Tuesday, Dec. 30, 2003 - 9:31 p.m.
Damaged Good

The boy cyber-invited me to his place Sunday night, a block away. Not his: a friend's apartment he was house-sitting. Sure, why not. My date, a 21 year old Native-Canadian guy, had cute pics and I liked the sound of his voice--a nelly breathiness--on the phone.

I figured if someone's a psycho killer, they probably won't murder me in their pad. Or their friend's. Which--considering Dahmer's and Gacy's modi vivendi--makes about as much sense as any of the situational talismans I cling to, making a sex life on the other side of you-know-what.

Let's call him Dylan. Dylan was pudgier than his pics, but that was okay. After my week of Christmas bingeing, I probably was too. I didn't know how I felt about having sex, unshowered and mildly jetlagged from my flight back home. I didn't know how I felt. I was intrigued enough to walk the block over, but we'd discussed nothing by way of an agenda. Perfect.

Sat down, started talking and smoking. Soft-spoken and friendly, Dylan gave off an appealing, effeminate vibe. We sat there on his friend's couch; it was palpably comfortable. I liked talking to him. I didn't know what, if anything, more I wanted to do with him.

It got quiet. I like silence, comfortable silence like this was. I was smiling at him, and thinking about how grounded I felt. Dylan looked at me with increasing curiousity. My dick started twitching.

"What are you thinking about?" he asked. Oh please. I grinned at him. He plunked his foot up against my thigh, pressed it into me.

"I wouldn't mind fooling around," he said shyly.

"Oh yeah?" I said, non-committal, irked at the crotch-lurch provoked by his words and touch. "Well I'm not sure I'm up for anything tonight, to be honest. You know, unshowered, kind of tired. But I'm enjoying chatting with ya."

So we chatted some more. Dylan works at a bookstore. I expressed my jealousy. "I'd give up my job in a heartbeat--take a huge cut in pay--to work in a bookstore. My mom thinks I should own one someday," I said.

We talked about books, and gay life, all the stuff I love talking about with interesting boys. There was a definite, inchoate connect. I liked the way he was looking at me, but I didn't know what to say with my eyes. I liked Dylan, almost immediately, but did I want to touch him?

"My friend says I can do whatever, here, by the way," non sequitured Dylan. I grinned. His foot pressed more urgently, and roamed a bit.

Soon I was lying alongside him. He plunged his big warm tongue down my throat, hands roving everywhere. I liked this. I moaned. He sucked on my cheek, my neck. I squirmed a bit at the latter attention, atop my scar, but he didn't say anything. We made out for a long while and then I said "You know what? I don't want to go any farther than this. I'll give you my number and if you want, we can maybe meet up some other time."

"That's exactly what I was thinking," Dylan said. I peered into his wide-open face, and his hazel eyes were glistening.

"You're not like other gay men," he said. "You seem really down to earth."

"Well, some days, maybe," I replied, grinning.

He kissed me again, and I got swept up in it and before I knew it he had my shirt pulled up and was suckling my nipples. I could feel my dick oozing in my jeans. His hand slid down beneath my underwear, squeezing an introduction.

"I really should get going," I half-heartedly protested, grabbing hold of the bulge in his jeans.

"Heh," said Dylan. He complimented me on my Caesar hairstyle, started playing with my goatee that runs down over my throat, an unsuccessful attempt to cover up the scar.

"What happened to your neck?" he asked, fingering the red marks.

I flinched. I took a deep breath, staring out the window.

"Well, maybe someday I'll tell you," I said.

"Sure."

Soon after, I left. Liking him, uncertain about whether I wanted him to call, needing to cum, feeling open, wanting to cry.

Missing my untorn flesh, the damage I used to be able to hide.