come.

it’s interesting stuff, come. and the women i fuck react to it so differently.

my ex reacted to it like it was poison, not touching it, reacting to the smell violently, picking up more on the bleach-y undertones than anything else.

another girl smeared my come all over her skin after i came on her.

another one kissed me deeply with her mouth full of it, which was far more erotic that i would have imagined and really turned me on, so much so that i started fucking her while her tongue still in my mouth.

another always licks me clean and swallows it no matter what. speakeasy does the same.

no joke, she calls it “doing lines”.

none wanted any of the “cumshot” activities found in porn, and i can’t say they do much for me either.

i find all of this interesting.

men, or the men in my world, don’t share details of our sexual activity among one another, so i’ve no idea how all other men react to women’s fluids – i only get to sample women’s behaviors, i have no idea where my relationship with come lies.

the ex insisted that only “sluts and pornstars” pretended to like come. i never really believed that, but it’s just as odd to assume that only prudes hate it. it always hurt me that she seems psychically allergic to it, but i don’t expect all the women i date to be hungry for it either.

i’m wondering what the happy middle-ground is (while complete understanding that there’s a large spectrum of reactions).

i find it interesting that the most visible outcome of our sexual activity is something i understand so poorly.

sweet nothings.

clichés. when did the women i date start using clichés.

we’re fucking and you’re giving me clichés. out loud.

like wake the neighbors out loud.

i’m a fan of talking. it’s hot. it’s communicative.

but don’t feed me a porn tape.

i’d love to hear about how i feel inside you.

but.

it’s a lie when you say i’m the biggest you’ve had.

it’s a lie when you say i’m the best you’ve had.

it’s nice that you take the trouble, but i date smart girls for a reason, and i’d like to hear a smart viewpoint on our fucking.

please be loud.  but please be you.

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?

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.

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.

homecoming. present tense.

men behaving badly. tonight’s theme. bachelor party.

we meet at a steak house, of course.

i’m still staggering from meeting with her last night. distracted. horny. hurt. that was the last time, we both know it. all predictable but i’m feeling bad for myself thinking that tonight he’s fucking her instead of me.

i can’t talk to these boys about her, i’ve used up my sympathy card on this front. and it’s really not an event that should be centered on me. we’re here for doug.

my previously mentioned past issues of masculinity are on display – maybe due to the fact that these friends are from my past. i work my way down the table, away from the competition to be alpha male for the evening, towards chris. chris, importantly, isn’t interested in contesting his dominance either. we sit and chat about anything other than the knicks.

i believe that the last time i was in this situation they were talking about the knicks, too.

i not happy at these sorts of events. testosterone is flowing, bringing out the worst in my friends and i’m trying to avoid it. alcohol, beef and, oddly, cheese, are what the event is calling for. also women but that’s quiet now.

i order a steak. share an order of mushrooms.

whiskey seems to be the drink of the day. that’s fine. i like that. i order one, two, three, four. i start to lose count.

i’m midway into convincing morgan into engaging me in a conversation on michael chabon and “the wonderboys” place in it his oeuvre. we’re both making shit up though, way to drunk to be meaningful. jesse complains at our nerdiness. we need to “get our man on”, whatever that means. why does doug have these friends? i’m so screwed. this evening ends badly.

“strip club”

oh fuck, that was inevitable. i guess it’s better than “poker club”.

an aside on strip clubs:

i don’t like them them. and not for any theories regarding feminism and exploitation. i’m happy to hear why i should respect those arguments though.

if you’ve ever handed over $100 to a woman for writhing briefly in you lap, you’re aware of who holds the power in this relationship. i’m confidant that while the job may not be fun, it’s a better alternative than most jobs. at least at the quality levels i’ve attended. they control the situation, if they’re any good at it.

none of which is to suggest that i’m powerless against their wiles or that its not completely free will that brought me here – everything here is on me.

i’ve got no issues with strippers themselves, either. they seem very nice. it’s a job like anything else. i bet the are basically pretty sexualized girls i’d love to know outside of this situation. the very few i have known bear that theory out.

i don’t like these places because they don’t work right. name another sex worker activity where the probability of orgasm falls closer to zero as the quality of establishment increases.

i’m also aware that the stripper hates you. and within the transactional context, don’t really believe that i’m going to be the client to change that.

fuck it, though. i’m here until the end. we’re going to a strip club. maybe it will be a good one.

and it is.

these women are gorgeous, smart enough to keep my intoxicated mind engaged, and savory. the holy triumvirate of sex organization.

i’m screwed. this will be costly. i order my $10 whiskey and put on my best ironic detachment face. it won’t hold off the girls, but it should keep my friends at bay for a while. i roll my eyes as we all pitch in for doug’s first lap dance. i feel bad about that later, he’s really entitled to feel however he wants tonight. and really, these girls are exploiting us, not him. he’s feelings are pure tonight, just horny exuberance. one last hurrah before this constitutes cheating on her.

this goes on for a few songs. i’ve lost count of songs, drinks and $20 bills leaving my wallet. i only know my watch doesn’t say 2 a.m. yet. i can’t leave.

then mona shows up. dan’s seen my grimaces, knows my finances, and has found, what is by any reasonably reckoning my ideal girl and paid for a dance. out of the blue she takes my drink out of my hand, splits my legs apart and pushing her ass into my groin.

my entire plan until this point has been to get drunk and avoid temptation. this is not avoiding.

she’s hot. perfect even – at least if perfect is a facsimile of last night’s sexual error. rail thin, small breasts, brunette, beautiful, maybe edgier than who i look to date now. in a hall filled with buxom blonds she stands out. market differentiation. madison avenue could use this girl.

21, she claims, and looks exactly like what i would have dated at 21 – albeit idealized.

i didn’t ask for this, but i’m now starting to rationalize, looking for reasons why she might actually want to fuck me. she says she likes heidegger — though i think dan put her up to that. is it really fair when hot women and your friends conspire against you?

more writhing into my cock. i’m hard. i’m sorry.

i agree to go upstairs for some fee i’m not sure i understand yet. dan’s prepared to lord his wall street job over me to cover it – i wave him off with an arrogant flair, my lone alpha moment.

we now have 15 minute alone. 15 minutes, i maintain even now, i don’t really want. didn’t want when i entered. won’t want later either.

also, my wallet will be empty, but hey, at least i got her fee down to just all the cash i had.

she starts to dance, and then quickly, ohmygod her tits, firm, in my face. pressing.

i’m naive but i wasn’t expecting this effect. not at all. i just needed to get away from my friends. but this is nice, i can’t lie. i’m getting hornier, and falling under her spell. i try to avoid saying any awful cliches. try to keep the conversation light.

for 5 minutes we talk as she pushes knees, thighs, tits and ass into me at various points. we chat. she’s in college, swears it’s nyu, philosophy major. “likes older men”, natch. i’m very hard. completely aroused. i want this to be real, want her to care about my job, my arousal. i want to fall for her mirage.

she smiles in a way that makes we realize she sees past me, and knows where this conversation is going three steps ahead of me. i’m nothing new here. i really shouldn’t have expected to be unique i suppose.

then fucking fuck, michael’s upstairs too. some giant boobs blond chick is commandeering him.

i’m uncomfortable now. for some reason i’ve decided this experience should be private. this commodity, staple of american titillation – i’m entitled to have it independently. i’m, of course, an idiot, but this isn’t a situation i know very well. i skip these things as often as possible.

i briefly resist the temptation to flee. but when mike gets his third warning about “hands” i freak out a bit and stand up too quickly, almost hitting my hed in mona’s. i apologize. in truth she was doing a great job, and i was aroused, but my arousal is for me and my partners. michael ruined it.

i need to get away from him. i really can’t see him staring at blondie’s tits anymore. seeing his leering smile. i get up, leaving my 15 minutes worth of cash on the table and a kind word, and walk out, down the stairs, leaving my friends behind in the club.

i stink of strawberry. or raspberry. when it’s this artificial who can tell.

i bum a cigarette off a russian mafioso type outside the club and breath in the relaxing nicotine. waves of tension release.

have i mentioned i hadn’t smoked in 2 years? i hadn’t. that’s fucked now too.

my mind wanders to her. i want to call her. talk through this with her. it’s a horrible idea, i’m pretty sure she’s dead set against strip clubs, and certainly wouldn’t have any sympathy from me. and at any rate she’s fucking him back into consciousness from his business trip now.

i fumble over my phone for other numbers in the right timezones i can talk this through with. failure. behind me are my closest, if also most estranged, friends. i need new ones for this new phase of my life.

i bum another cigarette. but this one costs a dollar. i smoke it down to the nub almost burning my fingers before holding out the hand to hail a cab and return to brooklyn, where i belong. i leave doug behind, i’ll apologize at the wedding.

i’ll feel like an asshole tomorrow, but maybe that will displace my jealousy, my need to undo the past and be in her bed that’s consuming me right now.

homecoming. future tense.

i wasn’t supposed to head straight to you after i landed, but text messages and emails changes things, and now, in the dark, i’m dealing with the fallout of canceled plans and trying to hail a cab from the airport to fort greene, trying to remember the shortcut around the BQE.

we’ll meet in some new wine bar, the sort that wasn’t there when i lived here, and we’ll spend a few hours trying to outdo each other on wine knowledge, a sport at which i haven’t a shot at beating you. we’ll chat about your new job, my new job, avoid mention of the artist and him. we’ll likely need to be there a while to drink past the unresolved feelings of betrayal and hurt we each have and remember why these meetings keep happening.

i think i might have loved you once, and i certainly know i could have loved you, if i’d given it a chance, but the window is closed. you have him now, and why you are risking him on me i’ll never understand, but i’ll be grateful for your reasons.

we won’t make a move at each other until we leave the bar, and then take a turn down one of the darker, more intimate streets off dekalb, where i’ll pull you in and kiss you aggressively, knowing that you respond to that.

it will be a race to see which one of gets to push the other one against a wall, pinning them there, kissing even more intensely, but i know it will be you that first takes my hand and guides it down into your pants, while i nervously look around to assure myself that the street is empty.

your moaning. i still hear it every now and then in my mind, in my dreams. i can’t wait to hear it again. i’ll work fast so i can hear your voice in my ear again.

making out will slow us down, it’s not far to vinegar hill, but at the pace we’ll be going, stop-starting, throwing each other passionately against random walls, it usually takes an hour or so before we reach your home.

when we get home, unless something has changed, i’ll go down on you early on, until you need me inside you and throw me against the bed. i love how physical we get, every move we make just filled with so much intentionality, so much force. i’m always amazed that we discovered that we could throw each other around like this, no discussion, just assumptions about each other completely borne out.

as we fuck, i might look around for some trace of him, a picture, a card — something. i’ll regret it if i do.

after we come, maybe a few times, we’ll quickly leave each other’s arms, neither one of us much for cuddling together and you’ll make it clear its time for me to go. i’ll wash up a bit and get dressed, we’ll kiss each other again with a passion that might get us undressed again, but might not, and eventually i’ll leave.

during the cab ride to where i’m staying, i’ll be embracing your scent, both perfume and sexual, on me. i’ll start to be consumed by the thoughts that i’m blocking out right now. that we aren’t ever going to fall in love. that i’m fucking my past, trying to undo wasted time and mistakes with my cock, and its not going to work.

i’m comfortable being a man-slut right now. i have my motivations, and i’m old enough to know the window on this behavior must be closing so its a last chance to act this way. but i wish i wasn’t working through my history, revisiting my memories, and was working towards a future.

the artist is back home. i don’t think i’ll have betrayed any of her trusts, we haven’t made any commitments yet, and i think she has something else on her mind anyway, but i should still be focusing on someone new, someone to forward with rather than trying to get a do over on my past life.

i love my history though. i love them all. it’s going to be hard to avoid that feeling, hard to turn down a chance like this again.

facebook is my pimp.

seriously, is there anything that gets you more action then the “broken heart” status update? what the hell?
it’s unseemly how it brings out old flings, girls in waiting, and the generally horny, all of whom seem to assume that you are, at least temporarily, available as a fuck-friend. not that i’m complaining.

when did this happen? i’m not bad looking, but nothing ridiculously notable either, and emotionally, i am like this blog, so it must be something in the medium. i’ve been “taken” or at least “it’s complicated” (stupidest term ever) for the entirety of the social networking craze; i hadn’t realized the killer use was easy sex. i’ve been awash in renewed interest from exes, forbiddens, and the previously poorly timed, and its an unbelievably efficient process. awkwardly so.

this is a world in which proposing coffee and crepes is a unique first date solution, and likely overkill. “poke” indeed.

so nothing more today. i’m out of steam. i’d just like to point out that under that nice preppy exterior facebook is a filthy hall of tramps like me. i know i’m late to this party, but i’m surprised.