Hmmm.

Me: hmm. you seem mad. what’s wrong?

Him: lol not at all

Him: I don’t get mad

Him: I’m not emotional

Him: I wanna put it in your butt

Me: … That’s all you want?

Sex-positive = Only-good-for-sex?

If only…

If only, if only.

The last thing I need.

He took a deep gulp from his beer, smirked, and said, “Do you remember where you were last night?”

Of course I remembered. I was in my bedroom studying the entire time — except for that brief 20 minutes when I snuck into a hall bathroom to swallow a load from my ex-fuckbuddy, who was in town for our school’s big football rivalry game. The beauty of Blackberry messenger and short distances.

But the queen of queer gossip on campus couldn’t have known this; I’m fairly good at covering my tracks, and we were quite discrete.

“Uhh, no?” I said, to imply that I was unsure of what he had in mind.

“Huh,” he said. “I see.” He looked suggestively to his troops on either side. I call them his interns because I’m sure they carry out a lot of his dirty work for little to no recompense.

That night I BBM’ed the ex. I was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt, just as I was the day after the first time we’d hooked up, when a mutual friend joked that she’d heard I liked to rim and swallow without having to be asked. “tell anyone about our rendezvous?” I knew he hadn’t.

“of course!”

Of course he had. I tried to laugh off my embarrassment but it felt so snug. I approached what I said next with an air of not wanting to seem desperate and weak. I failed, of course. “oh yeah?” I wrote. “who?”

“um, everyone.”

“everyone?” Everyone-everyone? Or someone who’d make sure to do the job of telling everyone?

“i don’t like keeping secrets.” I’m the king of secrets. “oh yeah? whyso?”

“just don’t.” That didn’t seem good enough, I guess, so he added: “don’t worry people don’t know how much of a slut you really are.”

“hah. i guess that makes up for it,” i wrote. “thanks for nothing.”

I could sense the the shrug and the smirk from miles away. “whatever, slut.” I knew he meant it.

“slut.”

It was going to be my second craigslist hookup in as many days, but this time, when I saw him standing outside of my dorm on his phone, ringing me because I’d taken a little too long to come let him in, and then when I got a whiff of his attitude, the attitude of a pissed richboy athlete who’d use me to recover from his annoyance, I knew it’d be good. I knew he’d do to me what I needed to be done.

The first guy wasn’t my style. Already I was hesitant to get back into the Craigslist thing again. Too often the boys would underwhelm when they showed up at my dorm, sometimes looking nothing like the studs I’d been chatting with only a few minutes before. This guy was the same as in his picture but still managed to underwhelm. His hair was too long, maybe an unfair bias but it’s true: pale guys with long brown hair always strike me as a little dirty-looking, even if they’re not. I roll onto my back and expect lice to crawl down their arms and into my mouth when they lay on top of me. This didn’t happen but I was horrified it would. I blame this on Kurt Cobain.

After about 45 minutes of doing whatever — pounding at each other, sucking each other off — I told him I was tired. I find it incredibly hard to sustain sexual interest in a guy I’m not attracted to when I’m not bottoming outright. I let him blow his load and leave; I’d decided, as soon as I first saw him, that I wouldn’t swallow. But I might let him come over again, if only for his dick. It was nice. But he has to promise to fuck me. And to cut his hair.

This new guy was taller, crew-cut, with kind of an Eric Szmanda feel.  Bi, closeted. Swimmer in college; law student, now. In his e-mails he’d said he was fairly hung and a total top, but usually “total top” among the sub-25 set just means cocky. I was skeptical, but ready. My body wasn’t as good as his and when I saw him I worried that’d drive him away when we got upstairs. Already it’d taken a little convincing to get him to come over; he’d been drinking and we were mid-way through a blizzard.

I had an exam early the next morning. It was already 3am. I should’ve been asleep.

When he got inside he threw down his jacket and took off his shoes like he owned the place, and fell onto my bed like he owned the boy who slept in it. In a few minutes, he would. We talked about school, our lives, keeping ourselves guarded and playing by the rules. He was German. I made sure to mention that this was my favorite, and he seemed pleased, if only perfunctorily so. Every once in the while I’d make a wise-ass remark that’d risk killing the mood while instead turning him on more. He admired my sense of humor; when he jokingly called me a Debbie Downer, I’d make fun of him for being a straight Republican and tell a joke about cat AIDS. I felt comfortable being a jackass.

But when it came time to blow him, I did. “Take of your shirt,” he said, and thinking we were still joking, I told him to say please. “No,” he said. “Come on. Take off your shirt.” And he took it off for me, then took off his. I moved to my knees, knowing there was only one thing to be done here and suspecting it was best to start and end there. He was big, and he looked at me cockily when I took it into my hands. It was the kind of cockiness that got me hard immediately, and combined with his husky beer smell and college T shirt and dirty plain white sneakers it made me feel like I had a straight boy in my hands. So I sucked him the way every gay boy fantasizes about being a straight guy’s first queer suckboy, making sure I outdid every girl who’d come before me and erased them each from his memory one deep, throaty slurp at a time.

It was some of the best head I’ve ever given. He enjoyed it. As did I. I offered to turn off the light and when I did, I noticed that I’d remembered to put out a couple of magnums and lube. Good boy. Just in case. As expected, he wasn’t dominant so much as confident. When I lay on my back in the dark, he straddled my face. He spread my legs and started to finger my hole without lube. I always hate that — it hurts more than anything — and my first reaction is always to squirm. He told me to stop and backed into my throat to the hilt and fucked my face.

“Do you want me to fuck you?” he said.

“Yes,” I said, between breaths.

“I want to fuck you,” he said. “But ugh, I’m so close.” Ugh. It sounded almost pathetic. It won my sympathy. He started to pump my mouth more quickly. “Keep sucking,” he said. And then he pushed back into my throat like he was trying to dig for my insides with his cock. I didn’t taste or feel his cum but my mouth reacted to each surge with a spasm and I knew it was substantial.

“Fuck,” he said. “You give awesome head.” Yes, I thought. This is what I wanted . . .

He wiped his forehead on his arm and looked down at me. “Slut.” I wanted him to spit at me or bite my lips, but he didn’t.

We dressed. “Do you want me to walk you down?” I asked. He shook his head no and left.

The next morning I gchatted him. “Thanks for the protein. I’m sure it helped me on my exam.”

No response. None wanted, none received.

Ryan.

Music is our thing, he says. And when I e-mail him regularly, I somehow find my way into his dreams.

He writes: “we were running up the stairs of my dad’s old rowhouse. if you’ve ever been in a seven floor PA-style rowhouse, you know the kind of foreplay that made for. and then i bred you. my sex dreams are kind of like levi’s commercials. well… the beginning parts.”

And it’s Christmas, no less. Hardly a better gift than knowing you’re the sex-object of someone’s dreams.

If only everything were always this easy.

Life for all of us would be a hell of a lot more satisfying.

Slutty in even non-sexual senses of the word…

But satisfying.

Hiatus.

Didn’t die.

In fact, quite alive.

But more-or-less back from the dead, it’s true.

Like Catwoman in that Batman movie — I stumbled around cat-happy after some kittens licked my cunt, and then was reborn.

Yes — exactly like that. Precisely.

Les Divorces

I found out tonight that my paternal grandmother is getting a divorce. Her first husband, my grandfather, deserted her after giving her a 7th child. This new guy, who I liked, deserted her after she refused to give him all her money.

Tough luck. I feel quite for her, actually.

There are only a handful of married couples left in my family. 

I wonder if it’s possible that my negative outlook on relationships is very much a product of the fact that I grew up around so few functioning relationships.

(Read: Of course it’s possible. It’s true.)

I Know What Boys Like.

I know what guys want.

Only apparently not, given that I’ve never been anything but single. 

At least, that’s what people seem to think if a person such as myself — smart, social, not unattractive — has never had a boyfriend.

It’s not that I don’t get it. There’s something strangely validating about having long-term relationships. If you’re 40 and have never had anything long-term or substantial, you’d feel, understandably, odd.

But there’s something to be said, in my book, for being single by choice. Not forever, obviously. As for myself, I took some time off of dating and hooking up this last school year because I wanted to focus a little more on myself. Every kind of relationship teaches us something, but I also feel strongly that we have much to learn from — and about — our selves. And a lack of background noise can help us access these things.

Or maybe I’m just rationalizing. Maybe we really are meant to have boyfriends/girlfriends.

Food for thought.

The Pleasure Principle

Is this:

The constant and human drive to continually seek out pleasure while, consciously and unconsciously, avoiding pain or failure at all costs.

See also: freedom of choice, my dreams, the world we don’t live in.

Examples.

Pleasure: Men.

Pain: Men.

Cyclical, isn’t it?

I don’t think Freud meant it to be that way . . . 

Nevertheless, a theme. Janet says it best.

Consider it a life dream and blog philosophy.