Michael Pitt, What Are You Wearing?

Michael Pitt’s Joy Division t-shirt is soo much more in Arabic than your Joy Division t-shirt, so don’t even come at me like your Joy Division t-shirt is more in Arabic than Michael Pitt’s Joy Division t-shirt, okay? I bet Michael Pitt listens to Unknown Pleasures while he’s fucking. I bet that’s totally his go-to sex record — and yes, I mean record because Michael Pitt obviously has it on vinyl, you dummy.

This is what I imagine it’s like to have sex with Michael Pitt:

It’s late, like 3 A.M., and Michael Pitt lets you into his loft with the key that’s hanging from brown piece of rope around his neck. He starts swilling straight from the bottle of Shiraz that’s already open and at rest atop the vintage treasure chest that’s standing in for a kitchen table. He hands you the bottle and you take a very cautious sip because you notice there’s sediment floating in the bottle. You notice this even though it’s dark, as the loft is lit only by the handful of Edison bulbs that hang from the ceiling. Michael Pitt turns on his record player – Joy Division’s “Unknown Pleasures” is already in, and the song “Disorder” starts right as you notice the patch of dried semen on the arm of the old olive green couch. You sit down on the middle cushion and flip through a coffee table-sized copy of a Ryan McGinley book while Michael Pitt busies himself downing the rest of the wine and pushing his hair out of his face.

Michael Pitt strides toward you and lifts your dress over your head in a single motion. He looks deep into your eyes as he slides his hands upwards from your hipbones. He tears your bra off by sliding it down your body. It rips and you’re kind of like, what the fuck?, because, like, that’s your bra, dammit! Michael Pitt pushes you onto the floor (ouch!), and you start to suspect he doesn’t actually own a bed. But at least it’s not the cum couch, you think, so you try to get into it. Michael Pitt rips your boyshorts down the front and now you’re really pissed because you were planning on taking the subway home and, well, that’s gross, plus walking up those steps is going to be super awkward.

Michael Pitt goes down on you. He uses only his lips, but it’s pretty nice anyway. He takes off his clothes although he keeps his boots on, and he directs his hands back to your hipbones. He reaches back behind the couch cushions and he pulls out a condom from the 18th century made of parchment. Michael Pitt “enters you” and the stupid condom hurts like hell even though he’s being all slow and direct and stuff. Michael Pitt starts by looking deep into your eyes, but then as things progress, he locks his blue orbs onto an Ian Curtis poster that hangs unframed on the wall — and you’re like, wait a second, why am I competing with a dead guy here? What’s wrong with me, goddammit? Michael Pitt gets up to flip over the record, and as “She’s Lost Control” starts to play you’re pretending to orgasm and you’re like, get this over with already, I can’t take it, I’m better than this, ugh, plus I need to get the out of here so I can go home and blog about this whole experience before I forget a single one of these sordid details.

Michael Pitt comes and then he starts to cry, you think, though you’re not a hundred percent sure because you’re already out the door and in the street under the stupid fucking sunlight sans underwear.

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