Wonderland Burlesque

Acquired Tastes, Chapter XVI: Vintage 70’s Porn

2012-01-27T21:02:00.000-08:00

What is the allure of vintage porn? How and why does one come to appreciate it? Personally, I find even vintage ‘Playboy’ magazines titillating – probably stemming from the number of times I ‘accidently’ came upon them while searching through the dresser drawers, under the mattresses, and in the back of the closets of any home I was hired to babysit at (don’t worry the kids were already asleep). On one occasion, I found a stack of them in a large, open wicker basket in the living room. There they lay for all the world to see, sitting aside copies of ‘McCalls’ and ‘Time Magazine’. In particular I remember a pictorial depicting the making of ‘Deep Throat II’, featuring lots of pictures of a very furry, mustache sporting porn star. I also remember an article on the making of a Kris Kristofferson film – ‘The Sailor Who Fell from Grace with the Sea’. Vera Miles did very little for me, but, oh, Mr. Kristofferson! That one had me unzipping.

In college I hummed the theme from ‘Mission Impossible’ as I snuck into the janitor’s lair in order to steal a set of scaffolding I needed to hang some lights for a theatre production. I also happened on their stack of Playboys, so I took those as well. A picture of Raquel Welch pegging a blonde stud in the movie ‘Myra Breckinridge’ got a lot of attention from yours truly. After a point those pages were so glued together they were inseparable. As are my many memories of:

Vintage Porn

Scope of Activity:

The collecting of, seeking out of, viewing and appreciation of, pornographic images and films from the golden age of porn – in my case, the 1970’s.

The Official Line:

Is there one? I mean to each their own, but because my initial exposure to pornography took place during the ‘70’s that is how I define the term ‘vintage’ (God, I’m old!). Though, in fact, porn has been around in the form of images since man first began drawing on cave walls. It also comes in many forms – many of which only received widespread recognition with the birth and success of the internet. That said, for the purposes of this entry I’ll be focusing on vintage gay porn.

There is something iconic about the images associated with that post-Stonewall time period. With the rising profile of gay folks as a force to be reckoned with, these images came out of the backrooms of dirty bookstores and found a place in the mainstream of gay life. This particular era of porn would come to end once the AIDS crisis came into sharp focus, robbing us of many of the era’s great porn stars. The crisis would also result in a ‘cleaner’ type of gay porn – featuring sterile backgrounds, little backstory, ample lighting, bodies sans pubic and body hair, and, as mandated, the use of condoms.

During its heyday, boundaries were pushed and explored. The greats of the era – Joe Gage, Al Parker, Jon King, Jack Wrangler, Kip Noll, Bob Noll, Lee Ryder, Peter Berlin, Michael Christopher, Gino Canali, Michael Braun, Clay Russell, and countless others, whose faces graced these films and magazines, but whose names I do not know – created or were part of works that helped define it – capturing the essence of a time of excess debauchery and unbridled celebration. A community kept down for so long could not help but move to the farthest reaches of the opposite end of the decorum spectrum, all underscored by the insistent thump of a disco beat. Outrageous? Of course! For, as a community, they were outraged by the injustice that had kept them in the shadows and on the edges of society for so long. The time had come for balls-to-the-walls honesty. Make us hide and live in fear? Then is it any wonder that when the opportunity finally presents itself that we’re going to shove it right down your prudish throats!

Pornography as a form of political expression! Who knew?

With information from Wikipedia:

Homoeroticism has been present in photography and film since their invention. During much of that time, any kind of sexual depiction had to remain underground because of obscenity laws. In particular, gay material might constitute evidence of an illegal act under sodomy laws in many jurisdictions. This is no longer the case in the United States since such laws were ruled unconstitutional by the Supreme Court in 2003 in Lawrence v. Texas.

However, hardcore pornographic motion pictures ("stag films," as they were called prior to their legalization in 1970) were produced relatively early in the history of film. Most historians consider the first American stag film to be ‘A Free Ride’, produced and released in 1915. But in the United States, hardcore gay sexual intercourse did not make it onto film until 1929's ‘The Surprise of a Knight’.

‘The Surprise of a Knight’ ushered in a brief period of homosexual hardcore pornography in the stag film era. About a year later, in ‘A Stiff Game’, an African American male would engage in fellatio on a Caucasian man without the need for drag. The appearance of gay sexual contact on film would soon end, however, and not reappear until the advent of legal gay hardcore pornography after 1970.

During the 1960s, a series of United States Supreme Court rulings created a more liberalized legal environment that allowed the commercialization of pornography. MANual Enterprises v. Day, 370 U.S. 478 (1962) was the first decision by the United States Supreme Court which held that magazines consisting largely of photographs of nude or near-nude male models are not obscene within the meaning of 18 U.S.C. § 1461. It was the first case in which the Court engaged in plenary review of a Post Office Department order holding obscene matter "nonmailable." The case is notable for its ruling that photographs of nude men are not obscene, an implication which opened up the U.S. Postal Service to nude male pornographic magazines, especially those catering to gay men.

Wakefield Poole's ‘Boys in the Sand’, starring Casey Donovan, can be considered one of the first gay pornography feature films, along with the works of filmmakers such as Pat Rocco and the Park Theatre, Los Angeles, California, circa 1970. ‘Boys in the Sand’ opened in a theater in New York City in December 1971 and played to a packed house with record breaking box office receipts, preceding ‘Deep Throat’, the first commercial straight pornography film in America, which opened in June 1972. This success launched gay pornographic film as a popular phenomenon.

The production of gay pornography films expanded during the 1970s. A few studios released films for the growing number of gay adult movie theatres, where men could also have sexual encounters. Often, the films reflected the sexual liberation that gay men were experiencing at the time, depicting the numerous public spaces where men engaged in sex: bathhouses, sex clubs, beaches, etc.

Peter Berlin's 1973 film ‘Nights in Black Leather’ was the first major pornographic film designed to appeal to the gay leather subculture and drew some mainstream gays into this culture.

The 1960s and 1970s also saw the rise of gay publishing with ‘After Dark’ and ‘Michael's Thing’. During this time many more magazines were founded, including ‘In Touch’ and ‘Blueboy’. ‘Playgirl’, ostensibly produced for women, was purchased and enjoyed by gay men and featured full frontal nudity.

Psychological Aspects:

Porn is as addicting as sugar, caffeine, or nicotine. Many a future sex addict has gotten hooked thanks to its allure and promise of pleasures yet experienced. We invest these images with our own sensory memories – fueled by our desires, fleshing out the story of the picture, coloring it with personal meaning. Therein lies the appeal of vintage porn. Like a good lover, we seek out these same images hoping to replicate the feelings aroused during that first experience, that first contact. That’s why these images remain so powerful to us, for they represent those first moments of our sexual awakening.

My Experience:

The first pornography I ever saw was a black and white newspaper that my father had in his dresser drawer. I came across it while searching for ‘candy. The images depicted were crude and heterosexual in nature. The primary purpose of the newspaper seemed to be connecting swingers – a concept I wasn’t even remotely familiar with. Still, I enjoyed the images. I knew they were naughty and forbidden. I also knew that if I got caught looking at that newspaper my ass would be in the confessional in no time and I would be saying ‘Hail Mary’s’ until the cows came home.

My next major exposure came in the form of a small stack of magazines in the back of one of my older cousins closets. We were visiting from out of town. This was the same trip where a female cousin of mine introduced me to the music of Bette Midler and her first album. I couldn’t have possibly made the connection at the time, but now it seems sort of ironic that my first exposure to The First Lady of the Baths and gay porn took place at the same time. Yes – gay porn. I remember just being in awe and having no idea why my cousin – who seemed at that time to be significantly older than me – would be in possession of this kind of smut. Needless to say, it titillated me to no end and I took advantage of every opportunity to steal back into that closet for another look, for my eyes could simply not contain it all. Creepily, I also recall full page advertisements for man/boy sex magazines in one of these mags. But being just a youngster myself, I merely found the idea odd, not repugnant. My cousin, much later in life, had two children (one out of wedlock) and is married to this day. I know he has no idea what I know and I have no desire to ever bring the subject up. To each their own.

During my first year of college, I helped the first guy I ever fucked move out of his tiny off-campus house. He was on his way to California, so he was throwing everything away, including a sizable porn collection. I tried to set some it aside, but he would not let me have the stuff, preferring instead that it be thrown away. I thought that was weird, but porn still carried with it a stench of shame – and gay porn? That shame was magnified to the nth degree.

Once I moved to the cities, I discovered one of Ferris Alexander’s porn palaces. I would sneak into the bookstore portion on occasion and buy a ton of porn in one fell swoop. I did this to avoid the need to have actual sexual contact with anyone and keep my visits to this particular establishment to a minimum. In the attic of the house I lived in I would revel in the powerful images that I would spread across the floor before my naked self. And with over-stimulated hard-on in hand, I would proceed to bless and shower those images with my abundant seed. Each mag would then receive a good wipe down, for I was well acquainted with the adhesive powers of cum by this time. Then they were stacked and hidden, until such point that they became so numerous that hiding them was no longer an option. On those occasions, I would place them in grocery bags, steal down the back stairs to the alley and find the empty garbage can of a complete stranger to dump them in – so great was my need to distance myself from their potent imagery.

This ritual would be repeated over and over again in my life, until such time as I came to terms with my sexuality and informed others about it. Now, I have a whole cabinet full of vintage pornos that I tracked down on the internet. I'd buy more, but realized I liked the idea of owning them much more than actually taking the time to watch all of them. Sometimes I put them on when I invite a trick over and they play in the background. They've gotten me through a coulple of really boring fucks. But back to those magazines of yore...

You can’t imagine (or perhaps you can) the joy I feel when coming upon an image from one of those magazines. It’s like seeing the photo of an old friend – one whose dick you’ve seen hard as a rock. I collect them on a USB flash drive I drag around with me. No, I don’t jerk off to them anymore. But there is a part of me that yearns to.

What is it I like about this particular period that causes my heart (and dick) to soar heavenward?

I love all the backstory that the editors and filmmakers invested their works with. I love the younger brother who sneaks into the closet in order to watch his older, much hotter, brother jerk off after school. I love it when that older brother catches him watching and then fucks the interloper silly. I love the baseball jock with the big nut sack and the space in his teeth, showing off his nicely curved cock in the locker room. Looking at the photo, I can almost feel the texture of the ribbing of his beautiful jock strap. The fate of the stupid blonde bubble-butted man who comes in to try on swim suits, not knowing that the curly-haired clerk has other things in mind. The heady nights on the road in a big rig truck. The allure of an abandoned house in the middle of the desert. So many stories, so many men, so much dirty, dirty sex.

I love the hair – the horrible, granola, 70’s hair, the mustaches, the beards, the chest, back, and ass hair! And the pubes! Big mountains of curly seduction! In the day you could kill two birds with one stone – give a blow job and floss your teeth at the same time. Beneath all this hair, were less-than-perfect bodies, some of which never saw the inside of a gym – with all that fucking going on, who had time? I guess this is at the core of my appreciation for real men; men with physical flaws, men without body trimmers.

The rawness, the crudeness. The bad lighting, the poor editing, the corny backdrops and sets. The stilted dialogue, the naked earnestness of it all.

And – ultimately - I loved the ‘me’ from this time – the stupid, naïve future perv, who desperately needed to believe that one day he would be worthy of men like those showing off their wares in all those magazines and films. That freak of nature who had no clue, no fashion sense, and no sense of how the real world worked, or the times he was living in. I wasted my sexual prime and have been desperately trying to make up for it ever since!

For there lies the real power of these images; they connect our present selves with our former selves. They remind us of the power of youth and first impressions. They bring us home to our most basic, primal selves once again.

My Conclusion:

Everyone’s definition of vintage is dependent upon when they grew up. I think first exposure is what marks that time for each us – the moment when those images are seared onto our brain, igniting our loins and desires. The gay porn industry has gone through so many periods and I truly believe each is a reflection of the bigger picture of what was driving our society – straight and gay – at the time. The golden era of ‘70’s porn can never be recreated. For we as a group of men will never experience the feelings that came to light during the post-Stonewall era. That first flush of freedom was heady. Apparently, it went straight to our dicks and our dicks went straight into someone’s hole – pubes and all.

There are several other blogs that cover this material in much greater detail and offer plenty of pictures. I would encourage you to pay a visit and even subscribe to them, as I think they are doing a great job of capturing this particular and peculiar part of gay history.

Vintage Gay Media History
http://vintagegaymediahistory.blogspot.com/?zx=47b65f9724a8f919

Vintage Gay Men
http://gayvintagemen.blogspot.com/?zx=f54f18b78908b1c5

Next Acquired Taste: Rimming

Ass Play at the Movies: I'm Ready for my Close-Up!

2012-01-20T08:10:00.000-08:00

I wandered onto this site called Recon about two months ago. It is a kink site, featuring dudes getting their freak on in any number of nasty, perverted ways: bondage, water sports, feet worship, leather, gut-punching, exhibitionism, sports gear worship, and the like. All of it tends to be very extreme – especially if you look at the profiles of those from outside the United States (those Germans are real sick fuckers!). In comparison, the listings for Minnesota seem very tame – but keep in mind that this is not your ordinary hook-up site and on Recon the word ‘vanilla’ is nowhere to be found.

After setting up a profile, I dive in and start moving my way through the profiles of dudes on-line. Surprisingly, I’ve encountered very, very few of these men on the other hook-up sites I frequent, although I do recall seeing a few of them at the Eagle the once or twice a year that I get there. The refreshing thing about the profiles and the men on Recon is the fact that all their freak flags are right out there in the open, presented without embarrassment. The many pictures also reflect this openness, as they are of a more graphic nature than you might encounter on say, Adam4Adam or Manhunt. In other words, you know exactly what you are in for, warts and all.

In short order, I start hitting the cruise key on those I find share similar interests to my own, keeping in mind that my role is passive and theirs active. One of the individuals I recognize from the Eagle is on-line and responds positively to my cruise request. Soon we’re talking specifics, with email addresses and pictures being exchanged. We decide to meet and he proposes something he thinks might appeal to the exhibitionist in me: that we meet at a movie theater where he will play with my ass throughout the film. I’m game. I have a pair of rip-away running pants that are held in place by a series of snaps and know these will work perfectly for what he has in mind. He chooses the movie theatre and the movie, which just happens to be at a time when I can make it. Game on.

Arriving early, I sit in my car and change into my snap-away pants. I’m more than just a bit nervous. Not only does the whole idea of playing in public have my heart racing, but this dude happens to be someone I have always wanted to play with. I’ve seen him in public in the past and never worked up the courage to go over to him and say ‘hi’. He’s shorter than me by at least six inches, has thick, black, wavy hair and a rather handsome mug with a nice square jaw. Just the sight of his lips makes me melt, his winning smile a promise of great things. He’s the kind of dude that is never interested in me, and even when they do give me the time of day, it is only as a courtesy, ultimately leading to rejection.

A few minutes before the movie is to start I make my way into the movie theatre. No one is around. The place is a ghost town. That is the beauty of matinees and the magic of this particular movie theatre. It is situated in an area of town where parking is not free or easy, so other than date nights, the theatre is probably not that busy at all. I purchase my ticket and a soda. Thankfully, my attire doesn’t raise any suspicion. Out of the corner of my eye I catch sight of my movie buddy. He’s standing in the middle of a big archway with a kind of smirk on his face. Making my way to the movie theatre, he trails me, remaining a good three yards behind me.

Enveloped by the darkness of the theatre, I choose the back row and sit in the seat next to the outside wall. The projectionist is situated on the opposite side of the room, so I feel fairly confident that our escapades will go unnoticed by management.

My new found friend (let’s call him Mr. Dom) slips into the seat next to me. He’s wearing a ¾ length black leather jacket and has quite a bit of scruff going on his face. Still, he is very handsome, very cute. He has a sly look in his eyes and I am pretty sure I’m in for a good time. Without really looking, he begins to unsnap the side of my pants. His hand slides under my bottom and his fingers begin to probe. I have a tiny tube of lube with me and am wearing a cock ring, but other than that, I have no supplies with me. Leaning forward in my seat, I grease up my hole with the lube and then sit back. Soon I find myself scrunching deep down in my seat with my legs up over the back of the seat in front of me. This allows my friend maximum access and he takes full advantage of it.

There are only two other people in the theatre when the movie begins and they are both seated a good distance away, toward the middle of the theatre. I am thinking we are going to have full run of the place. My confidence growing, I slip a hand between the legs of Mr. Dom and discover a nice hard eight inch wonder. It is nicely thick and feels fucking meaty in my hand. He smiles and I take a risk, lean over and kiss his cheek, hoping that he responds with more. He doesn’t. Instead he scans the theatre for prying eyes.

This entire time his fingers are going to town on my hole and I am loving it. The movie? Not so much. But then we picked this particular movie because of the time and the fact that it had gotten negative reviews, which meant that the theatre would probably be fairly empty. Not that the quality of the movie has any impact on the good time I am having. I now know why teenagers like to go to movies on dates – you can fool around a lot in the dark! I am nuzzling into Mr. Dom’s neck in a vain attempt to convey just how much pleasure I am getting out of having his talented digits up my ass. By this point he has popped all but two of the buttons on my rip-away pants, so he has full access to everything. It is at this moment that an older dude suddenly appears at the back of the theatre. He scans the seats, spies me and Mr. Dom and promptly sits his fat ass in the row opposite us, across the aisle. Bummer.

This momentarily causes me to panic and I swiftly button up my running pants. Getting caught is not part of our plans and Mr. Dom helps cover my activity by removing his leather jacket and placing it on top of the seat in front of him, successfully shielding me from the prying eyes of the recent arrival. Soon, snaps are undone once more and Mr. Dom has a wicked smile on his face once more.

He’s cool with me nuzzling into his neck. There is even a part of me that wants to climb on his lap. My right hand takes up permanent residence in the crotch of his pants, working its way up and down that magnificent shaft. His balls get lots of attention, too. Needless to say, I am hard for the full two hours, which is no small feat for me. I think it is due to the fact that there really isn’t any end game in sight – as in, neither of us really has any expectation of getting off. There had been a brief, on-line discussion regarding my cumming as the credits roll, and that is definitely playing in the back of my mind, so I’m in no hurry to lose my load.

Eventually I work up my courage and go in for a real kiss and am totally surprised when my efforts are welcomed. Mr. Dom possesses some generous lips and he puts them to good use. He’s a great kisser. Yep, that's why teenagers love the movies so much. More true than not, the kissing is probably much better than the movie! In this case, I am only too happy to turn my attention away from the screen.

During the last quarter of the movie, I decide to change it up a bit. I begin leaning forward in my seat, using the seat in front of me as leverage. This allows me to actually fuck back on Mr. Dom’s fingers, of which he has managed to work three up my hole. This type of extended butt play is new to me. Usually fingering is merely a five to ten minute part of foreplay and not the main course. All told, I find it to be an oddly satisfying meal. As I am carefully lowering and raising my ass, I glance over at the older, fat dude across the aisle. I am pretty sure he knows exactly what we are doing and has been watching us the whole time. And you know what? I don’t care. In fact, it kind of turns me on.

You see, I missed out on all the dirty movie theatre action of yore, when Ferris Alexander had a porno movie theatre empire in Minneapolis. I visited the one on Lake Street a couple of times before its doors closed, but I was terribly naive and had no idea what men did to one another in the dark. That I discovered much later in life, while on tour in Kansas City. There, I happened to visit a very active porno theatre on a Saturday afternoon. I had so much fun working my way around that theatre; it was almost as good as going to a bathhouse. One of the things I discovered on that trip was just how turned on I get when other dudes watch me being a total slut, going down on some random dude in public. Turns out, despite my recent decision to curtail the number of sexual encounters I partake in, I am still turned on by being watched by others.

The movie ends. I button up and follow Mr. Dom out of the theatre. We talk as we walk, commenting on how much fun we just had. He then guides me to a bathroom off the main part of the shopping complex we’re walking through. He goes into the handicap stall and I remain near the urinals, taking the pulse of just how busy this restroom is. The coast seems clear, so I duck inside his stall. I immediately unearth his dick and go down on it. As soon as my lips reach the base of his cock, the main door flings open and someone hustles in. I swiftly climb up on the toilet seat and crouch. Mr. Dom, who is once more wearing his ¾ length leather coat, stands in front of me, his dick just out of reach of my mouth. From the outside, no one would ever know that two people occupied that stall.

The other dude leaves, and, remaining crouched on the toilet seat, I begin playing with Mr. Dom’s dick. It is as nice looking as it was nice to touch. He’s hard as a rock and just as I manage to deep throat him again, someone else comes rushing in to use the urinals. This individual is followed by about ten others. Suddenly the room is full of dudes. All play ceases as we both hold our breath, praying that we remain undiscovered. The place is so full even the stall next to us is in use. We wait out this flurry of activity. At the first sign of calm, Mr. Dom exits the stall. I do the same. We wash our hands, and yet another small group of 20/30-somethings invade the mens room. Obviously this place is a lot busier than Mr. Dom assumed. We abandon all play and I walk him back to his car. On the way, he tells me that he noticed how turned on I get exposing myself in public. He thinks that’s hot. He fondles me in the elevator and we kiss a bit more before he gets into his car.

We make promises to one another to do something similar sometime soon. He suggests a sledding date, but the idea of my dick out in the frigid cold makes me turtle, so I decline. I’d rather stick to indoor activities and he understands.

In the time since, we have tried to find a time for another movie date, but our schedules just haven’t jived. Having written about this experience, it does make me want to do it again. So I have a feeling he’ll be getting an email from me today proposing something for next week.

Well, fingers crossed. Maybe this time something will work out. If it does?

See you at the movies!

(P.S.- The featured pic is of yours truly. Yeah, I know, not the greatest, but hey, it does the trick - so to speak!)

Mechanics are Mechanics: Good sex is dependent on more than just having the right tool

2012-01-13T06:10:00.000-08:00

Maybe it’s a winter thing… but I’m currently not interested in hooking-up just to get off or to get someone else off. There’s got to be a bit more to it than that. A kiss. A look in the eyes. Some kind of connection. The whole 'wham-bam, thank you ma’am’ just isn’t cutting it for me.

It may have something to do with the weather. I always have a desire to hibernate in winter; to hunker down with a blanket or two. Missing the sun and the ability to be outdoors as much as I like, (with as little clothing on as possible) I find this time of year bereft of life and oxygen. Give me fresh air and blue skies, please.

I’m less inclined to define myself as sexually addicted these days. I had sexual contact with others only 10 times during December! Compared to 53 times in October, I’d say I was making some progress. Yes, I remain a sexual opportunist – if an opportunity presents itself, I will more than likely go for it. But the whole mercy fuck thing is over. You could say I’ve become more selective.

Recently I got together with a favorite fuck buddy of mine. He has this Timothy Hutton thing going for him, a charming/disarming smile, a quick wit, and a nice, thick dick. He’s also a great kisser. On this occasion, things were heated and passionate, but he was having trouble getting hard – something which he assured me was no reflection on me. Oddly, I was hard as a rock the entire time, and if he had been a flip/flopper, I would have happily corn holed him, but, alas, he is a diehard top, so I had to be patient. He did manage to fuck me twice, but he was only half hard and I ended up coming before he did (even though I did my best to wait), unloading on his nicely furry chest.

We talked after. He was really concerned about his performance, which I assured him was no biggie. Fact is, we are both of an age where our testosterone levels are not what they once were and missile launch failure is the occasional result. For some reason, I thought it was okay to talk about that. We both love Viagra, but neither has any (although I am now thinking I can ask my physician for some) – and that is a definite cure for the soft dick blues – but, ultimately, and of course he didn’t believe me at first, that part of the act is becoming more of a secondary consideration for me these days.

Let’s face it – mechanics are mechanics. And I have been around the world enough to know what good sex is all about, which is also why I know that the mechanics of sex are only part of the equation. Even the most casual of sex needs to have some sort of emotional component in order to work. Sometimes that component is fulfilled purely by our own adrenalin rush, or something about the non-traditional environment we find ourselves playing in spurs us on to orgasm. Factors such as the possibility of getting caught or seen can also play a part. But the most satisfying encounters always contain some form of emotional connection with my sexual partner – whether I know his name or not is immaterial. It’s in the eyes, it’s in the kiss, it’s in the touch. Urgency helps. So does physical attraction. Being at our best (well rested) and feeling good about ourselves and our bodies also contributes positively.

Whether that dick goes in my ass is no longer as important to me as the way I feel during and after a given encounter. I want conversation. I want flirtatious banter and looks. I want passion to be expressed in ways that have nothing to do with the hardness of a dude’s penis. No – I ‘m not looking for a long term thing or a regular thing, I just want it to be an intimate thing.

Which is why completely anonymous sex isn’t doing it for me these days. I may be over the whole ‘bend over and take as many as possible while wearing a blindfold’ mindset – which also might explain why I no longer attend those little bathhouse parties on Fridays. Quality, not quantity, seems to be my new mantra. And that’s why I am able to go three weeks without a dick up my ass – which is what happened in December, and appears to also be the case in January.

Does that translate to me losing my mojo? Is that a reflection of how attractive I feel or am perceived by others to be? I don’t think so. Yes, gravity and the sun has taken its toll on my face this year (I really am starting to see the effects of tanning and aging), but my body is probably in the best shape ever. I even managed to snag an electric hair trimmer that I can do my back with (yes, I became convinced that my back hair had become a deterrent to sexual fulfillment). So I am looking really good these days. My waist is a slim 32”, which prompted me to go out and buy some new jeans that are trendy and very unlike the ‘Mom jeans’ I tend to wear at home (no, not real Mom Jeans, but they are old and very worn and wearing them makes me feel a tad slovenly and past my prime).

Overall, I feel good about my body and self. I feel confident. I try not to read too much into a bad sexual encounter – it is what it is. I now go into a scene without preconceived notions of what I need to bring to the table or what needs to happen. I go with the flow and enjoy what there is to enjoy. The big change seems to be that I am not willing to meet someone I had a less-than-great time with for a second round. I have no interest in repeating bad experiences, no matter how horny I am. I also no longer get frustrated when things don’t pop on the internet. If I don’t get some it is not the end of the world. There is always tomorrow. And I accept that and don’t try to will something into being just for the sake of having accomplished it. I don’t need to force a situation – eventually something will happen.

So I seem more relaxed. Of course, it is winter and who knows what state I will be in three months from now, when the weather is much nicer and I have spent untold days pining for nature. But even then, I don’t think I will base my self-esteem on whether or not someone hooks up with me or not. It’s not that important in the big picture. I would rather wait for a quality encounter where my emotional needs are met on some level and walk away satisfied.

Still, I suspect I am giving way too many front seat blow jobs to guys I don’t know all that well (or even like) to not still be considered a slut.

But it’s winter… so I have to do something to pass the time, right?

Hey Nineteen: Never Again!

2012-01-06T11:42:00.000-08:00

Hey Nineteen
No we can't dance together
No we can't talk at all
Please take me along when you slide on down
- Steely Dan

This is one of those cases where you go into something fully knowing the outcome, but damned, if you didn’t do it anyway. I have never specifically sought out people younger than myself, as I prefer my men to have a little mileage on them. Typically 34-60 is my age range of choice. Every once in a while a real sharp 25 year old will slip through and I will even agree to see them more than once if they demonstrate to me that they are more than handling the situation.

This tale actually starts a week before I met this particular individual. I was sitting in my car, cruising the ads on Craigslist, when I spotted the kind of ad that just royally pisses me off. It was a 35 year old dude who was seeking a bottom – an 18-20 year old bottom! Usually when I see this I just check to make sure that there are no offers of money involved, as in claiming to be “generous” (which translates into sex for money). But something about the arrogance of this particular poster got to me and I had to write the person and tell him to grow the fuck up.

Turns out, based on the return email address, that this particular person and I had a run in on-line years ago. And this time, once I had written him, he would not stop emailing me, explaining away his legal, but reprehensible practices. I simply pointed out that what he was doing was a kind of pedophilia (only sort of true), that he needed to look at his behavior, and that healthy, mature adults do not exclusively seek out teenagers to bang. Suggesting that his behavior was a sign that he was stuck in a pre-adolescent state did not sit well with this dude. And – okay – I admit it – it was none of my business, but I also find it odd that this dude turned out to be the same guy I took issue with five years ago!

Ultimately, I wrote him back and told him that he could continue to send me all the emails that he wished and call me whatever names he liked and defend his behavior however he wished, but that I would no longer be reading his emails and that upon receipt, any future emails would be promptly deleted, unread. Then I told him to grow the fuck up, get some professional help, and try to develop relationships with men his own age before he finds himself buying a white van and cruising elementary school playgrounds. Yeah, I know, real mature on my part, right. But that is how I feel.

So, of course, the universe just has to butt in and teach me a sound lesson by giving me a taste of my own medicine. This occurs in the form of one plucky, sweet, nineteen year old kid that for the sake of anonymity I will call Houston. Houston hits me up two weeks before Christmas via one of my latest discoveries – SCRUFF. His profile pic is a black and white, upper torso/face shot with him wearing a dark suit and his hair slicked down and back. The skin on his face is so smooth, it looks incredibly tight. It is impossible to tell how old he is, as this info is also missing from his profile. According to GPS, he is not very far away from where I happen to be parked. He is sweet from the get go; very flirtatious, using lots of lol’s and winky/smiley faces. I send him a face pic thinking that will be the end of it, but he likes what he sees and remains persistent. He sends me a dick pic and an additional face pic. I send him more of me. We discuss what he’s into, I discuss what I’m into and it seems like a good match. Then I find out he’s nineteen and I put the brakes on.

Turns out he works the drive thru window at a nearby fast food joint. Houston wants me to drive through and come see him. Immediately suspicious, I ask him if this is a set up and if, when I arrive, he will just throw a drink in my face and laugh at me. He assures me that is not the case. The conversation then turns to my usual grilling of anyone who wants to meet me who also happens to be under the age of 30, which basically boils down to: why do you want to fool around with some old troll when you could be having hot sex with dudes your own age? I warn him that when I show up and he sees me in the flesh he will be very disappointed and that in my limited experience, these kind of age imbalanced hook ups usually end badly.

He’s having none of it. Buttering the roll, he lets fly with some awesome compliments and continues to plead for me to drive on over. I look at the time and actually consider doing so, but, as it turns out, time is on my side – I have choir rehearsal in less than half an hour so I tell him we will have to meet some other time. End of story. No, of course not.

Throughout the next two weeks Houston says “hi” via SCRUFF. I wish him happy holidays and a happy new year. He still wants me to come for a visit, to his place of work and I tell him why I think that is a horrible idea. Then he tells me how he can’t wait to get naked with me. Fortunately my holiday is pretty booked and there seems to be no opportunity where that could happen.

But then, the holiday ends. And I’m off work and sitting in my car a few miles away from his place of business. He hits me up and once again, insists I come drive through the drive thru window and visit him. I ask him if dudes do that and then flash him their dicks. Houston likes that idea. I send him a couple of pics of me and he tells me he’s hard. I tell him that’s what I want to order when I drive through – with extra special sauce (yeah, lame, so shoot me.) He tells me to come now. So… I tell him I’m on my way.

Good to his word, he’s in the first window. He is really tall, really thin, very cute, and very, very young. Very, very young. He has acne, for Christ sake! He’s very sly, rolls his eyes and tells me there are people in the hallway behind him, before leaning out the window and asking me to show him my dick. I am about to do just that when a car drives up behind me. I tell him I’ll just drive around again.

I go park and put on a cock ring. He seemed to be okay with me, so I figure what the hell. He then texts me. He thinks I’m cute and can’t wait to see me naked, lol, winky face. So… I text back: meet me In the bathroom. And he’s game! I quickly make my way to the restroom, figuring we’ll play looksie’s at the urinals. Turns out there is only one urinal and a brick stall with a wood-paneled door. I check my texts. Houston tells me to go into the stall or something, so I do. Once inside I realize that the stall is very deep and that no one can see me. I leave the door unlocked, drop my pants, and take off my shirt and t-shirt – for all intents and purposes, I am now standing naked in the mensroom of a fast food restaurant waiting to be walked in on by a 19 year old dude with acne. I text I’m there and he has already texted that he is on his way. The main door opens and he stands outside the panel door to the stall. I open the door and he comes in. He is hella tall, his eyes grow large at the sight of naked old me, as his hands quickly undo the front of his pants. He whips out a semi-hard dick that is just breathtaking to look at… the skin is so pure and unmarked. I sink to my knees and before I am even down to the base, the kid is rock hard. Like his body, his dick is long (9”) and thin. I run through my arsenal of oral tricks until I find the one that gets him gasping.

Pulling me up off the floor, he tells me he wants to fuck me. Without thinking, I turn around and bend over. He rams the full length of his rock hard dick right into my hole! No warning, no teasing, and – most importantly – no lube! This sends me jumping right off his dick, as I do my best to squelch the sound of pained anguish reverberating through my body via my ass and out my mouth. The pain is so great that I am sure I looked quite the sight as I bobbed and weaved and groaned. Houston eyes go wide, but his dick is harder than ever. Once I recover enough to tell him that in the future he needs to enter all asses slowly, I get back on my knees and see if I can rescue his load. Fact is, I really want another shot at his dick going in and out of my hole, since it has been over three weeks since I last got fucked and I want a little something something. But that is not to be, for within a minute of my mouth working his dick he tells me he’s about to cum.

I keep the head of his dick on my tongue, as I kind of want to feel that first shot hit the roof of my mouth. Instead, it flies right over my head. Before the second volley, my mouth is on his dick and he finishes his orgasm with my throat wrapped around the full length of his cock, my lips kissing the base where dick-meets-body. I spend a few moments making sure I have every last drop, for, as with most young folk, his spunk is as fresh and totally delicious. He quickly zips up and tells me he has to get back. I grab his face and give him a closed mouthed kiss before he leaves the stall. His lips are tight and a slight peck is all I receive for my efforts. Without a word more, he washes his hands and leaves.

I dress and get ready to leave, but before I do, I pause long enough to wipe up the glob of jizz that flew over my head and landed on the floor. I smell it. Intoxicating. Ah, youth. I make my way back to the car, catching sight of Houston standing at the main counter as I exit. He doesn’t look at me. Understandable. He’s talking to a co-worker of his, who has his coat on and is standing on the customer side of the counter. The co-worker eyes me and I flee.

Once in my car I check for texts. Nothing. Nothing on SCRUFF from him either. I send Houston a text, explaining that had I known we were going to do that I would have pre-lubed and that I hope we can do that again sometime. No response. I wait. I text him, by the way, you are beautiful. I immediately regret it – what a trollish thing to say. No response. Then the co-worker comes out and eyes me sitting in my car. Am I imagining it, or did he just give me a dirty look? I head back to the park I was sitting in when he first hit me up.

I give it 48 hours. The entire period, I replay the events and remind myself that I warned him that things would not end well. And you know what? I know better. I do. He may be of age, but I’m the adult! This will never happen again. I resolve to no longer hook up with anyone under the age of 25. Then I text Houston for the last time. “Message received. Sorry. Good-bye.”

I’m still kicking myself.

As I probably should.

Television 2011: A Year In Review

2011-12-22T12:06:00.000-08:00

I watch too much television. I feel the need to apologize for that, like it is a bad thing. I recently went to a holiday party where I knew very few people and made the mistake of mentioning a television program I had recently seen to the person seated next to me. The person said ‘I don’t watch television’ and then turned away from me and looked the other way. So, I apologize for watching too much television. Because it is (apparently) a bad thing.

That said – I enjoy it very much. I sit for hours and hours watching television. (Sitting is the second favorite thing I like to do with my butt.)

Here is a summary of those hours and hours:

Favorite Shows

American Horror Story
Yes, the scripting is like something that poured out of a word Cuisinart and everyone is terrified that there is no way they can tie it all up and make sense of it (oddly they did). It is so over-the-top and so much happens in such little time that there is no room for characters to develop at a natural pace – but who the fuck cares? This is a lot of fun. A show with everything for everybody. Jessica Lange and Frances Conroy are outstanding. I mourn the loss of Jamie Brewer’s character, Adelaide. The rest of the cast is also first rate.

Suburgatory
The primary relationship is a bit off (Father and Daughter? Ummm… Parental Boundaries?), but I like the world the writers are creating. It has a long way to go (and may not get there), but definitely worth watching. The neighbor girl across the street? Fascinating. Standout episode: Thanksgiving.

Happy Endings
Interesting cast. Interesting gay character. Interesting style of banter. Enters and exits like a Tasmanian Devil on a coke bender. Sometimes the characters grate on me - these are annoying people, but they each have a soft inside and that keeps me watching.

Community
Great cast, one that actually mirrors the name of the show. The writing is creative… sometimes too much for its own good. It would be a shame to lose this one.

Parks and Rec
The sands beneath these characters are constantly shifting. How the actors manage to make it all work baffles me, but they do make it work. Started as an Office wannabe – became something even more likable.

30 Rock
Tina Fey. Tracy Morgan. Enough said.

Awkward
A world I was never privy to before. Covering some of the same territory that Suburgatory covers, but doing a much better job.

South Park
When it is good (You’re Getting Old, Broadway Bro Down), it is very, very good. When it is bad (Bass To Mouth, Funnybot, Royal Pudding), it is a total train wreck – and not the fun kind (like American Horror Story).

Bob’s Burger
Charming. I love the kids. And the wife. I wish Louise Belcher could run for president (If only cartoon characters could. – oh, wait… (Michele Bachmann, Rick Perry, Thomas Cain, Newt Gingrich)? They do. They do.

Workaholics
Strikes me as another kind of Always Sunny, but I like the cast. Sophomoric, juvenile. Extremely sexist. Umm… why do I like this? Oh, because the dudes are so comfortable with their homo-bro-ness. That, and they talk about their junk a lot.

Raising Hope
Love the cast. So glad they have brought Cloris Leachman back from the zoned-out Alzheimer’s edge. She adds so many dimensions to the show – it would be a shame if she were rendered simply a vehicle for old-people poop jokes. Martha Plimpton has long needed something to showcase her talents! This is her “Medium”.

Cougar Town
This needs to come back. The cast was very funny, the writing sharp. I like all the characters – which is surprising considering they all are privileged white people (even the non-Caucasian ones), but then that same criticism applies to 95% of television.

The Middle
Part of the 5% (along with Raising Hope). In all its Malcolm in the Middle wonderfulness. When Patricia Heaton remains part of the ensemble, the show works – when she pushes her way to the front of the stage, it gets awkward – she tends to chew the scenery or become stilted. Perfect example of this – the episode with Marsha Mason as her Mom – it should have worked, but didn’t. That said, the whole cast is first rate, with the five family members each shining the brightest.

The Walking Dead
I like zombies. I like survival. I like this show – when they stick to those two things. Soap opera bullshit? Not my thing. All I want to know is… when do they get to go on a free shopping spree at the mall?

Guilty, Guilty Pleasures

Tosh 2.0
Tosh is the reason to watch. The clips are just the cringe-worthy moments his shtick is wound around.

The Soup
Joel is the reason to watch. The clips are just the cringe-worthy his shtick is sound around.

Fashion Police
Joan Rivers is… ummm, still alive. Kelly Osborne is cute as hell. The gay guy is sweet and inoffensive (another new gay stereotype I am liking) and the stick figure on the end has just enough personality that someday I may actually remember her name (although it seems to me she is on every show on E, including some gawd awful thing with a husband – so I think all the rest cancels out any good will she earns for being on Fashion Police).

The Romance Is Over Award:
How I Met Your Mother
Ugh. Can you all move on to something else. This is awful, painful to watch. When it is on, I keep looking at the clock and wonder just how bored the writers were when they thought this episode up. How could something that started out interesting become so bloody staid?

The Romance Is Waning Award:
Modern Family
The shape of the show is so established – as soon as the major plot points are highlighted, the audience can just fill in the blanks and come to the same happy, warm, smarmy, overly-privileged conclusion each week. ABC could save itself a lot of money and just let the audience do all the work. None of these characters ever really have any struggles worth giving a shit about… so why should I? How could something that started out interesting become so dull and predictable so quickly?

The Romance Never Got Started Award:
Two Broke Girls
Gawd awful writing. Gawd awful ideas. Gawd awful characters. Is it 1980? Kat Dennings? Gawd awful. (Horrible Actress.) Matthew Moy, Garret Morris, Jonathan Kite? Total Embarrassments. (Horrible Stereotypes). In this day in age how could anyone think this was a good idea? How could something so… gawd awful still be on the air?

The Not Really... Award:
Allen Gregory
I pay close attention to this one. On so many levels it is repugnant. The way the gay community is portrayed makes me squirm – only because I think they may have hit the preening-overly-privileged, class conscious, designer label conscious, queen thing right on their shaved, almond-shaped heads. The show sends so many mixed messages. Are they for us? Or against us? Or do they just hate everyone? Except exceptionally handsome, under-employed gay boy toys? Because other than that character – everyone else is just repulsive.

The Quirky But… Eh Award:
New Girl
I hate Zooey Deschanel. There, I said it. Hate She and Him. Hate her cotton commercials. Didn’t hate her in Elf. The rest of this show is just so uninteresting, you find yourself praying she’ll appear soon. Wants desperately to be Happy Endings. Desperation is never pretty.

The Quirky and I Hate It Award:
Whitney
Somebody cancel this piece of shit already. It reminds me of that time when Bette Midler, Joan Cusack, Paula Poundstone, etc. tried to have sitcoms. They all flopped because they failed to capitalize on what made them endearing in the first place and relied on standard, sitcom form. Whitney? There never was anything endearing to begin with… so… pull the damn plug already. The corpse is cold.

Can’t Seem To Watch You, Though I Really Should List
Louie
It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia
Breaking Bad
Children’s Hospital

Can’t Seem To Watch You… At All:
Up All Night
I love Christina Applegate. I love Maya Rudolph. I love Will Arnett. Then how can I resist this show? Oh, yeah… I forgot. I hate sitcoms about how difficult it is to be a parent. Because breeding is optional, you know.

Time to Pull the Plug Nominees:
The Simpsons
Family Guy
How I Met Your Mother

Already Dead, But They Just Don’t Know It Yet Nominees:
Whitney
Two Broke Girls
The Cleveland Show
Mike and Molly
Saturday Night Live
Reality Television

Show I Will Be Bitching About Next Year:
Work It
Haven’t seen it. Don't want to. Don't need to. It already has me cringing. Really over the whole "I have fake boobs and testicles and can't walk in heels" comedy. How awful can television be? This awful.

Worst Thing(s) to Happen to Gay Television:
The A-List: New York, The A-List: Dallas
Okay, so I look the other way when confronted with the preening stereotypes that are being passed off as positive images for gay folk on Modern Family. I cringe my way through Allen Gregory (being gay? Not a choice!). I even smile on occasion at those wacky ass young drag queens on RuPaul’s Drag Race. But The A-List: New York? And The A-List: Dallas? This is gay-bashing at its all-time worse. And it’s being perpetrated by our own beloved LOGO? What? LOGO couldn’t find enough money to fund more Jeffery and Jeffery – or pay off all the money owed to the cast of Sordid Lives so we could get more of that fun stuff – but they will throw money at these overly-privileged, spoiled-rotten, reality-deprived, lazy-assed, talentless (apologies to Mike Ruiz – who should know better than to associate with this kind of shit), narcissists. Fuck you, LOGO. You do such a disservice to your own people: people you claim to serve. You should be ashamed of yourselves. And grow the fuck up. This is not reality. These shows do not represent real gay people - this is the kind of gay you shove down America’s throats and then wonder why everybody hates on gay people. Want to know why America doesn’t think gay people should marry? Watch these shows.

Music 2011: The Year In Review

2011-12-16T07:10:00.000-08:00

For me, personally, it was a very good year in music. I listened to a whole lot of new stuff and, in fact, went out of my way to force myself out of my comfort zone. Doing so, I discovered a lot of wonderful stuff and some not so wonderful stuff.

15 Favorites

This is a list of favorites, not a best of list. “Best of” would seem to designate some type of superiority determined by a set of criteria. These are simply the recordings that caught my attention and held it, so I recommend you seek these out and decide for yourself.

Okkervil River: I Am Very Far
I love this album. It’s got a lot of Roxy Music influence, very glam – but not in an obvious way.

Girl in A Coma: Exits and All The Rest
Wow. I was so impressed by this. It puts them in the same class as The Pretenders and Concrete Blonde.

Wye Oak: Civilian
This one is like sinking into a nice warm bath.

Stephen Malkmus And The Jicks: Mirror Traffic
Okay, so the vocals take a bit getting used to, but you cannot deny the joy and skill that exists within these songs.

Devotchka: 100 Lovers
Another album that I just fell in love with. It’s sweeping and romantic – but not in a cliché’ way.

Wilco: The Whole Love
Okay, so this is weird, but I really thought about Pink Floyd throughout this entire gem. This is a very mature work. I like Wilco? Really? Since when? Since they grew up, I guess.

Adele: 21
You can’t argue with this one – other than it feels a little too on the nose. I liked it immediately, more due to the songwriting than the rather labored vocals. Where is she going to put all those Grammies?

tUnE-yArDs: w h o k i l l
Quirky to a fault, I still found a lot to love.

Destroyer: Kaputt
Yeah, retro 80’s to a fault, but I love the Pet Shop Boys.

Cut Copy: Zonoscope
I’m a sucker for stuff like this.

Peter Bjorn and John: Gimme Some
Clever. Clever, clever, clever. Some of the best pop songs I have heard in a long time.

The Joy Formidable: The Big Roar
What a pleasant surprise. Big rock with some nice tasty pop licks. Can’t wait for more.

St. Vincent: Strange Mercy
The album Kate Bush should have made.

The Black Keys: El Camino
A surprise. I thought they would always be stuck in 1972. They have graduated to 1977, bringing the whole retro/early 60’s/new wave vibe to the table.

Joe Henry: Reverie
Very cabaret, very theatrical. I enjoyed it, and in many ways, this is the album I wish Tom Waits had made this year.

Favorite Singles

I was thinking this was a bad year for pop music, but it is all relative. While most of the music I heard on the radio annoyed the hell out of me, there were some that I relished every time they aired. And, yes… female voices kept things interesting this year.

Lonely Boy – The Black Keys
Pumped Up Kicks – Foster The People
Rolling In The Deep / Rumor Has It / Someone Like You / Set Fire to The Rain - Adele
Till The World Ends / I Wanna Go – Britney Spears
We Found Love / S&M – Rihanna feat. Calvin Harris
Domino – Jessie J.
E.T. / The One That Got Away / Last Friday Night - Katy Perry
Edge of Glory / Marry The Night / Born This Way/You and I – Lady Gaga
Papi / On The Floor – Jennifer Lopez
Secret Love / For What It’s Worth – Stevie Nicks
What I Heard / Mother – Blondie
Fly / Super Bass / Moment For Life – Nicki Minaj
Novacane – Frank Ocean (Yes, I know it’s just “Blame It (On the Alcohol)” by Jamie Foxx – but I like it)
Motivation – Kelly Rowland
Give Me Everything / International Love – Pitbull
Moves Like Jagger – Maroon 5 feat. Christina Aguilera
Fuckin’ Perfect – P!nk
You Make Me Feel… -Cobra Starship Featuring Sabi
Stereo Love: Edward Maya & Vika Jigulina
In The Dark – Dev
Sure Thing – Miguel

Favorite Song of the Year

I Love You (But I Don’t Know What To Say) – Ryan Adams

Guiltiest Pleasure

Burlesque Soundtrack (Thank you, Xtina and Cher. It was awful… awful wonderful!)

Veterans

This turned out to be an excellent year for veteran acts. Sure, these entries didn’t spring a whole lot in the way of surprises – but then, they are veterans – and the reason they are still around is because they can deliver the goods consistently. Sure, nostalgia plays a part, but the craft and skill demonstrated speaks louder than the soft spot these artists hold in my heart.

Emmylou Harris: Hard Bargain
Just lovely. Yeah, a little too safe and polished, but so what.

Robbie Robertson: How to Become Clairvoyant
Lush and polished.

R.E.M.: Collapse Into Now
Not quite the return to form they promised, but solid none the less. They had a great run.

Blondie: Panic of Girls
75% perfect pop – I could do without the reggae affectations and the French tickler, but hey, it’s Blondie, so that crap is part of the package.

Stevie Nicks: In Your Dreams
The first two songs on this CD are the reason I keep believing in Stevie. After that, it is hit and miss, but then – hey, it’s Stevie Nicks, so… goes with the territory.

Paul Simon: So Beautiful Or So What
Kate Bush: Director's Cut / 50 Words For Snow
Wanda Jackson: The Party Ain't Over
Lucinda Williams: Blessed
Foo Fighters: Wasting Light
The Cars: Move Like This
Tori Amos: Night of the Hunters

Favorite Dance

Here is where the year got weird. The Best of Dance? It was all over the radio. Sure, the clubs played the remixes, but the radio mixes got major play… on the actual radio! Dance music was everywhere – more mainstream than ever before. So check out my favorite singles and there you will find the best of dance. Okay, so there were a few exceptions to that rule and here they are:

One Hot Pleasure – Erika Jayne
Fade – Kristine W.
You Haven’t Seen The Last of Me – Cher
Call Your Girlfriend – Robyn
I’m Into You – Jennifer Lopez
Arrow Through My Heart - Eddie Amador & Kimberly Cole feat. Garza

Thank You’s

Not the best of anything, in fact, in some cases, the worst of the genre – but they brought joy to my life and a smile to my face. I admire pop craft and always will. No one is really immune to this stuff.

Katy Perry
What a year. What a collection of pop gems. Yeah, she can’t sing, but that doesn’t seem to matter much these days. Every single from “Teenage Dream” eventually clicked with my ears. Yes, it is formulaic, because IT IS pop music, and what is pop music except a formula? And yes, her voice is shrill and flavorless. Eh. Get over it.

Britney Spears
Britney had almost as good a year as Katy, delivering her best in ages. Yeah, I know, she really doesn’t sing, but when the beats are this good – who cares.

Jessie J. – Domino
This is basically Katy Perry with a British accent and a purer sense of fashion. That said, the world could use a lot more Katy Perry – who doesn’t like to smile?

Kelly Clarkson
I love pure pop, so what is not to love about Kelly Clarkson. Yes, her vocals tend to get a little strained on the extended long notes and her attack is rarely subtle (in fact, it’s become downright workmanlike), but I still find myself getting lost in the froth.

Lady Gaga
She certainly kept us on her toes. Some of what she did, I had to question (what was with that Thanksgiving Special?), but she and her handlers are a bunch of very smart cookies. The new Madonna? Naw. There will never be another Madge, but Gaga has managed to stretch her 15 minutes quite a bit and in a number of tasty, satisfying ways. Sure, she tries too hard, but, unlike many an established star, at least she puts in some effort.

Nicki Minaj
So, initially wrote her off as crass, vulgar, and obnoxious. But the fact is, she has a great talent for creating a lot of drama and licks that serve as ear worms that burrow their way into one’s brain. Very talented and I think she is the heir to Mary J.’s throne.

Jennifer Lopez
Yeah, I know – kind of a spent dime, and as a biscuit – one full of empty calories. That said, she delivered three great cuts this year. And while only one of them really struck a chord with the bulk of listeners, they were all undeniably fun.

12 Also Rans

This is a list of albums that I remember liking, but something about each one of them held my enthusiasm in check. Still, they remain some of the best releases of the year.

Crazy Clown Time - David Lynch
The Decemberists: The King Is Dead
Death Cab For Cutie: Codes and Keys
My Morning Jacket: Circuital
Lykke Li: Wounded Rhymes
Raphael Saadiq: Stone Rollin'
Givers: In Light
M83: Hurry Up We’re Dreaming
Ceromonials: Florence + The Machine
Wild Flag – Wild Flag
Yuck – Yuck
Ryan Adams: Ashes & Fire
Dum Dum Girls: Only In Dreams

Disappointments

I expected more from these artists and these releases. Is that fair? Either I feel they failed to live up to their full potential (Gaga), are coasting (Scott), are disconnected from themselves (The Strokes), or simply chose to go in a direction they shouldn’t have (Waits and Bjork).

Jill Scott: The Light of the Sun
Lady Gaga: Born This Way
The Strokes: Angles
Tom Waits: Bad As Me
Bjork: Biophillia

Worst

Anything Bruno Mars smeared his feces on
I cannot wait for this man’s 15 minutes to be over. He has a collection of the worst lyrics ever. His image, along with his music, is cribbed from others who got there first. His voice is annoying (though on occasion it reminds me of Rod Stewart). That said, he has a gift for arranging and melody. Still. I would be happy if I never heard from him again. Suck on some morphine, Bruno.

Anything Chris Brown smeared his feces on
Yeah, he’s talented. (Beautiful People was awesome!) Yeah, he can dance, has a voice, and a knack for pop that makes your ears prick up. But he’s a total douche. And an unrepentant woman beater. Fuck you, Chris. (Oh – it sounds like a certain rapper already did!) Thank you, Martyn!

Eminem Collaborations
This trend take a (Bruno Mars/Skylar/Rhianna/Kesha/Lily Allen/Whoever) chorus and wrap a couple of lame raps/verses around it (whether they have anything to do with the chorus or not) sucks. Eminem just happens to be at the heart of two of the worst offenders. “Lighters” is awful. Dr. Dre’s “I Need a Doctor”, barely tolerable. What distinguishes these from the other dreck (5 O’Clock in the Morning, etc.) are the totally annoying angry-white-boy whiney raps perpetrated by Eminem. I mean, c’mon. Nobody with that much money is that pissed off all the fucking time. It seems he could have developed more of a range by now. He’s become Johnny-two-note, vacillating between being pissed off and comatose.

Radiohead: The King of Limbs
This has a lot to do with their appearance on SNL. Pretentious. Laughable. Embarrassing. Oh, and regarding the CD? Unlistenable.

Coldplay, Mylo Xyloto
This has something to do with their appearance on SNL. Pretentious. Laughable. Embarrassing. Cringe-inducing. Nauseating. Tiring. The CD is okay, it’s just so… pompous, overdone, strident, bombastic, over-produced, and shallow. If I wanted that, I’d listen to U2.

Drake: Take Care
Stop it, already. My ears are tired. When the man steps away from the machine I will start listening again.

Tyler, The Creator: Goblin
Unmitigated nonsense. Absolute trash.

T-Pain: rEVOLVEr
Evolution takes guts and a need for growth. Desperation to remain relevant and land another hit? Not so much. Auto-tune has always been annoying. T-Pain takes it to the extreme. He actually had four singles released that failed to catch fire, so they didn’t make the cut for this CD. Best Love Song? Worst song.

Jay-Z and Kanye West: Watch The Throne
Two of the dullest talents in rap get together and… umm. WTF? Percy Sledge is turning in his grave. What could have been a wonderful homage is rendered embarrassing. Undercooked and lazy to the max. I am amazed these two could tear themselves away long enough from their mirrors and empires to even bother dropping these rhymes. Production-wise their ‘throw in everything, including the kitchen sink’ approach doesn’t help. Paris? What does it mean? It doesn’t mean anything. That makes it annoying – not exciting.

Beyonce: 4
A Shrill Drill. B-Bouncy delivered the most unlistenable album of the year. Goats singing the phone book sound better than this. The woman doesn’t sing, she bleats. Her inability to deliver the most basic lyric with any sense of meaning continues to baffle and amuse me. Some of the worst musical ideas ever committed to a CD.

Wiz Khalifa: Rolling Papers
Duhhhhhhhhh

Don’t Get It

So there may well be something to be said for each of the following albums – it’s just not what I would say. These are the favorites of many critics, but CDs that left me in the lurch. The blame may be all mine to bear, but I failed to connect in any way to the following:

Bon Iver: Bon Iver – Boring, Somber, Dank, Lifeless
Fleet Foxes: Helplessness Blues – Derivative to the point of redundancy
James Blake: James Blake – See “Bon Iver” If I want to feel this way, I will take valium
Danger Mouse and Daniele Luppi: Rome – Cliché, Overblown, Silly, Embarassing
YACHT: Shangri-La – It’s like the just got their first Casio tone keyboard and want to impress us
Panda Bear: Tomboy – Ummm. Huh?
Fucked Up: David Comes to Life – Like a scrambled radio signal you can’t tune in no matter how much time you spend doing so
Low: C'mon – Boring, Derivative
Thurston Moore: Demolished Thoughts – Just awful. What was he thinking.
PJ Harvey: Let England Shake – That voice. Oh, God… that voice.
Kurt Vile: Smoke Ring for My Halo – See “Fucked Up”, oh, and boring as hell
Beirut: The Rip Tide - It was okay, but too subdued for my taste
Das Racist: Relax - A real shame, a wasted opportunity, failing to deliver the goods as promised

Favorite sites to listen to stuff first:

Seek these out.

NPR Listen First
Pitchfork
Idolator
We Are Pop Slags
Muso’s Guide
Paste Magazine

In A Van, Down By the River…

2011-12-10T07:47:00.000-08:00

Remember Chris Farley? The supposed successor to the John Belushi throne at SNL? The fat guy who would do anything for a laugh? He had a character, Matt Foley, an abrasive, over-the-top, totally inept inspirational, motivational speaker who was perpetually down on his luck and living “in a van, down by the river”. That was his catchphrase and he pulled it out constantly in an attempt to ‘scare-straight’ troubled teens whose inept parents misguidedly would hire him and invite him into their home.

The phrase, “in a van, down by the river” always captured my imagination. Every time I see one of those white panel-sided vans, I inevitably wonder two things: 1/ is it one of those vans that cruise playgrounds and kidnap school children? And 2/ what would it be like to have sex in the back of one of those?

While sitting in such vans in the past, I have bravely suggested that the back area offered plenty of privacy for a quick fuck, but the owners always gave me a weird look, remaining steadfastly behind the wheel before guiding my mouth down upon their cock. Still the fantasy remained. It is part of that same family of fantasies that include one where I get invited into the cabin of a big rig truck at a highway rest stop and then get thoroughly fucked in the sleeper compartment. That is a fantasy I have yet to realize. But as for the van, down by the river…

Yep. Check it off.

It is mid-week, and while I have been having a lot less sex, I have not sworn it off completely. It has been 23 days since I decided to hold back on having sex and during that time I have only had sex twice! Considering that I would have probably had sex at least 18-20 times in 23 days before that point, you would have to agree that I am making progress and making good on my promise to abstain. But I remain horny – and that itch still needs to be scratched occasionally.
The promise I made to myself was to curb the number of sexual encounters and save it for only dudes who were truly worthy of my ass! The first guy I broke my no-sex streak for was an on-off sex bud of mine. He’s what I consider a superior top – aggressive, dominant, a little rough, and really well hung. The week before I took my vow, we had tried to hook-up. He ended up standing me up twice in one day! But when you’re as good as this dude, a bottom makes a lot of excuses for bad behavior and looks the other way. So when he hit on me, I douched and got my ass to his place as soon as I possibly could. It was so well worth it! The man fucks like a maverick. I also allowed him to take pics. In the end, we both got our cookies and went our separate ways. He is an exceptional top, so, naturally, I made an exception.

The other exception? Fulfillment of a long time fantasy.

There is something seedy about vans in general and that seediness makes for some hot fantasy material. When I pull into the parking lot of one of my usual cruising parks – one that just happens to run along the shore of a major river, I spot this white van right away and park two spots down from it. I look over and, due to the quality of light, can only make out the driver’s profile. He has a very angular looking face and I find it impossible to determine his age. I note that he has a full head of hair and I am not repulsed, so I decide to watch him. He notices me staring at him eventually, but again, due to the distance and quality of light, I can’t make out what his intentions are – so I wait.

A Bronco-style vehicle parks on the other side, next to him. There’s something going on in that vehicle that captures the van driver’s attention for quite a bit. I bide my time and focus on the messages I am getting from various members on Scruff and Grndr. Eventually the Bronco-style vehicle drives off and the van driver’s attention is once again on me. At this point we are the only vehicles in the parking lot, so I decide that if anything is going to happen, it needs to happen now. I pop my trunk and get out of my car under the pretense of getting a bottle of water. As I return to the front of my car, I pause and give the van’s driver a deep stare. There’s something about his reaction that makes me feel a bit braver and I take a couple of tentative steps toward the van door, before deciding to just go for it – risk rejection and get it over with.

The van driver is a compact, wiry type. If he was considerably younger I would call him a pony boy. But he’s not. He does look like an east coast tough, though; vaguely Italian-looking, with rough, angular features. When he was younger he must have been a real babe. Fortunately he’s older now, which means he’s ready to settle for the likes of me. I never really get a beat on just how old he is, but when he asks my age, I tell him the truth and he tells me I hide it well. I take that as a compliment. He hides his age well, too, though I am pretty certain his number is a bit higher than mine. He’s wearing a tight leather jacket and a pair of jeans. Standing outside the passenger door my eyes go right for his crotch, which looks like it holds quite a nice package. Taking note of where I’m looking, he starts rubbing the front of his jeans. I take this as an invitation and climb inside.

The first thing that strikes me is the fact that the man smokes. The ashtray is overflowing with spent butts and the air is potent with the stench. I decide I can live with that and settle into the passenger seat. We make small talk: very small. Then I reach over and take over the rubbing of his crouch, and discover something very big! This is typical of pony boys – or in this case, former-pony boys. They have short, tight, wiry, compact bodies equipped with generously sized dicks. Because of the tightness of his jeans, I am unsure just what direction his dick is pointing or just how long it is, but I also didn’t get much of a chance to explore, because he unzips and hauls that monster out like the prize it surely is. It’s ten inches with a nice sized knob and while it’s not skinny, it is not so wide that it doesn’t slide down my throat with relative ease. In fact, it goes (or rather I do) down so easy that he gasps when I reach the base in what must have been record time. Whenever I am able to deep throat an exceptionally large cock I am always tempted to ask the owner how frequently he meets someone able to take the whole thing, but I usually resist, probably because my throat is preoccupied and I’m unable to speak.

His hygiene is good, which surprises me – generally smokers are less than on point when it comes to keeping things tasting and smelling good. He shaves his pubes and his nuts hang nice and low. I run the skin of his sack through the fingers of my right hand. It feels amazing. I check in with him to make sure he’s comfortable with what’s going on and he indicates that he is by lowering his jeans past his knees and spreading his thighs wide. I go to town, quickly running through my arsenal of tricks and methods, just to demonstrate for his benefit that he is indeed in for a good time. On an up stroke, I catch sight of the Bronco-style vehicle pulling back into the parking lot.

Wasting no time, he pulls right next to the van, on the driver’s side. Checking in with the van driver to see if he wants me to continue, I return to the upright position in my seat while scoping out what’s going on. It’s at this moment that I start checking out the back of the van. My eye catches sight of some red plaid flannel and I am thinking there just might be some kind of camping mattress under the various tools and equipment that is strewn about the back of the van. But I don’t really get to contemplate this much more than that, for the van driver remains exposed for the world – which in this case consists of the driver of the Bronco and me – to see. He tells me it’s cool and that I should get back on his dick. Turns out he’s a bit of an exhibitionist and wants to put on a show for the driver of the van. Well, never one to shy away from an opportunity to show-off my skills, I take great relish working my throat up and down the length of his magnificent member all the while catching the eye of the man in the Bronco. You see, we’re at a perfect level. The driver of the Bronco can definitely see what I’m doing and I can definitely see that he’s palming his dick while he’s watching. He’s Asian: kind of fleshy, but young, maybe late 20’s, with a roundish face. From what I can see, he is not very well endowed, but what do I care. I got me some – and I am more than satisfied with what I got.

The show goes on for about five minutes when the van driver starts to ask questions and make suggestions. Do I have a place we can go? (No) Do I like to get fucked? (Hell, yeah!) Do I have condoms and lube? (Always.) Would I like to get fucked in the back of his van? (Ummm… gee… FUCK YEAH!) Why don’t I go over and suck off the Asian dude while he cleans up the back of his van? (I don’t want to, but I walk over and talk to the Asian dude for a few minutes anyway. He hides his dick as I approach and it turns out he’s a watcher/jerker and has no interest in any physical contact which is fine with me. I head back into the van.)

The driver of the van has now decided that we need to go elsewhere to play. I’m cool with that. Before spending about five minutes moving stuff around in the back of the van, he suggests that I follow him to the parking lot of a nearby home improvement store. Waiting for him to leave first, I then follow at a reasonable distance.

He parks in the back corner of the expansive, sparsely populated parking lot. I pull in near a small grouping of cars, probably those that belong to the store employees – based on their distance from the entrance to the actual store. Grabbing my little kit of goodies from the back seat, I head over to the van. Yes, the van is no longer down by the river, but it is a van, so it more than fulfills my fantasy. Hopping inside, I am pleased to see that the van’s owner has done a remarkable job of straightening the place up and that , yes, there is indeed a blow up mattress covered with a red, plaid flannel sheet. Quickly, I jump in back. The van driver is already laid back on the mattress, propped up on a pillow. His dick is sticking out of the open fly of his pants so I immediately go down on it. My abilities must awaken other possibilities, for soon he’s shucking those jeans down in order to allow me more room to work with. Again, I cannot help but be impressed by this man’s appendage. It is a thing of beauty, with just the slightest curve. Seriously, every time is glides down my throat I feel like I am eating an entire Thanksgiving meal – it is that comforting and satisfying.

He’s letting loose with a set of encouraging tones, obviously appreciating my efforts. Mid-swallow, our eyes catch and I decide to risk a kiss. I’m surprised when it’s returned. As a kisser he holds back just a bit, but is much better than I’d hoped. This latest development has me shedding my clothing at an alarming rate. I can’t wait to get that fuck stick wedged deep in my ass. I help him with his clothing as well. It’s a bit of an awkward struggle, but the combination of fantasy fulfillment, non-traditional sex locale, the dude’s big dick and general hotness has me working my way through it with aplomb.

The van is parked facing a fence, so it is unlikely that we will be seen through the windshield. We are also low enough in the back that, unless someone approaches the van and peers inside, we are not likely to be seen through the driver’s or passenger window. Yes, the sun is fading, but it is still very light out. All those windows make the exhibitionist in me very happy and my dick is hard as a rock the minute my clothes leave my body.

I return to sucking him, and really, would be happy if that is how he ended up coming. Relishing the power I have over him, I take him to the edge twice, before he insists that it’s time he use my other hole. I grab the lube as he unsheathes a condom and work a finger in my hole, showing off a bit while doing so. Appreciative, he begins rubbing his uncovered dick on my exposed hole. In response, I rub his dick along the crack of my ass. Every time it grazes my readied fuck hole a jolt of excitement courses through my body.

I tell him, “You don’t have to put that (condom) on yet”, as I want to suck on his dick a little more. And I do, for a couple more minutes, but he seems really intent on using my ass and turns me around. So I haul out my poppers and take a couple of deep whiffs, my head down and my ass pointed in his direction. I am really prepared for it to hurt, because I haven’t been fucked since my encounter with my fuck bud the week before. It must have been the poppers, or the finger fuck I gave myself before he enters me, or that his dick is just the perfect length and girth, but that motherfucker slides down my shoot so smooth it had us both gasping.

Now, he is considerably shorter than me, so that might account for some of it, although I think the actual spatial limitations within the van may also have a lot to do with it, but his thrusts are kind of on the shallow side, as if he hasn’t enough room to get a decent amount of leverage in order to pound my ass. I try to help the situation, by taking over, by fucking back onto his dick. This has the unfortunate effect of causing the vehicle to sway. Since we are in a public parking lot, I’m not counting on others honoring the adage, “if the van’s a rocking, don’t come knocking”, so we change it up just a bit, and though stilted, I find his thrusts more than satisfactory. After about ten minutes, the animal in him kicks in. He pushes down on the small of my back and really takes my hole to task. I’m working my dick and loving it as his cock rams in and out of my slicked up hole.

He announces he’s about to cum, and I am on the edge, too… so I’m all for it. Ramping up the intensity ever so slightly before coming to a screeching halt, he emits the most erotic, guttural of sounds before picking up where he left off. Satiated, I beg him to stay in me as I shoot my load, which he does, flexing his dick inside me a few times, which gets me off big time. He pulls out… and, me, fearing that my ass may not have been all that clean – the big ones tend to stir things up in there a bit more, you know – I turn half around prepared to whip that dirty condom off his cock. Only, to my surprise, there’s no condom. Seems he misunderstood what I meant when I said “you don’t have to put that on”… yet. I had assumed that he was pulling it on as I was face down in my bottle of poppers. Oh, well. He’s unfazed by it, and I remain mute. The only reason I felt comfortable letting him fuck me was because I assumed he would have the condom on… not, as you may well know, if you have read other postings on this blog – that I necessarily object to barebacking, but because I was unsure of just how clean my hole was and the last thing I want is to have my fantasy fucked up because I left my top with a dirty dick. I check, and thankfully, his dick is squeaky clean. I thank my lucky stars and immediately go down on it, just to make sure it is indeed clean. He’s lying back again, and part of me doesn’t want to let go of that magnificent member, but hey – we both got our cookies, so it’s time to go home. I clean up with a couple of wet wipes he hands me, clean up the cum I shot all over his flannel sheet, and get dressed. We make small talk and in the back of my mind I wonder if I will ever get the opportunity to do this with him again.

I say my good-byes and head back to my car, where I quickly pull out the old Listerine, take a deep swig and gargle. I hold the liquid in my mouth and throat all the way back to the park. Once there, I grab a couple of bottles of water and head to the porta-potty so I can douche. I expel what he deposited and turns out the dude shoots a big load. Maybe next time I can convince him to shoot on my face. After I clean out my hole, I head for home. Part of me knows that every time I pass by that park now I will be praying to see that white panel van, because this is one fantasy that more than lived up to my expectations and bears repeating.

That or I need to find me a big, macho trucker who wants to see me on all fours with my ass in the air in the privacy of his sleeper cabin!

Aren’t fantasies the best?

The Bible and Anne Coulter: It Takes a Whore to Know One

2011-11-25T07:38:00.000-08:00

Thanksgiving morning, I was in church, in a particularly good mood – enjoying the unusually warm weather and in the mood to soak up the energy created when people gather. Sitting with the choir, I made small talk with the bass player until service began. The sun was pouring in through the windows above the altar and all seemed right with the world. Mass began. I was in good voice. As the readings began I buried my face in my hymnal; going over the psalm that was to be sung – it had a very pretty melody and part of me wished I would one day get a chance to sing it when I cantor.

Then we got to that part just before the gospel is read, when everyone touches their index finger to their eyes, lips and chest. I must have been absent that day in catechism, because I never learned to do it, and though I get the gist of the gesture (bless my eyes, my lips, my heart?) I never developed the habit to mimic those around me. Why, I wondered.

It occurred to me that I don’t bother with that particular gesture because it bestows some magical power upon the text that is about to be read. I don’t bother with that ritualistic movement for the same reason I bury my face in my hymnal – checking out copyright dates, composers, and trying to sight read the music – each time a reading from the bible is presented. It’s because I don’t hold that book in all that high esteem. I get the basic lessons it imparts, have for years. Each time the reader or the priest launches into a reading, I discern the meaning behind that particular reading, acknowledge how it relates to my own life, and then turn my attention to my hymnal.

How can I be so callous? So presumptuous? So sacrilegious? Is it because I’m gay? Not really. Because I am a hedonistic sinner? Ummm… naw. My disregard for the highly regarded book stems, not from my lack of moral compass, but from my understanding of the history, origin, purpose, and creation of that particular text.

The bible is not the word of God. It is the word of man – and in this particular case, the word of many, many men (and maybe a few women, but I doubt it, given the overall sexist nature of the many of the passages). The basic lessons to be imparted are quite valuable, much like those found in Aesop’s Fables. However, the bible, unlike Aesop’s Fables, has been subject to a lot of tinkering and padding. The men that helped shape this text over the years have managed to infuse these tales and lessons with their own not-so-hidden agendas and biases, which has resulted in the vilification and exclusion of certain segments of the population. And so it becomes rather confusing. All are welcome? Did God make me? Does God love me as I am? In spite of what and whom I turned out to be? Am I, indeed a child of God?

Well, no. Not according to the bible. Or at least some folks interpretation of the bible. Fortunately, the church I attend has a priest that seems to steer away from the more exclusive parts of the bible. For a Catholic church? It’s pretty damn welcoming. There’s a hymn we sing quite often entitled “All Are Welcome” and this congregation really embraces and lives that message.

And that’s as it should be.

Yes, I’ve heard that whole ‘love the sinner, hate the sin’ creed. I don’t find it very comforting. In fact, I think it’s something people came up with just so they could feel superior to someone else. It’s a bogus theology. Especially when it comes to gay people. You either accept us as God made us, or you’re really not all that in tune with the basic lessons the bible has to impart. Either you accept us as children of God, just as you have presumed yourself to be, or you’re a bloody hypocrite. In which case, I feel sorry for you – those who live life as a hypocrite – for yours is a burden of woe. I don’t know how you can live a life of such conflicting truths – either you are a Christian, or you are not – but I accept you as you are because as a sexually active gay man, I too, live a life of conflicting truths. I think hate, like wanton sex, must feel really good, otherwise, why would anyone pour their energy into creating and sustaining it? I believe that those people who live their lives condemning other children of God must really get off on that emotion. Apparently, just as I believe God made me gay and that it is not a choice, so God made them hateful hypocrites put on earth to distort his good works and lessons. (It’s okay, Michele and Marcus Bachmann. I don’t like you or what you do, but I do understand.)

And to take that last assumption one step further, I would like to theorize that what Michele and Marcus, and the Dr. Laura’s, Limbaugh’s, O’Reilly’s, and Coulter’s (aside – did you know that if you Google “blonde hateful republican pundit”, Ann Coulter’s name is at the top of the list?) of this world are really about has NOTHING to do with the word of God, or moral stewardship. They are just media whores, hungry for power, fame and – above all else – money. For that is their true God – MONEY. They may fool themselves, along with a lot of gullible others, but money really is the only thing (other than fame and power) they truly care about.

That – their money, how they achieve it, their need for it - doesn’t make them evil. It merely makes them human. In fact, it makes them the kind of people that the lessons of the bible does such a good job warning us about. And as such, we need to understand them. That said, I wish I was a good enough Christian to forgive them, too. To just let them be. But I am a flawed human, too. And I can’t. Like the Dixie Chicks – I’m Not Ready to Make Nice.

Forgive, sounds good
Forget, I'm not sure I could
They say time heals everything
But I'm still waiting

And I am waiting. Waiting for the day they own up to being the money-hungry media whores they are. For therein lies the difference between us. I own my shortcomings – I am a sexually compulsive, hedonistic, grudge-harboring, flawed human being. However, as much as I dislike the hate-filled, divisive rhetoric that spews out of their mouths, I still understand that they are children of God and products of God. But for me to forgive them? They first need to cop to their brand of whoredom the way I own mine.

Yes, it takes a whore to know one.

I’m looking at you, Ann Coulter.

Seven Whole Days - And I'm Feeling Fine!

2011-11-18T08:43:00.000-08:00

It’s been seven days. No sex. And I feel great.

In fact, this whole thing has been a lot easier than I thought. I assumed I would be climbing the walls, itching to jump on anything and anyone I found remotely attractive. Instead, it’s been like a great vacation where you don’t have anything planned and have no commitments you need to attend to.

What I don’t miss:

The anxiety inherent in the logistics associated with setting up and getting to a hook-up.

I’m not on my laptop, so any technical glitches – i.e. connectivity, sites not loading properly, uploading photos, etc. – poof, gone. I don’t have to Mapquest anything or expand my knowledge of parts of the cities I have not been to before. The actual frustration of driving to a designated site and parking? Not my problem anymore. Racing against the clock to get there at the time you said you would? Not me. Not this week, anyway.

Sweating the STD thing.
If you’re not getting fucked or having a dick rammed in your mouth – what’s to worry about? Well, yeah, my recent past could catch up to me, but something tells me I skirted this issue. It has been nice not spending the whole week wondering if that dude with the scuzzy apartment and dim lighting left me with a parting gift when he showed me to the door.

Burning all that gas.
I’m not sitting in a park parking lot idling my engine. I’m not driving all the way to Coon Rapids to scratch that itch. My car is in the garage when I’m not working, and that is saving me some bucks.

Wasting my time on-line.
Not that I’m doing anything special with my newfound freedom, but it’s nice not being tied to a phone app or glued to my laptop. The days pass by much faster, but that’s okay, because they seem a bit sweeter, too.

Wasting my emotional energy on-line.
I try not to sweat the little stuff. People on-line are fairly bogus, obtuse, and tend to be rather sketchy no matter what their chemical state may be. But rejection is almost always a self-esteem killer. It’s been nice not to have to read between the lines when some dude who was way into me suddenly stops responding to my emails.

Being ever-vigilant regarding my body hair maintenance regime.
Did I mention that I finally got a back clipper and shaved my back? Yes. Once. I will probably do it again, but now it will be when I want to do it, and not because I have to do it. Same with shaving the boys and buzzing my chest hair. I like doing that, I like how it looks, but all the anxiety I felt about having to do it every other day? Gone.

Douching.
My hole is so happy to be on vacation. That was such a chore. I can’t tell you the amount of frustration that has vanished. No more ducking into public restrooms to double check the fuck-ability of my poop shoot. No more wondering if I douched enough or too much. No more wondering if I’m going to show up on time only to discover that I’m not good to go. Next time I shove water up my love canal will be for some special occasion. Or maybe because I fell in love with a recently purchased zucchini (Veggie Love!).

Disappointment.
Turns out - no sex really is better than bad sex. I love that I haven’t had to perform for someone out of obligation. No mercy fucks. Nor have I had that sinking feeling when I open the mystery date door only to discover that ‘football player’s build’ translates, not into Aarron Rogers, but into Refrigerator Perry.

Lack of sleep and feeling worn out.
Sex is a lot of work. It takes its toll on the body. So I’ve discovered that the exhaustion I frequently felt come Friday has less to do with my work week than all the fucking around I tried to accomplish during the week. Also, I am sleeping better, because I am not all jazzed up from being on the internet desperately-seeking-human. That on-line cruising frequently leads to unmet expectations and needs which cumulate into frustration which then causes me a restless night. I like my zzzzz’s

Yes, I realize this is a little too early in the game to start proclaiming victory, but hey, seven days in, I am feeling a lot less frustrated than I thought I would be. It kind of goes to my whole ‘I am not a sex addict’ stance. The dude on that ‘Bad Sex’ show on LOGO was going bonkers after two days.

I do worry that I’ve reached this state, not out of a real desire to limit the number of sexual encounters I engage in, but due to my age. You know, like some version of male men-on-pause? I would want to rally against the fading of my mojo by over-compensating. Which may be what I have, in fact, been doing. But I don’t think so. I’m still horny – as evidenced by the three very sexual dreams I had this morning before waking and the incredible stiffy I had pressed into my mattress for most of the night. So it’s unlikely that waning libido is the cause of my current relaxed state.

In conclusion, I’m happier for doing this. So, I do believe I will continue to abstain from getting on-line or cruising for sex in parks. If I have sex, I want it to be special, not just the daily special.
Seven days! Here’s to seven more!

Dancing Naked With the Trolls: A Change in Course

2011-11-14T11:23:00.000-08:00

And now for something completely different?

Well, not completely different. More like a change in course, or at least a correction in direction. Yeah, I know… we’ve been here before, blah, blah, blah… but bear with me.

I handed myself over to the idea of being a complete slut this year, and it has been fun – for a while. That is, until it got so mind-numbingly boring that I feel I have no choice but to change. That or fall asleep during one of my less-than-inspirational encounters. Granted, they have not all been bad – in fact, some of them have been incredibly original experiences and first–times for me (perhaps I’ll be sharing a few of them in the near future). But the bulk? Oh, my! And, yes, you could say 50% of the responsibility was mine, but, that said, I believe I did bring my A game every time. Unfortunately, there are a lot of liars out there. There are a lot of misleading pictures out there. There are a lot of erroneous stats out there. Also – and this is common sense – returning to the same well repeatedly will only yield more of the same water.

Bottom line? I look at the clock, I look at the calendar, I estimate the amount of time I have left on this planet, and find myself wondering – is this all there is? The answer would be no, of course not. Thank God, I still live a life where most of my time is my own to decide what I do and where my energies go. In considering my behavior since, oh, about 1998 – I would say I have been squandering a good deal of it. Twelve/thirteen years is a long time to pursue something with no end in sight. So, I think it’s time to make a change.

It could have to do with an episode of ‘Sex and The City’ I saw recently that’s inspired this. Samantha Jones (slut supreme) is taking yoga and has the hots for her instructor. Turns out that the instructor is celibate, has been for three years, and practices a form of tantric sex. He claims that not having sex is even hotter than having sex. That thought caught my attention. It reminded me of something I’d experienced in my youth.

I recalled the time when I was a senior in high school and I made a deal with God that if he got me to the finals at the State Speech contest that year, I would refrain from masturbating for the duration of the time it took me to get there (about three months). I was good to my word. I didn’t shoot my load for three months – which, given the perpetual hard-on I walked around with at the time, was an amazing feat. God kept his end of the deal, too. He got me all the way to the final round at the State Contest.

Storytelling was my niche and that year the theme was the Brothers Grimm. At the local, district, and regional levels, I had come in first each time, thus securing a place at the State contest. I’d managed to do this the previous year, only to be eliminated before the final round at State. This time, I wanted it to be different. As a senior, this was to be my last grab at the ring.

In the first two rounds I lucked out and snagged what I considered my best story – something that had me, at one point, reenacting a party thrown by a group of trolls. I did my best Saturday Night Fever poses, singing a snippet of ‘Staying Alive’ in a highly-pitched dwarf voice – it never failed to bring down the house. That day was no different – the bit killed. I felt pretty confident waiting for the announcement of those who had made the cut for the final round, but, having been disappointed in the past, I tried not to get my hopes up too high. The results were posted; I made the final round.

I went to draw for my final story. I pulled one story that I had done before, but didn’t feel very confident about, the other I knew quite well, though it lacked zing. I went with the latter, hoping that my skills and style would make up for a less than fascinating read. The moment – and I do mean, the moment I finished my story I made a beeline for a restroom I had scouted out during a break. It was on the lower level of the school, tucked under a staircase. Wearing my finest, three-piece suit, I stood in front of the restroom trough and worked my dick with my fist until I shot my load. Now, I had been teasing my dick for the entire three months – edging without losing my load, so I was definitely primed to go. However, once the shot that should have been heard around the world went off - I was quite disappointed. I had imagined my ejaculate flying with such incredible force as to cause major damage to the wall in front of me. This was not the case. As anyone who ejaculates knows, saving up one’s load does not guarantee an incredible orgasm. Turns out my cum had congealed in my balls, so it came out in a series of fatty, pearlescent globs. Jizz, yes, but certainly not the super-soaker of my dreams. It also didn’t feel as wonderful as I had anticipated. I thought it would be reminiscent of the first time I ever shot my load – when I felt the world momentarily melt away and was pretty certain I was dying. But the linoleum beneath my feet did not open up and swallow me that day. In fact, as orgasms go, it just felt… average. Granted, at that age, I could have just gone for round two immediately, but I did not want to get caught jerking off at the trough and the award ceremony announcing the winners was about to begin.

So, long story short – standing on stage at the end of the awards for my category were me and this other dude – a soft, bookish, John Denver-sort whose very essence seemed to scream intellectual. His style was the polar opposite of mine; quiet, sweet, gentle, and rather lulling, while mine was bombastic, physical, and used voice caricatures for all character dialogue. It was his name that was called for the number one spot, I came in second. I immediately blamed my premature trough ejaculation for my loss. Oh, if only I had waited! On the long bus ride home, my coaches, who were rather absent with praise, handed the score tallies for all the contestants in my category. Round one – I came in first place. Round two – again, first place. I’d won both the first two rounds, while the eventual winner had placed dead last in one of the rounds and fifth in the other. I should have sailed home with first place easily – but in the final round – two of the three judges HATED me, one giving me last place, the other one place above it. The third judge placed me in the middle of the pack. If it had not been for my two first place rankings in the preliminary rounds, I wouldn’t have placed second. And then I did the math. Turns out I lost by one point. The story of my life.

Oh, if only I had waited. (Naw – they just liked the other dude better. That’s the way it goes.) So, yeah, the story doesn’t end as well. Yes, technically God kept his promise, and due to this experience I’ve learned that if you’re going to make a deal with God, then make it to win!

I had also learned that denial of sexual release was kind of exciting. Something I think it might be time to revisit. So… I’ve decided to enter into a deal with myself – no, not that I won’t be jerking off, but I will refrain from having sex with other people. So no more warehouse visits. No more on-line cruising. No more sitting in my car in the parking lot cruising. No more Craigslist ads either. I need to reinvent myself sexually. Sexually speaking, internet hook-ups have become the culinary equivalent of hamburger helper. I need to try harder. No, I don’t want a relationship. LTR is not for me either. Rather, I need to be sexual in a less obvious way. I also need to spend my time doing good works – or at least something other than trolling on bbrts every chance I get. If my identity as a sexual person is my brand, then I’ve been diluting my brand in the market for way too long now.

But don’t worry. I will still have stories to share here – past exploits that were definitely blog-worth that I never committed to paper. Or not. We’ll see. I’ll also be keeping you posted on how my desire to take a vacation from internet sex progresses.

I did recently come to the conclusion that I am not a sex addict.

I watched this program called ‘Bad Sex’ on LOGO. The first person they profiled was a gay dude struggling with his obsession for hooking up. I didn’t see myself in him. I have a lot of other things going on in my life. He did not. He seemed very selfish, myopic, and narcissistic. And, yes, you could accuse me of being rather narcissistic due to my insistence on writing about myself on this blog, but selfish and myopic I am not. I do a lot of volunteer work, and I put the needs of others ahead of my own quite frequently. Yes, I may resent the hell out of having to do so, but I do the right thing – and not just when it’s convenient.

Given that, this change isn’t some desire to curtail my perceived sexual addiction. It’s just a challenge. A new way of looking at something. A way to get out of the sexual rut I have been mucking about in recently. Change is a good thing. No, it’s not always easy, but I think life without a little struggle is… well, boring. So, no more warehouse parties for this one.

I guess you could say that my days dancing naked with the trolls are over.

One day at a time… and this time? No deal with God. I’m on my own with this one.

Returning to the Past What Belongs to the Past

2011-11-04T06:15:00.000-07:00

Last week I finally did something I have wanted to do for a long time.

You see, I had these cassette tapes that really did not belong to me. They contained demos of various songs I’d written, as well as rehearsals and performances with this punky / pop / rock group I used to sing with in my formative years. We were all best friends, had been since high school. We’d been playing together in various line-ups, under various names – having taken our love of music to what we thought was its logical conclusion, by forming a band.

At the time, we were all in our second year of college and living together in a house right across the street from the campus. Despite this proximity, I still managed to skip as many classes as I had enrolled in, frequently showing up only for mid-terms and the final. I was heavy into the theatre department and involved with a woman who saw something in me I did not see myself. The atmosphere in the theatre department did not exactly encourage one to embrace one’s homosexuality, and I was struggling big time. Still recovering from my first romance – with a beautiful Italian actor from the Guthrie I met when he visited our school on tour – I was pretty much an emotional mess. The actor walked into the backstage shop one winter afternoon and it was love at first sight. For the next six months I traveled around, meeting up with him whenever his touring schedule and my rehearsal schedule allowed. It ended badly, with me telling him I did not want to be gay. My cowardice broke both our hearts.

That was part of the reason of why I was a psychological mess. I even made a half-assed attempt at killing myself by taking a handful of sleeping pills. The other reason I was such a mess? I was also emotionally in love with my best friend. We’ll call him Robby. Robby was a farm boy with a great deal of intelligence and a thirst for anything rock and roll had to offer. No, we didn’t drink or smoke or party all night, but we did listen to the music of those that did. We also had a keen appreciation for the DIY attitude of the punk scene and got swept up in the idea of creating our own band.

In many ways, Robby rescued me from… well, I’m not sure. But he befriended me in 8th grade. At the time I had a few friends – three guys that it would turn out were the other gay guys in my class. Ironic, huh? Anyway, that clique – well, I guess we were the girly boys. Robby’s clique was the brains. I was not that great of a student, but I was somewhat clever. Not sure what he saw in me, but Robby adopted me. I remember very clearly the day it happened, for my former best friend – we’ll call him Martin, looked at me and shook his head “no” – as in, he would not be joining Robby’s group, even though I definitely gestured that he should.

Martin and I had been best friends since the 4th grade. I think we were rather emotionally enmeshed. We depended a great deal on each other and were probably in love with each other, in a non-sexual way. I was kind of upset that he wouldn’t sit with the rest of Robby’s crew, but I was also determined not to miss an opportunity to break away from the girly boys and get absorbed by a larger, much more highly-esteemed clique.

Martin and I drifted apart and Robby and I became best buds – much to the chagrin of his two former best friends. I think it was because I made him laugh and because I had a tendency of being borderline inappropriate and a bit loud. He turned me on to Bowie, the Stones, the Sex Pistols, Iggy Pop, and Lou Reed. We listened to anything we could get our hands on. One of our favorite activities was purchasing cut-out albums in bulk through the mail and dividing up whatever came in the box – some of which eventually found their way beneath the hub caps of our cars; an experiment in vinyl appreciation.

By our second year in college, I had become one of the walking wounded, while Robby remained blissfully upbeat and grounded. Moving into that house and sharing it with our other bandmates? A bad idea – one I regretted almost immediately. I had such a need for privacy and was hiding so much of whom I was… that, coupled with my struggle to reconcile my sexuality and my emotional ties to Robby, the situation became unbearable for me and I announced, rather abruptly, that I was moving out. My name wasn’t on the lease, Robby’s was. He never forgave me for ruining that situation. It was the end of our friendship. I packed my things quickly and in doing so, snagged a bunch of tapes – some original comedy sketches we created (we were obsessed with Monty Python), some song demos, some rehearsal recordings – that really did not belong to me.

As the years went by, these tapes came to haunt me. They represented Robby’s youth and I had robbed him of them. So, last week, I did an internet search – a little creeping on Facebook, Linked-in, and the like, and figured out where he worked. I knew he was in the cities. We’d run into each other once in the late 80’s in a video store. I was all glib and friendly, and he refused to talk to me (who could blame him). Years later I learned that he had been in a band and the lead singer had fallen ill and died. Robby gave the eulogy at his funeral. I think I read that in City Pages… anyway, for many years, I was aware that he was still living/working in the area. Also, based on his educational background, knew what kind of work he likely was engaged in. So I tracked him down, and sent the tapes to him anonymously with a short note thanking him for his friendship, explaining how much it had meant to me, and how sorry I was that things had ended badly. I signed it with only my first initial. For the return address I had used the name of one of the characters I used to play in our comedy sketches. I made it clear who it was from, but there is no way he could ever find me – not that he would want to.

I did want him to know one thing… that he had saved my life. His friendship and acceptance meant the world to me. I didn’t realize it at the time, but he had kept me from drifting into despair for the longest time. Our love of music gave me focus, eventually leading to theater. That focus prevented me from feeling hopeless. It also got me out of the house and away from an abusive home life. Had Robby not chosen me? I don’t know what I would have become. Maybe just another gay-suicide statistic. I know he ran a lot of interference for me – he had sway with a lot of different cliques and therefore, they were less likely to pick on me. But aside from that, it was his clear, bright, shiny outlook that made me believe that life was supposed to be fun. We laughed a great deal and spent our high school years alcohol and drug-free. We got good grades and excelled at a number of things. His presence in my life made me a better person. I just didn’t appreciate it at the time enough and had lost sight of that completely by our junior year in college.

But that’s life. Our paths divided. I made some bad choices and hurt a number of people; something I would continue to do for a number of years, until the day came along when someone hurt me so deeply that I would see the destructive nature of my behavior and make some drastic changes.

Sending those tapes to Robby? It was like putting something to rest. Returning something to order. Gaining real closure. I can let that part of my life go now. And I forgive myself, too… at the time, I simply did not have a good understanding of how the world worked. I, like a lot of people, still spend way too much time mulling over all the paths not taken, the crappy outcomes, the missed opportunities. However, I don’t believe that regret is a total waste of time – it helps us not repeat the same mistakes ad nausea – provided we're willing to own those mistakes. It helps us recognize the wrongs we have done, admit that we’re terribly flawed and human, humble ourselves, and even give us ideas on how to make amends. I also know that when making amends one must tread carefully – as in, do no harm.

I don’t harbor any fantasies about repairing the many relationships that I have destroyed during my lifetime and resuming those friendships. I’m not the same person I was – I am better; more aware, more comfortable in my skin, more enlightened, less stubborn and selfish. And that person doesn’t fit well with those in my past – because they became better people, too. So, I won’t be showing up to my high school reunion – ever - or going back to some theatre to relive my glory days. I don’t belong with or to those people and places anymore. In this particular instance, I was able to achieve a type of closure – a closure not always possible.

Someone once said the past should remain the past. And I agree. But in order to keep the present free of distractions, sometimes we have clean-up those nagging leftovers from the past when the opportunity presents itself.

Beau (April 1st, 1997 – August 19th, 2011)

2011-10-21T04:46:00.000-07:00

I promised I would never leave you
And you should always know
Where ever you may go
No matter where you are
I never will be far away...
- "Lullabye (Goodnight, My Angel) by Billy Joel

So, at some point I knew I was going to have to write about this.

You’d think, after the events of last year, that I would be better at coping with this type of thing, but, no. The way I manage just seems to keep changing. The way I grieve? It’s bordering on the self-destructive side of things. What happens to grief when one is no longer merely sad?

This one. It leaves me… bankrupt. I simply want to roll into a little ball.

You see, my life began, again, when Beau came into it. Before that, I was living through a period of an all-time low; uncommitted to continuing – I didn’t see the point. Back in 1996, life as I had known it was over. A vapor. For some reason I was still alive, but wasn’t sure why. I felt I had nothing to live for.

And then, one day, in the fall, I was on my way into a local Menards to buy an area rug to warm up this awful little apartment I had just rented in a shitty neighborhood in South Minneapolis when our eyes met. His were so large and scared. I recognized the look, for it was the same one I had seen that morning in the mirror as I prepared to shave and get on with another day. A frazzled woman was holding him, with a small girl clinging to her side. They were all three just standing there in front of the main entrance to this store. I approached and asked what kind of dog it was and her reply startled me. “Do you want him?”

He was a four month old Rat Terrier/Chihuahua mix brought up from North Carolina. He was absolutely adorable. They had to get rid of him because they had just moved into a motel that didn’t accept dogs. At the time I was not all that sure that I was physically or emotionally ready to take care of a dog, but I told her that I would think about it as I shopped and if the dog was still there when I finished, maybe I would take him off their hands. Truth was, I had already fallen in love with him and just wanted to buy some time. I shopped quickly, for I was really hoping he would still be there when I got through the check line.

He was. And I had just told the woman that I would take him, when this old woman walked up and said “I just lost my dog. I want a new one. I’ll take him.” Part of me wanted to fight for him, but then part of me continued to wonder if I was ready to take on such a responsibility. Maybe the old woman could provide a better home, a better life. Maybe the fates were stepping in to ensure that this little guy had a great life.

So I let the old woman take him. I gave her my number and told her to call me if it didn’t work out. I watched as the little girl cried as the old woman took the dog and the dog’s toys. His name was Bobo.

The next day, as I sort of hoped and expected, the old woman called me and told me to come get the dog. She had four steps she had to go up and down to get to her yard, and she didn’t want to risk that on an on-going basis. I drove to Richfield to pick him up. I was very excited. I walked into her house and there he was; his eyes still as big and scared as ever. But I also caught a glint of something else. Something joyful. I scooped him up, grabbed all his things, and made my way to my vehicle.

Once inside, he settled down on my lap immediately. He wasn’t scared. As we drove away, he fell asleep and I thought, wow, he must be a very experienced traveller. I told him that I would never leave him. That he would always have a home with me and that I would do my best to provide a safe and clean environment. And that he would never go hungry or want for anything.

And I did. I kept my promises. I got my act together and created a better place for him, and in the process, one for myself, as well. Within a year I was out of that crummy apartment and Beau (as I renamed him), had a fenced in yard and lovely place to live. He was the start of my new commitment to life and to living.

We travelled a great deal together. I worried about him whenever I had to travel without him, never quite trusting whomever I arranged to take care of him. I was as protective as I could be.

He survived being attacked by a pit bull. We were walking in a park and the owner of the pit bull lost control of his dog. It was an ugly, messy, scene – one which sent both Beau and me to the emergency room. He survived a series of seizures during his first year. I spent a lot of money at the U of M trying to find out why he would suddenly only be able to walk backwards before rolling into a little ball of pain. It was freaky and terrifying to witness. Fortunately he grew out of it.

He was smart. I taught him a series of tricks, including “Bang, You’re Dead” and “Kill The Baby”. He was a quick study. He loved his toys. And he was nice. He would growl at babies and puppies younger than himself, but other than that, he loved everyone. Trusted everyone, instantly.

He had so much personality. He was one of the few dogs that I’d ever met that actually smiled. He had such poise, too. I’ve never been so smitten in my entire life.

But years go by… and as they do, we tend to take for granted that the one thing that has been a constant source of stability, acceptance, strength, joy, and love – will always be there. The last three years of his life it was like living with a hostile adolescent. He loved his brother Paco, and even welcomed Mona, but when they died, he was the only dog again, and I noticed how attentive he suddenly was again. I think he really wanted to be the only dog. Then Millie came into our lives and took a lot of attention.

Beau knew I loved him. I told him often enough. I would imagine my life without him and simply ache. I didn’t know how I would handle it.

On a crisp, Sunday morning, I had the dogs out in the front yard with me, talking with a neighbor over the fence. The conversation ended, I took Millie back in the house, but left Beau to sniff around the front gardens. A few moments later, I heard Beau make a lot of noise. Some people were walking two large dogs past our front gate. Beau must have been racing up and down the length of the fence. Suddenly I heard him yelp, as if he had been hurt. I raced to the front yard. The people with the dogs were walking away, as they did, one of them said, “Oh, for heaven’s sake, it’s not that bad.” But it was. I picked up Beau and knew, right then and there – it was the beginning of the end.

Multiple trips to the emergency vet and my regular vet. Not a good candidate for surgery; enlarged heart, age. Nothing they can do. The pain meds make him loopy. He can’t stand to pee. I sleep on the floor next to his bed. The vet takes him off the pain meds. He’s in a great deal of pain and cries. I put him back on the pain meds. Six days of this. No more.

We make that final trip. I talk to him. The vet gives us lots of time to say good-bye. I tell him, “I always thought we had more time.” He’s 14 years old. 14 years, 4 months, 19 days. I didn’t have a birthdate for him, but I estimated that he must have been born around April 1st, so I chose that as his birthday, and we celebrated it every year.

My little April’s fool.

I handle it all much better than I thought. At least, on the face of things. But secretly – and now, not so secretly – I’m crushed. My self-destructive tendencies are running a bit amok. I do a great job of covering it. But it will catch up to me. Sooner. Later.

The house is so quiet now. No more shedding dog. No more barking as I prepare the dog food. One less dish to prepare. No more hopeful glances from across the room. He was only 10 lbs., but emotionally, he took up a lot of room in my house.

Yes, I regret not taking him for more walks (he loved them so). I regret choosing to do things over spending time with him. I regret that I couldn’t make him the only dog in my house. He had a wonderful life. That’s what everyone tells me. But I know it could have been better.

And mostly, I blame myself. Had I not left him in that front yard he wouldn’t have twisted his back. He’d still be here. He was a very healthy 14 year-old. He was the best dog, ever.

Millie and I manage. At first, she spent a lot of time looking for him – trying to find his scent. She’s blind, but she knew something had changed. I don’t think she misses him much, if at all, now. Still, the house seems so quiet. And when I’m not there, I’m sure she notices that being alone is different without Beau around.

I notice it, too. Even with Millie sitting on my lap, I feel, very much – alone.

So, I haven’t been able to write much since August, 14th, the day Beau injured himself. My mind feels fragmented; my focus non-existent.

I don’t know what comes next. I don’t want to regroup. I don’t want to hunker down. I don’t want to refocus on something more positive. I don’t want to go to therapy. I don’t want to go to the doctor’s. I don’t want to take pills. I don’t want to do… anything.

I don’t. And then I over-indulge in something that is not healthy. I do things that don’t feel good.
But then – I don’t feel much. Not much of anything. So, does that mean I’m handling it? Does that mean I’m doing okay? It’s like waiting for the flood wall to burst. Am I punishing myself? Or is it because I can’t feel anything… so doing something that makes me feel worse, something hurtful… is feeling something bad better than not feeling at all?

So, what happens to grief when one is no longer merely sad?

Stay tuned.

And like a ship out on the ocean
I'm rocking you to sleep
The water's dark and deep
Inside this ancient heart
You'll always be a part of me

I Broke My Fuck Back and I Want It Back.

2011-10-14T05:38:00.000-07:00

I broke my fuck-back.

What?

Yeah, my fuck-back. It’s hard to describe, but I will give it a shot. It’s a little movement a bottom can do with the small of their back in order to ‘fuck back’ on their top’s dick. It’s as if the bottom is flicking his tail bone up and down. Done very rapidly, it can produce the most amazing effect. Done slowly it’s like milking a cow’s teat. It’s sort of akin to a dance move they do on Family Guy in their parody of “Can’t Touch This”, where it looks like they are skiing.

Anyway, mine is broken. I wrecked it fucking this cute little Columbian who is half my age – something I have taken the trouble to point out to him on a number of occasions, but, hey, he wants what he wants. I have no clue what this kid sees in me. We fucked once before about a year ago. I had a great time, but the apartment we played in gave me the creeps. It was messy and in a really crappy neighborhood. The entire time we played I worried that someone was going to steal my car. After that first encounter (which was quite good) , he’d hit on me all the time, but I’d beg off, not wanting to park my car in that neighborhood. Is that bad of me?

He’s cute. Well, more than cute… he’s a biological wonder. Very handsome, with perfect skin and not a pound of fat to be found anywhere on his little muscled being. His dick is just average - 6.5”, but he knows what to do with it, and that’s what really counts. Totally dedicated to topping, he exudes this machismo thing and takes his fucking very seriously. I admire his commitment. And his technique.

So, Friday, after my Kick Boxing Class, I decided to cool down with some yoga moves, during the course of which I decided to try a few things I’d seen on-line that younger, much more flexible bottoms are able to do. I was on a mat in the back of the class room and even though others were milling about, I figured, since I was doing a bunch of yoga poses, no one would have a clue what my real inspiration might be. I’m on my back, trying to bring my knees down on either side of me when I feel a slight pull in the small of my back, and not the kind of pull that one should feel or would every want to feel. I decide it must be part of my getting limber and persisted a bit more before giving up and moving on to some basic crunches. But that was the beginning of my fuck-back’s fall.

Later that night, the Columbian hits me up on-line. He has all new pics and at first I don’t realize it’s him. In fact, it’s not until after I have agreed to meet him that he reminds me about who he is. He’s now living in a much nicer part of town, so I have no qualms about seeing him.

I arrive at his new place and… it looks kind of like his old place, as in totally dis-shelved. The kid may know how to fuck, but housekeeping is not high on his priority list. I ignore the mess and make my way up to the bedroom. He tells me to make myself comfortable and that he will be up shortly. I strip, put on my cock ring, have my poppers at the ready, and a little tube of lube. Then I get on all fours and point my ass toward the staircase for maximum impact as he comes up the stairs. It does the trick. He’s on me in a matter of moments. He orders me to climb on the bed.

Throughout the night he comments on how beautiful my hole looks (eh, eye of the beholder?). He’s verbal, but in a strange way. His English is very good, without a trace of an accent, but he mumbles, so whenever he asks me a question or makes a demand I have to ask him to repeat it like an old woman who’s hard of hearing.

He just recently returned from a long visit to Columbia. He’s even sexier than I remember. I just love staring into his eyes as he’s fucking me. They’re so dark and rich, and tinged with just a touch of evil. It’s a little like getting fucked by the devil. His body is perfect. And so young! Too young for me, but he has a thing for me. I know he can do (and does) much better than me. So I should just take it as a compliment that he wants me at all. And I do. I simply lose myself and let him drive. He likes to be in control. He won’t kiss me. But he likes spitting in my mouth. It’s like a dominance thing - it puts me in my place. It also makes me feel cheap and disposable. Sigh. Sex is so complicated sometimes.

We start on the bed with me on all fours on the bed. He just wants to stand behind me and look and play with my hole. He teases my hole with the head of his dick before ordering me to turn around and suck him. Like I said, he’s not much in the size department, so I make quick work of it, and soon have him hard as a rock. At this point he orders me to turn around and pushes me down on the bed. He enters me roughly, in one fell swoop. Fortunately the poppers are nearby and my ass is all lubed up with his spit. That’s another odd thing about him – he doesn’t like lube. He likes spit. Throughout the hour that we play, he is constantly spitting on his dick, in my hole, in my mouth. His hygiene is, despite the general state of his household, impeccable, so I don’t mind his spit at all. In fact, I find it kind of sexy.

So he pounds away on top of me, and I am suitably swooning, what with the poppers and the general tone of his attack. After a bit he has me roll onto my back. He enters me again and gets really intense. Our eyes lock and I just know that he’s coming into the home stretch soon. Not that I worry. Last time we played, he came three times, so I am pretty confident I can get a second load out of him. He spits in my mouth and mumbles something I don’t bother to ask him to repeat. He keeps changing up his game just enough, adding a few swoops here, a few turns there. It’s nice. I take the time to really notice his body and appreciate his skin. Everything is so tight and muscular. Not bulgy muscles, but lean and fine. His body is completely hairless. He has beautiful hair. I run my hand s through it, running them down his back to his taut, pounding ass. He’s picking up the tempo and his eyes are staring intensely into mine. Then he rears up and back and freezes as the first spurt of cum hits my insides. He rams into me with great deliberation seven more times, pausing between each, while making tiny sounds of joy.

I’m gasping, too, and hard as a rock, but know enough to stay quiet. Whenever I get too loud, he covers my mouth with his hands – more controlling behavior (but, again, I find it sexy). I’m not sure what it is about the noise that bothers him – whether his need for quiet is a matter of taste or a matter of necessity because someone else might hear us, but I play along as directed.

He is almost apologetic about having come so quickly – only twenty minutes have passed, but I tell him not to sweat it, that I know he’s good for another load. His shrinking member would lead one to doubt this, but I waste no time taking that spent dick in my mouth and begin working some magic on it.

It never occurs to me that he won’t get it back up, for there is something very mercenary about our sex. The difference in our ages almost dictates that he service me, and that I comply and accept however he wishes to treat me. My little stallion doesn’t disappoint. After about five minutes, he’s back to life, not that he ever really went limp. That is the wonder of the young… the never ceasing hard on.
This time he orders me onto the floor. Onto a rug. So normally, I’d refuse. Rug burns are not my idea of a good time, but he’s in charge, so he calls the shots.

It’s very odd, because the age difference is not the only imbalance that exists between us. I am also a full six inches taller than he is. His frame is smaller than mine, too. I like all types, as you know, but it is rare that I find someone who is smaller in stature than me who wants to dominate me. When the occasion arises, I tend to give into it. This difference also accounts for some of the odd positions we find ourselves in. I can twist myself around at my waist while he is fucking me doggy style. I saw this position in a video on line, and because I can do it, I went ahead and tried it with him. It worked. You cannot imagine the sweat he was working up. It literally poured off him, making his body all sleek and glistening.

On the floor, he starts fucking me doggie style, than pushes me down and fucks me like we’re a couple of experimenting high school jocks. Then he flips me on my back and gets all intense again. I can tell he wants to blow his load and get it over with, but can’t cum, so he just keeps working harder and sweating more.

Then he flips me face down again. This time we make enough room for me to fuck back onto his dick. And he loves it. This is hard work, but I am more than willing to go the distance if it helps my top get off. I do about eight sets of 32 rapid fire back tucks and then I take a breather while he fucks me doggie. Then I position myself to do some rapid fire back tucks, but instead I slow it way down, literally milking the hell out of his dick. I’m squeezing my hole for all it’s worth and he is loving it. We do that for a good ten minutes. By that time he is super worked up, rolls me on back, plunges in and does the whole intense stare in the eyes, spit in the mouth, working it up, working it up, rear up and SCORE! Shoots his load deep in me, making those odd mumbly sounds of his.

He stays in me while I jerk myself off… he really gets me hard as a rock. I shoot all over my chest and stomach and… he climbs off. He is one soaking mass of man/boy.

When he is done with me he is done. Period. End of game means get the hell out. I get up, and realize instantly that I have done something to my lower back. The pain is sharp and it takes me quite a bit of effort in order to upright myself and correct my posture. It takes me a few days to realize it is my fuck back that has gone out. I dress quickly, not even pausing to wipe the cum off my chest and stomach because there is nothing to wipe with (I left my wet wipes in the car – a sign that I was out of practice in the sleazy hook-ups department). He walks me to the door and is already on his cell talking to a friend of his. They’re headed out to the clubs. Heading to my car, I don’t look back. It is what it is. I don’t fool myself.

Maybe this all comes off a bit clinical, a bit cold – but I’m not going to pretend it is anything other than a strange little power play between two totally different people with nothing in common other than the need for an orgasm and the means of achieving it.

Who knows, once I get my fuck back…. er, back – I’ll try to find something a little more my equal. Or not. If he im’d me right now and told me he wanted my ass?

Who am I to refuse?

Sex, Television, and Avoiding the Middle-Age Body Slide

2011-09-18T09:15:00.000-07:00

There was an Australian study that came out recently that claims that for every one hour of television a person watches they lose 22 minutes of their life expectancy. The study included 11,000 people who spent an average of 6 hours in front of the boob tube a day. Contributing factors sited were the mindless eating that accompanies heavy TV viewing and the lack of physical activity involved. It was concluded that those who habitually watch a significant amount of television programming run greater risk for obesity and chronic diseases such as cancer, diabetes, and heart disease.

There was also a Harvard study that found that watching television two hours per day puts one at risk for developing type 2 diabetes; increasing one’s risk by 20 percent. It also increases one’s chances of developing heart disease by 15 percent. More than three hours of TV? You increase your risk of death across all diseases.

At the most, I watch three hours of television a day. That’s not an average. It’s just the most time my ass can stand sitting on the couch. I would say, overall, I am more like two hours a day – which is still quite embarrassing. Though it should be noted that during commercials I frequently get up and do housework, cook, or do laundry.

In light of the findings above, I’ve decided to bring up a yoga mat and a pair of dumbbells and put them in my living room. I plan on doing crunches and lifting a bit during commercials in order to combat the sedentary aspects of television viewing.

Not sure how to combat the mindless eating part. For, you see, I recently discovered that my blender is not just for fruit and fruit juice. I have been making things like pesto, salsa, and guacamole. I love it because it tastes so fresh. It also takes very little skill. It’s pretty fool-proof stuff, as in, whatever I happen to have on hand seems to do the trick. Last night, I made guacamole: an avocado, a couple of peppers someone gave me at work, some black olives, half a tomato and a little orange juice to get the whole thing spinning. The peppers were much stronger than I had anticipated, but it was still delicious and I ate about 3/4ths of what I had prepared with natural tortilla chips I heated in my little countertop toaster oven. Okay, so maybe not that healthy a snack and maybe I over ate a bit, but it tasted so good.

Point is, if I work on portion control, maybe this type of eating won’t have too much of an impact on my physical self, especially if I start off-setting it by pumping a little iron during commercials. Granted, it would probably be best if I simply left the television off and went outside, but with winter coming – I ‘m thinking that’s not gonna be happening except when it’s time to shovel..

The reason this television study caught my eye was because I have been thinking a lot lately about why it is that as we get older we start caring about our bodies less. Is it an act of surrender? Do we just give up? Or is it the logical outcome of what takes place because of the aging process? When we’re young we don’t necessarily think about our bodies – because they pretty much takes care of themselves. Once our metabolism and hormonal balances shift after age 35, because we are in the habit of taking our body’s resilience for granted, maybe we just never change our habits and slide quietly and stealthily into obesity and slovenliness.

I was talking to this guy I have known on and off for the past 5 years. We both share a similar taste for sex outdoors and anonymous encounters in general. He’s short and cute. And aging. In fact, yesterday, when I saw him at one of my usual haunts, he looked a little older than usual. Oh, his face still has its boyish charm, despite the day’s growth of graying stubble he chose to wear on his particular outing. But one of the reasons he’s kept those boyish looks is because he is also gaining just the slightest bit of weight and allowing his flesh to go soft. He commented on what good shape I was in – which made me question why he would think I was in that great of shape. I’m not. I’m okay, but nothing to comment on. That’s what got me looking at what he’s allowing himself to fall into – the middle-age body slide.

He asked what I do to keep in shape and I told him about zumba, my step classes, and my current work out regime. He told me about his adventures at the YMCA in his youth and the ethical conflicts involved when talking with a sixteen year old on Grindr. Huh? I was a little appalled (about the sixteen year old), but then ethics is not exactly the dude’s strong suit. He’s married and has children and, yes, I need to start avoiding him. I walked away wondering just when he was going to start paying attention to his body and get some common sense.

I judge, because I do believe I’m starting to slowly gain some common sense. Last weekend I decided I would start avoiding going on-line to hook up for sex. It is such a dehumanizing experience and even when I do happen to land a fish, I am usually disappointed in the quality of the sex. Not to mention all the time it takes. I mean, yes, sometimes you luck out and hook-up with the first strike, but in general you are looking at three to four hours with no guarantee of a pay off. I could do something better with my time… like watch television!

Or take care of my body.

When I began considering giving up sites like bbrts, Manhunt, and Adam4Adam, and avoiding the places where I habitually run into people like the guy I mentioned earlier, I also had to question my motivation for working out and taking care of my body. And by taking care of my body – I mean eating right, keeping my consumption of alcohol to a minimum, along with trimming fur, maintaining skin integrity, etc. It made me realize I need a new motivation. Sex can’t be it anymore… because I need to find validation for myself in a different way.

I am of a certain age. Sex is not what it was, because I’m not landing the hotties by accident the way I used to. I know this is true because recently a black dude on Adam4Adam told me, after seeing more pics of me than I had on my profile, that I wasn’t his type. Now this black dude was ten years my junior, but he was not that good looking and also, his mid section had a tiny pouch. I thought I was being generous by overlooking the little Buddha belly in the making he had going on, only to learn that I wasn’t his type – translation – I’m too old and ugly. Well, I can’t argue with the ugly part – but my bod looks damn good for my age, and certainly much, much better than his sagging ass. So, obviously, I walked away feeling a little wounded and bothered. Yes, it is well within his right to say no – I take no. But it had been yes up until he saw more of my pics. See, initially it was he who had been pursuing me. So was this some mind game he was playing? Or truly a case of – after having done further research, changing one’s mind?

What did I walk away with? One – I need to not put so much value in the opinion of people I encounter on-line. I mean, if that was his best picture – the one with the little pouch, then imagine what he probably looks like in person! And two: I need to stop seeking validation via the internet and hook-ups in general. I need a new focus. I need some new motivation. I need to meet better quality individuals.

As far as taking care of my body and working out? I’ve decided I just need to please myself (and my standards are pretty high when it comes to me). I need to stop thinking in terms of what others think or what kind of attention having a fit looking body might get me. Not only is it time to start turning them down, it is also time to maintain that which they ain’t getting! As in – see this? Not for you, boo!

Yeah, I know – I’m all over the map with this, but I really do feel rather hopeful for the first time regarding my sexual addiction. I see the sex I have been having for what it is – the wrong kind of validation. Empty and meaningless sex leaves you feeling empty and without purpose. Constantly basing my self-esteem on the type of encounters I have been pursuing is a lot like an endless road trip where the destination ends up not worth the drive. In any event, I have this pure sense that I am in the process of changing again.

This summer? Not one of my favorites. I gave up Twin Lake and the prairie early in the season because they mowed it all down and have begun to blacktop all the dirt roads. They also cleared out all the wonderful shrubbery on the hill that leads down to the lake. It looks so manicured and depressing. No more wild woods. So, time to adapt. Like all wildlife, the cruising gay must adapt to their changing habitat or perish. This cruising gay? Is going to curtail the bulk of his cruising. It will mean finding something else to do with my time… other than watching television.

So in light of the changes at Twin Lakes and the prairie, I hung out at one of my other cruising spots, deciding to sun where no one else suns. I developed a new habit of going there, and had some fun, but also a lot of not-so-fun encounters. In fact, I probably walked away in the midst of fooling around more this year than any other. Usually I like to see it to the end, but all too frequently, I could tell within five minutes of getting busy that sticking around for the ending wasn’t going to be worth the effort. In fact, I noticed that I’d begun to focus on how much work I had to put in to get a dude off, rather than enjoying the experience – which I think is a sign when something ceases to be fun and becomes work. Since I’m not getting paid for it… what’s in it for me? I’d rather get my tan on. Or watch television.

Going forward… I have a few buds I will try to stay in contact with or not… not sure. And there’s always Friday nights at the warehouse. But, hmmm. The STD thing makes that problematic. Maybe I need to take my act to a different venue altogether. I know I don’t want to do the bar scene and I don’t want to be a politically active gay or a gay chorus member, or do theatre. I don’t see myself on a volleyball team or a baseball team. Volunteer work? Ummm… there’s that word again: work. And I do a lot of volunteer work via my job and the church, so spiritually or karma-wise I got that covered.

So what does that leave? NO. I am not dating. Ugh. Kill me if I ever try to date again – that is so… not me.

So now what? Well, I plan on concentrating on this little writing project I’ve been working on since May. If nothing else, it’s good brain exercise. Nothing will probably come of it, but I am trying not to be tied to outcomes. I just want to see if I’m disciplined enough to finish it. I’m at the halfway point. So, we’ll see.

I could concentrate on cultivating my non-sexual relationships. I have friends. I just never see them. Recently I did make a real effort to change that and ended up spending a few evenings with a couple that I haven’t seen for two years – we had dinner, shopped and hit the bars. I also have my family to consider.

And my remaining dog. She needs a lot of attention. More on that at a later date.

So, it’s not like I don’t have places to put my energy. I have even taken my second bedroom and converted it back into my music room. Maybe I’ll start writing music again, who knows?

But I don’t think you’ll see me in chat rooms for awhile. Or cruising on-line or in the parks. See – I recognize when the pay-off is no longer there for me and value myself enough to know when I need to find a new outlet.

That’s hopeful… right? That’s common sense. Like not over-eating or watching too much television and avoiding the middle-age body slide.

Well, wish me luck!

Time For: Fun With The Bachmanns!

2011-09-10T07:44:00.000-07:00

The Great Minnesota Homophobic Get Together: The Fair That is Unfair

2011-09-04T13:03:00.000-07:00

This week I went to the Minnesota State Fair – not once, but twice! I had a great time, doing the exact same things I do every year: checking out the questionable art, the dogs on display at the Pet Center, the flower arrangements, the baby animals at The Miracle of Birth Center, the Swine Barn and the Cow Barn (and the peepholes in the mens rooms of both). I love it all.

I know a lot of people go for the food, but that is such a small part of it for me. I did take some risks this year with what I ate and was pleasantly (excellent soft serve ice cream at the Dairy Building) and not-so-pleasantly (Australian Potatoes, a bad Falafel Pita) surprised. Best thing: a Papa Dog – a foot long corn dog by the Pronto Pup people – excellent and well worth the price.

Yes, I was having a good time. And then… on my second day, as I was floating above the throngs via the Sky Glider, my eyes fell upon something that made my heart sink: a booth promoting Minnesota for Marriage – the anti-gay group that plans on getting a constitutional amendment passed that will ban gay marriage in Minnesota.

I’d seen their booth in front of a church a few blocks away from the fairgrounds, but did not realize they’d also been invited to the party. It ruined my day and I cut my second visit short. Had I seen it on my first day, I doubt I would have come back for the second.

Do I think we should have conversations about banning gay marriage in Minnesota? – Absolutely. I would love to understand just what is so terrifying about two men or two women committing themselves to each other and how supporting such an institution threatens what is currently defined as marriage. Given the divorce rate, it’s not like heterosexuals have treated marriage like the sacred cow they now want to make it out to be. That conversation? I would love to have, but not at the State Fair. Not amidst the Dairy Queens, the cheese curds, and the lights of the Midway.

So, I’m pissed. And not sure what to do about it.

Yes, I realize that there is plenty that is political about the Great Minnesota Get Together. We have all the political parties that can afford to be represented. We have candidates running for or in office with their own booths. But in this setting, that sort of partisan bullshit is just par for the course – part of the old-fashioned flim-flam showmanship that is the fair. I also realize that there are a number of religious organizations present on the state fair grounds. While I was more than a little uncomfortable walking by a card table outside a new evangelical hall designated as a ‘prayer table’, staffed with an eager believer ready to shout the demon out of you if you so chose, I am more than happy to allow them room at the table. The nice thing is, you can avoid those institutions by keeping your head down and walking quickly by.

So why does the presence of Minnesota for Marriage go against my grain?

Because gays don’t get to have an official day at the fair - like other groups of people. Yes, we do, have a day at the fair, but it is unofficial and communicated in the community via underground messenger pigeons. We don’t have an official day, because that would create controversy. We politely understand and accept that – The Minnesota State Fair is not about controversy. Right?

So… where do the get off allowing Minnesota for Marriage a booth?

Surely they realize that hosting what is essentially an anti-gay group (despite what they would have us believe) on the fairgrounds opens the event to some pretty sensitive and divisive waters. I remember all too well the days when church groups were allowed to hand out free mini-comics intent on brainwashing impressionable youth as to the dangers of homosexuality, sexual freedom and abortion. At the time, I thought the graphics were cool and kind of got off on some of the language – actually rubbing one off to them on occasion – probably not what they had intended. However their depictions of homosexuals as demonic child eaters did keep me in the closet way past my expiration date. Thankfully, those groups either disappeared or weren’t invited back once the world became a little more PC and in touch with the realities of life. For now, those little comic books have become a thing of the past - which is where they belong – and have gone the way of the sad, dead whale in a refrigerator truck that used to sit outside the midway and minstrel shows.

But that’s not necessarily where that kind of thinking will remain. Allowing Minnesota for Marriage their platform opens the gates to anti-abortion rights groups and hate groups of all kinds. Because if you allow one controversial group in, I guarantee you that more will come a-knocking.

Hopefully those in charge know enough not to let them in. But then we live in a world where Michele Bachmann is running for President, so don’t hold your breath or assume that common sense will win out.

So what should I do? Well, get involved for one. I do plan on doing my part to see that the constitutional amendment proposed never sees the light of day. I will also probably breakdown and contact the people at the fair to voice my opinion – not that it will actually accomplish anything, but maybe my voice will not be the only one casting doubt on whether such a group should be invited back.

But that is what will determine if I go back next year. The idea that the fair can’t be part of my life kind of makes me sad – it has long marked the end of summer for me, something I truly dread, and have long compensated for it’s passing by distracting myself with the glitz and nostalgia that is the state fair.

But I won’t support something that supports bigotry.

Like it isn’t already bad enough they had Toby Keith at the grandstand this year.

Elevating One’s Taste While Elevating One’s Legs: The Current Value of My Sexual Brand Stuck in a Downward Economy

2011-08-20T07:42:00.000-07:00

I suppose it is possible to elevate one’s sexual taste level over time. Otherwise, I have no explanation for the lack of enthusiasm I have for many of the encounters I’ve engaged in recently. Granted, this malaise sets in after the fact (and the act), but then when else is one able to develop a fully informed opinion about something except after complete consumption? Mid-act there have certainly been a number of red flares that have gone off and warnings that should probably have been heeded, but I tend to ignore the presence of such in order to bring the whole thing to fruition. So these aren’t cases that I would categorize as mercy fucks, or instances of being caught in the middle of something I couldn’t get out of. These are encounters which held great promise at the start, only to fizzle, as if something was lost in their execution, leaving me feeling less than fulfilled. Like a bad movie, these are trysts that I will see to the end, if only to take time later to analyze just what the hell went wrong. Maybe it’s my need for completion, or maybe it’s my desire to rescue and fix things – but I will remain at my post – taking it up the ass, in the mouth – until the very end.

There is also a possibility that my last adventure(s) at the warehouse party have left me horribly spoiled. When the bar is raised so high, how can single incidents of sexual contact compete? Given that, I will probably never write about my last night at the warehouse. It was too all consuming, complex and intense; I don’t think I could ever do it justice. Suffice to say that I left that night feeling truly, thoroughly fucked. (Yay!) And in light of the events of that night, maybe everything since then suffers in comparison.

Maybe.

Yesterday afternoon I had the opportunity to be pig-roasted by two dudes. We dickered about where to do the deed, but there was no doubt that the deed would be done. It involved a recent find of mine; a rather sweet, cute, salt and pepper type, ten years younger than me, tall, slim, smooth and with a nice sized dick and nice skin. A total top, we’ve played in my garage and my basement at various hours in the past. He’s partnered, so opportunities when both of us are available are few, but when we do match up, we take advantage of it. I like him a lot. He’s a little quiet during sex and he no longer kisses me as much as he used to. Still, he’s very meat and potatoes about his sex and enjoys taking his time – within reason. As much as I like his dick – and I do, it is very pretty, nicely shaped and sized, it is another part of his anatomy that my eyes are constantly drawn to: his feet. Once I even caught him with nail polish on them. They remain an object of desire, for we haven’t had any opportunity to explore that fetish; for when my mouth isn’t busy sucking his cock, it’s turned around in the opposite direction while my bum gets the attention of his rod. Yep, he’s a good fuck, and for this particular three-way, our first, I can honestly say that he more than held up his end. He always leaves me smiling.

It was the other guy that left me wanting. Upon arrival, I introduce myself, but apparently needn’t have, as according to him, we’d played before. It must have been a long time ago, because I don’t remember him. But as time goes on, with the many one-moment stands that I have, that is more the norm than the exception. Unless I’ve made a really deep connection with someone or played with them over a period of time, my memory is – how you say – not so good. Not so good would also help explain why this particular dude didn’t ring a bell in my sexual history.

The dude is fine looking; tall, very tan, slim, with a nice face and a nice long, fat dick. I like his nipples. Maybe my only complaint with him is that he needs to get back to the gym, because I swear his skin is a little loose. But then gravity wins and you just wait; wobbly skin comes to us all, Mary Margaret. Someday I bet I’m in the same boat. Regardless, he is an attractive man, maybe a few years my senior, but not much.

Initially, he’s lying on the bed, spread eagle (let’s call him Mr. Tan), and I move in and take his cock in my mouth. I’m able to bring it to about sixth-eighths hard and he seems to be enjoying what I’m doing. All the while I’m sucking, Mr. Sexy Feet (you know who I’m talking about) is working his dick in my ass doggy style. Mr. Sexy Feet is hard as a rock and I am loving that portion of this double feature. This last about ten minutes. Please keep in mind that we only have thirty minutes to play because one of the tops has to get his ass to work. Yep we’re working with a time schedule.

Now – I had been promised a tag team – something I have only truly experienced a few times (like the last time I was at the warehouse – hoo-boy), so I am thinking this is going to be about them taking multiple turns using my hole. In my favor is the fact that Mr. Sexy Feet can last a long time when he wants to, and while we are on a deadline (2:30 pm, to be exact), he has the stamina required. Mr. Tan on the other hand, never gets his mast up to full sail. The third time Mr. SF takes his cock out of my ass, I decide to change up the game and give Mr. Tan his call to arms. My mouth leaves Mr. Tan’s more-or-less erect penis and soon finds its way onto Mr. SF’s primed member. Mr. Tan takes the hint, gets up off the bed, moves behind me and manages to cram his dick in my hole. Something nice does happen at this point. Mr. Tan is a more aggressive fuck than Mr. SF and I find that we quickly establish a rhythm where he pounds my ass, pushing my mouth down the length of Mr. SF’s rock hard cock. So essentially I am just part of an automated motion machine – in other words, the perfect piggy in the middle. This lasts a good seven and a half minutes, during which I experiment flexing my hole and my throat with different intensities all the while maintaining the established rate of motion.

When Mr. Tan pulls out, his dick is in need of resuscitation, so I quickly turn around and give it a little breath of life. Mr. SF immediately pile drives into my ass and is hoping to repeat the automated motion machine, only with him in the driver’s seat. Alas, Mr. Tan’s dick is less than cooperative. I do remedy the situation by deep swallowing his half-hard member and then flexing my throat, as if swallowing very hard. Mr. Tan likes this and tells me so. Unfortunately that renders my front end fairly motionless and Mr. SF is unable to rock the house as much as he would like. Instead he goes back to the polite in and out that he had established during his first time up to bat. Ten minutes go by and Mr. Tan is not showing any sign of wanting another shot at my ass – in fact – he appears a little spent. Mr. Sexy Feet senses this, too, so he decides to shoot and score. He is a quiet fucker, even in this setting, and since my mouth has been busy since I got there, all I have added to the dialogue is a few deep, earthy grunts. Mr. Tan has been a little more forthcoming by pointing out when I am doing something that works for him, but this is sure no porno shoot. Nobody is talking dirty, tipping their hand when they want to cum, or cheering on the other team to score. So when Mr. SF loses his load, my only indication that he is about to do so is that he tenses up, makes a tiny sound, and then drastically slows his rate of thrust. Mr. Tan asks him if he’s cum, and Mr. SF answers in the affirmative.

That’s when Mr. Tan pulls his dick out of my mouth and tells me to kneel on the floor, for he wants to leave me with a nice facial. Only he doesn’t. Oh, he cums, but honestly I don’t have any idea where that cum ends up – but it does not land on my face at all. And so we’re done. We have run out the minutes on the clock. The buzzer sounds. End of game.

I retire to the locker room, clean up, douche, wipe down, and thank the participants as I leave… and am left wanting.

Maybe it’s because nobody paid any attention to my junk. But then again, that can be a real turn on – being just a couple of holes to be used by others to fulfill their needs. However, that’s not the case here. Maybe it’s because it wasn’t a real tag team match. I like it when the dudes trade off multiple times. Mr. Tan only came to bat once, and while his technique was nice, it still felt more like a bunt than a real home run.

So, I sit in my car and try to decide what to do with the rest of my afternoon. The three of us only had a half hour to play anyway, so it’s not like I had expected a marathon session. Still, I am left wanting and I decide to go to this park I know and tan a bit.

I get there only to learn that this is not the ideal park to score more fun, not on this particular day anyway. There is a company event in one of the nearby pavilions and one of the park maintenance crew is mowing my favorite layout spot. So I opt for my second favorite and get all situated. I know that between the mower and the group in the pavilion none of the regular cruisers are going to come by, but that is okay, because that is when I start to contemplate just how sexually unsatisfied I have become lately. Now keep in mind that I think Mr. Sexy Feet more than delivered. He is one of my current favorites and for good reason. But Mr. Tan, on the other hand, he brings to mind a number of others who have not been able to bring my wagons to full circle.

Just the other day, at the very park I was currently sitting in, I had the pleasure of sucking on two fine fellows at once. One, a dude I’d played with once before – a very, very handsome man with salt and pepper hair and a hot bod. He has a dark mustache and it lends him a bit of a Latin flavor. He was very skittish the first time we played, but I managed to get him off. That day I was not so lucky. Probably because we were interrupted by this vaguely Native American type with a thick dick and shoulder length black hair. He’s got a big build on him – not fat at all, but hulking none the less. The guy with the mustache, who wasn’t getting it up anyway, begs off and leaves me with the Native American dude – who also fails to really deliver anything of value. I let him jerk himself off and then let him steal my bottle of poppers. Again, the situation held so much potential, but the execution ended up very flawed. Both dudes paid attention to my junk though, so that was nice. Unfortunately I just didn’t feel that the Native American dude was worthy of my nut. Also, once the dude with the mustache left, the Native American dude quickly lost his appeal.

And so it has been. I look back at my sex diary and realize that since the night of the sex party at the warehouse one week ago, I have had sex with eight dudes. And out of those eight, only two were truly nut worthy – one being Mr. Sexy Feet (even though he never plays with my junk) and the other, a dude I’d never met before who fucked me in my garage. Hmm… he was also ten years my junior. Coincidence? Maybe dudes my age and older just can’t cut it anymore? Naw. That’s not it. Dude in the garage was also slim, shorter than me, furry, nerdy and scruffy. But he did have a nice dick and knew how to use it. I also liked the way he moaned when I pulled on his balls while giving him head.

Nope – I think it has to do with ability and commitment. I always bring my A game or I stay home. I’m not sure that is true of others. And yes, I realize that it could be something about me that left the other guys wanting, as in, they were not that into me, but, honestly, I don’t thinks so. I certainly recognize the signs of those less enthused. And I think I know quality. And I definitely know when somebody isn’t hitting the mark. Hmmm…I think the bar has indeed been raised.

Which is good. Maybe it will lead to me be more selective and less compulsive. Maybe I will start window shopping more and pulling out my sexual credit card a little less, and by that I mean, maybe I will be cruising more and offering up my lips and ass less often. Flirting is fun. I think. I can’t remember. Any encouragement in my direction usually leads to my clothes being shed. And given my age, maybe a little restraint in that department would be a good thing.

It all comes down to branding – and not the kind masters do to their slaves. I mean my personal brand. Maybe I’ve watered my brand down a bit too much. Spread my legs a little too thin. Just what am I worth in this current sexual market? Have I devalued my stock? Will the marked turnaround? Or will I be doomed to liquidate my assets and go out of business completely?

It brings to mind an old Rosanne Cash song, written by her ex, Rodney Crowell:

Now it's a brave new wave we're roarin' in
Hanging out, out on the rock 'n roll fringe
Speaking of running around
All over town, lettin' it show
That ain't no way to treat your lover
Ain't no way to act in public
Baby, better start turnin' em down
Baby, better start turnin’ em down

See, sometimes I forget: “no” is always an option.

Acquired Tastes, Chapter XV: Camping

2011-08-12T11:32:00.000-07:00

With the twilight of summer fast approaching, I didn't want the season to go by without touching on the topic of outdoor camping.

We’re not talking about the kind of camping that takes place bedecked in a feather boa, glittery eye lashes, and fishnet stockings. We’re also not talking about the kind of camping that takes place while watching ‘Mommy Dearest’ or ‘Showgirls’. We’re talking the real thing – with a tent, in the woods. We’re talking about getting back to basics – the dirty, funky, hunky basics.Yes, we’re talking about the kind of camping where mosquitoes, poor sanitary conditions, three-day growth of beard and smelling like a smoked ham is the norm.

For some, camping is a sport. For others it is an opportunity to find out what it likes to be homeless for a weekend. Roughing it is not for everyone and God help those of you who find yourself on a camping trip with one of those people who do not enjoy it – for they will do their best to not only let you know how miserable they are, they will also do their best to ruin any enjoyment you might get out of it as well. To be fair? When you’re only one roll of toilet paper away from complete hygienic breakdown, it is easy to see why some might whine a bit. That’s why only real men may apply.

So, leave your microwaves, your mini-fridges, your blow dryers, your private bathrooms, your well-lit mirrors, your whiners, your cream puffs, and your prissy queens at home, and let’s go…

Camping
Scope of Activity:

We’re talking about pitching a tent; one to sleep in, and one to sleep with! If you are lucky enough to find that special someone who can let their inner animal out once in awhile and divorce themselves from the norms and conveniences of modern day life to go camping with you without risking actual divorce, then you are in for a sensual treat. Are we talking real man stuff here? Most definitely!

The Official Line:

Sleeping in the great outdoors can be a very beautiful experience and there are many ways to go about it. You can tow a fiberglass camper along, featuring all the conveniences of home and experience little in the way of inconvenience and hardship. Or you can go half-way there – take a tent, build that campfire, but remain within walking distance to running water, hot showers, and toilets that flush. Or you can go all the way – backpacking it into the Boundary Waters where you will dig a latrine, bathe in a lake, stream, or river, and deal with Mother Nature on her own terms. The idea of the latter form of camping? Sexy. But not always practical. So I rather opt for the second version – especially the first time I go camping with anyone. Yes, I like running water and I like it even more when that water is hot enough to kill germs. Not that I don’t appreciate the lure of a remote outhouse – that can be sexy, too – provided it is not 98 degrees outside with no wind and at the height of mosquito season.

Timing does play an important part in just how sensual an experience your camping trip can be (damn mosquitoes). That and luck. Bad weather can ruin the most well planned outing.

Psychological Aspects:

I personally don’t know any camping enthusiasts who did not experience camping in their youth. I believe that is where our relationship with Mother Nature and the great outdoors springs from. If your family took you camping, or you went camping as a boy scout and you had a positive experience, those feeling may well carry over into adulthood. At the same time, those repeatedly forced to endure a weekend outdoors against their will probably now flee screaming at the mere suggestion.

What makes it sexy? I think it has to the getting back to basics thing. The whole survivalist mentality is rather animal in nature, and animalistic behavior can be rather sexy, when done correctly. I know there is a whole school of male sensuality that is built upon the premise that body odor and the like are natural occurrences in and therefore part of the male sensual experience. Certainly, if camping without the aid of running water – or even with it – body odors will become an aspect of camping. Hygiene is not high on the list when in survivalist mode. So it comes down to your tolerability level and what kind of camping experience feels sexy to you. Communing and con-noodling in nature can be a lot of fun.

My Experience:

Boy scout camp is not where it all began for me, but it is where the sensual part of camping came to fruition (so to speak). I used to go camping with my family all the time. This meant hiking a lot, canoeing, sitting around a campfire, gathering wood for said campfire and putting up with the mood swings of various family members.

That all changed once I got an erection, which is also about the time I started going camping with my boy scout troop. I remember vividly posing in the opening of my tent for my camp leader, bare naked, showing off my tiny little erection on my first camping trip with my troop. He laughed and looked away, and I modestly stole back into my tent and finished dressing. But it was the beginning of my love affair with outdoor exhibitionism. After that experience, I became something of a loner; exploring the back trails alone became my mode of operendi.

Yes, I remember being approached, sexually, by several adolescent tent buddies, one going so far as to climb into my sleeping bag naked, but I was a stupid Catholic boy, and so terrified that if I played ‘nut fuck’ with one of these dudes, they would then tell everyone I was gay. And back then, there was nothing worse than being gay. In hindsight, I should have just thrown caution to the wind. Who knows, it may have made me popular, in an under-handed sort of way. Or the object for even more ridicule than I did endure, who knows?

I remember often questioning some of the sleeping arrangements at these camp outs. It seemed a number of the older boys were bunking with kids several grade levels below them. Oh, well… all I can do now is wonder.

At these camp outs, I would spend most of my free time running around half naked, exploring outhouses, shower rooms, and the tents of the counselors. And once masturbation came into the picture, I just spread my DNA as far and wide as possible.

As an out, adult gay male, I have had the opportunity to go camping with several boyfriends/partners. The best was a New Ager who really enjoyed hiking and camping. We had a lot of fun. With this particular partner I remember many memorable hikes, lots of sex on rocks and mountain tops. and numerous episodes of skinny dipping. Joshua Tree National forest was a favorite of ours. As were the bamboo forests of Hawaii. I remember the night we went camping among the redwoods of Northern California, setting up our tent in the dark. A few hours later we were awaken by the sound of a bear trying to open the secure bunker where we had placed all our food. We stealthily made our way to the back of our SUV and ended up spending the night inside the vehicle. I don’t remember always being the greatest of companions during these outings (for I could, on occasion, be a whiney bitch), but we did have our share of fun. Getting sweaty together was always a good way to fuck the whiney bitch away.

Another memorable evening in the back of a vehicle was spent in North Dakota with a different boyfriend. We didn’t have the money for a hotel, so we camped – sort of. We didn’t have a tent and ended up sleeping in the back of my hatchback. We fucked that night, too… and the windows were hella steamy. In this case he was the whiney bitch and the whole affair ended shortly thereafter.

Last time I went camping, I went by myself, which made for an awesome opportunity to take self-pics on various trails and in various facilities, but left me wanting in the middle of the night. In the end? It just got boring and I cut the trip short.

Someday I want to try one of those gay nude camping weekends. Though from what I understand they are full of older dudes who are not in the best shape. But then, how would that be any different from what I find while cruising at my local park? And if that is the case, hey – I would just be the prize jewel, wouldn’t I? Wouldn’t I?

My Conclusion:

I love camping. I like setting up the tent and then pitching my own tent. Getting naked outside rules (except for the mosquitoes). If you are not prone to this kind of thinking, then there is no way I could ever convince you to even try it, for camping is not for the faint of heart, the easily frustrated, or those who value their creature comforts.

For those of us who do enjoy the outdoors, camping can be one of the ultimate sexual experiences, a cornucopia of sensual delights everywhere you look.

Next Taste: Rimming

Cum Fever: Search for a Cure

2011-08-07T17:27:00.000-07:00

There are things I’ve never tried before, some due to the fact that the activity involves the help of others and I tend to shy away from group activities. You know, except for group activities, such as the warehouse parties or maybe a bath house, where – to be fair, you still pretty much end up playing the lone wolf unless you happen to stumble into a group in process and nobody objects to your joining in.

A trend that I’ve noticed since the whole barebacking scene got a foothold into our gay cultural mind meld is where someone pimps out a bottom dude’s ass on-line in an attempt to load him up with as much cum as possible. The whole idea – I mean just writing about it, even – has me all aquiver with a belly full of butterflies. I find it super titillating. The few times that I have gone to the warehouse party and gotten up on the end of that bed in the dark, secluded cubby and offered up my hole to all cummers, I got such a fucking kick out of it. Granted, I moved aside as soon as a more aggressive (younger) bottom came on the scene, or when approached a few too many times by dudes I didn’t find that appealing, but it was still a very thrilling experience. And yes, I realize, maybe a foolish one, too – but then, this blog entry is probably not going to please those who find the whole barebacking scene appalling and unconscionable.

I’ve also seen a number of individuals who pimp their own ass on a regular basis, either via bbrts or craigslist. The goal in for these individuals is multiple loads in their ass – as many as possible. If you’ve ever seen a cream pie video on Xtube, where a dude expels a cum load from his freshly loaded hole, and found that hot, then you know what I’m talking about when I talk about Cum Fever.

I get the mindset of these individuals. I worry a little about their safety, but I do understand their desire. It becomes like some weird gay frenzy; which is where the safety net of having someone else monitoring your activity comes in handy. The pimp basically sets up the ads, entices potential sperm donors, screens out potential problem clients, hosts the event, and usually acts as a sort of guardian during the actual encounter. That way the bottom is free to simply take dick after dick, load after load, without worrying about answering the door, or potential physical harm from a visitor (save the usual STD scares).

Last Monday I got just such an offer. Unsolicited. This dude I occasionally chat with on bbrts said he wanted to host my ass and get me loaded up as much as possible. He’d done this with a few friends of his in the past with quite a bit of success. Eventually we determine that Friday would be the best night for both of us. Granted, I already have plans with a friend of mine; a former fuck bud who I have not seen for some time, but I figure this is Monday and the likelihood of this dude actually following through and hosting my ass is pretty slim, so I roll the dice.

On Thursday evening I email the dude and ask if we are still on, and low and behold, yes, he is still interested in hosting this scene. I tell my fuck bud about it Friday morning via email and invite him to participate. Something tells me this was not the coolest of things to do. The next morning I email the bud I stood up and apologize for being such a self-centered, inconsiderate jerk. Whether he forgives me or not remains to be seen. But I feel like a total tool having switched plans on him at the last minute. This kind of behavior probably helps explain why I have no friends. Anyway…

After numerous, somewhat-vague emails the day of the event, I finally get my pimp-to-be’s address. I trim my fur, shave my ass and balls, and am as tan as a Jersey Shore kid. I start my douching early in the morning, so I am clean as a whistle by the time of the event. I arrive with no fears about poop juice or being a dirty bottom. Start time for the event changes several times, but 7:30 pm is the time finally agreed upon.

My host is a very nice, blonde man a few years my junior and of average height. He’s wearing a pair of khaki shorts and a short sleeve Hawaiian-style shirt. He's charming from the get go; extremely glib and a great conversationalist. He posseses a cherubic face and a boyishness that's a very winning combination.

He already has two ads on Craigslist and is posting a third. We have a few potential donors, but only one for sure. The for sure dude turns out to be a regular of his from previous such events; an Asian man with a beautiful body and a nice sized dick. He arrives very promptly and walks into the bedroom escorted by my pimp to find me, naked, on all fours on the bed with my ass in the air. I turn around and suck his dick. It’s nice. Thick and about 7.5 inches. He’s very complimentary about my dick sucking skills and asks if I’m available on a regular basis. Gee. I am such a good whore! He then orders me to turn around and fucks me silly. He works out all the time and has a great physique and really knows how to dole out a good pounding. The entire time we play, my pimp stands just over the dude’s left shoulder, commenting, touching and tweaking the dude’s nipples. I’m cool with that, because he’s not overly intrusive. The Asian dude shoots his load deep in my gut and it is game over.

We chat as he dresses. He really is a very nice looking man – probably in his late twenties, early thirties. His body is super hot. He keeps apologizing for cumming so soon, and I’m like not having a problem with what went down, so he’s good in my book. I may be seeing more of him, but it won’t be at my pimp’s house. The next dude arrives, after much chatting back and forth about the location, fifteen minutes after the Asian dude has left. This guy is a handsome white dude with an average body. He’s one of those guys who is so good looking that he doesn’t need to stay in shape. He’s in his mid-thirties and wants me on the bed, blindfolded when he walks in.

As happens on occasion, this dude never gets hard. But he’s also one of those dudes who simply cannot cop to the fact. Therefore, we spend a good 30-plus minutes trying to come up with various ways to get him up. At one point I lay on my back with my head hanging off the bed so he can fuck my mouth. This, unfortunately, puts my nose a little too close to his ass. I get a whiff and it is not pretty – in fact, it makes me gag. I’m no princess when it comes to man smells, but this dude seriously needs to clean up his act. After getting myself out of that position, I cooperate for another five minutes or so before feigning a sudden illness due to my having consumed too much poppers. I run to the bathroom and douche my ass while waiting for Mr. Handsome Stinky Butt to get a clue and leave.

He finally does. I get a glimpse of him before he goes, and yes, he is indeed drop dead gorgeous. Turns out he is also a bottom! Huh? Turns out he was so excited upon reading the ad he wanted to take part in the scene. I laugh. What else can you do about it? I tell my pimp about his stinky ass – which is rare on a true bottom, and I also tell him what a weird little dick he had – it had all sorts of bumps on it – which brings all sorts of ugly things to mind, like warts and the like, and I am totally regretting the whole scene.

My pimp and I access the situation. It is now 9:00 pm, there are no more prospective johns and I am thinking I can still salvage my evening by getting my ass over to the warehouse party. I make the call, we bag it. My pimp agrees. After more chit chat, I finally manage to get out of there.

Okay, so not the worse thing that has ever happened to me. The Asian dude was a real find and I’m glad we hit it off. Mr. Handsome Stinky Butt? Not so much. Bottom line, it was a failure. My pimp said he usually has a lot more success. He blames it on the warehouse party, but I know better. I’m pretty sure it’s me. My age, to be exact. The other dudes he has done this with were in their 30’s. Dudes in their mid-forties, in this ageist gay society of ours, no matter how nice their body is, aren’t gonna pull the same numbers.

So, been there, tried that, failed, let’s move on.

And so I did. I went straight to the warehouse party where I had a night unlike any other. It more than made up for Mr. Handsome Stinky Butt. In fact, it exceeded all my expectations. Maybe I’ll share the details next week. All I will say right now is… that night at the warehouse?

It cured me of any fever I might have had.

Three Ways to Sunday

2011-07-28T12:05:00.000-07:00

Sunday afternoon, one of my favorites hit me up on-line. We’ve known each other for several years now. I used to play with his partner, a man we’ll call To Sir With Love; a dom sweetheart of a man with a full beard and a quick smile. He’s into leather, glory holes, and role play. I’d been playing with TSWL for about two years – very on and off – when he suggested a three-way with his partner, whom we’ll call Little Dom. Little Dom is a short, bald otter with a very nice body and a commanding manner. He’s also a really nice guy. At the initial three-way I would have to honestly say that I felt we didn’t exactly hit it off. There was some weird tension in the bedroom – part of it deriving from the fact that I didn’t know how comfortable Little Dom was with the whole scene. But we played nice and everyone got their cookies.

And then I didn’t hear from them for about a year. Surprised? No, not really. I find that once a couple invites you in to play, a second invitation isn’t likely to come – ever. There have been exceptions, four couples, to be exact, but for the most part – three-ways with established couples are usually a one off thing.

Now, during that year, To Sir With Love would talk to me on-line whenever we came across one another, but scheduling time with him alone proved difficult. We only saw each other three times that fourth year. This was always in the basement of his new home; a real classic beauty designed by a very famous architect. We’d play on a weight bench. Sometimes he would sort of tie me up or try to suspend me from the rafters, and once he put me in this cubby with a hole cut in the door – his version of a glory hole. It was all fun and games and nothing dangerous at all, for To Sir With Love has one of the kindest hearts ever. He’s about 6’2” with a salt and pepper beard, a head full of fine, wispy hair, and a nice furry chest. He’s one of those guys with whom one can feel totally at ease with.

But playtime with To Sir With Love becomes non-existent in the fifth year and I just chalk it up to changing tastes and the fact that I no longer see him on-line.

So, the next year there’s a dude keeps inviting me over to his house. However, since there is no face pic involved, I am a little hesitant, and always beg off. The body shots are hot – nice, tight, otter bod. And I like his attitude. So after a few months of connect and deflect, he lays it on the line – it’s Little Dom, To Sir With Love’s partner! They have an open relationship (always have), so since there’s no fear on my part that TSWL will be upset or feel betrayed, I set up a play date. Since then, Little Dom and I see each other four to six times a year and it is always well worth the drive.

Little Dom is a compact cutie who stands about 5’8”. He works out and I really dig the texture of his skin and his nice little hairless ass. From the moment we got together by ourselves, we were firing on all cylinders. Sex with him is always very vigorous, athletic and verbal. Usually it involves a lot of poppers, too. He’s a great little top, and loves encouraging his ‘boy’.

I get over to his place on Sunday much later than either of us had hoped. We decide to play on the three season porch because of the weather and something about being naked on that screened enclosure pushes all my buttons and I am just horny as hell.

I take my time sucking his dick. It’s as cute as the rest of Little Dom, probably about 7”, but always nice and hard. There is a very relaxed vibe in the air and we both seem to be going with the flow. When he moves on to fucking me, he’s very complimentary and really taking his time. I can’t tell you how much I enjoy a top who takes their time getting in there. On occasion I like a nice fast slam/bam, but those that take their time and explore the various sensations a dick in an ass can create? They are tops (in both senses of the word) in my book. Note: There are poppers in the room, but neither of us seems interested, for we’re much more intent on staying in the moment and experiencing each other fully. We play for about a half an hour on the porch – he fucks me every which way we can think of me – me on top, doggy-style, me on my back, side saddle, etc. And it all takes place at a very intense, but leisurely pace. Oh, the kissing – I forgot to mention that; Little Dom is a great kisser. We seem real in-tune on that level and it adds a lot to our play.

At the thirty minute mark, Little Dom suggests that we retire to a back bedroom to finish playing. I don’t know if he was suddenly concerned about the neighbors or what, but I always do whatever he says, so, naked, off we toddled. Once in the bedroom, play resumes. Only, Little Dom makes the mistake of kneeling on the bed with his ass in the air and I, feeling wicked, decide to see how far I can push him. See, Little Dom is okay with having his ass played with – in fact, when I first met him – during that initial three way with To Sir With Love?, I thought he was a bottom. He’s not. But he does like his ass played with and eaten. Earlier, on the three season porch, while sucking his dick, I’d also moved down and ate his ass a bit. He was sitting on the couch and I was on my knees before him, between his spread legs. I simply rolled him back and up and kept slurping away, eventually zeroing in on his little red pucker. He enjoyed it immensely and that got me rock hard, so much so, I almost wanted to attempt fucking him right then and there. But I resisted. That is, until we got to the back bedroom.

So there he is, kneeling on the bed, his fine little hairless ass in the air and I just grab hold and eat him big time. He’s definitely enjoying it and I decide to take it a step further. I turn the tables on him and get all dom, telling/asking him if I can stick my dick in him. He doesn’t seem too resistant to the idea, and I proceed. His little hole is so fucking tight, I barely get half my dick in him and he’s over it. But it was hot. He then resumes the dom role, and away we go. Fifteen minutes later, he’s fucking me doggy, with me facing the door, when who should appear in the doorway, but To Sir With Love!

TSWL walks over, with a sly smile on his face. I am busy getting my ass majorly assaulted and can’t even muster up a ‘hello’, as I’m too busy grunting and making other sounds. He unzips and offers up his dick. I take him in my mouth and this seems to send both Little Dom and myself into gay porn heaven. Little Dom’s pace and intensity pick up and I am just enjoying the hell out of being totally pig roasted by two of my favorite dudes.

I am working all my magic on To Sir With Love’s dick when Little Dom shoots his load. After, he backs off, and lies on the bed watching me suck off his partner. I stay on all fours because - hey it was working for me, so why mess with the configuration? Well, To Sir With Love is proving to be a hard sell, and I am really having to work his dick like a pro and in the process I work myself into a major sweat. Next thing I know, Little Dom is up and back in my ass, pounding away! Within ten minutes he cums a second time and, again, lies back down on the bed and watches. After that, TSWL takes matters into his own hand and strokes a nice load of cum into my eager, slut mouth.

Well, needless to say, I am very sweaty (hey, I work hard for what I want) and very excited. On my knees, I lean back and with much encouragement from Little Dom, I jerk myself off, delivering a nice load all over my stomach and thighs.

All in all, a very pleasant surprise!

I retire to shower and clean up. We kiss our good-byes and I head home. They are such sweet guys and I never have any complaints or concerns when I leave their company. And that’s the joy of casual sex with dudes whom you have a little history with – there’s comfort to be found in the familiar, and, as my little adventure on Sunday demonstrates, the familiar can also keep delivering pleasant and exciting surprises.

Needless to say I do hope I get invited back again soon.

Is This Lunch or A Tea Party? Battling Ignorance in the Workplace

2011-07-23T16:02:00.000-07:00

I went to lunch today with a couple of co-workers, peers of mine, so they are fairly well-educated people. Fairly well-educated people. I stress that, because, just as you have no idea who really lives in the house next to you, you never really know the person in the cube next to yours… that is, until you go to lunch and the subject of politics comes up.

Politics! Why that’s one of those things we’re never to discuss in polite society, isn’t it? Hmmm. We’re sitting there – at a little dive known for their chicken wings and live music (hair metal) (they picked it) – waiting for our food when the woman across from me mentions that Michele Bachmann is ahead in the polls in Iowa! Because I’m not expecting anyone to bring up politics, it catches me totally off guard and a conversation about politics is off and running (for President!). The woman next to her is excited to hear this news. Turns out that her husband, a state trooper, is a big fan Ms. Bachmann’s and the pair plan on voting for her in 2012. This conversation goes on for about 45 minutes. The discussion includes abortion, the Mormon religion, Michele Bachmann and Obama. Seated at the table we have one diehard republican, one liberal conservative who just does not like Obama, and me.

My first impulse is to dive in and challenge everything that they believe. But I resist. First off, I am woefully unprepared for this type of debate. Michele Bachmann in such a ridiculous character that I really never thought I would come face to face with someone who actually takes her seriously. My bad. I have an opportunity to inform, but I lack the basic information to do it. Secondly, since I can’t educate, I decide to remain as neutral as possible in order to gather information. I want to know what these people think – what makes them tick. I want to know just what it is about Michele Bachmann that would lead one to believe that she is intelligent enough, experienced enough, and skilled enough to be President of the United States.

Turns out it’s because they think she’s sexy. They think it would be fun to see her stand in front of the nation and flip her hair. They just like her. Period.

I want to point out the fact that her husband – who is probably gay – runs one of those horrible gay-reversal therapy clinics (which is state and federally funded!). I want to point out the fact that Michele believes in creationism and believes that it is the only thing that should be taught in our public schools. I want to point out the she doesn’t believe in science, evolution, or global warming. She believes that if we teach America’s children anything about gay history that the school system is therefore encouraging students to ‘try it out’.

Seriously – her belief system makes Scientology and Mormonism seem positively logical by comparison.

Do I have a duty as a gay dude to educate these two women? Yes? Okay, maybe I was just being lazy, but I decided, no. I didn’t agree with them, but I did try to get them to see that belief systems are a very personal thing – and while everyone has a right to believe whatever they wish - not everyone should be President.

I tried to point out the difficulties the Obama administration faced upon taking office and that he inherited a lot of unresolved issues. It didn’t matter. Obama was deemed ineffective. They don’t want him to see another term. Why? They don’t like him. Well, I point out, I didn’t either – if I had my way Hillary Clinton would be President. One of them agrees. But then they think a woman President would also be ineffective because she would have to deal with countries where women are considered less than a man. I point out, that as secretary of state, she’s having to do that now. The fact that Michele Bachmann is also a woman seems to escape this person, and I decided to cut my losses.

But the whole “women as less than a man” somehow morphs into the issue of abortion. One of the women doesn’t feel that abortion should ever be allowed – not even in cases of rape. I explain that I believe that a woman has the right to do with her body whatever she wishes – including not getting an abortion, if she so chooses. Again – abortion – a very individual, personal thing – something everyone should get to make a decision about for themselves. If this woman was raped and decided to keep the baby, provided that she planned on raising and providing for the child herself and was sure she could love the child despite the circumstances of its conception, then I fully support her decision. Because that would be what she chose for herself. On the other hand, if someone was raped and became pregnant after being raped and decided that an abortion is what she needed to do for herself, I would support that decision, too. The whole concept of the right of individuals to choose for themselves seems to be a concept lost on most conservatives, right? No.

Republicans amaze me – they believe that the government should not be allowed to tell people what to do – except when it comes to abortion and gay rights.

Democrats amaze me, too – they seem to think the government should be involved in everything. If a social issue exists – just keep throwing money at it.

I lay my cards on the table. I believe in the rights of the individual. I believe people may believe and behave in anyway the see fit as long as it not physically or psychologically harmful to others. I think smaller government is a good idea. I think government is too involved in trying to solve social issues – something that their track record would seem to indicate that they are no good at – and not taking care of the basics – keeping people safe, keeping people from taking advantage of other people, and keeping the economy on track.

Unfortunately, we live in a country where there exists a two-party system. So each year, I go to the polls and end up having to choose the lesser of two evils. And in 2012, something tells me that I will be voting for a democrat, again – because if you look at those vying for the republican nomination – there ain’t nothing but evil.

Michele Bachmann is a dangerous woman. Why? It stems from her twisted, evangelical belief system. Michele operates from her own Biblical World View: which basically means she can say that anything that doesn’t fit with her ideology is the product of mistaken theological premises. In other words, if it contradicts what she believes, it must be false.

Michele Bachmann is the face of anti-gay politics.

“Any of you who have members of your family that are in the lifestyle—we have a member of our family that is. This is not funny. It’s a very sad life. It’s part of Satan, I think, to say this is gay. It’s anything but gay.” – Michele Bachmann, referring to her lesbian step-sister – or maybe her husband, it is hard to tell

“Little children will be forced to learn that homosexuality is normal and natural and perhaps they should try it.” – Michele Bachmann on why gay history should not be taught in our schools

"Barbarians need to be educated. They need to be disciplined, and just because someone feels this or thinks this, doesn't mean that we're supposed to go down that road." – Marcus Bachmann, Michele’s gay husband, on what to do about gay people

I could go on and on. Michele Bachmann certainly does. And hard facts do not get in the way of what she believes. All you need to do is google Michele Bachmann and all sorts of nonsense will appear. Click away. It would all be mildly amusing, if it wasn’t so dangerous. And hateful. And twisted. And wrong.

Now I have a decision to make? What to do about these two women at work? De-friend them? Break down the walls of their cubes and seize their desks? Go all PC educator on their asses? Start sending them news articles pointing out the folly of evangelical politicians?

I don’t know. And part of me doesn’t care. These women can believe what they want to believe. That’s their right. I’m not sure pointing out what is illogical, what flies in the face of science, what the actual facts are, or what is just downright mean-spirited, contradictory, hypocritical and petty would have any effect on their belief systems.

Ignorance isn’t bliss, it’s a cancer. And I’m no doctor.

When I look at the United States and hear of some the legislation that is proposed and the values that legislation is said to represent – I find it chilling, but more – I am simply amazed that such ideologies still exist. I used to think that such ignorance only thrived in states like Alabama, Georgia, and Mississippi. But it’s really much closer than any of us would care to believe.

In fact, it could be as close as the cube right next to yours.

Yes, like objects in the mirror, ignorance is much closer than you think.

Acquired Tastes, Chapter XIV: Fur

2011-07-15T19:38:00.000-07:00

There is indeed something very animal about fur, but in this case, let’s focus on body hair, as found on the human male. There’s something very potent, masculine, and erotic about a chest full of hair or musky armpits, and beauty to be found in a nice, pert, furry ass – for some. I am frequently amazed by the lengths some will go to eradicate all traces of hair from their body (save their head). Shaving can be a kink of sorts and the appreciation of smooth men is certainly a broadcast preference as evidenced in many a profile on on-line hook-up sites. But just as frequently, I see those who desire the hirsute. Usually this means they have a bear fetish, but not necessarily. Some prefer a hot otter (a dude who is thin and hairy). So, let’s dive in, have fun, and lose ourselves momentarily in a thick, curly chest full, armpit full or ass full of…

Fur

Scope of Activity:

The appreciation of hair – pubic, armpit, chest, legs, ass, back – as found on the male body.

Does not include: facial hair or hair on top of the head.

The Official Line:

Trichophilia - this refers to those with a fetish for the hair on top of a person’s head – and usually a yen for those with long locks. So it doesn’t really work for the scope, but I thought I’d mention it anyway.

I was surprised that there was not a term for those who dig body hair, but maybe I just didn’t look hard enough. If you know of one, please let me know.

Psychological Aspects:

Growing up, when boys reach that point in puberty where they start to grow some body hair, it is a big deal – and a sign of becoming a man. (Oh, if only the sprouting of body hair made men of boys, wouldn’t the world be a much better place? But in reality, it takes a lot more than just a handful of pubes to make someone a man. Which helps explain the large number of hairy, 40-something, self-involved little boys in the world). Becoming a man is equated to masculinity and being masculine is typically something that is a desirable achievement, as we tend to measure ourselves according to the standards and values achieved by others of our ilk. The hallmarks of masculinity are many, and almost all related to the body’s development post puberty: muscle, body hair, facial hair, as well as the adoption of certain social demeanors – ruggedness, athleticism, machismo, etc. In a way, it’s like putting on a costume or hiding within an established, stock character. One of the easiest entries into the world of masculinity is to develop body hair. Yep, wear the right uniform and you’ll gain entry to the club – it can be that easy.

Of course, we’re talking about the kind of assessments that are made in a glance in the locker room – and, as such, we all understand that these assessments are shallow, short-sighted and adolescent in nature. It’s just another version of “who’s got the biggest weenie.”

So am I insinuating that smooth men are not masculine? No, not at all. As I mentioned, there are other factors that go into measuring masculinity, even in the shallowest of terms. However, there is something boyish about smooth men – as discussed in a previous Acquired Taste entry that dealt with Twinks. It then stands to reason that body hair would tend to lend one an air of maturity – i.e. indicating that one is more man than boy. Again, this goes back to the time of puberty and the cliché of Little Johnny worrying that he has no fur and is therefore not becoming a man. It is perhaps in this environment – the world of adolescence - that a persons associations to and appreciations of male body hair are formed.

Side Note: There was a study done where 14% of the women polled appreciated and were sexually attracted to men with body hair. I’m thinking that percentage is much higher in the gay population – closer to 40 to 50%.

My Experience:

As is typical of me, as I appreciate most types/activities on some level, I find fur fun. I have no preference for fur, but if a dude is furry, it may actually serve as a trigger for me and entice me into their bed. I do find it sexy. I do consider it masculine. But then, it all depends on the dude. A hairy, dumpy man is not any likelier to get me to hop in the sack than a smooth, dumpy man. That said, I’ve been bedded by a number of dumpy men of both varieties. Eh, what can I say… I’m an equal opportunity enjoyer!

I guess our fathers are the first place we notice fur – but, to be honest, a discussion about that leaves me a bit queasy, so we’ll leave it at that – our fathers are the first place we notice fur. Beyond that, for me, it was my high school gym teacher. He was a compact, balding dude with a barrel chest and his entire body was covered in light, wispy fur. Everywhere. Except his head. In retrospect, the man exuded an air of masculinity that bordered on the comical, but to a budding adolescent, enamored of the most rudimentary of male icons – comic book superheroes, Sears catalog underwear models – such a blatant display was immediately noted, observed and appreciated. I think he had a thing for former Vikings coach Bud Grant, because, come to think of it, he aped a lot of his mannerisms.

My years as a football manager (water boy / towel boy), gave me ample opportunities to check out the fur of others in various stages of development – from the pubescent to the mature. So, yeah, I guess I’ve seen it all – and at an early age. I think that’s why I’m so open to so many different types – having been exposed to a large field at a young age, I have never felt the need to narrow it, nor, then, did I have the opportunity to fixate on any type of body.

Looking back at all the serious loves of my life – only two were furry. This would tend to lead one to the conclusion that I prefer smoother men, but that’s not the case. Serious love encompasses a lot of factors – personality, values, socio-economic status, compatibility in the sack, etc. – fur, if on the list at all, is not high up.

I do have this yen for black fur – as in the color black. Especially on a nice butt. Or all over – as in ape-man. There’s something super sexy about it – fur all over a man’s body. That’s where that thing about potency comes in. I find it animal and then it becomes physical. There’s also something ethnic about it… or blue collar. It’s earthy and appeals to all my senses.

Before exploring the various areas and types of body hair, I think it important to explore a certain decade when body hair was routinely flaunted and subsequently worshipped – yes, my favorite dirty little decade – the 70’s – when pretty much everything came flying out of the closet and was thrust into the limelight. Maybe it was a response to all those button-down types that worked in Washington D.C. at the time, but opening up one’s shirt and bearing your chest hair was a pretty common practice during most of this time period. It was everywhere on T.V. Thank you Magnum P.I., Starsky and Hutch, Three’s Company and the like. Pop music also had its fair share of chest bearing – Thank you Freddy Mercury, The Village People, Gino Vanilli and the like. And let’s not forget the monster of all fur-fests – Al Pacino’s gay romp “Cruising” – not only lending legitimacy and exposure to the likes of fisting, leather, and sex in the bushes, but also tons of lovely Italian Stallion fur. Yes, thank you on all, for you all helped put the GRRRRRR in fur! Of course, just like the rise and subsequent (supposed) death of disco, the backlash with fur was almost simultaneous – and those gold chain wearing Brillo pads of man hair were ridiculed as often as they were celebrated. But it was a glorious time – yes, a wild, untamed, untrimmed time.

Sigh.

Okay, let’s break this mother down…

Pubes – my appreciation has vacillated. I used to love them, but not in my mouth or stuck between my teeth. Then I got older and discovered that your dick looks younger and appears a bit larger if you trim or shave it. Is it an optical illusion? Of course, as you get older, illusions take on a new meaning – kindness, and we become a lot more tolerant of such foolishness. There is also another, much more practical reason to shave – crabs. Yes, you can still get crabs even if you shave, but you are less likely to. Also, if there are no trees in the forest, then the little dickens have no place to hide and become much easier to detect. So, currently I shave. That said, I still appreciate a nicely trimmed bush on a dude, however, my days of liking guys who allow their thatches to go native are over. If I want to floss my teeth, I’ll stick to dental floss, thank you.

Armpits – There’s a previous Acquired Tastes entry that covers this topic pretty well. I think the appreciation of fur in this instance has a lot to do with one’s sense of smell and an appreciation for body odors. Although, licking that particular fur can be quite animalistic and spur one onto to even more intense physical contact. Personally, I like a dude who has pit hair, but keeps it somewhat trim. And thanks to those awful Gay Guys for the Straight Guys – trimming everything is now an accepted part of male grooming – except in parts of Iowa, Mississippi, Alabama and Georgia.

Chest – I love resting my head on a furry chest. I find comfort there – masculine, assured comfort. It’s kind of a bummer when it comes to nip play (again – fur in the teeth), and older dudes have this tendency to not pay attention to just how much of a jungle they got going on there – those wild hairs that poke out and are longer than any of the others? – not attractive. But those are my only misgivings. I actually find that blanket of chest fur thing to be really sexy – again, it borders on ape-man territory, but depending on who it’s attached to, I can be not only cool with that, but find it a turn on.

Ass – So, let’s dive right in here (so to speak) and be blunt– on the buns, hot. Around the anus? Can be a messy, annoying nuisance. That’s why I frequently shave that area now. It saves time and toilet paper in the long run. Yeah, I know, nobody wants to talk about this except those creepy Charmin Bears, but keeping it clean is a social must. Avoid skid marks forever! Shave today! Not having to deal with hair down there? Kind of a no-brainer. Still, there are those that like a hairy hole – and to those, I say, have at it. Having been unpleasantly surprised too many times, I like ‘em sans follicles. But back to that on the buns thing – nothing sexier than dark fur perfectly splayed over a hot bubble butt. That’s a sight that I find truly mouth watering. And now- everybody go – Ewwwwwwww. Oh, grow up. Fucking butt munchers.

Legs – leg fur tends to be really different than any other fur – it catches the light and can appear super sexy. Guys have commented favorably on mine numerous times. That said, I have no intention of ever shaving my legs. Unless I take up drag. And since my fear of drag queens is on the same level as my fear of clowns, that’s a circus I won’t ever be tempted to join. Leg fur on others? Can be sexy. Depends on the legs and who they’re attached to.

Back Hair – Tah-dah! The most derided and least appreciated of all the body furs. Do I got it? Oh, yeah. Would I rather not have it? Oh, yeah. I’d love for someone to shave my back, but those willing to do it that I have stumbled upon thus far? Not the kind of dudes I am likely to allow to help me with anything. The trade off is just too high a price. Maybe if it wasn’t sexual, then I could allow it, or if the dude was hot. But let’s face it; a hot dude has better things to do than shave my fucking back. My back hair is still blonde, but I am old enough now that some follicles have begun to develop a personality of their own (see my comments regarding chest hair on the mature male above). Seriously – I think back hair is a deal breaker for some dudes, namely dudes who have never had to deal with it. Of course, the opposite can also be true – since it’s something they themselves have never experienced it can therefore hold a kind of fascination for some – but they’re a rare flower in a garden of back-hair hating petunias.

I’ve never tried Nair or those types of foam products. Do they work? I’ve heard they can be kind of caustic and lead to skin irritation and burns – so, in an effort to not invite trouble into my life; I have yet to try them. The idea of going to someone to have my back waxed – eeehhhhh. I think I would be majorly stoic about it, but I am kind of unpredictable when it comes to pain. Sometimes I can suck it up – as in, I pulled a muscle in my calf and I’m gonna run on it anyway, and sometimes I will scream bloody murder – as in, when having bone marrow removed from your hip without sufficient anesthesia (that particular physician and I are no longer on speaking terms).

That said, I have never had an issue with the hair on another dude’s back. It can be a turn on… especially in Daddy/Son scenarios, or if you want to pretend you’re being fucked by an ugly cop. Or the butcher. Or a wife beater wearing, NYC tenement-dweller type.

My Conclusion:

Okay, not my conclusion – but one, none the less:

(He) asks me why
I'm just a hairy guy
I'm hairy noon and night
Hair that's a fright
I'm hairy high and low
Don't ask me why
Don't know
It's not for lack of bread
Like the Grateful Dead
Darling

Hair, hair, hair, hair, hair, hair, hair
Flow it, show it
Long as God can grow it
My hair

I want it long, straight, curly, fuzzy
Snaggy, shaggy, ratty, matty
Oily, greasy, fleecy
Shining, gleaming, streaming
Flaxen, waxen
Knotted, polka-dotted
Twisted, beaded, braided
Powdered, flowered, and confettied
Bangled, tangled, spangled, and spaghettied!

Hair – lyrics by James Rado & Gerome Ragni

Next Taste: Camping (Outdoors – With a Tent) (Bring marshmallows!)

Just Another Ugly Duckling Roasting In The Sun: Barbra Striesand/Duck Sauce

2011-07-08T08:31:00.000-07:00

I was in the mood for a little company yesterday, so I got on-line to see who was about. It was the usual cacophony of flakes, fakes, dudes not interested in me, and dudes I was not interested in. However, one dude was really persistent and our on-line chat progressed to the point where I told him I would be at a certain park at a certain time. He told me he’d meet me there. Our conversation was such that, while slightly sexual it was not explicitly sexual. And while his profile clearly defined him as a top with an 8” dick, we never really discussed whether our meeting would be sexual in nature. A good portion of me assumed it would be. His main picture was a headless torso/dick shot and he eventually unlocked his private pics: two distant ¾ body shots with face. I could tell he was handsome (and told him as much) – dark hair, good chin; the kind of dude not normally interested in me.

I got to the park and found an isolated, but sunny spot. It was off the beaten path and far from the usual cruisers and cruising areas. All settled in, I scouted a nearby clump of trees to see if it would offer sufficient privacy – just in case. Not that the place I’d put my blanket wasn’t private, but I know some dudes are skittish about being out in the open and don’t trust tall grass to provide enough coverage. He told me he’d be biking over because he was training for a triathlon.

An hour and twenty minutes later, he arrived and we located each other. As he was riding his bike toward me, my heart sank. He was handsome. And he had a full head of thick, dark hair. I felt his distance almost immediately and I assumed it was because he didn’t think I was very attractive. I had on a pair of long, black shorts and white tennies and that was it. My bod is currently in really good shape, and I’ve trimmed most of my body hair. Except for my back. So, it must be the face? The ears? My age? My back hair?

He followed me back to my spot and we laid down on the blanket. He stuck to the outer edge of one side and I could tell he was uncomfortable – or was I imagining it? Our conversation felt stilted. He just didn’t seem to have much to offer. I would ask a question and he would give a succinct, complete answer and offer nothing more. He would ask me questions and I would tell him whatever was related. We had discussed religion on-line. In-person we discussed theatre, writing, music, teaching, rehabbing houses, and travel

During our conversation, I stripped off my shorts. We were in a private enough spot that nude sunbathing was not an issue. He did the same. Pet peeve – he had on a pair of designer sunglasses and wouldn’t take them off, so I never saw his eyes. I did see everything else. He was in okay shape. His calves were magnificent. His ass pristine (the whitest, cutest I have seen for awhile). But his upper body was just so-so, in fact, I thought mine was actually in better shape. I am a few years older than he is – and maybe that was part of the issue.

We spent an hour together. At one point I noticed a bead of sweat running down his back, so I took my towel and wiped it. Then he announced that he had to go. I walked him back to the bike path. He said it was nice to meet me, I said the same and we went our separate ways.

It was awful.

I felt like Miranda in “Sex in the City”.

He made me feel insecure about my body, my face, my looks, my age, my sweat, my body odor (did I stink?), my back hair, my sense-of-self, my life choices, my ego, my inability to carry on a conversation that is not about me… on and on. And he did this all by not talking much or saying anything. Or ever looking me in the eye.

Which got me to thinking, and yes, I realize I may be just trying to rationalize things to make myself feel better, but maybe it’s him and not me.

There was no chemistry, because he had none. The conversation was god-awful boring because he brought so little to the table. He wouldn’t take off those sunglasses so I have no idea who he is really or what he thought or was thinking – since the eyes are the portal to the soul. He was handsome – but in a bland way. I suspect he hasn’t lived much, and by that, I mean gotten outside of his comfort level and gotten dirty, messy, and complicated. I suspect pretty people don’t have to. He seemed shallow. He seemed waspish and emotionally removed, not just from me, but from himself. I also suspect he doesn’t have much of an inner dialogue and doesn’t spend much time examining his life.

Or maybe he’s just not a neurotic ball of issues and baggage? Maybe he’s so comfortable with who he is that he doesn’t bother putting out much of an effort.

So, Miranda would have just confronted the guy – she would have laid her cards on the table and said – “Hey, you don’t have to do this. If you’re disappointed, just get back on your bike and keep riding. It’s okay. You’re not into me. I get it. I’ll live.” But I didn’t, because that could’ve blown up in my face. I was being polite. And probably, so was he. And maybe he is just a bad conversationalist. And not in touch with his sexual self. Maybe he’s a very handsome man who is also a very boring man and he can’t help it.

So, of course my feelings are hurt. And I feel more insecure. But – reality check - I am doing everything I know how to make myself the best I can be. I can’t do anything about my face. I work on my body as much as I can. I’m not a model, but I look damn good. And the age thing? What? Gravity wins. I get that.

You can’t force a flower to open in a natural manner. You also can’t create chemistry where none exists. So, I spent an hour outdoors, naked, sunning and having stilted conversation with a man with whom there was no spark to be found. I’ve been through much worse. I don’t understand why the universe wastes my time with people like this dude, but then, to be fair, the universe also wasted his time with a dude like me.

My immediate reaction is to just go out and get fucked as hard as possible. I mean really pounded so that I feel like a piece of worthless meat. That’s the self-destructive part of me talking. The part of me that wants to injure or eradicate that part of me I cannot change. Acting out in such a manner is not very therapeutic. (Actually, it would be therapeutic, because it would replace the emotional pain I’m experiencing with something tangible, but we’re told that is not a healthy way to deal with such issues. Though the sex would go a long way in validating that I am not the ugliest duckling in the world.

“Dreams are all they gave for free, to ugly duckling (boys), like me…” – Janis Ian

These situations make me feel like Barbra Streisand - not in a drag queen way, but in the same way that all less-than-runway-ready gay boys/men are able to relate to Babs. You know, as the ugly duckling who through sure pluck, whimsy, charm, and with an unshakeable belief that romantic love is a God-given thing that we’re all entitled to, can and will conquer the world. But the Robert Redfords of the world could never truly be interested in someone like me. I do the best I can with what I have and on occasion one of them will drop into my universe and get naked, but they know they can do better. And I know they’re never going to stay for long. It’s like a tier of human being - a club, that I cannot ever belong to. And it’s easy to stand outside the door and tell myself that I wouldn’t want to belong, but isn’t that just a case of the fox calling the grapes sour because he cannot reach them?

Maybe it’s a boring club? I don’t know, because I’ve never belonged. I will never know, because I can never belong. And that’s what’s killing me.

Because I’ll never know.

And that’s what bugs me about this guy – and will always bug me about this guy. Because, now, I will never know: what I did wrong, what it was about me that he didn’t like, blah-blah-blah.

Maybe I’m not meant to know. Maybe there are things we are better off not knowing.

Or maybe this is just one of those things the universe gives us so we can drag it out at 2:00 am on a sleepless night and beat ourselves up with. Really?

Eh… I’ll never know.

And Lead Us Not Into Temptation: Feeding the Stupid Beast

2011-07-02T09:30:00.000-07:00

Recently I’ve been catching “Finding Sarah” on Oprah’s OWN network. It’s about Sarah Ferguson, Duchess of York, and her quest to reclaim her life after a recent scandal left her unemployed, homeless and on the verge bankruptcy. She gets lots of help from the likes of Suze Orman and Dr. Phil – two of Oprah’s favorite go-to people. Normally, this type of thing leaves me cold. Dr. Phil, in particular, has been on my ‘must avoid’ list since day one. But this show drew me in because I felt there might be something I could learn from it. It spoke to me.

Sarah suffers from a variety of issues: lack of self-esteem, poor body image, and a constant need for approval. She will go to great lengths not to disappoint someone in order to win their approval and acceptance. I can relate.

Dr. Phil quickly diagnoses Fergie as an approval/acceptance addict. Initially, I scoffed at the concept – what the hell is that? - but it wasn’t long before I was seeing what he was getting at. I think that is what’s at the heart of my sexual addiction/compulsivity. I want approval. I want to be accepted. If you offer up your dick to me, then you are putting your seal of approval on my being. That dick coming out of your pants says that you don’t find me physically repulsive and that I am worthy of attention. For some reason, I need this assurance and having sex with strangers is a means of acquiring it. The frequency with which I have sex demonstrates just how potent a drug such acceptance is for me. In the midst of a very active period, I will go from one sex partner to another, floating on the energy and pleasure derived from the one before. I find this type of approval so intoxicating that I lose myself in it. I just find myself wanting more and more.

This same mindset is what drove me to do so much theatre. It wasn’t the applause or sense of accomplishment I wanted, though I did care, on some level, about the quality and substance of my craft. I was more concerned with quantity. I was only as good as the next show I was going to be cast in. In other words, it wasn’t enough to be in a show – I had to be cast in my next one. That seal of acceptance from the casting director meant everything to me. It was my drug. So it’s no coincidence that my desire to do and be involved with theatre diminished as my interest in sex and desire to be sexually promiscuous increased.

The thing is, I have now reached the point with sex that I once reached with theatre; I keep doing it, but I’m enjoying it less. The quantity remains high, but the quality is not what it once was. I keep thinking it’s time to retire from the field. The idea of being put out to pasture appeals to me.

That’s not to say that occasionally the sex I have isn’t brilliant. Last Sunday I had a great chance encounter in my garage with someone I met on-line. He was cute as a bug, an inch taller than I, with a very nice body, an ample 8.5 inch dick, and the most beautiful feet I have ever seen. We worked up an incredible sweat as he fucked me every which way we could think of. It was refreshing, because he really took his time as a top. I felt completely opened up by him. Verbally, he was a bit mute – something that always makes me feel a bit insecure, however, based on the fact that he took so much time with me, I do believe he liked what he saw and was enjoying what he was doing. The fact that we kissed so much would also tend to lend credence to such a conclusion.

Given that he was such an exceptional specimen and a bit out of my league (some would say way out of my league), I was satiated for an entire 48 hours. My need for approval had been sufficiently validated.

But it didn’t last.

It never does.

This is probably why my attempts at relationships have failed over the years. Either I never get the approval I’m seeking from my partner or said approval is given quickly, and I then no longer see the value in maintaining the relationship. Or I do something that so offends them they see me as toxic and something they can no longer tolerate in their lives. I can only speak for my part. The dissolution of certain relationships may have more to do with their personal issues than mine – everybody’s got baggage, but I can really only hope to understand (and own up to) my own part. Simply putting the blame on them, no matter how obvious their issues, doesn’t help me become a better person. And that’s the goal of all of this self-searching crap – I simply want to be a better person.

This need for outside approval would help explain why my interest in playing guitar and writing music burned brightly, but soon evaporated. There simply wasn’t an outlet for instant approval. It’s also why playing the piano no longer holds much allure. One has to toil in isolation for extended periods in order to be good enough or produce enough to seek approval with those types of activities. And the opportunities just aren’t there. So, if you’re not able to feed the beast on a regular basis, then the beast must morph into something that can and will.

It’s time for my beast to morph. Writing has become something of a comfort. I’ve been doing it on and off, in various forms for most of my life – poems, lyrics, music, musicals, plays, journals, blogs, etc. So I have it down to a kind of process (depending on the form) – and I like process. It helps keep me moving forward when I get stuck. It helps me make the creative logical. But writing is a very solitary thing with little opportunity to seek or get approval. As a writer, you end up having to be your own cheerleader. Still, unless I overcome my inability to operate in isolation, I doubt my beast will be satisfied with me as a writer.

Stupid beast.

I started running outside this week. Haven’t for years. I was too terrified. Too much fear. But I discovered that the paths outside my gym connect to a very isolated park where there isn’t much traffic. So I have been comfortable running there for a whole week now. If I don’t have zumba or a step class, and the weather is good, I will go for a run. I like that isolation. My mind keeps busy and sometimes music filters into my thoughts without effort. I also enjoy the rush, the stretching, and constant change of pace. My calves hate me right now, but I have been enjoying it.

Yes, this week, summer arrived in Minnesota. It really has been a beautiful week – weatherwise. Now that it’s here I feel less anxious. It’s been a frustrating spring…

…in more ways than one.

My sexual compulsivity remains one of my primary issues. But there’s reason to hope.

Yesterday, after work, I went to this park I used to hang out at and cruise for sex. For about two weeks now I have been going there, changing my clothes in my car, and then taking a blanket over to a hill, where I sunbathe for about an hour. During this time, I may get cruised, but I stay put on my blanket. See, normally, if I wanted to go sunbathe, I would go to the prairie. But that’s not a good idea, if sun bathing is all you really want to do. If you’re having trouble with temptation, then one should really avoid temptation. The prairie offers all sorts of cool places to get naked and do the dirty deed. Also the guys there tend to be high caliber – something not so true about the cruising park I am currently sunbathing at. Still… I get off on just being around that vibe, so I test myself to see if I can be around that vibe without participating. When the guys aren’t all that hot, it makes it easier to say no.

I passed the ultimate test last night. I was getting ready to leave. No one else was around, for dark clouds had had overtaken the sun, causing even me to pack it up. I had just changed out of my shorts into my jeans and hadn’t put on my t-shirt yet, when I look up and walking along the path is the most gorgeous silver-haired man. Classic features, amazing chin, chiseled bod, sporting a pair of black lycra running shorts and a nice tight lycra top. Legs to die for. Seriously – it’s like he walked out of a magazine or an ad on T.V. He walks over to the water fountain and, while I’m pretty sure that he is, I’m not absolutely certain that he is checking me out. There are no other cars around, so I’m trying to figure out where he came from and what’s he doing here. He’s not sweating or huff-puffing, so running is not part of the equation.

Now, I’d just spent over an hour in some intense sun, and worked out like a mad man this week, so I am feeling pretty good in my sexy-baggy jeans, sporting no shirt. Given that, I decide to take my time getting that t-shirt on, giving Mr. OMG ample opportunity to check out my goods. And he does. And then he saunters over to this little parting in the bushes that leads down to this path off the main path that is probably known only to those of us who are seasoned cruisers. And as he disappears down that path…

…I get in my car, buckle up and go home.

The odds of me bagging someone that hot? The odds of me and someone that hot being alone in that particular park at that time of day without there being a single nosy old troll stalking about? The odds of someone that hot being interested in me? Well… that’s not gonna be happening anytime soon. Or maybe ever again. The one that got away. He haunts me.

But I know I made the right decision.

Just Say 'NO' To Social Terrorists: Exercise Your Dollar Power - Shop Elsewhere

2011-06-17T08:47:00.001-07:00

Target is feeling the effects of the economy, no doubt. When one is struggling just to put food on the table and keep a roof over one’s head, frivolous things like – well, most of what Target has to offer, kind of go by the wayside. They are also feeling the heat of their politically aware shareholders.

At their Annual General Meeting in Pittsburg earlier this month, Gregg W. Steinhafel, chairman, president and chief executive officer of Target Corp. got grilled big time; peppered with questions regarding the company’s political contributions to Republican Tom Emmer. Emmer, a gubernatorial candidate during Minnesota’s last election season is staunchly anti-gay and against same-sex marriage. He also has ties to an organization associated with a music group, You Can Run But You Cannot Hide Intl., Inc. which brings it’s anti-gay, supposedly-Christian hard rock ministry to public schools and other youth organizations. Some of Emmer’s campaign monies went directly to this group which set off a shit storm of controversy. The leader of the music group, Bradlee Dean, once told a radio audience that Muslim countries that call for the execution of gays and lesbians are “more moral than even the American Christians.”

Bradlee Dean went on record with the following from a story posted by the Minnesota Independent:

“Muslims are calling for the executions of homosexuals in America. This just shows you they themselves are upholding the laws that are even in the Bible of the Judeo-Christian God, but they seem to be more moral than even the American Christians do, because these people are livid about enforcing their laws. They know homosexuality is an abomination."

The group’s music also contains hateful, horribly homophobic lyrics inciting violence against gays.

Recently Rep. Ernie Leidiger invited Dean to open a legislative session at the Minnesota House of Representatives with a prayer, which resulted in another shit storm of controversy; with the Democrats denouncing the action and the Republicans remaining mum. On the plus side, bat-shit crazy, future GOP presidential candidate Michelle Bachman came to Dean’s defense, lauding his group’s focus and offering up a sort of prayer for them - successfully demonstrating once again just how stupid that woman really is.

Michelle Bachman is an ass (a crazy, dangerous ass). So is Ernie Leidiger. Bradlee Dean, too (Bradlee? - God is not pleased with you!). Tom Emmer is a huge ass. He, the hero of Hockey-Dads here in MN, is a real butthole. And Gregg Steinhafel? Gee. Yeah. I’m thinking if it has had its finger in the ass and that finger smells like ass – then, yep – I’m guessing major A-hole.

You see, Gregg hasn’t exactly apologized for that whole “we-support-those-who-call-for-the-execution-of-gay-people” thing. In fact, he found the questions – of which there were several – annoying and asked at one point if anyone had a question not related to political giving. Nor will he go on record promising that it won’t happen in the future. Yes, he did pay lip service, talking about having the right process in place, saying Target would be more careful in the future in regards to political donations – but, read between the lines and I think what he’s really saying is that Target will be more careful about not getting caught supporting anti-gay causes in the future. Gregg is kind of a snake. He has been ever since he came on board.

This whole anti-gay attitude at Target is odd, because without the legion of gays working behind the scenes at Target Corporate - without their creativity and input - Target would be, well, Wal-Mart (which recently banned Bradlee Dean’s group from soliciting their customers in their parking lots). I know, because I used to be one of those gays. I was at Target Corporate for six and half years. For several of those years I had a very homophobic boss – a real hateful ass, whose own children will one day grow up and hate him. But then for four and half of those years I had a couple of really GREAT bosses. Granted, I was not one of those gays that shaped the look and feel of Target (I’m not a fashion-fag – those that are set my eyes rolling), but I did contribute to it in my way. Yes, I was a peon, a nothing, but I was never interested in playing ‘the game’ – which pretty much explains why I had to leave after six and a half years.

When the story about the political donation to Emmer broke, the gay community called for a boycott of Target and I am happy to say I have not set foot in one since. I also sold my stock and cashed out my 401k. I am Target-Free now. I think everyone should be.

I now shop at my grocery store, a drug store and a dollar store. I buy my clothing at a large clothing/household goods retailer with no record of giving monies to anti-gay causes (no, not Wal-Mart). By the way, the clothing is of much better quality -Targets’ mens clothing has always sucked.

I no longer waste emotion on people as ridiculous as Michelle Bachman and Bradlee Dean; they will get what they deserve – although I do keep a wary eye out for them. After all, they are dangerous people – social terrorists - and I believe it is in my best interest to know where they are and what they’re doing. And I’d call for Gregg Stienhafel’s resignation – but you know what? I’ll let my money do my talking for me. My dollars are my power for change.

And that’s where your power lies, too.

So use your power wisely.

Boycott Target.

Kristine W. Scores Her 16th #1

2011-06-10T05:36:00.000-07:00

"Fade" hits the top of the Dance/Club Play chart at Billboard this week. This marks the 16th time she has reached the pinnacle.

I purchased Remix Collections #1 and #2, and have found that my favorite remixes are Chris Thomas' Black & Blue Club Mix (9:08) and the Johnny Vicious Warehouse Mix (8:11). Both are stellar. The Chris Thomas mix reminds me of some old Donna Summer remixes. Both these can be found on the second collection. As for Collection #1, I really wish the versions were longer. They all feel like radio edits and are numbingly the same. It would have been nice to hear the remixers take and open up the song in a longer format. A third remix collection just came out. I haven’t had the opportunity to purchase it or listen to it yet.

This song left me a little cold. Kristine’s voice seems a little on the tired side. There is a throat rasp that lends credence to such a suspicion. Also, the high notes are rather broad, having lost that marvelous focus that made her superior to other divas. Okay, so I’m being picky here… even less than perfect Kristine W. is still damn good music. I do wish she’d take some time off and rest her throat, though.

Her latest tour – “Love Never Fades” - will land in Minneapolis on Sunday, June 26, 2011 at the Lush Bar located at 990 Central Avenue NE as part of Minneapolis Gay Pride Week. Something tells me I will be hitting the town that night.

So – just because I love lists and Billboard Chart rankings, here is a list of Kristine’s hits and how the ranked on Billboard’s Dance/Club Play chart:

1994 Feel What You Want - 1
1996 One More Try - 1
1997 Land of the Living - 1
2000 Stronger - 1
2001 Lovin' You - 1
2003 Some Lovin' - 1
2003 Fly Again - 1
2004 Save My Soul - 1
2005 The Wonder of It All - 1
2006 I'll Be Your Light - 2
2007 Walk Away- Tony Moran featuring Kristine W - 1
2008 The Boss - 1
2008 Never - 1
2009 Love Is the Look - 1
2009 Be Alright - 1
2009 The Power of Music - 1
2011 Fade - 1

Congrats to Kristine and all those who work for her organization!

Strange Days for Lemmings: How Safe is Unsafe Sex?

2011-06-03T14:10:00.000-07:00

What strange times we live in. It was easy in the late eighties, early nineties; have unsafe sex, get HIV and you die. It was black and white and most people were on board with that whole ‘staying alive’ thing. Safe sex was ‘the word’ sold and as gay men, we bought it, because our lives depended upon it. Then the drug cocktails came along, namely the protease inhibitors, and people began living longer with HIV. The funerals of friends and partners became less and less frequent. And those living with HIV? They got stronger and healthier.

So healthy, they began to forget the lessons learned. Fast forward ten years and they began to backslide. Even those spared the horror of HIV began to tumble down the rabbit hole. High risk behaviors previously shunned were cracking open the door to see if they might be welcome once more. And, to the surprise of many, they were. Sure, condoms were always made available, but fewer were choosing to use them. At sex clubs, tops jonesing for the primal pleasure of seeding a hot ass looked the other way if you approached them with a pair of raincoats in your palm.

Now, a recent study conducted by NIH’s National Institute of Allergy and Infectious Diseases (NIAID), has enough substantiated evidence to state that people who are positive, but on a disciplined drug regimen, have a healthy immune system, and are able to maintain a status of non-detectable have a considerably small chance of passing on HIV to their sexual partners. And now the flood gates opened? Well, to be fair, the floodgates opened some time before that particular study was officially announced – two to three years prior, to be exact.

Hey, it makes sense – that someone who is HIV+, and is undetectable (less than 50 or 75 copies of the virus), would have less of a chance of passing the virus on. So… that means that not only is having sex with an HIV+ no longer much of a risk, it also translated to people engaging in unsafe sex with HIV+ people. In fact, a highly controversial study conducted by the Swiss in 2008 seemed to support that mindset - even though it was a study about unprotected vaginal sex. Still, people heard what they wanted to hear.

So, given the propensity for people to lie about their status, the rush, thrill, and desire to have sex without a condom, and the message currently coming from the scientific community… how safe is unsafe sex?

Two words: gonorrhea and syphilis. Both of these STDs are at epidemic levels in the gay community (mostly due to the ParTy scene, but hey… everyone having unsafe sex is guilty). Given that, every three months or so, I have an STD scare which has me running to my doctor in a panic. Fortunately they’ve been just that… panics. But what about the time when it’s not? The idea of the CDC having a big old file on yours truly doesn’t light up my heart E.T. style.

Then again… there is that little, tiny possibility that you could indeed get the virus. Not a big deal? Really? I suggest you talk to someone who is HIV+. They’d probably disagree. Those drugs are expensive (thank you, greedy drug companies) and, without good health insurance, unattainable. Plus the many doctor visits, the wasting, the stigma, the complications, and the constant worry. But some still live in a bubble of denial, believing that to become positive is not a game changer.

And then… there are those, like myself, who have dipped our toes in the waters of unsafe sex and remain unsure of the temperature. Let’s face it, at my age and given my physical deficiencies (not-so-good-looking, lack of hair, big ears, drooping face, barely above average body – see pic above – yep, that’s me two weeks ago), my opportunities for some kick-ass, no-strings sex are becoming fewer and fewer. Add to that the fact that dirty, filthy, slutty, totally anonymous, unsafe sex with multiple partners can be hot as hell (and trips my circuits) and you have something of an adolescent dilemma: if everybody else jumped off a cliff, would you do it, too?

What am I, a lemming?

Maybe. There is something intoxicating about attending a warehouse party, making your way down into the basement, walking up the steps to that little dark alcove with the king sized platform, getting on top of it on all fours and offering your ass up to any comer (or cummer, as the case may be). Just the thought of taking dick after dick, load after load fuels many a gangbang fantasy. Also, bareback porn, which has been out there for some time now, is becoming even more prevalent, which not only makes it more enticing, it also makes it seem like more of a possibility: as in something to act out in real life. And BBRTS? Very popular these days. Nice guys, too. There’s something refreshing about men being so out in the open about something kept in the dark (barebacking) by those afraid of the light. They also tend to be more upfront about their HIV status and that’s rather ironic, now isn’t it?

So here we are, caught between two worlds. The total opposite of where we as a community were some 25 years ago. The choice was obvious then… and, to be honest, it still is. But you have to admit that the waters have been muddied.

I am amazed by just how volatile people become about barebacking – but then, lives are at stake, right? Hey, I’m not anyone’s role model. I’m more of a cautionary tale. Just in the past two weeks I had safe sex and bareback sex. They were both exciting… of course, the set ups had a lot to do with just how stimulating the sex was.

Two Friday’s ago, I stopped by the bog and ran into one of my favorite regulars – he reminds me of a hot Fred Durst. He’s just the sweetest guy in the world. Nice eight inch dick, too. We always play safe and usually in some very non-traditional places – under a railroad bridge, behind a tree by the bog, and, on this particular Friday, up on a hill by one of my favorite fallen trees. It was gray and raining on and off. There was a break in the down pour as he drove into the parking lot. I knew it was him, I know his vehicle. I wasn’t exactly prepared for the sort of encounter we usually have, so I ran off into the woods, thinking he wouldn’t come looking for me, given the rain and his propensity for privacy. But, apparently, he was horny enough to do just that. I told him I wasn’t prepared – no condom. He said no problem. Seems for once he was prepared with both a condom and poppers! He followed me to my favorite fallen tree. I took him in my mouth, and then took it up the ass. It was brief, but very satisfying. The poppers he had were something new that I had never tried… and now plan to track down – really powerful stuff. I let him exit the woods first and remained behind until I was sure he’d driven away. He never fails to leave me breathless and a bit giddy. I like to savor that. Bottom line: we played with a condom, so no worries. And no clean-up!

Then, nine days later (yes, I’m working on my compulsivity), I’m mowing lawn at one of my rental properties (it’s empty), when in the driveway pulls an SUV I’ve never seen before. I happened to be on-line updating my pics on one of my regular hook-up sites earlier that morning when I get hit on by someone who qualifies as ‘a definite possibility’. He’s tall, athletic, and has an eight inch beauty. He’s very upfront about what he wants and that is to fuck me. ASAP. I explain that I have to go mow a lawn and that the place is empty, and that we could do it in the garage. He’s game and, much to my surprise and delight, he’s not a no-show. I stop mowing and open the garage door. He slips in, and after very little preamble, he really slips in… and plows me good and hard. He shoots and scores and then is nice enough to wait around until I get myself off. I hadn’t cum in nine days, so it was somewhat impressive. And thick. And creamy white. We clean up, dress, I open up the garage door and we bid one another adieu. Then I make a beeline for home, where I can douche, clean out my ass and hope for the best. As in… that he’s as DDF as he claims to be.

Still, I worry. Bottom line: unsafe sex? Still unsafe.

And now what? Am I at a crossroads? Is some change coming? Is this the start of a new chapter. A new lease on life? Will I ever just shut up about this and do the right thing and abstain from having sex without a condom? Or will I still be struggling with these same issues and a year from now still be asking these same questions?

Probably.

I guess I’m becoming something of a professional fence sitter. But given my vantage point? The view’s not bad at all.

But views change. As for a definitive answer?

Sorry.

No where in sight, children.

Vacation...Time to Go-Go

2011-05-20T11:30:00.000-07:00

A week without you
Thought I'd forget
Two weeks without you and I
Still haven't gotten over you yet

Vacation - All I ever wanted
Vacation - Had to get away
Vacation - Meant to be spent alone

- Vacation – The Go Go’s

Yep, going on vacation. For a week. Looking forward to it, too. Not sure all that I will be doing, but it will have a lot to do with taking hikes and playing tourist. And staying off the internet.

I have made good on some of my promises. Managed to stay off all the hook-up sites I used to visit religiously. Managed to not get fucked for three weeks now. Have fooled around a bit, but kept it very light, mostly JO, body contact and kissing.

Seems whenever I go to the prairie and there are dudes about I get hit on. I purposely set my blanket out in the open, thinking those that are looking for a little something-something will stick to the woods on the perimeter. But those that know me, and there are a bunch, don’t hesitate to walk out to the middle to say hello. Sometimes that’s as far as it goes (with small talk, too – “how you doing”, “how was your winter”, etc.), but sometimes they lay down next to me, or crouch in front of me and show off their hard-ons. What can I say – I’m a sucker for a guy who can get it up. Sometimes I can just smile and play dumb. But other times, it’s just too much temptation.

I do like kissing. Making out rocks. JO is cool, too. Feeling a little bit guilty about putting their cocks in my mouth, though. That happened three times in three weeks.

Nice thing about my vacation? No internet access and little opportunity to get into any trouble at all. Not going to any gay hot spots or cruising area. So this could be a sex-free affair, unlike my last few trips - as previously blogged about on here: http://wonderlandburlesque.blogspot.com/2010/11/san-francisco-treats-ordering-room.html, http://wonderlandburlesque.blogspot.com/2010/12/cruising-on-line-in-las-cruces.html, http://wonderlandburlesque.blogspot.com/2010/11/i-wanna-sauna-truth-about-duluth.html

I’m taking my pups with me, too. They ride real well in the car and this week-long trip is nothing if not an extended road trip.

I’ve made a lot of progress on that writing project I’ve been working on. Have been very disciplined about it. It’s been a real good focus.

Nothing else going on, really. Have been enjoying Zumba and my work outs. Have been trying to get outside as the weather permits.

Not sure if I will be writing anything next week. May just take a break. Depends if I get bored or not. Hope not.

Enjoy yourselves. And remember…

Be good to yourselves. Be better to others.

- Ciao for Now

Perspective: A Minor Hair in the Salad of Life

2011-05-14T07:08:00.000-07:00

Life is all a matter of perspective, right? When you think about it, you can justify and rationalize almost anything when keeping in mind all the things you have previously experienced, provided you’ve eaten a big slice of life.

So, I’m at work and short on time. I decide to drop into the cafeteria and grab a ready-to-go salad and eat at my desk. This is a little bit of a hassle, because salads always involve a little bit of work on my part; I have to cut everything up – not quite to the level of a chopped salad, but I basically refuse to risk getting salad dressing all over my face due to an over-sized piece of lettuce. I know, I know…when you consider some of the things that have been on my face – what harm could a little salad dressing do? But it’s something I will do my best to avoid, if I can. So I take my salad back to my desk and dump it into a Tupperware bowl in order to maximize the amount of room I have to work with. Soon, the salad is all chopped up, I’ve added the dressing, and am just about to dig in when… my eyes catch sight of a tiny, black curled hair hanging off a dressing drenched piece of lettuce.

It’s not mine.

It wasn’t in the bowl before I put the lettuce in it, either. No one else sits at my desk or uses my stuff, so I have to assume that the offending hair came from the person who prepared and packaged the salad which sits before me.

Now I have to make a choice. Do I…

A/ Walk back to the cafeteria and complain, possibly getting a different salad, only to return to chop and ready it all over.

Or

B/ Remove the offending hair and eat the salad.

Hmmmm. What would Jesus do?

I know a lot of people would walk back to that cafeteria just to complain and feel that their voice was being heard. Good for them. Depending upon the magnitude and possible ramifications of a given error on the part of another, I, too, have chosen that route.

But we’re talking about one, single, tiny hair.

Think about. Think about all the times that you have eaten in a restaurant without being 100% certain that the entire kitchen and wait staff at that restaurant have carefully washed their hands before preparing or coming in contact with your food. The answer would be – all the time. We trust people who prepare our food to do the right thing and assume that our personal hygienic standards will be met wherever we choose to eat, at all times. But realistically? That’s not the case, and if you are a reasonable person, you know that’s not the case. Still, you continue to eat out. You even explore restaurants you have never been to before. We do that because we have faith in the system. That, and we don’t feel like cooking.

So given that, how is that hair in my salad that big of a deal? Because I see it and can do something about it? Sure, but what about all the unseen things that we have all consumed without knowing about it? Getting rid of that hair? Problem solved (and maybe throwing away that piece of lettuce it was stuck to would be a good idea, too).

And in my case? That piece of hair represents no big deal at all when I take into account all the little hairs belonging to strangers I have probably swallowed over my years as a total slut. When I think about the dicks that have gone down my throat and in my ass and rubbed all over my body – really, what is the big deal about that single black hair in my salad?

Yeah, I know… this is gross. But then, so is sex, when you really think about it, especially sex with total strangers. I used to think people were just being prudish when it came to anonymous sex, but from a hygienic perspective, I can see their point. Just as in the case of my pre-packaged salad or any meal prepared in any restaurant - you don’t really know what you’re buying, and may never.

So, I guess it all comes down to faith. We trust that people are always going to do the right thing. We trust that they will always put the safety, needs and expectations of others first. We go to a restaurant we expect the employees to wash their hands after using the bathroom. We expect them to wear hairnets and take reasonable care in order to prevent foreign objects from falling in our food and befouling our plates.

And when we have sex with strangers and they tell us they are drug and disease free, we, wanting to have sex, want to believe them. That’s a form of faith, too.

But people lie. All the time.

So, the results of my complete STD drug screen came back this week.

Negative. All good. No problems.

Really?

Yeah, I know, I have a hard time believing it, too. Especially after the many men my body has been exposed to.

But it’s true.

Part of me is relieved and part of me still doubts. And all of me has decided to make some changes.

No penetration. No unsafe sex. Lots of showing off. Lots of masturbation. Maybe some masturbation in the presence of others. Maybe some frottage – jury is still out. Maybe some kissing – jury is still out.

But no penetration - with or without a condom for awhile. Not sure when that ban will be lifted, but that decision has given me a sense of ease that I have not felt in a long time. It’s like all that pressure is off. I only have to sculpt those parts of my body hair that I want to sculpt. The douching thing is off the table. The constant worry about STDs – over there on the other side of the room for now. I can breathe and recapture my mojo. Maybe. I can definitely breathe. The mojo part? Age and gravity may have something to say about that.

My workouts have gotten better since I stopped having compulsive sex. I feel stronger. I sleep better – especially now that I’m not on those hook-up sites any longer. Something about being on the internet to that degree causes my brain to become over-stimulated, like a kid on a sugar high. I’m also more relaxed about some things…

…like finding a hair in my salad.

I can’t make any promises to myself or others. At this point, it’s one day at a time and I realize the only person I am going to disappoint if I don’t keep my commitment for awhile is me. So, we’ll see how it goes. One day at a time.

As for that salad?

Oh, yeah, I ate it.

Coasting into Summer

2011-05-08T17:29:00.000-07:00

I continue to coast along in the same mode as last week. It’s surprising how much time I now have on my hands – now that I’m not pursuing sexual encounters 24/7. I am a bit irritable, as can be attested to by the other drivers who shared my morning commute today; lots of middle fingers and lane changes, to say nothing of the stream of four-letter words that accompanied it all. My bad. But never get into the passing lane in front of me and then apply your brakes. Not a good idea.

In the past few days I have done a few things that I feel good about:

- went in for a full STD screen
- talked to my doctor about my many sexual activities
- went on-line and altered all my hook-up site profiles
- resigned from all those yahoo picture sites that sent me wonderful sexy photos every morning

The changing of the hook-up site profiles is quite significant. I erased everything remotely sexual, including certain stats and preferences. I replaced all my pictures with a recent one of me in a nice, tight fitting, long-sleeved black shirt and a black cap – featuring me from the waist up and including a clear shot of my face.
My profiles now all read:

This item no longer available.
Please see catalogue for similar items.
Be good to yourself.
Be better to others.

And so, life changes. I morph into something different. The timing is odd, but I was thinking that maybe the delay of summer has been a good thing. It gave me time to make the changes necessary. I am already mourning my days at the prairie… but there comes a time (and an age) when a player needs to leave the field.

And this is mine.

I don’t know what I’m going to do with all my free time, but I am already negotiating what I can do and can’t do. I am going to refrain from sexual activity for a little while, just to make sure that it’s not that big of a deal to do so – as a means of proving to myself that I’m not a sexual addict. In the meantime I will try to figure out what kind of sexual contact would be okay for me. I’m through with the type that leaves me feeling damaged and less of a person. Satisfying an itch is no longer enough of a motivation or justification. A real relationship is out of the question, so it’s not that I want more intimacy in my life. If anything, I want to push people further away.

So, does this all mean that I have to give up sunning myself at the prairie? Honest answer: yes. I shouldn’t even go to those places where I know sexual activity takes place. I’m too much of a pushover to say ‘no’ consistently. I also plan on staying off those hook-up sites long enough for people to actually miss me. Really, I can’t go back to any of my usual haunts until I have determined for myself what kind of sex works for me at this point in my life. The warehouse? Definitely off limits.

And this blog? What does it become? Not sure. I might continue the Acquired Taste series, picking up where I left off – but only if I’m excited about it.

And that’s at the core of this recent change, folks. When it comes to sex, I just haven’t felt very excited about it.

So, I’m going to concentrate on the following:

- Decluttering my life – cleaning out my house – donating stuff I don’t need
- Walking the dogs
- Double up my efforts on an off-line writing project I have been working on for about 10 weeks
- Working out
- Mowing lawns
- Ironing clothes
- Playing guitar

And masturbating. Something tells me that will come into play again sometime soon.

As I was shaving this morning I came to the following conclusion:

Men are like razor blades – by the time you get truly comfortable with them and trust them, they’re too dull to do the job.

Hope Springs Eternal, While Disappointment Cums in Spurts (Or Not)

2011-04-30T06:30:00.000-07:00

Sometimes you just have to slow down and check your surroundings. That’s what I’ve been doing recently. Not out of dread or trepidation… I don’t even have anything to be all that cautious about these days. But I do feel like a dog sniffing the wind.

Summer does not seem to be getting here any too quickly this year. In fact, rumor has it this is supposed to be a very cool summer – meaning cool temp-wise. That does not excite me in the least.

Something else that does not excite me in the least? Sex. Yep, I’m going through that kind of period again. I just can’t seem to work up the enthusiasm for anonymous encounters the way I used to. Not that I haven’t been trying. It’s just the ends in this case do not justify the means; all that work and the pay-off is so slim. I have had two major encounters where I left feeling absolutely let down. I always bring my A-game, because I figure if you can’t do that, then do your trick a favor and stay home (which is exactly what I do some days).

The first incident involved a couple I’d played with once before. They are both leather-friendly, a bit younger than me, and a tad kinky, but nothing that takes center stage. We play in their living room, which is a little weird, considering they have this huge bay window that they put a sheet over. With the plasma screen playing porn, the room is cast in an eerie blue glow, and I can only imagine what kind of shadows appear on the other side of that sheet from time to time. But, hey, maybe they have a neighbor who gets into that.

Our first encounter was swift and somewhat fun. I was definitely feeling it more from one of the partners than the other, but I always do my best to keep everyone busy and involved. The guy I’m not so into is shorter than me, and sort of a ginger with smooth, pale skin, a couple of tats, a pierced tongue, a prince albert and an odd affect – at times he reminds me of a doughy baby bird with his mouth open waiting for Mama to feed him a worm. Of course, to be fair, that first time he did not seem to be all that excited about having a three-way at all. His partner is a tiny bit taller than me, bald with a goatee, a slim, furry build and a bit on the wicked side. Neither one has what I would consider a big dick, but they are both adequate enough to get the job done. While my time with the ginger was just okay, my turn with the bald dude was kind of swift, but epic. He definitely likes to take charge and I kind of get off on being dominated. All in all, I had a nice time.

In the next few weeks the ginger dude, who apparently is in charge of securing them a hook-up when they want to play, kept hitting me up on-line and inviting me over. I kept dodging them because, well, I just wasn’t all that sure that I wanted a repeat performance; besides, they live a distance from me, and with gas prices such as they are, I want bang (pun intended) for my buck. But finally, I felt I couldn’t put them off any longer and decided to see if it could possibly get any better. At least this time I knew where I was going and didn’t get lost.

I arrived on time. The ginger let me in and led me to the living room. No porn on. No bald dude. The ginger and I make out and strip each other in the process. For some reason I am rock hard and start getting the sense that I want to bend the ginger over and fuck him rough. He sucks on me for about ten minutes and I am pretty pleased. He then excuses himself to go get his partner. He returns, minus partner, and then proceeds to spend the next ten minutes trying to get the porn to come up on the plasma screen. Meanwhile, I learn that they had just been out hitting the bars earlier that evening. That might explain the difference in the ginger – he seems more relaxed, more pliable, and a much better kisser than I remember. Yes, sometimes, a little alcohol is a good thing.

But more often than not, it is not. Especially a lot of alcohol, which is what I believe was the issue with the bald dude. The bald dude suddenly appears and grabs the remote away from his partner and puts on the porn. There is something about his demeanor that is really different this time, and almost instantly I realize – I don’t like it! First he orders his partner to fuck me while I suck him and get him hard. So right away, I know that I am responsible for him getting hard. Not cool.

The entire time I’m sucking his dick, the bald dude is asking his partner if he’s shot his load yet. And that is one of the things that make three-ways with established couples so weird for the outsider – the way they talk to one another. Sometimes it’s in a secret code that to the outside ear sounds like a set of identical twins that have made up their own language. Other times – it’s just a turn off: pet names, repeated phrases, nonsense words, creepy familial references.

Anyway, the ginger finally shoots his load, or at least fakes it enough to satisfy his partner, who is now semi-hard and ready to fuck me. He makes me kneel on this little footstool and takes me from behind. And that is when the whole evening goes down the poop shoot – and not my poop shoot. First, the bald one makes his partner stand in front of me. It is so obvious to me that the ginger has shot his load and is all done. He is bored and wants to go sit on the couch. Three minutes into my fuck with the bald one and I’m thinking that sitting on the couch sounds like a pretty good idea. The bald one can’t get hard. He has had too much to drink. But he won’t give up. He tells his partner he can’t “hear it”. This apparently is my cue to ramp up the gay porn talk – which I dutifully do – I’d already been doing it, but apparently not to the bald one’s satisfaction. So, like any bad actor playing opposite and even worse actor, I do my lines, with feeling! Then, the bald one declares that my hole is not tight enough. There is a part of me that wants to turn around and tell him that the hole is not the problem, but I keep my mouth shut. Then he gets mean. He pulls me off my perch, and places me on the carpet. I immediately get a rug burn on my knee and I am not all that thrilled with the hygienic condition of their living room floor. We switch up positions four times – still the postman is not ringing. At this point I happen to look over and find that the ginger has, in fact, gone to sit on the couch. He watches, constantly asks if the bald one has gotten off yet while offering up the occasional odd suggestion. Then he does something that almost makes me want to pick up my toys and go home – he starts smacking my ass – really, really hard. I let it go the first three times, but when that burn turns into a sharp sting I grab him by the wrist and hold on to it really tightly. He takes this as a challenge and puts my arm behind my back. Fine, whatever.

By this point the bald one is flaccid. Period. But does he give up? Unfortunately, no. Instead he puts me on my back, positions his body over mine as if doing push-ups and proceeds to fuck my mouth. He keeps ordering me to gag on his cock, but… ummm... well, quite frankly there’s not enough dick there to do the job. So, while lying on my back, I try to figure out how to resolve this evening and get the hell out of there.

I’d been wanting to get back and fuck the shit out of that ginger dude, who is now sitting smugly on the couch, but I get a sense that boat has sailed and he’s not taking on any new passengers. Throughout my play with the bald dude I’d been working my finger in his ass, stroking his prostate to see if that might aid in him getting a stiffie and given our current set up, his hole is again, within reach, so I’m playing with it. Then he says one derogatory thing too many about my sexual abilities and I decide it’s time to turn the tables. I take my time and make sure my dick is nice and hard before getting up, shoving the bald one chest down on the footstool, kneeling behind him and taking his ass to town. I was in a mood to top, and his ass was going to have to do. It was a nice ass. From behind he has a real nice shape; a chest that vees into his waist and a pair of nice concave ass melons. I only pound him for about five minutes – during which he critiques my skills as a top. Finally I have had enough of his drunken bullshit and bring it on home, creaming his hole big time.

After catching my breath, I don’t even bother with the usual ‘thank you’s’ or check to see if everyone is okay. I just pick up my bag and head to the bathroom, where I wipe down, douche my ass, and gargle. When I return to the living room, the bald dude is gone; in the kitchen talking to their room mate. The ginger is sitting on the couch cruising the net. I dress and he pats the spot beside him. I sit for a moment and he gives me a reassuring hug, saying something about the affects of alcohol. I thank him and show myself out, knowing that I will never again be visiting their little abode.

Three days later, I have sex with this guy who has just moved into town. I find I have good luck with dudes who have just moved into town. I’m not sure if that’s because they don’t realize how much better they can do or if it’s because they haven’t been in town long enough to learn what a giant slut I am… but for whatever reason, I attract them and land them pretty regularly. This guy is really nice looking – as in, typical, handsome executive type. His stats seem fine, he’s my age, and, based on his pictures, he’s in reasonable shape. We make a date and I head to his place. He greets me at the front door, doesn’t scream, nor does his face freeze into a mask of horror, so I figure we’re good to go. From my perspective, he lives up to his pics and stats. His smile isn’t quite as focused as I like, but upon climbing the stairs to the second floor, a quick whiff helps me identify the reason behind his ever melting demeanor. The smell of pot hangs heavy in the air. And I’m cool with that, and tell him so.

We enter a room and he has MSNBC on his big old plasma screen (again with the giant televisions?). There isn’t a lot of furniture and we sit on the carpeted floor. I begin undressing while he reloads his little pot pipe. I do two rather quaint puffs and tell him I’m done – just not in the mood to get all fucked up – just fucked. He continues to smoke a bit more while I get undressed. Leaving me to watch a story about Newt Gingrich, he disappears into the bathroom. When he reappears, he’s naked. Dude is taller than me by two inches and his body is okay – a trip to the gym might do it good, but he’s tan and height/weight proportionate. His dick is okay, too – a little shorter than mine, and a little thinner, but nicely shaped. He also has a nice set of balls on him. He’s kind of a Ken doll, really. He stands in front of me and I dutifully take his dick in my mouth. I’m hard, he’s hard; we’re good to go.

I’m immediately in love with his butt because it is fleshy and ripe, not firm. I just like holding the globes of his ass in my hand and giving them a smack now and then – which, judging from the reaction it gets, he likes. Throughout our playtime, he’s doing a lot of poppers – A LOT OF POPPERS – so you know where this is heading, and so did I. Heading to the bed, we play safely. Lots of frottage. He fucks me. We nut fuck. We suck. The kissing is just so-so, but I’m cool with that. I get a definite sense that our energies are very different – that may have a lot to do with the degree to which the dude is buzzed and the amount of poppers he’s doing. Or not. I am not buzzed. The pot has done very little for me – but then, the first time I play with someone, I always err on the side of caution. You never know what you’re going to encounter and I like to keep my wits about me.

Thirty minutes into it, I get a sense that this dude is not going to cum. Forty-five minutes into it, I do. We’re lying side by side, each working our own and I decide – the hell with it – and go for broke. Not that I abandon my duties. I stick in there for another fifteen minutes. During which we try a lot of things – none of which is bringing his fuck stick to fruition. I only cease trying when I notice he has a nasty blood blister on the top of his shaft from where he’s been working his dick. Figuring I’d put in a good effort, I head to the bathroom and clean up. In short order I wipe down, gargle and dress. MSNBC is still playing on the plasma, which I think is a little weird; music during sex helps keep me in the game. We make small talk and as I’m exiting I am pretty sure we will not be getting naked again anytime soon. He will probably realize he can do better and I am just not up for being disappointed. Again.

And I’m not. Which is why I haven’t had sex since.

I think I will probably go in for a full STD screen and call it a day. This part of my life seems to be just begging for a big old period to be placed at its end and I’m in the mood to do just that, at least until the summer comes. If it comes.

Last week I was supposed to write about rimming as part of my Acquired Tastes series, but I wasn’t feeling it. It thought maybe that was due to it being holy week or maybe due to all the singing and rehearsals and performances I’d been doing. But honestly – I think it’s the sex. I’m just not feeling it. I still get turned on, I still feel stimulated by certain people, situations, or images, but overall the sex thing is not working for me at this time. Maybe that explains the two less-than-wonderful scenes as described above; maybe I’m the problem. Or maybe it was just the luck of the draw or the natural conclusion given the odds. In any event, I am taking a short sex sabbatical in order to get my mojo back. At this point I don’t even want to write about it.

That doesn’t mean I won’t be writing – I have been working on something for the past two months that is coming along nicely, but I may take a break from blogging. Unless I just write whatever I feel like writing about. Kristine W. does have a new single out (#19 on the Dance/Play Chart this week). I hope to be writing about that once it reaches #1 (fingers crossed). We’ll see.

You know, maybe this funk is weather induced. I was thinking that once winter dissolved I’d be bouncing for joy, but the spring has been cold and rainy and that isn’t supposed to change until after the third week in May! Who knows, maybe once summer blooms I’ll be good and horny and wanting to strut my stuff. I’ll just have to play it by ear.

In the meantime, I have plenty to occupy myself with. I want to de-clutter my home and get rid of non-essential items; mostly things left over from projects or hobbies I have no desire for anymore. I also want to work on my home – it is in need of some minor TLC. The dogs, too. They could use some regular walks.

Maybe if I dig deep now I won’t feel like I am cheating the rest of my life once summer arrives and I want to give myself over to it.

And hopefully, I will. Give myself over to it. Winter was so brutal and I feel like I have been waiting forever.

Of course, I realize this is all just temporary and that change is the only constant. I also realize I am a creature of habit. But will I be able to recognize when it is time to leave the playing field?

Stay tuned.

In Honor of Holy Week...

2011-04-22T15:37:00.000-07:00

I’m singing a lot this week… and man, am I tired. The rehearsals have been kind of nerve wracking and I’m also struggling with how well I know much of the music; I don’t like sight reading - I like lots of rehearsal. I also continue to struggle with my current involvement with the church – particularly the Catholic Church; a church that has done so many bad things throughout its existence that I have a hard time justifying my involvement. But it’s not about me. So, rather than focus on the church as a whole, I look at it as an opportunity for community building, and an opportunity to sing with others.

So when this article (from Rage Monthly – please seek it out) just happened to land in my in-basket this week, I decided it was a sign, and in honor of Holy Week, I thought I’d share it with you. I read it and was quite moved by it; surprising, given its subject and source. I remember PTL. I feared PTL. At the time, I remember hearing rumors that Tammy Faye was really a sweet woman and that she was actually very supportive of gay people, but I thought that had to be some mad queen’s fantasy. Of course, now I know differently. The woman really was amazing, a genuine light in the darkness, and I, along with a large portion of the gay community, have come to embrace her memory. So, to learn that Jay Bakker (pictured), her son, is carrying on her work? Surprising. Amazing. And fascinating.

What he has to say is very eye-opening and echoes a lot of what I feel about the bible, spirituality, organized religion, religious leaders, and the world in general. Enjoy.

Falling To Grace With Jay Bakker
by Randy Hope
Rage Monthly
Wednesday Apr 20, 2011

Gay-affirming Pastor Jay Bakker is use to being an outsider. Often referred to as the "Prodigal Son of Jim and Tammy Faye," Bakker witnessed his family’s Praise the Lord (PTL) Ministries come crashing down amidst scandal in the 1980s. This led to a struggle with his own faith and spirituality, which in the end lead him to found Revolution Church, where he is the co-pastor of a gay-affirming congregation in Brooklyn, New York. Author of the new book Fall to Grace: A Revolution of God, Self, and Society, the forward-thinking self-identified "Outlaw Preacher" recently chatted with The Rage Monthly about the transformative power of grace, and his belief that Christian love and compassion should be extended to all people.

While you were raised within the PTL Ministry and the Christian church, you had a unique opportunity to be connected with LGBT people early on didn’t you?

Oh yeah! Most definitely, I’ve always said that the church was the first organization to start "don’t ask, don’t tell." Now that I look back, I realize that I was surrounded by gay people my whole life. I mean I didn’t actually know what it was, but in hindsight I’m like, "Ah-ha, now I know what that was." Actually, in high school one of my best friends was gay. Even when I’ve gone to other churches to pastor, members of the staff have come up to me and whispered in my ear, "I’m glad you’re here." It’s really a shame because I really feel that there is a "don’t ask, don’t tell policy" within the church, which is what creates the extreme prejudice and exclusion.

You’ve also said the church uses what you refer to as "clobber verses." What is a clobber verse?

They are basically the seven or eight bible verses that people have latched onto, to try and prove their argument against homosexuality. Soul Force (at soulforce.org) has a great reference to those verses and the counter points, which something I wish I had early on because I was still researching them in Greek and Hebrew and searching through historic backgrounds to find what Soul Force puts at everyone’s fingertips-the answers to those "clobber verses" in the Bible.

You obviously have different relationship with the Bible than mainstream Christian pastors. What are your thoughts on the "Holy Book?"

The Bible is such a strange book. Even with just sexuality period, simple basic human sexuality, it’s probably not the best place to get advice from. You have polygamy, and women are seen as property for land trade, things such as that made me realize that maybe I needed to start to read the Bible in a different way.

How do you suggest it be read?

Well, its context would be a good place to start. (Chuckling) It wasn’t one book written 2,000 years ago- it wasn’t even a book at all, Jesus had never even seen a book. It was collection of scrolls that got passed around in the church and basically some folks in the Catholic church decided they were going to close the canon and deem what books we’d have and what books we wouldn’t have. There were a lot of them left out and we basically just have what is in the New Testament. So realizing that the Bible should be read in such context is eye opening. People also need to realize that some of the books attributed to Paul weren’t actually written by him. So there are definitely contradictions in the Bible.

So do you see yourself as the editor who has to correct such conflicts?

I’m the messenger who says that it is okay to live with conflict, it’s okay to live with two different stories, and it is okay to realize the Bible is not perfect. Because seeing the conflict in context keeps the Bible from being God, that keeps it from being the final word. It allows for Christ-it allows for hope and it allows for love to be the final word. It was made up of different books when different cultures existed just like we have different cultures today. So, I think that we can read the Bible in that context and measure every verse against the question, "Are you loving your neighbors as you’d love yourself or treating others the way you’d like to be treated?" When Christians supported slavery, it was ultimately that verse that helped to end the practice. "Do unto others as you would have them do unto you." That’s what Jesus said was the ultimate law.

As a pastor, what role do you see the Bible playing in your ministry?

It’s not an answer book, it’s a book of questions and of trying to figure things out and solve them. It’s more of a math book that teaches us some lessons but you have to basically work the problems out for yourself. Unfortunately we have a big problem on our hands, because it is viewed by most as the answer book on homosexuality. That’s because someone (somewhere between 1948 to 1958) arbitrarily decided to add the word "homosexual" into the Bible replacing such words as "male prostitute" or the likes.

So do you think it’s forever changed?

Oh yeah! You can look up the word homosexuality in the Bible today and so people think it’s always been there. Yet, it has only been there a little more than 50 years. People don’t understand that English is a limited language and the Bible wasn’t written in English. It has changed for me, not in a negative way either.

If anything, it’s given me a greater faith, it allowed me to love beyond the Bible-experience God outside the limitations of two pieces of leather. You realize that these people who you once may have looked upon as sinners, are actually seeking God. And they were people just like you and me trying to find him.

With that said, you have obviously had a special relationship with grace in your life? Elaborate on your relationship, and what you truly believe grace is.

I always felt that there was something wrong with me and that I would never live up to the church’s expectations or God’s expectations. So eventually, I just stopped doing any type of that stuff. I had a friend with whom I was discussing it and I told him, "I’m a horrible person, I’m miserable, God hates me." He told me, "And you’re full of sh*t too!" I said, "What?!" He told me that I was trying to earn my salvation, invalidating grace and using Jesus’ death in vain. He told me, "Jesus took care of this. You’ve been forgiven and really, it’s not about you, and you have to accept that!" I thought he was really full of it, until I started to read the Bible for myself when I was about 20. I read and saw all these scriptures about love, forgiveness and the fact that everybody is accepted. The Bible was full of all these beautiful things that I had never seen before- It blew my mind.

Why is that? Weren’t those same words always there?

Indeed they were, but that’s not what we were taught in church. Most of the time, I was never really encouraged to read my Bible. So when I started reading it for myself, I thought it was really good news, but also knew that people had to hear more about this. All I wanted to do was tell people they are loved and accepted no matter what. So that’s what I’ve spent the past 14 years doing-letting people know that they are accepted-period. I always say that even the unacceptable parts are accepted, and I always say by a power greater than them. So many people are not at a point where they can even think about Jesus because they’ve been so hurt in his name. I want people to accept that there are no ifs ands or buts. You don’t have to be more spiritual or less spiritual, you’re accepted where you are. I’ve found great freedom in that concept of grace. God’s grace and love is as much for "the others" as it is for you and me, and I believe that is beautiful-it’s so beautiful that it’s scary.

What message do you have for right-wing Christian leaders?

I really don’t know what else to say to them except, "Hey we need to talk and have a conversation and take another look at this. You need to sit down with some LGBT folks and truly listen without an agenda."

You mentioned God’s love was as much for "the others..." What do you mean by this, who are the others?"

I struggle with it and fight with it, I doubt God all the time. I have a ton of times that I doubt my faith. But it’s that freedom of grace that keeps drawing me back in. It’s definitely not other believers that encourage me to keep following along... well maybe there are a few, but not a whole lot. It’s certainly not the church. It’s the grace and love that rises above everything that keeps me coming back, and wanting to create an atmosphere for people to see that they are loved and accepted.

Even the things that were unacceptable in my life that I had to accept. I had a really bad drinking problem; I realized that even that is accepted through Christ’s grace. I got into a 12-step program, which I’m still in today and I haven’t had a drink in 14 years. It took me accepting the grace from God and not any other reason for me to that. There are people who say, "I won’t drink because of the church" or "I won’t drink because of God." For me, I had to realize God accepted me and then accept him in to my life. God’s love and grace are outstanding and for everyone-they are there even for "bad people" who we may think are evil, the others whoever they may be. It’s for Jerry Falwell as much as it is for you and me.

Well there’s a bomb to drop. As a gay man I shiver just hearing his name. I can only imagine that it took a lot for you to just say that?

Oh yeah, because he did many bad things to my family. But there’s beauty in love and I got to a point where I realize that there is beauty in loving our enemies, it is the one way to disarm them. That’s how Gandhi did it and that’s how Martin Luther King Jr. did it-they loved those who hated them. They realized that people aren’t the enemy, it’s the messages and the words are the enemy. It’s really easy to put a face on evil and feel that a singular person is the problem. Human nature is the problem, the need to be exclusive, the need to be in your own group, your own little tribe and all the other tribes are bad. That seems to be the major problem. I’m open to a grace that allows me to love and pray for those who are persecuting me-I hope to live to see my enemies redeemed. That’s what grace does and it’s a beautiful thing. The more I look at it, it keeps growing and that’s why I wrote a book about it.

What are your thoughts about religion being thrown around so much?

We have a T-shirt that reads "Religion destroys" or "Religion kills" and I feel it’s true. Religion is a man-made concept where all the rules come in, following Christ for me is much more spiritual. For those who say, "I’m not religious. I’m spiritual" it’s a great place to start. I hope I’m not religious either; I want to follow Jesus to the best of my ability. I want to create a safe atmosphere for people to come to, not just on Sunday, but every day. A place for people to come to hang out, for them to talk, agree or disagree, a safe space for people grow together. To me that is not religion, if one day it becomes religion, then it’ll be great! I’d be telling everybody to call me religious. Somewhere along the road religion got lost to me today and religion has nothing to do with Christianity.

Well, you’ve had many life experiences that have led you to this point. I understand that somewhere along the way you met Jesus in a drag bar?

Yeah! It was one of those things where I was in LA; somehow RuPaul, who was doing the narration for the documentary about my mom, got a hold of me and invited my wife and I at the time to this drag show. I was very hesitant, that "religious voice" or self-condemning voice got a hold of me and was telling me, "Oh you’d better not go there, you know you shouldn’t be seen there." Sometimes I just want to knock that thing off my shoulder, it’s as if an angry preacher is standing on my shoulder saying, "You’re bad." That was about the time I was moving toward becoming an openly affirming pastor and church, but hadn’t publicly stated it yet. While I did hesitate, I went and it was cool.

Dita Von Teese (the famous burlesque dancer who married singer Marilyn Manson) was there and I was pretty stoked, I got my picture with her! When I went outside for a smoke, I met what must have been a seven-foot tall drag queen with the Eiffel Tower on her head. Reluctantly I reminded myself that while I know when someone reaches out I’m supposed to reach back, I don’t always do it perfectly. Still, we started to talk about Jesus and I learned this drag queen was a preacher’s son too. So of course, we talked a lot about what it was like growing up. He went on telling me how much he loved my mom and he was concerned about her cancer. He asked if I’d tell her how much he loved her and that he’s praying for her. I got another picture with him for my mom before going back inside.

Next thing I know, as the show wrapped up, that drag queen got up onstage and began spotlighting the famous people in the crowd. He mentioned Dita Von Teese and RuPaul and everyone cheers. Then he asked if people ever watched ever watch the Praise the Lord ministry and if remember Jim and Tammy Faye. I expected people to boo, but surprisingly at least half the audience raised their hands and cheered. Some laughed because I know they were thinking a drag queen would be coming out doing my mom. Instead, very excited he said, "Well, Jim and Tammy’s son, Jamie, is here!"

Suddenly, this huge spotlight hit me and I thought I was going to die-people cheered and the drag queen decides to tease and ask me questions. First he asked if I was straight and I pointed to my wife at the time, whom he said was a lucky lady. Then things got serious as he put his hands on his hips and went on to tell the crowd about how Jesus loved everybody without judgment. "If Jesus were alive that he’d be at the drag show too. After all, Jesus hung out with the tax collectors and the prostitutes and the sinners," he said. The crowd began cheering.

What was your reaction to the drag queen pointing you out and then the crowd’s response?

Well at first I was embarrassed - stunned actually - and didn’t know what to do because one minute a drag queen was making cracks about whether I’m gay, and the next minute he was saying these really amazing things about Jesus and grace. But I knew that he couldn’t have been more right. I personally know I’ve had deeper and more real conversations about Jesus in bars than in other places, I mean after all my church is held in a bar. That night at that burlesque club in Los Angeles, I witnessed firsthand a group of people who are judged and rejected their entire life by the church, who are hungrier than many people I know for the love and truth of Christ. It was like they really knew the real deal: revolutionary grace. That’s what they welcomed it into their lives.

How did that night in Los Angeles impact you?

It challenged me to step outside my comfort zone and let me know that what I was doing was right. It taught me that grace crops up where you least expect it and that there truly are no boundaries to God’s love. It helped me towards becoming an openly affirming pastor. It was a pretty incredible experience that I didn’t expect, but had to be open to.

What do you have to say to the many LGBT people who are hungry in faith but turned off by the thought of the church?

What I don’t think LGBT people realize is how much they can bring to the issue. Although they are hurt and wounded, they can help in the healing by being open, as they want the others to be. By sitting down with someone, getting to know them, and letting someone who otherwise has never genuinely known an LGBT person can change people’s hearts. They can be the messengers because those one-on-one’s change people’s lives.

I’m glad you mentioned your mom; after all she’s an icon in our community. What was it like growing up as Tammy Faye’s son?

Well I definitely enjoy shopping (laughing). Seriously, when my friends just want to stop at the store, I tell them that we’re going to walk around the mall for an hour and eat and enjoy it. That’s something my mom and I used to do all the time. We’d go to the mall and have dinner. She’d have dessert before dinner a lot of the times. She was a great mother. At the same time she would restrict us when we’d done bad things and she was definitely a mom.

She could be a little ball of fire when she needed to be. She was a really interesting and unique person who I’m so grateful for the fact she was my mother. I miss her terribly. I’m just happy I had that time with her and wish I could thank her for it. I don’t know if she knew it but she really is the one that showed me her love was the trump card-that love always trumps everything else. She taught me that what was important to people is that they were loved. So I bought into that and that’s probably why I do what I do.

She was the one who took me to my first MCC church; my first gay affirming church and I got to experience that. I walked in and saw the difference. This group of people seemed to want to worship God more than most Christians on Sunday because so many churches have forbid them to, sadly. Because of mom, I’m stepping up. She taught me that I should step forward and be open. Hopefully I’m building on something she taught me and that is being willing to take a stand on something and be affirming.

It must be difficult having stepped forward as an openly affirming pastor for our community. Some people might ask even why you’d do it?

I love it and I know that I can sleep well at night for the work I do. I know from talking with other pastors who say they wish they could do what I do, but they’re restricted. It’s like saying, "I know what I’m doing is wrong, but because the church say Bible tells me to, I’ll continue to twist the rules and say it even if it’s not there." That makes them miserable, which in itself is proof right there that it’s not for God, because they’d have peace inside if it were. I guess I should say that it’s fortunate they don’t have peace-so perhaps that will change things.

Do you see things changing?

Yes indeed people are changing, at conferences where they might have simply said that it was OK to be gay, they now have gay pastors speaking. Also, the more conservative right-wing folks, are pushing back pretty hard and unfortunately right now, they are the loudest. Still, I think they’re changing. I hope that they will truly see what grace is all about; loving one another and understanding one another and sharing in Christ together, no matter who we are or what others might think about it.

Any final thoughts for those struggling to change or for our readers?

I want to challenge everyone to push himself or herself in this same way, so they can learn what boundaries are they putting on grace. They should remember that Christ allowed everyone to sit at his table and who are they to change those rules. Finally, everyone should ask if his or her rules are consistent with grace.

Jay Bakker is the son of Jim Bakker and Tammy Faye Messner, the co-pastor of Revolution Church in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, and the author of the new book; Fall to Grace: A Revolution of God, Self, and Society

Acquired Tastes, Chapter XIII : Toys

2011-04-15T16:29:00.000-07:00

Toyland, toyland
little girl and boy land
when you dwell within it
you are ever happy there!

- Toyland written by Victor Herbert

When we were kids, there were lots of toys to choose from; preference played an important role in what populated our toy chests. And fortunately, whether you were a future nelly queen, a future steroid gym bunny or a future high tech nerd, there was surely always something that was sure to tickle your fancy. When it comes to sex toys, the same thing holds true; there is just so much to choose from, surely everyone will find something to love and cherish – or not.

When I think of sex toys the first things that spring to mind are vibrators and dildos. Neither really float my personal boat, but I do understand why people find them handy and fun for the occasional release. That said, I have a hard time committing my money, time, or personal sexual mojo to sex that is inorganic in nature (not to be confused with unnatural sex – I think a lot of what I enjoy falls under the category of unnatural sex), and that term – inorganic - certainly applies to the world of…

Toys

Scope of Activity:

An appreciation for and use of inanimate objects for sexual gratification

The Official Line:

With information from Wikipedia:

A sex toy is an object or device that is primarily used to facilitate human sexual pleasure. The most popular sex toys are designed to resemble human genitals and may be vibrating or non-vibrating. Alternative expressions include adult toy and marital aid.

List of Toys:

Dildos
Vibrators
Fleshlights
Pocket Pussies
Blow-Up Dolls
Vegetables: Cucumbers, Cantaloupes, Watermelon, Bananas
Anal Beads
Ben Wa Balls

Psychological Aspects:

Using sex toys as sexual supplements can be good and healthy fun, whether it is only occasionally by yourself or with others. I don’t think it is necessarily healthy to use toys by your self as a sole means of sexual expression, But then I also don’t understand asexual people (though sometimes I wonder what my life would be like if I was one – I might have written that novel, climbed that mountain, blah, blah, blah…). I just think sex is an important part of a healthy life, and I think that sex should include more human interaction than just handing your cash over to the clerk at your local dirty book store.

So how does that differ from a dick sticking anonymously through a glory hole? Well, you can rest assured that the dick in question is definitely attached to something that qualifies (sometimes barely) as a human being, which is enough to satisfy my need for personal interaction. If it was a big, neon pink dildo sprouting from that same glory hole? I would have to pass – because I like my dicks to be made of flesh and blood.

In this world of ever evolving technical gadgetry that requires less and less physical contact and isolates us from one another physically more and more, I think it’s really important that we get out there, exercise our social skills and get naked with one another.

My Experience:

My very first sexual experience was with an inanimate object. This is embarrassing, but what about this blog isn’t, am I right? No, I didn’t stick anything up my ass… that would never have occurred to me at the time. Rather I stuck my dick in something – something I read about in a little book called “Everything You Ever Wanted To Know About Sex (But Were Afraid To Ask) (note: sexy asterisk deleted from title). This little tome sat on the bookshelf of every home where I baby sat in my tiny home town. Needless to say, in those days the television stations went off the air at around midnight and that frequently sent yours truly off in search of something to read. Sometimes that meant checking under the mattresses (lots of classic Playboys) and in the underwear drawers of my hosts, but more often than not, it simply meant a trip to their bookshelves. This book was so popular; some of these people actually displayed it on a shelf in their formal living room! (How very forward of them!).

On one such occasion, I decided to check the table of contents for a word I had run across recently – masturbation, and low and behold, there it was. In that particular chapter I learned about a method involving Vaseline and a bottle. Hey, I thought to myself – I have some Vaseline at home. And I had a bottle, too. So, the next day, off I went, by myself, to my secret lair in the basement, bottle and Vaseline in tow. The bottle in question was a green glass “big-mouth” beer bottle. (Now, I didn’t think they made these anymore, but the other day, while hiking along the river, guess what I found? The exact same brand, too.) Anyway, I must have been about twelve or something. I slicked up the mouth of the bottle with the Vaseline and stuck my dick in it before it got too hard. Well it was kind of weird feeling, but I decided to just go with it and before I knew it… I thought I’d died and gone to heaven; such an amazing feeling. I was immediately flush with guilt. I was totally confused. And stuck. It seems upon achieving orgasm my dick actually got thicker and, as all the Vaseline had rubbed off the mouth of the bottle, my junior weenie was trapped like a genie! In a bottle! (My apologies to Ms. Aguilera).

Okay, needless to say, I was in a panic. I couldn’t imagine explaining this one to my mother and I couldn’t share it with anyone else: my brother was a total shithead and I’d die before sharing this kind of thing with a friend – what friends?). For about ten minutes (seemed like sixty) I tried to imagine what my life (and dick) was going to be like after I took a hammer and smashed that bottle. Fortunately, my blood resumed it’ normal ebb and flow and my little wiener slid out of the mouth of the devil’s bottle. And needless to say, I tried it about seventeen more times that week, until I got to go baby sit that Friday, sit down and really read that whole chapter about masturbation. (Really? You can use your hand? No way! Cool.)

Just for old time’s sake, I kept that bottle around for a whole year (washed out of course), because, you know… you never get over your first love.

Okay, since were telling creepy tales of naivety – as far as insertion was concerned, in college I placed a small bottle of Brut aftershave up my ass during a particularly unsatisfying round of spanking the monkey. Once was enough. And many, many years later, I had a brief affair with the handle of a toilet plunger, but for some reason, that didn’t work out either (his career came first).

Amazingly… that’s it. That’s the extent of my experience with inanimate objects. I’ve seen dildos – touched them and been teased with them, but nothing about them made me want to shove them up my ass. (Do people put dildos in their mouths to simulate oral sex? Hmmm.)

I can see toys as a supplement to sex and have personally experienced evenings where I’ve struck out on-line, didn’t feel like cruising outdoors, spent the evening looking at Xtube vids, and then wished I had something safe to stick up my hole. But I didn’t, don’t own any, and I doubt I ever will.

Why?

It’s just too impersonal. Part of what gets me off sexually is the interaction I have with another person. I am just not able to generate the same kind of heat with an inanimate object. Also – if you think sex with a stranger leaves one feeling empty, then trust me, once orgasm has been achieved, a lube-covered cucumber or a sperm filled blow-up doll is going to make you feel even crappier.

It’s not the act itself – although set up can take a little effort – that bothers me, it’s the aftermath. I’m a lazy person and the last thing I want to do after shooting my wad is spend a lot of time cleaning up. A shower and a douche is one thing, wiping up lube, sperm and sanitizing a fleshlight? Not my thing.

I’m also not a fan of playing with toys with others. People request this of me a lot and I have never found myself that turned-on by the idea. I don’t like props. I don’t like substitutes. I used to object on the basis of cleanliness. The idea of using somebody else’s toy? Ick. But there is a very simple solution to that – roll a condom over the top of it. That little rubber shield will protect you from whatever microcosmic critters might still lurk in the deep recesses of someone’s favorite little buddy. This works for any insertable device. As for those fleslights and pocket pussies? For those your best defense is the most obvious – roll that condom over your own beloved chubby. Makes for easy clean up, too.

I applaud those of you who love your collections. Whenever I see a picture of a naked dude showing off his plethora of sexual arsenal, displayed in an artful arch I shrug my shoulders and say, “to each their own”. More power to you. The prude in me (yes, there is a little one still living inside me, surprisingly enough), hopes they have enough sense to get rid of that stuff before they die – just think of the looks on the faces of their nieces and nephews as they sort through Uncle Chester’s belongings and come across a big black power fist! But then, is that such a bad thing? Maybe that is the greatest gift Uncle Chester can leave behind – the kind that blows people’s minds and gets them to confront their own sexual uptightness. Yeah… stick it to the Man (in more ways than one!)

And speaking of big black power fists – I can not get over the size of some of these things. Don’t get me wrong, I like my poop shoot to feel fully stuffed when getting fucked, but some of these dudes take it to such an extreme that I can’t imagine what’s in it for them. Bragging rights? A sense of accomplishment? An alternative to traditional means of off-street parking? That said, while I know videos of dudes working with extra large items exist on X-Tube, I don’t really have any desire to watch them. My porn watching time is quite limited, so I tend to stick to the flesh and blood basics.

But fleshlights? They look fun. And I do get off on vids of dudes using them. I suspect, if given the opportunity, I would use one. They seem super sexy. Or maybe it's just the dudes using them. Bet it feels great on your dick, though.

My Conclusion:

It’s like that old candy bar commercial:

Sometimes you feel like a dildo, sometimes you don’t.

And yes, you can be a dildo and not own one. Though many Republicans and Evangelists are and do (secretively, of course – wink, wink).

Next week: Rimming

Acquired Tastes, Chapter XII : Spanking

2011-04-09T08:35:00.000-07:00

Some girls, they like candy, and others, they like to grind
I'll settle for the back of your hand somewhere on my behind
Treat me like I'm a bad girl, even when I'm being good to you
I don't want you to thank me, you can just spank me

Like hanky panky
Nothing like a good spanky
Don't take out your handkerchiefs
I don't wanna cry
I just wanna hanky panky guy

- Hanky Panky by Madonna

Those lyrics are from one of the oddest Madonna songs ever. Recorded as part of her “I'm Breathless: Music From and Inspired by the film Dick Tracy” (isn’t that a terrible title?), the song, on the strength of a then current wave of Madonna madness, actually managed to hit number ten on the Billboard Hot 100 Chart. It’s a little bit of fluff with more than a slight nod to the music of Eartha Kitt that had America titillated. She took it as a sign that America was ready for something a little nasty, and was proven right with the success of “Justify My Love” and its racy accompanying video. Unfortunately for Madge, that was as far as the U.S. was willing to go at that time, for the next year, when she freaked out the world with her “Sex” book and album “Erotica”, more prudish eyes prevailed.

So Madonna likes it rough. So does Janet Jackson. And, according to the latest issue of Rolling Stone, so does Rihanna…
“I like to be spanked. Being tied up is fun. I like to keep it spontaneous. Sometimes whips and chains can be overly planned – you gotta stop, get the whip from the drawer downstairs. . . . I’d rather have him use his hands.” – Rihanna
Currently, one of my favorite songs is Ri-Ri’s delicious “S&M”. I love it when it comes on the radio while I am on my way for a little dirty-dirty at a trick’s house or for a night of abandonment at the warehouse. It just sets the mood and makes me feel so naughty.

So, as they say, the world goes pop and many of my favorite divas just happen to like a little smack on the behind. Of course, I’m assuming that at 50-something Madge is still good to go for some light paddling. People do change. So does the world – though not necessarily in the way we would all like. When I look at the state of our current world, I am convinced that what America needs now, more than ever, is a good…

Spanking

Scope of Activity:

Striking an adult male on the buttocks as a means of mutual sexual stimulation.

The Official Line:

With information from Wikipedia:

Spanking is a form of corporal punishment commonly used to discipline a toddler, child, or teenager. It generally involves an adult- typically a parent, guardian, or teacher--striking the offender's buttocks as a response to poor behavior, with either an open hand or an implement, to cause temporary pain without producing physical injury. When an instrument is used in lieu of a hand, spanking becomes switching, paddling, belting, caning, whipping, or birching, depending on the type of implement. When an open hand is used, spanking is referred to in some countries as slapping or smacking. Historically, boys have tended to be more frequently spanked than girls.

Spanking can also refer to the practice of striking an adult in a playful manner as a social ritual or form of entertainment.

Adult spanking differs from traditional parent-child spanking in that the act is between two consenting adults. Adults engage in the activity for several different reasons. The most common is simply playful erotic spanking amongst people engaging in other intimate activities. People who require spanking to be a part of their sexual play are considered spanking fetishists.

Erotic spanking (also known as spankophilia) is the act of spanking another person for the sexual arousal or gratification of either or both parties. Activities range from occasional sexual role play (such as age play) to domestic discipline and may involve the use of a hand or the use of a variety of spanking implements, such as a spanking paddle or cane. Many cultures describe pain as an aphrodisiac. For example, the Kama Sutra, in particular, goes into specific detail on how to properly strike a partner during sex

Positions which may be used to administer a spanking include:

• over the knees (OTK) or across the lap
• stooped over a chair or couch, or bench
• on hands and knees (bed or floor)
• over the spanker's shoulder
• Head-between-legs position|head-between-legs
• Waist-between-legs position|waist-between-legs
• kneeling on a bed or ottoman, stooped over with hands on the floor
• bent under the arm of the spanker
• Lying position|lying face down
• bent over, touching toes or over a desk
• lying on back with legs raised upward and toward chest (diaper position)
• handcuffed to a bed
• tied to a doorway
• tied to a tree or pole that is in a safe area outside
• legs spread apart, almost in the splits position.

Psychological Aspects:

This is complex stuff – a form of punishment typically meted out by adults in our childhood becomes a means of sexual expression when we become an adult? Whaaaaa??? That’s quite a leap – and something tells me there is lots of dicey connective tissue in there keeping the home fires (and the seat of our pants) burning.

The authority surrendered to the spanker by the spankee would seem to be indicative of a consensual power imbalance. So, this is definitely role play material, where the spankee is reduced to a powerless child, deserving punishment. And while it would appear that the spanker is in control of the situation, they are not. The spankee has undoubtedly been savvy enough to put in place a safe word that when invoked calls a halt to all play. Also, a spanker who spanks someone without permission could, technically, be guilty of assault, no matter what the spanker’s intentions might have been. So you gots to be careful, children. Consent is very important in these types of situations.

There is the humiliation of being spanked (the humiliation of having one’s buttocks exposed, your pants pulled down), heightened further if the spanking is done in the presence of others. That gets some folks boats a-floating. Again, the source of such a need is probably quite twisted and rooted in some childhood or teenage experience.

Question: In a dom/sub S&M type relationship, where the spankee actually gets off on being spanked, is spanking considered a reward or punishment? If they get off on it, aren’t they more likely to act up in order to be spanked? Or is this just one of those cases where it’s a win/win for both parties?

Is it punishment? Is it a reward?

My Experience:

I am a fan of the idea of being humiliated as a means of sexual stimulation; however I have yet to actually act on it. I doubt I ever will, because that’s a pretty detailed kind of sexual activity and I don’t see myself ever getting that involved with any one person. For it to work I would really have to lay my cards on the table and certain trust levels would need to be established before something like that could work. In my humiliation scene, having my dick slapped kind of gets my motor running, but having my ass spanked really doesn’t quite work for me. The idea of it? Sounds fun. But the reality?

There are numerous sites devoted to sexually-based spanking. I belong to one of those Yahoo picture trading sites where I get daily emails of the pictures posted by members. I enjoy spanking in a voyeuristic sense. No, I don’t think I would every get off on seeing someone actually being spanked, as in in-person or even on a video, but I do enjoy looking at pictures of them unfortunately, the spankers in the photos I typically see are predominantly not very hot. They tend to be older, out-of-shape, fat dudes with bad senses of fashion and facial hair. Maybe what bothers me is the implied power imbalance, since the spankee always appears to be at least twenty years the spanker’s junior. Eh – naw. More likely the spanker just isn’t that hot, which kind of kills the whole fantasy for me.

I like the idea of a hot, older phys ed coach taking a jock-strapped twink over his knee. That’s rather specific and probably plays more into my own past than I would like to delve into or reveal. Recently, while masturbating, I discovered that the thought of my high school gym teacher disciplining me or demanding sex from me still pushes all my buttons. Yep, thought of him and bam! Cork flew out and that turkey was done!

There is a 70’s gay porn video – The Adventures of Marc Noll, which features a soon-to-be-spanked Marc Noll on the cover. Some feather-banged blonde has poor, clueless Marc over his knee. I actually tracked down a VHS copy of this on EBay. Turns out the cover is much more memorable and stimulating than the film. But hey! That gives me an idea for a future Acquired Taste: 70’s Gay Porn.

So, have I ever been spanked. Yes. Twice. Guess what? Loved the idea of it, but the reality of it had me reaching back, grabbing the dude’s hand and ordering him to stop. The first time was with a dude I didn’t find very attractive – he was older and kind of creepy. It was weird. I mean, he was physically someone I usually do find attractive: taller than me, strong chin, Nordic looks, big hands, big cock, but there was just something off about the whole thing. His house was dark. Some of the phrases he used as sex talk kind of creeped me out. And the concept of what a ‘light’ spanking might entail totally escaped him. He even smelled a little off; maybe it was just his breath.

The second time – boy-oh-boy, was I into the guy. I thought he could do no wrong… and then he did. He threw me over his knee and went to town on my ass with his bare palm. It was one of the few times where something so threw me off my game that I packed up and went home; nobody got their cookies that night.

So – he spanked me without my consent and that was a deal breaker for me. I’ve never seen him since.

As a spanker I have made that same mistake. I used to assume (when I was younger and a total top and something of a clueless twerp) that if you were playing with a submissive twink and they were into you and you were getting to shove your dick into them that, as the dom in the situation, you could do whatever the hell you wanted. But that would be no. I never had someone walk out on me, but I did have one guy read me the riot act. Suffice to say, I have never made that mistake again. No matter how tempting that cute ass may be, you still have to get permission before giving it even a playful smack, or you risk being labeled a physically abusive jerk; because without specifically implied consent, a spanking is just simple assault. Personally, I hate the idea of having bruises and marks on my ass, so I certainly understand why somebody wouldn’t want me smacking up their ass.

Oh, and the idea of getting hit with a hair brush, or a whip or a wooden paddle? Uh-uh! You go sell that shit to somebody else, honey, cuz I gots me enough emotional scars as it is. I don’t needs to be adding any physical ones to the pile.

My Conclusion:

Hmm… so, I’m all for Madonna, Ms. Jackson or Ri Ri getting their behinds warmed by the palm of some hot stud. I might even get in line to help out. And Jake Gyllenhaal? Man, he sure would look fine bare-assed, bent over my knee (or anyplace else, for that matter). But for yours truly, getting spanked? - that would be a ‘no-go’. And of course, at my age, who in their right mind and with any taste would want to spank me? (There are a lot of old dudes out there advertising to get spanked – and they make me sad, posting those pictures of their flabby, white, pock-marked, ripple-y old asses for all the world to see.)

That said, I guess this is one Acquired Taste where I can sure dish it out, but I cannot – and will not – take it.

Next week: Toys

Acquired Tastes, Chapter XI : Twinks

2011-04-06T18:50:00.000-07:00

Part of the challenge I face when writing about a variety of different topics housed under the umbrella of a general subject I like is that, on occasion, I have to write about a taste I’ve never acquired. This week’s topic: Twinks, falls under that category. It’s not that I don’t find them attractive or appreciate the aesthetics that define them as Twinks; it’s just that I don’t salivate at the thought of them or seek them out. That said, I plan on doing the topic justice and in the course of celebrating what makes them so special, I also hope to shed some light on exactly why it is that I have never developed a taste for them. So, just for the record: I am not a Twink hater. I have certainly fucked and been fucked by my fair share. However, I don’t go out of my way to pursue them and find myself questioning the true motives of those who do – especially older dudes.

Twinks

Scope of Activity:

An appreciation for young, hairless men with slender builds. Having gay male sex with same.

The Official Line:

With information from Wikipedia:

Twink is a gay slang term describing a young or young-looking gay man (in his late teens or early twenties) with a slender build, little or no body hair, and no facial hair. Twinks are often clean-shaven to emphasize a youthful, fresh-faced appearance, although many are too young to actually grow a full beard, though most are able to produce some beard growth. A Twink is "memorable for his outer packaging", not his "inner depth". The junk food reference (Hostess Twinkie) has a number of connotations, including a perceived lack of substance or intelligence, and being ideal only in the short-term, lacking lasting qualities or being very healthy.

Psychological Aspects:

I think older men sleep with younger men in order to recapture their youth because they are afraid of getting old (or dying, as pointed out in the film “Moonstruck”). Some men entertain the notion that they are still a Twink long after the Twink train has left the station. I think that’s because they have issues with growing older. Being an aging gay male is difficult enough as it is, why make it more difficult by clinging to an image that you can’t possibly maintain? And there is some truth to thought that refusing to accept and act your age makes one seem ridiculous in the eyes of others.

The internet term ‘boi’ probably came about because 1/ anyone over the age of 21 who still considers themselves a boy is a ridiculous, delusional human being and 2/ anyone who wants to have sex with a boy is a sick, perverted fuck. So in order to distance themselves from both of these less than flattering personages; “boy” became “boi”.

Power imbalance: inherent in any relationship where one member is significantly older, more established, more knowledgeable, etc. That’s what I have always been taught, and my gut tells me that it’s true. It’s that imbalance that troubles me when older men seek out younger men on an exclusive basis. Is it insecurity on the part of the older man that makes him want only Twinks, as in: he isn’t capable of having a relationship with someone his own age? Those older men will tell me no, that their attraction to young men is simply a preference. That ‘preference’ makes me uncomfortable, because it immediately makes me think of pedophilia, NAMBLA, and all that boylove nonsense; dangerous, evil nonsense, however – AND THIS IS IMPORTANT TO KEEP IN MIND – just as not all pedophiles are gay (and vice-a-versa), all men who appreciate Twinks are not pedophiles. Because Twinks who are of the age of consent can have sex with whomever they choose. So, while one can argue that there is a grey area there that borders on something obscene, the line is very clearly drawn: Over the age of 18? Cool. Under the age of 18 – so very, very, not cool.

Twinks also make me think of angels and innocence. Is innocence sexy? Not to me in any way; I find it hard to imagine that it’s sexy for anyone who isn’t into corrupting said innocence. Sex is not an act of innocence, but one of carnal knowledge. Innocence kind of goes hand in hand with inexperience – especially sexual inexperience, and while there is something charming about someone who is a bit tentative about diving into the sexual pool or a tad clumsy and awkward in the sack: if you’re going to grab my wiener, I want you to know what to do with it.

The purity of youth: do men sleep with Twinks in the hopes of some sort of redemption? Purity by association? Osmosis? Or is the relationship vampiric in nature? That would seem to circle back to the whole imbalance of power thing. And maybe it isn’t so much an imbalance of power as an imbalance of age. I’ve never actually sat down with a Twink to discuss any of this ‘older man thing’. I’m really curious as to what it is that drives them, psychologically. Is it a Daddy thing? Are they trying to fill some hole in their lives besides those in their ass and face? Is it a means of gaining access to places and possessions? Or are they just turned on by getting it on with an older dude? Of course, I seem to be forgetting that the majority of Twinks only sleep with young men their own age; young men who share similar values based on where they are in the development of their lives. It’s also important to keep in mind that not everyone under 25 is a Twink. That title, like the title ‘Cub’ in the Bear world, belongs only to a specific type of individual.

My Experience:

Slender builds generally do very little for me, unless it is a sort of white trash swimmer’s build, and that usually takes someone over the age of 25 to pull off. Boy bodies do very little for me; unless it’s an older dude (over 30) who is very short, in which case I just want to spank them and wrestle with them.

The facial hair/body hair is what lies at the heart of my lack of physical appreciation for Twinks. In my head, body hair equals manliness, and, even as a child, I was attracted to grown men; with mustaches, chest hair, pubes and yes, even back hair! I find that back hair is a really divisive issue among gay men which I find to be odd and humorous.

Are Twinks effeminate? No, not necessarily. Take skater bois, for example – many qualify as Twinks, but very few can be viewed as effeminate in any way. The Twinks that are effeminate make my dick go limp, pretty much in the same way that anyone on Manhunt who claims to be ‘straight acting’ makes me laugh aloud in a real derisive manner. You don’t have to be cute to be a Twink (but it helps, I suppose). Actually, I like my Twinks to veer toward the nerdy or white trash side of things – flaws keep them interesting, otherwise it’s like eating Wonder Bread.

I do have a thing for Twinks who shave their heads, definitely not something that most Twinks are willing to do in this hair-on-head-equals-power society we inhabit. A shaved head gives a Twink a skinhead type vibe, and while I loath what actual skinheads stand for, I do enjoy reversing that implied power imbalance (oppressing and oppressor), power slamming and really using the fuck out of a bald Twinks ass (provided they’re into that sort of thing – surprisingly, they usually are.)

Last year, out of the 388 sexual experiences I had, 53 were under the age of 30, with at least two of those being 19 years old. One of those 19 year olds was a ‘Cub’, a term applied to a young Bear, but the other was a total Twink. So I am not opposed to being with a Twink, at least not for 20 to 90 minutes or however long it takes to do the deed. But obviously, based on the small number in relation to the larger figure, I don’t go out of my way to seek them out.

There are so many things that bother me about the idea of labeling someone a Twink. It seems derogatory. It cheapens youth. It also feels vaguely slimy. It’s the ‘boy’ thing. Healthy adult gay males do not have sex with boys; they have sex with men. Personally, I want to relate intimately, emotionally and sexually with someone who is a peer. I don’t want to have to train them or deal with their inexperience or hold their hands. I don’t want to support them or house them or feed them. I want the person I have sex with to be a fully-actualized man - one in love with the idea of being gay and an adult male – even if that means being an older man. If I’m going to have sex with you, I want you love who you are; it makes things so much more fun.

I remember reading about the whole George Rekkers scandal. George is (was?) a Baptist minister, a former University of South Carolina professor, an advisor and officer with the National Association for Research & Therapy of Homosexuality, and a founding board member of the anti-gay Family Research Council. He went on vacation overseas and took a rent boy with him… a real Twink, in fact he found his escort on a site called RentBoy. Rekers was 62 at the time of the scandal and, well, to be blunt, he is not exactly what one would call ‘hot’. He is however exactly the type of guy for whom sites like RentBoy exist. For some reason the Rekkers scandal bothered me a lot more than the whole Ted Haggard scandal. I mean, at least Ted was getting it on with someone his own age. Picturing Ted rolling around on a regular basis with a hunky, age-appropriate masseuse while doing crystal meth? Hot (except for the crystal meth thing). On the other hand, picturing Rekkers attempting anything naked with some pretty, young, hairless boy-wonder? Truly cringe-worthy.

Why?

It’s that whole man-boy-love thing. Icky, icky. Makes my skin crawl. I know that has something to do with my own experiences as a (once) young, naïve, very-blonde boy, but the bulk of healthy adult gay males (and the rest of the sane world) will agree with me that there’s something not-even-close-to-right about adults having sexual contact with children or anyone under the age of consent. If teen boys want to mess around with one another, hey – let ‘em enjoy each other, but the moment there exists an age gap, which usually also is indicative of a power gap, then, Houston, we have a problem.

I would like to go so far as to include those gay youth under the age of 21, because between the ages of 18 and 21 is when most young gay men come in contact with the rest of the gay male population. That’s a critical time in their development and being taken advantage of or used by a bunch of aging gay whores is not going to help them develop into healthy older gay men.

So why do I, at my age, sleep with the occasional 19 year old? And when I do, am I taking advantage of them in the same way that I just accused others of doing? Well, fact is, I’m pretty careful with anyone under the age of 25. Usually I ignore them or ask them so many questions they get bored with me and look elsewhere. I guess my question would be why are they hitting on me? And that IS always my first question to them. I’m very suspicious whenever someone under the age of 25 hits on me. What’s in it for them? What do they want? If they’re looking for a sugar daddy or a place to crash I tell them to look elsewhere. I will never pay for sex, I’d rather go without – and that type of relationship, where one is supplying something in order to begin or continue a sexual relationship, is nothing but a form of prostitution. I’m nobody’s john.

If they’re looking for a Daddy/Son role play scene, I will indulge them, but only if, after further questioning, they seem mature enough to understand what it is they are asking for. If they simply say they are attracted to older dudes or (for some odd reason) are attracted to me, then I’m game, given that I find them attractive as well and sense that they are mature enough to deal with what will likely be a one time thing. I’m very upfront with them, making sure that all they are looking for is a one-off deal; I don’t do long-term and would never consider a long-term with anyone under the age of 35. Why? Because I’m not under 35. They should be the ones enjoying their youth, not some older dude with an angle.

Given that, and this should come to no surprise to anyone who has read my blog, I really take issue with older dudes who ONLY hook-up with younger ones. Those thirty-five year olds who only want 21 and under guys? Creepy, but not nearly as creepy as those over 40 who seem to feel they are entitled to the same. Sorry – 36 is a magical age for all men – gay or straight; our metabolism changes drastically, as does our sexual abilities. To say that a guy aged 50 who only hooks up with guys younger than 25 is one desperate queen is an understatement. That type of behavior is truly indicative of someone with a maturity problem; self-centered, self-loathing aging men with delusions of grandeur and an oversized ego.

I find myself getting pissed off whenever I read an ad on Craigslist or a profile on Adam4Adam of what seems to be, initially, a fully realized, attractive, gay male within my age range, only to read the fine print and learn that he is only into smooth, young bois under the age of 25. This is irrational (but then, what about me is rational?). I always want to write them a nasty little note and remind them that they are over a certain age and they should play with dudes their own age. Given the predominance of this type of gay, I don’t take offense when I happen on an ad by someone under 30 who specifies that they do not want to hear from anyone over the age of 40. If I was 21, I wouldn’t want to be hit on by some overly-tan aging queen with maturity issues. I do, however get upset when someone 40 only wants to hear from someone under 40. Maybe it has something to do with them not wanting to get involved with someone with as much baggage as they have, I don’t know. My inkling there is to remind them that someday, God willing, they will be 50, and then 60, and then… and then what?

I went to a bar in downtown Minneapolis called the Saloon once. Only once. I was much younger then. It took me about 20 minutes to realize what kind of bar it was and another two to realize that I wasn’t going to find what I wanted there. The Saloon is a total Twink bar. And good for them - Twinks need places to play, too. Today, at my age, I would never consider going there, as I wouldn’t want to be confused with all the drooling ghoulies who haunt the perimeter of the dance floor. But hey, to each their own; I’m sure on occasion they must catch a fish there, otherwise they wouldn’t keep coming back. Yes, I am rather contentious when it comes to those creepy oldsters who prey on the young. Why? To be honest, probably because those older guys won’t sleep with me or don’t view me as sexually compatible, but more so due to the whole power balance thing.

You know what? For the longest time I thought I had an issue with Twinks. I don’t. I have an issue with their admirers, as in those older gay men who only seek the company of Twinks. Hmmm… good to know. It sure took a lot of declension these past few days to reach that conclusion, but sometimes to make a cake you have to break a lot of eggs, am I right?

Maybe Twinks should be viewed as a protected species. Let’s face it; the young are typically not that worldly; they get taken advantage of a lot. I’m not talking about those thirty-something, hairless dudes who think they still qualify as a Twink – they know better, and are sophisticated enough to know how to market themselves as something they are not. But the real deal – actual Twinks do need our protection… there are all sorts of evil sorts (like Rekkers) who prey on them. In a way, I view Twinks as a protected species… one that needs protection from old trolls.

In my dream world there exists this tropical island paradise where Twinks get to frolic naked with one another and ride unicorns. No one over the age of 25 would be allowed to set foot on the island and once a Twink hit the magic age of 25 they would have to surrender their passport to the island. Their time to be a Twink is relatively short, afterall, and they should be allowed to enjoy it unperturbed by the lusty advances of men who should really know better (and need to grow the fuck up.)

My Conclusion:

So, my issue with Twinks actually has little to do with Twinks. No, they are not a fetish of mine, but I also don’t find ageism very attractive either, and that’s at the heart of my problem with Twinks. Did I feel this way when I was 21? No, but then I was not the same person I am now – as in, I was not out and gay and older. Also, the internet was not there to help me identify the age specific bigots that mar our big homo landscape. So do I feel that way about people who advertise that they are only into black men, or Asians? The answer is yes. I find that sort of thing offensive because you are viewing someone strictly on the basis of the color of their skin, or in the case of a Twink – by the hairlessness of their bodies and youth. Is the reverse then true as well? Am I offended when people say what they are not into? Not into Twinks, not into Caucasians? Again, yes. I think if you want to swim in the waters of sexual freedom you have to swim with all the fishes. That said, no, you don’t have to be a big slut like me, but you might want to reconsider advertising your bigoted views in your profile.

Yes, there is a difference between prejudice and preference, but the line that separates them is pretty well defined.

Bottom line: Prejudice is never attractive.

If I have to cop to having prejudices, they would be against those who take advantage of others or situations for their own selfish purposes and those that define others in terms of their skin color, heritage, religious background, age, etc.

And I can live with that.

Next week: Spanking