Tuesday, August 13, 2013


            Hello everyone one. It’s been awhile. We’ve had a scattered correspondence, as if I have been in foreign land, sending telegraph messages when I can, ducking from one cafĂ© to the next, dodging noxious trouble, hopping continents, searching the world for adventure and intrigue. 
Well, I wish I could say this was true, but it isn’t. No, dear readers, I have been embroiled in all manner of controversies, financial troubles, and a whole truckload of bullshit in the last months. I won’t go into who did what, or what went wrong, or what existing parties are seriously fucking with my vibe, but they are out there. For sure. You know how folks say people aren’t really out to get you, well, they are wrong (“…just because you’re paranoid/ don’t mean they’re not after you…”). That’s right. It’s Williamsburg, Brooklyn, and it’s 2013. The only thing I’m dodging is phone calls from the electric company and running into my ex-girlfriend on Havemeyer Street.
So I must remain vigilant, and like corruptive politics, learn how to black out certain information. To honor not bringing things up that could embarrass myself, I thought this week’s topic should be something this bartender knows a thing or two about:
Bad Sex.
I was just kidding, this blog will certainly embarrass me. And yes Mom, it will get dirty, so you might want to skip this one (she’s an avid fan).       
Now, this argument has been fully discussed conversely in a previous blog (see here“Am I Good In Bed?”). I conducted my famous social experiments to learn what makes one believe he or she is good in bed. Now, as some of you may know, I am split on this matter of what good sex and what bad sex is. I mean there are the obvious culprits (rape=bad, whiskey dick=bad, head for both parties=good, someone who loves you=good).
But in the end, I actually think all sexual contact is a good thing, no matter what happens between the parties. Maybe that’s because I’m a repressed Catholic man who fears pleasure and anytime sexuality happens it is a wondrous thing. I also know the opposite types: size queens, sex addicts, girls who want to be slapped in the face and spit on, weight judgers, age requirements, etc, etc. Some people are just so goddamn picky.
The one and most important I believe is that of chemistry. It really is true. I once had a girlfriend who could never orgasm, I’m talking NEVER. I tried to get her to masturbate; I went down on her repeatedly (something my high school girlfriend taught me to do and a life lesson that has seen me through many a lover. Eating pussy is the highest currency in any language). So there I was, a sad and dejected man, thinking my penis might as well have been a wet noodle I dragged behind me through the muddy dirt. Sexual self-esteem: 0.
Then, the next girlfriend I had, changed everything. EVERYTHING I did made this woman come. I mean, the woman was a genius of orgasms, master class for sure. We used to joke about keeping a chalkboard over the bed just for the sheer amount of multiple orgasms this lady could achieve. And it was with the same dick. Nothing changed. I didn’t learn any new tricks, I didn’t start eating Ginseng, I didn’t start working out. Same dude, same dick.
What could it all mean? My young male mind was confused (but also happy that my lady seemed quite pleased with me). Then it hit me. It wasn’t me. It wasn’t her. It was us. The combination somehow on a molecular and chemical level created what made each other desire our mutual genitals, and often.
That being said, there have been a handful of strange, sad, and embarrassing moments that for me (and certainly the other parties) have experienced together.
So let’s just take our clothes off people, and jump right into bed to discuss a couple moments of what really the bartender knows about bad sex.


My more dedicated readers know by now that I have a hair problem. No, I’m not going bald or anything like that. I’m referring to the addiction I have for big, boisterous hair on women. I have a ‘mane’ problem. Some guys are breast men, some guys are ass men, I am a hair man, through and through. Having a woman take down her hair in front of me, shaking it and slipping her fingers through it, causes the same reaction as seeing a woman take off her shirt for the first time in my bed.
One of the countries that has, per capita, fantastic hair is Brazil. Oh yes, and one fine day in Boston through much luck, I spotted this one woman, charmed her, and the next thing I know, she was drinking whiskey with me in my cold water flat in the Back Bay. She was a sweet heart, I got brave, and we began to make copious love. The whole time (and this was before I knew I liked hair this much) I had my hands running through her thick mane of black hair. She commented:
“Wow. You really like hair, don’t you?”
I guess I never considered it before. But that’s not what got weird. When we were fucking, she kept repeating, over and over again: “Ay Papi! Ay Papi! Yes Papi!” At first, being a white man, I was confused, but as she continued to express herself vocally with this “Papi” business, it began to weird me out. Not only to the reference that I was her Spanish speaking father, but also reminded me of cultural differences that I at such young age made me uncomfortable.
I wouldn’t say the sex was ‘bad’, just really, really weird. And weird, sometimes, takes you right out of the moment.


I’ve been a bartender for about eleven years now. When you work the dive bars, you have a tendency to attract a certain amount of women who simply like you because you are the bartender. I’m not saying because I was a bartender, it’s because of the position of the bartender. Think about it, when guys usually approach women at bar, they can come off creepy, weird, and desperate. But the women willingly come to you. You are not the creep, you are the drug dealer. So being in that position, you’re personality is not clouded by the bullshit of trying to ‘hit’ on people. 
So over the years, yes, I’ve attracted a lot of women in this fashion. But I’ll never forget the Ghost Girl. She was gaunt, pale, eyes grey like overcast days, and when she spoke, it was always in a hush and whisper. Sometimes I would run into her, at the beginning and try to talk to her, smiling and being my jovial self. But Ghost Girl was elusive, looking at me strange when I would try to engage her. 
She seemed like she liked me, but who could really tell? Except for one fateful night I was walking alone, drunk, late one night down Grand Street and I hear a voice:
I turn and it’s Ghost Girl. “Oh hey,” I said.
“What are you doing?” She said, her eyes darting back and forth down the dark and foggy road.
“Drinking! Care to join?”
There we were drinking copious amounts of whiskey. Ghost Girl didn’t seem that bad anymore, the alcohol making me lose all inhibitions. We ended up at my home. I kissed her hard on the mouth, but her lips seemed immobile. I took her over to the bed and put her hand on my cock. I felt myself rise and I went to enter her.
And then it happened. Never in my life has anything like this occurred. Her insides felt cold. Yes. That’s right, like she was storing ice inside of her pussy. Immediately, I stopped having sex with her.
“What’s wrong?” she whispered in the darkness of the room, her eyes slightly glowing in the shadowed room.
“I’m sorry, I’m just really drunk.”
I held her close, staring up at the world.
I was sleeping with a ghost. Yes. I do believe.


Everybody has a sob story about this, but mine was exceptionally horrible. I’ll be brief, so I don’t kill myself reliving this tragic moment.
In sophomore year of high school I had a serious crush on this girl named Megan. She was a senior, mature, sexy, with devious eyes. She looked dangerous. Some people do, they just have that look. Ladies, you know what I mean.
Either way, she was in choir, so I decided I would join choir along with her. There I was, sitting in the baritone section, staring across the room at the sopranos, watching with child-like wonder. Her boyfriend also was in choir, Dave. Well, Dave was an asshole, that jock type from the eighties (although he was in choir, hmmmm….). They were always fighting and I remember that if the day came I would save her from the clutches of this terrible man. 
Well, one day, I don’t know how it happened, but somehow, Megan, a mutual friend of hers, and me all went to the movies. The friend had to go, and it was my lucky day. I had Megan alone. She looked at me:
“Wanna go to my house?”
“Ah, sure.”
Everything was a whirlwind. She led me into her abode (it was a trailer in a trailer park in Stanton, California. Class).
I sat on her couch. “You seem nervous,” she said.
“I’m fine.” I certainly wasn’t.
“Lie down. You like backrubs?”
“Yes.” I lied. I don’t think I ever even had a backrub in my life. But there it was, her hands on me. Then she whispered: “Why don’t you turn over?”
I couldn’t believe it. I turned over and I felt her lips on my neck. Before you know it, we were making out, hard, and rolling on her floor.
“Let’s go to my room. My Dad’s coming home soon.” This made me nervous. She led me by the hand into her room. I was suddenly racked with fear. THIS WAS IT. Sex, sex, sex, sex, sex. A teenage boy’s moment, now in the hands of an older woman.
But something was wrong. Some gnawing. Lying on top of me, between kissing her face and neck, I said the wrong thing: “Aren’t you still with Dave?”
“What?” she said, panting.
“Dave, your boyfriend.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
My pants came down, my penis now in her mouth. It got hard and she leapt up upon it. I felt her bring her hips down on me. But something was off. Any normal man would have just shut up. Not your bartender, ladies and gentleman.
“Yeah, but, it’s not right.” I said.
This made her pissed. “What the fuck is wrong with you?!?” She leapt off, and began her angry litany.
“What kind of man are you? What the fuck is your problem? Godammit!” And the barrage continued. I grabbed my clothes, dejected, and got the hell out of there. And if that wasn’t the worst of it, the next day at school, Dave found out somehow I was over his girls place. He then found me on the quad, came with three friends, and proceeded to beat me where I stood until the officials could break it up.
I would definitely say that, my friends, was some bad sex.


Fast forward. Williamsburg. 2009. The great wild year. I somehow stumbled upon a very awesome, inexpensive pharmaceutical drug dealer.  This, for someone like me, is very bad. I have, once in awhile, proclivities towards such ‘downer’ substances. Either way, I was living on cloud nine at this point. I had just got a job at a great dive bar, I was shooting short films, and more importantly, I was dating lots of women. The only problem is is that when you mix the pill thing with alcohol, you start blacking out.
One night I when on a date with a girl and didn’t even remember it. I apparently got on stage of Mercury Lounge, smoked weed while my friends band was playing in front of everyone, went downstairs, shared a bottle of Jameson with the other band and proceeded to take the other woman home and have sex with her. She told me what happened when she called a week later to say she had fun and I didn’t remember who she was. Yep. That’s bad sex. Another night, some poor woman and I began making out at the bar and by the time I got her home the pills were really doing their thing.
I took her to the bed, pulled her pants down, went down on her, then I stood up on the mattress to undress myself, and subsequently fell backward, pants around my ankles, and past out on the floor, only to wake in the morning to this dissatisfied woman smoking a cigarette, grinning at my ineptitude.

To be continued. How about you guys? What’s your worst sexual moments? Comment below. Until next time.