This isn’t about sex.
Well, it is, but it isn’t. It’s always about sex. But sex is never just about sex. It must be some fatal combination of the substance of this weekend, all this thinking. I spent Friday at work in an environment absolutely stripped of sex (I work at an elementary school. Still, an observant first grader will chirp something about “Plan B” or someone talking about wanting sex overheard from after school, or the masturbation habit of Pre-K kids during nap time. Innocent spills into an uncomfortable adult world), then headed to my pre-threesome meeting with Bad Idea and our trois (Choir Boy, as it was once his occupation, and I proposed our future debauchery after attending church with him one Sunday weeks ago. I found out also that he’d been reading my blog before our real life acquaintance…it’s such a small world.)
The whole meeting was strange, a bit surreal, a bit off. Sort of like watching someone else’s first date. Except that I was ultra aware of every subtle thing—Bad Idea’s graze on my arm, catching Choir Boy’s eye from across the table. Somehow we didn’t talk about sex. I hardly talked at all, mostly just watching, thinking.
It was complicated—an unfamiliar dynamic. Foreign and so of course I had to wonder if this was going “right.” How do you interact with two boys you’re going to fuck at the same time? How do they interact?
Bad Idea had to leave for another engagement—and his other excuses and obligations from an exhausting day. I invited Choir Boy home for conversation and perhaps, a preview. Then we stayed up until dawn, talking. And eventually fucking. Then all of Saturday in bed, talking and cuddling and kissing and fucking.
It was strange, really. In part because he’s a bi sub, and half of the things he talked about felt like my own thoughts reflected back. Or: having his cock in my mouth while he told me about how he liked a cock shoved down his throat. Or playing top with all the bits I’ve picked up from Bad Idea and the Teacher—being submissive is an invaluable tool even for that. And then in part because it was like talking to someone I knew for ages—even though we’d only ever seen each other twice before. He read my blogs, he knew my thoughts, knew the characters in my life with Titles but not Names.
Except there we were, turning everything back into a reality.
A surreal reality, anyway.
I thought a lot after he left. I thought maybe he knew me better after our two long sessions of conversation than Bad Idea ever has. I thought about people and connections and how I did this a lot, how personality quizzes told me I liked doing this: having episodic deep meaningful conversations with lots of different people. About sex and vulnerability and exposure. I thought about the first time I met Bad Idea and all the insecurities he spurred—and how I didn’t feel any of that with Choir Boy.
And that made it different, made touch easy, made pleasure easier, almost.
Today I read a lot. I read all of Dennis Cooper’s The Sluts instead of my Renaissance epic poetry. I haven’t read anything that had this much of an impact on me in a long time. Explicit, shocking, disturbing, fucked up. I mean, fucked up. Like sitting and reading cringing and biting down my clenched fist in my mouth fucked up. It’s raw and filthy and violent. Oh so violent and cruel and brilliant.
I read it and after, when I walked toward the train station to return home, my thoughts spun in this alternative world. Where everything pushed to the worst, worse than worst of human imagination and perversion. Where exploitation was the rule—and a raw, terrifying half fiction, half reality. It bends the mind.
And I’ve always been drawn to that—anyway, the horrific, the fatal. Not in reality, of course, but to say I have somewhat of a romanticized self destruction complex wouldn’t be a far stretch from the truth.
I read a lot of Nightmare Brunette, after that. She’s a hero—as are many other eloquent sex worker/bloggers. My fascination and admiration of sex work and fantasy of it, in fact, might soon have a legitimate outlet. I hope so. But the really strange thing is that so many of her thoughts and even bits of conversations mirrored my own—comments boys have made on my mind, on me. Only I wasn’t getting paid to fuck them.
What difference does it really make? I’ve fucked boys because I felt obligated to. Fucked ones I wasn’t particularly attracted to. Fucked ones because it felt inevitable, to cross it off a list. But—to get something out of it, some tangible, material thing, to make the rest of my fantasies come true. To not just admire but experience, to know.
It’s funny—Charlotte talks about how she doesn’t want to turn her blog into a cheap, marketable memoir. Memoirs of a College Sex Worker. She wants to stick with sex work rather than polluting it with writing. But all I’ve ever wanted to do was write—and this is an extra dimension on the writing, a new dimension of writing. One that demands recognition, an audience. I’m doing it for the story as much as for myself. Like everything else, it’s about turning the fantasy into a reality.
Not as far as Dennis Cooper, of course. But for those unspeakable things that I only dare to keep in the deepest, darkest cave of my imagination: I’ll have my thoughts, and my writing.
