3 Slimebabe

When I was a kid, slime was everywhere. It was getting dumped on parents from buckets in kid’s shows, it was prominently featured in Ghostbusters, and there were a variety of toys on the market that included some form of goo. Mine were among millions of pre-pubescent hands fondling yucky stuff in their rooms. It was usually snot-green and meant to be gross, but there was a distinct pleasure in handling it. It slides, flops, feels good and oozy, sometimes squishy like a viscous fluid, sometimes firm as a slappable butt. It’s no surprise that the children of the golden era of slime have grown up to popularize a gooey sexual fetish called Wet and Messy, or WAM.


Also known as Sploshing or Gunge, it is an umbrella fetish that covers various kinds of messy play, with a subset dedicated solely to slime. And it is beautiful; thick stuff cascading down in sheets, solid, bright colors mixing to make anti-color, draping over the body in a fantastic shell. Some like to be gunged while wearing nice suits, some like to be gunged wearing nothing at all; some like it alone, others with others. Part of the pleasure is being enveloped within a suffocating mess, the other part is being naughty and dirty. I’m sure there are more parts to it I don’t even get.


I had the idea to use some form of sexy slime play in an adaptation of Jean Genet’s The Maids that I was directing in 2016. “The maids ooze”, writes Genet in a stage direction. When I decided to stage his play in Baltimore in 2016, I wanted to do something with those stage directions. I had envisioned slime oozing from the walls, dripping onto the characters from ceilings, spectacularly filling up the set. I settled for a climactic exchange between the two sisters where they dump brightly colored slime onto each other from tea cups and then do some wrestling.


I asked Robin to film the play. After telling her my idea to incorporate slime, Robin introduced me to the gunge fetish, and we shared a mutual fascination with it. We watched videos of adults getting off on slime, weirdos covered in beans, and amateur teens in homemade quicksand. I came up with an idea for a video project: a gunge fetish movie about people meeting in a motel room to pour goop on each other. I wrote it on a long bus ride, and sent it to Robin. “Let’s get a kiddie pool, this will be our christmas”, she replied.


We started experimenting with how to make different types of slime. Robin bought some substance they put in shampoo, we mixed it with kids paint, and we had quality slime. We tried it on (I was always on the receiving end, she never wanted to have it on her, but she enjoyed doing the sliming). I stripped naked in her bathtub on a few occasions to have yellow, red, orange bowls of slime dumped over my head, dripping onto my cock, making her laugh. She took a few pics of the gunged dick. It looked like nacho cheese on my dick, long thick strands stretching down into a pit created by my folded legs cramped in a tub. Messy, messy romance.


We shot most of the gunge movie right here, in this skanky roadside motel in Towson, MD. I’ve been here for years, writing in a dried out heart-shaped jacuzzi that we once filled with a melange of slime and other variations.


The plan was to film a short experimental art flick, something like a Jack Smith orgiastic romp, but it didn’t turn out that way. Once Robin and the rest of the cast and crew were all in the motel room, the mood became serious and silent. She asked me to remove my clothes and stand in the tub, which I did. Then, one by one, the cast texted me their sexual propositions:


“Can you fuck a peach?”

“Can you eat my ass on the balcony?”

“Can you drink rat blood?”

“Can you wear a hockey mask and scare the bejesus out of me?”

I texted back “yes” to every request. I’m a pig. I did everything that was asked of me, I even begged for more, but none of it was towards satisfaction.

“I was hoping you would be rougher”, a disappointed influencer texted after I failed to fuck her with the correct amount of dead dad rage, as she had asked for.


When I was done fucking and failing Robin and every member of the cast and crew, their skin opened up, and their desire to perform these obscene acts oozed out from under their cutter scars in the form of a colorful gluey discharge. With this slime, they gunged me. They covered every inch of me, inside and out, paying special attention to my penis, making sure it looked especially ridiculous. They sent pictures of it to my parents. They posted pictures of my slimy asshole on the Facebook pages of my future children. They laughed at me the entire time, while secretly fondling their clits and dicks to the erotic rhythm of gang shame. I found myself under a waterfall of cum, slime and cum-slime. This was my baptism into a new existence as an inhuman slimebabe, a mid-life abortion.


They packed up the equipment and split. I want to get out, but outside is where they are, it’s where everybody is. The bright goo has dried up on my skin, seeping into pores, making me look sick and dirty. Any other stains left behind were made to look like they were just part of the carpet.

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