sex in 3 acts...

An invitation (I wanna sex you up):



SEX...
It was always something akin to a profession for me. I never was paid for it, but if I had I would have been rolling in it. If I were a hooker I’d be one of the best out there.  I’m just good at what I do I guess. This isn’t me boasting… it’s just fact. And while it is fact, this doesn’t make it right either.

It was for pleasure. For fun. Used as a weapon. Used as a curse. In love. In hate. It made me feel powerful, and yet it made me feel weak. It made me feel wanted. Made me feel like I was taller then the empire state building. But the harder they are, the easier it is to fall I suppose. I was like an addict that was in a desperate need of kicking my habit. It was a game that I was beginning to lose.

I started having sex September 3, 1993. The date sticks in my head all these years for some reason. It was a late night rendezvous that was ever so awkward. I was on the phone with my ex-girlfriend (yeah that’s right, I said GIRL! I used to date them too!) and we were talking about sex. This was always something that I viewed with a great excitement and curiosity.

She agreed to come over and we’d finally “do it.”  I was so inexperienced and a bit of a fumbling idiot. I was so excited to be finally getting laid. I couldn’t wait and put the condom on before she got there, then I just put my pants on over it and waited. She came over and so began the proverbial popping of my cherry. It was then that I should have known I was queer. I really didn’t do much though. I laid there, and she did the work. It was good and everything…  just not really what I wanted to order. I had to wait for the revised menu.

This was my first time. The launching pad of many, many, many sexual encounters.  Just because I became good at it doesn’t mean I didn’t have my humble beginnings either.

A week later I had my first sexual experience with a boy. Oddly enough it was her ex-boyfriend. We believed firmly in recycling. If I thought my first time with a girl was bad, the first time with a boy was worse. At first I had no idea this boy was even remotely interested in boys. Until  I wound up being the only naked swimmer in a pool full of friends the day before this affair. Suddenly he had to leave, and I was later told that he left with a hard on. Go me!

So the next day he came over and one thing led to another. In retrospect it was a bit endearing. He was over during the day, left, and then came back that night. I was half asleep. It must have been around midnight or so. He was trying to get my attention at my window. And not by throwing pebbles, he was throwing gum. Strange I know.

I woke up and let him inside. We were trying to figure out who was going to be a top or bottom (phrases I didn’t quite know about then). I just laid on my stomach and waited. Nothing happened. I turned round and looked at him. After he still didn’t do anything I sat up. He then began to assume my position. I was a bit puzzled to say the least.  Then he says “Well, you know more about what you’re doing then I do!” This is the moment I just blinked at him and the blinks made that “doink doink” sound.

I told him that I had never been with a guy and didn’t know any more than he did. I wound up being the top. It was ridiculous. I was barely even inside of him, pumping away as if my life depended on it. I was going at it as if I was drilling for oil and they forgot to tell me I was going about it all wrong. I picture being told “You’ll never get oil that way!”

After a bit, I just gave up. We then went to sleep. I went to bed that night with such mixed emotions. What I had dreamed about was happening. I had sex with a boy. It was exciting yet I had a lot of learning to do.

The next morning we woke up and I decided I wanted to fool around some more. This time I tried the whole blow job thing again. No one had ever taught me the birds and the bees. I learned what I could from TV, movies, and of course Madonna. When he came in my mouth I freaked out. I ran around the room not knowing what to do. That’s when I ran for the window and spit it out. Poor guy. I didn’t mean to offend, I just didn’t want that in my mouth!

So there I was, in the same week having sex with both a girl and a boy. My mind surely was made up that I preferred the latter. I still wound up having sex with four more girls before closing that chapter. I think that being raised as baptist, I figured that “the bible only says gays are going to hell, not bisexuals.”
So I claimed that orientation for quite a bit, more out of fear than anything.

In the years to come I would have many more encounters. Friend sex. Threesomes. Backroom sex. Internet hookups. Sex within a relationship. Drunken sex with guys I had just met that night at the bar. Sex with people I’d rather not admit I had sex with. Sex with guys who I couldn’t even remember their name. Even rape.

Making love was something that I really only knew from the movies and love songs. Sure I’d had it a few times. I think in a way I felt that I didn’t deserve that life. The fairy tale, happy-go-lucky sort of existence. Which is what leads us to our next part of the story entitled…

Celibacy (Stop this train… I don’t want to get off!):



After years and years of meaningless sex, I grew tired. Tired of wasting my time and effort. I was fucking myself numb…so to speak.

It was about a year ago that I decided I was going to become celibate. Such a mixed reaction came from those who knew me really well. Sex was like a word used in a description of me. I had taken great delight in my sexual conquests. I was always the one who would be the first to kiss and tell. I took great joy in making people squirm while I talked about my adventures.

When I made this decision, a lot of people thought I was nuts. People were placing bets on how long I would last. When I made this choice, it was to be for a year. I never got there. I made it 4 months. But the 4 months felt, at the time, as if it was torture.

It wasn’t just about finding meaning to the sex I was having. It was about finding a deeper sexual experience altogether. A “sexperience”,  if you will. A carnival of flesh and fantasy. A celebration of two bodies coming together for an awe inspiring passionate explosion. I was really tired of just fucking. You can only fuck so much, then you start to want more.

I even dated a guy during this period. He said it was fine. Knowing men as I do, I knew that it wasn’t as fine as he wanted me to believe. I myself don’t know if I could date someone who was celibate. I really had no business trying to date while wrestling with celibacy anyway. It’s like sticking a kid in a candy store and telling them they cannot have any of it. They will either go mad avoiding the candy or break the rules and eat it all till they get sick. I had my fill of sex and was feeling really sick myself.
That boy didn’t last long. I knew it wasn’t the right time to date.

During this period I really had to figure out not only how to abstain, but how to love me as well. I started to attempt to be in tune with my body and my soul. I think it’s good for you to just stop and take stock of everything every once and awhile. I really felt as if I didn’t have anything to offer. On the other hand, I felt like I hadn’t met anyone who had anything to offer either.

Now there seems to be a bit of a debate on the whole celibacy thing. There are some that feel like it’s not true celibacy unless it’s giving up all things in the realm of sex. They think not only should you give up sex, but give up masturbation, porn, etc..  There are others who just believe abstaining from sex with another person will do just fine. I was not giving up pleasuring myself, thank you! I may have given up meaningless sex with others, but meaningless sex with myself was ok. I wasn’t going to feel bad after that. Besides, my had knew what to do and didn’t argue with me.

At first I felt terrible that I didn’t reach my goal of a year. In a way I think I cursed myself. I told everyone what I was doing. When you do that it seems to put pressure into the mix. After a bit I made the decision that I was done with my sex strike. It all began to get to me. I wanted flesh. I’m not proud of breaking my sex fast. Mainly cause it would seem I went right back into where I started with the meaningless sex. Boy was this meaningless! Which leads us to our final part…

Completion (The end is only the beginning):



I hooked up with a guy I met on an internet “dating” site. I use the term dating loosely because it was more for sex hookups than anything else. So I drive out to meet this guy, get there and he’s not too bad looking. I then breathed a sigh of relief after holding my breath waiting for what was behind door number one. We sat to do the token small talk, which didn’t really last all that long. It sure felt like a million years.  All the while I’m nervous and on the inside I’m just wanting to get it over with. After four months I was about to explode.

He’s drinking with I thought was just water. Nope. It had some GHB (Gamma hydroxy butyrate)
 in it, which is in the roofie (the date rape drug) family. And no I didn’t drink anything he offered. When he had told me he was drinking that I cringed inside. I had tried it once. It‘s not pretty, and it can kill you. So I decide to make the first move, to get the show on the road. We make out and start getting all touchy feely. Then he starts doing poppers (amyl nitrite… which is sold at many a fine porn shop. You huff this and it gives you a rush. For me it gives me a rush for 30 seconds and a headache for an hour. Needless to say, I hate poppers!).

We then decided to move into the bedroom for the main event. He says he needs to have a little smoke before we fuck. I think “Thank god, pot! Finally something natural!” Nope. Now keep in mind… I’m on the bed with my back turned to him. All the sudden I hear what to me sounds like a blow torch. I let out a little bit of an awkward laugh and ask “What, prey tell, are you smoking?”
He then says “Oh, just a little meth!”

This, my friends, is the moment that I should have run screaming out the front door. I did not. By this point I was going to have sex. I did, but shouldn’t have.  He had these wild, cracked out meth eyes after he smoked it. I thrust myself in and out while watching the emptiness in his eyes. Just hoping to cum as soon as I could. I finished. Thank god. While putting my clothes back on I said “You know that’s bad shit, and you shouldn’t ever do that again!”

He just looked at me with those empty eyes and said “I know. It’s just that my sister just died and I’ve been having a hard time dealing with it. This helps me.” I really didn’t know what to say to that. I told him to talk to someone and that continuing to do that could kill him. I then said “Hate to eat and run, but I’m going now.” I don’t think I could have walked any quicker out the door. All the while I was wondering if he’d go crazy and snap. I didn’t think staying for a heart to heart seemed like the best thing right now.

It was then that I realized that it didn’t matter if I claimed celibacy or not. I needed standards, and I needed them bad. I needed to respect myself enough not to get myself into these situations. I used to describe my past sex life as “running through the ugly forest with my pants down and hitting every branch, twig, and stump along the way.” I didn’t want that anymore.

It was then that I decided to be picky. To make better choices. That’s not to say that I haven’t slipped and had a random hook up every now and again, but those are certainly less than in the past.
I’ve even turned down sex. It just doesn’t seem worth it unless there’s something to it. I don’t need to be in love and see stars to fuck someone (or have them fuck me… cause I’m versatile.) but if I’m going to ride the ride I at least would like some butterflies.

So now I hold out. Wait for something worthwhile. For now I know how to please myself, and I do a damn good job of it.
-N

community.livejournal.com/therealljidol/309164.html
photos of madonna by steven meisel and steven klein. i do not own the rights to either of these photos.