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Wednesday, February 25, 2009

Mammeries are Made of Moments Like These – or – Alice Falls Down the Rabbit Hole

Typically I love those moments in life when I feel like Alice falling down the rabbit hole. Normally that “What the hell is this?” sensation makes me sheepishly smile inside my heart because I know that whatever comes next it will not be anything I expect or have encountered before.

Walking through a really well put together haunted house at an amusement park can give you this feeling. And it is fun.

Discovering that the man you just picked up at the local cruising place and followed back to his place has boobs - is not fun. In fact it can put you off sex for several weeks.

So how does something like this happen? It usually happens when you leap before you look.

I was at a local cruising park. It was a nice day, late afternoon and I had been sitting in my car doing my usual looking-but-not-looking-for-sex thing. My usual M.O. at a cruising park is just that – to park. If something happens, it happens, if not – then you go home. I don’t chase after people or sidle up to them and start conversations. If someone wants me, or if something is meant to happen, it will happen.

So I’m there for about twenty minutes when I notice this black car. The snow and ice has been melting on and off for the past week and most cars in the area are splotched with a combination of grime and road salt, but not this car. It is sparkling clean. It gleams. I watch as this car checks out another car in a remote parking lot very few cruisers bother with because it is close to one of the main buildings. Sometimes they have events there that make sitting in your car uncomfortable and your presence all too noticeable. A good cruiser keeps it on the down low and wants to avoid detection by others with the sole exception of other cruisers like themselves.

Another ten minutes go by and I am bored, so I decide to mosey down to another parking lot to see if anyone is there. On my way I see the black car exiting the park and heading across the road to a place cruisers go to be alone with their tricks. It is not a weekday, so the area, which is industrial by nature, is pretty vacant. I watch the vehicle head down the road toward the railroad tracks and think to myself “I should follow that car”. Why not? I have nothing else to do. Plus I am really curious about who is behind the wheel of such a fine vehicle.

As I arrive at the little parking area next to the railroad tracks I see the black car. It’s parked itself next to a semi trailer. There is room for me to park next to it, but it’s a little too close for my comfort and also, I don’t want to seem like a stalker or risk being rebuffed for being to obvious. So I pull in the opposite side of the parking lot and watch the black car in my side mirror. After about three minutes the vehicle backs up to where my car is, his vehicle is now about twelve feet away from mine. He rolls down his window and I do the same.

He’s very tan, very bald and has an almond shaped face. Not bad looking at all. He also appears to be much younger than me. From my disadvantaged view, he appears to be wearing a teal ski sweater.

Now, when I cruise, I typically don’t wear my glasses. This has caused me on occasion to misjudge the age of a given individual and/or the individual’s general state of attractiveness. Everybody looks younger if you blur your eyes just a little bit. For this reason I have begun to make a point of wearing my glasses even when cruising. I cannot state for certain that I was wearing my glasses at this time… but for the sake of my ego and pride… let’s just say I wasn’t wearing my glasses.

We do the usual small talk.



“How are you?”

“Good. How are you today?”


(Obligatory period of silence punctuated with strained smiles)

“You want to go to my place?”

“Where y’ at?”


“Cool. Okay.”

So I follow him.

The drive there.

The drive there – as in, to a trick’s house – is always fraught with anxiety and anticipation. The anticipation is generally acceptable. The anticipation is all about what is about to happen. It is an unknown, but you assume it will end with you having an orgasm, preferably one landing in the place of your choosing.

The anxiety stems from a multitude of ‘what if’ scenarios that float in and out of your peripheral psyche. What if he’s too young for me? What if he thinks I’m too old? What if he doesn’t find me attractive? What if his place is a filthy mess? What if he’s taking me back to a place where his buddies are waiting to beat up a fag? What if he drugs, tortures and kills me?

What if? Sure sounds like a fun time to me. Oh – and oh-so worth it!

We arrive at his place, which is one of those god-awful condo courts, where the garages are lined up on the perimeter like some protective castle wall sheltering the living quarters secreted within. I park and immediately reach for my ‘supplies’ – which, like any good whore, I have tucked away in a hidden, zippered pocket in my brief case. When I look up, the object of my soon-to-be affection has exited his vehicle and slipped sight unseen down a narrow passageway to the courtyard inside. This annoys me a little, but I shrug it off. I grab what I think I will need (which is nothing) and follow.

The passageway opens up onto a sunken yard which is surrounded by stacks of identical living quarters. I quickly thank my stars that I have never had the desire to live in such anonymous, tasteless digs and scan the stairways and entryways for signs of life. Where’s Waldo? Just then, a screen door at the top of a staircase swings open as a jean clad leg disappears within. Got it. Here we go.

I get inside. The place is kind of a dump, exhibiting absolutely no personality whatsoever. It envelopes me in an overpowering wave of indifference and lack of effort. It is dark because it’s almost dusk and the room is lit only by what natural light remains. I remove my shoes, even though I sense that the carpet is no stranger to dirt. Without a word, the man heads up the stairs. I follow. There are DVDs and clothing strewn everywhere. There is a cat. I can’t see the cat, but I sense it there. Finally I enter a bedroom featuring lots of abdominal exercise machines, lots of clothing on the floor and a large bed.

The guy I just followed up the stairs is bent over next to the bed removing his shoes. And that is when I see them. And by them, I mean his boobs.

The sweater he is wearing is one of those three-quarter cardigans women wear with the little knit belt. The jeans he is wearing are not man pants, but tight fitting women’s jeans. I learn later that women’s jeans have a very small zipper in the front – too small for man parts to spring forth from. The whole landscape is rather off putting and shapes his man parts like a giant camel toe. But I digress.

Back to the boobs.

I suddenly get that feeling – yep, Alice has just gone down the rabbit hole.

Now… what should Alice do?

I almost always go with the flow. There have been times when I have put on the brakes; extreme instances when I absolutely know I will derive no pleasure whatsoever if events continue to unfold in the direction indicated. In those instances, I pull up sails and exit – sometimes making polite excuses (I just remembered I have to… ) or (It’s me, not you), and sometimes being very blunt and to the point (Are you fucking kidding me? Dude? Come on! What the hell?).

In this case, sensing neither danger nor total repulsion, I decide to go with the flow.

This is not my first time ‘round the rodeo. And when it comes to the particulars of the female form, I know my way around and have experienced their pleasures. So I’m game, provided there is a penis tucked somewhere within those lady jeans.

Thankfully, there is.

But back to the boobs. Because that is what it all comes back to… those boobs.

They’re fake. Nicely weighted and secured in a snug, properly fitted bra. I try to play under them, but I can’t find his actual nipples, so whenever I go for the chest, I just give those bean bags a firm, manly squeeze.

I strip. She takes off her ugly sweater, lycra top, and, with my help, snakes out of her skin tight, tapered jeans. She takes my dick into her mouth while perched on the edge of the bed and I try to imagine myself getting hard. Well, fortunately for us both, I do. As I begin to respond to her mouthing my reluctant organ I struggle to come up with a game plan.

I push her back onto the bed and get into a 69 position. That’s when I discover that she’s wearing panty hose. And panties. I’m a bit flummoxed. After making pretty sure that there is a dick tucked beneath her leopard print panties, I disengage my dick from her mouth and strip off the panty hose. The panties I leave on. I just want to marvel at her ingenuity and determination for a bit. The camel toe effect achieved is quite convincing, especially in light of the size of the member being tucked. But I learn about all that a bit later.

I leave the panties on. She’s busy giving me head and my dick seems happy enough. I’m so distracted and perplexed by how I got where I am that I’m hardly paying attention to her technique, except to say that it is fairly amateurish and seemingly lacks variety and dexterity. She seems to be concentrating her efforts on only the first three inches of my dick, which leaves a good four and half not only teeth mark free (yes, she’s teething me), but also lip stick free.

Oh, did I forget to mention she’s wearing make-up? Well she is. Fairly subtle, but definitely there. She’s also so tan (baked is more accurate – and not in a good-420 way) that it makes her look much older than she probably is. The skin stretched across her stomach resembles that of a rotisseried chicken. Fortunately for her, I’m not bothered, because I like baked chicken and always eat the skin.

So after licking around her pantied crotch and asshole, I decide to find out just what it is I am going to get to play with. So the guy turns out to be reasonably hung and we get down to some serious 69ing, during which I decide 1/ there will be no kissing, 2/ there will be no anal intercourse, and 3/ that I am not up to titty-fucking her. Yes, I considered it. I thought I might go all macho on her ass, call her misogynistic names and come on her face, or at least give her a nice pearl necklace.

But in doing so, I would disrupt other possibilities and I really wanted to see what she had to bring to the table.

Let’s put it this way. If I had waited for her to serve up something, I would have left very hungry.

She seemed pretty content to just lay there on her back. So, after a point (probably when my poor dick could no longer stand the scraping of her teeth), I rolled her up on shoulders to eat out and spank her ass. She seemed to enjoy this – or at least she moaned a bit, which I took as a sign of pleasure. Then I laid her back down and finger fucked her ass really aggressively until she came. I got three fingers up there, but it was the lone thumb that brought her home. After she came, I shot my load on her dick, got up and asked to wash my hands. She pointed to the bathroom.

The inside of her bathroom looked as if the Pussycat Dolls had just rushed to the stage. There was make-up and hair-things and lady-doo-knobs everywhere. If anything it made me feel totally seedy, like entering a room two minutes after an orgy had shut down. I washed my hands, she handed me a towel. We dressed. She put on a men’s cranberry colored dress shirt, her still aroused member creating a sizeable tent beneath its buttoned front. She followed me silently down the dark staircase to the living room. I put on my shoes. Then I leaned in, gently taking her face in both my hands and left her the briefest, sweetest of kisses.

“You’re beautiful,” I said. And exited stage right.

Did I mean it? Yeah, of course I did.

See, I believe people are who they need to be. That need creates all sorts of variations due to the fact that people frequently are not what they want to be. As Melissa Manchester once wrote: “we need gardens to grow in, and there must always be room enough, for all of us.”

Yes, Alice, it takes all kinds to fill a rabbit hole.

Wednesday, February 18, 2009

Wide Open Spaces... Between My Legs? No - The Call of The Great Outdoors

I love the great outdoors. There’s something about an isolated wooded area, a sun drenched boat ride, a cabin by the lake, or climbing rocks in the desert that speaks to me right where I live – which is in my pants. I find it erotic or I’ve eroticized it. In either case, get me outside and I am going to do my best to get into some type of sexual mischief.

I think this all began at boy scout camp. Which makes sense. All that budding sexuality has to find some kind of focus eventually – and since I’ve never been one to take the obvious path, mine focused on something atypical.

I’ve always been an explorer, even as a tiny wee bit of a thing I would take off and hike through fields of milk weed and golden rod (no puns intended). I would walk along a river, explore a bridge or a pond and just take in all the wonders around me. I was fascinated by caterpillars, salamanders, and monarch butterflies. I’d collect rocks, honey suckle and mustard plants. It was idyllic, as were most of my days in the country, on the farm – before elementary school brought about the whole need to socialize.

My family then moved into town when I was to begin fourth grade. But that didn’t hinder my roaming. I took to the railroad tracks and country roads, visiting farms whenever given the opportunity. I always wandered alone. Each expedition became a secret held between myself and the nature that surrounded me. I relished the silence.

I was always a loner. Even when camping in groups I would take the first opportunity I could to head off on my own to explore. Somewhere along the line, I began to sexualize my outdoor experiences. Probably when I was eleven or twelve. I remember loving to be naked, alone in my tent. The smell of the sun hitting dew soaked canvas is, to this day, an aphrodisiac. Then I began to enjoy being naked sitting on rocks or out in the woods. It was during one of these boy scout camping trips that I fixated on remote outhouses as something to seek out. Nothing of a sexual nature ever happened on these trips, at least not blatantly, and certainly not with other people. Although I do remember a boy climbing into my sleeping bag because he was ‘cold’. Then he got naked and wanted to ‘nut kiss’. I didn’t want anything to do with it and just turned my back on him. I was a good catholic boy. But then again, so was he.

In my late teens, opportunities to go camping became few and far between. So my fixation for the outdoors didn’t manifest itself again until I was stuck living in the middle of Iowa for an entire year. I was out by that time, had my share of very vanilla sex, and had my heart broken several times. Heartbreak of a different type was the impetus to move to Iowa – a major career setback/meltdown. I wanted to break away from everything I knew. I imagined I would find a little farm house to rent and live a tiny life in the middle of nowhere. What I found instead was half of a duplex - a tiny, one-bedroom apartment on the edge of town. I was searching about for a job and happened to drive by a rest stop off of a county road. Here, there were swings, a picnic pavilion, and an outhouse. Along the back of the rest stop there was a creek with a bridge. From the bridge all you could see were farm fields. It was the middle of nowhere! I loved it.

That rest stop became one of my favorite places to hang out in Iowa. Perhaps it had something to do with the picturesque surroundings (but more likely it was the graffiti in the outhouse). I ran a lot that year, too. Miles and miles, everyday. Even in forty below weather. There was simply nothing else to do (this was before the internet made connecting with people so easy). I loved it, reveled in it. Kate Bush has a song called ‘The Big Sky’ and it became one of my theme songs while I lived in Iowa. Summer was the best. The sky seemed to go on forever and I loved being overwhelmed by its vastness.

Then I met a man who would ask me to move to California. Because Iowa seemed full of two-faced, hypocritical prudes and I didn’t see a future for myself there, I decided to go where the universe offered. He was a big hiking enthusiast, was sweet and cute and loving. He believed that the universe would provide if you trusted it. So I did. And I thought that would be enough for us to get along. We traveled a lot, and hiked in Northern California, Joshua Tree National Forest, Sedona, Oahu and Hawaii. And we had a lot of sex outdoors, too. But it was pretty limited in scope – he had this thing about humping my thigh until he came. It was pretty much his standard mode of operand. Then I was meant to get myself off. It got old, fast.

He was a bit controlling. I was a bit out of my element and divorced of all familiar things; which is to say I was pretty bi-polar the entire time we were together. There were money issues and all I wanted to do was take a nap. I felt alternately bound-down, smothered and horribly insecure. I wanted security. He had nothing to offer. When we finally parted ways my sexual appetites went in a completely different direction and my days of erotic forestry were over – for a time.

Once I returned to Minnesota that changed. Here, I love hiking along the rivers – and apparently so do a whole lot of gay/closeted gay/bi-sexual/married/single men. Needless to say, when opportunity knocks, I answer. I love the prairies and the woods and the sanctuaries. In summer, they are my sanctuary.

I know that sex outdoors is illegal. I get tired of hearing from the prudes and the skittish. Oh – it’s so dangerous. What if you get caught? Yes, it is discouraged and frowned upon – blah, blah, blah. Sha-da-da-da-da-da-dup! First, I never look for that type of fun in highly populated areas or areas where families recreate. That kind of thing does not light my fire. I keep abreast on all the latest developments in a given area: where the cops are targeting, where the cameras are, where to stay away from. If cruising is an issue in a given area, I avoid it. I don’t need the headaches and harassment.

I like the isolation of the trail less traveled. I’m very careful and, usually, very prepared when I go on these hikes. That said, every hike does not yield sexual fruit. But that’s part of the fun. I don’t like to force things. While on occasion I will get a rush by behaving in a predatory/hunter-seeks-his-game manner – I am not by nature predatory. I’d rather just allow something to happen. And I’d rather be pursued than pursue.

But sex is just a secondary consideration – me? I just want to be in the woods.

That desire makes winter in Minnesota so hard to bear. Not that I let it get in my way too much. Sex in snow on a balmy, brightly lit day can be fun. But we don’t see too many of those kinds of days. And let’s face it: wind chills of any kind do not the cockles warm. And without warm cockles, nothing else is gonna be working either.

Last summer, business took precedence over everything else in my life, so I missed a good portion of the summer. As fall came, I found myself really regretting my choice and vowed to make up for it this summer. And I plan to. I want to go camping and I want to go gay camping – with a tent a pair of hiking boots. It would be nice if there were other gay guys there, too – but I’m my own parade. I can make happy all by my lonesome.

I also plan on getting a nice, safe tan. Lots of hiking in shorts with no shirt. Lots of sun block. Lots of laying-out (naked when and where possible). Hopefully I will achieve a nice, tasteful glow. I have no desire to look like a bronzed prune. Also, the sun ages you, just like chain smoking and heroin.

Yes, this summer – it’s back to nature for me, with perhaps a little au natural thrown in. That’s one of the reasons I’m hitting the gym five times a week during the dregs of winter – I want to look lust worthy. Yes, just wait until the boys of summer get a load of me (no pun intended).

Thursday, February 12, 2009

Would You / Could You?: For entertainment purposes only.

I play a game all the time… it’s called ‘Would You / Could You’

I think it’s a variation on a game Charlotte and Carrie played once while seated at a sidewalk café on an episode of SITC. But my version is more… desperate. I can’t think of another word for it.

The rules are simple: you look at a man walking past you and ask yourself Would You / Could You?

The ‘Would You’ implies choice. I would choose to have sex with this man. These men are the no-brainers; the automatic ‘yeses’. Those cases where there is something about them, even at a glance that trips your trigger.

The ‘Could You’ has something to do with submission – if you had to. This is a grey area, because you can define and redefine under what circumstances you would allow yourself to have sex with the approaching man.

Some days my ‘Could You’ is defined as ‘under threat of death’ and some days it is defined as ‘if it was after closing at a bar, you were really horny and he was the best of what was available at the sidewalk sale’, or defined as ‘if you felt sorry enough for him and/or yourself’.

Now I am not a surface queen. I am not about traditional beauty, body perfection, symmetry, cheekbones-to-die-for or any of that typical, designer clothing / hair product bullshit. I like my men with flaws; preferably the visible type and not emotional ones. Although, I must say that emotional flaws can be pretty endearing, too – but only when they are not psychopathic or violent in nature.

So I do not judge based solely on physical appearance or manner of dress. You see, I’m kind of an ‘empath’. An ‘empath’ intuitively picks up on another person’s emotional state / state of mind. I guess you could call it ‘having a sense of someone’. I do this pretty easily; in the blink of an eye. It is that ‘sense’ of a man that determines my attraction. And you would be really surprised by some of the men that I find attractive.

Yes, I kind of pride myself on my ability to look beyond the stereotypical constraints of beauty as defined by modern society. Who wouldn’t be proud of that? Many people have this ability. I feel sorry for those who don’t – especially when it comes to this game, because they just don’t have any fun with it. I had a friend who was really hung up on what I consider the stereotypical constraints of beauty – and when we would play this game he would just get frustrated and not find any joy in it. I guess he took it too literally. I also guess it’s one of the reasons he’s no longer my friend.

Now there are limits: I don’t generally find people with poor hygiene attractive. For me, the ability to keep ones self clean, presentable and in working order is pretty much a must-be-able-to-do. For me, part of maintaining ones hygiene is maintaining ones weight. I like stocky men, but lots of flab is probably not gonna get you on either of my lists. There have been exceptions to the flab rule, but less than two handfuls (maybe three… handfuls).

My biggest turn off? Snobbery. Fashion queens, I am talking to you. You girls get nothing from me, no matter how well put together you are. I don’t care where you bought your trendy-ass clothes or who streaked your way-too-high-maintenance do - your sense of what is important in this lifetime makes me cringe. So, I guess that’s why I have never been able to watch a single episode of Queer Eye for the Straight Guy – because those queens just make me break out in emotional hives.

Back to my games: one of my favorite places to play this game and its other variation (see below) is a coffee shop in a mall with tables outside its storefront. There was a Caribou Coffee in Gaviidae Commons (I think it is still there) that was a favorite of mine. I’d sit out there for hours, pretending to work, all the while scoping out the cuties heading up the escalator to the mens room on the third floor (the topic for yet another post) (and, alas, something that is still there, but no longer as interesting as it once was).

The nice thing about these games is that you can play them anywhere, with someone else or by yourself. There just has to be people traffic in the area – not so much that you can’t keep track, but not so little that more than a few moment pass between options. You don’t have to be sitting down to play, nor do you have to play for a given length. No one keeps score and everybody wins.

The variation on this game requires that you are seated and that there are people milling around you. Malls are perfect for this game. For the variation on this game, you keep track of the next three men that walk through a given doorway or cross a certain path. You then must choose one of the three to sleep with. You may pass, if all three are absolute can’t do’s, but it’s more fun if you stretch your whore-rizons a little and make exceptions to your usual rules. You only get three passes. After that, for the remainder of the game, you must choose someone out of any given three. This is a great game to play with someone else, preferably someone with lose morals and a sense of humor.

I enjoy playing this game because it helps me to keep an open mind. I’m constantly reconsidering what it is I find attractive about others. This has only helped me in situations where actual hook-ups have been a real possibility, because my definition of what is attractive has been consistently broadened. I am open to new ideas and sensations. In short, I get laid.

Practicing this game will result in a loosening of any rules you have about attractiveness. If you play it long enough and with a sense of humor, you will come to realize that, where attraction is concerned, there are no hard and firm rules – just hard and firm penises. And once you dispense with the nonsense of rules… well, then the world is your oyster, my little pearl. It becomes a sensual buffet, a smorgasbord of sexual possibilities.

I noted earlier that there are no losers in this game – that everybody wins. That brings up the question: Are these games degrading to other people? Answer: depends on your perspective. Since I am one of those who probably ends up on a lot of people’s ‘absolute no’ list or possibly their ‘Could You’ (under threat of death) list, I would have to say no, it is not degrading. It is entertaining. This is for entertainment purposes only - do not try at home.

Attractiveness is in the eye of the beholder. It is a whimsical, off the cuff kind of choice where no one gets hurt. The people walking by have no idea you’re passing judgment on them as potential sexual partners, so what’s the harm? Keep in mind, that most of those you would choose, wouldn’t have anything to do with you given the option – so it is only in your tiny little mind that any such sexual liaison has the potential to exist.

Does it hurt you to view people only in terms of sexual attractiveness or as potential sex partners? Probably. Where else do sex addicts come from? But then, if ones addiction is not having an overriding negative impact on ones overall life – then what’s the harm? It’s a choice. Do I think I could stop anytime I want to? Well, to be honest, no. But then, I don’t want to stop. I think life without sex and all its accoutrements would be… not a hell of a lot of fun. Will there come a day and age when the entire sexual ball of wax becomes nothing more than one giant frustration? I suspect, yes. But I’ll deal with it then.

At that time, maybe I’ll take up needlepoint or get serious about playing classical music on the piano.

But until then… let the games begin!

Wednesday, February 11, 2009

Sodomy in Glamora: The Seven Layers of Gay Sex

I was thinking about different ways of presenting what I consider the various levels of gay sexual activity. Initially, I was going to do an org chart, but that wouldn't make any sense. So I think I will present it as layers – you know, like the seven layers of hell? Perhaps the term tiers would be a better choice. I want to be able to present this without passing too much judgment on any of it. That’s impossible for me, because I have an opinion about everything and I realize this whole list is quite subjective and, in fact, contains nothing but my opinion. So you've been warned.

Also keep in mind: one person’s hell is another person’s heaven. So while I present these tiers in a certain order, for some, this list only make sense if it is reversed. Or perhaps viewed as something like the Kinsey scale. That said I place no special preference or status on any of these levels. I personally jump between most of them all the time. I will attempt to point out the pros and cons of each type/tier.

So here is my take on the various tiers of gay sexual activity:

Tier One: Monogamous Couple Sex

This is an attempt on the part of gays to mirror their heterosexual counterparts. Society in general is suspicious of single people, be they straight or gay. After a certain age, if you have not coupled-up, the general population tends to view you as if there is something wrong with you. With that in mind, most people cave into the pressure and make some type of commitment to another person. Sometimes this arrangement is one of convenience, financial benefit/need, and/or emotional dependency. Then there are those who are in it for love. There are all kinds of love. I have to remind myself of this almost every day as I come into contact with couples whose existence flies in the face of common sense or decorum. I always seem to form an opinion about their coupling before reminding myself that I should not judge. When it comes to love, I cut everybody some slack. The eyes of the beholder are the only eyes that truly matter. If they can put up with the object of their affection for life, then I should be able to put up with them being together.

We all know our share of toxic gay couples; people who seem to thrive on violence, drama, and co-dependency - the George and Martha's of many a gay social gathering. The same is true for their hetro counterparts, but there are also some very healthy gay relationships. And even those that seem rather questionable at times have their healthy bits buried in there among the credit card debt, white party indiscretions and lapses in good judgment.

In a healthy pairing, the sex can be quite good. It can continue to grow and change as the couple develops as individuals. Unfortunately, that is not the norm. The number four reason that gay couples break up is due to bad sex (money issues being number two, chemical/alcohol dependency number three and infidelity being number one). Frequently, the sex simply becomes monotonous. This is due to a lack of creativity and concerted effort on the part of both partners. Only if it is an issue for one or both will it become an issue that needs to be resolved. Some people take comfort in the familiar – in fact some find it intoxicating. However, it sometimes leads to infidelity. Sometimes relationships are strong enough to survive infidelity and sometimes it is enough to put an end to co-habitation (it depends on the rules established by the couple). Then there are those who wallow in the misery of a dysfunctional sexual relationship – that is frequently where the above mentioned toxic couples originate.

Some couples enter into relationships knowing that the sex is no good. They make their peace with it because there are other factors that more than compensate for its absence. These couples tend to consist of two people with very different sex drives, two people whose tastes in sex differ radically, or two people for whom sex holds little interest. In cases where there is a difference of tastes and/or drives, these relationships sometimes become open relationships - which brings us to our next level.

Tier Two: The Open Relationship

Open relationships simply allow couples to play sexually with other people outside the confines of their relationship without threatening the primary relationship. Sometimes that means that couples play together by bringing in a third. Sometimes they agree to play separately. Sometimes they share information about these trysts, while still other couples operate under the ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ kind of rule.

And therein lays the secret to a successful open relationship: establishing the rules. Without well established rules, feelings get hurt and once feelings are hurt a relationship is headed for some pretty choppy waters. Successful couples in open relationships not only establish the rules, they check in periodically with their partners in order to make sure that everything is 'okay'. This may result in a change in the rules or a temporary closure of the relationship.

To make the open relationship work in the long haul, both members need to operate with a level of emotional maturity and openness.

That is why there are so few successful gay open relationships. No, I’m afraid the most common type of monogamous gay male in a relationship is:

Tier Three: The Serial Monogamous

These are the guys that fall in love – all the time. At the drop of the hat. They tell you they feel like they’ve known you forever. They want to begin a new life with you. They are a bit obsessed with you and while it worries you, you want to be in love, so you ignore that little voice inside your head and go with your heart. You have lots of sex – initially.
Then you move in together and everything changes. Suddenly you’re needy. You’re smothering them. There’s no room for their shit. Suddenly – you’re not the man they fell in love with.

Now granted, there are people who let themselves’ go, physically, at the first sign of a possible committed relationship. There also people who do, indeed, change in some manner shortly after a commitment has been made and the CD collections are resting side by side on the bookshelf for a legitimate reason (new career, death of a loved one, etc.) But, generally, if you are experiencing the above scenario in the first few months of living together, you, my friend, have hooked-up with a serial monogamist.

The relationship will last for about two years (it will feel like ten). There will be all sorts of surprises. All sorts of tiny facts and personal habits will be revealed, but only after you’ve surrendered the lease on your rent control apartment and hauled you beloved toy poodle halfway across town to set up shop with your current preoccupation.

Most lesbians, by the way, are serial monogamists. That is until they reach an age where they are too tired and lazy to contemplate loading up the old U-Haul for yet another new lover. Then they just make do and stay put. By that point the value of the companionship far outweighs the need for sex... although keep in mind that there are a lot of very sexually active lesbians over the age of 65.
The gay male equivalent simply eventually becomes so self-involved that there is no room for anyone else in their life. This doesn’t stop from them confusing lust with love, but it generally helps the other party identify reasons to keep them at arms length and thus, prevents the serial monogamist from getting keys to your apartment.
The serial monogamist’s behavior is a result of immaturity. In the event that the serial monogamist does grow up, he will either become part of a monogamous couple or morph into…

Tier Four - Happy Single Guy

These guys are actually pretty healthy. They have their priorities straight, financially and emotionally are able to support themselves and are very comfortable in their own skin. They take good care of themselves. They spend time at the gym - where they actually go to work out, but not too much time (they are not gym bunnies).

They also have no interest in taking care of anyone else. None. Your needs are your business, not theirs. Nor do they want a relationship. They are happy just as they are… with their life as it is.

Sex and bed partners are something to be enjoyed, but not obsessed about. It is like those homos who tell you that they are gay, but being gay is only part of their life – not their entire life - (whatever that means).

When you meet the happy single guy, you will fall in love. They seem so together. You just want to bask in their glow and soak up as much of their confidence as you can. They won’t let you. They are only interested in guys like themselves. Life is easier that way. They are not shy about sharing their need for a no-strings kind of thing - they put it out there right up front. If you’re smart, you’ll listen and enjoy them for what they are – keep in mind, independence is an aphrodisiac.

Now, the happy single guy only exists as long as there isn't any overriding neurosis thrown into the mix. In the event that there is a significant life change (a career change, turning 40, a back injury that prevents you from going to the gym), the happy single can morph into any one of the above or those below, such as…

Tier Five - The Secret Slut

I love the Secret Slut. There is one in every person I’ve ever met… and liked. Basically, this is where your kink lives and breathes. Without kink we would all be hopelessly boring. There would be no art in the world. I include those Robert Kincaid type paintings in my definition of art, simply because they are so perverse, they must be the product of a really, really sick, underlying kink. But I digress.

Am I saying Robert Kincaid is a secret slut? Eh. Who knows? Who cares? Those paintings are perverse.

Where was I? Oh, yes... I am saying that kink leads to creativity. Now one of the most creative things we all do on a regular basis is lie. And if you are a secret slut, then this is one creative writing exercise you have mastered like spreading lube on an exposed asshole.

The secret slut will do almost anything (and anyone) – once. They fear being pigeon-holed (but not being corn-holed). They don’t like labels. They don’t like scenes. They still want the right to reclaim their virginity (if it will help their chances of getting laid).

The secret slut spends almost as much time covering up the sex he is having as having actual sex. Therefore, he has no time for anything else. His few close friends are all former sexual partners and they only understand too well that an internet hook-up takes precedence over taking said friend to the emergency room or attending said friends funeral… especially if said hook-up involves an activity that the secret slut has never participated in before.

Secret sluts are really fun people to be around, partially because they constantly throw you off guard and partially because they enjoy nurturing the secret slut in you.

Secret sluts are always ready for anything: they have spare clothing in the trunk of their cars – usually a pair of form hugging jeans, a t-shirt, a jock strap, some hiking boots, tennis shoes, changes of underwear and socks. You know, just in case they feel like traipsing off into the woods for a little something-something. Their brief cases have secret pockets filled with necessities like lube, poppers, condoms, a blindfold, a change of underwear, assorted cock-rings, a douching bottle, etc.

Why? Because you never know. You see, lying and sex are not the only things a secret slut is good at – they also know how to take advantage of an opportunity.

Discretion is key to being a successful secret slut. They never kiss and tell… and if they do dish, they never share names – although they may point you out to their friends at a crowded bar as someone they did it with.

Of course, there comes a point when the secret slut is so consumed by their pursuit of sex that they simply become a common, ordinary…
Tier Six: Slut
We all know these guys. They’re the mainstays on Craigslist, GayDotCom, Squirt, ManHunt, and Adam4Adam. They are legends – at least in their own minds. Maybe their best days are behind them, maybe their best days were in their behind. Maybe its time they retire those same tired pics and post some new ones - you know, pics that actually capture how their body looks now, as opposed to ten years ago.

The nice thing is, they admit they’re sluts, so they usually have a sense of humor about the whole thing. Well, most things.

You could do a lot worse than landing in bed with a real slut. Real sluts are experienced. They have been there, done that. Sluts will have sex with almost anyone, anywhere. No holds bar. They can flip more ways than an I-Hop Special. Their experience is your gain. They know their communicable diseases and how to prevent/treat them. Unlike the secret slut, the true slut will never give you crabs.

The relaxed atmosphere the slut provides is really helpful when you’re trying to name and explore your own kink. They’re helpful and friendly (and probably a former boy scout or seminary student).

Sluts revel in their slutdom. They flaunt it and embrace it. They don’t kid themselves. They know who and what they are.

Sometimes they are deluded, raging alcoholics. But then again, sometimes we all are.

Sluts aren’t viewed well by the community at large. The greater population tends to believe that sluts taint the image of the homosexual world. That is why there are so many secret sluts (and so many cases of the clap). Sluts get a bad rap. They are just sharing their god-given talents with the rest of us - skills they have worked hard to develop. The world would be filled with virgins if it were not for the audacity of the average slut.

We really should have a hall of fame in honor of them in some small town in one of the Dakotas. Without them, no one for the Dakotas would ever get laid.

This brings us to our final tier. The tier that tiers one through four rarely discuss, and if they do it is either with disdain or in the past tense. Tiers five and six have dallied in tier seven, but have either found it too time/life consuming or they couldn’t afford all the necessary props, accessories and costume pieces.

Tier Seven: Sodomy in Glamora

The following activities/ belong in this category:

Shoving things in your urethra
Heavy rope play
Extreme bondage
Tit, Cock and Ball torture
Extreme leather, vinyl, latex, etc.
Puppy Training
Extreme Dom/Sub Play
Extreme Humiliation
Extreme Scenes
Extreme Water Sports (invasive)
Extreme Spanking

Notice tier seven concentrates, not on the individual in relationship to society or other individuals, but to activity pools. These activities fall outside the boring norm of most of society. However, they may be practiced in part by members of all the above tiers. In tiers one thru four, the person you are doing them with matters. In tiers five and six, the person you are doing them with has to host and have all the necessary gear.

Tier seven followers are really quite open to all types. They are not body snobs or ageists (generally speaking). Who you really are outside of the confines of the activity is of little importance to a tier seven member. That is why so many people get to wear masks, blindfolds, gas masks and hoods.

Tier seven is Marilyn Chambers in “Behind the Green Door” - super-sized. In this world you get to lose yourself, giving in to your base self. It’s like drowning in a sea of poppers.

There are limits here: my usual no-no’s – no blood, no scat, no kids, no animals. Tier seven members are kinky - they can fetishize just about anything. But there are limits.

Otherwise? Everything goes. I see no shame in any of it. No harm. Keep in mind that it can get very expensive. It frequently becomes a life style rather than activity.

I say: To each their own. It's all good, as long as nobody gets hurt.

Now, I know this is a flawed model. No doubt I will have to tweak it here and there. But that is how I see the world of gay sex. It’s kind of like a Kinsey scale. There is no best choice – they all possess flaws and follies to some degree. No one tier is any better than any of the others. It’s just where you land. Sometimes you land in between tiers, sometimes you're granted duel citizenship.

Me? I’m currently playing on tiers four and five and dancing on the outskirts of seven.
Drowning in a sea of poppers. Hmmmm… well, that says it all doesn’t it? Oh, and do me doggy-style, with me on all fours and with my ass in the air – drowning in a sea of poppers.

Ah yes, there now… that’s the stuff.