What’s Left Behind After Sex

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

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

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

Photography courtesy of the lovely and talented Melissa Fisher

What's Up Sluts!

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.