Guy #159 – That thing I hate to talk about…

Let’s talk about anal sex. It’s a kind of sex the way artichokes are a kind of food: You usually don’t like it the first time around and good preparation is always key to success.

More specifically, you commit sodomy about as impulsively as you eat artichokes. Delightful and healthy as they are, both require a thorough cleansing. While it’s not something gay people talk about a lot, it’s common knowledge you need to clean yourself if you want to be on the receiving end of another Guy.

Of course accidents do happen from time to time. Anuses will forever be a two-way street. Consequently, if you insert something varying in size from a baby carrot to a banana you always run the risk of running into other traffic. And sometimes traffic comes out and turns a romantic get together into a bit of a mess.

Whenever this happens, it goes down as follows:
The top is commonly the first to notice something is wrong. He pulls out his baby carrot or banana and empathically says everything is not entirely clean.
The bottom then apologizes and quietly wishes the moment will be forgotten soon.
The lovemaking stops and both parties try their best to minimize the damage. The top takes a quick shower. The bottom requires a longer one, during which the top replaces the bed sheets.
Afterward the bottom apologizes and the top reassures him accidents can happen and that he shouldn’t worry. If the air is right, the awkwardness makes way for another round of foreplay, followed up by the sequel to Guy, Interrupted.

The better you know someone, the less uncomfortable these events are. However, the thing with people you meet on Grindr is that they are mostly strangers, people you’ll gladly share anything with as long as you don’t have to talk about it.

Guy #159 was such a stranger. Our Grindr conversation was courteous but equally goal oriented. He still lived with his parents, both of whom were on vacation for a few days. It meant he had the house to himself and with it a small window of opportunity for having a date over at his place. At the time I was unable to host people at mine, so I decided to not let this opportunity pass.

Guy #159 nor me had brought up the subject of who was to be top. I suppose we were too eager to get sex to deal with the technicalities involved in such an undertaking. Besides, my date was more than ten years younger than I was. It seemed a given my age, wisdom and ego would render me superior in each and every way. As such, I didn’t wash my artichoke with the intent of anyone consuming it, instead only making sure it looked decent on the outside.

You can guess where this is headed.

When I arrived at Guy #159’s place, the conversation was short and formal. The two of us shared a good vibe, but neither one could think of anything to say, probably because our minds were both focused on the sex. So instead of paining our brains to squeeze out unnecessary small talk, Guy #159 invited me to his bedroom, where sex happened.

Sex with Guy #159, as it turned out, was good. He made me feel incredibly relaxed, allowing me to succumb to the lovemaking. It was pleasant to have a stranger’s physicality mute my otherwise never ending stream of thoughts.  So when we got to the anal part my brain wasn’t working at full capacity.
“You like to bottom?” I asked, half expecting Guy #159 to lie on his back and eagerly put his legs up.
“I go both ways,” was Guy #159’s actual answer. He looked naughty when he said it and raised his body over mine.
“I go both ways as well,” I said, not wanting to disappoint. Also, I was so relaxed I couldn’t imagine me being a bottom would be problematic.

Cut to us a few minutes later:

“It’s not entirely clean,” Guy #159 says as my legs are wrapped around his neck.
“I’m sorry,” I say, ashamed and uncomfortable.
I look down and see the phrase It’s not entirely clean is an understatement and a testament to Guy #159’s politeness.
“It’s okay,” he says, as he pulls out and hastily grabs a tissue to do some damage control.
“Let me take that,” I quickly say, removing his condom and ferrying it with me to the bathroom as quickly as I can.

Stuck in an unknown bathroom, I can’t find any trashcan to lose my condom to, so I decide to throw it in the toilet.

And that’s when things get frantic.

I flush the toilet, but my condom has created itself an unsinkable air pocket. Flubby rubber rises back up with the same enthusiasm Guy #159 said he goes both ways. It’s too filthy to touch it, so I flush the toilet again, this time holding the condom down with a toilet brush, praying I will defy the laws of physics this way.

Naturally, the laws of physics defy me.

Meanwhile, Guy #159 is in his room, replacing the sheets and no doubt wondering what on Earth I’m flushing his toilet for, not once, not twice, but four times. I put on the shower for my third and fourth attempts, hoping the sound will mask the flushing, but probably just creating more sound and more stuff for Guy #159 to wonder about.

And no matter what I do, my condom keeps jollily floating in its newfound home, impervious to my efforts to drown it. Part of me can’t help but respect its resilience as if it’s the David to my Goliath. The other part however thinks of Guy #159, who could have replaced the sheets five times over by now and must be wondering what on Earth is taking me so long, or why I would flush his toilet and shower at the same time.

Cut to us another few minutes later:

While the presence of Guy #159 felt relaxing as it had before, I wasn’t quite comfortable going to fifth base with him again. The back of my mind constantly put forward the reminder that there was in fact a gross condom floating in his toilet that moment and that it would only be a matter of time before he’d find out.

Pleasant as his company was, I told Guy #159 I ‘really needed’ to go home, which was probably closer to the truth than it must have sounded to him at that point.
To my relief Guy #159 didn’t visit his bathroom while I was still in his house. We said goodbye amicably, but I already knew more than anything we wouldn’t be seeing each other ever again.

The walk home took me a good 45 minutes. The exercise felt cathartic, notwithstanding the guilt I felt knowing Guy #159 would soon discover why someone would flush a toilet four times whilst keeping the shower running. I eased my conscience by actively hoping he would manage to rid himself of that condom well before his parents got back from their vacation.

When I got back home I treated myself to another shower and took comfort in the thought I would never have to be reminded of this night ever again, until it hit me: I would have to write a blog about it someday…

Guy #152 and #153 – Gay dating and the true meaning of the word ‘No’…

As is to be expected from a gay Guy over 30, rejection is an integral part of my daily routine. After all, most 20 year olds believe there was a time I roamed the Earth with dinosaurs.
I rarely initiate a conversation with anyone on Grindr, but when I do it’s usually with someone younger and in my opinion cuter than me. Sometimes I am successful. Other times not so much.

I do however maintain one very simple rejection policy: If a Guy ignores me or tells me he’s not into me, I will not hit up that same person again. Ever. I simply don’t enjoy rejection enough to make a habit of it, which is hard enough as it is when you’re a gay Guy over 30.

Equipped with a reasonably good looking body and a not at all unattractive face by dinosaur standards, I spend quite some time rejecting people as well. Most Guys that hit me up are old enough to have experienced the last ice age. Some are even over 40!

My policy for rejecting is akin to the one for rejection. When I have no interest in someone, I either ignore them completely or, if they’ve taken the effort to say something nice, I tell them politely, with a smiley to ease the pain. This too I do only once.

And that’s where things get interesting. And irritating.

For reasons I often wonder about the gay scene is riddled with Guys who don’t take No for an answer. In fact, it seems perfectly normal for people of all ages to keep sending me the same opening line, the same dick pic, the same ass pic and the same grainy face pic over and over and over again. My dating apps are filled with hundreds of unread messages.

It baffles me why someone would set himself up for rejection at regular intervals. No means no, does it not?


One night, as I was aching for some fun in a gay sauna, someone reached for my testicles. Up till that moment it had been a slow night for me. I had seen some Guys I fancied, but all of them had avoided me as one would a T-Rex. Still, the Guy currently grabbing my testicles was by no means the kind of prey I had given up my night’s sleep for, so I pushed his hand back the way it came and proceeded walking as if I had somewhere else to be.
To my annoyance, said testicle grabber went in pursuit of me and it wasn’t long before he started touching me again. When I turned around to say something about it I was greeted by a friendly, slightly desperate, but nevertheless inviting smile, and I started thinking: Maybe I should lower my ridiculously high standards. Maybe this Guy is the universe’s way of telling me I need to learn how to settle. Granted, the string of rejections that had preceded our encounter no doubt fueled my lenient attitude, as I empathized with this Guy and his not exactly pretty face but not at all half bad body that could have been less gross were it not for its random snippets of chest hair.

No one likes to reject someone. Rejecting the same person twice is even harder. And my ego wasn’t going strong that night.

So I listened to my frail ego, which I often mistake for the universe trying to tell me stuff. The Guy I had rejected before now became Guy #152. I don’t really remember what we did exactly, except that it was brief and heartless, and in many ways still a form of rejection. Afterward, Guy #152 asked for my phone number, to which I said I wasn’t sure if we’d be seeing each other again. He pointed out the odds of us seeing each other again would be bigger if he had my phone number. To settle the issue of us ever seeing each other again, I gave Guy #152 a kiss on the cheek and told him we’d let fate decide if and when we’d meet again. The universe hasn’t brought us together since.

Feeling regret over the fact I had committed pity sex because I once again mistook my ego for the universe I found myself in a steam room later that night, where Guy #153 came out of nowhere and pushed his penis into my mouth. I angrily pushed him away and turned my head down, a rejection as obvious as they come.
Still, Guy #153 was undeterred, almost as if he could see my insecurities and subsequent lack of defenses. As if me rejecting him hadn’t just happened he donaldtrumped his way to my lips once more and stuck his penis in between them with a sense of entitlement that would have gotten me mad on any other day, but when I looked up to take a look at the Guy I was now more or less giving it to, I saw that his face might have been somewhat attractive had it not been for his beard. Maybe the universe was talking to me again. After all, why else would I be aroused by Guy #153’s dominance?

The arousal lasted for about five seconds, after which I realized I was only susceptible to dominance because I so happened to lack a backbone. The very thing that turned me on I now resented, so I pushed back Guy #153 a second time and said: “You’re welcome,” referring to the 5 second blowjob I had just given him. Guy #153 laughed, this time accepting the rejection, and went on his way.

No means no, but a lot of gay Guys continue making endless efforts to turn a no into a yes of sorts. I guess it makes sense: When sex becomes a commodity, most people set up camp in the gray area, whether they’re rejected or the one doing the rejecting.

Counting on people’s lack of self esteem seems to be a genuine hunting strategy, online and elsewhere. That’s why I have hundreds of unread Grindr messages that keep piling up, because people anticipate the day my ego renders me defenseless.

Defenseless, or older than 40. Whichever comes first.






Guy #149 – The most forgettable of them all…

Do you really remember all the people you ever had sex with?

It’s a question I get asked a lot. While I try to be 100% sure this blog tells the story of every Guy I ever had sex with, I may have forgotten one or two of my dates over the years.

When I started I drew up a list of all the dates I could remember. That exercise joggled my memory and for a few months my daily routine would be routinely interrupted by the sudden memory flash of a Guy I had sex with once, which I would follow up on by assigning that Guy a number in the overall chronology of my sex life. The end result became an Excel sheet that powers this blog. Although one of my more recent dates, the memory of Guy #149 was one of the last to pop up in my head, one of the last to be added to said sheet.

That means I came very close to forgetting Guy #149 altogether.

Which means it’s not exactly easy writing the story of us two. I barely remember him as a person. I suppose the most memorable thing about Guy #149 was how forgettable he was. Of all my dates so far, he came closest to not becoming a memory.

I don’t mean to be derogative by the way. I’m sure there are Guys I dated who don’t remember me. When you live a life where sex is a commodity, forgetting about a person whose anus you inserted becomes as easy as forgetting what you had for dinner a week ago. This may be hard to grasp for people who never paid much attention to other people’s anuses, but those that do it on a daily basis will agree with me: The more sex you have, the more spectacular it has to be for it to become a memory.

So was there anything wrong with Guy #149?

Not at all. He was a very nice and reasonably cute Asian twink who lived in a crappy apartment with a very small bed. Him being from China or Vietnam or Thailand, we no doubt worked our way up to foreplay by talking about the strains and stresses of settling in an unknown country, the upside of living in a place where being gay is not an issue, the downside of missing a family that wouldn’t be entirely on board with the whole gay thing and then at some point the conversation must have dissolved into kissing somehow, probably because I initiated it. Mind you, aside from his tiny bed I don’t actually remember any of this happening, but I can only assume things went down this way.

The kissing flowed into sex on a bed clearly not designed to withstand any, but I can’t remember it bothering me much. Guy #149 was friendly, attractive and he had an anus. It was exactly what I had bargained for, nothing less, but nothing more either.

If you’re a Guy from Birma or Japan or South Korea who had sex with me not too long ago, someone with a small bed and a crappy apartment, please don’t take offense. The fact you’re forgettable says nothing about you and everything about the way I treat people.

Guy #149, if you’re reading this: Thank you for a lovely evening. If you ever ordered a pizza, you know that feeling you get after a hard day’s work, when you turn on the TV and let a slice go down on you as you numb off to reruns of Friends or How I met your mother or Family Guy. Life is good when you got pizza, but we don’t remember every pizza we’ve ever eaten. Guy #149, the fact you even made it to this blog is a testament to your cuteness.

Although truth be told I might have forgotten about you were it not for that tiny ass bed.

Relationship summary:

LENGTH: One night
FORMAT: One night stand
SEX SCORE (0 = Microsoft Excel <–> 10 = The best sex ever): 7,5

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 #147 – Pretty woman…

I first saw Pretty Woman a full decade before I became sexually active. I particularly remember that scene where Richard Gere and Julia Roberts go down on a grand piano. Famously, this sex scene lacked any kissing, for Hollywood hookers don’t kiss on the mouth lest they get feelings.

Aged 13 and with no real interest in Julia Roberts, most of my empathy went toward the piano, yet I do remember getting Richard Gere’s frustration for not being allowed to kiss his mistress. I guess even at a young age I intuitively felt kissing is an integral part of sex.

Cut to me, some twenty years later:

I go on Grindr and find myself a twink less than 100 meters away. He says ‘Hi’ and follows up on that with an ass pic… As if I don’t know what ‘Hi’ means.

Proximity is a deciding factor in many gay relationships. This particular twink sends his location after I say ‘Hi’ back. Getting an ass pic-location combo from a cute twink within shouting distance doesn’t happen every day. Truth be told I’m not really in the mood for sex, but I’m even less in the mood for missing an opportunity to get any.

So when this twink asks for a picture of my penis, I send one, along with an extra body pic to sweeten the deal. He replies by giving me his address. I tell him I’ll be there in five minutes.

Three minutes later I find myself in Guy #147’s living room. He’s as cute as his selfie and I infer I’m no disappointment myself, as I’m shown the way to a bed. I make a clumsy attempt at small talk, asking my date what he does for a living. He answers by asking me to stay away from the window. Across the street is a department store Guy #147 happens to work at and he doesn’t want his colleagues to see him having a sex date.

Foregoing further attempts at being sociable I start touching Guy #147. He touches me back, so naturally I head inbound and kiss Guy #147 on the lips. He pulls back immediately.
“I don’t kiss,” Guy #147 tells me bluntly.
“Okay,” I say, trying to remain calm and cool, but I suppose I do a poor job hiding my disappointment. Sex without kissing is like a salad without dressing, a healthy disappointment that leaves you wanting more even after you’re done.

When someone sends you a picture of their naked ass, this generally means said person wants you to insert your penis into said ass. I always assumed that if you’re okay with the whole anal insertion thing, kissing is an integral part of the deal. After all, I use my penis to get intimate. It never occurred to me some people seek anal pleasure without exposing themselves to the affection that makes the whole exercise worthwhile to me.

Guy #147 and I have sex without kissing. I try to turn up the eroticism by moaning my way through it and by changing position every few minutes, acting as if someone is watching and I need to convince that person the two of us are having a good time. I am of course only trying to convince myself my date is not a complete waste of my time and energy. My gut wants to kiss Guy #147, establish the bond we have, but there’s no bond to celebrate. Proximity brought us together. Closeness not so much.

Having sex with Guy #147 is unfulfilling, hot as he is. Even though I get to own nearly every part of his body, I can’t help but feel rejected. As much of a willing bottom Guy #147 is, my ‘Pretty Woman’ comes off as a prude.

Conversely, I have no way of knowing if Guy #147 is having a good time. Without kissing, touching each other’s face and holding each other’s head our sex is almost entirely mechanical. Whatever feelings my date might have, I’m not privy to them.

About 15 minutes into our relationship I decide I’ve had enough and do the only sensible thing: Coming. I give Guy #147 a minute or so to do the same, but with no lip action at my disposal I feel completely inept and ‘disaroused’, a made-up word that perfectly sums up a made-up connection.

Guy #147 and I get dressed and I leave quickly. He will go on to hit me up online a couple of times over the next few years, and while I politely respond to his messages each time he does, I hold off on meeting up with him a second time.

Sex without kissing. It’s as frustrating as playing a grand piano with your butt. Richard Gere, Julia Roberts and Guy #147 taught me that.

Relationship summary:

LENGTH: 2 years and counting
FORMAT: One time sex date followed by highly intermittent online chats that don’t lead anywhere
SEX SCORE (0 = Making out with a grand piano <–> 10 = The best sex ever): 5.5

Guy #146 – Why do gay saunas have to be so dark?

Why do gay saunas have to be so dark?

Dimly lit hallways, faint beams of light at waist level, the air of horniness interwoven with the smell of poppers… It’s the perfect environment to show off one’s gym hours without having to truly reveal one’s self. In other words: Darkness carries both truth and lies further than light tends to.

Gay saunas are places people go to hide as much as they go to hunt. I suppose darkness facilitates both.
I for one go to gay saunas because I like to shine. Sure I aim to find someone porkable, but beneath that is a Guy who just wants to feel loved, something I believe is true for anyone who has pork on the menu. Wanting to shine is just my narcissistic translation for wanting to be loved.

Even though I am insecure about my looks as any pig would be, I know I’m generally considered attractive. The main reason Guys keep their distance is because they’re shy. Being shy myself, I pretend not to look at other people as much as people pretend not to look at me.
Darkness is a contributing factor in all of that and if I’m being completely honest, darkness is where I too shine the most, unhampered by the hassle of facial contact that often lies on the road to getting laid.

Still, if it were up to me I would prefer to meet people where I can see them.

Guy #146 taught me that.

I first saw Guy #146 as he entered the steam cabin I was just leaving. The very definition of cruising dictates one doesn’t make any sudden course adjustments. When you cruise, you cruise, always acting as if you have a destination to be at. Even though Guy #146 and I first saw each other going in opposite directions, me turning around and following him would have been too desperate. Even in a place where it’s just about sex, desire is best expressed in subtleties.

Guy #146 being hot looking in every sense of the word I positioned myself in a sauna that came with a view to the steam room my prey had just entered. There I sat, quietly waiting as one does at a bus stop, until Guy #146 left his steamy quarters. From there he disappeared into a dark alley full of hunters such as myself.

I went in pursuit.

‘Pursuit’ in this case meant navigating myself through a handful of crotch grabbing elderly men as quickly and quietly as I could, until I got Guy #146 in my sight again. My walking speed being well above the cruising limit I knew my intentions were now out in the open. If I wanted a chance with this Guy, I would have to sell my quick pace as an act of assertion, so I did. I stumbled toward Guy #146 and gently caressed his shoulder, not exactly a move befitting the top I wanted to be, but in that moment I was happy enough to have overcome my shyness.

My approach felt clumsier and more out of place than a 747 landing on an aircraft carrier. Assertive, sure, but far from gracious. As such, it came as a surprise Guy #146 replied to my improvisational assertiveness by grabbing my balls and kissing me. Having trouble believing my luck I immediately followed suit by pushing Guy #146 toward the nearest available cabin, kissing him all the way.

It wasn’t until Guy #146 and I had removed our towels and were lying next to each other on a sweaty mattress that I discovered Guy #146 had chest hair, something he didn’t have a few minutes before at that steam room. It took me about two seconds to do the math: The Guy I was sharing a cabin with was not Guy #146. I mean, technically this was the 146th Guy I was having sex with, but not my intended target.

I had accidentally captured the wrong Guy. Somewhere in my pursuit the Guy I was chasing had eloped me, only to be replaced by someone whose hairdo, body, length and posture seemed similar in what little light we were granted.

Which begs the question: Why do gay saunas have to be so dark?

It’s the question that went through my mind as I halfheartedly had sex with Guy #146. Even though this Guy was nowhere near as cute the one I’d been chasing, I remember him being a good enough kisser. That at least made up for some of his chest hair.

However, I couldn’t shake the feeling of having failed, probably because that’s exactly what I had done as far as the hunt was concerned. Guy #146 and I ended up spending no more than five minutes together. Falling comfortably within the realm of courtesy in a gay sauna, I simply stopped having sex and left Guy #146 alone in his cabin, telling him I needed to be in a brighter place.

The day I accidentally fooled around with Guy #146 would mark the last time I exceeded the cruising speed limit. I also picked up the habit of checking out Guys at the bar before chasing them through dark corridors filled with the scent of poor judgment.

Darkness had allowed me to chase a Guy. Darkness had allowed me to make a move. Darkness got me intimate with someone. In turn, Guy #146 would never have gotten close to my testicles had it not been for darkness. Darkness goes hand in hand with intimacy. Darkness smoothes seduction. Darkness is social lubricant.

I guess darkness is part of the compromise inherent to the concept of a gay sauna. It’s a place where the things we don’t reveal about ourselves carry as much weight as the wrinkles that do show. I’d be lying if I said the darkness doesn’t make me feel safe and secure.

The cute Guy I had my eyes on at first? I ran into him later that night, as I sat down in a whirlpool, inches away from his personal space. I made a move, but my hand was shoved back the way it came.

That’s another thing. Rejection is very bearable under the cover of darkness. I look for darkness to shine, and when I don’t, when I turn dark inside, there’s no one to witness it.

Thank god gay saunas are so dark.

Relationship summary:

LENGTH: 5 minutes
FORMAT: Mistake
SEX SCORE (0 = Hair when you don’t expect it <–> 10 = The best sex ever): 4.5



Guy #145 – Look at me not being shallow!

Sometimes I like to look at human beings as I imagine aliens would. Aliens, in my view, would be unable to rank us based on our attractiveness. Voluptuous lips, muscled legs, dark blue eyes, straight teeth, abs…all of it would look equally random when seen from hundreds of light years away.

The reason I try to take on an alien perspective is simple: I often wish I wasn’t as shallow as I am. I wish I could be happy with someone whose looks don’t turn me on. I wish I had it in me to not consider it a compromise.
In fairness, there have been times I enjoyed being intimate with someone I deemed of a lesser league, but always because I knew the fun would be temporary and wholly non committing.

How liberating it would be to view Guys as aliens would, ranking them on their merits and not their looks.

I guess my relationship with Guy #144 made me long for some liberty, which is why I attained an open mind the moment Guy #145 hit me up online.

Guy #145 was not at all unattractive by alien standards. Yet through my petty human eyes he looked like one of those people you just assume are good at math because why else would the universe have made them so dorky, clumsy and overall off the mark when it comes to outer beauty?
Guy #145 was the kind of Guy whose online attempts at starting a conversation would have been futile solely on account of his looks: I’m not on Grindr to make other people feel good about themselves. I’m there to make me feel good about myself. Entering a conversation with an unattractive person is something I consider a waste of time when it’s my genitals I’m trying to satisfy.

Then again, time is relative when light years are involved.

So for once I decided to empathize with this Guy #145 and his grainy, sad attempt of a selfie. I figured it must have taken at least some courage to hit me up, knowing all too well the odds of me replying were as slim as he should have been.
And so it happened Guy #145 and I became engaged in conversation. As is so often the case with unattractive people, he was good at having a conversation, putting in the effort hot Guys seldom do.
A few days later I found myself at his place, on his couch, holding a glass of water and observing him as he sat across from me. The thought of having sex with him made me queasy, yet at the same time I couldn’t help but like Guy #145. He had this inner calm over him I myself tend to lack. We spoke about spirituality for well over an hour and found we had a lot in common. Guy #145 was the kind of Guy who, like me, could empathize with aliens in aid of making himself a better person, something not at all common in the gay scene.

At some point during our date I flipped the switch and went into alien mode. I decided I would not let Guy #145’s greasy skin or nigh lack of upper lip turn me off, instead making a conscious effort to focus solely on his personality and the fact I was sharing a room with a wise, generous, friendly and by all galactic standards more than decent Homo sapiens.

I can’t say the sex was satisfying, but I did get to experience a sense of pride, patting myself on the back for not being shallow.
Being so immensely focused on my newfound character depths I neglected to note whether or not Guy #145 had any fun going down on me, but I reckon he did: He invited me over a second time mere days after our first date.

Our second date echoed our first: We talked about philosophy, spirituality, music, life, the shallowness of the gay scene…and then of course we had sex. Yet as much as I tried to look at Guy #145 as if I had traveled light years to be with him, the novelty of not being shallow had worn off. It had taken me one date to prove I have it in me to not be shallow. Now all I really wanted was to celebrate my layered personality with abs.

Long story shallow: After two fun, interesting and rewarding dates with Guy #145, I moved on to #146.

Spoiler alert: #146 had abs.

Relationship summary:

LENGTH: 2 x 2.5 hours
FORMAT: Sex mixed with philosophical banter
SEX SCORE (0 = Platonic porn <–> 10 The best sex ever): 7.5

Guy #143 – For the very first time…

I guess we all adjust to the ones we’re with. Or maybe I just lack the backbone to be myself in front of other people.

Guy #143 was barely of legal age, he still went to high school, lived with his mother and was also unbelievably mature for his age, not to mention cute. While part of me couldn’t help but feel like a pedophile, another part fell hopelessly in love.
Guy #143 was mature for his age. I didn’t say I was.

The year was 2015, I was 32 years old and life threw me my first and only high school crush. We had the best conversations, it be about the burdens of parental supervision, high school gossip or how hard having homework can be.

When you fall in love for the first time you don’t know any better or it’s the single most important life event in the history of life itself. Every hug, every kiss, every app, all of it matters. When you’re in love for the first time, you don’t yet know you’re suffering from a psychological disorder that tends to prelude clinical depression the way Oreos precede a sugar crash.

At 32 I was old enough to know all that. I had been in love before. It had depressed me on more than one occasion. Yet for all my experience, I had never actually been with someone who was in love with me as much as I was in love with him. In terms of having a successful love live, the first month of my two month relationship with Guy #143 was probably my happiest to date.

Not wanting his classmates to see him dating a Guy old enough to be his teacher, Guy #143 insisted we’d keep our thing under wraps. Not wanting to be considered a pedophile, I happily obliged. If anything the secrecy only made our love more special, more meaningful, more like something people make movies about.

We started off with a one month streak of four successful dates, interwoven with endless Whatsapp conversations in which I fueled our connection by validating all of Guy #143’s drama for the serious stuff that it was.
Yet as much as it made me feel young and alive to be doing his homework, it was precisely the fact I found myself doing homework at 32 that made me wonder if Guy #143 and I had any future to speak of.

On the other hand, you don’t care about the future when you’re in love for the first time. Not even me, who had taken 32 years to finally enjoy life as a teenager. I wasn’t about to let go of that.

But I guess the future looks different depending on how old you are, regardless of maturity. Guy #143, as it turned out, saw it differently.

I will never know why, but one day Guy #143 went from saying I love you during sex to saying his mother needed him to be home at ten, instead of sex. All the enthusiasm, his sparkling personality and playful bedside manner…it all vanished into thin air. What was left was a teenager who kept all his feelings inside but would rather die than talk to an adult about it. No matter how hard I empathized with his mother issues, no matter what Whatsapp emoticon I threw at him, not even the amount of homework I did changed anything about his curtness.

The joy I had felt during our first four dates was replaced by despair. As so often happens when you fall in love, it lures you in before it reveals its true nature. Butterflies turn into bats, birds and bees become vultures and flies, happy becomes black. It had happened to me before, but this being my first high school crush it came as a surprise nonetheless.

As weeks passed, the dates stopped coming, as did the emoticons. A day or two after finishing his paper on the Russian Revolution all frequencies went silent.

I was heartbroken for about a week, far from the worst sugar crash I ever had. I suppose I was relieved I could stop living life as a teenager.

While I never understood why Guy #143 became distant all of a sudden, it was at one point revealed to me he had cheated on me with a Guy old enough to have been my teacher.

Turns out people tend to lose perspective when they’re in love for the first time. Thankfully, I learned my lesson and never fell hopelessly in love ever again for well over a year.

Relationship summary:

LENGTH: 2 months
FORMAT: Dawson’s Creek meets Boy Meets World
SEX SCORE (0 = The Russian Revolution <–> 10 = The best sex ever): 9.3



Guy #140 and #141 – Letting go of the shallow…

The one thing I remember most from my dates with Guys #140 and #141 is the scenery.

For a while I had the pleasure of living in a house right next to the sea. It even had its own little private beach. The sea in question was the Caribbean Sea, meaning I lived next to what could have been the set for Finding Nemo. Basically, I woke up to the sight of the world’s most generic wallpaper every day.

Having dates in that environment can be fun, even if those dates themselves aren’t that attractive.

Guy #140 was an engineer from Colombia, over at my island to do some engineering stuff and to get off with the locals in his spare time. We sat on my beach, counted the number of ships we saw on the horizon, talked about the mysteries of the cosmos and our macabre interest in plane crashes. I actually had a great time with him as we pondered the final moments of Air France 447. It was awesome to go that deep with a stranger.

Yet as much as I dig deep, I consider looks important too. While it’s definitely hot to discuss the inner workings of a pitot tube with an engineer at night on your own private beach, this particular engineer had belly fat and chest hair.

Still, I found myself in a romantic setup in one of the most romantic places I had ever been, let alone lived. I believe it was me who initiated the first kiss, which ended in my bed somehow.

While Guy #140 surrendered himself to making love to me as passionately as engineers can manage, I couldn’t shake the thought of being in a plane crash. While I thought of it in terms of how lucky I am to be alive, it wasn’t the sort of motivational speech to get me in the mood. Added to that, said sex took place in my bedroom, where the sound of the ocean got replaced by the humming of the air conditioning.

Still, I didn’t feel regret afterward. In fact, part of me couldn’t deny part of me had enjoyed it. I guess sometimes it’s liberating to let go of the shallowness, uneasy as it may feel. If it hadn’t been for that generic wallpaper as my back yard, I probably would have rejected Guy #140.
So there you go. Scenery matters.

Testament to that fact was Guy #141, a tourist from France, also equipped with belly fat and chest hair, but also equally engaging. It actually thrilled me I was capable of maintaining a conversation in French for a full hour, covering topics such as terrorism, freedom of speech or the horror that is blue cheese.
Once again, it was me who initiated foreplay and although it’s never a good idea to have sex with the memory of blue cheese resurfacing as blue cheese would, part of me had nothing but a good time.

Before Guys #140 and #141 there had been Guy #139, the most beautiful Guy I ever shared a bed and a car with. He too had been at my beach. He only spoke Spanish, meaning my mind wasn’t on global warming or the Challenger disaster when I had sex with him.
Now, I had used my secret human powers to connect with someone on a meaningful level, in French even. The resulting sex was almost equally rewarding, even though I would have done Guy #139 over any engineer no matter what the scenery.

Guys #140 and #141 were both intelligent, friendly and charming people who came by to teach me a few simple yet powerful life lessons:

– Scenery matters.
– As do looks.
– And even brains in some cases.

It’s rewarding to let go of the shallow.
It’s also not easy.

Relationship summaries:

Guy #140:
LENGTH: 3 hours
FORMAT: Sex date
SEX SCORE (0 = Beauty and the Beast, when you stop to think about what it entails <–> 10 = The best sex ever): 7.5

Guy #141:
LENGTH: 2 hours
FORMAT: Sex date
SEX SCORE (0 = Also, The Little Mermaid was a minor when she hooked up with Prince Eric <–> 10 = The best sex ever): 8.5


Do what I did. Start with Guy #1.

Guy #139 – So sometimes hot Guys are into me…

When I met Guy #22, he was the most beautiful Guy I’d ever been with.
When I met Guy #81, he was the most beautiful Guy I’d ever been with.
Until I met Guy #106, the most beautiful Guy I’ve ever been with.

Except for Guy #139 that is.

I don’t know what to tell about Guy #139 except for the fact he was the most beautiful Guy I have ever been with up till now. He was a Colombian tourist who visited my home island of Curaçao for a weekend. Although I hardly ever take initiative on Grindr, the sight of his abs compelled me to say ‘Hi’. I couldn’t imagine someone this undeniably gorgeous to take an interest in me, but much to my surprise he said ‘Ola’ back.

Guy #139 spoke Spanish. I did not.
I spoke English. Guy #139 did not.

So when I went to meet Guy #139 at his hotel, our only means of communicating was this phone app he had. I would say something in English and then some distant cousin of Siri would read my words back to him in Spanish and vice versa.

It was frustrating having to articulate and compress all my thoughts into childlike sentences, but at the same time I was probably blessed by our little language barrier: I was so in awe of Guy #139’s beauty I had trouble thinking of sensible things to say. Had we been granted a common language odds are I would have awkwardized our date beyond repair, as I so often do in the presence of beauty.

Guy #139 and I walked down a beach until we reached the outer edge of the hotel’s wifi network, where Spanish Siri rendered our conversation dead. Forced to head back, Guy #139 suggested we’d get together in my car.

And so Guy #139 and I had sex in my car in broad daylight on a parking lot where ‘hotel_guest’ got one bar, just enough to ask my Colombian twink underwear model to join me on the back seat. I usually don’t like car sex, but Guy #139 being so incredibly good looking my libido allowed me to let go of my inhibitions. I didn’t care whether we’d be seen, get caught or even disturbed.

What I did care about was whether or not I was enjoying Guy #139 to the full. Though I wholeheartedly embraced the Naughty, I really wanted to embrace Guy #139, something that proved difficult in a 1982 Mazda.

Earlier, Siri’s cousin had informed me my date would also be available later that night, for a full few hours, meaning I could pick him up, take him to my place, get high to the sound of the ocean, embrace the most beautiful Guy I ever had sex with and then drop him off again.
To increase my chances of seeing Guy #139 a second time I stopped when he started showing signs of coming. I wanted him close, but not over the edge just yet. Except for sexual chemistry there was no language in which I could adequately express how much I wanted him at my place later that night. But perhaps more importantly, I wanted something to look forward to as well. And in another stroke of pure luck, neither one of us had condoms at hand, meaning our car date would leave something to be desired no matter what.

I suppose it’s a good thing Guy #139 had no access to my thoughts.

I’d like to think of Guy #139 as a little present the universe threw in my path, just a quick reminder that yes, sometimes even beautiful Guys are attracted to me. This one in particular was all too eager to come to my place that night, where we got high and then had sex in which I embraced the living daylights out of him. We hugged a lot too. And then I dropped him off at his hotel, knowing all too well the chances of me ever owning Guy #139 again were slimmer than the plot of Jurassic Park actually happening.

In a way I was relieved I’d never be seeing Guy #139 again, beautiful as he was. I couldn’t help but feel I had enjoyed him to the full, meaning every other attempt at having a conversation would just be pushing it, not to mention make things awkward.

I’m pretty sure he’s the most beautiful thing ever to have found itself inside of that 1982 Mazda though.

Relationship summary:

LENGTH: 1 x 1 hour + 1 x 3 hours
FORMAT: Sex date + a better sex date
SEX SCORE (0 = Philately <–> 10 = The best sex ever): 9.9

Guy #138 – The hotness that is clinical depression…

A few years ago my father died. I never dealt with it very well. Sometimes I wonder if I myself want to live at all.

Those were the words Guy #138 spoke toward the end of our date, mere seconds before getting in his car and driving off.

More often than not, a sex date is the kind of thing you don’t want lasting too long. When the physical relationship has played its part, the usual lack of remaining chemistry makes you want to bail out, to get back to your own life, away from any naked strangers.
Guy #138 was a notable exception in that respect.

Sometimes clinical depression looks good on a Guy. Before he spoke of his suicidal tendencies Guy #138 had been another good looking human being that had Grindred his way to my back yard, where I had the pleasure of doing him for a good few minutes. It was fun, sure, but our relationship was expressed entirely in movements, cold, concise and deliberate movements typical of a sex date: The silent walk toward the spot we’d be having sex, the somewhat obligatory crotch grabbing, the three stages of foreplay (kissing, handwork and oral), followed by an uneasy intermission needed to get condom and lube in place, followed by doing that thing Guy #138 had in mind back when he said ‘Hi’ on Grindr.

Afterward, Guy #138 and I both lit up a cigarette as we walked back to his car. Our dialogue was brief and in many ways compulsory as our movements had been, yet a few sentences into our conversation he told me about the death of his father and his own subsequent depression.

Sometimes orgasms are but a prelude to social awkwardness and self pity, but I guess they also have a tendency to lower our defenses. Sometimes the relationship stops being one of movements after those movements have climaxed.
Suddenly, seconds before he would drive off, Guy #138 became interesting, his perpetual sadness adding a welcome dimension to his already well defined abs.

Guy #138 had somewhere else to be though. He never intended to spend more than 15 minutes with me. It was only in that final minute I became frustrated by the agreed upon format of our relationship. I wanted to know more of Guy #138. I wanted to hear his story, perhaps even cuddle up with him and let him ponder ways to kill himself.

For the record, I wasn’t being morbid. I was being empathetic.
Okay, I was being morbidly empathetic, but still, I wanted nothing more than to share my good intentions with Guy #138. More specifically, I had glimpsed someone I could connect with, which is what I have in mind each time I say ‘Hi’ on Grindr.

I accidentally ran into Guy #138 about a year later. Our date had taken place in obscurity. This time we met in a crowded and brightly lit place. Good intentions aside, I didn’t recognize Guy #138 when he stood before me and rather enthusiastically said ‘Hi’. He needed to remind me who he was. I tried to make up for my apparent ambivalence by texting him, asking if he would be willing to meet up with me again sometime.
I haven’t seen or heard from him since.

For what it’s worth, I hope Guy #138 is doing better these days, and I guess I would like to run into him again someday and actually be aware it is him. I’d like to know more than just his moves.

Relationship summary:

LENGTH: 15 minutes + 2 minute awkward encounter
FORMAT: Sex date
SEX SCORE (0 = Clowns <–> 10 = The best sex ever): 8

Guy #136 and #137 – The ones who inspired this blog…

It’s not always easy not being the relationship type, especially when there are very few gay people around.

In fact, living on a small Caribbean island most of my Grindr conversations were with tourists and the occasional flight attendant. My window of opportunity for getting dates was often small. There have been many, many gorgeous Colombian Guys who dug my mirror selfies to the point they regretted not being able to leave their family to go hump me for a few hours. I regretted it too, and it wasn’t long before I became somewhat sexually frustrated.

So when I picked up Guy #136 from his hostel one night it was mostly because he was free and willing, not because his selfies had been stellar. We ended up having sex next to a pile of two-by-fours on an abandoned construction site with a view of the ocean. It was ridiculously bad, awkward and as a result even a tad gross. Guy #136 came off as a clumsy hump of nerves, part overly excited to have some fun, part hopelessly inept at doing so.

It felt off doing this primitive sex ritual with such premeditation and routine. Guy #136 and I both knew our relationship would be measured in minutes and that we should probably just ignore the other in case we’d ever pass each other on the street again (which is what I did when I ran into Guy #125 at the gym a few days ago).
Even though I wasn’t the relationship type, it had always been the connection with someone that made sex something worth chasing. It made me wonder what on Earth I had been chasing the moment I decided to pick up Guy #136.

The same question popped up in my head when I visited Guy #137 in his vacation bungalow a few sexually dry weeks later. Guy #137 matched #136 in clumsiness, but this time I realized it was me who was causing it. I remember feeling misplaced, simply because I wasn’t having any fun. I was living a sad derogative of an unrealistic fantasy. I halfheartedly forced myself to feign arousal so that Guy #137 might not notice how much of a disappointment he was to me, but I suppose I was unable to mask the disappointment I felt toward myself. I have no way of knowing what Guy #137 felt in my presence, but I’m pretty sure we both felt relief when I left. Our date had transpired quicker than a Judge Judy court session.


It reminded me of my first date with a Guy, nearly ten years prior. I remembered the excitement of getting my first kiss from someone, followed some Guys later by my first good kiss. The more sex you have, the more difficult it can become to experience the thrill of it. More and more it becomes a matter of who you do it with and when you lack suitable ‘who’s’, you go for cheap thrills, in the case of Guy #137 a bungalow bedspring that squeaked its way through our ten minute date as if it was the soundtrack to our relationship.

So what was it I was chasing? And why was there this Grindr to facilitate other people chasing it? Construction site sex with a stranger by its very nature is a compromise on many levels. Stranger yet, unless people generally have lower standards than I do (and I highly doubt that’s the case), a lot of us appease to our limited options by default. It’s as if many of us consider ourselves lucky to have weird sex at all.

How did that happen?

After I got home from my quickie with Guy #137 I got high and recalled the first time I had sex with someone. I was struck by how the excitement of my first date contrasted with the sheer ambivalence of my time with Guys like #136 or #137, or #134, #131 and #124 through #129, to name but a very few.

I wondered if perhaps the story of my often clumsy but occasionally spectacular sex life could be fun for people to read, perhaps even helpful. The internet has a lot of sex, but it does a poor job picturing the social maze that accompanies it.

The thought of writing about my sex life for the world to see brought back the excitement my date with Guy #1 had been about. As with then, part of me hesitated to move forward. Then again, what better way to give at least some meaning to dates like the ones with #136 and #137 than to have people laugh about them?

I started writing the day I met and said farewell to Guy #137.

Guess there was something worth chasing there after all.

Relationship summaries:

Guy #136:
LENGTH: 20 minutes
FORMAT: Sex date
SEX SCORE (0 = Having to spell out your name to get a Starbucks coffee <–> 10 = The best sex ever): 2.5

Guy #137:
LENGTH: 8.25 minutes
FORMAT: Sex date
SEX SCORE (0 = Making ‘Tall’ the new ‘Small’ <–> 10 = The best sex ever): 2


Get the full story. Start with Guy #1 here.

Guy #134 – Shame…

Guy #134 made me realize something.

Car sex is depressing, if not depressingly impractical.

Though I would go on to have pleasurable car sex with Guy #139 a while later, I do believe the idea of car sex sprouted from a lack of options. Sometimes finding a bed to have sex on can be a logistical nightmare. Sometimes a car ends up being the closest thing to a motel room. Sometimes dating is just sad that way.

Guy #134 nor I were capable of hosting a private sex fest. We did discuss the possibility of a motel, but as my date was lamenting his financial situation I realized he was driving toward this one remote parking spot I knew of. Being in a frugal mood as well, I accepted it.

The two of us had sent each other pictures of our naked selves. In anticipation of our date I had imagined us doing the usual fun stuff, like kissing and undressing each other, discovering our nakedness through foreplay. Instead, within seconds of engine shutdown Guy #134 treated me to a hasty French kiss that quickly went south and ended up at third base, where it stayed for the remainder of our date.

While Guy #134 definitely deserves credit for being good at his job, I was mostly occupied with staring out the window, carefully monitoring the movement of distant silhouettes of people and other cars, unable to fully shake the sadness of my situation.

Toward the end of our little parking lot extravaganza I saw two people passing within 50 feet of our car. I could swear one of them was looking straight at me, pushing down Guy #134’s head to make sure it didn’t appear in and out of view all the time.

Guy #139 and I would later have sex in a car at broad daylight and it truly was a little paradise by the dashboard light. Guy #139 was so hot and friendly and handsome and ribbed and on all counts the most beautiful Guy I ever had sex with up till now, I didn’t mind getting caught with him. Guy #134 to me was so much more unremarkable in so many ways the thought of people seeing me with him filled me with shame. It’s not that Guy #134 wasn’t cute. He simply wasn’t special enough for me to take risks for. Preceded by 133 other Guys, a lesbian and a stripper, Guy #134 just didn’t have it in him to excite me the way he might have had he been a two digit number.

Guy #134 and I reached peak shame on our ride home, when post orgasmic sobriety filled the car. I wasn’t raised to get blowjobs from unremarkable strangers in their cars, so I couldn’t help but resent myself a little. One might even say I felt like a cheap whore. I have no idea how Guy #134 postured himself from the moment my pants came back on. All I know is the car was eerily silent and our goodbye as uninspired as our first and only kiss had been.


Our home being a small Caribbean island, Guy #134 and I ran into each other several times over the next few years. We would always shake hands, but never engage in conversation, not even when we turned out to have mutual friends and at one point even a mutual ex. My guess is Guy #134 had felt my shame as well. It had made our date awkward and unrewarding and it had consumed our entire relationship.


Relationship summary:

LENGTH: 2 years
FORMAT: One time car date followed by occasional obligatory handshake
SEX SCORE (0 = A Sigmund Freud action figure <–> 10 = The best sex ever):

Guy #130 – The Lay After…

My mother and I never spoke much about my private life, though I did manage to reveal bits and pieces of it through our common, often morbid sense of humor. A few weeks before she died I granted her permission to come haunt me whenever she wanted, except for the times I would be having sex with people. My mother promised to honor our agreement.

I was willing to date my grief away shortly before my mother’s passing. It logically followed I went on Grindr a good two weeks after her funeral. The rush of organizing a memorial service was still fresh on my mind, but other than that my life had reached the calm after the storm, if ever there were such a thing.

Guy #130 was a flight attendant who spent half his life in fancy hotels. It was in one such hotel we sat down for coffee. Our Grindr conversation had been about sizes, positions and liquids, but our lobby talk ventured into the personal. I realized my date was deciding whether or not he would take me up to his room. Given the peculiarity of my situation I decided to for once not aim for sex and instead just be myself.

So I told Guy #130 I had buried my mother two weeks earlier. Fortunately, this flight attendant had way more than just a Pan Am-smile. Sometimes telling a stranger about your life is liberating, even more so if that stranger turns out to be a good bottom afterward.

Whatever emotions I had stacked up inside of me, Guy #130 offered me a lengthy release from my worries, but perhaps my favorite moment of our date had transpired before the sex, when Guy #130 suggested we’d go for a drink in his room. The effort to be myself had been such a conscious one it came as a relief to find out it was to be rewarded with sex.
Not only that, Guy #130 didn’t treat sex as he might have chicken or fish: He took me out to dinner afterward and let me spend the night with him. It was a sex date, sure, but I was given the First Class treatment, and again when I met up with Guy #130 about six months later.


What I enjoyed about our dates the most was the total lack of complexity. In terms of getting high, the sex allowed me to enjoy the wonder of flight without any crying babies to kill my moment of Zen.

It would seem my mother honored our agreement.

Relationship summary:

LENGTH: 2 x one night and morning after
FORMAT: Caring sex dates
SEX SCORE (0 = Those crying babies on an airplane <–> 10 = The best sex ever): 8.4

Guys #125, #126, #127, #128 and #129 – Floating…


We all carry it.
And like drug mules bluffing their way through customs, we all lie about what we carry.

It’s not that we have anything necessarily worth hiding, but baggage just happens to be a dish served best in installments. We all carry a vast collection of issues small and big, most of which we hide regardless of how naked we get.
Yet while we aim to hide our baggage from those we position to pass judgment over it, we reach out to people for the very purpose of having them lighten up our load. The phrase get your load off has way more levels than most Guys are willing to admit, because baggage.

In terms of baggage I didn’t reveal, Guys #125 through #129 all had sex with me in the weeks leading up to my mother’s death.

As women with ovarian cancer so often do, they die. My mother was no exception. She spent her last month in a hospital bed in her living room, surrounded by loved ones such as myself, her weakness overpowering her strength bit by bit, day by day, until her final day, when she told me:

I don’t want to live. I don’t want to die. I just want to float.

Looking back I realize I followed a similar philosophy with the Guys I dated in those weeks. It’s natural for parents to die before their children do. It’s natural for parents to be with their children when they die. And I guess it’s natural to want to float when the air of death quite literally fills the room like a cancer.

So I went online, looking for Guys to float with.

I must have told my mother I was going out for a walk, when in reality I went out to meet Guy #125 in his car on a parking lot, where we exchanged oral for a good ten minutes. He had no knowledge of my baggage, nor did I inquire about his. We were just two complete strangers wanting to float for two completely different reasons.
God knows why I agreed to have sex in a car. I hate having sex in cars and I wasn’t even that much into Guy #125. He was simply the most available Guy within walking distance. With Guy #125 I drowned more than I floated.
It felt good to leave him behind and get back to taking care of my mother.

I met Guy #126 on another one of my ‘walks’. It was at his place. To his credit, he got me to climax three times in a row just by using his mouth, a feat unsurpassed by any other Guy since. One could argue he got me floating three times, if ever so briefly.
Apparently my mournful self had gotten Guy #126 to float too somehow, as he kept asking me to come over another time. Before I had met Guy #126 I had been okay with leaving my mother’s side to explore the possibilities a stranger offered. Now that I knew exactly what he had to give me I couldn’t bring myself to favor him over my mother a second time.

Guy #127 and #128 I ran into in a sauna, where we had sex that cuddled its way into a conversation. Guy #127 studied something, Guy #128 had a job at the airport. I evaded talking about myself altogether. Blowjobs can do that.

I actually ran into Guy #127 a little over a month later, after my mother had passed. He was excited to see me, but despite his raging cuteness I felt incapable of giving him any more attention. In the time between our two encounters he no doubt studied some more, whereas I had buried my mother. It wasn’t the kind of baggage I could ask a faint acquaintance such as Guy #127 to carry, nor was it the kind I was comfortable sharing. Some loads are just too heavy to be carried by strangers, no matter how good their blowjobs are.

Guy #129 would go down in history as the last Guy I ever had sex with before my mother died. He was a physiotherapist whose massages were unexpectedly disappointing. The sex itself was moderately okay, were it not for the fact my mind was constantly split between two places: The here and now, which consisted of Guy #129 and me going it at like rabbits, and the there and now, which consisted of my mother fighting a battle not even God could win.
During sex and before the massage I may have floated a little, but my baggage no doubt weighed me down considerably.

Guy #129 was kind enough to let me spend the night at his place. Sadly though, he only had one pair of sheets barely big enough to cover his own body, let alone mine. I spent the night under a tiny blanket that felt more like a towel, shivering and thinking about all the times my mother inquired about my love life, all the times she expressed her wish for me to find someone to be happy with, someone to live, die and float with. Shivering my way through the night I couldn’t help but feel I had disappointed her somehow.

There was another Guy, someone who could have been #130. We agreed to meet up on a Thursday, but on the morning of our date my mother told me: “I don’t want to live. I don’t want to die. I just want to float.”
So instead of venturing out on yet another sexual conquest me and my family gathered to say one final goodbye to my mother. I told my date-to-be I couldn’t make it because I had a “family thing I really needed to be at”, quite possibly the whitest lie I ever told anyone.
I never contacted this Guy again, nor did he contact me. I can only imagine he too had baggage he didn’t feel like sharing.

These days I still see Guy #125 on Grindr every so often, always less than a mile away from me. Occasionally I ignore Guy #126 when we pass each other at the local train station and Guy #127 recently dug my pictures on Tinder, though no conversation will ever sprout from any of it: There’s too much baggage for casual sex and too much sex for casual baggage. Blowjobs can do that.

I quietly assume Guys #125 through #129 were in it for the floating as much as I was, albeit it for completely different and forever unknown reasons. Dates are exciting because of what we don’t say to each other and sex, by its very nature, is both the best and the worst way to lighten up our load.

The ferryman

Oh, the traveler moving on the land, behold I give you, I give you the traveling man
And he’s very heavy laden with the questions in his burden
Lo, and I give you the traveling man
He has crossed the mountains, he has forded streams
He has spent a long time surviving on his dreams
Many times he’s tried to lighten up his heavy load
But his compromises fail him and he ends back on the road

Oh the traveler he is weary, the traveling man he is tired.
For the road is never ending. In his fear he has cried aloud for a savior
And in vain for a teacher, someone to lighten up the load
And he’s heard the sounds of war in a gentle shower of rain
And the whisperings of despair that he could not explain
The reason for his journey, or the reason it began
Or was there any reason for the traveling man

At last he reached a river so beautiful and wide
But the current was so strong he could not reach the other side
And the weary traveling man looked for a ferryman, strong enough to row against the tide
And the ferryman was old but he moved the boat so well
Or did the river move the boat? The traveler could not tell
Said the ferryman: “You’re weary and the answers that you seek
Are in the singing river, listen humbly it will speak.”

Oh, the traveler closed his eyes and he listened and he heard
Only the river murmuring and the beating of his heart
Then he heard the river laughing, and he heard the river crying
And in it was the beauty and the sadness of the world
And he heard the sounds of dying, but he heard the sounds of birth
And slowly his ears heard all the sounds of earth
The sounds blended together and they became a whole
And the rhythm was his heartbeat to the music in his soul


Relationship summaries:

Guy #125
LENGTH: A good 10 minutes
FORMAT: Car park fondlefest
SEX SCORE (0 = Lifetime movies <–>10 = The best sex ever): 3

Guy #126
LENGTH: 2 hours
FORMAT: Sex date
SEX SCORE (0 = Lifetime movies about cancer <–> 10 = The best sex ever): 7

Guy #127
LENGTH: 1 hour + 2 minute conversation a month later
FORMAT: Sex date + awkward meet-up
SEX SCORE (0 = Lifetime movies about cancer where the hero lives <–> 10 = The best sex ever): 8

Guy #128
LENGTH: 30 minutes
FORMAT: Sex date
SEX SCORE (0 = Lifetime movies about cancer where the hero dies <–> 10 = The best sex ever): 8

Guy #129
LENGTH: One night
FORMAT: One-night stand
SEX SCORE (0 = “The Fault in Our Stars” <–> 10 = The best sex ever): 7.5

Guy #124 – Let the dolphin speak…

Sometimes Guys on Grindr fail to get the message: That he’s just not that into you.

A good friend of mine introduced me to the perfect emoji for silencing people who fail to realize when the relationship, whatever it was, has run its course. It’s the dolphin.

These days, whenever I used up every available polite way of saying let us not be part of each other’s lives and the only thing I have left is to bluntly tell this person I’m not that into him, I send a dolphin:


A dolphin is friendly, playful and well spirited. It means I wish the other person well on his journeys.
It also means the conversation is over.

No healthy person enjoys rejecting others. It’s why we go about it ever so gently. The result is an internet full of people who mistake attention for interest.

Guy #124 was old enough to be dating but too young to have even a slight grasp of the complexity of the game.

About fifteen minutes into our dance floor hook-up Guy #124 told me he had wanted me the moment he first laid eyes on me. For me Guy #124 was only my third or fourth choice of all the Guys there. He was young and inexperienced. I was at #124 and had every intention of making it to at least #125 in the near future.

The reason I ended up having sex with Guy #124 is that he was the key to experiencing a tiny part of the local gay scene I had never experienced before: Hook-up motels, where you park your car behind a curtain and have sex in the garage. The country we were in just so happened to be the place where secretive gay sex was very common, so when Guy #124 suggested we’d go there one day, I was curious enough to try.

What I remember most is the motel cleaning lady, the only person in the world who got to look the customer in the eyes, a bearer of secrets if ever I’ve seen one. The sex itself was more or less okay. We could hear the cleaning lady vacuuming throughout.

As we were cooling down in the garage, Guy #124 occasionally asked me to ‘say something’, apparently lamenting the fact I wasn’t as cheerful as I had been on a dance floor. I didn’t say anything. I just couldn’t be bothered.

Yet for some reason Guys like #124 can find in depressing motel room dates the start of something beautiful. And they’re sweet and inexperienced, so you don’t want to be the first to break their heart, so you go easy on them, and you reply when they start texting you the very next day.

You reply without offering any real input for the conversation to go on, yet the other Guy just keeps asking questions, or gives you that one remark that gets under your skin just enough to respond, thinking the conversation will die out eventually like a flame in the vacuum of space.

I should have flippered Guy #124. I should have sent him the dolphin, letting him know I have nothing against him and that I think he’s sweet and reasonably apt at having sex, but that the relationship has ended, because reasons.

The dolphin is the definitive lid on social awkwardness. It’s the most humane way of saying:


True to form I never reply to a single message from a person I’ve flippered. If a dolphin can’t show them I’m just not that into them, I don’t know what will.

Guy #124 ended up being quite offended when I eventually stopped replying to his text messages. He would not have been had I sent him a dolphin. That would have left him in a gentle but confused state of wonder.

I think ‘flippering’ could be this year’s planking.

Relationship summary:

LENGTH: 3 weeks
FORMAT: 2 hopeless sex dates
SEX SCORE (0 = A Hannibal Lecter dinner party <–> 10 = The best sex ever): 7.5

Guy #123 – The reason I’m on Grindr…

These days it says the following on my Grindr profile:

I will have sex with you if you can tell me what happened ‘before’ the Big Bang.

It’s an easy promise. Not even Stephen Hawking knows the answer, but it’s a nice invitation for Guys to get intellectual with me. I still judge people by their selfies, but I ache to be turned on by their brains.

Although the first I ever saw of Guy #123 was a picture of him in a swimsuit, he wasn’t the kind of underwear model I had come online for. Still, we somehow became engaged in an exciting conversation.

It happens sometimes. You start talking to someone, an actual dialogue erupts and it’s just nice to let it run its course. Sometimes the conversation dissolves almost the moment it started and sometimes you go from discussing youth traumas to cosmic inflation to Bach to trashing the Lord of the Rings-franchise to being invited over for dinner at his place.

Despite the absence of any sexual chemistry I found Guy #123 interesting enough to get to know in person. I had made it clear I had no sexual interest in him, which he was totally fine with.

Yet we soon ended up doing more than just having dinner and talking about each other’s lives. We’d spend entire nights watching The Lord of the Rings, after which Guy #123 admitted it indeed made no sense Frodo wouldn’t use those eagles from the get go. Or we’d lie on a couch and listen to music together. It’s difficult not to establish connection when you feel someone’s heartbeat to the tune of Beethoven’s 5th Piano Concerto.

Our fourth meet-up as friends was a bit of a goodbye. I was to go abroad for a while and wasn’t sure when I would be seeing Guy #123 again. He had become a dear friend I would miss.
So what started off as an innocent backrub quickly turned me on somehow, and since I was the one doing the rubbing I considered it an excellent opportunity to show some initiative. The kissing soon followed. The bed is where things ended.

It was unexpectedly great to have sex with Guy #123. I had reached a point where I could no longer relate to my previous self, who had rejected him over a photo.

Afterward, Guy #123 told me he he’d always known we would end up having sex at some point. The only thing he had to do to make it happen was not tell me. His brain had figured that out.1-copy

I’m not on Grindr to find sex. I’m not on there to find relationships. I’m certainly not on there to forge anything platonic. I’m on Grindr to find Guys like Guy #123, Guys who can give me the intimacy of a relationship with the commitment of a friendship, Guys who know my weaknesses well enough to understand I’m not the type to maintain a serious commitment, Guys who know my strengths to appreciate how much I have to give if they just let me, Guys who can even use the word ‘love’ without it having to define a relationship, Guys who get that relationships define themselves, Guys I can cuddle up with, cook for, sleep with and wake up next to.

Actually, Guy #123 and I only woke up together on a handful of occasions. Like most people with a good working brain he was a very sensitive person. Oftentimes I’d meet him while he was busy being hopelessly in love with someone he couldn’t be with, making it difficult for him to get truly intimate with someone.

I’m the type of person who looks for intimacy everywhere when I’m hopelessly in love. Guy #123 was the kind who’d deprive himself of it. Still, we often met on the middle ground and exchanged a lot of hugs there. One could argue it was in one of those hugs that Guy #123 inspired me to start writing.

His brains have proven to be an enormous turn on for me.

Relationship summary:

LENGTH: 4 years and counting
FORMAT: Loving friendship
SEX SCORE (0 = Anything Gollum <–> 10 = The best sex ever): 9

Guy #121 – The dorminant one…


When it comes to sex, some people like to dominate. Others like to be dominated.

Guy #121 was dominant. He said so many times. He first made mention of it in our online conversation. He brought it up again over coffee. When we were at his place he once again asked if I was okay with him being so dominant.

Granted, Guy #121 pulled my hair a bit during sex and held down my arms for good measure. Not wanting to shatter his image, I was kind enough not to move my arms as he put on his condom.

The truth is Guy #121 was about as dominant as Pinocchio was a real boy. It didn’t help that I was about a foot taller, a difference that was reflected in our respective dick sizes as well. Him dominating me made about as much sense as David asking Goliath out for a date.

In short, Guy #121 was an adorable little Asian boy who wanted to be the Terminator. I granted him the illusion for a good five minutes, after which he cuddled up against me and remained in ‘dorminant-mode’ for the remainder of the evening.

The two of us met up on two occasions. Coffee tasted good in the company of Guy #121. He was smart-ish and sensitive. I empathized with him and his latte as he spoke of missing his home country. The way his lips stuck to the warm carton of his Starbucks cup suggested he had been deprived of labial action for quite some time. Guy #121 was like many of the Asian immigrants I dated: Lonely, shy and with a pinch of social awkwardness thrown in.

It was only during sex that Guy #121 let go of his inhibitions. I don’t think I’ve ever been dominated by anyone clumsier than him, but I did enjoy letting him believe he was in control of me. Sometimes accepting awkwardness is the only gift we have to give to someone.

A third date never happened. Guy #121 would visit my online dating profile every so often, but he never hit me up again, nor did I take note of his digital footprints.
I guess we both felt the sex had been an oddity of sorts, like Pinocchio getting tested for STD’s. There was nothing inherently wrong about the two of us having sex, but it was difficult to take it seriously.

I will never know whatever made Guy #121 think he was a dominant Guy. Well, except that maybe it was me who made him think that, me and perhaps all the other Guys who were patient enough not to move their hands whenever he struggled to put on a condom.




Relationship summary:

LENGTH: 2 x 2 hours
FORMAT: Coffee and sex
SEX SCORE (0 = A date with Goliath <–> 10 = The best sex ever): 6.5



%d bloggers like this: