Category: Sex

I went with a porn star to an afternoon party at the home of a famous English musician.

He lived in the hills between Los Angeles and the big valley to the north. Before they built the freeways, the San Diego and the Hollywood, you’d have to drive one of several narrow winding two-lanes to get from the big city out to the orange groves of the San Fernando Valley. The roads followed gullies we called “canyons.” These days the wealthy and the hip live in the hills off these roads, in splendid stoned isolation.

Claudia Skye took me with her to the party. She was invited because she was a beautiful porn star. I was brought along because I was her temporary amusement. Neither of us knew the English musician, and when we were introduced I tried to scare him away from Claudia. At the party, we admired the view off the deck, and we drank champagne and snorted cocaine.

Claudia was in town for the annual adult film awards banquet, and a few days earlier we’d had the cutest of meets. I was still intoxicated by her, and I didn’t know how fast things were unraveling.

She’d had a rough childhood, the kind it would not be gentlemanly of me to describe. Anyway, all I know is what she told me, and I have no way of telling if any of it was literally true. But the stories were strange and specific enough that I knew some crazy shit had happened. I wanted to shelter her from anything more, any fear, any attack. I wanted to know her mind, and teach her what I thought I knew of the beauty of the world. And I wanted us to fuck our brains out.

She was older than the other women at the party. Too old, she would say, to be a porn star. To me, those extra few years made her more beautiful. She had a mysterious way of seeming innocent and knowing at the same time. The young girls who make porno movies have seen it all, done most of it themselves, and the things that shock the community are old hat to them. But at a party when the camera is not rolling they are just little girls. Exotic, painted things, but uncertain and unknowing.

Claudia Skye was different. She’d had a life before. Real fights, real devils, real jobs, ordinary paychecks. This world of drugs and sex and breathtaking views, she could take it or leave it.

I wanted to leave. We couldn’t talk there, with the music and the mirrors and the friends we didn’t know. We drove along Mulholland in the faded early evening, and talked, almost like lovers.

What is the point of flirting on the internet?

Come to think of it, what is the point of flirting at all? I mean, when you have no intention of getting up close and making out, why wink and giggle and exchange sly innuendo? Flirting, or whatever you want to call it, is prelude to sex, isn’t it? If, as I suspect, nine out of ten cases of flirting do not lead to sex because the flirter doesn’t want to have sex with you, what the heck is going on?

If I like you and you flirt with me, I will want to take it to the next level, and the next, and the next, as quickly as possible. I can’t help it. So in person, it’s not really flirting. It’s teasing.

But on the internet, it’s far removed even from teasing. In most cases you are using your cute lines on somebody you don’t know, who is responding from a place god knows where, and the chance that a next level even exists is down there right around – say it with me now – zero.

So flirting on the internet: Are you doing it for yourself, to show yourself that you’ve still got it or something? Does it somehow boost your ego? Are you demonstrating to others that you are a player? Have you just not thought it through and realized that it’s going nowhere?

Why don’t you tell me about the mystery dance?

Here’s an actual personal ad that I found. I’ll give you the link to it later in this post:

Hate the media? Fuck me! – w4m

OK, so here are my questions:

1. Smart, sexy broad or desperate skank?
2. Serious reaching out or amusing hoax?
3. Guys – Are you going to answer the ad? (The link is below.)
4. Girls – Should I answer the ad?
5. Is there any chance that liberals/progressives/Democrats will hate her enough to give her true satisfaction?
6. Or will she hear only from Republicans?
7. Who knows what FOIA means?
8. Great opportunity or sad commentary on modern life?

Because you won’t believe that this is a real personal ad that I found – I mean stumbled across while researching oil reserves in Colorado – on the internet, you can go to the actual post and read it yourself by clicking here. If any of you decide to respond, I’ll expect a full report.

Shot down again.

My post Tuesday in which I imagined myself a misunderstood inner city almost-dropout stud muffin and Michelle Pfeiffer my earnest, misguided but highly desirable schoolmistress (yes, Mistress!) received some unexpected comments.

In the totally imaginary persona that I assumed, I may have said some things that I myself in real life don’t actually believe. The short version would be along the lines of Oh, my God, Miss Pfeiffer, please don’t quit teaching and if you wear that little red dress you wore in The Fabulous Baker Boys I’ll do anything you ask, even memorize poetry that may or may not have been written by homosexuals. Or in other words, as far-fetched as it is, as remote the possibility, what I think when I look at Miss Pfeiffer is Hooeey, I want to roll around and get dirty with that!! Something like that. Doesn’t matter who she is, or that I have like, zero chance of even touching the hem of her granny gown, let alone unzipping her little red party dress.

The comments were split between…

• Yowzah! This is a prime cut, wink wink, and
• Memorizing poetry won’t work, you ignorant schlump.

The guys generally saw where I was going (or where I was coming from – I really cannot talk Street), and wanted to go there with me, damn the torpedoes. The women (I will never call you girls, because I respect you too much) said, with one exception* that my shallow approach would not work. I’m not sure if they meant it wouldn’t work on them, or it wouldn’t work with Miss Pfeiffer, or it just plain wouldn’t work with any woman, period. But the suggestion arose more than once that I knew it wouldn’t work, or at least I should have known.

So there it is again: All men are pigs, we only want one thing, we completely fail to understand women, and the one thing we want will be withheld from us because of our lack of understanding.

Are there exceptions? Sure, the ethereal Shelley’s and Byron’s who write the damned sensitive poems in the first place, and their spiritual descendants, the fevered fellows in the frayed turtlenecks who drink coffee in the Student Union (they smoked in my day, but I’m guessing that’s over now) and seem to dwell in that angst-ridden fantasy land where the higher sensibilities rule and Big Drama is the order of the day.

And I’m not even sure about those guys. They might be pigs, too. I know they have at least some of the qualifications.

So what is the answer to this Big Question? We have to get together, boys and girls. We have a programmed need for each other. We actually want to be in love with each other, I think. But, perhaps due to God’s grand sense of humor, the boys must forever keep guessing at the secret password, and the girls keep changing it (I can say girls here because I said boys, OK?) while wistfully seeking a man who understands, who is sensitive but still very strong, rich but not obsessed, sexual but only with them, rugged but soft… well, I’m not making a Great Expectations video here, but you know what I mean.

As always, my heart overflows with confusion and love.

* But Steph has made sort of a career of charmingly missing the point. She does it so well that she makes me think I’ve missed the point. Wait a minute. I have missed it, haven’t I?

If I were an inner city teen, I’d for sure be in a bad street gang.

The Blips or The Cruds, whatever, because that’s the only way you can survive on the street, you see what I’m saying? I’d shave my head and wear some baggy clothes, too, with a nine in my pants and a knife in my sock, just to be safe. If they put metal detectors in school, well, then I would just stop going to school, because school is for losers, and I’d rather hang with my boyz anyway.

I’d be one bad dude. Fuck with me, man, look out.

But if my teacher were Michelle Pfeiffer, I’d be good to her. No backtalk, no lip. I’d smack down any of the other guys in the class who gave her a hard time, too. She’d just be a good, honest chick tryin’ to make the world a better place for guys like me. Oh, sure, she’d be hopelessly wrong about her chances. I mean, homies don’t turn nobody in to the cops, man. You’re marked for death, no matter how stupid the reason, you go out like a man, man.

But when you have those soft pink lips like Miss Pfeiffer, it makes dudes like me want to study Shakespeare, man. You see what I’m saying? And when you’re all sincere like she is in her intentions of educating me so I can do something positive with my life, like get a good job in the United States Army or even MacDonald’s, well, I just wouldn’t be able to resist her, you know what I’m talking about?

Shit. You know what I mean. I would learn long division and memorize fag poems because I would know, like I could just smell it, that under that denim shirt and that bullshit granny dress she wears to school, she got this:

That ought to bring in a little traffic.

I know what you’re thinking: Both ways? Doesn’t he know there are more than two ways? I thought Larry Jones was a man of the world. How is it possible that he thinks that both ways would cover it?

OK, you got me. I was planning to write about just two ways tonight, in lascivious detail, until you were drooling on the edge of your seat, begging for more. Then I was going to give you more! Sure, I know about those other ways. I may even have tried a few of them. Or at least in a psychocybernetics kind of way, I might have imagined them so vividly that I now believe I actually did them.

Did you know the brain has a hard time telling the difference between things that really happened to you and things that you have vividly imagined? Makes sense, when you think about it. The arms and legs, and, uh, other parts are out there taking care of business, walking, sky-diving, getting in fights, getting laid, shooting baskets, and what does the brain know? It has to believe what it’s being told about what’s going on “out there.” If you tell it (by vividly imagining it) that you are shooting a thousand jump shots a day, and you’re hitting most them, your brain will eventually start to think “Damn, I’m getting good at this! I’ll bet I could join a team and be the star player!” The brain would start to “remember” hitting all those shots, exactly as it remembers real stuff that happened, like going to the bathroom a thousand times a day (if you do that, although I don’t recommend it).

Sometimes I wonder how much of my past really happened, and how much I just made up and told myself the story so many times that my brain is totally convinced. Like, was I really on Apollo 13? Did I ever perform at The Apollo? I don’t know anymore.

One thing I’m sure of is that the babe I saw at the grocery store tonight was looking at me. I know because I was looking at her, and I didn’t want her to feel uncomfortable at me checking her out, so whenever she caught me I pretended I was just looking at something else that happened to be right over her shoulder, like the boxes of soup. Did you know that soup comes in boxes now?

Anyway after a while I realized that she was catching me way too many times for it to be a coincidence. Then I started to feel all cocky and cool: Hey, she’s checking me out. So, as we’re pushing our carts up and down the aisles and we keep being in the same department at the same time, I got bolder and let her catch me red-handed, as it were, a couple of times, and I gave her my shy smile. It had to be another crazy coincidence that she headed straight for the checkout counter right after that.

But now I’m wondering if I really have lesbian love slaves, how many ways I’ve given it to them, if they like it, and what’s on for tomorrow. Hey! Wipe that drool off the edge of your seat.

In an effort to avoid writing anything myself, I have been, um, researching the blogging community.

I have been reading a type of blog that may be described as “adult oriented.” Actually, many of them are adultery oriented. What they are is sex blogs. Blogs about sex, often described quite explicitly.

So far I haven’t looked at any sex blogs written by guys. Being a guy, it might be enlightening to learn what others are thinking and doing in this arena. On the other hand, call me old-fashioned, but when it comes to sex I am mainly interested in women, and what they’re thinking and doing.

And gosh, it’s surprising what they are willing to tell, under cover of internet anonymity. Some of them are married and having affairs, which they are keeping secret from their husbands, naturally, but for some reason they just have to tell everyone else in the whole world about it, about how their lovers don’t have much to say, but wow can they get everyone’s pants off fast once that motel room door closes! And the gymnastics that people can do with only limited equipment — a double bed, a 3-drawer chest, a Danish modern chair. Let me tell you, it’s really been an eye-opener.

I believe some of these things happen in real life, otherwise how to explain the occasional motel-room shooting? And there may be a portion of this filthy stuff that I’ve been researching that has been written with, shall we say, some poetic license. All I can say is thank you Lord, for these naughty girls and their nasty stories, imagined or real.

That’s not what I mean. I mean to make some kind of intellectual comment about the longing that so many of us have to be recognized, to touch and be touched, to reach out and say I’m here, won’t somebody hold me, know me, take me. This isn’t just a chick thing, either, although male bloggers may be more in touch with their feminine side than regular dudes. Hey, I’m not ashamed.

Some of the messages I read are so plaintive that I want to get right in my car and go wherever I have to go to comfort the poor, horny, lonely writers. And some are so swaggeringly in-your-face and self-assured that I wonder why the women bother to put their inner thoughts on the internet.

Most of you reading this will not remember the CB radio craze of the 1970’s, either because you weren’t born yet or you were high at the time and have blacked it out from your memories. But there was a period of years when otherwise normal people were using these little low-power two-way radios, mostly in their cars, I think, to talk to complete strangers at random. Big-time high-power amateur radio operators (hams) had been doing this since the thirties, but CB radio was for the masses. It was relatively cheap and easy, and you didn’t have to get a license to transmit. So God knows how many good buddies were gettin’ their ears on and chatting with anyone and everyone on the air. As a society, we must have been too uptight to run numerous popular magazine articles about this fact, but my guess is a lot of those conversations revolved around s-e-x. Anonymous, safe but oh-so-tantalizingly real-time.

CB radio died out, mercifully. Now it’s back to just truckers warning each other about where the Highway Patrol is, and the rest stop hookers. But now we have blogging. No, it’s not the same thing. Blogging is a much more noble, intellectual pursuit. Downright dorky, the unenlightened might say. But if the number of raunchy blogs that I have stumbled upon, completely by accident and without intending to, is any indication, there are a lot of amateur pornographers out there.

Of course, an infinite number of monkeys taking an infinite number of meetings and making an infinite number of notes to themselves would eventually conceive, script, fund and produce “Deep Throat.” Sure, there’d be some false starts, such as when they cast a monkey in the Linda Lovelace role, but sooner or later there it would be at the Pussycat Theater, up in lights: Deep Throat, an Infinite Monkey Production™ (leave it alone – I own Infinite Monkey™). Given this, maybe it’s just a coincidence that I keep coming across all this sexy blogging.

Or maybe not. Here’s what I’d like to know: Does writing sexy stuff, uh, get you off? When you write sexy stuff and put it on the internet, are you hoping someone will read it and get off? Would that be fun for you? Or are you (hypothetically, of course) thinking that some day someone will track you down and actually do sexy stuff with you, based on your naughty blog? In the words of the great Cecil B. DeMonkey, What’s your motivation?

I wanna want you in all the best ways.

Lift your heart and make every day your lucky day. Hold you safe, Sweet Thing.
Sing you sweetly, love you softly, drink you deeply. It’s what I want and I think I will.

But maybe I will take your heart that you give so sweetly, and maybe I’ll lock it up, that precious, beating thing, where it never will be seen.

Maybe I will seek until I find, search until I destroy.

And maybe one day you’ll find the doors are locked and the house is empty.

I want it to be real. I want it to be right. I want to want you in the best possible way.

I want you in the worst way.

I want to take you away from your friends, get you out of your comfort zone, make you think about me. When you’re walking, driving, reading, talking, I want you thinking about me. I want to know everything right now. I want to talk all night and all next day, explaining me to you, learning you, studying you. I want to know all you’ve done, every thought you have. I want to go over the books, the movies, the places, the things, the music you love and I want to love them too, and make you love all the things I love, make you see the beauty, feel the groove, laugh at the perfect rhythm and rhyme. I want to take you to my special places and I want them to be your special places. I want you in the worst way.

I want to know who you’ve fucked and I want you to deny them, deny them all, forsake them for me, and I will forsake all mine for you. I want to own your body, touch you freely whenever and wherever I want, and I want you to want it, want me, arch toward my hand, lean into my arms. I want you to need only me, desperate desire without reserve. I want you in the worst way.

I want you to call me from work and say you want me, that you just can’t wait. I want to call you at night and talk dirty, and I want you to like it. I want to wake you in the morning by sucking your toes, licking behind your knee. I want you naked in my arms, naked in my kitchen, naked in my dreams. I want to give you all I have and take all you have. I want you in the worst possible way.

I want to fuck you all afternoon on a hot Sunday, and I want you to fuck me back, vulgar slut, beautiful angel, crying, laughing, moaning. I want to take your heart, your mind, your soul, and never give them back.

Because I want you in the worst damned possible way.