Someone I love just told me a story about when he was fifteen and how a bunch of his friends took turns fucking a passed-out-drunk girl, how her hair was splayed over her face as she lay there limp, how they snapped pic after pic of the whole debaucherous scene, gaseous with laughter. The one who told me this story, he wasn’t even there, and he said he was disappointed about it back then. His mom had made him go home. I thought that was lucky. It made me think about how that’s why parents give curfews to teenagers. If they don’t, they’re liable to commit some pretty heinous acts, because teenagers either don’t know or don’t care about the morality of their actions. The reality is probably some dangerous area in between. If he had done it, I don’t think he would have been feeling particularly guilty about it now, because that’s what fifteen-year-old boys do. That’s pretty effed.
The reason we were talking about it is because we were talking about rape. We were talking about rape because a friend made a joke that if I had a rape whistle, it would be much quieter than a normal one, because I’m not as likely to feel threatened by the prospect of having (even unwanted) sex with a stranger. Because it’s just sex for me. There are times that I’ve woken up in the morning thinking, man, I wish I hadn’t slept with this fucker. There was a time when I almost took a private jet and stayed in some guy’s extra apartment, even though he had a wife, even though he was 20 years older than me and fat, even though I didn’t want to sleep with him. The idea of taking a private jet and staying in a new city for a few weeks sounded kind of worth it to me. Because it’s just sex. And I would get to have all these new experiences if I just had sex with this guy a couple times, probably drunk. In fact, I could make sure I was drunk—so that makes it way easier too. At the very least, it would have been interesting. At the very worst, he might have been a part of the Mexican drug cartel, and I would have been entering into a world where there was much more than a little harmless sex on the line. That’s fucked up, I know. It’s like saying that I have no problem with being a prostitute. The difference is that instead of the direct exchange of sex for money, it’s sex for weird, new experiences. Hmm.
Regarding rape, I have perhaps a more fucked up confession. If someone raped me, could I just add him to that small selection of people I’ve woken up beside and felt some form of regret, and move on with my life? I think I could. Instead of fighting back, could I just kiss him back, touch him back, fuck him back? Likely. I get it that it wouldn’t be my choice, and that I might not want to do it, but if it’s going to happen anyway, could I make the best of a bad situation, considering that I have had sex with people by choice and then fairly immediately felt remorse? Why not? What I have to say now is much less fucked. I don’t expect that others should share this mentality and sentiment with me. I don’t consider anyone less emotionally or mentally strong if they can’t. This is just part of my personality, my philosophy of life, my romantic existentialism that leads me into both the light and the dark.
Let’s get less serious for a minute. Would I fuck someone with dreadlocks? Usually no, because they seem dirty to me, because I wouldn’t want my cheek on the same pillow, and that somehow extends to their genitals. Somehow. However, would I fuck the Bieb, even with his dreads, even though I don’t really like what I know of his personality? Yes, because he is hot. What is it with sex and hotness? Seems pretty fucked up, because it’s completely out of our control, our appearance. Outside of the hypothetical, I had an experience where I found myself fawning over a guy who would show up at the bar I was a regular at for a time, only because he was fucking hot. After 10 minutes talking to him, I could tell he was the kind of asshole that would use a girl’s insecurities to sleep with her, and then brag about it. Did that stop me from flirting with him, with full intention of going further if it went there? I sort of wish it had, but I can’t say that I stopped. I was happy when he left town.
Now, I want to defend myself, just for a sec. I’ve had really amazing, intimate connections with a wide range of people—plenty not necessarily particularly attractive by standard definition. Those experiences are not less magical for anything related to physical appearance, not at all. I guess that makes the whole thing about wanting to fuck hot people ahead of others even more ridiculous. Hmm.
Let’s stay less serious for another minute. He said imagine if all you got were kisses and hugs. And I said that I wouldn’t like it. And he said I know. He knows how boring that would be for me. Hugs and kisses alone are boring. Hugs and kisses alone are boring. Hugs and kisses alone are boring. I guess we all already knew I was fucked. What would you have said? Maybe we’re all fucked?
More about me? Yes. Because the first time I wrote one of these blogs, a bunch of people got really mad at me saying that I was fucking with their lives by revealing their personal information. Even though I changed their names. Even though no one aside from people who already knew the information would ever know it was them. Even though the truth is that barely anyone thinks about you as much as you think about yourself, and barely anyone reads my blog, so doing the numbers with all of these considerations probably makes all involved safe from any real slander. Me, yeah, I would be happy with slander at this point, because it only takes someone noticing you for some minuscule, ridiculous, unimportant thing to get famous, right? Not even famous—even a little bit of notoriety and maybe I wouldn’t be living on white rice anymore. It’s a fucked up thing to think, I know. But it’s true.