Monthly Archives: July 2003

If I have to work street corners every night from now until August 17, I am going to get the money to go here.

They took my cast off today.

I never knew that it was possible for washing one’s hands to bring one to the brink of orgasm.

Oh, what the hell. This is technically today’s second post, but really it’s just a reposting of yesterday’s deleted post. For a discussion of why I deleted it in the first place, see today’s first post. For a discussion of why I’m reposting it, see my subconscious.

Before my assignation early this morning with a married man, I was planning to write a post about how scandalous and titillated I felt having an assignation with a married man. (It hadn’t happened yet, but I was sure I would feel scandalous and titillated once it did.)

However, though I did feel moderately scandalous and titillated, something else happened that seemed more interesting, which is that I learned something.

What I learned is this: though being ordered around in bed turns me on more than I can possibly say, being called a whore in the middle of sex does not.

Not that I fault him; he was clearly participating in the game of sex rather than expressing his actual opinion of me. And, after all, his understanding, of however recent a date, of my other preferences could easily lead him to believe that I would be aroused by name-calling as well. How I’ve managed to reach the ripe old age of 30 without discovering otherwise is a mystery to me.

But at that moment, what had been theretofore a delightful, if somewhat smarmy, experience—or perhaps delightful because somewhat smarmy—acquired a tinge of unpleasantness. Just a tinge—certainly not enough to cause me to put a stop to the activity in which we were both enjoyably engaged—but, still, I was taken aback.

The problem was, what to do about it? To say anything would completely destroy the tone of the encounter, which was otherwise most satisfactory. And I couldn’t meaningfully refuse him access to my inmost depths, as there was no part of my inmost depths into which I hadn’t already welcomed him. But I had to do something to defend my honor.

And then circumstances provided me with the perfect opportunity, and my mother wit was for once quick enough to take immediate advantage of it.

For the first time in my life I spit instead of swallowing.

I feel so triumphant I could burst.

I have deleted yesterday’s post about spitting vs. swallowing, name-calling, and my assignation yesterday morning because the comments led me to believe that the post shared so much information as to embarrass both its readers and its author.

However, I do want to point something out, for the benefit of those who left comments about the relative safety of letting somebody come in your mouth. While it’s true that there is some disagreement about how safe unprotected receptive oral sex is, the consensus from all parties seems to be that it’s significantly safer than protected receptive anal sex, because of condom breakage, slippage, etc. Letting somebody fuck your ass while wearing a condom is, in other words, two to three times more dangerous than letting somebody come in your mouth. So to participate in the former but refrain from the latter seems to me to be letting sensationalism rather than science dictate your behavior.

Of course, in my case, both sensationalism and science take a back seat to neurosis and paranoia, but I have to assume there are some people out there for whom this is not the case.

(The CDC Collaborative HIV Seroincidence Study is pretty clear about the numbers involved, and here is a more recent document that discusses in detail the risk of HIV transmission through oral sex, with a comparison at the end to other sexual practices, including protected receptive anal sex. One passage in particular details the relative safety of a range of behaviors: “You know, the principles on individual risk reduction have always been to move people along toward a safer part of the spectrum. So to move them from unprotected receptive anal, to receptive anal with a condom, to insertive, to insertive anal with a condom, to receptive oral with ejaculation, and if I was dealing on an individual level with a patient whose primary risk behavior was oral sex with exposure to ejaculate, I would counsel that individual to try to reduce their exposure to ejaculate.”)

Ordinarily, I avoid thinking about the political climate in America, as doing so reduces me almost immediately to a quivering mass of rage and despair. However, on this Fourth of July, reading this essay by a twelve-year-old about the American flag gives me a tiny shred of hope for the future.

A few days ago, I found out that, when you join the Radical Faeries, you have to get to take a Radical Faerie name. Since then I have been unable to think about anything except what my Radical Faerie name would be in the extremely unlikely event that I became a Radical Faerie. Examples I’ve encountered include things like Persimmon, Cup Cake, and Sparkles.

I’m leaning towards Bile but am open to suggestions.

Un mot à dd: hélas, je n’ai aucune intention d’écrire un article tout en français; j’aurais trop peur de me tromper. Je jouirais–je choisis le mot avec soin–vous faire rigoler davantage, surtout si vous êtes beau, mais je crains que l’on soit destiné à être déçu tous les deux.

Mais avoir su la douleur, n’est-ce pas pouvoir identifier mieux la joie?

Stay tuned to see if I can do it in German and Italian. I’m not sure I’ll be able to work the sexual pun in, but I’ll give it my best shot.

So to speak.

Here is the lyric to a song I wrote recently.

I was at a gay bar
In East Berlin.
It was four o