Friday, May 28, 2010


Several years ago, I dated Denny, a Harvard pre-med graduate and NYU law student. We met through craigslist around the time of the MTA strike. I remember this clearly because I had to take a cab to work, and one morning, I shared a taxi with a handsome and charming man in a well-tailored, obviously expensive suit beneath his camel hair coat. In stark contrast, I wore my colored burgundy hair in snarls and corralled in a side ponytail, dirty jeans and vibrant red lipstick. He told me how he'd spent time in Asia for work (he was in finance) and added that he was fluent in Mandarin. I had recently broken up with a long term, live in boyfriend who was of the "hipster" varietal and was looking to expand my dating pool. Stupidly, I didn't ask this man out for a drink; instead, I waited a few days, idealizing the notion of a man in a suit, and thus, wrote a listing seeking a tall, educated man who wears a suit every day for work. Ridiculous in retrospect, but at the time, it made sense: I am tired of guys who are into graffiti, fixed gear bikes and limited edition Nikes so I should turn to men who like wine bars, BMWs and wingtips for refuge.

My first date with Denny was on Boxing Day, which is appropriate if only to note I wound up that evening with a fist sized bruise on my chin that took about a month to fade, and a permanent scar on my left breast. In short, we were back at his apartment, ostensibly watching the third installment of the "Lord of the Rings" trilogy when I, clad only in my underwear, leaned over to ash a cigarette and flew off of his satin-sheeted bed to pitch face first into his marble topped nightstand before landing on a wine glass full of vodka that shattered into my naked bosom. As mentioned previously, Denny graduated Harvard pre-med so he was able to deftly pluck the shards of glass from my chest before expertly bandaging me up.

Despite that horrific start (which is now, sadly, my favorite "bad first date" story, trumping the one where an MFA candidate told me about his novel that was "like Scooby Doo meets the X Files" and all I could do was stare quietly at his lips that looked like earthworms drying in the sun after a rainstorm), Denny and I continued to see one another. The sex was fantastic; I had my first "lunchtime quickie" with him. Another afternoon, he convinced me to wear my Burberry kilt without panties and fuck him in a private fitting room at the Macy's in Herald Square while he "tried on" various three piece suits. I am fairly certain the sales associate knew, especially after we left and the room smelled of my cunt and the suits were untouched on their hangers. Having worked in retail, I can confidently say that this is the least offensive of customer conduct; a former coworker once noted that someone had defecated in the fitting room at our shop.

So it's probably not surprising that my first experience with sex clubs was with Denny. He was familiar with an establishment on the Upper East Side (if you're interested, feel free to comment here or send me an email to learn the name/location of this venue) and after one evening of cocktails and cocaine, we went. Located in the basement of a townhouse, the rooms were mostly white and comfortably appointed with numerous surfaces on which patrons could perform whatever hedonistic act desired. I was anxious but excited, awkwardly clutching a towel around my naked body, as we made our way through the length of rooms inhabited by people in various stages of sex.

Denny fucked me on a padded platform as people wandered in to watch, some lingering, others choosing to continue elsewhere. Soon there were other hands and body parts entering the equation; lost in a drunk and drugged blur, I found myself tongue first in a cinnamon flavored pussy as Denny's huge cock continued to pummel into me. Another woman, then another with her male partner, joined in. Soon the room was filled with couples observing our ever growing tangle of bodies, writhing sensuously. We were the headline act (or, perhaps, a train wreck). It is what aroused me the most, knowing that I was being watched while being fucked and fucking someone, and that my actions were, in turn, arousing everyone else.

In the cab on the way back to Denny's, I relished the lingering scent of another woman's pussy on my lips and the adrenaline (not just drug fueled) that coursed through my body. I felt potent. This was, by all accounts, an extremely positive experience, one that I wanted to recreate over and over, so a few weeks later, when Denny suggested that we visit again, I readily accepted. In fact, it may have been me who brought up the topic of going back.

When asked by the attendant to sign in after paying the mandatory $200 fee for the evening, Denny deferred to me, adding, "I am going to be Attorney General one day." I gave him a withering stare as I jotted down my email address. High on cocaine and anticipation, I quickly jammed all of my clothing into the locker, wrapped the flimsy terry towel around my hips, leaving my breasts exposed, which seemed to be a silly and pointless display of modesty. I mean, come on, we were in a sex club; why should I even bother covering my cunt if I was perfectly OK with fucking total strangers or having these total strangers watch me fuck?

A petite brunette in her 40's accompanied by an older, paunchy man approached me; she slid a hand up my arm. "Do you want to play?" she asked me, and I looked to Denny for his approval. He nodded. I stroked her nipples and kissed her neck, slowly working my way down to her waxed pussy lips. She tasted oddly herbal. I pushed her down onto her back and continued to lap at her as her legs splayed out on each side of me. My now bare ass was face up in the air; I was hazily conscious of the fact that the brunette's partner had removed it, but I was certainly aware of him licking my drooling pussy, his fingers drilling in and out of me. My body reacted positively but my mind did not. I was not expecting this man, someone I was not at all attracted to, to participate, and I did not want to be fucked by him. This was a conflict I didn't know how to remedy, so I extricated myself from the equation by turning to Denny.
"I want to go now," I blurted after we politely excused ourselves from the other couple.
"What?" Denny exclaimed. "We just got here!"
"I want to go."
"Are you sure?"
"I want to go," I repeated, on the verge of tears.
Denny paused for a moment, looked around and groused, "But I didn't get my money's worth!"

He finally relented and we left shortly after, but the ridiculousness of that statement always remained. When I told someone what happened that night, she laughed and remarked, "That's like when Jeri Ryan's husband would insist on her going to sex clubs with him and she'd weep. His response was, 'Come on, honey! Crying isn't sexy!'"

I never discussed this with Denny until last night during an instant message session. "It's interesting that you see it that way," he noted. "I always thought you were just freaking out because you were high."
"No way," I replied. "I was not about to get fucked by that gross dude."
"You never would have been in such a situation," Denny assured me. "I would have made sure you were OK."

In retrospect, what really perplexes me is that I was so aroused at that moment, despite my complete and utter non-attraction to the older man, I probably would have let him fuck me. I would have hated every moment of it mentally, but loved it physically. This makes me question if I'm truly a slut. I am picky about who I fuck, despite the numerous notches on my proverbial bedpost that would indicate the contrary. Does a real slut care who she fucks, or does she just want to get fucked? There is passivity in her acceptance of sexual partners; I am aggressively selective about mine.

Just something to think about on a Memorial Day weekend...instead of packing.