I’ve never considered myself much of a seducer, which explains my attraction to transactional sex. But I’ve recently found myself becoming more…assertive.

Consider a recent night with “Julie.”

Julie is active in her Presbyterian church’s young adults group. She teaches math at a middle school. I was introduced to her when I dated Ingrid; I noticed her auburn hair, cherubic face, and plump rump. Our interactions had been pleasant but brief – there was no hint of a romantic interest from her.

I had also managed to hear some gossip about her scandalous behavior at a New Year’s Eve party.

A few months later, I found myself at a party she and her roommates hosted at their house. Presbyterian abstemiousness did not mark the occasion – there was plenty of alcohol, and it was obvious that Julie had liberally imbibed.

I sensed that Julie could be a slut that night.

I sat next to her on a couch, somewhat secluded from the other partygoers. We chatted about our respective experiences at small Christian colleges. (The code of conduct at her school in the Wesleyan tradition expressly prohibited any sexual activity outside of marriage; she flirtatiously hinted that she hadn’t been entirely faithful in observing it.) As we talked, our legs touched on the couch. I caressed her arm. She started kissing me. (I could smell the alcohol on her breath.) I responded aggressively, grabbing one of her breasts through her sweater with one hand while, with the other hand, rubbing her crotch through her pants.

You tear down my reason
It's your sex I can smell

I suggested that we head to the basement.

She ended up following me down to the basement. After some more sloppy kissing as I pressed her body against a washing machine, I quickly pulled her clothes off – it didn’t take long to strip her down to her underwear. As I turned off the lights, she stripped off her bra and panties. Having heard the rumors of her prodigious oral abilities, I wanted to feel her mouth on my cock. We moved onto an old couch. I placed the palm of my hand on the back of her head and guided her head to my crotch. She took my cock and proceeded to give me a blowjob. But I didn’t want to come in her mouth. I got on top of her on the couch.

She spread her legs apart.

Neither one of us brought a condom. But the prospect of fucking her without protection only fueled my lust. After a few awkward moments of positioning ourselves on the couch, I slowly pushed myself inside her. (Despite our haste, I needn’t have worried that she wasn’t wet enough. I imagine the alcohol and her arousal temporarily anesthetized whatever sexual guilt came from her Wesleyan Holiness background.) I made no pretense of lovemaking as I fucked her.

You let me violate you
You let me desecrate you
You let me penetrate you
You let me complicate you

I struggled to stifle my groans lest our acquaintances catch us in flagrante delicto. As I fucked her faster and harder, thrusting my cock into her pussy, I felt my sweat drip onto her body. At this moment, she was no sister in Christ.

I wanna fuck you like an animal
I wanna feel you from the inside
I wanna fuck you like an animal
You get me closer to God

The intensity of our fucking was too much. My body convulsed. An orgasmic burst deep in her pussy. That primal sound of release.

We disengaged. Without saying a word, she picked up her bra and panties (which had been discarded on top of the washing machine) and got dressed. She then stumbled up the stairs and rejoined the party.

Having (temporarily) sated my carnal urge, I put my clothes back on and quietly exited the house.

While most of my colleagues watched the Super Bowl last night, I had an edifying dinner with “Julia,” a philosophy student at the university. “I’ve never had a serious discussion with a theologian before,” she said when we first met. She said she was raised without any religious background, although her extended family was Roman Catholic. That, along with her training in academic philosophy, gave her a distance from religious experience. She’s a 34-year old student earning an advanced degree in Continental ethical and political philosophy. The thinkers she most interacts with are Arendt, Derrida, Deleuze, Heidegger, Foucault, Lyotard, Althusser, Nietzsche. A reference to Foucault turned cheeky: “In a patriarchal system, vanilla sex has a power dynamic just as much as BDSM,” she said. “Only the female is submissive. And no whips and chains.” She discussed the contradictions and complexities in being both a Nietzschean and a feminist. She clarified Nietzsche’s writings on the master-slave relationship and his views on Christianity. (“Read The Genealogy of Morals,” she advised.) Our conversation turned to the subject of sex work. Sex workers, she said, learn the forbidden truth that love is contingent. The fictions of heteroromance and lifelong monogamy are exposed in the transactional encounter between provider and client. Then she became more subdued. Despite having no direct experience with religion growing up, she recently has evinced an intense interest in religion. Previously she confessed to having corrupted a candidate for the Anglican priesthood to the point that he was no longer able to receive communion. Now she was haunted by Nietzsche’s “Death of God,” yet could not conceive of a compelling case for religion in postmodern thought. I recommended the late Michael Novak’s book No One Sees God: The Dark Night of Atheists and Believers. Her vulnerability became more pronounced as the evening progressed. Our bodies drew close together on the couch.

She reached over and kissed me.

I reciprocated and kissed her deeply. I confess that during our conversation I had stealthily eyed her luscious DD breasts. Without any resistance from her, I lifted up her black sweater and pulled it over her head. My hand reached behind her back and unfastened her bra. My mouth fastened itself on her hard nipples. As I sucked on her breasts, she suggested we move to her bed. Once we were in her bedroom, she pulled down her black panties. I positioned my head between her thighs and penetrated her with my tongue. My tongue explored her depths before it located her clitoris, applying gentle flicks. She became increasingly wet.

“Fuck!” she shrieked as she came.

She lay back on the bed. I moved my body close to hers. She grabbed my cock and pulled it inside her pussy. As she wrapped her legs around my back, I began slowly thrusting. After a while, she got on her hands and knees. I gave her ass cheek a slight slap, then grabbed her waist as I fucked her. But she wasn’t done. She climbed on top and rode me cowgirl, her hips bucking back and forth, her body flailing. I was close to coming, but I didn’t want to ejaculate in her pussy. As she got back on her back, I jerked off over her chest. Finally I unleashed a stream of white cream over her tits.

Then she giggled. “Lutherans are very intense in bed!”

For Lutherans, October 31 is Reformation Day. There is also a certain secular celebration that night….

An establishment popular with students at the divinity school is having a Playboy-themed Halloween party this weekend. The waitresses will accordingly be dressed like Playboy bunnies.

Despite the enticing theme, my aversion to crowded environments may deter me from attending. Despite some promising new candidates (“Jenna” with her buxom appearance is particularly tempting), my prospects for hooking up are limited. Such encounters are generally lubricated with alcohol, and, except an occasional glass of wine, I generally don’t drink. A certain shyness also inhibits me from making a move at social events. The hookups I’ve experienced have mostly been initiated by my female partners.

Still….

A hookup would not be unwelcome this All Hallows’ Eve. The holiday has become attached to promiscuity. Espying the nubile coeds in their slutty costumes will certainly trigger my carnal instincts.

“The zipless fuck,” wrote Erica Jong in 1973, “is the purest thing there is.” It is sex at its most nihilistic. Devoid of romantic attachment or procreative intent, its only pursuit is hedonic ecstasy. Intimacy is an obstacle to orgasmic fulfillment. “For the true ultimate zipless A-1 fuck, it was necessary that you never got to know the man very well.” Even the hookups I’ve had have entailed a degree of acquaintance. The thought of spontaneously fucking one of those scantily costumed college girls without even getting to know her name is a fantasy of mine.

Her lips slowly imparted kisses along my collarbone. Then down my chest. Down my stomach. Down to my pubic region.

“I’ve been a bad, bad girl….” softly confessed Fiona Apple in the background.

Her hand wrapped itself around my erect member. I felt her tongue gently flick the tip of my cock. My fingers grasped strands of her dark brown hair. After teasing me with her tongue for what seemed like an excruciatingly long time, her lips finally enveloped my throbbing hard-on.

A groan I had been stifling escaped my throat.

“Sheryl” had been a classmate before completing her master’s degree. We unexpectedly encountered each other at a seminary event as the spring semester drew to a close and agreed to meet for coffee at a newly reopened coffee shop near campus. Her background is in music; she’s a violinist and conducts a youth orchestra. Her father pastors a small urban church. She’s just a few years older than me and comes from a similarly conservative religious background (she was an undergraduate at Wheaton), although her theological leanings have since drifted leftward. (Witches, Sluts, Feminists was a title she recently read.) Her brassy personality certainly contrasts with mine, which made our ultimate coupling all the more intriguing. Our first date consisted of catching up and discussing one of her favorite authors, George MacDonald. Always flirtatious, she grew increasingly brazen during our second meet up for coffee — she ran her fingers through my hair at one point. Then her hand slid along my belt. By then I was fixated on getting her into bed. She must have intuited my intentions because she invited me back to her place.

Once we arrived at her home, we wasted little time — we headed straight to her bedroom. She undid my belt and the zipper on my pants. We started making out. Our lips met, and my tongue forced its way into her mouth. Again she ran her hands through my hair. I undid her bra; my mouth greedily sucked on her hard nipple. I caught her staring at my hard cock. There was no way to coyly hide my arousal. I was stripped bare in the most radical way, exposed as nothing more than an animal with an erection. She lay back on the bed and spread her legs.

Let my beloved come to his garden, and eat its choicest fruits…. (Song of Songs 4:16)

“Mmm….”

After I tasted her, she reached inside her nightstand (I spied a vibrator inside the drawer) and pulled out a condom. She rolled the condom onto my cock. She lowered herself down and guided my cock into her depths. My fingers dug into her flesh as we found our rhythm. Low grunts emerged from the back of my throat. My pace quickened as my hips lifted off the bed as I thrust myself deeper inside her.

“Please, God, yes….”

It had been a while since I last hooked up. My regard for Sheryl in the moment was purely carnal. It felt so good to be inside her.

“OHMYGOD!”

We were nothing more than two sinners fucking.

I felt her tighten around me. I moaned. She collapsed on top of me, breathless and sweaty.

I’ve been communicating online with “Mandy,” a single mom in her early 30s. Her screen name is redhead_freak, which gives a good idea of her interests. (She described herself as a “sexual animal” who wants to be “taken” on her kitchen floor in the middle of the day. “Man, I need to get laid,” she once confessed unprompted.) It appears that we have nothing in common outside a shared interest in sex. We’ve had three X-rated chats so far. She lives a few hours away, and last night she broached the possibility of meeting in person for some fun. Neither of us is searching for a romantic partner on this forum, so the sex would come with nary a string attached.

My experience with Rhonda taught me that motherhood doesn’t necessarily dim the fires of lust. One horny mommy says, “Sex (and especially good sex) is an integral part of being a human being, mom or not. Being a mom and enjoying sex are not mutually exclusive.” The expectation that a single mom should be wholly consumed with parenting to the exclusion of more carnal pursuits probably brings a twinge of guilt to a mom who wants to exercise horizontally. Still, free from the confines of monogamy, some single moms adventurously explore their sexual freedom. One confessed in print that, after her divorce, she experienced a sexual awakening that included multi-partner sex, bondage, sex clubs, and male escorts.

Mandy certainly doesn’t seem like a stranger to sexual adventure. We’ll see where this goes.

The off-campus Halloween party is this weekend. I didn’t go last year. My introversion and social anxiety can inhibit me from attending bacchanals.

The wildest parties I’ve witnessed have been in divinity school. At one I remember, a gay seminarian was receiving lap dances from female students. A stuffed animal was dressed in a bishop’s mitre and “ordained” some of partygoers. A basket full of condoms sat on a table. A faculty member in attendance explained that since we’ll be devoting ourselves to lives of service after seminary, we deserve to “blow off some steam.” Waking up next to a classmate the following morning is common after these festivities. I’ve gotten to “know” a couple of classmates myself after parties.

I haven’t hooked up in a while, preferring to indulge my lust with “specialists.” “Amber” might be incentive enough to go this year.

Amber is a classmate in an ethics class. Slender and petite with wispy brown hair, she’s a promising candidate for a romp. She’s an avowed feminist spouting off about the sins of “the patriarchy” and the oppression of binary heteronormative norms and the like. “Sex is a political act,” she once pontificated in an online forum. Most of the radical feminists I’ve encountered are either lesbians, sex negative, or just plain ugly (and often all of the above). Amber might be different. I imagine that when properly lubricated, even SJWs can’t resist the lust of the flesh.

Let’s see if I can peel off her jeans.

I’m considering putting some effort into finding a fuck buddy. Strictly speaking, I haven’t had one before. Rhonda was sort of a “friend with lots of benefits.” The brief arrangement with the Deaconess became complicated when she developed “feelings” for me. I’ve hooked up, but never established an ongoing arrangement with a woman for casual sex.

The allure of a fuck buddy is that it’s a purely physical relationship. A “friend with benefits” describes a relationship, albeit non-romantic, with a sexual component. With a fuck buddy, all pretense to anything deeper is discarded. It’s only about sex, which both parties explicitly acknowledge. Unabashed carnal pleasure unfettered by emotional commitment appeals to me. I don’t want “feelings” to intrude. I want to keep romance out of it. I don’t want to fall in love. To be blunt, I’m looking for physical satisfaction and nothing more.

Having a regular partner for sex would give my hyperactive libido another outlet. (Twice a week would be ideal.) Ideally, we’d meet, exchange pleasantries, fuck and say goodbye. We’d expect sex from each other and nothing more. Coffee date? Watching a movie together? No, thank you. Our arrangement would be completely compartmentalized from the rest of our lives.

Despite my preternatural shyness, I’m considering experimenting with some “casual dating” apps. Landing a sex partner with the swipe of a finger is appealing. I also have my eye on “Amy.” She’s an attractive classmate seeking ordination in my denomination. Our theologies and personalities clash, but I get the feeling that she’s a minx in the bedroom. Broaching the subject with her would be awkward, though. Perhaps at a party after she’s had one too many. Perhaps she’s also on Tinder?

I slid my hand up her skirt, feeling the hosiery on her leg.

“I haven’t been with a man since my ex,” she confessed nervously. I started pulling her black skirt up. My hand grazed her crotch before my fingers traced the waistband of her pantyhose. Then I moved to pull her pantyhose down.

I met “Susan” on a dating site. She had contacted me. She was a few years older than me and divorced. She was an elementary school teacher and active in her singles’ group at a Presbyterian church. Honestly, she wasn’t very attractive — she was rather heavyset — but she was very nice. And she was desperate for sex.

She didn’t come out and say that, of course. Our first date was somewhat cliché: we met for coffee. She was dressed smartly. Our conversation was halting at first, then as we grew comfortable with each other it flowed more easily. After a couple hours, we left the coffee shop. I walked her to her car and was preparing to tell her good night when she blurted out, “Would you like to come home with me?” I hadn’t expected that. Still, I wasn’t going to turn down the opportunity. After giving me her address, I hurriedly drove to Rite Aid and bought condoms.

She let me into her apartment. I could tell she was quite nervous. She offered me some water, then invited me to sit next to her on the couch. She showed me photos of her nieces and nephews on her phone. I behaved like a gentleman until I sensed that she wanted me to make the first move. I wrapped on arm around her and leaned in to kiss her. Despite her apparent anxiety, she reciprocated. Within minutes, my hand brushed against her pubic hair. She got really wet as I fingered her. We ended up on her bed, our clothes shed. I lay on top of her fleshy body and inserted myself inside her. After we fucked, I fingered her again until she came.

We went on several more dates, each one culminating in her bed. (One Sunday I accompanied her to her church and Sunday school class. Afterwards at her place, after she tossed her Bible aside, I literally ripped off her pantyhose as we frenetically made out and fucked.) Then she sent me an e-mail saying that she didn’t think we were a “good fit for a romantic relationship.”

“Kristi” was a classmate I hooked up with. Recently graduated from college, she was a fellow Lutheran who had an interest in art therapy. Her liberal beliefs were quite different than mine. That didn’t matter. Her long red hair and nice baby-making hips meant more to me.

We met up at an off-campus party. We were reading Lossky’s The Mystical Theology of the Eastern Church for class, and I asked her for her thoughts on it. (She wasn’t too impressed by it.) Like most of the others, she had too much to drink. At that moment I intuited that she might be one of those elusive “Yes Girls.”

I had heard about these creatures, but part of me assumed they were mythical, like the Easter Bunny. I heard whispered rumors about “Yes Girls” in college. Unlike the self-professedly “virtuous” girls at my school, “Yes Girls” were coeds at the nearby public university who would pretty much say “Yes” to any sexual proposition. (It turned out that this “virtue” was a facade for many of the girls at my college. They were merely more selective in their sluttiness.)

Was Kristi a “Yes Girl”?

There was only one way to find out.

My roommate was gone for the weekend. I invited her to my place.

“Okay.”

We excused ourselves from the party and got into my car. We said nary a word during the drive. When we arrived at my place, we went straight to my bedroom. She peeled off her jeans right away, then fumbled with my belt. My pants soon came off. Kristi went straight to work sucking my cock. It was obvious she had done this before. Then she lay on her back and spread her legs open. I slipped on a condom and dove in. As I slowly thrust, I bent my head down and licked her puffy nipples. I increased my pace. She met my thrusts. My bed started to squeak. The sweet smell of her shampooed hair mixed with the stench of cheap beer. We weren’t making love. You don’t make love to a “Yes Girl.” Sooner than I wanted, my body shuddered in pleasure.

Without much being said, Kristi fetched her clothes and dressed. It was clear she didn’t want to spend the night. I drove her home. We didn’t even kiss each other goodnight.

We didn’t talk about it afterwards.