I spent this weekend at the Sundance Film Festival for the premiere of I WANT YOUR SEX, a movie I co-wrote with director Gregg Araki. It’s a warped little love story about a Dom/sub relationship that goes delightfully off the rails, which I imagine/hope might be of particular interest to you pervs. (Alexander Skarsgård called his new BDSM movie a “dom-com,” and I’m officially anointing ours a “Domme-com.”)
The movie is based on a personal experience of mine, from when I was twenty-five and suddenly found myself in a Dom/sub dynamic with my then editor—a terrifyingly charming British man, twenty years my senior. It was one of those transcendent, growth-spurt sexual experiences that changes your life—but then also kind of blows up your life—but you’re ultimately glad it’s part of your story.
I wrote an essay about that relationship years ago, to read at a live storytelling event. (An edited version of the story also appeared in my book.) I thought it would be fun to publish here. This is the first thing I’m paywalling, because it might be a little “too much” to be randomly blasting out to the entire internet tbh. (I guess this is what it means to be 40—you put the incriminating stuff behind a paywall. Maturity?)
Here ya go…
Amoral Tale
I was summoned into Malcolm’s office one winter afternoon, by an email from his assistant. I already knew who he was. When I arrived he was sitting straight-faced behind a large oak desk, petting his Persian cat like a supervillain. “I’ve seen your films,” Malcolm said to me, referring primarily to a video I’d made of myself masturbating on a fire escape in a fur coat, which I had put on the internet and called art. “They’re good. You’re interesting. I wanted to meet you.”
Malcolm ran an art magazine and hung out with porn stars, but still managed to be taken seriously because he was a man and dressed well. I assumed he wanted me to write for him, which was exciting, considering I’d been living in New York joblessly for three months at this point. Malcolm was British and nihilistic and twenty years older than me, and in certain lights could look James Bond handsome. He and all his model ex-girlfriends had been heroin addicts in New York in the nineties, and hung around with Vincent Gallo and Harmony Korine. I was far too impressed by this.
“You should let me photograph you,” he said, looking me up and down. “Nude.”
I squirmed nervously in my chair. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
“Why not? Your tits are bad?”
“Uh . . . no, they’re fine.”
“Your ass then—is your ass bad?”
“No, it’s fine.”
“So it’s gotta be your pussy. Is it...” He made a so-so gesture.