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{whore moans: why sluts rule} copper set I have always loved sluts. I lost my virginity to the school slut. My friend rode his bicycle to her house to lose his virginity two weeks before me. We fucked one afternoon, after school. To earn my right, I beat her in a game of basketball simultaneously while she seemed to lose all sense of aim and direction and rules of the game. My mother was at jury duty. The captain of the cheer team, Jen, watched “Days of our Lives” as I grew hard into a man behind my bedroom door. I laid on top of her and pumped and pumped and pumped until I turned into a fire hydrant of jello. She held-out her hand, rigidly. Apprehensively I lifted my palm and smacked hers. Hi-five. She smiled. You didn’t get it all over. Good job, she said, encouragingly. Everybody called her, “Ho-bait”. It was a play on her last name. I got my first blowjob from a girl that was mockingly called, “Header”. I’m pretty sure her parents called her “Heather”. Sometimes, I wonder what the dude that famously received head from her while he was sitting on the toilet called her. Luckily Header and I remained friends through High School because I was very lonely my first days at college and she went to my same school, so I dialed her up and she mercifully gave me head one incredibly lonely night. Many years later I was in a coffee shop and I saw my virgin breaker slut. I hadn’t seen her for years before. In fact, she just seemed to disappear from my high school. So, there she is, walking closer to me and disbelieving, I ask her, “Is your name Lisa”? She said yes and her bouncing eyes bounced around me. She wasn’t there. But she was. It was my virgin breaking bitch. “Do you remember me?” I asked, half imploringly. “Oh yeah… Your name is Ryan, right?” I looked at her and all I saw was cocks and cum and decrepit death and I just shook my head. She did not intrigue me any longer. Her sense of slut was sad. True: mosts sense of slut is sad. Sluts are, categorically, filled with sadness. I have not met one slut who, when not filled with cocks, was not filled with sadness. And who, in order to escape the sadness filled themselves with cocks. While I have no idea where Header or Ho-bait went; if they’re still alive, or how many hundreds of cocks they’re rubbed all over their fat little faces – since my adolescence, I have always kept the company of whores. Sluts. Drug addicts. Drunks. The homeless. Even when I wasn’t supposed to. I like people with knives for edges. I like people that don’t know where the edge is. I like the possibility of incredible and brilliant explosions at any minute. I like the dangerous ones. But through most of my life, I have been attracted to – nay addicted to, what I have always believed to be the most dangerous of all: the unabashedly hypersexual. I have sought the look of trouble in fuckable eyes. Where others have seen vice, I have seen virtue: I have seen terrible, terrible sadness. Several years ago I befriended a girl. She just had it in our eyes. It came from her skin. It darkened her hair. Sex shot out of every pore in her body. And I could smell it. We became friends because she was a photographer. I started writing erotica and she asked me: do you think you’re sex addict? I replied with something I’ve never forgotten: No, but when I go into a sexual coma, I do some strange things. I left that night with her wondering about that question. I didn’t sleep with her that night. But I did, the next night. We masturbated through and into the morning, watching porn and shoving my cock in her lonely holes. I asked her what the dirtiest thing she had done recently was and she replied: I put an ad on Craigslist for a guy. We emailed. I gave him my address, put a blindfold on and waited. He came over, fucked me good, then left. I never even saw what he looked like. Then, it clicked: SHE was a sex addict. It came rifling back to me: her friends told me a story about how she gave some poor Joe a hummer in a dirty bar bathroom all because he told her that he just got out of jail. Her friends left her crying on the side of the road that night. I have walked into the houses of married women and smelled it on them in the same way. Where some people have intuition for a liar or a homosexual – I have pitch-perfect radar for the hypersexual. For the addict, the hypersexual: sexuality is not the drug. Life, and the loss of life therein, is. And sexuality is the greatest of all drugs because: it is free. For awhile… In all, that rush, that push, that pull of sex – is escape. Like heroin, cocaine, alcohol – this adventure is about the loss of self. For just as a heroin high enables the user the ability to disappear from the day, so too does sex enable the junkie to retract from ultimate responsibility. Presence. Life. Inside sluts are sadness. For the sake of all men: Keep the sadness alive. Let sluts rule. |
