Fault In Your Stars

Has someone’s zodiac sign ever kept you from sleeping with them? Well, maybe it should have.

While it is your Mars alignment which speaks to your sexual nature, we’re more concerned with predicting someone’s prowess quickly, so we’ll just talk sun signs (the alignment that dictates general personality AKA the sign based solely on your birthday). After having consulted the powers that be (the internet and self proclaimed astrology experts), KAAST has come up with a break down on how the different sun signs love and fuck.

 

AQUARIUS

In bed this air sign displays the same free spirit they exhibit in life. Famously creative, they carry this trait into the bedroom, so I hope you’re up for an unconventional time. Their energy between the sheets is best paired with a Gemini or Scorpio.

In love Aquarians are notoriously uncommunicative, often coming off as detached. Not fans of telling you how they feel, being in love with an Aquarius requires some extra work. But don’t let their cool exterior discourage you, they ultimately make warm and intelligent lovers.

 

PISCES

In bed a Pisces is a consummate romantic and occasional role-player. In fact, an atmosphere of fantasy and passion persist throughout all of Pisces season, and sex with them is often a tender experience. A sexual giver, a Pisces usually tends to their partner’s needs before their own.

In love this water sign is looking for a true soulmate, someone they can connect with emotionally and spiritually. Pisces are very intuitive and can often sense what you’re keeping from them. Their selfless nature can make you feel like you’re the only person in the world. 

 

ARIES

In bed as in life, Aries are impatient, often wearing their lust of their sleeves. Sometimes this impatience means little foreplay, but don’t worry, once an Aries puts it down, they’re more than capable lovers. Passionate and aggressive, sex with an Aries is always high energy and almost always fun!

In love these fire signs are extremely difficult. Having dated a few, I’ve found the very same traits that make them exciting fuckers also make them problematic lovers. Prideful, stubborn, often combative, there’s very little room for error with an Aries. They expect a superhuman level of loyalty, but if you’re willing to put in the legwork, they’ll return the favor. Aries can make fierce life partners (just don’t, for heaven’s sake, contradict them)!

 

TAURUS

In bed this earth sign has a really stellar sexual word of mouth. Ruled by Venus, the planet of love and beauty, a Taurus is very attune to their senses. They’re usually a great lay. Their slow-moving nature translates to lasting and indulgent fucks. Essentially, you should be sleeping with a Taurus.

In love they’re drawn to beauty and stability. But they’re also possessive; a Taurus friend once equated being left by a man to being robbed. Earth signs crave security, which sometimes verges on materialistic. So if you’re broke, maybe you should lose that Taurus’s number. 

 

GEMINI

In bed a Gemini is playful, curious, and often a fan of dirty talk. They don’t take making love too seriously, which usually means you’re in for a fun and relaxed romp. They like to keep things fresh and bring refreshing versatility to the bedroom.

In love it’s often difficult to keep their attention. A multifaceted sign that excels at social adaptation, you need to be as dynamic as they are to keep a Gemini interested.

 

CANCER

In bed — if you’re lucky enough to get them there as they aren’t the most promiscuous sign — Cancers are affectionate and caring partners. Be gentle, as these water signs are highly sensitive. Trust that once you’ve entered them, a Cancer fully expects you to hold them throughout the night afterwards. 

In love a Cancer will take care of you, but they’re easily the most emotional sign in the zodiac — so tread lightly! However, don’t mistake their tears for weakness; they are quite strong. To keep a Cancer, you must make them feel valued and safe. Cancers make fundamentally kind partners. 

 

LEO

In bed Leos expect you to worship them. Vocalizing your satisfaction is vital, one negative comment can turn a Leo off completely. But don’t worry, if they feel sufficiently valued, they’ll be sure you feel the same. Leos are as fun in bed as they are in life — just be sure not to moan louder than them — they need to be the star of this porno.

In love Leos need to be constantly reminded of your devotion. They operate best when showered with praise. Yet despite their need for attention, they make very loyal partners. The archetypal social butterfly, this fire sign enjoys being the focal point in group settings. This is true in their love life, too; Leos sometimes select less outwardly impressive partners so they shine brighter. But don’t be annoyed by their centrism, Leos are a riot! Invest in them, and your investment will be returned.

 

VIRGO

In bed this earth sign will expect you to have your technique down-pat, because they do! Not a fan of sexual surprises, it’s best to play by the books with a Virgo. A sign that lives in their head, it’s vital to put in the tongue work during foreplay to make them feel comfortable and ready for the deed.

In love Virgos will put in the effort! They’re extremely hard workers (BeyoncĂ© is a Virgo), but verge on being perfectionists. Occasionally this correctional compulsion will extend to you, and Virgos can sometimes make critical partners. But never doubt this comes from a place of care, as Virgos are very picky and don’t enter relationships lightly. Love with a Virgo can be lasting, as they always want to make it work. 

 

LIBRA

In bed Libras are sexual chameleons. They’re mutable signs, so flexibility is their thing. A fan of setting the mood, wearing expensive lingerie and lighting some candles wouldn’t hurt.

In love you better watch these air signs, they’re easily the most charming sign of the zodiac. They crave romantic attention (and hate being alone), but in a much subtler way than Leos. Terribly indecisive, they’re used to holding many lovers at once. To be with a Libra you need a strong sense of self because they flirt with everyone.

 

SCORPIO

In bed this sign is in their element. Notoriously the most sexual sign of the zodiac, their skill and intensity is well reported. Scorpios are very consuming, and while they definitely love a casual fuck (or any fuck, really), sex with them will feel anything but. Just be sure to not mistake their intensity for intimacy.

In love it’s best to avoid Scorps if you’re looking for something chill. They have a penchant for jealousy and obsession, and opt for whirlwind love affairs that usually end in destruction. But the highs are undoubtedly high, and a Scorpio is never boring. They respond to honesty and take betrayal very seriously. A fan of revenge, don’t cross a Scorpio unless you’re ready to see them fuck your best friend and livestream it.

 

SAGITTARIUS

In bed a Sag makes a passionate and impulsive lover. On the tamer end of the fire spectrum, their burn lives within. They’ll try almost anything once and don’t mind rough sex. But once you finish, expect a Sagittarius to wax philosophically. Try reading a steamy love poem prior to penetration to get them wet. 

In love it’s hard to pin a Sagittarius down, as they are the adventurer of the zodiac. But if you’re lucky enough to do so, hold onto them, because they’re easily the most well-rounded sign. Love with a Sag is often sunny, as they are eternal optimists. They are also romantics, so sprinkle in a few sweeping gestures to seal the deal.

 

CAPRICORN

In bed a Capricorn will always make you feel safe, but they can sometimes be a little boring. While they have a kinky side, their passivity requires you to draw it out of them. Thankfully, Capricorns are hard workers with a lot of stamina, so if you give it time, you’ll eventually find a fulfilling sexual rhythm.

In love you better impress a Capricorn. Bring your resume on the first date. They are deeply ambitious, and value the same in a partner. Often successful, they’re hyper-conscious of their social image and how they’re being perceived — be sure not to embarrass them. Big planners, Capricorns are always thinking ahead. Ultimately a Cap just wants a partner to build with.

 

So when you date and play, remember to look to the sky — it’s full of clues.

 

All the Ways You Can/Cannot Contract HIV

There is a lot of stigma attached to HIV and the subsequent AIDS, most of which stems from false information. 

HIV (human immunodeficiency virus) is a virus that attacks your immune system, which, over time can develop into AIDS (acquired immunodeficiency syndrome) which is a condition. HIV can be contracted if cum/pre-cum, rectal or vaginal fluid, blood, or breast milk that is carrying the virus comes into contact with damaged tissue or mucous membranes in your body. These membranes are found in the penis, vagina, rectum, and mouth. You cannot contract HIV through saliva or free-standing semen. 

There are many misconceptions about how people contract HIV, so let’s settle this once and for all.

CAN:

  • Unprotected vaginal sex
  • Unprotected anal sex
  • Sharing/reusing syringes that have been exposed to HIV
  • During pregnancy, birth, and the breastfeeding period between mother and child

 

CANNOT:

  • Vaginal/anal sex with a condom
  • Vaginal/anal sex with a partner who is on PrEP
  • Vaginal/anal sex with an HIV positive partner whose viral load is undetectable
  • Kissing
  • Touching cum
  • Oral sex (while it is hypothetically possible to contract HIV from swallowing/your partner ejaculating in your mouth, the CDC asserts this is extremely rare, and there are very few such oral transmissions on record)
  • Groping
  • Food prepared/handled by an HIV positive person 
  • Biting (unless severe trauma is inflicted to the skin tissue; again, there have been very few documented cases of this)
  • Receiving a tattoo or piercing (again, hypothetically possible, but there are NO reported cases of this kind of transmission)
  • Mosqutio bites

 

While the ways you cannot contract HIV outnumber the the ways you can, this list by no means seeks to downplay the seriousness of HIV/AIDS. While infection rates in the United States have drastically dropped since the worst years of the American outbreak in the 1980s and 90s, HIV/AIDS is still classified as a global pandemic. The history of the disease is expansive and complicated, fraught with governmental neglect of marginalized populations (one that continues today, through systemic restriction of proper health care and sexual education to minority populations). It is important when discussing HIV/AIDS, you’re sure you don’t contextualize the pandemic solely through a Western perspective. Data suggests 66% of new HIV infections in 2015 occurred in sub-Saharan Africa alone.

Due to advances in modern medicine, HIV/AIDS is no longer the death sentence it was thirty years ago. However, diligence and the practice of safe sexual methods is vital in ensuring the epidemic does not once again reach the disastrous proportions of the past.

 

Resources:

To find free, confidential testing locations near you, visit https://gettested.cdc.gov.

For information regarding PrEP, a preventative drug, talk to your doctor or visit  https://www.cdc.gov/hiv/basics/prep.html.

A list of HIV/AIDS hotline numbers can be found at here.

 

Modern Love (?)

Save an Uber, Ride a Cowboy is a column exploring queer millennial sex culture. The stories presented here are based on true events. Identities have been changed to protect the privacy and reputations of those involved. 

*  *  *

Two young fags were on a bus when, inevitably, the conversation veered into their orientation’s capacity to sustain conventional relationships.

One them was a career slut, while the other found himself in a very millennial more-than-fucking-but-not-quite-holding-hands-in-public dynamic. The slut told his friend he was overthinking it: if the sex and conversation were good, there should be no problem.

But evidently that wasn’t enough for Ethan, just as it’s not enough for lot of young queer men.

A mixture of the B43’s bright fluorescents and the fact that newly-coupled Ethan wasn’t going to sleep with him made Riley edgy. He suggested that his friend’s desire to define his relationship in crowd-friendly terms was bred from personal insecurity.

“Maybe,” Ethan shrugged, “but I’m not sure we can ever separate our insecurities from our relationships.”

Riley looked at his friend.

“In some way, aren’t we always trying to get rid of our insecurities with someone else?”

Fuck.

Several days after Ethan had left New York, Riley still mulled over his words. Although he didn’t feel compelled to find a life partner tomorrow, Riley intimately understood this impulse to fill gaps within himself. But did that imply that the hype over coupling was partially based on it being the opposite of a deficit — a kind of emotional Vicodin for loneliness? The high sounded tempting, but Riley feared the comedown.

Young queer folk have no problem with love as a concept, but the way in which it manifests gets sticky.

There’s one crop who consider monogamy a bullshit heterosexual notion, advocating for open relationships: “Fuck many, but cuddle with only one.” However, this lifestyle is about more than just indulging physical impulses. Radical queers view monogamy (and by extension, marriage) as an assimilation technique — heterosexual molds meant to constrict and normalize queerness, an identity that lends itself to unconventionality. Why define queer love by a different orientation’s rules?

But it isn’t easy to unlearn conditioned ideas of what relationships should look like.

Mark stared deep into the soul of his whiskey sour at a dive in the Lower East Side, “I want to be in an open relationship, but my boyfriend would never go for it.”

Riley rolled his eyes, “Have you actually talked to him about it?”

“I don’t have to! I know him and I know he’d be hurt if I even brought it up.”

“But isn’t it better to be honest about what you need? You don’t seriously think you’re not going to sleep with someone else this summer,” Riley sipped his rum and coke, “do you?”

“I would never cheat on him,” Mark shot back earnestly enough that even Riley believed him.

Mark and his boyfriend’s situation is common. Two queens caught between old and new perceptions of love. It’s not as simple as selecting a lifestyle  that jives with you; somewhere between sucking your first dick and waking up to a partner’s morning breath, gay men will begin to realize how royally heteronormativity has fucked them. While on the surface, it may appear like they operate separately from the norm, queers spend much of their romantic lives running back towards it. We bed a non-typical gender, but ultimately, we usually select partners whose traits complete traditional pictures of hetero relationships: top for bottom, butch for femme, etc.

What motivates this? Probably the long internalized ache of never feeling “normal.”

Regardless of the acceptance we experienced in our upbringing, a persistent need to fit in still plagues many queer folks’ romantic decisions. We’re culturally conditioned to value hetero concepts of love over our own. Fast-forward twenty years and we’re suddenly caught thinking our relationship isn’t real unless it bears some semblance to the values we were raised with. Mark’s boyfriend probably can’t envision a meaningful relationship that isn’t monogamous.

However, it’s reductive to say that queer folk who embrace nontraditional couplings are more intellectually liberated than their monogamous counterparts. For many, monogamy is not a trap.

“I think I want to break up with my partner,” Patty told Riley one day at work, “but we live together, so I figure I’ll just tough it out until the end of our lease.”

“When is your lease up?”

“A year.”

She had a point. The slow dissolve of love is child’s play compared to navigating the New York City housing market solo. Five months later, Patty had ditched then gotten back together with her partner. 

“Being single in New York was not as fun as I remember,” she confessed on a rooftop in Brooklyn, “people kind of suck. And when you have someone nice waiting at home, sleeping around loses its appeal.”

Riley went drinking later that night.

While it’s true that the sensory overload of New York (bright lights, hot people) can make it difficult to commit to one person, monogamy thrives in the city for those who look for it.

New York’s twenty-five in “queer years” is the jaded equivalent of thirty-four in other towns. Frankly, people just get tired. They’ve played the field aggressively and long enough that the game isn’t fun anymore. So they find their rock and sign a two-year lease. Stability is a commodity in a city that’s  constantly changing. 

Riley wanted to buy into the fantasy that New York was crawling with sexual deviants, but the reality was that at only twenty-one, he had lost nearly all his fuck buddies to monogamy.

A boy once told him while they were walking together, “Wow, look at that gay couple holding hands. I want that.” Riley had to suck his dick to shut him up.

A few months later, that boy found someone who wanted what he wanted; Riley found his hand.

Sometimes when he gets high, Riley wonders if he’s really committed to a radical queer lifestyle or if he’s just kidding himself. But before he has time to answer the question, there’s always someone new to distract him.

“Honestly, if I’m conditioned, I’m not so sure I want to unlearn it,” reasoned Ava between drags of a Malboro menthol. “I don’t really have the energy for all that.”

 

 

The photos featured are from gaytona.beach, a project highlighting photographer Andrew Harper’s experiences on Grindr.

Tips On How To Talk To Your Queer Friends About Sex

 

It’s okay to not know everything about sex (most of my past partners would probably say I don’t either) — but it’s less okay to demand explanation from people who engage in different types of sexual activity than you. While asking queer people about their sex lives is not inherently offensive, it does matter how you approach the subject. I’ve come up with some guidelines*, not because I’m trying to police how straight people talk to queer people, but rather because self love is hard and most of us are trying to undo years of hurt from being labeled as different. Language is powerful, and without meaning to, you could make a queer person feel like, oh I don’t know
 they were back in a middle school locker room in Texas counting down the minutes until the bell rang to distract from their classmates jeers. Or some other unspecific example.

 

Don’t call it “gay sex.”

Gay sex? I don’t know her. I wouldn’t ask you, “Susan, how was your hetereosexual sex last night?” That’s weird, and such rhetorical dichotomy plays on the idea that one type of sex is normal while another is not. If for whatever reason you seek to highlight differences in mechanics, try phrasing your question in the personal: how was your sex last night? It’s crucial you don’t make the queer person feel fetishized or unnatural.

 

Don’t use sexual stereotypes, even in a joking manner.

It’s not uncommon to hear cis gay men and women tease each other about their sexual type. Top, Bottom, Butch, Lipstick, Fem, etc. have connotations attached to them, connotations that are often rooted in stereotypes. And while queers slinging these terms at each other can be an empowering repurposing of language, it takes on a different context when a straight person uses these stereotypes to tease. “Jake? With those earrings? He’s got to be a bottom!” You most likely mean no harm, but there’s a thin line between teasing and demeaning, and there are still several spaces where words like “butch” and “feminine” are used as slurs rather than indicators of sexual roles.

Personally, I don’t mind if a close straight friend draws correlations between how I present and my presumed sexual role, but it’s a conversational intimacy that must be earned. And while a certain stereotype might ring true for an individual, it’s vital we don’t forget it is still a stereotype.

 

It’s not cool to gender sexual activities.

It’s 2017, and we’re doing our best to unlearn concepts of gender, but too often we don’t extend this understanding into the bedroom. Under no circumstances is it okay to ask your queer friends, “Who’s the boy and who’s the girl when you have sex?” Jeremy, this is all sorts of fucked up. Not only are you gendering the sexual act of penetration (who says women can’t penetrate? Read: pegging), but you’re also forcing queer relationships into a heterocentric mold. Sex is not defined by straight expressions of it. While penial/vaginal intercourse between a cis-man and a cis-woman is probably the type of sex you’ve heard about most, there are so many other ways to have sex. Expand your mind, breeder!

 

Stop asking gay men if they get feces on their penises.

This should seem like a given, no? But every now and then some drunk person will whisper in my ear, “Aren’t you worried about getting poop on your dick?” Well, Bridgette, first I’d like to applaud your scientific curiosity. Secondly, I’d urge you to discover your own taint, for it’s a complex and self-cleaning creature possessing the capacity to give you far more satisfaction than that derived from dropping a deuce.

 

Avoid making any visible or audible indicators of disgust.

That being said, despite our best efforts there are inevitably times where queer men will come into contact with fecal matter. If you’re crude you refer to these moments as “shitdick,” but personally I opt for the less negative “painting.” While such moments are not necessarily enjoyable for queer men, they are an unique reality of engaging in anal sex. If you’re a hetereosexual person who doesn’t engage in anal sex, I wouldn’t expect you to understand — but I do expect you to exhibit enough respect not to make me feel bad about it. No one should be forced to apologize for their bodies, its functions, or the sex they have.

 

Questions are ok. But when it comes to questions about mechanics, maybe you should just google it?

You’re probably reading this on a smartphone right now, so rather than ask queer people to explain the intricacies of how they have sex, perhaps try redirecting some questions to Siri. It’s not that we are ashamed and don’t want to tell you how we fuck, but it can be tiring to be constantly put in a position where we have to explain ourselves. Imagine if we consistently asked you to unpack how the clitoris is stimulated by a penis (although, if statistics of female satisfaction are any indicator, maybe we should do this more often and loudly in the presence of straight men). Why ask a queer girl to break down scissoring when you have the worldwide web at your fingertips, chock-full of visual aids?

 

Stop saying you wish you were gay or bi.

Sure, being queer is fabulous and magical but it also has its downsides. It’s not cute for you to co-opt an identity, even in the hypothetical, without taking on any real weight that comes with the reality of being queer.

 

Be aware of how you qualify sex in conversation, and then stop doing it.

It’s natural to assume how you’re doing something is the norm, but to project that onto others can be frustrating. So therefore we have to be extra aware of how we qualify sex, including our own. It usually comes down to linguistic subtleties, for example, people often tell queer girls: “So you two just eat each other out?” Notice the phrasing, and use of the word ‘just.’ It seems small, but it implies that oral sex is secondary to penetrative sex, which can be conflated to penetrative sex is better/more legitimate than oral sex. And whether or not you intend to, your phrasing can make a queer person feel like shit. Odds are, your queer friend won’t tell you this because they know you don’t mean to hurt their feelings. But we are responsible for how we express ourselves, and a little awareness goes a long way. We all have personal preferences, but it’s important not to conflate your sexual tastes with fact. No type of sex is better than another.

 

It is not your place to ask non-binary or trans folk about how their private parts correlate to their gender identity.

Just because your friend is genderqueer or transgender does not give you the right to nonchalantly inquire about their body. Gender identity is expressed and manifests differently with everyone, and asking a trans man or woman to detail their anatomy, surgical history or plans, is NOT YOUR PLACE. Their bodies are politicized enough without their friends pressuring them to explain or divulge information. Not to mention that by asking such questions, you’re further perpetuating cis-normative concepts of gender, and thereby asking genderqueer/trans folk to redefine their identity in terms you — cisgendered human — can understand. Wait until they’re comfortable enough to share information about their bodies, or better yet, don’t fixate on someone else’s genitalia because it’s none of our business.

 

Treat the conversation like you would treat one surrounding hetero sex.

These tips are in no way meant to turn you off from talking about the nasty with your queer friends. I’m a queer cis-man and I enjoy celebrating/commiserating with my straight friends about my sexual experiences. And odds are your queer friends want to share their sex life with you, too. But like all relationships, it’s about respect, and it’s a two way street: it is likewise fucked up for queer folk to fetishize or shame you for the type of sex you have. Creating a safe and positive space to discuss each other’s sexual escapades is about genuinely listening and being mindful of how we speak.

 

**Lastly, this is a list of tips generated by only a few perspectives, and should be treated as such. Not all queer folk operate similarly, and therefore view this list as some rough guidelines that are general and not universal. The best way to discover your friends comfortability, believe it or not, is to ask them; always remembering we are not entitled to information about anyone’s sex life, queer or straight.

Black and white photos taken by: Sage Sohier

Human Fleshlight

Save an Uber, Ride a Cowboy is a column exploring queer millennial sex culture. The stories presented here are based on true events. Identities have been changed to protect the privacy and reputation of those involved.

“Gay men are not meant to be monogamous,” Caleb said staring at Riley.

“What?”

“I think a benefit of being queer is not conforming to heteronormative relationship molds.”

They kissed.

Riley pulled away, “I’m not mounting you on a park bench.” It was close to midnight, and he didn’t want to be that tacky duo grinding on each other in a public park—not to mention the ingrained fear that some passerby would see two boys kissing and decide to do something not so nice.

But tongue trumps reason so Riley straddled Caleb.

They decided to go somewhere more private, in this case Caleb’s questionably legal co-op a few miles away. An abandoned warehouse he and his roommates re-purposed into makeshift apartments, complete with a scattering of tarps and half-full paint buckets. As a result of climbing rent, young kids working shitty day jobs had to become increasingly creative.

Caleb went to the restroom, during which Riley snapped a few photos on his phone. Evidence, because this place looked like a spot where someone might reenact that Silence of the Lambs scene. But he figured he was safe since Caleb’s hands were moisturized.

It was summertime, which meant inside it was sweltering. Since essentially every apartment building in Brooklyn is old, they lack aspects of modernity — like AC. Leaving suffocatingly hot rooms relieved only by cracked window or a P.C. Richard plug-in fan, sometimes two.

Caleb’s “room” was no exception. Riley was looking at his mattress on the floor and wondered how the sheets would look with their bodies’ sweat stains when Caleb offered, “Want to go on the roof? It’ll be cooler.” The mechanics of a rooftop hookup alluded Riley, but to the bead of sweat forming on his brow, open air sound positively erotic.

As they ascended the crumbling stairs, Riley contemplated turning back. There’s plenty of dick in New York City, he thought, dick that lives in foundationally-sound homes. Then he was hit with the view: a borderless stretch of roofing that looked if you walked over the edge, you’d step clean across the East River into the Manhattan skyline.

On the other side of the roof was a brick chimney, whose edges and crevices were adorned with different potted plants. “You have a garden!” Riley squealed, left a little breathless by the greenery’s audacity to exist within such industrial harshness.

He turned back to find Caleb swaying on a metal swing next to the roof’s entry way. The mechanics of the hookup were beginning to become more clear.

“Dude, I love you roof,” but Caleb was done talking, and pulled Riley onto his lap. Murderer or not, Caleb was a good kisser. And what’s better, he seemed to really like it, couldn’t get enough of it. You’d think this would be a given, but in the world of casual sex where, for most, the goal is penetration, many are quick to move their lips lower than your mouth after delivering a few obligational pecks.

The creaking of the swing’s rusted metal was eventually drowned by the pair’s heavy breathing, when Caleb broke for air to ask, “Do you like to be spanked?”

“I’ve never tried it.”

“Bend over.” Like they were in some sort of domination vid, Caleb positioned Riley on all fours across his lap; the swing squeaked furiously.

First the cool air tickled Riley’s (at this point) bare ass, followed then by a firm smack from Caleb’s outstretched palm. Riley normally liked it when his partners took charge, but Caleb, with his slight frame and boyish face evoked more substitute teacher than dominator. Riley stifled a giggle and was beginning to lose his boner.

Thankfully, Caleb was not, and after their brief misstep, they got back on track and soon found themselves off the bench, onto the floor of the roof groping, sucking… The roof was probably dirty, but neither of them seemed to notice. Funny how practical thoughts evade you when a cock’s in your mouth.

Riley wanted to see Caleb finish first, it was one of his kinks: watching someone’s breath quicken, abs constrict, face twitch, body vibrate, and know it was you who gave them that pleasure.

But when Caleb got close, rather than let Riley bring him to completion, he started jerking off. Watching him tug away manically made Riley feel a little obsolete. Wanting in on the action, he quite literally tried to lend a hand, but Caleb pushed it away. From a foot away, Riley watched from his knees as Caleb’s body tensed and fertilized the dingy rooftop.

“That was hot,” Riley lied, still recovering from the coldness of Caleb’s shove, but determined to finish strong. He was touching himself, hoping for Caleb to join in.

A long moment passed between them. Surely he isn’t going to make me ask, thought Riley, who up until this point had never had to ask someone to return the favor. He conceded after more deafening silence, “Aren’t you going to help me cum?”

Caleb gave a helpless smirk, “but I came.”

Riley blinked at him.

“Sorry, I’m just not horny after I cum.”

Standing there naked with dick in hand, he searched Caleb’s eyes for a sign of malice or contempt, but only found honesty. Which somehow made it worse.

They began to retrieve their clothes, retracing the steps of their encounter. Riley tried to stay turned away from Caleb to hide his red cheeks. They didn’t say anything until something in the way Riley aggressively pulled up his jeans prompted Caleb to ask, “Are you annoyed?”

Riley wanted to say that no one was horny after they orgasm, but they got their partner off anyway because they wanted to make them feel good. He wanted to say that sex should be viewed as a mutually beneficial, a fucking symbiosis, not two people separately using one another to achieve their private goals. But all that internal dialogue sank into the growing pit in his stomach: an emptiness borne from the moment when anger subsides to sadness.

“No, I’m not annoyed.”

Caleb walked him down the neglected stairs. “Do you want to sleep over? You can.” Riley shook his head. Caleb pulled him close for a final kiss, deceivingly tender. “Thanks, I had fun.”

It was either very late or very early, the sun having yet to rise, Brooklyn a cast of shadows and faint traffic murmurs. The kiss lingered with Riley for a few blocks, a disorientingly intimate touch to a night that felt anything but.

Walks of shame normally filled Riley with a sort of immature excitement, a march of sexual independence that he’d looked forward to since his virginal years. Usually he’d float along enjoying the momentary peace of mind that comes with being wanted by another. But Riley was feeling less desired and more like an exciting substitute to a night alone with some lotion and a palm.

He hadn’t gone into it necessarily thinking he’d want to see Caleb after tonight, but since when did casual sex denote being an asshole? Riley was reminded of all his friends’ stories of men’s callous bedside manners. “They’re just shit humans,” he’d assure them, and come morning he knew he’d pity Caleb for his limiting sexual outlook, but right now it was hard to shake feeling like a mode of someone else’s satisfaction. Rather than stew in his insecurity, Riley decided to call an old friend who he knew would still be awake at 4AM.

Paloma’s buoyant voice came on the line, and his heart somersaulted. She listened and concluded, “Fuck him, he sounds like a shit person. Side note, I think I’m in love.”

Paloma was famously scatterbrained. A reliable wild card, too charming to be considered a total mess, she and Riley had partied away much of high school together. Although always popular with boys, she was never eager to be tied down, so this confession came as quite a surprise. It was even more shocking when she started to cry, “But he’s leaving the country.”

Paloma never cried, not even during their very bad shrooms trip junior year. 

Thoughts of Caleb felt very far away as Riley consoled her over the phone. Paloma felt all these feelings. Having given so much of herself away to this guy, she was devastated at the prospect of him leaving. While his heart went out to his friend, part of Riley couldn’t help being soothed by her groans. It was awful of him, he knew, but he felt a selfish comfort in that he’d only given away one night and chance to cum to Caleb.

Bodegas were starting to open, their owners sleepily peeling up the gates. In the early morning, love sounded awfully complicated. “Babe, that sucks, but I’m sure you’ll meet somebody else,” he told himself as much as her.

Riley quickened his pace, spurred on by the prospect of a hot shower and his own bed, empty as it was, he knew it wouldn’t make him cry in the twilight hours. Besides, he could always make himself cum.

Straight People Talk Pegging

Anal penetration within the context of heterosexual couples is not terribly taboo — but when the penetrative roles are reversed, the act remains controversial.

Pegging, a term coined by sex columnist Dan Savage in 2001, refers to the scenario when someone adorns a strap-on to penetrate their partner, usually anally. The sexual act dates as far back as — well, as far back as whenever someone decided sticking an inanimate phallic object up someone else’s hole looked fun.

Strap-ons are familiar territory for most queer folk, but for many straight men, the thought of their female partner(s) stimulating them anally is a sensitive topic. 

Professional pervert and “philosopher” the Marquis de Sade wrote about the act in 1795, Williams S. Burroughs in 1959, eventually making its way to cinema in 1970 and porn in ’76 — where it would stay in the smutty shadows for the remainder of the century. Pegging would continue to be referenced by mainstream media in small ways, but the first prime-time break came in 2015 with the popular television show Broad City.

The episode featured the female protagonist’s male love interest asking her to peg him, going as far as to reveal a customized strap-on. Despite the comedic nature of the show, pegging itself was not made out to be the punchline. The joke — clarified by Broad City co-creator Abbi Jacobson — was the plot line in which her character attempts to wash her partner’s expensive, handcrafted dildo in the dish washer, thereby destroying it. “We were very careful because we didn’t want it to be misconstrued that that preference [pegging] is looked down on,” Jacobson said, as reported by Vulture.

The episode attempts to attach normalcy to the act, as male-bodied anal stimulation is still thought of by some to be a domain reserved solely for homosexual men. Many think anal pleasure is a decision homosexual men make out of necessity rather than their own volition (males have only one entry point, so
), but anatomical evidence proves that heterosexual men are biologically designed to enjoy it, too.

The prostate, often referred to by experts as “the male G spot” and located within the anus, is actually a highly erogenous zone, and when stimulated, can intensify its host’s orgasms. Additionally, prostate stimulation is also used as medical procedure to reduce inflammation. Studies have also found that continual prostate massages are believed to slightly reduce men’s risk of prostate cancer.

But despite the scientific evidence that anal stimulation is not only normal, but natural — heterosexual men and women still have reservations about butt play.

“My current partner would definitely not be into it. He’s really grossed out by butt stuff of any kind,” says Ashley, 23, who identifies as bisexual.

Allie, a 22-year-old straight woman, was also skeptical heterosexual men would be readily up for the task. “What I would assume, is that most straight guys would not be comfortable doing that. You have to find someone who was really comfortable with their sexuality.”

What about the boys?

20-year-old NYU student “Max” was not familiar with pegging. His brows remained furrowed while the specifics were explained to him. Afterwards, he was still unsure whether he would try it, but added, “If I did try it, I wouldn’t tell my friends.”

Yet not all straight men were vehemently opposed to pegging. In fact, it was art student Maddie’s male-identified partner who approached her about the possibility of penetrating him, apparently having done it before and enjoyed it. Maddie leaped at the opportunity.

“I loved fucking him in the ass and he loved it too,” she said of the experience, “it was empowering and sexy to see him get off from penetrating. It was really interesting to me to find his ‘spot,’ like I do when I have sex with women and I think it made him feel really vulnerable.” He is very comfortable with his sexuality, she believes and attributes to, in part, the fact that two of his brothers are gay.

After she pegged him, Maddie said she felt powerful. “It felt like I was able to express a feeling in a new way, like learning a new word for a way you’ve always felt.” A pretty glowing review.

But not all straight men are as comfortable as Maddie’s former partner with the notion of backdoor entry.

“Eric”, a 30-something heterosexual publishing exec, thinks that a strap-on would just be a gateway for the fleshier, real member the toy represents. When pressed on why he believes that, he responded heatedly, “Look, men penetrate and woman are penetrated, that’s the way it’s always been!”

An interesting proposition. He continued to explain that men and women have ingrained sexual roles. This sentiment — or at the very least reservations about disrupting the status quo of penetration — was echoed by college student Leah. “I don’t know, it’s just that I don’t feel comfortable doing that to someone else,” she said cautiously, seeming as though she did not want to offend parties who did enjoy pegging.

While Eric and Leah may be troubled by the role reversal pegging presents, for others, it’s exactly what drew them to the act in the first place.

Jordan Mannix, 21, said she was first introduced to pegging through the Broad City episode. She was approached by a man who wanted to try it, and Mannix raved about the experience. “It was such an interesting role reversal. Like it’s such a novel experience. I was just thinking about how crazy it was that I was fucking someone, like hell yeah!”

On the evening of November 2nd, a crowd of roughly seven gathered in the basement of a NYC sex shop called Pleasure Chest on the Upper West Side. Basked in red light of a neon sign reading “Sex is back”, they have come to attend a pegging workshop entitled “Bend Over Buddy: Anal Pleasure for Him.”

The basement lacks sufficient ventilation, so the room is quite warm.

“I’ve had a lot of sex,” Nico, the employee who led the workshop, assured the audience. The two hour workshop covered the literal in and outs of pegging; from how to broach the subject with a hesitant partner to the mechanics of the act itself. A variety of strap-ons, harnesses, and lubricants were displayed on a table to be referenced (and reviewed) during the presentation — the ultimate product placement. A worksheet was passed out which which allowed people to categorize specific sexual acts based on personal levels of comfort, promoting conversation on intimate and sexual boundaries.

After the workshop ended, the majority of the audience shuffled out quickly. The workshop was primarily technical, so politics were left out. However, talking to Nico afterwards, she seemed to possess added opinions about the stigma surrounding pegging.

Nico, a Latinx trans woman, believes the biggest reservation cisgender heterosexual people — those who identify with the roles society assumes of them at birth — have about pegging (other than cleanliness) is how it challenges the concept of gender roles.

“Queerness is pathologized,” she said, her face glossy with a sheen of sweat, “is that something that’s structural? Yes. [It is] something that we subliminally view, that queerness is dirty. That queerness is wrong. Things are changing, but queerness is terrifying to society.”

She believes that people are afraid that by engaging in an unorthodox sexual behavior that flips ingrained gender roles, they will somehow become queer, as queerness can best be understood as a philosophy and identity that rejects sexual and gender binaries altogether.

Whether this fear of subverting sexual stereotypes is rooted in homophobia — I’ll leave that call to the academics and Twitter critics.

However, it is further proof that gender roles define (read: confine) not only public spaces, but our most intimate and private spaces, as well. Many would reject a sexual exploration and deny themselves potential pleasure based on an outside, societal factor. So cemented are our ideas of “who penetrates who” that we’ll willfully ignore our biological capacities for satisfaction. Because what exactly is taboo about pegging?

Unlike other kinks like bondage and fantasies which introduce entirely new dynamics into the bedroom, pegging takes a concept we know well and simply reverses who’s doing the thrusting. The deep upset over this reversal is the true take away: that we have confined ourselves with learned notions of what it means to be a man and a woman having sex.

 

*Written and reported in part with Nina Rettenwander. 

Your Mom and Dad Were Dirty Sluts, Too

Meet, fuck, repeat. Meet, fuck, text a little bit… decide that’s too much work, fuck someone else — it’s the millennial MO, right?

After all, we’re emotionally stunted sex machines incapable of intimacy whose greatest generational contribution (other than reality television) will be the final nail in the coffin of modern dating. Darn Grand Theft Auto and rap music!

One of many stigmas pinned to everyone born in the past twenty-five years is that of rabid promiscuity. Whether it’s the judgey CVS checkout lady eyeing our hickeys or the unsubstantiated articles proclaiming the death of intimacy at our hands, outsiders are continually making judgments about the private lives of millennials.

Articles with incendiary titles like, 9 Ways The Hook-Up Culture is Ruining Love As We Know It” surface on the blogosphere every other week, and what’s worse, they enjoy a steady circulation via Facebook shares.

The gist of these opinion pieces is that Generations Y and Z are ditching monogamy in favor of sleeping around, and by doing so, not only have we forgotten how to date, but we are losing the ability to foster intimacy altogether. Adding insult to injury, these essays often go on to state that everyone having intercourse outside of a serious partnership is having bad sex — assumably because they lack a substantive connection. Ouch.

The aforementioned article even went as far as to claim that “hook-up culture”, through its close ties with the bar and nightclub scene, encourages drug and alcohol abuse. Every 20-something should add “addict” to emotionless sex zombie. 

Naturally, the authors of these “think” pieces don’t bother to include any statistics to back up their claims, because why bother with good journalism when you’re the supreme authoritarian on the sex lives of millennials everywhere?

As it turns out, science is on our side. Dr. Sandra L. Caron has been administering the same 100 question sexual survey to students at the University of Maine from 1990 to 2015, publishing her findings in her book, The Sex of Lives of College Students: A Quarter Century of Sexual Attitudes and Behaviors. Contrary to popular belief, her results indicate that the average number of sex partners among college students has consistently remained between two and four for the past 25 years. 

An additional study found that only 15% of college students surveyed hook-up more than twice a year, with a loose definition of a “hookup” ranging anywhere from kissing to actual intercourse.  And wait for it — sex surveys reported similar results in the 1960s and 1970s. That’s right, your mom and dad were dirty, dirty sluts too.

So why does Gen Y get all this bad press? Well, to be fair, on the surface it does appear like millennials are bedding more randos, but it’s only because we’re not afraid to tell you about it.

Gen Y didn’t invent hooking up. Humans have been having casual sex since the dawn of time (e.g. Roman bathhouses) and odds are they’ll continue having it. The difference is that now they’re less ashamed of it. The illusion of a more prevalent hookup culture comes from the fading stigma surrounding casual sex. Having multiple non-serious partners is no longer taboo in the way it was 40 years ago.

By unapologetically discussing our sex lives, millennials have shed some much needed light on the reality of casual encounters. This is a good thing, and a far cry from the slut shaming of yesterday. By doing so, we inevitably take some heat from social conservatives, but let’s not pretend this is a “culture” unique to our generation.

We should be celebrating our newfound societal ability to stomach open discussion about sex, rather than inventing false tales of promiscuity. Let’s not confuse progress on the social front with widespread shifts in behavioral patterns.

If casual sex isn’t your thing, rock on. Engage in a dialogue with your partner beforehand, because not every millennial uses Sex and the City as a dating playbook. The proof is in the numbers; the majority of our generation isn’t kicking people out of bed in the morning.

As for the millennials who share these “hook-up culture” articles, you’re perpetuating fiction that makes your peers feel like they’re not getting laid as much as everyone else. If you buy into the notion that love is dead, I’d challenge you to consider the possibility that last weekend’s one-night stand isn’t ignoring your texts due to a generational shortcoming, but rather a genuine desire to not commit to anyone at this time in their life. A personal choice that should be equally as respected as monogamy. Or maybe you suck… the problem is sometimes within. 

Listen.

The generations before were hardly virginal, and like them, when the time is right, we’ll hang up our condoms, cuddle up on our frameless mattresses on the floor, and binge watch HBO with that special someone.

Until then, there is nothing wrong with Gen Y exploring what they like and what they want with several different partners. As long as one is safe, happy, and healthy — there is no problem.

Intimacy has many faces, and they don’t need qualification. With the world going to shit, millennials fucking their brains out should be our last concern.

Swipe on, whores.

 

Save an Uber, Ride a Cowboy: Trip to the Frat House

 

Save an Uber, Ride a Cowboy is a column exploring queer millennial sex culture. The stories presented here are based on true events. Identities have been changed to protect the privacy and reputation of those involved.

 

“Do you want anything?” Fratboy asked Riley.

“Nah, I’m good.”

6AM on New Year’s Day in a McDonald’s somewhere on the Upper East Side with sweaty hair and cum still drying on his torso, Riley tried to process the past few hours as Fratboy ordered his second XL diet coke of the night.

It wasn’t so much the twilight hour or unceremonious post-hookup behavior that needed processing… these were fairly routine for Riley, whose sex life had not quite evolved into the glamorous spectacle Sex and the City had promised — although, it should be noted that Fratboy did have a bed frame, an upgrade from the usual mattress on the floor. Less routine was Fratboy’s supposed heterosexuality, which was only divulged after Fratboy’s first and very premature orgasm.

* * * *

Riley hadn’t been particularly eager to ring in the New Year with a stranger, but after the countdown had finished, the combo of booze and a need for touch made Fratboy’s Tinder profile start to look more promising. The stranger had a cute face and since his bio didn’t read “never been with man,” Riley figured he could do a lot worse.

So he began a (cis male) queer pre-date ritual: selecting a crop top, choosing an earring, and contorting oneself on the bathroom floor to insert an enema — because nothing makes you feel beautiful like flushing your anal cavity before a seduction.

Once Riley felt confidently clean (or as confident as one can feel when ass play is imminent), he did as generations of Brooklynites did before him: hopped on an uptown train in pursuit of getting laid.

As he emerged from the subway station, he was greeted by the January cold and the characteristic silence of the Upper West Side (even the holiday couldn’t shake the affluent neighborhood’s mode of restraint). Like a thrift store rat trapped in Saks Fifth Ave., Riley fiddled with the broken clips of his faux fur jacket while his earring twisted in the breeze.

He walked a few blocks to find Fratboy waiting on the stoop of his apartment building. A lost social nicety that caused Riley to be more nervous than appreciative. Niceties were out  —  didn’t Fratboy know? Millennial dating isn’t bogged down by gendered normatives like modesty or chivalry. Instead, today’s dating is a competition of casualness, a game of dodging texts and making plans to “hang.” Mere seconds into meeting, Fratboy had already thrown off the equilibrium.

In hindsight, there had been a lot of clues that Fratboy was straight.

For one, he was a lot fitter in person than his Instagram initially led Riley to believe. Straight men, radical in their lack of fucks given about crafting a social media persona, are not preoccupied with aesthetic and angles. In short, they dare to take front-facing photographs. Oh, and he was also wearing a Grateful Dead t-shirt.

“What’s up?” asked Riley.

“Not much, just got back from a Phish concert at Madison Square.”

Straight.

Riley took a moment to recover. “How was it?” Fratboy bobbed his head enthusiastically and replied, “Dope. I’ve actually seen them two nights in a row.”

Flaming hetero.

They went upstairs and began the pre-coital dance. Where are you from? What brings you to the city? Have we mutually decided that we’ve made enough small talk to get on with it? Turns out Fratboy went to school in the Midwest and was being groomed to become the next president of his university’s top (he emphasized this distinction) fraternity, and that was about all Riley could gather before he dived in.

Fratboy was a shit kisser, but there’s an oddball charm to shit kissers, Riley thought, a rhythmic puzzle that, when solved, will reward both parties with a make-out sesh for the books. Plus Fratboy had a taut torso, so Riley tongued on.

Then came the hands. At first clumsy, then awkward, Riley guessed they were more a product of the late hour rather than a reflection of Fratboy’s sexual prowess. But as Riley straddled him, something felt markedly off.

Fratboy was holding his middle, several inches above his hips. Perspective has since supplied Riley with the answers. Fratboy was used to wider, female hips. While they kissed, his arm wrapped dramatically around Riley’s head. Because Fratboy was used to keeping longer, female hair from falling in his face.

Yet the real zinger was the early climax.

Now, reader, there is no inherent shame in a premature ejaculation. In fact, for those whose self-esteem is volatile at best, a premature ejaculation from time to time can serve as a much needed confidence boost. However, there is cumming fast — and then there’s cumming fast. Lips around cock and few bobs up and down was all it took for Fratboy to tense and grunt, signaling that round one had promptly ended. It was then, through the clarity that only comes post-orgasm, that Riley pieced it together. Phish, the fraternity, the uncertain hands


“Don’t take this the wrong way, but have you ever been with another man before?”

Fratboy shook his head. Round two followed promptly, because nothing is hotter than honesty.

Round two served more as a cultural experiment, a chance for Riley to play out the title of Pornhub video: Fraternity Bro Digs First Gay Blowjob. 15min 24sec. 3/5 stars  —  and to see if all those sexual stereotypes about hetero guys in the bedroom were true. 

They were.

With a sense of entitlement only institutional masculinity can breed, Fratboy lied back with his arms behind his head while Riley was at work. During a breather, Riley asked him if there was anything he wanted to try during his first time touching another man. “This,” Fratboy responded after Riley repeated the question three times, finally utilizing those communication skills heterosexual men are so well known for.

They didn’t fuck. Partly because Riley didn’t think Fratboy was entirely ready for the complexities of male-on-male anal sex, but mostly because there was no lube. Not eager to get another hemorrhoid, Riley took a moment to mourn the minutes wasted cleaning his ass then returned to sucking dick.

In a move that broke script with the PornHub mode of operation, Fratboy returned the head. He kept this up for a minute before resorting to a gruff, tensely-fisted handjob.

 

* * * *

 

After Riley’s first and the Phish enthusiast’s second cum, Riley became acutely aware that he was in bed with a straight guy. Afraid that Fratboy, now no longer driven by lust, would be angry with him for initiating him into a new kind of brotherhood, Riley addressed the pussy-loving elephant in the room before Fratboy could.

“But you’ve been with girls and enjoyed it?”

“Yes.”

“And you’ve had sex to completion with girls?”

“Yes.”

“Am I asking too many questions?”

“I’m an open book.”

And he was. In a refreshingly reverse narrative, Fratboy seemed at ease — satisfied even, with no apparent societal guilt weighing on him. He told Riley that while he’s always been attracted to women, he noticed two years ago that maybe his attraction might also extend to his own gender. So he decided to do something about it.

“That’s brave,” said Riley, hugging his knees to his chest.

Maybe for Fratboy getting off was just getting off. Even so, Riley couldn’t help but admire his attitude. How many people have gone their entire lives suppressing sexual desire, opting for normalcy over sexual truth? Not Fratboy, for here he was, in the most intimidating of cities, taking matters into his own hands, clumsy as they were.

Fratboy blinked at the queer boy in pink H&M briefs who was lying in his bed. Riley met his gaze, searching for a change, a shift, or something profound. But that’s not life and that’s not sex. It’s not always out of body experiences or aha moments; sometimes you’re very much in your body, confused and fumbling, and you don’t necessarily come out the other side wiser for it.

“My sister is going to wake up for work soon, but we have a minute to chill,” said Fratboy. Apparently this was her apartment.

“And she doesn’t know anything about you
?”

“No.”

“So I should go.”

“Well, we have a second — ”

Riley began finding his clothes, not eager to be part of a coming out skit at 5:30 in the morning. Fratboy seemed discouraged, “But I’ll walk out with you. I could go for a diet coke.”

The McDonald’s employees didn’t give the two disheveled boys a second glance as they waltzed into the establishment in the twilight hour. Then again, who is more seasoned in the varieties of humanity than a 24-hour McDonald’s employee?

After they talked for a bit and Fratboy had quenched his thirst, Riley thought it best to begin the return journey to his borough. His presence was due at the restaurant in only a few hours. They walked together to Riley’s train. How does one say goodbye to a straight man? A kiss seems presumptuous, a hug too affectionate. Fratboy settled for a thank you and a stiff wave. He sent Riley a text later in the night, but Riley had already fallen asleep.

At work the next day, Vanilla Ice yelled at Riley. Apparently he had not delivered the celebrity-customer service the 90’s one-hit-wonder thought was appropriate. Riley apologized, but struggled to contain his giggles at the server’s station as he fetched Mr. Ice’s hot coffee. His coworkers asked him what was so funny. Nothing, he told them, it just really was a new year.

 

 

Original artwork by Scott Walker. 

Emotional Fat Suit

When I mount a dude it’s less of a mount and more of a squat-and-hover situation. They’ll grope my ass and grind into me as I engage my core and try to ignore the increasing burn coming from my glutes as I hover a few millimeters over their thighs.

I lost 50 pounds in under a year.

At first it was all good vibes. I felt leaner, healthier, and eager to share my new figure with all of New York City. My exhibitionism wasn’t restricted to the bedroom; I found myself disrobing at parties, among friends at private gatherings, really seizing any opportunity to show off the progress I had made. But it was a conditional pride.

I’d be giving head and press my shoulders onto my partner’s torso so he wouldn’t see my excess weight dangle. I’d suck in and flex, steering clear of certain positions altogether in fear of how they’d make my stomach swell. I was convinced that my weight loss was an optical illusion, a practical joke my mirror was playing on me. At any moment, my 50 pounds would re-materialize and the cute boy would fling me from his bed.

I became obsessed with putting my best bod forward. I wouldn’t eat in the hours before meeting up with someone to avoid bloating, feeling pressure to live up to my newfound thinness. Hyper aware of where a boy was touching me, I’d question his intentions. If he bit my nipples, I told myself they reminded him of breasts. If he ran his fingers up my middle, I was convinced he was searching for washboard abs.

Blinded by the momentary satisfaction that comes with being desired, I ignored my tendencies for self-hate. That was until I was with someone else who displayed the same symptoms.

I hiked up the ends of his tee only to have him grab my wrists and ask, “Do I have to take off my shirt?” I was floored. This was, for all intents and purposes, a thin and attractive guy. His eyes were glossy with insecurity. In them, I saw my own shame for the first time.

I later found out that he had also lost a large amount of weight in a short timespan. I started to notice other quirks of our sex life together — how I had to take the mirror out of my room so he wouldn’t inspect himself before coming to bed, or how he would play with my love handles as we were laying down, as if fascinated by another’s imperfections.

It occurred to me that out of all the boys I’d been with, the only one to touch or notice any of my fleshier parts was someone who was looking for it. Someone who was equally as sensitive about bodies as I was.

And there it was, the problem, more insidious than any carb — the mind’s eye: twisting and morphing our reflection until what we see is no longer reality, but an Etch A Sketch of our insecurities. It took witnessing another healthy and sexy guy, so haunted by his past form that he couldn’t even focus on the naked boy on top of him, for me realize just how damaging my own body image issues were.

Insecurity is the ultimate cockblock, and at some point my negativity had become heavier than my cellulite. All these months I’d been having threesomes with my phantom weight. This was no way to live, and certainly no way to fuck, so I decided it was time for an exorcism.

It began with accepting the logic of the situation: if someone was climbing into bed with me, odds were that they found me attractive, and no amount of “extra” weight would deter them at that point.

So I let go. I put my full weight on boys’ thighs, and as it turns out I didn’t crush them. Instead, I felt lighter.

Art by Zoe Milah.Â