I’m no good at it … And it’s not the kind of thing you improve at with time. It’s not like Angry Birds. … If I were only more versatile, I’d be having twice the opportunities. But I don’t even like a 10-second digital prostate exam. … I’d rather have sex with a complete stranger than with someone I know and care about. I’m becoming Marlon Brando in Last Tango in Paris, minus the dairy.
Kissing someone with buck teeth is like sticking your tongue into a meat grinder. … Has anyone ever rimmed you, then wanted to kiss? It’s the ultimate dilemma. … It’s not that easy to have sex in club bathrooms and stairways anymore. That used to be more than a little bit thrilling in its absolute wrongness, but now most clubs actually have security. Dumb! … People who have elaborate fetish scenarios usually don’t care if it’s your fantasy, too. You want to say, “Shouldn’t I be getting paid for this?” … Speaking of sex workers, hiring one would appear to be the easiest way to get off, except that I’m dirt cheap and want to maintain the illusion that my sex partner likes me on some level other than a financial one. Maybe they can pretend to be into it, but I’m not that good of an actor.
If you say “I love you” in the heat of passion, you never want to face that person again for fear of having raised expectations to a wildly unrealistic level. You don’t even like them! … Saying dirty, outrageous stuff is even more embarrassing the next day, especially if it wasn’t all that PC. Good luck convincing them that you’re not usually like that. … You can’t just get someone to pleasure you and shut up. They always want something back, like “Pinch my nipples really hard!” or “Grab my scrotum and don’t let go!” After squeezing for 20 seconds, your fingers get numb, and you want to go in the next room and do stretching exercises. … After orgasming, I just want the person to leave. What’s the problem? It’s over! Go! … I don’t experience any Catholic feelings at all except for Catholic guilt the second the sex act is over. It takes all the fun out of it (even if it drove you into the act to begin with).
If you don’t drink or do drugs, you’re actually clearheaded through the act, which is a big problem; intercourse demands some cloudiness. … It’s all in the timing. If someone makes a pass at you, you don’t see it coming, so you awkwardly jump back and abort the situation. But you start figuring it might be hot, so a few weeks later, you come on to them, certain they’ll be putty in your hands. They freak and say, “What the fuck are you doing?”… If someone wants me, I convince myself that they must be a crazed alcoholic and impulsively reject them back into the gutter … I’m usually right.
Six-packs are supposed to be sexy, but to me, they’re grotesque, especially when they jut out in an unhealthy manner that looks like a barbecue grill created in some misbegotten lab experiment. … You grab onto someone’s beautiful, wavy head of hair. It comes off. … The whole idea is to go for various body fluids, but the second it’s over, you frantically try to scrub them off with lye and hoses. … Occasionally, you’ll have a messy anal interaction and think: “Hmm. Maybe the Bible was right.” … Bad breath. … Sometimes the act goes on so long you start thinking about things you really should be doing, like refilling the ice tray or checking your e-mail. And then they want to cuddle! Yech!
If you call your trick the day after your sordid encounter, they dodge the call and act like you’re crazy for actually following through. If they call you first, you inevitably do the same. … You run into someone you fucked two years ago and think: “Why didn’t I keep pursing this? They’re gorgeous!” Then they text you, and you don’t answer. … You’ve met the person of your dreams. Perfect for you in every way—an absolute love match. But it turns out you’re not sexually compatible in the least. WTF do you do now? Just hold hands through eternity?
As your hormones wane, you’re no longer always thinking with your genitals, which is a good thing—except that everyone else still is. You feel biologically out of synch, like a eunuch at an orgy. … Everyone younger than you is like a porn star in bed and has watched (and starred in) hundreds more videos than your generation did. It’s especially impossible to match their Olympic-caliber skills, so you just give up after a while.
A guy once followed me home from a club, told me he had a prosthetic finger because of an accident in shop class years ago, then begged me to tell him my secret. Before I could come up with something, he started vomiting and left. Not hot! … AIDS is still casting a giant pall over any uninhibited fun in the cards. I guess it will be wreaking havoc through our entire freakin’ lives. But the biggest cock blocker of all is when you meet someone who doesn’t seem to have even heard of it. Very not hot! … And if you bring home a stranger, they could very well murder you. Of course, if you go to their place, they could murder you there, too. … Ugh! I’m staying celibate. As in “sell a bit here, sell a bit there. …”
This article from the Village Voice Archive was posted on May 30, 2012