Art School [not so] Confidential

It was three years ago I packed my bags and left the dry barren world of “Antihomoland” for forward thinking New York. Why? Well, besides the sexual and social freedom as promised in the [imaginary] pamphlets, art school was calling. I don’t try and play with that bullshit “institute”, “conservatory”, or “university” bull, because I was going to an art school. That’s what it is and I hate when people refer to it as something less or more.

Like every other relatively attractive and sexually-modest gay man or straight female I was appalled by what I discovered at this place of learning: the supply of men was extremely low and overflowing with rejects. It was like every D-list high school guy in the country had seen the school as a way to get laid. I’m sure they do, sadly, and with women and/or men much more intelligent, attractive, and worthy than themselves. The attractiveness (even at a normal level) is sadly dwindling. The few good looking guys are total mansluts and the guys with “great personalities” look like extras from Night of the Living Dead. After a while I began to categorize men as I often do, and only grew saddened by what I saw.

 

The Daddy’s Boy: These guys usually are the only ones to join one of the two fraternities that exist at an art school. Generally they are lame and can be found usually as students in the school of architecture, industrial design, or the under-funded and underwhelming English department. They generally dress the same way every stupid Midwestern frat kid does, except many will be from Jersey. They’ll find almost any excuse to take off their shirts which (since they are at an art school which has a lack of athletic teams) is extremely disappointing and can even be horrific at times. They are mostly straight and mostly terrible in bed and will last only a few seconds after insertion, but they get way too much play due to the desperate girls (with their 3 to 1 ratio) who are in abundance around campus. They are likely to have several homosexual experiences, usually with each other.

 

The Ultima-Flamer: This kid gives us gays a bad name. He subscribes to the old generation of gays’ (you know, the one that got AIDS) philosophy that being fabulous, liking rainbows, and having a bunch of sex with as many partners as possible is the way to absolute freedom. He is most likely to have wanted to be in fashion design but with the extremely competitive nature of admission to the programs he most likely can be found in a fine arts major, graphic design, or dance therapy. Don’t be fooled though, I’m not talking about just the tight shirt and glitter wearing species; this also includes the Abercrombie Boys. He’ll put out, but really: Would you stick your dick in a needle box from an STD clinic even with a condom on? I didn’t think so.

 

The Jewy Straight Guy: Don’t get me wrong; I love the Jews. I hate pork and have been circumcised since I was a just a baby goy. The guys I’m talking about don’t necessarily have to be Jewish at all. Short, hairy, and with a penis the size of a Tic-Tac, these guys are quite OK with bringing up how much they love their mothers on the first date (we are talking under $15 a plate here, in Manhattan, including drinks). Found in animation, industrial design, film, and anything entertainment –related, these guys know how to party. Well, until they have had two beers, then they are wasted and you can forget about the whole “getting it up” thing. The benefit is they are quite loyal, but so is their hair to getting in your teeth. The Gays don’t really go there. Ladies, this one’s for you…

 

That Prententious Artist Fuck: Paint splattered pants have been out since around the time of the first Backstreet Boys CD but this guy makes them look hot. He’s been in many galleries throughout the city and he’s only a junior. A total art star, unfortunately he might be a bit of an art slut. Watch out boys and girls, because though he may give you a great orgasm he might also bestow upon you a nice case of herpes. Just wait until he starts critiquing your work. That’s when the real fun begins.

 

The Hipster: Anyone who has been to Brooklyn/NYC in the last five years knows what I’m talking about. The Hipster has flooded the streets of Brooklyn faster than gang violence and crack addictions. I don’t mind the hipster kids except for their disgusting music snobbery, the over willingness to pay way too much for ironic t shirts, and the mommy-and-daddy-funded two-grand-a-month loft space. I’m just jealous of the latter. The majority of them play guitar (or at least a few chords from an Interpol or Sonic Youth song) and they all have been “in a band”. This can be a plus in the cuteness area. They are all pretty gay, just wait it out boys.

 

The Punk: Ok, so I give you props that you have embraced the whole “Punk Isn’t Dead Thing” but considering your parents are dropping 40 grand a year in tuition, fees, and books plus your half of the rent for your Bed-Stuy apartment you should at least shower every now and then. Printmaking, painting, ceramics, and anything anti-establishment are usually the preferred majors of these once Hot-Topic shopping rockers. These guys are all for experimentation and I totally would dig them, if only they gave a shit about crotch odor. Eat trash if you want and pussy (though in my opinion they taste very similar) but for the love of non-third world countries everywhere, shower you motherfuckers, shower!

 

The Power Gay: These kids are extremely driven, extremely talented, extremely sure of themselves, and extremely unobtainable. Even straight men are driven to ponder the great “what if”. Usually somewhat attractive, their 4.0 GPA and full scholarships (no debt when they graduate means more money to spend on coke and martinis) make them even more eye-catching. Power Lesbians move over. These are the assholes that make you look like a piece of worthless shit at critiques. You won’t find these guys in the clubs on Saturday nights. They are in the studios working on their architecture models or fashion collections. Fortunately they’ll put out for the right guy (money, business connections, other power gays), but usually won’t let a relationship make it past the morning after.

 

The Emo/Goth/Hippy/Alternative Kid: Ok, so I guess no one told these kids that it’s ok to stop wearing a costume every day now. Eyeliner, colored eye shadow, crazy colored hair, pleather or patchwork pants: You’re different, we can see that. The problem is though I would totally respect you for wearing that as a sixteen year old in small town Connecticut, it makes no sense to keep it up when you’re in an institution of higher learning. Granted we’re at an art school, but these guys need to cut the literal crap and become a bit more subtle. You are not Robert Smith. Oh, and these guys will totally take it from the boys.

 The Normal College Guy: Do these really exist somewhere?

X Adam 

Let’s all make love in Austin?

I am the queen of almost getting laid.

This happens more often than I’m totally comfortable with. I can be completely naked with a heterosexual male, ready and willing to bounce up and down on his cock like cocks are being discontinued…yet somehow, ne’er the twain do meet. When it’s an intimate coke and poetry party that transcends the physical, that’s one thing…but more often than not it happens in a casual encounter the sole purpose of which is getting both our rocks off.

Which leads me to the night before last’s events. I met Judd* through a mutual friend I didn’t know too well while walking down the street one day last fall. Despite the frumpy paisley carpet dress I was wearing, we exchanged “I find you attractive” glances. I told him I was on my way to get my car from where I’d parked it the previous night, and he expressed surprise, as people often do, that I have a car in the city.

“I know it’s kind of silly,” I said, “but I like knowing I can leave here whenever I want to. I get kind of antsy sometimes, you know?”

“Yeah, I know,” he said, flashing me a grin of boyish mischief.

I didn’t see him again until months later. My mom was visiting the city with her boyfriend, and I met up with her for a drink at a fancy Soho bar/restaurant. I ordered a vodka tonic, and the bartender asked me what kind of vodka I would like. This question surprised me, as the bars I usually frequent do not ask such questions. After thinking for a second, I chose Stoli at random. I am not a classy drinker.

One of the waiters caught my eye. Did I know him from somewhere? Or did I just wish I knew him? The apple-cheeked, thin, young fellow with the swooshy hair was grinning boyish mischief across the room at me. I asked the bartender:

“Is that guy’s name Judd?”

“Yeah,” he replied.

“I know that guy!” I said, a little too enthusiastically.

“Oh yeah?” said my mom, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah,” I said, shrugging, “just from the neighborhood.”

I tried to pay attention to what my mom was saying—the details of their trip, all the neighborhoods they’d visited, meals they’d eaten, jazz musicians they’d checked out—but I kept staring at Judd across the restaurant. When he came over to the bar, I said

“Hey, what’s up? I think you owe me a drink at Cheers.**”

“What are you doing later? We should hang out,” he replied, still grinning.

We exchanged numbers, and I could tell my mom was proud. The shy little girl who used to stay in and do homework on weekends had picked up a ridiculously smashable guy right before her very eyes.

A week or so of various “let’s go to Cheers” texts went by before we finally met up around 1am on a Wednesday. He told me he was going there with his roommate, so I brought my friend Beth*** along.

We arrived to find his roommate was the hottest wingman ever. All parties satisfied, the four of us set about getting completely wasted. Between tequila shots and Tecates, he told me he was from Austin, and moving back in two days to complete his final semester of college. I told him I was going to Austin in March, and he said I should definitely stay with him. He’d show me all the best places and get me good deals on drugs.

He then proceeded to talk at me for a solid half hour about the Russian literature he was studying, how great it was and why I should read it, and why UT has the best program around. Besides telling him I had also majored in English, I could barely get a word in edgewise. He didn’t even ask where I’d gone to school. I showed him my Yeats tattoo, and he hugged me awkwardly around the middle and told me it made me even sexier to him. I told him my aspirations as a writer, and he launched into a diatribe about why English majors are the best thinkers.

“Blah blah English blah Turgenev Foucault Yeats Dostoevsky Nabokov blah blah you’re sexy blah.”

Ok, I thought…he’s probably just drunk and nervous. I talk too much when I’m drunk and nervous, too. Not in this particular instance, but only because I couldn’t.

“Our library has, like, six Gutenberg bibles. If I wanna touch a Gutenburg bible, I just tell them I’m an English major, and they’re like, ‘here ya go!’” He mimed putting his dirty little hands all over a Gutenberg bible.

Dubious as to whether this was true, I tried to change the subject. It didn’t work. He continued to talk. Then he stopped himself.

“You’re probably totally bored,” and then he kissed me.

I don’t usually make out with guys at Cheers. I see it as more of a home base, a place to run into friends, start out my night, etc. But it was late and besides us, there were only a few older strangers in the bar. So I sucked face with him.

Eventually the bartender said “last call,” and the two dapper fellows insisted they’d “walk us home.” It turned out they lived quite near me anyway, and it was a mild night for January. We walked loudly and drunkenly, alternately pairing off into boy-girl and girl-girl pairs. The homo-social moments on this walk were pretty great…Beth hugged me and told me she loved going on adventures with me, and we laughed at the absurdity of it all. The boys embraced, punched each other, and communicated in some odd, screechy Texas language.

Back at my place I left Beth and Hot Wingman passed out on the couch in the living room and brought Judd into my room. He said some embarrassing yet nice things to me, like “your lips are so soft, I could kiss you all night.” But I knew that wasn’t what he really wanted to do, as he removed my shirt, bra, and pants with only a moderate level of booze-induced difficulty. When I closed my eyes, I felt like I was kissing him on one of those carnival rides that spins every which way at once. I was going to have sloppy, spinny sex with Judd to spirit him on his way to Texas. Giggity giggity.

He put my hand on his cock and I rubbed it for a while. He felt pretty hard, so I went to get a condom and he put it on. But no sooner did he get it in me than the entire operation went limp. It was like trying to fuck a water balloon. Not pleasant at all.

“Just wait til I get hard and I’ll fuck the shit out of you.”

He made me bounce on his water balloon dick for a few seconds, then,

“I’m so drunk. How about we do it in the morning?”

All I could think in my head was, EPIC FAIL.

He proved to be good at cuddling, but what use is that kind of closeness when you’re moving to Austin the day after next? I wanted to give him some quick and dirty lovin’ to ponder on the plane. I wanted him to spend the next two months anticipating the flash flood of fucking I’d bring with me to Austin. Perhaps he still will, but if I were him, I probably wouldn’t get that turned on recalling the girl I was too drunk to fuck. Embarrassment (assuming he was embarrassed) rarely gets one happy in the pants.

I managed to fall asleep with him touching me (something I can’t usually do), and dreamed I was out with him in bizaro-Williamsburg. I saw the poet from my last post sitting with his girlfriend on a bench across the street and got scared. I didn’t want him to see me with Judd, but was prepared to share a knowing glance with him, undetected by our current inferior lovers. Instead of acknowledging my presence, though, he started making out with his girlfriend, and I melted into the ground. This was dream number two in an as yet unbroken three-night string of dreams about him.

The next morning I was too nauseous to even think about sex. As Judd retrieved his clothes from various places and got dressed, I told him halfheartedly I couldn’t wait to visit him in Austin.

“Yeah, about that…I have to ask my mom…it should probably be ok, you know if you don’t have anywhere else to stay.”

I don’t know about you, but I try not to fuck guys who live with their parents.

He left without so much as a kiss, and I shut the door behind him cranky and horny, but a little glad we didn’t actually have sex.

Fucking impotent hipsters.

–Eve

*not his real name

**not the bar’s real name, but descriptive nonetheless

***not her real name, either…I’m going to stop doing this now. Just assume I’m changing shit around.

Read this post for Daddy…

My first entry has to do with one simple account pertaining to what not to say in bed unless you have fully discussed your kinks with your partner (or partners). This will help you avoid any awkwardness before, during, or after intercourse.

It all started when I met this guy in stereotypical New York fashion at a coffee shop on the lower east side. While ordering my usual bland black coffee I noticed a handsome man in his mid twenties giving me the eye. I took notice of his strong attractive features, 6’1” well-built frame, and (as you will soon see is my weakness) his crystal blue eyes. Long story short, small talk turned into my giving him my card (yeah I have a card, how yuppie is that, I’m still in school for Christ’s sake). I also soon learned that the twenty something was actually a thirty one year old something. Normally I would have run like a fat kid from a treadmill, but his young look and appealing personality lead me….eventually….after dinner and drinks…back to his apartment. It was quite innocent, actually. We were just hanging out.

But of course hanging out turned into hanging out with no clothes on, which turned into kissing with no clothes on and…you get the picture.

It was going pretty well. Amazing, actually. I was really getting into it, until a few words decided to complicate things:

 

“Oh yeah, suck your thumb for daddy.”

It’s awkward to have to say “p-pardon?” under your breath while making out with someone naked. It’s even more embarrassing (for him, not you) when you break into uncontrollable peals of laughter. “Wait,” I said in between spurts of merriment, “Did you just ask me to suck my thumb?”.

I looked into those crystal eyes, which this time were shaded in an expression of embarrassment and disappointment. “So does this mean you won’t put the Pokémon undies on?” he asked.

 

I ended up putting my clothes back on, sleeping on the couch in his room (I had no desire to get on the subway at 3:30), and leaving the next morning as quickly and with as little awkwardness as possible. Looking back, I guess I should have seen the signs. I am very boyish looking, not feminine, but I look quite young. I should be on the look out for these guys constantly, but I am admittedly naive and try to find the good in everyone. I figured his talk about finding younger guys attractive was just talk about, you know, eighteen to twenty-one year olds. Apparently it was talk about eight year olds.Ok, so that’s not necessarily true. He did say he that he only thinks, “it’s hot when younger legal guys play like they’re even younger” shortly after I began to make my bed on the couch.

I had, in my “assume the best” attitude, not thought anything of it when he talked about how he liked that underwear they have for guys now with the cartoon characters and the boy fit (If you have been in an H&M you know what I’m referring to), but I had no idea he had a pack of Pokémon Hanes on tap in his top drawer right next to his Astroglide and Trojan Magnums. I also played dumb to the fact that he kept saying “good boy” under his breath every now and then during our session. It annoyed the hell out of me but I was willing to let it slide.

Of course he had to go and say those fine words that ended the whole thing. Being verbal in the bedroom can be great, but unless you have a narration fetish or are missing all nerve sensitivity (and are blind) I don’t think describing everything you’re doing and seeing is necessary. Yeah, I get it: so smooth, or so big, or so hot…whatever. It’s great every now and then, but there comes a point when it becomes less about sex and more about adjectives.

If you choose to be verbal in bed, I suggest you discuss the extent of your fetishes beforehand. Just like a wobbly track can cause a train wreck, your eagerness to express your deepest desires can cause a similar disaster: the tragedy of you not getting any. Even in this sort of “hook up” situation, I suppose it would have been best for me to just maybe ask….”So… are there any fetishes I should know about? Any thing with whips, chains, anime characters?”

 

Men are freaks.

 

X

Adam

Was there another Troy for her to burn?

I’m afraid I shouldn’t be posting this. That should tell you something right away. I couldn’t care less if most of my conquests/violators find out I’ve been talking about their weird fetishes/small penises/stupid pets on the internet, but this one is different for two reasons: I actually like him, and we didn’t hook up in any traditional sense. But if ever there was a tale whose clear telling might benefit the teller, it’s this one. So if you’re reading this, dear boy, I hope you’re not mad at me. Nobody knows my identity, let alone yours, and I’ve changed around certain details. Your secret is safe.

I run into him at a neighborhood dive bar. I’ve seen him around a lot and find him attractive in that boyish, skinny, unkempt indie-nerd way I tend to favor in my partners. But I know he has a girlfriend, and as such I’ve always bolted from our conversations as soon as possible so as not to inadvertently flirt with him. When I have a crush on someone, I feel like there’s a big scarlet “C” blazing on my forehead, and I don’t want our mutual friends to think I’m attempting a home wrecking. So after exchanging the usual pleasantries, I begin looking for a way out like always…until he starts beckoning me towards the bathroom.

Is he for real? Maybe there’s someone behind me. I live with a Carrie-esque fear that every boy I like is secretly mocking me. I give him a few chances to not actually be beckoning (maybe he’s got a tic?), but when he says “come back and talk to me,” I can no longer give him the benefit of the doubt. As we wait in the bathroom line, he starts asking me deep questions about myself: “What’s your outlook on life? Are you social? Do you like to party?” This confuses me until I realize he is coked out of his mind.

“Yes, I will do a line with you in the bathroom.”

Once inside, he continues to interrogate. “You seem like a pretty social girl,” he says. I tell it to him straight:

“I’m actually pretty shy and frightened of people. Sometimes I think I have a social disability of some sort. But it must be mild, because I’ve managed to overcome it in most situations.”

He looks surprised, then sticks the end of a coke-filled cigarette up my nose. I take it.

I feel like I should write a small aside here about how I’m not a cokehead, but that would probably just convince you that I doth protest too much. I only do other people’s coke, and only on special occasions like weddings, funerals, etc. Luckily, it was a Saturday. Feel free to draw your own conclusions.

“You’ve got a little here,” he says, picking a few grains off of my tits and putting them on his gums.

“Yeah sorry,” I say, “I’m messy.”

“Let’s go buy more.”

“Ok.”

Once outside, our conversation goes something like this:

“I don’t do this that often. Hardly ever at all, really.”

“Oh, me neither.”

“I hate the drug’s aura.”

“I hate the drug’s enthusiasts.”

“Cokeheads are the worst people in the world.”

“Oh, totally.”

“Yeah.”

Then he calls his dealer on speed-dial and buys another bag.

I ask if we should go back to the bar.

“Nah, they’re probably all gone by now…let’s go to your house.”

At this point, I am coming along for the ride. He has managed to surprise me several times already, and I want to see where he is going with this.

Back at my house, we sniff some more drugs, then start having one of those coke conversations that lasts forever and covers an impressive amount of ground, both wide and deep. I don’t need to be on coke to have this type of conversation, but it seems almost everyone else does, and maybe that’s why I like it; it makes everybody more like me. It puts them on my wavelength, usually a lonely place.

Then he drops the unspoken ruiner of our night together: “You know I have a girlfriend, right?”

“You fucking live with her, don’t you?”

“You know we’re not doing too well?”

“No.”

“Blah blah blah coke blah problems problems blah what am I doing here with you?”

“You tell me.”

I tell him all about my last relationship, which ended partly because we weren’t ready to live together. We both knew this and put a time limit on the arrangement, but once we moved out, it felt so much like a breakup that a breakup was inevitable. It’s taken me a long time to realize that just because you love someone doesn’t necessarily mean you should be with him at all costs. It wouldn’t have taken us a whole year to become friends again if we had ended it when we should have instead of dragging it out into a messy, bleeding half-dead thing just begging to be euthanized. I don’t tell him all this, but I give the jist of it:

“I’m arguing with my boyfriend about groceries, and I’m twenty-fucking-one years old. This isn’t right.”

He asks me if I ever want to do crazy stuff that I wouldn’t have the freedom to do if I was still in a relationship. Like what? Have sex with some random person you met in a bar? That’s not crazy, people do it all the time. Kill yourself? Move away? What?

“…what would this conversation be like if we were both completely naked?”

Before I can say “Excuse me?” he’s taking his clothes off to reveal a deliciously nubile physique and a bad case of coke dick. I take a moment to enjoy the power dynamic of being fully clothed while a cute naked boy stands shivering before me. Then, at his urging, I disrobe as well. We continue our conversation fairly unaltered, him sitting on my bed, me lying on the couch in a way that hides my naughty bits somewhat. I’m trying to maintain eye contact but he makes me look at his penis, and the first word that pops into my head is “dainty.”

“Did you seriously just call my penis dainty?”

“Oh shit, did I say that out loud? I’m sorry.”

I give him my schpiel about how I actually prefer small penises, which is true. As vaginas go, I’m pretty tight, and I can’t take a giant cock too well…I’m more into clitoral stimulation than getting fucked, and I will be forever jealous of girls who can get off from penetration alone. It’s not the first superpower I’d choose if I met a genie (I’d much rather be able to fly or turn invisible), but it’s certainly somewhere towards the bottom of my top five.

We’re cold, so I get in bed with him and we cuddle. He asks about the tattoo on my back, and I tell him it’s Yeats.

“Holy shit, I love Yeats!”

“Me too!”

I start reciting Yeats poems that I know, then get the Norton Anthology of Modern Poetry off my bookshelf. We dork out on that for a few hours, taking turns reading to each other from it. It’s hard to describe how intimate and erotic this is; I get wetter than an English major with a naked boy in her bed reading her Wallace Stevens. Or equally wet, I suppose. I’m too horny thinking back on it to even make up a metaphor.

This continues for hours, as does our conversation. I look down and see his dainty coke dick has given way to a nice, average-sized erection. He tells me he’s going to move out of the place he lives in now, but hasn’t told his girlfriend yet. We ask each other what’s going to happen next, and neither of us has an answer. We continue to cuddle; his skin is warm and smooth and I feel relaxed despite my rapidly pounding pulse.

Eventually we put our clothes back on and go up to the roof to watch the sunrise. He tells me he’ll be back, and no matter how unlikely it seems, I believe him. He hugs me, hard, then sets out to walk home in the early morning light not often seen by Brooklyn’s young inhabitants. I feel the coke wearing off and go back to bed, but I’m so turned on by the weird wonderful thing that just happened to me that I have to masturbate twice in order to fall asleep. The second time I come harder than I have in recent memory, then lie back and wonder with a hint of sadness if he’ll ever make me come like that. I wake up eight hours later with one hand on my pussy and the other in my poetry book, and even though I should probably feel unsatisfied I feel fucking awesome.

To be continued?

–Eve

hello world

This blog is an experiment. Last night, while lolling about in a pleasant haze of the wacky tobaccy, whiskey, beer, and shredded oat squares, Adam and I came to the simultaneous realization that enough weird shit has happened to both of us that we should start a blog about it. Then we passed out spooning in our clothes with all the lights on, snacks halfway to our mouths, for a solid eight hours. That’s kind of how we roll.

But in a feat of memory perhaps ordained by God, we recalled our idea when we awoke, and still liked it. So here we are. Why a blog? I can’t come up with a satisfactory answer, but I will say this: the urge to disclose is much older than the internet. Ever since the first sinner gave confession, we’ve been using anonymous sounding boards as a way to make sense of our lives. This is only the most recent incarnation of a basic human urge that’s always been with us.

We are also hoping that people will tell some of their own stories back to us. Unlike sexual powerhouses College Call Girl and One D at a Time (both of which I read and love), we have little that sets us apart from the average reader. We are not sex workers, dedicated sluts, or even particularly experienced. We are just a couple of (relatively) normal people, a boy and a girl, who think a healthy approach to sexuality can help us understand ourselves. If that bores people, we’ll scrap it with no hesitation. But I am hoping to connect with some folks in that magical, alien-yet-intimate way that can only be found on the devil’s series of tubes.

Another thing about me: I’m obsessively self-analytical, even going so far as to keep a Word document of everyone with whom I’ve had relations, complete with pictures and a mandatory sentence on “what I learned,” even if it’s something dumb and obvious like “don’t fuck your roommates.” So I guess this is sort of an extension of that for me.

We hope you like it.

–Eve