Read Online Macho Sluts by Patrick Califia - Free Book Online Page B

people from reading about S/M or hearing us speak out, or even associating with us, it isn’t knowledge about S/M that is being banned or controlled. It is knowledge of itself that the supposedly egalitarian, democratic, vanilla majority fears. If someone believes that there is nothing wrong with the object of their desire, and yet is willing to repeatedly postpone obtaining it, to sacrifice it, to do without it, or trade it for a romance or a better job or a good reputation, they are bound to be angry when we insist on having our deviant desire, without guilt, apologies, or explanations.
    Some people cannot be trusted with a helpless body. You know who you are. Some people don’t choose to take responsibility for the pain they inflict on others. Some people think it’s kinder to ignore a need they don’t understand, to starve someone in the name of decency or equality or love. I don’t believe in an omnipotent, omniscient God, because that would make the world a truly horrible place, beyond human redemption. But if you’d feel safer spending a night with one of them than you would with me or some other macho slut, I’ll remember you in my prayers.

Jessie
    I wandered around the huge loft, dodging elbows and carelessly held cigarettes. Small groups of women sprawled in chairs, doing more laughing than talking, unaware of how raucous they had become. “What was this, a benefit or something?” I heard someone ask behind me. No one answered her.
    The party had gone on until the floor was littered and the room was almost empty. It was past midnight. Women who had to work in the morning and the tight, fledgling couples and the militant nonsmokers had picked up their jackets and gone home. The rest of us would probably have to be asked to leave one at a time, and helped out with a hand on the elbow. In the meantime, it was still possible to convince yourself you had a chance to pick somebody up, and there were enough dancers to attract a ring of voyeurs, all of whom seemed to have their arms around each other.
    â€œFanatics,” I muttered, and edged past an ample hip clothed in denim. Eventually, I successfully threaded my way to the aluminum garbage cans that held the empties and carefully balanced my contribution on top of a precarious mountain of cans. I stepped back and admired our collective alcoholic capacity. The sight gave me a foolish, vicarious pride.
    Leaning on a column, I added up my individual score—my rule being that any total is okay and calls for another drink as long as I can get it without counting on my fingers. By that lenient reckoning, I wasn’t really drunk, just loose in the joints. So I drew a bead on the refreshment table and swam toward it, navigating in slow, exaggerated circles around various female obstacles.
    â€œDon’t shake anything loose!” some irreverent dyke yelled at me. I laughed at her and stuck out my tongue. She was not attractive. “What’s your hurry?” she persisted. I kept going, pretending I hadn’t heard her.
    The women selling beer were harassed and impatient. “We’re going to close,” one of them told me over an ice chest full of beer and cold water. Her black hair was stringy with perspiration. “That’s nice,” I said. “I want a Bud.” She sighed with exasperation and fished me out a dripping can. “Buck-fifty,” she grunted. I dug up exact change. She tossed my money into a little cardboard box and hustled over to her comrades, who were sharing a joint in a not-too-dark corner. “You’re welcome,” I politely informed her scapula.
    â€œBad service is politically correct at women’s events,” someone said at my elbow. I checked her out while I was laughing. She was tall and blonde, with the shoulders of a swimmer. I love butch-looking women. They are disconcerted by my admiration, my willingness to be flattered into bed and ordered around.