Monday, Feb. 25, 2002 - 2:31 p.m.
Being, Naked
Decade Long Strip Tease
Alex and I have been close close close friends for almost a decade now, but I had never seen him naked until this weekend. A couple years ago we went on a holiday to the Azores, and in advance of that trip he thought it would be a good idea if we “got it over with”. He suggested we simply and matter-of-factly drop our pants and flash each other—even just for a moment or two—so that we would be comfortable wandering around nude in our lodgings on the week-long vacation.
I thought the idea preposterous and hilarious; our giggles were unceasing, so no full monties got exposed. On holidays, we lounged around in our underwear quite a bit, and on the last night I took photos of Alex plunked down—naked, obviously—in the tub. (“Just don’t photograph my penis,” he said, agreeing to what had been a joking request on my part.)
Alex is a beautiful man; it took me years to sort out my feelings for him. Once I realized I was in love with him, and told him so, and learned he loved me too but did not return the sexual, romantic feelings, then real intimacy began. It has been the most heart-stretching journey I’ve ever been on with another man.
So that when Alex—fresh out of the shower—dropped his towel Saturday morning, I nearly had a heart attack. Staring at his bare bottom, my heart started racing, and it got hot in there. He made a joke about finally letting me see the goods. And I laughed.
Alex sat down on the couch while he put on his socks or something but I did not sneak a peek at his frontal charms. I couldn’t; I was too flustered. And probably blushing.
I continued the joke by saying, “Well I suppose it will be another ten years before I get to see your dick, eh?”
I did not have to wait quite that long. Sunday morning he was facing me when he dropped his towel again. I checked him out; everything was quite in order, and quite as I’d imagined it. Again, it got pretty warm in the apartment. I was aroused in a distinct, vulnerable way.
I do not fantasize about having sex with Alex. It’s not going to happen. Even when I was “in” love with him, I could not picture us getting it on. But as a healthy gay male, of course I am not indifferent to the sight of a beautiful man, naked—one I happen to love beyond the telling of it.
The ten year wait makes me wonder if most of the men I see naked I see naked too soon.
Body Check
“So, I just have to blurt something out,” I began, late Saturday afternoon. Alex recognized the nervousness in my voice, my sober, self-conscious face; he muted the TV.
“I have been beating the fuck out of myself these past few weeks,” I went on. “About my body, how it’s changing or aging or whatever.” I told him I’d been working out six days a week for three weeks straight and it had not made the slightest difference to my love handles and belly."
Alex said he’d noticed it, that I did not look as in shape as when he’d been here in November. No, dammit, that was not the right answer, I thought, wanting to kill him. You’re supposed to say it’s all in my head! And then I laughed at myself, and kept talking.
Alex had lots of advice, especially about my workout. He doesn’t think I’m pushing myself hard enough with what I’m actually doing at the gym. It was agreed that if I worked out thrice weekly and did a decent job of it, I’d get much better results. He said I needed to add some stretching exercises to my regimen too; obviously, some sit-ups wouldn’t hurt either.
After several such pieces of advice, Alex asked, “Is this okay? Am I saying too much, making you self-conscious?”
“No,” I said, “It’s great. You have no idea how much I needed to talk about this, and I can’t imagine talking about it with anyone else.”
“So let’s see,” he said, his honey voice teasing, soaked with affection.
“Huh?” I replied.
“Let’s see.”
I froze. Then, smiling, I stood, pulled up my sweater. Bared my flawed midriff for his inspection.
“It’s really not that bad, you know,” Alex said.
I feel great about implementing his suggestions. More than that, however, it helped to voice the shame.
Because when I—when any of us—do, it drains the self-attack of venom. That frees other, more authentic juices to burble up; then—and not so much because of any new, improved gym regimen—interesting guys are drawn to me.
Getting over yourself can be sexy.
I didn’t think Alex and I would end up going out Saturday night, since the quick nap he fell into around 7 pm lasted until 11. But once he woke up he was raring to go. So we went.
I took him to the seedy little bar Joey and I have gone to a couple times. I was tired, didn’t want to stay long. But we hung out there for about an hour.
This bar is notorious for hiring street kids to strip in the downstairs, smoky lounge for $15 a performance. That’s kind of sick, but not enough to prevent me from watching. Performance-wise, the young men are usually tragically lackluster. Not much enthusiasm happening up on that little three feet by four feet stage, let me tell ya.
However, the young man strutting his stuff Saturday night stood out like a sore thumb. Or like a nice bum. Or something. He was amazing. Had to have been a professional stripper.
Eager not to miss the slightest detail, Alex and I moved right up by the stage.
Anyway, this muscular, tanned and smooth young man had quite the routine. Every so often he would interrupt his high energy dancing to do a handstand on that tiny stage. Every fabulous muscle would flex as he held that pose for a delectable minute or two before flipping himself backwards onto his feet on the floor below. Then he would scurry back up on stage and strut some more.
Oh my fucking god.
Alex and I watched, mesmerized. He was stunning. He pranced around with his boxers yanked down at the back—can we say, “Buns of Steel”, boy and girls?—but still covering up his front.
He danced for three songs, and the bar is so seedy and disorganized that the young stripper himself had to run back behind the bar to switch the music over between Song I and Song II. Song III came on automatically, and near its end he performed his final handstand.
We watched him spring off the stage backwards. We watched the old man wandering by, perilously close to the stage. The underwear clad beauty kick-boxed the old man to the floor.
The old gent had the wind knocked out of him; that was all. Watching how concerned the stripper was about the guy’s well-being, I adored him all the more. Once assured that his kick boxee was ok, the stripper returned to the stage and shook his booty for what remained of the song, flashing us the full monty for the last 10 seconds.
“Lucky the old guy wasn’t killed, eh?” I said to Alex, “but really, what a way to go.”
Freeing
Alex met someone at a bar yesterday afternoon. The guy was totally hot. He called Alex at my place last night, and Alex went over. Two hours later, I was still awake when he came back home. The impromptu date had not gone well, and that’s all I need to say about it. (It’s not my story to tell.)
The story that’s not mine to tell led to Alex and I talking until midnight: about sex and relationships and dating and falling in love and all that good stuff. And I squirmed. I never squirm, talking about this shit; this used to be my favorite topic of discussion. (And of QS entries.) But I’ve backed away from that part of myself, from owning up to what I’ve been feeling and resigning myself to and settling for.
So it was good to squirm, as I self-consciously gave voice to important truths. Admitting the negativity I felt, the sense of giving up on emotionally-satisfying relationships with men I have sex with.
It was good to get all that out.
Getting it all out doesn’t wipe my slate clean, but it helps me to look a little deeper at what’s been going on. The muddle is so much less daunting when I talk/write about it.
I’ve unconsciously adopted a “men-are-jerks” stance towards my personal life, probably since the Mick debacle. I have become bitter, and I have been trying to mask that by pretending love doesn’t matter anymore.
It does.
