My Paperback Release Party Didn't Just End With Me Sucking Eight Dicks

It ended an era.

The paperback for Boyslut: A Memoir and Manifesto is out now. Order it here!

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Original illustration by Eduardo

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Usually, I’d love the idea of 25 naked men focusing all of their sexual attention on me. I relish being on my knees, circled by hairy guys, their thick shlongs in my face. Licking their mushroom heads. Sucking their cocks. Their soft pubes acting as a nest for my nose when I deepthroat them. I love to double-fist while I gag, putting my spare limbs to use. Whenever I’m pleasuring multiple cocks, I feel like a juggler who has to keep a dozen plates spinning; only I’m frantically switching between peens, trying to keep each one erect. 

But I wasn’t in the mood for dick that evening. I didn’t want to take hot, creamy loads all over my face or discuss Boyslut: A Memoir and Manifesto, which was unideal, given that was the purpose of this paperback release event at MMX, which was set to culminate with an orgy. 

The night before, I finished watching Netflix’s Baby Reindeer, which was the most impactful and troublesome show I’ve seen in years. After that traumatic shit show, the idea of being a fun-loving Boyslut wasn’t high on my list. 

Also, I am tired of talking about my book. Combining interviews, podcasts, book clubs, and talks, I have spoken about my memoir over 100 times. While I love talking about myself and my work, at some point, it’s like, seriously, again?

But hey, sometimes you don’t like your job, right? Still, you put on your pants (or, in my case, a slutty jockstrap and mesh crop top) and set out to do your damn best, despite not feeling motivated. 

Luckily, within three minutes of the Q&A, I was horny. Something about having strangers stare at me, hanging onto my every word, makes me feel desired. And I love feeling desired, especially for my mind—my words—not just my body. 

I nearly popped a fat boner when someone in the audience compared my writing to Phillip Roth's. “It’s giving Portnoy’s Complaint,” he said. 

“What’s crazy is that I only read Portnoy’s Complaint after I wrote Boyslut!” I shrieked. “Which I think is good. I would have been too influenced by his work, but we have nearly identical scenes about our dad’s grapefruit-sized testicles.”

I could feel the sexual tension in the air by the time my Q&A finished. Yes, the audience was there to there to hear me speak, but a big draw of the event was the orgy that followed, an orgy that all but promised I’d be sucking every cock within a five-foot radius. 

As I signed books in the corner, meeting and greeting attendees, MMX staffer Patrick began rearranging the room, dimming lights, removing chairs, and adding massage tables. Slowly, he transformed the space from a “talking room” to a “playful room.” 

The line for the meet and greet was dwindling when Patrick gathered all the men in a circle. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Patrick lead these men in a breathing ceremony that ended with every guy stripped down naked. Dicks were hanging. Butts were perky. Testicles were shaven and smooth and waxed. Patrick encouraged consensual and gentle touch—to explore one another’s bodies. 

I was growing antsy. I wanted to get in on the action, a vast departure from how I felt an hour earlier, but I also wanted to get to know every person who took time out of their day to see me. What brought you here? Have you read my work? What speaks to you? You went to a new sex party in Brooklyn? Tell me all about it. 

At long last, there wasn’t a single gentleman left in line. Before me stood roughly 25 men, mostly paired. They were hugging one another—heavy-petting, frotteuristic hugs with their bodies pressed against each other. They stroked each other’s cocks and fingered each other’s holes. 

This event was supposed to be about me—not just the reading—but the orgy. It was marketed as “fantasy fulfillment,” where I get to fulfill a lifelong dream of mine—getting throatfucked and bukkaked by a dozen some-odd men. 

So I felt very empowered to be a cock goblin. (You wouldn’t have stayed for the orgy portion of the evening if you didn’t want me to suck your dick.) 

You wanted my wet mouth that unhinges like a snake. My slutty mouth that drools like a Saint Bernard on a five-mile hike. My whoreish mouth that can expand so large it’s taken not one, not two, but three hard cocks simultaneously. 

There was a scene of four men stroking each other in a square. I made my way to the center and dropped to my knees. I started sucking on the biggest and hardest cock of the bunch. (That’s what you have to do when infiltrating a pack. Find the biggest alpha dog/dick and show your dominance by swallowing him like a circus freak.)

He was a hairy man with a belly, blond mustache, and round Harry Potter glasses. I loved the feeling of his stomach smacking against my nose. Quickly, I was making a slobbery mess all over his cock. 

I stroked his dick with both hands, collecting the saliva and using it as lube to start stroking two semis. The men grew in my hands as I applied firm pressure to the girthy member with my slutty mouth. 

“Yeah, that’s the Boyslut,” my big-bellied friend said, pushing the back of my head down deeper onto his cock. I gagged but kept sucking, the pro that I am. 

I have mixed feelings about being called a Boyslut during sex—but in that moment, I wanted it. I craved it. I truly felt like the mother fucking Boyslut. 

My dick, now hard and fat, as if it were a stuffed goose, was bobbing up and down as I sucked and stroked. A man nearly lay down on the floor to suck me. I greatly appreciated his commitment—his neck would be sore the next day. More men started to swarm—dicks of all shapes, colors and sizes. Flaccid and hard. Curved and straight. Big and little. But they all had one thing in common. Soon, they would all be in my mouth.