Best Sex Writing 2013: The State of Today's Sexual Culture by Rachel Kramer Bussel Page A
Authors: Rachel Kramer Bussel
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heads from our penises. My advice: Treat it like live porn. Or a yoga class with a happy ending. Keep your emotions out of it. Set some ground rules and talk about them before you go there.”
“Damn,” I said. “Should I be writing all this down?”
Christian patted my cheek. “Laugh now, but you’re getting privileged information here. Hard-earned, too. Truth is, straight or gay, it’s a crapshoot. Everything’s going along fine, then someone sticks his willy somewhere and the damn thing blows up like an exploding cigar.”
Still, we were determined to find out for ourselves. The op- portunity to do just that came in the form of Jason and Mandy, two personal trainers we met at a club during gay pride celebra- tions in Boston. Jason was straight; Mandy was bisexual. Most of Jason and Mandy’s clients were gay, as were many of their friends. It seemed so perfect.
Then came Fire Island.
Narrow boardwalks wound through pine forests and connected the houses together like the yellow brick road. Trees reverberated with the clickity-clack of big men pulling little red wagons full of groceries and luggage to and from the ferry terminal. There were miles of desolate sand dunes and achingly beautiful sea grass– lined beaches. Then, shoved into this bucolic utopia were New York City sensibilities, as over the top as William Shatner re- citing Shakespeare: designer-decorated homes where a summer share cost the same as a three-bedroom rambler in most parts of
the country; huge, lavish parties; smaller, yet more lavish parties; social climbing galore; one-upsmanship; balls-to-the-wall, 24/7. The only nightclub, the Pavilion, was a wooden sweatbox. In the morning, a stream of clubbed-out zombies shuffled shame-
lessly along the walkways looking for an after-party and sex.
The owner of the house in which we stayed was Ramon, also known as the cha-cha-doctor of Chelsea, who specialized, ironi- cally, in the research and treatment of AIDS. (Though Ramon was not really his name. I’ve changed all the names in this piece, for what I assume are obvious reasons.) He was the perfect host. Anything you wanted—as long as what you wanted was sex or drugs. There were vials of everything, everywhere, all the time. If it wasn’t in front of you, all you had to do was ask: K, G, X, poppers, weed, Viagra, crystal—especially crystal. Snorted, smoked or shot up, only crystal could keep the party, and the sex, going full-tilt for days.
The first people we met were the Porn Boys, feature acts in a series of videos. We nicknamed them Tweaked and Chipper. I kept forgetting their real names. This was awkward considering how often I ran into them traipsing around the house naked. The first time I walked by the Porn Boys’ room with the door open, I saw what looked like a naked rugby scrum. Based on what I heard, it was a high-scoring game.
Rachael and I saw the last translucent veil separating us from our friends ripped away. We hung a welcome sign on our bed. Jason and Mandy jumped right in. High as I was, the sex had a dreamy quality, as though I was watching myself perform por- nography through a Vaseline-coated camera lens.
Then, just as Christian predicted, things came undone. I happened upon Rachael and Jason having sex in the poolside shower. I tried to ignore the stab of jealousy and resentment. But
I couldn’t. Mandy, jacked up on nearly everything, woke me up in the middle of the night to see the stars. We jumped in the pool and had sex as the sun came up. Mandy’s sex with Jason was raw, animal-like, but with me she was tender and sweet, a perfect counterpoint to her rock-hard body.
I fell into a crush. And that’s when, with the two of us standing in the shallow end of the pool, her legs wrapped around my waist, she made a confession:
“You know, I think I’m a little gaga.”
My heart raced. “That makes two of us,” I said.
“It’s not just his looks. I’ve dated plenty of guys built like him—you know
“Damn,” I said. “Should I be writing all this down?”
Christian patted my cheek. “Laugh now, but you’re getting privileged information here. Hard-earned, too. Truth is, straight or gay, it’s a crapshoot. Everything’s going along fine, then someone sticks his willy somewhere and the damn thing blows up like an exploding cigar.”
Still, we were determined to find out for ourselves. The op- portunity to do just that came in the form of Jason and Mandy, two personal trainers we met at a club during gay pride celebra- tions in Boston. Jason was straight; Mandy was bisexual. Most of Jason and Mandy’s clients were gay, as were many of their friends. It seemed so perfect.
Then came Fire Island.
Narrow boardwalks wound through pine forests and connected the houses together like the yellow brick road. Trees reverberated with the clickity-clack of big men pulling little red wagons full of groceries and luggage to and from the ferry terminal. There were miles of desolate sand dunes and achingly beautiful sea grass– lined beaches. Then, shoved into this bucolic utopia were New York City sensibilities, as over the top as William Shatner re- citing Shakespeare: designer-decorated homes where a summer share cost the same as a three-bedroom rambler in most parts of
the country; huge, lavish parties; smaller, yet more lavish parties; social climbing galore; one-upsmanship; balls-to-the-wall, 24/7. The only nightclub, the Pavilion, was a wooden sweatbox. In the morning, a stream of clubbed-out zombies shuffled shame-
lessly along the walkways looking for an after-party and sex.
The owner of the house in which we stayed was Ramon, also known as the cha-cha-doctor of Chelsea, who specialized, ironi- cally, in the research and treatment of AIDS. (Though Ramon was not really his name. I’ve changed all the names in this piece, for what I assume are obvious reasons.) He was the perfect host. Anything you wanted—as long as what you wanted was sex or drugs. There were vials of everything, everywhere, all the time. If it wasn’t in front of you, all you had to do was ask: K, G, X, poppers, weed, Viagra, crystal—especially crystal. Snorted, smoked or shot up, only crystal could keep the party, and the sex, going full-tilt for days.
The first people we met were the Porn Boys, feature acts in a series of videos. We nicknamed them Tweaked and Chipper. I kept forgetting their real names. This was awkward considering how often I ran into them traipsing around the house naked. The first time I walked by the Porn Boys’ room with the door open, I saw what looked like a naked rugby scrum. Based on what I heard, it was a high-scoring game.
Rachael and I saw the last translucent veil separating us from our friends ripped away. We hung a welcome sign on our bed. Jason and Mandy jumped right in. High as I was, the sex had a dreamy quality, as though I was watching myself perform por- nography through a Vaseline-coated camera lens.
Then, just as Christian predicted, things came undone. I happened upon Rachael and Jason having sex in the poolside shower. I tried to ignore the stab of jealousy and resentment. But
I couldn’t. Mandy, jacked up on nearly everything, woke me up in the middle of the night to see the stars. We jumped in the pool and had sex as the sun came up. Mandy’s sex with Jason was raw, animal-like, but with me she was tender and sweet, a perfect counterpoint to her rock-hard body.
I fell into a crush. And that’s when, with the two of us standing in the shallow end of the pool, her legs wrapped around my waist, she made a confession:
“You know, I think I’m a little gaga.”
My heart raced. “That makes two of us,” I said.
“It’s not just his looks. I’ve dated plenty of guys built like him—you know
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