Sex Parties, Sex Books, and Sex Advice
And what I think the single most important tip is for having a fulfilling sexual encounter.
Great sex doesn’t satiate me. Ironically, it makes me hunger for more partners and orgasms. I remember how euphoric sex can feel—how incredible it can be to connect with someone new— and then I want more of it. After all, I’m a greedy bisexual.
And I’ve been having a lot of great sex lately, fantastic sex that nourishes my soul. We’re all coming out of lockdown horned up and more open to exploring, so we’re taking advantage. Not to mention that there’s this looming fear of another shutdown (fuckin’ Delta), so we gotta get the booty while it’s hot.
Sex parties have been particularly wild as of late. (If you haven’t read about my time at Hacienda or Chemistry, you can do so here and here.) I’m excited to try out some new spaces, too. I somehow still haven’t attended Playscapes, and I definitely want to attend Impact to get my nasty kink on.
I also cannot tell you how fucking excited I am to be throwing my own goddamn sex party with NSFW. This will be my first “official” sex party I’ve ever thrown at a venue. (I’ve thrown many in my apartment, but this, this is different.)
Alas, this one will be for da boys (and obvi that includes trans men and trans-masc fellas). However, I do want to throw a mixed-gender party, one that is more along the lines of “bisexual men and their admirers.” So the focus will still be on bi/pan/fluid guys, but women (who like MMFs) can join too.
But not yet! This time, it’s dick and booty central! I am so excited to perform—LIVE SINGING. (Samuel will also be pole dancing, too.) For all of you who have asked, “Do you have an OnlyFans?” well, I plan to fuck everyone in attendance, so if you want to see me in action, now’s your goddamn chance.
Plan to stay the night! Unlike most gay/bi male sex parties, the BOYSLUT x NSFW collab isn't a pump-and-dump situation. There will be lots for you to do before and after ya cum.
August 18. Buy your tickets now. This will sell out, and then I can’t get help ya get in!
Oh, and I co-authored a book. A goddamn book on sex! No matter how sexually experienced you are, I guarantee there’s something you will learn about yourself (or society) from reading this book. On the off chance you don’t learn anything new, at least you’ll laugh! I may have a little too fun with my humorous writing style and tone. Anywho, I’m so damn excited to share my book with the world come April 2020!
Someone recently asked me, “If I could only give one tidbit of sex advice to everyone, what would it be?” Obviously, the answer is communication, but that felt so basic, so I replied, “If you’re enjoying something, make it known that you’re enjoying it.”
This is different from being performative. I’ve been with guys and girls who scream at the top of their lungs when we’re having sex in a way that I just don’t believe; I’m like, I’m good, but I’m not that good. But if you’re holding back sounds, don’t do that. Be vocal. Moan. Tell them how turned on you are. Tell them how good that feels. Tell them they’re daddy’s good, little girl/boy/angel.
Last but not least, here’s a little snippet of this past week’s BOYSLUT (that was only for paid subscribers). If you enjoy me, my work, or real sex stories, please subscribe. It costs $6.90. Nice. (That’s how much you lose in money when you’re drunk and don’t check both Lyft and Uber for the lower price.)
The First Time I Modeled, It Was Like a Goddamn Porno
He attempted to be professional, but I seduced him.
Zachary Zane
I wasn’t sure if we were going to have sex. Of course, I knew photographers weren’t supposed to sleep with their models, but that doesn’t mean they don’t try. But what if I wanted to hook up? Could I seduce him? Or what if I got an anxiety boner, and it ruined all the pics because my rock-hard cock became the focus of the picture? Well, the simplest way to remedy the issue would be to… ya know.
Then again, my life wasn’t a porno. I had never walked into a doctor’s office with priapism and then had a busty nurse with the plumpest DSLs suck me dry. So I got all this nonsense out of my head. Just go, model, have fun, and get paid, I told myself. Stop being such a horndog.
Oh, and you should have seen the way my eyes lit up when he asked me if I would pose for him. I felt like the prettiest girl at the ball. I was 24, recently out as bisexual, and not the confident, charming, charismatic, incredibly humble sexpot you’ve come to know and love.
I was intimidated by attractive gay men. I found them cliquy, but also, I was not enmeshed in gay culture. I didn’t watch Drag Race, had never seen Paris Is Burning, and had no idea who Lara Dern was. Not to mention my fashion tastes were—how should I put this delicately—questionable.
So, for slightly unhealthy reasons, I felt validated. I felt like I could be one of the hot boys of Provincetown, so I accepted the offer without hesitation.
It wasn’t going to be a nude photoshoot. My genital would be covered, however slightly, and the photos were just for the artist. See, he wasn’t actually a photographer, but rather, a painter who drew inspiration from the images he took.
The day of, I biked down Commerical Street to his bare-bones studio, a single room in a tall building with large bay windows and natural light.
He was quiet and kind—rather unassuming. In Provincetown, there’s a lot of flamboyance, a lot of lookers, but he wasn’t that. No flash or glitz. Just an artist looking to create.
He told me he’d take photos in different outfits, holding various items. I should just have fun with it, he explained.
I started with clothing on. I was nervous because I had never modeled and wasn’t sure exactly what to do with my face. I’d been told I look constipated whenever I tried to take a sexy photo, and that over-douched look wasn’t what I was going for.
But he didn’t critique me. He hardly gave me any direction at all. In fact, he kept saying, “Damn, these look great,” and the more confident I became. The more I felt like an actual model.
I began feeling myself, both literally and figuratively. Now shirtless, I rubbed my hand through my chest hair until I’d pull a tuft in the center. I wrapped one hand around my throat, tilting my neck backward, with my eyes closed and my mouth open.
Then I looked directly at the camera. I had my smolder. I had my smize. I was that hot bitch, and I was turning myself on.
I took off my pants, revealing my bright pink undies. (While I wasn’t enmeshed in gay culture, I always loved gaudy underwear, even before I even came out.) While he didn’t ask me to undress, I felt compelled. I wanted the camera to see more of me.
I sat down on the floor and spread my legs wide. The photographer followed, squatting down low to keep me in frame. I noticed his camera wasn’t pointed at my face. It was looking directly at my dick. Then I saw his lens expand as he zoomed in.
My dick, loving the attention, stood up. I had to readjust my undies, so it would fit, and the tip of my dick popped out. My underwear was tiny, and there was no way my cock would fit back in, so I let my head peep through the elastic band.
He snapped photos for what felt like forever without tilting the camera up to see my face. Periodically, he’d take a moment to look at me directly, making eye contact before looking back through the lens. The first time I winked. The second time I bit my lip. The third time I grabbed my hard cock through my underwear and stroked it ever so slowly. Finally, he stood up, stretched out his back, and said, let’s have you change into this. He pinched a white loincloth between his middle finger and thumb.
“Sure,” I said. I got up and stripped down before approaching him. I was hard as a rock, and it was wabbling as I walked towards him. I grabbed the loincloth.
“Let me see what you have so far,” I said.
I let my hard boner rub against his thigh just for a second before I moved it. He didn’t acknowledge it—neither did I. It was for such a brief amount of time that it could have been on accident, or perhaps I didn’t know it even touched.
He scrolled through the photos. “These are hot,” I said.
“Yeah,” he said.
I let my dick brush up against him once more as I stepped away to put on the loincloth. He turned around professionally to give me some privacy, but I kept talking. “So, what do you have in mind for these?”
I took my time putting on the loincloth, so my dick was still out when he turned around. When I finally did dress, I was pitching a massive tent.
“Just keep doing what you’re doing; it’s really sexy,” he replied, staring at my dick.
When he glanced back up at me, I made a face. Not one of disgust, but one of: Why were you staring at my dick? He recoiled, nervous he had crossed the professional line.
He wanted me so badly. I knew it. I wanted him too, but I knew I’d have to be the one to make the first move. He was not a creep. He was a professional, so I would have to seduce him—to let him know that this wasn’t only okay—it’s what I wanted.