Solosexuality

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Threesomes

“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 Guy.

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 together.

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 environment.

How wonderful...

Barebacking

Part 1

The bathhouse was old and decrepit.  And I seemed to be the only one there, except for the cute door guy who let me in.  And so I wandered past the door guy while he was mopping a TV room, hoping that maybe he’d take a break from work, but he seemed very into that damn mop.  Continuing on, I ran into one man, an older man, and smiled.  He was not my type, but I was glad to see a sign of life.  I’d never been to this bathhouse before as it’s outside the Village.  I had wanted to get away from the Village crowd and see what a bathhouse on the outskirts had to offer.  I began to wish I’d stayed in the Village.  Heading into the XXX video room, I sat on a decrepit, cloth couch.  I was terrified I’d get fleas.  Nevertheless, I looked at the porn on the screen, opened my towel and started stroking my cock.

Just as the porn star on the screen was begging for more fucking, in walked an absolute angel. In shyness, I covered my hard cock with my towel.   This man, a bit younger than me, had the body of an Adonis – a silky-smooth perfectly-formed hairless chest and washboard abs.  He came over to me, and then moved behind the couch where he grabbed my chest from behind.  Bending forward, he worked his way down to my dick, which was already standing at attention.  His mouth near my ear, he said “Come back to my room.”

In his room, we kissed and frotted and grabbed and licked and rimmed and sucked.  At one point he lubed up his hole, climbed on top of me, grabbed my dick and put the tip of it against his hole.  When he applied pressure with the weight of his gorgeous body, I wriggled away a bit, smiled and said “Do you have a condom?”  He said he didn’t.  “Damn,” I said and laughed at the irony of the moment.  “I have some in my room, I can go get one or five.”  “It’s ok,” he replied, not looking me in the eye, and began again to try to insert my cock in his ass.  Again, being under him, I had to wriggle my cock away.  “Sorry man, but I have to use a condom to fuck,” I said.  He seductively drew himself down so that his mouth was against my ear, just like the first time he had spoken to me.  He whispered, “Just don’t think about it.”

When someone tells you not to think about something, it becomes the only thing you can think about.  I lost my hard-on and jokingly said that my cock needed a break.  I politely excused myself, went to my room, dressed and set down the stairs to leave.  I passed my Adonis in the stairwell.  I looked at him, ready to smile and say something jokey like “Looks like my cock is done for the day,” but he made no eye contact, as if I was a ghost.

I got to thinking about the responsibility we men have towards each other.  This Adonis wasn’t going to negotiate anything with me.  He wasn’t going to ask me to fuck him bareback, he was going to assume I’d be fine with it and put the wheels in motion.  As I walked home from the bathhouse, his line – Just don’t think about it – began to infuriate me.  This angel began to represent to me the devil in disguise, a man so completely insensitive to my health.  In an earlier post, I shared how I happily became a poz-friendly guy, but this situation didn’t afford me any concern or real communication.  How many times had Adonis said to other men “just don’t think about it,” and against their better inclinations, tried not to think about it because he was just so damn hot?

Part 2

When I first moved to this city’s Village, I hit the bar near my building and was approached by a cute bearded guy around my age.  “I think we live in the same building,” he said.  I hadn’t found a job in this dirty, sexy city yet, and it was only a Wednesday night, so the bar was quite empty.  The bearded guy introduced himself as Pete.  Many beers later, we left to our shared building and ended up at his apartment.  I had drunk a lot.  I was flat out a messy drunk by time we got through his door.  And you know what I did?  I asked if he had any beer.  He did and opened me one.  Right there by his fridge, we peeled off our clothes and began to make out.  Somehow or other, he grabbed me from behind, and I could feel him pressing his cock against my ass.  “I’m a top,” I laughed.  “Sorry buddy.”  He asked me if I wanted to fuck him.  “Do you have a condom?” I asked.  “No, I only fuck bareback.”

There was no fucking that night.  I turned down the offer of fucking, but we continued to play, getting into his tub to piss on each other.  I don’t remember getting out of there, I don’t remember getting to my apartment, I don’t remember much at all.  But I remember that he had said he only fucked bareback.

He would have fucked me.  I don’t think he intended to ask if I was poz or neg.  Why?  Did he not care?  He’s a super friendly guy, and on occasion we run into each other in the lobby or in the laundry room.  One time, while in the elevator, the doors opened and he got on.  We exchanged pleasantries, joked and lamented that the pool in the building was closed for repairs.  The doors opened on my floor and as I exited, he said “see you soon sexy.”  I turned back and smiled and he winked at me.  I turned again and began walking down the hall.  As I listened to the elevator doors closing shut behind me, I wondered at how pleasant this all was.  Should I not be angry that a gay brother was willing to play Russian roulette with my health?  He must have seen how drunk I was that night.  What if I’d not had my wits about me at all?  Should I be furious?  I understand that barebacking is a choice that many men make, and should be able to make.  I’ve done it a handful of times.  There are times where it’s appropriate for the partners involved.  But without communication, by assuming I’m fine with it, I feel violated.  But unable to express it.  And so now, when I run into Pete, we act like the night didn’t even happen.  He calls me “sexy” and I smile back at him.  With him, I feel muzzled.  With you, Dear Reader, I do not.

Sex Club & Leather Bar Fail

I had never been to a strip bar that had backrooms for the patrons to play – with each other.  But this strip club that I went to doubled as a sex club.  I got there before midnight, before the cover charge doubled.  Greeting two shirtless bartenders on the main floor, I grabbed a beer and wandered as the club began to fill.  On the main floor, I found there were backrooms meant just for the strippers and their clients.  On the second floor was another bar, impromptu go-go dancing stages, and a backroom for the patrons to get it on together.

Upstairs, a stripper was working a small, raised area, barely a stage at all.  He was a college type, but unremarkable looking, and he worked the stage unremarkably.  He eventually dropped his pants, revealing a flaccid, unamused cock.  After his song was over, another dancer took his place.  This man was in his mid-twenties, hot, and very hairy – a major plus for me.  You so rarely see a hairy stripper.  His bubble butt was very furry and I wondered if he realized that he was very appealing to an underserved market (hirsute lovers).

The club began to fill up, both upstairs and down.  But not a single soul ventured into the backrooms.  I know this because I did venture forth and found them empty.  I watched as men furtively watched the strippers, as if they weren’t supposed to enjoy it or appreciate it too openly.  There was a reticence in the air, a holding back.  A conservatism that felt dangerously contagious.

I stayed for about an hour, but the place began to thin of people before last call was even anywhere near.  And so I swallowed the remainder of my beer and went next door to a leather bar.

Being a Saturday night, the place was busy, on both floors.  I bought a beer and bypassing the backroom, I headed upstairs where I discovered that an S&M show was in progress.  Shackled to and facing the far wall was Mr. Leather.  He was being flogged by a stout woman in glasses.  She and he were trading jokes as she flogged him, light banter that had nothing to do with the flogging per se.  After she was through with Mr. Leather, she looked out at those paying attention in the crowd and invited someone to have a go at being flogged.  A young guy waved his hand to have a shot at it.  He removed his shirt and giggled while his friends encouraged him.  The mistress joked around with him while flogging him and they had a grand old time.  When it was over, the young man jumped up and down, clapping his hands and saying that S&M was really neat.

The display of sadomasochism was missing two vital elements – a sadist and a masochist.  What I saw was a pastiche of S&M, not the real thing.  It was akin to buying a jacket in a bargain-basement store, knowing that it descended from high fashion but watered down many times over.  I wanted to see and sense danger, not the recreation of danger.  I saw the Disneyland version of what should have been transgressive.

I went downstairs, hunting for men who wanted the real deal.  I headed into the back room.  But before I had made three or four steps in, the smell of shit hit me like a brick.  Someone back there had had an accident while presumably being fucked.  Bracing myself against the smell, I noticed that the pervasive scent of excrement was not stopping the full crowd back there.  The place was jammed.  Overpowered by the smell, though, I had to leave.  I left the bar entirely, feeling that tonight I’d been abandoned by the sex gods.  Not every night is going to be a winner.  The trick is to accept this and know when it’s time to go.  But you know that you’ll return, and that when you do, the sex gods might be on your side and give you the transcendent gay bar experience that you seek.  You will return to the hunt, you will return to the night, and it will be resplendent.

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.

Poz Friendly

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Amsterdam

Amsterdam.   The city famous for its red light district.  However, one lane over, and you are in the blue light district – the gay section.  Picture it – Summer of 2002.  I was wrapping up a three month run in a production of “Singin’ in the Rain” at a theatre in Western Canada.  Just the chorus, nothing to get excited about.  I decided that I was long overdue to have a Summer (or at least three weeks) in Europe.  (My last time in Europe was at age 16 as an exchange student in France.  This time, I would be seeing and experiencing it through adult lenses).   Being the slut that I am, I was going to hit two of the biggest gay meccas Europe had to offer – Amsterdam and Berlin.  From the tour guides that I read, it seemed that every bar in those two cities had backrooms, and I intended to get to know each one.  So I packed my sexiest clothes, my leather, and those tour guides, and flew across the Atlantic.

In Amsterdam, I had booked a bed and breakfast, The Golden Bear (men only).  I was staying on the top floor, and like you see only in Europe, I had to ascend up the narrowest staircase I had ever seen.  After freshening up, I headed out on to the street to get acclimatized to my new neighbourhood, where I would be staying for a week.  I found a quaint cafe nearby and had dinner on the patio.  Next to me sat a gentleman of Arab descent, and seeing the tour guide in my hand, asked me where I was travelling from.  He himself was a student in London and said that every now and again he took the short flight to Amsterdam to have a good time.  Did he have any advice on where to have a good time? I asked.  He pointed across the street at a bath house, saying he’d had many a good time there.  And so I thought about it:  I was really keen to hit the blue light district’s bars and backrooms and dungeons, but evening was upon me.  I hadn’t yet figured out how to get to the blue light district, and so, even though a bath house wasn’t new for me, it seemed right for tonight, at least, to stay close to the B&B.  I thanked my first of many angels on this trip for his advice and excitedly went back to the B&B to get ready.

As I headed to the bathhouse, I felt like Dorothy in Oz, and I knew that this was the beginning of some type of sexual adventure.  Who would I meet, both tonight but also throughout this European vacation?  What would happen?  Would it all be sunshine and lollipops, or was trouble lurking?  There is no walk longer than the walk to a bath house.  You are filled with a mixture of excitement, embarrassment, dread, and again excitement.  By time you reach the door, you are often whacked out with panic and a racing heart.  If I can just get myself through the door, I’ll be ok, you tell yourself.  And once you’re in the door, you feel as if you’ve reached Everest.  And to reference Oz again, I felt like the cowardly lion approaching the door to the bathhouse.  I had come to Europe to experience sexual freedom.  Was I going to abandon that goal due to nerves and just visit museums?  No.  (Well, I did visit the torture museum, so there).

Once safely inside the bathhouse, I noticed that it was A-1 quality – modern and big, with at least three levels.  But unlike any bathhouse I’d been to before, there were no rooms to rent, just lockers.  I soon understood why.  Instead of rooms, there were loads of cabins, with beds that didn’t have sheets, just vinyl coverings.   The cabins had no ceilings, and the walls were so low that by standing on the bed, you could look directly into your neighbour’s cabin and watch them – an exhibitionist’s paradise!  This worked for me, but I wondered about those for whom privacy is a must while having sex.  I assumed that those folks would just not choose to frequent this particular establishment.

After showering and cruising a bit, I met a guy named Marco – a cute blond Italian who had once been to my home city in Canada.  And into a cabin we went.  A great guy, Marco and I talked as much as we had sex.  I topped him, using a condom.  He came, but I didn’t.  I wasn’t ready for the night to end – I wanted more.  Marco seemed disappointed that I didn’t come with him, and I had a hard time explaining that I wanted to stay longer.  I still wasn’t owning up to my sluttiness and couldn’t just be forthright and say I wanted to cruise around some more.  We left the cabin, said our goodbyes, and I showered and carried on.

I headed into the movie theatre, and upon entering, encountered a hot guy with dark, curly locks.  When he saw me, our eyes met and he straightened up, and I knew he was the one.  I sat near him, with just one theatre seat between us, and had one eye on the porn playing on the screen, and him in my peripheral vision.  Ladies and Gentlemen, what comes next is an age-old mating ritual between two men at a bathhouse.  It goes like this:  I inch my foot casually closer in his direction, so casual that it’s almost imperceptible.  Then he does the same.  That is my cue to move my foot a bit closer to his.  And he does the same.  Finally our feet touch.  Then what?  Well, someone has to do something.  And what he did was get up and leave.  I instinctually followed, and hoping he would, he turned back to check if I was following.  Wordlessly, he lead me to a cabin and in we went.

I found this Dutchman incredibly gorgeous, and his soft, curly dark locks in my hands made me crazy.  We rolled around on the bed, kissing, touching, exploring.  And then he turned me onto my stomach and got on top of me.  He began to thrust, but it was simulated fucking – he never entered me.  Really, he just rubbed his cock against my ass.  After we both eventually came, we lay there and talked, stroking each other all the while.  I decided that I loved Amsterdam.

However, do you recall that I said the walls of these cabins were so short that people could watch what you were doing?  Since I was on my stomach with my Dutchman grinding against my ass, I hadn’t noticed that we had a silent audience. Nor did I realize that Marco was a part of the audience.  The trouble with exhibitionism comes when you can’t control who’s doing the watching.  The Dutchman and I left the cabin, and there was a naked man sitting by the door of the neighbouring cabin, and he looked at me as I passed and said “you should use protection”.  Dumbfounded, I carried on, only to be accosted by Marco, who grabbed my arm and berated me for fucking him and then apparently having unprotected sex with someone else, saying that he’d have never allowed me to fuck him if he’d known I have unsafe sex.  I said that he had it wrong, I hadn’t been fucked, it just looked like that.  But he was having none of it and stormed off.

I was due to meet the curly-haired Dutchman on the street to get his phone number, so showered again, dressed and left the bathhouse.  Once on the street, still reeling from Marco and his accusation, I took the Dutchman’s business card.  “Do you really want me to call you at work?  Wouldn’t it be best if I called you at home?” I asked.  But no, I couldn’t call him at home – because his boyfriend might answer.

I went back up the street to the B&B and instantly threw the Dutchman’s business card in the trash.  Was my whole trip destined to be full of this melodrama?  Would this fun frolic through Europe devolve into something negative and difficult?

Three weeks later, after touring Europe, I was back in Amsterdam, just for a night, to catch my return flight back to Canada.  Terribly heartsick over a guy I had met in Berlin, I wandered to a bar for one last taste of European nightlife before I had to say goodbye to the Continent.  And there, at the bar, was the Dutchman, standing with whom I assumed was the boyfriend.  The Dutchman and I awkwardly exchanged hellos and goodbyes. With a plane to catch in the morning, I didn’t stick around to hear him explain me to the boyfriend. 

Bartending at The Anchor

My bartending interview at The Anchor, a gay bar in my hometown, circa 2000, went like this:

“Jason, we`d totally love to have you bartend here......you already know half the clientele, it`s perfect.  Plus, we don`t care how good you are at pouring drinks.  You`ve got what a bartender really needs – likability.”

“This sounds awesome,” I said. “When the fuck do I start?”

“We’re gonna re-jig the schedule, but you’ll train with Brent on Thursday and Friday.  You’ll work the main bar from 8-3, then we do cash out and you’re outta here by 4, unless you wanna hang and party.  Thursday, Bera Breast is hosting the wet underwear contest.  And Friday is underwear night – are you cool about working in your underwear?”

“Uh – no.”

Back up.  I had just returned from three glorious years living in Manhattan.  My last year there had been one of sexual exploration, and then it all came to a crashing halt when my work visa finally expired.  I had the choice of living in New York City under the table and forfeiting health care, or coming back to Canada.  I couldn’t live life as an illegal alien, and, with very little money, I had to make the unsexy decision to bunk with my parents in my semi-small hometown.  I thought this would be a pit stop on to a better Canadian city, but ended up there for ten years.

Happily, my parents lived right next door to The Anchor, one of two gay clubs in town.  The other was The Savoy, where I had worked as the door guy/coat check guy back in ’97.  I likely could’ve gotten a job at The Savoy again, but for the simple detail that The Anchor was right outside my parent’s door, I chose The Anchor.

My last year in New York City had opened up sexual vistas to me that enlarged my sense of my sexual self.  So can you believe that I hesitated when the manager of The Anchor told me I’d have to work in my underwear on Friday nights?  This is like a porn star balking at going to a nude beach.  But I didn’t yet have a full comprehension of my exhibitionist side.  Also, from my year working at The Savoy, I knew the gay population of my hometown well.  Did I really want to open myself up to their scrutiny of my body?  And psychologically, I knew my parents lived right around the corner.  Their best little boy in the world would be mere steps away shaking his ass behind a bar, nearly naked.  The mental dissonance had me reeling.

I made a deal with myself.  I would give it a shot this coming Friday.  If it reduced me to trembling tears and embarrassment, I would quit.  I called the manager, Lloyd, and said I was in.

Thursday was a homecoming of sorts.  People let me know that I’d been missed while in the Big Apple.  They also wondered why the hell I was back in the sticks.  I milked the truth that my visa had expired for all it was worth, and while a valid excuse, I still felt ashamed.  Ashamed that I hadn’t found a way to stay in New York.  They knew that I’d gone there to go to a performing arts school.  Why did I need to bartend here half naked after all of that?  I wondered the same thing.

The drag queens were the true players at The Anchor, and I loved them all.  Crystal Meth bussed tables, and Charity Case, Dora Dumpster, and Iona Sextoy hosted shows, like the wet underwear contest that first Thursday that I worked.  Brent, who trained me on the till that Thursday night was a hot, young guy with a son and a girlfriend and was bisexual (I think).

Friday’s were The Anchor’s big night, while Saturdays belonged to The Savoy.  This was before the internet had emptied the bars, and The Anchor on a Friday night was wall to wall men.  Good ol’ prairie boys.  So cowboy hats, jeans, and flannel shirts.  I got to the bar on Friday night, only my second night there, with my heart in my throat.

Brent and I set up the bar fully clothed, but at around 7:40, Brent said “Ready to get ready?”  We headed to the kitchen (during the day, the bar served finger foods) where there was a staff bathroom.  I was getting prepared to do a job that required me to get partially naked.  Who the hell was I?  I was raised to be Prime Minister of Canada. Or, better yet, a minister, in the religious sense.

Brent was a pro – he was wearing a cock ring.  Therefore when he undressed down to his skivvies and his army boots, he was a beautiful sight to behold.  I, on the other hand, had not had the foresight to wear a cock ring and would have a deflated-looking package next to Brent.  I took that as a bad sign.  There is an art to everything, evidently.

Then it was time to march back to the bar.  Folks, this has to be done proudly, like you own the place.  I knew that much.  I could act, I’d spent 2 years at a NYC performing arts school honing the craft, so I went into automatic and followed Brent.  We got to the bar and there were the requisite whistles from the already drunk patrons who lined the bar.  It was 8 o’clock, and still pretty empty in there.  I was sure my mother was going to walk in at any minute.  Or that god was going to strike me with lightning.  My life as the best little boy in the world flashed before my eyes.  And then, fifteen minutes later...

Nothing.  Fifteen minutes is all it takes to forget that you are working in your underwear.  You banter with the customers, you get slapped with a rag on the ass by Brent, you starting serving drinks, and it’s like being in a bathing suit at the beach.  By time eleven o’clock hit, when the men really started to pour in, I was an old pro.  And then when the customers see a new guy working the bar (or in my case, the dimly remembered guy who worked the door at The Savoy three years ago), the curiosity is piqued for them, and the compliments come.  And my ego grows.  And though legally Brent and I aren’t supposed to drink while working, we do.  And I think “I’m gonna like this”.  I liked it for 3 years.  And the truth?  I was bored the nights I had to work fully clothed.  All week in the gym was for Friday nights.

I also never worked a Friday night without a cock ring again.  And I often worked shirtless, even on the other nights of the week, simply because it felt good (and prompted better tips and shooters bought for me by the customers).  Did I mention that underwear night also applied to the clientele?  Anyone in their underwear got a discount.  Truthfully, not many guys took advantage of it, and I understood why.  Everyone in that town knew everyone else, and it felt vulnerable to really go for it, let loose and drop your pants.  It was the reason I had hesitated in taking the job.  But being behind the bar gave me a certain license that I don’t think our customers felt.  However, I found ways to give discounts on drinks.

One cute guy whom I’d never seen before came to the bar and said right out “If I show you my cock, can I get a free drink?”  I’m all about supporting others people’s exhibitionism, and I also just plainly wanted to see cock.  He showed me.  He got a free drink.  He showed me his cock numerous times.  I used change from my tip jar to keep drinks in his hand.  It’s called reciprocity.   This is the homofuckinsexual equivalent to “show me your tits!”

On a leather themed night, a good friend loaned me the leather I didn’t yet own myself:  A harness that connected to a cock ring under my jeans.  I remember feeling particularly sexual and left a few buttons of my fly undone.   The cowboy sitting at the bar that night was fucking cute.  I’d gotten his name, so I naturally felt that I knew him well enough to let him slide a hand down my jeans.  Which lead to a short-lived affair.

And then there were the shows.  Whenever a drag queen needed a guy to dance in a cage wearing just a g-string, I volunteered.  No, this was not Broadway.  And inwardly, I shook my head at how far backwards I had reeled from the theatre aspirations that had guided me to New York.  But something else was happening, and it wasn’t ominous in the least.  I was getting to exhibit my inner exhibitionist.  And while you may think that my ego was likely growing at too fast a rate, believe you me, there are always a few drunk patrons who stagger up to you to remind you that you’re not all that.  Egos actually are kept in check and a sense of humour about the whole blasted thing is necessary.

But after three years, I began to feel that I had stayed too long at the fair.  It got harder to muster up the sincerity, and I wasn’t as great any longer at entertaining the customers.  The internet was truly drawing the crowds away – and my tips reflected that.  But in the good times, it was heady fun to be the centre of a party, at the main bar, around which the fun circled.

At the time of this writing, I am back in my hometown after a few years of living in a much larger city out East.  Three nights ago, I went from my parent’s place to The Anchor to see the old gang.  Lo and behold, the door to the main club downstairs was locked.  Only the pub above was open.  I learned that The Anchor was now closed on Sundays and Mondays due to lack of business.  Upstairs, in The Anchor’s adjacent pub, I stepped into a time capsule.  I saw some dimly remembered faces, but the place was quiet, with one patron sleeping at the bar’s counter.  And as much affection as I have for the faces that I remembered, they too seemed to have stayed too long at the fair.  There was the undeniable air of hopelessness – and loneliness – enveloping the air.  The few patrons left seemed out of a movie called “The Last Chance Blues”.  Where were all the gays?  At private dinner parties?  In the closet?  If I had stayed in my hometown even a year longer than the ten that I did stay, I believe a cancer would have begun to grow.  A cancer created by loneliness.  I needed a bigger centre, with a gay Village, to feed my need for life and adventure.  And so, leaving after one beer, I thanked the gay gods for my years at The Anchor when it was hopping, and thanked the gay gods for also bearing me to the big city I now live in before the quiet of my hometown caused me to implode.

Berlin Leather Sex Party

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