speakeasy. three.

the girl. kissing me. her tongue in me. then my tongue in her.

tongue on lips, teasing sometimes, then giggling.

all the while, our feet at still mingling.

oh yeah, and cocaine.

she has her own stash. she does lines though. these aren’t games.

she’s used to this too. a regular weekday night.

every line brings with it guilt. she’s so smart, too smart to be getting this heavily in this thing. part of me wants to play knight in shining armor, and take her away from all this, but in truth, going down this road, taking these risks, i think it’s part of what makes her who she is. what makes me so attracted to her.

back to kissing. kissing makes the guilt go away.

her hands end up on my thigh and, ungracefully, suggest that it might be time for us to leave. she agrees.

her place is closer. that’s usually the case.

the air is cold. and flush on my cheeks. sobering.

we make it a few blocks, holding hands. looking completely sweet.

you’d think we were sweet.

she attacks me when she closes the door of the apartment. and i attack her back.

kissing her on her neck, tracing her jaw with my lips. her lips. limps, breasts, waist. it’s all fair game. and i’m getting more aggressive as she returns in kind.

i keep kissing her, because i’m not getting hard. limp. powerless.

this is new. i know i’m getting older, but i’m blaming it on the coke.

i end up going down on her, and afterwards she tries to stroke me hard. fails. but she’s surprisingly nonchalant about it, for which i’m grateful, because i’m crushed.

mortality and morality just caught up to me in a bad way.

we make up for it in the morning, when i’m reinvigorated and hard for her. we fuck until late in the morning and she’s loud and yells out supportive things about how hard i am and how i fill her.

she’s supportive. have i become pitiful?

speakeasy. two.

if you’ve grown up internalizing the worst of mrs. reagan’s anti-drug messaging it may surprise you to know that addicts are actually quite normal, tender and sweet people, provided they have the means and funds to maintain adequately.

one of them is playing footsie with me right now. tenderly. we’re staring into each others’ eyes.

also coked up.

she used to be my type. definitely trouble. definitely not someone you’d want to know six months longer down this road. but right now, she’s full of life, smart, sassy and seemingly smitten with me. maybe a bit suicide girlie, but not much.

she keeps calling me her “dirty librarian” – apparently it’s like the sexy librarian devoid of anything wholesome. i dress like a librarian i’ve discovered.

she’s not a librarian. tom-boy – but sexier. younger than me… she tells me later she thought i was five years younger than i was.

but right now i’m really concerned with our feet. and her eyes. blue. vivid.

my friend’s cut me off from the coke, but’s not happy that i’m making eyes with her. he keeps giving me an evil eye, but i’ve decided i could give a shit about what he thinks.

feet playing, toying under the table. it feels innocent and subtle, even though everyone knows what’s going on.

we’re talking, too. she likes chuck palahniuk, reads all his work. i weighed the options of ignoring this and simply moving forward in her attraction versus giving in to my contempt of him and challenging her. maybe it’s the coke, but i hope it’s me that ultimately takes her on for her fandom.

we argue/talk/tease each other about our literary tastes for a few hours, exhausting the community of the speakeasy. they leave one by one, tired of drugs, bored by our conversation. we stay.

eventually we can retreat into a dark corner. this bar has a lot of dark corners.

i kiss her, she returns the kiss.

i like her. but this is bad.

when i kiss someone i generally can imagine a future, a future i’d like to investigate. this girl would kill me. fuck, she’s likely to kill herself soon. she’s already told me as much. that’s she’s self-destructive. has been on a tear for a while now.

but i like her. she’s smart. warped. immediate.

i kiss her with a different urgency. the urgency of getting to know her while i can. before she’s gone.

speakeasy. one.

it’s not a speakeasy. or it is, but only if you strip the word of all romantic associations associated with the historical and contemporary fine cocktail bars in the better cities that call themselves “speakeasy.” it’s an illegal bar. a firetrap. if you need a bathroom, go piss in the back alley. but it has community and i’m privileged that my friend brought me here.

“wanna bump?”

cocaine. yes. of course i do, but i have rules. drugs aren’t consumed with friends, aren’t consumed with habitual users, and aren’t consumed with a dark soul.

“yes – pass it over.”

shit. at least three people at the table are on a dark road that no one should get on.  and i’m hurting.

he passes me a spoonful, carefully – not passing the stash.

i’m now high.

“dude, she was hot, she was smart, why’d you fuck up?”

“…”

“you fucked up, fucked around again, right?”

“seriously? now?”

he’s asking me about why we ended out relationship, after 7 years, without communication with friends, without the standard pre-breakup rituals. i think he’s hurt that he heard about all this in historical statements.

“did you fucked around again?”

“i didn’t.”

“so then…”

it’s not clear to me how i’ll explain this. i’ve avoided discussing it. i’m fucked up now.

“i haven’t fucked around in two years – but i broke up with her because i fucked around. she couldn’t forgive me, it just took two years to figure that out.”

“but you fucked around on her only after she fucked around on you.”

true. irrelevant. this might take explaining for him.

“she fucked around on me, but i could forgive her. she couldn’t forgive me. it’s not about who fucked who, and keeping score. it’s about what we could give each other, and she couldn’t give me forgiveness.”

“but you stayed with her for two years.”

“i wanted to give her time, and then it just took a long time to realize it wasn’t going to change. i’m not sure she believes she can’t forgive me yet, but i couldn’t go through the rest of my life feeling guilty about the past.”

i got tired of constant suspicion, constantly reminding her of her pain soley through my presence. got tired of failing to live a full life because i had to watch what significance my actions carried in reminded her of the past. i got tired of hearing the anger in her voice.

in truth, not cheating was far more exhausting than trying to hide the fact that i was cheating. i loved her, but we failed each other and rebuilding ourselvers afterwards failed.

“you’re a pussy.”

“fuck you.”

“have another bump.”

“thanks.” i reach over becoming a repeat offender on my rules.

we’re going to keep talking about this for a while now, i might need the feeling. he was one of the ones that fucked her.

i’m not sure that he knows she told me it was him. knows that i got over it. it was raw, and hard, but worth it.

i just wish he’d tell me some day. i love him, he’s dear to me, but i’d like to know he’s half the man i believe him to be, this should be his opening to honesty. tonight. i hope he will, i’m getting tired of the secrets, it hurts a little, exposing myself to this.

i’m snorting again. i’m challenging myself. risk.

i’m taking risks.

texan. two.

(drinks. 2nd avenue and 2nd street. there used to be a bar there, i’m not sure it its still there. the bar was in the emotional purview of the texan, not mine, so i’ve never been back and it’s been almost 10 years.

“so you liked that, the other night, huh?”

i’m blushing a bit. not sure what to say, not sure if admitting it will mean she would judge me (i was young) or if she’ll do it again, which would be nice.

“um… yeah, very much so.”

“i could tell, heck, i can tell now”

i’m hard.

“so are you open to…”

“…”

“… the ass? can we play with our asses?”

i’m blushing, but excited, unsure what to say, i just nod.

“ok, but you’re going to have to pull your weight.”

she smiles, reaches across the table and kisses me passionately, her tongue penetrating my mouth violently, lingering there long enough to get the attention of the remainder of the bar.

“we should go then”, she says smiling widely.

it’s not far to her apartment. we get their quickly. she turns on me in the elevator on the way up, grabbing my cock through my pants and whispers, “i want you in my ass.”

i’m not quite sure what to say, blushing, she puts a finger to my lips and lets me get away with my silence and leads me out of the open door to her apartment. opening the door and pulling my inside.

we make out as we normally would, but i’m distracted, worried and nervous. i must have started shaking a little because she noticed and hugged me close, promised to guide me though it. (i didn’t realize how literally this was)

it wasn’t much longer before we’re naked on the sofa, my cock in her mouth, my tongue inside her. she breaks off our embrace and we head to the bed.

“so this is lube…” and so forth. all of the mechanics are being explained to me patiently by a woman i was starting to feel something special for. exhilarating. she’s patient with my questions, keeping the mood going by occasionally stroking me, and letting me pet her.

when the time comes for me to slip into her ass, it’s difficult, i get the angles all wrong. everything’s a slippery, glistening and beautiful mess. but i finally get inside of her.

“not so fast, go slowly”

i push in slower, hearing her gasp.

“slowly… sloowly”

i slow to a crawl, following her instructions as carefully as i can. i push i deeply and withdraw, and push in again.

her back arches, as if she’s on the verge of something, “oh god, shit, my god”, her cursing turns me on, but i’m nervous i’m hurting her. she assures me i’m not.

it’s only now that i start focusing on my own experience. it feels wonderful. i’m not sure, even in hindsight, if i’m more turned on by the act, or the idea of the act. the experience in intensely satisfying. i come quickly. too quickly. like when i was in high school.

afterwards i hold on to her close.

“i love you inside me there, stay in there a little bit”

i hold her for what seems like ages, still parsing out the taboo we’d broken. this was all new to me then, this is before the ubiquity of pornography had made this almost normal.

i wasn’t sure what this made me. i was blinded by morals, norms and preconceptions. feeling guilty and confused but also enthralled, i was already starting to become more open-minded.

things to do while i can.

i got an email from a reader after i wrote about the artist becoming disgusted in me. it was warm and friendly and reminded me that there’s a lot of value of exploring the darker corners of my psyche while i’m alone, while it’s easier [i added the later reason].

and with that, as a model of inspiration and self-motivation, here’s a list of fucked up things, rooted in the darker side of my life, i might try to do while i can, while there’s no one who cares about me to stop me, or object. i’ve also added my pre-arranged excuses for failing to try them:

• smoke heroin, possibly also shooting heroin (fear of needles, difficulty procuring either grade of shit, trying to slow down my chemical life)
• explore, and perhaps complete, a financial transaction for sex (fear of, well, future disclosure, not clear how to go about it ethically)
• engage in (#)-some sex, preferably with someone(s) i have a long term interest in (lack of bed-mates)
• engage in anonymous group sex (lack of access, a bit intimidating)
• fuck a (cel|blog)ebrity (lack of prominence, lack of being interesting, general shyness, why?)
• sleep on the street for a few days with a camera to document the experience (lack of street edge, completely unprepared, it’s a cliché)
• slut around (check!)
• take pictures of someone that might qualify as pornographic (lack of ability, lack of anything to contribute to the genre)
• visit the real middle east (reasons too numerous to count why i’m a poor candidate for this right now)

i’m generally hopeful to expand this list as i move forward.

slutting.

I’m one of the firm belief that, to re-write a tolstoy bromide, all prudes are prudish in the same way whereas sluts are all slutty in their own ways.

i’m currently interested in why i’m a slut. this may be interesting for some. there are stereotypes about men and might make this seem like a simple quest. perhaps based on yet more bromides about wild oats.

i disagree.

i can only speak for myself. i do have friends who have sought bedpost, belt, or even (in one case) internet notches, but i cannot relate to that. conquest for it’s own sake is, frankly, boring and too much work, anyway.

despite what it may seem from this blog, i’m far more easy than sexually prolific.

for me it’s about expression and intimacy. i see something in someone and want to know them better. i used to say i fall in love a little bit every time i fucked someone. having actually fallen in love i don’t believe that is the case anymore.

lust isn’t the right word either. and some of me falls behind with everyone i sleep with. (that may be cribbed from a mark bianchi lyric, but i haven’t the energy to check) i spend a little bit of time recovering afterwards. repairing myself.

i react to a “narcissian” image of something i recognize within myself. something i want to nurture, explore or understand better by getting closer to someone else, rather than myself. there is also a physical component.

my interests, my inner core, lives at the seams of most identities people seem to don on themselves. i’m professional in work that most find boring, but my personal interests are far more creative and artistic (in the really academic way that maybe many others would find boring, too). i’m ridiculously happy with the worst drugs, but avoid behavior that would lead to any lifestyle changes – and hence avoid most other users. my affection for the so appropriately termed haute-pervure that’s difficult to share, and so forth. this makes me feel lonely, or at least singular, frequently.

it also means don’t relate well to most people. i’m only partially interesting to and only partially interested in most people. i think this makes me seem cold to many. but i just can’t maintain a long term interest in what feels to me as a one-dimensional conversation.

but i’m the warmest sucker for someone who sees the pattern, and can make sense of me. or someone complicated enough to hold my interest.

when i meet someone like that i want to make the most of it, even if only briefly. and the best way i have to express that interest is fucking someone. i’m sure there are other ways, but most fall under “tell” not “show”, something i’m not particularly interested in. (though i can whisper sweet nothings with the best of them.) there aren’t many ways you can show someone how close they can get to you. sex is one. and it works for me.

there’s also the pure physical aspects. how much closer can you really get with fingers, cocks, tongues are actually inside each other? how can you beat that for intimacy? if you can make someone moan, or gasp in pleasure, what else can you do for them?

i don’t expect to be close to someone permanently. not the way i operate when my head-space enters slut mode. but i like knowing i’ve gotten closer. i like watching someone flush up as you figure out what turns them on. it makes me feel like i understand them.

if someone can do the same for me, i feel a little more understood. i have bad experiences, awkward ones for awkward reasons. invariably i find i assessed the person’s core wrong. they weren’t who i thought they were.

there’s almost nothing that makes me more sad.

another issue is the sinking feeling after i come that this was a mistake. that i got blinded by something else – drink, drugs, or general arousal – and mistook something superficial for a sign of depth and complexity.

i’m not going to suppose this behavior is normal or healthy. and it has it’s social and emotional costs. i’m getting more used to becoming judged. especially as i get older and the “wild oats” story cannot be worn as a disguise.

but it’s working for me now.

the artist. two.

the artist and i have been on a few dates. enough to know we like each other. enough that i feel like it might be time to exit man-slut mode and own up to my actions to her.

dinner at a fashionable german restaurant. celebrate our commen heritage.

it’s loud, not intimate. so i picked that part wrong. i let us get a little tipsy on kolsh beer.

“so i’ve seen a few people while we’ve been dating, just so you know.”

“oh.” – voice isn’t so strong.

“yeah, um, well i wasn’t sure how we were doing, and i met an ex while i was in new york.”

“i see.” – voice is shaky now. i’ve made a mistake.

“also, i kissed a boy, but it’s not something that should be a concern.”

“…”

“…”

“i broke everyone off for you, haven’t seen anyone else, and it’s not like i didn’t have a choice. and you didn’t tell me you were gay.”

“i didn’t ask you to do that, and, um, i’m not gay… we just kissed.”

“well did it happen before, then yeah, you’re fucking gay.”

the rest goes roughly the same. exhausting. she’s emotional, holding back her outbursts as much as she can, but they visibly move through her, under her skin.

ugly words come out quietly. “whore”. “slut”. “queer”.

i feel bad about only two of them. one makes me angry.

i do feel bad, i try to explain to her. slutting around happened, seven years of “monogamy” undone unleashes a lot of sensual nonsense. she’s not having it.

in short, she walks out. leaving me there, with a bill, with my actions, my history.

i can’t blame her for being angry, i’ll forgive her epithets regarding my boy-kiss as a result of anger induced nonsense..

but that said, my greatest hypocrisy is probably my impatience for her anger — just as i feel my own anger welling up as well. i’m not sure what goal it solves. it seems like such a vestigial remnant of our primitive pasts yet it, and fear of it, drive our actions to the point of distraction.

it feels like anger is basically the opposite of empathy. and while i was wrong – at least in most people’s eyes – empathy might have been in order, too, or at least just disappointment that i didn’t meet her unspoken expectations. at least understand why i upset you.

so when i see her walk out the door without bothering to try to understand, my respect for her wanes. i’m already moving on.

ken doll.

i had an ex-girlfriend who used to refer to men as “ken dolls” when she wasn’t attracted to them.

“ken dolls, you know, no parts”

ah.

that comes up later.

i went to a professional function the other night. open bar. at 32 you would think i’ve figured out how to handle situations with class and dignity.

more or less you would be wrong. i got drunk. again.

during which time i met a boy, a corn-fed, kinda aryan, wholesome boy.

preppy. way too preppy.

i don’t really like boys. by not really i mean that i don’t. and though i work with them a lot, i dislike preppy types.

boys are all ken dolls to me. some nice, some not, some friends, some attractive, but no parts.

because i’m in full slut mode, i kissed him anyway. i liked his smile.

he makes me feel tender.  i want to take care of him.  i haven’t felt that way in ages.

now i’m currently dealing in the scandal that i’m gay, which i maintain i’m not, though a public kiss like that undercuts that argument.

but i did like him.

it happens maybe every 3 – 4 years. kissing a boy.

he was cute. i’ll admit i found him cute. and i liked him, he was charming, more so than any woman i’ve met in a while.

but for the life of me i can’t imagine his cock. and don’t really want to. i just really liked him. romantically, if not sexually.

he likes me, i’m getting texts. i’m not sure what to say, because i don’t remember what i did say. and mostly because deep down inside, i might want him, and i’m not prepared for that. not in the slightest. but i want to see him again.

we can add this to a long list of things i’m preparing to disclose to the artist.  it’s very likely she’ll handle this worst.

i’m still thinking this all through, dealing with this class of issues. i’m 32. that’s sorta sad.

at least three of you darling readers will likely start writing your obnoxious emails again now, using this as another excuse to be rude and close-minded. fuck you.

how i actually pick you up.

i see you at the party, sitting quietly. pretty. listening to friend chat about something, i can’t remember what.

i lose track of you for a while. i have people to catch up with, news to get, give. broken promises to make up for, and more promises to make now.

i see you later, though. and you see me, you smile at me, i think. i hope. it’s a lovely smile, wide, friendly, genuinely happy.

it’s surprisingly attractive, your happiness, a break from the normal seriousness.

i sit down with your group. make the introductions. get your name.

we chat and folks leave to get more drinks, leave us alone. we deal with the small talk.

“i live most in ___ and come back here frequently, i’m more or less a ___”

“32″

“i know jake”

you tell a joke and we start laughing. i think it’s beautiful that i can’t remember who touched who’s leg first, who started to press our thighs together in a covert suggestion of attraction.

not subtle enough though. we get disdainful looks from friends as they return with stiff drinks. i think they’re directed at me.

man-slut. the one who ends up in these situations way too often, the one making out in the back of the bar, dark corners, what-have-you. already back at work after my hiatus in “monogamy and commitment”.

i am easy. i guess they haven’t forgotten that.

it reminds me to worry that you don’t know about me. but you make a quick joke about ass-fucking and how you like to get desires out of the way early on. early on like now.

i’ve decided we might be of like minds.

the little matter of the artist bears down me briefly, bringing damning guilt as my hand plays over yours. holding hands like school kids. school kids whispering about ass-fucking.

we can’t leave yet though, i have friends i want to talk to, and sex distracted as i am i’m aware of the rudeness of just leaving with you in tow. we end up holding court, friends circling by to talk to us.

we chat for hours and still we leave as soon as we can, late at night, hungry for each other. hail a cab because you live in queens.

queens. new lands.

first time sex together. awkward. dark. sounds of unzipping in chaotic orders, each of us prioritizing each other’s body parts in difficult orderings, each primaly needing to see the other. at least i’m not worried its not really mutual attraction.

i work your shirt quickly while you undo my belt, bending forward to work on my fly. i’m trying to finish the last of your buttons, dragging you back up – bending me down. you give me a quick look, eyes flashing, and throw my arms off, away from your blouse.

“time for that later”, laughing.

my pants fall down, i’m still standing back up from a bend, lose my balance and fall.

you stand still, biting your lip.

frivolity. it’s the funniest thing we’ve ever seen, me pants-less on the floor, you over me, until i pull you down on top of me.

giggling.

kissing. lips pressing. wetting each other.

laughing.

licking. tongue on cock, pussy.

chuckles.

we get around to fucking, but there’s so much laughter and chuckling its a bit slow going. it’s nice. sex has been coming out of a dark place in my life lately. this is different. happy, silly.

sex should be goofy silly sometimes. i feel more alive tonight.

later, i hold you a bit, but it’s not tender in any way. each of us keeps smirking and looking at each other until we can’t bear it and we laugh out loud.

the levity drops out when i leave. it was nice. no future. but i’m leaving a little bit of me behind with you. some of me existed in those special moments of laughter.

making my past more complicated when it should be cleaner and more nimble is becoming a habit – one that’s going to hurt me later.

right now i just not excited about restricting myself, not interested in fitting in my friends norms. though they may be right. there’s no future here, but it’s fun. and funny.

how i try to pick you up.

i’m not great at this, but it’s necessary. we have to meet each other somehow.

i’ll look at you, i’ll have figured out something about you that you seems fascinating.

fascinating is key.

i’ll be nervous about it, my eyes wandering over you — too much would be creepy and weird, too little and i’ll miss something interesting about you, maybe the key bit that will get us talking.

i’ll hope to catch your eye, and i’ll flash a smile. it will be shy and emo-kid-esque. i’m not yet clear if that end up giving you the right impression of me or not.

i’m enough of a coward that i won’t move forward if you don’t smile back.

god help us all if there’s no alcohol available. you’ll be forced to hearing me write/re-write/edit/re-edit my words as i’m speaking. it makes it hard to understand me. a few drinks takes out a few steps, cutting it down to write/re-write.

i’ll comment on what you are reading, listening to, watching, wearing whatever i can figure out, with whatever words i can muster. there’s almost no chance i’m not at least a little nervous. i’ve gotten better at hiding that though.

if we’re at a bar, i’ll wait for you to go up the bar, or break away from your friends. in an art gallery, i’ll find the piece i like best and see if you won’t come close to it, so i can talk to you about it. if we at other places, well i’m not very good at other places yet. i can’t master the sidewalk pick up, i can’t work that fast.

it’s an embarrassingly large amount of passive effort to get around to what’s a pretty defining active expression. and part of what it means to be a man in our culture.

this was way easier when i smoked. the volume of “hello nice to meet you may i bum a cigarette”-s in life are countless. the numbers of them that have lead to emails or phone numbers aren’t countless, but aren’t bad.

i’m thinking about all of this, because i need to be more careful about the type of people i date. they need to match all my lives, not just the one or two in play at the time. and that means i’m going to have to become more engaged in selecting my dates, seeking out the ones that fit all of me. i’m not sure how to determine that yet though.

practice will tell, i hope.

there may be other ways, though. you, the girl from the Boat that wrote her number on a coaster and threw it at me as you walked out. pure impulse, all risk. that was a fun idea. i’ll be calling you, if only to figure out why you picked me.

i wish i had thought of that. maybe my approach is just too contrived.