So, this is it. The Project. Yet Another Online Diary. Will anyone care? Will I be able to keep it up? Can I be sufficiently pretentious?

I don't know, to all of those. I certainly don't know if the readers who like my work will be interested in my life. I hope so, but perhaps they will be disappointed with me when I expose myself, as it were.

See, the thing is, I like my life, but I don't know if I'd want to write about it. Petty squabbles at the office, commutes, going out with friends - and if I go home alone, will they be disappointed? And if I don't, will they feel betrayed?

Because I think it's important to some readers that, as a woman and a stranger, I may be part of the fantasy myself. That I just may be describing myself in the woman's role. The more specific I am about myself, the less they will be able to do that.


Then, how do they know that what I tell them here has any relation to the truth?

I think I have a solution to that one, at least.

Listen up, folks: This Diary Is A Fake. Fabrication. It didn't happen, certainly not like I told it.

Now, what you want to make of that is up to you. Some of the things I'll talk about will be true, but I will not identify them. Names will certainly be made up, for my own sake as well as the protection of the innocent... as if anyone around me fit that description! So you know before getting into this that I'm not going to tell you nothing but the truth. And I won't tell the whole truth, either. Think of this as a work of fiction, albeit one without a three-act structure, turning points (they may happen, how would I know now?) a climax (only one? I hope I can do better than that), and perhaps even without a well defined lead character. Think of it perhaps as the way things might have happened. I'm certain that you'll be happier with that than fixating on the facts.

So what shall I tell you? That my lover snores? Is snoring right now, as I type this? I would certainly not put it in a story. In a story I would wake in his arms, already partway to orgasm, already tingling with desire as I slowly come to consciousness... and it has happened, I know it's possible, but not with Jay here. He needs half a pot of coffee before his eyes will even open. He may wake me if I sleep until after midday, and then I'd have too much of a headache to be tingling with desire. I think I'd hit him with a pillow instead.

But then, last night made up for a lot of missed mornings.

Last night almost made me think that a long-term relationship might be worth the effort.

Almost. There's more to life than great sex. Not much, perhaps, but more. And my breasts are sore, now, which I also wouldn't write in a story. At the angle I have to sit to type on my notebook, they're rubbing on my robe, making it hard to concentrate on typing. No, I think when Jay leaves today, I'll be alone for a time... and then what will I write about?

And then, perhaps I shouldn't have started thinking about it. I looked over at him, with those golden curls - I wish he would grow a beard - and sore breasts seems a small price to pay. They sure felt good at the time, with his mouth around them, and he knows how to use his tongue in other ways... damnit, now I'm making myself even more uncomfortable.

I'm going to go take a shower and brew that pot of coffee. Then I'll give him something to remember me by.


(Just a note. I don't plan to be keeping this diary daily. Maybe weekly. I had to add this today before I talked myself out of it.)

God, I hate coming down. Not necessarily the end of the relationship, as such. Jay and I knew this was going to happen, and we gave ourselves a wonderful going away present. It was even the reason I thought that it would be a good time to start this diary.

No, the problem is I always do something stupid on the rebound.

It was Clarice's well-meaning gesture that got me in trouble. "You need to let your hair down, girl." We took a cab to Bennigan's and started buying drinks. I guess she didn't buy all of them. My wallet was much lighter this morning.

No, I didn't bring anyone home. I almost wish I had. At least I'd know where I stand.

Clarice was acting up, as she does, telling all the guys that I was available, while I tried to hide my face, when who would walk in but Larry, with Chris, a friend from work. I know Larry through his wife Ellen, so I was surprised to see him without her. Turns out she was on some kind of retreat for the weekend, and he and Chris had to work Saturday, so they stopped off at B's afterwards.

Well, I figured I'd be safer to invite Larry to the table rather than let Clarice invite the rest of the world, and judging from the way Chris was acting around Clarice, he didn't object. And Larry's cool, for a nerd.

Anyway, we had a great time, and of course Larry and I started talking about Internet matters. I wish I could remember how the conversation turned to online sex, but somehow Larry and I were explaining to Clarice what it was all about. I didn't - God, I hope I didn't - admit to my writing. I'm sure I didn't. But then he - we were all pretty far gone, except for Chris, who had designated himself Larry's driver - made a comment about the online fascination with oral sex. How the teaser images all showed erections and heavily-painted lips, and the stories told the role-reversed form.

I didn't see what he was getting at, and made a comment about how the online world is often an idealized form of what people want in real life. I'm sure it wasn't as coherent as that. Anyway, he made some really inane comment about how most women just don't go for it. Clarice looked at me and said "he obviously doesn't read Cosmo".

Well, it seemed hilarious at the time.

So, I recall telling Chris not to listen to me for a while, and telling Larry exactly what I thought to his theory. I believe - this is where things are getting vague - I believe I gave him a blow-by-blow account - if you'll excuse the choice of words - of some of the best times Jay and I had. I remember that what I was telling him made me so hot that I started eyeing Clarice. If she and Chris hadn't looked ready to climb under the table and onto each other, I may have suggested something we might both be regretting. Or relishing, I don't know, I've never felt that way about her before, but last night she looked lovely.

Sitting in a bar, in public, talking with a friend's husband about how it feels to have my pussy eaten. How am I going to look Larry in the eye when I see Ellen and him socially?

Soon after that, Chris drove us home. He claimed that the shortest route was to drop Larry first, then me, but I doubt that was true, and I would be very surprised if he arrived home. Me, I slept naked, and survived today with the help of Ibuprofen.

So that's me, Helen, on the rebound.

At least, I hope it is. I hope that the other things I vaguely recall saying were alcohol-induced dreams. If not, my embarrassment now is nothing to how I will feel if Larry remembers our conversation.

I don't even want to think about it. I'm going to bed.



This diary is not supposed to be about sex. Was not. Will not be... whatever. I guess I really did pick the wrong time to start it. Or I should have started self-censoring, I guess. I have promised myself that I will not change entries that I have uploaded. Not only because it would be noticed, but because I feel that for The Project to be worthwhile, I need to keep at least a little integrity about the process. I have already tweaked yesterday's entry after I uploaded it for some glaring errors in writing, but I won't change the content.

But that means that now I have to follow through with yesterday's horror story. Or risk leaving an important thread dangling. I wish I had waited until next weekend, and uploaded two or three innocuous entries, but I guess I'm committed now.

Or perhaps I should be committed now...

Clarice called me at the office this morning.

"Hey, girl, you were on a roll Saturday night. How was your head yesterday?"

"No worse that you'd expect, if you expect a wrecking crew with air hammers and boom boxes. What about you? Are you going to tell me Chris dropped you on the sidewalk and drove away?"

"No comment."

"Is that 'No Comment: mind your own business', or 'No Comment: you really don't want to know'?"

"It was 'No Comment: wow!'"

I chuckled. "Yeah, I thought so."

"What about you? Are you planning to see Larry again?"

"Well, yeah, I'll see him with Ellen, I'm sure."

"Not alone?"

"What are you getting at?" I was getting nervous.

"Your totally earnest discussion with him."

"Why would that mean I'd want to see him again?"

"Well, you know... maybe you don't. Are you having trouble remembering?"

"I don't know, Clarice. I hope I am, but I think you're about to tell me I'm not."

She laughed. "Well, you do recall the topic of conversation, right? I don't want to go into details here, I'm in an open area." I grunted assent. "Well, do you remember what you promised him?"

Oh, God. It hasn't been a dream. "Did I... uhhh... did I make him an offer he couldn't refuse?"

"No shit, girl. I want to know when he collects."

I hope no one was watching me, because I think I was bright red by this time. "What about Chris?"

"You want to invite him too? I was kidding!" She overrode my frantic noises. "No, his mind was on other things. He won't have heard any of it."

"Oh, God, Clarice, what am I going to do?"

Clarice has a deep, throaty laugh. I usually love to hear it. This time it grated. "Well, girl, you know what I would do. Hell, if you're getting squeamish, send him over here."

"I don't know what to do," I wailed. "Maybe he won't call. Oh, Clarice, I have to get back to work, but please call me tonight. I need to talk."

"No can do, tonight," she said. "I have a hot date."


"No comment." I could hear the smile in her deep voice.

I couldn't concentrate on my job today. I screwed up two upgrades, and spent the afternoon restoring one system from backup to repair it. Needless to say, Jack wasn't very happy with me. He can be a real jerk at times, but today he just glowered. Perhaps he sensed that I wasn't feeling good.


Life gets back to normal. Last trace of the hangover vanished with the mist. And there has been a lot of mist, the last few days. What a strange February. 80+ degrees, high humidity. Seems more like April or May.

Perhaps because of the screw-ups yesterday, Jack didn't find much for me to do. He may be an asshole, but he trusts me to do my job, so he must have known that there was something wrong. I'll thank him tomorrow for being considerate. He'll probably pretend it didn't happen, and just be rude, but that's Jack. At least I know where I am with him.

The break gave me chance to do some more administrative stuff on my site. I'll have a mailing list, soon. My host already set it up, it's just a matter of getting the subscribe / unsubscribe details worked out. Though, so far, I think only one person has used any of the "new features" of the site, which is disappointing... but perhaps that will change.

Part of the reason for my break from writing was so that I could spend some time getting the site into shape. And it's interesting, the admin on the site is much different from the admin at the office, but I'm finding that I'm itching to write again. I'll have to start looking for ideas.

There's a cute guy I've seen a few times now. Pulled up next to me at the red light. I think he works in the next office complex. I wonder if there's any way I can find out who he is? "Paging the guy who drives the green Range Rover, registration #......, please pick up the white courtesy phone for a date." I should scrawl my email address on a card and wave it in the window next time I see him.

Hey, that's not a bad idea. Not exactly like that, but a tasteful card in the rear left window, just an email address, no name. No advertising. Would it look like "for a good time call...."? Or would it look like I'm desperate? Because I'm not. The idea would be merely to find new friends.

I think the uninitiated would see it as inviting a cyber-stalker. Perhaps it isn't a good idea.

But I wish I knew the email address of the guy in the Range Rover.


I think I saw a butterfly this morning. Hatched early with the heat wave, I guess. Ironic that warm, welcoming weather would be lethal. It will die, probably in the next couple of days, not having found a mate. Expiration of the species. I know, an individual... it's irrelevant in the Grand Scheme. But it's a strange feeling, wanting to feel good about a spring butterfly, but knowing that it's a doomed creature.

Then, evolution is all screwed up. These days, it's avoiding procreation which preserves the species, at least ours. Using a condom is pro-survival. Abstinence is pro-survival, at least if practiced until conception is safe.

That's a quandary I have always when I write. Sometimes I explicitly write in condoms. Other times, I assume them, even though I'm sure my readers won't. I know that my characters are smart enough not to engage in unprotected sex.

But if I write them in, I spoil the flow of the story.

And I guess, if I'm honest, there are a few places where there couldn't be condom use. Most of The Old House, probably. If you're being driven by forces beyond your control, it's hard to imagine stopping to open a box of condoms. And the last scene, even though it doesn't deal with said forces, just wouldn't work with a condom.

Of course, I'm no more attempting to encourage unprotected sex than Patricia Cornwell is encouraging the most grisly forms of murder. And I don't feel that I need to be promoting condom use, though I do like to add the detail when I can, both because they're a Good Idea, and because it's a touch of realism.

Jack has stopped protecting me. Perhaps he never was, perhaps it was just a quiet day yesterday, but things are back to normal. Still, I had time to play around a little, finish this entry. Now I'm going home.

Oh my God, he called. I thought it was over.

"Hey, Helen, it's Larry."

I think my stomach fell away from me. I was standing when I picked up the phone. I was sitting a moment later. I don't recall getting from one to the other.

"Umm... Hi, Larry. Nice to hear from you."

"I've... uhhh... I've been debating calling you since Saturday. I guess I've been trying to talk myself out of it for days, but I just can't get our conversation out of my head. I don't want to embarrass you, but I have to know... did you mean what you said?"

The moment of truth, I guess. I procrastinated. "I know I meant it at the time, Larry."

"Oh." He sounded almost relieved. "But you really don't mean it now. I understand. Listen, thanks for talking to me. I hope I haven't upset you."

He was hurrying to end the conversation politely. I wasn't quite ready. "Hold on, Larry, I didn't say that. I don't know what I think now." I listened to silence for a moment. Neither of us knew what to say. Then I added, "Would you like to come over and talk about it? I feel really odd talking about this on the phone."

"Uh... sure. Yeah, that would be find. Could I come over this evening? Ellen will be out until close to midnight."

"Yeah, sure. Give me at least an hour."

So this is it. Is there time for me to go into details, since I've been avoiding the issue? Yeah, I guess so, if I don't get finished, I'll edit this and upload it tomorrow.

See, the thing is, if it isn't far too obvious already from my stories, I think oral sex is truly one of the wonders of the world. Not that sex in any form can't be wonderful, but a guy who knows what his doing can have so much more control, he can keep me on the edge until I'm crying in frustration, take me there slowly, or drive me hard. And he isn't derailed by coming too early, or by hang-ups over size. I mean, don't get me wrong, there's nothing better than making love to the right guy, taking my time, somewhere between practiced, knowing what's good, and inventive, trying something new... but a guy who can really use his tongue can short-cut the learning curve.

My experience is that men feel pretty much the same way. It's easier to tantalize a man with my tongue on his cock than if he's inside me, controlling the pace. A man rarely knows when to wait, or how, so if I hold the reins, I can give him what he doesn't even know that he wants.

This was what I was explaining to Larry so earnestly. He has tried it with Ellen, and failed. He figured that if he could show her a truly great experience, the magic would overcome her reluctance to let him get his mouth on her, and he could eat her regularly. Which he desperately wants to do.

"Listen," he had said. "Just thinking about it gets me so horny that sex is better. Those few times she has let me, I may not have gotten her off, but it turned her on so much that she had a much better experience when we made love. And me. But until she'll let me take the time to learn, I won't be able to show her how good it can be, so we won't do it."

Without hesitating, "I'll teach you," I said.

He looked startled. "Say what?"

"You can practice on me. Believe me, I would enjoy it."

"But... I'm happily married."

"I didn't say we would date, or sleep together, or kiss, even," I said. "You get your practice, I get off. It's a straight trade."

"You would do that?" His face was red, and his expression still one of shock.

"You're not getting this, are you? I'll have the better part of the deal."

God, I must have been drunk. But the thought still turns me on.

Now he's coming over to talk. Just to talk. We'll have to realize that the idea is insane. We will. Tomorrow the embarrassment will be behind us, we will have done nothing, and I'll still be able to look Ellen and Larry both in the eye.

But I've showered and changed.


Hot and wet. Spring storms, that is... strange weather. I think my butterfly will probably have drowned. But that isn't what you want to hear, is it?

How do I handle this? Could I just say "nothing happened" or "last night was great" and leave it at that? It would be a cheap way of chickening out. But how much detail can I go into when I'm a participant?

What about this: I'll treat it as a scene in a story. It wasn't me, it was some other young woman who should have known better. Which, I believe, answers the question that you (you, my diary, you, my future self, you, my unknown audience) are asking.

Larry arrived at seven. I... sorry, she, Helen, answered the door wearing purple sweats. As non-provocative attire as she could find.

Larry sat across from her, on the high-backed chair, and after a very embarrassed, shaky start, they finally rehashed the conversation of Saturday.

"So, I figured, if you were really serious, I'd take you up on your offer."

She felt a tingling in her groin as she studied his flushed face. Down, girl, she thought, whatever happens, you're not getting involved with him. Not in terms of a relationship. But the idea of short-term fun was almost as appealing as it had been on Saturday.

"This is just too weird," she said. "I should apologize to you, and tell you to get the hell out of here. What the hell are we thinking, even talking like this?"

"If that's what you want," he replied, studiously trying not to look hurt.

"The thing is, I'm horny," she said, "and I don't want you to go. But if we let anything happen, how will we be able to live with ourselves?"

"For me, by being a better lover to Ellen," he said. "That's all it would be for me."

Like hell, she thought, having seen the bulge in his pants. But it was a good justification. Perhaps she could rationalize away her own wants if her friend also got something worthwhile from the deal.

She stood, holding her hand out to him. "I'm going to hate myself in the morning."

Larry's jaw dropped. He obviously could not believe that she was going to go through with this. He reached out, and his hand shook in hers. She led him to the bedroom.

"How are we going to do this?" she mused aloud. Try to keep a sense of detachment, woman. "Here, help me." She stripped the bed down to the sheets. "Wait there," she said to him, climbing between them. Hidden by the top sheet, she slipped off her sweat pants and panties. She turned sideways in the bed, then lifted and parted her knees.

"Go ahead," she said to Larry, indicating the sheet. He ducked his head underneath, then tentatively started stroking his hands along her thighs.

He kissed her thighs as he gently massaged her ass. Still feeling queasy from the whole notion of what they were doing, she found the motion relaxing.

Slowly his face approached her pussy. She closed her eyes, letting the excitement of anticipation drift through her. She felt his nose stroke her, warm and dry. Then his tongue.

After a time, when he still wasn't penetrating with his tongue, she told him to use his hands to part her labia. He grunted, and felt about. It took a while before his tongue sneaked within her. Then she showed him how to lick and kiss her labia. He felt pleasant, but not very stimulating. This was nice, but if Ellen was repulsed by oral sex, this would not convert her.

She maneuvered him around, slowly getting more excited. She wasn't sure if it was simply the length of time she had been aroused, or if he was really improving, but slowly the warmth grew in her belly. She tightened her thighs against his head.

As he picked up on what movements produced the best reaction, he became more inventive, and more forceful. She felt her thrill level climbing, and sighed.

He kept up the pace. She began to think that perhaps he could really learn to do this. Each stroke of his tongue stoked the fire in her belly.

Nervously, she pulled the sheet away, to see him. As his eyes met hers, she found the sight of him working on her enormously erotic, and a wave of passion swept through her. She reached for his hair, stroking his head.

Then she directed his attention to her swelling clit. Learning from her responses again, he went from painfully sharp movements to a glorious stimulation, soft, but growing unbearably. She gasped, though she was trying to be quiet. She moved him around until his tongue was gently ticking the right side of her clit, then she lay back and tried to relax as the pressure built, tightening her chest with desire.

As he started flicking his tongue against her clit, she lost her will to remain silent. She lifted herself to be able to reach his head again, then grasped his hair with both hands. She tensed and started pushing herself against him. Then, moments later, she moaned as she felt her arousal overcome her resistance.

Gasping as my body spasmed in orgasm, I pressed his face into me. He snuffled noisily as he tried to breathe, and I realized that I was causing him trouble. I released him and lay back, letting the waves of pleasure flow from my groin as my climax slowly subsided.

Finally, I drew back.

"Well," he said, "I guess now I know that it's possible."

"More than possible," I gasped. "You did good."

"Do you think it's a repeatable phenomenon? Could I try this on Ellen?"

"I don't know," I said, honestly. "I got to a point where technique was less important than results. I don't know how much you improved as you learned, and how much I was getting so turned on that I didn't care."

He grinned idiotically. "So, was it good for you?"

I said a rude word. "Is Ellen often late home?"

"Every Wednesday," he answered.

"Let's go for a few more sessions before releasing you into the wild," I said.

(I just noticed that I switched persons somewhere up there. I think in remembering all this I had increasing trouble thinking of a separate "Helen". This is still far too real to me to assign the feelings to someone else. That's okay, perhaps it says more about what I'm feeling now than the words themselves.)

"Are you sure?" he asked.

"Hell, yes," I said.

I sent him to the shower, with instructions to use plenty of mouthwash. The nasty, antiseptic-tasting type, not the minty kind. I figured it would do a better job of masking his activities.

We didn't speak much afterwards, though we exchanged several bemused glances. At the door, I caught his hand in mine. "Seven o'clock again?"

He nodded.

"Hey," I said. When he turned, I gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. "Thanks."

I squeezed his hand, then let him leave.

Oh, and, by the way... I did not hate myself this morning. I felt quite cozy, in fact, and not a little disappointed that I have to wait a week for our next lesson.

( ... To be continued. I hope! ... )


OK, so I skipped a few days. Sorry. I did warn you. Anyway, it has been an uneventful few days, certainly compared with the last few weeks.

Uneventful but busy. Clarice and I went back to Bennigan's Friday evening. We both drove, and we both stayed sober. Good girls, we. Clarice spent the evening trying to find out what went on - if anything - between Larry and me. I spent the evening avoiding answering. She knows something's going on, she even knows I'm involved next Wednesday. She finally gave up trying to get details from me.

Looks like Clarice and Chris still have something going on. I think they'll be good for each other.

Saturday I had to work. Jack called in the morning; the building maintenance people cut the power without telling us. That is always a problem. There are always some systems which don't come back - this time it was a router which lost its mind, so Larry (a different one) and I had to reprogram it and test each segment. Jack tore apart the PC of one of the veeps, who had lost his power supply. Fortunately, he hadn't lost his hard drive, because he never has backups. Claims his data is too confidential to go on the network, but is too clueless to back it up himself. Anyone other than a veep would put his data on the server or be fired. Jack was undiplomatic, but I can't fault him for it. The veep deserved what he got, though I doubt it will help.

Jack's much less of an asshole on the weekend. Perhaps it's just our willingness to help, but he was positively in a good mood. I think yelling at the idiot veep may have lifted his spirits. Certainly the three of us sat around and laughed about it later. Jack bought us all dinner, claimed he'd find a way to stick the veep with the bill, though I doubt he will.

Larry had to leave, and I stayed with Jack for an hour or so before heading home. He's going through a very difficult time at home. I don't know exactly what it is; I certainly don't want to pry, but it sounds like a messy divorce, or something along those lines. Perhaps that's why he has been such a jerk lately.

I overslept Sunday and carried a sore head through the day. I think I may have the flu. Seems like everyone at work has one kind of bug or another. Or maybe I just need to get back into the habit of working out. As busy as I've been lately I've become lazy.


Owww, my head. I had to leave work before noon. Needless to say, Jack wasn't very happy. Huh. He'll be even less happy when he gets sick because I should have stayed home.

It's just a headache right now, but I think it's the beginning of the flu. It's unfair. This year I had a flu shot. The last few years I haven't, and I didn't get sick.

I need to call and tell Larry to stay home Wednesday.