NY Mirror


I recently wrote about the sharp rise in my sexploits in the wake of an emotional crisis and described how my newfound accessibility and craving for human contact had me suddenly swatting off guys like drosophila. People responded to the write-up with bravos, warnings, and condoms, while begging for a richly detailed follow-up.

Well, it’s time for one because that was just the tip of the ding-dong, honey. I already discussed the three-way in the chapel of Avalon, but let me remind you that it all started when a photographer coaxed a handsome man to unleash his trouser pipe, leading to much (safe) cavorting and mayhem—and I helped!

I thought that was a fluke, but it was actually just an opening ceremony. Running around clubs with an open approach—and fly—not to mention a Neurontin prescription, I was suddenly getting attention and picking up on it rather than trying to find ways to make a chastity belt look chic, like back in the crotch-rot days. Not long after the Avalon incident, I found myself at Happy Valley in a me sandwich flanked by two other appealing slices of gentleman toast. One—a tall guy with a sweet face and a nose ring—was smashed and all over me like a sample-sale suit. The other one—a cute, wispy thing—kept buying me Cokes and flattering my jacket, a Thriller-type ’80s number that demanded to be noticed. Suddenly I was backed into the wall by the tonsil hockey skills of this Olympic-caliber duo, and though I felt a little like JODIE FOSTER in The Accused, you can’t exactly rape the willing, can you?

Later that night, the wispy one was so insistent we stay in touch that he wrote his number on my hand, where it still happens to be carved. The other one kept tonguing me in between pleading, “I love you! Please don’t hurt me, Michael!” Me hurt him? He’d ended up with his arm tightly wound around my neck, and I felt as if I were going to be strangled by the wrong Mr. Right. I gently released myself and slipped out the door, intoxicated by the experience but not about to take things to the next, messy level.

Trinidad and toboggan

How could this be happening? Maybe because, thanks to Vitamin E oil, I read younger than I really am? “And it’s dark in clubs,” as a friend so nicely suggested. Whatever the case, I must have still been sporting a scarlet letter D for “Doable” because the next week at Duvet, a pretty Caribbean queen impulsively joined me on the dancefloor, rubbing his leg up and down mine like a dog, so I could feel his hanging penis. It made the above-mentioned appendage seem like a spaghetti strap by comparison. At one point, the dude playfully put his cap on my head, obviously so he could later say, “Let’s trade. You give me back my hat and I’ll give you my number.” And he did—though it turned out the business card he handed me was actually someone else’s! Oh, well, I needed a humbling experience—and maybe the guy whose card it was wanted some action, right?

In the meantime, there was plenty more a-comin’—in fact, when it rains, it whores. At Happy Valley again, my striped outfit got noticed by an exotically handsome guy—the clothes-as-icebreaker gambit works every time—so we bonded and danced, in between him purchasing me some very fizzy sodas. He strangely introduced me to his “boyfriend,” but that was all forgotten when he boldly reached into my pants and exclaimed, “Come on, let’s go home! You’re so hot!” I was flattered, but was still afraid of intimacy and terrified that someone who thinks I’m attractive must be ready for a series of lobotomy needles. Once again, I snuck out, albeit on a cloud made of vaporized ego juice.

Clearly I was enjoying all the attention and the playing around for an audience, while wanting to protect myself from anything too real like actually having relations. But there were ramifications to this skittish-Casanova routine. When I ran into the exotically handsome guy two nights later at Duvet, he was friendly but I could swear he looked a tiny bit wounded. So now I, the troll of ages, was actually a gigantic heartbreaker? Fantastic! I must admit that knowing I suddenly had the power to hurt people gave me a distinct rise. Maybe I could finally get back at menfolk one by one for all those years when I was rejected? Alas, I’d probably be punishing myself in the process.

So I kept seeking thrills, and back at the Kurfew party at Avalon, a shirtless clubbie did an unsolicited lapdance for me, his ass smack up in my face as I gasped for air. Once I made it to freedom, I was introduced to a cute guy with green hair, whom I naturally asked, “Are you a top or bottom?” “A bottom,” he blithely responded. “Guys fuck me for hours and it’s so annoying. It’s like, ‘Come already!’ ” Bummer. We ended up corresponding by e-mail—he seemed like a literate enough type—and we were going to meet up at Happy Valley, but the dork canceled, saying he needed to work on his career instead. Maybe he was afraid I’d be a delayed ejaculator. Maybe he didn’t realize I like to be the one doing the rejecting nowadays.

Kiss kiss bang bang?

But for every misstep, a slut gets handed a giant plum, and sure enough things clicked again back at Duvet, where I met a young Michael Hutchence look-alike who’d just moved here, obviously via spaceship. He was sprawled out on a bed, beaming from God knows how much booger sugar and booze. The new, friendlier me said “hi” and he immediately responded, “I want to make out with you.” We were truly skipping all the boring stuff now—you know, time wasters like “What’s your name?” and “Where am I?” Quickly enough, his tongue was so far down my oral cavity it was almost cleaning out my kneecaps—for three straight hours. How was this happening? I don’t know, but per usual, I left the guy at the proverbial altar, pretty sure he wouldn’t remember one second of it all by daybreak.

By now, I was making such frequent public spectacles that I thought the townspeople would stone me like MONICA BELLUCCI in Maléna. But I had miraculously acquired some mojo and I was determined to work it to full release. Too bad the magic didn’t last nearly as long as my hard-on. On the phone, the wispy guy from the me sandwich apologized for having been so drunk that night, which I took to mean that he had since awakened into sanity. Back at Happy Valley, my Caribbean queen was now enveloped in his real love; the Hutchence guy was admitting he’s a starfucker and by the way he’s fantasized about killing me; and the striped-outfit admirer was back with the “boyfriend.” I’d lost my touchy-feely touch. I’d cockteased away all my hot chances and now they’d returned to the safety of each other. I’d had nine potential boyfriends and somehow ended up alone!

Undaunted, I took my equipment to an uptown dinner party, where I met an Italian guy with a puppy dog face who moaned that gay nightlife isn’t what it used to be. I vehemently disagreed and offered to show him around, handing him my number with a bold smile. I’d gotten so shockingly confident. The only problem is he never called. And back at Duvet, even toothless troglodytes with three heads were taking a pass. Maybe word had gotten out that I’m an indiscriminate slut—oh yeah, I’d written that myself. And maybe I was getting too slick and not projecting the raw yearning that had attracted guys in the first place. I needed to throw away the Neurontin and have another breakdown.

Meanwhile, my only hope—short of that guy on the business card—was the trouser pipe hottie from that Avalon three-way. He’d called me repeatedly since then, but I’d played hard to get, stupidly wanting to move on to the next flavored jellybean before coming back for seconds. I was a mess, remember? But now I was anxious for someone to hold on to and maybe even develop a semi-quasi-relationship with. I might even consider taking him home this time. I nobly left the guy a message, offering him his choice of any club night-out he wanted. I was cocksure he’d come a-crawling with his tongue out. But shockingly enough, he didn’t call back! I was devastated by the dis, retching from the taste of my own medicine. I’d gone from a sizzling stud back to a lonely letch in just two months. “Oh, good,” I consoled myself. “This kind of utter collapse is just what you need to get action again.” And then he called. Help!

No, wait, we made a date, then he never followed through! I was horrified again. How many of these ups and downs could a simple girl handle? But in the meantime I met a really sweet Hungarian guy who’s cuckoo-crazy about me. Help!