Archive for the ‘Realization’ Category

I Don’t Blame You

June 1, 2009

I am bad news, and I’m owning that. Anybody who’s shown interest in me in the past year and a half has gotten the complete shaft except one or two people. I’m evasive and noncommittal, giving off mixed signals because of my own indecision. I don’t call back, I don’t text the next morning, I don’t accept 2nd dates. I won’t talk of anything of consequence; instead misdirecting with inconsequential sound bytes that sound more revealing than they are. I play off interests, values, judgments, and I rarely reveal anything concrete or real except perhaps in moments of anger which I use as my excuse to run into the night and never, ever return. I’m that really sweet guy that confuses and breaks hearts by my lack of honesty within myself and the strength to be clear. Trying to sublimate horny into love, showering kisses and grinding crotches without any promise for tomorrow, or ever.

I don’t think I’m a bad person – I just think I did some shitty stuff trying to ignore my own feelings.



April 12, 2009

Cold linoleum floors are awful, but I usually jump right in the shower so it’s no big worry. Last week as I took off my robe and glanced in the mirror I felt an extra chill of..insecurity? Anxiety? A feeling of  being unsafe, unguarded. Vulnerable. It was so hard to pin down because I so rarely feel that way. I haven’t felt that way in a long time, since high school.

The night before this I got home late, about 2 AM from a date. A date that hadn’t gone very well, in my opinion. Particularly after we’d gone back to his place where conversation and making out took place. Good kisser, decent conversation, no particular inspiration to see him again. I have this a lot. Perfectly nice guys, smart, funny, I don’t want them. I have a very specific idea of the kind of treatment I want to receive, and the kinds of thought patterns I want to see evidence for. 

As we were kissing I felt his fingers run through my hair and abruptly my head was pulled back and his hand was curled up, pulling my hair and my head. I was so surprised and stunned that I don’t think I even recognized the fear I felt when he kissed me again.

Standing in my shower stall, clumps of my hair falling from the buzzing blades of my clippers. All I could think about was how I never wanted anyone to grab my head that way again.

Later when I stood up to grab my things he rose and kissed me. And shoved me onto his bed. And lay on top of me. All I could think was “Please stop. Please stop or I’ll hurt you.” When he leaned in to kiss me, I planted my palms on his shoulders and pushed up with all the force I could muster and said “I’m going home now.

After I got out of the shower and put on my clothes, I realized how close I had come to dismissing it as a bad date. As a mistmatch, poor chemistry. But the hair swirling down the drain and through the pipes, the warm clippers in their case, my cold ears all tell me that it was more. I was scared. I felt threatened. Boundaries had been crossed, boundaries I didn’t even realize the importance of until I clipped a 5/8ths inch comb onto some metal blades and ran the buzzing machine through my hair.

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.

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?