Confessions of a wannabe slut

Acting like ‘The Fox’, or at least how I think a person should behave when having to write under such a tawdry title, is an experiment I am inclined to give up on. My month-long investigation of slutty behaviour flusters my mind, as I am focused only when in the bedroom, and all over the place when at work or on social occasions where it is not acceptable to simulate sucking cock. When I wake in the mornings I lie disappointed under dirty sheets, bitter that despite the climax the night before I haven’t purged this feeling that is making me behave so recklessly. I may not know the name of the person I have spent the last few hours so vulnerably with, yet I still feel that I know them too much for the sex to be completely emotionless. If I can remember the colour of their eyes then I realise I know too much about them for the sex to be purely physical – subconsciously recording attributes about eyes you’re desperate not to look into is my downfall. I am failing as a slut, I admit.

Yet sometimes, in the morning, I find it amusing that it is I croaking out the wrong name to my bedfellow, and not someone who looks more suited to the role of a whore. Often, I discover that the men with whom I have been with do not mind my mistake. I think they realise that I am trying out a life not particularly suited to me, and are grateful that I am there in the first place. What I do find, however, is that if I do address a man as a previous fuck from earlier in the week they will return the favour and blurt out another girl’s name with excruciating honesty. It adds a tinge of sourness to whatever performance we may have put on for each other the night before and fragrants the smell of sex on our fingers with something a little less artificial. This is real life, and this is how sex is in my anonymous and dirty little city. Because being a slut in London is like being part of an exclusive club that you only belong to once your self-respect has reached humiliating lows, and your tally of fucks becomes increasingly high. It takes a certain kind of person to be able to mix the two extremes and look attractive while doing so – and despite my shortcomings, I feel I may be getting the hang of it.

Frequently, I pick up a man in a place where I know he will be an easy target – on a bus, a tube, or in a cafĂ© where he and I are the only sexual actualities surrounded by screaming children. I will stare at him and know I need not speak, as the look we give each other is a code known to all sluts about town: one that cannot be learnt but is developed after weeks of undertaking unfeeling sex. We will make our small talk – all the while keeping one eye on each other’s lips – and then plunge right into it, turning from socially acceptable and respectable people into the basest of animals. We leave our culture behind us and get down to business, all the while searching for something so elusive that I find it hard to describe. Take away all the technology that us Westerners play with, all the conveniences, the packaged services and comfort wants, and you’re left with nothing. Left with an environment that we could not possibly cope in due to our dependencies on our information society substances. Take all of these away, and maybe you’re close to that feeling of carnal excitement that can only be had when the mind is emptied of all modern thoughts and education. A caveman type of behaviour, it is this that is our ultimate goal, and this that all sluts about town strive to find. Only can we ever find it if we look so hard in the first place?

Even though I admit I am failing as a slut in many areas, I find that when I have done it properly, my mind becomes muddled from being so overpowered from sexual attraction that physically hurts. My brain, conscious of the aching in my thighs and bruising on my breasts, becomes numb – yet is also overjoyed that I have managed to sleep with someone without looking at them or caring who they are. My body flips, as every nerve ending becomes erect just from looking at whatever man may be lying beside or underneath me, and my brain turns off. Completely off. Like my body can only be turned on if everything else – my emotions, my thoughts, and my sensibilities – are frozen. Does this robotic stance on reaching orgasm imply that in the future I will never be able to switch back to sex where I lie in bed and surrender my mind as well as my body? Or, to put it another way, if I master the art of serial fucking will I never be able to ‘make love’ again? I hope not. Because one of the men I have found myself sharing a bed with more and more captivates me. Perhaps it is because he is so seemingly focused on fucking without feeling that I am drawn to his expertise – ironically becoming attached to someone who can behave in a way that I wish I could. And even though I try to shake off these feelings that are beginning to cloud my head and my judgement, I can only think of him and his eyes. They are, I remember, a beautiful shade of blue. I would like to look into them another time while feeling like my orgasm will not be harmed from gazing so intently.