while others I was meeting for the first time.  No one looked down their noses at us for daring to breach their romantically-unattached inner sanctum.  Overall, we had a good time.

Especially Jill.  She tends to drink at home, though when we go out she is often the designated driver.  That night, however, we hadn’t discussed which of us was going to take one for the proverbial team and stay sober.  We hadn’t planned on being at the party very long; we’d only gotten the babysitter until 9:30 and figured even that was probably pushing it.  Over the course of a couple hours, one drink, or maybe two, for each of us, was probably reasonable.

I should also mention that we managed to enlist Jill’s sister to watch our daughter.  She’s unreliable as a sitter, often calling us home long before the agreed-upon end time.  Her general flakiness has proven frustrating on more than one occasion.  That we offered to let her babysit at our house rather than hers probably sweetened the deal, and while we told her we’d be home by 9:30, both Jill and I expected to start receiving texts shortly after we arrived at the bar.  Because there’s precedent for that.

As soon as we arrived, before I could get myself a drink even, I got pulled aside to catch up with a couple friends.  By the time I looked over at Jill she had a beer in hand and was engaged in raucous conversation with M and a couple of our mutual friends.  She wasn’t drunk yet, but I knew it wouldn’t take long.  As the evening continued on, I looked over and saw that my wife was having a blast.  I didn’t mind staying sober.

Eventually I made my way over to Jill.  By this point she was more or less drunk.  Jill gets affectionate when she drinks, and while the requisite flirting with M did occur, she also flirted with a number of the other women at the party including M’s conservative best friend, who had fortunately had a couple drinks herself, flirted right back, and laughed it off.

Jill whipped out her tits so many times that the bartender named a cocktail after them.
— Jack (and Jill) (@jackandjillcpl) February 16, 2013

Other things Jill did that night include pulling out her tits ostensibly whenever she got the urge, though in a fairly surreptitious fashion; and talking quite loudly about our having had a threesome with M.  No one seemed to hear – she didn’t mention it when engaged in conversation with anyone else – but that didn’t stop M from playing along.  If anyone overheard, she rationalized, they’d assume it was a joke.

By nine o’clock neither of us had heard from Jill’s sister, which was encouraging.  Still, we expected to start getting texts around 9:15, asking if we were going to be home on time.  We didn’t.  We didn’t even get a text at 9:30, or 9:35.  Around ten o’clock, after more than a half hour of avoidance on my part, I asked Jill if she’d heard from her sister.  She said she called her right around 9:30.  Our daughter was fast asleep, and her sister told us to stay out as late as we wanted.  That was unexpected.

We finally left around 11:45, stopping to pick up Taco Bell en route because my wife craves cheap pseudo-Mexican fast food when she’s been drinking.  M was close behind us; we had her hang back until we verified that our daughter was still asleep and dismissed the babysitter.  When that was done, we texted her the all clear.

Jill had already poured wine by the time M got upstairs.  I took a seat on the armchair while the two ladies got comfortable on the sofa and picked up where they’d left off at the bar.  I felt my arousal build as I watched them kiss, first tentatively, teasing.  Before long, though, their play intensified, hungry mouths biting gently as tongues darted between lips and hands found thighs and breasts.  As Jill nuzzled and sucked on her soft neck, M beckoned me to the couch with a cocked head and a raised eyebrow.

I wasted no time, squeezing in behind my wife and freeing her breasts.  As I kneaded them with my hands, Jill leaned back so our guest could have a taste.  It was only a moment before I moved around to join M, stopping only long enough to cast off Jill’s top.  We sucked her nipples heartily, noisily, eventually coming together on the same breast, then switching to the other.  Jill reclined on the sofa and caressed her thighs, her moans soft and steady.

It was then that I noticed that M was unbuckling Jill’s belt and opening her jeans.  Her hand sunk beneath the soft fabric of her panties, and the smile on M’s face when she discovered Jill’s wetness betrayed her elation.  As her fingers danced within, Jill hurried to open my own jeans and withdrew my cock.  As she swallowed it whole, M stripped her from the waist, leaving jeans and panties discarded and out of sight.  Now wearing just her bra – barely, I might add – Jill licked and sucked as M got to work, caressing her wantonly before replacing her fingers with her tongue.

As my wife drew me deeper into her mouth, M applied long, deft strokes to Jill’s wetness, making eye contact with me every few licks.  I tried to concentrate on Jill’s mouth and the erotic things she was doing with it, but as she neared climax it became evident that I was but an afterthought.  And rightfully so.  I slipped from her mouth and lowered my mouth onto her breast just as she began to convulse.  Her moans were loud and unrestrained.  She reached down and held M’s head in place as her hips bucked.  I imagined the tightness of Jill’s thighs against my face as I licked and sucked her nipple, and when her orgasm had subsided I lay against her chest, still rising and falling rapidly even as M came around to resume their makeout session.

When she could speak again, Jill expressed amusement at the fury and intensity of her orgasm, and suggested we move things into the bedroom.  On the way, she stopped in to check on our daughter, still fast asleep.  And that’s how we found her later, as we walked M to the door.  Given the number of near-misses and babysitter-related drama we’ve experienced on the quest for another threesome with M, we couldn’t have imagined that all we needed to do was let her fall asleep for the night.