Gay – Page 4

Guy #87 – Trying to be me…

Sometimes I miss Guy #87.

Sexually speaking, he was the cream of the crop. He looked awesome, felt better and our performance was stellar.

When I think of Guy #87, I wonder about what could have been, what I did wrong and what he never told me.

On paper and in practice, Guy #87 was one of my wettest dreams: He was funny, sensitive, sweet, daring, considerate, manly yet boyish, a math graduate and a dancer. His torso overshadowed my own imperfections, sharing time with someone who could actually think was liberating and sizewise he wasn’t nearly as Asian as the rest of him.

The best part was that he wanted me, that he actively pursued me even. Few things boost your confidence like being chased by someone hotter than you.

Even though our relationship was mostly sexual in nature, the two of us had dates that lasted entire days. It never felt shallow.
At times I wondered if Guy #87 could be more than just the perfect Guy for in my bed. Neither one of us ever came close to using words like ‘commitment’, ‘relationship’ or ‘going off Grindr’, but given the enthusiasm with which Guy #87 kept seeing me, I sometimes played with the idea of opening up to him, to try and be me as it were.

We lived an ocean apart for most of the time we knew each other. This made dating difficult. Guy #87 would hit me up online sometimes, only to be disappointed to hear I was out of reach.
It was about two years after our last date that we were in each other’s proximity again. I contacted Guy #87 to let him know I was in his country and asked if he wanted to meet up.
“Hell yeah!” was his answer.

It would be the last time I ever saw his enthusiasm.

When we did meet up on what would become our last date, his behavior had changed. He allowed for a courteous Hi how are you I’m fine-conversation, but nothing beyond that. We had sex, which at best could be described as a distant echo of previous poundings.
After the sex we lay together for a while. It was cozy, but hardly as intimate as we had been before. I tried to initiate a second round, but it ended with Guy #87 saying: “You know, I’m not really that much of a bottom.”

Two years earlier he had done the exact opposite of saying that.

I’m not sure if it’s typical of the gay scene or if it’s just a human thing: Sometimes you meet someone, you hit it off nicely, you have a great time, the sex is great, you tell each other how great everything is and then, without warning, the other person stops making things great for some great unknown reason.

Guy #87 never hurt me, but the way we left things has always puzzled me. Did I do something wrong? Was I too eager? Or perhaps too distant? Should I have said how much I liked his brain? Or did he have issues he didn’t feel like sharing? And if that’s the case, I wonder if it’s something trivial or big, and why the change happened so suddenly.

Sometimes life throws you people who leave you with questions. I’m sure there are Guys who still have questions about me: the Guy who snored, the Guy with braces, the Guy who wasn’t perfect enough, to name but a few.

I suppose Guy #87’s sudden change of heart was karma for all the times I ghosted people who thought I was into them. Maybe Guy #87 was never really into me. Maybe he just sucked at rejecting people, like I do.

Or maybe the CIA did something to that lovely brain of his.

Yeah, it’s probably the CIA.

(I use ‘blaming the CIA for my failed relationships’ as a coping mechanism. When you think about it, it’s really sad how often the CIA has pulled the plug on my love life.)

Relationship summary:

LENGTH: 2 years
FORMAT: 4 dates spread over a long time
SEX SCORE (0 = Being Pacman <–> 10 = The best sex ever): 9.8

Guy #86 – A slut in sheep’s clothing…

There are numerous reasons why I started a blog about all the Guys I ever had sex with. One of those reasons might be that the one, whether I’ve already met him or not, gets a chance to read about my path leading up to him.

Of all the 168 Guys I ever had sex with, the vast majority only guest starred in my life.

You see, there are two types of gay Guys:

There’s the relationship homosexual, someone who might sleep with no more than ten people in his lifetime, someone to whom inner peace and sexual activity aren’t correlated. Someone like Guy #86.

Then there’s the gay slut, someone who gets plagued by restlessness when sex is absent for more than a few weeks, someone who lives with the knowledge that life will go downhill once he hits 30, someone to whom killer abs make the difference between life and oblivion.

If I had to choose which type of gay I am, I would have to pick the gay slut. (I don’t resent it, but I’m not exactly proud of it either, nor do I have killer abs.)

What I really want is what everybody wants: Love. I would love to be loved by the Guy of my dreams and feel worthy of him at the same time, a combination sluts like me tend to have trouble with.

So instead of taking the time to get to know people and explore their personalities, I have sex with them. It’s what I do. If I meet someone who I think could be the Guy of my dreams, my first instinct is to get him horizontal somehow, to cover the basics if you will.

This is arguably sad. I think every gay slut knows what a sad stereotype he is. It’s the reason why they so often meet up in dark places, to hide the sadness.

Of course, from time to time you can’t help but meet someone who might be, as they say it, relationship material.

Guy #86 was such a someone. He was smart, educated, sort of funny, cute and Latino. He was of the ‘relationship type’, meaning he considered our date an acquaintance, a casual introduction to find out if our personalities matched.

I on the other hand was a slut, too afraid our personalities might not match, afraid Guy #86 might reject me over something I had no control over, like what kind of person I am.

One of the first things Guy #86 told me was that he never had sex with Guys on a first date, saying he found it shallow and unrewarding. I responded as any slut would: I told him I wasn’t in it for the sex either, that I much rather wanted to connect with someone.

I went along with Guy #86, complaining about the shallowness of the gay scene, about how so many Guys want nothing but sex and how it’s impossible to establish a meaningful connection with anyone, how gay saunas are dirty places where hope goes to die, how poppers are so very bad for our brains, how sex is only pleasurable when there’s love involved, yada yada yada…

I nodded, I smiled and I agreed with #86’s cute Latino face. I empathized, made him feel comfortable, understood and at home. I pretended to be touched by his words and struck by the connection I felt with him. I asked him to show me his favorite music on Youtube and then gasped for air. That’s how much his Mexican folk music had touched my soul.

I’m a slut. Seducing Latinos is my specialty.

It took me a few hours to strip Guy #86 of his defenses. And then I kissed him. Carefully, almost apologetically at first, as if I too wasn’t the type to initiate sex on a first date.

And then we had awesome, passionate, mind blowing and even loving sex, on his floor, against his wall, in his kitchen and even on his bed.

Once again I had proven myself doable. For a brief moment I felt myself worthy of the very love I was depriving myself of. I, the great Lennard van Ree, had managed to cover all bases on a first date with a very cute Latino relationship type, or as they say in slut terminology: Score.

Guy #86 didn’t quite share my enthusiasm. He loathed himself after we were done, having turned into a sad puddle of regret mere seconds after coming.
He knew he had been tricked into having sex, but he couldn’t exactly put the blame on me. He had enjoyed himself every bit as much as I had, particularly the part that involved the two of us against his wall.

Because the sex had been so good I was ready to get to know Guy #86. For the first time during our date I showed a sincere interest in him. I even wanted to hear more of his music.

Guy #86 however was too busy mourning his shattered principles. I tried to establish the connection we had felt during sex, to no avail.
It saddened me to see Guy #86 be so hard on himself. Had it been up to me, we would have spent the night together, talking, making love and listening to Mexican folk songs. I really wanted us to get to know each other. Assured in the knowledge he deemed me doable I was no longer afraid to open up.

Sadly, Guy #86 was now more interested in picking up the pieces of his former self than in knowing me or my silly taste in music. He made it clear our date was over. I wanted to kiss him when we said goodbye, but he barely allowed me to hug him.

I tried to score a second date, but only half heartedly. I knew any attempts from my end would be futile. I had consumed Guy #86 too soon. We sent a few text messages back and forth. It took Guy #86 a few days to rid himself of his guilt. But he knew very well sex would only be in the way of our relationship, because I would want it again on a second date.

It’s probably why that second date never materialized.

If my the one is reading this, please note: I will try to consume you on our first encounter. You need to decide if you’re okay with that.
If not, that’s okay.

Just don’t believe me when I say your taste in music touches my soul.

Relationship summary:

LENGTH: 5 hours
FORMAT: 4 hour foreplay followed by 45 minutes of sex followed by 15 minutes of awkwardness
SEX SCORE (0 = Actually being someone’s sledgehammer <–> 10 = The best sex ever): 9.3

Guy #83 – By the way, I’m a Nazi.

People go on dating sites because it gives them hope.
Each time you receive a message from a stranger there’s that quiet sparkle of anticipation that this time, yes maybe this time, you have been contacted by a gorgeous, funny and smart underwear model who has seen the inner beauty radiate from your mirror selfies.

Of course most messages we receive on dating sites are a bit of a letdown. Our search for the one often starts off with a healthy chunk of compromise.

Guy #83 was clearly no underwear model. Nothing from his profile indicated that he had any sense of humor. And his message simply read Hi how are you (I get turned off by Guys who don’t have the decency to end such a simple sentence with a question mark.)

On the other hand, Guy #83 turned out to be a doctor. I figured it couldn’t hurt to be on good terms with a doctor, plus I assumed his degree was indicative of some brain power on his end.

Compromise is a powerful trait, one humanity should pride itself for.
It also led to Hitler ass raping Czechoslovakia overnight.

At some point compromise goes from being a virtue to being the pussy’s weapon of choice.

I’m not sure at what point I became a pussy with Guy #83, but I do know I felt invaded like an Eastern European country after I spent the night with him.

Unlike Hitler, there was nothing very wrong with Guy #83. He was just intolerably boring. I very much enjoyed his awesome 24^th floor penthouse, his cooking skills and his designer pillows, but I couldn’t help but feel empty in his presence.

Guy #83 wasn’t unattractive, the food had been great and I was too lazy to go out in the cold, so I had sex with him and slept on his designer pillows.
I did not sleep well.
Guy #83 snored. Call me shallow, but people that snore ought to sleep in isolation. Or be put down.

Few things are quite as agonizing as trying to catch sleep lying next to a snoring hump of human.
I kicked Guy #83, I pushed him around, I went to the bathroom to flush his toilet as loudly as I could. Nothing helped.

People generally think of me as a nice person. In reality there’s a sadistic Nazi living in my brain. It wakes up when others deny me the pleasure of sleep.
Lying next to Guy #83 I pictured him being arrested by German men in uniforms and taken away to a camp for people that snore.
Yes, I know how that sounds, but when your entire existence is someone else’s snoring you can’t help but think the world would be a better place without it. After a few hours of someone else’s perpetual noise making you don’t think about rejecting someone. Rather, you want to cleanse them.

I felt nothing but resentment when Guy #83 curled up against me next morning. Tired from coughing up ways to kill him and get rid of the body, I wanted to sleep, not cuddle.

After my date with Guy #83 I did what any hero of the revolution would do: I ghosted him.
I did not respond to text messages, email messages and Facebook messages. I just didn’t need a doctor that badly.

A few years later Guy #83 suddenly popped up on Grindr, saying Hi how are you. I ignored him initially, but he persisted, asking if there was anything he had done. I finally replied by saying I didn’t feel any connection between the two of us.
Ok he said.

And so ended my relationship with Guy #83.

Thank god.

Relationship summary:

LENGTH: A few months
FORMAT: Months of predictable online chats, followed by one night that seemed to last longer
SEX SCORE (0 = A presidential candidates’ orgy <–> 10 = The best sex ever): 6.5

Guy #82 – Fast Food Sushi.

Guy #82’s first words were hi.
And I was going to let him.

We didn’t speak much afterwards. Which makes telling the story of me and Guy #82 a bit difficult. There’s not much to tell.

Sometimes you just have sex with a random stranger you run into. I believe Guy #82 was quite an easy catch, not the most spectacular one but rewarding nonetheless.
I still have no idea what language he spoke.
To me he was just another brick in my list, another number to add to my Excel sheet that powers this blog.

Guy #82 was like a microwave dinner that tastes like a microwave dinner. He satisfied my cravings without fulfilling my longings. Fast Food Sushi would be my name for him.
He was Asian.
I have a lot of Asians on my list.

My mother would sometimes carefully initiate a conversation about my love life. It always made me uncomfortable. Actually, I was uncomfortable talking about all private matters with my mother, whether they were about sex or not.

I think it’s in our nature to do stuff we don’t tell our parents about. My mother often said how happy it would make her if I were to be happy with someone. Of all the Guys I did, Guy #81 was the first one I ever told my mother about. Whenever my mother inquired about my love life I kept it vague, saying I hadn’t met anyone special yet, or that I wasn’t really looking. I certainly didn’t tell her about Guy #82.
I knew my mother would not disapprove of me having sex with strangers, but she would ask me if it was truly making me happy, if perhaps I was worth a little more than Fast Food Sushi.

Sometimes I wonder how much mothers know of what goes on in the gay scene, and how much we want them to know. My mother hadn’t exactly raised me to be the predatory top Fast Food Sushi came to know and love so very very briefly, nor did I envision myself growing old consuming Fast Food Sushis for the rest of my life.

I wanted love as much as my mother wanted it for me, but it would seem she was less afraid of it.

Fast Food Sushi, like so many of the Guys I ever had sex with, represented my youth. He embodied the idea that I was youthful enough to conquer any Guy I wanted. Guy #82 made me feel pretty for a short while.
Of course talking about him with my mother would be the equivalent of telling her I didn’t feel pretty most of the time and that I did Guys to rid me of that feeling, 82 Guys and counting. It’s never been in my nature to burden my mother with my insecurities.

Rather, I shoved my burden in Fast Food Sushi. It’s what he asked of me when he said Hi.

Relationship summary:

LENGTH: 20 minutes
FORMAT: Hook-up
SEX SCORE (0 = Zombie porn <–> 10 = The best sex ever): 6

Guy #58 – The perfect storm of bad coping…

Why am I doing this?

If you ever ask yourself that question during sex, that’s a symptom of being involved in very bad sex.

Other symptoms include loathing yourself, wanting to cry and having the urge to punch your sexual partner in the face.

Nothing was really wrong with Guy #58. I was just sad over what had happened with Guy #57. I wanted to remedy my sadness by having sex.

Guy #58 was not at all like his antiquated selfies. He had bad breath. Then there was the fact he spoke Spanish fluently and two words of English, the exact opposite of my linguistic feats.

Guy #58 insisted on assuming that everything I said was a joke. He laughed no matter what I said. It was excruciating.

A friend of mine who reads this blog recently told me I have a problem with having sex out of empathy. I guess he’s right.

The only reason I went on to have sex with Guy #58 was politeness. Part of me wanted to not be with Guy #58, but another part didn’t want to disappoint him. Guy #58 was obviously very happy to be with me. Why else would he be laughing all the time?

As I allowed Guy #58 to go down on me, I did anything in my power to not make it a memory. It helped that I couldn’t understand a word he was saying.

The worst part came when Guy #58 wanted to chill out with me afterward. He wanted to cuddle. I wanted him erased from my brain. You don’t need language to have sex with someone. You need language to wrap it up.
Not knowing any Spanish except Adios, I said Adios and started putting my clothes back on. That’s when the laughter stopped. Guy #58 started a rant. I will never know what he was trying to tell me, but he was visibly distraught over me getting dressed.

Guy #58 might have actually been a nice Guy. He just wasn’t capable of releasing me from my sadness, which I’ll admit was a bit of an unreasonable expectation on my end. I probably wasn’t friendly toward Guy #58. I couldn’t help but resent him for not being Guy #57.
The moment I was fully dressed I held out my arm to shake Guy #58’s hand. For someone who wanted to cuddle up with my naked me, that came as a disappointment. I decided not to acknowledge his disappointment in any way by turning around and leaving his house to catch the first train home.

Sometimes I amaze myself with my terrible coping strategies. Guy #58 was the perfect storm of bad coping: Seeking sex to get over someone –> Having sex out of politeness –> Expecting not to feel sad anymore.

I literally cried myself to sleep the night I met Guy #58.

Relationship summary:

LENGTH: 30 minutes
FORMAT: Sex date
SEX SCORE (0 = “Luke, I’m your father, and Leia is your sister!” <–> 10 = The best sex ever): 0.5

Six weeks of celibacy…

If you leave home for a long time, home will not change much during your absence.

You will.

When I entered the living room of my mother’s house for the first time in two and a half years, it was filled with family, friends and former colleagues. My mother had thrown me a surprise party to welcome me.

Before I left my home country of the Netherlands I was a shy, sexually insecure and inexperienced closet case. It was nice seeing familiar faces again, but I felt off, wondering if these people still had any connection to the real me. I had found something resembling love two nights prior. I had done my last porn shoot the night before that one. Yet I felt surrounded by company that expected nothing but obligatory chitchat from me.

So I chitchatted my way through my surprise party. I truly appreciated everybody for showing up and for taking an interest in me being home, but they couldn’t mask the truth I felt:

Part of the insecurity I felt all my life expressed itself by doing what I thought was expected of me. Home used to be a place where I did nothing but meet people’s expectations. For a long time I figured I was expected to start a family, get a decent job, get my opinions from the morning paper and generally be the most unimaginative sad stereotype I could be.

Anal sex changed all that.

And now the time had come to tell my mother.

In the weeks following my return I had been searching for a job. Most of the jobs I applied for would take me abroad again. My mother wanted to know if there was anything pushing me away from the Netherlands, if I wanted to live the remainder of my life out of a suitcase, if I ever thought about settling down with a woman.
I told my mother it would not be a woman.

Being an only child, I could tell my mother was a bit disappointed to learn she’d never be a grandmother. Apart from that she was never stupid or blind. She had suspected my gayness for a long time. She wanted to know if there was anything pushing me away from the Netherlands, if I wanted to live the remainder of my life out of a suitcase, if I ever thought about settling down with a man. And with that my homosexuality had found itself a home in the realm of our issues.

I spent about six weeks in my home country. In that time I struck up some online conversations with Guys here and there, but I didn’t go on any dates.
I felt too alien to get naked with anyone.

It did feel good being back though. It made me realize that, had I never left, I might very well have ended up as some dopey suburban husband who secretly loathed his wife for not having a penis. I wouldn’t wish that upon anyone, or anyone’s wife.

Had I known then what I know now I would have dropped everything and pursued a writing career.

However, my confidence had grown in the field of sexuality and sexuality alone. Careerwise, I still figured doing something in an office was the fuel my talents needed. It would take a lot more Guys for me to figure out where my real talents lie.

My time in the Netherlands was cut short on account of a job I found, a job that required me to spend a few months in the United States, alone, in a hotel room.

My celibacy ended the moment I landed in Wisconsin.

Guy #46 – The massage…

A good massage is quite literally like a trip to heaven, a place of infinite bliss and carelessness.
A good massage makes you forget about your worries and your imperfections.
I could probably enjoy a plane crash if someone gave me a good backrub all the way down.

If I ever strike up a serious relationship with a Guy, I would like for him to be good at giving massages. It would make loving him considerably easier.

For a long time I denied myself the pleasure of getting massages. I was too self conscious.

Here’s why:

As you can see I drew a little circle on my back. It marks the spot where my T-shirt bulges slightly.

For the first 27 years of my life I had this strange little growth on my back. It was about the size of a pea. Although small compared to the rest of my body I resented it. It made me feel unattractive whenever a Guy was within visual range of my useless mutation.

Many times I tried cutting it off with a peeler. Operating on my own back in front of a mirror with a kitchen knife is not exactly Nobel Prize material. For starters I never bothered to think of sedation. I got my back to bleed this one time, but my growth remained. It had literally made its home on the one place my arms couldn’t reach.

So massages were never really my thing, knowing it would reveal my pea for the world to see.

Guy #46 insisted however.

Guy #46 understood that sex is infinitely more pleasurable when there’s personality involved. So although the format of our date was well established in advance, we did have a very good time getting to know each other, making ourselves comfortable and learning to embrace each other’s energy.

I was already completely at ease by the time Guy #46 pulled off my shirt and started to massage me. Before I could turn around to hide my cubic centimeter of bodily shame he said: ‘Oh look, you have a little thing there. How cute!’

It took me a few moments to absorb that. In my opinion Guy #46 was saying something like Oh, you listen to ‘N Sync. You have such good taste in music!
I explained how I had come to dislike my little growth, but Guy #46 maintained it didn’t bother him at all.

As luck would have it I was already in a fairly deep stage of relaxation when Guy #46 complimented me on my imperfection. Added to that he was good at giving massages.

For the first time in my life I surrendered my body completely, pea and all.

I’m sure the sex we had afterward was phenomenal. I don’t remember much of it. Me and my consciousness had drifted to another dimension. I don’t even remember what we did exactly. All I do remember is the feeling of letting go.

I think it was the feeling I had been chasing since Guy #1.

Guy #46 and I ended up having two dates. I got rubbed to heaven and back both times. I would have gone back for more, were it not for the fact I was weeks away from moving back to my home country.

As for my inoperable little stump, I had my doctor remove it about half a year later. He laughed when I told him I had tried to operate on myself.

I’m glad the doctor found a cure for my mutation, but strangely enough I never enjoyed a massage as much as I did those nights with Guy #46. Maybe he was that good.

Or maybe I’ve gotten used to letting go since then.

Relationship summary:

LENGTH: 2 x 2 hours
FORMAT: Sex dates
SEX SCORE (0 = Operating on yourself with a peeler <–> 10 = The best sex ever): 9.2

Guy #37 and #38 – And there was much embracing…

For reasons I won’t bother you with I attended church last Sunday.

As you might expect from a guy who writes a blog about all the 168 guys he’s ever had sex with, I don’t go to church often.

At first I felt very odd sitting among a hundred people who spend Sunday mornings in church. I’m more accustomed to spending Sunday mornings with the Guy I meet on Saturday evenings.

The service wasn’t all that bad, actually.

The pastor or whatever her title was spoke a lot about love. Love and guilt.

She encouraged her audience to embrace all their fellow people with love. She told us never to judge others for who they are or what they do. And then she read those verses about turning the other cheek.
She also mentioned that Jesus died for our sins, making me wonder if I had any.

I wondered if the story of Guy #37 and #38 would qualify as a sin to the lady preaching about what Jesus had done to make up for it.

I first met Guy #37 at his apartment. When he opened the door he immediately grabbed my hand and pulled it inside his pants which were already unzipped.

Guy #37 embraced me for sure, but not with love.

The second time I met Guy #37 was when he had also invited Guy #38. There was a lot of embracing that night, but very little love.

I never had one single line of dialogue with Guy #37. (Although I did have an obligatory conversation with Guy #38 when he gave me a ride back to my subway station. The conversation lasted long enough to discover we had absolutely nothing in common.)

When God told me to embrace my fellow men with love, this is not what He had in mind, was it? Does God really want me to treat sex as casually as a bag of chips?

I don’t think so. Sex is like a drug. We can use it recreationally, but we should never deny it the respect it earns.

I believe that’s what I did those two times I visited Guy #37’s apartment. It wasn’t love. It wasn’t sex. It wasn’t even lust. It was consumption. Emotionless greedy carnal consumption.

As I was pondering my sins someone came by with a little basket in which people were throwing money. I ended up throwing money in a basket three times last Sunday.

Did I pay the bill for those nights I consumed Guy #37 and Guy #38?

After the service the pastor lady was standing outside greeting people. It felt like exiting a plane and having to politely greet the cabin crew. This particular crew was holding a basket for my coins. I wonder when airlines are going to pick up on that.

When the pastor lady greeted me she did so with the most genuine of smiles, even before I had thrown any money in her basket.

She didn’t strike me as a person that would ever judge me for the things I’ve done. She would probably think of Guy #37 and #38 as a waste, not a sin.

And she’d be right. Sometimes you just have to say ‘No’ to drugs. It’s the same with sex. The moment someone greets you for the first time by pulling your hand to their hardware and starting to kiss you without even a proper ‘Hello’ and you feel the sex will be incredibly boring because you’re not allowed to know the person you’re doing it with, that’s the moment when you should say ‘No’ to drugs.

(Well, those and other moments.)

I think God and the pastor lady got through to me last Sunday. I deposited a well earned coin in their basket.

Relationship summary:

LENGTH: 15 minutes + 20 minutes with Guy #38
FORMAT: Sex date
SEX SCORE GUY #37 (0 = When Bambi’s mother got shot <–> 10 = The best sex ever): 6.5
SEX SCORE GUY #37 and #38 (0 = Bowling shoes <–> 10 = The Best sex ever): 5

Guy #29, #30 and #31 – Another date, another Dollar…

At least I’m getting paid for this.

Those were my thoughts as I went through having sex with Guy #29, #30 and #31.

Thinking about money doesn’t make for great sex. I don’t think it made for a good movie either.

One day, in the summer of 2009, I shot three porn scenes in a hotel room in Toronto’s gay district.

Having sex three times a day is a lot of work.

Guy #29, my first colleague of the day, was by far the cutest. Our story was an inspiring one: The two of us had supposedly met in the lobby of our hotel and went from eying each other to having oral sex in a hotel room.

The sex with Guy #29 was actually fun. Both of us were enjoying it, despite the fact there were three guys filming us.

The thing is, those three guys wanted an hour of material. That meant I had to postpone the part people often fast forward to when watching porn, the money shot as it’s called.

Going a full hour of constant receptive oral sex without any money shooting requires a lot of concentration. I literally had to think of unsexy thoughts to prevent myself from climaxing.

When I finally was allowed to, I knew the hardest part of my day was over.

That was true in the sense that Guy #30, who I had to perform oral duties on half an hour later, was anything but hard. I suspected him of being a straight guy looking for a way to make money. He must have figured there are worse things than receiving oral sex for an hour.
I got the feeling he resented me. Or maybe he resented himself for doing gay porn and that sentiment echoed into his sexuality.

It was difficult acting excited when we both clearly weren’t. God knows what we were thinking back in the lobby, where we had supposedly met each other.

Going a full hour of having sex with someone who radiates nothing but resentment is nothing short of torture, even more so when it’s being filmed.

The only time Guy #30 and I felt the same was at the end, when we were both happy it was over.

Guy #31 entered the hotel room just as Guy #30 was leaving.

Guy #31 was by far the least attractive of the three. He was also the sweetest. I could tell he considered himself lucky he had supposedly met me in the lobby. With two money shots already on my score board it was very easy to postpone this one for as long as I needed it to.

Added to that, Guy #31 was good at his job.

I think it’s funny I ended up having the better sex with the one I deemed least attractive.

Still, doing porn is hard work. I was happy to have experienced it, but I was probably happier it would always be an adventure, never a career.

There’s just too many unsexy thoughts going on when you’re doing porn.

Relationship summary:

LENGTH: 3 x 1 hour
FORMAT: Collegial
SEX SCORE GUY #29 (0 = Thinking of Kim Jong-un during sex <–> 10 = The best sex ever): 7.5
SEX SCORE GUY #30 (0 = Picturing Kim Jong-un doing a lap dance <–> 10 = The best sex ever): 2
SEX SCORE GUY #31 (0 = ‘Kim Jong-un, is that a box of Pringles in your pants or are you happy to see me?’ <–> 10 = The best sex ever): 8

Girl #2 – Xenia Onatopp…

Girl #2 was a stripper.

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

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

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

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

I hope it is.

It was fun. Frightening, but fun.

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

That actually hurts like hell on a wooden stage.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Relationship summary:

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

Guy #19 – The quickest of quickies…

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

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

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

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 #16 – Mi casa…

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

Mi casa

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Relationship summary:

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

Guy #13 – The tourist…

ABOUT THE AUTHOR AND THIS SITE
PREVIOUS GUYS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Guess I owe him.

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

Relationship summary:

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

Guy #12 – Gandalf at a Tupperware party…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Relationship summary:

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

Guy #11 – The hunter…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Him reading about the vomiting might.

Relationship summary:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Except of course in the case of Guy #10.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I apologize for wreaking havoc on his inside-out.

Relationship summary:

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

Guy #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.

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

In that sense he had wetted my appetite.

Relationship summary:

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

Guy #6 – Sex with chocolate chip cookies…

ABOUT THE AUTHOR AND THIS SITE
PREVIOUS GUYS

Did I mention Guy #5 had a boyfriend?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I guess sex is always an emotional experience. It’s part of what can make it fun. In movies and fantasies at least.
As you might expect from a site called 168guys.com, Guy #5 and Guy #6 weren’t my last threesome. After my first experience I concluded it was an area worth exploring, but not chasing.

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

Relationship summary:

LENGTH: 7 years and counting
FORMAT: Sex date followed by friendship that lasts till this day
SEX SCORE (0 sitting next to a smelly person on the subway and 10 being the best sex ever): 6