Guy #130 – The Lay After…

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

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

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

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

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


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

It would seem my mother honored our agreement.

Relationship summary:

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

Guy #112 – Gayspeak.

Social awkwardness is like quicksand: The more you fight it, the more you drown.

I drowned the night I met and did Guy #112. I believe we both did, but I will never know for sure. Communication between Guy #112 and me was so bad I can’t even say if he loathed or loved me.

Our online conversation had been cold and curt, our language one of abbreviations:

– vers
– u host?
– y
– stats
– 6’1” 155 7.5”
– nice!
– thnx
– 10 min
– k

When Guy #112 and I met up he turned out to be shy, very shy, like embryo at an abortion clinic-shy.

Gayspeak definitely has an Orwellian ring to it, the way it doesn’t allow for any feelings. Only when you meet someone in real life do you get to find out what kind of person hides behind the Gayspeak, which in this case turned out to be a socially phobic mute.

Guy #112 took my coat, sat me down on his couch and followed up on that by not saying anything.
The worst thing was he was visibly uncomfortable, his eyes constantly on the lookout for a place to rest, his body repeatedly changing posture and nothing but uneasiness spread on his face.
I didn’t know what to make of it: Was he mesmerized by my beauty or repulsed by my narcissism? I had no clue.
“So what kind of work do you do?” I asked.
Guy #112 seemed both relieved a conversation had started and at the same time distressed because he had to think of words to say.
“Bank,” was his answer.

It took Guy #112 another few seconds of everlasting silence before he leaned over and reached for my head with his lips. Not knowing what else to do I reached back. Our heads collided mid-couch. It was one of the worst kisses I ever had. His lips were void of any warmth, body or soul. The fact he kissed suggested he was into me. The way he kissed made me wonder he was straight.

The more we kissed, the more I felt the desire to move on, to do anything but linger in this perpetual gray area of consent. I guess undressing someone in a realm of ambiguity can be fun and exciting, but in this case the only thing I felt was Guy #112’s shyness and/or mortal fear: I might as well have been undressing a captured bird.

As Guy #112 and I celebrated our bond by exploring each other’s nakedness it amazed me how Gayspeak had been the prelude to a gathering such as ours. I imagine Guy #112 got to see as little of my personality as I did of his. All we did get to see were our bodies clumsily partnering up to create the act of sex.

I don’t remember how we ended, but it can’t have been climactic. To my recollection the word ‘Bank’ marked the last time Guy #112 and I spoke with each other. What I do remember is wanting to leave as quickly as I could, which I did. The fact I don’t remember any details is probably a testament to how awkward things had been.

The funny thing about Gayspeak is that you know for sure it will lead to sex, but never who you’ll be having it with. It’s literally a computer generated language programmed to facilitate horniness. Sometimes it’s a great way to make friends.

Other times it’s a great way to remind yourself it’s okay to stay inside and watch porn.



Relationship summary:

LENGTH: 20 minutes
FORMAT: Sex date
SEX SCORE (0 = Michael Flatley’s Lord of the Dance on quicksand <–> 10 = The best sex ever): 2.5

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.

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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 #34 – Hunter or prey…





In the gay scene it doesn’t really matter if you’re top or bottom. Hunter or prey, that’s the question.

Some go to gay saunas to hunt. Others go there to be hunted.

The ones that hunt walk around through barely lit areas filled with the occasional sound of humping men. Then there are the ones that preystitute themselves in strategic positions, waiting for their hunter to make a move whilst rejecting hunters they don’t find attractive.

I’ve always been a hunter, a hunter blessed with one superpower: I can sense when someone is into me. In a heartbeat. All I need is one second and I can tell if a person wants to have sex with me or not. I can even sense how much they want it.

Occasionally I will meet someone who I know wants to have sex with me. This happens to people all the time, but I am always aware when it happens. Even in the darkness of a gay sauna I can see that twinkle in people’s eyes when they like what they see.

In the case of Guy #34 I found myself in a sauna cabin crowded with a dozen hunters and one prey sitting silently on the top bench, naked and silently aroused. I sat down just within his personal space. I moved quickly and conquered his entire personal space in less than a minute. Guy #34 showed no visible reaction, physical or emotional, to anything I was doing. His enthusiasm was like that of a dead bird caught in the mouth of a bigger bird.

While I was starting to grow disappointed with my catch the other dozen hunters became aware of what was happening and wanted in on the fun.

Soon the entire sauna was all over Guy #34 and I found myself awkwardly entertaining his epicenter. Quickly everyone was in everybody’s space. I was turned off by the greediness of it, the way every hunter claimed Guy #34 as his rightful meal. It should be noted me and Guy #34 were the only ones not in our fifties or older.

I decided I didn’t want to have any part in what was happening. I got up and walked away, leaving Guy #34 to the mercy of a dozen hungry vultures. He continued allowing everyone as passively as he had allowed me. As I left the room I got a good look at his face for the first time. It was as static as blow-up doll.


I hope for Guy #34 he was into older men.

When I came by again some 15 minutes later Guy #34 was gone. What was left was the same pack I had left behind, each member quietly minding his own space again. I looked around for Guy #34, but I never saw or heard from him again.

It wasn’t really a good night for me. I had been rejected from a threesome earlier and now I had accidentally fed Guy #34 to the council of elders.

It’s not always easy being a hunter. It’s a setup for frequent failure if I’m being honest. Sure, occasionally you catch something you never want to let go off, but you always do somehow.

That’s why I believe a hunter should have faith in himself no matter what. It’s not about the failures. It’s about that one prey that would hunt you too.

A hunter has to stay positive: I’m a hunter with a superpower. I can sense when someone is into me.
In a heartbeat.

Or after I’ve seen their face. Or after people walk out of a threesome with me. It all depends really.




Relationship summary:

LENGTH: 3 or 4 minutes
FORMAT: Foreplay turned accidental sacrifice
SEX SCORE (0 = Pray the gay away <–> 10 = The best sex ever): 2

Guy #16 – Mi casa…





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

Mi casa

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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





Relationship summary:

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

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