Sexuality – Page 3

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Relationship summaries:

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

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

Do what I did. Start with Guy #1.

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

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

Except for Guy #139 that is.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Relationship summary:

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

Guy #138 – The hotness that is clinical depression…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Relationship summary:

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

Guy #135 – The best sex. Yet.

The last time I had sex with Guy #135 I whispered “I love you” seconds before coming. It felt strange to say the L-word for a change, but above anything else I knew I meant it, even after coming. That almost never happens.

What I loved most about Guy #135 was his wisdom. I’ve never seen him radiate anything but Zen. Though about ten years younger than me, I often felt my own cynicism came off as immature by comparison. Guy #135 was as much a boyfriend as he was a spiritual guide.

On top of that he was also one of the most beautiful Guys I ever met in my life. He looked what you’d expect Adam of Adam and Steve fame to look like, beauty in its most natural incarnation, or doable to the highest degree as I thought the night we met.

His online selfies had been strangely obscure. Had my home been at the center of a lustrous gay life, I might not have even met up with Guy #135. Instead my home was a little tropical paradise. Guy #135 lived an island away and was visiting mine for a week. Not wanting to forego the possibility of sex with a possibly good looking Guy in a place with so few, we met up on his penultimate night there.

I instantly regretted spending the better half of a week not making an effort to set a date, only because his selfies had been so obscure. It would be the first of many times Guy #135 confronted me with my shallowness. Regardless, at the onset of our date I set out to become Steve, even if it was just for one night.

As the night progressed I came to realize two things: Guy #135 was what you would call an old soul and he was into me. He was by no means the slutty type, but for some reason he apparently agreed with me our connection was a special one. I knew I was Steve by the time the two of us were sitting on my porch, praising each other’s beauty as Adam and Steve would.

By the time we woke up together Guy #135 had become someone I care for, even after coming.

We met up a few weeks later, when again he visited my island, only this time he spent all nights with me, all three of them. It was on one such night we fell asleep in each other’s arms and woke up in the exact same position precisely eight hours later. We were Adam and Steve alright.

Guy #135 was not one to be jealous, but he did seem at odds with the way I lived my sex life, going from one meaningless hook-up to the next. I tried to talk my way out of it by saying I was always open to the possibility of a commitment, except of course no commitment ever felt worthy enough to forego anonymous sex on a parking lot, among other things. Guy #135 quickly uncovered it was in fact my own lack of self esteem that deemed every connection disposable. Indeed, part of me couldn’t help but feel unworthy of Guy #135.

We hardly kept in touch when he wasn’t on my island. I guess it felt off chatting with such a profoundly moral boyfriend while at the same time Grindring those closer to home. Life went on and it wasn’t until the day after I broke up with Guy #144 that I learned Adam was back in town.

We spent a few nights on a little private beach no one else could come. It was a place from which one could often see shooting stars in the night sky. I don’t remember if the two of us saw one that night, but for the sake of the story: There was weed.
“We go well together,” Guy #135 told me. I knew I wasn’t ready to commit myself to someone, but it felt good to realize a relationship with #135 might actually be a good idea at some point. I remember looking at him and silently agreeing how well we were going together. It was the night I said “I love you”. It was also the last time I ever saw him.

Our last Whatsapp conversation took place a few months after the night of the best sex ever (up until that point that is). I had just started 168Guys.com and Guy #135 expressed surprise at my number of sexual experiences. He’d always known there were plenty. He just never realized there were that plenty. He wanted to know his number and what his ‘Sex Score’ would be. I said it would be a 10. (It has been for a long time.)

I guess part of me always assumed Guy #135 should maybe hope for another Steve, one with more self esteem and abs to show for it, a Steve less shallow than I am.

Even though nothing ever materialized between Guy #135 and me, he’s always been a very pleasant memory, someone I enjoy missing from time to time. It’s nice to know there’s at least one person I can be Steve with, or me in my most natural incarnation, shallow as a pond, afraid to swim where my feet can’t touch the ground, yet somehow seaworthy enough for Guy #135.

Guy #135 – The best sex ever…

By the time we woke up together Guy #135 had become someone I care for, even after coming.

Our last Whatsapp conversation took place a few months after the night of the best sex ever. I had just started 168Guys.com and Guy #135 expressed surprise at my number of sexual experiences. He’d always known there were plenty. He just never realized there were that plenty. He wanted to know his number and what his ‘Sex Score’ would be. I said it would be a 10.

I guess part of me always assumed Guy #135 should maybe hope for another Steve, one with more self esteem and abs to show for it, a Steve less shallow than I am.

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Relationship summary:

LENGTH: ±2 years
FORMAT: Wholly non committal highly intermittent relationship
SEX SCORE (0 = Cat videos <–> 10 = The best sex ever): 10

Want to read the full story? Click here to start with Guy #1!

Guy #134 – Shame…

Guy #134 made me realize something.

Car sex is depressing, if not depressingly impractical.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shame.

Relationship summary:

LENGTH: 2 years
FORMAT: One time car date followed by occasional obligatory handshake
SEX SCORE (0 = A Sigmund Freud action figure <–> 10 = The best sex ever): 3

Guy #133 – On the beach…

When you live on a tropical island and use Grindr to meet up with Guys, it’s all but impossible to avoid having sex on a beach at some point.

Beaches can get dark and quiet at night.
So when Guy #133 and I met up at his hotel lobby, we went out for a walk and soon found ourselves at a small lagoon with a view of distant cruise ships decorating the horizon and the ocean oozing our date like a Norah Jones album.

I don’t remember much about Guy #133. He was a shoe salesman, only the type of shoes he sold went for $2000 a pair. He showed me pictures of shoes covered in diamonds. I imagined he must have sold many shoes to Hollywood stars, but he told me most of his customers were “hoodies” wanting to add some bling to their wardrobe, so I quipped Guy #133 was a bit like Al Bundy. He had no idea who or what Al Bundy was, though he did later proclaim himself a fan of Modern Family.

In short, Guy #133 and I had nothing in common. I was a 90s kid. He was whatever they call kids who didn’t grow up to the tune of a dial-up modem.

Our conversation was pleasant, but equally meaningless. I was scanning my half of the horizon to see if the coast was clear. He was doing his part.

Sure enough, the more I learned about life as a shoe salesman, the more isolated we became, until it was just us and the sea.

Usually I don’t enjoy the risk of getting caught, but this time the scenery was so lovely I deemed it completely in my right as a human being to enjoy nature the way it was intended, all the way to third base.

In hopes of covering all bases I brought Guy #133 to my place, where the absence of nature dissolved what little common ground we had into a lame hand job. Worse yet, when I dropped my date off at his hotel later, my car broke down. Not wanting to hear another word about shoes I assured Guy #133 I was in complete control of my vehicle. The two of us waved each other goodbye through a cloud of smoke that sprouted from my car’s radiator as I popped the hood. The hesitation with which Guy #133 walked away suggested he felt obliged to stick out my car trouble with me. I however insisted he’d leave. We had gone from blowjobs in the Garden of Eden to discussing shoes in my bedroom to resuscitating a 1982 Mazda on a Hilton parking lot. It was clear to me Guy #133 and I had no future to speak of.

It must have been about 3 AM, hours away from the nearest tow truck. It would take the better half of a day and about $100 to get possession of a working car again, all of it because I so much wanted to do a Guy who spoke of shoes on a beach, someone who didn’t even get my Al Bundy joke.

I should not have transposed our date from the beach to my bedroom. I was fine talking about shoes at a lagoon. Most Guys could probably spice up Keynesian economics there. Our date was great as long as we had the beach to remind ourselves how awesome it would be to have sex there. It did not imply the sex would be awesome elsewhere.

Guy #133 flew back to his home country a few days later. I could tell, because he had disappeared from Grindr. I realized I would have no way of ever getting back in touch with him again, for one very simple reason: I had already forgotten his name.

Relationship summary:

LENGTH: 3 hours
FORMAT: Overvalidated sex date
SEC SCORE (0 = A date with Al Bundy <–> 10 = The best sex ever): 7.8

Guy #132 – The marine.

A question I get asked on a daily basis is whether I’m top or bottom. At times it’s the first thing that comes up in conversation.

I’m sure some kind of Kindsey-scale could be attributed to the top-bottom continuum, but the truth is it’s impossible to predict who ends up on top. It all depends on who you’re with.

Guy #132 was with the navy.

He looked the part.

Guy #132 radiated a boyish manliness that, combined with his perky smile, made you wonder how they managed to even keep Don’t ask don’t tell going for that long.

Being a marine, my date had seen places, things, events even. He was the kind of Guy you’d want to be with when your car breaks down in the middle of the desert. In porn, he would have been the John McTame to my Nakatomi building. He had this sturdy clumsiness about him that befitted a Guy harvesting a primitive sex drive, someone who could let himself be owned by his own instinct.

One could say I dug Guy #132’s sexual energy as he offered me a glass of water. He wasn’t even that attractive. He didn’t need to be, which somehow made him even more attractive. We engaged in one of those conversations we both knew was only a formality standing in between us and the bedroom and I was comfortable in the knowledge he would take charge and be the first to put away his drink to kiss me.

He did, which made it all the more surprising he quickly turned out to be a total bottom.

It’s not that I don’t know what to do with the body of a marine, but part of me couldn’t shake the thought You’re a soldier. Conquer me!

It was hardly a punishment to own a marine for a night, but I did feel like the sex hadn’t lived up to its image.

We met up on two occasions. On our second date he withheld the formalities altogether and went straight to sex. He knew exactly what he wanted, how he wanted it and what he needed to do to get it. It had this manly pragmatism to it that empowered enough potential to own a harem, yet again, when push came to shove, I had to push.

Seeing that much surrender embedded in the sexuality of this army person it was comforting to know Don’t ask don’t tell isn’t a thing anymore. In that sense I can proudly argue I did my part making my country combat ready. Twice. On two occasions.

I lost interest in Guy #132 the moment he brought up the subject of fisting. I guess I’m not that much of a patriot.

Relationship summary:

LENGTH: 2 x 90 minutes
FORMAT: Sex dates
SEX SCORE (0 = Patriotism <–> 10 = The best sex ever): 8

Guy #131 – The ring beard…

Blessed with everything but a plan or even the slightest idea of what I wanted to do with my life, I moved to the island of Curaçao in October of 2013.

For a few years I lived in this tiny country, cocooned from the outside world by its climate, the beaches, the rum, the air conditioning and the fact I was one of only a few white Guys on Grindr.

On the downside, I was also one of the few Guys actually on Curaçao. On bad days the bottom 50 Guys appearing on my Grindr screen were literally an ocean away from me, stuck in Venezuela or Colombia.

With a population of just 150,000 people, Curaçao had no gay life to speak of. It was friendly to gays, but by no means hospitable, or facilitating for that matter.

Discouraged by the lack of doable Guys in my vicinity I decided to be polite when Guy #131 hit me up online, saying he liked my selfies. I didn’t consider it much of a compliment. In this corner of the Earth I was one of the few online people who even had selfies.

Still, it was nice talking to a gay Guy again. That hadn’t happened in weeks. Guy #131’s job consisted of writing copy for gay porn sites. It struck me as the easiest job in the world, getting paid to write about sex. When I shifted through some of the sites Guy #131 referred me to I was appalled by the number of mistakes and errors there were to be found in his copywriting efforts. I instantly knew I would be so much better at this job than Guy #131 was.

So I accepted Guy #131’s invitation for drinks at his place, hoping to learn how one can get paid writing about sex. It was more of a mission than a date, one that did not start off well: I had just parked my car and slammed the door when I realized my keys were still inside. My car, much like my date, was kind of old. Its lack of electrical windows allowed Guy #131, his landlord and his landlord’s friend to pry one open far enough to get my keys back. It had taken them a good 15 minutes.

Relieved as I was to know I still had a working car at my disposal, it came with a price, namely my diminished amount of self worth: Here I was, in a strange country, where I knew absolutely no one and my first date had to witness me being completely incompetent by locking myself out of my car.

My intention had been to seduce Guy #131 up to the point he would tell me how to get paid writing about stuff people do in gay porn. I had anticipated my charm to be enough to sway him, but our little paradise by the dashboard light had killed my mojo.

Once inside Guy #131 showed me more of his work as he spoke about working in the porn industry. From what I gathered all he ever did was write captions for porn videos. And they were awful. So I asked how one becomes a writer in porn, but no matter how I phrased it, I never got a clear answer. Instead he showed me some more porn videos and started touching me. Determined to get my first job as a paid writer I kissed him when he tried to.

It was in that moment I realized his ring beard was all the hair he had. It’s not that I hadn’t seen his baldness before. I just hadn’t registered it as such. Now that he was about to do a porn routine on me I could only think Guy #131 was kind of weird looking with that silly ring beard, not unattractive, but too weird to be pretty regardless.

There are one or two wholly painless sexual positions where one person can be completely passive. Those were the positions I attained as Guy #131 went down on me. It was the kind of sex where I wished for a magazine to make the time pass quicker.

Afterward, he turned off the porn and started inquiring about my life. I told him about this blog I maintained at the time and how it got over a 100 views on a good day. Even before our date was over I knew I would always regret letting a ring beard this outlandishly peculiar go to second base without giving me a single clue about living off the internet first.

I continued my inquiry for good manner, but in the end all he told me was that someone had asked him to do this job. Basically, Guy #131 got to give oral in exchange for telling me he owed his job to one of the 7 billion people on this planet.

I did end up thanking Guy #131 for helping me out with my car key earlier. Leaving had indeed become my top priority as our date progressed. He contacted me a few times afterward, but I pretended to be one of 7 billion people.

My reason for going on a date with Guy #131 was to get information. I was armed with my charm and well received selfies. Guy #131 met up with me to get laid. He was armed with information.

Even as one of the few white Guys in a little tropical paradise, I suck at playing the game sometimes.

Relationship summary:

LENGTH: 3 hours
FORMAT: Drinks with sex involved somehow
SEX SCORE (0 = Being stared at by an octopus <–> 10 = The best sex ever): 2,5

Guy #130 – The Lay After…

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

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

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

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

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

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

It would seem my mother honored our agreement.

Relationship summary:

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

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

Baggage.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The ferryman

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

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

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

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

Relationship summaries:

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

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

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

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

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

Guy #124 – Let the dolphin speak…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Relationship summary:

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

Guy #122 – The spoiled brat…

Like most men never subjected to radiation poisoning I have hair growing out of my body at various places. While I make the effort to keep my chest Bieberesque by shaving it regularly, sometimes a single hair dodges my razor blade and remains sticking out of my body, as desolate as a man standing in the Sahara.

Guy #122 didn’t like chest hair either. That much became apparent when he noticed that one hair a few inches south of my right nipple. Even though we had been engaged in doing naked stuff for a good half hour already, Guy #122 stopped what he was doing and shifted all his attention to that one single bit of hair.

“Can you shave it off?” Guy #122 asked.
“No, I’m having sex,” I said.
It’s not like that one little hair got in the way of anything, but Guy #122 insisted. Again I refused to shave myself, proud as I was to stand up for myself for a change.

That’s when my date proceeded by trying to pull my hair out of my chest. The pain was intense and came without warning. I half heartedly yelled at Guy #122 and scolded him for hurting me, while at the same time laughing about how ridiculous sex with strangers can be sometimes.

The laughter stopped when Guy #122 pulled on my hair again, once again sending shock waves through my entire body. It was the first and to date only time I’ve ever been furious at someone during sex.

At the same time I had been enjoying the sex with this Guy. He was cute and good at it. I didn’t want the sex to stop because of that one tiny hair. Yet much to my surprise and anger Guy #122 kept making attempts at pulling it out. Thankfully I managed to stop him each time he tried, but my defenses came at the expense of my libido. After his fourth or fifth attempt I was so pissed off I turned Guy #122 on his stomach and had my way with him. He seemed to enjoy it, which pissed me off even more. I couldn’t stand being with someone so spoiled, so determined to get his way, so used to getting his way.

Putting on a T-shirt was my first act of business after I was done teaching Guy #122 a lesson. Finally, me and my hair were safe from the clutches of this spoiled maniac who now wanted to cuddle up with me. I however wanted him gone, out of my house, preferably out of my solar system.

Guy #122 hit me up online a few days later. He seemed completely oblivious to the fact our date had angered me to no end. We may have sent a few messages back and forth, but it wasn’t long before I ghosted him. I simply couldn’t stand someone as spoiled as Guy #122.

He would hit me up again many, many times over the course of the next year or so, until eventually I blocked him. Just looking at his picture reminded me of his claws, obsessively trying to pull out that one tiny hair of mine.

I doubt Guy #122 ever realized what the reason for my rejection was. He probably confused my anger for lust, while the lust had merely been a disguise for my anger. Still, I feel good about not giving him his way. He needed it badly.

I do pay more attention to lone hairs sticking out of my chest these days. In that sense I’m giving Guy #122 exactly what he wanted.

Damn, he’s irritating.

Relationship summary:

LENGTH: 3 hours
FORMAT: Sex date
SEX SCORE (0 = “Quid Quo Pro, doctor” <–> 10 = The best sex ever): 7

Guy #121 – The dorminant one…

Dominance.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Relationship summary:

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

Guy #118 – Dating alone together…

Sex is like food. Whether it’s caviar, a Happy Meal or anything in between, sex is something to look forward to. But unless it’s masturbation sex is not a dish you eat alone. Eating together can be very rewarding, provided both parties can agree on what’s for dinner.

Guy #118 and I had met online, where he had pictures of him wearing leather outfits for the world to see. Leather ain’t my thing, but it lets me know when a Guy is aching for sex and nothing but sex. So when I met Guy #118 at his place he took me to his bedroom, sat me down on his bed, offered me an obligatory glass of water which I refused and then proceeded to let me have his way with him.

At the time I mostly had sex to avoid thinking about being a telemarketer without any goals to speak of. I avoided conversations about my life the way Stephen Hawking avoids escalators. After all, I wasn’t living. I was telemarketing, the last thing anyone would want to think of during sex.

So when Guy #118 hit me up a few weeks later I was all too happy to meet up with him once more and forget about living for a short while, except this time Guy #118 suggested we’d meet up for a drink first.

That ticked me off somewhat. I’m not keen on spending money on drinks if it’s sex I’m after, not in the least because I don’t enjoy having to scream over loud music in aid of keeping a conversation going with someone I only want to get inside of. Still, Guy #118 being very cute I deemed it an acceptable investment.

Naturally, Guy #118 asked me about my life as we were having drinks. I complained about being a telemarketer whilst trying to maintain a sense of pride befitting the top I was to him. It was difficult to keep that up, especially when Guy #118 wanted another round of drinks. Small talk has a tendency to become torture after a while, especially in the case of Guy #118, who himself had little to say.
“Shall we go to your place?” I asked after he finally finished his second drink. It wasn’t subtle, but then again, the only reason our paths had ever crossed was because the internet had pictures of him wearing leather. Subtlety was never supposed to be part of our relationship.
“Yeah, about that…” Guy #118 replied as my heart sank.
My date went on to explain his housemate was also home that night, meaning we couldn’t exactly have sex there.
I did not stick around for a third drink, instead going home, sexually frustrated like a rabbit in a cage full of mice.

Looking back, I don’t remember what on Earth convinced me to meet up with Guy #118 a third time. Once again he had asked to meet up for a drink. I guess I really wanted to believe Guy #118 was in it for the sex.
What struck me about our third date was how much attention Guy #118 had paid during our second. He remembered everything I had told him about myself. I on the other hand had totally forgotten what his job was, what part of Asia he was from, or what his name was.

Guy #118 wanted to be friends. I wanted to not think about telemarketing. He wanted a McCaviar. I wanted to eat my misery away.

A fourth date never materialized.

A few months ago Guy #118 got back in touch with me. He wanted to meet up again, only this time he suggested we’d get together and have fun on XTC and roofies. I guess he’d given up on friendship and gotten back to being his leather self again.

It’s not that I have anything against drugs, but I don’t think Guy #118 and I were ever meant to be on the same page together.

Like I said: A fourth date never materialized.

Relationship summary:

LENGTH: ±2 months
FORMAT: Sex date followed by failed attempt at friendship followed by failed attempt at sex date
SEX SCORE (0 = Telemarketing <–> 10 = The best sex ever): 8.7

Guy #113 – The one I told my mother about…

My mother and I never talked about my love life. We maintained a silently agreed upon don’t ask don’t tell policy, which meant I ran off every time the subject of love and sex appeared on the horizon.

Guy #113 would go down in history as the only Guy I ever told my mother about:
“Mom, I may have met someone who I guess you could maybe call my boyfriend,” I said one day, after which my mother gave me a nice warm hug and told me she was very happy for me. She looked relieved, possibly because the last time she saw her son find love was when I was dating Girl #1, some six years prior.

A few days after informing my mother of the wonderful news, Guy #113 broke up with me. I never told my mother. Rather I stopped mentioning my boyfriend, until she quietly understood he was not to be brought up in conversation ever again.

Guy #113 had been a nice surprise. We dated each other for a few weeks during the 2012 holiday season. Our first date consisted of a conversation that lasted twice as long as it felt. On our second date we just got high and ended up in bed together.
The two of us had a lot in common, our sense of humor, the way we looked at things and people and the fact we both agreed Annafrid was the better ABBA singer.

Yet even though our personalities matched, our lives didn’t. Guy #113 had a successful career, a nice Amsterdam apartment and his life was in order. I on the other hand was a struggling telemarketer that lived with his mother, incapable of planning more than a few days ahead.

Having never had a serious relationship with someone I never gave much thought to the concept. To me relationships were like Ebola: It only happened to other people. I had heard some Oprahesque clichés about getting your own stuff in order before committing to anyone or anything, but I had been so busy exploring my sexuality I neglected Oprah for the glory of my libido. I never even thought of committing myself to Guy #113. It was just good fun to experience true intimacy with someone for a change, to experience a relationship that didn’t end by putting my clothes back on.

What I considered a relationship probably was more of an escape. When I was with Guy #113 I didn’t have to think about telemarketing, what to do with my life or how to deal with my mother’s baldness. What I did focus on was how nice it was to wake up next to someone who’d make me breakfast in exchange for oral. Commitmentwise, that was as close as I’d ever gotten with someone.

Guy #113 had goals based on life. I had goals based on a lack thereof. A few weeks into our relationship he sat me down and told me things would not be working out between us. It hurt a little, but mostly because I knew my libido had to search for breakfast elsewhere. When Guy #113 broke up with me, I couldn’t help but agree with him. In fact, my primary concern was that I had just told my mother about him.

The word relationship can have many definitions. To me Guy #113 became a relationship the moment my mother learned of his existence. I suppose it´s safe to say Guy #113 didn’t use his mother as a measure of intimacy.

Of course Guy #113 agreed to remain friends and of course this friendship bled out faster than you can say Grindr.

I guess love, much like my mother´s cancer, struck a few years ahead of its time.

Relationship summary:

LENGTH: 3 weeks
FORMAT: Going steady but not that steady
SEX SCORE (0 = Making out with a stormtrooper <–> 10 = The best sex ever): 8.5

Guy #111 – Downton Shabby.

Guy #111 lived in with his landlord, an 84 four year old friend who had somewhere else to be that night.
The house was what you’d expect from someone old enough to dislike Germans for a reason. I found myself on the set of Downton Abbey with one of the cuter looking footmen as my only company.

While it was beyond obvious Guy #111 and I would end up having sex, we postponed it for a good half hour by means of conversation. His landlord came up a lot. Guy #111 was about my age and it struck me as odd an 84 year old landlord would play such an important role in his life.

It’s not that I have anything against old people, but I don’t look for them on Grindr, the same way I don’t watch Youtube for the ads. But from what I could tell Guy #111 and his landlord did all sorts of friend stuff together. It did not occur to me once his landlord was also his boyfriend.
Like most people, I skip the ads whenever possible.

I remember it being somewhat of a turnoff whenever Guy #111 mentioned his 84 year old friend. The main reason I initiated foreplay was to get my footman to stop talking.

We ended up in his bedroom soon after the talking stopped.

For the first twenty minutes or so I was well on my way to making the sex yet another slightly above average satisfying memory, until the bedroom door opened and man a walked in, an old man, like an 84 year old landlord. I grabbed hold of the nearest sheets to cover myself and then I noticed: Guy #111 did not try to hide his nakedness. He did not feel caught.
“This is Lennard,” Guy #111 said casually, after which his very old friend stepped forward and extended his hand. I actually shook it, even though by that time I had already figured out how Guy #111 paid the rent.

Guy #111 was a recruiter, sent out by his landlord to scour the land for fresh meat. I realized I was tonight’s special the moment the old and wrinkled landlord did not let go of my hand, as he smiled at me like a kid waking up in a candy store.

It agonizes me when Youtube shoves a 20 second toothbrush commercial down my throat. Likewise, it pissed me off Guy#111 and his sugarpope had orchestrated this little get together. I understand it’s difficult to find fresh meat at 84, but trickery is never the answer. It’s just not sexy, not even on wizards.

To their credit, Guy #111 and his boyfriend were quick to gauge my reaction and didn’t press me into a threesome from which I would never recover. The old man politely greeted me before he left the room again, leaving me with Guy #111 and the thought that somewhere in the house there was an 84 year old man who had seen my penis.
“So your landlord is gay then?” I asked.
Guy #111 explained his landlord had been in the closet for most of his life and that he enjoyed having a young gay man living in his house. I didn’t ask any further, but quietly assumed Guy #111 let his landlord crash all of his dates and wondered if seeing a penis was considered a success in their eyes, or if the landlord had hoped to get in on the fun.

After Guy #111 and I were done I very much wanted to go home. I was offered to spend the night, but the house had become spooky to me, knowing it had an old man wandering around at night, walking in on people having sex. It did not sit well with me how Guy #111 and his boyfriend had manipulated me. It had this The call is coming from inside the house-vibe to it.

When I was clothed and ready to go I carefully navigated myself to the front door, constantly ready for something unexpected, the hand of an 84 year old man, the smell of chloroform, anything. I didn’t run into anyone when Guy #111 showed me out. Yet it wasn’t until I was out on the street that I felt relief.

My footman hit me up online a couple of times afterward. Each time he did I was reminded of his haunted house where old men look at penises.

Ghosting never felt more appropriate as it did in the case of Guy #111.

Relationship summary:

LENGTH: 2 hours
FORMAT: Sex date with a pinch of gerontophilia
SEX SCORE (0 = The Germans <–> 10 = The best sex ever): 3

Guy #109 – That time STD’s were sexy…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Relationship summary:

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

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