If I could get enough nothing, it'd clean the crap out. I'd put in an order for a vacuum about the size and shape of my pain, or my bills. I'm in awe at the possibilities. Imagine if he could sell me a vacuum about the size and shape of my past, my ex, my horrific junior prom night? I could buy a vacuum the size and shape of unpleasant memories, habits, my tendency to stutter when nervous, my general inability to be easily intimate. God Bless Wholesale Joe. No wonder he gets to be a king!

Another word that I like to play with is “slut.” Basically, it means someone who has too much sex. But I think the word has a higher calling than that.

I passed King Joe's at dawn, returning home in the clothes I from the night before. I eventually got tired of laughing at my own witty “suck” jokes and pulled out my little tape recorder and started mulling over the night's adventure. Needless to say, I pretended it was a cell phone whenever anyone was looking.

I recently joined one of those sites with a “4”in the middle of the name – you know, one of those sites to help men meet each other for friendship, macramé, and raunchy alleyway sex with strangers. I joined as a way to cautiously dabble my toes in the waters of “normal” dating. Mostly, though, it was a good way to see some naked pictures.

I think I have had a typical experience with the site – I browse men by photo and description and drop messages to the ones I find attractive or interesting, who don't reply. At the same time I receive numerous unromantic propositions from lumberjacks, truckers and other men with mustaches. I pride myself on replying, if only to graciously deflect offers involving dirty jockstraps, grease, or macramé.

Truth be told, I generally like younger men, at least to look at. The types who put “no one over 25” in their list of what they're looking for. It's the gay equivalent of “no fat chicks.” Come to think of it, they say that, too. It would be a sad little dance I am doing, but for the fact that my self worth is almost entirely not wrapped up in the responses I get on a gay meetup website. Almost.

Friday night I got a message from a young Latino, a slip of a boy at nineteen, who has Very Pretty Eyes. No mustache at all. Profession listed as “Actor Plus.”

We connected through Instant Messenger and talked for a bit. That conversation follows, edited and commented for clarity and witty riposte – and to translate into simple English, where necessary.

[01:30] Pretty Eyes (not his real screen name): I'm Francisco (not his real name). Nice to meetcha, Scix.

[01:30] Scix (not my real screen name): Hi, Francisco. How's life treating you tonight?

[01:32] Pretty Eyes: Well, good, I'd say. Nothing wonderful like the lottery or anything, but still good. You?

[01:32] Scix: Life is good. I'm having a quiet night at home after a long workweek, looking at naked pictures on the internet.

[01:33] Pretty Eyes: LOL (That's “Laugh Out Loud” to those that live in caves). I love the honesty. Feeling horny?

This is the part of the conversation where the ones I like find an excuse to leave, and the ones who are not my cuppa tea start getting graphic and talking about dirty jockstraps.

[01:33] Scix: Yeah. Generally comes with porn-browsing.

[01:33] Pretty Eyes: Wanna come over by any chance? Or do you wanna get to know me first? ...which is totally cool.

[01:34] Scix: ...

That ellipsis (such a neat word, “ellipsis” -- it means those three dots) is my code for the awkward silence that followed.

[01:34] Scix: Let me ponder. This is the first offer I've had from someone that I didn't get creepy vibes from. And you have nice eyes

[01:35] Pretty Eyes: Aww, thanks

[01:36] Scix: I have no ride, I'd have to bicycle, but I live near you.

We discuss relative neighborhoods, and realize we don't live quite as close as I had thought. And it's pushing 2AM.

[01:45] Scix: Maybe I can make it out this weekend.

[01:46] Pretty Eyes: Well, I was kinda hopin' for tonight, since my roomies are out, and that gives me the liberty of vocalization. But hey, other opportunities will come.

[01:46] Scix: Now I'm sad. Missed connections sometimes never repeat themselves.

[01:47] Pretty Eyes: Aww, don't be sad, it's okay. *hugs*

He gives me his address and I run it through Mapquest.

[01:53] Scix: You're 3.63 miles away. I could walk that in an hour and a half. On bike it'd take, oh, about 30-40 minutes, depending on hills.

[01:53] Pretty Eyes: Well, I don't know about hills, and I don't really know if you wanna take that whole trek. That's over 3 and a half miles. I mean, dude!

“Dude” is how I remember that I'm talking to someone over a decade my junior. I'm sure if he tells his friends about meeting a man in his thirties, they'll give him a significant look and say, “dude.”

[01:55] Scix: You still gonna be up in an hour? I want to take a shower first.

[01:56] Pretty Eyes: Yeah. That will give me time to get presentable also.

[01:56] Scix: Okay. We'll do this then.

Just then I hear the front door open and I go out into the living room to see who arrived. It was a friend and frequent overnight guest at the hippie artists' enclave I inhabit, and I asked him for a ride. I arrived at Francisco's door 15 minutes later. I was afraid.

I was afraid he wouldn't like me. I was afraid I wouldn't like him. I was afraid one of us would like the other too much. I imagine I was afraid of all the things people are afraid of in these situations. I went in, trying to take comfort in the knowledge that I had left the phone number and address where my roommates could find it, in case I was killed and dumped in a ditch.

Francisco and I made small talk and he introduced me to his fluffy little dog. Suddenly he grabbed me and kissed me. Hard. Sexy porn-star kissing.

A moment later, when I got my breath, I said, “So I guess this means you're not disappointed.”

“Disappointed? No, not disappointed. You have great eyes.”

“Thanks. You do, too.” Smooth.

We went to his roommate's bedroom because she had the biggest bed and was out of town for the night. He said, “I have very specific rules about when I bring men home. Oh, not that I do that a lot, I don't want to sound like a slut or anything.”

I smiled and said, “A little too late to play that game, isn't it?”

And he laughed and said, “Yeah,” and went in search of a blanket for the bed while I stood there, looking at the bookshelf. It looked like a fourteen-year-old girl lived here – lots of adolescent adventures and horses. I decided she must be a teacher.

Being a slut isn't something he needs to be apologetic about, is it?

We spent some time on his roommate's bed on a fluffy blanket doing stuff. You know, some folks I know would say we didn't have sex: the specific Category One body parts were never involved with the specific Category Two body parts, so it was only foreplay, or advanced necking. Third base but no home run.

I don't agree.

I think what we shared was clearly sex. It was a physical, emotional and energetic connection, highly erotic, and ended with, er, two boys getting their cookies. More than enough data points for me to include it in the Venn diagram circle, “SEX.”

And some really excellent kissing.

I have not, historically, been patient with the people who separate sex from foreplay, but I think I have been ungenerous. Some people put a lot of weight on the word “sex” -- more than the dictionary definition warrants, but it is certainly their right according to Humpty Dumpty's famed theory of choosing whether the speaker or the words are to be the boss. People put weight on the word “sex” often believe the weight is built in, found rather than created – and form their worldview, this is even true.

With that worldview, separating activities as sex and not-sex makes sense. It allows simple fun without all the weight of sex. Otherwise, it might be impossible to have some experience of intimacy with another human being without it being the end-all be all of creation, the one true love, the spiritual other half, the mandate-by-God lifemate for All of Eternity, or at least until death.

Imagine a drunken frat party where folks have fun with other folks in a harmless and consensual manner. If they call that “sex,” with all the extra meaning, though, how horrible might that be? They would have the experience of wasting something precious on someone that was not their soulmate, who was not going to be the mother of their children, who was probably not even going to call in the morning. How horrible might that be?

But if it's not sex it doesn't count, and people can let go enough to enjoy whatever happens.

Even though we, as primates, are very social creatures, it's hard for us to make intimate connections with other people on any level. Sometimes our partners have to do extra duty: they're not just having sex, but they're embodying all the intimate contact we're not having anywhere else.

Good sluts can do that powerfully for everyone they're with. It's a very powerful and healing thing when done with love. Yes, love. Sluts can love as surely as the rest of us can.

Love is – it's just something that happens. When someone makes a connection, a real intimate connection, there's bound to be love engendered in that, even if it's ephemeral and passing, like a sunset. Poets write about love like that:

only something as
bright
as love
needs to live so strongly
it will germinate
in a second,
even if it knows it can
live but
an hour.

I spent an evening with Francisco, a slut who I sense has the loving heart of a healer. And you know, I wasn't particularly broken when I went over there, but I do think I was healed. You see, I'd been starting to build up a picture of myself as unattractive. It happens. It happens with all of us. But just the pleasure I saw in his face when he saw me at the door wiped that away. It was an amazing evening, magical, even.

Later, as I was curling up on an unfamiliar couch wrapped in an unfamiliar blanket that smelled a little of an unfamiliar man, he picked his head up and he said, “Hey, just to get it clear, don't steal any of my stuff, okay?”

I laughed, and said, “Hey, okay – make you a deal: don't kill me in my sleep.”

And he said, “It's a deal.”

And he didn't. And I didn't. And we slept.

So now it's the morning after. I left the apartment and, ignoring his directions to the bus stop, headed for home. I knew from Mapquest it'd be about three and a half miles, and I knew the average person walked about three miles an hour, so I had about an hour to walk and think, and dictate autobiographical essays into my funny little tape recorder.

So, Francisco is a slut. Maybe I should capitalize it: Francisco is a Slut.

I think a Slut like Francisco is like a nurse with a calling. Francisco gives selflessly to others. He derives pleasure from doing so, sure, but he gives freely of himself to make profound connections. This is something I'm not sure I could do. I've got too many hurdles to jump to get proper intimacy with someone. Maybe I could be a Slut with training, but I don't feel called to it, just as I don't feel called to the medical profession, even though I could be trained to that. I don't think I could be a good Slut.

This strange young man who contacted me out of nowhere, this Actor Plus, I felt love for him. I'm not gonna marry him, I'm not gonna date him, I may never talk to him again, and I loved him. As much as did, I'm not sure I can handle future playdates. You see, I've got a lot of meaning that gets in the way. Maybe I should make a purchase from the Vacuum King for that.

After all, he didn't kill me in my sleep.

© 9/04 Scix Maddix