Aliens and Rainbows

June 6, 2008

I’m going to deviate from my normal type of post.  It’s related only in the fact that these are the type of things that lead me into having (lots of) casual sex.

I stopped writing after that first paragraph to send an email to someone.  I decided that instead of writing what was happening I’d just post that message.

Subject: I Love You

And I have since I met you. Don’t worry this isn’t an admission of secret passion.

I know that I fucked up. I’ve fucked up a lot, and if I’m being completely honest, I want to do it again. Your friendship (along with Desirae’s) has been what’s keeping me from going back down that path. Losing you two was traumatic. I feel like it happening again, but this time I know I haven’t done anything to cause it.

I remember when I was one of the people who you would tell when you had a problem. I remember when I could come to you with anything and not have to worry about straining our friendship.

Tonight you snapped at me, you bit me hard enough to break skin and draw blood. For once, I didn’t do it back because I feel like I constantly have to keep my feelings in check around you. I wasn’t doing it for attention, but I purposely walked away from the group hoping that someone would ask me what was wrong. I don’t like putting my shit on people without their permission, but especially when I have to wonder if they even care.

I feel like I’ve been replaced. You’ve just found a new Musketeer. I like Bo a lot, but he’s taking my place. I don’t expect to be a part of everything, but I also don’t expect to have to invite myself to everything. If you guys are my friends you should want me there. I’ve never cared about driving to Biloxi to see you guys, but when I do it just to be shunned it pisses me off and hurts my feelings. I don’t want to make it sound petty, but gas is fucking expensive and I’ve never asked you guys for a dime when I wasn’t driving around with you. That’s not really the point, but I feel like it is somewhat a part of it.

You and Ryan is your business, but I thought that you were my business to an extent. I wouldn’t be bothered if I didn’t have to see the list of everyone else who gets to know, and it bothers me even more when they’re my friends too.

I think what I’m trying to say is, “I’ve made an effort, and I have nothing to show for it.” If you don’t want to be my friend any more just tell me, and if that’s not it at least be open enough to tell me what the problem is. That’s part of how we got to be such a mess in the first place. As much as it freaks me out to have yet another person wandering the world with my secrets in their head, I’d rather not feel like a dog begging for approval and attention.

I’m sorry I got high for six months straight and ignored you. I’m sorry that I overslept and missed your mom’s memorial service. I’m sorry if you heard that I ranted to Desirae about you canceling. I don’t know what else I have to be sorry for. I’m feeling very alone right now, and I’d like to stop feeling that way.

That’s why I do it.

I’m So Fucking Sick of It

May 24, 2008

So much has happened.  If I would post more often this would be less daunting.  Things begin and end before I have the chance to set a single fingertip the increasingly unfamiliar key of my computer.  I’ll try to do a quick but accurate rundown of the necessary backstory.

Since I last left you:  The Dancer and I became an item, The Alcoholic called me relentlessly, The Dancer and I went on a few dates (and had a few sexes).

That’s pretty much what’s important, and now the story continues.  I logged online Wednesday night and The Alcoholic started messaging me as if nothing had happened.  He asked me if I had made a decision (because hanging up on him three times didn’t make it clear enough that I didn’t want to be with him).  I had already been struggling with the idea of being monogamous (even though I like The Dancer very much).  So, when The Alcoholic started pushing it, I ended up calling The Dancer and talking to him about it.  He said he didn’t really care if we were exclusive or not.  I know that sounds bad, but it wasn’t.

You know what…I’m so sick of this fucking situation.  Long story short:  I gave The Alcoholic a second chance, he’s still a supremacist asshole, and I dumped him for good.  Now, I’m BFF’s with his roommate and his roommate’s girlfriend, which totally eats him up.  And I love it. 

Don’t Look Both Ways

May 20, 2008

I am a creature of self-sufficiency, independence.  The Alcoholic couldn’t seem to understand this.  You may remember The Alcoholic from my previous post.  I (reluctantly) agreed to date him.  It lasted a week.

He was an out-of-the-closet-closet case.  He could easily relax in the privacy of his bedroom, twirling his wrist like so many drag queens.  It was outside, out from behind the fortitude of a locked door and curtained windows, that he retreated into his homophobia.  Now, I’m not a huge fan of PDA, but I (and I don’t think many people would disagree with this) don’t think that a parting kiss or a held hand is shoving anything in anybody’s face.  I lied, I know one person who disagrees with me, The Alcoholic.  So, it was as he looked both ways before kissing me that I realized we had a problem.

His defense was weak, “We don’t live in San Francisco, sweetheart, this is the south.”  I don’t know how many times I heard those exact words.  Perhaps, if he had refrained from insulting me with such sarcastic endearments as sweetheart, I would have let it slide.  He refused to understand my perspective.  I would die to live my life the way I deserve to live it.  My love hurst no one.  Maybe fundamentalists should turn their sights on perpetrators of domestic violence.  Then again, they would be ostracizing a large portion of their demographic.

When my old flame (I’ll call him The Dancer from high school blew back into town I chose him.  Yes, I chose him because of our history and, yes, I chose him because I like him, but more than that I chose him because he’s proud of who he is, not ashamed by it.

“A Modest Proposal” or “Child of a Lesser God”

May 12, 2008

I’m scared.  There are so many things that I’m trying to say right now that they have created a sort of traffic jam in my head, and nothing can come out.  I’m not sure how to do this.  I’m not sure how to be loved.  It freaks me the fuck out.  I’ve become so accustomed to being a toy, a pawn, a cumdump, that when someone takes an interest in me I begin to crawl inside myself and shut down.

I’ve met someone new.  It was only supposed to be a thing.  Nothing of substance or of any consequence.  It should have only taken an hour- two tops.  Instead it’s taken three days.  Three days and a modest proposal.  Boyfriend.  What does that mean?  How do I do that?   What if I get in too deep, and I’m too afraid to get out?

I’ve never had to make a commitment to anyone but myself.  I’m kind of a dead beat in that department.  I missed a funeral today because I was still too high to get up this morning.  I’m flailing.  I can feel the reigns slipping between my fingers, and I’m not sure how to regain control.

I said yes.  I don’t feel any different.  I don’t have butterflies.  I don’t feel somehow more complete.  It doesn’t feel wrong, but it doesn’t feel right, doesn’t feel perfect.

Getting fucked is a performance I have perfected.  Maybe I’ve been typecast for a reason.  Maybe I’m not meant for anything better than that.

When A Man Pulls Out

April 29, 2008

I try, I really fucking do.  I like to imagine myself as this sexually liberal, uninhibited, unemotional, sex addict.  I know…most of those things are desirable personality traits, but remember we’re talking about me, the guy who romanticizes mental illness.  Out of all of those qualities I possess 2.5 of them.  At this point, I’m pretty sure I could get a diagnosis for sexual addiction (not that I’m planning on going to group therapy anytime soon), and sexual liberty and inhibition are no huge hurtles either.  But emotional attachment is kicking my ass.

I’ve known Sea Man for all of a week now, and I’m already getting bothered by how hard it is to see him.  Now, I’m not sure if I said that he was a very recent divorcee and a father.  Being with his kid sucks up a lot of his time.  I don’t hold spending time with his family against him, but when we can’t be together because he’s to terrified to have me be seen entering his hotel room, I feel a little lousy.

I’m 18 and out.  He’s 35.  To me that says something.  He can say he “admires my courage”, but inside I quietly resent him.  How can you work for a government that wouldn’t want you if they knew what you did behind closed doors.  They don’t care if a man wants to give his wife a rimjob, but he better not stick his tongue in a man’s ass.

It’s for this reason (among others) that I no longer (intentionally) sleep with married men.  I don’t like fucking someone I don’t respect.  This should be an open-shut case.  But it’s not.

There was something about the way he held me.  The way he made me feel so secure.  That’s not something I get often, and now I feel like he’s taking that away from me.  I told him from the beginning that I wasn’t looking for a casual sex partner.  I told him I was looking for a friend with benefits, but that the friendship was the more important part.

I know that I have a problem with putting to much in people.  It’s not even Sea Man that I’m so infatuated with; it’s what he represents to me.  He represents that archetype of a the strong, brave, handsome man who is always there when you need him to save the day.  A knight in shining armor.

But now, without seeing him, I feel like I always do when a man pulls out.  Empty.

Sea Man

April 24, 2008

My greatest fault is my ability to fall in love. On a whim I can conjure all the necessary hormones to create the feelings of euphoria, security, and intimacy. But once the chemical reaction starts, it can’t stop.

I met him Saturday night. We drove up onto a concrete slab where someone’s home used to be. We talked for a while. Coyly and almost unintentionally I would hang my head while listening to his deep, southern inflected voice, only to peer up over the brim of my glasses and tempt him with a smirk.

In these moments I, the seducer, often become the seduced.

Later the heat from the friction of our bodies fogged up the windows, and I felt oh-so-much like Rose DeWitt Bukater. It’s the only time in my memory that I felt honestly secure while having sex. It’s trite, but the notion of being wrapped up in the arms of a strong man has always appealed to me.

I met him again last night, and he sneaked me into his hotel room. After I took my medication we lied there in the bed together and talked. He said he wasn’t out and that it had a lot to do with his recent divorce. I pressured him and eventually he cracked. He’s military.

About the conversation that followed I’ll only say, I still don’t understand how a gay man can support a law that punishes him for something he can’t control under the disguise of protecting him. I take it back, I’ll say two things. For all those who may not realize, being closeted on a job is not the same as being gay on a job.

But I don’t care about his politics.

He told me he would go back to California soon. Back? I didn’t even know he was away. “Don’t get attached,” he said. “Don’t worry we can still have fun,” he said.

“I won’t,” I lied.

I know it’s only a fling, but at the mere suggestion of a time limit, the writer in me awoke. A tale of unrequited love. Two men (well one man and a boy) separated by distance and years. It could have been the oxytocin subsiding, but already I was missing what I haven’t even lost. And admittedly, it turns me on to be in a relationship that won’t work out.