Hey All! Check out this link to see the other 99 hottest sex blogs out there! Still working on my book about masturbation, but this blog will be active again with new posts down the line. Love you guys!
Trade was the name
given to the event at the Eagle a few weekends ago that I attended. At the Eagle, the main floor with its
attached backroom was being renovated and so the bar got special city
permission to allow for sex to happen any and every where in the bar. I went up the steps to the second floor,
turned into the entrance and the first thing I saw was a buddy of mine giving
head to a happy customer right next to the line-up of men waiting to be served
their drinks from the hirsute bartender.
Later, when my buddy was freed of the cock-sucking task, I went over and
gave him a big bear hug and a kiss on the lips.
“Damn buddy, I can taste cock on your lips!” I told him, to which he
whooped “Right on!” and we hugged again.
I was to meet another buddy there that night, Ken, and he
showed up shortly after I did. The bar
and its adjacent patio were packed to the rafters. In the dark bar, men danced, though there was
no dancefloor, and released their cocks from their pants. At one point, while chatting with Ken, a
handsome stranger undid my fly and kindly blew me for a bit while I chugged my
pint. It was a heady mix of sexually
potent stimulation – the loud music, the smell of sweat and leather, the
laughter, the cigarette smoke on the patio.
I was horny, slightly overwhelmed (so many men, so little time!) and
getting buzzed from my beer.
But I stayed only about an hour and a half and then went
Why is the world would I leave, you ask? I felt bad leaving so early as my friend Ken
must have felt ditched. Or maybe not –
he had arrived with another friend in tow and he knew half the room. But I had to go home. I had to be alone. To masturbate.
The title of this blog is “Hunting for Sex”, but if you’ve
read much of it, you’ll notice my penchant for masturbation. Between the choice of sex with others and sex
with myself, sex with myself often wins out.
And this can be a hard concept for many people to wrap their heads
around. But one place where men really
do understand is on BateWorld.com.
BateWorld.com is a website devoted to male
masturbation. The site prohibits
pictures or videos of anal or oral sex.
The devotees to masturbation on the site have turned jacking off into an art
form. We’re not generally talking about
the quick wank in the shower before work in the morning. We’re talking about men who bate (masturbate)
for hours (“edging”), becoming one with their cocks to the point of “gooning”
(that point in the bate where you are so connected to your cock that you are
all but babbling and drooling).
The notion of solosexuality is one that is discussed on
blogs and polls and forums on the site.
It’s as if a variant of gay sexuality has come to light – gay men who
get off on men (though straight men populate the site too), but prefer to get
off alone, using porn, poppers and whatever other accoutrements they like (or
conversely, use tantric practices to heighten the experience). Like in any community that tries to define
itself, there is contention about what a true “solosexual” is. Is it someone who never ever has sex with
others? Can you define yourself as
solosexual if bating is your true sexual passion, though you do bate with others
or, furthermore, engage in penetrative sex sometimes too?
When I bate, it’s an event that lasts hours, involving some
and sometimes all of the following:
Dancing in the mirror in fetish wear to Pearl Jam and Rob Zombie playing on Youtube;
smoking; drinking my beloved Jack Daniels; porn (lots!); piss play by
myself; playing with loads of cum that
I’ve saved all week for the weekend bate; poppers; and so on. What happens is that I reach a transcendental
place where my whole body is cock, my whole brain is sex. It’s both joyous and sometimes
frightening. Members on BateWorld.com
talk about falling into the “batehole” where you get so into the trance-like
nature of the event that you wonder if you’ll be able to come back to the real
world. While some bators (masturbators)
get to this state of ecstasy while bating with other men in real time or on
cam, for now, my preference is to do it alone so that I can fully experience my
sensations without worrying about pleasing anybody but myself (how selfish!). I have no intention of giving up sex with
others, but with the intensity that my bates provide, is it any wonder that I
put bating first in my sexual pecking order?
True bators speak a whole language unto themselves, and I’m
hell-bent on learning and exploring this.
So this will likely be my last essay for this blog for a while, as my
intention is to, if I can, write a book about masturbation, solosexuality, and
the culture that has arisen from it. I
will always keep an eye on this blog, and I certainly hope you won’t stop
writing to me and telling me about your sexual journey – I live for that! Once
I get that book out of my system, I know I’ll be back – exploring, wishing to
dialogue with you, learning, sharing. If
you read this and identify as a bator, I hope you’ll write to me and tell me
all about it! But most of all, thank you
for reading me for the year that this blog has been around.
Last Monday was Valentine’s Day, and the Saturday before, my
fuck buddy came by. My fuck buddy is a
Master, and I his Sub. A bartender at a
major gay bar in the Village, Master Jordan is a 40 year old mohawked,
Metallica T-shirt wearing punk. He is so
serious and measured in everything he says and does, that I often don’t know
that he’s made a joke due to his complete poker face. It’s a quality that keeps me guessing. We’ve
been seeing each other casually since just before Christmas, and the deal is
that he loves to be worshipped, and I love to worship him. Simple, no strings – just good fun. When he came over, we sat to have a drink
before playing, and just to provoke a reaction, I said “Happy Valentine’s
Day”. Grinning, he said it back, and we
proceeded to discuss the merits and demerits (mostly demerits) of this holiday
that supposedly celebrates love.
I’m not in love with my Master,
nor do I believe that he is in love with me.
Which is good – he has a partner with whom he is in an open
relationship. And that makes me feel
safe. Can’t get too hurt since he isn’t
mine to lose, you know what I mean? But
I’ve never once celebrated a Valentine’s Day with someone I did love. Not surprising, since I also haven’t been in
love in 16 years. In fact though, I have
known love twice. And both times, it
nearly killed me. I recall a pain so
intense that, once where a permeable heart resided, a stone replica seemed to
take its place. But even if I could go
back in time, and be a friend to my younger self, what could I do to change
things? More importantly, how can I be a
friend to my present self and melt my heart now?
Like any 16 year old gay boy living in Winnipeg in 1990, I
knew two things: The drama club was a refuge, and I was going to hell for
thinking about guys. But on the first
day of rehearsal for our high school’s production of The Wizard of Oz, I just
cared that I had scored the part of the Scarecrow. And I hardly looked up when Jack Rankin, the
star grade-12 athlete, walked in the music room. Our eyes met, and he sauntered up to me to
say he’d seen me in another school play a month earlier and had thought I was
really good. I was too floored to be
nervous yet, and asked if he was going to be in the Wizard of Oz. “Yeah,” he answered, “I wanted just a really
small part, just to feel what it’s like to be on stage.” He didn’t have time to go to a lot of
rehearsals anyway – he was the school’s best athlete and devoted all his time
But he wasn’t slumming it.
He seemed to truly enjoy being at rehearsal, when he was called to them,
and he was unfailingly kind to me. The
poor guy – he didn’t know that his kind words were going to reduce me to
jello. Slowly, I began to track his every
move at rehearsals. And then in the
cafeteria. And in the hallways. He played intramural sports at lunch time,
and I, with my school books pressed tightly against my chest, would enter the
gym and quietly find a spot on the bleachers to eat lunch and furtively watch
him. But one time he noticed me. Like a deer in the headlights, I was sure
that he would magically sense that I was there only to see him, and he would
retaliate somehow for the unwanted attention of a fag. But, when he saw me, instead of giving me a
funny look, like I anticipated, instead of ignoring me like he well could have,
he smiled, gave a big wave and yelled “Hey Jason!” There is that famous moment in Romeo and
Juliet where Romeo spies Juliet for the first time at a party and knows that
things will never be the same. Like
Romeo, I was done for once Jack smiled at me in the gym. His “Hey Jason” was permission to like him.
I never doubted for a moment that Jack was straight, because
he was. But in spite of that, I got so
caught up in feelings for Jack that I felt like Dorothy being sucked up by the
cyclone and deposited in a different land far from home. I came to worship Jack out of all
proportion. We got to know each other
ever so casually through rehearsals, and I nearly shit myself every time he
came into the rehearsal room. I knew
that what I was feeling was what Romeo called love. My religious training had made me believe
that my attraction to guys was a one way ticket to hell. But this burgeoning feeling for Jack was so
pure, so clean, so golden, that I knew that what I was feeling was blessed by
God. And so I cracked open. Everything I thought I knew to be true about
God and the universe was turned completely upside down. Every bit of shame I felt from my religion and
my society was, I discovered, unfounded.
I had to totally reconstruct my concept of God, cope with the first
blush of love, and yet keep it hidden – all at the same time.
Jack thought I was a great guy. I even managed to get his phone number on
some pretense that I needed his advice about something. Hidden in the basement of my home, I dialled
the number, and his father answered.
Jack came to the phone and was as kind as ever. He didn’t rush to hang up after I babbled
whatever it was that I claimed to have called about. Instead, he talked to me about a girl.
“I asked Linda to the prom, but I get this sense that she’s
not totally into me,” he said. And I,
ever the pleaser and the good listener, turned it up full volume and told him
the truth. Linda was the prettiest girl
in our high school, and could have any guy she wanted for the prom. But the fact was, she had accepted Jack’s
offer, just his. All he had to do now
was to believe in his worth. “Wow,” he
said, “Jason, you really are a great guy, thanks – you’re right, she said yes
to me.” While he hung up secure in the
fact that his girl really did like him, I hung up horrified that I had just
given romantic advice to the object of my affection. If I had had Romeo’s dagger, I would have
plunged it in my heart, except for one thing: I felt a hollow victory that he liked me a bit
more for my good advice. It was a crumb,
and I was starving.
It got ugly. I found his address easily enough in the
phone book, and I would get in my Dad’s car to go drive by Jack’s house again
and again, weeping and cursing my image in the rear-view mirror. Exhausted and nervous about circling his
block so much, I’d force myself back home, crying all the way, experiencing
this beautiful pain. My confused parents
didn’t know what to make of this young man who would unexpectedly burst into
tears during dinner. I told them a
partial truth – I said that I had fallen in love with a girl at school named
Jennifer and that it was unrequited.
They nodded, but mothers know things.
I don’t know where my mother got the balls from, but it could have been
the pain she felt at seeing her son completely unhinged. She gently sat beside her forlorn son on the
couch one day and ventured to ask if it was really a guy that I was hung up
about. This was my opportunity to unload
the burden of keeping Jack to myself, but instead I balked, insisting that it
was indeed a girl I was depressed about. (Did my mother think that the lady doth
protest too much?) I was naively shocked
that Mom would ask that of me, and dug myself deeper into an isolation that was
“Jack could be so arrogant,” Trina told me one day in
Language Arts class. “It was like he
thought he owned the world.” Trina
wrinkled her nose at the memory of dating Jack, and I was all ears. When I discovered that this girl in my class
had dated the object of my affection, I changed seats in class and sat near
her. I cunningly forged a friendship
with her, and obtusely began to ask her questions about her time dating Jack. A pretty blond girl, but not the most popular
in our school, she seemed only too eager to tell me that Jack wasn’t all that
he apparently thought he was. I goaded
her for more information, appealing to her apparent desire to talk about
herself. I couldn’t believe the negative
things she was saying about my god (he was egotistical?), but didn’t
interrupt. I would feast on her scraps
and try to match it to the Jack I knew.
When there was nothing left for her to tell, I abandoned my efforts with her,
having the information I desired.
I had become fast friends with
Blake, who played the Tin Man to my Scarecrow in The Wizard of Oz. He was in Jack’s grade, and was taking his
girlfriend, also in Jack’s grade, to the prom, and so his ticket for one guest
was unneeded. But I needed it. I wanted to go to Jack’s prom, knowing full
well that when he left our high school, I wouldn’t see him again. Blake gladly gave me the ticket, not knowing
that I was going not so that I could hang out with him and his girlfriend, but
so that I could stalk Jack. At the prom,
I recall dancing a slow dance with some girl long forgotten, and seeing Jack
dance with Linda, the alpha male with the prettiest girl in school. At one point, Jack and I spied each other,
with our girls in our arms, and he smiled, lifted his hand off Linda’s back,
and waved. I returned the wave in
kind. He was unfailingly nice, even with
Linda in his arms. I took a mental
picture of him, knowing that I would probably never see him again. And I was right.
I was chosen class valedictorian
the next year at my own graduation. I
wrote a speech that highlighted the contradictions we students felt at leaving
high school – excited to enter the real world, scared to leave what we loved
behind. My father had recently been laid
off, and my parents and I decided it was a perfect opportunity to start anew in
Edmonton, where my sister had already been living with her family for a number
of years. Alberta was the land of
opportunity, and we packed up a thousand boxes with the intent of leaving right
after I graduated. Sitting alone in my
basement, surrounded by said boxes, I prepared to put my childhood away. It had been a childhood where I had received
excessive love from my parents, but had not witnessed it in their
relationship. Rather, I had witnessed a
mother who desperately sought the affection of a husband who withheld it like
it was going out of style. A mirror
image to my mother, I had longed for Jack’s affection, and knowing that I was
leaving Winnipeg in days, it was now or never.
I picked up the phone and dialled his number. What would he think about receiving a call
from some dimly remembered acquaintance from a year ago? What pretense would I use now? The truth was, we had not been closer than
acquaintances. If I had been him, I
would have thought that I was a nutcase.
And so when he picked up the phone, all pretenses left me, and I simply
told him that I was leaving the city, and had valued knowing him, and thought
I’d say good-bye and wish him all the best.
Dear Reader, you must know how this went by now. Jack was gracious to a fault and said he’d
thought so well of me as well. We
chatted a bit about what he was doing with his studies, with his summer, and in
all, the conversation lasted ten minutes maximum. I hung up and stared at the phone for another
ten minutes. I wouldn’t hear Jack’s
voice again for another ten years. ******************************************************************************************************
Two years later, I was living the life of a theater
gypsy. To my parents’ horror, I had
chosen to become an actor, and found a home base in Vancouver. Travelling wherever the acting work took me,
I schlepped myself across Western Canada – Regina, Edmonton, back to Winnipeg,
Vancouver, twice working on Vancouver Island, living in motels or being
billeted in strangers’ homes during the run of a play. All my actor friends were doing the same
thing, and it wasn`t uncommon for us to store our belongings with friends while
we traveled for work. For a month I
bunked with a bunch of actors living in East Vancouver, and when two of them, a
young straight couple in love, decided to leave theater and return home to
Regina, they asked me if I could hold the belongings of their friend Jonathan,
himself working outside of Vancouver. I
agreed, left the communal arrangement and moved in with a Morrocan roommate in
Vancouver`s gay village, the West End.
By this time, I was out of the closet, to my parents, my
sister, to all of my friends. I`d even
had a few truncated sexual experiences.
But my passion was for the theater, not men.
My roommate had frequent tricks over, but I
stayed relatively chaste and pure in the oversized closet that was my
bedroom. Completely squished, I had to
get rid of Jonathan’s things, and left a message on his pager (remember those?). My only connection to Jonathan was that we
had both worked for the same theater company, but not at the same time. He called back to tell me when he would be
back in Vancouver and we set a time to transfer his belongings.
We met on a typically rainy Vancouver night at a restaurant. Slightly shorter than I, he was blond,
attractive, fit and possessed a charm that bordered on being slick. We talked shop and dished about the people we
both knew, and he openly flirted with me.
Walking me back home, we stood off to the side of my apartment building
and necked for an eternity. Nine years
my senior, I was enjoying being taken by someone who seemed so experienced and
even a bit world weary. I had no idea if
I was supposed to ask him in, and if I did, was I prepared for what would follow? The answer was no. I was not yet sure how I felt and finally put
an end to the kissing. By this time it
was incredibly late. He got his stuff
and I made him promise to call me when he got home so that I knew he was
safe. In the intervening time, I fell
asleep, and when he did call, it barely registered. My heart was safely packed away – he hadn’t
reached it. Yet.
But he persisted, calling again and asking if I’d like to
meet up again. At this time, I had
snagged a job singing standards of the 30’s and 40’s, with a wonderful
accompanist named Bob, at a cute little supper club in the heart of the village
called La Di Da. So I suggested Jonathan
come hear me sing and afterwards we’d have dinner. He did, and after my set was done, he said,
“I felt like you were singing to me alone.”
It was a good line, and my head tilted and I started to look at Jonathan
differently. Was I being pursued? The question was, did I want to be caught?
Eventually, he had me over to his place, and he had set up a
swinging bachelor’s pad for himself – dimly lit with plenty of candles and red
wine open, ready to be poured. Getting
drunk on his scent and the wine, I lay with my head in his lap while he stroked
my hair and asked me about my goals and dreams.
But I held back, fearful of appearing foolish – my dreams seemed so
unreal, so lofty. When he took me to the
bedroom, it was the first time that I made love, in the true sense of the
expression. It was slow, romantic,
overwhelming, enlightening, and lasted all night. This scenario repeated itself over the next
few weeks and my heart and mind exploded all over Jonathan. I felt recognized and seen, and became greedy
for his touch, his attention, his admiration.
I adored his experience as he adored my youth and naivete. I wrote long entries in my journal about him,
and cooked dinner for him one night – Kraft Dinner and a bologna sandwich. It was all I knew how to cook, but he said he
was touched simply because I had done it for him. I vowed to learn to cook better.
And on the couch one night, nestled in his arms, we
talked. “Jason, I went and got tested
for everything, because I want to make sure you are protected.” As clinical as that sounds, the intent behind
it sounded like a proposal. But he
added, “I don’t know if I am ready for a boyfriend, but I do want to keep
seeing you.” So, maybe it wasn’t a
proposal. He was, he said, getting over
a heartbreak, a guy named Pete whom he’d been crazy about but who had ended
it. “Do you still think about Pete?” I
asked? “Not when I’m with you,” he
replied. I chose not to think about who
took precedence in his mind when I wasn’t around.
That night, I entered him for the first time, the first time
ever being inside of a man. And the
feeling was one of “I belong. I belong
to Jonathan”. I left in the morning,
wondering if my being inside him had made me a man. Too impatient to wait until I got home, I
breathlessly ran to a pay phone to call him, telling him that I could still
smell him on me, that I missed him already.
And I remember not what he said, but what he didn’t say. He didn’t reiterate my unabashed
feelings. If anything, I got the sense
that if he could have reached through the phone lines, he would have patted my
head. But I disregarded any misgivings,
and any reticence he showed was just that of a world weary lover who had not
been loved quite like I could love him.
Days later, a phone call like any other. A conversation that started about nothing in
particular – I don’t even remember who placed the call. But I must have said something affectionate,
because there was a pause. He wasn’t
reaching through the phone to pat me on the head this time. This time he said that he felt I should know
that he wasn’t over Pete, he needed to go slow, he didn’t know what he wanted,
he didn’t want to hurt me. I told him
that this conversation was beginning to hurt, but that he might as well unload
it all now that he’d begun. He took a
deep breath and said that he loved me – but that he wasn’t in love with me.
When something bad happens in life, there is always a
calmness in that moment, a disbelief.
Rather than get completely lost in the moment and drowning right away,
you notice the way the sun is shining, you think about how you were supposed to
get to the bank before five. You wonder
if the bad thing is momentary, just a passing thing, like a headache, and that
it will all work itself out somehow, because this is not how the movie was
supposed to go. I heard Jonathan, but I
wasn’t listening. “Jason, are you still
there?” “Yes, I’m still here, but I
don’t know why. What more is there to
say? Are we broken up? Is this a break up?”
He said that yes, we should take a break and see how we
feel. Again, silence on my part. “Jason, say something, are you ok?” I realized that all my affectionate talk had
concealed the one thing that I had longed to tell Jonathan. I told him that I loved him. Now that it meant nothing, now that I was
faced with a brick wall, I could finally say I loved him. The words were right, the timing terribly
wrong. “I love you Jonathan, for what
it’s worth, I do love you.” And with
that, I hung up.
The break down was mind boggling and obsessive thinking took
over. Where did I go wrong? How could it feel so right for me, and wrong
for him? Wasn’t he the one who pursued
me? He had created this monster, and
like Dr. Frankenstein, he would have to take responsibility. But I’m not built for retribution, even
anger. Sadness instead became my new
outfit, and a worsening sense of self-esteem my new cologne. Every thought of my day related to Jonathan,
until I feared that I was clinically lost.
I lost my 20/20 vision, and viewed everything through a cloud. It’s a wonder that I made it to a bookstore,
where I found a book entitled “How to Stop Obsessing About the One You
Love”. I read it from cover to cover,
doing all the exercises. I don’t
remember a word of the book today. But I
do remember my roommate casually picking up the book from where I had left it
on the kitchen counter, and snickering that I hadn’t been “in love” – I had only
been infatuated and was being melodramatic.
I believe that’s what Romeo and Juliet were told before they offed
themselves. I was incensed that my
feelings could be so belittled and ran from the apartment (however
One thing I should have counted on, but didn’t because I was
too damn stupid, was that by living in the gay village, as Jonathan did, I was
bound to run into him. And so I should
have been prepared for it, because it happened not two weeks after our break up
over the phone. We stopped and
spoke. I was aiming to appear cool and
aloof, but he was warm and gentle. He
said he’d missed me.
We made love again that night.
And so began a yo-yo arrangement that proceeded to make
mince meat of my emotions. But not only
did we live in the same neighbourhood, we worked in the same, small, incestuous
theater community. And so, during one of
our numerous break ups and reunions, we discovered, by chance, that we had both
auditioned for, and gotten parts in, a trilogy of Harold Pinter one-acts. Blessedly, we were cast in different one-acts
and didn’t rehearse together. But
eventually we moved into the theatre for technical rehearsals and for the run
of the show. We were “together” during
this time, and being with him in that small theater off Commercial Drive for
hours at a time was a particular form of torture. I wondered if he would hang with me or the
other cast members. Would he greet me
with a kiss at the theater and put our relationship on display, or were we to
be, as he put it, “professional”. Added
to this nightmare was the fact that I was too green as an actor to be playing
Pinter – I didn’t have the chops for it yet.
And my reviews supported that notion.
Jonathan’s reviews, on the other hand, were spectacular – he was born to
it. I sabotaged myself at every turn,
watching him in the wings, envying his skill, knowing I soon had to go on next,
feeling like a failure. As a lover and
I guess God had a good time with An Evening with Harold
Pinter, because it happened that Jonathan and I worked together again – and
again. I was tapped to replace an actor
in a sketch comedy show in the suburbs, and it was a hit – good chemistry with
the other players and fun material. I was
asked by the theater to stay on for the next show, which would run on the
weekends only, but for great pay (great enough that I didn’t need another job),
and it would be written by the one and only Jonathan Mitchell. “Oh, do you know Jonathan?” the director asked
me. “Yes,” I answered, “ in a roundabout
Jonathan wrote the script but at the first read through, he
couldn’t attend. It was just as
well. Cigarettes lit, coffees filled, we
decided that the script needed “punching up” – it needed better, and more,
jokes. Jonathan did not attend
rehearsals, and when he came to see the show on opening night, he was not
amused. It was a radically different
script, each of us adding comical bits that we felt suited our strengths. One of the actors in the show had been the
quasi director and gave us carte blanche to “punch it up”. The structure and storyline and songs were
still there, but Jonathan was pissed and didn’t stay for the opening night
party. I don’t even fucking know if we
were fucking at this point or not – what difference does it make now? What I did not do was tell the cast that I
was fucking the writer. And that’s a
good thing, because after three months, we put up a new show. Jonathan was writing, but this time, he would
also be directing – and therefore, his script would not be tampered with.
I don’t know how I managed to rehearse. In his presence, my self-esteem bottomed out,
and I didn’t know who I was, onstage or off.
All that, and rehearsing a comedy.
This was as funny as drug-free dentistry. Jonathan became more and more distant, and
seemed almost afraid to talk to me. He
didn’t direct me so much as he directed around me. I’d ask him if I was on the right track, and
he’d safely say just that I was doing good, keep it up. He said it quickly, looking at me just with
his peripheral vision, and I plummeted down forty stories. I needed if not his love, then his
professional approbation, since I admired him so much. I got neither.
But finally, upon opening night, and every performance
after, I got that approbation from the audience, and I was so grateful. If ever an actor needed applause, I did. In the show, I got to be a combination of
funny and sexy, the two things that I felt completely lacking in when around
Jonathan at this point. How masochistic
was I? Evidently, not quite masochistic
enough. One thing I had never done
sexually with anybody was to bottom. And
one night, in Jonathan’s bed, I told him that I wanted him in me. He tried, rightly so, to tell me that we shouldn’t,
not under the circumstances. But I
demanded it, saying that even if he wasn’t in love with me, I was in love with
him. I wanted the first man to enter me
to be somebody I loved, and so he had to do it, since I didn’t know when I
would ever love like this again. I was
right to demand it. I never did love
that way again.
He was gentle that night, as he
was on subsequent nights when it repeated itself. The pleasure of being one with someone you
love is heaven. The pain of being one
with someone who doesn’t love you the same way is hell. I orgasmed without touching myself, feeling
Jonathan hit my prostate, my core, my soul.
But a leaf slowly fell from a tree the night he first entered me, and
when it hit the ground, I told Jonathan that no more would I sleep with
him. I couldn’t, I shouldn’t, I
wouldn’t. I knew it when the love-making
started to feel like fucking. I was
spent, and emotionally drained. I didn’t
belong to Jonathan. I hadn’t in a long
time. Perhaps I never had. But this period of masochism was over. In the end, I broke it off, for the last
time- a hollow victory. *****************************************************************************************************
You’ve been accepted into the Integrated Program at the American Musical
and Dramatic Academy in New York City.”
I held the letter from the Academy in my hand the careful way one holds
an Oscar. After one unsuccessful
audition in Seattle years before, I had evidently passed my most recent
audition for AMDA in Vancouver. I was
floored with excitement. New York City’s
theater scene was beckoning and that acceptance letter was one of the happiest
days of my life. For, you see, I had
done things ass-backwards. I had started
working in the theatre without training, and I believed that in order to
progress to the next level as an artist, I would need to learn more about the
craft. This integrated program would be
a two-year journey into dance, singing and acting. The acceptance said to me that I had the raw
material. It was thus time to mold that
raw material into a performing machine – in the best city in the world.
I had never liked Vancouver.
The ocean and the mountains had not been the panacea that it was for
other people. Saying good-bye to the
city felt as easy as hanging up the phone, and Vancouver was no match in my
mind with New York City. If Jonathan had
committed himself to me, would I have not auditioned for AMDA? My three years in New York City would prove
to be the best three years of my life, and the only thing that would have
prevented it from happening is if Jonathan had been mine. But because of the way our relationship
crumbled, I was free to rise like a phoenix from the ashes and move on. What I didn’t know then, was that the
crumbled mess that I rose from would taint all future relations with men. Feeling safe and relaxed around men was an
emotion that lay lost in the ashes. I
learned that a phoenix may rise, but is changed by the events that went before.
I planned to leave Vancouver and stay with my parents in
Edmonton rent free for a few months before heading to New York. Like so many gay men do, Jonathan and I
remained friends after the break-up. Not that we talked often, but we
periodically would pick up the phone to say hi. Was this healthy? Instead of putting a full stop to things, I
was allowed to obsess about him still, albeit to a lesser extent. And so, with only days to go before I left
Vancouver, we met for coffee.
Jonathan had wasted no time, and was seeing someone
new. Was it serious? I asked. “No,” he responded, laughing. With mock shame and regret, he said “I’m too
much of a whore for anything serious.”
We shared a knowing laugh, but I wondered: is this what he had learned about himself from
his time with me? Moreover, I would say
the exact same thing about myself years later.
If I could later pin my future sexual promiscuity on my failure at a
relationship with Jonathan, who or what did he pin it on? Pete, the guy who had dumped him before we
met? Or does the promiscuity that came
later reflect the natural desires of any hot-blooded man? Perhaps so, but what of my ability to love?
While at school in New York, I was chaste, my only lover
being the theater. I had a brief fling
with an emotionally vulnerable young man from Indiana, a tryst that lasted a
month before he chose to move to Los Angeles to pursue his acting dreams
there. I didn’t breathe that whole
month, always uncertain about where I stood, never fully connecting with
him. I again experienced vertigo, a sense
that I was on shaky ground, and my sense of self was lost. My self-esteem became tied to the way he did
or didn’t look at me. When he left town,
I regained myself and was glad. It
appeared that being intimate with someone made me temporarily forget myself,
how to love myself and be myself.
After graduating from AMDA, I spent a year in New York on a
special work permit, and a year of sexual exploration and debauchery
began. It was the year my sexuality took
center stage, trumping my passion for the arts.
To add to the mix, I would periodically receive letters from Jonathan, in
which he lamented all the time he was spending at bathhouses. I didn’t understand why he was writing to me
at all, and of all things, about his sex life.
My time in New York came to a crashing halt when my work permit
expired. With no direction, no backup
plan, I returned home to my parents in Edmonton, at age 27. I had bartended in New York, and quickly got
a job bartending at one of the two main gay bars in town, The Anchor.
I had been at Buddy’s for a year
already when a young man sat at my bar.
Cute, in shape, he said he was in town with the ballet. I asked his name. “Pete, what’s yours?” Could this be Jonathan’s Pete, the phantom ex
that I had to compete with back in Vancouver?
“Hey, did you ever date a guy named Jonathan Mitchell?” I asked. Indeed he had. This was him.
He proceeded to tell me about a threesome he’d had at the baths the
night before, while I analyzed what he had that I didn’t, at least in Jonathan’s
eyes. We may have even flirted a
bit. He was cute, but not rivetingly so.
But he possessed a confidence that I
felt I lacked, a self-assuredness. So
naturally, I despised him. “Have a good
run of your show,” I said upon his leaving.
He smiled and disappeared into the night. *****************************************************************************************************
In the summer of my 28th year, my sister and her
family moved back to Winnipeg. I had not
been there in nearly a decade, and her living there was now reason to
visit. Winnipeg had become for me a city
of ghosts, memories haunting every familiar street corner. And on every street corner, I half expected to
run into Jack, as if he was lurking everywhere.
He was lurking – in my mind. I
didn’t even know if he still lived there, but being in Winnipeg incited a deep
desire to know. There was one way to
find out. His parents were in the phone
book under the same number and address.
Alone in my sister’s apartment, while she and her kids were out, I
seized the opportunity and called the number, half praying that nobody would
answer. But Jack’s father picked up the
phone. What a lovely man. There was no reason that he should have
recalled who I was, but he swore he did and seemed sincerely pleased to speak
to me. Graciousness appeared to run in
the family. Did Jack still live in
Winnipeg? He sure did, would I like his
number so I could say hello? I grabbed a
pen and wrote down the number and thanked Mr. Rankin. Then I wondered if I would actually place the
call. But Mr. Rankin was sure to tell
Jack that he had heard from me.
Therefore, I felt I had to follow through, despite my nausea at the
thought of phoning Jack after all this time.
What did I want to tell him?
The next day, I steeled my nerves and called Jack’s
number. I was thrilled when someone
answered saying that he was Jack’s roommate and that Jack was playing hockey
with some pals. So relieved that I
didn’t have to talk to Jack at that moment, I gladly gave my number and
half-hoped Jack would never call, and that would be that. So when the phone rang two hours later, I was
mortified. Because I knew what I wanted
to say to Jack. The hour had come.
But at that hour, everyone was home, the music was on, my
sister in the kitchen cooking, my niece and nephew running and yelling and
having a grand time playing. It was a
small apartment, and I could barely hear Jack say hello. I sought refuge in the bathroom, closed the
door and said hello back. And I breathed
a sigh of relief, since Jack didn’t seem to think it odd that he should hear
from me like this out of the blue.
Rather, he was tremendously open, about his life, about having just
broken up with a girl he had once considered marrying, about moving in after
that with the roommate I had spoken to.
And that’s when my niece needed to use the bathroom. Trying to hang on to what Jack was saying, I
opened the bathroom door while The Doors sang on the stereo that this was the
end, my friend. I hastily retreated out
the door into the stairwell, trying to focus on Jack’s conversation, but my own voice reverberated so badly that I
was forced to go back into the noisy apartment.
My niece had left the bathroom, and I headed back in, locked the door
and sat on the toilet lid. Completely
frazzled, my defences down, I had to respond with something when Jack said
“Well, what about you? How are you?”
Like my last call to Jack, ten years ago, I had no
pretenses, and again, told Jack the truth.
“Jack, this is odd for me to say, but” and I stammered. “I’m gay, perhaps who knew that way back
when, but the reason I’m telling you this, is that, well, I had quite the crush
on you in high school, and the feeling I had was so golden, so pure, so good,
that it facilitated me coming to terms and accepting that I was gay. So,in essence, I have you to thank for my own
self-acceptance, which really changed my life.
I don’t mean to sound so heavy and I hope you aren’t weirded out by an
out-of-the-blue call like this.” To
Jack’s great credit, he didn’t miss a beat.
“I wondered if you were gay back then, but it hadn’t mattered at all either
way,” he said. Did he know that I had
had a crush on him? No, he said. “But Jason, I’m honoured that I played a role
in you feeling good about being gay. And
can I just say that if you ever wanted to meet for coffee sometime, or if
you’re ever back in Winnipeg doing a play or something, call me up.” I told him
I was leaving Winnipeg the next day and couldn’t meet, but I finally got a
chance to tell him how fucking gracious he was, back then and now. I
thanked him profusely, inwardly thanking
him for not betraying me now nor my memory of him. This graciousness solidified my affection for
him. He was encased in the glass of my
memory, and I was deeply grateful for his open heart. He gave an “aw-shucks” and repeated – “Can I
just say again that you’re a great person and feel free to touch base whenever
you’re in town.”
I never spoke to Jack again. *****************************************************************************************************
Back to Edmonton, back behind the bar, shirtless and centre
stage – that was what being a bartender was all about. Us single bartenders always half expected
Mr.Right to show up, as does everyone who goes out to the bar. Hope is the pervasive feeling at a bar – this
might be the night you meet “the one.”
Future tense. But the past can
catch up with you there too.
And so it was that Jonathan walked in. We had been out of touch, and he had no idea
that I would be behind the bar. I had no
idea that he was working in Edmonton for the summer, for the same theater
company we had worked for all those many eons ago. When I saw him, I instinctively hopped over
the bar and gave him a big hug. He
looked my shirtless self up and down, and I got him a drink. Before he left, he gave me the number for the
town house he was staying at.
We got together days later at his place in the west end,
near the theater he was working at.
Looking at him was like looking back at my youth. And this was the man I had given it too,
willingly. We reminisced, which led to
long looks, which led to him flipping a leg over mine as we sat on his couch,
which led to us kissing. Many years
before, on our first date, we had kissed for an eternity, but I had been afraid
of having sex right away, nervous about what it might mean. This time, I was still nervous about what it
would mean, to me and for me. And so
when he lay upon me, I had a sharp feeling of regret. Our reminiscing had been all past tense. There was no future tense here. The scent he gave, a scent I had once swooned
for, now seemed pungent. I looked up at
him, but his eyes were closed. Perhaps
this was all past tense for him too. We
carried on, but I left my body, and watched us dispassionately from the
ceiling. As when you gain weight and
find last year’s clothes no longer fit, Jonathan no longer fit. Our perfunctory orgasms left us feeling naked
in a new way, and the spell was broken.
There was nothing to say, and needing to check for damages, I left
I never saw Jonathan again, but
years later, him again in Edmonton for a spell, we found each other on
Manhunt.net. We chatted and flirted
online, he invited me over to play – and I declined. Some doors, once closed, must remain closed,
if only to honour the memory of what was. ******************************************************************************************************
“Jason, you’re stuck in a half made-up memory.” Candace is my current colleague and
friend. The beauty of a Californian babe
with the attitude of a girl from the Bronx, she could not get over the fact
that I had fallen so hard for Jack as a teenager without actually having had a
relationship with him. “Did you really
know him? It doesn’t sound like it. It sounds like you fell in love with an
image, not reality. How the hell is any
man supposed to live up to Jack. Nothing
compares to a mirage.” The question she
posed was that hanging on to this memory of Jack was stunting my ability to
have a real relationship. Did she have a
point? “Do you know what he looks like
now?” she asked. I said that I had googled
him, looked for him on facebook and came up with nothing. “The only way there’d be nothing on him is if
he’s dead. Give me a couple minutes,
I’ll find him.” I assured her I had
tried, thanked her for listening to my story and left to go home. Walking home, she texted me – “I think I
found a pic. Looks like he has two
kids. Sent link to your work email.”
All that night, I wondered if she had indeed found a picture
of him. Did I want to see it? If he was still attractive, would the spell
never be broken. Or what if he had not
aged well? Would this delicate and
valued memory of him be tarnished? In
the morning, alone in the office, I turned on my computer and nervously opened Candace’s email to see a glimpse of my past in the present. However, the picture was a tiny, fuzzy jpeg,
and I could barely tell if it was indeed him.
The picture was useless, and I was relieved. But Katherine’s words had struck a chord –
had my phantom image of Jack taken over, making it impossible to love a man
close up, flaws and all? I wondered
about priests and nuns who “marry” god.
No flesh and blood human can compete in their hearts for god, yet they
can never know god as they would a person.
When Jack’s ex, Trina, had said that Jack was arrogant, it was heresy. Would it be best for me and the nuns to know
that our gods were not perfect, if only to bring us back to earth? ******************************************************************************************************
retrospect, I don’t think my heart hardened from my experiences with Jack and
Jonathan. In some ways, it forced me to
learn to love myself, and not wait for a hero to do it. Not having Jack, and losing Jonathan was
hard, but what I hated most during those times was the feeling of losing
myself. I hated handing my self-esteem
on a platter to men who might or might not take care of it. I learned to become my own best friend. Will I ever let a man in? Do I need to? On the show Sex and the City, I identified
most strongly with Samantha, the sex-driven, but relationship-shy character. I too was sexually driven, but emotionally
quite happy with my independence. But
we’re taught to apologize for being that type of character, as if there
something wrong with you for not having, nor wanting a partner. Only now, at this late stage, am I owning
myself, and realizing that I am my own lover.
It was a Monday night when I had written the above sentence
– “Perhaps so, but what of my ability to
love?”. I turned off my computer,
went to bed, and the next day received a call from Master Jordan. “I can’t do this anymore Jason,” he
said. He explained that years ago, on
his and his boyfriend’s second date, they had agreed to a “don’t-ask don’t-tell”
policy about having one-nighters with other people. One nighters.
But Master Jordan had been seeing me for three months, and to him, it
felt like cheating. He said he couldn’t
talk to his partner about this, couldn’t ask for an amendment to the agreement due
to the don’t-ask, don’t-tell policy. The
weekend before, when he was bartending, I and his partner were both there,
unbeknownst to each other. But for
Jordan, it was overwhelming, and it forced him to face that what he was doing
was outside the assumed limits. I said I
completely understood and respected that he needed to end it. “You’re taking this very well,” he said. Was I taking it too well? “I also felt that this wasn’t fair to you,
that I could never be your boyfriend.” I
reminded him what I had said the night he told me that he was in an open
relationship – that I was relieved. I
didn’t want a boyfriend, just a fuck buddy.
And I meant it and had been satisfied with the status quo. Knowing how ethical Jordan was in everything
he did, I believed his story, but secretly wondered if he had just gotten a bit
bored. Had I also had my fill? (“Perhaps
so, but what of my ability to love?”)
Where was the love here? I looked
within and realized I didn’t fall apart at Master Jordan’s need to end it with
me, because I loved myself, knew how to take care of myself. Even sexually. I loved myself not in a selfish, narcissistic
way, but a healthy, self-sustaining way.
Would there ever be room for a man in this equation? I absolutely believe so. One with his own apartment, his own friends,
who would know when to let me be. Maybe
a man who is also his own best friend, his own hero. What I love, and sometimes hate, about life,
is that the things that happen are often nothing you could have ever imagined
As for many gay men, Brokeback
Mountain was a watershed film, touching in its depiction of a love that
never ceased, that started in the proverbial Garden of Eden and lasted beyond
death. Shortly after seeing the film for
the seventh time, I had a dream. In it,
I saw the two main characters’ faces staring back at me. Slowly, the faces of the characters Ennis Del
Mar and Jack Twist began to merge into a single face, and when the merge was
complete, it was my own face staring back at me. I had believed that I would find my own
Ennis or Jack, but the dream taught me that my journey just may be about loving
myself, being my own knight in shining armour.
I said to my mother on the phone tonight that I’m really not looking for
anyone, content on my own. She paused,
though, and said “But Jason, when you’re not looking, is the time when you meet
After two pot brownies, my friend Alex was in fine form at
the party we were at. Minus the pot
brownies, this was a pretty staid group of people, but once Alex got a little
high, all bets were off. “You’re so
attractive. You make me moist!” he
bellowed at some mortified straight man.
My head spun only to find Alex talking to said straight man and his
girlfriend. Alex was propositioning them
for a threesome but qualified it to the girl by saying it was only to get into
her boyfriend’s pants. I decided the
straight couple needed to be rescued from Alex and went over. “You’ll have to excuse Alex, he’s had a
stroke, and he’s had two brownies.” “The
stroke didn’t take away my sight and I know an attractive man when I see one,” Alex said, taking one more glance at the
straight man as I pulled him away. “Do
you want to sniff my diaper?”
Alex was indeed wearing a diaper, and was just the kind of
man who let everybody know it. It was a
badge of honor for all that he had been through. He’d already been living with HIV since the
early 80’s, since before HIV had a name.
His bowels and bladder didn’t always give him much warning. I remember the day I received a call from our
mutual friend David in September, telling me that Alex had had a stroke and was
in the emergency room at the General.
I got to the hospital and found Alex. The right side of his body was paralyzed,
including his face. His mouth drooped on
the right side and his speech was slurred.
He looked up at me as I knelt to kiss his forehead. “They say I might not ever walk again,” he
said, enunciating as best he could.
“We’ll get through this Alex. You’ll
walk again, I know it, “ I countered. “Damn
right I’ll walk again. There are still
men to fuck.”
Alex didn’t see the inside of his apartment again for four
long months. After being in the emergency
room for a torturous week until they could find him a room, and then two weeks
in that hospital room, he was transferred to a rehabilitation centre. While I watered the plants in Alex’s
apartment and collected his mail, Alex engaged in the arduous task of learning
to use the right side of his body. His
doctors warned that another stroke was not an impossibility. He battled through and was released from the
rehab center just before Christmas. And
that’s when he completely broke down.
Alex was henceforth differently-abled, if you will. He required a brace to walk, to walk ever so
carefully. His right arm was still
immobile. We had dinner together every
Saturday night once he returned home. We
would order pizza and I would read the latest essay I’d written for this blog
to him. He was the one person to hear my
essays before I posted them, and my short essay would launch us into an
examination of our sex lives. Alex never
allowed for bitterness, but I remember the Saturday night that he looked at me
and asked, with tears in his eyes, “Will
a man ever want to be with me again?”
I remembered, long ago, in my mid-twenties, being at the New
York City Pride Parade. I recall only
two moments from that parade, and both of them left a deep impression on the
young gay man that I was. The first
moment was when the float passed by on which there were men who had fought at
Stonewall on that fateful night in ’69,
when our history changed forever. These
men were old, with canes and in wheelchairs.
They had been there, and they were here with us now. As they floated down the street, I realized
I’d just witnessed history. My
history. The whooping from the crowd
told me that everyone around me was sharing the exact same feeling.
The second moment that I recall was when a gay group in
wheelchairs passed by. Young and old, of
every race, their presence hit me. It
became all too clear, all at once, that our society neglects to recognize the
disabled as sexual. And here they were,
claiming their orientation, refusing to be left in the shadows or on the
sidelines. As with the men who had
fought at Stonewell, I knew I was witnessing something that I did not feel much
of within my own belly: I was witnessing
what looked like courage, and I found it beautiful.
After Alex had his stroke, I did some research – on
Xtube. I found an instructional video
for sex workers on how to best cater to the needs of their disabled
clientele. And then I found a video by a
man who suffered from some type of palsy.
He was jacking off and I so wanted to be there with him. His pits, his cock, his absolute engagement
were hot – his palsy did not matter. I
wrote him a message telling him how amazing his vid was and posted a comment on
his profile. I didn’t hear back from
Alex is improving.
He’s walking without a brace, and he’s getting movement back in his
right arm and hand. He’s even venturing
forth to the Eagle again. More than
that, he got picked up recently and took the man back to his place. But he called me to tell me that it didn’t
work. His body did not want to cooperate
with his desire. He was momentarily
bereft. He is not supposed to take
Viagra, but to hell with it – he ordered some online and his doctor is turning
a blind eye for him. Alex is a force to
be reckoned with.
Last night, I hit the streets of the village to go get a
pack of cancer-causing smokes. I began
to think about the ways we are all disabled.
For some of us, it is visible to others.
But for many, it’s invisible.
It’s the disease that’s eating us from the inside. It’s the mental anguish that we mask so as to
appear normal. Among the many casualties
of illness or disability is our sexuality.
Always, we are fighting to reclaim it, from external forces, or
As I walked down the steps from the tobacco shop, I noticed
a young man in a motorized wheelchair.
He couldn’t have been more than twenty-four. He, like the man in the Xtube video I had
watched, appeared to suffer from a palsy.
He was alone on the street, in this Gay Village, and he looked
bewildered, lost. He did not see me see
him. And he was gorgeous. My instinct was to reach out to him. I wanted to make love to him. I wanted to let him know that if he was in
the Village seeking comfort from the men who walked by, he would find it. I wanted to take his cock in my mouth. I wanted to enter him and fill him with light
so that he shone like a nuclear reactor.
I wanted to believe that my feelings were not born of pity or fear that
by the grace of god, that could be me. I
wanted to apologize to him if these thoughts were in any way construed as
condescending or patronizing. I wanted to
tell him that even though I am so-called able-bodied, that I have struggled since
childhood with an illness that I rarely discuss, an illness that constantly
thwarts my sexuality, an illness that no one can see, but that I experience so
profoundly. I wanted......But instead,
seeing him carry on down the sidewalk, I too continued on my way. But oh how I wanted....
When Alex first got home from rehab, he was sternly warned
against walking too far from home. And
to walk, especially in the beginning, was laborious for Alex. But secretly, one day, Alex walked from his apartment
to the nearest tattoo parlour. The next
Saturday night, he surprised with me his tattoo. On the inside of his left forearm, he’d had
the word “Courage” inscribed in glorious script. I wondered, like the Cowardly Lion from the
Wizard of Oz, if I would ever have the courage to both come back from an
illness, or to even get and stay sick, and still reclaim myself and my
sexuality. In my twenties, I thought
that the perfect man was the one with the six-pack abs. But Alex’s courage to face disability and
still move forward changed that. I think
that having just turned forty, I am maybe, just maybe, growing up.
“Why don’t you jerk us both off until we cum in your face?”
This is what Keith told me he told The Guy. My buddy Keith and I were at the bar, and I
couldn’t believe what Keith was telling me – that he had propositioned The Guy
and included me in as part of the bargain.
As Keith told me this, two things went through my head: first, I’d never been part of a threesome
before. Second, Keith was my
friend. Was I now about to be in a
sexual situation with him? Keith went
back to The Guy and a deal was struck.
The Guy didn’t want to be seen leaving all together (why?) and said he
would get in his jeep and pick us up on the street corner outside the bar, like
a couple of hookers. The Guy was hot and
I was in. Keith and I left the bar
seconds after The Guy did, and true to his word, The Guy was waiting for us at
the corner and we hopped in his vehicle.
He drove us to his place, and led us to the basement, to an
unfurnished, unfinished room with just a bare mattress on the floor. We all began to make out, but something
became clear right away – The Guy was more into me than Keith, and from the
start, Keith was already taking second billing.
Clothes off, we ended up a trio on the mattress, the only light coming
from a bare bulb in the hallway outside the room.
This would be a night of firsts for me: my first threesome, my first time being
sexual with a person who was previously simply a buddy, and the first time I
would try poppers. “Do you want a
hit?” The Guy asked me. “What are those?” I asked. “Poppers,” he told me. “What do I do with them?” I asked. He answered by demonstrating, and then passed
them to me. I did my first hit, and
waited. For the first second or two, I
felt nothing. But then....oh then....a
rush through my whole body unlike anything I’d ever felt. I was immediately on fire and instinctually
offered up my ass. Who invented
poppers? And could I thank him personally? The poppers turned my sexuality into sharp
relief. I was so horny, I felt like one
big giant cock. The Guy took my
invitation, rolled on a condom, lubed me up and entered me and it was
bliss. Keith offered his cock to The Guy
to suck, but The Guy was concentrating on fucking me and Keith was on the
sidelines once more.
When The Guy pulled out to go and piss, it gave me and Keith
a moment to touch and caress and give each other “I can’t believe we’re doing
this!” looks to each other. I wanted to
make Keith feel secure. When The Guy
came back, he resumed fucking me, and Keith took charge and started fucking The
I don’t remember how it ended – this was some years ago –
but I do remember Keith and I leaving and tumbling into the street, laughing
and half running, as if we’d just robbed a bank, not believing that we’d had
our first threesome, as apparently it was Keith’s first time too. I wondered if this was true. After all, Keith had been so brazen at the
bar, propositioning The Guy as he had.
What we did say was that we were so glad that we had experienced this
Threesomes are a blast.
The more the merrier. And
ironically, it feels like less pressure than a one-on-one sexual
experience. In a one-on-one experience,
I feel I have to be all things to my partner, while in a threesome (and later,
foursomes, fivesomes, and so on), one can hand over the reins to another person
and be a voyeur for a moment and still not feel you’re letting anyone down or
ruining the momentum.
The issue often becomes one of: Do I like one guy more than the other? How can I make it appear not so in order to
satisfy all egos? Because I haven’t been
in a relationship since the Stone Age, I usually have been the third party to a
coupled pair. Therefore, in those
situations, I get to be the centre of attention, around which the fun
revolves. But what is the experience
like for the couple, especially if they intuit that I’m hornier for one than
the other? Does it show? Or am I a good enough play partner that I
make all feel equally attractive and desired?
When I look back at that first threesome, I think first and
foremost of that bare mattress in that unfinished room in that dank
basement. It was a decidedly sordid
Before moving out East and into the Gay Village here, I was
in a backwater city out West. Knowing
that I was moving, I started hitting up men in my soon-to-be-home city on the
internet. On Recon.com I met a guy that
was also originally from out West. He
was gorgeous, a jock. After a few
emails, we took the next step and turned on our cams. A poppers enthusiast like me, we had some
good live chats. He was obsessed with me
showing him my ass. You know what I
mean: He wanted me to spread those
cheeks for him and show him my spot where the sun don’t shine. Now keep in mind that I’m getting tanked on
Jack Daniel’s. Somehow, I have to
position myself precariously on the chair so that the cam can get the right
shot, with the lighting just right so that he can see the damn thing. This was all quite awkward – I certainly
could have fallen and chipped a tooth.
But I’m giving! Here’s the
problem: With me facing away from the
computer, showing him my ass, I see nothing.
I do hear him though, as he says sweet things like “Love your hole man.” Well, I’m glad, but my knees are beginning to
It was after a while that he revealed to me that he didn’t
just like my ass, he was interested in what was in it. He was into scat, and the deeper I probed
(pardon any pun here), I realized that this was almost his exclusive interest.
I’m not into scat, but damn, this man was fine. So I feigned interest – for a while. I asked him if he had many opportunities to
explore this fetish. He said he did once
in a while, but didn’t really require sex too often in general. It soon became clear to me that the bulk of
our sex chat was going to be about scat and finally I couldn’t carry on. If we chatted about other sexual things, I
could sense his interest waning. (Note
to reader: we finally met by accident at
the gym once I had moved. We had some
nice chats, but ultimately I don’t think he was interested, which is probably
for the best. But he was a hot looking
On Manhunt.net, I connected with a cute guy who also lived
in the Village, and in an email, he asked me the wonderful, standard question
we’ve all been asked on hookup sites: What are you into? Enthusiastically, I launched headlong into a
laundry list of all the various fetishes I had.
I then in return asked him what he was into and he responded with a six
word answer: I want to eat your shit.
Regardless of his fetish, I thought to only list one thing was a little
limiting! We didn’t continue our
correspondence, but I do see him around or at the gym, where we nod hello.
Even as gay men push the envelope with regard to sexual
norms and mores, I think most gay men resist the idea of scat play. So I have to take my hat off to the men who
are brave enough to share their kink, when their kink could lead them to being
ostracized within their own community. I
like piss play, but I can’t quite get my head around the appeal of scat play.
Once on Gay.com (oh lord, Jason, how many sites have you
been a member of?) a man from Bulgaria chatted me up. He wanted to suck me off while I took a shit
on the toilet. Since he was on the other
side of the world, I used the moment of internet anonymity to toy with the idea
with him. The trouble is, when you are
discussing a fetish that is not your own, it gets, quite frankly, boring.
And so the circumstance for poop play has arisen, but I
doubt I will ever go there. My question
to you is this: Is there a fetish (of
the safe, sane and consensual type only please), maybe even a relatively common
one, that just doesn’t appeal to you? What
is your favorite fetish? Is it such a
favorite that sex just isn’t sex without it?
Dear Readers: Since this blog is
hosted by Google, I’ve used the Google function of adding “friends” who are
also Google users in order to promote the blog.
I recently tried adding someone who denied my “friend” request. Our brief email exchange went like this:
redacted): So the message from you is
(and this is what causes suicides among gay youth), if you're going to be
openly gay, you had better decapitate yourself in your photos? I'm not
going to add you back based on that alone.
(name redacted), I completely understand your concern. I'm openly gay,
but it's being an openly sexual person and writing the way I do that is the
issue for me. You'll find if you read me that being openly gay is getting
easier (I post my face pics on gay sites a lot and am out to everyone).
But identifying as openly sexual and writing openly about sexuality is a
different matter unfortunately in our culture. Do you see the difference?
(Name redacted): I did not
force you to post this particular content in this particular profile, but I
agree that being openly gay does not mean sharing your bedroom fantasies
publicly as being gay is not about sex. However, in a social networking
site, I expect men who add me to have some common courtesy and properly
introduce themselves if they want a reciprocal link, compliment, etc.
Feel free to add me with your uncloseted profiles since you claim to have
those. There is a time and place, as they say....
Oh and your lack of
contact information gave me no choice but to post here. You could have
provided an email but since you're anonymous anyway, it is not likely to offend
you that I posted semi-publicly.
I don’t think this gentleman clicked on the link to my blog as he would
have seen my email address there. I
don’t think he read any of my writing.
But I’m as frustrated as he is with the headless, decapitated picture of
me on this blog.
Jason Armstrong is not my real name.
When I started this blog, I had to decide how much of my identity I was
willing to share. I have a friend from
Serbia who now lives in Canada. She once
went for a job interview and the interviewer asked her about her dog. She had not mentioned having one, and the
interviewer shared that he surmised she had a dog from a picture he’d seen on
her blog after he googled her. He would
have had to surmise this since her blog is written in Serbian.
I don’t make my living from writing.
And I was well aware that there are many people who would find my
ruminations on male sexuality as upsetting as the man above who denied my
“friend” request. Although it’s
becoming quite alright to be gay in Canada, there is still a phobic response to
being gay and sexual – and talking about it openly. But am I really just writing about my
“bedroom fantasies” as the man’s email to me suggested? He writes that being gay is not about
sex. Not even a little bit? Is being gay only about getting married,
moving to the suburbs and adopting a foreign baby? Then will I be accepted?
He references the suicides of gay youth, and attributes the issue
partially to me and my hiding behind a headless pic on my blog. He is partially right. But what I’ve always hoped is that my naked
writing about sex might help those experiencing shame about their
sexuality. There are many links on other
gay sites wherein I advertise my blog and those sites all show face pics. But I have a phobia about putting the face
pics right on my blog. I’m a
coward. I don’t yet have the fortitude
to be as out and proud about my sexuality as I’d like to be. The threats seem real. Maybe they are and maybe they aren’t. I’m still trying to figure it out.
In spite of all this, I just can’t throw in the towel and stop writing
the way I do. The email exchange above
indicates to me that being gay and sexually open is a volatile issue and for
that reason alone, I think it’s imperative to keep this kind of dialogue going.
And so, bless both myself and the man who emailed me, as we both try to
make sense of what it is to be gay in the these politically correct times. Bless us, two gay men seemingly at odds with
each other but both hypocritical to varying degrees. Bless us all as we try to live openly and
without shame. Thank you to all of you
who read me with an open mind. And thank
you even to those who don’t, but push me to question my own fears. Thank you.