Friday, June 5, 2009

Plenty of fish in the ...

When Lysander observes, “the course of true love never did run smooth, “ (Midsummer Night’s Dream) he said a mouthful brother … although, in truth, what I am dealing with is neither true love or even good lovin’. As it happens the series of unfortunate events that is my love life has moved from the ridiculous to the absurd. Keep in mind that I certainly have plenty bigger fish to fry these days than to worry about my love life, or even getting laid; nonetheless, man cannot live on bread alone.

A man has needs …

the Frenemy being the frenemy he is commented the other day that he saw the guy I’m seeing and our favorite Russian buddy buddy(ing) about at the grocery store the other day. As things go, one never needs to hear much about one’s exes, something that the Frenemy never quite seems to grasp. Mind you, this is someone who spent three years stalking a guy he slept with a total of three times. In truth, I haven’t thought much of the guy I’m seeing since our thing dissolved – give or take finding out that he is now dating the guy with whom I wanted to rebound. Four years, all things considered, fly by without much ado – particularly given that our thing largely consisted of doing drugs together and making out in the occasional bar restroom. Ah, young love …

I have been lucky enough – thinking of it now – to have had some lovely, long-term bed buddies (although none of them made it to boyfriend status). And yet it is – I suppose a question of degrees. Rodney – the pale, bone-thin, accounting major (who was a convicted sex offender, mind you) – had an instant willingness to play. He was passive to the point of resembling a blow-up doll. I don’t recall how it ended … but somehow, a fade-out occurred.

Brian wrote beautiful poetry – about his dead lover; we listened to the Carpenters while he talked about the plans he and his lover had together, or pored over old photo albums. That we were naked when these things occurred was the few actual nods to a sex life we enjoyed. He dumped me when I applied to law school – said he couldn’t bear to lose another man in his life.

the guy I’m seeing, of course, never saw me in daylight; we had breakfast together once – separate checks, please – and drinks together many times … among other less than legal associations. The sex was never reciprocal although the drive was mutual. Despite the amazing kisses, and occasionally passing out together post-blowjob, we could never sleep together. It was a motley assemblage of arms and legs, with injury around every elbow or corner. I somehow think the black eye he wore the last time I saw him has more to do with more bad sleep chemistry than it does with any domestic violence.

Mikey – who enjoyed fisting – blew my mind, among other parts. He was smart, funny, kinky, playful and in constant want of large black man, individually or in a group setting. After three years of wearing him like a glove, I still got exciting from just him walking into a room. If there is God in this world, he is in rehab … or post-rehab … has moved to a religious colony in the mountains of some very small town. His demons caught up with him shortly before my own did with me.

While the rest of my sex life – before, after, and certainly during college – is a blur of ups, downs, and the occasional sideways, the sum of the tragic comedy that is my life occurred just the other night. I met Roger online. We seemed to hit it off well enough, and one late night, spent hours sitting on my father’s front porch – innocently chatting. We shared a kiss and parted ways somewhere around 5AM. When I didn’t hear from him, I assumed it was just another missed connection … and then he called. It was 2AM, and he was drunk, and wanted company. I know this by way of the voicemail he left – the five voicemails, actually. I was in bed at the time, and was indeed in bed the next three or four nights when he called at 2 or 3 in the morning.

Not exactly in the mood to be someone’s booty call, but also in need of a little attention, I called him – at a decent hour – and suggested we get together. He picked me up, and as I could not play at my place, and he could not play at his, we decided to get a motel room – or I did anyway. I brought the necessary requirements, a bottle of booze, a change of clothes, and condoms. I think it was halfway through the bottle when the frank conversation started – one I’ve heard time and again over the years – the “I like you, but just not in that way …” I was finishing the next glass when he proposed I get a hooker … a twink … that way, we could both play.

I toyed with the idea for whole seconds, before determining that I’d rather right off a night without nookie than pick up a crack hoe, especially on my dime. We went round and round on that before I simply demanded to be driven home. He refused. Under the auspices that he was too drunk to drive all the way back to my place and then get himself home, he suggested I stay in the room, that I perhaps get a hooker on my own, that I have a friend pick me up … in other words, he was done with me. After more bitching, he begrudgingly agreed to pay for the taxi to send me on my way.

I believe the taxi ride cost approximately a tenth of what I spent on the evening, but it was the tedium of yet another rejection that stung much more than the lingering feeling I was played. As things go, counting down my remaining days of freedom, I am half-tempted to get in as much fun and frivolity as I may, and otherwise find myself wanting to lock myself away in a monastery – safe from the temptations, thrills, rejection(s), and other such things that made up the previous two years.

At some point, the party’s over …

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