Thursday, 31 May 2012
Wednesday, 30 May 2012
Nick the Trick
It’s Sunday night, I have to work
tomorrow and it’s already 10pm, but I’m hunting men online. There is one guy, Nick*, who has been trying
to arrange a hook up with me for three weeks.
“You’re fuckin’ hot – I like your look man,” he tells me. He gives me his phone number and I text him
my address. He responds by saying he
entered me on his phone contacts list as “Stud”.
I moved to the big city from a
small town to search for a connection, and I’d be lying if I said that the
connection I sought wasn’t sexual.
Whether that connection was to be found with one man, or the whole crowd
at the Eagle on a Saturday night, it didn’t matter. I’m a self-professed sexual adventurer - a
nice way of saying I’m a slut. I never
bought into the word “slut” as having a negative connotation. Was I ever thrilled when those Slut Walks
were happening in 2011 all over the world.
Should I condemn myself for seeking connection with others through
sexual means? The world at large would
say yes. But of course that world is all
too often hypocritical. Try looking at
it this way: Sex often brings disparate people together in an intimate way,
people who might otherwise never have met.
But any realist will tell you
that sex, and the hunting for it, doesn’t always bring joy – that’s why this
column is subtitled “Cautionary Tales from the Quest”. First off, hunting for sex is time
consuming. For all the time I spend on
line, I could easily do a part-time evening job, and I sure could use that job to pay for the
drinks I consume at the bars. Whether
online, at a bar, at a sauna or at the grocery store, hunting for sex is
fun...and tiring...and exciting...and disappointing. It’s hot.
It’s desperate. It’s an
affirmation of one’s sexuality, but the ego can be bruised faster than it takes
to click “send”. Hunting for sex is a
game that has no end. And would you want
it to end? It can be an addiction. How far you spiral into that addiction depends
on so many factors. But my question, as
I walk down the street and wonder about the sex lives of the non-descript
people who pass by, is: Aren’t we all
touched by this addiction in some way, gay or straight?
Back to Nick
the Trick. He’d been eating away his
time by cyber-chasing me for 3 weeks, as I mentioned. He suggested that we get
to know each other – naked. My pics are
recent and are body and face, me in all my naked glory save for the black
underwear (he didn`t request the naked ones).
But I waffled with Nick – was I really attracted to his pics? But it was time to
shit or get off the pot and not be an internet player. Then he writes: “Are you masc?” It should be a rhetorical question, because
how else can I answer but with “ Yeah man, masc here”. I’m pretty built, have facial hair, and like
to fuck to heavy metal. And I think Liza
Minnelli is grand. This can go either
way here, folks. He says he’s on his
way.
He buzzes, I
let him up, open the door and see it right away. It’s a look I’ve seen before, and a look I’ve
no doubt given before when meeting a trick – disappointment. Something right away isn’t living up to his
expectations. So before I can decide if
I even like him, I am challenged to change the look on his face. He comes in and I offer him a beer. I grab one for myself – it’ll be my fourth
drink that night (on a work night). He
steers towards my couch which is covered with clothes and newspapers, and says
“So, you live in the gay Village”. Strike
one – he is one of those gay men who abhors the Village and what it represents
to them. Undaunted, I suggest that the
bed might be more comfortable to chat on.
He doesn’t look convinced but follows me in, where my computer is
playing some good ‘ol rock n’ roll.
And we
talk. Or he talks. Once he gets going, I find it hard to get a
word in edgewise. More to the point,
when I do speak he has a tendency to cut me off. But I’m a pleaser, and so let him have the
floor, showing a keen interest, hoping this makes him like me – sad, but
true. But an hour passes and finally –
he yawns. He says that he should
probably get going. In five minutes he
is out the door and we both know that that is the end of that.
The door
closes and there is a deathly silence in my head, even as the metal continues
to play. I hold my head in my hands and
think these thoughts: What did I do to
disappoint him? Was I not masculine
enough? I wanted him to want me, but am
acutely aware that that is my ego talking.
I was in truth only mildly attracted, but his distance made me want to
pounce on him.
At this point,
you have two options. You can turn out
the lights, go to bed, curl up like a fetus and feel sorry for yourself, but I
chose something different. After holding
my head in my hands for 30 seconds, I decided to reclaim my bruised ego and my
sexuality. I poured myself another
drink, opened up a porn site, and proceeded to jack off. Pathetic you say? Oh no, dear reader, it’s called reclaiming
your sexuality. If Nick didn’t want me
and my sexuality, I would satisfy myself.
My self- worth and vision of my sexuality wouldn’t be extinguished by
one guy saying no. The lesson here was
that my sexuality, my sense of pleasure, was in my hands, not Nick’s. In my late thirties, I was no longer willing
to hand over my sexual self-esteem to anybody.
And yet...I run into Nick on the streets of the Village from time to
time (he, who apparently condescends about the Village, sure seems to be
spending a lot of time in it). And
usually we ignore each other, or quickly nod.
Invariably, a feeling of shame, of being “less than”, creeps up the back
of my neck. I valiantly try to resurrect my self-esteem. Then, an act of God: The next guy that passes by smiles
flirtatiously at me. I say a little
prayer of thanks for this boost from an angel and continue down the street, on
a chilly Fall day in the Village.
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