I spent my thirties distrustful of Open Relationships. Mainly because the people I knew who had them never seemed happy. Most of them either divorced or separated. People freaked out when unexpected pregnancies occured where the paternity was questionable. People got mad because an Open But Don't Tell Me Partner would violate that rule. Things like that.

The worst, of course, was Zuzu and her husband. Twenty-something years of an open marriage fell apart when he had unprotected sex in a Jacuzzi (has anything good Ever Happened in a hot tub?) and got a stranger pregnant. His solution was that they would be some sort of Sister Wives thing and all live in the same house and raise kids together. He was kicked out of the house almost immediately and they never reconciled. But he was the one who called me and let me know Zuzu had been found dead in her house. Nothing more violent than cancer. But I hadn't know she had cancer, as she'd received her diagnosis while I was in a coma. And we hadn't spoken for three or four years before that. Our open friendship had deteriorated as she grew more and more venemous towards the people I cared about.

As this played out, another friend broke up with his primary partner when she got pregnant from another man. Only to find out a few years later, it Was his child but his partner wanted to raise the baby with someone else.

Shit is messy, y'all.

But I'm in my mid-forties now. I have been with more than my and your, and all our mutual friends' fair share of guys ranging from homophobically straight to offensively stereotypically gay, and everywhere inbetween.

I am Comrade's first boyfriend.

Fear not, this isn't a sad breakup story. Or a happy one. Calm down. OUR open relationship works great for us. We've lived together almost since we met. Every few months, Comrade goes on walkabout. It's pretty much building his own Insafemode Journals. I have never feared he was going to leave me for any of the men he's met. I know gay men. Most of us are garbage. We are Very Lucky together.

I also have permission to walkabout. But my legs are So Tired.

In Florida, last fall, we tried to set up some sort of threesome situation but we aren't interested in the same type of guy, which is obvious to anyone who's ever seen a picture of us. So nothing happened.

We each talked to some potential partners. As you might imagine, the skinny, effervescent, twenty something year old gets more messages than the exhausted, overweight middle aged guy who hates everyone. But the percentage of messages that we receive that we are interested in are very similar.

While Comrade anded up meeting some photographer who was nice and respectful until he was creepy (his story to tell, not mine), I met someone I'd been talking with for a few days. A chill guy in his thirties who was on vacation at Disney with his partner. They had a similar open relationship. He'd been skittish about us meeting at the house Comrade and I had rented but eventually relented.

It was a tired trope when I was writing the Insafemode journals: His picture was ten or fifteen years old. For me, it doesn't matter how attractive you are. If you are so terrified of what you look like that you have to send fake or antique pictures, I don't feel comfortable even spending time with you, nevermind pursuing any sort of emotional or physical relationship. I let him have a sandwich (we had too many groceries) and then told him he had to go.

That was in October. Since then, I haven't had the urge to meet anyone outside of our relationship.

Grindr is hilarious to me. I keep thinking back to when Ben invited me over for dinner one night in Allston, and showed me his OK Cupid matches. There were none.

"I've blocked EVERY gay guy in Boston." He bragged, fluffing his hair. "No one is good enough for me."
This was patently untrue. But funny.

I haven't blocked Everyone on Grindr but it is the thing I do The Most. Does a person's profile mention they wouldn't be interested in someone my age or size? Blocked. Why should I bother them? Does someone send me an unrpovoked naked picture or demand one from me? Blocked. Is someone just not my type? Blocked. Is someone aggressive or problematic? Blocked. Does someone have an incompatible kink? Blocked. There are so many great reasons not to waste my time trying to get laid. #1 is ... Comrade.

I had no plans to do any sexual adventuring in Vegas, but we did decide to check for possible threesomes in Vegas, as there's a wider age spectrum here than in, say, Orlando. (We are not going to try it out close to home.)

Nobody that was interested in us particularly sparked mutuality. But.

It's been, what, a decade since I regularly updated The Insafemode Journals? But there are people out there who read them regularly and remember them. People who saw pictures of me that I posted for Coming Out Day or other events. Maybe once or twice a year, I get a message from someone who recognizes me. And such a thing happened in Vegas.

Their opening message was unspectacular. Inoffensive. Fully clothed. Just a mention that I looked familiar. Which was funny to me because they looked familiar to me, too. But I knew why. They were in porn. Not a porn star. But someone who was in a couple of videos that were from a studio that amused me. Not aroused me. Amused me. The acting was terrible. The storylines were Awful. The camera angles were weird. His accent was spectacular. He could have been from the Midwest, Florida, Boston, England. His speech pattern needed a passport wherever he was.

So I told him that I used to have a sex blog, and he admitted to having some videos and asked if I wanted a link. I declined. But we decided to meet up. I wasn't quite sure sex was going to happen. I had seen his porn many years to a decade ago, and his pictures look freakishly similar. I just expected him to look as different from his 2012 self as I do.

We agreed to meet at the resort he was staying at at 9pm, while Comrade was going to have dinner with someone else. The thing was, this porn guy, Carter, was staying at Harrah's. I fucken hate Harrah's. Their signage is terrible. None of their employees know where anything is. And it was just as shut down as our casino because of the stupid the NFL Draft. But it was where he was staying, so I headed over there at 8:30, even though it was a 5-10 minute stroll.

I texted him that I was on my way, and was unsurprised when he wrote back that he'd be late. I wondered if he was having second thoughts. My shitty sense of self kept thinking "I'm not his type at all. I'm way too old, fat, boring, etc. for this kinky porn star." But, like, many of his partners in those videos were Older Then than me Now. And he is also ten years older than he was in those videos, so Shut Up Self.

I sat down at a bar near where we were supposed to meet. I ordered a soda but tipped like I bought a real drink, which caught the attention of the bartender.

"Do you work around here?" He asked.

"No. Boston. But I'm industry."

He nodded. "Ok. Well, thanks." and then he turned his attention to a Very Drunk woman who wanted to find the "valley", which I'm pretty sure meant "valet".

"Oh, it's..." he waved in a direction.

"NO NONO NO NO NO." Drunk Lady scolded. "None of you know where Anything is. Just walk me there."

"But I---" he looked around the bar, there were four customers and two bartenders. "Sure. I'll help you."

I put down another couple of bucks. Because fuck that particular casino. He was too nice to work there.

"Adam?" I heard.

"Oh, hey Carter." I said, getting up. "Good to see you."

"Likewise." he said. His voice was the same as in the videos. I had assumed that was a fake accent. Whoof.
He was wearing a cast on his right arm.

"What happened?" I asked, pointing to it.

"Oh, I just had surgery. Glass." As though that explained anything.

"Oh? Car accident? Walk into a sliding glass door?" I asked.

"I forgot." He sighed. "You're a writer. It's just glass."

"Oh. Ok."

Long, awkward pause of doom.

"What have you done so far in Vegas?"

"Oh." I said. "We went to the neon museum, Area 15 and Omega Mart, we saw The Beatlles Cirque Du Soleil show.--"

"Was that any good?" He asked. "I saw the Michael Jackson show last night, and I had No Idea what was happening. The plot was, I don't know. Maybe I'm just too stupid for theater."

"Noooooo." I said. "The Beatles show had some connecting scenes but it made No Sense most of the time."

"Did your partner like it?"

"He thought it was okay." I said. "But he didn't love it, either."

"How old is he?" I was not expecting to be asked.

"23."

"So you're sugar daddying."

I frowned. "No. We each have our own jobs and share of the finances. I can't afford to be anyone's sugar daddy."

"But you're in Vegas." he said.

"So are you. And you're on a floor so high you have to have a special card and elevator access to get there."

He almost smiled. "The view is pretty nice. Oh, don't judge the room. I'm usually military clean but--" he wagged his cast.

"Of course." I said.

He flashed his key at the door. A red light turned on. He flashed his key again. Same red light.

"Fuck. Again?" he said. "I've got to call security again."

"Ok." I said.

I was assuming, at this point, that he wasn't into me, and was using his key on the wrong door. His way of politely getting me to leave. So I started texing Comrade.

Comrade's Meanwhile Story is that the person he'd been texting decided to go to bed but wanted to talk later because .... he is from Boston.

Sure.

"Hi. This is Carter in room ... Yes. Yea. I got the new key but it doesn't work, either. Could you send someone up? Five to ten minutes? Would it be faster for me to go down there? Yea. Yea. Would I have to wait in line? I don't want to wait in line again. Ok. Five to ten minutes? Ok." He turned to me. "We've got to wait a bit. You're from Boston, right?"

"Yea."

"What happened to your acccent?"

"I broke it." I said "I moved around for a while and it disappeared."

I have never had a Boston accent. I'm from Connecticut and grew up on Cape Cod.

"People always make fun of my accent."

"Where are you from?" I asked.

"Iowa." he said.

Iowa? "Huh."

"You were going to guess Florida weren't you?"

I shrugged. "Gainesville, specifically."

"That's where my mom's from." he said. "God, what is taking them So Long?"

"It's only been about two minutes." I said. "Didn't they say it would be five to ten?"

He sulked. "I wish they'd stop giving me broken keys."

"Yea." I said. "This place is a steady shitshow."

"I'm going to call them again."

My turn to shrug. "Ok."

"Hi, this is Carter from Room...yes. Do you know when you're going to be able to send someone up? We've been waiting a long time. Do you know how much longer? Should I just go down there? I just don't want to wait in no lines again. It takes so long. No. No. No, don't send a medical team. No, jesus, I'm fine. Ok. Ok. I'll go down. No lines, though, right?"

Every flag in the building was red. His shirt was a red flag. His pants. His shoes. His accent. His impatience. Everything red. Everything flag.

"We've got to go downstairs so I can get a new key."

"Ok." I said, following him into the elevator.

I don't remember what we talked about because I was thinking I should probably just leave. I was beginning to think the accent included some slurring as the effect of a substance. Couldn't place which one, though.
It took less than a minute for him to get the key, and for us to get back in the elevator.

"I don't know why they keep doing this to me? I paid good money, you know? Hotels are expensive here. In Iowa, I can get a room for thirty a night. Nobody visits me but at least nobody's breaking my keys all the time."

We got out of the elevator and walked further down the hallway than we were before. It was 100% a completely different room than he'd tried to get into earlier. "Don't forget." He said. "My arm hurts, so it's a little messy."

I am, at my best, a little messy. Clothes piled in one place, a nightstand covered in chapstick, breath mints, change, and books. A little messy.

This was an addict's room.

Three whiskey bottles that I could see. Clothes everywhere. The TV on some random channel about Las Vegas culture. Both beds absolutely destroyed. Condom wrappers (but not condoms) on the desk. I didn't see any paraphenalia, but I also studiously avoided the bathroom because I was pretty sure that's where it was.

He took off his clothes. "Do you have any condoms?"

This was not quite what I had expected. "No." I said.

He shrugged.

"I'll just go back downstairs." and shake my head a bit. "They must have condoms in the little convenience store by the front desk. Should I get lube?"

"I'm allergic to lube." he lied.

"Ok. Can I have your room key? Otherwise, I won't be able to get back up in the elevator."

"Oh. I don't remember where I put my key. Did you see me put it down somewhere? I have this problem where I always lose things."

I shut my eyes. Red flags. "In your pocket?"

He produced two keys. "I don't know which one works."

I plucked them both from his hands. Opened the door, and waved each of them by the door. They both worked, of course. There was never anything wrong with the keys. There was something wrong with the keyholder.

I took the elevator down to the lobby, walked to the convenience store and took a picture of the condom display. "These are all lubricated." I texted. "Is that a problem?"

"Nope." He texted back. "Whatever."

I bought condoms and a soda, took the elevator back up.

He was ass in the air.

"Ohhhhhhhhhhhhh. Fuck me dadddddddddddddddddddddddddddddeeeeeee. Daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaadeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee."

I Hate Age Play Sex. There is no faster way to kill the mood for me.

"Please don't say that." I said.

"You want to be my coach?"

"No."

He turned around and looked at me. "Why are you still wearing clothes? What's the matter, I'm not young enough for you?"

"What?" I asked.

"I get it. I don't look like I'm twelve anymore so none of the fifty year old guys want to fuck me anymore. I should just kill myself."

I threw the condoms on the bed. "You can keep these."

"What, are you just going to go? Can't get it up because I'm so old, Mr. Writer?"

"Here are your keys." I threw them on the bed with the condoms. "Don't lose them."

"Oh, you're going to take care of me now? Don't want to fuck me, you just want to be my daddy?"

I walked out his door. He did not follow.

I texted Comrade. "Well, this went to super shit at the speed of drug addict. Can I come back?"

"Yea." he texted back. "My guy bailed. Guess we'll have to debauch with each other."

"I'm going to need a few minutes."

"Should we meet for ice cream?"

"Yes. That sounds great." I replied.

"Can you at least come back and eat my ass?" Carter texted. "I'm horny and my arms no good."

I blocked his number.

I unblocked his number. I didn't want to be named in a porn not star's suicide note, even if it was just as Insafemode.

Comrade was waiting for me in front of the ice cream/cupcake place. He kissed me Hello. "Waffle cones?"

​"Waffle cones." I said.

​Sex Therapist, teaching a college class, after showing a video of The Incident: "Where do you think this interaction went wrong?"

Student #1: "Well, like, I assume that when A said 'At least I didn't sneeze on your back this time.' he was referring to a previous time where sex was ruined because he sneezed on B's back."

ST: "We don't know that, though. There might not have been anything happening, sexually, when A sneezed on B's back. But maybe don't bring sneezing on your partner up while you're trying to be sexy unless they've mentioned that it's a turn on for them."

The class nods. S1 takes furious notes.

ST: "Anyone else?"

Student #2: "Was it when A elbowed B in the face?"

Many of the students make positive mmmmmm sounds, and there is more nodding.

ST: "While being elbowed in the face is an uncommon fetish, it seems to have happened accidentally in this case, and B was not hurt or injured, just surprised to see an elbow that close up. So I think, in this case, while I wouldn't Reccomend elbowing someone in the face, that it's not, Necessarily where the interaction went wrong."

Student #3 raises hand.

ST: "Yes?"

S3: "Was it when B said 'I'll take an elbow in the face over an Elmo in the face, any day?"

ST: "That was a little odd, yes. And while I would say it was a contributing factor, it probably could been overlooked if ..."

Student #2 oooh oooh ooohs and raises their hand.

ST: "Yes?"

S2: "It was when A said, in a creepily accurate Elmo voice 'Elmo's gonna stick his huge hairy erection in the eye socket of your rotting corpse.' and then laughed until he cried."

ST nods. "That's it. Yes. There is no recovering from that. Using Muppet voices to deliver threatening sexual lines is ALWAYS a turn off, and you must wait at least forty-five minutes before you even think of saying anything mildly flirtatious again."

S3: "Did A & B ever recover from The Incident?"

ST: "Those two weirdos? They were making out before either of them had stopped cry-laughing."

​"We can do it right here. No one can hear us." I heard her say before I shut my window.

Today's uhhhhhhoverheard at Problematic Pizza:

"Yea. No. It came and shit. Yea. No, it was in packed real subtle like. I don't know. Subtle. Like anonymous or something. Yea. Yea. Anyway, I took it out of the package already. Well, get this. The instructions were in fucken Japanese or some shit. I don't know. No. Definitely Japanese. No, it's ok, though. It's ok. It's o. k. See, there's pictures. Seriously, James? How are Pictures going to be 'in Japanese'. They're pictures. Yea. Yea. Well, I know how to use it now. I can read pictures Real Good. No I Haven't Tried It, I'm eating pizza at the....yea. Oh, trust me, as soon as I get home, it's going directly up your ass."

​I don't think I've smiled that broadly at a stranger in a long time.

​A couple who were on a dayte (intentional portmanteau) were having a fairly typical "What do you like? Oh, me, too." conversation when the woman started talking about Gertrude Stein, and the guy didn't know who she was.

Female Identified Person: "You don't know Gertrude Stein? You need to take a woman's studies class."

Male Identified Person: "I'm in High School."

FIP: "No."

MIP: "Yea, I didn't tell you that?"

Ooof. It was like 2006 hitting me in the gut all over again. Run, lady. Run for your sanity.

Overheard by a very bearded guy in a porkpie hat at the Au Bon Pain:

"I don’t mean to be rude but I don’t want to spend Valentine’s Day with you.  I barely know you.  We went out once.  And you gave me herpes."

2009 was a terrible year for my phone.  And, frankly, 2010 doesn't look to be much better.  I had three phones die, one of which I lost twice before it committed hare-kiri.  It was difficult for people to get a hold of me, and difficult for me to return phone calls, as, when I don't have a phone, I don't think to call people.  I'm also not terribly good at being in touch with people when I do have my phone.  It's not that I'm self-absorbed, I'm environmentally-absorbed.  If I'm at work, I'm thinking of comics.  If I'm on the bus, I'm thinking about where I'm going.  If I'm bed, I'm thinking of Sora.  Rarely am I thinking, I should be on the phone with someone!

None of these reasons are why I didn't call The Slut Across The Street back, even though he'd given me his number several times.

The first time I got his number was New Year's Eve 2009.  Since 1999, there has been only one New Year's Eve that I haven't been in Boston doing the family friendly Poetry Slam as part of First Night.  This year was not the exception.  When we were done, I was invited to a White Haus party with a bunch of poets.  And Ben and I decided to split a cab and some champagne on the way there.

The party was uneventful for me, so just after midnight, I hopped in another cab, and went home alone.  There were a dozen people left at my home from an epic party that I know very little about.  I know the kitchen table was covered in a beer pong table.  I know there were pants all over the kitchen floor.  Both of my roommates were shirtless, and the guy that was leaving the party when I came in did not appear to know that he had a penis sharpied on to his face or that his pants were inside out.

My recently rescued cats, Selina Ribcage, and Yoda Louise Vader, were in my room, cringing in terror.  So I picked up Yoda, and brought her out into the remains of the party.  There are only two things you need to know about Yoda, she was adorable, and she was clearly not going to live very long.  I named her Yoda because her head and ears were monstrously large compared to the rest of her body, and I called her Louise Vader because she had terrible respiratory problems, and wheezed uncontrollably at all times.  I had only agreed to rescue her because I had already decided to rescue her mother, Selina, as very few people adopt cats when there are kittens around, and I didn't want her mother to be alone all the time while I was at work.

As I stepped out of my room, with the very tiny Yoda curled in my arm, a very intense guy walked up and started talking about Buffy The Vampire Slayer.  While I'm willing to accept that not every guy with spikey hair and an intense knowledge of the work of Joss Whedon spends their Friday nights on Craigslist looking to sit on a dick, I would put the probability around 97%.

Somewhere around the middle of his "Ohmygod, I totally loved evil Willow when her eyes got all black and swimmy and her hair..." blah blah blah "and the time when Xander lost his eye and", that I realized this was the guy who had offered to help Zuzu and I carry a few boxes into the apartment when I moved in.  I had noticed his crazy eyes, and his Natty Ice breath.  Zuzu had noticed him noticing me.

And he was clearly noticing me now.

While we talked, the room cleared.  And I went and sat in the living room.  Yoda Vader sat in my lap.  The Slut Across The Street was remarking how cute she was, and he started petting her, and looking at me.  And petting her.  And looking at me.  And petting me.  And looking at me.  And petting me.  And...wait, really?  This dude just totally used my cat to feel me up.  And then he just looks at me and says, "Do you wanna?"

Not really.  "Sure."

I was a bit too champagned to remember that night.  And he was too Natty Iced to remember his name.  I just remember that it was so unspectacular that, when he briefly fell asleep next to me, I was trying to come up with the politest way to tell him to get the hell out.  Not in a mean "You son of a bitch" way, but in a "OH, this was a huge mistake" way.

I took his phone number out of politeness.  I didn't use it.  Something he pointed out a couple of weeks later when he stopped in, twice as Natty Iced.  This time, I was unchampagned, and uninterested in his "So," flirtatious smile, "you never" hiccup "called me."

"I know."

And then he invited me and my roommates (who were actual friends of his) over to his house for drinks.  And, it's late.  And I don't have work the next day, so why not?

"We're" hiccup  (really, this can't be happening) "gonna have to" hiccup (ugh) "be quiet because" hiccup (Jesus) "my shitty roommate is a" hiccup *CRASH*
 
With one wsipe of his sweaty, drunken paw, he'd managed to knock his coat rack not only off the wall, but halfway down the stairs into the lobby.

"Oh" hiccup (God) "God"  "I'll" hiccup (why am I still here? "fix that" and he waved his hands to insinuate, I assume, later.

While I went back down the stairs to collect the fallen coat rack, my roommates disappeared into some alternate dimension.  I didn't see either of them again for days.

Instead, I walked into the now empty kitchen, and heard, "I'm" hiccup (I should really go home) " in my room."

And he was in his room.  And his clothes were in his room.  But his clothes were not so very much on him.

"So," hiccup (ok, naked hiccups are kind of funny) "do you have any friends?"

As come-on lines go, this was lacking something.  "Yes.  Quite a few."

"Do they like to" hiccup (did I feed Selina before I left the house?) "cum on people?"

Ugh.  "It's never come up."

"Have you" hiccup (it gets less funny every time) "come up yet?"  And he, of course, reached for my crotch.

Apart from the stairs, I had not.  Despite naked hiccups.

He fumbled in the general direction for my belt.  But instead of focusing on that, I had noticed one of my Buffy trades sitting precariously on a pile of filthy laundry.  Had I let this mostly stranger borrow my

""I'll be right" hiccup (why would I have lent him my Buffy trades?) "back"

He did not come right back.  I'd begun to suspect that he'd been swallowed by whatever dimension had taken my roommates.  Apparently, the Drunken hiccup Dimension. 

After ten minutes or so of waiting, I wandered out to the kitchen, and notices an ass and a pair of legs sticking out of the bathroom.  There was a definite smell of vomit.  At no point in my life has the smell of vomit appealed to me.  And having had now two lackluster experiences, I deleted his number from my phone, and walked across the street.  Comfortable with the knowledge that The Slut Across The Street and I would never again have any sort of relationship aside from neighbor.

This was when my phone rang.

Sora was calling.