Memories of New York 1

I’d spent the day on a bus back to NYC from Ithaca, where I’d been at a conference that refreshingly was both engaged and engaging, where papers were discussed as if what was at stake mattered. Mostly because it did, to the bunch of graduate students who were there if not to anyone else.

Then I met up with the Loft-Dweller, a cutie, queer boy (his choice of words) based in Brooklyn. We’d met online, where he had possibly the most attractive profile I’ve ever read. Setting out his commitment to non-monogamy, but including a wonderful paragraph setting out his aversion to such words as ‘poly’ and ‘polyamorous’ on the grounds that they bring to mind pagan Star Treck fans who hang around at the Society for Creative Anachronism. Suffice it to say that he isn’t one.

Plus the obligatory references to feminist and anti-authoritarian politics, and some amusing ideas for inventions born of his personal malingering. Such as vitamin-fortified cigarettes and a back-dated postal service for late applications and bill-payments.

He suggested we meet at a converted fast food place in Flatbush: it used to be a White Castle (which is apparently the US’s oldest food chain of burger bars) and was taken over by Rastafarians who converted it into a place serving almost entirely vegan (they also sell bee-products) West Indian-style ersatz meat, and a fantastic range of juices.

We got there around six, ordered what turned out to be far more food than we could eat, and started chatting. About the usual topics: anti-authoritarian politics and the dangers of obsessive newspaper-vendors (the ISO may have been thrown out of the IST, but they’re apparently no less pushy than their British former co-thinkers), radical tech collectives, militant cycling. He was feeling ill from a party the previous night, at which a combination of mojitos and dodgy food hadn’t seem to have done him a great deal of good, but was relaxed and chatty enough.

After what felt like maybe three quarters of an hour, we were told that we had to leave, as the restaurant was closing. It turned out we’d been there for about five hours, talking about things we both found interesting. It hadn’t been particularly flirty (admittedly, during the couple of weeks I spent in New York it seemed that being cute and having a British accent rendered flirting unnecessary), just (just?) friendly and interesting.

We left, taking about half the food we’d ordered in a doggy bag (the portions are huge), and walked in the direction of the subway station. As we got there, I was conscious that I had no idea what was going to happen, or if he had any sort of plan. So I asked:

Well, is there a plan?
Well, the Sewer said to bring you home.

So that settled that. Apparently, he’d been about to use the same line if I hadn’t asked. And deeply romantically, he explained that the aftermath of his previous night would probably mean he had to take some not-so-romantic breaks.

We took the subway back to the Sewer’s place in Crown Heights. Which from Flatbush, lateish on a Sunday involved what seemed to necessitate a relatively complicated route. We continued chatting about queer politics and alternative sex-parties while waiting for the various trains we needed. On one of them he seemed to recognise someone. Rather, he did recognise someone, but I couldn’t quite work out what was going on. As we got onto the train, he walked purposively towards an youngish (early 20s, I guess), attractive-looking woman, and said ‘you’re Heather Holliday’. She nodded. The Loft-Dweller went and sat elsewhere. I mumbled something to Heather about how nice it was not to have met her, and followed my date to a seat.

It turns out that she is a sword-swallower at the Coney Island freakshow, and that the Sewer had a substantial crush on her. I suggested inviting her back with us, but she’d got off the train before we’d summoned up the courage to do anything about it.

We got to the Sewer’s place, scrambled about in the dark to put our take-away rice, noodles and fake meat in the fridge, then while he rushed off to the loo to tend to his stomach, I found my way upstairs to find her doubly occupied with updating various online profiles and tidying her room. The Loft-Dweller contritely explained what had happened on the train, and we were mildly berated for not having taken the initiative. Apparently, the fact that I have a British accent would have guaranteed our success, to the extent that the Loft-Dweller suggested that we go out cruising together so he could hit on people with the line ‘will you sleep with me? he’s got a British accent.’ It might be fun trying.

We smoked some weed, laughed and chatted about online dating, kink, sex and life in general. And then, without any semblance of a rush, started fucking. He and I were kissing, slowly, gently, stroking our tongues across each other, playfully nibbling each other’s lips. Meanwhile,he stroked her face, as she manoeuvred herself into a position where we could all kiss together, which we did, working our way out of our clothes as we did so. I enjoyed the way our tongues and teeth combined, never certain of what was a reaction to what, enjoying the unpredictability of feeling three mouths together.

He had to excuse himself again. She and I fucked, her lying flat on her back, knees bent considerably, me more in front of her than on top. He returned and looked on happily, kissing and nibbling her right nipple as we moved together. We came together. I don’t know which of us set the other off, but we enjoyed a lot of grins as we did. The three of us relaxed together, her lying on her back in the middle of the bed in what she called the princess-position, with one of us on either side, on our sides, our outside legs meeting between her still-bent knees.

We kissed some more. Then he and I started kissing her nipples. Apparently she can come from having her nipples played with. But not, so I was told, when she couldn’t bring her legs together. At which point, the lovely scene consisting of the Loft-Dweller and me, kissing the Sewer’s nipples, our feet stroking each other between her legs, morphed into the Sewer, writhing as we kissed her, trying to extricate her legs from under ours. We smiled and chatted as we kissed her. Then relented, and she came again, noisily.

Someone rolled another joint. I took the Loft-Dweller’s cock in my mouth, sitting on the floor in front of the bed as he sat up, stroking his inner thigh while I licked him. They leaned back and started chatting. Eventually I discovered that joining in a conversation with a mouthful of cock was more difficult than it was worth, and joined them on the bed. We chatted a bit more, then slept, grateful that the bed was wide enough for three.

The following morning we dragged ourselves out of bed, them to go and work, me to head to MOMA. He and I took the subway onto Manhatten, gently kissing goodbye as he left the train, agreeing to meet later in the week.

On (not) writing about sex.

Since I started this blog partly as part of a show-and-tell exchange with Charmaine, I ought at some point before long to write about sex. Otherwise the exchange would be far too one-sided, and that’s not generally something I enjoy.

And it’s not just that I feel as if I ought to – I want to. But it’s not necessarily that easy.

For a start, there’s the danger of writing something awful. This not being literary fiction, I’m in no danger of being shortlisted for the Bad Sex awards, but their shortlist certainly flags up some of the dangers. (Really, though, this paragraph was little more than an excuse to share the following wonderful piece by Giles Coren, which won him the 2005 award.)

And he came hard in her mouth and his dick jumped around and rattled on her teeth and he blacked out and she took his dick out of her mouth and lifted herself from his face and whipped the pillow away and he gasped and glugged at the air, and he came again so hard that his dick wrenched out of her hand and a shot of it hit him straight in the eye and stung like nothing he’d ever had in there, and he yelled with the pain, but the yell could have been anything, and as she grabbed at his dick, which was leaping around like a shower dropped in an empty bath, she scratched his back deeply with the nails of both hands and he shot three more times, in thick stripes on her chest. Like Zorro.

One thing’s relatively clear, though, namely that I’m not going to get over this difficulty by not writing about sex.

The procedure for resolving the second is perhaps less obvious. As I said to Charmaine,

I suspect that before I get round to posting about sex I might well end up having to write something about the gender-related difficulties of writing in semi-public about enjoying sex with multiple partners without (a) being and (b) seeming misogynistic. I guess the solution is to spend more time getting fucked by men.

Living in Berlin, there are plenty of opportunities for the latter. But experiences with women form an important part of my sexuality, a part about which I want to (be able to) write. But I’m not yet confident that I’ve found or developed the right voice in which to do so. And I suspect that doing so might involve some work.

Restraint

Sorry, you’ll have to wait for this one.