Sunday, Sept. 01, 2002 - 3:21 p.m.
Emersion: What You See Is What You Get

Friday I started reading David Nimmons’ The Soul Beneath The Skin: The Unseen Hearts and Habits of Gay Men. The opening paragraph certainly hooked me:

If you have ever had a hunch there was something special or different about gay men; if you have by turns felt you are glad to be gay, yet found yourself disappointed by the forms "gay community" takes; if you have wondered, "Is this all there is to us?"; if you have sometimes wished men like us could be different with each other; if you have craved more affection and tenderness in your gay social world, but weren't sure how to get it, this book may offer some new answers.

I'm not far enough into the book to know yet whether it offers me anything new, but it already feels like Nimmons is addressing me directly. Reading the introductory chapter yesterday filled me with hope; it's been a long time since I've tasted that.

Nimmons goes to great lengths to clarify that his book will not speak to (or for) every gay man out there. Conservative guys—those whose ideal is to bond and express their sexuality within conventional, monogamous relationships—aren't going to find his ideas appealing or particularly resonant, perhaps. Fair enough. There are lots of books and support out there for them.

On the other hand, Nimmons hones in on the shadowy undersides of a more radically queer lifestyle: the disappointment that comes from the all-too-often unrealized potential of gay interpersonal life, our (collective and individual) unmet emotional needs: "All too often," he says, "adopted gay cultural habits can rub our hearts raw, leaving us feeling more lonely, isolated, and wounded than we would like."

It's certainly true that sometimes I've been lonely, isolated and/or wounded; a lot of the time, actually. While I think it's healthy to question how my sexual and social habits contribute to these emotionally-icky states, I have not been consciously blaming the gay community or how I behave in it. That blame-game and resultant bitterness, however, has grown up inside me unconsciously. As I've alluded to in recent entries, the harshly-critical inner voice insists that I must renounce my queer ways, settle down and get (homo-)married: this will solve all my problems, including the hang-ups I've got about aging. David Nimmons describes this 'tut-tut' attitude well:

Most who (for better or worse) take an interest in commenting on gay lives have adopted an all-too-familiar conventional narrative. As a consequence, that one-dimensional view has been accepted by many of us—gay as well as straight—as our accurate, if depressing, story. You know: that we live in a body-obsessed, shallow, sexually profligate, consumerist culture. That gay cultural values inculcate competition and isolation, narcissism and hedonism. That our community practices—especially in gay enclave cities and neighborhoods—recapitulate a ruthless competition of the flesh as they discourage any true intimacy of the heart. Most of all, just in case you've missed it along the way, the inevitable moral of the story is that, if gay men don't pay heed, we will party, dance, and sex ourselves into an early oblivion.

So, yeah, that particular argument (Bouley comes to mind) can be seductive, precisely because it triggers those ancient judgments we never quite got out of our system. This has nothing to do with personal growth, or choice, or a healthy critique of our own collectivities; this is something else entirely. The most destructive— ironically, also the most laughable—manifestation of this narrative is the empty promise of the ex-gay movement; you'll hear such one-dimensional crap a-plenty at those inane meetings.

But don't even get me started on the ex-gay movement, eh?

Enrique and I were talking about the gay club scene the other day; I almost never go out to the clubs anymore, and he's not been going out very much either since he moved back here a month ago. He stays away because he dislikes the attitude he picks up from so many of the other gay male patrons; I can certainly relate to that. Enrique likes the occasional one night stand, and wouldn't mind a boyfriend one of these days either; but what he's most desirous of at the moment are more gay male friends. It's almost impossible, he finds, to meet and make friends in this milieu. I can relate to that too.

We had a great talk about all that, and one of the things I said—an ongoing tangent of mine—was that, on any given night that he and/or I are out at a club resenting everyone else's attitude and wanting more authentic human contact, I wouldn't be surprised if 30-40% of the other guys there have nearly identical feelings: imagining about us what we're imagining about them. It's a vicious circle, really. Far more than any bonafide attitude that exists out there, the challenge we face is this mutual snap-judgmentalism—this collective projection. To me, realizing this is empowering, because I—and Enrique, and you—can actually do something about our judgments.

The point, I think—and what has lately been eluding me—is a spirit of optimism with which to renew and deepen my inquiry. I'm in some sort of transition phase or something when it comes to my sexuality; where will I end up, saddled with negative, demoralizing stereotypes such as those Nimmons lists? Not very happy or fulfilled, sexually, soulfully, emotionally; not very befriendable or teachable or loveable. I don't want to go there.

So I hope to open, instead, to the possibilities and the healing that's right here staring me in the face; no sudden quantum leaps into some other lifestyle; no renunciations; no stock in naysayers or pop psychology formulas for "true" intimacy. Nimmons' book isn't going to have all the answers—nor do I believe answers are what I'm seeking—but I can already tell that The Soul Beneath The Skin is exactly what I need to be reading right now. Its inquiry flows from an exuberantly positive sense of what's already fabulous about gay male life and what can be built upon.

The introduction briefly summarizes that sense, ideas which later chapters shall flesh out. Here's a couple key paragraphs:

Much empirical evidence suggests that self-identified gay men are engaged in a striking range of cultural innovations in social practices. Our levels of public violence are vastly lower. We volunteer more often, demonstrating levels of altruism and service quite distinct from other men. Our patterns of intimacy and interpersonal connectedness take new forms. We are redefining gender relations in powerful and novel ways. We have distinct patterns of caretaking in sexual and communal realms. We are enacting new definitions of public and private, family and friends, as we are vastly transforming relations of pleasure, community, and authority. We are pioneering a wide range of untried intimate relationships, with new forms, rituals, and language.

…

It would be easy, and wrong, to read this as a smug brief for gay men's superiority. Instead, this book attempts a more nuanced set of claims. First, that the lives that many gay men have been building do indeed hold demonstrable, culture-changing implications both for ourselves and for the larger society. Second, that we have long overlooked them in part because the accustomed stories offered to, told among, and accepted by gay men dangerously obscure central truths about the values evolution we are engaged in. Third, that viewed together, these queer cultural experiments can best be understood as a new, evolving public ethic. They are complex and contested, they do not happen everywhere nor uniformly, and not all of us are included in them. But throughout, they have a rich ethical basis in thought and theory, in action and relation. At its core, we are witnessing the birth of a new set of male possibilities, outlined in lavender.

I have tasted some of what Nimmons speaks, felt some of his vision. But not recently. And I'm uncomfortable with, even cynical about, some of his boldest claims about what's possible. That's fine; I'll keep reading and see what I find.

More on this book later.

***

I finished reading that chapter on the bus/subway ride home from work Friday; you should have seen me bouncing along the sidewalk on my way to the gym! The resurgent vigor was wonderful to feel, spasming through my body; as always, these exuberant spasms wake my dick up. It's been a long time since I've sauntered along a busy street, happy, actually feeling my dick.

So yeah, I started feeling naughty.

In the pool—since my recent return to the gym, I've exiled myself to the smaller pool, feeling too self-conscious about my level of aquatic skill to swim in the larger one—I was doing my laps and practicing the breathing thing. You see, this is the real hurdle that's holding me back: I have never learned how to breath properly while I'm doing laps so I get winded very easily. Something to do with not yet having the physical coordination to actually tilt my head up for regular breaths of air while I'm swimming. So I've been focusing on this rudiment.

(And it's occurred to me more than once that there's a metaphor here. I used to be much more aware of my breathing—how it related to being grounded or fucked-up—than I am these days. But it's important; at that most basic level, breathing is about being receptive—or not.)

Anyway, in the pool my crotch was crying out for attention. This was a new one; quite honestly, it had never occurred to me before to play with myself in the swimming pool. But that's what I did. There was a woman swimming beside me, and another older heavy guy on the other side. I did a quick test—from where I was, could I see their submerged bodies? no, I could not—and then proceeded to extricate my needy member out the bottom of my swim trunks. Despite the certainty that the other two couldn't see what I was up to, I did feel self-conscious fondling myself like that, so I wasn't able to get myself fully hard.

Instead, as I swam my next lap I left my dangly bits dangling. A commando lap, you might say. And wow did that ever feel good! My dick enjoyed its freedom very much.

And, get this: my breathing on that particular lap was vastly improved! I wasn't winded at all. Surprised, I took another commando lap. And another. And another. And each time, not only was I breathing normally and regularly, but I also noticed that I was swimming more in a straight line than usual—none of the herky-jerky thrashing about this way and that. It was like my freed dick was a rudder or something.

So, I don't know what to make of that, eh?

All I know is, it was great to feel playful again.

***

In the shower after my swim I was thinking, again, about how the sex games that go on there hold so little allure for me anymore. This has been the case for a year now, so that shift may be permanent. I find this interesting; I used to be so into all that cruising, cop-a-feel sexuality endemic to the gym's sauna, shower and locker room.

I went into the sauna; it was crowded, and most of the guys in there are not only regulars at the gym, but I also recognized many of them to be local gay men. And everyone sat silently, cruising or deflecting cruises. I thought about Nimmons's vision, and I wanted to speak up, say something ridiculous: "Hey, we're all homos here, right? Can't we at least talk?"

(I didn't do that, but what I'm working on lately in the locker room is striking up conversations with strangers. I'd become too shy and reserved, and these little experiments remind me that I have a gregarious, outgoing self too that I can choose to let out more.)

The guy I sat beside on the sauna's bench is to die for: I've seen him around the ghetto ever since I moved here, and I'm always struck by his sexiness. A blonde guy, probably my age or older, sweet faced with white white teeth and a humpy body without being gym-bunny muscular. This was the second time I'd encountered him in the locker room; I remember nearly fainting the first time I saw him naked in the shower, thinking It's not fair that someone that sexy also has a perfect bubble butt and a huge dick!.

Blondie got up and headed for the shower; I soon followed—only because I'd had enough of the steam, eh? You do believe me, don't you?

He went into the back shower room, and I stood under a nozzle across from him; it was just us two in there. I certainly wasn't looking for or expecting any naughtiness, and there was none forthcoming. But I sure couldn't take my eyes off him. Umpf! I also noticed that his hair is thinning, noticeably so since the last time I'd had a good look at him.

And something else. I picked up some unsettled—even sad—vibe about him. Or was I imagining (projecting) it? Perhaps. I grew curiouser. He kept peering out the shower room entrance to see who else might around; every time he'd turn his back to me and soap himself up down there, I couldn't help but notice that when he turned back around he was, um, fuller. And fuller. And fuller.

Still that brooding look on his face. I recognized it. Or thought I did.

And as I exited the shower room and began toweling myself dry, I smiled at my preposterous but quite-possibly-true notion that this lickable hunk might too be fretting about growing old and undesirable.

Obviously, I have no idea whether I was right or not. It doesn't matter. What matters, what felt great, was my re-emergent curiosity.

***

The reading, the swim, the shower: all told, I felt pretty horned up, eh? Got home from the gym around 7, had an hour to kill before the AA meeting. Enrique was gone for a workout at his gym.

I ducked into the bedroom, shut the door behind me (in case Enrique got back earlier than expected), and had a jolly old time.

Lately, masturbation has tapered right off. And not just because of my houseguest. I simply haven't been feeling sexual. The, um, handful of times I've jerked off in the past month has been about this porn video Enrique brought with him, or the Saturday night porn shown on PrideVision.

It felt vastly different, Friday, being aroused by life itself.

***

It was about 11 or 11:30 that night. I was almost ready for bed, sitting here surfing the net while Enrique watched TV and wondered aloud if he might go out to one of the bars. He felt frisky, he said.

"Red Shoe Diaries" was on Showcase, a show I'd never seen before. It was about this nymph of a prisoner, a bodacious blonde woman and her hunky jail guard. The scene was of her showering in the prison shower while he sat discretely on the other side of the wall so he couldn’t see her; she flirted outrageously with him and it was really working. He was losing his resolve, big-time, looking so sexy and corruptible sitting there licking his lips as she talked dirty-talk and lathered herself up on the other side of the wall. Eventually she wandered over and plunked down naked and dripping on his big lap; they kiss a bit but then he refused to go any further.

Later, Nymph is back in her cell and Hunky-Guard is, well, guarding her. It's late at night. She convinces him to tell her a bed-time story. He doesn't know what to narrate, so she suggests he tell her how he lost his virginity. Hunky-Guard gets right into his story, all about being seduced by an older woman when he was sixteen, his eyes closed and his full red lips pursed in a kiss of memory. Soon Nymph has completely disrobed again, and Hunky-Guard is standing right up against her cell. She caresses his outstretched hand, then places it on her quivering breasts. They kiss again.

To my surprise, this most heterosexual of seduction scenes got me rock-hard. Enrique was in the shower while I was watching it. When he came out, I was wide awake, almost manic.

"So, Enrique, do you want to check out the cruising area down by the water?"

He did. Five minutes later, we were out the door.

Enrique had never been down there before, nor does he frequent any such homospaces. So he was quite nervous. "What do I do if someone comes up and starts grabbing me?" he asked. I explained that this was unlikely to happen, that guys are not that forward. He calmed down a bit. We giggled and chatted away all the way down to the water.

The cruising area is around this strange building jutting out of a hill; on top is a cement roof level with the lawn; down below the structure grows out of the hill, with a clump of bushes in front capacious enough to hold and hide two or more guys. I gave Enrique the tour. He was too shy to walk up and peek into the clump, but we walked around the perimeter of this odd structure. It wasn't that busy; maybe 3 or 4 guys wandering around, all of whom looked pretty good to me in the moonlight.

But I hadn't really gone down there to do anything; it was just a whim, really; I was merely showing the spot to Enrique, eh?

After pointing out the various spots where guys might hook up, including the darkened stairwell, I said I was going to walk around once more before we headed back. That was fine with Enrique; he said he'd wait for me on the concrete. "Take your time," he said, laughing.

I went down the hill and walked right up to the bushes. Peeked in. Oh. As my eyes adjusted to the light, I realized two guys were in there, going at it. They stared at me blankly, sizing me up. I stood motionless, watching. One was a Caucasian guy around my age, stocky and pale in the moonlight leaking through the shrubbery. The other fellow was a bit younger and dark-featured: at first I thought he was Asian but the more I watched him I thought he must be mixed-race. Perhaps black and Asian? Whatever the ethnic background, it sure looked good on him. Delicately rounded nose on a lickable moon face.

They both had their pants around their ankles; Pale Guy's button shirt was unbuttoned, and Moon Face had his red muscle shirt pulled up over his nipples. Moon Face was backed right up against Pale Guy's crotch; at first I assumed he was getting fucked but he then twirled around so quickly to kiss Pale Guy that they couldn't have been plugged right in.

They both kept looking at me. No words were spoken. After a moment or two, I sensed that my presence was not unwelcome. Dodging branches, I shuffled closer to them. Soon I was fondling both their hard-ons. Pale Guy was thick thick thick. Moon Face had his big tanned arm stretched out, holding himself up against the concrete wall behind; I leaned over to worm my tongue into his delicious armpit. He seemed to like that.

They started grabbing at me. I fell to my knees and licked each dick. Yum. Then I gorged myself on both dicks at the same time, gagging and stretching my cheeks wide. Fucking hot.

I stood back up. Pale Guy undid my fly. Moon Face started kissing me. Heaven. Pale Guy jerked my dick as he kissed Moon Face. I thought I would cum just from watching them. I slurped my way back into Moon Face's armpit. Pale Guy broke away from Moon Face, knelt down and took me in his mouth; Moon Face and I kissed.

Pale Guy stood up; he and I kissed for the first time. He kept spitting in his hands for lubricant as he jerked me off. Considerate and effective. I loved the taste of him.

"Fuck," I said, the first words any of us had spoken. "You guys are so hot. This is my lucky night, eh?"

They both laughed.

And then I came, keeping my voice down as my knees buckled and I spurt everywhere. Pale Guy had just the right touch to bring me off; both he and Moon Face murmured appreciatively as I moaned and writhed.

I giggled. I did up my pants. "I gotta go guys," I said. "My friend's waiting for me up there. But thanks, eh?"

I leaned in and kissed them both. "Try to have fun without me, eh?" I said. They chortled. "You were doing just fine before I got here."

And I left, climbing the hill back up to where Enrique waited. Weak-kneed and glowing, I told him my news. He giggled and congratulated me.

We walked up the hill towards home. I kept remembering little details to tell Enrique that would make me go "umpf!" all over again. "Oh my god, I had both of them in my mouth at the same time! I'm not sure, but I think that's a first for me, eh?"

And it was all good. Public, al fresco sex is a huge turn-on for me.

Is that all there is to us, to me? Definitely not. But it is a beautiful part, a part worth celebrating.