"What would happen if I bit you on the nipples?" I asked, encircling them with my fingertips. They were a normal size, but in my mind they are bright red.
He winced a little. “I wouldn’t like that very much.”
It’s true! I thought, exultantly, but I decided to leave them alone for now. “Have you had sex yet?”
"Tonight?" he asked.
No, I thought, I mean in your whole fucking life. I caressed his thighs and the bulge between them. “Do you want to fuck me first?”
"All right," he said. Was there a little bit of hesitation there? He made the houseboy get him another bourbon and took me by the wrist. "Sometimes you have to ask for a drink even when you really don’t want one," he confided to me as he led the way to Tilda's bedroom. I have no idea what this meant.
There were people sitting on the mattress on the floor, talking. “We’re going to fuck now!” I told them happily. They laughed, but I couldn’t understand why: weren’t they just as happy to fuck? I got on the bed first, just lying there since I was already naked. I could hear someone in the other room calling, “Jefferson, Jefferson!”
"They’re calling my name when I have a naked girl in front of me," Jefferson said to me, the nerve, and then he pulled down his pants. And because I was on the bed, exactly level with his crotch, for what felt like a minute I had a very good view of Jefferson’s Cock.
I think for split second upon seeing it, realizing it WAS his cock, I was terrified. Because Jefferson’s Cock had to be the size of a baseball bat. And then I realized it was a perfectly lovely, normal, average sized cock. And then I realized a second thing: he wasn’t hard yet.
That surprises me most of all, that he was entirely eager and willing and he wasn’t hard yet. And then he was in bed with me and spreading my legs and I realized he was going to give me oral.
"Don’t you need…stuff?" I couldn’t remember the word: dental dam.
"I need my mouth on your pussy," Jefferson said, and went down on me.
Ah well, I thought, it’s not like I’ve done any different with the last three people I’ve slept with.
It was an odd technique. The B.H.M. had flicked his tongue in and out of my vagina (and sometimes my anus) while I sucked his dick in the 69 position. It had been wet and warm and very often pleasurable when he’d hit a particularly sensitive spot. Instead, Jefferson seemed to seal his mouth to my vaginal opening. There was nothing wet to it, only a kind of…pulling. Occasionally there’d be a tiny movement, a pinhead of sensation that seemed too delicate to be made by the tongue. I lay on the bed, shifted my hips, trying to accommodate this new technique, and looked at Jefferson’s skull between my thighs. Looked at the ceiling, tried not to think. Breathe.
Image via Delta Sigma Phi.
He took me to his house, saying something about all his housemates, how they were in a rock band. He wasn’t, tho. The rock band may have also been daylight house painters, but I’m no longer too sure about the facts.
"You’re nice," I had told him on the subway. There was something about him that let me know he wasn’t going to use me or play with me, that all he wanted was the human warmth.
He said it was because he was from Littletown, the same small town I had gone to college in. “Nothing bad ever came from there.”
I found myself peacefully remembering a question I’d read once: Why don’t all women who play around get in trouble? The answer was that they’re lucky. That night, I thought, I was lucky. His house was still decorated with month-late Halloween decorations—which struck me as appropriate, because I think all rock bands are Goth. There were prayer flags and christmas lights tacked around his window. It was like any room in college, with a copy of the Brother’s K. on the dresser. He could have been any of the few boys I had fumbled with on cramped mattresses in messy dorm rooms. I was in a strange house, with a boy I only knew by his first name, but he was already known, familiar.
I asked to use the bathroom, then he took a turn. While he was gone I took off my shoes, lay on the bed. It was all so normal it pleased me.
The only thing that almost ruined it was the quotation. Someone had scrawled a philosophic quote on the wooden frame of his bed. I can’t remember exactly what it was now, but it was something about you should make sure you were doing what you really wanted before you died. It bothered me particularly, but then he came in again and I was able to forget about it.
"Take off your shirt and shoes," I told him, "and get into bed."
I had never told a man to do something like that, and it gave me a little thrill. He lay down beside me, just in his blue jeans and leather belt, and we began to explore one another.
I’ve found that you can never tell much about someone’s body until they have their clothes off. With his t-shirt and scruffy beard, he looked like any lit grad, but once he had his shirt off I discovered the kind of body I had never been with. If every one of the men in that club had lined up with their shirts off, I would have chosen him for myself. “Large nipples,” I said with pleasure, working my way down his body, “tattooed biceps, prominent hip bones…” He was lean, flat-bellied, and I ran my eyes with pleasure over the subtle curves of his muscles underneath the skin.
"I like your body," I told him when he was on top of me.
"It’s not a great body," he said.
"It’s a good start," I said, or something like that. I think it was the potential that caught me, the idea that with a few months of work he could look like this. As if I were seeing an X-ray vision of his future life.
I took off my clothes piece by piece, until I was in my corset teddy. He fumbled at the bra-like hooks that held it closed. I laughed at him as I began rubbing myself between my legs: “I have all my clothing off except this one piece, and you still can’t get to my pussy!”
I took pity on him and undid the hooks. He fingered me for a while. That was nice. I slid my hand in his jeans
We had a brief discussion of why condoms are uncomfortable, but I can leave that out. He wasn’t unwlling to wear one, it going with “the whole thing about having sex with strangers and all.”
He started thrusting—not in my pussy yet, just in the groove where my thigh joined my body. With each thrust the head of his dick smacked into my palm, hard and hot through the slick wrapping of the condom. I breathed in as I felt the power in his thrusts.
It hurt when he first put it in, the ache sharp but not unexpected. I knew I wasn’t aroused enough. But after the first few thrusts let my pussy know he wasn’t there to hurt me it began to get wet like it was supposed to. I loosened up, wrapped my legs around him. I realized it had been a while since I’d done that, it had been impossible with the BHM. I remembered that with the BHM there had always been the strange thrill of his size, his excess of flesh pressing up against my mound and sometimes, a little, on my clit. This boy, though, still made my thighs ache because I was holding him so hard.
I realized, as I lay there under him, focused on his movements as I tried to figure out when he was going to orgasm, that this was normal sex. It didn’t hurt, but I didn’t feel pleasure. I just rested underneath him, as he did the main work, and it was my job to make it easier by tilting my pelvis up, kissing him, playing with his nipples. There were no strap ons. No leather chaps or handcuffs. He didn’t even want anal sex. Just a boy and a girl, doing the thing that a year ago I never thought I’d be comfortable enough with to simply take in. His thrust were going faster and faster.
Suddenly he stopped. He must have cum, I thought, but instead he started whistling.
"What the hell!" I laughed.
"Tantric," he told me.
He did this a couple more times, stopping at the peak of his thrusts to hold himself for me, moving his hips in a figure eight to touch different places inside me. It wasn’t his fault I couldn’t cum. I only came when I shut my eyes, sucked my stomach muscles in and out, and thought of stuffer boys. I had gone home with him knowing this.
He allowed himself to cum at last. I admired the sperm in the transparent condom, he told me it would be hot if I swallowed it, then added, “No, not really.” He was teasing.
It was so late I was a little afraid to go back home. It would take me an hour, and I was deep in the darkened wilds of Brooklyn. He let me stay the night, tho, wanted me to so we could curl up together naked on the bed, snuggle together. That was nice too.
He might not like what I have written. The next morning I wrote my blogger name and email down on an envelope, in case he wanted to see me again. I don’t want him to think it was awful, he was funny and smart and I liked his body a lot, I really did. But being with him only made me realize, once more, that my body and my mind don’t work like other people’s do.
"Let me say goodbye to people," I said, trying to gain more time to decide what I really wanted. And I really did wanna talk to Sinclair and Diva and Natt Nightly one more time.
I found Natt on the dance floor peeling of his shirt to show us his new tattoo. He was wearing a wife beater underneath.
Might I mention that Natt and Sinclair are the first two butches I have met in real life?
I totally forgot what I had come there to do and stared. This was how it had always been: me staring bug-eyed, tongueless with the kind of full-body surprise that comes over me at seeing these things, and ashamed of myself because of it. Stop staring! I think, and I can’t. After an awkward second I came to myself enough to make my goodbyes and went back to the bar to find that the boy who had wanted to fuck me had disappeared.
I was both really pissed and kinda happy. Mostly embarrassed. But then it dawned on me: He might be waiting outside.
And he was.
He took me to Brooklyn. We cuddled up next to one another on the subway seat and I put my head on his shoulder. We looked at the Sugarbutch Star chapbook, read a few lines of The Diner on the Corner. At some point I started rubbing his thigh and he grinned at me like it was the best thing in the world.
We talked about Littletown, where I live now. I guess that’s why I felt safe enough to go home with him, we were both from the same place. He was struggling to pay the rent, doing work for non-profits. I told him I wanted to try and live in NYC, someday. He told me that eventually I would tire of it. I felt a part of myself relaxing, eased after the stress of the party. It was nice just to lean my head on his shoulder…
Brooklyn. We got off, still talking, and I stopped for a moment to look over the railing before going down the stairs to the street. “Why does all of Brooklyn look the same?” I wanted to know. Those “Unisex” hair salons. That awning in the colors of the Italian flag. The outdoor produce…
"You want to get anything?" he asked, winking. He meant to feed him with. I looked at the rainbow array of fruits and vegetables and realized the prospect hadn’t even dawned on me, the feeder. But then again, the kinds of things laid out weren’t usually what people stuffed with. "We use soda, usually," I had told him, trying to act cool, like this was something I did every day.
"Yes, or milk." This was all new to him.
"Do you like watermelon?" I asked. He said he did. Watermelon was good, but could he eat half a one…
I looked at him and suddenly I couldn’t imagine doing it to him, what I thought of as my fetish. He wasn’t a feedee, really. I had known that, when I picked him up, because of his confusion. This wasn’t a fantasy of his, he just wanted to get with me.
And I didn’t want to force it on him, all that excess and strangeness and physical stress. Forget about it, I told him, we don’t have to do that. Let’s just do it the usual way….
More to come.
Writing about the NYC Sex Bloggers’ party gives me the same problem I have writing about any sex: I want to put in everything, and there’s no way you can get all of Proust into a single blog post.
It happens every time. Even thought I don’t always remember names (who was that chick in the polka dot dress?), I remember a million other things. And I want to describe everything, from each peak and dip of my mood to the drink in my hand to the color of the lights and the color of Diva's corset…and that doesn't even begin to describe all that happened there. There were burlesque dancers and a raffle that was so rigged one woman got a dozen things and awkward conversations with famous sex educators and sudden conversations with people I had never met before but were as easy as if I had known them for days. How did something that lasted only four hours have so many things packed into it?
I might not even write about this at all, except that he wanted me to. He told me so as we walked back to the subway the next morning: “I wanna be Mister Something.”
I can’t call you Mister X., I told him, there’s already an X. on here and people might get confused.
One of the most amazing things about the sex blogger party wasn’t the fact that I got to meet lots of people whose words had inspired me…or that people who I’d never heard of knew who I was from the comments I’d left on other people’s blogs. (OK, that was at least equally amazing. When Tess asked me if she could introduce me to Diva I got so overwhelmed by all the cyber people suddenly becoming real I had to excuse myself and checked in my coat to gain time to recover from my attack of shyness.)
But in hindsight, the most amazing thing was that I got hit on.
See, outside of the internet, I NEVER get hit on. In the course of a week I probably IM, email, and webcam as many as five feedee boys, but I’ve pretty much crossed parties and bars off my list as places to meet people. The last time I was in NYC, me and my friends went out to bars for several weeks. I don’t think I got hit on once, though I made advances toward maybe five guys. I finally got horny enough to solve the problem with my first and last Craigslist experiment, but still, whenever I get laid, it’s usually because I make the advances.
But in the crush of the partygoers, as crowded as in any rave club where I’d danced alone, something was different. I dunno if it was the fact that I was at a party filled with some of the kinkiest people in NYC, but suddenly I could feel eyes on me. As many boys as I had hit on during those few weeks in NYC were looking at me over their drinks as if they were devouring me. They weren’t ugly scary guys either. I think they were all in their mid-20s to 30s, which was gratifying, to say the least. But none were quite what I was looking for. Even though I’d been drinking water all night, I felt a kind of haze grow around me. Different boys would dip down towards me, to exchange a few words, but none were caught up in it the same as I was. Who would it be? A boy, a girl, or something I’d never had before, a creature I’d only caught glimpses of in the flickering light of a computer screen?
I came out of the bar for a breath of air. Two boys were looking at magazines, but the minute I showed up shoved them back in their pockets. I laughed and said something like, “Don’t hide the porn! It’s a sex blogger party!”
They were looking at a Njoy magazine, it turned out. We began talking, and one of the boys excused himself, so I was left alone with the other. I used the line that I had been using on everyone that night with such success, “Do you have a blog?”
"A secret one," he said, lighting a cigarette and grinning at me.
He asked me if I blogged, and I said yes with great pleasure—I belonged to the secret sexy organization of bloggers of smut! He wanted to know what my blog was about, and I cautiously explained feederism to him: “It’s like, you think eating is sexy. But it’s also extremely rare, so the blog is more about me looking for one. I haven’t actually found one!”
He perked up when he heard that. “Where did you go to school?” he asked me.
I knew he was flirting with me. A year ago I wouldn’t have been able to figure it out, would have been asking myself Is he/isn’t he omg what if he is? But now I was getting the signal loud and clear. With him it was easy, he was like the scruffy philosophy majors I knew from college. And because he was known, I was able to relax and regain my confidence.
"You don’t really have a blog!" I said, gleefully piercing though his joke, "you just say that to get girls!"
I decided to go back inside, try again. I was able to do the thing I had always been told to do but hadn’t been able to: turn a boy down.
But after that I think nothing happened. I certainly don’t remember anything happening. The party had begun to thin out by then, I circled around trying to find the few people I hadn’t introduced myself to yet. I drank another glass of water.
I saw him again on one of my circuits of the room, he put himself in my line of sight and said, “Have you found any guys to like, feed yet?”
"No…" I wasn’t sure where this was going.
"I’m kind of curious…"
"Ooooh," I said, acting stupid to gain time. He wasn’t who I had expected to go home with. I had been expecting someone with feathers or sequins or extra sillicone parts. I suddenly remembered that before leaving my apt. that night I had finally decided I wasn’t going to try and hit on anyone at this party, that I had left my "emergency kit" of condoms and lube at home.
But he was so nice I didn’t want to say no.
* * *
More to come.
Constantine ain’t a real person no more. He’s fucking historical.
See, that’s the thing about history, literature, celebrities, anything you study to write a paper on so you can sum it up in all it’s parts and get at, you know, the truth. But in the very act of you looking at it, it fragments. People gathering up every little bead off a dress a woman left on the sunken Titanic, every chicken bone in the trash heap left by Viking crusaders, are killing the thing they love through their own desire to hold every precious fragment all at once. Instead of it making a clearer picture, it pixelates into eight million tiny details. And the big mist of details that begins to surround something, that’s myth. When people come up with six or seven theories over one celebrity car crash, then you know it’s a goner, no matter how many times you try to nail down the truth.
From the time Constantine said, “I’m ready for that bottle of wine” to the time when my fist met his head a week later, that’s the font of everything. All my cybersex and fetish sex and one night stands and barebacking and gender experimentation and thinking BDSM is fucking normal…all of that, it started right there. And yet during our one night together (some eight hours), we did none of these things. By most people’s standards, by internet sex blog standards, what we did was boring. If I took you back to campus and I took you out on the quad and pointed and said, “There, that’s Constantine,” you wouldn’t think it was anything special.
You live in a little town, you get to know everybody. You go to a little tiny boarding school, you get to know everybody’s clothes. I know all of Constantine’s wardrobe: the tartan scarf. The pinstripe suit. The baggy green sweater he wore over dress pants. Shiny shoes. Gold toe socks. Black leather gloves. A leather briefcase.
All these tiny details that I store up, rediscover, creating their own web and spawning new symbols and histories. His clothes are why I now see every Versache ad as porn. The high narrow bones of his cheeks, the reason I love the Colt. His fingers between my legs are the reason I would fuck A. two months later. The reason I’ll fuck anyone, anywhere, for the entire rest of my life.
Even know, two years after that one short night, the sight of a man in a long coat holding a briefcase will make my heart rate zoom up to a trillion beats a second.
When Valerie Solanas shot Andy Warhol, she used only one bullet. But that one bullet ricocheted in his insides until it cut open his liver and lungs and spleen and stomach and it took six doctors five hours to put him back together again. And according to Gerard Malanga, my peeps, that was the end of the Sixties.
EDIT: I might write more about Constantine, or I might not. I find it difficult…and it might even need a whole other blog. But for now I’ll post a few bits and peices when the mood strikes me.