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?