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 #109 – That time STD’s were sexy…

Common as they are, no one particularly enjoys talking about STD’s. The human body is an ecosystem of countless miniscule organisms, but it’s the few that make you die or feel like you’ll die peeing that hardly come up in conversation. The reason is simple: STD’s cover our body in icky shame.

So when Guy #109 came over for an evening of sex it came as a surprise when he told me his hot body had hepatitis.

I quickly realized Guy #109 had to go through life broadcasting this disclaimer each and every time he encountered someone he wanted to have sex with. Or rather, he chose to be honest.

Honesty to me is hotter than STD’s are icky, so Guy #109 telling me his liver was at constant risk of succumbing to the dark side immediately turned me on. I also empathized with him, imagining what it must be like to hold off on foreplay with a chat on infectious disease all the time. I’d probably feel like a waiter handing out a roll of toilet paper in lieu of a menu. We don’t like to talk about STD’s because we fear it will ruin our appetite.

Yet when Guy #109 opened up about his hepatitis he became more human than his hot body had previously suggested. I told him I had no trouble having sex with him and his liver provided I couldn’t see the latter from the outside.

That’s when it became apparent how disastrously poorly educated I was.

Unlike HIV I had always ranked hepatitis as one of the more forgettable Bond villains. I knew one could get shots to prevent getting hepatitis and always figured there’d come a day I would. Until Guy #109 told me I never knew how contagious hepatitis really is, or how lucky I’d been never to have gotten it.

Guy #109 told me we couldn’t have the sex we had both anticipated, at least not until I arranged for myself to get vaccinated.
What we could do was get naked together and tease the living daylights out of each other, which is what we did on a number of occasions over the next few months.

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It was actually kind of hot to be with Guy #109 and not do what we wanted to do. It allowed us to get to know each other in a way we would never have known each other had sex been on the menu from the get go. When I finally was protected against hepatitis the sex between the two of us was cathartic, which it has been pretty much every time we hooked up since.

Every few weeks or so, Guy #109 and I would get together, cuddle up to watch a movie, eat pizza and have awesome safe sex. Hepatitis had stopped being an issue the moment Guy #109 opened up about it. And he may very well have saved me from getting it myself someday.

STD’s, as it turns out, are kind of hot.

 


 

Relationship summary:

LENGTH: 4 years and counting
FORMAT: Friends with benefits
SEX SCORE (0= The concept of ranking sexual partners <–> 10 = The best sex ever): 9.2

Guy #88 – The weasel…

Moses should have given us an 11th commandment:

Thou shalt not pitysex.

I never cheated, I never killed someone, I never coveted my neighbor’s donkey, I only broke a very small number of hearts, but I did commit pitysex many, many times.

I guess that says something about me. I’m the type of person that bends over too quickly. If you’d browse this site, you’ll find that pitysex is a recurring cast member in my love life. Somehow I can feel so sorry for people I do them the favor of surrendering my entire sexuality to their every desire.

Not to pad myself on the shoulder, but people actually tell me I’m too good. Perhaps they’re right. I pity a reject and then proceed to have sex with it. Not even Mother Theresa took generosity to that level.

Of course, it’s not really generosity. It’s just a deeply rooted insecurity that I rationalize as being generous so I don’t have to cry myself to sleep.

If I had sex out of generosity, I would feel good about it afterward. Instead, when I pitysex someone, I always end up loathing myself. And then I move on to loathing the ugly duckling I’ve just given it to. Generosity has very little to do with any of that.

Guy #88 was such an ugly duckling, a duckling who turned out to be ten years older than what it said on his dating profile.
That wasn’t the worst thing about Guy #88.

He was a closet case. Living in a closet makes you secretive and reclusive as you become a bearer of secrets. The closet had turned Guy #88 into a sneaky weasel. Everything about him was an act. I could not catch him on any authenticity whatsoever.

His most blatant lie was his body pic. He had managed to land at my kitchen table based on someone else’s body. He didn’t mention it and I was being too ‘generous’ to burst his bubble. He just sat there, knowing he had lied his way into my house, knowing it was only a small step from my kitchen to my bedroom. So instead of apologizing for his saggy body he started a rant about the closet being so lonely.

I could tell his melancholy was part of his act, but still I felt pity, mixed with increasing amounts of self loathing. For some reason my act of having sex with Guy #88 seemed more logical than just saying No, I don’t want you, you’re fat and you lie about everything, get out of my kitchen.

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Guy #88 acted lonely. I acted generous. Together we were as sad as Kim Jong-un jerking off to a box of Pringles.
Between Guy #88 and me, I took the role of Pringles. It’s difficult to feel pride after such an ordeal.

All of this took place in Suriname, South America.

I had recently moved (back) to this country and Guy #88 had been my first date there. It’s a small country, where homosexuality is sort of just okay, a country with only one gay nightclub, a place where those few that were out of the closet gathered once a week.
That’s where I spotted Guy #88 a few weeks later, and again, again and again. He even tried to hit on me, again and again.

The bastard wasn’t even in the closet. He was just a sneaky weasel that happened to be gay.

 


 

Relationship summary:

LENGTH: 30 minutes
FORMAT: Pity
SEX SCORE (0 = Unresolved cliffhangers <–> 10 = The best sex ever): 0.3