10:17 a.m. - 2007-03-21
Fuck and Run
It's been a while, partially due to diaryland being down, partially due to writer's block. There have been a number of entries that I've started but haven't finished. I figured I'd do what I could to post them in something like the order I began them (also because I didn't want my first entry in a while to be on the war, lest everyone think I'm depressed, when actually I'm in a relatively good mood). So, here we go . . .
I think that we all need to get together and make some rules about sex and sexuality. When I say "we" I mean, of course, right-minded, well-educated, progressive people with their feet on the ground. Whole nations, including this one, have rules about sex and sexuality; most religions make those rules some of their central tenets. But such rules are often conservative at best, anachronistic and oppressive at worst. I am talking about rules for those of us who are above such petty things as nation and religion; rules for the smart set. Let's get a think tank together about it; I'm pretty sure the Kinsey Institute is still up and running over in Bloomington, so they can host. After a few years of debate and research, they can publish a chart, a Cartesian coordinate graph that has age as its X axis and number of people you sleep with in a given period--month, year, week, they'll figure out what works best--as the Y axis. There will be a line that starts at zero until about the age of 15 or 16, when it will go up to 1, slowly climbing up up up up until it hits a peak at 21, where it will plateau for a year or two before it starts an even slower descent that nevertheless gets faster and faster as the years go on, until around 40 or so it hits 1 or 2 again and pretty much flatlines there until it hits the end of the chart. As long as you stay below the line, you're fine. If you go above the line, you're a slut.
Now, don't get me wrong, these rules don't need to be iron clad. After all, if you're in a committed relationship with someone, then being with even one other person would make you a slut, wouldn't it? You could also get a recent break-up bonus pass, because it should be considered acceptable to go a little wild after you've been monogamous for a long time. Have a couple more, we won't call you a slut. Then there's the issue of how long you know a person before you sleep with them; I don't think sleeping with someone on the first date means you're necessarily a slut, if you really like the other person, but if you do that more than once in a year, say, that's probably pretty slutty. And we'll have to figure out what to do about the occassional threesome; I think any more than two other people at once would AUTOMATICALLY make you a slut, wouldn't it? I do, however, insist that we have a set standard for people of all genders; no saying that a man can sleep with more people and not be a slut. We of the smart set are ABOVE such misogynistic attitudes. This will allow gay men to rein things in a little more, which will probably get us a lot closer to getting our civil right, and give a bit more freedom to those notoriously monogamous lesbians.
Whoops. I gave it away with that get-our-civil-rights-faster bit, didn't I? If you know me, that's a dead giveaway that I am speaking with my tongue firmly in my cheek, which can itself be a slutty move in other contexts. So no, we shouldn't have these rules, but you know, to tell the truth, sometimes I wish something like that graph was there so I could say, "You can't call me a slut, I've only slept with five people this year!" or "Whoops, went over my quota, guess I'm a big old slut now." That way I'd be able to have a reaction prepared for those times when I'm talking to someone I know about someone I've fucked and I hear that change in their voice or the way that they look at me that makes me say Wow, they totally think I'm a slut.
This never used to happen, hence my belief that there is some sort of age-appropriate thing that requires a Cartesian coordinate system. Back in college, I was a slut. Well, that's probably not quite accurate, which is, again, why I wish I had that fucking chart. Let's say I had a reputation. I was ready for it. I wanted it. I wasn't picky. And I got it, and I got it from hot guys and, for that matter, I got it from guys who had never been with guys before. I earned my toaster. I learned that, if you are a gay guy and are willing to make out with--and, for that matter, get into bed with--a woman, then "straight" guys realize that they can hook up with you and not have to worry about being gay. It made for a lot of good stories.
The weird thing was that it was mostly bisexual and even ostensibly straight boys that I slept with. I didn't really sleep with a lot of gay guys. I didn't hang out with gay guys, much. I did experimental theatre, and all the gay guys were over in musical comedy, or they didn't do theatre at all, and so it was almost always the guys who wanted to experiment with more than just theatrical conventions. There was also the fact that I was, as I am, overweight and unconcerned with my gender expression, which translates, in gay personal ad terms, to fat and fem, as in "No fats, no fems," something that makes an appearance in a remarkable percentage of advertisements for men seeking men.
I'll get back to that in a minute, but I need to stick around in college for a paragraph or two more. Like I said, I had a reputation, but it wasn't a bad one. Everyone I knew got a huge kick out of the way I acted, out of what I guess was a kind of sexual fearlessness, at least to them. Others, particularly certain women, were not so lucky. There was this one young woman who was not terribly well-liked, although I never really understood what was so wrong with her, people had no problem talking about her as a trashy, nastly slut every time they saw her grinding with some guy at a party. There was one night when I actually asked, "Am I like that? Do people say the same things about me?" to which a friend responded, "No, because you own it." I don't know quite what that means. Maybe I was just performing sexuality differently, in a way that had little to do with conquest or self-esteem, or maybe I was just a boy and boys can get away with being sluttier than girls. Or maybe people really were saying things like that about me and no one wanted me to know.
I eventually stopped sleeping around and was virtually celibate for a long time, partially due to a couple of not so great experiences that actually left me feeling like a slut. What does that even mean, when I say that? I think it means that I felt used, that I was with men who wanted me exclusively for their own pleasure. Before, when I had been with men, it was always about fun, and they were excited to have sex with me, with The Notorious RRZ, with someone who loved sex and who prided himself on how good he was at it. I was an entertaining learning experience, or at least that's how I felt. There were other men who just saw me as a body, one that, if they had their way, would just perform to their specifications. It got to the point where I hated being told that I was beautiful in bed, because it made me feel like I could leave my body with them and they would have been happier. They wanted The Stepford RRZ, which ain't me.
In addition to all this came the fact that, in graduate school, I was, for a good bit, the only single person in my cohort, one of few single people that I knew. I was the odd number, and I've had this weird thing against odd numbers since I was a kid (I was pretty OCD as a child, I know that's shocking). I had married friends, friends who lived with their partners, friends whose partners lived in other cities but saw them whenever they could, friends who didn't have partners but who were serial monogamists. Slutty didn't feel so appealing anymore, and it wasn't like guys were lining up at the door. I was feeling quite low, and I get low when I think about it.
See, no matter how slutty I am, the truth is that one day I want to have a husband and a family. I want to fall in love, and be in love, and work at that love for a very long time. I don't know whether that love has to be monogamous, or if it's polyamorous what the rules would be. There have been so few alternatives to the heteronormative couple or the swinging single, the latter of whom inevitably reaches a point where people start pitying more than they envy, which is funny because people don't usually pity priests, who never get laid at all, or who have to keep it on the DL even if it's with a woman of the same age whom they are in love with. We don't even need to get into the whole altar boy thing. Even if I wanted to be single for my entire life, and I don't, there would come a time when people will stop laughing with me as I tell about shagging some guy I just met and start giving me little condescending smiles that would make Gwyneth Paltrow say, "That's a rather rude look, don't you think?"
The thing is, I worry that it's starting.
Because I am no longer celibate. I am full on slutty once again. And not only am I slutty, I am a special kind of slutty. I am craigslist slutty. Even gay guys are cringing at this point. I told a gay guy that I explored craigslist and he said, "That's dirty!" and when a GAY guy says something is dirty, you know someone is being a total fucking slut when they go on there.
I tried craigslist out last summer. The results were at once horrifying and hilarious. Hell, the men seeking men page ALONE is horrifying and hilarious. See, if you go over to the men seeking women, and the women seeking men, and the women seeking women pages, you are going to get a mix of things. On the one hand, there will be a number posts that do, indeed, seek out casual sex. There will also be at least an equal number, though, that are people just looking for a date, something that, if the stars are right, could turn into something long term. On those pages, people list their interests and their hobbies, and post pictures of themselves with their dogs, or with friends hiking in the woods.
On the m4m page, you are far more likely to see a picture of a cock than a picture of a face. Hell, you might even see a picture of a splayed asshole, which is GREAT to look at as you're having your after-dinner coffee, let me tell you. These men want to fuck. They don't want to talk, they don't want to flirt, a lot of them don't even want to kiss. They want dick, hard, preferably in their mouth or up their ass, or they want tight holes at either end to put said hard dick into. The occassional "I'm looking for something more" ad seems ridiculously out of place surrounded by "I want a married man (because a lot of these ads specifically request straight or married men, which I cannot EVEN get into right now) to come over and stick it in me, just cum and go!" It is FILTHY, in a word. So I answered a couple of ads, no results, and decided to put one up there.
The first time I tried this out last summer, it was so sad. I went to this guy's house. He answered the door in his underwear, and I wouldn't even want Orlando Bloom to answer the door in his underwear, much less this guy. The picture he sent me was a good ten years old. He was playing bad R&B really loud; at various points during our conversation he was singing along with the music distractedly and off-puttingly. His house was entirely decorated with angels. It was all I could do to keep from laughing or screaming. The first chance I got, it was "Idon'tthinkI'mreadyforthisit'snotyouit'smeokaybye!" It was the kind of thing to put you off sex for a long time.
Except it didn't. I kept trying that summer. The results were still pretty bad--I'd go into them but I think I'm already miles above the TMI horizon and accelerating. I realized that I like to talk, and flirt, and kiss. I actually NEED to do those things at least a little. I want more than an orifice, and I want to be more than a penis. I definitely didn't want to have to pretend to be in a Falcon video, which is what far too many guys want these days. It's all "Fuck yeah, man, suck that dick, stroke that cock, fuck that ass, fuckin' A." Sigh. It is so off-putting. I'm just, I, SHUT UP! You sound so stupid! There's no talking! No talking in sex! SHUT UP!!!
The night I wrote my last entry, though, I realized I really needed to clear my mind, and that in order to clear my mind other things would need to be cleared as well. So I decided what the Hell. One more shot. I posted an ad, and this time I was rather explicit, in that I said that making out and body contact was a must, that I didn't care about masculinity and that I would rather be with someone comfortable with themselves, that I was looking for something chill, relaxing, and fun.
My first response was from someone far too old who said he had weed and titos. It took me a long time to realize this meant Tito's vodka. This, to me, was not appealing. So I answered another guy's ad and started emailing him (this guy lived in a southern suburb), when this other guy answered my ad who looked kinda cute (this guy lived in a northern suburb). Thus began the race: whoever got me their interests, address, and a final confirmation first would get me for the night. I got the address of South guy. North guy sent me his interests. North guy sent me his address. South guy sent me his interests. North guy sent me the final confirmation. Done. I was a bit disappointed, because South guy was closer to my age, but I figure fair was fair, and the coffee shop I was at was closing anyway.
When I got to the guy's house and rang the bell, I heard all these noises inside. I really hoped that they were dishes being put away and not chains being prepared. The guy answered the door. He was certainly reasonable. His house was VERY well decorated, which I had no idea would be a turn on. It was beautiful, but still looked like a home. He offered me a drink, which I accepted, watching him pour it just in case. I had planned to say that I intended to leave if things, at any point, got uncomfortable, but before I could do that he said, "The door is still unlocked, just in case you decide you need to go." Tori Amos said the sexiest thing is trust. She was on to something.
Because the sex? Was FANTASTIC! Oh my God, my back still arches with the memory. It is true what they say about older men: they know what they're doing. This guy knew who he was, knew what he wanted, and knew how to make sure I was hot enough to give it to him. He did things that I didn't know how to do, at least not quite so well. He was a perfect gentleman as well. There were no strings attached, but I got his number and he got mine in case we wanted a repeat.
We haven't, because I decided to keep trying my luck. The results have been mixed, but certainly much better than they've been in a while. It's been exclusively older guys so far, and I don't mind; in fact, I keep upping my age range that I'm looking for. There have only been two that I've managed to get together with, but there are a few guys I've been emailing with (schedules can be so hard to work around). Last night, though, I was with someone who wanted to cuddle afterwards, and not only was it sweet, it actually allowed me enough time for another go! And when he said things that should not be mentioned in polite company, I felt hot and sexy and turned on rather than ridiculous.
I've been telling my friends about this. Some of them are happy for me. Some of them clown me, which is also fun. But I've noticed this tone in the voice of some of my friends, all of whom are hetero or primarily hetero, by the way. I need to be fair and say that it is probably a tone of concern, that they want to be sure I'm being safe, and I am. But this concern, I don't know. There's something else there.
I think back to Sex and the City. It was a big hit when I was in first flush of sluttiness, and Samantha was my hero; when she sold out to monogamy at the end, I was very pissed. There was an episode in a later season when Carrie catches Samantha blowing the UPS guy in her (Sam's) office. Carrie then spends the rest of the episode not really able to deal with Samantha and her sexually explicit tastes. When Carrie says "I would never wear something like this" Samantha says "There!" identifying that when Carrie says I do things differently, there is an element of "and my way is better." Sam's subsequent monologue ends "I will wear whatever and blow whomever I want as long as I can breathe and kneel." I stood up and applauded. I always thought this was really appropriate seeing as, when Carrie was cheating on Aidan, she said to Samantha, "You're not even judging me" to which Samantha replied, in a voice that made the unconditional love that this woman felt for her friends crystal clear, "Not my style."
I hear that same tone sometimes, these days. It's this I'm in a committed, monogamous relationship tone. It's this I outgrew my slutty phase tone. It's this I don't do THAT sort of thing tone. Maybe it's all in my head. Maybe not. But it sure as shit has made me feel bad for all those times I judged people for being slutty.
Because I think I need this right now. Sure, I want a boyfriend. I have absolutely no time to find one. I have to get my life in order. I have to mount the show again, and write my own pieces (I think this is going to be the next one). I need to tell Berkeley I won't be taking orals this June. I need. To get. A job. And I am shy and suck at flirting and if I can meet a guy for something casual who can make me orgasm twice I am not about to apologize for it. I'm just slutty. Where's my parade?
It's also making me feel sexy, and confident. It's reminding me that I am very, very good at what I do. It's made me see that sex is only going to get better as the years go by and the men my age start getting over the bullshit and learning what really gets them off. So maybe, between all that, I can be a bit more daring and a bit more flirty with those guys that appeal to more than just my fleeting interest, and there might even come a day when I can whip out another Samantha quote: "I think I have monogamy. I must have caught it from you people!"
Until then, though, I am ripping up the graph and doing whatever and whomever I want. Call me a slut, a whore, a skank, call me a slattern or trollop or demimondaine if you're feeling classy. Just don't call me after 11pm on Thursday. I think I'll be busy.
