The Sunday Night Sex Show

Untitled #1

2010-03-29T07:01:00.001-07:00

Tonight I’m going to tell you about my first sexual experience. I wasn’t the most popular dude in high school. By the age of seventeen E had a mouthful of unkempt braces, swelled to 250 pound, and was certain that if I so much as masturbated I would be condemned straight to hell for all eternity. And if that wasn’t enough, to add insult to injury I had yet to go through puberty. I was 17. It was not a very good year. I was a socially awkward, morbidly obese, hairless, virginal nerd, patiently waiting for my testicles to descend. As my 18th birthday grew nearer a palpable panic and fear consumed me. What the fuck was wrong with me? Why hadn’t my voice lowered? Why did my balls and armpits remain hairless? Now one Saturday night, watching a Dateline episode about boys with girl parts and girls with boy part, I convinced myself that, much like Pinocchio, I was not a real boy, and that somewhere floating in my abdomen were a pair of ovaries. I freaked out. I communicated this very real fear to my mother, and after her laughter subsided she reassured me I was just a late bloomer and that was ok, but agreed to make an appointment with the doctor.

The following week my father drove me to my appointment. The nurse called us into the office. Minutes later the doctor briskly entered the room, cordially introduced himself and quickly withdrew a key chain of what looked like wooden eggs of ever increasing size. My father stifled a laugh and turned around. I glanced menacingly in his direction. The doctor informed me that these wooden eggs represented various stages of testicular growth and promptly asked me to drop my pants. So I did. He snapped on a pair of lightly powdered latex gloves, grabbed my left ball with his deft right hand and the ring of fake balls in the other. He put my ball side by side with the fake balls murmuring “Mmhmm. Mmmhmm. Hmmm.” Four blood tests and a painfully claustrophobic MRI later, I was dutifully informed that I possessed abnormally low testosterone levels as well as possessed the testicular and bone growth of a 14 year old boy. And as such, I would have to visit his office weekly where a moderately attractive nurse would administer a shot of testosterone into my ass for what ended up lasting over a year.

So flash-forward, it’s September 2002. I’m 21. In the years since, I’ve lost the braces, thoroughly deprogrammed my religious upbringing, dropped 50 pounds, gone through puberty, all with my virginity still solidly intact. I had been planning to move to Los Angeles for the better part of a year. And that day had arrived. My ‘94 Dodge Intrepid was packed with all my worldly possessions, the five grand I’d been saving, an ounce of shitty weed and my childhood friend, Austin, who was tagging along for the ride. We had grown up together and somewhere floating around my parents’ basement is a picture of us no more than six years old, spooning each other in matching He-Man underwear. The unfortunate story that picture doesn’t tell is that was the night I found out Austin was a bed-wetter. Unlike myself, despite his bed-wetting proclivities, Austin didn’t have much trouble with the ladies. He was never without a girlfriend, forever trying to replace the mother he had lost to breast cancer a few years earlier. I remember back in December 1997, I was sixteen and Austin was fifteen. And Titanic was at the top of the box office. He asked me to drive him and Rachel, his girlfriend at the time, to the 8:00 showing for their one year anniversary and invited me to stick around for the movie, only because he needed to use me for a ride home. I agreed and drove all the way the fuck out to Elburn to pick them up in my parents rust red Astro mini-van. They climbed in the back. I turned on the radio and headed toward the theater. Within the span of a minute, faintly audible over the sound of Rupert Holmes singing if you like piña coladas and getting caught in the rain, came the distinctive sound of Austin's fingers penetrating Rachel's moist vagina in the back seat of my parents mini-van. We arrived at the theater and walking toward the box office, Rachel slightly ahead of us, Austin quietly but graciously offered to let me sniff his fingers. I politely declined, as it seeming somewhat inappropriate being their anniversary and all. That’s Austin.

Anyway, it’s September 2002 and we’re headed West. We arrive in Las Vegas three days later and check into a room on the sixth floor at the MGM Grand. I say, let’s play some blackjack. 30 minutes and 150 dollars later I suggest maybe a walk down the strip would be more prudent. Now if you’ve never been to Vegas, there are ubiquitous men handing out cards that advertise exotic services. I ignored them. Austin, on the other hand, hungrily snatched up every one that was offered, and by the time we had gone a block he must have had twenty. He pleaded and begged and whined for me to have a girl sent to our room. I am, after all, the one with all the money.

“I don’t know,” I say. “That’s not really my thing.” He pleads, begs, and whines some more.

“I don’t know,” I say, unsure. When that doesn’t satiate him he chooses to attack my sexuality.

“C’mon, dude. Don’t be a fag.” He tells me this is Vegas. We are Men, and this is what Men do. “What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas” he nudges me with a wink. Finally I cave and call the number.

“Ask for a blonde,” he whispers in my ear and as an afterthought, “in a pink thong” he adds. I ask for a blonde but leave the color of her panties to fate. I feel a fear setting in and a panic attack not far off. We head back to our room and I make a beeline for the weed and the bottle of Jameson purchased earlier that day. I quickly roll a blunt and begin sucking down whiskey like mother’s milk. Twenty minutes later, I'm thoroughly blasted and then a knock. Rap, rap, rap! My body seizes up. I feel the fear.

“There’s something wrong with my heart!” I drunkenly exclaim. Austin shushes me and sensitively instructs me to “not act gay and open the door.” so I do. And of course, she is brunette. I do not yet know her thong is black. She enters our room smiling and takes a seat on my bed. I stand awkwardly.

“Hey” I say.

“‘Sup” Austin says coolly. She introduces herself as Lisa. Ii lie and tell her my name is Stevens.

“As in cat?” she asks suspiciously. Yes, I say quickly, and think why is she so god damn suspicious? After a minute of banal small talk, she gets down to business.

“So what i can do for you boys?” drunk, stoned, and panic-attacked, I look to my friend for help. This was after all his idea. He’s the personable, socially-outgoing one.

“What do you want?” I say to him. He sits on the other bed, arms folded defensively, shrugs apathetically and replies “Whatever you want, it’s your money.”

“Uh...uh…” I stammer and manage to say, “Well what do we get for 65 dollars?” Which is what the card advertised.

“Oh honey, that’s just the agency fee, I work off of tips,” she informs us.

“Um well, how much do people usually tip?”

“Depends on what you want” she says uncrossing her long milky white legs. “Starts at $100 and up”

Oh Jesus Christ, this is getting expensive, I think. Why did I let him talk me into this? I look to Austin again, pleading with my eyes for him to say something, anything. Why had I taken point on this thing?

“What do you think?” I say to him. Again, I'm met with an apathetic shrug and an “I don’t care man, whatever you want.” He laughs weirdly, like this whole nightmare was my idea. Lisa looks at us annoyed. My heart feels like it’s going to explode. And Austin just sits there like a useless turd. I walk over to my bag and hand her 200 dollars. “Here” is all I can manage. She puts the money in her purse, grabs me by the hand and leads me to the bathroom. I glance over my shoulder at Austin who sits on the bed staring at the television.

We enter the bathroom and she closes the door. She instructs me to sit on the toilet and remove my pants. It all begins to feel strangely reminiscent of my visit to the doctor’s office all those years earlier. Now at this point I hadn’t even kissed a girl yet, let alone grace one with the privilege of seeing my naked body. But the Jameson had done its job well and I complied. Setting her purse on the sink, she retrieves a condom and a tiny bottle of lube. She strips down to her panties and bra and walks over to me. As she puts the condom on my flaccid dick, I think to myself, shit. I'm about to fuck a hooker in a Las Vegas hotel bathroom. How cliché. She removes her bra and I stifle a gasp, horrified by what I see. Her tits are covered in bruises from a fresh boob job that looks like it had been performed earlier that morning. And protruding out of the side of her left nipple are three very coarse very distinctive very thick black hairs. Now I don’t know if this is true, but I was later told by a female friend of mine that they sometimes use horse hairs to stitch up these sorts of procedures. Expecting her to now remove her panties I silently hope her vagina is in far better shape. Instead she places my hand on her bruised, horse hair covered tit that does indeed feel like a bag of sand as I begin to massage it. She leans over and begins to jerk me off. Oh fuck, I think. Is she really about to give me a 200 dollar tug job? Despite having no previous experience with prostitution, I can’t help but think this is an overpriced service. There’s nothing sexual or erotic about it. I felt like I was donating sperm and she was just a friendly nurse helping me out. I close my eyes, continue to massage her horrible tit and pray to a nonexistent god that it’ll all be over soon.

But I can’t get hard.

Like I said, the Jameson had done its job well. She rubs my thigh and encouragingly coos in my ear. “Come on baby, you can do it. Get hard for me” I feel like a child. A retarded, impotent child. She continues to stroke my cock and whisper encouraging things like “You like my tits, huh baby?” No, I think. They’re awful. I feel like crying. Finally the little trooper stiffens up. Oh thank god, I hope I cum soon, I think. It crosses my mind to fake it, but I’ve gone this far, I have to see this thing through. Besides what if she caught me? How would I explain that? No, better to finish.

Then it happened.

No, I didn’t cum. It was a slight rumble at first. I couldn’t tell if it was her stomach or mine. Oh god, how embarrassing, I think. Then a much more pronounced gurgling. This time I definitely knew it was coming from Lisa. “My tummy’s talking,” she giggles. I manage a half smile, shut my eyes and try to go to my happy place.

Then she burped. Just a little one. Some might even say it was cute. But I was disgusted. In my mind then, women didn’t fart, shit, burp or queef. They were beautiful creatures that didn’t do those sorts of things. “Oh, excuse me” she says still tugging away at my prick. The second one came slow. I tracked it as it rose from her belly, up her esophagus and erupted out of her mouth and Jesus Christ did it smell.

“I'm sorry, excuse me,” she says again. This time I don’t say anything. I keep my head down and focus all of my mind’s might on my dick, willing it to cum. After that, the burps came fast and fierce, each one smelling worse than the last. In between belches, she’d apologize and continue to jerk me off. Just as I was about to fake my orgasm, I felt it coming. And cum I did. A wave of relief washed over me. I just wanted the hell out of there now. But she wasn’t done with me yet.
I leaned over slightly to lift up my jeans resting peacefully around my ankles. And then it happened. BLECH! I felt the hot wet splash of vomit cover my genitals and stomach. I looked down in horror at the brown sludgy curdled mess.

“Oh my god! I’m sooo sorry!” she exclaimed.

“Oh my fucking god is right!” I say as she attempts to clean me off.

“I got it,” I say. She walks to the sink, rinses out her mouth, and begins to gather up her things.

“I'm really sorry” she says. I’m still in shock, not believing this horror-show could possibly be reality. She quickly snatches up her belongings. Blows me a kiss.

“Have fun in LA,” she says over her shoulder, and leaves me in stunned vomit covered silence.

I take the longest hottest shower of my life and emerge from the bathroom. I find Austin grinning like an idiot and smoking another grape flavored blunt. “How’d it go, Sarros?” he says with a wink. So I tell him. “That’s bananas,” he says laughing. "What the fuck happened to you back there?"

“Hey man, I asked for a blonde and I just wanted her to dance. I didn’t say anything about all of that.” I sigh, sit down and take a pull from the half empty bottle of Jameson.

They say what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas. But it doesn’t. It sticks with you. Forever.

by Ryan Sarros

Fat Fuck!

2009-10-06T08:20:00.000-07:00

A few years ago (so…back when I was a toddler, of course) a gorgeous man approached me at the gym while I was sweating profusely and seconds away from cardiac arrest on the treadmill.

Number 1: I am not now, nor have I ever been, one of those weird people who lives for the gym. I don’t think vigorous exercise is akin to torture, I mean “enhanced interrogation techniques,” but I would much rather be eating something stuffed with butter…and cheese…and bacon!...while horizontal than trying to get my heart rate up to its maximum optimizing cardiovascular calorie burning zone. Or whatever.
And that is never going to be possible because I walk a lazy 18-minute mile while daydreaming and frantically searching through my ipod for something, ANYTHING to make that monotonous bullshit go by faster.

Number 2: When I work out (envision the air quotes) I wear a garbage bag. Not a literal hefty cinch sack, but its apparel equivalent: the loosely gathered drawstring yoga pant and voluminous loosely fitted undershirt. And my dangerously low self-esteem thinks that’s the way everyone at the gym should dress, regardless of size. I think that the gym, just like the hospital and jail and every other torturous hellhole, should be the great equalizer: everyone is miserable and teetering at the brink of death, therefore no one looks better than anyone else. I don’t wear lipstick to have a pap smear, and I wouldn’t wear it to spend an hour climbing the Stairmaster. Not so for some other women who frequent my gym. In the locker room, while I am trying to secure the immobility of these enormous boobs in their ironclad harness, other ladyfriends are clustered around the shared mirror straightening weaves and touching up makeup. The first time I witnessed it I thought for sure that they’d just finished a strenuous workout and were headed out to a fancy dinner or something. It never occurred to me that adjustments might need to be made prior to the actual workout.

If I have shit on my face it congeals and itches at the first hint of moisture, let alone the sticky tan paste that would form during half an hour of moderately-paced calisthenics. I would claw my fucking face off. But the furious dabbing of yellowy beige makeup sponges let me know that it was NOT SO for these hoes; there are big, muscle-y fish to be caught swimming around the free weights, and this blush and mascara and lip gloss are the hook that will snare them!

I caught sight of one of them through the smelly after-work masses, literally posing on the elliptical machine. She was moving so slowly the machine could not possibly have been ON, making “fuck me” eyes at all of the meatheads who walked by. She had her tits propped up so they rested just below her clavicle, and she was wearing those late 90s bikershorts with an actual leotard over it. My inner angry feminist was all“bitch, please” but that shit appeared to be working. That fake-ass Jane Fonda had dudes drooling all over her, while I was sitting on a dirty mat in a puddle of my own drool because my dumb ass thought using that mountain climbing machine was a smart idea and had debilitating cramps snaking up my whole right side.

So I am on the treadmill next to this smoking hot girl with a body like a rubber band. Lithe, lean, smooth, bendable limbs, running half-naked at a speed reasonably close to that of light, her pony tail bouncing staccato in my peripheral vision. The naked at the gym thing KILLS me. Not "locker room naked" as, for me, that is just a frantic messy whirlwind of ripped off work clothes and struggled into gym clothes with the least amount of possible exposure. But "naked on the machines naked." For every person drowning in comfortable rags, there are TWO with band-aid sized sports bras and “shorts” the size of my period underwear, lunging and squatting and doing backwards crossways upsidedown lateral raise lifts while balanced on an exercise ball and suspended in mid-air. And they make sure you see them in all of their tanned and toned glory: running faster than you without ever breaking stride. Or a sweat.

And this girl is pounding the shit out of the fucking treadmill, running so fucking fast that I felt like I might have been walking backward in comparison. I had set the timer for forty minutes, and I was halfway there. I usually hit a groove after fifteen minutes or so, when my muscles start to feel warm and limber and I stop bothering to wipe the drops of perspiration that collect at the tip of my nose.

I never look anyone in the eye while I’m there, for fear that one millisecond of eye contact and these health nuts will figure out that I’m a fraud, that I don’t really want to change my sedentary lifestyle, I just want to feel a little less guilty the next time I eat an entire pizza. My usual MO is to just stare at the calories burned counter, lost in fantasyland, imagining that bag of m+ms I ate on the way to the gym being melted off my thighs.

So color me surprised when I glanced up and noticed the most delicious piece of dark chocolate ass I’ve ever laid eyes on making his way over to me. He was doing that thing that confident, stunningly attractive people always seem to do while you are watching them; that gliding thing that makes them look like they are on invisible roller skates or some shit. Now I’m not one to sweat a motherfucker too tough, but I might have gaped a little bit.

This dude was outrageously fine. He was one of those naked people (fuck them!) in tight-fitting shorts and tank made out of that fancy sporty material that they only sell at those fancy sporty stores I’ve never seen the inside of. He looked like he had been cut from the face of a fucking mountain: taut skin stretched over hard bulging muscles, a road map of veins humming beneath the surface of his hairless arms and legs; slender, spectacularly defined legs leading down to those tiny athlete ankles, pecs you could eat your dinner off of, chiseled abs rippling under that clingy bodybuilder shirt.
Or something like that. I can’t be sure. Like I said, I just glanced.

Even Flo Jo's ass next to me slowed down to drink in this tall glass of water, and that snapped me right back to fat reality. Of course. He’s not coming over to talk to ME, he’s coming over to talk to this BITCH. His workout partner and physical equal. In that instant I pictured their life together: doing crunches and pull-ups, cooking healthy meals, giving birth to a tiny track team. So I turned up the volume on my jams and focused on trying to burn off those Oreos I had eaten, too.

But curiosity killed the cat, and when he was standing below me, beaming up (glorious teeth on this one, too), I stopped the music altogether thinking, I am going to vomit and then kill myself if I have to stand here and bear witness to this American Gladiator love connection. I looked at the timer, and was crushed to realize I still had twelve more minutes to go.
“Hi,” he said. His voice was a rich, deep velvet that made me die inside a little bit.
“Hi!” she said brightly, slowing her treadmill so that she could talk, and it was still twice the speed I was walking. Bitch. I could see the visions of their acrobatic future sex life dancing in her head.

He turned and smiled at her and nodded, and then turned back to me. “I was actually saying ‘hello’ to YOU.”

And then my heart stopped completely and my stomach fell out of my butt. “What?!” I said too aggressively.

But he continued to smile and extended his hand, which I wouldn’t shake for fear of how sweaty and clammy and gross mine would be. He introduced himself and started talking, and the whole time the only thing I could think about was how I was at the point in my workout where breathing with my mouth open is the ONLY option. I stopped the treadmill and stood there watching his teeth go up and down, making words I couldn’t comprehend through my thick haze of disbelief. So I just kept smiling and nodding while Daisy Duke started her treadmill up again, running so fast this time that her shoes started to smoke.

Our first date was at a Starbucks, because I do not believe in food dates. And not because I don’t believe in food. I believe in food more than I believe in most humans. In fact, it’s this love of food that made me pick Starbucks. Because talking and eating don’t go together. Either you never fucking speak or your fifty dollar steak gets cold, and mommy doesn’t play that.

I’ve seen more than my fair share of after-school specials, and even as I was pushing open the goddamned Starbucks door I expected this to be some cruel joke he and his jock friends decided to play on the miserable fat girl with the glasses, that they were all in the bar across the street, huddled over their beers giggling while watching me sit by myself at the table in the window.
But Gym Dude was already there when I walked in, dressed in form-fitting trendy clothes. I was suspicious the whole fucking time, trying valiantly not to like him too much, even though he was warm and relaxed and told hilarious stories that weren’t trying too hard.

Two venti mochas later I decided I was going to fuck him.

Fast forward a month, and we had been on several really nice dates at chichi places that required nicer shoes than any I had ever previously owned. We made out a few times, during which I’d resisted the urge to stick my hand in his pants (which took more inner strength than you could imagine).

We had our first apartment date on a Sunday, and he arrived bearing cake. After dinner, he asked me if I would mind eating it in front of him, which sounded weird, but not weird enough to stop me. He sat on my bed and watched me intently, licking his lips. I asked if he wanted some, and he politely declined. Ah well. His loss. That cake was fucking delicious.

The next time he brought brownies, which asked me to eat out of the pan with my fingers. The time after that? A rotisserie chicken, which he asked me to pick up whole when I ate some. Then a blueberry pie. It never really struck me as strange, I just thought he had really good manners. Although he never ate anything himself, he didn’t always sit and stare while I ate. He would busy himself looking through my cds or working on a crossword, but always making sure I was full. I thought it was sort of sexy even, a dude who appreciated a woman who likes to eat.
Weeks of this went by, trips to the movie theater and museums and night clubs punctuated by nights spent at my place or his stuffing ourselves (er…myself) full of sumptuous treats.

While I didn’t really have a reason why, a huge part of me was flooded with shame when I would think about gym dude and what it was we were (or weren’t) doing. I couldn’t quite put my finger on what exactly was embarrassing about our relationship, but I knew deep down in my cholesterol-laden soul that something in the milk wasn’t clean. I didn’t tell anyone about what we were doing. It was my scrumptious little secret.

And then he gave me a reason to be filled with searing fucking shame. Four months and we still hadn’t had sex, which was fine by me as I had started to feel like a brown whale propped up on bloated feet and contortionist sexual positions seemed totally out of the question. He showed up late on a Saturday with two grocery bags of goodies. At that point he had begun to figure out what I liked, and I lit up like a Christmas tree when he pulled out a pint Chubby Hubby.

"Eat that naked,” he admonished softly.

I don’t know if it’s stupidity or what the fuck makes you not even think twice about something like that. But I didn’t, I just said “Okay!” and took all of my clothes off standing in the middle of the kitchen. “Can I have a spoon now?”

“Eat it slowly,” he said, handing me a spoon, and dropped his pants.

Now THIS is what the fuck I’m talking about! I’m a filthy whore in the worst way, and I had been chomping at the bit to get a piece of that action. Four months is like a lifetime to a dumb slut like me, and I was itching to get it on. Fat feet or not.

I ate the ice cream while he watched me and masturbated, twice, before pulling his pants back up and apologetically skulking out of my apartment, leaving me with a frozen hand and a confused look on my face. Ben and Jerry should make a flavor called Blueberry Balls.

You know, you always find a way to justify whatever gutter butt shit it is you’re doing, and I convinced myself it was worth a little sexual deviance to be that close to such smoldering manhood. Plus, I was saving a ton of fucking money on groceries! So I let him come over again.

We carried on like that for months, him awkwardly jerking off in my kitchen while I consumed fat grams by the thousand. I needed new pants and he bought them, telling me I was beautiful when I complained about the weight I was putting on.

I have a considerable number of stomach issues, and this little episode was murder on my guts; I would go days at a time without a formed stool, just rivers and rivers of liquid diarrhea. We still went out and did normal things, and that helped to enable the lie I’d formed in my head about how real our relationship was.

“The fetishistic practice of feederism can involve inducing weight gain to the point of helplessness. Feederism refers to the acts of feeding, encouraging eating, or being served large quantities of food. Sexual pleasure is derived from the act of eating itself, and/or from the process of becoming fatter.”

I read this information, or some similar derivative, in a pamphlet in Gym Dude’s bathroom while shitting out the half dozen or so Krispy Kremes I had eaten earlier that day. Krispy Kremes, I might add, that he had placed his gigantic erection through before asking me to eat them off of his penis and jerking off in my fucking face. That was the sugary glaze that broke this whore’s back, and after I nearly singed my fucking asshole cleaning my intestines out, I figured my blood pressure and I would be better off never calling hot ass gym dude ever again.

To this day I see him at the gym, flexing his glutes and pumping up his traps and delts and lats. I try to pretend I don’t see him, those glistening muscles straining against the wet fabric of his workout gear. My sphincter still shudders every time we make eye contact.
He has only spoken to me once since our escapades ended. I was on my way home after a workout, sweaty and gross beneath my winter coat. He flashed that dazzling smile at me and I felt my resolve start to give.

“I miss you, Sam” he said sadly in that gorgeous voice of his. “We had something special.”
“YOU had something special,” I snapped. “What I had was early-onset heart disease.”
He smiled. “Call me if you ever get hungry.”

And if I ever do I just might. He is really fucking hot. And that asshole still owes me an orgasm.

Group Sex

2009-09-29T15:37:00.000-07:00

It’s possible that the roots of my curiosity about group sex lie within The Big Chill. It was my favorite movie when I was 13 years old—I rented and watched it repeatedly, and it began to form an epic place in my psyche as a representation of contemporary adulthood, a stage of life that as far as I was concerned, couldn’t come soon enough. I’m a Capricorn, so I wanted to be a grown-up from the moment I was born. My first complete sentence was “I love caviar,” which my parents had served for the adults at my 2^nd birthday party. And, whether it was because of my parents’ diplomatic but very definitive divorce when I was five, or an early childhood spent nipping at the heels of their circles of pithy, alcoholic relatives and bohemian friends, or what, but my vision of adulthood did not include me, daddy and baby makes three. That seemed rather lonely and isolated to me. Instead, I imagined something like a co-ed, incestuous family of friends forged in the heady maelstrom of a 1960s University of Michigan, who are brought together years later by the elegiac suicide of one of their group, to spend a weekend in a beautiful Carolina country house making sumptuous meals, doing drugs, having intellectual arguments and fucking one another.

Yeah. That was my shit. It turns out one of my best friends, Sara, was also enthralled with The Big Chill, and we began to conceive of our own Big Chill weekend, to occur at her family summer house in Wisconsin and include two of our other girlfriends and a group of four boys, the members of which changed according to whomever we had a crush on at any given moment. One day, Sara came to school beside herself with excitement: she had asked her parents whether they would actually chaperone us on such a trip, and they said yes! The date was set for May, over three months away. We immediately started a Big Chill notebook, which we passed among the girls, who each wrote fantastical entries of what would happen on this grand weekend in the woods. There was a lot of sex and intrigue in that notebook, although none of us had had sex and I don’t think any of us really planned to. A little making out, or “scamming” as we called it, was what we were conversant in and this was appropriate for our age.

But me, the sophisticate, ever trying to push the envelope, couldn’t wait. One weekend in March, we heard that Matthew Sanger’s parents were out of town and he was going to have a “set,” or party. All of the popular guys were going to be there. I remember Sara was over and I was ironing cloth napkins, a household chore I found oddly satisfying. I made a decision in my head that I then shared with my friend: “Sara, we need to make something important happen in our lives. I propose that tonight, at the party, we suck dick. No one in our grade has done this before. It should be us.” I’m sure Sara was apprehensive—and I was too, although I was acting like deciding to put my mouth on a penis was as natural as ironing cloth napkins. Nevertheless we went to the party, got our other girlfriend Rhys in on the plan, pulled two lucky guys into a bedroom and took turns sucking them off. The penises, and our skills, were underdeveloped, and I know that neither of the guys came—this was new for them, too. But when we emerged from the bedroom, and later from the party, I had such a sense of power and pride in what we had done. And we had accomplished it as a group! We did it, you guys! We sucked dick! And we did it together! But the fallout from our decision was not pleasant—rumors spread around the school like wildfire, and we got reputations not as brave and innovative sexual pioneers but uh… as sluts. And, to add insult to injury, I was dis-invited to the Big Chill weekend by Sara’s parents for corrupting their daughter.

But I never really lost that inclination to “make things happen” or to “conduct experiments” that came from ideas in my mind rather than sensations in my body. I went through more conventional sexual-romantic experiences in late adolescence and early adulthood of having boyfriends, having sex with them, alone, and happily alone, loving them alone, and happily alone. I became what my father is—a serial monogamist—which is a sight better than what my mother is—alone. But I was never really single, never had the experience of playing the field, of being my own agent, since those early days. I had three long-term relationships from the age of 17 on and as the years passed, in the back of my mind I started to wonder, is this it? Only this dick, only these lips? Are the only two relationship choices lifelong monogamy, or serial monogamy? I was determined to never be involved in infidelity, based on secrets and lies, which goes against everything I believe in. But I really couldn’t see how even the happiest couples wouldn’t at some point crave sexual, or even romantic variety. The divorce and adultery rates corroborate this suspicion. What was the matter with me? Was I a swinger? Ew. No. Well… maybe?

Fortunately, I had an ally in no less than my most recent boyfriend, Johnny, one of the most amazing people I have ever known, who to this day is my best friend. As openly communicative as we are, I was really scared to tell him, straight up, that I fantasized about being with other men. Of course I hoped he might be somewhat sympathetic because, unlike me, John is bisexual. And I was right. We began a conversation about opening up our relationship that lasted probably a year before any real action took place.

There was an earlier stage of this opening up, one that I like to call the Fucking Our Friends stage, which proved quickly to be too treacherous for either of us to handle. Turns out The Big Chill was not the ideal model after all. Bummer. We agreed we needed to put some structure on this. We needed to cast out way beyond our immediate, even tertiary circles. We needed to find the other open-minded freaks out there, and fuck them, and let them fuck us. In the same room? Maybe. Apart? Well, let’s just see who we’re dealing with here.

So that’s how we came to be members of the Lifestyle Lounge. Who knows what Lifestyle Lounge is? OK. Well, for those who don’t know, it’s a social networking website for swingers. It’s pretty amazing, actually. I recommend it to anyone who has a curiosity about this sort of thing. The interface is cheesier looking than Myspace and it costs $20 bucks a month, but if you want to enter a different, fascinating world where what’s up is down, where all these little pockets of our upstanding citizenry—all social classes, all races, all creeds—are making arrangements and celebrating the right to suck and fuck thy neighbor’s wife, and thy neighbor’s husband, or both at once—Lifestyle Lounge is the place.

It is important to know that the swinging lifestyle revolves around couples. The average couple on LL is in their mid forties, more physically fit than you will ever be, more tan than you will ever be, waxed to the gills—waxed all up in the gills, you might say… maybe a tit job, maybe a bleached anus. You know. And yeah, they like fucking all different kinds of folks in different kinds of ways. But other than that, they are totally normal. Like, completely fucking normal. Like, condo owning, “professional,” Range Rover driving, Trader Joe’s shopping normal. Well, maybe that isn’t so normal. But I guess I was expecting some more scenester young people and friendly hippies up on there. And the weirdest thing of all is that these couples, for the most part, are leading a double life. Their friends, their coworkers, their families—the “vanilla world” as the swingers like to refer to it—know nothing of their exploits. The hot threeway with some bisexual chick they picked up at a bar. The seven people pile-up out in the suburbs a few months ago. The trip to Hedo last spring. Ahh, Hedo… For a community based on sexual freedom, it’s sad to me that so many swingers are still in the closet. But there they are, locked in this duality of being that is not unlike adultery. They are having an affair with themselves. Crate and Barrel days, ass-to-mouth nights.

The other important thing to know is that the main forms of fucking these couples are looking for is either a threeway with an experienced bisexual woman, or swapping with a complementary couple. Single people get in where they fit it, the bisexual woman being primo top choice. Single men, or SMs, in Lifestyle parlance, are the least popular, and often treated by the couples like chattel or expendable drones in the beehive of group sex. However, this has created something of a buyer’s market for the minority of women and couples who want to invite different men into the bedroom.

After some fits and starts, we met Chris. He was 36, lived in Albany Park and managed a hip record store in Lakeview. Intellectually and physically he was our peer. We had a couple of hot threesomes, and then Johnny decided to go to Europe for a few months to work on a book. With Johnny’s blessing, Chris and I continued a nice little relationship of sorts, and I almost forgot that the reason we met in the first place was swinging. Chris started asking me if I was interested in this girlfriend of his or that, and what if she brought a guy over one night, and I realized, oh yeah, he wants to have a foursome. Oh, okay. Sure, I was game.

We made a date for a couple weeks later. This other girl Chris was sleeping with named Maria and some guy whose name I don’t remember showed up with a 12-pack of Stella and we sat around the kitchen nervously sucking down our beers and cigarettes. I think this was a first for all of us but Chris, who clearly enjoyed being the organizer and leader like the Leo he is. I sized the newcomers up and decided that, especially if I had a couple more beers, I could definitely have sexual relations with them—even Maria (I had never been with a woman before). I started to get excited. We retired to the living room. Chris and I started making out on the couch. Someone came from behind me and encircled my waist, their hand on my throat. I looked up to see other dude’s face looming in for a kiss. I made out with him for a minute. OK kisser, not great. I turned back around to see Maria and Chris making out beside me, shedding their shirts. Maria straddled me, pushing me back down on the couch. “You’re really pretty,” she breathed. “You look like Dita von Teese.” I’ve heard this before, but it’s a nice compliment. We started kissing, then expertly removed each other’s bras. The boobs were the best part: I have boobs, you have boobs. I’m touching your boobs, you’re touching mine. Other than that, making out with a girl for the first time was a dissociated experience for me. This is nothing against Maria, an attractive and experienced bisexual girl. But when I was kissing her, it just felt like I was kissing disembodied lips. I tried to give myself a thrill, to tell myself, you’re making out with a girl, isn’t this amazing?! But, it kind of wasn’t. Not bad, not good, just… not real feeling. I’m going to have to make out with a few more girls before I close the casebook on my sexual orientation, but I think it’s fairly safe to say that I’m straight. And being a straight girl does not bode well in the swinging world.

After these appetizers, we moved on to the main course. Chris and I were fucking on the couch and Maria and dude were doing stuff on the rug below. Chris sensed trouble with the other couple, and suggested a switcheroo. After about five minutes with dude on the floor, I figured out what the trouble was. Performance anxiety. He could not get a hard-on for his life. I’m a good sport, and I know this is a very sensitive, if not the most sensitive issue for men in the bedroom, and I really tried my best to arouse him, gently, slowly, with understanding and patience. But try as I might, an erection was not going to happen, and I wanted a break anyway. I offered to go get us some beers and we sat back on the rug in front of the fire to watch the Chris and Maria show.

Now this I was really curious to see. Besides the whole frisson of seeing my lover in action with another person, Chris had told me specifically that sex with Maria was different—that she liked a little rough play and domination from her partner. It was interesting to see how indeed, the sex was rougher than the sex Chris and I had, with him slamming repeatedly into her and her making low, growling little animal noises that crescendoed into loud, guttural come cries. In fact, for a second I thought she might be crying. And then, suddenly, out of fucking nowhere, as he reached his own climax, Chris spit directly on Maria’s face.

Whoa. That was a surprise. Frankly, I was disgusted. But Maria didn’t seem to mind and like I said, I was trying to be polite and a good sport. I started to clap, nudging other dude to join me. “Bravo!” I said. “Let’s smoke a joint.”

The post-coital of a group sex experience is probably my favorite part. It’s the closest to my beatnik commune fantasies as I’ve gotten. We sat around nude, blankets wrapped around us, passing around the joint and talking of this and that. In spite of our differences and our difficulties, we had made a foursome happen. And we did it together. I was proud of us, and told the group as much. We clinked beer bottles, and then Chris and I went to the bedroom, leaving Maria and dude to camp out in the living room.

When we woke up the next morning, they were gone. Chris talked to Maria on the phone later and apparently after we went to bed, dude was hard as a rock and ready to go, but came in like two minutes, leaving Maria unsatisfied. The next morning, he blamed her for introducing him to us depraved individuals, and damn right he couldn’t get an erection, that was the weirdest shit he had ever been a part of. “Seriously?” I said. “That sucks. I thought dude was pretty nice and smart, and I didn’t really care that he couldn’t get hard. But he called us weird and depraved, and dissed Maria? What the fuck? Why would he do a thing like that? What is wrong with people?”

Chris shook his head. “Because he is being an insecure dude!” He sighed, looked and me, smiled, shook his head again. “Jess, I like you and you’re really smart and everything but when it comes to certain things… kid, you’ve got a ways to go.”

By Jessica Riddle

Untitled

2009-08-19T12:05:00.000-07:00

I was 22 and I was in love with a bouncer. It’s like being in love with a bartender but easier, since bouncers are usually less busy and quite bored. He worked at a bar some friends and I had begun frequenting in the West Village at the end of my senior year in college and he won this English major’s heart the night I noticed he was reading Ulysses at the door. Once, he came over to my table and recited a poem about love and roses. I am not kidding, though I cannot remember what prompted the recitation at all, but it was a good poem.

I knew this was his game or whatever, that he had memorized that poem to recite to the ladies, and that he was probably not making much headway on Ulysses in a bar, but it didn’t matter. I got drunk and hung out with him every Thursday, I wasn’t interested in anyone else, I found him attractive; that was enough for me.

The bouncer was six or seven years older than me and prone to acting more like that divide was maybe 20 years. He offered me advice that an older sibling or a grandmother might. He also offered more racy social advice, like when he told me I should sleep around some more.
After we’d known one another about a year or so, he introduced me and my roommate to another bar, an after-hours bar that was often open until 8 a.m. and whose clientele consisted of bar workers, drunks, cokeheads… and then me and my roommate. It was here that he would drink with me and occasionally we’d talk about sex or, more specifically, the possibility of us having it. He was very open about the fact that he was into sadomasochism, though at the time I had no idea if this was an unfulfilled fantasy or the reality of his sex life. Probably not the constant reality, as I’d seen him leave both bars with drunk patrons and I doubt those sloppy one-night stands involved a lot of heavy bondage play or whatever. Plus, during these conversations, he was always referring to himself as a degenerate. I couldn’t tell if this was a self-hating thing or some kind of S&M terminology. Possibly a way to identify other S&M enthusiasts at bars? Like you introduce yourself, you say that you’re a full-time accountant but really just a degenerate, there’s a wink and a nudge and someone is eagerly fingering the nipple clamps in his pocket, maybe?

His dream was to be a sub and I not so subtly indicated I would be willing to participate, but he’d have to be the dom. Not only do I get stage fright, but I’m pretty sure no one just bursts onto the S&M scene as an amazing first-time dom. Like I said, I was kind of in love with him. Failure during our first time wasn’t an option. I figured no one can fail as a sub, because you just have to do what you’re told, right?

After countless conversations about the possibility of consummating this bouncer-patron union, we set a date – a Sunday night, when he would be bartending. He’d contact me with “instructions” and I would meet him at the end of his shift. I knew I needed a few drinks first, so that night my roommate and I visited the bar we lived above and drank, expectantly awaiting his call… waiting, and waiting some more until I was kind of drunk and figured he was breaking our big date. Could I text him? Can the sub request instructions, or do they have to be proactively given? Would I get a literal spanking if I prodded him? Would I mind if I did? Eventually I did text him and he quickly responded with a list of items I was to buy.
These included: A dog collar and a silver bullet, which my roommate had to tell me was a vibrating egg type thingy. He also requested cheap red lipstick and either a body stocking or a French maid’s costume (at this, my roommate and I shrieked with laughter and made a solemn vow that neither of us would ever, ever wear a body stocking. Ever).

I bought the cheap lipstick at the Duane Reade near his bar. Luckily for me – and for everyone, really – there is a 24-hour sex shop on 6th Avenue kitty-corner from Duane Reade. It was here that I bought a maid’s costume, which I found to be a ridiculous waste of money since it was completely sheer, as well as a much-too-expensive dog collar and the damn silver egg, much to the amusement of the middle-aged men who worked there. Mission accomplished; I already felt like the slut I was going to play that night.

I met him at the bar and he gave me a free beer, which I quickly and nervously drank. After the last patron had left, he went through my bag and gave his approval. He closed up and we took a taxi to his place.

When we got there, he ordered me to go get dressed. I exited the bathroom in an embarrassingly revealing outfit to find him still in his shorts, t-shirt and baseball cap. My dom was wearing a baseball cap. That’s awkward. I asked if he wanted me to apply the red lipstick, figuring it was intended to make me look even sluttier and more ridiculous. He said it was for something else.

We went to his bedroom, where he indicated I should kneel on two pillows he’d placed at the foot of the bed. Then he pulled out the… shackles? It was a set of handcuffs attached to a set of anklecuffs. These were not playful plastic cuffs covered in cute zebra-print faux fur. They were solid, heavy metal cuffs. So, apparently he was not bullshitting about this S&M stuff. I let him chain me up and he made sure I had my balance before blindfolding me. Fade to black.
I would love to give you a specific and heavily sensory account of what ensued, like a really great description of what IcyHot feels like when it’s put in your ass as a punishment, or at least a detailed account of which dildos and vibrators were placed where. Embarrassingly, I barely remember the things I was punished for; I think I was primarily ordered to perform oral sex to his stringent specifications. But it was years ago and, frankly, I was slightly drunk. I have more of a snapshot memory of the whole thing, interrupted frequently by the whole blindfolding business.

I know that there was also a ball gag. Like straight out of the gimp scene in Pulp Fiction. Of course I secretly rejoiced at that because I love that movie! I also remember that at one point, the purpose of the lipstick was finally revealed. He blindfolded me again, gently laid me on my back, and wrote on my stomach with it. I was to guess the words he was writing. Mostly I giggled and guessed dumb things like my name. Of course, he actually wrote things like “Slut,” “Bitch” and “Slave.” Whoops.

It was quickly becoming obvious: I was not, in fact, a very good submissive. Not at all. I found most of it amusing, I was unable to believably act afraid or nervous or pretend to be in pain. I couldn’t guess the obvious words being written on me and I smiled and laughed too much. I enjoyed the experience because it was something else I’d tried, an extra-special notch on my headboard, and there was the possibility I was impressing him – though that was doubtful. Let’s face it, my only previous exposure to S&M had been erotica and softcore porn. Maybe if I’d rented some more amateur S&M stuff, I would have expected the overly bright room, the ridiculousness of the whole set-up, and the fact that the players were not movie-star attractive or even really worthy of a Kmart sales page in the newspaper. The Boy Scouts have it right: always be prepared, lest one choke on a ball gag with laughter.
Then it was time for the sex. Off came the cuffs. He turned off the lights, produced a condom, and we got to it.

Okay. For some reason, I was under the impression that the whole act ended once the fucking commenced. I don’t know, maybe I’m overly polite but I think it’s kind of rude to call anyone but a one-night stand a “bitch” the first time you put your dick inside them. Most likely – and embarrassingly – I actually wanted him, to, like, Make Love to me. Instead, he caught me looking at him and said, “Don’t look at me, bitch.” And that was awkward. Where should I look? I glanced around the room and accidentally looked at him again. He again ordered me to look away.

Then there was the actual sex, which was… just not good. I’m not sure if I had totally failed to notice a lack of chemistry, or if an extensive prodding of my lady-parts combined with the alcohol had left me kind of numb. It didn’t feel bad, it just didn’t do anything for me. I probably wound up lying there like a cross-eyed rag doll, anxious to look away and somewhat unresponsive. Honestly, I don’t even think he came. At this point it was nearly six in the morning and I had to work at nine. We called it a night, climbed into bed, and cuddled. Which was my favorite part. Everyone should groan here. I should have inwardly groaned at exactly that point, because I was seriously deluded.

I left the next morning stupidly proud of my, you know, experimentation and stuff. And he didn’t call, or text. He acted like nothing had happened the next time I saw him, and the time after that, and so on. And I was torn. On the one hand, nothing we’d done bothered me. I still found it amusing more than anything. On the other hand, I wanted him to care for me enough to ask, “So, were you cool with all that?” We had some minor drunken spats about this. He was infuriatingly obtuse and calm during these. I’ve never wanted to be that girl who naively nags someone after the first time they sleep together, and there I was doing just that. This is probably the point at which I belatedly groaned.

In response to his rejection, I was kind of depressed and drank too much and engaged in questionable behavior with questionable young men for awhile. Gradually I got over him, and he eventually found his happy ending. He met an older Canadian woman online who was somewhat disabled with back problems, but was really into S&M. They did the long-distance thing and eventually he moved to the Bahamas with her, where I imagine they are very seriously role playing with all kinds of props as I speak.

Before he and I both left New York, when I had come to terms with the very platonic nature of our relationship, I visited his bar on a Sunday night. I can’t remember if that was the last time I saw him, but let’s say that it was for the sake of neatly tying up this story. I got a little tipsy and accompanied him to another bar. He was friends with the bartender and in introducing me, he casually mentioned that I would do anything for him. I protested with mock amusement but later, as he walked me to a cab, he repeated it. I was annoyed but I admitted that, yeah, I probably would. This was the closest we ever came to being truthful rather than simply flirtatious. It was actually enlightening to realize that he was aware of the balance in our relationship. It meant the whole thing hadn’t been a giant misunderstanding and I could resent him slightly, knowing that he had been aware of my feelings for him. Of course, the pain was dulled by time and I look back fondly (with rose-colored glasses, I’m sure) at the hazy night of ball gags and IcyHot.

Me? I moved to Chicago, I found the Sunday Night Sex Show, and I eventually engaged in submissive behavior with a straight face. You see, Tyra Banks taught me that I can just smile with my eyes.

-by Amanda G.

Haiku

2009-07-27T13:00:00.000-07:00

I think you're too North

My clit isn't lost, you are

I'll find it myself

-by Maime

The Sex Life & Times of Ellie Maybe

2009-06-01T13:51:00.000-07:00

My hormones were raging at the dawn of the internet

Watching porn on a PC my mom couldn't control yet

Cybersex wasn't great, but it did pass the time

And put all kinds of thoughts in my pubescent mind

I was the queen of the dorks with no friends in school

But in my role-playing game I was sexy and cool

Dungeons and Dragons be damned, this shit was text-based

I was an elf with a rack and blonde hair and a mace

Met a mage in the game with wisdom (plus five)

In my twelve years on this earth I'd never felt so alive!

We courted in bracketed actions in chat

Until the day he showed up in a cowboy hat

Ugly as sin in real life, it turned out

(Remember, this is before scanners were around)

But teenagers did as teenagers do

He stuck it in and I sat it through

I disposed of the rubber beneath my bed

To be discovered weeks later by our Basset Hound, Fred

Some years down the line begging change up on Clark

I met this short little fuck whose skin was so dark

That boy was a jerk, though at first he seemed sweet

Put his dick in my ass; couldn't sit for a week

With that having failed, I started anew

With a few more bruises and a new trick or two

Then came the time where I turned seventeen

Got my first fake ID and I hit up the scene

I met this dear soul: a deejay, a hottie

He fucked me real well and then vanished without me

My heart broke apart in post-pubescent pieces

Yet the hormones filled each crevisse, all the cracks and the creases

I moved on like a champ and made lots of new friends

With whom I spent one night and never saw again

Despite all my conquests, I was so fucking broke

Getting laid, getting drunk, my goals were a joke

I went home with anything that might buy me a drink

Or leave their blow unattended by the bathroom sink

Spreading my legs was a skill, not a chore

It's pretty apparent I was an exceptional whore

So one day I came down off my high and my pedestal

I swallowed my pride and a cocktail with Advil

I checked out the paper, found an ad that seemed promising

"Classy ladies only," it must have been calling me

Classy I'm not but easy I can be

I'll be damned if I can't make a buck off my pussy

So I got me a job and I worked for a bit

Sucking dick, getting fucked, by old fat sacks of shit

As one might imagine, the novelty wore through

Though I had the cash to pay for things like rent and coke and food

It was taxing in the end and I finally had to jet

For an even worse reason than previously expressed

See, I'd found a boyfriend who disapproved of my job

Though years later I'd find him surfing classy ladies dot com

He was weak and a weirdo, what a terrible lay

But he treated me like crap, so he was there to stay

He ignored me and left me to abort his fetus

I suppose my womb was fair game as a prostitute reject

He wouldn't take my calls or see me in public

So of course, I fell harder, a glutton for punishment

It took nearly three years before that trickled off

My heart, sure it hurt, but his dick had gone soft

He was a passionate phony and a shell of a man

So I got back my confidence with his best friend

In the meantime I'd gone to get tattooed

By a guy so fucked up that he prayed in the nude

He was abusive, aggressive, but would you believe it

It turned out that that was just what I needed

He pulled my hair, slapped my face, threw me out at 4 A.M.

So I slashed his tires, fucked his wife and now we're good friends

As one might expect, I moved on pretty quick

To a movie director with a fat little dick

I mean this thing looked like a frog - so short and so wide

And the son of a bitch wouldn't put it inside

I got two months in before I just gave up

I like getting licked but I'd rather get fucked

This started a pattern of fooling around

With a handful of men who just wouldn't get down

One of whom I found oh-so-sexy

A little bit chubby, a little bit messy

Mysterious and strange and sweaty and sweet

This one for sure was coming home with me

But no, he's an idiot, he doesn't take hints

He'd rather talk music and weather and gin

I asked him one night to stay out for a drink

And what did that silly little man think -

A drink is a drink and he's already drunk

You goddamn fool, I just want to get fucked

Well, I got what I wanted, it just took a few weeks

The best sex of my life and plenty for me!

I suppose I've calmed down now, after all why bother

To run with the tramps who all play one another

When the dick that I need is right by my side

And this one is hanging on for the ride

Over the years, I've had some trials and tribulations

I've caused breakups and barfights and ejaculations

And sure, there are a dozen or five I've left out

But the value is in how it all came about

As a whore and a drunk I've made myself quite a name

Banned from clubs, banned from men, banned from some baseball games

It hasn't been easy being the community slut

Nor digging myself out of that little rut

But in the end, it is true, my regrets, they are small

'Tis better to have fucked a lot than to never have fucked at all

by: Ellie Maybe

Meow

2009-06-01T06:50:00.000-07:00

Hi. I'm Jill, and I'm here to talk about eating pussy.

So I'm a girl, and I like to have my pussy licked. I understand some women don't, but that's not my problem. My problem is that pussy licking is a delicate thing. Firstly, it's a skill that not many individuals take the time to master. And ironically, as a direct result of this, if done wrong it can be a very awkward and somewhat unpleasant experience.

Kinda like baking a souffle. If you don't get the exact measurements right and bake it at the exactly correct temperature and beat in the exact amount of air, it won't poof. And all you’re left with is a flat, dry muffin. Yes, cunnillingus is JUST like that.

And then you're left laying there only a couple options: Do I try to tell him what to do, being gentle enough with your words and your tone so as not to bruise his ego, yet direct enough with your message to get the job done? Do I fake it? Ugh, I HATE faking it and use that only as an absolute last resort. Either way, the scenario usually doesn't end how you'd like it to.

Now I know what you're thinking, guys. And yes, you’re right, there IS such a thing as a bad blowjob. But come on. Admit it. The secret to giving a good BJ is pretty much step one, step two, repeat. Consistency, the right amount of pressure, lots of wet, and you're good to go. Easy.
But vaginas are just SO much more complicated. They all can look so different from each other, there are all these folds and different clit sizes and lip sizes and frankly it takes awhile to figure your way around one specific pussy.

So I happened to be going through this period of really bad luck with oral sex-givers. There was The Variety Pack Guy, who would do like twenty different things with his tongue. Right when it was starting to feel good, he'd switch to the Tongue Jack Hammer or Circles! or the Flopping Fish Tail and I'd lose my concentration. Because as we all know, guys have to concentrate to not cum, while girls have to concentrate to cum. All that variety was distracting and frankly annoying. Then there were a couple of those guys who will take their fingers and spread your lips as far apart as possible and hold it open the whole time with both hands and just use the very tip of his tongue on your clit.

Like you're at a doctor's appointment and the technicians have opened you up to get a good look at what's under the hood. Let me tell you, nothing makes a girl feel sexier than that.

Like he's a guest host on Bizarre Foods with Andrew Zimmerman, and my pussy is some kind of pig intestine salad from Tanzania or something. You wanna try it, but you're also kinda disgusted. I don’t want to look down at you and think, “Oh God, he’s eating my pussy so… trepidatiously!” Look, if you're gonna do it like that then do us both a favor and just get up here and fuck me already, will you?

So it was during period that I went through this major Girl Sex Fantasy Phase. The only kind of porn that interested me was girl-on-girl, I had these intense sexual dreams about women, and whenever I was having Alone Time, the only thing that could get me off was imaging a girl going down on me. I mean, having a girl go down on you just has to be among the best sex that could exist, right? She's got the goods. She knows what works and what doesn't.

So at the time, I was a grad student at ISU living in Bloomington/Normal, IL. For those of you who don't know B/N, let me sum up. It sucks. There's nothing to do there other than drink in overcrowded undergrad bars or go dance to, I don't know, Eminem's “My Name Is” with like eight million single older horny State Farm employees. It's bad.

So a few of my fellow classmates, including my very good friend Jeff, were going to go out for a "wild" night on the "town." This girl from one of our classes invited us to her apartment first for a few drinks. We got there and were introduced to her roommate, Serine. Serine was from Armenia, a PhD English student, about five one with short, short black hair, and she. Was. Smokin'. Think Alyssa Milano circa the later seasons of Who's The Boss. We say hi, have a beer, then suddenly became very aware of my surroundings. Her desk area was completely covered with photos of naked women. I look back at her, and she looking at me in a way that no woman has every looked at me before. It says, I want to eat you alive. And to my surprise, I don't break her gaze or turn on my heels to see where Jeff went. Instead I hold it, and smile back.

So we all go to the hottest spot in Bloomington, IL. Flat Jack's. We have some drinks and we hit the dance floor, and it's packed and we're dancing. And this Armenian girl is really close to me. REALLY close. So then I get paranoid because a) I was a grad assistant who taught a Sociology 101 class and I was worries that one of my students would see me and, I don't know, what? Report me to the Grad Assistant Police? and b) though I had been attracted to girls forever, I had never actually done anything like this before out of fear of people thinking that I was doing it just go get guys. Because you know guys, that's why we do it, right? For you. And your needs. No no, please. Let me fulfill your fantasy. That's why I'm here.

But I digress.

Ok, so long story short, we're all over each other, and it's both super hot and kinda scary at the same time... kinda like when your high school gym teacher has cornered you in the utility closet and he's all "If you want to make the team you're gonna have to show me some initiative," and you feel both totally sexually harassed and afraid but also super turned on, and you know it's wrong but you really do want to make the team, and anyway he's kinda cute for a guy in his late 40's, so you just sort of go along with it, you know? No? Oh.

Anyway, so we're dancing and I have to pee. So I say, "I have to pee." And she says, "I'll come with you." So we get to the bathroom and there's a line of girls waiting, so Serine and I just stand there quietly, looking at each other from the corners of our eyes. Finally a stall opens up and it's my turn. So I go in, and she suddenly pushes her way in behind me.

"Oh, I'll just come in too," she says.

"Uhhh," I say, "Ok, but I have to pee."

"That's ok," she says. So, I sit down and start to pee. At that moment, Serine grabs my face and shoves her whole entire tongue down my throat. And. It. Is. AWESOME. We're making out like death row inmates and all the time I'm totally peeing. To this day, that's the closest to water sports that I've ever come. I stop kissing her only to wipe and pull up my pants and then we're back at it, slamming each other back and forth against the stall walls. The loud chatter of the line of waiting girls outside goes from 10 to dead silence in about five seconds as they realize what's going on.

"Let's get out of here," she says, coming up for air and all I can do is nod, take her hand, and walk out of the stall, past the line of gaping undergrads. One of which I did recognize as one of my Sociology 101 student. Whoops.

We go to her place. We're in her room. We're tearing off our shirts and sucking tongues, hands everywhere. She has amazing tits. I suddenly mentally turn into a sixteen year old boy. "Oh my god, boobs," I think. "I'm totally touching boobs right now. For real. Oh my god. This is so cool."
We're down to our panties and fall onto the bed. She's kissing down my body, my lips, my neck, my breasts, my stomach and I feel her hand tug on my panties. And then I remember.

Ok, backing up a bit. At this time, I also happened to be "seeing" this guy (read: fucking) who was like an undergrad, but he was in his 30s, all non-traditional student, total pill-popping, super dirty hippie Deadhead. Usually not my type, but hey. Central Illinois. Anyway, I'd let him come over and get stoned and go on and on and on about Durkheim and Max Weber and the sociological theory and blah blah blah, and finally he'd get around to fucking me. So at one point post coital, he looked at me and said "Why do you wax that?"

What? I asked.

"Your flower. The good Lord put petals on it for a reason. Let it groooow."

Well that was just about the dumbest thing anyone has ever said to me in or out of bed, but A) like I said, pickin's were slim and B) anything that promotes my laziness is ok by me. Don't shave you say? You don't have to ask me twice! So. I did not touch that shit for months. I was rockin' more 'fro than a late 70's Blacksploitation flick.

So right as Serine is about to pull down my panties to expose my "flower," I remembered that my garden more closely resembled the deepest of overgrown Amazonia than that of a tulip. I cringed, but there was no going back now. She pulled them down and I heard her gasp.

Gasp! she said and looked up at me.

"I have been waiting for a pussy like this!"

"What?" I asked.

"All you American girls are always so bare," she said in her thick accent. "Like little girl! I don't understand that. You are WOMAN. I love hair! I love this pussy!"

"Oh," I said. "Well. Good. Yayyy for me!"

She started kissing my stomach, moving down my legs, on to my inner thighs.

Oh my god, I thought. This is it. My most current number one fantasy is about to come true! A super fucking hot Eastern European girl has got me completely naked on her bed and is about go down on me! This is going to be awesome!! I laid back, shut my eyes, and awaited what was sure to be the kind of ecstasy that only a woman can bring to another.

She started.

What is she doing? I thought. Ok, ok, she's just warming up. No worries.

Why is she...? Why is she over there? What does she think that does? Because the answer is nothing. This is... Oh, wait. Ohhhh yeah. Right there! Good good. Just do that. Good.
Wait!! Why did she stop! Arrghghgh! This isn't the Red Lobster Combonation Platter, just pick ONE thing and stick to it!

This isn't working, I thought. My big theory of a woman knowing exactly what to do, down the drain. She was really bad. Now what do I do? I thought. Do I fake it? God I hate that, but ugh, this would probably classify as an emergency situation.

And I was considering just that, when she suddenly stopped and looked up at me.

"Mmm," she cooed. "I'm like your little kitty cat. Meow."

She went back down and started licking me again, purring like a cat.

“Meow.”

Did she just meow into my pussy? I thought.

Yes, she did. Yes, she was. With every lick, she ended with a meow.

Lick, Meow. Lick, Meeeoooow.

Well that did it for me! Five more meows and my buzzer blew.

Ohhhhhhhh my god!!

Cats. Who knew?

I learned a very important lesson that day. You should never assume that someone is going to be good or bad at something soley based on their gender or appearance. It's wrong to stereotype. The other thing I learned is that Armenians are really hairy.

-by Jill Neumann

What’s Left Behind After Sex

2009-05-30T12:27:00.000-07:00

Since coming to Chicago in August I have been leaving a trail of my possessions at different guys’ places. And it’s not to leave my mark or anything I just genuinely forget my shit everywhere. When I weigh the option of seeing them again with what it is I have to retrieve, I figure I can live without. I started to notice a correlation between the things that are left and the sex. Some sex isn’t memorable or special at all, like two out of my billion bobby pins. But sometimes sex means something and I’ve left more valuable things that are close to my heart.

It’s not just possessions that are left behind after sex; my self-respect will fall under his bed and I’ll never see it again. Or my hope to find a real man gets twisted in a ball at the bottom of his sheets and lost there next to a lone sock. Guys have left things at my place too and I haven’t deemed them important enough to return. So thanks for the Tupperware!

In my first week in Chicago I slept with a French tourist who I happened upon at the annual Rubber Ducky Race. He had this sexy scar on his eyebrow from ultimate fighting and his accent was too good to resist. At the end of the race he caught a rubber ducky that was thrown up to the crowd and gave it to me. We took it home right away so it could shower off the disgusting river water. His ducky was not so silly looking or flimsy as the rubber duckies bobbing in the Chicago River. He had the most enormous beautiful cock. After returning back to France he left the rubber ducky and also a map of Chicago which I found quite useful since I had just moved and hadn’t acquired one yet. I used this map to show the city around to an ex-boyfriend who came to visit soon after.

My ex quickly got bumped up from sleeping on the floor to sleeping in my queen bed. He had DE, delayed ejaculation, probably the only medical condition I will not donate money or run a race in the pursuit of a cure. He made me cum multiple times before he did.
So I slept with an ex and all I got was his Lincoln Park t-shirt that he forgot to pack. I wear it alone to bed sometimes and when I masturbate in it, I’m reminded that my vibrator batteries wear out a lot faster than he would have. (And those damn batteries are impossible to find- a conclusion that I came to since I couldn’t find them at Isam’s Food and Liquor across the street.)

Then there was John. John was in a rehab for rich kids up in Evanston. He was black with striking green eyes that got me hooked. We’d fuck in his room that was like a five star hotel suite. I tried to quit him several times but kept relapsing. I’d find myself stopping in after errands or anytime before his midnight curfew. A nice thing about seeing someone who isn’t allowed to leave without supervision is you can pretty much count on them always being near their bedroom. One day I swung by to have sex after purchasing a drying rack and promptly forgot it there. That week I finally got on the patch and kicked my John habit, never to see that drying rack again. It’s all terribly ironic because John never made me that wet in the first place.

I met someone new which always helps in the quitting process. It’s like trading cookies for cigarettes, diabetes for lung cancer. It’s not exactly good for you, but it’s a step up. However my plan for casual sex was foiled when I actually started to like this new guy. He had a good sense of humor and I loved the way he loved dogs. We spent a few weeks hanging out not touching at all, not even an accidental arm graze. One evening we were watching movies after I had a root canal operation and I couldn’t have felt less sexy. I couldn’t feel my entire face. Miraculously I ended up in his bed. I wish I could have felt his lips on mine because I bet it was damn good. When we had sex, (just an hour before the November Sunday Night Sex Show), I wanted the sex between us to be amazing because to me, he was the most amazing man I’d met in Chicago. He borrowed a book of mine, The Prophet that my grandmother gave me for graduation. I’m really close to my grandmother but wow she’d be shocked if she knew the things I wanted to do to him. When I wrote her letters I didn’t exactly go into detail on how much I loved it when he came in my mouth. Khalil Gibran, however, I don’t believe would be appalled in the slightest, based on his illustrations. I could feel him lose interest in me and so I did the sophisticated adult thing and got drunk at a friends house and dictated an email that she wrote to him saying I could never see him again. I wished I had waited to get my grandmother’s book back but there is never really the right time to act irrationally about someone you like. I pictured The Prophet collecting dust on his bookshelf with my grandmother’s handwriting inside and my heart being used as a bookmark. He did write back: “Thanks for the fun times!” Like I’m fucking Sea World or some amusement park. We’re glad you enjoyed your stay.

Feeling the sting of rejection I ignored better reason and agreed to a New Years Eve date with a guy named Nick I met at a party. He was incredibly intelligent and I do like a guy with something going on upstairs but it’s also nice if he has a well-built staircase. This guy’s staircase was not made out of chiseled marble. Nick’s staircase was more of the kind you’d find leading up to the old servants quarters in Paris: narrow and made of wood that you think will break at any step. So instead of mounting a gorgeous staircase leading me into 2009, I slipped on lime juice and fell down a flight of stairs (the kind of stairs I’d want to fuck- hard and tall). It hurt like hell and I seriously injured my ass. I spent the rest of the night in his bed with a bag of frozen peas on my butt since he didn’t have an icepack. I could hardly move without shooting pain up my spine. Despite my throbbing ass, I guided his hand down to finger me and it felt unbelievable. Completely forgetting my broken butt, I let myself succumb to the pleasure of his finger and tongue on my clit. The next morning I limped away, leaving my contact case on his bathroom sink.

I was surprised by how it wasn’t easy to replace him or the contact case right away. Where the fuck can a girl find a CVS and a good fuck in Rogers Park? Wine glasses worked as a temporary replacement for both: filled with wine during the day and contact solution by night.

To date I haven’t had sex since the Bush administration which has been good for the inventory of my stuff but I’d trade a set of headphones or panties for an orgasm right about now. I’m not too concerned- I’ll be leaving something somewhere with someone in no time.

And one of these days I’ll go out and get a new drying rack,
but they should know that they’re never getting me back.

-by Maime

Going Out With A Bang

2009-04-30T12:13:00.000-07:00

I don’t remember exactly when I met Tom; I knew him through some friends in the neighborhood and it seemed like I’d known of him forever. Suddenly, my senior year of high school, we were hanging out all the time. And he was just my type. Very tall, into metal, crude and immature. Perfect for me at 17. So naturally I told my friend I liked him, and she told him, and eventually he asked me out the spring of my senior year.

Things were simple then. At that time “asking me out” meant I was his girlfriend, immediately. We went to our senior proms together and then embarked upon a lazy summer, time to waste before I went off to college and he… well, what he would do remained to be seen. Soon we were in the midst of a string of lazy days and nights of stirring up trouble because there was nothing better to do. Miniature golf or bowling or finding somewhere to get drunk or stoned. Sitting on my porch smoking cigarettes and making out after he got off work.

Ah, summer romance. Blissful, carefree, incomparable. But we had one major problem. We had nowhere to have sex. His parents were always home, my parents were always home. For some reason they all seemed determined to keep track of our whereabouts and closed bedroom doors weren’t allowed. And so he lost his virginity a few blocks away from my house in the backseat of his Buick Riviera while Slayer played on the radio.

The sex was not good, but we had little time to practice and improve. All but one of our trysts took place in a car. And even when we could find time to squeeze in some car sex, we had our issues – namely, he took quite awhile to finish, which is not ideal when you are basically having sex in public. All in all, we managed to christen four cars that summer.

Sex outdoors on summer nights might seem vaguely romantic, but we weren’t in a convertible or the bed of a truck gazing up at the stars while a light breeze ruffled our hair. When you looked up while lying on your back, you saw the gray car ceiling and the overhead light. Neither of us was particularly petite and thus there was always bumping into consoles, achy legs falling asleep from their odd placement and strange balancing acts, and bruises from seatbelt buckles. Honestly, it made me occasionally long for the boring comfort of a bed.

If my first relationship had taught me that sex could convince me I was in love when, in reality, those feelings were questionable, this one taught me that I could fall in love despite a lackluster physical relationship. Of course, it’s difficult to separate my feelings for Tom from the fact that it was a perfectly set up summer romance. Our relationship had an expiration date; right before we began dating, I’d been accepted to NYU. I’m a romantic, but I’m not a fool – there was no way I was giving up college in New York City for a guy.

So we spent as much time as possible together and tried to ignore the fact that I was leaving on an ever-more-rapidly approaching date. Finally, it was our last night together. We planned a romantic date: a movie and Taco Bell. Afterwards, of course, our final round of car sex.
We had found a spot that was a bit more discreet than down the street from my parents’ house. Not too far from our neighborhood, two cemeteries faced one another. A year or so before, it had been popular among our peers to drive down a road along one of the cemeteries. The place was dotted with glowing red lights, which were rumored to be Satanists or ghosts but were, in reality, candles left at gravesites. We think. The street narrowed here and eventually came to a dead end at old railroad tracks. Behind the tracks was a forest preserve, and while there were a few blocks of houses along the road, it was a ghost town at night. A factory or warehouse of some type could be found on your right just before the tracks and the parking lot was empty at night. I loved this spot. It was thrillingly desolate, equal parts sexy and spooky.

We retired to this parking lot that night. We had my dad’s Blazer, which was a real treat since the backseat folded down and we did not have to negotiate an upright car seat. We put down the seats, climbed into the back and clumsily removed our clothing. There isn’t too much foreplay involved in backseat sex, especially when curfews are involved. We quickly got down to business.

Honestly, I don’t remember the actual sex all that well. What I do remember is that, just after we’d finished, Tom looked up and out the rear window of the car. I noticed the interior had become suddenly brighter just as he said, “The cops are here.”

I had been a good girl my whole life. Well, a good girl who was very, very adept at hiding any bad girl tendencies, with the exception of her cigarettes. Here I was, days away from leaving that behind – moving to another city where I could drink and screw on street corners for all it mattered, as my parents would never know. And the fucking police had caught me.

I froze and looked up at Tom, most likely begging him with that look to please, please take care of this. And I will always be very fond of him, if only because he did, kind of. He somehow managed to get his pants back on – he was still wearing his shirt, as he nearly always did – and told me that he would go talk to them while I got dressed. I tried my best to dress lying down, as I was acutely aware that a police officer was probably watching. I probably took my time. And I joined Tom at the cop’s open window.

It was just one police officer, if memory serves. And he was, of course, completely condescending. Not all of the particulars and details of the conversation have stayed with me. I know that, after learning our ages, he tried to convince us that we had been participating in statutory rape – Tom had turned 18 the week before and I had about a week to go before I was of age. I knew this was bullshit, but we promised not to engage in illegal sex anymore. Then, after running the plates, he asked, “Who is William G----?” And I answered, “My father.” The cop responded in the most patronizing tone possible: “How do you think daddy would feel about knowing what his little girl is doing in his car?”

I was being slut-shamed by a police officer. I mumbled some half-assed response and Tom basically took over, making small talk. He mentioned the pizza place he worked at, a pretty popular one in the neighborhood, and had soon won over the cop, who basically ignored me. I zoned out until the parting remarks. In saying his goodbyes, Tom said, “I would shake your hand, but…” The cop laughed and drove away.

I was both amused and horrified. I had never been made to feel like such a cheap slut, and I can’t express how glad I was that they were able to bond and then share their mutual dissatisfaction with my vagina or whatever the hell had supposedly besmirched Tom’s hands. Part of me was simply pleased he had basically handled the situation and gotten us out of whatever minor yet embarrassing trouble we could have gotten into. Part of me knew he didn’t think I was a slut, but had played the buddy routine with the cop in order to make him go away. But another part of me was disgusted by the whole thing.

In the end, I guess I was disappointed to learn that, even though I was out of high school and on my way to the real world, men would probably still be celebrating their perceived sexual prowess while expressing disdain for mine.

Then again, I was able to leave for school without my parents suspecting I’d been fucking in cars all over town that summer… and I had a pretty decent story to share with my college roommates. Which I did almost immediately. But I’ll never be a big fan of cops.

-by Amanda G.

Sunday Night Sex Show Pictures 3/29/09

2009-03-30T09:50:00.000-07:00

http://www.flickr.com/photos/36753688@N05/sets/72157616109016426/

Photography courtesy of the lovely and talented Melissa Fisher

What's Up Sluts!

2009-03-30T08:09:00.000-07:00

Finally! I've gotten around to starting an official blog for the show! YAY! I know a lot of people have suggested it for a while now, and considering how bad ass last night was, I thought it was just time.

Here, you will find info about upcoming shows, some of the awesome things that have been read, and ideally a splendid side bar filled with links to the various blogs and websites of our readers and audience members! And other things! YAY.