Guy #182 and #183 – 2 blowjobs, 0 memories…

I started 168guys.com, among other reasons, because I was convinced every Guy I ever had sex with is a story to be told.

After all, sex is special, intimate, animalistic and on and off rewarding. Sex is eventful.

Or at least, it had been eventful every time when I started this blog. That’s why I was able to retrieve every Guy I ever did from memory when I started writing.

These days, whenever I have sex with a Guy I make a note of it. I guess I always knew the more sex you have, the less eventful it becomes, the easier it gets for Guys to leave my brain well before I address them here.

Enter Guys #182 and #183.

I have no idea who they were, what they looked like or how rewarding it was. All I know is that I came back home one morning, opened my Excel sheet and wrote:

Guy #182/#183: Two Guys who gave me a blowjob in a steam room in Amsterdam’s gay sauna.

Then I closed my laptop and didn’t think of them until now, only to be confronted by an apparent hole in my memory.

I think it says a lot about this gay scene I cruise so often. You meet a lot of people who are unremarkable, or you meet the most amazing people in the most unremarkable of circumstances, or you simply can’t be bothered to be remarkable yourself. The word ‘cruising’ is apt if nothing else. It’s something you can do on autopilot, without thinking about it too much. It might even be a little boring sometimes.

Sure, getting a blowjob can easily be the highlight of my day. Getting two blowjobs might even count as a good day, but I’ve been out of the closet for a well over 4000 days now. That’s 4000 days of hunting, being hunted, dates, failed dates, hundreds of Grindr chats that went somewhere, thousands that went nowhere and more than 300 Guys I actually had sex with, two of whom gave me a blowjob this one time.

Mathematically it’s actually rather sound of me to forget a blowjob here and there. I’m a Guy, not Rain Man.


Drugs, orgies, gay saunas, all on and off rewarding experiences that apparently butchered one of the core beliefs that started this blog: that every Guy I ever had sex with is a story to be told.

So out of respect for my waived convictions, here’s the story of Guy #182 and #183:

Judging by the chronology of my Excel sheet, I entered this steam room one night in either July or August or September of 2016, where I assumedly sat down for no other reason than to be found. I was found, first by Guy #182 and then by Guy #183. They may have happened within minutes of each other or hours apart, but timing aside I allowed both to put my penis into their mouth for the explicit purpose of creating what I used to think of as an event. It can’t have lasted longer than a few minutes each and it can’t have been eventful. It could very well have been slightly enjoyable.
Afterward I went home, made a note of it, then forgot it ever happened.

The end.


Guy #181 – Waiter must cut meat…

If a Guy likes me that much, something must be wrong with him.

That was my main thought during my time with Guy #181.

Guy #181 was actually kind of very hot. I say kind of, because he wasn’t perfect in each and every way: he had a great personality, he was smart, considerate, caring, empathetic, a decent top, an amazing bottom, he had a cute, boyish face, a great body and talking was only the third best thing he could do with his mouth.

And he liked me. A lot.

People sometimes ask me why I don’t have a boyfriend, instead spending my nights dividing my attention between Netflix and Grindr. I’d like to say it’s because I fail to meet the right Guys. In reality it’s because sometimes the right Guy is slightly too bald and has slightly more chest hair than a perfect 20 year old twink with a 40 year old personality would have.

I’m world champion in compromizing for the sake of others. Compromizing to do myself a favor is a skill I choose to lack:

Guy #181 came on to me one night. I let him. We had awesome sex, then exchanged phone numbers.

He apped me, a full week later. Not three days later as I always do when I project onto someone the aforementioned image of perfection, but a full week. That was hot.

I allowed Guy #181 to set up a second date, at my place, this time adding candlelight and poppers to the equation. It ranked among the best sex I ever had.

Yet I kept focusing on the fact Guy #181 was almost as old as I am and that he didn’t make me laugh at regular intervals. And then there was the chest hair, tiny amounts of it, but still.

A third date materialized, again because Guy #181 made the effort. It was great.

So great in fact that I couldn’t quite fathom Guy #181 being into me that much.

Guy #181 and I met up a fourth time, by accident.
He told me he’d been waiting for me to contact him, as I had more or less promised on our third date. I told him I was sorry, and then made up for it by once again having amazing sex with him.

It’s not that I don’t have any interest in having an actual relationship with someone, but I suppose I only do a relationship when the universe presents one on a golden platter with a waiter to cut my meat. If a relationship is a meal, I categorically refuse to touch any cutlery myself. No wonder I’m starving on Netflix and Grindr.

Guy #181 is someone I ought to have chased, if only a fraction of the amount he chased me. Instead I focused on celebrating my youth, going from Guy to Guy, bathing in attention or really mostly just hints thereof.

It was nice being wanted by Guy #181, but I suppose it was a certainty that came at the expense of the excitement I’ve grown addicted to. Every time you open Grindr, you quietly hope to strike up a bond with the most delicious piece of meat you ever tasted. Opening Grindr, then feeling your phone vibrate because you have a new message… it’s a deceptively little high I keep chasing. Even though Grindr in reality is an orgy of social awkwardness where attention is as meaningful as a clown at a funeral, many gays opt to stand out at a funeral instead of, well…just living life.

About a year after our last encounter Guy #181 popped up on Grindr, only a few minutes away from my place. We met up (his idea, not mine, because waiter must cut meat), had great sex, and agreed to see each other again soon.

Another year has passed since then.

I still have his number. Having had more than 300 Guys, I’ve grown tired of orgy culture, random hook-ups and drug induced friendships that fade the moment the high does. I hardly ever reply to anyone on Grindr anymore, and when I do the conversation always fades into oblivion well before getting off the ground. I simply can’t be bothered anymore.

Guy #181 strikes me as someone who I should hit up someday, just asking how he’s doing, to maybe tentatively show I think he’s well worth the effort of getting to know him and that I’m kind of ashamed of focusing on his hair while I should be blown away by everything else.

The reason I don’t text him and probably won’t in the foreseeable future?

Because I’m a bit of a sad gay stereotype. I resent it, but waiter must cut meat. For some reason, I prefer to flaunt my selfies on Grindr in hopes of getting so much attention I won’t feel like the 24 year old virgin I was when I first hooked up with a Guy.

Investing time and effort in someone like Guy #181 seems like a much easier, more effective way of straightening my issues.

Instead I went on Grindr just now. My phone vibrated: no less than two strangers sent me a message, along with this old Guy who keeps hitting me up every two weeks or so.

That felt slightly satisfying for a few seconds.

If a Guy likes me that much, something must be wrong with me.


Guy #179 and #180 – A hot Guy and someone who was also there…

Threesomes can be like a game of rock paper scissors, only rebranded as a game of top bottom woman. Of course, not everybody can win a game of top bottom woman. Top and bottom get along fine, but it’s not unlikely for a third person at a threesome to more or less just be there.

Some gay Guys don’t enjoy being the woman in a game of top bottom woman. Some don’t deal with it all too well. To be honest I only enjoy threesomes when I get at least 33% of the attention.

In that sense Guy #179 was a way bigger person than I am.

I first met Guy #179 in this whirlpool. Seconds after sitting down next to him he started feeling me up. Seconds later we were kissing.

It’s not that Guy #179 was really my type. The only reason I sat down within reach of his right arm was because his left arm was busy disappearing between the legs of someone sitting on his other side. And this someone was my type.

I sat down next to Guy #179 in hopes of turning his twosome into a threesome. Not long after we started kissing Guy #179’s cuter looking friend started feeling me up, quickly becoming Guy #180.

Guy #179 and #180 had some fun with the three of us for a short while, until it became obvious me and Guy #180 were top and bottom respectively, whereas Guy #179 was also there.

It wasn’t long before Guy #179 suggested Guy #180 and I should continue together, and then he got up and left.

I felt bad for Guy #179, but admired how much he accepted things as they were. He simply seemed happy for us. It’s not everyday I run into a gay Guy who can excuse himself from a threesome without even the slightest bit of negativity.

In fact, I would later learn Guy #179 had started feeling me up, precisely because he figured me and Guy #180 would be a good match. He literally hit on me so his friend could have me, or rather I could have his friend.

After Guy #179 got up and left our whirlpool I never saw him again, but I did stay in touch with Guy #180 for a while. I went on a date at his place a few times, out of which nothing really ever grew.

I suppose Guy #180 looked cute compared to Guy #179. In the absence of his friend it was just a game of top and bottom, without any stakes.

It was at a time in my life when I had begun exploring the world of orgies and drugs. It was thrilling still, but the more I had sex with people while high on drugs, the less exciting regular sex with normal people was becoming.

Had I met Guy #180 a few years earlier, I would’ve given him more of my attention, I would’ve never compared a threesome to a game of rock paper scissors. But once you’ve owned a Guy while another Guy is owning you, surrounded by Guys that do the same, all on a wave of XTC, GHB, ketamine, poppers and weed, sharing a cigarette with Guy #180 quickly becomes mundane and forgettable.

It was still nice winning a game of top bottom woman though.


Guy #178 – Matrix Me…

There’s two sides of me.

One is Matrix Lennard, cool, in control, super hot and capable of dodging bullets if only for showing off.
It’s the Lennard I hope the Guy of my dreams will see in me.

Then there’s just Lennard, my actual self, insecure, needy and incapable of dodging insults.

Guys I am attracted to are often a lot like Matrix Lennard. Whenever I run into a super hot Guy that has the slightest echo of a personality, I fantasize about the two of us living a perfectly sleek gaytopian fairytale in which we celebrate each other’s perfection.

It’s a pleasant albeit dysfunctional mirage, about as real as the Matrix itself.

The Guys that are attracted to me tend to be a far cry from the Guys I fantasize about.

Guy #178 was such a guy. He saw in me the super great awesome Guy I wish people will write books about someday. He expressed his admiration by becoming a saggy sack of compliments that got wetter each time we kissed.

Guy #178 was probably one of the sweetest Guys I ever dated. I could do no wrong. I could ignore him on WhatsApp a thousand times and let him rejoice the one time I didn’t. I could cancel a date at the last minute for the sake of going on a better looking one, and he would completely understand. I could tell him to continue doing oral even when his jaws started showing signs of old age, and he’d be happy to.

Guy #178 was without a doubt one of the most annoying people I ever dated. He idolized the worst in me, and reminded me of the parts I thought were even worse than that.

Yet I went on a date with him a total of 5 times. And each time I felt annoyed and regretted spending time with him.

My relationship with Guy #178 was like seeing Sharknado and then somehow investing in its 4 sequels, each time wondering why.

So why are there people who’ve seen Sharknado 1 through 5 and why am I one of those people?

The sex with Guy #178 was about as satisfying as the special effects in a Sharknado movie: silly but somehow rewarding, because you know you will never be as dumb as that movie. Likewise, the sex was as spectacular as an actual sharknado is likely, but it did make me feel like I was by far the coolest, securest and catchiest Guy at the scene. Guy #178 made me feel like Matrix Me, even though I resented him for being a nerdy sidekick that failed to live up to my own image.

My life at the time wasn’t going great. I was hopelessly in love with Guy #168, a gorgeous Guy I had met at this orgy this one time. He was everything Matrix Lennard ached for, and as such all but unreachable. Whenever I ran into him, I would lapse into endless monologues about how much I admired his personality, his accomplishments, his body and his personality. Guy #168 always got uncomfortable by me giving him the Messiah treatment, which I remedied by giving even more compliments. The harder I tried, the more he distanced himself from me.

Guy #168 was the perfect match for Matrix Lennard. Sadly though, Matrix Lennard failed to load each time I saw him. The only side Guy #168 got to see was my actual self, desperate, needy and highly capable of dodging hints from a Guy that appreciated his own space as if it was his to own.

Few things are more frustrating than being incapable of being more than you in front of someone you want to be more than you with.

During all of this I spent my days taking care of my ailing stepdad, constantly surrounded by illness, decay and steadily approaching death. I had no job, no social life to speak of and had gotten addicted to weed, spending large parts of my days in a haze Matrix Me couldn’t reach me.

A sharknado was just what I needed.

Enter Guy #178, someone who annoyed me to no end with his compliments, his never ending attention and less than perfect looks.

On our third or fourth date I had smoked a joint in advance to ease myself into it. Minutes after starting foreplay on his couch, the weed kicked in much stronger than I had anticipated. I got dizzy and made it to the toilet just when my Burger King dinner resurfaced. As I clung to Guy #178’s toilet, puking my guts out and silently resenting my life and everything in it, Guy #178 constantly hovered over me, asking if I was okay, if I needed a towel, if there was anything he could do. And then he just started caressing my shoulder, almost as if his mind was still on foreplay.

I believe everyone on Earth knows but a very few people they would like to be touched by when they’re coasting down a bad trip hanging in the aura of their own vomit while clinging to someone else’s toilet. Guy #178 was not one of those people. I was high, depressed, nauseous and could only think of Guy #168, and what he would think of me if he’d see me failing at my life the way I was. Instead of enjoying my gaytopian lifestyle with Guy #168, Guy #178 was occupying my space like a fly circling around my head, capable of dodging everything you throw at it.

Guy #178 reminded me of me a lot. Although Matrix Lennard has all the makings of a movie star, my self loathing self is actually a much nicer person, as was Guy #178.

When you sit through one half of a Sharknado movie whilst having no life to speak of, it’s easy to succumb to everything that’s wrong with a sharknado. My life was a mess, but at the very least it made more sense than a Guy dodging sharks with a chainsaw as they were falling from the sky.
So after I was done vomiting Guy #178 and I proceeded to have sex. Despite being a jerk to him, puking in his toilet and over his bathroom floor and resenting him for being so relentlessly nice and devoted, Guy #178 wanted me for the Matrix Lennard he saw in me.

I fought not to admit it, but part of me liked being admired by Guy #178. And in a way, I grew to respect him for staying true to his own character all the time, annoying as it was.

We stopped dating eventually, not because I didn’t want to give him more of my attention, but because he moved to another country.

Yet whenever I think of him, I know how irritating he was, but what I remember is him doing his very best to take care of me after puking through foreplay. And I remember me waking up next to him the following morning because of it.

When you watch a Sharknado movie, you can’t help but loathe yourself for wasting your time on something so obviously stupid. But when you remember that time you watched Sharknado, it’s impossible to hide a faint but definite smile. Somehow, for reasons as mystifying as life’s biggest unanswered questions, a sharknado makes you feel like Matrix You for a while.

Thank you, Guy #178, for being as annoying as I am.


Guy #176 and #177 – What is this whole sex thing anyway?

It is September 11, 2018, I am 36 years old and at this exact point in time I have had sex with about 305 Guys. I say ‘about’ because, among other things, this story will show you sex is not a simple yes or no variable.

When you’ve more or less had sex with some 300 Guys and counting, sex itself loses some of its mojo, especially when love is notably absent most of the time.

In my early days of sexual exploration dating sites (and later apps) were a source of excitement. It felt naughty, to expose myself and my body to the kind of pleasure I would not dare tell my mother about.

300 Guys later, I don’t go on Grindr to hunt for Guys. The only real reason I go online is to see how well my profile picture performs. Every day when I get back home from work, I open Grindr, alerting gays in a one mile radius of my presence. An hour later, I open Grindr again…and then I look at the profiles of people who hit me up as I was busy eating, watching Netflix and getting ready to go to the gym.

And then I ignore those people. I don’t even bother reading their messages. I hardly ever initiate a conversation on Grindr and the people that hit me up are almost always not my type. I simply can’t be bothered.

Because once you’ve been on one Grindr date, you’ve been on all. The details vary, but the formula is pretty straightforward: Sexual frustration + loneliness + social awkwardness = Grindr date.

It’s interesting the first 100 times. After that, you can’t help but get jaded. So after a while Grindr stops being instrumental in getting laid. It becomes an instrument in getting attention. Getting laid is something you can do in a gay sauna or a raunchy nightclub, where you don’t have to go through obligatory conversation to get some action.

At least, that must have been my assumption the night I met Guy #176 and #177.

Guy #176 was the type of Asian I could tell was into white Guys such as myself. He was too shy to actively chase me, but every time our paths crossed I could see his eyes light up. Added to that he was cute, generically cute, so a perfect fit for someone like me, who wasn’t looking for a layered person.

Guy #176 and I started our conversation in front of some lockers in a gay sauna. It was brightly lit, but the twinkle in his eye shone brightly regardless. It was not at all a surprise he reached for my parts. I was happy to let him: having a generically cute Asian Guy fiddle with my testicles was just the thing I was in the mood for. And by the looks of Guy #176’s face, he had found exactly what he was looking for too!

Things don’t get much better in gaytopia.

Except that when I leaned in to kiss Guy #176 he veered back. Our lips had touched, we had played with each other’s genitals: technically, this Guy was now blog material, but just when I thought we’d submit ourselves to some tender foreplay, Guy #176 started laughing uncomfortably, apologetically even.
“I’m sorry, I just had to feel you up for a bit,” Guy #176 said.
“Well, now you have,” I replied, hoping it would be quirky enough to glide our relationship into the actual stuff I wanted to do to this Guy.

It didn’t. Guy #176 said sorry one more time and then went off, ending our relationship as randomly as it had begun.

(I actually ran into Guy #176 at a clinic this one time as we were getting an AIDS test, where of course we pretended not to know each other.)

Up next was Guy #177. My relationship with him started online, where he hit me up saying ‘Hi’. I usually don’t respond to Hi’s, but a quick glance at his profile taught me he had a boyfriend and that the two of them were on the lookout for threesomes. Both looked reasonably cute, so I made a slight effort for a change.

Guy #177 and I chatted for a while, discussed sexual preferences and even pondered setting a date with the three of us, which then never materialized because we lived too far apart for me to be truly bothered. Threesomes top twosomes, but when you’ve done orgies, a threesome is about as exciting as Finding Nemo is to Finding A Fish.

Then came the day I ran into Guy #177 at a gay sauna. We recognized each other from our pics and awkwardly said ‘Hi’. I don’t remember how exactly, but we ended up sitting next to each other in a steam room not long after. He wasn’t as cute as his pics had suggested and he could probably tell my abs didn’t come with a contrast button in real life. Yet at the same time we had spoken about having vivid sexual intercourse. Giving each other a socially awkward handjob seemed weirder than not doing anything at all.

So Guy #177 jerked me off for a short while, while I did the same to him. As I bestowed upon him the pleasure of my left hand, my mind was stuck between upping the sex with oral or using my mouth to start a conversation.

In the end Guy #177 simply got up and left, never to be seen or heard from again. He didn’t even get to experience what my right hand is capable of.

Guys #176 and #177 make me wonder if Karma has taken note of my Grindr etiquette: Grindr me is not exactly a great Guy. I prefer getting attention over actually having sex and I dismiss Guys when they require the slightest pinch of effort. Guys #176 and #177 gave me attention, then dismissed me as I tend to with the Guys I meet.

My relationships with Guys #176 and #177 were a bit like this story. You make a little effort to get invested, hope it will lead somewhere and then it ends before getting off the g…


Guy #175 – Donald Trump the aphrodisiac…

“I apologize for Donald Trump,” was one of the first things Guy #175 said to me.

I don’t have anything against Americans, but the ones who apologize for Donald Trump the first chance they get have a special place in my heart.

There’s nothing cuter than a Guy apologetically admitting his American citizenship, knowing all too well Europeans have come to see America the way America sees Detroit.

It’s the land of the free and home of the brave, but to those that spend enough time outside of it the words “I’m American” often come with a pinch of shame these days…and it’s absolutely adorable when a cute Guy does it.

I don’t think anyone should ever have to apologize for their country, but saying sorry for Donald Trump has become a very effective way of letting people know that Hey, I’m American, but I am aware Africa is not a country, I don’t believe in angels and it’s never a good idea to nuke Finland.

Mind you, Guy #175 said sorry for Donald Trump way back in the summer of 2016, when it still seemed unlikely he would become president. His preemptive apology made him one of the nicest Americans I ever had sex with.

Because it was in that moment, when Guy #175 said he was sorry for Donald Trump, that I decided I would turn him into Guy #175.

When you meet someone who dislikes Donald Trump, you quickly find you have a lot in common. Whether it’s about building walls, grabbing women by the pussy, or cuddling up with racists – all of which activities gay Guys seldom engage in – the road to foreplay is smooth as a slide: the Donald Trump apology was a push, and from there we comfortably coasted toward kissing and, eventually, what could best be described as a gay attempt of grabbing each other by the pussy.

Guy #175 and I didn’t spend much time together. I had a life I needed to be at, he was an American, staying in my country for no more than a few days.

We enjoyed each other’s company in his hotel room for about an hour, then we went out and got high together, because what else would I be doing with an American tourist in Amsterdam?

We got along very well, even becoming Facebook friends.

About a year later he contacted me, saying he was back in the Netherlands for a short while, asking if I’d want to meet.

By this time Donald Trump had found his way to the White House. There would’ve been so much for us to talk about, so much to bond over, yet I only halfheartedly set a date for him to come over at my place. And when that date arrived, neither of us made any real effort to actually meet up. He said his train got delayed, I told him not to rush, which he probably took to mean he needn’t show up at all.

A second date never happened.

When we met, Guy #175 and I talked about way more than just Donald Trump, but for some reason I mostly remember making fun of American politics as the thing that set our date apart from others.

Guy #175 was cute, but in my memory our bond was mostly the result of a common sense of disbelief toward things happening an ocean away. I’m sure there was more to us, but I simply didn’t register it as a memory…maybe because I got high too much.

Who knows if Guy #175 and I ever meet up again. He’s an American who lives in Finland, so as long as Donald Trump hasn’t nuked it, I won’t rule it out as a possibility. Stranger things have happened, like Donald Trump being an aphrodisiac.


Guy #174 – The one with feelings. And cocaine. And gonorrhoea.

Some time ago I wrote the ‘story’ of Guy #168, except that it wasn’t much of a story, but rather an overview of all my personal issues standing in the way of me getting an actual, loving relationship with a Guy.

It’s not that Guy #168 is not a story I don’t want to tell:

Guy #168 was someone I met at this orgy this one time. For a while he was someone I wanted to be more with than just ‘someone I run into at orgies’. And when I say ‘for a while’ I mean Guy #168 was on my mind pretty much every time I had sex with someone, from Guy #169 all the way through #275, a good one and a half year of my life.

I have this habit of having dysfunctional crushes.

So when I met Guy #174 my first thought was This Guy doesn’t look at all like Guy #168.

Of course, being hopelessly in love doesn’t mean I become picky when it comes to picking Guys to have sex with. On the contrary: when I’m hopelessly in love I remedy my hopelessness by projecting all my feelings onto someone who doesn’t match my image of perfection, and then I resent that person for not being perfect.

Guy #174 was an exception in many ways, and I think the reason for it was feelings. His feelings.

I really wanted Guy #168 to have feelings for me, but instead I met Guy #174, a smart, funnily tortured cocaine addict who reminded me of myself in more ways than I was comfortable with. I say ‘funnily tortured’ because his drama was a great source of laughter for me. My life was far from on track at the time, but his issues dwarfed mine. We were similar in many ways, but Guy #174 seemed worse off in all dimensions. He was the embodiment of solace.

At the time I spent my waking hours at home, jobless, taking care of my stepdad. Guy #174 also lived with his family, his life lacking direction as well. He spent his sleeping hours away from his home as much as he could, as did I. He remedied his sadness with cocaine. I got high on weed every day.

We both lived life forgetting as much of it as we could.

When we first had sex Guy #174 made me forget about Guy #168 for a short while, like a few hours. It was like taking a new drug and discovering a new kind of high. Only the second time Guy #174 and I got together he gave me gonorrhoea, which is just the most annoying of all STD’s.

Like the caring person he was, Guy #174 joined me as we went to get our antibiotics. It struck me as hardcore to see him swallowing his pills with a bottle of champagne: this was clearly not the first time he had taken gonorrhoea meds.

I suppose it was in that moment I decided Guy #174 and I would continue as friends, something I instinctively felt he was willing to do: he’d seemed in awe of me from the moment we met, giving me nothing but compliments about my personality and the way I dealt with my issues, neither of which I felt were deserving of any praise.

I could tell he lamented the fact I wanted to be just friends, but he granted me full control of the relationship. For me, Guy #174 became someone I could talk to, about whatever I wanted to talk about.
“I am in love with this Guy I met at this orgy,” I told Guy #174, wanting to vent my issues as Guy #174 was often keen to let me.
“I don’t want to hear about that,” he said however.
I refrained from talking about my feelings for another Guy, until a few days later, when I brought him up again. This time I was allowed to. I could tell he wasn’t happy listening to me talking about a Guy I liked more than him, but he didn’t resist.

Guy #174 never explicitly said he had feelings for me. I suppose he knew me well enough not to.

I guess when we’re in love we prefer being tortured by the ones we love over not being with them at all. I didn’t resent Guy #174 as I would so many others who didn’t resemble the Guy I was in love with. Instead I appreciated him for allowing me to quietly torture him with my meanderings about this random Guy I met at this orgy this one time. It was what I needed, and Guy #174 was all too available to give me what I wanted, from laughing about his life, to whining about mine, to antibiotics, to just friendship.

Over the years I’ve been with a lot of Guys. yet as far as I can tell only a very few of them ever developed any feelings for me. With the exception of a few weeks with Guy #143 and a long distance fling with Guy #96, I never experienced much reciprocation. Likewise, the few people who ever fell for me…simply fell.

What can I say? I only fall for people I can’t have. People who fall for me I can have…so why fall for them?

Did I mention I only do dysfunctional crushes?

This one time Guy #174 and I went to a gay sauna together, where of all people we ran into Guy #168. It must have been an eye opener for Guy #174 to see me ache for attention from someone I barely got it from. I imagine it helped Guy #174 to let go of chasing me.

Usually when someone I had sex with isn’t perfect in each and every way I become dismissive toward that person.
Guy #174 didn’t look like the Guy I really wanted, he always complained about how not doing cocaine was such a drag, he had given me gonorrhoea. Yet despite all that I always enjoyed his company. His feelings didn’t chase me away as people with feelings so often do.

Guy #174 wasn’t perfect. Instead he was very much like me.

“We’re both stuck,” he once said, summing up both our lives in three words.

As time passed, we saw each other less and less frequently. My life gradually got ‘unstuck’, my need of solace fading away, hopefully not unlike Guy #174’s feelings for me.

We don’t really keep in touch these days. Of all the people I ever suspected of having feelings for me, Guy #174 was the one that made it the least awkward. Of all the people who ever gave me gonorrhoea, he was the only one kind enough to take our meds together. I feel sorry I didn’t feel for him what he seemingly felt for me, but if I’d ever get gonorrhoea again, I’d want it to come from someone like Guy #174.

Coming from a narcissist, that means a lot.

Thank you, Guy #174.


Guy #172 and #173 – Quitting smoking is easy. I do it all the time…

Gay saunas.

A lot of my stories take place in a gay sauna, even though I consider myself a sensitive person who prefers an intimate hug over an anonymous quickie. So why the many, many quickies?

To me, sex with strangers is a bit like cigarettes: every month you go without them is a good month. Every day you deprive yourself of nicotine a month feels like an eternity. It’s not that I’m a sex addict, but I do lack the patience to let life run its course. Sex tends to find me every so often. But if I actively pursue sex, I get it more often and I live life under the assumption that more sex is more good, even if it’s bad sex.

Enter gay saunas, the quick fix of gay sex.
The fifth cigarette of the day is not that rewarding, but the first one in a month is pure oral glory. On average, I probably visit a gay sauna about once a month, when I haven’t had sex for that long. Or when I have a free night with nothing better to do. Or when I think my hair looks good and I feel like showing off. Or when I just feel like showing off. Or when I just want to feel something.

When I go to a gay sauna, I hope to find someone I can talk to, laugh with, cuddle and penetrate. Finding guys to penetrate is easy. Talking, laughing, cuddling are bigger hurdles.
In part this is due to my narcissism: I only talk, laugh and cuddle with people that fit my image of perfection.
The other part has to do with the very nature of gay saunas:

I first met Guy #172 in some dark corridor. We pursued each other for a few minutes, passed each other while semi-accidentally touching our bodies and pretended not to check each other out. Penetration was on the menu, that much was clear.

Sadly, the sauna we were in was packed, meaning every cabin was taken. If Guy #172 and I wanted to have sex, we would have to do it out in the open, in the very corridor we met.

This is not unusual for gay saunas. Whenever I’m there I see people having sex all the time. I prefer having sex where no one can see me, but gay saunas are an orgy of compromises. Guy #172 and I didn’t have the time or space to talk, laugh or cuddle, but darn it, I had captured him as my first prey of the evening and I wasn’t going to let him off without me giving it to him.
We had but a wall to lean against, so that’s what we did, in full view of everybody who was there.

Here’s the thing with having sex in a gay sauna where everybody can see you: everybody can touch you there as well. To some people this is seen as an invitation. And for some reason it’s always the fat sweaty hairy old nasty Danny DeVito lookalikes that pick up on it.

If you’re a Danny DeVito lookalike who frequents gay saunas and thinks it’s okay to grope people just because they’re engaged in sex, stop doing that! You are the Bill Cosby’s of gaytopia. Nothing is more annoying than putting on a condom while a pack of Danny DeVito’s disrupts your balance trying to get a sense of what your testicles feel like.

Because that’s what happened as I pushed Guy #172 up against our wall and rubbered up to do my thing to him: people started touching us, wanting in on the fun. Guy #172 and I were more engaged in shoving other people’s hands off our bodies than we were with each other. At one point we even had to shout at someone to leave us alone.

Okay, granted, you don’t go around raping people like Bill Cosby, so let me take it down a notch: you’re the gay sauna equivalent of crying babies on an airplane. Imagine sipping on your first cigarette in a month time. Now add Danny DeVito grabbing your balls to the picture. That’s you – and I know you know who you are.

Frustrated by the people around us, Guy #172 and I moved around a bit in hopes of finding an empty cabin, or at the very least to get away from our intruders. Yet everywhere we went, we were denied the joy of consensual penetration by the hands of people who were even more of a stranger to me than Guy #172.

The bond Guy #172 and I had was mostly the sentiment we shared toward the people around us. Eventually, we more or less gave up and went our own way.

It left me feeling empty inside, but not undeterred, as it wasn’t long before Guy #173 and I started pretending not to check each other out. Within minutes we were all over each other.

To my surprise we managed to find a cabin, a space where no one could impose on our little romance. I could freely penetrate, and if that went well maybe follow up on it with some nice talking, laughing and cuddling, something narcissist me is in the mood for about 10% of the time after climaxing with a stranger.

Guy #173 and I quickly worked through the three stages of gay foreplay (kissing, oral and tentative humping), and then I grabbed a condom.
“I have this allergy for rubber,” Guy #173 interrupted me.
“And I’m allergic to HIV,” I told him.
It’s not that I never take risks or that I don’t hate condoms as much as anyone who’s never had AIDS, but like any sensible gay Guy, I only take risks with extremely cute people. I simply wasn’t high enough to consider Guy #173 that cute. I knew that if I would bareback him, I would only feel regret afterward, and that I wouldn’t want to talk, laugh, let alone cuddle him.
“I’m clean though,” Guy #173 assured me.
“Sorry, I just never have unsafe sex,” I lied as if I was Bill Cosby offering a woman a drink.
Guy #173 reiterated just how clean he was. It was hard not to believe him, as I really wanted to get my fix.

That’s another thing with gay saunas these days: back in the 80s, Bill Cosby gave us a laugh and HIV was scary. How the tables have turned. As such, Guys in saunas dispense with condoms more often than I’ve ever seen in my lifetime. Guy #173 only seemed concerned with convincing me he was clean. He didn’t even ask about my status. As we talked about him being so clean, I noticed the mattress we were on still contained the sweat of those who had used it before us. It made me realize I was pursuing a fix in the easiest, but far from the best place to do so.

Guy #173 took off after he realized barebacking was off the table.

I was left feeling frustrated, but nevertheless relieved. I was unsatisfied, but took comfort in the fact I wouldn’t have to spend the next month on the lookout for symptoms of acute HIV infection.

So I celebrated my little victory. With a well deserved cigarette. My first one in well over a month.


Guy #171 – The old Guy…

If there’s one thing I hate it’s getting old. I don’t mind picking up some wisdom here and there as the years go by, but dammit the skin around my eyes wrinkles when I laugh.

I’m getting wrinkles.

Perhaps the main reason for clinging to my youth is the way I treated ‘old’ people all my life. Living what I would call the gay lifestyle. I’m very much accustomed to people grabbing my testicles as I pass them. In most cases, the person reaching for my crotch looks like Tutankhamon on a bad day and the idea of him and me having sex is so preposterous I don’t even bother to look my pharaoh in the face.

It’s about as cold rejections come.

I could feel bad about it, but in all honesty I can’t help but wonder what those old men are thinking by having a go at prime-of-my-life me! We waste our youth on old cars, not on old people.

Yet each time I ignore a horny mummy as one would I realize that one day, in the less and less distant future, I too will become old. One day, there will be people who consider the thought of having sex with me too ridiculous to give it a moment’s thought.

I met Guy #171 in a steam room this one time. He was already engaged in sexual activities with about three or four other Guys. Usually I’m not the type to insert myself in someone else’s sexfest. I’m way too shy for that, except this time I noticed Guy #171 was surrounded by men who were way older than I was. We gave each other a quick look in which I saw relief in his eyes, so I went in. To my relief, he let me.

For a few minutes, Guy #171 allowed me to do stuff to his body. We even followed up on it with a kiss, after which Guy #171 suddenly signaled the party was over by getting up and walking off, leaving me with Ramses the First, Second and Third. The idea of them and me even acknowledging each other’s existence seemed too intrusive, so I left them as Guy #171 had seconds earlier.

I ran into Guy #171 a while later. He had kissed me rather amicably before, so I was expecting to get some lip action going on by moving into his personal space and grabbing his testicles. To my surprise, Guy #171 swiftly shoved my hands back and turned his head away. He seemed repulsed. That was new to me. I’d been rejected plenty of times, but never by someone I’d given oral to moments before. Could it really have been that bad, or were there other factors at play?

As I thought back on things that had transpired in the steam room during our first encounter, I noticed how it had happened in almost complete obscurity. Come to think of it, Guy #171 never seemed to eager to do anything, nor was he having any fun. Those three or four men surrounding him didn’t do much either, except for a little caressing here and there, which in a gay sauna is less than a handshake. In retrospect, Guy #171 wasn’t having sex when I first met him. He was letting some people touch him and wasn’t even that comfortable with it. When I joined in, it quickly became too much and he had to leave.

 
 
Cut to us half an hour later, where we meet up in a place bright enough to actually see each other…and suddenly I’m the dinosaur.I have memories of the Challenger disaster, the Berlin Wall coming down and Nelson Mandela being released from prison. By the looks of him Guy #171 was barely old enough to know the difference between Mel B and Mel C.

 

To me old people are the ones who have vivid memories of the seventies, Woodstock and Hitler. Guy #171 made me realize that as time moves on, so should my definition of ‘old’, that one day there will be a day that definition fits me, that one day I’ll be among the last people to know what the world without the internet was like, something me and all the pharaohs have in common.

It’s not the kind of thought you want occupying your head when you find yourself hunting meat that’s younger than yours. On the plus side, I wasn’t laughing the night I got rejected by Guy #171, so my wrinkles at least were kept under wraps.


Guy #170 – Oprah on a bad day…

I don’t like fat.

It’s why I prefer walking over public transportation, why I have a gym membership I don’t use as often as I feel I should and why I have to digest guilt each time I eat ice cream.

So when I meet a Guy and find myself confronted with the decision whether or not to have sex with him, the amount of fat this Guy carries is a very determining factor in my decision making process.

Which doesn’t mean fat Guys don’t stand a chance. They simply need to put in a little extra effort.

Fatwise, Guy #170 was like Oprah on a bad day. Like Oprah, he didn’t make an effort to hide his lack of abs. Instead, he initiated a conversation about his body and freely acknowledged it wasn’t the best thing he had going for him. Like Oprah, he too talked about things he was doing to shape up, one of which included a diet that consisted of less than 1000 calories a day.

I don’t like fat, but that doesn’t make me heartless. Although I was well aware Guy #170 was playing on my empathy to find him attractive, I couldn’t deny his tactic was working. The more he spoke about his struggle to lose weight, the more I saw in him the Guy he could be if he stayed in Oprah-mode long enough.

Personally, I’m not very smooth when it comes to hitting on people. I more or less have my looks to offer. Beyond that, I lack the ability the steer a conversation in the direction of sex. I simply have no idea how to talk people into sexual contact. The art of seduction, reading people, playing into their weak spots, figuring out what makes them tick. I lack those skills. For me, hitting on a Guy is simply a matter of going in and hoping for the best, an on and off successful strategy I intend to keep using as long as I don’t have any fat forcing me to make a real effort.

Guy #170 however was smooth to the bone. He knew that if he wanted to have sex with me, he would have to work me. At some point in time he must have figured empathy was to be his weapon of choice. Instead of hiding his fat, he made it the center of his campaign.

In addition to infecting me with his highly contagious Oprah positivity, Guy #170 was also assertive. His intentions of wanting to have sex with me were clear well before he opened up about his diet, as he repeatedly touched me in places fat people usually don’t get to touch me.

Even though I remained hesitant throughout the sex, it was far from unpleasurable. Guy #170 knew what to do and was good at what he did, a combination that made up for most if not all of his fat.

Thank you,” I said after we were done.

You’re a dumbass,” Guy #170 laughed as he gently slapped my face. He implanted the idea that maybe I tend to be too much of a kiss ass toward people who give great blowjobs.

Seconds after I extended my gratitude Guy #170 walked off, though we would later meet up again and talk some more.
I still run into him occasionally and when I do it’s always nice to see each other again. Sex however will never again materialize between the two of us. Every time I see him I can’t help but feel I was tricked, even though I liked it enough to say thank you.




Guy #169 – When being yourself is easy…

Being yourself is both the easiest and the hardest thing to do. And usually, we opt for making it hard on ourselves.

I for one am way too much of a people pleaser. It’s rooted in my innate desire to be liked and/or eternal fear of not being loved. The easiest thing would be to just ignore it, be nice to people and live life while you can. Instead I aim to resolve my conflict by being nice to people for all the wrong reasons.

Sexwise, I am usually the one who does most the work. When I’m having sex I go into please mode. Generally speaking, I aim to please more than I please to aim.

I would love to completely let go, because few occasions taught me it’s awesome when I do, but most of the time a big part of me is consciously making sure the other Guy is enjoying it at least as much as I am.

Guy #169 was a notable exception and the reason for it was food poisoning.

I first met Guy #169 a few hours after I had eaten what could have been bad anchovies or undercooked chicken, neither of which bothered me yet when Guy #169 and I started talking. He had a job, I did stuff, he wanted sex, I went into please mode.

Until I started getting dizzy. It instantly rendered me incapable of doing any pleasing. Guy #169 wanted to continue what we were doing, but I intuitively felt I was about to vomit. I told Guy #169 I needed to be by myself and quickly made my way for a toilet, which I was lucky enough to find just in time.

In just ten minutes I had gone from feeling great to hanging over a toilet with a fever and the weirdly familiar taste of chicken and anchovies in my mouth. Hovering over your own vomit in a toilet in a gay sauna alone with a fever sending all your thoughts into overdrive, it’s easy to get philosophical and wonder about where your life is going, and if hanging over the toilet at 3AM in a gay sauna would have made your mother proud.

So when I ran into Guy #169 a while later, I was still feeling queasy and not at all in the mood for sex. Also, I would feel bad for letting Guy #169 kiss me, because I had literally thrown up minutes earlier and had taken but a menthos to remedy it. Guy #169 however wanted me really badly, so I made a decision. Either I would sit out my little flu alone and miserable, or I would treat Guy #169 as my massage therapist and let him do the pleasing.

It struck me that the great thing about feeling sick is how it makes being yourself so much easier. You simply don’t have the energy to engage in appearances.

And so it happened I ended up getting an intensely erotic massage that allowed me to more or less enjoy the flu wave.

The fun ended when Guy #169 wanted more than just be my massage therapist. I told him I wasn’t feeling too well and that there was no way in hell he would get more from me, as much as I more or less didn’t even want it to to begin with. Guy #169 settled for letting me give him my number. We apped a few times.

I considered going on a date with him. I figured it could be good exercise in turning off the please switch. Then again, I knew I would only enjoy being that passive on a diet of bad anchovies or undercooked chicken. I suppose I just wasn’t that much into Guy #169, which I already knew the moment I let him kiss me moments after I had vomited. That’s not what I would do to a Guy I really like.

However, when I’m slightly delirious and shaky from a fever, the gloves come off and I have no qualms using people for my pleasure.

People often tell me I’m a nice Guy. Little do they know I’m nice for all the wrong reasons.


Guy #168 – Meet some of my issues…

“The path of excess leads to the palace of wisdom.”
William Blake

Ever since I started 168guys.com, the question I get asked the most pertains to what I will do after I reach 168 Guys.

The answer is both simple and not so simple.

Let’s start with simple.

When I started writing this blog, the number 168 was just a ballpark figure of the amount of Guys I’d been with. I began writing in October of 2015. As I started chronicling my sex life, I recalled more and more of the Guys I had sex with. Eventually, I opened up an Excel sheet, wrote down every Guy I could remember and ranked them according to their chronology. As it turned out I was about 20 Guys shy of Guy #168 at the time.

So when people asked me what I’d do after reaching Guy #168, I’d tell them I’d be doing what I’d been doing for the 167 Guys that preceded him: Make a note of it in my Excel sheet and move on to the next Guy.

Which is what I did, so for those of you in fear of this blog coming to an end, my Excel sheet currently lists 260+ Guys and I’m still out there, every day, advertising my whorish selfies on Grindr, looking for Guys to connect with, Guys to get high with, Guys to write about and possibly someone to love at some point, although there’s a good chance I have issues prohibiting that last part from ever happening.

Which brings us to not so simple.

I have issues. Let’s meet some of them:

I don’t date Guys because I want a relationship, but I am constantly on the lookout for that one Guy who befits my image of what perfection should be. Being a bit of a narcissist 99% of the Guys I do I dispense with even before I wash my hands clean of them, and truth be told it’s comforting to know 99% of Guys couldn’t hurt me or my feelings even if their lives depended on it.

My relationships with Guys are mostly short-lived, yet each and every time I engage in conversation with someone on Grindr, in a bar or at an orgy, part of me hopes to find someone I can establish a meaningful, lasting connection with. Relationships lasting longer than one date are the exception however. Either I make the effort to invest more time in a Guy and this effort is not reciprocated, or the other Guy gets back to me and I dismiss him for being too needy.

I am good looking. I get stared at a lot when I’m in a gay sauna, flaunting my deceitfully youthful exterior for anyone willing to admire it. Being good looking is a blessing as much as it is a curse. Seeing beauty when I look in the mirror gives me a sense of entitlement bordering on the unsympathetic. I am polite whenever I reject someone, but on the inside I feel anger toward the many Guys hitting on me and resent them for not being more like those few hot Guys who are not nearly as generous with their attention.

I wasn’t always attractive. In fact, for a long time I believed myself to be irreparably weird looking. Having spent the first 24 years of my life in a closet, I have a lot of experience falling hopelessly in love with girls who would have made the perfect daughter-in-law to my mother, were it not for the fact they thought of me as their little brother they wouldn’t dare share their vaginas with. One can imagine what happens to someone when you stir rejection in a bowl of narcissism and let it simmer for 24 years: I was damaged goods even before people started touching mine.

Consider how happy I was stepping out of my closet and landing in a world where I was considered doable by practically everyone who lived there. To this day, every time someone compliments me on my looks, every lusty stare I get, every bit of attention, it all acts as a band aid, covering the wounds of being a 24 year old virgin, a dorky figure who at one point was convinced sex was only meant for other people. At 35 years of age, that failure of a human being still exists, occupying my subconscious like a Bond villain that just won’t die.

At first I wasn’t very picky when it came to having sex with Guys. If it felt right I would go for it, often with pitiful results, but still, the thrill of being considered attractive gave me a high I simply couldn’t stop chasing. It’s a high I’ve been chasing for well over a decade now.

However, the more beautiful Guys I catch, the more beautiful the next one needs to be. I’m a 35 year old narcissistic gay Guy who, with the right amount of effort, can still pass for a youthlike twink such as the ones I’m attracted to. Yet the older I am, the higher my standards become, the rarer I catch what I aim for…and what I aim for is perfection.

I’ve only been in love a handful of times. I tend to fall for people who are unsuitable relationship material. I can always tell they’re unsuitable, but my hormones usually stand in the way of accepting this as fact. Looking back, I’m thankful I never ended up in a relationship with any of the people I ever fell in love with. At the same time it makes me wonder if I should want a relationship with the next person I fall in love with, seeing as how I always crave someone I don’t need. The status quo is that love for me is like a mirage I stop chasing the moment it becomes real.

As you can probably figure, I’m not really the relationship type. I dabbled in relationships very briefly, with Guys #14. #143 and #144 to be precise. They all lasted only a few months. I enjoyed the intimacy of a commitment, but each time I was quick to point out the reasons why my relationship with a particular Guy would eventually fail. Once that happened, continuing the relationship would have been like walking all the way down a dead-end street you already know is a dead-end street. What experience in relationships I could have had I gladly traded for a life in the fast lane.

Said fast lane eventually brought me into a world where homosexuality is celebrated in all its extremities, a world where casual sex flows on waves of drugs that make the experience anything but casual. When I started writing 168guys.com, love and sex to me were inseparable. My issues aside, I firmly believed that anyone looking for sex is also looking for love. Even when I arrived at my first orgy, I figured all the people there were in it for the intimacy.

When I started 168guys.com, I thought I had seen pretty much everything there is to see in the world of gay dating. Then came the day I discovered orgy culture, XTC, GHB, ketamine or just plain old fashioned cocaine. Before all of this I considered myself an expert on gay life, gay culture and even gay relationships. One year and nearly a hundred Guys later I am more at odds with sex, love and dating than I was when I stepped out of my closet. And I’m 35, single and incapable of keeping a Guy around for more than one date.

Basically, I’m a narcissist, insecure to the bone, looking for perfection, and alone.

All in all I guess you could say I’m your typical gay Guy.

You see, the one thing writing this blog has taught me is that issues are what binds us more than perfection. The more people read my blog, the more people tell me they find it a very relatable read. It would seem confusion, insecurity, clumsiness, loneliness and a restless search for perfection are quite common in the gay scene. So instead of limiting myself to chronicling short snippets of gay life, over the past year the idea grew I could expand 168guys.com into a book, offering the world a peek into the world of gays, drugs, orgies, lust, despair, jealousy, passion, addiction, hurt, pain, joy, ecstasy and yes, even love.

So in addition to writing about all the Guys I ever had sex with and trying to figure out myself in the process, I’ve also been writing a book about gay life in all its glory and not so glory. It’s still far from completed, but I will of course keep everyone updated on its progress. Writing a book featuring my issues is a lot of work.

Fortunately, Guy #168 gave me enough material to work with.

Guy #167 – Twice you go black…

As I’ve mentioned before, I don’t have much experience with ebony. Call me a racist sexist, but I’ve felt much mutual attraction between me and black Guys. I would like to be sure my white privilege has nothing to do with it, but I had to spend time living in a former Dutch colony for a few years to discover my privilege. God knows what racism I haven’t unearthed yet, but for the most part of my sex life black Guys to me have been like women in the sense that I have considerable trouble getting hard in their company.

Unless of course someone is so unbelievably beautiful and good looking they make you forget about sexuality, preference or privilege, someone like Charlize Theron or Guy #167, the latter of which started touching me at this orgy the night I also met Guy #165, #166 and #168. The night in question was what I would later consider a peak in my sexuality, much like Toxic was a peak in Britney’s recording history.

Speaking of toxicity, Guy #167 and I started feeling each other up on a wave of XTC and GHB, easily the cornerstones of gay sex dating these days. I was standing on a balcony, smoking a cigarette with some other Guys, when Guy #167 sat down next to me and put his hand on my legs.

I instantly remembered the last time I had done sexual stuff with a black Guy, seven years earlier, at a time when I knew nothing of drugs or orgies. At first I figured it was the drugs attracting me to this Guy, but a quick glance at Guy #167 taught me I ought to consider myself lucky to be getting attention from him at all. He was a muscled hunk. I was a skinny sag of insecurity by comparison.

Fortunately there were drugs involved.

To say drugs smooth seduction is like saying air enables breathing. Guy #167 and I communicated through our physicality and quickly established we were into each other, found our own spot in a room filled with over a dozen Guys doing the same and had some good old fashioned gay fun for a while, and again a while later…and perhaps another time after that. I don’t remember exactly.

As we were making out in a bathroom I looked at the reflection of us doing so in a mirror. Part of me had wondered if maybe I was having sex with Guy #167 because the drugs had gotten me high to the point Bea Arthur’s voice would have turned me on. However when I looked at us in the mirror I had trouble fathoming just how incredibly beautiful Guy #167 really was.

But that’s the thing: Even when you realize you’re on drugs you’re still on drugs. Just because you know the world is beautiful because you took a pill doesn’t actually make it beautiful, even when you know it does.

Objectively speaking, Guy #167 was one of the most beautiful people I ever had sex with. I would have liked to meet Guy #167 on a wave of sobriety, but as is so often the case with people you meet at orgies, you only meet them at orgies.

I ran into Guy #167 a number of times since the night we met. We’d fool around a little each time, simply because he has the kind of beauty I’d feel spoiled for resisting. I never met him sober, though. Seeing as he comes with a caring and sensitive personality that neatly contrasts his manly appearance, it would be interesting to see if the caring sensitivity wears off when the drugs do.

Because a lot tends to wear off when the drugs do, something I didn’t know yet the night I had sex with Guy #167. Like that first time I had sex with a black Guy, the only way was still up for me. Seven years earlier I had a one-time thing with a black Guy just to try it out. It was a time of exploration and excitement. Now, seven years later, I was still busy exploring uncharted territory. When you’re on XTC and in a room with 20 good looking Guys who took the same pill you did, you’re basically king of the world in a world full of kings. That, in and of itself, is an experience I wish upon everyone.

Being king of the world in a world full of queens however is a completely different thing. The gay scene consists of grown men acting like teenagers because they were deprived of doing so when they were teenagers. It’s great when you’re high, but it’s unforgivably harsh when you find yourself surrounded by people chasing that high, even more when you start chasing it as well.

I suppose the nicest thing about meeting Guys #165, #166, #167 and #168 was that I didn’t know any of this yet. The night I met Guy #167 I was mostly just excited I got to have sex with one of the most beautiful Guys I had ever seen.

The night of Guy #167 happened about five months after I started 168guys.com. It seemed fitting I would pass the actual 168-mark on what was easily my wildest night in terms of sexual exploration.

What I didn’t know was that the fun part of exploring was about to come to an end.


Guy #166 – The thing with orgies…

“Can I fuck you?” were the first and pretty much only words Guy #166 ever spoke to me. I don’t remember much of our remaining conversation but imagine I must have said something along the lines of Yes, as Guy #166 in fact became the 166th Guy I ever had sex with shortly after the conclusion of our little dialogue.

The sex was about as spectacular as standing in line at a restaurant, waiting to be seated and seeing waiters with good looking food go by.

The room Guy #166 and I found ourselves in was filled with about 20 or so other Guys, most of which were better looking than him. On the other hand, Guy #166 seemed sweet and he’d been coming onto me the entire night. He wanted me badly. I suppose it’s always nice to run into a waiter who wants to feed you properly. Even though Guy #166 was far from my main course that night, I allowed him to be the mozzarella stick to further wet my appetite.

I guess Guy #166 enjoyed me saying Yes to his question more than he did the sex with me. His drug induced horniness came with a drug deduced boner that was hardly a boner at all by the time he managed to put on a condom. He even lost his balance a few times while rubbering up, something I would later learn was due to this drug called ketamine.
Compassionately, I pretended to be into the whole affair. Guy #166 came across as nervous and I didn’t want to leave him feeling incapable, even though I knew that’s exactly what I’d be doing eventually and soon: leaving him. I was at an orgy, celebrating what I would later consider a peak in my sexuality. I wasn’t planning on upgrading an appetizer to a course. In fact, Guy #167 was already starting to feel me up a few minutes into my relationship with Guy #166, and Guy #167 looked like one of the tastiest and exotic entrées I had ever seen.
It didn’t take me long to shift my attention from Guy #166 to #167. I allowed Guy #166 to have his way with me for a few minutes, even though his ‘way’ was mostly paved by the drugs he had taken. He seemed happy I hadn’t rejected him, which made me all the more comfortable to move on and basically reject him.

Guy #166 went his own way as soon as the ketamine allowed him to. To my relief I saw him having fun with plenty of other Guys that night.

Although the two of us would politely greet each other at various occasions over the year that followed, we never exchanged any words, probably because I had already given him everything he wanted by saying Yes. We were just strangers who so happened to have had what can best be described as a vague echo of sex at an occasion where sex was the only real means of communication. I had been his appetizer as much as he had been mine.

That’s the thing with orgies: They’re like all-you-can-eat buffets where you can spit on your food and then watch someone else eat it.

They’re both the best and the worst place to make friends.


Guy #165 – Two Guys, some drugs and a whirlpool…

Imagine for a second a universe that is truly infinite. Picture yourself traversing the cosmos for an eternity and more without reaching an end, only finding an infinite number of galaxies, stars and planets.
If the universe is really infinite that means the atoms that make up my body, my friends, my Guys, my home, my planet and my solar system are organized in a way that, given enough infinity, will repeat itself somewhere. In an infinite universe the events that created Earth, its oceans and the cycle of life that eventually led to my existence will inevitably happen elsewhere as well.

Sure, the odds of me ever happening were one in a googillion to begin with, but that’s the great thing about infinity: You never run out of the stuff. Somewhere, an uncountable number of light-years away from this Earth, floats another Earth just like this one, with another me, just like me.

So if a Guy sits down next to me in a whirlpool it is perfectly okay to feel him up to see if he’d be interested in having sex with me. In an infinite universe, it is a mathematical certainty that out there, somewhere and sometime, atoms will organize themselves in such a way that different yet totally identical versions of me and this Guy will meet up in a whirlpool under exactly the same circumstances. If I get rejected, I can always take solace in the fact my distant counterpart might have more luck.

In an infinite universe there is no such thing as true consequence. Everything has already happened and everything will happen again. That’s just how infinity works.

It’s thought trains such as these that wash away my sense of insecurity as if it’s tooth decay in a Colgate commercial. When your mind is pondering the wonders of infinity and the possible reality of there being an endless number of me’s in galaxies far, far away, groping a Guy in a whirlpool becomes such a mundane undertaking you can’t be bothered to doubt yourself doing it. You just do it.

I had no way of knowing what Guy #165 was thinking of when I started touching him, but I intuitively felt he shared my sense of wonder. The mere scope of the universe contrasting with the banality of two Homo sapiens going to third base in a whirlpool offers a person such clarity I wonder why people don’t call it Clarity instead of XTC.

Yeah.

Perhaps I should have mentioned I was on XTC the night I felt up Guy #165. As was he. As were all the people surrounding us. The odds of Guy #165 and me thinking the same thing were, again, one in a googillion, but emotionally we were on one and the same page and easily able to carry our make-out session on the wave of empathy that is XTC.

When you’re on XTC, you just ‘get’ people. You see their strengths, their weaknesses and most of all their humanity. Add some nakedness, some poppers and a space filled with a few hundred other naked Guys and before you know it you find yourself at the bar grabbing condoms from a bowl, enjoying the fact you live in a country where gays can celebrate their sexuality loud enough for the universe to hear it.

Guy #165 and I would celebrate our little cosmic connection in a lounge area occupied by a few dozen couples doing the very same thing. I thoroughly enjoyed his company and the sex with him was everything I had come for that night: Closeness without having to get close.

When I took a closer look at Guy #165 I felt sorry for him not being entirely attractive, even though his imperfections could have been the very thing I would have liked about him had I been sober.

I actually ran into Guy #165 about half a year later when I was in fact sober. We both ignored each other and I imagine he was as fine with pretending to be strangers as I was. I did take one more look at him and figured that, if the universe truly is infinite, an infinite number of me’s must be out there, wondering what the hell we were thinking the moment we groped up Guy #165.


DO WHAT I DID: START WITH GUY #1!

Guy #164 – Attractiveness means nothing. And everything.

Here’s the thing with being attractive: It doesn’t really mean anything. And it means everything.

Attractiveness is a conflict in and of itself.

In many ways I feel I’ve been blessed with my looks, as I generally receive decent amounts of attention from Guys.

At the same time I get rejected all the time. While it’s impossible to dive into the mind of others to acquire their perspective on me, the general assumption is that people who reject me do so because they don’t find me attractive enough to have sex with.

So whenever I go to a place where my merit is measured by my looks I’m a walking conflict, blessed with attention and burdened with the few I don’t get it from.

I should add that, even though I’m a hunter, I am unbelievably bad at picking up Guys. I try to be smooth about it, hitting up Guys as if I’m Joey from FRIENDS. But no matter how hard I try to be a Joey, a Ross or even a Chandler, I always end up a Gunther somehow.

The result is that I mostly depend on people hitting on me to get laid.

And I don’t get hit on very often.

Being a hunter who’s barely hunted himself, I sometimes go through endless nights of futile attempts to get intimate with someone. Sometimes I go for hours without a successful hook-up. Attractiveness means nothing, but after hours of nothingness I generally start to question my looks, thinking that maybe I’ve been overrating myself all these years, that Guys have sex with me out of pity as often as I have pity sex with them. The more unattractive I feel, the more important a feature it becomes.

So when Guy #164 started chasing me down our little gay sauna maze I was at first relieved. Then I took a look at him. Attractiveness means nothing, but it also means everything. In the case of Guy #164 I considered him unattractive enough to reject. Having sex with him, I figured, would only help to lower my market value even more. Even less than wanting to have sex with him, I didn’t want other people to see me having sex with him. Allowing Guy #164 to go down on me would be like having a white trash family exchange their trailer for a mansion. Guy #164 would be the Trump to my White House.

When Guy #164 first reached for my testicles I pushed his hands back and walked away. Guy #164 however persisted, following me and trying to push me against a wall several times. I hated him for it, but at the same time I couldn’t help but enjoy that feeling of being wanted. Gunther doesn’t get to feel like that very often.

So I took a closer look at Guy #164 and decided that, although I don’t have a thing for Guys with beards, at least this beard was kind enough to cover his face.

Guy #164 and I had sex for about ten minutes. He seemed to be enjoying it. I enjoyed the fact at least one person found me attractive.

“Can I have your phone number?” Guy #164 asked me when I interrupted the sex for the sake of not having it anymore.
“I don’t know,” I said.
“Please, you’re so beautiful.”
Even though I felt I was way above Guy #164’s league, he was the only one that night to tell me I was pretty. It felt good to hear, while at the same time I resented the compliment for coming from a Guy I couldn’t give it to in return.
“We’ll let fate decide if we ever meet again,” I said, the second time I used that line to distance myself from someone without it having to be a cold hearted rejection.

I walked out on Guy #164, took a shower, and went home quickly.

When I started writing about every Guy I ever had sex with I was very much under the impression love and sex are inseparable. Even Guys that cruise, Guys who frequent places so dark rejection and passion are evenly secluded from the outside, Guys who spend their weekends doing drugs and hunting for mating partners, are in it for love, even if they say it’s just sex.
“Every Guy you see here is looking for love,” I once proclaimed to Guy #168 when I ran into him at the same sauna I met #164.
“Every Guy you see here is looking to love himself,” Guy #168 reasoned, a small but probably just distinction.

I never had sex with Guy #164 because I wanted to love him. Instead, he allowed me to love myself a little. And then, being the wonderful Guy that I am, I resented him for it and walked out on him.

Attractiveness means nothing. And everything.


Guy #163 – Being a dominant kiss-ass…

Being a psychologist who spends a lot of time in places where gays get naked, I see insecurity the way that kid from The Sixth Sense sees dead people: Insecurity is everywhere. It doesn’t know it’s insecure, although in the end it kind of does and for some reason I feel it’s my duty to help those with insecurities face their issues so they may overcome them and move on.

I like saying nice things to people. Sure I do it because I want them to like me, but mostly it’s a conscious effort to let people know that insecurities are like birth marks in the sense that everybody has them in places we don’t want them.

In short, I love making Guys with abs feel good about themselves.

Guy #163 had terrific abs. In fact, his entire body was more than could be summed up in one compliment. Also, I quickly noticed how Guy #163 felt insecure about himself. We met up at his place, where the air of arousal got perturbed by his constant restlessness. I offered him a few sips of a joint I had brought, but as it turns out people with ADHD become more like people with ADHD when they slow their brains down. The weed rendered Guy #163 unable to sit still for more than a few seconds.

Although I was in the mood for some conversation as a means to make the sex more interesting, Guy #163 and I soon got physical. I suppose it was the most sensible thing to do. Guy #163 clearly lacked the inner calm to carry a conversation and I was too high to carry it for the both of us.
During sex, Guy #163 remained somewhat frantic, occasionally checking if everything was in place. The only moment I could focus on our sex was when I positioned myself as the dominant factor in our little one-night stand. It was in that moment Guy #163 managed to let go a little and ride his high the way it was intended.

The thing is, I only like being dominant when the other Guy fights it, not when it’s blithely accepted. Being dominant with someone who immediately allows you to is akin to the bad Guy dying at the start of a movie or starting sex with an orgasm: It puts the reward before the effort.

So I did what I figured was the right thing: I started giving compliments, hoping to put Guy #163 at ease and only as I write this down do I realize how odd it must have been for him to be dominated by a kiss-ass.

I praised Guy #163 for his body and hotness. I told him I’d wanted him the moment I first laid eyes on him.

It wasn’t long before the sex was over.

I however wasn’t done upping my date’s ego. Even as he secluded himself to his bathroom to take a shower did I practically yell at him, letting him know how gorgeous he was.

“You should really stop saying how beautiful I am all the time,” Guy #163 said as he returned from his shower.
“Why?” I asked surprised. I couldn’t imagine anyone not wanting to receive a compliment. I love it when someone tells me I’m beautiful. How could anyone not?
“It takes away the tension,” Guy #163 said.

Oddly enough, I was both surprised and empathetic. Sex without tension indeed is like Will & Grace without Jack & Karen, but do we really need insecurites to create that tension? Do we need doubt to make sex interesting? Guy #163, despite his insecurities, seemed absolutely certain that we do.

I was reluctant to accept the fact my kind words were not well received. At the same time I couldn’t help but agree with Guy #163: Repeatedly saying how beautiful he was didn’t appear to make him feel more beautiful, at least not in the way he wanted to be beautiful.

I guess compliments are like orgasms: They’re more rewarding the harder you work for them. Silly me handing out orgasms for free.

Guy #163 and I would occasionally run into each other after our date, but sex between the two of us never again materialized, nor do I think either one of us wanted it to. My dominant self had killed all the tension by being a kiss-ass.

Shame, because Guy #163 had the most amazing abs.


Guy #162 – The perfect relationship for when you don’t know how to have them…

I suppose Guy #162 was the perfect Guy in many ways. We never talked, we never committed, we never expected anything from each other, but each time we met we had the kind of sex that reminded me how fun living can be.

Guy #162 and I only spoke with each other the night we met. He was a gorgeous Colombian twink and I have blond hair and blue eyes. Gravity did the rest.
The conversation was mostly a formality, but it lasted a good hour nonetheless, probably because I felt shy in the presence of such a beautiful Guy. I guess I wanted to give him the impression I wasn’t just in it because of his looks, despite the fact I wanted him because of his looks.

Looks aside, Guy #162 was a very friendly person who spoke English as a second language. His English was better than my Spanish, but in terms of complexity our conversation could just as easily have taken place on Sesame Street.
He spoke a little about missing his Colombian family and even got a bit emotional when he opened up about the worst thing that had ever happened to him: the death of his dog. I had buried my mother a few years before and spent my days tending to my stepdad who was currently knocking on heaven’s door. I couldn’t care less about a dead dog, but I was affected by Guy #162’s sadness, plus I really wanted to get to the sex part we had both agreed upon the instant we first glanced at each other.

So I empathized and got physical, two things that are really just one and the same when it’s sex you’re after. The kissing soon followed.

I enjoyed having sex with Guy #162 and he enjoyed me in return. After we were done we each went our seperate ways, only to run into each other a few weeks later. This time we skipped the talking and went straight to lovemaking. It was even better than the first time.

For a while we would run into each other occasionally and each time we did we ended up having sex. It was the perfect relationship for someone who, like me, is very inept at having them. Our conversation never exceeded Cookie Monster’s vocabulary and we gorged on each other as if we were made of oatmeal. The great thing was that, in those gorging moments, Guy #162 and I completely understood each other. Whatever we were feeling – lust mostly – it was completely mutual.

Sex with a beautiful person, in all its simplicity, is nothing short of a treat. I dare say it’s the kind of treat every Guy is looking for when they go out hunting.

Whenever Guy #162 and I would run into each other, we both instantly knew something sexual would sprout from it. We never made any effort to meet. We just did, our local gay scene being small enough for us to bump into each other every so often.

After we bumped each other the fifth or sixth time, I decided to up the fun a little by giving Guy #162 my phone number.
“App me sometime,” I said.

I haven’t seen or heard from him since.


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