Wednesday, Aug. 07, 2002 - 10:58 p.m.
Notches, Niggles and Narratives

This weekend was all about J.C.'s penis eh?

Well, that's an exaggeration, albeit a slight one.

It appears I'm not the only gay man obsessed with J.C.'s mighty member. Sheesh. Enrique and Rahim were poking and prodding and grabbing at it—bulging prominently through whatever skimpy shorts or undies the man happened to be lounging around in, chez Queerscribe—all weekend. At one point they accosted the poor guy as he sat at my computer, tickling and groping him until—wait for it!—his hard-on jutted right out of his boxer's buttonless fly. I was sitting right there, mouth agape, wondering what would happen next.

At that point, J.C.—who'd been laughing and egging the boys on—turned shy; with some difficulty, he tucked himself back in as, speechless, Rahim and Enrique walked away. It was an ahem moment. The game was over.

And my pulse returned to normal within a couple hours.

The weekend was about J.C.'s penis in other ways. He and the boys went out clubbing each and every night and each and every night they came home empty-handed. By Sunday, J.C. was saying "If I don't get laid tonight I'm never coming back to this town ever again!" Then he would laugh.

Well, he and the boys got home at 3 am that night, a couple hours after I put up my last entry. J.C. crawled into bed with me, shook me awake, and in that sing-song Jamaican accent asked if I would take him out to the bathhouse. (I'd more or less promised him earlier that I'd do so if he didn't otherwise get lucky.) Being sound asleep, and having both (a) not had a very good time at the tubs earlier, and (b) written my way into a grounded place about how sex did and did not fit into the weekend's unfoldings, I sleepily declined. I encouraged J.C. to go on his own. He said he was too shy. He managed to convince Enrique and Truman, not to go with him, but at least to walk him up the street to the bathhouse.

But just before they went, something bizarre and hilarious happened. Moments after J.C. woke me and we’d had our little chat, I needed to pee. Truman and Enrique were in the living room, around the corner; I could hear them talking. So I didn't bother putting a robe on over my boxers to dart into the bathroom right next to my bedroom.

But when I exited the bathroom moments later, there both Truman and Enrique were, standing by the front door, waiting, it turned out, to escort J.C. back up the street.

Now, in my defense, I was still half-asleep. I glanced at Enrique first; he grinned at me. Then it slowly dawned on me that Truman was seeing me nearly-naked for the first time. I met his eyes; he looked away shyly. (As I will write about later, he's very shy—which was a huge turn-on.)

And some deep fear, or shame, or I don't know what the fuck it was, came over me. Because I screamed, I’m telling you. I mean, I shrieked like an old lady! Without articulating one intelligible word in explanation of said scream, I dashed back into my bedroom and slammed the door. My troubled state was gauzy and incoherent, as if I'd just awoken from a nightmare.

J.C. was in the bedroom, as it turned out, and heard the whole thing. He started laughing uncontrollably; as I realized just how ridiculous and uncharacteristic my screech had been, I laughed too. I felt pretty stupid about it too.

But more than that, I am still kind of awestruck that that scream broke out of me, that I let it escape. I mean, I can see now that I was self-conscious about Truman seeing me in my underwear, that I've been insecure about my body lately. But never have I expressed these insecurities quite so dramatically. The experience lasted but a few seconds, but it felt like a lot longer—surreal, like dream-time.

In any event, judging by the shy, ever-so-slightly-flirtatious attention Truman continued to pay for the remainder of his visit, the sight of me in my skivvies was not too terribly repulsive.

Anyways, so Truman and Enrique walked sweet J.C. up to the bathhouse. And he went in all by his lonesome, his first time going alone and second ever visit to such a den of inequity. It being Pride Day evening, even though it was 3 am he had to wait in line to get in.

I woke up, briefly, when J.C. crawled back into bed at 7 am but I was not awake enough to ask him how he made out.

So it wasn't until he roused himself around noon Monday that I found out. J.C. made out well. And often. Including, most notably, with a famous Canadian queer celebrity! Yes sir, the lucky dog, he hooked up with a hunky young wet-dream of a television personality, an absolute Adonis. (We'd spotted this sex god earlier in the weekend at a clothestore; he doesn't live in town but was obviously visiting for Pride.) Well, he liked the look of J.C. at the bathhouse that night, groped him once, and that was that.

Not content with fucking one of the sexiest, most famous gay men in Canada, J.C. then went on to plunge into two other bottoms and receive blowjobs from four other guys.

Let's just say it would seem that my dear friend shall, indeed, be paying this fair city another visit.

Oh, and did I mention that said sextravaganza occured in the wee hours of the morning of J.C.'s 21st birthday? Many happy returns eh?

It was fascinating to listen to his exploits the next day, and also to monitor my reaction. I mean, this was a huge fucking big deal for him; he could hardly believe this had actually happened. It goes back to what I was writing about last time; he has no clue how fucking hot he is. He was, um, blown away by all this attention. So his narration was adorable.

And, listening, it was impossible not to compare J.C.'s popularity to the considerably less effusive response engendered by my brief bathhouse appearance earlier that same evening. So there was a sulk, too, in my body as he talked.

Similarly, this whole star-fucker gossip was just too exciting; while I did promise J.C. not to tell any of our mutual friends back where he lives, I did get his permission to phone Alex in Toronto and tell him. Alex was shocked, and eventually he admitted that he'd just as soon not have heard this news. Alex and I have been talking lots about sexual self esteem lately, and for both of us it was difficult to be genuinely happy about someone else's fuck-of-a-lifetime.

But, a part of me was. And of course I razzed J.C. about it for the rest of the day.

It reminds me, though, how important narrativity is to my sex life, and not just mine. I mean, J.C. was so excited—as well as a tad self-conscious—telling Truman, Enrique and me about his exploits that day. I’m like that too—without a doubt, this is a sizable portion of Queer Scribbles’s raison d'être--and, like J.C. (whether he was aware of it or not) I sometimes perceive envy on the part of friends when I giddily relate my adventures.

(Enrique’s lying on the couch beside me as I finish up this entry, so I’ve just asked him if he felt any of the jealousy that Alex and I experienced when J.C. shared his stories. Enrique says no, that, quite simply, he was happy for our friend because he knew how badly J.C. wanted sex that night. Despite the fact that Enrique didn’t get laid at all on the weekend—and very much wanted to—he did not resent J.C.’s good fortune. “Well Enrique, you’re a better man than I,” I said.)

Sporadic moments of envy aside, the most gratifying part of my sex life is often its narration. I don’t think I’m alone in this. Whether it’s writing about sex here, or telling my best friend Alex and/or whoever else is around and willing to listen, the erotic experience feels more complete—more experienced, somehow—through its telling.

Occasionally I encounter uptight, conservative gay men who recoil from the frankness with which I talk or write about sex. (At first I thought Truman might be one of them; the night he and J.C. arrived, he seemed discomfited by my frequent, teasingly lewd comments directed towards J.C. and Enrique. But, while he never joined in the explicitly sexual banter, Truman soon began laughing at it and, as previously mentioned, subtly flirting with me.) I’m a bit of an asshole, I suppose, because when I realize I’m rattling this kind of gay man by such comments—and this does not apply to newly-out guys, for whom I do make a (time-dated) exception—I tend to crank up the volume.

What happens much more than that, though, is that people find me easy to talk with about sex. Talk seriously and light-heartedly; the best conversations jump back and forth. I don’t know how many times new friends have remarked on this about me. So it’s all good.

I also realize that when I talk about sex in a group setting, I tend to dwell on the raciest, most superficial aspects; it’s in one-on-one conversation, and sometimes in my writing, that I’m more likely to get down to the, um, meat of the matter, the emotions and strivings and doubts and deep fantasies that sex is really about. J.C., while he wasn’t being a braggart as he relayed his adventures, too didn’t share with the group of us what his experiences had meant to him; I regret that there wasn’t time for a tête-à-tête about all that before he went home.

Technique and experience: yeah, that’s all important. But the crucial part of eros is our narration of its woof and warf. Especially those stories spun from the beautiful broken places sex opens up inside us.