LGBT – Page 6

Guy #90 – The logistics of getting a naked stranger in my bed…

Scoring a sex date is often said to be easy.

The truth is that getting a naked stranger in your bed is a logistical nightmare.
As with life evolving on a planet, so many factors need to line up perfectly for random sex to even have a remote chance of happening.

For starters, you have to be into each other. This might be the case for every 25^th person I meet online. That’s 96% of potential hook-ups that will never happen.

Second, you have to be horny.
It sounds like a no-brainer, but whenever a cute Guy hits me up, part of the chase is done. On Grindr Hi means I want to do you. Often being wanted is enough to satisfy my ego.

Because for a sex date to happen at least one person must have access to privacy, while the other must have means to travel. Guys who live with their parents, Guys who don’t have a car, Guys who don’t have money, Guys who have to get up early the next day, Guys who have roommates, Guys who have boyfriends…The road to casual sex is paved with obstacles. For a sex date to materialize you have to ask yourself: Do I want to go down that road only to spend a good fifteen minutes with someone who’s probably fatter than his photoshopped selfie?

Guy #90 was about as traditional as a sex date can be.

Our date started on neutral ground, at a bar. As expected, his selfie had been a bit of a lie, but having already invested time in this Guy I decided to stay the course and get him naked in my bed somehow.

While I appreciate casual hook-ups that start with a conversation, Guy #90 and I didn’t have that much to talk about. He was nice. I was nice. He had hobbies. I had hobbies. He liked pets. I liked meat.
We managed to chat our way through two non alcoholic drinks, but the more we talked the less we had in common.

Which is why I steered the conversation in the direction of my bedroom.

The only thing standing in between us and my bedroom was a 15 minute drive to my place. I figured the two of us could squeeze out another 15 minutes of small talk. Besides, it’s perfectly acceptable to start foreplay in a car when you’re on a date with a stranger. If we were to run out of things to say I could always put my hands on Guy #90’s leg and let our hormones carry us over the social awkwardness.

The social awkwardness actually began when my car wouldn’t start.

Instead of initiating foreplay on our way home we sat on the pavement, waiting for my mechanic to show up. I don’t remember what we talked about. I do know it was exhausting coming up with things to talk about.

Still, when you’re halfway down the road to Mordor it’s silly to turn around and head back.

When my mechanic arrived it felt strange to introduce him to Guy #90. It felt even stranger when my car couldn’t be fixed on the spot, meaning Guy #90 and I had to fetch a ride from my mechanic, a man who was smart enough to figure out the format of my relationship with Guy #90.

Once we were alone at my place we finally had the very sex that had been on the menu for hours. We just had to consume each other. All the frustration from the waiting and the exchange of increasingly irrelevant pleasantries needed an outlet.
The sex was hasty though. I mostly remember being relieved I had succeeded in getting another somewhat cutish naked stranger in my bed. The sex celebrated the completion of an obstacle course, not so much the bond we had, or the attraction we felt.

Afterward I managed a friend of mine to give Guy #90 and me a ride back to his hotel. It had never been my intention for Guy #90 to intertwine with my social life, but logistically speaking I had no other options.

When the date was finally over I was relieved, but I hadn’t experienced any relief. I imagine Guy #90 felt the same.

I guess my mechanic got the most out of our time together.

Relationship summary:

LENGTH: 4 hours
FORMAT: Attempted sex date
SEX SCORE (0 = The word “Intercourse” <–> 10 = The best sex ever): 7

Guy #89 – Divide and conquer…

When I lived in Suriname, South America I wasn’t the only white Guy in town.

I befriended a Guy who was like me in many ways: He was a hunter, attracted to Latinos as I was, he made sure sex played an important role in his life, he used sex to cope with his insecurity, he was educated, around my age and enjoyed the perks of being white.

One night the two of us found ourselves on a somewhat discouragingly empty dance floor in our country’s only gay nightclub. He asked me to point to a Guy I considered attractive. We had met each other only recently and were curious for each other’s taste. And of course we wanted to know whether we would be playing the field as colleagues or as competitors.

After pointing at some Asian I asked my newfound friend who he considered a good catch. He pointed at Guy #10. Guy #10 and I had done each other a few years prior.
“I’ve done him,” I bragged. It absolutely thrilled me to be able to say I already had sex with the Guy my white companion singled out.
I could see the twinkle in my friend’s eyes. It meant he was now officially out to conquer Guy #10 as I had, because I had. I decided to let him.
“Do you want me to introduce you two?” I asked.
My friend gladly accepted my offer, so I stepped up to Guy #10 and told him I had a friend who wanted him. Guy #10 was happy to see me again and even happier to find out my friend was the other white Guy.

I didn’t throw Guy #10 in the arms of my white friend because I’m such a nice person. While I was fine with him going over goods I’d damaged years before, I wanted my friend to see how skilled I was at catching prey.

Guy #10 was also with a friend, a shy fellow I decided would make a fine Guy #89.

Divide and conquer. That’s basically what I did that night. I gave a buddy some leftover Guy from a few years back and then proceeded to conquer Guy #89 right in front of him.

I was marking my territory.

I have this intense look that works really well on insecure 20 year olds, so I went with that. Within minutes, Guy #89 and I were all over each other’s faces. From the corner of my eyes I could see the admiration on my friend’s white face. If this was the jungle, I was Shere Khan.

Nothing was particularly special about Guy #89. His looks were sort of okay, I didn’t pay attention to his personality and his looks were sort of okay. All that mattered was that I had asserted my dominance over all the other white Guys, all one of them.

I don’t know where Guy #10 and his second white friend ended up that night, but from what I understood they’ve had some good times together. Guy #89 and I ended up in my car, on the parking lot. We continued kissing and meddled with each other’s genitals for good measure, but by this time I wasn’t into it anymore. My audience had left the scene. Guy #89, still impressed from the look I’d given him before, was starting to irritate me. Making out on a parking lot with a stranger doesn’t really do it for me.

I guess Guy #89 became dispensable the moment I was the only white Guy again. We never made it off the parking lot. Not together at least.

Still I went home feeling satisfied. I was fine living in a small country with a small gay scene. I was also fine not being the only white Guy in that scene. Our country was big enough for two delicacies.

I never spoke to Guy #89 again, but my friendship with the white one lasts to this day. I even arranged him a date with Guy #16 once.

I guess I don’t just play the field. I aim to rule it.

Relationship summary:

LENGTH: 1 hour
FORMAT: Dirty dancing followed by pitiful car sex
SEX SCORE (0 = Chihuahuas <–> 10 = The best sex ever): 4.5

Guy #88 – The weasel…

Moses should have given us an 11^th 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.

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

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 #85 – XTC.

Three symptoms are indicative of people on XTC:

They go out of their way to say how beautiful you are.
They can’t get an erection.
They go out of their way to say how beautiful you are again.

Guy #85 thought I was very good looking. He said so many times. His mind was really set on doing stuff to my anus that would require him to have an erection, of which he couldn’t get one.

Not that it mattered. Guy #85 was extremely happy to be with me, or rather: he was extremely happy to be. I kind of happened to be there with him, enjoying the cuddling, the kissing and the constant stream of compliments as he frantically tried to perform CPR on the lifeless shrimp that was his penis.

Anuswise, it was a slow night for me.
But I did appreciate the intimacy of being with someone on XTC. The stuff really puts the happy back in gay.

As such, Guy #85 and I had a really good time together. I have no idea what on Earth we talked about, but I do remember our conversation flowed like a catchy Beyonce song. It doesn’t get much gay-as-in-happier than that.

One could argue if any of the intimacy we shared was real. I’d like to think it was in that moment, when it counted the most.

Guy #85 and I exchanged phone numbers. He wanted to see more of me. More importantly, he probably wanted to meet me again to do the anus stuff he had been talking about and was currently incapable of due to his drug induced impotence.

Guy #85 called me a few times. I liked him when he was sober, but our conversations stopped being catchy very quickly. We didn’t have that much in common as it turned out. We did set a date for him to visit me at my place, but he ghosted me before that date ever materialized. I sent him a compulsory text message, asking if he still intended on seeing me. To my relief I haven’t heard from him since.

An actual date with Guy #85 would likely have been awkward, clumsy and baseless, like making out with a dead shrimp if you will.

I don’t have anything against people doing XTC, nor do I have anything against sobriety, but I guess some relationships can only play out at a certain altitude. There was little to bond me and Guy #85, but enough to find it on a high.

XTC brings out the best in us for a short while and lets us see the best in others. I’m sure XTC could do wonders for the Middle East. And it makes getting an erection like breathing at 30.000 feet.

That’s probably for the best.

Relationship summary:

LENGTH: A few weeks
FORMAT: One time hook-up followed by few phone calls
SEX SCORE (0 = The word ‘anuswise’ <–> 10 = The best sex ever): 7.5

Guy #84 – The stalker…

A fact of life is that some people are crazy. And sometimes you find out someone is crazy after exchanging bodily fluids and phone numbers.

Guy #84 and I spent about an hour together. It was good. He was very passionate, funny, kind and made me feel completely at ease.

He liked me as well.

I know, because I had forty missed calls the morning after.
Over seventy on the second day.
About thirty on the third.

In between came the text messages. The first one went something like Hey, why are you not picking up? Are you there? About four or five text messages later I was bombarded by F-bombs, raging obscenities and uncontrolled anger, interwoven with desperate pleas for contact.

The sex between us had been so good I had given Guy #84 not just my phone number, I had also deemed him worthy of a Facebook friendship.

Within days he began attacking some of my cute looking Facebook friends, informing them of the kind of slut I was. (As if my cute looking Facebook friends didn’t already know.)
To date, Guy #84 has been the only person I ever had to block on Facebook, and that’s saying something.

I should hope it goes without saying I had no intention of seeing Guy #84 ever again at this point. Nothing is as unattractive as a stalker.

Except of course a stalker that quits.

I have to say I was somewhat disappointed to get but thirty missed calls on the third day. I could sense Guy #84 was giving up the fight. Indeed, the few missed calls I got on the fourth day were obligatory at best, but hardly suffocating like they were a few days before.

To his credit, Guy #84 proceeded by creating a fake Facebook account, from which he contacted me posing as his friend. His so called ‘friend’ said Guy #84 had some psychological problems and asked if I was willing to forgive his shortcomings and give him another chance.

But after ignoring Guy #84’s fake friend the stalking stopped, barely a week after it got started.

In my opinion, the Oxford dictionary should define the word stalkers as follows:

Stalkers: Crazy people who are fully aware of their own insanity, which doesn’t make them crazy, just weak, manipulative and downright evil. Or, to phrase it liberally: Stalkers are chickens too afraid to love themselves.

But darn it, are they good at sex!

Relationship summary:

LENGTH: 1 week
FORMAT: One time hook-up, followed by one week stalking spree
SEX SCORE (0 = “The call is coming from inside the house” <–> 10 = The best sex ever): 9

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 #81 – Nearer to God… (Part 2)

This one time Guy #81 took me to a meeting for Jehovah’s witnesses. Faith had always been an essential part of his life and I was very curious to learn more about his religion.

He called it a meeting, but it was really a hangar filled with thousands of Jehovah’s witnesses.

Entire families attended this gathering, which consisted of people preaching about God and youngsters performing a play about how to ask God for advice when someone wants to have premarital sex with you.

Then there were the obligatory references to humanity’s demise and God’s chosen few being granted a life in paradise.

To me, it was fascinating to be among thousands of devout believers as the only one wearing jeans. Even the many children there wore ties. To Jehovah’s witnessess God is someone to suit up for.

Personally, I don’t believe the world will end in the next ten years or that the survivors will inherit a planet with pet pandas. It felt eerie to be among thousands of people that do. It was also weird to think about the stuff Guy #81 and I had done with each other, sexually, and how such things were considered sinful by everyone around me. I felt like an alien among aliens.
Guy #81 must have felt like an alien among his own family.

Literally.

As we left Guy #81 pointed to a few people sitting in the crowd. They were his parents and his siblings. He couldn’t go to them. He couldn’t say ‘hi’. He couldn’t even acknowledge their presence, nor could his family do the same for him. Guy #81 had abandoned his religion and with it his entire home. He cried when we walked by his family.
A lot of people saw his tears. The jaded looks on their faces suggested it wasn’t the first time they had seen someone cry at one of their meetings.

***

Guy #81 had come out of the closet a few years earlier. I was living in Suriname, South America at the time. Guy #81 left his closet by flying to me. His family back home had to break into his house and call the police to find out he was with me, in a banana republic, and gay.
I even got a phone call from the police, asking if Guy #81 was okay and not kidnapped. Minutes later I got another call. This time it was Guy #81’s mother.

I met Guy #81 in a gay sauna. We had shared sex, drugs and friendship together. Now I had his mother on the phone, right at the moment she found out her son was gay and giving up his place in paradise because of it. As I listened to his mother’s voice I realized I was listening to someone who, for all intents and purposes, had just lost a child.
Our conversation didn’t last long. His mother asked me if her son was okay. I reassured her that her son was safe. She asked if she could speak with her son, who at that moment was lying next to me on my bed, crying and wanting to be left alone.
It felt wrong being a gatekeeper to a mother, but I didn’t see any way I could be of help to her. She quite literally had but God to count on.

Guy #81 would later tell me that the few weeks he spent with me in Suriname were the most terrible of his life. He cried a lot, had a lot of nightmares in which he was hunted down by Satan and would often just stare at a photo of him and his family.

It was difficult for me to not be angry with his parents. I couldn’t imagine growing up in an environment so dictated by religion. I’m fairly atheist, but I’m open minded enough to feel God’s love every now and then. Sex for instance has always been a very spiritual experience for me.

Being with Guy #81 as he stepped out of his closet was, if nothing else, spiritual. The difference between me and him and his family was that I always welcomed God in my gay sex life.

It was the fall of 2010 and Guy #81 was about to enter the real world, leaving everyone and everything behind. I think I was pretty much the only friend he had in the real world at first.

I worried about Guy #81’s capability to adapt to his new environment.

A community of Jehovah’s witnesses shields you from reality. Guy #81 was a bit like Mowgli taking his first steps among humans. For a long time I half expected him to return to his closet at some point. I figured the safety of his religion would eventually weigh up against the cold of life outside a bubble.

For Guy #81 being gay was never a choice, but living a gay lifestyle had to be. He spent many years of his life knowing he would have to choose between a life in paradise with his family but deprived of physical intimacy or a life of satisfaction in the absence of safety. God just never made it easy on him.

I could resent God for putting Guy #81 in such an unnecessary conundrum.

Then again, I can’t help but like the God I felt when I slept with him.

And if anything, Guy #81 to me is proof that God has little problems with homosexuality. Guy #81 would end up making himself a new home. It would never be a substitute for the world he left behind, but last time I asked he told me he doesn’t regret his decision. He still misses his family. It still hurts. But at least he belongs.

Six years ago, the two of us met one night to share our sexuality. We ended up sharing way more than that. Sex with Guy #81 was anything but spectacular at first. His guilt used to overshadow any hint of arousal.
It wasn’t until much later that sex with him would become awesome and fulfilling: A few months ago we sat in a whirlpool, Guy #81 on my lap. Without using any words we reflected on our journey of the last six years. I’m thankful I got to be there when it mattered. And I was proud of him for having listened to his intuition, to have that kind of bravery. We kissed. Guy #81 was still as hot as the day I met him, but this time I didn’t feel his guilt.

It was one of the best kisses ever.

Relationship summary:

LENGTH: 6 years and counting
FORMAT: Very loving friendship with increasingly good benefits
SEX SCORE BEFORE COMING OUT OF CLOSET (0 = The worst parts of the bible <–> 10 = The best sex ever): 4
SEX SCORE AFTER COMING OUT OF CLOSET (0 = Pet pandas <–> 10 = The best sex ever): 9

Guy #81 – Nearer to God… (Part 1)

I want him.

That’s what I thought the first time I saw Guy #81: Perfect body, perfect face, sweet, seemingly innocent and Asian. I have never hunted anyone down the alleys of a gay sauna as determined as I have Guy #81.
I knew he was out of my league, but I also knew that out of all the Guys there, I was the only one even remotely close to his league. It was a slow night and I deemed myself the best he could get. Guy #81 apparently agreed.

The two of us stuck together the night we met. It surprised me Guy #81 appreciated my company. I tend to get clumsy in the presence of beauty.

I’ve been clumsy with Guy #81 from the day I met him.

When morning broke he insisted on coming home with me. I let him. After an exciting blow job on a train we spent the rest of the day sleeping and cuddling at my place. We didn’t have any more sex though. Guy #81 told me he had been on XTC the night before and that he couldn’t really have sex without any. At first I thought it had to do with muscle relaxation, but as it turns out XTC doesn’t just add joy.
It rids you of guilt as well.

As time went by Guy #81 allowed me to get to know him better: He was a Jehovah’s witness in a family of Jehovah’s witnesses in a community of Jehovah’s witnesses in a world of Jehovah’s witnesses. His entire life had existed in a universe secluded from what others would call ‘reality’.
He was also gay: He spent his weekends in the obscurity of gay saunas or remote parking lots and his weekdays being a knock knock joke. In my eyes at least.

I often encouraged him to ‘just’ come out, saying his family would have no choice but to accept him for who he was. I pictured his family as a bunch of homophobic narrow minded simpletons, even though Guy #81 spoke very highly of them. He loved his family very much. I on the other hand couldn’t imagine loving a homophobe.
According to Guy #81, I didn’t quite understand his predicament.

He was right.

The end of times is near. Only those that adhere to God’s will are allowed a place in paradise.
Guy #81 handed me a few editions of ‘The Watchtower’, the magazine Jehovah’s witnesses give you when you open the door for them. It included drawings of happy straight folks enjoying a familial get together in the presence of pandas and baby lions.
“Do you really believe all this?” I asked in disbelief, pointing at the pet pandas.
“I know it to be true,” Guy #81 said.
“And what happens if you let go of it?”
“Then I’ll die when Jesus returns.”
In fact, by engaging in homosexual behavior Guy #81 didn’t just harm himself, he also prevented the Holy Spirit from protecting his loved ones. One day, in the never too distant future, the bad parts of the bible would descent unto Earth, killing everyone. Everyone except Jehovah’s witnesses. They would all rise from the dead and live an eternity in paradise. With pandas.
Sex with Guys would prevent all that from happening to Guy #81 and his family.

The more I learned about his religion, the more I came to realize that the life he led inside his community was a nigh perfect haven of love, harmony and understanding. Cuddly lions were notably absent, but apart from that his life was like one of the drawings in ‘The Watchtower’. Everything and everyone Guy #81 knew made him feel safe, welcome and prepared for whatever life could throw at him.

Everything except the gay sex of course.

I regret the lack of empathy I showed. At the time his religion showcased more compassion for his sexuality than I did for his religion. Despite their bleak outlook on the future, Jehovah’s witnesses genuinely believe they can help people and they are very accepting of those that don’t follow God’s word to the letter, even though they are certain those people will die soon. I wasn’t aware of the fact that faith, though stubborn and arguably blind, isn’t half as heartless as the real world can be. That’s what Guy #81 called his existence outside of his religion: The real world, and it was cold and scary.

Cold, scary, yet somehow tempting.

Leading a double life became increasingly difficult for Guy #81. One night I woke up from his screams. I asked what his dream had been about.
“Satan,” he said. Consumed by fear, he could only lay still and whisper.

For Guy #81, God and Satan were as real as his sexuality. I tried to explain that no God in his right mind would make a Guy as beautiful as he was only to not let other Guys have sex with him. I couldn’t fathom a God that cruel.
Guy #81 was never disappointed by my lack of empathy. He simply accepted that no one could fully understand what he was going through, except maybe God. And Satan.

Certainly not clumsy me.

It took some time for me to realize my atheist goggles warped my reality as much as religion had warped his. It’s easy to label someone indoctrinated and be done with it. I thought I was helping Guy #81 by trying to ‘snap him out’ of his belief system, not realizing how much God had given him.

We ended up dating for about four months, though it was more of a friendship with a sexual component than a relationship. We came to care a great deal for each other. Our friendship didn’t end after those four months, but our proximity to each other did. Our ‘relationship’ ended when I moved to South America. It was difficult for me leaving Guy #81 behind, left to fend for himself in the real world.

On our last night together we spent a long time lying in each other’s arms, Guy #81 feeling sad, me feeling inept.
Being one of only a few people in the real world that had ever been there for him, I couldn’t help but feel I was deserting Guy #81. I didn’t expect to ever see him again.

I didn’t expect Guy #81 to ever come out of his closet.

I let go and let God, so to speak.

Guy #80 – All about the abs…

Guy #80 had killer abs. In fact, his entire body was a cover of Men’s Health.

His penis was as Asian as the rest of him though.

Also, Guy #80 struck me as one of the loneliest individuals I’ve ever come across.

The two of us first met each other at an all male twink orgy one night in Amsterdam. He stood at the bar, quite obviously trying to hide his shyness behind his drink. Being the hunter that I am I temporarily rid him of his insecurity by semi-accidentally touching him. Touch became fun and eventually we exchanged phone numbers. It took me about four texts to get invited to his place.

I kind of enjoyed Guy #80’s loneliness. Or rather I appreciated how his loneliness worked for me.

Usually when Guys are lonely they get clingy, obsessive and mistake sex for the start of a commitment that lasts well into retirement. Guy #80 didn’t do any of that. Instead he made sure he looked good as a means to get people to stay with him.
His house was quite literally covered with magazines about fitness, health and ways to stay in shape after 25. Abs were his obsession. He even did sit-ups in my presence a few times. I think they were part of his obsessive compulsive disorder: I have to do 40 crunches an hour or else the universe will implode.

When I complimented Guy #80 on his body he shrug it off, saying he was fat. I told him I was the fat one. I really was. I recently had a mono infection and had spent four months in bed, eating junk food, watching entire seasons of 24 in a day and eating more chocolate. Still Guy #80 had less qualms with my body than his own.

Which made the sex modestly awesome, save for that Asian penis.

Guy #80 was into me. He made me feel as hot as he was. The difference between the two of us was that when he complimented my penis, I didn’t shrug it off. To Guy #80 the mere fact he was with someone lifted his spirits. His enthusiasm in turn lifted anything I had to offer.

Usually Kleenex signal the end of a sex date, but Guy #80 really wanted me to stay the night. I was happy to oblige him.

Of course I felt sorry for Guy #80 and his low self esteem. Apart from the many, many fitness magazines his house was void of anything personal. It was neat and clean and always prepared for visitors, but I could tell I was one of the few people to have been inside.

In a way Guy #80 reminded me of my former self. I used to be an expert in hiding behind drinks, desperately holding on to your glass even when there’s nothing but ice left. When I first started having sex with Guys I weighed my own imperfections far, far more than I did those of my fellow maters. I often find it’s the most beautiful people who think the least of themselves. It takes time and Guys to embrace your own beauty despite your belief in its absence. It takes time and Guys to let go of doing 40 crunches an hour to prevent the universe from imploding in on you.

Me and Guy #80 spent two nights together, about two years apart. Not long after our last date his Facebook status changed to in a relationship. Not long after that his Facebook wall started showing signs of a social life.

I’m happy Guy #80 outgrew his Asian penis.

Relationship summary:

LENGTH: 1 x 1 hour + 2 x 12 hours
FORMAT: Orgy hook-up followed by loving sex dates
SEX SCORE (0 = Sudoku’s <–> 10 = The best sex ever): 8.5

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

I have a confession to make.

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

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

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

The answer is orgies.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I like Amsterdam.

Relationship summary:

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

Guy #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

Guy #57 (Part 2) – Me and my Wikipedia…

Did I mention Guy #57 and I had unprotected sex?

Well, we did. Many times.

It was about a week after our last date when I found out he was dating someone else. I was devastated.
A few days later, I woke up in the middle of the night with the highest fever I ever had. Going delirious on a broken heart is the absolute worst way to lie awake at night.

The next morning I was on Wikipedia matching my symptoms with possible diseases. Of all possible diagnoses, Acute HIV Infection stood out as the most perfect match.

In my heart I knew I was about to become part of a statistic, that small percentage of Gay guys no gay wants to be a part of.

It was impossible to hide my symptoms from my mother. I needed half a day to recuperate from climbing the stairs. Knowing my mother to be the same hypochondriac as I am, I knew she was just as terrified as I was. Not for HIV specifically, but for whatever disease could have possibly struck her son.

I knew being HIV positive would be better than getting leukemia or some other lethal Wikipedia article. At the same time I was most afraid of having to tell my mother that her son had come down with a case of HIV. I didn’t even go there in our conversations. I acted cool and did my best to hide my worries. In response, my mother did the same.

When my symptoms didn’t disappear after two weeks I finally went to see a real Wikipedia, my doctor. I started off my consult by telling my doctor I was HIV positive. When I explained what I had done with Guy #57 my doctor more or less agreed that HIV was indeed probable, given my symptoms.

I emailed Guy #57 to say I was being tested for HIV. It wasn’t the kind of email I enjoyed writing to the first Guy I ever fell in love with. Guy #57 never responded on the issue, which made me worry even more.

All in all I spent three weeks being absolutely sure I somehow had to tell my mother I had done that one thing she had advised me not to do with Guys. I spent a lot of time on Wikipedia those weeks, constantly on the lookout for a diagnosis not as bad as HIV. I already pictured myself being surrounded by people acting politically correct toward my HIV status. In my mind it had already become a part of my identity: Oh, that’s uncle Lennard, he’s the gay uncle who has HIV from sticking it up a Guy he dug for a weekend, but we don’t treat him any differently.

I was quick to loathe my new self.

One of my best phone calls ever came from my doctor, when he called me to say I had a mono infection. I would have jumped in the air, but instead stayed in bed for the next four months.

A mono infection sucks, but those four months were good for me. I watched all eight seasons of 24 in as many days. Things did start to become boring after a week or so. 24 isn’t half as exciting the second time.

A mono infection sucks, but it beat being HIV positive. I could tell my mother was equally relieved. Upon hearing the news my mother and I hugged each other, that’s how glad I was I didn’t have to talk about her son and his bareback escapades.

A mono infection sucks, but some people get other calls from their doctor. I’m not sure what’s worse: Thinking you’re HIV positive or knowing you’re HIV positive.

For those that know, I hope the latter is better.

Guy #56 – Horny Loner, Sneaky Cheater.

Hotels are great for cheating. One might even say that infidelity supports the Hilton the way zombies define The Walking Dead.

Guy #56 was funny, cute, smart, Asian and not single.

I was single and had a hotel room at my disposal.

As predicted by Newton, sneaky cheaters and horny loners are attracted to each other.
Craigslist did the rest.

Guy #56 had made it very clear things needed to be discrete. I had made it very clear I was fluent in getting Guys past the lobby.

It was obvious Guy #56 was nervous about making it to my room unnoticed. Unlike me he was a local. People knew him, and his husband. His husband’s entire family knew him. He was part of the community. And it was the holiday season. Christmas is the worst time to be caught cheating.

Of course being a horny loner I didn’t care much for any of that. I just wanted Guy #56 up in my hotel room because he was funny, cute, smart and Asian.

Once we were confined to the safety of my hotel room Guy #56 and I clicked like peanut butter and chocolate. It was unexpectedly good, but it felt like doing something bad. His husband would be devastated to learn his better half was going to third base underneath someone else’s mistletoe.

At the same time I felt I was doing Guy #56 a favor. Something was obviously lacking in his marriage. I got the impression he loved his husband, except in the company of his husband’s family. Guy #56 probably only cheated during the holiday season.

We had a more than jolly good time in my hotel room two times. Our last date was on December 24^th. In between sex he described me his Christmas dinner as he would be cooking it the day after.

The two of us could have enjoyed each other’s company the entire night. Sadly, Guy #56 needed to be home in time to defrost a turkey.
“Why don’t you guys just do noodles?” I asked.
“My husband is white,” Guy #56 said.
“Of course he is. I can tell you’re into white guys.”
I really liked how Guy #56 went along with my little racist joke. There’s nothing quite as intimate as exploring each other’s dark sides. Actually, there is: There’s nothing as intimate as exploring each other’s dark sides naked, which is what Guy #56 and I did.

A lot of times when I meet people I get bored by how serious they are about everything. I find sarcasm and dark humor to be notably lacking in many Guys. Guy #56 was my kind of dark. He could have been my husband in a parallel universe. I might very well have been the one going solo under my own mistletoe. Perhaps I will someday.

It wasn’t the first time I had sex with a sneaky cheater, but this time it felt bad for my karma.
Guy #56 struck me as a wonderful person. He left me with the realization that great people can be sneaky cheaters too.

It makes horniness all the lonelier for it.

Relationship summary

LENGTH: 2 x 2 hours
FORMAT: Loving sex dates
SEX SCORE (0 = Eating a mistletoe <–> 10 = The best sex ever): 9.5

Guy #55 – Post-orgasmic cam session cool down.

When it comes to technology I always lag behind.
I survived the 1990s without internet. I didn’t get my first cell phone until 2002. I held on to this Nokia heavyweight until 2012, when Guy #115 gave me my first smartphone out of pity.

I was among the last privileged white people to go on Facebook, Twitter and Instagram.

Technology in itself doesn’t repel me. I’ll buy it when I need it, not a moment sooner. If a trend is lasting it will find its way to me eventually.

By the end of 2009 I started exploring the world of MSN. To me it was like talking, only with fingers and usually not with people I knew.

Some conversations I had on MSN were okay, most were boring and pointless.

Until one day Guy #55 told me my laptop had a webcam.

Guy #55 was about 4000 miles away from me. I have no idea how we got to talking with each other, but the short version of the not so long story is that we ended up showing off our masturbatory skills in front of our respective webcams.

Cam sex was interesting.

I knew I would never make the effort to meet let alone do Guy #55 in real life. That made everything I said about how turned on I was a bit of a bright white lie.

A bright white lie in this case is typing something like I want to feel that cock inside of me so bad right now while in reality I was thinking It´s frustrating to type with only one hand. Why aren´t laptops with webcams ergonomically prepared for people engaging in cam sex? Surely the inventors of the web cam knew what it was going to be used for? It’s impossible to masturbate and type at the same time. Both require a completely different posture. So you either have to constantly interrupt what you’re doing or clumsily type with one hand while your eyes are mostly focused on seeing what the other Guy is doing.

Cam sex requires a lot of multitasking for a man.

The reason I engaged in a long distance cam session with Guy #55 was that I had never done it before. Like I said: I never look for technology. It always finds its way to me and when it does I usually end up feeling clumsy and incapable at first.

In fact, few situations are more awkward than a post-orgasmic cam session cool down with a stranger. There’s no cuddling, just plain naked awkwardness and still only one hand to type with. Figure out why.

;)

That’s what I ended up typing after Guy #55 and I had both cammed what we came for.
;) was the best lie I could do on one hand. I wanted to close my laptop and take a shower, but even at 4000 miles I chose to stay polite.

The most exciting part of ‘being’ with Guy #55 was actually the realization we live in an age where we can transmit our naked selves over thousands of miles. For free. As someone with vivid memories of the 1980s the technology was more exciting than Guy #55 itself.

They should design webcams that automatically fade to black five seconds after coming. It would have been the most honest way to progress my relationship with Guy #55: I honestly wanted it to be stopped dead in its tracks and never to be spoken of.

Instead Guy #55 and I ended up chatting for a while. I was despising my own politeness.

Guy #55 started insisting on meeting one day.

After our first and only online encounter he would regularly hit me up on my dating profiles. It’s not that I didn’t like him. He was just immensely focused on meeting up with me. It became a bit of a problem a few weeks later, when I moved back to our common home country, where distance is often measured in feet.

Politeness never ends in a spectacular fashion. I simply kept responding less and less to his messages, until I ignored him completely, regardless of how close we were. It has been well over two years since he tried to hit me up online.

I just realized that means he kept on trying for four years straight. Perhaps that means I wasn’t as clumsy as I felt.

I guess I’m better at technology than I give myself credit for.

Relationship summary:

LENGTH: 4 years
FORMAT: ;)
SEX SCORE (0 = Onion flavored toothpaste <–> 10 = The best sex ever): 2.5

Guy #54 – Saying ‘No’ to Hungry Bottom…

The world of sex dating is weird.

Total strangers can commit the most intimate acts.

Right now I have my phone lying next to me. I just checked Grindr. There’s a 46 year old Guy named Hungry Bottom looking for a fun top just 3000 feet away. He says hi. He doesn’t have a profile picture. Plus he’s 46, which is kind of stretching the age envelope for me. Then again, I can be a fun top if I want to.

I was that one time with Guy #54, back in 2009.

We had met online and later in my car.

If it wasn’t for the world of sex dating we never would have met. He was like Hungry Bottom in search of his fix.

He was around my age and not particularly attractive to me. As he stepped into my car I wondered if I really wanted to have sex with him.

The drive to my hotel room took about 30 minutes. 30 minutes of obligatory chit chat can be an eternity on sex dates, but not with Guy #54.

Sometimes nature has a way of bringing good people together. Guy #54 turned out to be someone who knew where to get weed in Wisconsin. It’s the kind of people I like knowing.

I don’t remember anything else that we talked about, but I do remember it being very pleasant. We laughed a lot, understood each other’s minds. After about 5 minutes of driving I found myself becoming attracted to Guy #54.

While I still had trouble finding Guy #54 physically yum, it did feel good to see how glad he was to be with me. It can actually be kind of a turn on if you have the power of turning someone else on, just by being naked. Plus I felt completely at ease with him, cracking jokes all the way through the sex itself. Sometimes it’s refreshing to talk a lot during sex.

For a good two hours we were like best friends on benefits.

Afterward I drove him back home, where we said goodbye to each other in a warm hug. We both knew we would never see each other again.

As pleasant as our friendship had been, we both knew it had run its course. It’s just inherent to sex dating. Sometimes you meet people you actually become friends with. And other times you meet people that are just there to give your ego a push in the right direction.

That’s what Guy #54 and I did for each other.

Presently, I give 46 year old Hungry Bottom very little chance of finding his one true top in me. My ego has been pushed enough over the years.

Casual hook-ups are something of a psychological experiment, a way to meet someone on account of his hormones, or possibly a lack thereof in the case of Hungry Bottom.
Sex is a great way to get to know someone. It reveals someone’s strengths, insecurities, (mis-)conceptions, even hopes and dreams. Sex lets you figure out what makes a person tick.

Now that I’ve had my share of Guys like Guy #54 I don’t think I have to meet Hungry Bottom to find out what makes him tick. Guys on Grindr are often very much alike these days, especially when they’re called Hungry Bottom.

The world of sex dating is weird. It’s not monogamous, but it’s monotonous.

And that seems to be a choice.

Hungry Bottom would have much better odds if he had made the effort to say more than just hi.

Perhaps I sound old, but these days people don’t seem to be interested in hungry bottoms for the sake of exploration. They’re just in it for the sake of it.

That’s what I gather from Hungry Bottom’s hi. That’s why I won’t be saying hi back.

Thanks to Guys like Guy #54 I can now save myself the trouble of getting to know someone I already know.

Sex dating is weird, because we are all Hungry Bottom.

Relationship summary:

LENGTH: 3 hours
FORMAT: Sex date
SEX SCORE (0 = Minnesota nice <–> 10 = The best sex ever): 8

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