Normal Sex: Desire

DCP_6089, originally uploaded by molly.ren.

Writing about the NYC Sex Bloggers' party gives me the same problem I have writing about any sex: I want to put in everything, and there's no way you can get all of Proust into a single blog post.

It happens every time. Even thought I don't always remember names (who was that chick in the polka dot dress?), I remember a million other things. And I want to describe everything, from each peak and dip of my mood to the drink in my hand to the color of the lights and the color of Diva's corset...and that doesn't even begin to describe all that happened there. There were burlesque dancers and a raffle that was so rigged one woman got a dozen things and awkward conversations with famous sex educators and sudden conversations with people I had never met before but were as easy as if I had known them for days. How did something that lasted only four hours have so many things packed into it?

I might not even write about this at all, except that he wanted me to. He told me so as we walked back to the subway the next morning: "I wanna be Mister Something."

I can't call you Mister X., I told him, there's already an X. on here and people might get confused.

One of the most amazing things about the sex blogger party wasn't the fact that I got to meet lots of people whose words had inspired me...or that people who I'd never heard of knew who I was from the comments I'd left on other people's blogs. (OK, that was at least equally amazing. When Tess asked me if she could introduce me to Diva I got so overwhelmed by all the cyber people suddenly becoming real I had to excuse myself and checked in my coat to gain time to recover from my attack of shyness.)

But in hindsight, the most amazing thing was that I got hit on.

See, outside of the internet, I NEVER get hit on. In the course of a week I probably IM, email, and webcam as many as five feedee boys, but I've pretty much crossed parties and bars off my list as places to meet people. The last time I was in NYC, me and my friends went out to bars for several weeks. I don't think I got hit on once, though I made advances toward maybe five guys. I finally got horny enough to solve the problem with my first and last Craigslist experiment, but still, whenever I get laid, it's usually because I make the advances.

But in the crush of the partygoers, as crowded as in any rave club where I'd danced alone, something was different. I dunno if it was the fact that I was at a party filled with some of the kinkiest people in NYC, but suddenly I could feel eyes on me. As many boys as I had hit on during those few weeks in NYC were looking at me over their drinks as if they were devouring me. They weren't ugly scary guys either. I think they were all in their mid-20s to 30s, which was gratifying, to say the least. But none were quite what I was looking for. Even though I'd been drinking water all night, I felt a kind of haze grow around me. Different boys would dip down towards me, to exchange a few words, but none were caught up in it the same as I was. Who would it be? A boy, a girl, or something I'd never had before, a creature I'd only caught glimpses of in the flickering light of a computer screen?

I came out of the bar for a breath of air. Two boys were looking at magazines, but the minute I showed up shoved them back in their pockets. I laughed and said something like, "Don't hide the porn! It's a sex blogger party!"

They were looking at a Njoy magazine, it turned out. We began talking, and one of the boys excused himself, so I was left alone with the other. I used the line that I had been using on everyone that night with such success, "Do you have a blog?"

"A secret one," he said, lighting a cigarette and grinning at me.

He asked me if I blogged, and I said yes with great pleasure--I belonged to the secret sexy organization of bloggers of smut! He wanted to know what my blog was about, and I cautiously explained feederism to him: "It's like, you think eating is sexy. But it's also extremely rare, so the blog is more about me looking for one. I haven't actually found one!"

He perked up when he heard that. "Where did you go to school?" he asked me.

I knew he was flirting with me. A year ago I wouldn't have been able to figure it out, would have been asking myself Is he/isn't he omg what if he is? But now I was getting the signal loud and clear. With him it was easy, he was like the scruffy philosophy majors I knew from college. And because he was known, I was able to relax and regain my confidence.

"You don't really have a blog!" I said, gleefully piercing though his joke, "you just say that to get girls!"

I decided to go back inside, try again. I was able to do the thing I had always been told to do but hadn't been able to: turn a boy down.

But after that I think nothing happened. I certainly don't remember anything happening. The party had begun to thin out by then, I circled around trying to find the few people I hadn't introduced myself to yet. I drank another glass of water.

I saw him again on one of my circuits of the room, he put himself in my line of sight and said, "Have you found any guys to like, feed yet?"

"No..." I wasn't sure where this was going.

"I'm kind of curious..."

"Ooooh," I said, acting stupid to gain time. He wasn't who I had expected to go home with. I had been expecting someone with feathers or sequins or extra sillicone parts. I suddenly remembered that before leaving my apt. that night I had finally decided I wasn't going to try and hit on anyone at this party, that I had left my "emergency kit" of condoms and lube at home.

But he was so nice I didn't want to say no.

* * *

More to come.

That naked chick clutching a photo of Obama

Photo of Darlinda Just Darlinda.

Here you go, peeps, as promised. More on the party after I recover from 6 hours of bus travel... *zzzzzzzz*

I now have a pic of a hot naked girl clutching a photo of Obama

"Thank god you're alive," my friend told me when I walked in the door at 9am this morning. I had left at 6:30 yesterday evening. I am now laden with a Sugarbutch Star chapbook, a bottle of Sliquid lube, and more stickers and postcards and scribbled notes of blog addresses than I know what to do with. I also have sex hair.

Yes, the NYC Bloggers Calendar release party was made of awesome. Unfortunately you won't be able to see the few photos I took until Monday, for I foolishly packed the wrong cord for my camera (that's the kinda genius I am.) But in the meantime, here's a couple of the highlights:

1. No one looked the way I had imagined them. Actually, this is a good thing, because I usually imagined them as being totally naked all the time with their faces pixilated out.

2. Tess' tits really are that big.

3. Unspeakable Axe, I still think you got laid at least once, even tho I haven't read all your blog yet. And I still think you're cool. :)

4. Avah's corset rocked.

5. I met a charming androgyny named Natt. He says no one ever reads his blog, so you should change that!

"You Can Do Better": Part 1

We're going to be doing a bit of time travel now, dear sexblog readers, so bear with me. This happened back in April 2008, when I was still in college. Like most colleges, the night we finished our finals was given up to the senior skit and drunken parties. And like most college students, I was horny and out for blood.

This is different from most stories I've posted on here in that there's a lot of lesbian making out. But if you're worried you might get bored reading about a pretty BBW getting some girl-on-girl action, just hang in there: there's also a BHM.

* * *


I woke up on Friday at noon. I put my arm over my eyes to shut out the sunlight as last night became present memory: I had gotten drunk, and I was still miffed about the girl.

Two girls.

* * *

Thursday was prank night, a secret that the entire campus already knew. I had been assigned no real job except to photograph the insanity, but ended up holding the ladder for one of the more shapely members of my class as she climbed up to hang banners. Her dress was sparkly, gold, and short. Very short. Dude, I thought, I hope she's wearing underwear and cursed the gods when my hopes were fulfilled.

Other than that, the pranks we pulled on the underclassmen went off without a hitch. Things were cheerful enough as long as the drinking was going on, but once they were all packed into an auditorium for the satiric skit the senior class had dreamed up, things began to get ugly.

First, one of the MCs was hit in the face with a cheap blue kickball. He leaped off the stage, jumped over the first row of seats and a fistfight began. Another senior grabbed hold of the microphone and called them off.

Then the audience started throwing beer cans.

I was trying to take photos of what was happening on the stage when one zipped by my head, spraying beer. Then others. Some of the cans were crushed, some full. Still the prank play went on. They hoisted V.-- the sexiest girl in school--onto their shoulders, her hands wrapped with chains. The gayest boy in school was crowned king and treated to half-naked men giving him a massage. Then he was overthrown and they hauled the shyest boy in school on the stage and crowned him instead.

The audience roared. They climbed out of their seats and onto the stage.

"That's it, that's it, it's over!" yelled the MC into the microphone. The auditorium emptied out, the outer lobby became dark, and the dancing began.

I went out, reloaded film, and realized that in all this screaming crowd I was the only one not yet drunk. I found the Atheist and his friends, dressed in black and smoking cigarettes and complaining about how bad the skit had been. Constantine was there. He had a paper crown on his hair, a feathery tinseled thing that would have been worn at a three-year-old's birthday or virgin's bachelorette party. He had his girlfriend on his arm, and as I talked with the Atheist their making out became more and more explicit. She touched his chest, they put their arms around one another, they came closer and closer until they kissed, he laughed, he caressed her ass.

"Atheist," I said, "you used to be an alcoholic. Tell me where I can get something to drink that isn't beer."

"Behind the stage," he said, "if it isn't all gone."

"I'll see you when I'm drunk," I said.

Behind the stage was a nearly full pint of gin. I hate tonic water so I poured it straight, tried to drink it. I found a half-empty liter of Coke and used that as a mixer. I on the way out I snagged a cold can of Keystone Light and took it with me--I wanted to see if I could shotgun it, later.

Then I saw the girl.

She said something about having lost her purse. Upon inquiry she had either left it in the lobby or somewhere else. I followed along without being invited.

She found the purse on the floor, dangerously close to the spilled drinks that marked the edge of the dance floor. She put it on without seeming to notice that I had followed her--I pulled on the strap to get her attention. "Are you really bi?" I asked.

She looked offended that I would doubt her. "Yeah."

"Are you really drunk?"

"Yeah..."

"How drunk?"

"I dunno..."

"Are you drunk enough to kiss me?" I asked.

'Well..." she said and her mouth bore down on me.

Ten minutes later my chin was slick with her mouth juices. I couldn't call it spit, it was too sweet and lovely for that. My arm was around her waist, feeling the muscles through her tight shirt. Then a well-meaning friend came and pulled her away.

"You ruined a beautiful thing," I told the friend later that night. Like all drunkards I was easily distracted, and my girl had seemed to disappear directly she was taken away. But I saw her once more, a long time later. She was trying to hold up a shorter blond girl.

"Tonight's not the night," she said, noticing me.

"I think it's a good night," I said, tracing my fingers down her belly.

The blond girl was hanging off her, they were so tangled up together each step taunted the ground with their falling.

"Later," she said, moving off. "I'll remember."

"Sure," I said, knowing that she would forget. They staggered off for a hundred yards or so before finally sitting down in the soccer field and I forgot they existed. I found myself with my arm around a girl with braces.

"So-and-so hit on me earlier," she said.

"So-and-so is a slut," I said.

"You're right," she laughed, "he is a slut!"

"I'm a slut too," I said, and then we were lip-locked.

"I have a girlfriend," she said when we came apart.

"Who's your girlfriend?"

"She isn't here..."

Since she was still kissing me I was sure we could work something out.

Then I felt a hand on my arm. I looked up to see the BHM, a very large boy a year below me, come to save the damsel from my clutches. He wasn't letting go, so I sighed and then smiled and released my prize.

"Ok, I'll let you go because you have a girlfriend," I said. "M.'s right there--go dance with her."

The BHM was turning me towards him. He was blurry from the Keystone Light, and I whined something about not having had a girl in years. He said that wasn't the issue, put my arm on his shoulder, and began to French me.

Oh, I thought. How long has he been like this?

* * *

Part two will be posted later.

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