Three Ways to Sunday

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

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

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

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

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.