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?
