Solosexuality

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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.

Craigslist

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The Ethical Slut

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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.

Fetishes: PISS

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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!

http://sex-in-words.blogspot.ca/2013/02/the-hook-up-hunting-for-sex-cautionary.html

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?

Toronto.

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.

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.

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