Monday, Aug. 05, 2002 - 1:16 a.m.
Writing Naked

Sexuality is always about many things, but anguish is one of them. At least for me. Sex can seem to soothe and heal whatever the emotional pain might be. It can puff up frail egos, or send them spinning off into black holes of insecurity.

I am sitting here alone. The boys are out dancing. I actually did go out with them but after waiting 45 minutes in the line-up to get in the club I opted to leave them to their own devices. Walking home, it dawned on me I was only a few blocks from one of the bathhouses. On a whim, I stopped off.

And it was all wrong.

I sometimes don’t know much about myself, my sexual self, until I get into erotic space. Tonight, I almost immediately learned that I needed a quick ego boost. That small, needy, worrying part of me sought affirmation.

This is not a good space to be in at a bathhouse. As a result, and I am proud of myself, I only stayed for an hour. Got briefly groped in the sauna by two or three men I couldn’t see, and who couldn’t see me, but found me, by touch, not to their liking and walked off.

So I decided enough was enough. I got cranky. I thought profound thoughts, life-changing ones, but cannot remember any of them now. I am hoping some of them may come back to me as I write.

I thought about how wonderful this weekend has been, surrounded by these lovable young gay men, all so gorgeous and sexy and—this has been a powerful reminder for me—all insecure about themselves in similar ways to how I was at their tender ages.

I thought about Truman, sweet, shy, hot Truman. We’ve been oh-so-subtly flirting this weekend but neither of us has made a move. Delicious, just to enjoy the sexual energy, to let things unfold or not unfold. It’s such a rich part of my sexuality, but it’s the part I too often squelch by prematurely or desperately or insecurely moving in for the kill.

I thought about that as I left the bathhouse empty-handed. I smiled as I remembered all these luscious boys residing with me this weekend, worrying about how their hair looked, and literally changing their clothes at least once but often two or three times in the last five minutes before we’d all leave the apartment. I thought about how great I’ve been feeling now that my shoulder’s finally healed, now that I’m back at the gym, getting regular exercise and feeling my body starting to shape up.

And the insecurities are universal; I feel that, now. I can trace the arc throughout my life. It’s always been there. I’m better equipped, now, to deal with all that sexual self esteem stuff than I was at 20. And, it’s simply a fact that I am aging, that my body is not the desirable object it might once have been. It’s not as much of a fact as, in my worst headspace, it seems to be. But it’s a given that I do not attract as many guys as I once did.

Can I deal with that? Can any of us? We are always sexier than we think we are. That’s also a given. But this growing older thing. Blech. I am not coping too well. So, while it’s true that I’m better equipped, emotionally and psychologically, than I was ten or fifteen years ago, I am not sure how it all balances out. Because I was more desirable back then. Or at least that’s how it feels.

Enrique was fit to be tied tonight. He couldn’t get the Mohawk-esque spikey thing to work out with his hair. I felt myself slip into his body as he worried his hair to death, as his face creased up with panic. And I was able to offer some soothing, motherly encouragement. He seemed to relax, slightly, as I murmured in his ear how lovely he looked, as I put my arm around him.

That’s something. Both he and J.C., they respond when I soothe. We need those kind of people in our lives, eh?

Gay Pride can be a killer for self-esteem. Ironically enough, shame is more prevalent than pride during the festivities. We are all so down on ourselves. And we are all so beautiful.

I feel like crying right now, and it’s not a self-pity thing. It’s just about the sadness and the wonder of this life. That ache that propels us out into the night, toward or away from one another.

Sexuality always also evokes some primal wound. I was adopted; my biological mother nearly died carrying me to term. There was a tear there, a bloody spurt of longing for union somehow preprogrammed into my psyche. At least I often think that. Sex sparks it, that originating wound. Which leads me to another belief: sex is always about infancy, about childhood.

You should see my face when I’m in the throes of desire. The beauty there is a child’s. I know this. Guys tell me that, and I see it in their faces too. And now, in this moment, I have written my way back to a state approaching it, that visceral self-knowledge underneath all the self esteem bullshit.

It’s why sex is so important, and so misused.

We all want the touch that sparks our glowing baby faces briefly into being.

There’s a way of sparking it ourselves, like, for example, writing ourselves into a better, truer place. When I forget that, when I delude myself into again believing that sex answers all my questions, the erotic well quickly runs dry.

When I remember, when I stretch myself a bit and take more responsibility for other kinds of delight and joy, it always happens: sex is everywhere.

This weekend has been chockfull of delight and joy, much of it sensual and sexy. I have not gotten laid. It’s looking, quite possibly, like I won’t. Instead, I’ve made two new friends in Truman and Rahim, reconnected with darling J.C., and gotten to know Enrique in a different, more social environment. It’s been incredible, chaotic, and exhausting.

I am sitting here, now, calm and still wanting to cry. I don’t need you to tell me anything, because I’m telling you: I’m a quirky fella, full of love and whimsy.