Monday, August 8, 2016
Saturday, August 6, 2016
Monday, October 15, 2012
I keep waiting for you to stop caring. The sad part is that it’s been the hallmark of our ‘relationship’ this expectation… like I need you so much more than you need me.
I don’t think you ever realized how important you’ve become to me. So much of our time was spent talking about what was going on in your life—not that I begrudge you that. You have been dealing with a bunch of stuff—stuff that I don’t envy you at all. it’s just that, really, you were the only friend I felt I had in Seattle. You were he one I wanted to spend my time with—no so much out of desperation for another person in my life, though. You were the one that mattered. You… I feel… I love you.
Tuesday, March 20, 2012
I’m often confronted by the realization that what I want frightens me. I know that’s… vague. but that is what the experience is—a vague feeling of fear.
I want, but I’m afraid of, responsibility.
I want, but I’m afraid of, major purchases.
I want, but I’m afraid of, intimacy.
I want, but I’m afraid of, sex.
I’m coming to grips with a lot of the above. And, reading over that list, the one that feels the most vulnerable to admit to is the last.
Sex, as a youth, meant furtive masturbatory experiences. There was no place for it in polite conversation, or in my every day.
Sex, in college, meant struggling with what I was told was ‘right’ with what I felt was right. I ‘should’ want a relationship with a woman, I felt I wanted—no craved—the touch of a man, instead. For years, I continued to struggle with that juxtaposition and, afterward, with the bifurcation of my personal life with my ‘family’ life. Secrets kept until my mid-to-late 20s. I understood that part of myself, but did not have the strength of character to admit it to my family, or many of my friends.
Sex, in my 20s and 30s, was scarce—largely owing to my own insecurities and, yes, fear. I’ve always been shy, and socially awkward—though as I’ve gotten older I’ve ‘covered’ that better. It still terrifies me to be in social settings though, admittedly, less so when I don’t know anyone at all. Weird? Maybe—but when I’m in a completely new place, when I know no one, I can convince myself that there’s no harm in making an ass of myself—if that should happen. It relieves the pressure. So to speak.
You hit your 40s, with only a handful of sexual experiences under your belt—so to speak—and you wonder if you know anything about sex at all. I also, finally, admitted to myself that bottoming—scary, full of the fear that it would hurt—was something I had thought about, and envied in others. In porn, if a bottom can lose themselves in the sensations of bottoming… that is what I covet.
Slowly, I’m coming out of my shell. every step is a bit frightening, and more than a bit empowering. Every step, thankfully, has been a step forward. When I lose patience with myself, I’m reminded of that.
The other thing I’ve had to confront lately is that I’ve been waiting. Waiting for something to happen—for someone or something to bring change into my life. Fear again. Of committing to a change, or an action. Fear of taking a chance, and being rebuffed. I’m tired of living in fear. I’m trying to take ownership of my own life, and what that means.
So, 45th birthday behind me, I choose to stop waiting and start taking chances. I remind myself that I don’t have to change overnight—that each step is a step forward, to knowing myself better and to becoming a whole, healthy, sexual being.
Wednesday, March 7, 2012
***Warning: Not the least bit sexy***
I will admit to a certain amount of melancholia at this time of year. Birthdays do that to me. It’s a reminder of where I am, and where I thought I’d be, and how disparate those two really are.
Add to that a certain amount of upheaval—new job, new lifestyle (working from home)—and it’s a bit of a recipe for disaster.
So, imagine how my evening turned out when someone posted a link (below) with little preamble. Once I clicked on it, I found it to be an 11 minute section of Prayers for Bobby. Never having seen it, I watched it. Fair warning—if the rest of the movie is anything like these 11 minutes—it’s an amazingly moving story, heart wrenching and uplifting in turns. All the more so because it’s not just a story. Bobby was a 19 year old boy who, having come out to his mother—a Christian (capitol C)—was greeted with all of the litany of things I feared when I grappled with the realization that I was gay. You see, I was raised—at least for the latter part of my formative years—in a born-again Christian household. I heard, often, how gays were sinner bent on hell and damnation. It wasn’t my parents (or in this case foster parents) trying to convince me—though maybe, at some point, at some level, they knew long before I did. It was just them espousing their beliefs. Hell and damnation, and the knowledge that I was, less than. To be prayed for, but not accepted. “Love the sinner, hate the sin.” It’s a charming little sound byte. But what happens when a person realizes that, at their very core, it’s not a phase. It’s not just a habit or behavior, but it’s who they are—as integral as their hair color or eye color. I didn’t choose to be gay. I didn’t choose to face a world where even your family aren’t necessarily your allies. What I did choose was to walk away from my family. From people who never really understood why. How could they understand that ‘love the sinner, hate the sin’ translated for me into ‘how could you love me when you reject something that is so part of who I am?’ It was, in a few small words, the assurance that they would never really be able to love me for me. There would always be, at some level, a hope that I would change—that prayer, and ‘trying hard enough’ would make me different.
Bobby chose a different way out. At the age of 19, rejected by the ones who were supposed to love him the most, he took his own life. I was reminded how often, at a similar age, I felt cut off from those in my life who were meant to be closest to me. Thoughts of a similar fate weren’t foreign to me. I’m not entirely sure what kept me going.
Yes, this blog entry is atypical – for this blog at least. I will say that, having watched the clip below, I was touched both by the memories of my own life and the way that Bobby’s mother changed. She has become a strong advocate for gay rights, and sees how her rigid beliefs failed her son. It is her goal to make the world a safe place for people like Bobby.
I share this link with you because it hit so close to home.
Thursday, January 19, 2012
Sex involves a certain amount of vulnerability. In my life, I’ve been vulnerable—and clearly made poor choices with whom. The result is that it’s not easy for me to be open to sex, or to be open with people. One of the things I’ve chosen to do with my life is approach sex, and vulnerability, and try and gain back some of what I think I’ve lost.
I rarely feel visible, in uncontrolled settings. Take that for what you will. In light of that, over the years, a couple of ways to deal:
1) self-medicate so that I feel less inhibited
2) pay for sex
The former rarely has worked out well. Though it has afforded me a handful of interesting stories to share. I’ve shared them, though admittedly left out the ‘buyer’s remorse’ that typically hits the next day. Sure, there was the time in NYC during gay pride when I knelt before two men and took care of their dicks. Sure, there was the pair that I sucked off in a back alley in Chicago. Yes, there was the time, at Folsom, where I made out—and more—with the attractive older guy in a bar. The fact that I did so only because I was tipsy (I’m being generous) is what leaves a bad taste in my mouth.
The times I’ve paid for sex, though. Some of those have been truly eye opening experiences. One I’ve already blogged about here. The other that comes to mind is relatively recent.
I say ‘paid for sex’ but really, this was sexual but didn’t involve intercourse, or oral. It involved a massage—both external and internal.
Arriving at his home, it was very peaceful. He’d set aside a private space for his practice. It was soothing, and welcoming. I’d had the chance to discuss with him what my goals were—to explore opening myself up to sex, both figuratively and literally. In spite of a fairly open—and very accepting—conversation and well set expectations, I was nervous. Driving to his neighborhood, I was nervous. Parking on his street, I was nervous. Walking up to his door, I was nervous. Once I got inside, though, and we sat on the massage table and started talking… my nerves went away. Instead, I was excited. Vibrating, almost. Hard to breathe. That kind of excited.
Laying face down, naked, on the warm table my nerves came back a bit. Not debilitating, just… there. The smell of sage, cleansing. Breathing, deep. In… out.
The feeling of his warm hands, oiled, on my back while I breathed—relaxing. As he worked his way down my back, ever closer to my butt, I felt my anticipation building. Working on my butt—not the crack, not the hole—I breathed a bit more… then to my thighs and legs.
There was a moment when his hands spread my legs farther apart, something about the strength in his hands in that movement that was exciting but not overwhelming. I started losing a sense of timeline. I remember the sensations, and experience in general. It’s hard to break up the whole into snippets.
There was the feeling of oil down my the crack in my ass. I continued deep breathing, but when he touched my hole—even to just stroke the oil over it—my breath became a gasp. The sensation as he stroked my ass, while spreading the cheeks apart. Then there’s the feeling of him reaching between my legs—while I continued to lie face down—reaching under me and stroking my hard dick. The sensation of his tongue on my hole, the feeling of his mouth, biting the cheeks of my ass. These come rushing back to me. Gasps. I’d rimmed men—and enjoyed that—but never been treated to that myself. Was afraid I wouldn’t enjoy it. Unfounded fear, as it turned out. Breathing. Gasping. Occasionally moaning. There was never insertion—well not of cock into ass.
Fingers, yes. Toys, yes. The overwhelming sensations of a toy inside me while he stroked me, hard and wet as I was. Feelings of uncertainty—would I continue to like this? Would there be a moment where I just shut down, shut off.
There were three toys, I think, that night. The last, as it vibrated inside me, he laid on my back and thrust with his pelvis. Fucked by a vibrating, hard surrogate. Feeling his warmth against my back. The hair of his chest.
Breathing. Respite. A moment to collect myself. Then I was on my back, and his warm hands—slick with oil—played across my body. My nipples, my dick, my arms and arm pits, nothing went untouched or unstroked. No kissing.
I can’t tell you the number of times that I laid there, overcome by tremors. My body overwhelmed with sensations. Each time there would be a few moments respite, and then the feelings would build again under his practiced hands.
When the evening ended, I was a sodden mess—wrung out. I can’t even tell you if I came or not. He told me I did, but I was lost to the moment. Covered in oil, feeling a sense of connectedness and openness, I dressed and drove home.
Thinking about the experience, the drive home uneventful. Thinking about the experience, the ride up in the elevator beneath my notice. Thinking about the experience, I came, lying on the floor in my bathroom in three strokes of a wet hand.