Archive for December, 2008

Thinking: Kinky Brain

December 29, 2008

I would not feel comfortable calling myself kinky. I don’t identify with that word, it doesn’t mean much to me. Convoluted though I may be, I’ve never called myself kinky. Physical restraint or roleplay interest me as exercises of the mind, but for the time being I don’t see myself making them a permanent part of how I get off with other people. I’ve realized that my kink is mainly in my head. What gets me hot half the time isn’t even the prospect of the sex itself, but more the anticipation of the interaction between myself and this man or that guy. Frequently when I daydream about fucking somebody, the planning of flirtations and the nuances of posture soak up the majority of my fantasy. Those moments are drenched in meaning, both real and imagined.

One of the best ways to persuade me to open up is to play along with the seduction. If you got an RSVP invitation, you wouldn’t just show up at the party no matter how great your wine (or cock, in this case) may be.  There’s the process of deconstructing your guard, getting closer inches at a time. Slowly rolling into each other. Savoring the release, give and take, the push and pull. Push you down, pull my shirt off, release your cock, all moments of incredible satisfaction.

To watch your reactions, see what kind of sex you want. The first time I always ask, “Do you want to hear me say your name?” This has been a decent indicator for me of the type of sex. “Yes,” is wild, screaming fucking. Raw around the edges, like a wound. “No,” is quiet and powerful, with more calculated force than reckless abandon. Both make me pant and squirm and grab on tight. I am always interested to know what kind of fuck he wants me to be, and since I enjoy putting on a show as much as the next ex-drama-club kid I usually oblige. Playing a part is sexy, to leave behind things like my grocery list, the projects for work, my weekend plans, and for a little while try to be your fantasy – to slip on that role and feel the power of being just outside of reality.

When or if I ever fall in love, I hope that he does not mind when we come back to reality. Dreams can’t live on bedroom eyes and naked flesh alone.

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Realization: Better For Choosing

December 23, 2008

I grew up, like a lot of people, on the  Disney True Love Conquers All fare that most U.S. kids get. With nary a mention of sexual desires in their main characters – despite always being caricatures of ideal men and women – it doesn’t really surprise me that in my particular case I did not at first connect love and sex together when I got to the Age Of Spontaneous Erection

Sex was a bit dirty. Dirty enough not to talk about in mixed company, definitely not with my family, double-defenitely not with anybody because I knew I was gay pretty much from day 1 on Earth. Love was something that got you a big musical number and wedding in front of half the kingdom. Sex was back room, love was front lawn. My first foray into a romantic relationship when I was 13 ended very quickly because I couldn’t get over the feeling of over-sexualization. He wanted to talk about sex, dream about sex, make plans for sex all the time. Nothing else would do. I couldn’t handle that. I thought it meant he didn’t love me.

Now I know it meant we were 13 and I had already mastered some serious repression on my part.

I am pretty loose with my morals for the most part. If you turn me on, and don’t say anything asinine in the course of a short conversation, I will probably get into your pants and have a jolly good time of it. Repressed? Me? Not in the course of friendly relations. Because I never feel very “casual” about the people I sleep with, even if I have no romantic designs on them. I would call most of them to be friends, or at least nice guys.

Point being that I would say that I qualify if not as relatively enlightened then probably as fairly relaxed in my sexual conduct and in the conduct of others. I’m not saying anything about being strapped down and paddled in a leather catsuit – Not my thing, and I don’t think it would ever be, but I’m glad there’s somebody who gets a thrill out of it. Just like there’s somebody out there lathering up their partner in whipped cream and sprinkles.

In t he case of my…romantic interests. I find myself much more reserved. I am literally terrified to touch the man of my affections without some leadership, some assurance. My body is imprisoned. I press against the bars, leaning in close, brushing his hand, but I’d never let myself loose without some invitation. I lose all my forward, flirty confidence and become boring, honestly. I can sit through an entire dinner and date, smiling and talking, and in my head I’m screaming “Please notice how badly I want you to touch me! Please let me know it’s okay to touch you!” the litany gets filthier and sexier the longer I go without any contact. It means that his arms, his hands, unleash epic storms of relief  in my soul, if they even graze me by a millimeter. 

At the base of this behaviour is my fear of failure. Watching many of my friends have sex with their boyfriend of a few weeks or a month maybe only to break-up and be heartbroken a few months later was, in a way, traumatizing. I saw what happened when you had sex – they used you up and threw you away out of boredom. I could never stand to be used like that, like some human cum rag, only to be thrown in the wash at the end. A part of me still believes that if I suspend physical contact, if I don’t have sex with somebody, they can’t leave me. I acknowledge that this is an illogical conclusion. Have you ever tried to reason with a battered heart? Let me know how it goes.

Choosing between love and sex is impossible, and in an ideal world you find both in plentiful enough supply to satisfy yourself. They can be scarce, so Ican’t afford to chase them away by bowing to fear and staying behind bars. I’m choosing to go against my fear, to be brazen, seductive. Because I’m smart enough to know when fear is wrong, and contrarian enough to go against it.

Anything to spite fear in the name of being happy, right?

Thinking: Man and Men

December 21, 2008

He’s a man. I can’t say that he’s not, because he is. But he wasn’t always a man. He’s not like other men, and I don’t mean in a metaphorical sense. I’m attracted to him, and he’s certainly masculine. Moreso than myself, I’d say. I was, at first, confused because like a lot of people my definition of “man” included the parts between his thighs. A friend helped me to understand that there are as many ways to have male genitalia as there are men in the world. When you think about the uniqueness of cocks, expanding your ideas of men to include transmen isn’t such a stretch – Especially since most transmen have cocks of one sort or another. Even in the absence of what amounts to a fleshy protrusion, there are so many other things that make up a man.

I love men, they interest me. I am sexually, emotionally, and psychologically fascinated by men. To see how they line up in groups or deviate as individuals. It always interests me to see what a partner thinks when we fuck. How does it feel when I give in like that, moan like this, pull him in tight, touch him softly. It’s not tricking him to make him think he’s in control because he’s on top. I can’t help that I’m curious.

To see what lays behind the feelings of attraction and fondness, understand what pulls me towards a man, these are some of my goals. Understanding myself by understanding how I love. Why I love.

Past: Bigger Than Boxes

December 19, 2008

I was the first fag I’d ever met before. It wasn’t until Will & Grace became wildly popular that I saw gay men on television, if only as characters. I didn’t really identify with either of them, though I liked Will and Jack a lot. In middle school, when I came out to some friends, a lot of them told me that I remended them of Jack. I was insulted.

I have never in my life been told that I should hate gays, I didn’t have any homophobia to overcome in realizing I was gay. It was not until after I came out of the closet and liked myself as a queer that people began to slam me with their prejudices. I was never pushed in a locker, but I often felt the confines of people’s expectations pressing in like a trash compactor. That includes people who were my friends.

I saw part of myself in Jack, sure. But I also saw part of myself in Grace. And Will. And my homeroom teacher, my mother, my best friend. I felt like being told that I was “a Jack” limited me to such a small part of my humanity. I found that it was almost impossible to share this feeling with my friends. They didn’t understand why I was upset. After all, I was a femmey gay boy, what more could there be to me? I was Jack, Jack was me. Fin.

I’m not a television character, and even the most well-acted, complex show can never show you the entirety of somebody’s humanity. We change and grow and even minute-to-minute we are altered by our choices and experiences. I finally feel at this point in my life that people I know have stopped believing that they can sum me up with a pithy phrase, or a TV character. It feels really nice to just be myself.

Fear: Being Unknown

December 19, 2008

I loathe that in dating  people quickly, and I am guilty of this as well, dismiss people for superficial reasons. I like to believe that human beings are complex, give or take a few layers between any given individual, and that we cannot be dissected or understood completely in the course of an awkward two hour dinner. Or worse, by sitting silently through a movie surrounded by strangers.

So it is with great fear that I ever meet a boy or man that I develop a serious interest in. I do not want to be tossed out on my ass before I’ve even had a chance to show my best qualities. This is in direct opposition of my other fear – that once somebody knows me well enough, they will leave out of horror. Both are totally ridiculous fears, since people who would do either of these things are not likely to be the sort of people that I would personally feel any strong attatchment too.

This fear, of somebody not seeing the best of me, is what generally drives any urge I have to dress nicely or do my hair, and on some days even to brush my teeth. I am at least confident enough in my personality that I feel free to flirt in my own clumsy way should somebody seem worthwhile. Which is an opinion I am always hard-pressed to form, I usually ask mutual friends if possible. I typically find that I am constantly uncertain of what a guy is thinking or feeling towards me unless he’s making direct sexual advances, or doing/saying something explicitly romantic. I am, in this respect, a bit dense due to a combination of unwilling to believe the best and always hoping for it anyway. I hope that a guy likes me if he smiles at my jokes and I have a good time, but I am never expecting things to be as they appeared to me.

Past: The Ones I Have Known

December 19, 2008

A working list of the boys I’ve met and loved, either to my improvement or my detriment.

I met a boy online when I was 13 with whom I formed a serious relationship that would last a little over 5 months, maybe 6. I broke up with him because we spent all of our time talking about having sex, and I felt bored and neglected.

After that I met a man on an internet message board of 17. We would maintain an romantically monogamous relationship on-line for just 1 week shy of two years when he decided to try dating in his more immediate area. He had met somebody else and wanted to give it a shot. He maintains that this was the worst mistake he’s ever made in regards to his love life. We are still friends, if distantly now.

Just before that I had been romantic with but not seriously committed to a man, also much older than me, who (claimed he) was from England and fascinated me. The first man to ever tell me I was beautiful, I was somewhat distraught when he abrutptly ceased speaking to me. I still have photographs of him on my hard drive, transferred from computer to computer. I sometimes think about putting up missing posters online, because I wonder whatever happened to him.

Then began a long period of time when I had several crushes in which I learned about unrequitted teenage angst. This period, and the relationships surrounding it, have probably shaped my ideas about love and responses to love interests more than I understand. Before graduating high school I had my first kiss from a straight friend, and lost my virginity to a friend’s “straight” brother, as well as having sex with a man old enough to be my father. Twice.

After that I moved to a large city where I discovered the queer community, and particularly the community of boys my own age. I dated and fucked very casually until a hilariously bad break-up that ended a relationship that was all of a week old. I was not too upset about this, though I all but disappeared from that scene and have not returned except once or twice with friends. Since then I have had far fewer sexual or romantic encounters, though I have been by no means totally bereft.

Titular Titles

December 19, 2008

When Or If is an effort to document some of the insanity that takes hold of me every time I meet somebody I am interested in romantically. The idea behind the title is When or If I ever fall in love and have a serious relationship, perhaps I won’t need this blog anymore.

I’m in my 20’s, a queer cisgendered boy. I spend time with books and yarn. I like to think and watch, using what I learn and know to form opinions and especially philosophies to guide my path in life. I spend a great deal of time in my own head.