Ask Me Anything #1

Hedonism has been more or less accepted in terms of food and alcohol, even certain activities. However, the kink and sexuality part of it has barely been touched by social acceptance. How do you feel about being able to speak freely and honestly about yourself, but having to wear the mask of anonymity while doing so because what you say may not be socially acceptable?

— Q

I’m ambivalent about the mask. On the one hand, I would love to share all of myself with the world. Tell everyone who I am in every sense of the phrase. This is, in part, because this mask is more me than the me most people know. As the Dane said, the play’s the thing. The characters we choose to perform reveal the world most of all. It is a mask I would, if I could, wear always. This mask is me.

There is also the fact that my reticence exists within a context of prudish shame. I wouldn’t want many of my family members or even some friends to know I fancy all genders, let alone that I fantasise about seas of teeming bodies. That I would share a dozen sweating forms with you, Q, my love. I know that, were I up front with my identity, this blog would damage my employment prospects and social life significantly.

However, it would be deceit on my part to say I hate the secrecy. The great paradox of kinks and, to a lesser extent, open sexuality, is that they enthrall because of their social prohibition. At least for me anyway. The naughtiness comes from “we really shouldn’t, but let’s”. The same is true of this blog. I can’t help but be a little excited when I write these posts.

Now, many might say sex is more dangerous than food and drink or whatever else is your jam. This, they claim, is why there are more taboos in the bedroom than in the kitchen. I suspect such souls have never watched a love one eat or drink themselves to death. It’s a sexual conservatism that doesn’t stand up to much probing.

Before I conclude this answer, I ought throw in my thoughts on “hedonism” as a term. While I am certainly inclined to try every all-consenting pleasure, pleasure itself is not my end goal. I want to feel everything. When a loved one passes, I want to feel every tincture of grief. When a politician steals, I want to feel the rage that justice demands. When it is my time to die, I would like to be cognizant. To, as Hitch once said, “do death in the active”.

I am a hedonist, yes, but this is as a subset of my true aim: epicureanism. I want to integrate too the stoic and the reflective in my approach to existing so as to live in the best faith possible.

— The Epicurean Slut

Call for Questions #1

This AMA is now closed. Stay tuned for another next weekend.

Every weekend, I’ll do a no-holds barred Reddit-style AMA. The only thing I won’t answer is anything that might reveal my identity or location.

Be naughty. Be silly. Be philosophical.

Comment below or message me privately with questions. Answers will be posted tomorrow.

— The Epicurean Slut

Performance & My Sexy New Underwear

The naughty underwear I ordered was delivered this morning. I’ve never worn anything like it.

One piece is my first thong, a mesh piece that just about holds everything in. I get that some people don’t like wearing them, but I do. It rides up and touches me in all the places I love being touched, and there’s a naughtiness to wearing something that hides nothing.

This, though, I’ll have to take off when things get hot and heavy. This is not the case for my lace hotpants. They have holes in the front and back that give Q – or anyone else I might play with – access to the good stuff. I don’t have to take them off to bend over, and my cock hangs out the front, ready for love and other debauchery.

The thong makes me feel sexy, but I get hard just wearing the hotpants. And Q agrees with me. When I came down the stairs wearing them, her jaw dropped before she gave me the most lascivious grin. Seeing that joy on her face made my heart and my cock lift.

I think I’m going through a transformation where body confidence is concerned. I’m coming to terms with the fact that it’s not about meeting some abstract beauty standard. Sexiness is a performance the performer themself believes.

Suffice to say, I plan to put on a show tonight.

— The Epicurean Slut

A Clarification on Darker Skin in Porn

I’d like to clarify something I said in yesterday’s post. I spoke a little about the racialised fetishising of darker skin tones and how, ironically, this means there aren’t many ginger men in porn.

What I didn’t mean by this was that this absence is politically on par with the fetishising of people of colour. The latter has far more widespread and deep-reaching philosophical ramifications, and I’m doing my best to keep reading and listening on this subject.

Rather, my point was that our body politics keep narrowing the field of what is beautiful from both sides. Tan but not black was the example I used for what is beautiful. That or exceptionally porcelain. The very narrowness of what qualifies as beauty is the point.

(There is a historical layer to this that distinguishes the fascination with very light and very dark skin tones, but I would prefer to be more informed before going into that.)

If the idea of attractiveness is kept vague and narrow, there are a) more unattainable images to be sold and b) more of us to buy them. This formulation is the best case scenario for any party that profits from the image-centric , i.e. makeup companies, skincare businesses, or patriarchy itself.

This means that pale men such as myself are absent from porn as a function of melanin fetishism. Not as a result. It holds itself in place by working from both sides, and we are all co-opted into caretaking such structures. This is why skin-bleaching and the ostracising of mixed race individuals are both issues within BAME communities. Not too dark. But not too white either.

If the goalposts are never fixed, those who rig the game keep winning. There is a mathematical idea that explains this nicely: the asymptote. This is a value on the axis of a graph a curve approaches but never reaches. It just approaches forever, getting infinitesimally closer. 1 away. 0.5 away. 0.25 away. So on.

We can think of cultural standards of beauty as asymptotic. They are, by definition, only and always theoretical.

— The Epicurean Slut

Aesthetics, Exercise, and Naked Acceptance

This post discusses body image and weight loss. If that’s not what you want to read right now, here is the Google Image Search for corgis in outfits instead.

I am fresh from a 7am gym visit – it was pull day – and I feel wonderful. Next to me is a mug of berries blended with whey protien, and I sit here naked, not reviling my body. I haven’t enjoyed such a mental moment for a while.

There is the odd moment when the lighting and angles are right. I look in the bathroom mirror and do that slight torso twist that, at least visually, maxes out your shoulder-to-waist ratio. It makes me half-smile in a someday way. But, for the most part, I am no fan of my form. My gangly height and long limbs emphasise my pot belly, and I’ve always been a bit chesty for a man.

At least, that’s what the toxic voice in my head says. What I should be saying is: fuck that voice. Fuck him and never call him back. I respect Q’s opinion on more-or-less everything, and she adores my body. I catch her checking me out every time I bend over for Zeus’ sake.

I starting watching porn young, so my idea of what a sexy male body looks like was a) hyper-masculine and b) racialised in an unhealthy manner. In the first case, I still struggle to not loathe my belly, even though Q gives it little kisses often. In the second, I am pale. Very pale. While porn has done more damage to the body politics of people of colour than I will ever understand, it has, ironically, also warped whiteness by fetishising the “tall, dark, and handsome” trope. There aren’t many ginger men in porn.

As women know, the male gaze (that voice in my head?) narrows the spectrum of what is attractive faster than it can be percieved, and it does so from both sides. Sexy but not slutty. Tan but not black. Skinny but curvy. In writing this, I realise that the male gaze is recursive. Men corral themselves with ever-shifting impossible standards too.

I’m therefore trying to integrate a more positive attitude into my workout motivations. Part of this is focusing on strength and wellness rather than aesthetics, but it would be arrogant of me to assume I can rise above altogether. How, then, can I recalibrate my bodily development intentions to be self-loving? Can bodybuilding be free of that nasty internal critic?

I like that my arms and shoulders are naturally muscular. So, I will aim to develop them further. Q loves my tush, and, as much as possible, I’d like to keep my badonkadonk popping as I get leaner. This is worth bearing in mind, as it is powerful to realise you don’t want to change everything. That exercise can make you become more yourself.

I will follow up with another post on this in time.

— The Epicurean Slut

A Welcome Reunion

We made love for the first time in weeks yesterday.

We’re out of practice, but it was bliss. Tender. Then passionate. Things began intimately and slowly, with back-stroking and body-kissing. Before long, we were striving to be as one as possible, holding each other tight as we screwed. To say I love Q reveals the failure of languge. I worship her and want her in every way a human can want another. In the end, she rushed to orgasm purely from the pleasure of me doing the same. It was divine to be so aligned once more. A privilege to laugh and be silly and say dirty things with my beloved after so long.

You see, our life has been disordered for months. My mother passed away, and we have been living around toxic people in overcrowded spaces during a global pandemic since. This is a succinct summary too. It doesn’t convey how dense this one-after-another sequence of shit-fuckery has been, nor how viciously it has ravaged our mental health. We have had neither the emotional or physical energy to masturbate, let alone make love.

But this welcome reunion of ours, I think, shows that things have shifted. Q and I recently got ourselves a wee burrow of our own, and, although moving is stressful, it has provided a space for us to be us. Naked cooking. Epic movie nights. Holding each other as we sway to soppy music.

(Note: I hate dancing, but I will sway with/wiggle my butt for Q.)

But why say so here? It is tempting to see the life of the epicure as an excuse for speeding between sensory pleasures, but I don’t think you can carpe many diems that way. Not really. The true tempo of the most lived life is marked by reflection, gratitude, and grace. That is this. Me saying, right here, that I am so utterly grateful for everything I have and the people I share it with.

— The Epicurean Slut


I want life. That is to say I don’t want to merely watch it pass at a rate of one second per second.

I want to feel the earth of every country between my toes, become lost in books and wine, and feel the skin of a thousand wonderful souls against my own. And I want to do it all with my gorgeous paramour, my beloved Q.

Yet, I also want to heal. It took me years of self-denial and a toxic relationship to realize I’m not like other boys. I’m pansexual, polyamorous, and very kinky. I accept and love this about myself now, but I’m still learning.

Part of this is understanding my own privileges as a well-off white man, and there will be words on this blog that make up my attempt to do so. I am a sex-positive feminist, so I understand these privileges exist in tension with the parts I hide from much of the world. My sexuality. My proclivities. PTSD and a long history of depression.

I am, as everyone is, complex. This blog is my quest to unravel myself. To lay bare myself in every sense of the world. It will be unedited, rambly, and sexually explicit. There may even be the occasional naughty picture.

Most of all, it will be honest.

I am The Epicurean Slut. It’s nice to meet you.