Like a pedophile's inappropriate erection at a YMCA pool, Elvis kept popping up. Three years post-Rex, I was living in Burlington in a house full of "creative types" (read: potheads with enough money to buy musical instruments, paintbrushes, and poetry journals). For a couple of months, I was the only person in the house with a computer, so I put it out in the den to make it a public computer. I deleted all the pornography, and wiped the history file clean of anything that could ruin someone's day.
About a week into it being a public computer, I checked the history file to see what people were looking at. I found an assortment of online comics, the complete lyrics and tablatures to Phish and Ween, a how-to guide about Section 8 living, and Gay.Com.
I was not the only out homosexual in the house. There were up to seven of us living together at any given time, and at this particular juncture there was me, one bisexual guy (no, not ever, not if his cock tasted like Smarties, and his ass felt like gelatin...well, maybe if his ass felt like gelatin, but it didn't, so the point is he was gross), and one decidedly dykey lesbian. Oh, and we think the cat was a little fey, too.
At any rate, I had never seen gay.com before. I'd visited the personals on PlanetOut, and seen an assortment of real porn sites, but I'd never stumbled over that infuriating little spike on the information superhighway known as Gay.Com. So of course, I started clicking. Everywhere. Guys here, guys there, looking for this, look at my cock, I want a man who dresses in purple bunny suits and likes to be peed on while reading Martha Stewart Living, etc. I was enthralled. And then...I saw him ByronElvisSeithRex. His hair...his hair was styled EXACTLY like mine, it was my color (it had not been when we were together). He looked like a thinner, better-looking version of me. So much so, that when I showed the website to a friend, she asked if he was my little brother. Ga.
I haven't been back since.
Occasionally, his name would pop in a conversation with someone who knew me back when we were together. I started writing about him in the hopes of exorcising him completely from my life.
I moved from Burlington back to Boston, and spent two years not thinking about him much. Then I moved from Boston to Pieceofshitdeserttown and knew I would never have to see his face again. We were both older, and...why am I trying to build up tension here, you know what's coming.
A couple of weeks after I returned to Boston, I resorted to porn. Well, not exactly resorted, more like camped out at a cheap motel, or hoboed. I put some phrases into Kazaa and started downloading. The first three files were very porny. I found myself more amused than turned on. Began contemplating writing a porno script, so I began to put in common porn theme ideas into the search feature: pizza delivery boy, plumber, behind-the-scenes, poolboy, etc.
The sixth video I successfully downloaded was a plot-porn. The first two "characters" were discussing a third. The two were amazingly hot. I really didn't think I was going to make it to the third character when they showed him: Elvis.
The turtle pulled in his neck, the boys decided it was too cold and went home, someone let the slack off the line...my cock was Droopy the Fucken Dog and it said "Going down, sir. Sub basement level, sir."
It was at least an hour before I looked at porn again.
When I first started working at kookaburra Canyon, I was determined not to be an asshole. This can be difficult for me. I have a habit of purposely saying the wrong things to the right people in order to get laughs at their expense. I think this is why I've almost exclusively dated morons.
I lasted a record two shifts before I became the poster child for Eye Rolling and Sexual Impropriety. I got to be really good friends with My Almost Mutual Infatuation Partner, and She Who Would Eventually Become My Baby's Mama. A few months into our friendship she asked me if she looked fat. The girl is 5'3" and possibly 11 pounds, maybe 12 if you dip her in a vat of bacon grease. Maybe.
I told her that she did look like she'd put on a few pounds, but what did she expect? She was carrying my child. It was a throwaway joke and probably wouldn't even be memorable if it weren't for the next night.
I was hungover like a towel on a dormroom closet. Between paperwork and the actual waiting tables, I'd been working for nearly ten hours str---gay. My last table of the night was a group of frat boys. Like koala bears and Elijah Wood, frat boys are cute in their natural habitat, but you wouldn't want one up close and eating in your restaurant.
Fifteen minutes into their debauchery, I realize they hate me. I mean they HATE me. Enter, She Who Is Now Referred To As My Baby's Mama. It's her night off, but she stops in to meet some people after work for a few drinks. She looks a-fucken-mazing. You know, if you're into short chicks.
One of the guys at the table starts to get huge hearts in his eyes, his tongue falls around his ankles and his erection would have knocked over the table except for the fact that he's a frat boy, and everyone knows frat boys have macroscopic phalluses.
Frat Boy #1 turns to Frat Boy #Who Cares? and says "Dude, I could totally get her phone number." This starts a barrage of comments affirming their heterosexual machismo while reducing She Who Is Nearly Known As My Baby's Mama to nothing more than a walking ass with tits on them. An affliction of sight prevalent in the wild frat boy.
She Who Is Seconds Away From Being Known As My Baby's Mama has great hearing. She pivots towards the table, which does little to hush the bravado of Frat Boys The Musical. As she walks by me, she pushes my order book out of my hand and kisses me quite hard.
She looks right at the table and says "You guys are lucky My Baby's Daddy isn't a jealous man," and then walks away.
The Fratboys ask me if she's seriously my wife. "No." I tell them. "We're not even really dating, we just kind of fool around, and thought it would be fun to have a kid together."
The Fratboys name me their king, toss me on their shoulders and lead me to the infinite land of keggers and Madden Football. They also leave me a sweet tip, and ask me if My Baby's Mama has a sister.
Now the offhand comment about our relationship become a long-running joke. Nine months after the comment we name the baby Unique, and make jokes about my deadbeat-daddedness. I keep leaving for three or six month sabbaticals, and never pay child support. What can I say? I'm a bastard. So is Unique, I suppose.
Giggles and her boyfriend arrived in the restaurant I work at, just before I was to go home for the evening. They took a seat in my section and informed me that they were waiting for six of their friends to show up. They ordered two waters (of course), and said they wanted bread on the table at all times. I got the feeling there were no other friends showing up, and that they were on some sort of prison diet.
An hour later the friends showed up, all talking on their various cell phones, and shaking their heads and shushing me every time I went to their table to ask if they were ready to order.
Giggles was the Alpha Bitch. When she was ready to order she yelled my name across the restaurant. The table ordered a plate of Cheese Fries, two salads, and a bowl of Clam Chowder.
Someone had rung in a Cheese Fries by mistake earlier, so there was an order sitting in the window when I got into the kitchen. Since I wanted to get these people out of the restaurant as soon as possible, I brought it right out to them. I then went back to the kitchen to wait for the salads and soup.
Just as the salads were coming out, one of my coworkers rushed into the kitchen and said I was needed at my table immediately.
Giggles was no longer chattering with her boyfriend, or their assorted friends. Her lips were sneered so high that I couldn't see her nose, and I'm reasonably sure there was steam coming from her eyes.
"Sir," she snorted "I usually don't like to complain" *cough* YEA, Right. "but I have never been so disgusted in my life. The clam chowder you brought out is cold, has no clams in it, and the portion is ridiculously small. I demand a refund, AND I want to see the manager. There is no excuse for such horrible food."
I did my best to keep my polite customer-service smile as I said "Miss, that's not clam chowder, it's ranch dressing."
Someone recently made a degrading remark about a gay mutual friend, and implied that the annoying fantasy world he lived in was because he was gay. When I replied that I’d rather not be lumped into a category with the lunatic simply because we both liked cock and ass, my friend said “Wait, you swing that way too?” “Yes,” I said, “but whereas many of our gay friends prefer to swing for the fences, I prefer to bunt.”
This pretty much sums up my sexuality.
Odds are, if you see me in a gym, I’m asking for directions. By the same token, if you see me up at the buffet with a heaping plate of food, I’m filling my plate for someone confined to a wheelchair or a pantsuit.
So far my experience with men has been, at best, unbalanced. I’ve had some mundane relationships with people who I really cared about, and I’ve had some amazing sex with people I wouldn’t mind seeing strapped to an anchor and dropped off in the deep side of the continental shelf.
I’m tempted to write that I’m looking for someone interested in more than just sex, but I should point out that “more than just sex” implies that they’re interested in sex. I already have friends who don’t put out.
I don’t really go to clubs, but that’s mainly because I work nights, not because I think I’m too good for them.
I’m not interested in married guys or people into in-depth role playing. I have a father, thank you, and there is a reason I don’t have kids. That said, I’m pretty open minded in the bedroom (and the kitchen, and the bathroom at City Hall, and the sidewalk in front of my Republican neighbor’s house...) but there’s only one bodily fluid I’m interested in exchanging, and it doesn’t usually involve toilets.
Basically, I’m looking for someone for a LTR, but realize I’ll probably have to go through a few one-night-stands/STRs to get there. As long as there are no STDs I’ll be a happy man.