I always think of my Twitter as a place where I talk about writing and poetry, but really I talk about sex a lot. I have tweeted about the time a guy was playing guitar for me and put on a freaky demon mask and we had sex because it turned me on (that was a new one for me); the time a guy said fuck, your eye makeup is so hot, and came immediately after; the time I had sex with someone from Twitter and it was weird and I blocked him afterwards so I could tweet about it; the time a guy said he was in love with me as I was blowing him on our second date and I started laughing so hard I couldn’t finish the job (he didn’t finish either) (I shouldn’t have laughed) (it was a compliment but I was caught off guard). I have tweeted about dick-don’t-work guys who cried about their erectile dysfunction after getting high on my balcony and guys who kept calling their chihuhuas up into the bed, via those little carpeted stairs-for-dogs, as we were having sex while they begged me to call them “daddy” over and over. I have tweeted about the time a guy, without warning me, dressed up like a professor we both had at the time and asked me to call him the professor’s name, which I also started laughing at. Then I may have actually done it. I don’t remember. I have not tweeted about the time I slept with a reasonably famous contemporary artist at his studio because he told me to keep this a secret for the sake of his career, despite the fact that he disagreed when I looked up from blowing him in his car and said, “I think there’s a palpable power differentiation between us.” I have also tweeted, many times, about the fact that when my ex and I broke up—when he called it quits over the phone ten days before our anniversary last summer—he asked me if I had anything at his apartment to pick up, I said no, I knew that was a lie, I texted him two weeks later asking if he’d mail my butt plug to me, he said he had thrown it away, he Venmoed me $30 with the spade emoji as a transaction description, and I bought breakfast and a used Annie Leibovitz photography book with the money.
Yes, it says a lot about my capacity for self-delusion that I thought this guy, who kept only my pink heart-shaped crystal butt plug at his apartment, was planning on marrying me someday.
Yes, I did later buy a new butt plug with my own money because I am financially independent. I can buy my own butt plugs from Etsy sex shops, and I do so because I support small business.
I tweet about sex because I think about sex a lot and I pathologocically tweet everything I think about. I also, apparently, don’t worry about my employer finding my Twitter. I always wonder what other people think about these tweets because if any man on my timeline said the same things, I’d unfollow him. Is that fair? Does it come across like I’m bragging? Do I seem like some sort of imperialist of men’s bodies? I’m not sure about the first question, I hope not the second, but I’m more or less okay with the third. I assume I get a pass for tweeting about sex so much because I’m a young woman and women aren’t supposed to talk about sex, still, in our glorious woke year of 2019. So I’m, like, acting liberated when I say my date jacked off into my mouth last night while we were watching The World’s End, when I’m being reflectively, retroactively horny on the main. I’m also making your days more interesting. Call it public service.
I don’t ever write about sex outside of Twitter. It’s difficult to write about sex in a novel or convincing or sexy way, if you haven’t yet read this 2018 ranking of the worst sex writing in literature. It’s sort of like sexting, but worse because it’s so dragged out. I sext regularly, often multiple people at once, but I think it’s a boring form. This will happen and then this will happen and then this will happen. Are you turned on? Are you cumming? Cool. Me too. I’m not cumming. I’m on Twitter tweeting about something other than sex for once, like about how many days I’ve been sober or about how I just found a baby tomato with a mark on it shaped like a dinosaur and I think it may hatch Godzilla. I sext because I’m feeling generous in a self-centered way, like I need to remind a handful of people how good and dependably DTF I am. I get off on them getting off, but not literally.
One of the issues I have with writing about sex is what to call a penis. In sexting I go for “cock,” because, in terms of word choice or lyricism, that’s a hard word. It fits. Yeah, puns, I know. I squirm, in a bad way, when a writer uses the word “member.” Milan Kundera does that at the end of Life is Elsewhere, at least in the translation I read. So many men told me to read that book and that’s all I can remember of the entire thing. “Dick” sounds soft. “Penis” is clinical. “Meat” recalls a bloody slab of fat. “Manhood” conforms to conservative notions of gender. “Shaft” makes me think of elevators. “Rod” reminds me of Greek mythology or the Bible. What am I supposed to call this thing? “This thing?”
For your reference, here is an alphabetized list of alternative phrases I’ve thought of off the tip of my slutty tongue, which I have not tested in practice, but you’re welcome to:
- baby-making baton
- cum caduceus
- dicktator (for political folk)
- fertile turtle
- flavor blaster
- flute of fornication (for people who play D&D)
- Jeopardy answer to “what was the first name of our 46th vice president?”
- jizzin’ jimmy
- Mayor’s key to the city
- pleasure pole
- pork sword
- salt lick
- salt stick
- semen staff
- tallywacker (a bit old-fashioned, imo)
- wand of war (also for people who play D&D)
Venture forth and prosper, my good sluts.
Isabel Rae McKenzie is a devout Chicagoan and newly sober person, but she’s still living her best chaotic slutty Virgo life. You can find her on Twitter at @birdpoems.
Gem Blackthorn is QMT's Sex Columnist, and the author/curator of Lust Thrust Thursdays. Send her your submissions and questions at sexsexsex [at] queenmobs.com Image: Alex Proimos via Flickr (cc).