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 #148 – Three out of three…

If planet Earth houses 7 billion people, it’s safe to say a few hundred million of those people are Guys who enjoy mating with other Guys.

On the other hand, of all the hundreds of millions of gay Guys this planet has to offer, frustratingly few of them set up camp on remote tropical paradises.

Life in the Caribbean was nice, but after spending a total of seven years under the sun I was drawn back to a gayer place: Home. I had spent some time in the Netherlands over the years, dating Guys here and there, but I had never settled there as a gay person. The last time I truly lived in my home country had been nearly ten years prior, around the time I ‘clumsied’ around with Guys #1 through #4.

So I moved back home and went online, only to discover something: Local gay scenes are often small, libido driven hamlets where everybody knows your name if not your selfie. Though known for its lustrous gay life, most people I met in Amsterdam were already a friend of a Facebook friend.

Guy #148 was no exception.

The first time I learned of Guy #148’s existence was when Guy #108 befriended me. Going over Guy #108’s wall I saw many pictures of him with two other guys. One of those Guys would later become Guy #130 and the other one was Guy #148.

So when Guy #148 and I got in touch online I already knew two of his best friends. That feeling people supposedly have when they get to yell Bingo, that’s the feeling I was chasing when I suggested the two of us meet up for a drink.

While I showed interest in Guy #148 during our date, I don’t remember a single thing we talked about. I do remember him showing some reluctance in getting physical. That worried me a little. If you’ve done two out three stooges it just seems silly to not get horizontal with the third.

So I got tactical.

I entertained my date by means of doing interesting conversation stuff, asking questions, making him feel at home, validated…until the time had come no more trains were leaving Amsterdam.
‘Oh dear,’ I said, ‘we’ve been talking for so long, I lost track of time. I don’t mean to intrude, but I kind of need a place to sleep.’

And so Guy #148 offered me to spend the night in his bed, where we exchanged mildly satisfying sexual favors for about fifteen minutes before going to sleep.

Bingo. Three out of three.

Things weren’t exactly romantic when we woke up next morning. I saw little reason to continue treating Guy #148 as if I found him interesting, and on some level he must have felt he was no more than a score card.

We parted ways way before breakfast and never spoke to each other again. We didn’t even become Facebook friends.

It’s not that I didn’t find Guy #148 interesting. I remember he was. I know for a fact I really enjoyed our conversation. I just hadn’t flown back home to have a conversation. I had flown back to consume the gay scene I had left behind nearly ten years earlier. Guy #148 was simply the first familiar face on a long list of semi-familiar faces, friends of familiar faces and the occasional actual new face.

While I never considered my years in the Caribbean a waste of time, I was now ready to finally enjoy gay life to the full, which, considering I already had sex with 147 Guys, seems like a bit of a spoiled attitude, which it was, which is probably why Guy #148 didn’t bother to make me breakfast.

Come to think of it, ever since I moved back to the Netherlands I probably consumed more Guys than breakfasts.

At the time of Guy #148 I didn’t know it, but I still had so much to learn.

Lucky for me there are a few hundred million Gay guys on the planet.


Relationship summary:

LENGTH: One night
FORMAT: One night stand, but mostly just a sleepover
SEX SCORE (0 = The concept of Facebook friends <–> 10 = The best sex ever): 7

Guy #113 – The one I told my mother about…

My mother and I never talked about my love life. We maintained a silently agreed upon don’t ask don’t tell policy, which meant I ran off every time the subject of love and sex appeared on the horizon.

Guy #113 would go down in history as the only Guy I ever told my mother about:
“Mom, I may have met someone who I guess you could maybe call my boyfriend,” I said one day, after which my mother gave me a nice warm hug and told me she was very happy for me. She looked relieved, possibly because the last time she saw her son find love was when I was dating Girl #1, some six years prior.

A few days after informing my mother of the wonderful news, Guy #113 broke up with me. I never told my mother. Rather I stopped mentioning my boyfriend, until she quietly understood he was not to be brought up in conversation ever again.

Guy #113 had been a nice surprise. We dated each other for a few weeks during the 2012 holiday season. Our first date consisted of a conversation that lasted twice as long as it felt. On our second date we just got high and ended up in bed together.
The two of us had a lot in common, our sense of humor, the way we looked at things and people and the fact we both agreed Annafrid was the better ABBA singer.

Yet even though our personalities matched, our lives didn’t. Guy #113 had a successful career, a nice Amsterdam apartment and his life was in order. I on the other hand was a struggling telemarketer that lived with his mother, incapable of planning more than a few days ahead.

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Having never had a serious relationship with someone I never gave much thought to the concept. To me relationships were like Ebola: It only happened to other people. I had heard some Oprahesque clichés about getting your own stuff in order before committing to anyone or anything, but I had been so busy exploring my sexuality I neglected Oprah for the glory of my libido. I never even thought of committing myself to Guy #113. It was just good fun to experience true intimacy with someone for a change, to experience a relationship that didn’t end by putting my clothes back on.

What I considered a relationship probably was more of an escape. When I was with Guy #113 I didn’t have to think about telemarketing, what to do with my life or how to deal with my mother’s baldness. What I did focus on was how nice it was to wake up next to someone who’d make me breakfast in exchange for oral. Commitmentwise, that was as close as I’d ever gotten with someone.

Guy #113 had goals based on life. I had goals based on a lack thereof. A few weeks into our relationship he sat me down and told me things would not be working out between us. It hurt a little, but mostly because I knew my libido had to search for breakfast elsewhere. When Guy #113 broke up with me, I couldn’t help but agree with him. In fact, my primary concern was that I had just told my mother about him.

The word relationship can have many definitions. To me Guy #113 became a relationship the moment my mother learned of his existence. I suppose it´s safe to say Guy #113 didn’t use his mother as a measure of intimacy.

Of course Guy #113 agreed to remain friends and of course this friendship bled out faster than you can say Grindr.

I guess love, much like my mother´s cancer, struck a few years ahead of its time.

 


 

Relationship summary:

LENGTH: 3 weeks
FORMAT: Going steady but not that steady
SEX SCORE (0 = Making out with a stormtrooper <–> 10 = The best sex ever): 8.5

Guy #112 – Gayspeak.

Social awkwardness is like quicksand: The more you fight it, the more you drown.

I drowned the night I met and did Guy #112. I believe we both did, but I will never know for sure. Communication between Guy #112 and me was so bad I can’t even say if he loathed or loved me.

Our online conversation had been cold and curt, our language one of abbreviations:

top/bot?
– vers
– u host?
– y
– stats
– 6’1” 155 7.5”
– nice!
– thnx
– 10 min
– k

When Guy #112 and I met up he turned out to be shy, very shy, like embryo at an abortion clinic-shy.

Gayspeak definitely has an Orwellian ring to it, the way it doesn’t allow for any feelings. Only when you meet someone in real life do you get to find out what kind of person hides behind the Gayspeak, which in this case turned out to be a socially phobic mute.

Guy #112 took my coat, sat me down on his couch and followed up on that by not saying anything.
The worst thing was he was visibly uncomfortable, his eyes constantly on the lookout for a place to rest, his body repeatedly changing posture and nothing but uneasiness spread on his face.
I didn’t know what to make of it: Was he mesmerized by my beauty or repulsed by my narcissism? I had no clue.
“So what kind of work do you do?” I asked.
Guy #112 seemed both relieved a conversation had started and at the same time distressed because he had to think of words to say.
“Bank,” was his answer.

It took Guy #112 another few seconds of everlasting silence before he leaned over and reached for my head with his lips. Not knowing what else to do I reached back. Our heads collided mid-couch. It was one of the worst kisses I ever had. His lips were void of any warmth, body or soul. The fact he kissed suggested he was into me. The way he kissed made me wonder he was straight.

The more we kissed, the more I felt the desire to move on, to do anything but linger in this perpetual gray area of consent. I guess undressing someone in a realm of ambiguity can be fun and exciting, but in this case the only thing I felt was Guy #112’s shyness and/or mortal fear: I might as well have been undressing a captured bird.

As Guy #112 and I celebrated our bond by exploring each other’s nakedness it amazed me how Gayspeak had been the prelude to a gathering such as ours. I imagine Guy #112 got to see as little of my personality as I did of his. All we did get to see were our bodies clumsily partnering up to create the act of sex.

I don’t remember how we ended, but it can’t have been climactic. To my recollection the word ‘Bank’ marked the last time Guy #112 and I spoke with each other. What I do remember is wanting to leave as quickly as I could, which I did. The fact I don’t remember any details is probably a testament to how awkward things had been.

The funny thing about Gayspeak is that you know for sure it will lead to sex, but never who you’ll be having it with. It’s literally a computer generated language programmed to facilitate horniness. Sometimes it’s a great way to make friends.

Other times it’s a great way to remind yourself it’s okay to stay inside and watch porn.

 


 

Relationship summary:

LENGTH: 20 minutes
FORMAT: Sex date
SEX SCORE (0 = Michael Flatley’s Lord of the Dance on quicksand <–> 10 = The best sex ever): 2.5

Guy #106 – Damn that beauty…

It is said that looks don’t matter. This is of course the biggest lie since Bill Clinton did not have sexual relations with that woman. Looks can fuel a crush as much as cigars can define a presidency.

In terms of hormones, Guy #106 to date has been the only Guy to get me hard at first sight. I could attempt to describe him, but for the sake of the story simply imagine the most beautiful person you’ve ever met and ever will meet.

Guy #106 and I spent one night together. The first few hours we talked in the absence of any physical contact. It made me wonder if he was even into me. I considered Guy #106 so beautiful I did not dare initiate a first move. It was he who had started our conversation. It was he who offered me a drink. And it was he who asked if I was up for sex.

It’s one thing to desire beauty. It’s a whole other thing to be desired by it.

The sex itself was what I would call spectacular. My lack of initiative dissipated the moment we got naked and I pleasantly surprised myself with my adequacy as I surrendered myself to the desires of my desire. If heaven is a place that houses 72 Guy #106’s I could empathize with people that fly planes into buildings.

Of course, the dimly lit cell that is a cabin in a gay sauna is about as far from heaven as a gay Guy can be. After exploring each other for a good few hours Guy #106 got ready to give me what I had wanted him to give me the moment I first saw him…and then he came. As such, the trip to heaven lost to gravity just as my hands reached for the clouds.

Guy #106 felt bad about it. I on the other hand was flattered and cuddled up next to him. For a long time we simply cuddled and talked, which I guess has always been my favorite sexual position. Not only was guy #106 drop dead gorgeous, he had a mind, feelings, thoughts, enough material to keep our conversation going for hours.

When morning broke Guy #106 suggested the two of us check into a cheap hotel and continue the weekend there. I wanted to, but instead I told him my mother had recently been diagnosed with ovarian cancer and that we had a family thing I would feel guilty for not attending, given the circumstances.

There really was a family thing and I really would have felt guilty for checking into a hotel with Guy #106. It’s also true I opened up about my mother’s illness to bring depth to a relationship that wasn’t really a relationship. For all the intimacy we shared we were still mostly strangers.

In lieu of flying to heaven in a hotel room I left Guy #106 my phone number. He texted me later that day (just as I was engaged in an epic battle of mini golf with family) saying he had enjoyed his time with me.
I’m not the kind of person that pursues a commitment, but when it comes to beauty I do tend to behave like an addict. Guy #106 got me high for a short while, but I quickly craved for more. So I texted back, asking when we could meet again. He said he’d have to check his schedule. I gave him dates when I’d be available. He said he’d really have to check his schedule.

He’s been checking his schedule for four years now. For years and counting.

10

I suck at playing hard to get, blissfully unaware of the fact my initial shyness was the very thing that made me worth chasing. I had been hard to get without realizing it. My reluctance to make even a hint of a first move had created a certain equality between Guy #106 and me. Now that I knew he found me attractive and nice to be around with I had completely submitted myself to his beauty, neglecting my own in the process. As a result I stopped being the delicious prey I was when Guy #106 first laid eyes on me.

If ever there was a Guy I’d like to meet again, it’s Guy #106. Not because I want to have sex with him – well, not just because I want us to cuddle above the cloud deck – but because he’s someone I’d want to know.
Most Guys I met have Grindr profiles, Facebook accounts or Instagram selfies. Guy #106 turned out to be a digital ghost I only knew by his first name. Maybe that’s for the best. I’m about to publish this post labeling him as the most beautiful Guy I’ve ever been with. It doesn’t get much less hard to get than that.

I do regret not checking into a hotel with him.
I regret it every time I see beauty.

 


 

Relationship summary:

LENGTH: 6 hours
FORMAT: Wow
SEX SCORE (0 = Gravity <–> 10 = The best sex ever): 9.6

Guy #103 – Sticky rice…

Hotels are great for having sex with strangers.

When you go online to find a date, Guys in hotels are among the easiest catches. They can host, they are willing and sex will forever be the best amenity the Hilton has to offer.

Guy #103 was an Asian guy visiting Europe on business. We met online, where we agreed to meet in the lobby of his hotel, where he picked me up and took me to his room, where we had mildly satisfying sex that lasted about 20 minutes.

The end.

Or so I thought.

Usually when two strangers meet up for sex in a hotel this tends to be the extent of their relationship. Guy #103 and I didn’t have any connection I deemed worthy of exploring, so putting my clothes back on was my way of saying goodbye.

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Guy #103 however was new to the city. He wanted to explore. And worst of all, he wanted to explore with me. Fake politeness being my superpower, I accepted his offer to go for a walk together.

As far as I could tell nothing was wrong with Guy #103. I simply felt no more for him than I feel for strangers on a subway. Guy #103 gave me the feeling you get when a random passenger starts talking to you. The fact I just had sex with this stranger made things awkward and extremely tiring.
I would have been moderately fine with this had the sex taken place at the end of our date. Then at least our meaningless conversations would have led somewhere. Now we were merely exchanging increasingly superfluous pleasantries that sucked the life out of me, all for the sake of being polite to someone I knew I would never see again.

We ended up in some sort of Hindu temple, where Guy #103 lit a candle and had himself a moment of solemn silence. While I find spirituality interesting, I found it odd to top off anonymous hotel sex with a few minutes of less consensual prayer.

Guy #103 spoke of a restaurant he wanted to try out. He said he wanted to buy me lunch. I said yes.

I really do suck at rejecting people.

We sat down in an obscure and rather filthy establishment. Our table placed us in full view of an abattoir where dead poultry hang on its legs. Our table cloth was plastic and the cutlery felt sticky. Having exhausted every other possible casual conversation topic, the food was the only subject of our discussion. My dish most closely resembled a watery rice porridge I imagine must have been conceived in times of famine. It perfectly mirrored the satisfaction I had gotten from my date.
I told Guy #103 my food tasted healthy, the culinary equivalent of telling an ugly Guy he looks sweet.
I’m not sure what should worry me most: the fact I lie during my dates or that I mostly lie for my dates.

When we got back at his hotel Guy #103 invited me to come up with him. The thought of having to go through another round of sex with this Guy was no more appealing than a root canal treatment at this time. So I decided to be honest and said: “No force in the universe is strong enough to make me have sex with you ever again.”

That was a lie. The kind of honesty I actually performed went something like: “I really had a lot of fun. It was really nice meeting you. Thank you so much for that lunch also. It was really great. I would love to come up with you, really. But I don’t really want to keep my friend waiting. I have this thing I really need to be at. We should really keep in touch though.”

We did not keep in touch.

 


 

Relationship summary:

LENGTH: 5 hours
FORMAT: Purgatory
SEX SCORE (0 = Youtube commercials you can’t click away <–> 10 = The best sex ever): 7

Guy #101 – World’s worst blowjob…

I like sex to be a game of give and take. I want to want and be wanted, love and be loved, take and be taken.

As such, I don’t really have a thing for Guys that are either very dominant or extremely passive. I prefer my Guys to be versatile in each and every sense of the word.

Being with someone who gives himself completely bores me pretty quickly:
I listen to pretentious new age music, I like cooking, I cried when I saw Titanic the first four times. There’s no way I can dominate someone all the time. I have a very distinct feminine side that under influence of drugs can be like a princess locked away in a castle with no one to do it with except a dragon.

Being with someone who takes complete ownership of me tends to yield even worse results:
I can get off on rap or hard rock, I will destroy you if you’re in my space while I’m cooking and I still laugh about that Guy who jumped off the sinking ship and hit a propeller halfway down. I’m definitely a man, someone who will slay a dragon if it means I get laid.

Guy #101 was as gorgeous as he was dominant.

He was so dominant I had trouble liking him at first, even though he was in fact a very likeable person. He had a very strong opinion about every topic we discussed, but he made me feel like I would have to be stupid not to agree with him. My nuances weren’t given much attention.

Our date transpired at my place. Guy #101 had brought two bottles of wine for our kitchen table conversation. We were already halfway through the second bottle when he started showing videos of him having sex with his boyfriend, who of course was totally okay with him using their sex life as a means to induce foreplay with other Guys.

Granted, I enjoyed the way Guy #101 smoothly filled the room with sexual energy. It was cheap, very obvious, but every bit as effective. In a matter of seconds I felt as if I was on the set of a 1970s porn movie. Suddenly everything made me horny.

It’s probably what Guy #101 felt as well. We kissed and quickly went on to undressing each other. That’s where the conflict started. Guy #101 pushed my hands away when I tried to sensually unbutton his blouse. Instead he pulled my T-shirt up over my head, forcing me to either take it off completely or go blind for the rest of our date. As I rid myself of my shirt I saw that Guy #101 had unzipped his pants. I tried once more to take out his blouse, but once again my hands were pushed back. Instead he grabbed my head and pushed it down so hard I was afraid of having suffered a whiplash injury.

It was clear Guy #101 required oral sex. While we both aimed for that scenario, Guy #101 dismissed the scenic route as he had all my opinions. It had a certain kind of inequality about it that didn’t sit right with me. Just because I’m part princess doesn’t mean I’m not a feminist.

8

I like it when sex is a fight, but I don’t want it to be like Gladiator. Guy #101 was the kind of Guy that would get his opponent naked on his knees in front of him facing nothing but his huge sword and yell Are you not entertained?

Aggressive and willing as he was, Guy #101 did not make me feel desired, or entertained for that matter.

Additionally, what little coordination I was granted was hampered greatly by the alcohol in my system.

The end result of our date was both the worst and shortest blowjob I’ve ever given. It was so bad the sexual chemistry had all but evaporated.

Guy #101 gave me a friendly smile as he zipped his pants back up. His sword would remain hidden for the remainder of the evening and all eternity.

We saw each other on a few other occasions, but always as friends. It allowed me to get to know his friendly side.

The strange thing is I was sorry the fight had stopped. I guess my inner princess got off on the idea of cooking Maximus a nice meal and making sweet tender love to him, while Maximus had pictured slaying a princess.

 


 

Relationship summary:

LENGTH: 2 years
FORMAT: One time failed sex date followed by friendly Facebook friendship
SEX SCORE (0 = The worst blowjob ever <–> 10 = The best sex ever): 
0

Guy #100 – The joy of revenge sex…

Guy #96 was the love of my life.

Well, maybe not so much the love of my life as that I wanted to do him at least once and be done with it. Sadly, Guy #96 stalled at dry humping every single time. He simply refused to cheat on his boyfriend. If he got caught, he could always claim we were just humping as friends.

Adding to my misery was the fact Guy #96 got insecure when he knew I’d be going out. So not only did I have to feel miserable the clothes were coming off for another Guy, I also had to carry guilt for trying to move on.

Needless to say Guy #96 was starting to piss me off at this point.

My previous efforts at finding someone to make me forget about Guy #96 had been as successful as the North Korean space program. Every attempt had been a failure, each one filling me up with more and more rage.

Then came Guy #100. Guy #100 was one of those Guys I could immediately tell was into me. He gave me the kind of vague but nonetheless revealing smile that let me know he was mine for the taking if I wanted him. The great thing was I wanted him.

Even greater was the fact Guy #100 was witty, smart and opinionated. Even greatest, he could make me laugh. In short, he was a cake in an ocean of icing, as I would have taken him home on account of his looks alone.

Even greater than greatest, most of my friends I was with were totally into Guy #100 as well. Filled with anger and sadness over Guy #96, it was nothing short of awesome to hook up with the Guy that was generally considered to be our collective dance floor’s best catch. In between our conversations Guy #100 and I went at each other in full view of Guys #5, #7, #10, #11, #14, #89, #93, #98 and #99. Finally my sad, sad ego was given the boost it had been aching for a long, long time.

Even greater than greater than greatest, I was living out Guy #96’s worst fear! Finally I was the one doing the hurting. No longer was I bound by the shackles of our failed relationshipwreck. Instead, I met another Guy and celebrated this joyous occasion by having him hump the anger out of me in full view of my social life. Life doesn’t get much better than that.

When I drove home early the next morning I felt jubilant, victorious and gay as in happy. As I sat in my car, alone, I literally screamed my guts out: “Fuck you, Guy #96!” (Okay, I didn’t actually call him by his number. That would have been sad.)

While Guy #100  had to go home the night we met, we did end up dating for a short while. He was an intern, scheduled to fly back to his home country in a matter of weeks. In those weeks leading up to his departure he became part of my inner circle. It was a relationship with a rapidly approaching expiry date, but a relationship nonetheless. It soothed me to be wanted by someone I wanted, to be with someone who wanted to be with me and to wake up next to someone I wanted to wake up with.

Naturally, Guy #100 and I became Facebook friends so that we could keep in touch, which we then of course didn’t.

Revenge is like chewing gum. It quickly loses its minty freshness and you inevitably want to spit it out at some point.
Likewise, Guy #100 met me when he was in tourist-mode. Things were fun because they weren’t meant to last.

Whenever two people have sex it means they want the same thing. It doesn’t mean they’re on the same path, that they want it for the same reason or that Facebook friends have meaning.

Guy #100 gave me my revenge. I gave him his vacation.

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Relationship summary:

LENGTH: 3 weeks
FORMAT: Loving fling
SEX SCORE (0 = The prince kissing Snow White (seriously, think about it) <–> 10 = The best sex ever): 8.9

Guys #59 through #79 – To sex or not to sex…

I have a confession to make.

I’m not entirely sure how many Guys I’ve had sex with in my lifetime.

Yes, this site is called 168guys.com, but in all honesty 168 is just a ballpark figure. I had already bought the domain name when I created an Excel document listing all my sexual escapades.
As it turned out I could not remember all the Guys I’ve ever been with.

How do you lose track of the people you had sex with, a good Christian might ask.

The answer is orgies.

The year was 2010 and I found myself in what was arguably the most gay friendly place on Earth: A shady dance floor occupied by about 150 naked Guys, of which I was one.

As with many of my sexual experiences, I had fun, but not because of the sex. It was fun because it was interesting.

First of all, when you’re naked and you share a space with 150 people who are also naked and you’re all there to be naked and have sex with other naked people, some Guys make the assumption anyone’s testicles are up for grabs. Anyone’s, including mine.

I removed quite a few hands from my balls in 2010.

Also, an orgy with 150 Guys changes the meaning of the word ‘sex’.

When someone pushes you against a wall and starts to kiss you and then suddenly four or five other Guys show up and start participating, does that mean I had sex with five or six Guys? Some touched me, some kissed me, some tried to go a little further. Some I allowed to go a little further.

So did I really do 20 Guys on one night? It all depends on one’s definition of sex. For me it depends on having an Excel document that has to sum up 168 Guys in total. I needed 20 Guys to make that work. How many Guys I really did that night?
First, it depends on the definition of sex. Second, I have no clue.

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I don’t have anything against orgies, but I believe the people I was with misunderstood the concept of an orgy because they misunderstood the concept of sex. Sex is about intimacy. It’s perfectly possible to share something intimate with 150 people, provided it’s not a drug induced ball grabbing fest aimed solely at lifting our egos above the discomfort of mediocrity.
Because that’s pretty much what this particular orgy was all about.

There was no naughty secrecy, no sense of breaking boundaries together, no intimacy of any kind. In fact, the Guys all acted cold and goal oriented. Nobody was nice to anyone. Everybody merely consumed everybody for the sake of consumption.

In fairness, I was probably the only Guy not on drugs that night. When you’re in a room with 150 naked Guys on XTC, roofies and poppers, sobriety tends to warp reality. Maybe I would have enjoyed myself more if I had taken the effort to get on the same wavelength as Guys #59 through #79.

Still, it was to sex or not to sex for them. Nothing else seemed to matter. I’ve done drugs, but I’ve never found myself on that wavelength.

As the evening progressed, tissues started scattering the floor like stars lighting up the night sky. Eventually, the music softened, the mood got killed and more and more people put their clothes back on. And then everybody dispersed on the streets outside, going back to being the total strangers they were before.

I took a streetcar back home. I consciously observed my fellow passengers. In all likelihood, none of them had any idea I had just attended a gay orgy. It felt like I was carrying a big secret with me. I imagine there were 150 Guys spread throughout the city, feeling the same.

I like Amsterdam.

 


 

Relationship summary:

LENGTH: 2 hours
FORMAT: “Relationship”? Really?
SEX SCORE (0 = Your name on a Starbucks cup <–> 10 = The best sex ever): 4.5

 

Guy #34 – Hunter or prey…

 

 


 

 

In the gay scene it doesn’t really matter if you’re top or bottom. Hunter or prey, that’s the question.

Some go to gay saunas to hunt. Others go there to be hunted.

The ones that hunt walk around through barely lit areas filled with the occasional sound of humping men. Then there are the ones that preystitute themselves in strategic positions, waiting for their hunter to make a move whilst rejecting hunters they don’t find attractive.

I’ve always been a hunter, a hunter blessed with one superpower: I can sense when someone is into me. In a heartbeat. All I need is one second and I can tell if a person wants to have sex with me or not. I can even sense how much they want it.

Occasionally I will meet someone who I know wants to have sex with me. This happens to people all the time, but I am always aware when it happens. Even in the darkness of a gay sauna I can see that twinkle in people’s eyes when they like what they see.

In the case of Guy #34 I found myself in a sauna cabin crowded with a dozen hunters and one prey sitting silently on the top bench, naked and silently aroused. I sat down just within his personal space. I moved quickly and conquered his entire personal space in less than a minute. Guy #34 showed no visible reaction, physical or emotional, to anything I was doing. His enthusiasm was like that of a dead bird caught in the mouth of a bigger bird.

While I was starting to grow disappointed with my catch the other dozen hunters became aware of what was happening and wanted in on the fun.

Soon the entire sauna was all over Guy #34 and I found myself awkwardly entertaining his epicenter. Quickly everyone was in everybody’s space. I was turned off by the greediness of it, the way every hunter claimed Guy #34 as his rightful meal. It should be noted me and Guy #34 were the only ones not in our fifties or older.

I decided I didn’t want to have any part in what was happening. I got up and walked away, leaving Guy #34 to the mercy of a dozen hungry vultures. He continued allowing everyone as passively as he had allowed me. As I left the room I got a good look at his face for the first time. It was as static as blow-up doll.

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I hope for Guy #34 he was into older men.

When I came by again some 15 minutes later Guy #34 was gone. What was left was the same pack I had left behind, each member quietly minding his own space again. I looked around for Guy #34, but I never saw or heard from him again.

It wasn’t really a good night for me. I had been rejected from a threesome earlier and now I had accidentally fed Guy #34 to the council of elders.

It’s not always easy being a hunter. It’s a setup for frequent failure if I’m being honest. Sure, occasionally you catch something you never want to let go off, but you always do somehow.

That’s why I believe a hunter should have faith in himself no matter what. It’s not about the failures. It’s about that one prey that would hunt you too.

A hunter has to stay positive: I’m a hunter with a superpower. I can sense when someone is into me.
In a heartbeat.

Or after I’ve seen their face. Or after people walk out of a threesome with me. It all depends really.

 


 

 

Relationship summary:

LENGTH: 3 or 4 minutes
FORMAT: Foreplay turned accidental sacrifice
SEX SCORE (0 = Pray the gay away <–> 10 = The best sex ever): 2

Guy #28 – Parking lot purgatory…

 

 


 

 

Nothing is quite as depressing as sex in a car on a parking lot in broad daylight.

First of all, most cars are not designed to have sex in. They’re an ergonomic disaster when it comes to intertwining your body with that of someone else. Second, I was constantly on the lookout for people who might see me, along with Guy #28’s head appearing in and out of view over my dashboard.

My date with Guy #28 was a complete disaster.

They say size doesn’t matter. Well, this guy’s penis was pretty much the complete absence of matter. It was tiny. When he unzipped his pants I was greeted by something best described as a socially phobic shrimp.

I found myself on a date with an Asian stereotype:

Guy #28 was completely submissive. That much became clear the moment I stepped into his car on what would be our first and only encounter.
“Hi, how are you doing? You look super! I’m so glad you could make it,” he said as if I was a long lost friend.
My first thought of him was that he didn’t look at all like the guy from the picture, although from a certain angle I could see how he had gone about Photoshopping himself.
He was good with computers.

When we drove off I assumed we were going to his place. After a while he told me he still lives with his parents. He wasn’t driving to his place. He was just driving. He asked if I knew of a place to go. I didn’t.

Our love nest would become a parking lot. In broad daylight.

I wasn’t proud of myself for having sex on a parking lot in broad daylight. It’s not that we got caught or that I never did it again, but the size of Guy #28’s penis made me realize how my ruthless pursuit of sex had sunk my standards. It was ridiculous of me to agree to sex on a parking lot with someone I wasn’t comfortable sharing a space with.

To make things worse Guy #28 was unbelievably passionate. He acted as if we were lovers, while in reality we were just two guys with nothing in common except their time on Craigslist. I couldn’t stand Guy #28’s drama.

I came quickly. I had trouble thinking happy thoughts when I did, but I figured it would be the quickest way to end this ordeal.

At first I was relieved the sex was over. Then Guy #28 asked if I wanted to go have coffee with him. It should be noted it’s not customary to go for coffee after anonymous hook-ups on a parking lot.
I really wanted my date to drop me off at my subway station, but he was already parking his car in front of Starbucks when he dropped the question.

Being with Guy #28 must be what purgatory is like.

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All I wanted was to be released from my date, who kept on saying how super happy he was to have met me and how he really wanted to be my friend.
The parking lot sex had evaporated his initial shyness. Now he was constantly telling me how super I was.

Then came the moment Guy #28 ran into two of his girlfriends. I’m not entirely sure their sudden appearance was a coincidence: Guy #28 stopped sending messages on his phone the moment his hags entered the scene. Guy #28 couldn’t believe his luck he was surrounded by so much people to not feel lonely with.

I was loathing myself however. I had to make small talk with the friends of someone who had just given me a blowjob in his car.

I felt like hitting Guy #28 when he ordered himself a second latte. I wanted to go back home, away from my date’s desperate attempts at having company.

I socially obligated my way through Guy #28’s friends for a good half hour. His clinginess became increasingly annoying. At times I got the impression he was pretending to be my boyfriend.

When we finally ended up back in his car we went to another parking lot, this one belonging to my subway haven. I nodded Guy #28 goodbye the moment we got there. He asked if I was going to call him. I told him I would think about that. He said it was making him so sad I had to go. I told him he would get over it.

As I grabbed the door handle Guy #28 put his arms around me and started to cry.
“Please don’t go. I like you so much,” he cried. I told him he had just given me a blowjob on a parking lot and that it was to be the extent of our relationship.

He cried over my impending absence the way North Koreans cry over the death of a Supreme Leader. It was unbearably awkward. In the end I had to pull myself out of Guy #28’s arms. I left him crying in his car.

I’m not saying sex dates are a bad thing, but I do find it interesting you often encounter a lot of loneliness on a sex date.

For what it’s worth Guy #28 has my sympathy. But when your penis is that small and you are incredibly needy, dependent and insecure, it might not be wise to find love in random strangers on a parking lot. In a way I may have taught him that by slamming the door in his crying face.

For his sake I’d like the world to be a place where penis size is irrelevant, but that’s not the case. Stats are an important part of our culture. As is Photoshop. Or parking lots for that matter.

Or post-orgasmic self loathing.

But maybe that’s just me.

 


 

Relationship summary:

LENGTH: 2 hours
FORMAT: 10 minute drive, 5 minute blowjob, 90 minute latte, 15 minute farewell
SEX SCORE (0 = Room 101 <–> 10 = The best sex ever): 0.5

Guy #24 – What’s love got to do with it?

 

 


 

 

Over the years I’ve come to the conclusion there’s no such thing as just sex. I met some gay people who seem slightly offended when I suggest their latest dark room encounter has a lot of value for them somehow.

For some reason people have trouble embracing the fact that people you have sex with are meaningful.

Sure, I’ve had sex that felt meaningless and empty, but that didn’t make it less of an experience.
Of all the guys I’ve ever been with, Guy #24 is the one that came closest to being just sex.

He was my second audition.

I believe people who work in the porn industry are shamelessly underappreciated for their efforts. It requires a lot of concentration to play your part on Guy #24 when Guy #23 is lying in between your legs with his camera pointed upward.

Guy #24 was my dress rehearsal.

It did not go well.

I could go into detail about how things went down, but the jist of it is that I was strongly advised to take some Viagra on the actual set, which I would later found out was just another word for ‘hotel room’.

While I never regretted the experience, it did strike me how bad I was at sex when it was just about sex. It was weird to be intimate and professional at the same time.

At the time I wanted to believe just sex was a thing. I intensely enjoyed the lack of commitment I was feeling. I was quite literally like a bee hopping from flower to flower, in a city full of flowers.

About a week after my encounter with Guy #24 I spoke to the producer, Guy #23, on the phone. Guy #24 happened to be in the room with him and gave him on the phone, suggesting we had established some kind of bond or something. Our conversation was as short as it was awkward. It turned out that we had in fact made some kind of connection, but I wasn’t ready to accept the commitment attached to it.

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I think a lot of gay guys have this problem. It’s why they like to believe there is such a thing as just sex.

There isn’t. Not even when you’re doing porn.

 


 

 

Relationship summary:

LENGTH: One audition
FORMAT: Test drive
SEX SCORE: (0 = Ann Coulter <–> 10 = The best sex ever): 4,5

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.

Sorry.

 


 

 

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 #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?”
“Eritrea.”
“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.

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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 #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 #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