My piece from the November/December issue of Préférences. I think it's out in France by now, though I haven't recieved my copy yet.Five Moments In The Life Of A Slut
I. Mr. Slut
When my friend Jack saw the photos from my trip to Florida for a porn industry event this summer he flipped out and called me a slut. I tried to explain to him that the naked guys in the pictures were porn stars and that they were being paid to be slutty.
“It’s their job,” I said. “You wouldn’t deprive them of their living, would you?”
I told him I wasn’t the one running around the pool naked or sucking cock on stage at the clothing optional parties. Of course, even if I didn’t do those things, Jack’s right, I am kind of slutty. And I’ve always been comfortable with that fact. I think of myself as enlightened and sexually unconventional, and of course I always use condoms. I embrace sluttiness as a sort of liberating post-modern identity. But here was my friend calling me a slut with such disdain. I didn’t like it. And I started to think of all the slutty things I’d done lately.
II. Marathon Sluttiness
I actually was pretty slutty in Florida. Sluttier than usual. Since I was only there for the weekend, I had to cram all my dirty deeds into two days. It was marathon sluttiness; the kind behavior average, well-adjusted Americans can only achieve on vacation. In a single night I played with a Brazilian bartender’s uncircumcised penis, made out with a sweet boy from Michigan, and then fooled around with a cute porn star/escort in the hotel pool.
The Brazilian had been waving his dick around at a party earlier that night, so I couldn’t help giving it a few yanks when it came my way, and the boy from Michigan disappeared shortly after kissing me. But I had been flirting with Andy, the porn star/escort, all day. I found him in the pool at 4 a.m., skinny-dipping with some other porno guys. He was wet and drunk and not tired at all.
The next hour and a half was like a waiting game between myself and the rest of Andy’s porn friends. Someone was going to fuck him that night; we just had to see who could stay up the longest. Slowly, the group began to dwindle. Some guys got hungry and went off in search of breakfast; others lost interest in Andy and headed up to their rooms to fuck each other; most just went to bed. I don’t like to go to sleep, so I waited until it was just the two of us in the pool.
I swam up to Andy and whispered in his ear, “Guess I win.”
He laughed and wrapped his legs around me. There was a cool breeze coming off the ocean, so we dipped down under the water to keep warm and to hide what we were doing in case a nosy hotel security guard passed by. I kissed him, biting his lip gently, and then worked my way down his neck, kissing and nibbling. Underwater, I slid my hand up his thigh toward his ass and squeezed it. He had a perfect little porn star ass, compact and round and bouncy. I slipped my fingers between his cheeks and felt the little button of puckered muscle there. I rubbed it, teasing it with my finger. He let out a soft, deep moan and gripped the back of my neck.
I wanted to bend him over and put my face in his ass. I wanted to lick his perfect, pink hole and find out what kind of noises he makes when he comes. But the sun was rising, and it’s hard to do that sort of thing in five foot deep water. So we went to my hotel room, and did it there.
III. Dirty Stay-Out
I woke up, after only three hours of sleep, in someone else’s bed, with dried cum on the sheets and a naked boy next to me. I had to be at work in 15 minutes. Luckily, Josh (then naked boy) lived only a few blocks from where I work on weekends. I jumped out of bed, threw on my clothes, and kissed him goodbye.
Outside it was a beautiful day. The sun was shining, it was warm, and every fag in New York was having brunch outside. As I walked down Eighth Avenue, the blisteringly bitchy heart of Chelsea, I felt like I had a huge scarlet letter tattooed on my forehead. As I passed by cute gay couples and groups of stylish friends on Sunday shopping trips, I knew they could tell I had been out all night. They could tell I’d gone home with a guy and had casual sex and that I was still wearing the clothes I’d gone out in last night. At any moment, I would turn around and there would be a huge mob of angry Chelsea Boys with torches and rabid little Chihuahuas. They would charge after me, hissing and yelling “Slut!” and “Whore!” and “Dirty stay-out!”
I arrived at work feeling like I had barely escaped alive.
IV. The Long Way Home
It was 3 a.m. when I left my friends at the Eagle, telling them I was too tired and too drunk to stay out. I was lying. I was wide awake and just drunk enough to do something reckless, like go to an after-hours gay sex party all by myself.
I’d found the flyer on the bar earlier. The party was at a club I had to walk past to get to the subway, so I figured I might as well check it out on my way home. The club was really dark and almost empty when I got there. I could see a few shadows moving against each other in the darkness. I kept my clothes on.
As it began to fill up, someone turned on the black lights and in the weird blue glow the whole thing began to look a little different. It was like someone had lifted up a rock and exposed a bunch of silent, crawling insects and worms. It was kind of gross, but you couldn’t look away. Guys walked up too each other and, without saying a word, started to touch each other. The only sounds were soft sighs and moans, and the smacking of lips on skin. The quiet was unnerving and incredibly sexy.
I watched a younger guy in a leather harness and combat boots giving a slightly older leather daddy a blowjob. I walked up to them and the leather daddy put his thick, rough hand on my arm, and then down my pants, unbuttoning my fly. He pulled out my cock and rubbed it. A cute skinny guy with a Mohawk reached over from my right and took over. He spit in his hand and slid it up and down my cock, slow at first, and then faster. I leaned into him, resting my head against his. He smelled like clean skin and saliva. I could feel his breath on my face, warm and moist. I bit my lip and I came, right there, standing up, with my face buried in a stranger’s neck.
V. Slut Interrupted
Ryan is too drunk to find his way home. I imagine him passing out on the subway, getting robbed, and waking up all the way out in Brighton Beach with no wallet and no idea how he got there. So I take him to my place and put him in my bed, where he immediately falls asleep. This is not how I pictured our first night together – and believe me, I’ve pictured it many times!
In my mind it goes something like this: Ryan looks deep into my eyes and in sweet, but not sickeningly flowery terms, expresses his undying love for me. There’s an unforgivably sappy song playing. Something slow, but not sad, like “Moon River” or “When I Fall In Love,” and there are lots of candles lit. He kisses me, and then we have amazing, completely conventional, non-kinky sex. We fall asleep together, as he whispers sweet promises in my ear.
Of course, that isn’t what happens. I fall asleep on the couch and wake up after the sun is already up. I crawl into bed with Ryan at 8 a.m., wondering if he thinks I’m a slut too. He stirs and I brace myself for an awkward “Good morning,” and his hasty departure.
Instead, he rolls over and throws his arm around me, and I suddenly I feel like all my sluttiness has been washed away. I’m kind of in love and I want to do everything right. I want to go out on dates and meet his friends and coworkers. I want to impress his parents. It feels weird and very unlike me, but I’m glad we haven’t had sex yet.
