Being a debaucherous slut is hard.

For instance, I am convinced/terrified that my roommates secretly hate me (though they’ve not brought anything up). Surely this bringing home two different boys on two consecutive school nights is not winning me any points in the pure and quiet and studious scholarly roommate department. And I’d imagine that the sort of noise that’d carries through our thin walls/doors, like the sound of a metal ruler or a sadistic hand smacking hard against skin is not exactly the most reassuring.

Then there is the fact that I’ve hardly gotten any sleep—staying up late and getting up an hour earlier to clean up traces of the night’s dirty deeds is kind of delightful to keep in mind as I stuff ancient morally righteous texts into my schoolbag, but staying conscious in droning lectures becomes that much more unlikely. (This is problem because this slut is also a studious one.)

And the bruises everywhere—sometimes a surprised glimpse when I change in front of the mirror, plum and rose stains from fingers clutching into breasts, snappy red bite marks on exposed thighs, bare stomachs, red ass cheeks…well, given my adoration of reminder marks, perhaps it is not such a bad thing. Though it has become harder to remember/distinguish which ones Bad Idea left and which were the punishments of the Teacher.

The worst of it is, I think, as always, that I still, still, like Bad Idea much more than I should. And his careless affections, painful teasing, ironic compliments, unintended sweetness…his company that inspires anticipation like nothing else, our conversations woven with the too obvious satire of our actually quite wretched affairs—or just mine, I guess.

So much so that when I see the Teacher the night after, half of my thoughts are detached from the cock shoved down my throat and even more so when we are not fucking, and talking, and reading his writing and my cursed mind and hopeless sentimental heart that just can’t connect to the girls he’s fucking/dating and him and me in any way. So that I feel completely interchangeable. And maybe I am.

But to make up for it I have memories painted in raw flesh tones and pure indulgence, of feeling and acting like a perfect dirty slut with two different cute boys on two different nights.

Like Bad Idea’s threats and promises (I’m going to fuck your throat tonight. Think that hurts? It’s going to hurt so much more when that cock is in your ass.) Of dressing him up in my apricot American Apparel deep vneck and a poofy white tutu-like skirt, straddling him to paint on a coat of purple mascara (he looked cute dressed like a girl). Even better when, in those clothes, his expression changed to that of the sadistic dom he does so so wonderfully, tying my wrists to my ankles with a pair of my thick winter tights, choking a patent leather belt around my neck and gripping the free end to position me as he willed. A delicate, precious boy in girl’s clothes fucking me and the pure delight in his eyes when he slapped me, so hard that my cheekbones stung after. Or beating me with his ruler with a ball gag in my mouth, my teeth still straining to bite into the edge of a pillow as to not cry out at the red welts forming on my ass.

Or the Teacher and his fondness of me dressing up, so putting on a too small, too short, nearly school girl dress with a row of buttons up the front. His instructions to unbutton from the top while I did the bottom, and sitting at the edge of the bed with the dress peeled open (but on), spreading my legs and meeting his eye while he told me the next step (stick your fingers down your panties) and the ones after that. Eventually ending up  with me on my knees on the cold marble floor, in front of the mirror while he fucked me from behind, jerking my hair up so we could watch the direct projection of our debauchery. The relentless nature of his tongue flicking and sucking at my clit, and after hours of so much rough sex I could hardly stand another shove of his hips (and yet, still so desperately craved it). The eventual reward of his cum splattering not just across my face but even dripping down my shoulder, a translucent painted line down my back.

Oh, alright, I suppose sexual indulgence has its upsides. Still, on nights when I can only listen to sentimental music and the thoughts running through my head are not just about potential threesomes but potential threesomes where I end up with my head nestled against the chest of the boy I like and the dirty memories on our tongues, I can’t help but wish for…well, a Better Idea.

Mirrors (and fucking in front of them), sparkly ceilings, corsets and garters (and being fucked while wearing them), the movie Quills (the Marquis de Sade is my new hero. And certainly on my reading list), reading his girls I’ve fucked list and notes (I’m number 40), the way he maneuvers his hips and cock, fleeting thoughts: we’d probably make a fantastic porno, half asleep fondling…

And uh, I think I’ve gotten better at choking on cock.

(ps: I invited the Poet to an evening with a few friends, after a few hours of not talking much except for breaking into occasional bursts of reciting poetry and us trying to make sure he was comfortable/having an okay time, he left without saying goodbye. Completely inexplicable and mind boggling. My friends thought it might have been social anxiety—perhaps they’re right. Perhaps it was something I said. In any case, it’s unlikely that I’ll hear from him or receive any sort of explanation. But perhaps for the better, he might have been too fragile for any of my desired adventures.)

2010 began with a midnight’s kiss with a girl who was a mirror image of perfection.

(Did I say I might not have gotten myself into debauchery for new year’s eve? Oops. I must be an unreliable narrator.)

She was the first of the many I kissed that night. The soft, wet, sweet butterfly probings against lips as lovely as mine, beautiful girls with their long silken hair (as much of a cliche as that is, for a girl like me, who’s always favored choppy short cuts, it was a luxury to touch and caress), and the eager, lusty dance of lips and tongue and the playful tease of teeth with too cute boys (including an adorable if slightly underage sweetheart I felt the faintest guilt for potentially corrupting).

And, with the lowered inhibitions and heightened sensations of the slightly illegal substances that orchestrated the night (the better to play with my dear friends), it continued with the delicious, delirious delight of skin on skin, caresses and sly massages, knowing smiles and flashes of the naked skin between my black stockings and garters, the corset that lifted and shaped my breasts, now and then exposing a perked nipple in the movement of dancing—I was still self conscious, still vaguely modest and tried my best to remain stationery after that discovery.

But I should have known the alternative, falling into the embrace of blankets and couches and melting against the bodies of my friends wouldn’t have led to anything better. Somehow I found myself in a room with a long distant best friend, the very blond (and very apathetic) boy she came with, and her innocent friend in a half lit TV room, squeezed on a couch and spoiled by faint caresses when he requested a blowjob.

My LDBF instantly clamored that she wasn’t going to do it (in a prior conversation, or rather two, once online and once in person she suggested I tried to seduce Apathetic Blond Boy), as a recent wisdom tooth removal left her mouth in a state that couldn’t even open wide enough to makeout, let alone give head. And I, being the brave, generous slut that I am (translation: I wasn’t thinking), offered to do the honors.

It was pretty obvious that the boy didn’t care much for me but did want his blowjob, and after a few moments of awkward hesitation where I established multiple times that both LTBF and her friend were fully okay with not only this happening but both of them being in the room while this was happening (I guess I really must be an exhibitionist), he unzipped his pants and pulled out his cock.

I let out a mental sigh of relief as I saw that it was a fairly perfect cock, as far as they went. Just the right size of not being intimidatingly big but big enough, smooth and hard. However, he seemed immune to my compliment and more concerned with my mouth on his cock.

That I could do. Kneeling between his legs, I tried to give a more showy version of my usual visual performance oriented slow licking up the length of his cock, before teasing the tip and plunging to a proper blowjob. And while I appreciate any occasion to polish and show off my cocksucking skills, it was a bit harder with a nearly unresponsive recipient. After I’d been at it for a while, I pulled away and looked at him, “feedback? Anything?”

He didn’t have a very good answer. After a bit more pressuring he gave me an indulgent “just suck,” and I did, for a little while, before I had to check and make sure again LTBF wasn’t willing to help. She wasn’t, but did compliment my blowjob skills (I’m glad someone noticed) and suggested that he come quicker. As much as I love giving head, it is really hard to do (and especially well) with a silent reciever. This went on for quite a while longer before he muttered something about wanting anal.

Excuse me? I stopped and perked up. Did Silent Apathetic Blond Boy just talk and did he just say what I thought he did? Evidently. He grew ever so slightly more enthusiastic at the idea. Oh right, I vaguely remember LTBF telling me about this back in the day (they also hadn’t seen each other in about five month). And while I wasn’t totally against it, I certainly was against my first time doing anal at a party with Silent Apathetic Boy. I looked to LTBF, who once again refused her assistance. I maintained my refusal.

But he must have been convinced he could persuade me otherwise. He pulled me up and tapped at his lips (“here”), and in another minute I was on top of him, and we were doing the more standard hook-up fare. LTBF left the room, and at some point soon after, her friend abandoned her watch at the door and slipped away as well…I hope not under the impression that now that we got horizontal, it would accompany fucking.

Not that I would have been against it. At this point, despite his utter lack of enthusiasm (which was slightly improved when he whispered and pleaded for the ass fucking he wasn’t going to get), I was excited simply by the fact that I was doing a wretched slutty thing I’d aspired to do for so long—hook up at a party. The thrill and danger of discovery, of a friend stumbling inside our cozy dark room was probably more exciting than the boy writhing below me. But my condoms were tucked inside my purse somewhere outside, and neither of us wanted to make the trip to retrieve them. I was still deadset against anal, so we turned to other avenues.

Somehow his lack of attention to me made the little attempt he finally made with his fingers, one up my cunt and one up my ass a sudden welcome delight. Perhaps he was self conscious with the other two girls in the room, or wanted anal/to get off so badly that it no longer mattered. I returned my noble quest of sucking cock on my knees, and soon he was holding my head down and gripping my hair, shoving my face into his cock, and a long overdue orgasm that spluttered cum inside my mouth.

I smiled and pulled away, coughing slightly before as I wiped at the sides of my mouth, wet and warm, cleaning his cum with my fingers and licking it off. In the blissful bit of quiet that followed, as I lay still on top of him and he held me loosely, my mind drifted to another boy and how I wished it was the sassy, vocal, adorable Bad Idea beneath me, and if anyone was going to fuck me up the ass first, it’d be him.

It was a surprise when, not long after, and after possibly two sentences of conversation (we might have not exchanged more than ten words all night before this), he pulled down the zipper of his pants and said “let’s see if I can get hard.” He was half hard already, and I, naturally, when given instruction, obeyed at sucking his cock until it was once again erect. When he jerked off, sitting on top of me, it took a lot less time for the cum to fall onto my neck, on my lips.

And that was that, my inaugural blowjob hours into the new year (when I told him, he laughed, “I’m sure there’ll be many more to come”). I could finally cross off another item on my slutty to-do list. But more than that, I think, Mr. Silent Apathetic Blond inadvertently made me realize how much I wanted Bad Idea, and fuel a painful desire for a proper fucking as soon as possible. Oh, and inspire a story idea on how to receive head too.

*I told LTBF this might not be a very long post. Oops, again. Try not to believe everything I say too—after all, days ago I’d been convinced of my hard resolve to never talk to Bad Idea again and look at me now. My craving for the redhead is about as bad as my need for sex. Happy new year.