What I’d really intended to talk about last time was the men in my life, my sex life in particular. The men in my sex life: now that’s an interesting phrase. There are no men in my sex life at present, not in any ongoing way or even in any fleeting way. But I still have a sex life; some of the deepest and most ongoing aspects of sexuality—for me, and I suspect I’m not alone in this—have little to do with actual sex. The juice is often largely interior, those realms of fantasy and thought and writing and dreaming; for certain periods—especially recently—masturbation can be the sole or primary outlet. But I would like to populate my erotic dance card with a man or two (or three or....). Preferably, I'd like to have a few of them stick around past the lush, sweaty minutes of copulation.
A guy can dream, can’t he?
I hope to proceed somewhat more gradually—even cautiously—than in the past. It all feels new, somehow. Intimidating, even. The fact that I’m getting back in physical shape after this spring’s shoulder-injury-related hiatus is one thing; still another—and I doubt I’ll ever get clear in any objective sense about this—is that, yes indeed, I have aged: a face less youthful and a body at least somewhat less shapely, seemingly irreversibly so. So there’s the whole self esteem thing that goes along with that.
Sometimes I see inherent opportunities for erotic growth and depth in getting older; at other times, I feel incredibly sucky about it, fretting that no one that I’m attracted to will want to have sex with me ever ever again. It’s definitely been an interesting time, lately, zig-zagging between those poles. This zig-zag has been exacerbated, I think, by the near-absence of sexual experience of late; in other words, this has been going on mostly in my mind. Once I get back on the saddle, so to speak, my perspective might even out somewhat, tempered by the experiential.
As I wrote those last two sentences, my dick woke up. I don’t mean that I’m getting a hard-on (I’m not), but I can feel my penis, now, as I write. More specifically, I can feel its yearning—the quality of what I feel down there right now is emotional as much as it is pure sensation. Wild. Now that I think of it, it’s very much like the crotch reaction I’ve experienced in situations not the slightest bit sexual yet intensely emotional: having a grown man cry in my presence, or holding a baby in my arms. Interesting...
Anyway, Saturday afternoon I was journaling at my usual cafe smack dab in the middle of the gay ghetto. I believe I was writing about some of these same issues, actually, when this tall, slightly pudgy guy walked by on the street. I recognized him instantly.
Oh my God: a guy I had sex with once and I think even twice years ago at the Bijou in Toronto walked by! (Today I'm sitting at the window as there are no tables available.) I remember him vividly because his dick was enormously thick and also because he discovered his wallet was missing while he and I and one or two others were going at it in the darkroom. I worried he would think I took it, but he didn't seem to.
I remember months later being at a movie theater with Alex (to see "Celluloid Closet") and this guy was there and cruised me fiercely without seeming to recognize me.
And then I'm not sure but I think he and I hooked up one other time later at the Bijou; I kind of remember "reminiscing" with him about the wallet incident.
Anyway, he looks exactly the same, still somewhat pudgy and still handsome. I sure remember his gargantuan penis! I recall that it never got completely hard. What a lovely, monstrous toy though.
Just like I felt last night at the meeting, this morning, right now, sitting here in this busy café watching people go by, I feel a part of everything going on around me.
An extremely normal, human reaction or condition or state of being. But it's been a while since I've felt that.
One day at a time!
The East Indian guy I "almost" picked up late one evening this summer just sat down here to my right, two stools away. I think I'm going to say hello.
I put down my pen, looked over at the East Indian guy, and smiled. He smiled back. I asked if he remembered me. He said I looked familiar, but he couldn't place me. I reminded him of our late-night walk-a-bout. We chatted pleasantly for a few minutes before I left the café.
Such pleasant, civilized exchanges mean a lot. And so do the raunchy memories, such as mine of Mr. Coke-Can-Dick.
And this weekend I spent a good chunk of time hanging out with a guy I've met at AA, a sexy guy, an interesting guy. He likes to wear jean cut-offs without underwear; I can vouch for his shaved balls as well, having had a sneak-peek as he sat here, cross-legged, in my living room. I don't know if he's attracted to me, and I honestly do not feel the slightest bit of my usual neurosis about that. Maybe he is; maybe he's not. I like him, and I think we'll become friends.
Horniness and friendliness both took a backseat there for a while. But I'm thawing, eh? I've got hard parts, and others not hard enough; my soft side gets me into trouble and also into love. With each passing day, more of me readies, again, to play and learn anew.
