Wednesday, 27 March 2013

What's Your Type?

What kind of man do you lust over?  Is it a smooth, buff gym bunny, or a hairy bear?  Do you like twinks or daddies?  Or does your type not fit easily into any one box?  You like a hairy twink?  Well, I think those are called otters.  So what would you call a smooth, hairless daddy?  When I hit the bars, I tend to go to the leather bars, under the (usually true) assumption that these men will be kinky.  But what of the college jock who likes to be tied up?  So often I judge a man’s sexual tendencies by his outward appearance.  But, perhaps that’s a fox in sheep’s clothing that you’re looking at.

I’m finding that my so-called type has more to do with what’s in a man’s head than the body that head is on.  Meaning, are we on the same page sexually.  But when I watch porn, it’s so often of the thirtyish year old muscle bear variety.  Coincidentally or not, that is the type that I would fall into.  And yet...

Today I took my sister to a theater production celebrating International Woman’s Day.  I wouldn’t have thought that there I would find myself sitting behind a startling attractive man, sitting alone.  He was not a muscle bear.  He was a clean cut jockish type who frighteningly reminded me of my first love.  In high school I’d fallen for Jack.  Jack was straight, voted MVP on any sports team he was on.  He was also extraordinarily nice, and we developed a slight friendship, though he was a grade ahead.  The man in the audience today threw me back to high school with a velocity that bit me like a snake.  I felt lust mixed with two other emotions: a need for love and a sense that I would never have it because I was somehow unworthy.  I felt both propelled toward him and away from him at the same time, because my heart sensed danger.  In that moment, I wanted the pure lust of my pornographic muscle bears where sexually I was free and emotionally I was safe.

I began to wonder how I would behave sexually with a man like the one I saw today.  I began to wonder if I could fuck the one I love, or are the two notions divided for me in much the same way some straight men suffer from the Madonna/Whore syndrome (ie. they want the mother of their children to be pure and chaste, and to have a hardcore slut secretly on the side whom they would never marry).

The trouble for me is that when love begins to enter this heart of mine, I begin right away to fear its loss, leaving me feeling ungrounded.  How then, could I play the dom and sexually assert myself with a beloved when it would appear that he holds all the cards due to my ingrained insecurities?   And at my age, without a true relationship already under my belt, just a few short affairs, has the chance for love passed me by?  I tend to see myself as a lone wolf, but that house of cards comes tumbling down when I see a man like the one I did today.  But let’s be real:  I don’t know the man.  Perhaps he is a jerk, perhaps he has kinks that would never click with mine.  What I felt today was what our culture refers endearingly to as love at first sight.  How is it that the molecules that make up that person can cause my own body’s molecules to frantically start rearranging themselves?  How do we develop a type in the first place?  I try to ape the type of guy that attracts me (again, the muscle bears).  What of the men who are interested in types directly in opposition to their own?

“He’s not my type.” “What’s your type?”  Statements and questions such as these are short.  The answers are not.

Sunday, 17 March 2013

Am I An Addict?

My interest in sex and sexuality is so acute that it was just a matter of time before I asked myself that dreaded question:  Am I a sex addict?  And since I like to throw back some beer while being sexual, am I an alcoholic on top of it?

Here’s what my sex life is like:  I like to masturbate every single day, and usually for at least 3 hours at a pop (pardon the pun).  This has been my pattern for years.  As for sex with others, for a long time it centered around internet or bar hook ups, just on weekends.  I had no desire for a relationship, lived alone and liked it (still do).  Interestingly, now that I live in a city where sex is easily accessible, I’m less compelled to hook up.  There are more enticing ways to be with men, such as the monthly orgies that I have been attending.  The more the merrier! 

So if masturbation is my most regular form of sex play, could I be addicted to it and its accoutrements (porn and booze)?  One could be, yes.  One definition of sex addiction I read was that sex becomes a problem if you are using it to avoid issues in your life that need to be dealt with, or if you are trying to mask pain you’re feeling through sex.  It reminds me of the movie Shame, in which the main character uses sex in this way.  But I conversely can’t be sexual if I have an outstanding issue in my life that needs resolution.

Here’s how it works:  I get home from a job where I give my best, and come home and deal with laundry, dishes, grocery shopping and making calls to loved ones.  On a weeknight, I try to have this all accomplished by 7 PM.  Then I unapologetically turn off the phone, turn on some music and allow myself to get turned on.  It’s Jason time.

Tell me something:  Should this be pathologized?  Is it because it’s about the oh-so-scary topic of sex that we pathologize it?  Is it not pathological to watch a movie every night?  To read a book in bed for hours at a time?  Why is your hobby ok and mine a sickness?  Are we pathologizing our behavior based on cultural norms and cultural fears only?

I researched further and found that some types of sexual addiction include:  compulsive fixation on an unattainable partner, compulsive love relationships, even compulsive sexuality within a relationship.  Well, this is everyone I know except for Sister Helen at the local parish.  Behavior that signals sex addiction is usually of the sort that goes against your values.  In one article I read, it said that many clients seeking help for an addiction to masturbation "report that their internal beliefs about masturbation are that the act itself is dirty, shameful, or sinful".  But as you can tell from my writing, I value my sexuality.  I had to fight hard to get here.  To get to my current worldview of sexuality, I had to unravel all the things I was taught (explicitly and implicitly) around sexuality.  Do I feel distressed about my sexual behavior?  No.  I feel distressed, though, by the opinions others might have about it.

Is it not possible perhaps that at least some of those who seek treatment for so-called sexual addiction are simply those who unnecessarily feel guilty about sex, masturbation and porn, and would benefit more from learning to accept that they are highly sexual and see it as a gift?

I am not at all disregarding the fact that sexual behavior can in many instances interfere with a healthy life.  As in the movie Shame, if sex is the recourse taken to avoid dealing with personal issues, then “Houston, we have a problem”.  At the same time, what if your edging sessions are done after you’ve attended to your emotional and literal responsibilities?  What if the three hours you would spend to go out to the movies is replaced by going online for some sex chat?  There are a lot of bad movies out there, folks.

The sexual addict often must lie or sneak in order to act out sexually.  I lie and sneak a bit too because as open as I am, I’m not open enough to say what I really want to say to friends and family: “Listen, I’m going to be self-pleasuring between the hours of 7 and 10.  The phone will be off.  But I will get back to you first thing in the morning.”

So I had to ask myself, am I in denial?  A few months ago, I tried a little experiment:  I decided I would try for two weeks to not drink during masturbation during the weekdays.  I would only drink on a Friday or a Saturday night bate session.  The first night, without booze to fuel my bate, I just couldn’t be bothered.  I bated for two minutes and gave up.  Instead, I transferred my desire and went to McDonald’s.  Not good.

The next night I tried masturbating again, without booze, and it was pretty terrific.  But porn fueled the event.  I wondered if I now needed to try bating without porn because maybe I was a porn addict.  Sigh.  How far would I go with this thinking?  Would I no longer be able to bate in front of the mirror because maybe I was a narcissist? How much would I have to take away, how short would my bate session have to be to not consider myself addicted.  There is a saying that a slut is anyone who has more sex than you do.  How would I ever know when too much was too much?

When Friday and Saturday hit, I let myself do my usual thing – I poured myself some whisky and bated away.  It felt odd to be under the hypnotic trance of booze combined with horniness again after a few days of sober jacking.  I felt that with booze, it was almost as if another force was driving my sexual car rather than I.

Then it unraveled.  Sunday night I was not intending to drink while bating, but I did.  On Monday, feeling guilty (there’s that word again) for drinking while jacking on Sunday, I didn’t jack or drink at all, but was oh so productive.  I read in bed, but had that feeling of “isn’t there something I should be doing?”

Since I wasn’t drinking as much, my liquor supply was stretching.  I began to worry that the cashiers at the liquor store would start wondering if I was ok or had been in a terrible accident.  I wasn’t buying as much liquor and began to worry about the economy.  I questioned myself:  Had I ever been arrested for public intoxication?  No.  Had I ever pissed the bed because I drank too much the night before?  Yes, but I’m a watersports lover, so I’m not sure that this is such a bad thing, especially when you have a fantastic mattress cover that you bought online from Fort Troff.  Had I drunkenly phoned anyone late at night and started the conversation with “...And you know what your fuckin’ problem is?”  No.

Suffice to say I threw the whole experiment out the window, continuing though to wonder if I had a problem.  I had read an article on sex and masturbation addiction and it was there that I’d gotten the idea to at least scale back my edging.  The article had suggested that one try to abstain from sex and masturbation for a month and to note the feelings one had had.  I couldn’t carry out this experiment for a week.  But fast forward to my present situation...

As of this writing, I have been living in Toronto for two weeks, having moved from Montreal.  And I am not living alone.  My sister and I have temporarily moved in together, to split costs, and I am sleeping in the living room.  I am living the movie Shame wherein the protagonist’s sister comes to stay and interrupts his sex habits.  I have no privacy whatsoever.  Now, her work often takes her travelling, and I’m longing for that work of hers to begin, but in the meantime, there is no jacking.  Why don’t I quickly rub one out in the shower you ask?  It’s just not my style.  If I can’t edge for a minimum of three hours, I won’t bother.  I’m just not satisfied with a quickie.  Sometimes me and my sister will share a bottle of wine, but that’s a far as the drinking goes.  My feeling is “Why drink?” if it’s not going to be accompanied by my hand (or someone else’s hand) on my dick.  The move was costly, so I can’t just hit the bars or bathhouses to pick up a trick.  I have to make do.

So how am I doing with this abstaining from lack of sexual activity?  I’m a bit grouchy but try not to let it show;  otherwise, I’m holding out until my sister starts travelling for work.  I’m getting more writing done and working out more, which admittedly makes me happy.  Today I’m going to sort through receipts since it’s tax time.  How exciting!  I’m more caught up with emails than ever before.  My friends have no idea why.

And so it goes. In the future, I will continue to keep one eye open for signs that I’m taking it too far with my sexual behavior.  On the other hand, perhaps a sense of humor about it all would be a nice change from the constant self-analyzing.  I did the online research for this essay on sex addiction hours before going out the door to the above-mentioned orgy! 

So for now, this is my message to You:  It’s 6:30 PM.  So if You want to chat on the phone, best call me now.  You’ve got until 7.  Then I’m going to have to excuse myself to spend a little time with myself.  I’ve spent all day attending to others, attending to the necessities of life.  But now Jason needs a little attention.  I’m not going to get all high and mighty on myself about this.  I’m the kind of guy who likes to throw back a beer and get naked – sue me.  One man on Xtube writes in his profile “I am a cock worshipping sex addict and fucking happy to be one.”  I laughed so hard in recognition and thought to myself that if I and he are sex addicts, oh well...forgive us.

Thursday, 14 March 2013

Fetishes: PISS

There are two great liquids that come out of a man’s cock.  Glorious cum, of course.  And golden piss.  How is it possible that we can’t always remember when a fetish was born?  I have a faint recollection of hearing Madonna say that she liked to pee in the shower.  I think I gave that a whirl shortly after, in my late twenties.  Fast forward to today wherein I’m a bonafide piss junkie.

My fantasy is to be involved in a group piss scene.  But in the meantime, I’ve been lucky enough to meet other pissers who love it as much as I do.  I’m a giver and a receiver.   Let’s make a laundry list of the ways I’ve played with piss, shall we?  If you came over for some piss play, here’s what I might suggest we do:  drink from the tap, piss in and on our clothes, piss in our beer and enjoy,  fill a glass with piss and enjoy (preferably both our piss mixed together), piss in bed (I have a great mattress cover bought online through Fort Troff), piss in our faces, in our pits and lick them clean....shall I go on?

Because I only put dicks in asses with condoms on, I haven’t had the pleasure of pissing in a buddy’s ass, nor vice versa.  But I think the wildest thing I ever did was to save up my piss for a few weeks in whisky and coke bottles, until I had  20-25 bottles.  With an awesome piss pig, we stopped up the tub and filled it with hot water, and then put the saved piss bottles in to warm.  When the piss was warmed up, we emptied the tub of water, stopped it up again and dumped all the piss in the tub.  We got in with our clothes and had sex and talked and smoked and had sex some more, peeling off our clothes slowly in the process.  This old piss was rank, and divine.

On Xtube, I met a fellow piss pig who can shoot his piss so damn far, it’s a wonder to behold.  He mentioned that he experienced cumming and pissing at the same time, a feat I’ve never experienced.  What I love is that you can piss all night, many times over, whereas cumming might be a one-shot deal, pardon the pun.

Oddly enough, I don’t relate a piss scene to a humiliation role play.  Years ago, a friend revealed an experience in which he was being picked on by bullies as he sat on the grass eating a sandwich.  He tried to ignore them and eat in peace when he felt the unmistakable warmth of piss wetting his back.  I could see the humiliation of this experience relive itself as he related this story to me.  What I didn’t have the temerity to ask was whether that experience had in any way morphed into a fascination with piss play for its inherent humiliation factor, as can happen.  How many of us were secretly attracted to the homophobes who made our lives miserable?

It’s You Readers who continually crack my head wide open when you write to me about your sexual likes and dislikes.  You make me rethink things.  For example, I had always thought I preferred the taste of piss watered down, by water or beer, etc.  But one of You wrote to me and revealed that the rank piss that isn’t watered down at the start of a piss scene is great too.  Hmmmmm...

When masturbating, I’ve been known to place a tarp under my chair at the computer, watch piss porn and piss whenever the need strikes, right there at the computer.  Taking it a step further, I was emboldened by vids on Xtube wherein men piss trashed their whole room or house or garage.  I’ve gotten as far as piss trashing the bathroom.  This means spraying my golden stuff all over the bathroom, not caring where it ended up.  There was a primal freedom in marking territory like a dog.

Three nights ago, I chatted with a guy on, and revealed my fantasy of going away for a weekend to a secluded place, where in the summer warmth we could piss outside to our hearts content, pissing on each other all weekend, staying naked and wet away from the real world.  This guy said he had a little place outside the city.  Now wouldn’t that be fun...

Saturday, 9 March 2013

Poz Friendly

I think I’m HIV negative.  I say “think” because we can only go by our last HIV test.  Although I fuck safe, we can only hope for “safer sex” rather than completely “safe sex” unless we are abstinent.  I’ve set my limits of what I’m comfortable doing in bed.  Therefore, I’m also poz friendly.  Admittedly, I wasn’t always this way.  But then I met Faraj.

Faraj and I met on, a great site for pigs.  We met up later at a bar and the sexual energy ran high.  We talked, kissed, and smoked on the bar’s patio on a humid summer’s night.  Ready, willing and able, I asked him to come home with me, but he begged off, requesting instead another date.  I’m a tall guy, but this Arabian stud was taller than me, with eyes like deep, dark wells.  Watching the smoke curl from his lips make my dick jump.  I couldn’t figure out why he didn’t want to come home with me right away.  From chatting through email, we both knew that we liked the same things in bed.  He was a pig and I was thrilled!  But I didn’t push him and helped him find a cab to take him home.  What comforted me was that he proposed that our next date be at his place.  So I felt I had this cat in the bag.

On the day of the proposed date, he texted me in the afternoon, to make sure I was still coming over.  I texted back an enthusiastic “Yes!”  His next text, though, I was unprepared for: “I just need to tell you that I’m positive.  I hope you’re ok with that.”

Like fireworks on the Fourth of July, all these thoughts popped into my head, tumbling and tripping over each other:  This is why he didn’t come home with you right away on the first date – he was working up to telling you his status/He’s a good man – he’s being responsible and honest/Jason, you’ve probably had sex with countless positive men, but you just didn’t know it.  You always fuck safe.  Why should you feel afraid for knowing?  Do you really want to live in a bubble where you don’t really know your partner’s status?  Don’t punish him for being honest/He had the balls to be upfront and you know how much you love courage in a man...

But my final thought was – I can’t do it.

Instead of texting him, I phoned him.  I tried to be magnanimous, but said that I was feeling  nervous.  He said that he knew all there was to know about safe(r) sex and that he would help me protect myself.  But I begged off and said “Faraj, I totally respect that you told me about your status, and I’ve probably been with positive men a million times before, but I’m not looking for anything serious and the stakes are feeling too high.  I’m really sorry.”  He answered “I don’t need your pity,” and hung up the phone.  I immediately felt like a two-faced, in-denial loser.

Half an hour later, I called him back, half-assuming he wouldn’t pick up and deal with a loser like myself.  But to his credit he did.  I apologized for my reticence and said that I needed to reflect on my fears and biases.  Could I please buy some time?  And because he is a better man than I will ever be, he said yes.

This was a Sunday and first thing on Monday morning, I called the local HIV clinic.  I told a very nice man the situation and shared with him all the kinky things I wanted to do with this stud.  He assured me that the things we wanted to do were as safe as you could get, so go and have fun!  With that, I phoned Faraj back and told him exactly what I’d done.  He seemed pleased that I’d done my homework and we set a date to get together.

Was I no longer nervous?  I’d be lying if I said I didn’t still have some trepidation.  But I remembered an old adage I’d once been told by a therapist:  FEAR sometimes stand for False Evidence Appearing Real.  This was a fear that I had to let myself feel and then work through.

I’m totally happy to report that the sex that Faraj and I had was fuckin’ amazing.  Some might take issue with this, but I totally sucked him without a condom.  How risky is this?  Some would say it’s very low risk, others would tell you to use a condom.  I fucked him with a condom.  We spit hard on each other (this man could really spit, great big gobs of it on my face and chest.  Not for everyone, but spit lovers will totally get this).  Lying in his bathtub, he pissed all over my jeans and wife-beater while I smoked a piss-wet cigarette and stared up at him hungrily.  Looking down at me, he said I looked like the “perfect slut”.  Did I mention how sweet he was?  And how perceptive!  He ate my cum.  When it was time for him to cum, he flipped himself upside down on the couch and blew all over his chest while I looked on in amazement.

We got together a few more times before it fizzled out naturally. But this fine Arabian had brought me to a new level of understanding.  With him, I questioned my own hypocrisy and fears.  I learned to quiet the prejudices in my head.  I set limits that I was comfortable with regarding the information out there and didn’t let fear be my compass.  Younger than me, he was the Teacher, and I the Student.  Lesson learned.

Saturday, 2 March 2013

Interview About This Blog

Hello Dear Readers, below is a link to an interview about my blog by Toronto sex journalist Jon Pressick.  His blog Sex In Words is a masterpiece of sex positive information and entertainment.  Thank you Mr. Pressick for the fun interview!

Death, and Rebirth

The plane to my new home of Montreal couldn’t fly fast enough.

A year and a half before that flight to Montreal, I had visited Montreal and Toronto on vacation.  But it wasn’t really a vacation – I was scouting out the two cities in an effort to decide which one I wanted to move to.  I was living in a small city in Western Canada, and I was dying from the sense of isolation I felt there.  Isolation from men like me, isolation from the creativity that is borne of shared sexuality.  Yes, I had gay male friends in the West, but the dating (fucking?) pool was small and incestuous.  The two small gay bars were emptied out, ravaged by the internet.  Online, on Manhunt or Squirt, there were hardly any men in my city online.  The city had two bathhouses, and this presented a problem.  Which one will have the most men?  I always assumed that the one I chose for the night was the wrong one, since I often was the only man there, wondering lost and alone in a towel and a bad mood.

It was not a city for a slut like me.

But what is a slut?  A slut to me is a person who needs to connect with more than just one person, and on multiple levels, and that connection is borne through the conduit of sexuality.  It’s a polyamorous notion.  It’s not negative in the least, and neither does it negate the fact that I may choose monogamy at some point.  I’ll leave it at that, since I don’t wish to defend myself any longer on the issue of sluthood.

And so after visiting Montreal, I headed to Toronto, and sat in a Starbucks in Toronto’s Village, and made a list of pros and cons regarding the two major centers.  Almost all the pros favored moving to Toronto, because ultimately, Montreal is a French-speaking city.  I speak French (as one person put it) like a third grader with head trauma.  But Montreal is also a dirty, sexy city light years ahead of the rest of North America in its openness to sex.  I was intrigued.  I was ignorant.  I was naive.  Most of all, I was hopeful.  I chose to move to Montreal.

A year and a half later, I landed in my new city and in the cab, I wept at the first sight of Montreal’s downtown skyline.

It is now three years later, and I have just left Montreal.  Guess where I moved to yesterday?


My job paid shit in Montreal, and layoffs were being announced.  I never did master the French language.  A job offer presented itself in Toronto and I took it.  Last Sunday, I stood in my emptied-out apartment in the Montreal Village, and I sobbed.  The sobs echoed in the empty space.  I sobbed because in spite of the fact that I, an Anglophone, had no business living in Montreal, Montreal had opened its arms to me and healed me.  That healing began on the stages of comedy clubs.

At work one day, a co-worker laughed at my impromptu jokes and said I was funny.  Then, she dared me to write my jokes down and create an act for a comedy club.  I took the bait.  What was born was an act that centered around being a horny, thirty-something man living in Montreal’s Gay Village.  I would hit the stage, telling the audience that “I never remember a face unless I’ve sat on it” and close with this:

“I’m a horny guy, as you can tell, but the strangest things happened to me this week:  I lost my sex drive.  But you see, when you lose your sex drive, that passion doesn’t just disappear, oh no, it just finds a new way to flow.  And for me, it flows right to the fridge.  When I lose my sex drive, I want to EAT everything in sight.  Like, have you ever had the experience where you’re being gangbanged by four guys, and all you can think is “Gee, I’d love a jelly donut...”

I won a few contests and some money.  My friends and family who came to watch my act gently suggested that I might want to broaden my comedy horizons and write jokes about something other than gay dating and sex.  I adamantly refused.  I couldn’t make a political joke for the life of me, and didn’t want to.  There are two great moments in one’s life:  The moment you are born, and the moment you know what you were born for.  I felt that I was born to communicate my experiences as a gay, sexual being.

Less than a year ago, I gave birth to this blog.  When I was doing my comedy act, my sister would listen and say “It’s good Jason, but go deeper.”  I never could figure out how to fully flesh out the difficult parts of my sexual journey and still be funny.  But with this blog, I didn’t have to worry about getting immediate laughter from a crowd.  I didn’t have to be a dancing monkey on a stage.  I let the comedy act go and focused on this blog.

Men - men like You reading this - began to write to me or comment right on the blog, and it cracked me wide open.  There was this frank, honest dialogue about our respective sexual journeys.  I felt nothing less than honored and humbled by the messages I received.

Last Saturday, my dear friend Alex threw me a going away party.  Alex had recently had a stroke and had fought his way back, regaining his ability to speak and walk after much arduous therapy.  He’s a slut too, and he said he had to get better – “There are men still to fuck!”  After the ordeal of being in a rehabilitation center for four months, he was able to return home, and upon doing so, slowly walked himself to a tattoo parlour and had the word “Courage” tattooed on his forearm.  Courage is, to me, the hottest thing about a person. 

At this going away party, Alex’s many neighbours showed up.  I drank myself silly and necked with two of the guests before stumbling home.  In the morning, my mattress was wet with piss.  No biggie, the mattress was going in the trash, and truthfully, that was an appropriate ending for this piss pig.  After my aforementioned sob in the empty apartment, I moved my luggage out into the hallway, and looked at that apartment one last time.  I breathed in the beginnings that had occurred while living within those four walls.  I silently thanked Montreal for the gift of life, for the men I had known in its wonderful Village, for the return of a creative life.  I said thank you, and then closed the door.

And so, tonight, my first night living in Toronto’s Gay Village, I am back where I started, writing this at the Starbucks where I had once made my list of pros and cons about whether to live in Montreal or Toronto.  We are not born once, nor do we die once.  Life is a series of births followed by deaths followed by rebirths.  What sexual journeys will I encounter here in Toronto?  Will you, Dear Reader, continue to share with me your sexual journey so that I may learn from you?  Toronto, will you welcome me as I, a gypsy at heart, start anew?  Men of Toronto, will the encounters I have with you illuminate our sexual lives, will we connect?  Sexual attraction can bring together disparate people who might never otherwise have met.  Who will I meet and how?  Most importantly, will I meet myself more fully in the process?  Hello Toronto.  My name is Jason Armstrong.