Archive for the ‘Past’ Category

A Different Kind Of PnP

March 12, 2009

Not party and play, seeing as I lead a strictly Substance Free lifestyle: No alcohol, no cigs, no drugs, no pot, and as few medications as possible. I’m not strict about no caffeine, but I only drink tea once in a while and very rarely a soda. I take Tylenol or allergy meds maybe four times a year, NyQuil for a few days if I happen to get sick. No morals, I just don’t want to.

Pain and Pleasure.

When I was thirteen I tried to kill myself with a razor blade in the shower. I didn’t because the first little nick of that blade against my skin hurt. I thought I was trying to escape pain, but what I really wanted out of was the numbness. I’d ached for understanding and compassion for so long that all I felt was the agony of numbness. I could feel the pressure of love against me, but none of its warmth. It was always too fleeting, it seemed.

But pain! Ow! Pain was unexpected. Pain was a feeling, a sensation, and I got angry that it had hurt that it hadn’t been easy. Anger was an emotion, and the warmth of it slithered across me like a silk shirt over my head. I felt disappointed and sad and angry and I felt things.

So many people find their lives renewed after a suicide attempt because of the counseling, the help, the support they receive. I’ve never met anyone who got the blade right into their skin and found there their saving grace in the sting of a dirty razor in a hot shower. Pain saved me. Anger renewed me.

I put a band aid on the little slice, not even longer than a quarter of an inch and nowhere near my thick arteries and veins, and forgot about it.

That brought me back to my body and there I found my self. Poor, neglected self. I didn’t know anything about my self except the pain. And now the pain was mostly replaced with dissatisfaction and general crankiness. So I asked myself questions, I read books and formed opinions, I taught myself values that rang true in my ears. Strength flowed into me from books and from some source that to this day remains unknown to me but I have suspicions That brings me to the pleasure.

Relying on my own strength, on my own reserves, on being the extra back-up I need in an emergency, I get such a kick out of it. I find such joy in navigating life with my own guidance and under my own power. I still fall down, I still need help – though I hate to ask for it. I prefer to struggle through on my own most times, because I want to know that I can. I find so much pleasure in being myself, and such a shitty feeling when I’m not. I can’t help but be myself. Not if I want to hold onto a little slice of peace that has been nestled in my  gut, in my heart, ever since that day when the razor hurt me.

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My Double Standard Is Fucked

March 9, 2009

If I want to love you, I’ll never seduce you.

I’ll never feel comfortable wearing my sexy underwear for you, moaning your name, feeling your hard on, being naked in front of you. I won’t want you to see me that way, because I’m afraid you won’t see me any other way. That you won’t really love me. That you’ll use me.

If I want to seduce you, I’ll never love you.

I’ll never feel comfortable wearing my baggy sweats around you, or talking when I first wake up with my voice rough and raspy, feeling you hug me, wearing anything less than my sexiest clothes. I won’t want you to see me that way because I’m afraid you won’t want me anymore. That you’ll have used me.

I don’t want to be fetishized, I don’t want to be idolized. I don’t want you to look at me with awe. I don’t want to feel like your pet, your wife, your baby, your everything.

I want your respect and trust. I want it to be uncomplicated. I want us to be sweet like honey – not like refined sugar. I want to fight about what’s important, and sometimes about what’s not. I want honesty and straightforward, awkward reassurances. I don’t need to be seduced, I just need to know what you’re feeling. I want you to want me wanting you – want to want to want to need it.

I want to hold you and I want to be near you and I want to feel comfortable around you no matter what I wear, or what I say. I want to be deeper than friends, love stronger than lovers, more faithful than nuns, more sexual than whores, all in comfort. Comfort and trust and respect. Can you earn my trust? Can you get that deep inside me? I’m ready to be convinced that you won’t leave. Teach me how to fold my love and lust together.

Experimental

January 25, 2009

I just spent the evening with my best friend. We hadn’t talked since before Christmas, maybe the end of October, and he called me up to go out to Thai food. This is how we generally reconcile after fights or long-periods of not-talking. It’s familiar, and it’s our favorite restaurant, and we love going together.

One of the things I learned while we were spending time apart was that I hold on to him so tightly that sometimes I ruin our friendship for us. I learned that I have to let go and be just a teensy bit more zen about what he does with his life, because being his best friend doesn’t mean being his keeper.

We talked about what we’re doing, we’re both seeing people. I’d just had my 4th date with the man, he has had a girlfriend for two months. He wants to break up with her already, and I surprised myself by laughing and saying “You have to stop doing this.” I explained my disinterest in his girlfriends like this, “I never know how long you’re gonna keep them around, so until I see a hint that she’ll be a part of our life together I don’t feel much need to get to know these people.” To which he did not have much of a response.

Afterwards we came back to my apartment and lay in my bed together, which is not unusual. We’re affectionate a great deal of the time, to the point where I have to point out to crestfallen-looking girls that he’s actually straight and not my boyfriend. We cuddle, hug, stand close, even sometimes dance around. My point being, it’s not unusual for us to be in a bed together.

Once, about a year ago, he asked me if I would ever want to blow him. I told him that if he sincerely wanted me to give him a blowjob, I would. We almost got there one night, as he stood in his boxers and I started to get on my knees he got nervous and pulled his pants up.

Tonight he brought it up again, as he has a few times since then. Usually to tease me. I think he finds it interesting that I would offer to suck his dick, and that I find him sexually attractive, but that I don’t actively pursue him. I let him know that if he wanted to do anything, I’m open to it and would want to do it safely and give him all the possible knowledge of any potential consequences. I think that it’s important, as his friend, to offer that kind of outlet and safety. I’d much rather have him get a blowjob from me than from a stranger at a party, or at an anonymous gloryhole. First of all, who knows if he’d catch anything. Secondly, to assure quality of experience. I know that I give amazing head, and if my best friend is going to be getting a blowjob from a guy I want it to be the best and safest he can get.

As we were cuddling in my bed we were talking about it, and I answered his questions the same way I always have.

“Can I get up and leave afterwards?”
 Isn’t that how you usually leave anyway?

“What if I don’t like it?”

You can ask me to stop. 

“I don’t want it to make things awkward for us.”

I’ve already decided that it wouldn’t be awkward for me. I love you, you are my best friend and we have already fought about most of our differences and still we love each other and want to spend time together. If it would be awkward for you, that is something you have to decide for yourself.

“I think I want you to.”

Yeah?

“Yeah. Would you blow me?”

If you really want me to.

“I want you to blow me.”

So I did.

I don’t feel bad about it. I want to do it again. I’ve decided this is something he has to control, since its his feelings that I think are going to be most affected. Afterwards, he said that he felt perfectly fine except for the plus of having just had the best blowjob of his life.

I don’t feel guilty about his girlfriend. I don’t feel guilty about the boy I’ve been seeing. I don’t feel guilty about playing out the gay-guy-loving-straight-cock stereotype. I feel almost like because of our friendship, it’s not the same. It’s not cheating. It’s not dishonest. It’s not anybody’s business what two friends make of their friendship.

P.S. His cum was delicious.

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.

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.