Revolting: that summer after college when, after downing too many shots of tequila at a party, I stripped naked and took a bubble bath in front of a group of men.ĭisgusting: slipping a few $20 bills to a woman who called me “baby” on the other side of a semen-stained pane of glass at a Times Square peep show. I’m also referring to those scenes from my own life, co-starring semi-conscious men in dark bedrooms and sex workers in cheaply rented rooms, where I prioritized the satisfaction of sexual release over everything else screaming inside of me, Please stop. I’m not just referring to porn scenes either. I’ve been using this word and many adjectives like it to describe the things that have brought me to orgasm for more than two decades. You can put it all together in a dozen different ways and I bet you still can’t imagine just how revolting the scene actually is. My favorite porn scene of all time involves two sweaty women, 50 horny men, a warehouse, a harness, a hair dryer, and a taxicab. I’d rather stick with the one thing that always manages to get me off - I’m bad, bad, bad. But we don’t talk about these things because - well, it isn’t sexy. For what little conversation we have, Clay and I are actually quite similar, and we could probably have a genuine connection if we talked about these things. He’s probably caught up in the same emptiness I am, desperately filling it with any warm body available. Why am I doing this? What I block out of my mind, because it doesn’t fit the sad story I’m devising in my head, is that I’m using Clay too. And, by now, I’m too exhausted to consider answering the overwhelming question echoing inside of me. With Clay gone and my two orgasms over, I steep in the afterglow of having gotten what I needed. And my methods of getting this only became darker and more intense, wreaking havoc on all aspects of my life until I became a shell of a person, isolated, on a path to certain destruction. What I got was an elaborate mix of shame and sexual excitement I had come to depend on since I was 12 years old. Because what I got from Clay was more than just his penis inside of me. I can reach into my arsenal of memories and easily pick out another story just like it, sometimes not even including a man. There’s nothing unique about this singular moment. Once, to a three-minute clip of a teenage cheerleader having sex with her stepdad on the kitchen counter while her mom showers upstairs, and then again to the thought of what a miserable slut I am to allow a guy like Clay to use me for sex. Finally he feeds me his lines and gets dressed and goes, and I give myself two orgasms in the wet spot of the bed. He asks how my day was, and then I wait in desperate anticipation for the “call you tomorrow” or “see you in a few days,” which may or may not be true. I am less sleepy than I was when I opened the door, so the awkwardness sets in fast. I have come to crave these nights with Clay.Īfterward, we lie there, our elbows touching. It’s not that I don’t enjoy this enjoy is not nearly big enough a word. My eyes, fully adjusted to the darkness now, focus on the dent forming between my headboard and the wall. He turns me over, which is his favorite way to come. I’m too tired to have an orgasm, so I wait for the inevitable end. I hear him grunting I feel his body’s weight - his six-foot-eight frame on my five-foot-two - and I know he’s almost finished. It is so dark outside that I can barely see Clay’s tattoo or his mouth full of crooked teeth. This guy I kind of know named Clay, who has a neck tattoo and sells arty photographs to tourists, is on top of me and he’s not wearing a condom.
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