four half-written fragments, which are mostly concerned with the ease of fucking and the difficulty of writing. and boston. and gabriel. and the word ’slut’.
Sometimes I wake up distracted by the need to masturbate. I usually deal with this by bringing myself off, but there are days when I can’t masturbate enough. I just throb. I bring myself off again, and again, and again until I’m out of time or my body’s too raw to come, but I still pulse, hot and wet, and it won’t go away. I feel restless and distracted all day.
When I fuck Gabriel, I can’t fuck him enough. We fuck until our bodies start to bruise, and even then, even when I clearly can’t move, he pushes inside me again and I feel sparks. Don’t stop.
*
Sometimes when he’s in his borough and I’m in mine, we chat over IM. He says that when he looks at porn, he pretends it’s me he’s watching, and I think that’s romantic.
When he says the word “slut,” I get wet. I masturbate to the thought of him looking at porn and jerking off, whispering the word slut under his breath and thinking of me.
I don’t know what it is about the word “slut” I love so much. My body responds to the sound. Call me a slut and I’ll probably sleep with you. And it isn’t necessarily an empowered slutitude, though I suppose anything we own is empowering on some level. I love the sheer sluttiness of being a slut, of feeling like a slut, of doing very slutty things, of seeing how slutty I can be. It’s a turn-on.
Chelsea says it better than I do:
I have no desire to redefine. To redefine would divest these terms of their erotic charge for me. I like to be a slut because it transgresses. Because it brings to the forefront of my memory of sucking a hockey player’s cock on the school bus. Because I did and because I did it because I was—and am—a slut.
I think some of us are just born with a certain degree of sluttiness fixed in our nature, tied to our libido.
*
I want to describe Gabriel, but I also want to protect his privacy. Of the two of us, I think I’m the one who fusses the most over the risks of blogging, maybe because I’m a blogger, or maybe because I’m a blogger who fucks up. I’m staring at my computer screen right now, and every time I put down a word, I ask myself, “Am I going to regret this?”
The other day, I said, “I don’t know how to write about you.”
“Why?” he asked.
“Because it feels disrespectful.”
He just shrugged and said, “It’s only disrespectful if you have something disrespectful to say.”
But isn’t this, what I just did here by recounting our conversation, a little disrespectful? I’m the one co-opting the dialogue, making a private conversation public, in some respect taking ownership of that interaction and laying it out in full view. He says it’s okay.
I tell him it’s hard, and he says, “get over It,” and flashes me a smile.
He’s right. I need to get over it.
*
Gabriel and I arrive in Boston. We check in and find our room, and as soon as we close the door behind us, we’re naked. That’s how I remember it, at least. We drop our bags and strip and then he’s inside me.
I love how our bodies fit. I want his weight on my back, his mouth at my shoulder, his cock between my thighs forcing its way inside me. I want his come on my skin and in my hair - I think about this all the time, his come. I love his come. (Slut.) Just writing this now makes me restless.
Gabriel fucks me until I’m immobile and stupid, so by the end of the night, I’m sprawled across the hotel bed, destroyed. We have a good view of Boston, and it’s an interesting-looking city when you view it through a window like this. For a few minutes, I think about how different my life would’ve been if I’d taken that engagement through to its wedding knell. I would’ve moved to Boston, for one, since that was part of the marriage deal: we keep a place in New York but move to Boston. If I’d gone through with it, I’d be in Boston right now as a married woman; instead, I’m looking out at the city through a hotel window with someone I enjoy, his come dripping down my back. (He says his come is laced with caffeine and nicotine, which might be reason enough to take it down my throat.)
My body’s sore, I’m parched. Eventually I dry off, get up, and stagger across the room for water. Gabriel comes up behind me in a way I love, wraps his arms around my waist and kisses my shoulder.
“I think you should write,” he says.
Yeah, I need to write. I haven’t written in a while.
“So, do it.”
Right now?
“Yes.”
Seriously?
“Yes.”
I’ve been stalled all week and he’s noticed this. I don’t know what it is. I try to write and I get jammed up. I worry about dragging him into my mistakes and doing damage.
Just get over it, he says.
I drop onto the bed, prop myself up with a mountain of synthetic-blend pillows, rest my laptop on my bare stomach and open it up. I glance at that view of Boston. My mind’s blank. I glance across the room and see Gabriel, naked, smoking a cigarette while he flips through the room service menu. I return to my computer screen and open my dashboard.
I try to write about the way he fucks me. He gets hard so easily, and even after we’re both destroyed and my mouth’s dry and my voice is raw, he’s in me again, pushing past what I’d thought were my limits. It’s almost too much but I don’t want him to stop.
I suppose there’s a desire for annihilation, a desire to be fucked to a state of absolute quiet.
I’m staring at the screen but the words aren’t coming. I cup my pussy with my free hand and watch him finish his cigarette. After staring through the screen, I close my laptop, push it to the side, and wait for him to join me.
23 comments to “four half-written fragments, which are mostly concerned with the ease of fucking and the difficulty of writing. and boston. and gabriel. and the word ’slut’.”
On May 16th, 2008 at 7:47 pm, Wendy said...
Fascinating to read about Gabriel, but a little unsettling. Is that odd? Maybe I’m projecting my own lifelong fear of commitment onto your post. The sex sounds great, the intimacy is terrifying. You’re handling it with grace.
On May 16th, 2008 at 10:01 pm, chelsea g said...
Dang. I’d completely forgotten I’d written that piece. Thanks for the reminder that I can, from time to time, be articulate. Thanks even more for the smoldering prose.
Yowza. Your prose makes Lawrence of Arabia’s match trick look like child’s play.
On May 16th, 2008 at 10:40 pm, tara said...
Reading this post makes me face the truth of my existing relationships and why I’m not really happy or satisfied with either of these guys - they don’t fuck me like you’ve described in this post and are afraid of my inner slut - they love that I love to fuck, but both get a little nervous that I like it TOO much and unsettled that I want it, love it, need it. I too love being called and slut, and even more I love being my true sexual self with a lover. I’ve had a couple of lovers with whom I’ve had that sexual & personal connection and I want it again. I have to stop settling. Thanks for being honest.
On May 17th, 2008 at 1:46 am, sakurasarashi said...
I dunno if it’s a wordpress or google reader issue but I subscribe to your blog via RSS and in my subscription feed for your blog I am getting wordpress blog updates. Figured I’d let you know in case it was a wordpress issue.
On May 17th, 2008 at 7:33 am, LuckySeven said...
yay, just yay.
On May 17th, 2008 at 9:16 am, Damion said...
A hotel in Boston that allows smoking? Do tell.
The imagery of your writing is transporting, ethereal and palpable. I find myself craving it the way you crave Gabriel.
On May 17th, 2008 at 9:54 am, eu said...
I think you need to write- just like you need to fuck. Don’t think while doing either- just do.
The word “slut” never did anything for me. I respond more to “whore”. The only difference, that I can see, is that the 2nd implies a transaction of money.
just now- while thinking about the differences of slut and whore- and money involved- I realized that all my childhood crushes on men- a money transaction was involved. either directly or indirectly. such as a teacher, or a mechanic, or a doctor. these crushes were intense. if any of them would have spread my legs- I would have let them fuck me until it hurt. and then some. or if any of them had even remotely suggested sex as payment- I would have been more than willing. whore fits me more. I think I was born to be a whore.
love your blog.
On May 17th, 2008 at 1:21 pm, Rose said...
You write what you feel, what I feel, and what many of us feel. You can put into words all those emotions and that intense desire to be fucked into oblivion (and what it’s like when you really are- again.. and again.. and again), and I envy you for that.
It was only recently that I discovered that feeling. After two years with a man who could drive me to 10 minutes of feigned bliss before rolling over to sleep off his post orgasm lethargy, I’ve found one that I can fuck for hours on end. I can’t get enough of him. Reading about Gabriel reminds me of this man. I wish he were here now.
Perhaps I’ll just lock myself in my bedroom and give him a call.
On May 17th, 2008 at 2:08 pm, pj said...
You slut! Now will you sleep with me. :D
Your and Gabriel’s sexual desire for each other is rare — cherish it. I’m a male slut that doesn’t get out much, and over the last ten years, I have probably been with 200 different women (including one memorable weekend with five). There were only two (no make that three) that could keep me going all night — fucking till we were raw and then doing it again because we had to have each other.
On May 17th, 2008 at 3:38 pm, collegehookerboy said...
I recently told my boyfriend that I think about him looking into my eyes and fucking me whenever I masturbate. He rsponded with a smile but I could tell it freaked him out. I , like you, would absolutely love it if someone told me they jacked off to me.
Did you know that cum has the same PH balance as shampoo? So is healthy to have it in your hair…I think
On May 17th, 2008 at 4:57 pm, What Liz Said said...
I think sometimes when we add labels to non-exclusive pairings something changes in our brain and we lose touch with that kink within ourselves or the animalistic side of our sexuality… or at least that’s the common connection.
It’s sad that some people can’t get down and dirty and be connected, but then again there’s something oh so delicious about those relationships without walls and labels.
I had one while I was living in North Carolina after an engagement ended ugly. It was fabulous.
On May 17th, 2008 at 6:46 pm, pitselah said...
and this is why i missed your updates so much. seriously, i love the way you write; the way you describe things and the images you create in my head. i love that you lay there trying to write about him fucking you, only to stop for him to do some more. i totally understand about feeling weird about writing about someone you care about. im finding im at that crossroad right now and not sure what to do. at least yours knows about your blog.
On May 17th, 2008 at 8:32 pm, Alexa said...
And it isn’t necessarily an empowered slutitude, though I suppose anything we own is empowering on some level.
Exactly right. Anything that generates positive energy in you is, by default, empowering.
I think some of us are just born with a certain degree of sluttiness fixed in our nature, tied to our libido.
I agree wholeheartedly. Fortunately, many women are now taking ownership of that in their lives and using it to their advantage. I know women who, as recently as a year ago, would’ve freaked out if their SO had called them a slut or a whore in bed, but now practically crave that, for the specific reasons you mentioned. This allows both sides of the equation to enjoy the increased eroticity that it can bring to the sex, and that can’t be a bad thing.
On May 17th, 2008 at 10:37 pm, Rosa said...
Three years ago I probably would have walked away from any man who called me a slut or whore in bed.
Now? Can I have sides of insatiable and incorrigible with that plate of slut please?
On May 17th, 2008 at 11:45 pm, Doctor M said...
You do such a brilliant job of describing obsession…
On May 18th, 2008 at 3:54 am, Disconnected said...
D,
Reading the comments on this makes me feel very foreign to the blog-reading-community.. This one isn’t about power, or sex even, I think it’s the most romantic thing you’ve written on the blog that I’ve read . Good for you.
On May 18th, 2008 at 6:38 am, Dido said...
I sincerely hope that you need to go on writing.
On May 18th, 2008 at 12:55 pm, tryingtolearn said...
Overwhelming passion
No wonder you have a hard time writing!
On May 18th, 2008 at 11:27 pm, Leegalizit said...
Wow, it’s kind of weird to think of you being so close to where I live. Make me feel almost like I know you. Pretty cool. I’m glad to see you are still writing.
On May 19th, 2008 at 12:51 pm, blackdog said...
I know I’ve said this before, but I’ve got to stop reading you at work. You see, I’ve got the same ‘affliction’ as Gabriel, (3rd to last paragraph) so now I can’t get up from behind this desk for awhile. I might be late to a meeting.
As far as the word ’slut’ goes, my wife is the only one allowed to say it, during the throes of passion. If I said it, it might still get me slapped. Kudos to you for being so open-minded about it…
On May 19th, 2008 at 8:42 pm, unsent email #1 « steamvent said...
[...] 20, 2008 I read debauchette’s post first thing when I got up Saturday morning. It made me think of you and I immediately had to get [...]
On May 21st, 2008 at 12:04 pm, Hamlet & Lorali said...
Thanks for posting this, for taking the time and trouble to try to express something that we often struggle to express ourselves. It is rare to read someone’s blog and catch your own reflection in it, to say “I wish I’d written that.” Thank you.
On June 14th, 2008 at 9:07 pm, email like tupperware « steamvent said...
[...] like tupperware Published May 19, 2008 unsent email Tags: lust leftovers I read debauchette’s post first thing when I got up Saturday morning. It made me think of you and I immediately had to get [...]