When we’re out at a club, few in mah crew are apt to tell a man to,
“Step back you’re dancing kinda close
I feel a little poke coming through
On you.”
Last night, however, my friend Carlo wasn’t quite as polite or articulate. His shriek was justifiable, though. I did poke him in the eye.
Stoicism in the face of adversity is admirable. In the bedroom, however, with each others cocks in hand, it is not endearing, much less erotic. That steady breath and unwavering stare – I wanted to yell for help, not scream his name.
In hindsight, I suppose the death metal that was blaring when I walked in should have provided more of a cause for alarm. But it’s no surprise that I ignored such a subtle warning. Not when I jumped into the shower and sped over to the private residence of someone I’d previously, albeit unintentionally, humiliated in a manner that could have driven a lesser hinged man to plot my murder.
His persistence may have finally paid off and his psyche might be solid, but I value my dignity – and my (sex) life – too much to allow him to cash in on it, again.
Regardless of parenting style, there are a few bits of advice drilled into all children of the Western world. Look both ways before you cross the street. Don’t get into the car with a stranger. And never assume – it makes an ass out of you and me.
Until puberty, my mother’s delivery of the latter never ceased to send my mouth agape. “Oh!“ I’d gasp. “She said – ass!”
For most, this anal synonym is second only to “damn” as the least shocking profanity. But this was coming from the woman who condemned the use of “Shut up,” “fart,” and “pissed off.” She might as well have erupted with a ferociously spit propelled “FFFUCK.” The impact was certainly equivocal.
Aside from getting into bed with practical strangers, I’ve retained the aforementioned morsels of wis(e ass)dom. Unfortunately, the same cannot be said for everyone. More unfortunately, they rarely get hit by a van or pulled into the back of one before inconveniencing the rest of our (social) lives with their ignorance.
“You’re single?” my friend Carla’s friend’s friend from high school asked upon our introduction at Booby Trap, the Wednesday night lesbian dance party. “You have to meet my friend Wyn who’s coming later.”
“Oh yeah? What’s he like?”
“He’s really cute. Blond hair. Very into style,” She paused, inhaling excitedly. “He can be kind of judgmental about it, but I think you’ll like him.”
“Alright. We’ll see what happens. No pressure,” I held my open palms aloft, quickly disclaiming the impending set up. “If we like each other, we like each other. If we don’t, we don’t.”
We didn’t. Well – I didn’t.
Although fashionHEstas aren’t my usual (man)bag, I would have thoroughly enjoyed both conversing and copulating with a dandy like Mark from “Ugly Betty.” Instead, in walked Manny-Kate Olsen. While I’ve been known to romp with fellow twinks, this one made me look like a bear in comparison. Boner kill. The distaste women feel towards being with men whose thighs are dwarfed by their own has been elucidated.
Polite but pointed, I expressed my disinterest. My friend Carla’s friend’s friend, however, didn’t seem to catch the drift. A rather shocking oversight, as it was strong enough to blow the waif back out the door.
“So?“ She implored after two hours of distancing myself from Wyn on the dance floor. “Do you like him?”
“What?“ I was incredulous. “No.”
“Why?” Suddenly as defensive as she was dense.
“He’s just not my type,” I shrugged along to the beat.
“Why?” The thickness was impenetrable.
“Just because we’re both gay -” I leaned in, continuing to dance as I slowed my speech. “Doesn’t mean we’re automatically attracted to each other.”
“Ugh.” She scoffed, her face puckering sourly. “I know that.”
“Do you?” I gladly patronized.
She didn’t.
More perplexing than frustrating, I don’t begrudge her. Nor do I really wish abduction or vehicular pulverization upon her. Actually, if anyone should hold any beef, it’s Wyn. She kept his hopes aloft all evening.
Personally, I’m more worried about his blood sugar. He needs a burger if he needs meat. I know a great place. In fact, I even know a boy who might love to take him there.
We’re no longer friends, this $800 velvet Ralph Lauren slipper wearing fop and I. We weren’t ever more than acquaintances, really. Even then, it was association by default. But still – while I don’t ever want to see him again, I think Wyn might like the lanky, luxury lapping lout a whole lot.
I could be wrong. Perhaps. But unlike an assumption, a notion is worth the risk. Especially one with the potential to prompt an exchange of ass between he and he.
Sometimes you see a person so beautiful you can hardly believe they don’t get paid to look that way. While I try to resist, I kind of, sort of, can’t help but HATE those people. Unless, of course, they’re Republican radicals with a religious agenda.
In that case – as a compassionate, “real American,” I am Obamaligated to despise them.
Any sex partner of my roommate or I need never worry about reigning in their roar when fucking in our house. We’re not voyeurs or exhibitionists. No. We’re not so deprived
that we must propel ourselves to the brink in sync with the sounds of the other on another. Gawd. It is 2010. We do have the Internet. As well as an understanding.
Hit it if you can get it.
Self-sacrificing though we may be, this benevolence does not extend unto those outside of our apartment. The human neighbors, sure. That’s funny. The ever-expanding clowder of alley cats mounting each other between our walk up and the matching complex? Not so much.
Sometimes it’s jealousy. Mostly it’s discomfort. Especially if their chorus screeches through the window while I’m harmonizing with myself.
I mean, HELLOOO. I’m a gay man. To us, pussy is supposed to be rev – oh – oh – OH – lting.
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