Love

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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?

What's Your Type?

What kind of man do you lust over?  Is it a smooth, buff gym bunny, or a hairy bear?  Do you like twinks or daddies?  Or does your type not fit easily into any one box?  You like a hairy twink?  Well, I think those are called otters.  So what would you call a smooth, hairless daddy?  When I hit the bars, I tend to go to the leather bars, under the (usually true) assumption that these men will be kinky.  But what of the college jock who likes to be tied up?  So often I judge a man’s sexual tendencies by his outward appearance.  But, perhaps that’s a fox in sheep’s clothing that you’re looking at.

I’m finding that my so-called type has more to do with what’s in a man’s head than the body that head is on.  Meaning, are we on the same page sexually.  But when I watch porn, it’s so often of the thirtyish year old muscle bear variety.  Coincidentally or not, that is the type that I would fall into.  And yet...

Today I took my sister to a theater production celebrating International Woman’s Day.  I wouldn’t have thought that there I would find myself sitting behind a startling attractive man, sitting alone.  He was not a muscle bear.  He was a clean cut jockish type who frighteningly reminded me of my first love.  In high school I’d fallen for Jack.  Jack was straight, voted MVP on any sports team he was on.  He was also extraordinarily nice, and we developed a slight friendship, though he was a grade ahead.  The man in the audience today threw me back to high school with a velocity that bit me like a snake.  I felt lust mixed with two other emotions: a need for love and a sense that I would never have it because I was somehow unworthy.  I felt both propelled toward him and away from him at the same time, because my heart sensed danger.  In that moment, I wanted the pure lust of my pornographic muscle bears where sexually I was free and emotionally I was safe.

I began to wonder how I would behave sexually with a man like the one I saw today.  I began to wonder if I could fuck the one I love, or are the two notions divided for me in much the same way some straight men suffer from the Madonna/Whore syndrome (ie. they want the mother of their children to be pure and chaste, and to have a hardcore slut secretly on the side whom they would never marry).

The trouble for me is that when love begins to enter this heart of mine, I begin right away to fear its loss, leaving me feeling ungrounded.  How then, could I play the dom and sexually assert myself with a beloved when it would appear that he holds all the cards due to my ingrained insecurities?   And at my age, without a true relationship already under my belt, just a few short affairs, has the chance for love passed me by?  I tend to see myself as a lone wolf, but that house of cards comes tumbling down when I see a man like the one I did today.  But let’s be real:  I don’t know the man.  Perhaps he is a jerk, perhaps he has kinks that would never click with mine.  What I felt today was what our culture refers endearingly to as love at first sight.  How is it that the molecules that make up that person can cause my own body’s molecules to frantically start rearranging themselves?  How do we develop a type in the first place?  I try to ape the type of guy that attracts me (again, the muscle bears).  What of the men who are interested in types directly in opposition to their own?

“He’s not my type.” “What’s your type?”  Statements and questions such as these are short.  The answers are not.