“We’re not really different from you [straight people], we just want to love a different person. And even if we are different than you, well fuck off; you’re fucking different as well.”
Eloquence, y’all. In it’s tipsiest form.
WHATEVER! SHUT UP! The message is still there:
It gets better. Really and truly, it does.
No one says, “Let’s go all the way,” anymore.
Well, actually, I’m sure there are a few thousand 15-year-olds standing next to their boyfriend or girlfriend’s locker, fumbling to articulate that suggestion right now.
For those of us a decade or more past puberty, however, doing it is the expected conclusion to most dates and an integral compOnent to any healthy, romantic relationship.
Still…there will always be an inherent sweetness to the phrase, a youthful excitement to which harking back, on occasion, may serve to maintain our appreciation for adulthood’s greatest perk.
So let’s all give it shot, yah? And dust it off the next time we’re in the heat of foreplay. Something like:
“I know I’ve been rimming your asshole for the last 30-minutes, so I’m all but certain that you’ll agree, but…let’s go all the way tonight!”
Nerd, jock, burnout, closet case – whatever our social demographic growing up, there is, at the very least, one fear which all young men share:
An Inconvenient Boner.
Oh no…No! No Gawd, no. No, please. Please go down. Go! Go away!
UHHH, that’s not – it’s – who is Margaret Thatcher, anyway?
OhGawdquick – quick, look away. If you don’t make eye contact, then the teacher won’t call you up to the…to the…
Hey! Hey it’s gone! It’s GONE!
…What class is this, again?
Whether one went or will go through puberty long before, during, or years after the initial run of Mike Meyers’ bawdy film, “Austin Powers: International Man of Mystery” – if a boy is in class, mass or any type of worship service or setting in which he could, potentially, have to stand up and walk to the front of a group, some variation of the aforementioned internal crisis control will ensue when an erection threatens to poke visibly through.
Fortunately, age and experience tend to assuage this apprehension. We still get spontaneous stiffies hurr and thurr, of course. And yes, few beyond a particular brand of exhibitionist relish the thought of poppin’ a weasel any time or place where the stealth adjust-and-tuck(-beneath-the-waistband-but-not-over-top-the-shirt!) concealment method is all but impossible to enact. Yet as consenting adults, especially consenting gay adults, we can and must weRRRq, not hide our hard ons.
It may take some time for one to wrap their topmost head around this evolved notion. That’s understandable. In fact, it wasn’t until I joined the West Hollywood dodgeball league, early this year, that I began my own journey toward enlightenment. A journey that culminated in my playing in nothing more than a pair of magenta suspenders and a tie-dyed, butt cheek-baring Speedo during our latest battle for a spot in the season finals.
Shit… I began to fret as I strolled to the baseline, taking in the 100-plus horned up, expressly toned, short shorts and tank top-clad men populating the gymnasium around me. What if I spring a BONE? …Eh. Oh well. No going back to put on more clothes now.
And there was no need to. Because the question, gentleman, should not begin, What if, but rather, SO what if.
Who cares? No one should. Not in any sense of the verb but the positive. For all anyone in our vicinity knows, it’s as much a compliment to him (or her) as it is a sign of confidence in us.
I’m not suggesting we all walk around in a perpetual state of obvious, observable arousal. That would be a bit desperate. Not to mention painful and possibly damaging to long-term reproductive health.
I am only proposing that finally, we release ourselves from the burden of any erratic erection-related embarrassment.
Let go. Minimize the display when need be. Then, like our tips, hold our heads up high.
These hard times are the good ol’ days for which we will eventually long.
No pills or powders –
On “school nights.”
That’s just plain irresponsible.