Monday, 20 May 2013

To Be Or Not To Be....Slutty(er)

Am I the best slut I can be?  That is the question...

When you’re a sex blog writer, and your blog depends to a degree on your identification as a proud slut, these are the types of questions you ask yourself.  Even with all my constant self-analysis, I still, on some deep level, harbor some crazy notions.  Here’s one crazy notion:

I might meet the man of my dreams at a sex club or bar or bath house.  But if I act too slutty, he won’t think I’m relationship material.  So there I am, in a sexual environment, and I’m holding back, especially if I think a certain guy in particular is amazing.  What do I mean by acting too slutty?  How do you act too slutty at a bath house, for god’s sake?  Is jacking it in the XXX room too slutty?  I’ve gone to bath houses and acted almost demure, as if I accidentally wandered in and don’t really know where I am, because I’m such a good boy.  Almost as if I was above it all.  At sex parties I frequented in Montreal, I would never be the first to unleash my dick and start jacking it, or be the first to go down on someone, because what would people think?  Instead, I’d wait for those men with no social decorum to start the night off and I’d join in since I’m there already, so I guess I’ll try....

Just who the hell do I think I’m fooling?  Would anyone believe that because I hold back and am not the first one to whip my dick out at a sex party that I am somehow better relationship material?   There is no logic here.   This is extra super insane since I don’t think I’m necessarily looking for a relationship anyway?  So what is holding me back from my slutdom?

What’s holding me back is Josh.  And Brokeback Mountain.

Josh was my first love, at sixteen.  He was straight, a year ahead of me in high school, a distant friend, but treated me like gold when our paths did cross.  It was unrequited love, but it opened my flood gates, a true watershed moment, with my tears over him shed at a rapid rate.  In spite of everything, I’ve searched for Josh in every man I’ve met since, to no avail.  I don’t know if he exists.  I don’t even know if the Josh I put on a pedestal exists.  In my mind, he was perfect.  Perhaps he’s not.  I did not know him well enough to ever find out for sure.

Brokeback Mountain did to me what I think Titanic and Harlequin romances do to girls.  They all create a mystique around finding “the one”.  I wanted to find a Jack or an Ennis while herding sheep.  I saw the movie seven times, each time alone, to revel in the fantasy of true love.  But after seeing the movie for that seventh time, I had a dream one night in which I saw the faces of Jack and Ennis.  The two faces merged into one, and then transformed into my own face staring back at me.  And I realized that possibly, just possibly, the greatest relationship I may have is the one I’m having with myself.

My true self wants to free my inner slut.  Does my need at times for hardcore sexual degradation stamp out the possibility that love could be found there as well?  What if my dream man (if such an animal exists) is a slut aficionado?  Because whether you are the type who is the first to brazenly pull your cock out at a sex party, or the shy last one, it won’t make a shred of difference as to whether you are this so-called relationship-material type person. 

I realize that I am both a victim of and a perpetrator of slut shaming.  I have avoided men who seem to be having “too much fun” at the baths, making all kinds of assumptions about them (“too easy” “probably doesn’t play safe” “probably this” “probably that”).  Conversely, I envied the freedom of those men with every pore in my body.  I could offer a course in hypocrisy 101.

Men who have moved past shame are my heroes, because of the courage is takes.  For some reason, I’m afraid to let other men see my unbridled sexual desire, even in environments where it is damn well expected!  I hereby declare that I am taking the shackles off.  I need to amputate that shame so that I can be open to the joys such sexual openness might bring.  After all, who the hell is being served when I shackle myself?


  1. Jason, going to try to make a comment but not sure how it will turn out.. it just might be one of those times it needs to be said and not written, as you lose facial and body language with just written words and no "at moment" interaction".
    First of all, I have an issue with the word, "slut". It has earned, over the years, such a negative connotation that is almost visceral nowadays. I much preferred your term, "unbridled sexual desire". Why, because it is an honest expression of sexual activity and it in itself is neither positive or negative.
    For me, sexual activity should be pleasurable, give the person a sense of joy and worth. When sexual activity is negative for someone, or done in a negative way to someone and they do not receive satisfaction from it, then it is not for me. Could I love someone, who in their unbridled sexual desire, wanted to to be humiliated, beat, shat upon, etc? I don't know, but if I met someone who I cared about and saw that this is truly what they wanted, because it made them feel good about about themselves, it might be ok. Then I would not see them as a "slut", but expressing their sexual desires. But if I met someone felt that they deserved humiliation because they were bad and deserved it, or felt it was ok to hurt themselves, etc, I don't think I could do that. If the unbridled sexual activity is positive for the person, and then fine. If negative, then I think it is not so fine. In that statement is also that not being put in danger is implicit and good.
    I remember the time my partner and I went to the baths for the first time, many many years ago, just before the AIDS epidemic. There was a line of men outside this room and inside, when we walked past, I could see a man laying on the bed with his ass turned up and someone just getting off him, having just orgasmed in his ass and the next man in line, getting lubed up, ready to have his turn. The voyeur part of me, (will admit I would love to watch you get off, grin..)wanted to watch, while the other part of me, said that this was not for me and I would never do this kind of thing. But I did not judge that man, Jason.
    As for me ever seeing your unbridled sexual desires, it would depend on if you did what you did out of joy, pleasure and it made you feel good about yourself and you did not harm yourself or partner if was not solo. But would hate to see yourself put yourself in harm's way or do something that in the end, made you feel less a person, in any way. I admit that some of the sexual things you do, are not for me and that is fine. But do I think you are a slut? No, for I truly think you are looking for the positives for you, in your sexual activities.

    1. Mark! That was a perfect coda to my essay, as you really went a step further and explored the meaning of the word "slut" and clarified for me and my readers what that word is all about. And so, I would agree that what I'm talking about is removing the shackles of my unbridled sexual desire, in a way that is affirming for me and for any partner(s) I might have. I can't thank you enough for the splendid, full-circle commentary. This kind of dialogue gets me off! In an affirming way of course lol.......Yours, Jason

  2. This really gave me something to think about, Jason. Mark's response was right on the money.

    And it comes down to how you define not only a word, but yourself.

    This also caused me to realize that it's nothing but our upbringing and how we internalize it that causes us to see what he do differently than others might. You were 'the best little boy in the world' and 'best little boys in the world' don't go to bath houses, have random sex, take piss baths, or wear nipple suction cups. Best little boys only stay little for so long, and then they get to have fun. As for me...because I was taught that our private parts were 'nasty,' sex was 'nasty,' open displays of affection - even by kissing parents - were 'nasty'...maybe that's why I don't like oral and anal sex with men. Maybe because I was taught those things were 'nasty,' I do things with myself - like piss - because it IS the eyes of the majority of people who would even thinking about such a thing. Sometimes we have to overcome our upbringing, enjoy ourselves, not hurt others, and just get off. We're not eight years old any more.

    1. It's amazing how in my writing, it always seems like I'm sort of seeking permission to live my best sex life. As if I were still that eight year old. I have to ask myself, why is that? Thank you so much for putting a spot-light on that for me. That really gave ME something to think about :))))) Jason

  3. My version of unleashing my inner slut happened over a three-year period. In one of your earlier essays, you talked about moving to a new city. I moved to the Atlanta area in '93, and for the most part, spent the next three years trying very hard to be a slut. There's a whole story in that, but a small chapter of my effort at self-slutification would take place at a gay campground.

    In 1995, two guys bought a 55-acre tract of land in rural northeast Georgia near the South Carolina line. It's mainly rural, backwoods, farming and granite quarry country. They opened a clothing-optional gay campground on this acreage. It was a cool place. To get to it, you drove through the side yard next to a blue farm house where the guys lived, through a gate, across a cornfield, through a short tree tunnel only to drive into a 10-acre sloping open area with a swimming pool, bathhouse, hot tub, mud pit, and small cabins nestled back against the woods. A three-fork intersection took dirt roads down the side of a hill toward the creek, with campsites hidden in the bushes and trees along the roads. These three roads converged again at the creek where there was a 3-bedroom shingled house with a full kitchen, bathrooms, and a beautiful deck hanging over the water. Also here were a few other cabins, another bath house, and an old early 50's silver AirStream bullet-shaped camper/trailer that had been top-of-the-line when it was new. They called it "Lucy."

    On my first trip to River's Edge, I paid my yearly dues as well as the fees for three nights of camping. I was issued a membership card. Maybe it was an omen: my membership number was 666. I still have that card, and it needs to be framed. No, the devil didn't get me; I was doing just fine all by myself! Three days of...slut sex awaited.

    But first I had to take off my clothes and go naked. No way, and I never did. I walked through the campground in a pair of Speedos. There were around 50 guys at the campground that weekend, and luckily there were several others that kept their nakedness to their campsite. Honestly, many more should have worn something. Some of them should have worn LOTS of clothes...big, blousy, billowy clothes. And there were those that were, mercifully, naked. I learned more about bodies at River's Edge than I could have learned anywhere else because over the two years that I was a "regular" there, I was surrounded by naked men of every size, shape, color...and extreme. But did I have sex that weekend? Nope. My friend and I made a big mistake. Mainly because of being newcomers and being nervous, we stayed together, so anyone that was interested considered us a couple. We didn't even beat off together in the tent because we hoped the next day would bring somebody along for each of us.

    That was easily fixed: I went back the next weekend by myself. Being without camping gear, I rented "Lucy," which would become my weekend home for more than half of the weekends of the next two years, as well as many whole weeks during the summers when I wasn't teaching. I never went naked on the road, or by the pool, but I did sit by the campfire in front of Lucy. Because it was at the intersection of the three roads, a constant stream of guys would pass by. Most of them were at least friendly, and because of the location of the trailer, my campsite could easily become a hang-out site. Once word got out that I was into piss, the fun began in earnest.

  4. Among other things....
    •A guy had his cock pierced right there in a chair by the fire one night. The guy that put in his PA was licensed, so it wasn't a big deal. About a dozen guys stood around, jacking our cocks while the procedure was being done, and applauding when it was complete.
    •We often had piss shooting matches over by the side of the trailer. We had some professional pissers that would show up from time to time, and we would do target practice on trees, bushes, and limbs. Often we ended up having target practice on each other. That was just fun sex...we calling it "dickin'.'
    •One night there ended up being more than a dozen guys who had brought their chairs to sit around the fire. For hours we drank beer, talked, groped ourselves, and spent a lot of time pissing over the campfire at each other.
    •right out in front of everybody, a guy who was a nurse by profession found that one hotspot inside my ass that will make me go into some sort of sexual coma and makes all kinds of noises. He must have kept at that spot for an hour, it seems. Did I care that guys were watching? Nope....people in a coma don't really care about much of anything.
    •One guy was a permanent resident of River's Edge. During the weeks of summer when he knew I was there, he would often knock at my trailer door if he knew I was inside. When I opened the door, he would be kneeling on the step with his mouth open. I'd fill him with piss. He'd always say, "that is so hot" when I was through, and would go back to this camper.
    •One evening we had a shaving in Lucy. There were five or six guys hanging around, and we got to talking about shaving our crotches. This really hot bartender from a nearby university town was in the group, and he mentioned that he wanted to get his crotch shaved. I volunteered. We set up the fold-out table in the trailer, he got on it. I lathered him up, and started to shave. When it was all finished and I was down to the final trimming after the lather was all gone...I could only find one nut. Yeah, we were stoned...and beer-laden, as well...and to have a guy's ball turn up missing was bothersome. Had I shaved a little too closely? What the hell had I done with the guy's second nut? He never seemed to miss it, so I guess he only had one anyway.

    •Things I did not do other than go naked: I didn't go on holiday weekends, and usually avoided weekends in general during the summers due to the large numbers of loud queens who would be there. I also didn't: have sex in the hot tub, get in the mud pit, hang out on the trails in the woods looking for sex, sit alone by my campfire openly bating so that I could be joined by somebody, get fucked, go skinny dipping, or walk into the pool in a pair of high heels.*

    *one of the pool rules said "no high heels in the pool." This not being a normal pool-side rule, I asked about it. The owner told me that within two weeks after the pool had been installed, some queen wearing a pair of stiletto heels walked out of the woods, down the hill to the pool, walked into the pool, crossed it, climbed up the other side, and proceeded to walk back into the woods on the other side of the compound. Every step put a hole in the lining of the pool, and it had to be totally replaced ($2500+ at that time) two weeks after it had been originally installed.

  5. Slut at the campground...addendum

    So there you have it. I haven't been back since 1998 when my partner and I met. He and I went up there once during the first time he visited me in Atlanta, but we haven't been back. It's still there, and one day I may go again, but somehow I doubt it....they hauled Lucy away in 2003, and it just wouldn't be the same.

    The irony of the whole thing has nothing to do with me, but with the campground itself. Here is a gay nudist campground out in rural Georgia. There were some unusual things about the place. According to the owners, they had bought what had been a "fish camp." That explains the Lucy trailer, the 3-bedroom cabin down by the creek, and the roads through the woods. Another unusual thing about the place was that there were three large, circular areas of about an acre each that just appeared in the woods...kind of like naked crop circles. Kind of strange for a fish camp, but I'm no fisherman nor farmer, so what do I know. It turns out that a coincidence told me the truth. A lady at my church is from that area, and her brother owns the farmland right next to the campground. I mentioned it to her, and mentioned it being a fish camp. "Fish camp, hell! That was a Ku Klux Klan assembly ground, and those circles were parade grounds where they would burn crosses." I imagine there are hundreds of white-robed southern gentlemen spinning in their graves in northeast Georgia even today!

  6. Now THIS is camping! I have had only one experience at a gay campground and it didn't even come close to being the experiences you had! I'm horribly jealous and ready to get camping this summer. I actually do have plans to head to a gay campground this summer. But I don't imagine I'll get anywhere near close to what you experienced!