Psychology – Page 3

Guy #32 and #33 – Stroke that ego…

There’s one very simple moral to every story here on 168guys.com: Love and sex are inseparable. If you’re looking for sex you’re looking for love.

While quite a few gay people told me they enjoy reading this blog, some have trouble accepting its message.

When I look around it’s as if people want to live in a world where love and sex can live apart.

Which is why gay saunas exist. They help maintain the illusion that sex can be a commodity.

Granted, we don’t have sex with total strangers because we want to love total strangers. We have sex with total strangers because we want to love ourselves, if only for a short while.

Gay guys visit gay saunas because we are lured by our egos.

I’m not judging by the way.

There’s nothing wrong with having someone stroke your ego every so often. It’s what it’s there for.

We say it’s just sex, so we may pretend hurt is off the menu.

But when you go to a place where people wear towels instead of clothes you expose your needy ego to the elements it craves the most. That can be a risky game.

I met Guy #32 in a whirlpool. As is so often the case in whirlpools, words were never part of our relationship. We looked at each other, got within lip range and started kissing.

Guy #32 was very cute in my opinion. My ego started salivating like a Pavlovian dog when he touched me at places my ego likes to be touched the most.

Guy #32 was also just the beginning, because a minute or so into our relationship, Guy #33 came out of nowhere and slid himself and his gorgeous body into the whirlpool. He sat down right next to me.

I found myself right smack in the middle of two beautiful naked guys that either kissed me, touched me or both. Sure it was just about sex, but I couldn’t help but feel like being one of the cool kids. I had never felt like a cool kid before.

I was finally at a place where my own sexuality had matured to the point reality was on par with my fantasies. My ego opened up and settled in for the trip to heaven.

That’s when Guy #32 and #33 got up and walked away, leaving me alone in my whirlpool.

They didn’t say anything. They just left. Together.

At first I figured I had fallen victim to a simple communication error, something easily remedied. So I got up and followed Guy #32 and #33. I found them making out in a steam room. As soon as they noticed my presence they got up and walked away.

It wasn’t a communication hiccup. It was a cold hearted rejection. Guy #32 and #33 wanted something that didn’t involve me. That was unfortunate, as I had just exposed my bare ego on the assumption I was one of the cool kids.

Maybe I was too sensitive to be satisfying my sexuality through sex instead of love. Maybe I should never have gone to gay saunas. Being shunned from a threesome hurts. I can’t pretend it didn’t. It may very well have been the first moment I ever realized there is no such thing as just sex.

At the time I didn’t quite understand why I felt hurt. My previous sexual encounters had already made me feel attractive and cute. I knew I had no reason for feeling insecure, but no rationalization could keep me from feeling the way I did: Like an unattractive and undoable outsider.

It felt like being a virgin again. It reminded me of that time I was convinced no one would ever see the beauty in me.

Gay saunas is where the umbilical cord between love and sex is stretched to its limit. But no matter how thin the cord is stretched, it never breaks.

It took me a good half hour to get over Guy #32 and #33. I allowed both to become a part of my past when I ran into Guy #34 later that night, but that’s another story.

Relationship summary:

LENGTH: 1-2 minutes
FORMAT: Foreplay followed up by exclusion
SEX SCORE BEFORE REJECTION (0 = What Hitler felt like when he was rejected from art school <–> 10 = The best sex ever): 9
SEX SCORE AFTER REJECTION: N/A (sadly)

Guy #15 – Guilt Vs. Pleasure…

It’s difficult enjoying sex with people of your favorite gender when you’re in the closet.

Whenever I have sex, I tend not to think about my mother’s opinion on the matter, or my dad’s, my family’s or my friends’, unless of course it’s the friend I’m having sex with.

But for people in the closet, it must be a daunting task to completely remove those thoughts. In some cases the quest for pleasure gets stopped dead in its tracks by guilt. That’s when gay people resort to living straight lifestyles.

They have my sympathy.

As does Guy #15, who according to his Facebook profile recently spent a holiday in Miami, together with his wife.

Guy #15 used to be gorgeous. He was the hottest guy I’d ever been with up till that point. I hope he’s happy these days, though his Facebook pictures emit an aura of loneliness. My guess is he prefers feeling lonely over feeling guilty.

In the case of Guilt vs. Pleasure Guy #15 ruled in favor of Guilt. Even during sex.

Being with Guy #15 was certainly very pleasant, but in large part because he looked so good. He once told me he went through life knowing he would never find someone he could truly be happy with, because family. That general sense of sadness echoed all the way into sex.
Technically speaking Guy #15 was good in bed, and on the couch. Even in the absence of any furniture he knew how to unleash pleasure over the both of us. Yet his attention was always divided between us two and the rest of the world. Psychologically speaking I had sex with his entire family.

Sex with Guy #15 was like an AA Christmas party. Everything fell neatly into place, but there was just something missing. Sex with Guilt is like a party without booze: tepid, depressing and predictable.

After about four or five dates Guy #15 and I lost touch. He gravitated toward a straight lifestyle, eventually getting married.

As the years progressed, Guilt slowly consumed Guy #15 and his dropdead gorgeous body. Judging by his Facebook pictures, he gradually stopped paying attention to his own sexuality. He’s still fairly cute and attractive, but it doesn’t radiate like it used to. It’s like he doesn’t want to be reminded of Pleasure.

On the other hand, life gave him a daughter not too long ago.

I guess he found someone to be truly happy with, because family.

Relationship summary:

LENGTH: A few months
FORMAT: A couple of sex dates
SEX SCORE (0 = A dentist with a German accent <–> 10 = The best sex ever): 7

Guy #12 – Gandalf at a Tupperware party…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Relationship summary:

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

Guy #8 – Caught in translation…

The story of Guy #8 began when the two of us bumped into each other one night under the fluorescent light of a dirty washroom filled with penetrant club music and the sound of a guy peeing into a urinal that had somehow gotten stuffed with toilet paper.

Don’t expect a love story.

Our washroom hook-up wasn’t the first time we had seen each other. In the weeks leading up to our meeting I had caught Guy #8 staring at me while pretending not to. The washroom was simply the first time our personal spaces intertwined.
Knowing any obligatory chitchat would only postpone the thing we both so obviously wanted, we started kissing each other. The room must have been engulfed in the smell of pee that lay scattered on the floor. Fortunately, sexual arousal has a way of dampening reality.

It wasn’t until Guy #8 and I got back on the dance floor that I found out he spoke French and nothing but French. This would prove to be an obstacle in our relationship, as he labeled ‘us’ next morning when we woke up in his bed.

The sex had been lovely, intimate, passionate and fun. Sex without words is actually very enjoyable. The lack of a workable vocabulary forced us to go at it intuitively, like animals if you will. We had but our bodies to communicate with each other. That’s hot.

Yet in my mind I was convinced sex was the only thing I was after. Odd as it may sound, I still considered myself to be bisexual. My closeted self still envisioned me having a life with regular vaginal intercourse that would one day produce the offspring to make my mother oh so happy. Sex with a guy was one thing, but I couldn’t fathom being attached to one, certainly not one I had met in a washroom.

As it turned out Guy #8 was expecting a love story. He wanted me to be his copain.
“Mais je ne parle pas Français,” I countered. It’s pretty much the only French I know, but in this case I thought I had provided a solid argument for my case.

Regardless, my rejection must have gotten lost in translation, because it didn’t take long for Guy #8 to start calling me numerous times a day. The one time I did pick up he started being angry at me in French. Lacking any words to contribute, I simply hang up. I ignored Guy #8 for a full week, during which he continued sending me indecipherable French text messages and leaving missed calls.

Since the local gay scene counted less people than the island from LOST, Guy #8 and I ran into each other again the following Friday. I continued my previously successful tactic of completely ignoring my newly acquired stalker. This proved difficult, as he continuously stared at me like a Nazi from a Tarantino-movie.

When I had to go to the washroom he creepily followed me there, bringing us full circle. Once again we met in a place where there was no chance of escaping each other’s presence, or the smell of pee. To the best of my capabilities, I explained Guy #8 that I did not want to be his copain. I believe I came up with Je ne veux pas coucher avec toi, ce soir, ou any other soir.

Fortunately, most stalkers are weak like cactuses in the Arctic: They die from lack of attention. It wasn’t long before Guy #8 stopped calling me and started leaving me alone, although he would give a few angry stares every time we saw each other again, which was on most Friday nights.

Guy #8 was the first guy I ever topped. (If you don’t know what that means, you’re probably not gay.) I had enjoyed being the dominant factor in our short ‘relationship’. I had also learned that intense sex can be caused by intense people, such as French stalkers.

In terms of playing the field, Guy #8 was an easy kill. I knew he was into me. Plus he had major dependency issues as it turned out. He had given me a sense of power I had never felt before.

Of course, with great power comes great responsibility.
Who would have thought the moral of a superhero movie applies to guys you meet in a public washroom?

Guy #8 taught me it does.

Relationship summary:

LENGTH: ± 1 year
FORMAT: One-time sex date, followed by two week stalking spree, followed by months of angry stares of ever decreasing intensity
SEX SCORE (0 = forever not knowing if Glenn from The Walking Dead is alive or not and 10 = the best sex ever): 8

Guy #7 – Like Oliver Twist at an all-you-can-eat buffet…

Imagine living in a country with only one gay nightclub, anonomously cornered between a gas station and the country’s only Pizza Hut. And you’re pretty much the only white guy there.
You’ll find that of all the people you meet, the vast majority wants to have sex with you.

To me this place was heaven.

After years and years of utter sexlessness I had finally landed in a spot where I was considered hot and doable.

I was like Oliver Twist at an all-you-can-eat buffet.

The problem with all-you-can-eat buffets is that they can unleash one’s greediness. That in turn can lead to bad decision making, like that time I had sex with Guy #7.

When Guy #7 first came up to me, he laid his arm on my waist, pushed his body against mine and gave me one of the friendliest smiles I had seen that night. I remember he had somewhat of a nice body. And he acted nice. He made a point of constantly saying how attractive I was. It was nice to hear someone say it. I didn’t quite consider myself attractive yet, but it was comforting to know someone did.

As the night progressed I sucked up all of Guy #7’s compliments like an insatiable narcissist. My narcissism had unleashed my greediness. I was so flattered a total stranger had come up to me to ask for sex that I neglected to take a good look at this stranger’s face.

That happened the next day, when he came by my house to have the sex we had agreed upon the night before.

When I saw Guy #7 in the bright and unforgiving sunlight and without any alcohol to make him look less like a cartoon character, I realized that of all the guys I could have picked, I chose poorly. It was like accidentally picking something you don’t like at an eatfest establishment.

Any rational being would let a waiter take care of his rejects. But I was Oliver Twist, not known for ever turning down a meal.

Besides, if my sex life were a menu, I only considered Guy #7 an appetizer. It didn’t take long to work through it. We mostly just kissed, naked unfortunately. He was seemingly enjoying it and I was busy accepting the lesson I was being taught: That if I want sex to actually be enjoyable, I had to become picky in choosing guys I have sex with.

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

In that sense he had wetted my appetite.

Relationship summary:

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