The Hot Marriage – Sex, Drugs and Synth Pop Stars
By The Wife
Thursday Mission District 10:30pm
My girls have just gone home after a really lovely dinner. I made a savory tart with home made crust; we drank rosé, and laughed until we cried. I am cleaning up the detritus of my little party when I get a text from The Husband telling me that I really must come to the party he is at. You see, one of our best friends, D, is a former porn star turned porn director, and this is his company’s soirée. After a little prompting, I put on a festive, naughty party dress, and I’m out the door and on my way to the bar.
My goodness all the boys are there and they are lovely and sexy as can be! Of course, The Husband keeps getting mistaken for the talent (which he loves). One of our favorite contract porn stars J is in town from the Windy City looking as delicious as ever with his shaved head, big doe eyes, and puffy chest and arms – sigh. The mood at the party is so sexed up and fun. Everyone is there to flirt and have a grand time. It is the start of Pride weekend, and electricity fills the air. The fans are there, the boys are there, and at the bar… OMG I cannot believe my eyes I see the lead singer of my favorite synth pop band from the late 80s. Still huge in the early 90s, still pretty formidable today, this band shaped me. As a matter of fact, I loved this band so much that I wanted to name a daughter after one of their songs (until I realized said daughter would have to be either a porn star or a stripper with a name like this). I went to the bar to introduce myself to said rock god and had a nice moment with him. He was lovely and gracious and kind. The end – kind of.
Back to the party, we saw old friends and met some new ones and when the bar closed, we just weren’t ready to call it a night, so I invited a few people back to our place. As we’re leaving I see our friendly pop star on the corner and I say, “Hey, we’re going back to my place. Would you boys like to come too?” With the sweetest smile, and a look of genuine surprise, he looks and me and says, “Can I?” So, some of us pile into cars, and some of us walk the few blocks to our place. The group consists of two of the hottest, most talented drag stars in town V & H, my dear friend W, famous butch queer about town, D my evil twin/porn impresario, two new friends a girl named M and her gay daddy, an adorable drunkard called J, the pop star and his lovely friend L, and, bien sûr, The Husband and I.
Back at the pad, the cocktails are flowing and so are the lines. (In the interest of full disclosure, the pop star is clean & forgoes the powdery goodness). 
Now the social lubrication is working it’s magic, and we are all getting deep, getting loud, and going mad. Suddenly the only other real girl in the place is topless. People are making out in corners. Drag queens are getting out of face in the bathroom and conversation is reaching a fever pitch. This is a grand party.
I walk out on to the patio and topless girl is blowing D while others are smoking cigarettes and giving only the occasional glance. I’d love to watch, but there are cocktails to be filled and guests to be chatted up – most of the people have never been to our place before and hostess duties always come first. A bit later in the night, The Husband grabs me by the hand and pulls me into my dressing room. Topless girl is blowing D again and The Husband and I pop in for a look. “Why don’t you join her?” he asks. Of course, I do. I always love a go with D. After a moment or two, I set topless girl loose on The Husband, but really I can’t leave our guests for too long, so we say goodbye and wish them well.
Back to our guests with a face full of red lipstick and a knowing smile. The Husband suggests I go wash my face, but I’d rather be scandalous, so he kisses me deeply and calls me a dirty, dirty bird. Soon, all of our guests are piling into taxi after taxi. Our darling pop star stayed until the very end although his friend left hours before. He was lovely, he was naughty- but in case you figure his identity, I’ll never tell what we spoke of. I will say this though—his pants were tight and it looked like he was packin’ a Duraflame!
Read More The Hot Marriage:
Snapshots From a Call Girl – Steven
Steven
$1000/$2000
His house was in the hills of Pacific Heights, a part of town I don’t find myself in often. He asked me to meet him there and although I was wearing six-inch Gucci leather boots that covered my knees, I remember feeling very small as I stood in the giant doorway of his huge home. Generally, I prefer to meet men in public settings before I get to know them, however this was a recommendation from a good client who was also picking up the tab. He opened the door and led me through long hallways, directly to the bedroom.
I was surprised that a man so young could possibly own such an obviously expensive home. While walking through the hallway I noticed family portraits and began to get the feeling it was his parents’.
We entered a room I can only assume was the master suite as it was decorated much too adult for a man of his age. “Take your coat off,” he said firmly. I slowly unbelted the vintage trench I was wearing revealing nothing but the leather boots and a completely shaven new hair cut. “Get on the bed.” The bed was high and I struggled for a second to climb it landing on my back with legs spread open. This was all the invitation he needed and before I knew it his head was between my legs. “God, you taste so good.”
A shudder went through me as his tongue worked me over, slowly at first, than faster, slipping a finger inside me. His finger went deeper, expertly reaching for places he looked to young to know. As he continued to lick my newly shaven pussy, I lost myself in reflection. Occasionally, I will have to think of other scenarios to get off and since I knew this was exactly what would turn him on the most, my mind was a montage of mental images – men who’d fucked me, of men I’d sucked and fucked, men I still wanted to. I was on the verge of coming when the door opened and a man approached us. I was shocked and a little scared at first until I recognized my regular client. “You were right, dad,” said the man in between my legs. “She’s fun.” “I hope you don’t mind,” said my client settling into a blue leather arm chair. “We’ll pay double.”
Read More Snapshots From a Call Girl:
Snapshots From a Call Girl – Benny
Pride And Anarchy
Splatter Art by Holden Starstruck
Henry VIII would fucking love the world we live in today. You can parachute some heroin and fuck with the stars – and not even change your religion. True, you can’t exactly behead your former lovers but you can always block them on Facebook.
Princess Diana is one ex whose head I would happily sever. I compare him to Princess Diana because he’s sickeningly sweet in that superficial, to-your-face way, but in reality only wanted me for sex and was abusing drugs in a big time way. It was kind of fucked up.
But then again, how do you have any relationship with drugs without abusing them? So I guess in a way, Princess Diana used me as a drug too. Love and relationships, can be, to quote another ex-boyfriend, “just one giant grey, amoebic area.” I wanted him, he denied me, and now, eight months later he’s wondering why I don’t like responding to texts that say “I want u” at 5 in the morning after he saw me go home with someone else. Don’t get me wrong, he’s a good guy and I’m sorry about being harsh, but really, desperation never bought anybody anything.
Love is capitalistic and cutthroat like that. It can suck, but games really are a part of life, and everybody knows this but forgets it once they get hard about something. Sometimes you have to pose and paint yourself a Mona Lisa smile. Sometimes you have to walk tall, speak in tongues, spit fire, and bleed acid. And sometimes you have to be brash, bombastic, stupid and anarchic with your emotions. Everybody is posing shamelessly and dancing recklessly into the morning with their emotions. It’s an age of desperate celebration. Nobody’s buying anything and emotional currency is at an all time low. Oil, cynicism, and doubt fill the oceans.
Well fuck that. I refuse to be like Princess Diana – reluctantly hiding in one fairytale or another until the next tragedy happens. Screw the fairytale, I’d honestly rather just break myself than lie alone fighting my own delusion. And fuck abusing my own personal power beyond comprehension to the point of contempt like Henry VIII. I have no desire to assert control beyond my own place in the anarchic status flow.
It’s like with this guy that I’ve been seeing recently (hope you’re reading and you approve). I don’t know how I feel about him yet and I don’t know where he could possibly fit into my life. He’s definitely the good kind of different. I don’t have the need or the desire to assert any control over the situation (or any situation) – it’s all chaotic and casual enough anyway.
And that’s okay. Maybe energy really does flow according to the whims of the great magnet. Time rusts and replaces the weary and strong alike. There’s really no fighting the great design – there’s only fighting for pride, love, and some sort of fucked up sense of stability.
Maybe that’s the design of it all – maybe we’re all just lovesick, desperate and starved dogs pit against ourselves, and only ourselves. We’re all just looking for a bite while trying to feign otherwise. We all (essentially) fuck and fight the same way. We all love and lie the same way. In theory it should be a lot easier to understand each other than it is. So maybe earnest affection and honest love is like that – hungry bitch versus hungry bitch, your body versus their body, your mind versus your mind and you have no other choice than to sit back and enjoy the conflict.
Read More Splatter Art : I Will Never Go Hungry Again
Snapshots From a Call Girl – Sanjay
Sanjay
$1000
I met him at his suite at the W hotel which was nice but I was expecting much more than just a normal looking hotel room with a corner banquette. He asked me to look “natural and sweet” which for him meant a cheap cotton dress from Nanette Lepore and cowboy boots from Justin. I put my hair into a ponytail because I know he likes to pull it down.
He had perfect lines of coke cut up on the glass coffee table and offered me one. Normally I never do drugs with a client but I know him well and he prefers it. He always seems to have a supply, though I’ve never seem him partake. As I bent over the table, he sat deep into the leather banquette seats and unzipped his pants. Before the cocaine had even begun to take effect he grabbed the back of my head and forced his hard dick into my mouth.
He likes when I struggle and he has to force. I put both my arms onto his thighs and try to pull away. He twists his grip onto my hair and uses it to push me back onto him. I gag and choke, spit coming out of my mouth with every thrust allowing his dick to slide back and forth easily. “My dick can feel the coke on the back of your throat,” he says. His free hand is down the front of my shirt squeezing my breast tightly. He rams deeper into me, causing me to gag quite a bit. Each time he hits my throat he pinches my nipple so hard and painfully I want to cry out. “God, I love to fuck your mouth you dirty fucking slut,” he says over and over again until he pauses and I can feel warm liquid spew into me, filling my entire mouth. He pulls my head off of him but in a very gentle way this time. “God, you’re beautiful,” he says. “There’s a toothbrush in the bathroom.”
So…Are We Gonna Fuck or Should We Split This?
Let’s face it, the days of proper courtship and courtesy are far behind us. Dating today is like going on a job interview with a loaded gun pointed directly at your crotch. Give the wrong answer? BANG! We are plugged in, turned on, living fast lives and want even faster results.
So, from a male’s perspective, what is so wrong with expecting a little sumthin’ sumthin’ once the plastic comes out? Is it really okay for a woman to go out on a date with a guy she’s not into? Is it alright for her to use her God-given ass-shaking ability to garner a free meal? With the Women’s Movement and everything that has occurred in the past few decades are we truly at a point of equality? I can’t recall ever hearing a woman treating a guy out to nice night out on the town. So if a woman knows she is not interested shouldn’t she pony up some cash for her half of the date or at least hook a brotha up and give him some play for his efforts?
What I’m suggesting isn’t like prostitution or anything. I really don’t think taking a woman out on date should be a direct invitation for sex. But being who I am, and going out on dates with women who were not interested me, I would have really appreciated them saving me the humiliation, let me down easy and compensated me for their share of the evening. If she’s not interested it’s essentially like going out on the town with your sister. And would you bullshit your sister? Get up to go to the bathroom the second the check is set down? Probably not. So ladies, at least offer. Give the guy the chance to refuse (but to be honest, in this economy, I don’t think any man would deny a woman compensating him for her share of a date once he knew he wasn’t getting past the dugout).
The sad fact of the matter is, with all of the advancements in social standards, living standards, social equality and technology, over the past few decades we have all become more distant from each other. With the advent of social networking sites and dating sites and every other internet site, it’s really sad to know how disconnected emotionally we all have become from one another. People still expect the worst from each other and have no compassion for someone who probably in all likelihood wants to treat someone to a special night they can share with them.
So, in the cynicism of our generation and world, I plead with the women of this brave new world to have compassion on us men. Biologically we all know what each sex is all about. Men are supposed to be hunter gatherers and women are supposed to be comforting nurturers. But, in this brave new world where there are no clear roles between men and women and the pendulum has swung so far in one direction, take some responsibility and be honest with one another. Men want sex and girls; well, I guess girls just want to have fun. But at least be honest and forthright and don’t take advantage of each other.
I Will Never Go Hungry Again
Splatter Art by Holden Starstruck
The first and only thing you should know is that this life isn’t for everyone. This isn’t Carrie fucking Bradshaw pondering on the holy trinity of style, nightlife, and romance. This column is the Fight Club meets Disco Bloodbath of the online sphere.
The drugs, the alcohol, the sexual escapades, the drag, and the explicit life get to people after a while. Some people get tired, some people get apathetic, some people get psychotic. Other people say it’s sinful. My sentiment on that is irreversible evidence for an afterlife has yet to manifest. So for all that’s proven, this could be hell, and for a lot of people it is. Hell or heaven, the Odysseian path and Swiftian sensibilities I choose are those of the lover, the libertine, the scholar, the gypsy, and the party monster.
May I never stop wandering. This path, this life upon a moving hearth I’ve inherited, originated from the first time I ever read from a little book known as Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, at the fresh age of fifteen.
For months all I wanted to experience was acid. I had never smoked a joint, taken a pill of Ecstasy, or even fucked another guy (that’s right, I’m a fairy). I eventually did locate Lucy after months of calling her number.
It was intense, to say the least. It seems as though that ever since my life has been nothing less than bohemian rhapsody. The following years of high school for me were full of stimulant binges, psychedelic experiences, poetic exploration, journalistic intrigue, and sexual deviancy.
I lost my virginity in a threesome in my senior year of high school. With a girl and a guy. They were a couple. My first near relationship was with a 29-year-old drag queen I met after drinking in a Castro alleyway at the age of seventeen. It lasted a good three or four months.
That brings me to my life now. I don’t live for “the scene.” I live for myself. You can choose to do so too, but I’m sure as fuck not going to tell you how to live your life.
I choose to live for myself because any other way of living leads to personal failure. No one is going to love you unless you love yourself. And in the end, taking care of yourself is the only way you can learn for all the hangovers, the vomit, the teeth chattering, the serotonin loss, the breakdowns, and the heartaches.
And I genuinely think a good majority of the populace don’t take care of themselves as much as they should. They should drink more water. They should sleep more. They should give less of a shit what others think and act through what they feel.
At such a young age, I’ve discovered that I’m not okay. I’ll never be. My emotions will always be a splatter painting from my personal experiences. Life is like that. And if I don’t cherish my emotional art, I’m ashamed, it’ll fucking mean nothing. And if it means nothing to me, then it’ll mean nothing to everyone else. I refuse to let the shame laid down by society prevent me from receiving the pleasure it has on hold.
So here I am. To experience all that the land, the waters, the offices, the bars, the papers, and the notes that life has to offer. And I refuse not to reciprocate with this life that I love.
The Irony of Having Sex, Being a Player and Falling in Love
The Sensitive Player By Alex Crevar
Why is player a bad word? I reckon it’s because for a player to exist, someone else has to get played … at least that’s the logic the recently played spout during the sober light of day. Of course when the nasty electricity of nighttime builds, it’s a different story.
It’s the playahs, the groove merchants, the seduction hawkers, that give any get-together, disco, club, or house party that delicious, wicked, sexually charged vibe. Frankly they’re the reason to go to parties – even ones that are supposed to be tame. “God, I hope this gets out-of-hand,” the bored – one hip cocked, staring at the ceiling, sipping from a martini glass – seem to collectively think each evening as the gates of their normal lives part and they walk onto streets dripping with possibilities, which players are busy creating.
For the contrary, please answer truthfully: though you may not normally be naughty, don’t you at least want to know you have a choice beyond just an after-work drink and then going home to your TV’s depressing blue light? Don’t you want to believe you could end an evening with your pants suit/dress/overalls in a pile behind the door and a shiver down your spine?
That’s the player’s department.
Players are the ones who push the point. Sure, they may not go home with you and meet your parents during Christmas vacation. They may not water your plants when you are away on business. They may not remember your name. But they’re the ones who encourage one too many I-don’t-know-what-they-were-called-but-they-went straight-to-my-head cocktails. (“Where are my panties?”) They inspire the shedding of layers. (“It is a little hot in here, you were right.”) They encourage rump-rocking epiphanies and nether-region tingling. (“Yeah, I guess I could wear the same outfit to tomorrow morning’s meeting.”)
But, have you ever wondered what it would be like if the player lost his touch? If suddenly it was the player who got played? Now imagine the player and playee were the same person. Imagine if that he-thinks-he-can-do-that-to-me-and-just-forget-to-call sumbitch began unconsciously sabotaging his ownself. Time and time again.
Welcome to the Sensitive Player’s world.
Listen here baby, I play. Sho nuff, do I play. But I’m also trapped in a universe formed by an overly receptive and slightly self-destructive personality set. I am a tortured soul that loves to play AND has grown a conscience. For the player, that’s the death knell.
First, I’m Southern. I genuinely love hosting people and having folks, who were previously strangers, suddenly dirty dancing about the place. Rocks glasses in hand. Riding a knee. Rubbing a backside.
Secondly, when the room thumps and I go under the spell of a backbeat, I’ll dance with just about anyone. Anyone becomes a partner in crime. Anyone becomes prey. All the while my judgment is finding its own rhythm through copious amounts of bourbon. And don’t be fooled: I am an adorable drunk.
Sounds like the typical sleazy so-and-so to me, you think. Well, I would be except for one fatal flaw: in the heat of the moment and all at once – dancing, drinking, Southerning – I am not Playing. I am genuinely in love. Gosh darn it. Rather than finding a person’s faults, I find their strengths. Such beautiful lips. My god, what a neck. Her face is perfect when she’s serious. Is that a lilt in her laugh? Yes, rub that thing on up over here.
In fact, I fall so in love I become tongue-tied and have a hard time closing the deal. Can you imagine anything sadder than a player – lubed up on Southern whiskey and shaking it with a lovely young thing lost in his web – who can’t close the deal? It’s cataclysmic. It’s Tony Orlando without Dawn. It’s Chico without the Man. It’s Peaches without Herb. Lawd knows, it’s just sad is what it is. Sad.
But I’ve decided to put my plight to use. For all those who wished a player would get his, I’m your man.
I live in Europe and am given regular opportunities to fall in love. Most end in clown-like failure. This column will follow this Herb-less, the Man-less, Dawn-less Sensitive Player through almost-affairs across the continent as I fight through language barriers and convince the unsuspecting that “James Brown plus Jim Beam is actually a really good way to learn English” and then document my fall from the heights. And lest one should feel sorry for the Sensitive Player, don’t worry: I’m still flitting about a room dancing, sneaking a kiss, and trading naughty glances. And occasionally even SP ends up with his chain mail piled in a corner.
***
This episode comes from Zagreb, Croatia, where Mr. S. Player has been holed up under the guise of a freelance travel writer. Naturally SP is in a bookshop, looking sharp, smart, and trading bedroom eyes when he’s thunderstruck by a beautiful Croat: tall, blond, breathtaking … literally, I lost my breath. She must have noticed it because she came over and spoke – in English – to the Player.
“What are looking for?” she asked, her alert breasts resourcefully reeling in homeboy.
“Dunno,” homeboy replied with a tone that could’ve been mistaken as mild retardation.
“Well, let me know if you need any help.”
Only then did SP see the nametag. It was the first stage of heartbreak. I should have aborted then. Naturally, I didn’t.
“Wondering if you’d like to go with me to a hockey game tonight. I’ve got good seats,” SP asks while buying something inconsequential just to have an excuse to do a little jawin’. (The Player always has comped, of course, tickets to something. Tickets can be abandoned but they can’t always be secured.)
“Okay,” she said simply. “Meet you here at 8?”
The Player was in love. Period. And it wasn’t just her looks. It was her directness. It was her saying yes without hemming and hawing. It was her breasts.
We drank early and often at the game. Lawd knows SP was funny and witty and cute. After, we went to a pub and traded shots of brandy. We laughed easily. I brushed her hand with mine. She was receptive. The gods helped by laying down the soundtrack for the evening: Otis followed by brother Ray and then Reverend Al got in on the act. At one point we swayed into a hip-grinding slow dance so tantalizing and sweet that others were inspired to get off their stools for a little something something. I softly kissed her neck. She ran her fingers through the back of my hair.
All right … stop. Truly, I needed nothing else. I didn’t need to see her naked. If I had died there while nibbling on that soft, silky neck as Marvin Gaye told us to “Get it On,” I’d have been more than okay. Then why on earth didn’t we just remain in that heavenly cloud? The Player can’t quite answer that. That answer is wrapped in biology and animal instincts and lawdy, got to be honest here: when someone got their hand running through the Player’s hair his brain don’t work so good. All I can say is that the Player needed more. And like most tragedies in SP’s world, trough-scraping lows are a product of groin-throbbing, mountain-reaching highs combined with greed.
“Let’s go to a club,” the Player suggested. “But it’s raining,” Ms. Wonderful said. “What’s a little rain?” the Player foolishly retorted instead of dancing to Parliament. “Okay … I guess.”
It was in the rain, waiting on a tram that SP misplayed his hand and went in for a dramatic, romantic smooch. Ms. You-one-big-MFing-fool pulled back with a lurch. I am sorry, she said. I’ve got a boyfriend, she said.
Time stopped. Cars screeched to a halt. Dogs and cats started speaking in tongues. Somebody scratched the album on the record player and then switched “Songs in the Key of Life” with “The Heart Touching Magic of Jim Nabors.”
The Player played it cool though. When she asked: should I just go home? I said: no, stick around if you’d like. Then we met up with folks at a place spinning funk. Ol’ SP drank a bottle of whiskey. Just before she left she said: you were dancing with a lot of girls. I said, with a stumble and some slurring: that’s right, baby.