The really great part about not seeing Bad Idea for some time is that when I do see him, it’s always explosive.

This time I even tried to set up self restraint ahead of time—we could play, but no penetrative sex (you can guess how well that worked out). And: lesson learned, it’s a bad idea to have Bad Idea over while trying to accomplish anything else. I was in the middle of necessary editing, but with him kissing my neck and breathing in my ear, his fingers gripping my nipples through my tshirt—well. Distracting’s the understatement. (When I peeked at the piece I edited this morning, typos and typos.) 

Did I mention: some boys, even as I am making effort, as I’m gagging on cock, I may be hardly physically aroused at all? But him, even trying to focus on something important was completely ineffective from soaking my white lace cotton panties. (He had requested that I dress young, but in our last minute plan, I couldn’t manage the full outfit. Next time.)

I finished as quickly as I could and turned my attention to him. He pulled me down and began to properly suck and nibble at my clit. And, I was more than eager to reciprocate. His thick hard cock fills up my mouth and throat with painful, delirious pleasure. Even better was his whispered encouragement as I met the hazel twists of his green eyes: “Good little slut.”

The gagging, the tears—it didn’t make me want to stop. A moment later he flipped me over, on my stomach, and slipped his talented, hot tongue up my wet pussy and against my ass. I gave up my usual trying-to-be-considerate-roommate policy and allowed the moans to flutter from my lips, arching my back to allow him better access. 

He finally slipped a finger inside my ass—and this time, no pain at all, I only wanted more. I wondered if my ‘no sex’ policy meant he’d try to fuck me in the ass instead—but instead we flipped into sixty-nine. Which, while fun, always tends to be too distracting to multitask properly. I wanted to be fucked. And though I wouldn’t let myself say it, still wanted to hold on to some hint of my self restraint—when he pressed his cock against the entrance and teased, asking if I wanted it inside of me, I couldn’t say no.

“Doesn’t matter,” he said, gripping my arms and pinning my wrists at my sides. “You don’t get a choice. I was just going to rape you later anyway.”

He fucked me hard and proper—violent thrusts that me writhing beneath him, played up as a struggle while he kept his grip. I was desperate to have more of him, and any time I leaned up to try to kiss his lips, he forced me down, and reinforced it—“You dirty slut. You just want to be raped, don’t you? Taken in a classroom and left, with cum in your pussy and your clothes torn. So you can tell all your friends what a real slut you are—”

After he came inside of me, and we folded against each other, his hand stroking my hair, our bodies still entwined, I realized that I could never really drop this, him. The unbelievably hot sex, or this moment, intimate, fragile, and wonderful.

As a bonus, in the morning, with his hair still rumpled from sleep, he declared: “I’m gonna jerk off in your bed.” And, did. I threw back the covers to watch. I suddenly understood why boys must like it when I fuck myself in front of them—watching a cute boy play with his hard cock, hearing his rushed moans, while I rested my head on his chest was unbelievably erotic. Not to mention: frustrating. If only we set an alarm for earlier. I already wanted to fuck again.

Tomorrow I have a midterm, and tonight I studied. With an old old friend, the first one I ever met in New York,. One I had a big crush on during Freshman orientation and over the summer and drunkenly hooked up with once welcome week, except that was when I was still a virgin, didn’t know what I was doing. I probably didn’t do a very good job of giving a blow job. I guess the hook up came as a bit of a surprise to both of us.

But what followed our two hours of going over medieval/Renaissance British literature didn’t come as a surprise. After all, Valentine’s Day, after a while of toying with the idea—and I mean, simply the idea of it was delicious enough to want to test out—, I had texted him: Happy Valentine’s Day. We should probably fuck soon. And he had said: alright, sounds good (what a response).

He was a redhead (do I have a thing for them?), tall, impeccably well dressed in hip designer clothes. Once, we bonded over our love of the Decemberists and he sang one of their songs during the orientation talent show. I imagined us playing lots more frisbee in Washington Square Park and drinking champagne on the Hudson, and singing along to indiepop songs. Nowadays he only listened to pop-rap and electro. 

We knew what was coming, after our studying, though. Knew the ritual and the proper things to do. I forgot about college boys. How he was quick, passionate and rough, but not in a meticulous deliberate sort of way, in an impatient, get this shirt off your head and naked, and soon, sort of way. A change. I asked him about sex, as I always did. Favorite kinks, fetishes, fantasies. I guess most hipster girls weren’t as kinky as I (though he did quite adore hearing my exploits). He was impressed: when did you learn to choke on cock?

I guess it came as a bit of a surprise, his ease of adapting, the way he threw me beneath him and held my arms down without instruction. His desire to tease, not allow my hungry kisses or the way he rubbed his cock against the wet lips of my pussy, but never entering. The also unexpected finger in my ass, which I’ve learned to love, the thrill of the slight pain and pressure. His cock was long, somehow flexible. So much so that when he did fuck me, I winced in pain, his thrusts harder than I expected (even with all the rough roughs sex I’ve had?!). He was a natural dom waiting to be enlightened.

Unfortunately, some combination of the terrible lube I have that burned the instant it made contact with my pussy, and the length of his cock, and my somewhat distracted mind made the sex relatively short lived. Still, he loved that I fucked myself for him, and positioned me with my head hanging over the edge of the bed, his cock sliding deeper down my throat than I think any ever had, before. A bit of a flutter of fear and a bit exhilarating.

After all that we played more catch up, on life, friends, ironic gossip. I think I might have liked that better than the sex. I’ve been spoiled by lovers too perfect for irregularity, but this, this I appreciated, missed. 

He left. I responded to Bad Idea’s earlier text, about him going away for the weekend and seeing him before he left tomorrow. I closed my eyes and waited. A moment later my phone vibrated, and the most meaningless details, the insignificant wording of Bad Idea’s text made me smile, and press the phone to my lips. 

…And I thought I’d had gotten past that. Someone find me a resolution. 

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.

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.

I greeted Bad Idea with a kiss at the door in a black satin nightie before he had a chance to say hello. That whole month (and then some) of endless dirty texting and IMs, obsessive fantasies and anxiety, indecision between just what I should do and what I want to do…none of it mattered much when I had his red curls in my hands, and could feel the slight cold of his lip ring against my lips.

He liked my nightie, too, flicking up the already short back brushing against the ruffled edge of my panties as his hand playfully squeezed my ass. Outside, Gramps insisted on a photoshoot first, with red lipstick and a black hat in the seductive pose of a random girl’s photo tacked on our wall. I agreed but hardly had the patience to sit still, my mind reeling of what I wanted and couldn’t wait to do with the boy I’d been waiting for too long.

I cut our photo session short, promising a later date and turned my attention to the boy at hand, who, after a few moments of teasing caresses, unzipped his backpack to show me the toys he’d gotten over break and planned to use tonight. Each promised a painful delight. Indecision, my biggest weakness, took over me as he asked what I wanted to do. After all, we had discussed so much, and now that I had him next to me, fingering my panties and biting at my nipples, I could not think well enough to settle on one thing. It didn’t matter, anyway.

He pulled up my slip and uncapped the thick sharpie he’d brought in his bag, and wrote the words “I am a slut” in the triangle of naked skin between my hips and above my clit. I giggled as he wrote. He looked up and met my eye, “Well, it’s true. That’s what you are.”

“Yes I am.” I agreed. He’d noticed the still not yet faded bruises The Teacher had left on my breasts and asked about him. (“What does he like that I don’t? Who’s a better kisser? But you still like me more, right?” Well, of course.)

A  branded slut like me gets the treatment she deserves. He found the bright red ball gag and shoved it into my mouth, clasping the buckle tight so that my teeth seared into the gag. He pushed my head into the pillow and began his long awaited punishment. First, his hand hitting the curve of my ass and thigh, meticulous, after breath holding moments of anticipation, slapping so that the impact and pain tingled up my ass and nudged at my pussy. Then he took out the cold, metal ruler. I tried to relax and breath, like I remembered all my reading told me to do, but I’d told him before, I was an ironic masochist whose pain tolerance was really quite low. The idea of metal on skin scared me.

He traced the edge of the ruler down the straight line of my spine, a caress of a different sort. I was breathing fast but trying to stay calm as he toyed with the edge of the ruler against the entrance of my wet pussy. Then brought it down on my ass. The pain was sharp and harsh. He delivered a few more hits, and rewarded me with his hands on my back, and his teeth biting into my skin. I stifled a scream against the pillow—his teeth made a worse weapon than the ruler.

Then the flogger. A thin, sexy stick of woven hard fabric around a metal stick. When he swiped it in the air the song of its motion was like a sharp intake of air, dangerous, beautiful. I closed my eyes and grimaced for it, struggling to remind myself to stay calm, breath, relax. When the strokes came, I’m sure he didn’t hit as hard as he could have, stopping the quick motions just before it touched my skin. I’d asked him to go easy, but still, the metal stung.

I guess it never made the red marks he wanted to see clearly defined on my ass. To compromise, he found two spots on my back and bit hard, threatening to break skin. I was half crying against the ball gag and the pillow…and wished I could have seen the perfect red rectangles I’m sure he’d just made.

“Good girl,” he finally said, and unclasped the ball gag as I took in a deep breath of air, of relief. My reward was his cock, and licking the drops of precum on its tip as he asked me where I wanted it first.

“In my cunt,” I told him, against instincts to first suck cock.

“Just like this?” He pressed it against my pussy, rubbing and teasing.

I couldn’t properly respond. I was on birth control, he was safe, I didn’t want another second of a condom, I wanted him inside of me and fucking me right there and then. So he did, and it was exquisite. “Does it hurt?” He asked in between slamming his cock deep.

“Yes,” I gasped and he smiled.

“Good.”

***

After his wretched talks of tying me against the edge of a bed with my head hanging over the edge so that he could shove his cock nonstop down my throat and the pleasures of orgasm and utter escape siezed me in his fantastic filth, after he watched me wipe his come from my face and suck it from my fingers, I lay next to him and traced my fingers against the tattoo on his chest. I’d almost forgotten it was there.

I had to know, the real explaination, for the no dating thing. I couldn’t stand the idea that there was something so wrong with me as for him to never want anything more than the hot, fucked up sex we have. When he finally explained it and told me about his friend-with-benefit who might have been a bit more than just that, his desire to leave New York and how love might interfer, looked me in the eye and told me that “I’m not going to fall in love with you” and “just because I don’t want to date you doesn’t mean I don’t care about you,” I felt better. About him, about us, all of it.

Twisted on my part too, probably. But hearing him say it made me realize my unrealisic dreams were just a nusiance, and instead, we could have so so much fun without fear or need of anything more. Besides, as we kept up our affectionate snark in between  Boggle on his iPod and waiting for our long past midnight breakfast delivery, the company he offered then was enough.

When I dressed for my date with the cute high school English teacher I’d been exchanging messages on Okcupid over break,  I considered, briefly, changing out of my heart printed white cotton panties and cutesey bra and into a sexier set of lingerie. We had, after all, both established our hedonistic tendencies in our conversation, and I am generally a big believer in fucking on the first date.

But I decided against it, because, well, I had just moved in (aka dropped off my bundles of possessions) in my new apartment hours earlier in the day, and I hadn’t unpacked a single thing, not even basic bedding. Besides, I didn’t want to subject my  funny old man roommate (who is at once the epitome of the sweet old grandpa and a slightly insane ex-druggie/artist/womanizer whatever in his youth) to debauchery before I even decided on which room to rent.

And, we were going to do dinner and a movie. The movie was a midnight showing of Showgirls. I imagined that he didn’t hold expectations of fucking after that late and intricate of a date. And, he noted a lack of experience in BDSM when we talked about it, so I assumed that meant he was experienced in plenty of fun vanilla but didn’t not share the same dirty, kinky mindset as me. Rendering my underwhelming underwear choice a fully viable and convenient option.

Hours after a faintly unfulfilling meal and a grueling reminder of the beauty of lines like “everybody’s got AIDS and shit” and “you look better than a ten inch dick” from overly enpowered strippers of Showgirls, wandering around the village searching for a coffee shop that I finally learnt had closed down, being the only two patrons of a near closing crepery and discussing our respective explicit debaucheries, he sat on the couch in my not-even-decided-to-be-my room. And waited with his eyes closed.

He had ordered me to strip, change into something better (I decided on a delicate lacey pink and black bra, ruffled translucent panties with a bow, thigh high stockings), then straddle him, and kiss him. I took my time in adjusting the thin fabric of the bra to just cover my nipple and the lines of my stockings straight on my thighs, then followed his instruction, pressing my hips against his jeans and smiling at the thrill of his hard cock already pushing against my pussy. Eyes still closed, he touched the texture of each piece of lingerie and slid his hands down the silky sides of my stockings. He approved.

I smiled at his blind appreciation and kissed him, slightly grinding my hips into his as the anticipation of what was to come tingled and spread across my skin—which turned into electricity when he jerked my hair and pinched my nipples—hard. He switched away his grip for his lips sucking and biting, flickering his tongue at the sensitive pink. When I, in turn, reached to pull off his shirt, he shoved my hands away. “Not until I’m ready to strip.”

Oh, the pain of denial. Moments later I pleaded to suck his cock, its tantalizing tease beneath his jeans nearly unbearable. “Not yet,” he said. But this time it didn’t take too much longer of convincing. He pushed my head lower and told me to pull the tight pants down. I was delighted at the sight of his cock, nearly smooth, the perfect thickness to grip, and even more so to suck and gag on. He gripped my hair and forced me to meet   his eye as his cock fucked my throat. He liked the sight of my tears.

He also liked it when he posed me in front of him, legs spread, bent over to finger my clit and with the mirror placed behind us, a visual feast. Or when he held my legs at his side and told me to lean back and spread wide, leaning so far back that my head hung upside down and stared straight into the exposed and stretched version of my breasts and chest in the mirror.

And even more, when, finally, after much pleading on my part, he allowed me to lower myself onto his cock. For a moment, pain flared, and then the exquisite satisfaction when he entered me fully. And proceeded to fuck me, halfway on the edge of the couch, bent over with my palms straining against the wood floor, punctuated by a slap of the ass or thigh or the side of my breasts (a perfectly round bluish purple bruise adorns it, even now). Anytime I chanced a glance back I saw our vicious motions. It was a hard sight to give up—but I wanted him on top of me, wanted to feel his weight against me.

We climbed up to the bed—a loft bed. He liked the novelty value, but his six foot one frame might have had slight more difficulty not banging against the ceiling overhead. But it was a switch well made. He positioned me in every which way and slammed his cock deep inside my cunt, rapid nonstop heavy breathing interpersed with the sort of deep, intense motion that made me breathless.

He seemed disappointed that he came inside of me rather than on my face, like he wanted to. But I didn’t mind. By then I could hardly move without my body trembling.

Go figure. My first date on my second date back landed me another boy just as enthusiastic about dirty kinky fucking. In the morning, or late afternoon, after I climbed back to bed half dressed and ready to start the day, he lowered my hand on his chest down and around his erection. Minutes later we were fucking again, my face pressed into the pillows as I tried to stifle my moans and screams for fear of the up and awake gramps noticing. Like he said—he had found a brilliant way to bastardize missionary. Or not allowing me to fuck him and instead pounding his hips up as I rode on top of him.

Or finally spurting the come on my face and my stuck out tongue, as he originally planned.

Before he left he told me all the spots in the apartment he wanted to christen, besides my couch and bed. The kitchen counter, the shower, the wall—he picked me up and pushed me against the wall. I wrapped my legs around him and agreed. Yes, that would be fun.