Honest Conversation Is Overrated
Actual Human Interactions Witnessed Or Overheard
In Twentieth And Twenty-First Century America
In Twentieth And Twenty-First Century America
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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.
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The first time my parents came to visit me at Torpor Heights boarding school, my dorm adviser told my parents that I had the sort of personality that adjusted well to change. "Everything that happen. It is like nothing to him. Is just. Day." And, broken English aside, she wasn't wrong.
Wherever I wake up is where I am, and there's nothing that can be done about it. Oh, I can make sure I'm somewhere else in a few minutes, an hour, a day or so. But that's the future. The present is completely beyond your control. It's like the past, but harder to ignore. In my current present, I'm sitting in front of a fan in the living room of The Yoda Louise Vader Memorial Cafegymtorium, which is the name I've given to the house I've been living in for the last year and a half. Tomorrow,.I work in both the comic book store, and at the bar. Thursday, I interview potential new roommates: a pair of friends from Mission Hill, a poetry reviewer (no shit) who already lives in this neighborhood, a "free-spirited artist", and a 21 year old gay kid on disability for psychological problems. The last one is just like Sora, but with an income. Any potential roommate has a lot to live up to. My most recently previoused roommates: Don, and Ms. Gibbons were roommates you're just going to have to read about to believe. Not only were all our bills paid on time but we never had any epic battles over dishes or thermostats, and Ms. Gibbons didn't even steal my TV on the way out like that awful Thai tranny drug addict, Divine, that I lived with on Mission Hill. "Frankly," Bacchus said, as he sprawled across my chest, "I don't know how you can trust trannies anymore." I wrinkled my eyebrows at him. "It wasn't the trannie part of him that stole my TV. It was the drug addict. Or possibly the Asian part." It was Bacchus's turn to shoot a funny look. Unfortunately, he was not gifted with the proper genetics for facial grammar. "Then I guess you'd better keep an eye on me when I go home tomorrow." Bacchus was the man of the moment. It was the summer of 2008. I was living in Somerville, and had spent the winter dating and then not dating and then dating and not dating Sora, among other people. Spring had much the same feel to it. And I spent July preparing for August, where I drove to Madison with Mazarine and did some poetry things, and some insafemodey things. And when I came home, I found an e-mail reply to a hardly used personal ad that sounded promising. Like all solid relationships, ours began when Bacchus pulled his car into my driveway at 2:30 in the morning. We talked, made out, and tried, unsuccessfully to reproduce. But we had enough fun that we tried it again a couple of times for good measure. This ritual went on for a couple of weeks. And while we confined our recreational activities to my bedroom, we often cuddled on the couch in the living room, watching American Gladiators with my roommates or just hanging out by ourselves watching the shadows charcoal the wall. "I like him." The least combative of my roommates, Byrne, said. "He's a refreshing change of pace from Sora." "How so?" I asked. "I dunno. I guess it's just nice that you're dating the God Of Wine now, as opposed to the God of Whine." "I...ok." The following night was the premiere of The Comedy Central Roast Of Bob Saget. The entire household: me, Mike, Byrne, and the other roommate were all going to watch it together. I invited Bacchus to join us, and about ten minutes before the show was about to start, I saw his car pull into the driveway. I tried to hide my goofy grin when the front doorbell rang. "The back door is open." I said. "I don't know why--" and I opened the door to see a Chinese man holding a paper bag. I had been hoping to see a Vietnamese man holding a bottle of vodka. "Huh." I said. "Wrong Asian." Bacchus was in the kitchen, and he was trying his damnedest to give me a dirty look but his face was refusing to cooperate. Byrne paid the Chinese guy n the front porch for his bag of fried food, and we all sat down for the comedy stylings of Jeff Ross, Greg Giraldo, John Stamos, Gilbert Gottfreid, and Norm Macdonald. During one of the commercial breaks, Byrne excused himself to go to the bathroom when a series of explosions went off in front of our front door. "HEEEEEEEEEEY!!!! HEY YOU FUCKEN FUCKERS!!! OPEN THE FUCKEN DOOR!!!!" Then the crash of fists being drunk driven into our front door. "OPEN UP!!!" The room froze. Bacchus sat up with a face that nearly expressed concern. Byrne appeared in the hallway, staring at the door. Mike let out a "What the fuck?" And I, because the moment was now, and there really wasn't anything else for me to do but be present for it, stood up, and walked over to the door. It's not so much a dry spell that I've been in, as a drout. Blind Melon's biggest hit was about my August/early September sex life. Native American tribes have elaborate dances based on preventing my current sex life. That classic rock song by Creedence Clearwater Revival, "Who'll Stop The Rain"? The answer was me. My sex life. No rain.
I recently dumped my ex because, instead of putting out, he just went on and on about what a horrible ex-boyfriend he had. An ex-boyfriend who dumped him because, well, he stopped putting out, and spent all his time talking about his previous ex. So, sleeping with an ex's ex, specifically the one he would not stop complaining about when he should have been bent over with his face in a pillow, seems like the hottest form of revenge. Plus, my ex's ex has a finished basement with a fully stocked bar, a pool table, an enormous TV, and an impressive collection of porn. And he wanted to pick me up at my house, and drive me over there. Sweet. Of course, my ex's side of the "why I broke up with the ex I never stop talking about" story, is that his ex was a flake who made false promises, and then belittled him all the time. Naturally, he flaked out on picking me up. So, I moved on. A college student who looks alarmingly like a really good friend of mine. Stood me up. An ex-college jock (still jocky, but no longer collegey). Stood me up. And, of course, a series of Indecisive Boston Gaysians (I've slept with plenty of non-Boston Gaysians, and they're great, but the Boston Gaysiasaurus Indecisivus is as obnoxious a reptile as The Rapeasaurus Rex. But not as sex-driven. In fact, the opposite of sex-driven. They tend to back out of sex at the last possible moment, claiming that the moon is at the wrong distance, or that your freckles spell out "Kill The Gook" in Chinese (which is further odd, because Gook is a slur against the Vietnamese, so it would make no sense to write it in Chinese, and he's Korean, anyway, what does he care?). So, tonight, when I got an e-mail from yet another Boston Gaysian, I thought No. No more. Safey, your AIM status is No More Gaysians. It doesn't matter how cute this one is, it's a terrible idea that will only lead to... God damn cock override. So, I run down the street to make sure I catch the right bus, because taking a bus to a hook-up is pure class. I get there just in time to catch the bus. Going in the wrong direction. Never having gone to this particular part of town, I do not realize I'm going in the wrong direction until I'm all the way at the wrong end of the bus line. And I only know I'm all the way at the end because I am the last person on the bus, and the driver turns the lights out. "Ummm, was that the last--" "Jesus Christopher Columbus!!! Did you fall asleep or something? This bus is out of service." So I get off (not the way I prefer), and head back to the bus stop. It's only a couple of minutes before the bus shows up, and it's a pretty short route. I go to call my awaiting ass, but my phone is completely drained of batteries. I hope he'll be waiting. About halfway through the run, our bus slams into another bus. Boston's ever popular Out Of Service line. And now our bus is deemed undrivable, so we have to wait for a replacement bus. And I'm an hour late when I arrive at the end of the line, and I know he's not going to be there, and my phone isn't working. So I wander around, searching for a payphone, which I eventually find. "Hey, it's Saf--" "Nice shirt. Turn around." I turn around. I do not see anyone. "The other way." I still do not see anyone. "I'm on a bike." I hear him cough, and I sort of focus my head turning on the direction the cough came from. I can barely make out a bike. And a...I think...guy? In a hoodie. Definitely a hoodie. "Follow me." The fucken hell? I don't know why, instead of doing the logical thing, and walking back toward the bus, I follow the bike. He rides deliberately slowly, but just far enough ahead that I have no idea what he looks like. Clearly, I'm about to get jumped and robbed. But that's ok, I only have condoms, an mp3 player, a tissue, and enough money for bus fare home in my pocket. And then he is driving down to an area by a river. Ahhh. A classy outdoor river fuck. Reminds me of high school. I lose sight of him in the secluded, lightless parking lot. I'd call his name, but he sent me two e-mails, and we had an IM conversation, and there was no common name among them. And I don't mean that his e-mail name was RobinLovesBrucey, and his IM name was OnBatmansCock, I mean that his e-mail signature was Tim Drake, but when he IMed me, he told me his name was Jason Todd. So I'm just sort of wandering in the dark, in the direction I think he's in, when I notice a weird light. A cell phone light. I walk over, ready to drop trou, but he shakes his hand. "Follow me. But not, like, right behind me. Walk in front of me." O.......k. Follow in front. This involves some guess work on my part, as I have no idea where I'm going. He stays about ten yards behind me, occasionally calling out "Left." or "Right." or "Go go Gadget Fellater." No, not that last one. But the first two were accurate. We cross a bridge over the river, and into a labyrinth of paths before he he walks over to a rock, and pulls his shirt off. Go, go Gadget erection! (See, I knew it would fit in, eventually). I walk over to him, and his hand is on my zipper, and my pants around my ankle, and I throw my head back a bit, and "Keep your eyes open. In case, you know." Done. And he sucks, and he sucks, and he's pretty good and "You have con-dumb?" Now, this guy must be used to Asianophiles. The kind of fag who finds it so sexy to find a short little guy with black hair, and "exotic features". They love it when the guy has a funny little just-off-the-plane (because no one takes boats anymore) accent. "What?" I ask, voice thick with disdain. "Did you remember to bring condoms?" He asks, without any trace of accent. "Yes." And out comes one, and out comes the lube, and over the knees goes the head, and in the air goes the ass, and in the ass goes the cock, and....in. And out. And in. And "Did you hear something?" Is he going to freak out the entire time we do this? Having sex outside by the river was his idea. "No, I don't." "Would you like to?" And he starts moaning, softly, and...hell yea. I'm usually a focus on the gorgeous ass kind of guy. I wrap my hand around the guy's cock while I keep my eyes on the prize. But the view outside was just...amazing. Like, I'd go back to this spot even if there was no one there to have sex with. The stars are brilliant, the water is slow and soothing, there's a great breeze, and, oh yea, I'm fucking someone. Right. We have to keep changing positions because, he's on a fucken rock, which is hot, and all, but must hell on his knees, and then his back, and then his stomach. And then I take one for the team, and sit down on the rock while he backs on to me, and I kiss his neck, and he moans, and I am finally having some really good...are those police sirens? I don't care. I fuck and I fuck, and he moans and he moans, and he comes and he oh wow comes, and it shoots him off of me. Given my pre-drout sexual history, I'm fairly sure sex is over. I haven't come, but what does he care? He's gotten off in a gorgeous wooded area with some guy he'll never have to see again, why shouldn't he just throw on his clothes and leave me here? But he doesn't. He turns around, pulls off my condom, and resumes earlier blowjob. And after about five minutes, I give him the "I'm coming" warning, and he moves his head out of the way, and I point my cock away from anything stainable, and come. And come. And, oh yea, come. "Wow." He says. "Damn." Exactly. We put our clothes on in blissed out silence. "Want me to walk ahead of you again?" I ask. "Yea." "Freak." I pick up the condom wrapper, wrap it and the condom in a tissue I happened to have in my pocket, and walk back through the labyrinth. I don't cross the bridge back to his bike, because the bus stop can be accessed another way, and this will make him feel more secure, I guess. The bus stop is completely empty. I take the tissue out of my pocket and throw it in a garbage can. As I walk back to the waiting bench, I see a guy whiz by on a bike. He nearly acknowledges me. Cute. I check the bus schedule, and discover I have about ten minutes before my bus shows up, so I take out my Zune, pop in my headphones and start shuffling through my collection. In the midst of an air drum solo, I whack my leg with my right hand, and...and my shorts are covered in Mr. Hoodie's jizz. It was an interesting bus ride home. "Sure, I'll meet you in a half hour." I've since been told that the odds of finding a half Chinese, half Mexican in Madison Wisconsin are not just slim, but completely anorexic. And you can see the ribs of the probability of finding a gay half Chinese, half Mexican in Madison Wisconsin. And the odds of finding a gay half Chinese, half Mexican with amazingly colored hair, from Madison Wisconsin who reads my livejournal and wants me to stick my dick in his smooth, twenty year old ass are so malnourished, they'd make a Sudanese refugee puke in horror and disgust. Yet I find myself staying in the penthouse of a nice hotel in Madison, Wisconsin, face to face with just such a creature. I've texted my hotel roommate, Mazarine, to let her know that our room will be occupied for a couple of hours, and things will be done that she might want to read about, but probably wouldn't want to experience first eye. I am loving my first eye experience. His photograph, and LJ Icon didn't do him justice, and his photographs and LJ icons were hot. He's instantaneously half-tongue deep in my mouth, and his hands are locked on to my shoulderblades. He kisses like we've been in love since birth, but haven't seen each other in a year. And, usually, when people kiss this well, they're amazing on the bed (when someone who looks this good wants to have sex, you don't ruin the view by getting under the covers). Sure enough, it's not long before the pants are off, my cock is in his mouth, and he's making the most spectacular guttural noises. I have not had this much fun, sexually, since I stopped seeing my sort-of-boyfriend, Sora, months ago. This guy is just...wow. And then the condom is on, and he's bent over and even wowier. And it's about twenty minutes worth of wow, where I have to completely hold back to keep from coming, because he's got great rhythm, and...and he just totally came all over the hotel room covers, but that's ok, that's why God invented hotel room washcloths. And it's a thrust thrust, twist, thrust, pull, spank, thrust thrust kind of night, and.....I'm done. I spend a minute or two post-sperminization, continuing to fuck, and then we stand up, me still inside him. And there's more great kissing, and then I pull out, and then...and then we have a problem. This thin running of red fluid starts leaking out his ass. It's not blood. It's certainly not sperm (I was wearing a condom). I don't think it's shit, because I don't think shit comes in the color of Beaker's hair.  Not even having the words to try and figure out what the hell is going on, I say "We should...shower."
And we're in the shower, and we're making out, and the leaking has stopped. And it's not long before he's on his knees, sucking me off, and then he's standing back up, ass toward me, and at no point does my brain go "remember what happened last time you pulled out of there...I know it was ten minutes ago, but dont'cha?" No. My brain only had the foresight to place condoms on the shower ledge, and here we go again, and it's equally amazing, and he's making fantastic noises. And I pull out, and this time everything appears fine. I towel off, I toss him a towel. And while he towels off, I walk into the room to make sure Mazarine hasn't texted that she's on her way back. She hasn't. Well, as soon as I turn around, he's got his tongue back in my mouth, and his hands back on my shoulderblades, and we're right back where we started, and I have no complaints about it. I fuck, I come, he stands up and comes on the floor, which I'm not too pleased about it, but as transgressions go, it's pretty minor. Again, hotel towels. And then he says he has to go. And he turns around, and he's leaking again. "Uhm. Hon, you're....are you okay?" "Yea, why?" "You appear to be...leaking. From your ass." He wipes his hand down his crack. "Huh. Weird." And then he puts his pants on over his still leaking ass. "I'm supposed to meet my friends at a restaurant downtown. Want to walk me there?" "Sure?" But...but your...I mean your ass...I mean...you're leaking some sort of alien fluid. And we take the elevator to the lobby, and we're barely outside when I run into a couple of friends of mine who are also in town. As soon as I say hello, the dude, who now has anal Tang juice spreading across the back of his khakis, bolts. He says goodbye, but it shoots by all Doppler Effect style as he shoots across the street and back into whatever wormhole he came from. I shrug, and walk back into the hotel with my friends. We hang out for a few minutes, and then I go up to my room. The room smells like sex. Which makes sense. Luckily, I brought a bit of Febreeze with me, and I Febreeze the bed covers. I had wiped up his two come stains (one on the covers, one on the floor) before we left. But the floor is still a little damp, so I go into the bathroom to fetch a towel to dry it up. The towels. The white hotel room towels. The white hotel room towels are covered in varying shades of bright red. It looked like someone had used them to crush Fraggles to death. There was clearly no saving these towels. Housekeeping was going to wonder what the hell had gone on in room 1419. I had a vivid image (complete with soundtrack) of their conversation, but as I don't speak a lick of Spanish, I couldn't tell you what they were theorizing. And what did he tell his friends when he got to the restaurant? How do you explain a huge orange stain spreading across the back of your khakis? Gang raped by these guys? I e-mailed him the next day to find out if he was okay, but I never heard back from him. Whether he was embarrassed by his towel-Tanging, or whether he evolved into some liquid orange state, I'll probably never know. Though, I should probably be ashamed to admit, I'd totally hit that again. I'm not saying the no one in this city knows how to fuck properly, I'm saying that people who don't know how to fuck properly tend to move to this city. Some are Chinese, some are French, an overwhelming amount seem to be from Pittsburgh, and a metric ton of these untalented fuckers hail from Milwaukee. There must be something about people from cities with funny names. I'm looking at you Poughkeepsie.
It's been three months since I've seen any of my exes, so I've been dangling my carrot in front of every horse-brained whore this side of the Charles River. I've met four French men, a half-dozen or so men of Asian descent, and an adorable Latino guy who got really bummed out when I told him I needed to see his driver's license. Yea, I like younger guys. No, I do not have sex with anyone who still has a curfew, and gets really excited about Hannah Montana. The first French man chatted me up in a bar, and told me he thought I was hot (which meant he had been drinking profusely even before I arrived), and wanted to take me back to his place. When I told him my place was closer, he let me know we had to go back to his place because his hot brother was home, and he couldn't have sex unless one of his brothers was in the same building. I paid my check and went back to my house. Without him. Froggy #2 came a courting from The Internet. His pictures were so fabulous, I knew they had to be fake. And while there is a strong possibility that the chiseled features and gorgeous smile were, once upon a time, grafted on to his face. He has obviously spent the decade or so since those pictures were taken working in a coal mine filled with radioactive waste, and no hazmat suit. Well, maybe the suit, but definitely not he visor. He was denied entrance to my domicile. The third surrender monkey cruised me on the T. This happens frequently (cruising in general, not necessarily cruising me), and since we got off at the same spot, he started talking to me. Small talking in a hot accent. And I might have been enticed to give him my e-mail address or my phone number, if he hadn't smelled like he'd been rolling in a pile of perpetually frightened skunks for the last week and a half. Last night was célibataire number four (or quatorze, if you're Bono). We'd been talking online for a couple of weeks. His picture was not flattering, but he looked like the sort of person who's moderately attractive, but not photogenic. I gave him my cell number and my address, and waited to see what was going to go wrong. He missed his bus, or there was no bus at the scheduled time. It's Boston, and the shitsucking general manager of our public transportation spends his day in his office canceling buses, and jerking off to the collective aggravation of the city when none of the trains or busses arrive on time. It was totally not this French guy's fault. So he walked a mile or two to my house. And when he showed up he smelled understandably musty, but not terrible. He looked better than his photo. "May I take a shower?" He asked. I gave him a towel, and pointed him in the direction of the bathroom. He stripped in my room, and walked naked to the bathroom, and proceeded to shower for about five minutes. When he came out his alarming cock was already engorged with blood (which is way better than being covered in blood). "This weel be my fairst teyum with an Amereecan." His accent seemed deliberately thicker, like a casual German playing a Nazi on the History Channel. He pulled off his towel and laid face up on my bed. I took off my clothes, and leaned in to start sucking/fingering him. "Weee shood talk abowt consentyill theengs wee mite want to beee doeeng." So we did. We agreed we were open to anything that didn't involve piss, shit, or his family. And then he rolled over, and said, "My ass ees yores, due what you want to eet." Which shortly became "Reem me." Now, as I knew he'd just come from my shower, I was willing to throw my tongue down Crackpipe Alley. But I'm no Gene Simmons (or, for that matter, Freddy Kreuger in Freddy's Revenge), and when he started moaning "Deeeperr", I was forced to tell him that was as deep as I could go with that particular organ. I was ready to move on to the fucking he'd said he so desperately needed when he started talking to me about the last guy he had sex with, who, apparently was French and horrible (pronounced whoreeblay). I don't want to talk about bad sex when I'm trying to have good sex. And I don't want you to tell me that you love the way my cock feels inside you when my cock is not only not inside you but not touching you in any way. "I want you to put all yore wayit on mee, and push een as deep as you cen, rite aaaaayway." So I did. Even though it wasn't really my thing. "You are such a mannn." Yes, I am. And I began to slowly move back and forth, and "Ohhhhhh. I theenk I just kayim on yore bed." And, he had. "Do you haff papir towells?" I did, and pulled my condomed cock out of him, reached over to the papir towells, handed him some, and waited for him to clear up. Then I turned him over, prepared to do things my way. "What are you doeeng? I am feenished." "I'm not. I've barely started." "I do not meen to bee selfeesh, but once I am dun, I am dun. And I do not want to mees my train home." "Seriously?" I mean, seriously? "You said you wanted me to fuck you for hours, that your ass was mine, and as soon as I get my dick in you, you come, and say you have to go home?" "Okay, I weel let you try some more? But, please, make it quicklee." And he bent over. and in went my cock, and then out shot my cock as he released a long, noisy, lubricant wet fart. And another. And another. And another. I handed him more papir towells. He toweled off his ass, looked at his watch and said "I am sorree, but I do not want to mees my train. Maybee I stop by to-morroh?" "No. Just go." And he went. I texted one of my perpetually indecisive Chinese American exes (there are three, and between the three of them, they've made two decisions in their entire lives, all three of them were removed by C-section, as they couldn't decide when was a good time to get out of the womb). As expected, he thought he might want to possibly come over maybe, but in the end he was kind of tired, and it was late, and he thought his horoscope might have said there was possibly something unusual in the air, so he didn't come. Which meant I didn't come. Which means my testicles are now the size of a scale model representation of hoop earrings, as worn by a trashy woman with a face the size of the sun. And it doesn't look like I'm getting any today, either. Jim, my roommate Byrne, and several other people in the poetry community seem to have the mistaken impression that I hate all Gay People. "And I don't mean you're self-loathing. It's just other Gay People you hate. I mean, if I were to make a pie chart of The Gay Community where the red part was people you hated, and the black part was people you liked, it'd look like a watermelon."
"To be fair," I replied, "the chart would look exactly the same were you to divvy up the straight people I did and didn't like." But it's Pride Week, and most of the people annoying me are Gay. Here's the thing, I don't like PDA, even when it's hot gay guys groping each other and doing the type of kiss that surrenders to Germans. I don't like the huge rainbows, the Madonna karaoke or the horrible fashion shows with clothes designed by people who should never be given scissors within a hundred yards of curtains or bathmats. When I was invited me to read for Coming Out Day, rather than Pride, at a local spoken word venue, I knew the organizer understood me. Ryan and I had a couple of hilarious conversations about how we hated melodramatic gay people. Which made his choice to kill himself rather than come out to his parents all the funnier. Ok, I didn't find it funny at the time, but it makes me giggle now. Ben and I used to riff on hating stereotypical Gays, too. And that was funny because Ben is as stereotypically Gay as you can get without bursting into Flamer (note, I am not calling him a Flamer...he's just sort of sparky). But it was Sora that I really bonded with on the loving homosexual men, and disliking Gays. And while I may joke about not liking Gays because of their fashion sense, their musical taste, their propensity for PDAs, their coifs, their deliberately screechy octavoices, or their gonorrhea; the truth is none of them seem to know how to kiss properly. Trey kisses like a damp sponge being pressed against your lips and slightly squeezed into your mouth. I met him, as I'm sure you're shocked to know, over The Internet. And his kissing was the only thing I could fault him on, but I haven't called him back. Breezy uses his tongue like a woodpecker searching for ants at the back of my throat. I wouldn't have called him back either, but the thing is, he has this great apartment. I mean, the apartment itself is average. Not furnished very well, devoid of any art, but it's on the water, meaning bay breeze, which, given the current heatwave, is good enough reason for me to continue seeing him. "So you're dating a guy for his apartment." Asterisk said. "I've done worse. I've dated people because I've liked their dog." And while I've never dated someone for their dog (and I do love dogs), I did threaten to break up with someone when their ex-roommate got custody of their awesome cat. But it's not just the apartment. Despite his being the sort of Gay you can see from space even when your eyes are closed and you're facing in the opposite direction, staring into the sun, he looks really good naked, and since he has no roommates, we spend a lot of time naked in various rooms. But we're not dating. I know we're not dating because both of us had sex a few hours before we met up (with other people, natch), and then a few hours after we parted ways. Clem was the guy a few hours earlier, and he received kisses exactly the way a closet case kisses back when they're about to freak out. Our sex didn't really last long. We'd been trying to meet for months. And by we, I mean he. I gave up on him after the first night of his utter wishy-washiness. He wanted to meet. He wanted to bottom. He had the night off, but, horrors, what if someone saw me go into his house and knew I was A Homosexual? What would the neighbors say? (I surmise they'd say "Yawn. He could do better.") Three months and eleven potential meet-ups later, he sent me his address, and I hopped on a bus that connected with another bus, and yet another bus that dropped me off in his neighborhood. We made very small talk before we went into his bedroom, where he closed his shades, turned off all the lights, and took off his clothes. When I tell you he had the tiniest penis I've ever seen, I'm not trying to insult him. As much as I can appreciate a good looking penis, it's not the part of the body I'm most looking for. His ass was assdequate. But barely had he slid his skivvies around his ankles, when he started stuttering. He had one hand on my cock, and said "Your c-c-cock is so big. I can not b-b-bottom for you." Which is flattering, but not at all true. Not even remotely true. So I started putting my clothes back on. "I can jerk you..." "No." "You can't." "You've got a car, right?" In the movie version of my life, I'm smoking a cigarette. Perhaps two cigarettes. "Yes. I have car." Apparently, my cock was also so big he forgot how to use articles in his sentences. "You're giving me a ride home then." And he did, without question. And as soon as he dropped me off at the house, I e-mailed Breezy, and he took care of my Indigo Testicles. And I took care of his. And he took care of mine. And I took care of...you get the idea. When it was finally well past time for sleep, Breezy plopped down beside me on his bed, and grabbed my arms around him. Which is fine. I can be rather cuddly when the mood strikes, much to the chagrin of Sora, and the amusement of Zach. The latter referring to me as a Reverse Teddy Bear. "A big furry thing that never lets go." Breezy was the first guy I've ever thought of as aggressively huggable. Every time I was certain he was asleep, and I tried to move to a more comfortable position, he would wait for me to adjust, and then commandeer both my arms, roll his neck under my chin, and slide his butt up against my cock, which is a pretty surefire way to get me to not move too much for a while. "Where are you going?" He asked when it was time for me to head home, shower, and consider going to work. "Home." "Not yet you're not." And he was correct. Three times. When I got the e-mail from Diego, telling me he would die without a sperm transfusion, I wondered if meeting him was a bit over the top. True, I hadn't been laid since Wednesday afternoon, but it was only Friday afternoon, and I had a show to go to Friday night. But he was insistent that he come over. he was insistent about everything. Kissing too desperate. Mashing of mouths, yanking of head. It was like kissing a fish that kept flopping around to different sides of your face. "Am I too rough?" He asked. "No." You just suck at this. "I am ready to be-" don't say it, don't say it, don't say it "taken by you, Big Boy." Sora developed a sense of dirty talk sometime after the first year or so of our on/off/on/off/off/off/on/whatever dating cycle. I think this goes back to a conversation we had where I mentioned liking when a guy was vocal in bed. But what I meant was guttural, or pleasured, not loquacious and porn talky. But Sora gets away with it because I like him & he has a sexy voice. Diego...Diego doesn't fall into either category. It's not just the bad kissing, the bad porn talk, or the everything else. Diego proved something I suspected, but didn't know for sure. I'm not into black dudes. It's not a racist thing. I cold surely fall in love with someone black, and I can damn sure realize when someone black is hot, but I'm just not into them, precisely the same way I'm not into women. They can get me hard, they can get me interested, but they can't make me come. Diego tried and tried and tried and tried, until Byrne knocked on my door to let me know it was time to go to the show. I don't think he heard what we were doing (and if he's read this far, I'm sure he now regrets it). "What do we do?" Diego asked. "You have not--" "We've got to go." I said. "Sorry, I didn't realize this would take so" epically "long." "I will call you later." He, I hope, lied. "You are such a whore. Again." Dmitri said, when I relayed the stories to him. "Who killed himself this time?" "Ouch. No one. I mean, I'm sure someone, but nobody I know. It's just..." Oh shit. Trey kisses sponge, Breezy woodpecker, Diego cinder block, Clem like a terrified mannequin. Diego is too needy armed, Trey too non-existent. Diego too existent. Clem not enough anything. These ass shaped men trying to fit themselves in my heart slot. And, in theory, the piece should fit. Not perfectly, or even well. But they should drop into the too big space for them, and slide around like the last pretzel in a kiddie pool sized bowl. Everything about Breezy is nearly acceptable except that he isn't Sora. And, fuck. The best thing about having your perfect boyfriend commit suicide a month into your relationship is that you realize pretty quickly that there's no way you can improve upon your relationship or bring things back to the way they were. He's never going to be nearly as responsive, even if you dig him up and put a tape recorder in his chest. He's never going to kiss back, or silently judge you for your horrible necrophilia jokes. Ok, he will always silently judge you for your necrophilia jokes, because silent judgment is one of the few things corpses are good at. But, I digress. Sora is, thank everything, in no way shape or form dead. Nor is he, nor has he ever been perfect, as my friends frequently remind me. But he kisses properly, which is sometimes enough. And we've become accustomed to our cycle of whatever it is we do or don't. And Zach was right about me. I'm just this big, furry thing that never lets go. A few days ago, I was bored at work, when I remembered there was a porn store on the other side of the building that I'd never been to. I needed to (and this is not a pun) rectify that situation. But I didn't want to be the creepy loser who goes to the porn store alone, walks around the aisle, but doesn't buy anything.
This induced a flashback. A week previous, one of my four current guythings (none of them will commit, so I'm not going to choose just one), Zach had called me, drunk, which is the only time he ever calls me. It was around eleven, and our conversation consisted of "Long time, no talk." "Yea." "Wanna fuck me tonight?" I thought about it for a second. "Yea." "I'm on my way over." At 1:30 in the morning, I fell asleep, not having seen him. As he lives down the street from me, and works about a ten minute drive or so, I assumed he'd passed out somewhere. Hopefully, not behind the wheel of his car. At 3 AM my phone rang again. "I'm outside." I was still mostly asleep. "Who are you? And what are you outside of?" "Who were you thinking of fucking tonight?" Is there ever just one person I think of fucking a night? "Joe?" "Who?" Oops. Wrong FWB. "Just kidding. Hey Zach, let me...I'm gonna..." by the time I figured out how to articulate that I was on my way to the door to let him in, I was at the door, having already let him in. "Who's Joe?" He said, still talking into the phone. I grabbed his phone from him and hung it up. "Just some guy I've been fucking." While this might sound cool, and all, it should be noted that I had Sleepy Voice going on, and it probably sounded more like "jussome guyvebeenfuckn". "Weirdo." He said. "Why do you smell like calamine lotion?" Apparently, just after calling me, Zach had been corralled into going to a club with one of his friends. There, he tried to flirt his way into anyone's pants. Not a particular someone, a general anyone. Apparently, his main target was the DJ, and one of the other dancers took offense to this. Instead of slapping him, hissing, or queering out on him, this guy seductively took off Zach's shirt (which is really unnecessary, you just say the word shirt to him, and he takes it off on his own. It makes it really awkward to compliment his clothes when you're out at a restaurant. Anyhow, the shirt comes off, and the guy leads Zach into the middle of the dancefloor, reaches into his pocket, and pulls out a bottle of calamine lotion, which he proceeds to dump over Zach's head. Why he was carrying around calamine lotion during the middle of winter in Boston is positively beyond me. The whole story stunk of having been made up, but, then, why would Zach deliberately cover his hair and chest with calamine lotion? "I need a shower." He said. And was correct. "Pants." I said, and off his pants came. I pushed him, gently, into the bathroom, checked to make sure my roommates were asleep, and began to strip myself. I hadn't really planned on shower sex. It never goes well for me. I just thought Zach might have been a little too drunk to get all the calamine lotion off on his own. I don't know how he'd managed to drive to my house. Or what god he prayed to that kept him from getting pulled over and having to explain to a police officer why, on a freezing March night, he was driving shirtless and covered in a hard pink shell. I mean, shit, it's been over fifteen years since the FDA said that calamine lotion is nothing more than a placebo. Once, he'd been depinkified, I started to play with his ass a little. My plan being, I would arose him, then leave the shower, and have him follow me to my room. "I want you to eat me out." He said. And then he pushed the shower head toward the inside wall. I figured, why not, and got down and my knees, and began to get my lick on. I knew he was clean down there, I'd watched him soap it out. The thing is, I wasn't at quite the right angle, and I'm no expert at eating ass. There are other appendages I prefer squeezing into them. After about thirty seconds or so, he repositioned his feet. His whole body moved a bit. I assumed I was doing something right, or else he was standing uncomfortably. Then, the water started streaming down his back and into my nose and mouth. Shampooey water. "What the fuck?" I choked. "I'm doing my hair." He said. I spit some water and shampoo at him, and said "I quit. I'm going to go into my room, and wait for you. Jerk." "I'll let you fuccccccccccccccccccck me." He mocked. But I knew he was too drunk to get in the right position in the shower. Still, I tried. Still, I was right. Ten minutes later, I'm in my room, frantically throwing papers, plastic bags, and books around because I can't find any lube. Anywhere. "S'all good." He said. "I'm sick, anyway." This led to an unenthusiastic blowjob on my part, a facefucking that nearly drowned the poor boy in sperm, and a few hours of cuddling before I had to go to work. Which is where I was having this flashback. So I sent Zach a text. Going to porn store for lube. Preference? Zach: anything non-water based Me: were you raped by Aquaman? Zach: yes. jerk. Flash ahead a few hours, and I'm texting with the semi-famous (you don't know him) closet case that I've been slowly seducing, when I get an I'm on my way message, which I assume to be from the closet case, but is, in fact, Zach. I actually checked my text messages before I opened the door, just to make sure I wasn't going to end up with two people showing up at my house for sex at the same time. I mean, I wouldn't mind, but they might. "Shirt." I said when we reached my bedroom. "Pants." "Underwear?" He asked. "Not yet." He laid, stomach down, on my bed. I proceeded to massage his shoulders, slowly trailing down his back when "Cough cough cough cough co-ough" I choked a tiny little loogie on his back. "Hot!" He said. I assume he was kidding. "Sorry." I coughed. "You must have gotten me sick. Bastard." He craned his neck around and gave me an eyebrow raise. "You have rectal cancer?" "What? No." "Because that's what I've been sick with. I don't know what you've got." I got a towel to wipe my loogie off his back, and returned to the massage. It wasn't too long before the briefs were off, and he said something in the vicinity of "I want you inside me", but hopefully, not that cliche. This was when I realized that I'd left the bag of lube and condoms that I'd bought, at work. "It's like you don't want to get laid or something." He said, my arms having already assumed the just cuddling position. "I mean, when was the last time you got a chance to fuck a hot twenty-two year old?" "Thursday." I said. "No. I stopped by on Monday, and you didn't have any... Oh. I guess that would be Joe, then." And I know I should have said yes, or just kidding, but somehow the words, "Rick, actually." came out of my mouth. "You whore." He said, in a non-committal, sleepy voice. And that's the last thing I remembered until I woke up the next morning with Zach's face hovering over my penis, which had definitely been in his mouth in the not so distant past. "Ok." He said. "Joe. Rick. Who the fuck is Sora?" I was still mostly asleep. "My ex." "Pokemon sheets?" "Pokemon sheets." "You are such a whore." And then he returned to business at mouth. It wasn't too long before I solidified his tonsils, at which point he smiled at me, and then spit his huge mouthful of my come right in my face. I almost choked to death, laughing. On our first date (which took place in my bedroom, which is always a good sign), we spent a couple of hours talking about the unsexiest things we could think of. That time, a decade ago, when I had kidney stones. His recent treatment for rectal cancer. Getting The Applause from MisterHotPostiveLoad. The fact that Zach (the new guything...which is an incredible step up from the previous boything) has also slept with MisterHotPositiveLoad, but he didn't get The Applause. But he did get crabs. "And not hermit crabs." He said. "Alaskan King Crabs. The bitches braided my pubes with one claw, and tickled my ass with the other. These were some seriously gifted crabs."
Is it wrong that I was turned on by our conversation? I assumed our discussion was leading nowhere. That I wasn't his type. Who talks about STDs and medical mishaps as foreplay? Apparently, us. I was so shocked by his tongue, and the feel of his hands on my face (though, that had a bit to do with my having shaved off my beard for the first time in fourish years), that I banged my head against the wall next to my bed. And, of course, my sheets and bedspread got all twisted and misplaced before we were even doing anything interesting with our bodies. And thanks to my roommate's inner-senior citizen, our house is always incredulously cold (heat's expensive! wear a sweater!). So when Zach said I should probably get the condoms, I got my right ankle all twisted in the covers, and whoof! Down I went on the marble floor, which was not what I'd intended to go down on. I got up, uninjured, secured condoms and lube, and we got into the sex. And it was good. A couple of days later, we were invited to one of my friend, Emily,'s parties. Zach, being the only person I've ever maybedated that she has ever approved of. On our way home, he got real quiet, and said, "I have something to tell you." And, certainly he couldn't be into me, I'm not his type, he felt sorry for me; these could be the only things he'd have to say. I recognized his tone of voice. I was thinking Sexual Karma 76, Self-Esteem 0. "There's no way for this to come out right." God damn it. "My doctor wants me to thank you." Huh? "Huh?" "Well, you know, I have the whole rectal cyst thing, and...well...since you fucked me, I had the first solid stool I've had in six months." So. Very. Awkward. And yet, somehow adorable. When airing dirty laundry, make sure to describe it properly. No, I didn't break up with my most recent ex because he slept on Pokemon sheets, they were just one of the many neon signals that we weren't a good match. The manipulative lying, the partial indecisiveness (he couldn't complete anything), and the fact that all of my friends have been telling me for over a year to get around him were other factors. Also, technically, he dumped me. Via e-mail. Twatwaffle.
The Pokemon sheets were a factor, though. Eleven year age differences are entirely too much to deal with, which is why the guy I'm currently crushinating on, is only nine years younger than me. Shut up. As it turns out Zack and I have much in common. We've both lived in Arizona, we both hate nice people, we've both slept with Mr. Hot Positive Load (though only one of us got The Applause), we both love watching trainwreck comedy, and we're both awesome. You have no idea what a relief it is to spend hours talking with a guy, have sex, and not immediately start writing a bad_sex entry in my head. Although... After we got done, in the midst of perhaps the best cuddle of the current millennium, Zack said "I have something I want to say, but there's no way for it not to be weird." I knew this was too perfect to be real. "Thank you." Awww. "You know," I said, "on the list of weird things people have said to me in bed, that doesn't even rate." He giggled. "Hot positive load." "I once dated a guy who said 'You're better than my brother.'" More giggling. And then we give each other walking tours of our previous lust lives, mine ending with Sora. "I mean, the Pokemon sheets. Pokemon. I asked if he had anything that wouldn't make me feel like a child molester, and he mentioned having Digimon sheets. Which is less okay. Anyhow, sex with him was weird anyway. He was really good at it, but whenever he came, he used to say 'Squirtle!'"* And then we laughed until the sun crawled in through the window, desperate to explore the gaps between my chin and his neck, and the knot of our fingers. *-this is not true, at all For years, I've had a No Fly Over rule with another gay, redheaded poet from Boston, Asterisk. This rule made dating in Boston increasingly difficult, as he has slept with everyone who's ever even thought the word Boston. It's one of the reasons I'm glad things with Ben never worked out.
A few months ago, Ben, Asterisk, and I were involved in a spoken word show. Among the crowd was an amazingly hot guy that Ben was trying to bang. "He grew up in France." Ben said. "He was going to be a prostitute, but he had a curfew." When Asterisk started hitting on said Curfew Boy, I was legally obligated to chastise him. He and Ben had both ripped me apart over Sora, who was eighteen to my twenty-nine. Asterisk was comfortably in his thirties, and Curfew Boy was eighteen. Barely. And, despite some major triangle trauma (by the time it happened, I was, fortunately, well out of range), Asterisk ended up with the guy for the night. (Ben ended up getting him several times later.) But before Ben slept with him, Asterisk was chiding him about how good Curfew Boy was in bed. "Man, that kid's ass tasted like gold." "Eww." I said. "Who wants to lick gold? Now, if his ass had tasted like Golden Grahams, you just get me a spoon and some milk, and I'll be over that." |
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