On judging books and covers.

I’ll admit, I went into my date with The Designer in a less than intrepid fashion. We’d been talking for about a week because I found her adorable and admired her candor, but I’d immediately assumed she wouldn’t be interested in locking lips once I discovered she was submissive in bed, like myself. However, she was persistent and expressed an interest in switching, so we agreed to get coffee and take things from there.

At night, all subs can top, as it were. Turns out “there” consisted of hours of intense making out in bed and an intense, slow finger-fucking session culminating in orgasms for all at Chez Cam. And she said she’d never topped before! Sex with someone who primarily identified as a bottom took a much different pace. Time moved slower, our exploration was deeper and tainted with shyness, a cute, sweet flavor to fill ourselves on and learn to perform the touches typically written and enacted by another. She definitely responded with enthusiasm at hair-pulling and probing kisses from myself, a bit difficult for me as she was much taller than I, but nevertheless took the reigns and blindsided me with how inherently forceful she was.

She kissed tentatively, but moved her fingers through my hair with an agility and tenderness that had me cooing around her lips, and maneuvered herself around me so that she was on top. Her height presented a unique, almost boyish leverage to her body that served well for grabbing and clutching all of her in the midst of my quietly quaking orgasms. Her hands were large and almost didn’t fit inside of me, but she worked her way in with an almost monastic patience as I dovetailed around her, screaming into her skin and battling her calm with my frenzy.

She won. She took me for what felt like hours, and when I looked at the clock, I saw that it had been at least five, our chests knotted together with sweat and forehead butch fluff dulling the sparkle in our eyes, widening our toothy grins. She flipped me over and spanked me, admiring my muscular structure. Her lithe build and shyness gave the encounter a sweet, rompish edge that left me smiling at every turn and completely incoherent with arousal.

I couldn’t believe she hadn’t topped before. At one point, she flipped me onto my stomach and spanked me, first softly, then a little harder, teasing my pussy all the while knowing it would be more and more difficult to take. She loomed over me, taunting me, almost adolescent in our banter and breathless laughter, and as I grinned out a response, she plunged into me, holding me fast to her by the hips, and told me not to move.

Our lovemaking was raucous by now but in this moment, my world was condensed to the ache in my muscles as they grabbed at the sheets. I am a simple, focused beast. She moved with the utmost of deliberation, knowing each slight movement of her hand would reverberate through me given her size. I whimpered into the sheets and she spanked me, the force quivering her fist inside of me and causing me to cry out. Physically, it was like my nerve endings were on the outside of my body. The blinds cracked and I could see the frigid, blue beyond reflected in my flushed cheeks. Her guileless kindness was peculiar in conjunction with this sweet fuckery, sweet and savory as she touched me gently on the outside and gave me hell as I pleased.

I came twice (social contact invigorates my nerves) knitted to her with an arm around my chest, comforting and weighty. We were exhausted and retired under the covers and chatted. I lay my head on her chest and curled myself around her. Her glasses were fogged and she grinned sleepily and nuzzled me, kissed behind my ear. The intimacy was staggering in how we realized we both loved to fuck with the passion of bottoms and vigor of tops. The lovemaking wasn’t my favorite. Ultimately, I really do like that intense emotional push into the beyond, but this brought back a nostalgia for the frantic, fervently confused sex of high school and wandering hands. In the end, it kept me warm and I fell asleep fairly content.

She didn’t stay over, but I made us a late dinner and we shared a bowl of ice cream. She did my dishes and laughed at my jokes, and when she left, I stood on my tiptoes to kiss her goodnight as the wind rushed around the arch of my feet. In a way, the experience had the air of making love to a funhouse mirror. She was like me, but taller, lither, shapelier around the eyes and slope of the neck, and personality-wise, we shared the characteristics we love to be taken away, but that we discovered are pleasant shared betwixt the heater and the great outside.


On Art (and a bonus introductory model)


Initial fucking


Ass fucking

Cock sucking


40 hours in San Francisco ate away at my careful creases and frayed the edges of my chapped skin. As I stepped off into the sterile chill of the city, The Painter was framed by the angles of the chainlink fence. In a series of slow-moving frames, it seemed, her lips reached me before I even caught sight of her eyes in the dark, her worn bomber jacket and tensile, catlike strength.

“We’ve got to scum you up, Cam,” she licked, her fist moving up the knot of my tie.

She unknotted me with ease only to stare me down with an apprenticed gaze. “God, you’re going to be so dirty,” she slithered.

And we moved in frenzied phases for the first hour, or rather, I spoke as she moved around me and carried me in her swift tide, from procuring handcuffs at the sex shop to the inn, surrounded by an impromptu gay wedding reception. The coiffed, anonymous couples’ heads bowed awkwardly underneath the red lampshades, bathed in smoke and the stench of sweat. As they kissed, her hand gripped the roots of my recently shorn curls, my cheeks reddening the longer I looked at her. My gin and tonic took no more than three minutes to finish. I find that my ability to savor food and wine is dulled in the prospect of future physical sensation, that I am coming to terms with the recognition that accentuating it is preferential to dulling, and so, I do not care to drink more than what I have. Her lips were thick with the sweet, syrupy bitterness of Jameson and ginger ale.

Back in the city, we navigated around abandoned swimming pools and shuttered gunshot pierced paradises away from the pomp and glow of the city and collapsed on her chaise lounge like it was the only softness left in the world. We pulled no punches, so to speak. Before the light left the crack of the shutting bedroom door, her fist snaked out and grasped my chin, rough fingerpads mapping the creases in my lips and contours of my jawline. I was knocked back on the couch and roughed up in swift fashion. The first slap was hollow and harsh, the noise absorbed by the paintings and plants on the walls and the sound of the studs on her belt melodic to the folds of my cochlea. It was around my neck before I could even breathe and my tie was gathering dust on the floor.

I saw the hours slip from my clenched fists, white-knuckled and tangled in the sheets as she broke me down, to come calloused and leave scrubbed. She lashed and I crashed and we made feathers fly through the air. Due to an untimely reminder of my femininity, for this visit, I was unable to be fucked outside of the shower, but that didn’t stop us from teasing each other to the brink of sheer disgust. She punctuated each thrust of her fingers in every available hole, my mouth, the dip in my collarbone, my ass, with a growl in my ear, waxy with lipstick and sharp teeth. The vulnerability made me shudder. After the noise, pillowy kolaches and satin bathrobes exaggerated the sensory indulgence, the luxury befitting only the filthiest of hedonists. We spoke of art and teabags in hushed whispers and fell asleep around four as the blue dusky sky peeked through the slats of the bed.

Three hours later, I woke up knotted in linen and leather and watched the snow fly through the cracks in the window behind the curtain. Again, our knowledge of the ephemerality of the weekend ensured we wasted no time. Lashed to the bed, she drew on my taut chest and curve of my lower back, outlined my bruises and glowing raw imprints with marker and glittery mascara kisses. The tension was too much and we moved our coupling to the shower out of courtesy for the churchgoers next door, whom I’m sure, would have been unduly peeved by the sounds of our fervent gay adoration. The tile of the shower was rheumy with frost around the edges and my back screamed as I slammed against it. Each shift in my bones and tendons brings sensation both familiar and intense, a pleasure to force through my mouth and feel deep in my belly. The Painter fucked like a fist fight as the water descended like rain, blinding my eyes and tapping into my open, bloodless mouth. She left me winded with my muscles sore, searing edges bracketed by inkpen tattoos fading by night.

Out in the blinding light, we conspired. There were cheap candies to be purchased, brunch to be wolfed down, yellow yolks dripping down our smudged chins full of smut and cruel ideas our eyes meeting electrified between two mugs of coffee and DiSaronno. We decided to start a photo series to be pasted in dark corners underground, adventures between thighs and bent over bedposts. Anonymous porn making uncomfortable eye contact with the planet gets my mind racing and dilates my pupils with drunken egomania. I thought my self-absorption would take a brief repose during this vacation, but the idea of being immortalized in flagrente delicto and smeared across walls, plastered on poles, boring out of two dimensions made me wet and jumpy all over again.

So we retired from the heaviness of the world and went back to bed at noon. The wine we drank caught up to us and the sulfurs rose to the surfaces of our skin. Each kiss is strawberries and mineral bite, lips steeped in acidity and electricity. Riesling evokes quite the bewitching creature and I felt the tension brew under my skin once more, bulge through and arch in each tendon as I braced myself for intrusion somewhere, anywhere. Her hand slipped between my thighs, down to my ass, and I traced the curves of her hips and slope of her spine. She is much taller than me and I am unaccustomed to her proportions, so graceful and seemingly endless, a distant counterpoint to my curt, compact figure where my hand can wander to my cunt or the curve of my eyebrows with a single flick. For her, there is a reach, and I like the stretch of my mind and sweep my eyes must voyage to take her in. My thoughts were making me sluggish and she arched her neck and bit me straight on the collarbone, the pain spiderwebbing through my body and brain.With every bite, I felt the control leak out of me. I kicked and shuddered my way down to the bottom.

“Take it up the ass, fagboi, take your own cock for me.” She pressed in and for a moment, I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to take it, pressed against the bed. I felt the cold lube loosen me up, allow her to plunge into me a little. The pain was searing and sent a cold sweat through my spine, my mouth a soft slash muffled inside the pillow. My senses dulled in the dark, all my energy is directed back to what I’m feeling inside of me, every gold millimeter filling me up and pressing me into the bed. She alternates between pushing the length of the cock inside of me and swinging at my bare, sweating back. I can feel her knuckles thumping at my ribs, knocking on my heart and cushioned by the fat on my hips. I come when her fist meets my jaw because I know it’s going to bruise, can feel it in the swell of the muscle on the bone. My orgasm, for whatever reason, is ringed with annoyance at myself. I miss love, but I love to fuck. It’s strange to know what I want and to get it with such intensity. I shudder at the barrage of sensations from all slits and surfaces and relax, after what seems like forever.

Once I’d sobered up from the mental exhaustion of such a beating, we negotiated the next part. She’d never taken a cock before, and I decided mine was ideal for the occasion. I warmed up by lapping at her, taking her in my mouth and letting her swell inside of me and rub against my face, covering me and steeping me inside of her. I slipped a few fingers inside and sucked gently at her clit, just barely able to feel the vibrations from her moans on my tongue. I craned my mouth in as far as I was able to and licked the curves of her pussy, delighting in each cry and clench of her fingers on my shoulder. When she’d had enough of this, I slipped myself inside of her, bracing my thrust with my arms on the headboard, looking her in the eye and lowering myself in. It was delirious to have that shift in power and even more scintillating to have it snatched back from my shaking hands after the fact, after she pulsed and mascara leaked down her cheeks.

She took my swagger with each slap, a pleasant and a welcome dalliance from the delivered me from the abstract stresses of the world I slipped from, at least for a few days. I can’t tell if the mesh is only seamless for a short while or whether the grapple merely serves to prolong the strange turmoil I consider long after I leave. As intoxicating as the masochism on its own it, the idea of overthinking leaves me even more breathless and drunk, the raw sensation combined with my self-lust. In those small moments, I am steeped in ego, gutted by pain, and wrapped in a smirk.

The night before, on Bleeker Street, a young man stood with his aging professor, pleading his way into a nightcap. He lurched toward us and begged our comradery, so we told him to go get drunk. He slung his tanned, goosepimpled arms over our shoulders and slurred in Bronx, “My mama always said no matter what, you always say yes to a woman” and cackled, kissing us once on the cheek. This advice would ring through my ears later as, on bended knees I asked and demanded yes yes yes and caught time and again.


Out of the mouth of the beast…

The first night was the strangest, perhaps because it was so abrupt in its motion, aloft in the air and rolling across the dark highways to retrieve necessities, that I had the sensation of outrunning a great, powerful beast, slamming the door shut and enveloping myself in the sweet, stale scent of leftover cigarette smoke and chipped mirrors before it could open its jaws and swallow me whole.

I have retreated to a new space. Like a lover, I am learning its quirks by the day. How the oven knobs are sticky in the morning, but loosen up at night. The shower nozzle spits water out with the force of a prison hose, but it is hot and soothes my forehead and wipes me clean. The top shelves of the cabinet are useless without a stepstool. My list of things I need grows longer, my anxiety ebbs and I can feel myself sinking back to a better place.

I am greedy in my affections. I claim the floors and walls and freezer space, luxuriating in the notion that all of this space is mine and mine alone. I look out at the vast expanse of trees in the backyard and stand at the fluorescent-lit bathroom mirror with my arms crossed, my face bisected by the uneven vanity doors. All of this is mine. 

My fantasies can tell I’ve regressed, a little. The joy I used to feel leaping over my 20’s is now settling back in, rolling into the Ikea-furnished, clearance sticker days with no thread count and no end in sight. And yes, it makes me a little sad. I am living within my means and I can’t help but sigh a little. For the moment, there will be no lazy Bauhaus and bombastic Bose afternoons by the snow. My dreams of mid-century modern and Danish daybeds will have to wait for a time when I can afford them, but even as I lay on my air mattress, I can feel myself moving. My molecules are insistent, they will not be stopped.


Happiness in Space

I finally got around to watching the American documentary about Japanese call boys recommended to me by the boy in the boy’s club (one of two, I’ll have you know) in a little riad in Tangier, so many weeks ago, weeks that feel like years. I miss Tangier, I miss Morocco, I miss the warmth of The Connection’s chestnut hair, bathed in the sun and palm fronds. In any case, I watched the film on the tail end of a weekend that included surprise notice of my needing to move out of the apartment, a deluge of apathy, and the reluctant packing of my carefully ironed shirts and trousers juxtaposed with sultry text messages and sweet Skyping.

I’d be lying if I said that the initial displacement of moving home coupled with the jarring recognition of moving again didn’t render me a little tender. A close friend reminded me that people will always disappoint, regardless of what you thought or wanted or needed, and that it’s up to you to decide which people are worth weathering the disappointment for. It’s bleak, but it’s not untrue, and as I slough off the unimportant and bunker down for the storm of ambiguity to come, I try to keep that in mind and ask myself what I’m fighting for. My fear right now is disappointing myself. On New Year’s Day, I begged myself to be a little selfish. I don’t yet feel like I’ve lived up to that yet.

I want to move to Tokyo sometimes. Or Cape Town. Or Baja. Or San Francisco. I want the reckless satisfaction that comes with the sloughing and abandonment of problems mistakenly solved with the jejeune idea of running away like Alexander and a lifetime of days that are not really no-good and terrible, but just average and slightly disappointing. Part Groundhog Day, part Office Space, dismal with the occasional piquant displays of happiness, like dopamine blips when texts arrive or dogs pass by. Sometimes I wonder if these external reactions are projections of own own feelings of semi-inadequacy, because it never solves the problems, only procrastinates them as I explore the bounds of my own reality.

I mean, doesn’t everyone fall a little in love with the people they meet? Just a tiny bit, if not for the mere rush of wondering what slant the future holds? For me, it’s love as a concept. I love people so much because I don’t really feel like we’re in the same category, but I so greatly admire how we all work. I want to get as close as I can, meet as many people as possible so I can figure out how to be a little more human myself.

After the novelty of my intelligence wears off, it sometimes crosses my mind that people tire of me quickly.

The brilliance of The Great Happiness Space, the aforementioned documentary, lies in the business of selling dreams. My days are consumed by the implicit satisfaction of lying in the dark, the curtains closed to the passage of time. Here, I can’t buy, but I can fabricate the dreams unlimited like counterfeit bills and I can use them to purchase the dreams of others, to fuel my enjoyment for another brief lapse in time. Is it an investment or a gamble? I can’t say that I’m sure.


In the middle of it all.

The reality of the last two weeks is settling atop my shoulders. It is weighty and it irritates my brain to consider. I guess I haven’t really satisfied my need to dig up the whole processing of emotions yet, but here’s what’s gone down, for the edification of all involved.

I recently ended a two and a half year relationship. I feel relieved. It wasn’t healthy, it wasn’t working for anyone any more and E and I were fighting all the time to the point where we were fighting about fighting. There was no longer any way to justify her behavior to myself, now that I’d seen a side of the world where I’d realized I could be happy without her around. Fatigue had set over my mind and body and there was simply no reconciliation to be heard. So last weekend, we decided it would be in our best interests to stop seeing each other, even platonically. At some point, we’ll be friends, maybe, but for now, I need time to recharge and consider my next move.

But it wasn’t all heartbreak and overhaul. I’d come to a point where I realized the things that I really, genuinely wanted in life weren’t mutually dependent on being in this relationship. With or without E, or anyone, really, I am setting the stage for a life chock-full of Corgis or motorcycles or beautiful shirts and words I bead onto pages with my fingertips. These are things that I can have at my will and whim. Knowing that I’m capable of loving them on my own makes me feel stronger about sharing them with another, whenever they come.

Things are really special with The Connection, too. I feel like for the first time, I am having the types of relationships I want to have with the people in my life without any compromise or doubt, both familial and intimate. I love her freely, so easy does it come. At the same time, I feel comforted by the distance between us. If we can love 4,000 miles away, what’s stopping us from tackling the world hand in hand?

I never thought I’d have a relationship like the one I have with her. It’s a good transition, to feel like I’m an active partner in the nonmonogamous aspect of our arrangement. I feel like we’re maximizing the benefits of both outside casual sex and a genuine, emotional tie between us both, the latter of which runs an undercurrent of reassurance through the entire thing. We’ve navigated enough tough stuff together to know that we can weather the world together. I love our past and am keeping my nose to the air for our future. I have immense confidence in us as a couple, and when I see her, I’m going to gravitate toward her brilliance as I have before, buoyant on the strength we share.

This weekend, I am keeping things easy. I had two highly unsuccessful coffee dates throughout the course of the week. Add that to an intense client load at work and academic requirements on top of it all and I foresee needing a few days to decompress and process it all with the help of steak and warm blankets. I am planning for my date with The Painter next weekend. I’m going to San Francisco via my hometown, Portland, and do not know how long I’ll stay. We have bonded over New York, subway stations, family ties. So far, the situation is intense and sexy, with plenty of text and photo dalliance to keep me piqued throughout my day and the proposed agenda involves Prismacolors, Led Zeppelin, and a pair of handcuffs. I find myself enjoying the pace. Each day is long and my gratification is never delayed because I delight in it all.

Our story begins as my feet leave the ground.