Saturday, Jul. 13, 2002 - 10:58 p.m.
City Of Night

I couldn’t sleep last night. Things are starting to go well, eh? I’m not feeling so closed off or negative anymore. Getting my butt back to AA has helped, as has my recommitment to daily writing in my private journal. Life doesn’t feel so gray.

So—and this is how my life always goes—the positive vibes are stirring me up sexually. Been getting cruised a lot more than usual lately; that feels great. I was exuberantly horny last night, remarking to Joey that I had a definite feeling there’d be some sex in my weekend.

As usual on a Friday night, I was exhausted, crawling into bed around 12:30 and almost asleep within an hour. But instead I woke right up. Sex was in the hot summery air. Perhaps the cum tree’s delectable odor was wafting in through my open window? (Thanks to Craig for providing a link to an article [scroll down to bottom of page] with more information on the orgasmic flora.)

I got up, lit a smoke. Could have jerked off and returned to bed. But no: the City of Night beckoned.

I peeled off my underwear, donned the jean shorts and t-shirt I’d worn earlier. Headed out. It was cooler than I’d predicted; I immediately began shivering. Odd. My teeth were literally chattering, and my body was spasming so dramatically that I worried about reinjuring my shoulder; never mind what I must have looked like had anyone seen my convulsions. I almost took this as some sign that I wasn’t meant to go out after all; it wasn’t that cold out. But after a few minutes the shivers ceased.

A block from home, I noticed two young guys on bikes stopped on the sidewalk across the street, standing astride their bikes and deep in conversation. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but a moment later one of them let his bike fall dramatically to the sidewalk as he rushed up to the other guy to give him a big bear hug. Aw! I thought.

Where I was headed was this cruisey spot smack dab in the middle of downtown. Colin had shown it to me last fall, that first week after I got into town while J.C. was visiting. It’s basically a man-made concrete pyramidesque park, a block in circumference, landscaped with trees and bushes with a huge fountain/waterfall at the top. Prior to settling down with his boyfriend, Colin had had many excellent adventures there; he pointed out every nook and cranny to us. I was fascinated by the spot, but I’d never been back since.

Well, the municipal powers-that-be must have got wind of the nocturnal goings-on atop this urban pyramid because all the skanky spots Colin pointed out are now illuminated with bright spotlights. Damn. Not a wandering, solitary man in sight. I did catch this young Asian cutie taking a leak in a stairwell there, but he soon joined his girlfriend who was waiting nearby. That was as exciting as it got.

I took stock. Should I just go home, or did I want to check out any of the other cruisey spots? What, exactly, did I want? Sex? No, not necessarily. I just needed to be out in the City of Night.

I wandered back to the ghetto. Along the way, I encountered a kinda cute older Asian guy who cruised me. We both did double-takes. Neither one of us stopped. I envisioned ducking into the bushes right there so he could suck me off. I did not do anything about it.

Whatever happens tonight—if anything happens—I am not going to force it, I thought. I’m open, but I am also feeling uncharacteristically passive. So be it.

I wandered down to the water—again, Colin had told me long ago that there’s lots of cruising and sex there. It was a long hike from where I was. And sure enough, a dozen or so men were milling about where the grass borders the bike path, a stone’s throw from the water. I could make out dim forms; ‘fat’ and ‘slim’ were the only traits immediately discernible.

I walked right by the shadowy gents; my bladder was full, and I went onto the beach until it sloped slightly out of view. (Like Skonky, I’m pee shy, eh?) I felt naughty, peeing on the beach. I wondered if any of the gents wandering back behind me were into water sports.

Then I returned to their midst, straining my eyes to get a better look. One guy looked young, cute and interested; the rest were older and/or did not give me a second look. This was all okay; I didn’t know what, if anything, I wanted.

I just needed to be there.

A crowd was gathered around two young guys going at it next to a clump of bushes up against a concrete wall. The dark-haired, dark-shirted fellow had his back to us, pressed up against a blond fellow in a white shirt whose hands ran up and down the dark-haired guy’s back—running rather timidly, I thought. He was probably self-conscious about the audience. They were kissing. I liked that they were kissing. Their kisses made me happy. Things didn’t go any further than that before they left, together, holding hands as they disappeared down the bike trail. Sweet.

There was nothing more here I wanted. I wandered down the trail, dotted with park benches on which sat many solitary men who paid me varying degrees of attention. All of them interested me, some sexually, others psychologically. It was all part of what happens—what comes out of men—in the middle of the night.

It’s been a long time since I’ve been out on an al fresco prowl like this—good lord, it must have been back when I still lived in Toronto. Despite the absence of an urgent agenda—or because of it?— last night’s jaunt felt like a homecoming.

The last long segment of the beach trail was devoid of men. A large charter boat was on the water; I could hear the people partying, the jazz music wafting over the water. I could smell the water as it lapped.

I got back to the street, checked my watch. It was 2:45 am. I wasn’t looking forward to walking up the steep hill towards home. While not sleepy-tired, I sure was ready to crawl back into bed.

The big gay street was dotted with men alone or in groups, returning from their nights out. I remembered all the times I’d gotten picked up walking home from the bar or the Bijou in Toronto. The memories made me smile. That kind of last-chance-cruising can be pathetic. Your standards lower, often dramatically: lust’s last resort. Pedestrian pick-ups after an ‘unsuccessful’ night out are usually so obviously about mutual-ego-damage-control. MEDCO; my new acronym.

I cleared the top of the hill, was now less than 10 minutes from home. And I encountered a tall, slender East Indian guy; he was kinda-sorta cute; we both did double takes; we both stopped. Oh sure, traipse about for six miles only to get picked up a few blocks from home! I thought, laughing to myself. He came right up to me, a knowing, mischievous expression on his face. We introduced ourselves; we sized each other up.

He was not that cute. But he was slender and smiley. Within moments, without really discussing it, we started walking along together. My dick jumped up in my pants; I wasn’t wearing underwear, so I could see my crotch jutting in the moonlight. This was physically uncomfortable, which got me harder, as did the thought that he would notice: a delightfully vicious circle.

He was a nice guy; our conversation was animated and friendly. He looked at me moonily; I hadn’t ruled out having sex with him—I was particularly interested in getting an al fresco blow job. But I was not going to make the first move.

He was shy too. He didn’t even tell me that we’d walked by his place until we were five or six blocks past it, all the way back down that damned hill. I said I didn’t want to keep going downhill; the thought of re-climbing was daunting. We turned around. The conversation got a bit stilted, then. But still, a nice vibe between us. My dick was limp again by this time, but I imagined that his body, naked, was probably quite lickable. And he had a nice smile. Yeah, if he invited me in, I would accept.

I imagined what it would be like after we’d both shot our loads. Would he give me his number, want me to call? Would he be hurt when I didn’t? I knew I wouldn’t call. We would run into each other on the street, often, afterwards; it would be awkward. My chest started to ache.

But still, I was not disinterested. It was up to him. I walked along, smiling at him, waiting for a sign. We got to the street where he would veer off south. “Well, I think I’ll head home now,” he said. I looked at him. Something warm broke open in my belly.

“Cool,” I said, “I enjoyed our chat. You have a good evening, eh?”

“You too,” he said, smiling and looking comfortable and unexpectant and real. He extended a hand. I stepped towards him and opened my arms. A nice hug. Not too long; just enough to convey the warmth and respect suddenly flooding me. The moment got large: there would be no fumbling MEDCO tonight.

He went his way; I went mine. There was an extra bounce in my step those few blocks home. It’s an odyssey, I thought. I can taste that again. I am 36 years old. I am older, but I am not old. I am changing.