2001-11-12 - 4:22 p.m.
Odds and Sods

Keep or Toss Ring

My folks flew back home Friday. They’re too good to me; you might say I’m a spoiled brat. Unpacking and the practical aspects of getting settled in to a new place are not my strong suit. Mom and Dad were not surprised to find that my apartment looked like I was about to move out, and set to work finishing my unpacking for me. My place had looked fine to me—I could care less about these sorts of things—but of course now I like it a lot better.

One of the problems is, I have way too much junk. I never throw anything out. Mom has always had the opposite philosophy—‘if in doubt, pitch it’—the cause of frequent clashes between us when I was a kid. (When I was even more of a kid….) Now, it’s just kind of funny. She and Dad went through boxes and boxes of my stuff and challenged me to throw out as much as possible. So we got rid of a lot of stuff.

Mom also took it upon herself to make a few unilateral decisions towards that end; I was taking a box full of junk out to the trash when I found this at the bottom:

Laughing—even blushing a bit—I pocketed my cockring, glad to have rescued it.

Later that afternoon, Colin and Mom and I were out for coffee; as we walked along the street I showed the cockring to Colin—without letting Mom see—saying “Look what I managed to save from Mom’s trash mission.”

“Oh, that,” said Mom, intuiting what I held in my hand without actually seeing it, “I wasn’t sure what that was. But I didn’t actually touch it; it was already there in the bottom of that box I used for the rest of the garbage.”

Thank heavens for small mercies eh?

Eye Contact and Marriage Contract

There is something about a parental visit that makes me even raunchier than usual. I’m serious; having them in my space intensifies the yearning to misbehave.

So that Thursday—their last night in town—I traipsed off to the bathhouse up the street to blow off some steam.

The hottest guy there was this amazingly built, gorgeous black guy; he arrived shortly after I did, and I caught a few well-timed glimpses of his disrobement at the lockers. Oh my fucking god; his dick wouldn’t even have had to be swinging as fully as it was under that white towel and I’d have still been utterly mesmerized. He wandered up and down the halls, paying me not the slightest attention. Oh well.

A photo shoot was being set up at the bathhouse, so there was an announcement over the loudspeaker that the sling room and the dark labyrinth room would be temporarily unavailable. I have no idea what the photos were to be used for. It turned out that the lovely black guy was one of the models; peeking through the window into the labyrinth room, I watched one of the photographers rub oil into his expansive, sculpted back.

Ladies and gents, let me tell ya: that alone was worth the price of admission.

Later, the photo shoot was in progress; I walked by the sling room and some older, to-me-unattractive guy with a saggy butt was in the sling and the cameras were going off left right and center. The black guy was standing just outside the sling room in shockingly white briefs; he watched me watching the guy in the sling and shot me a big smile.

I thought he was just being friendly, but after several increasingly interested glances, I couldn’t help but conclude that he was actually cruising me.

Too bad he was occupied. What I had in mind would have been unphotographable.

Or not.

Anyway, I eventually hooked up with a cute 26 year old Filipino guy from the States. Our tryst in my room was adequate and interesting but was missing any intense connection of energies. After I rimmed the living daylights out of him he decided—although, he said, he was usually a top—that I simply must fuck him. I tried, but it hurt him too much so we didn’t go far down that path.

All I really want to say about our romp was that he grew increasingly clingy. By the end of our hour together, he was acting as if we were now married. I was polite but nonchalant, declining his request to get together the next evening.

It’s not that it can’t happen, meeting the love of your life through casual sex. But those rare scenarios only prove the rule: when you or I seek lasting love in such wrong places, it’s just kind of sad.

It’s a misguided quest I’ve been on both sides of, to be sure. Self-awareness is a precious commodity; simple pleasure, a rare delight. Love beyond the moment comes from some place else.

The Spirituality of the Fatted Calf

Jordy and I hung out Saturday afternoon. He’s still having a rough time, and we hadn’t had a heart-to-heart chat in a while. Tears streamed down his beautiful face as he talked. Just before we went out for a walk, we stood hugging in my living room for several beautiful, wordless minutes, my face against his bare neck.

I love how much we uncomplicatedly love each other.

Then we were walking down the busy shopping street a couple blocks away. We heard loud chanting and sure enough there was a gaggle of Hari Krisnas, singing and dancing their way through the throng of people.

“Oh my God,” I exclaimed, “I’ve never ever seen Hari Krisna’s in real life before: only in movies!”

We followed behind them, watching the bemused, embarrassed looks on the faces of passers-by. It was fun. Then Jordy noticed the young guy chanting and dancing right in front of us: probably in his early 20s, shaved head and wearing a pale pink toga thingey, he was hot.

“Look at his calves!” exclaimed Jordy. I did; they were massive.

The Hare Krisna with the big calves was handing out free Krisna literature to anyone who’d give him the time of day.

“Excuse me,” Jordy called out. The Hare Krisna with the big calves looked back. “Yes?” he said.

“Just wanted to say that you’ve got amazing calves!” said Jordy with a big flirtatious smile.

“Thanks,” said the Hare Krisna, looking only a little embarrassed.

I noticed he did not offer us any of his free literature. He was probably right in thinking we were too far gone for Krisnac redemption.

“He’s so sexy,” said Jordy a few minutes later as we continued to follow behind the chanters. “I’d really like to see him out of that outfit.”

I agreed. Adding, “It would be interesting to see how hairy the Krisna really is, eh?”

Now, Voyeur…Dammit, Now!

I’d just finished a sumptuous online chat with darling Davin late last night when I noticed him, a hunky guy wandering around his apartment across the street, dirty blonde and bare-chested.

I almost had a heart attack. Why hadn’t I noticed him before? Then I remembered the guy who lives downstairs mentioning to me a couple days ago that the folks who live in the condo directly across the street had been away for a month and just got back. I’d been led to believe, though, that it was a straight couple who lived there.

I think there should be a law against hunky straight guys wandering around shirtless in queer neighborhoods.

Fuck was he ever hot! He was in his kitchen, putting some dishes away or something; I sat here drooling. Then he saw me gawking and moments later the light went out. Damn, I thought.

No, what there should be a law against is hunky straight shirtless guys turning the lights out when horny queer guys are peeping at them.

But over the next ten minutes he turned the light on and off several times; twice, he came and leaned out the window, smoking, staring right at me.

This was getting more interesting by the minute, bringing up all kinds of happy memories.

Maybe he’s not straight, I thought, Maybe I didn’t hear that part of the story correctly.

And then I saw a blonde woman walk by the kitchen window. The shirtless wonder boy closed the window and I never saw him again.

As I write this, he just came out on his balcony in a tight blue sweatshirt, chatting with another cute looking guy.

I love having bi-curious guys living across the street, but there ought to be a law against them not immediately enacting my fantasies.