http://www.nypress.com/articles.sec-12-1-columns-sex.html I WANT TO have sex,” she announced politely but firmly, like a little girl demanding a new doll. “Where can we go to do that?” Not anywhere around here, I thought as I looked around the barren park where we were lunching. There was a devastating lack of shrubbery; surely we would be spotted fornicating like the wild dogs we were from every conceivable spot in this obstruction-free landscape.]]> I’VE NEVER BEEN a member of Manhunt, Adam4Adam or any of those online sex sites geared for horny gay guys. Mostly because I’ve always been terrified of a co-worker or acquaintance giggling over my photos or my profile, but also because I freeze up when confronted with the prospect of going to a stranger’s apartment for sex or, worse, having someone from the Internet come to my place. The handful of times I got laid via Craigslist, I hid knives in strategic locations all over the apartment. Clearly, I wasn’t cut out for online sex. Porn stores, however, turned out to be a different matter.]]> “Dude? Seriously, if you would just hold still for one second, I swear to God, I can almost get this fish’s eyeball in your butthole.”]]> THE AIR IN the cell was warm with evaporated piss and sweat, so eventually I took off the leather jacket I’d been wearing. Someone sitting on the bench—a young, coffee-colored guy with fat red lips tattooed on his neck—jabbed the guy beside him and pointed at me.Well, it’s about time, I thought.]]> MY FRIEND ERIN is the girl who gets one-liners from men at bars. The do you come here oftens of slurred solicitation that she brushes away with a derisive laugh and a flip of her blond hair. My friend Danielle gets the CSI variety of creepy lurkers, and she’s found her personal antidote in a keychainbound can of mace and a black belt in Aikido. Another friend gets the drunk dials, and still another gets the exes that return in the middle of the night like housecats. It’s been said that every woman has the potential to bring out the worst in men. I summon forth the cock pictures.]]> “DO YOU WANT to see my work?” “Yeah!” I sounded way too hyper. It had been two years since I first met Sylvain and began having spread-eagle fantasies about him. It was the summer of 2005 and I was 20 years old, a virgin from California passing the summer in Paris after a year abroad in Bordeaux.]]> AT AGE 17, people still called me “pimple beard.” My mouth was filled with braces and while my scoliosis developed better than the doctors expected, I still had a slight hump. The only thing greater than my physical monstrosities was my sex drive. Despite being hobbled by social anxiety disorder—when I got nervous around people I licked my wrists—I was determined to finally get laid.]]> OCTOBER ALREADY, CAN you believe it? My doorbell rang this morning—a deliveryman saying he had a package for me. I was so excited I skipped down the stairs thinking it was a package from you. It was actually a box of purple suede go-go boots I bought online last week and then forgot about. I was a little disappointed that the package wasn’t from you, but then I tried on my new go-go boots and kicked around the house a bit and felt better.They have zippers! I’ve since put them back in the box, however.]]> I crave hot dogs the way crack heads crave rock. My preferred dealer is the Gray’s Papaya at West 72nd Street and Broadway. Last April, I decided to give into the hankering before a hair appointment. After injecting two dogs (well done, no kraut, no onions) I exited Gray’s wearing the afterglow of gastronomic pleasure. At the corner, I noticed an older white man noticing me. His 1980s navy blue Members Only jacket read retiree.]]> A FRIEND ONCE said that it was too late for us...too late for love. She said that if we hadn’t met anyone at college, we never would. Ridiculous as it sounded, once I landed my first post-college job and became resigned to the daily NY/NJ commute— stepping onto the bus in the predawn and returning home in the dark of night, motion-sensored porch lights flickering on at my approach—I began to believe her. ]]> "I WANT YOU guys to get up there and grind on each other and give each other boners.” Those were Ronnie’s instructions, the promoter at the Hell’s Kitchen club where Brian and I were dancing.]]> If you love music so much, why don’t you mold it into the shape of genitals and fuck it? This is the reasoning behind sound-activated vibrator Freestyle, the latest gadget to up the ante in the race to see who loves their iThing the most.While some focus on the toy itself to a degree approaching objectum sexualis—bringing to mind many people’s desire, circa 2008, to grease up the sexy new iPhone and make love to it with an orifice— when I first heard of it there was but one name on my lips: Morrissey.]]> I WAS IN my early twenties, and on the rebound from a jazz bass player, a cad I adored all out of proportion and with whom I’d had heady, cathartic, atom-changing sex that invariably culminated in sweeping post-coital promises and lots of mutual weeping. Reeling from that relationship’s end, I decided in a moment of Xanax-addled logic that the best way to assuage my anguish would be to immediately replace The Bass Player with another jazz musician. It was simply too painful to consider that it was The Bass Player himself that I ached for, so I convinced myself that, really, it was jazz that I loved and jazz that I would love again.]]> “YOUR TITS ARE just as nice as they were when you were 15.” Sloppy drunk and in the midst of a fourmonth dry spell, I’d said fuck it and brought my high school crush home with me. “It’s impossible to hang out with someone from high school and not talk about high school,” he pontificated. “I could be with Charlie C., or Liz W. or even Dan S. right now, and we’d probably be having roughly the same conversation.” ]]> IT WAS MY second day on a girl-on-girl porno set. I was in a warehouse somewhere in Queens, and in the middle of the floor there was a Crown Vic full of halfdrunk, naked girls doing things you´ve probably never seen in real life. Your mother would not approve.]]> STACEY ANSWERED THE door wearing a tiny red titty top and matching micro miniskirt. I’d encountered her only once before, and that night she made both my Hall of Fame and Hall of Shame by perfectly executing an unexpected reverse cowgirl switcheroo, only to follow up that cunning stunt by drunkenly pissing my bed in her sleep.]]> When I was 10 I became addicted to humping. I’d hump everything I could get my colorful Esprit sweatpants on: pillows, the side of the bed, every single one of my stuffed animals. Years later when I go home to visit my parents, upon entering my old room I immediately feel the glares of my Pound Puppy, Wuzzle and Dopey Doll staring at me their eyes calling out “slut.”]]> THE OTHER WEEK I was on my couch scratching my scalp, dislodging the material that had started building up beneath my fingernail with my front tooth, then spitting it onto the floor. I sustained this routine for close to an hour, at which point I stood up to get a glass of water, slipped on the pile of masticated scalp and stubbed my toe against the wall.]]> On a recent afternoon, I was complaining to my gays about how terrible I feel when I blow through packs of batteries to energize the bits of plastic I use to masturbate. Not only do Duracells stop working before I finish, but theyre an expensive habit to keep up, especially with an appetite like mine.]]> MY HUSBAND AND I havent slept together much since we got married eight months ago. Im not talking shtupping, Im talking shut-eye. Im a night owl; hes an early bird. Although we are in sync in almost every other aspect of our relationship, when it comes to sleep, were completely out of step.]]>