Guy #20 – Going supernova…





Guy #20 marked the first time I ever had sex in Canada. Toronto, to be precise.

All of my previous sexual experiences had taken place either in the closet or in a small country with only one gay club. Now I had arrived in a city big enough to have its very own gay village.

I spent the summer of 2009 in and around Downtown T.O., enjoying the thought of constantly being surrounded by millions, many of whom were gay guys.

It was a time of many firsts. Sexually speaking, I went supernova that summer.

For starters, the summer of 2009 introduced me to the world of Craigslist, where gay men gathered before the rise of Grindr:

“NSA blow”
“Looking for chubby bottoms”
“Reward for your dirt”
“Fun in your hotel room”
“Dad, I need a punishment”
Those were the kind of advertisements I shifted through in search of my Guy #20, who I first came to know as “Athletic Hot Bi Guy”.

Athletic Hot Bi Guy and I got in touch through Craigslist. We exchanged a few pictures, decided we were both doable and then set up a date at his place, a beautiful penthouse in Downtown Toronto overlooking the city skyline. The scenery might actually have been prettier than Guy #20 himself.

My first ever Craigslist date went like clockwork up until the moment I suddenly had to puke. And again. And again. And then once more. And a few more times after that. I lost count eventually.

I had never heard of roofies, or that people sometimes put roofies in other people’s drinks. I do remember thinking my wine had tasted funny that night.

It wasn’t until years after my date with Guy #20 that I finally realized he had pimped up my drink. At the time I figured I had drunk too much, even though one glass of alcohol had never made me sick before.

Apart from feeling unbelievably dizzy, weak and sick, I was very much ashamed of myself. No one likes to puke on a sex date. I was so busy being ashamed of constantly hovering my head above a toilet, I neglected to fully realize how calmly Guy #20 was taking all of it. He didn’t comfort me, nor did he get in any way upset or worried. He just kept sitting on his bed, athletic and hot, waiting for me to feel better.

Of course Guy #20 knew exactly what was going on. He was probably counting himself lucky I didn’t realize I had been such a good bottom because of a roofie.

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Naturally, I wish it upon Guy #20 to end up in the Emergency Room with a vacuum cleaner stuck to his parts. The sad thing is he never even needed drugs to get me. Athletic Hot Bi Guy summed him up nicely. He was athletic and hot. That’s usually enough to get me high.

To my surprise, Guy #20 later contacted me to invite me a second time. At the time it highly surprised me all my puking hadn’t been a turn-off, but I guess in his mind it was a fair price for such a good bottom.
I however didn’t feel like being reminded of my shame, so I kindly ignored Guy #20’s invitation.

So, my first sexual experience in a big city ended in a modest drug overdose. Yet at the time I wasn’t aware of that. What impressed me most was how unworldly easy it was to obtain sex in a populated area. To me, Guy #20 marked the beginning of a new era: I had definitively left behind this shy, insecure and dorky figure who couldn’t get a girlfriend. That had been me, barely two years before.

After spending the night at Guy #20’s house, recuperating from what I still thought was bad alcohol, I walked down the streets of Toronto, feeling content and satisfied.

I knew I had a busy summer ahead of me.



Relationship summary:

LENGTH: One night
FORMAT: Sex date
SEX SCORE (0 = Windows Vista <–> 10 = The best sex ever): 6.5


Girl #2 – Xenia Onatopp…





Girl #2 was a stripper.

What was a gay guy such as myself doing in a strip club with girl strippers, you might ask.

Well, I for one never intended to meet a Brazilian stripper that night. At the time I worked for a media company and the owner of a strip club so happened to be one of my clients. He had invited me and my boss to his club to discuss stationary.
We discussed stationary, and then the owner invited us for a drink in his club, which incidentally had naked women dancing on stage.
It never occurred to me to say ‘no’. I actually rather welcomed the experience.

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I figured there would only be minimal interaction between me and any kind of strippers.

I never knew it was common for strippers to randomly pull audience members such as myself onto their stage. I also didn’t know it was common for a stripper to undress me in front of my client, my boss and about a hundred strange men. I’m still not sure if this is common practice at strip clubs.

I hope it is.

It was fun. Frightening, but fun.

Not fun in the sense that it was erotic. Just in the sense that it was fun to be living the wild life. I had lost my virginity barely two years earlier at age 24. Now here I was, lying underneath a big breasted stripper who was riding me like Xenia Onatopp.

That actually hurts like hell on a wooden stage.

Still, I totally admired how Girl #2 exerted total control over me. Stripping is not an easy job, but she was good at it. Had I been straight, I probably would have been very attracted to her.

Of course it was almost unbearingly unpleasant to get my underwear torn off in front of my boss and a client, not in the least bit because I just so happened to be wearing my oldest and absolute unsexiest bit of leftover garment around my waist.

Yet as I lay there, quite literally butt naked, I couldn’t help but feel I had achieved something. I had stopped being that person that had been so religiously afraid of the unknown for so long. Instead, I was at the mercy of a stripper. By the time she started to ride me I was starting to understand how people break hips.
By living.

After Girl #2 had finished her show, I was left on stage, trying to find back my clothes just as the lights went out. I managed to get dressed pretty quickly, although my underwear had been completely destroyed. I was forced to go commando for the remainder of the night. And my boss knew about it.

Yet in a way I was happy I got to see a beautiful woman in a way I never expected to see a woman ever again. Girl #2 had sensed I was gay, or so the owner told me afterward. I guess that had made me an easy target, but I would like it if strippers really do commonly pull men on their stage to wreak havoc on their underwear for the world to see.

I wish it upon any stripper to have that kind of power over their audience, as Girl #2 did with me.




Relationship summary:

LENGTH: One song
FORMAT: Striptease act
SEX SCORE (0 = Can’t getting a Taylor Swift song out of your head <–> 10 = The best sex ever): 3.5

Guy #19 – The quickest of quickies…





If a guy grabs you by the balls while you’re peeing into a urinal and you let him, does that count as sex?

I guess technically it could count as the quickest of quickies, clocking in at 5.4 seconds of absolute foreplay.

Even in a filthy public washroom Guy #19 was hot. It was never a question of whether or not I would let him grab my balls. The question was whether or not I would hold up my pee for him. The thing is, I had already started peeing by the time Guy #19 arrived at the scene. My mind was puzzled: Would it be rude to continue peeing? Would it be awkward if I suddenly stopped? And if I stopped, how long was I supposed to wait until I could let the remainder flow? Was I willing to exert that much power over someone I didn’t know? Did I want this guy to think he can make me pee whenever it pleases him? Should I tell him I’m nowhere near that submissive? What would be a good time to tell him? Should I be peeing when I tell him, or should I hold it up, tell him, and then continue peeing?

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I don’t really remember what the ball grabbing actually felt like. Guy #19 either enjoyed it or pretended to, as did I.

I do remember it stopped as suddenly as it had begun. Guy #19 retracted his hands, greeted me like a gentleman and walked away.

At the time I was absolutely confident that our washroom encounter was but a prelude of what was to come, but strangely enough I’ve never seen or heard from him since.

Maybe it’s because I didn’t hold up my pee for him.





Relationship summary:

LENGTH: 5.4 seconds
FORMAT: Hand-to-balls physical contact
SEX SCORE (0 = A hobbit Jehovah’s witness <–> 10 = The best sex ever): 4.5

Guy #18 – Sexual fast food…





The first time Guy #18 kissed me his mouth swallowed my lips like a hungry octopus. It wasn’t good.
The last time he kissed me it was like floating through space and feeling at home at the same time. It was considerably better.

In fact, all the things Guy #18 and I did were awful the first time we did them. And sexually speaking, we did a lot of things, for a long time, a lot of times.

Of all the 168 guys I’ve ever been with one way or another, Guy #18 is the guy I’ve been with the most.

Sometimes I wish it wasn’t so.

You see, Guy #18 thought the moon is a planet, among other things. It would be easy to say his IQ was barely a two digit number, but then again, that’s what Guy #18 was all about for me: Ease.

For years at an end, Guy #18 was someone I could call whenever I was in the mood for him, as if he were a pizza. He always showed up at my doorstep in thirty minutes or less.
As time progressed, so did our sex. Some of my life’s hottest and most intimate moments occurred in the sole presence of Guy #18. He was my sexual fast food. And it tasted better each time I ordered take-out.

“I love you,” he would often tell me.
“You don’t even know me,” I would reply as I made sure his mouth was engaged in something that wasn’t talking.


I would eventually realize that Guy #18 and I did in fact have a very strong and meaningful connection, albeit a one-dimensional one. Our relationship was flat like a pizza. It was just about sex, increasingly magnificent and mind blowing sex.

The only way we knew how to communicate was by way of having sex. In that sense, Guy #18 and I had some of the best conversations humanly possible. Words just weren’t a part of it.

Guy #18’s stupidity was surpassed only by my selfishness. I figure it was on account of his low IQ that he allowed me to treat him like a pizza over and over again. I never took him seriously. Part of me even embraced the fact that I could get ever increasingly awesome sex without the risk of getting hurt. Call me heartless, but people who believe the moon is a planet can’t hurt me or my feelings.

Enjoyable as fast food can be, no one wants to eat pizza every day, except maybe people who think the moon is a planet. I always knew Guy #18 would get to see me and my life from the sideline. He would always be disposable. I was never loyal, meaning I went from Guy #19 all the way through Guy #130 during the time Guy #18 was a part of my life.

As it turns out I ended up hurting Guy #18 quite a lot, though I’d like to think he also found true happiness in me, the way I found true happiness in him. True, honest, one-dimensional happiness.

The thing is, even though Guy #18 thinks the moon is a planet, I do love him. I’ve come to love his sexuality, which constitutes an important part of anyone’s personality. On the one dimension we did find each other, we came to know each other through and through.
He was quicker to acknowledge his feelings than I was.

Guy #18 definitely outsmarted me there.



Relationship summary:

LENGTH: ± 5/6 years
FORMAT: Highly intermittent love relationship based on nothing but sex somehow
SEX SCORE: (0 = A vibrator that runs on diesel <–> 10 = The best sex ever): 9.5

Guy #17 – Not perfect enough…



I visited a gay sauna recently.

For those of you unfamiliar with the concept: A gay sauna is a facility where guys have sex with anonymous strangers in dimly lit conditions.

The first guy to hit on me was a chubby guy with a funny accent.
“Hi, you pretty boy,” he said as he sat down next to me and laid his arm around my neck.
“Thank you,” I said, as I pushed his arm back where it came from.
“Where you from?”
“I live in the Caribbean.”
“Ah, Asia.”
“Not quite.”
Silently, we sat next to each other for a moment. Not wanting to be impolite, I stretched our conversation somewhat: “Where are you from?”
“Wow. What’s it like being gay over there?”
“I’m no gay. I have wife and kids. I’m bi.”
“So does your wife know you go to gay saunas?”
“No, she not know. I’m no gay. Only once a year I come here and fuck boy. You boy.”
I wished my Eritrean bisexual acquaintance good luck on his quest for a boy that was not me.

The second guy was clearly on drugs.
“Do you think my hair looks scruffy?” he asked.
“You mean curly?”
“No, I know it’s curly. It’s supposed to be curly. It just feels scruffy. Really scruffy.”
“I don’t think anyone will notice in this light.”
“How about my teeth?”
“What about your teeth?”
“Is there plaque on my teeth?”
The guy showed me his smoker’s teeth. I told him his teeth looked fine, though he reminded me I really ought to quit smoking.

The third guy had a job at airport security. He told me he sent off passengers for flight MH 17 last year, the one that got shot down over the Ukraine.
“There was this one man who arrived at the gate late, afraid he had missed his flight. I helped him get on board. I remember his relief for having made it.”
“It must be unreal to realize you saw so many people that were just hours away from their deaths.”
“Yes, it was. I needed some time to cope with it. So, are you a bottom?”
“I don’t think that’s relevant at this point.”

It’s nights like these that make me miss people like Guy #17.

Guy #17 could have been the real thing.

I believe every body goes through life aching for and because of that real thing. A gay sauna is a place where intimacy meets up with lust, the way a symphony orchestra could accompany a rock band. It’s a place where people can find love with minimal amounts of hurt. It’s also a place where people get high on poppers, XTC and roofies, or just plain weed in my case. I believe we take those drugs because they obliterate the hurt that comes with love, in each and every sense of the word.

Guy #17 was a nerd, living proof of the fact that the brain is by far the sexiest organ. Seriously, I get really turned on by a guy who can have a conversation about quantum physics during sex.
We ended up dating for a few months. I mostly remember how much I felt at home whenever we simply lay in bed together, against each other, not saying anything, exhausted from all the physics we’d done.

I think Guy #17 fell in love with me somewhat. I on the other hand wasn’t ready for that. I knew there was still so much I wanted to explore. If love were to find its way to me, I figured, it would have to be perfect in each and every way. And Guy #17 wasn’t perfect. For example, this one time he got a little drunk and I didn’t really like him that way.
So there was that.

Of course, the only place I ever met the perfect guy was at a gay sauna. And Guy #106 was only perfect because he never called me back, and because I was high at the time.

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Guy #17 and I never broke up. We simply stopped seeing each other. I wasn’t ready to commit myself to someone with imperfections. The distance flowed naturally from there on out.

Still, in the dark corridors of a gay sauna, where complete strangers engage in a battle of lust, love, rejection and ostensible perfection, it’s easy to miss a guy who could explain relativity to me when it mattered the most: during sex.



Relationship summary:

LENGTH: 7 years and counting
FORMAT: A few months of dating, followed by friendship (mostly on Facebook) that lasts till this day
SEX SCORE (0 = A Twilight movie marathon <–> 10 = The best sex ever): 8.5

Guy #16 – Mi casa…





I know enough Portuguese to get a guy to have sex with me. Two words, to be precise:

Mi casa

I didn’t even say those words to Guy #16. Instead I wrote them down on my cell phone for him to read.
Guy #16 nodded in agreement.

For those of you less eloquent than I am: Mi casa means My place, which is short for Hey, your looks attract me to the point I want to do stuff to your body in exchange for stuff you do to mine so that we may both experience pleasure, a potential ego boost and someone to be hung over with the next morning, at my place.
The language of sex dating is very efficient.

Mind you, Guy #16 and I had eyed each other a lot of times before I showed him my invitation. We both frequented the same tiny gay scene. We both knew it would only be a matter of time before we’d do each other. Mi casa merely sealed the bond we had already established.

I guess it goes without saying at this point that Guy #16´s only language of output was Portuguese. After we left the dance floor of our country´s only gay night club we ended up in a taxi. Before we got to the part that included sex, he took me to a place I can only describe as a Brazilian whorehouse, where promiscuously dressed women made half hearted attempts to seduce me, as they did with every man they saw.

I wasn’t sure why Guy #16 insisted on stopping by this shady place at 4 AM in the morning, but I welcomed the experience. I remember it being shady as much as it was gay friendly.

Guy #16 introduced me to a whole new tiny subculture of the country we lived in at the time, consisting of often illegal Brazilian gold miners who spent their hard earned money on equally hard working women. The men spent their entire week in the jungle, aching to find gold. The women spent their entire weekend giving the men a purpose to ache.

Guy #16 felt at home in this place. Maybe that’s why he had taken me there, as a non-verbal introduction to his life. He introduced me to some of his friends, all of which spoke Portuguese. They all welcomed me into their circle. I might have felt awkward were it not for the alcohol I got offered.

The sun was already rising when Guy #16 and I finally grabbed a taxi again. This time the destination was sex, but the journey was a silent one. Mi casa was the only thing we could agree upon.

When Guy #16 and I finally got around to having sex together, things got lovely. I learned it’s not a big deal if a guy comes quickly, provided he can do it twice.

Only we somehow ended up doing it twice at his place.

Also, I would later find out that mi casa is in fact Spanish, not Portuguese.





Relationship summary:

LENGTH: 1 year
FORMAT: Three or four sex dates, even one at my place
SEX SCORE:  (0 = Fifty Shades of Grey featuring Anita Bryant <–> 10 = The best sex ever):  8.4

Guy #15 – Guilt Vs. Pleasure…





It’s difficult enjoying sex with people of your favorite gender when you’re in the closet.

Whenever I have sex, I tend not to think about my mother’s opinion on the matter, or my dad’s, my family’s or my friends’, unless of course it’s the friend I’m having sex with.

But for people in the closet, it must be a daunting task to completely remove those thoughts. In some cases the quest for pleasure gets stopped dead in its tracks by guilt. That’s when gay people resort to living straight lifestyles.

They have my sympathy.

As does Guy #15, who according to his Facebook profile recently spent a holiday in Miami, together with his wife.

Guy #15 used to be gorgeous. He was the hottest guy I’d ever been with up till that point. I hope he’s happy these days, though his Facebook pictures emit an aura of loneliness. My guess is he prefers feeling lonely over feeling guilty.

In the case of Guilt vs. Pleasure Guy #15 ruled in favor of Guilt. Even during sex.

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Being with Guy #15 was certainly very pleasant, but in large part because he looked so good. He once told me he went through life knowing he would never find someone he could truly be happy with, because family. That general sense of sadness echoed all the way into sex.
Technically speaking Guy #15 was good in bed, and on the couch. Even in the absence of any furniture he knew how to unleash pleasure over the both of us. Yet his attention was always divided between us two and the rest of the world. Psychologically speaking I had sex with his entire family.

Sex with Guy #15 was like an AA Christmas party. Everything fell neatly into place, but there was just something missing. Sex with Guilt is like a party without booze: tepid, depressing and predictable.

After about four or five dates Guy #15 and I lost touch. He gravitated toward a straight lifestyle, eventually getting married.

As the years progressed, Guilt slowly consumed Guy #15 and his dropdead gorgeous body. Judging by his Facebook pictures, he gradually stopped paying attention to his own sexuality. He’s still fairly cute and attractive, but it doesn’t radiate like it used to. It’s like he doesn’t want to be reminded of Pleasure.

On the other hand, life gave him a daughter not too long ago.

I guess he found someone to be truly happy with, because family.




Relationship summary:

LENGTH: A few months
FORMAT: A couple of sex dates
SEX SCORE (0 = A dentist with a German accent <–> 10 = The best sex ever): 7


Guy #14 – The fearful fag…





The closet.

It’s the birthplace of all things sexual, gay and straight. While the majority of closets gets demolished by the end of puberty, some people end up making it their home.

What I remember most about Guy #14 was his house. It was spacious, but mostly because it felt empty. It had everything a person needed: a fridge, a table, a couch, a TV, yet every household object seemed lonely as a comet, aimlessly lost in space. The walls were plain white, without so much as a generic IKEA painting or even an obligatory family photo to give the place at least a hint of an identity. His house was just that: a house, a place to keep the weather out, and with it everything else.

To Guy #14 the closet wasn’t just for hiding the fact he enjoyed other people’s penises so much. His gayness was merely the tip of the iceberg. Everything that I liked about Guy #14, his sense of humor, his wit, his ambitions, his sexuality, all of it was frantically hidden from the possible judgment of others.

Some take refuge in a closet for fear of persecution, AIDS or Jesus. Guy #14 stayed in his closet for fear of himself. He was the only one in his environment who had any real trouble accepting his sexuality.

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In that sense he reminded me of myself a lot. I used to be a bit of a fearful fag myself not that long ago.

After all, when I started dating guys I had convinced myself I was merely being bicurious. Yet here I was, having an actual relationship with a guy, a personal connection with someone I cared about. Guy #14 was probably a turning point for me, allowing me to finally let go of the idea that I must find women sexually interesting.

For about three months, Guy #14 secretly allowed me to be a part of his life. One night, as we were making out in his bedroom, a neighbor suddenly appeared in the garden. Guy #14 panicked and told me to stay in his bedroom, away from any windows. I ended up hiding in his walk-in closet, in the dark, while Guy #14 socially obligated his way through his neighbor’s visit for a good twenty minutes.

I broke up with him shortly after that. I guess it was the moment I decided not to make my closet my home.

Guy #14 unwillingly painted a picture of my life, had I fortified my closet as much as he had. It’s not an ugly picture, just void of any joy, intimacy or love. It’s a picture of sterility.

Life inside a closet can be pretty depressing, as I’m afraid it has been for Guy #14. In all the years I’ve known him, I’ve never seen him within grabbing range of happiness.
I’ve never seen him reach for any, either.

I hope he someday finds the courage to accept himself for the raging bottom he could have been by now.




Relationship summary:

LENGTH: ±3 Months, followed by a few years of on and off friendship
FORMAT: Loving relationship followed by pleasant friendship with a slight touch of sex every now and then
SEX SCORE (0 = Doing the Macarena <–> 10 = The best sex ever): 7.5

Guy #13 – The tourist…





A few days ago Guy #13 sent me a message on Facebook, asking me how I was doing.

Guy #13 is a nice memory. We once spent a wonderful weekend in his hotel room. He was the first guy I was ever romantic with, cuddly even. Even though I somehow still hadn’t let go of the idea that I was merely a bicurious straight guy that was only experimenting, I had already experimented pretty much everything there was to experiment.

The only part of gay sex I hadn’t touched yet was the love part.

Guy #13 was a tourist. The expiry date of our relationship was written on his visa. Plus he stayed in a hotel, meaning I could experiment with love in style.
Over the years I’ve come to view hotels as places where you can go to have sex. Sex with amenities can be pretty awesome.
As was the case with Guy #13. I was on vacation as much as he was.

Because Guy #13 had a date with customs Sunday evening, I carefully allowed myself to let this fling be more than something purely physical. I permitted Guy #13 to take pictures of us on his balcony, posing as two people who are in love. I wasn’t entirely comfortable with it, but I allowed it for the sake of the experiment.

Guy #13 was an incredibly sweet, caring and sensitive person. I also remember him as being somewhat depressed. He spent a lot of time lamenting the fact we had so little time together, almost as if we had met on board the Titanic.

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Love was clearly an experience I needed to ease into, much like every other aspect of gay sex had been.

As we sat through our last supper together, Guy #13 once again became a bit sappy. I appreciated the sense of intimacy it created, so I went along with it. Guy #13 suggested the song playing in the background could be ‘our song’. I must have said it was an awesome idea.
No, I don’t have a clue what our song was. It must have slipped my mind before I had finished my meal.

I do remember I was having the best fried chicken I ever had.

After Guy #13 flew back to his home island, we stayed in touch for a short while. I acknowledged him for making me feel something I had never felt with someone before. But I never imagined him being more than an acknowledgement. I always had the feeling he felt bad about the way I treated him.

I do feel a bit guilty toward Guy #13. I let him pay for the chicken, promising I’d get the next one.

Guess I owe him.

I replied to his Facebook inquiry, saying I am doing fine and asking him the same question in return. He told me he doesn’t live on an island anymore.



Relationship summary:

LENGTH (excluding Facebook friendship): A few weeks
FORMAT: One-time romantic weekend, followed by email exchange that quickly developed into Facebook friendship that apparently lasts till this day
SEX SCORE: (0 = Colonel Sanders in a jockstrap <–> 10 = the best sex ever): 8,2
HONORABLE MENTION: Popeyes Fried Chicken, once you get past the service



Guy #12 – Gandalf at a Tupperware party…





Picture yourself a private pool in a remote garden, late at night, filled with six guys, two of which are couples that start making out. That leaves two guys, sitting in a pool, surrounded by four people that just initiated foreplay.

I know, it has all the makings of a spectacular orgy.

Sadly, one of the single guys in that pool was me and the other one was Guy #12.

Sexually speaking, Guy #12 didn’t scare, disgust or in any way affect me. There had just never been even the slightest bit of sexual chemistry between us. Whatever I saw myself confronted with, it simply wasn’t my thing and I couldn’t see it ever being my thing. One might argue I felt like Gandalf at a Tupperware party: Intolerably lonely.

Moments after the two couples had started making out, Guy #12 grabbed his chance and, well…grabbed Gandalf by the balls. The worst part is Gandalf let him.

Of the six people in that pool, five were clearly in the mood for sex and all five had found someone who they wanted to have sex with. Gandalf was the odd one out, but he didn’t feel like spoiling the sensual tension that had spontaneously arisen.

What followed was an uncomfortable game of give and take in which Gandalf found himself weighing his personal boundaries against his desire to fit in. He’s not used to dealing with that kind of pressure.

I leave it to your imagination to decide how far Gandalf ended up letting Guy #12 go. I’ll only say it was further than anything he could ever have enjoyed with someone like Guy #12. It was yet another strike of regrettable sex, so afterward that’s what Gandalf felt: Regret. It’s never good for your ego to have sex out of politeness.

Five out of six people in that pool were having fun, or at least so it seemed. Most of it took place under water at night, so I’m not really sure what everyone was doing. All I knew was that Gandalf wanted it to be over. While Guy #12 was clearly having trouble believing he had gotten so lucky, Gandalf was silently loathing himself.

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I sometimes find myself complaining when I strike forgettable sex, but it’s people like Guy #12 that remind me how nice it can be to forget sometimes. Whenever I think about the sex with Guy #12 I tend to dissociate a little.

Pretty much what you’d expect from Gandalf at a Tupperware party, trying to do the polite thing.




Relationship summary:

LENGTH: 5 or 6 years, give or take, on and off
FORMAT: Friendship, let’s just leave it at that
SEX SCORE: (0 = being Gandalf at a Tupperware party <–> 10 = the best sex ever): 0

Guy #11 – The hunter…





The first and only time I drank so much alcohol it made me vomit was the night I kissed Guy #11. I don’t think he knew. The kissing happened after the vomiting, in case he’s reading this and wondering.

At the time I cruised our local gay scene on a weekly basis. It consisted of about thirty guys, a handful of women and one dress queen.

With ever increasing proficiency I was mastering the art of picking up total strangers for the purpose of having sex.
The local gay scene was small, but it wasn’t static. People would often pop in and out of the closet, so every Friday night I would see a few unfamiliar faces. Plus the gay scene expanded as time progressed.

Still, some nights were slower than others. This one in particular ended with me and a friend of mine leaning against the bar, staring at a depressingly empty dance floor. We had both come for the hunt but had failed to score some prey.

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Perhaps I should apologize for initiating the first kiss, so shortly after I had vomited. Then again, if it wasn’t for all the alcohol, Guy #11 would never have gotten to have sex with me. I had become good at sensing when a guy was into me. It never crossed my mind Guy #11 would object the idea of us kissing. And he didn’t, because we ended up doing a whole lot more than just kissing. He should probably count himself lucky I vomited before and not during.

I never really intended to have sex with this friend. But after I had dropped him off at his house I had somehow found an excuse to park my car and somehow ended up on my friend’s porch, where I somehow ended up kissing him. I wasn’t really sure why I did that. I guess a hunter doesn’t like to go home empty handed.

Fortunately, Guy #11 and I pretty much shared the same sexual lifestyle at the time, so the one-time sex didn’t make things awkward between us.

Him reading about the vomiting might.



Relationship summary:

LENGTH: 7 years and counting
FORMAT: Friendship interspersed with one drunken instance of sex on a porch
SEX SCORE: (0 = Seeing ALIEN for the first time <–> 10 = The best sex ever): 7.5

Guy #10 – Why I’ve been such a bad kisser for so long…





Our lips are basically a part of our body that’s turned inside-out. That’s what makes kissing so intimate: It’s when our insides touch, connect and shake tongues.

In my experience it’s not uncommon for sex dates to not feature any kissing, for the same reason Julia Roberts refused to kiss Richard Gere throughout Pretty Woman: Kissing a complete stranger mimics the intimacy I believe all human beings both crave and fear. Kissing is a slippery slope.

Personally, I’m a big fan of kissing. Sex is infinitely better when lip-to-lip action is on the menu.

Except in the case of Guy #10.
Not all lips are created equal.

It would be unfair to say Guy #10 was a bad kisser. It’s just that his labial anatomy had completely failed him. That much became clear the moment our lips touched.

From a distance Guy #10’s lips appeared completely ordinary. Only upon first contact did I discover he lacked the capability to move his lips in any meaningful way. They were just there, stiff and motionless, tight and cold, lifeless and dry.

I’m not judging Guy #10. I for one have quite a few incurable genetic setbacks myself: I can’t blink my eyes separately, I can’t make my ears move, I can’t curl up my tongue, I can’t whistle, I can’t get my jaw to make that clicking sound, I can’t separate my ring finger from my middle finger like Dr. Spock. The list of my innate fallacies is endless.

However, lipwise I’m pretty well endowed and to me, kissing is a dichotomous variable. Either you kiss or you don’t.

Except of course in the case of Guy #10.

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I imagine kissing a blow-up doll most closely resembles the touch of Guy #10’s lips. I could sense he was trying to keep up with mine, but he didn’t stand a chance. His lips were like a sphinx cat fencing off a T-Rex.
Guy #143 once told me I kiss too fiercely. I think my aggressive kissing philosophy has been a contributing factor in losing many guys over the years. Sometimes I wish I had known before Guy #143 straight out told me my kissing was a bit too much “in his face”. Guy #10 could have benefitted from that.

Apart from his lips being small and cold, perhaps the main reason Guy #10 couldn’t keep up was because he wasn’t looking for any intimacy. I was, even though I wasn’t aware of it at the time. The two of us got along really nicely, had done some pleasant conversational stuff and the sex just flowed naturally from thereon out. I must have felt some sort of connection. I kissed him to seal that connection. He kissed me because it was obligatory foreplay.

We didn’t kiss long. The rest of our date went like clockwork. It would be our only date, though. It was nice to regularly run into Guy #10 at our local gay bar for a while. We shared a nice memory but didn’t feel the need to expand on that. We had both erased ourselves from our to do-lists. I think I could have made him hungry for more if I hadn’t gorged on him so much. Then again, that’s why I wasn’t hungry for more in the first place.

Sadly, it would take me a very long time to realize not everyone likes to be kissed by a T-Rex.

I kissed too eagerly for years at an end. I never consciously entered the gay scene in search of love or something sappy. It took me years to finally learn it’s always been exactly that what’s driven me: Love, or something sappy. I must have unconsciously expressed that feeling in my kissing technique.

Unfortunately, Guy #10’s lips were the opposite of sappy.

I apologize for wreaking havoc on his inside-out.



Relationship summary:

LENGTH: ± 4 years
FORMAT: One-time sex date, followed by a few years of politely greeting each other at random encounters
SEX SCORE (0 = kissing a frog that doesn’t turn into a prince <–> 10 = the best sex ever): 6.5



Guy #9 – Hot guy. Disgusting roommate.





If you live near the equator and can’t afford a place with air conditioning, insects become like roommates. Guy #9 had one big fat disgusting roommate.

It’s not so much that the sex with Guy #9 was bad. It was the cockroach that kept crawling over his floor that kept me from really enjoying it. Privileged white guys such as me don’t like being confronted with poverty, especially not during sex.

For any Scandinavians out there, a cockroach is arguably evolution at its freakiest. They’re like miniature versions of that thing from ALIEN.

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I dare anyone to keep up the sexual tension in the presence of a pulsating cockroach that may or may not fly, mere feet away. It can be done. It just requires a lot of concentration, perseverance and guts.

But most of all I felt pity as me and Guy #9 were having sex. He actually lives here! is what went through my mind. What I considered a dump was what Guy #9 referred to as ‘home’. It was his closet in each and every sense of the word.
I was uncomfortably humbled by the way my host did his best to make me feel at home, offering me a seat on his stretcher as if it was a chair. He must have known I was used to houses where the living room, bedroom, washroom and kitchen aren’t all the same tiny-ass room.

I felt nervous throughout our entire date. Afterward, he didn’t offer me to stay the night while I was glad he hadn’t asked me to. Looking back, I think Guy #9 and I came from two completely different worlds. In a way I appreciated how nothing but sexual chemistry had brought the two of us together.
But the experience must have been a bit surreal for the both of us. I guess we both felt alien.

I was most uncomfortable the moments I couldn’t see where that cockroach had gone. ALIEN was scary precisely because it got so little screen time. The cockroach followed a similar tactic.

Guy #9 was a very sweet, slightly timid and cute student. I have no idea what he studied, but he did strike me as ambitious. I hope life has given him the means to afford some decent IKEA. At least.





LENGTH: 2 hours
FORMAT: Sex date
SEX SCORE (0 = having to read about cockroaches <–> 10 = the best sex ever): 5



Guy #8 – Caught in translation…



The story of Guy #8 began when the two of us bumped into each other one night under the fluorescent light of a dirty washroom filled with penetrant club music and the sound of a guy peeing into a urinal that had somehow gotten stuffed with toilet paper.

Don’t expect a love story.

Our washroom hook-up wasn’t the first time we had seen each other. In the weeks leading up to our meeting I had caught Guy #8 staring at me while pretending not to. The washroom was simply the first time our personal spaces intertwined.
Knowing any obligatory chitchat would only postpone the thing we both so obviously wanted, we started kissing each other. The room must have been engulfed in the smell of pee that lay scattered on the floor. Fortunately, sexual arousal has a way of dampening reality.

It wasn’t until Guy #8 and I got back on the dance floor that I found out he spoke French and nothing but French. This would prove to be an obstacle in our relationship, as he labeled ‘us’ next morning when we woke up in his bed.

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The sex had been lovely, intimate, passionate and fun. Sex without words is actually very enjoyable. The lack of a workable vocabulary forced us to go at it intuitively, like animals if you will. We had but our bodies to communicate with each other. That’s hot.

Yet in my mind I was convinced sex was the only thing I was after. Odd as it may sound, I still considered myself to be bisexual. My closeted self still envisioned me having a life with regular vaginal intercourse that would one day produce the offspring to make my mother oh so happy. Sex with a guy was one thing, but I couldn’t fathom being attached to one, certainly not one I had met in a washroom.

As it turned out Guy #8 was expecting a love story. He wanted me to be his copain.
“Mais je ne parle pas Français,” I countered. It’s pretty much the only French I know, but in this case I thought I had provided a solid argument for my case.

Regardless, my rejection must have gotten lost in translation, because it didn’t take long for Guy #8 to start calling me numerous times a day. The one time I did pick up he started being angry at me in French. Lacking any words to contribute, I simply hang up. I ignored Guy #8 for a full week, during which he continued sending me indecipherable French text messages and leaving missed calls.

Since the local gay scene counted less people than the island from LOST, Guy #8 and I ran into each other again the following Friday. I continued my previously successful tactic of completely ignoring my newly acquired stalker. This proved difficult, as he continuously stared at me like a Nazi from a Tarantino-movie.

When I had to go to the washroom he creepily followed me there, bringing us full circle. Once again we met in a place where there was no chance of escaping each other’s presence, or the smell of pee. To the best of my capabilities, I explained Guy #8 that I did not want to be his copain. I believe I came up with Je ne veux pas coucher avec toi, ce soir, ou any other soir.

Fortunately, most stalkers are weak like cactuses in the Arctic: They die from lack of attention. It wasn’t long before Guy #8 stopped calling me and started leaving me alone, although he would give a few angry stares every time we saw each other again, which was on most Friday nights.

Guy #8 was the first guy I ever topped. (If you don’t know what that means, you’re probably not gay.) I had enjoyed being the dominant factor in our short ‘relationship’. I had also learned that intense sex can be caused by intense people, such as French stalkers.

In terms of playing the field, Guy #8 was an easy kill. I knew he was into me. Plus he had major dependency issues as it turned out. He had given me a sense of power I had never felt before.

Of course, with great power comes great responsibility.
Who would have thought the moral of a superhero movie applies to guys you meet in a public washroom?

Guy #8 taught me it does.



Relationship summary:

LENGTH: ± 1 year
FORMAT: One-time sex date, followed by two week stalking spree, followed by months of angry stares of ever decreasing intensity
SEX SCORE (0 = forever not knowing if Glenn from The Walking Dead is alive or not and 10 = the best sex ever): 8


Guy #7 – Like Oliver Twist at an all-you-can-eat buffet…




Imagine living in a country with only one gay nightclub, anonomously cornered between a gas station and the country’s only Pizza Hut. And you’re pretty much the only white guy there.
You’ll find that of all the people you meet, the vast majority wants to have sex with you.

To me this place was heaven.

After years and years of utter sexlessness I had finally landed in a spot where I was considered hot and doable.

I was like Oliver Twist at an all-you-can-eat buffet.

The problem with all-you-can-eat buffets is that they can unleash one’s greediness. That in turn can lead to bad decision making, like that time I had sex with Guy #7.

When Guy #7 first came up to me, he laid his arm on my waist, pushed his body against mine and gave me one of the friendliest smiles I had seen that night. I remember he had somewhat of a nice body. And he acted nice. He made a point of constantly saying how attractive I was. It was nice to hear someone say it. I didn’t quite consider myself attractive yet, but it was comforting to know someone did.

As the night progressed I sucked up all of Guy #7’s compliments like an insatiable narcissist. My narcissism had unleashed my greediness. I was so flattered a total stranger had come up to me to ask for sex that I neglected to take a good look at this stranger’s face.

That happened the next day, when he came by my house to have the sex we had agreed upon the night before.

When I saw Guy #7 in the bright and unforgiving sunlight and without any alcohol to make him look less like a cartoon character, I realized that of all the guys I could have picked, I chose poorly. It was like accidentally picking something you don’t like at an eatfest establishment.

Any rational being would let a waiter take care of his rejects. But I was Oliver Twist, not known for ever turning down a meal.

Besides, if my sex life were a menu, I only considered Guy #7 an appetizer. It didn’t take long to work through it. We mostly just kissed, naked unfortunately. He was seemingly enjoying it and I was busy accepting the lesson I was being taught: That if I want sex to actually be enjoyable, I had to become picky in choosing guys I have sex with.

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Guy#7 was nice enough to teach me what it’s like to get screwed by your own narcissism.

In that sense he had wetted my appetite.



Relationship summary:

LENGTH: ±4 years
FORMAT: One-time sex date, followed by running into each other every Friday night for a few years at an end, during which we always acted friendly and amicable to each other
SEX SCORE (0 = drinking a blue cheese smoothie and 10 = the best sex ever): 2

Guy #6 – Sex with chocolate chip cookies…




Did I mention Guy #5 had a boyfriend?

Well, he did and a few days after spending a night at Guy #5’s place while his boyfriend was away on business, he introduced me to this boyfriend. In doing so, he also introduced me to the concept of open relationships.

Guy #5’s boyfriend would become Guy #6, in case you didn’t see that one coming. It would be my first ever threesome.

Guest starring in a couple’s sex life can be intense. It will teach you there’s no such thing as “just sex”. Just because a relationship is open, does not mean sex isn’t an issue.

And while the idea of a threesome might seem like a good one in movies and fantasies, the reality of it is that, at any given moment, one person will get less attention than the other two. That’s just a mathematical certainty. Add even a smidgen of insecurity to a threesome and you got yourself a cock fight.

As I was doing things with Guy #6, he would very often look at Guy #5, his eyes begging permission for whatever he was doing with me.

Although Guy #5 was very involved in our threesome at first, the night ended with me and Guy #6 having sex, while Guy #5 was sitting upright on his side of the bed, eating cookies, passively waiting for the sex to be over.


Granted, it wasn’t a cock fight in the traditional sense, meaning there weren’t any direct casualties. People did get hurt, though. At least, I think they did. I felt hurt after Guy #5 had grabbed his bowl of chocolate chip snacks, signaling that the party was over. Perhaps it was wrong of me to continue having a go at Guy #6. Maybe I should have called it quits when cookie #1 entered the scene.

At the time, Guy #5 and Guy #6 had been together for over half a decade. Sex may become a commodity over the years, but intimacy doesn’t. Despite the pure sexual tension I had seen in gay porn, to me it seemed impossible to tread on another couple’s sex life without trespessing on their love life as well.

As I was busy performing oral duties on Guy #6, his boyfriend actually offered us both a cookie. Led by a different kind of hunger, I rejected his generous offer. Guy #6 did have one, though. I guess he wasn’t in a position to reject anything his boyfriend threw at him.

In all fairness, I should point out it’s perfectly possible that the cause of all the tension was me. I had been nervous from the moment I realized I was going to be part of a threesome. I was afraid my relative sexual inexperience would be a factor. I wondered if perhaps there was some kind of “threesome etiquette” I ought to know about. Perhaps my own insecurities had transposed onto Guy #5 and Guy #6.

Then again, who in their right mind starts eating chocolate chip cookies in the midst of a threesome?

I guess sex is always an emotional experience. It’s part of what can make it fun. In movies and fantasies at least.
As you might expect from a site called, Guy #5 and Guy #6 weren’t my last threesome. After my first experience I concluded it was an area worth exploring, but not chasing.

Somehow Guy #5 and Guy #6 had struck the right balance with me.



Relationship summary:

LENGTH: 7 years and counting
Sex date followed by friendship that lasts till this day
SEX SCORE (0 sitting next to a smelly person on the subway and 10 being the best sex ever):




Guy #5 – Grabbing myself by the balls…




December 25, 2007 was the only Christmas I ever spent alone.

You see, after having sex with a lesbian and four guys I met over the phone, I got my MSc. in Psychology and moved from the Netherlands, Europe to Suriname, South America.

I went from slowly tentacling my sexuality in a safe and familiar environment to being a socially phobic recluse in what I still considered to be a banana republic.

Throwing myself into such a lonely adventure has proven to be one of the best decisions I ever made, though. It forced me to grab myself by the balls once again to get me to overcome my fears.

After spending a year in hiding I finally made the decision I needed to have sex again. After a full year without any sex my virginity started growing back on me.
However, anonymous phone dating services were not a thing in Suriname as they were back in the Netherlands. I had to think of something different, something more daring.

I had to go out.

Religiously determined to go home with a guy, I dragged myself to the country’s only gay night club. I went alone. It petrified me, to stand at a bar in a place with people, all of whom could watch me, observe me, judge me and make fun of how desperately I was trying to look attractive. I could actually see people watching me. In banana republics with only one gay nightclub, no new face goes unnoticed, especially not a white one. They say social phobia only plays out in your head, but in this case I just knew: These people are watching me.

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I’ll admit I had some confidence issues at the time. I wasn’t even sure what I was really expecting to happen. How do hook-ups usually happen? How do people go from being total strangers to ending up in each other’s arms naked in the time span of just a few hours? I had no idea. But I did know one thing: I was going to go home with a guy. I just had to.

That was the night I met Guy #5.

When he walked in and saw me standing at the bar, he immediately walked up to me to say ‘hi’. His familiarity almost made me think we’d already met before, not at all unlikely in a country the size of Suriname. In fact, I even entered the conversation under the assumption I was talking to an acquaintance of sorts.

I would later find out Guy #5 has the innate quality to make others feel at home. By that time I had already decided the answer to the question Do I see myself doing do this guy tonight? was ‘yes’.

I don’t think I ever had a nightclub hook-up as smooth and easy as the one I had with Guy #5. One thing became clear right away: He wanted me and I was going to let him. I had a lot of fun going down that road together. It would be the first time I ever kissed a guy on a dance floor.

Apart from getting me back in touch with my sexuality, Guy #5 became a good friend who also got me in touch with other people. He gave me a social life in my new environment. Like I said, he’s good at making others feel at home. Sex with someone who makes you feel like that is never a bad thing.

Guy #5 taught me that.



Relationship summary:

Length: 7 years and counting
Format: On and off sex, followed by friendship that lasts till this day
Sex score (0 making out with an accordion and 10 being the best sex ever): 7,5


Girl #1 – The perfect daughter-in-law





Between the ages of 16 and 24, my life consisted of falling for girls I imagined could bear the grandchildren that would make my mother so happy. I got rejected every time. For some reason I always gravitated toward the friend zone as if it was a black hole from which there was no escape.

Except this one time.

I had already experimented with four different guys the month before. This had boosted my self esteem up to the point I was no longer afraid of people with vaginas. It was during this time that I met a girl at this improv class we both attended. We got to know each other and for the first time in my life, a girl didn’t show any interest in my friend zone. The three months I dated her were among the happiest of my life.

Finally, after 24 years, I was able to say I had a girlfriend. And not just anyone. This chick would have made the perfect daughter-in-law! She was funny, smart, sophisticated, witty, creative and independent. It’s not so much that I really wanted her to be the mother of my kids. I was simply thrilled by the fact I had managed to get the kind of girlfriend I had been picturing all those years. It was literally a dream come true.

Even the sex was good. It was intimate, passionate and very loving. And I turned out to be right about vaginas being way more comfortable than anuses. Though I can’t say I ever really got how a vagina works exactly. Of course I was immensely grateful I was finally allowed to come near one, but I could never quite figure out what makes it tick. I did my best and I believe I may have even been successful in some cases.

But I never fully allowed the female anatomy to get through to me. Whenever we had sex, there was a voice in my head that repeatedly said Look at me, I’m having straight sex! I’m actually doing IT with a girl. It created a distance between myself and the sex I was having. I guess on some level I already knew I had been chasing the wrong dream all those years. Girl #1 must have known it too, as she broke up with me after three months.

It was okay, though. For the first time I had met a girl that didn’t reject me. Looking back, that’s probably all I really wanted; someone to make me believe I’m not the Elephant Man. These days I’m thankful for every girl that ever turned me down. They were right to pull me into their friend zone, but at the time all those rejections were quite a burden to carry. Girl #1 shed me of it, at least for a while.

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Of all the girlfriends I could have ever had, Girl #1 was probably the one I needed the most. She knew about my previous ‘experiments’ with guys. She probably also figured I was gay. She allowed me to gently let go of this heterosexual mirage I had been chasing for so long. Now, after 24 years, I had finally crossed it off my to do-list.

I guess Girl #1 gave me the confidence to start exploring more of the gay scene, weird as that may sound.

And while I can’t imagine ever having sex with a girl again, I’m glad to know what it’s like. If Girl #1 had allowed me to chase my dream of pleasing my mother with the announcement of her first grandchild, she would have made the straight lifestyle very, very bearable for me. At the time Girl #1 was the best sex I ever had.
Of course back then I didn’t know yet an anus can be comfy too if used properly.

I know for a fact I’m not the best sex Girl #1 has ever had. She’s been living together with her girlfriend for years now. I very much hope she’s a happy lesbian.

Thank you.




Relationship summary

Length: ± 3 Months
Format: Loving heterosexual relationship including meet-up with each other’s parents
Sex score (0 being the walk to Mordor and 10 being the best sex ever): 7

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