At its best sex is a kind of communion, whereas my worst lovers thought we were having a meeting of genitals. Sex for me is often transcendent. I love the sense of co-mingling with someone, where you become hyper-aware of another body, the small subtle reactions someone has to your touch, and you to theirs. Through my anonymous sex life, I learned how intimate strangers can be together—how generous we can be, how much we can care for each other, how much affection we can have. Those kinds of shared intimacies were complicated for me—at once, a great gift in my lonely, isolated emotional life, and at the same time, a bit of a trap, because I spent a lot of time hunting temporary intimacy, rather than nurturing it in my daytime life. There is a safety opening yourself to someone unknown because you aren’t accountable to them after the fact, they can’t call you up and ask for a favour, say. Or ask for emotional support. For a time, that anonymity was amazing for me, because I was a terrified man, so being a stranger allowed me a chance to open up and feel safe. I could be seen, but not known. As I got older and smarter, the goal became finding someone that I could be vulnerable with and still have sexy times, on repeat. The goal was to invest in people who would be around to return the honour.
NEW YORK LAUNCH @BGSQD!
PHOTOS: David Ellingsen