If you A) are in France or New York and B) have a firm grasp of the French language, go out and purchase yourself a copy of the latest issue of PREF right now! For all my non-Francophonic peeps out there here's the English version of my latest piece.RANDOM ACTS...Of SpiteI smile at Eric when I spot him across the smoky basement of Happy Valley, one of the few clubs in New York where nobody seems to care about anti-smoking laws.
Bastard, I think as I walk toward him, still smiling.
“Hi!” he says, slipping his arms around me and kissing me dangerously close to the mouth. I can tell right away he’s drunk. “How have you been? You know, I’m really sorry about what happened between us.” Eric and I sort of used to be boyfriends. Or as close to boyfriends as either of us was really interested in being. Then, about a year ago, he dropped me, rather unceremoniously, for an aging gossip columnist and his model groupies.
“Come home with me tonight,” he slurs, arms still circling my waist. “I could arrange a group thing if you want.” He nods toward two baby-faced, 20-year-old models.
I’m speechless, baffled, and more than a little embarrassed for him. Drunkenly propositioning an ex just seems beneath him.
And then he kisses me. It’s a sloppy, artless kiss, full of teeth and tongue and stubble. It’s not something I want to be doing. Me and Eric; it’s not something I want to revisit. And for some reason, my mind shifts into revenge mode. He’s drunk, and throwing himself at me. I’ve got the upper hand. It’s not exactly a Machiavellian situation, but I’m feeling spiteful. I want Eric to feel a little disappointment, a little rejection. I want him to see what it’s like. But mostly, I want him to know just how over him I am.
So I tell him, yeah, I’ll think about going home with him, but I’ve got to find my friends first. I let him kiss me one more time, I let him put his hand on my ass, and I walk away. And I ignore him for the rest of the night.
As I’m leaving, I spot him near the coat check and I give him that smile. That patronizing smile you get from people you’ve been flirting with, who have no interest in talking to you further. It feels so good to be the one smiling that smile. I know it’s nothing. I know it’s stupid and petty, but in the cab on the way home I can’t help feeling a little bit pleased with myself.
Of Utter PerversionThe porn star Tyler Mason is whimpering. We’re in the back of his friend’s van, heading back to his hotel from a party. There are two other guys – also porn stars – in the seats behind us, half watching us, half engrossed in their own, in my opinion less impressive, backseat groping. My hand is in Tyler’s pants, my middle finger rubbing just outside his hole. His legs are spread, his hips lifted slightly, his eyes glassy and rolling.
He reaches for my belt, trying to unbuckle it.
“Uh-uh,” I say, glancing at the guys in the backseat. Actually, they’re not even paying attention to us anymore. But being fully clothed with my hands on Tyler, doing things to him, creeping underneath his clothes, past his defenses, touching him where he’s soft and vulnerable, that means I’m in control. I like being in control.
Maybe I’ll keep my clothes on all night, I think.
Tyler, on the other hand, is naked almost before we’re inside his hotel room. He’s smaller than me – shorter, skinnier; a pocket-sized porn star – and he is, what they call in the industry, a power bottom. All of which makes me feel oddly virile and aggressive. He’s like a rag-doll I can toss around, a bone for a rabid dog to gnaw on, and he’ll enjoy it. He goes to the sink for a glass of water and I press myself against him from behind, rough denim against his soft, pale buttocks. He arches his back and turns his head to kiss me, but I push him down, flat against the imitation marble sink and slip my hand between his cheeks. His ass is small, but shapely. One cheek fits in the palm of my hand. I rub harder, pressing the side of my hand against the little button of anus. He loosens slightly and I can feel the smoother, hotter, rawer skin just inside him. I reach around and slip the fingers of my free hand into his mouth.
“I want to take a shower,” he moans.
“Ask me nicely. Say please.”
“Please,” he gasps, my finger on his lips, “Please, can I take a shower?”
“Ok,” I say, and I take my clothes off while he runs the hot water. He washes himself, rinses, and I kneel down behind him and spread his ass cheeks. He’s wet and slippery and it’s easy for me to slide my index finger into him. I slide in and out of him, one finger, then two, then three. I have him turn around so that he’s facing me, and slip my fingers back in. I have all four fingers inside him, up to the knuckle, and he’s riding my hand, bucking his hips faster. The sounds he’s making are high, soft sighs and grunts and gasps. It’s the hottest thing I’ve ever heard. I can feel him stretching out, my fingers opening him wider, and I’m suddenly afraid that I’ll rip him apart, that he won’t know how far is too far before it’s too late. I gently slide my hand out of him and he collapses against me, exhausted. I turn off the shower and carry him to bed.
Of Drunken WeirdnessIt’s three in the morning. I’m drunk as fuck. Drunk as fuck and feeling kind of emotionally fragile. And also horny. I make a phone call to the guy I’ve been seeing. He doesn’t answer. I call another boy, someone I’ve slept with a few times, and he answers, but doesn’t remember ever having met me. I hang up on him.
I’m bored, and 3 a.m. suddenly seems like an amazingly stupid hour for the whole world to be asleep. There’s only one other person I can think of who would be awake and at home at 3 a.m. I call my friend Ryan. As soon as he answers, I start to believe, from the bottom of my booze soaked heart, that I’m actually in love with him. It’s a ridiculous notion. I’m not in love with Ryan, but at this moment I honestly believe that I am.
“Come visit me,” I mumble into the phone. “I’ll cook for you.” I have all these thoughts about the two of us running around New York, hand in hand, going to parties together, side by side, inseparable, him curled up next to me in bed. I wonder what it would be like to have sex with him.
“I just want you to be happy,” I say, and that part is true, actually.
“Um. You could give me a friendship blowjob,” he says.
None of this will make sense in the morning.
Last night, I briefly toyed with the possibility of making a late appearence at the Black Party. Like, 4 a.m. late, when the price drops for boys under 26. I'm glad I didn't. And here's why:
