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.