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I get crushes all the time. The thing is, I don’t know how to react to them. I’ve been in love with more people who’ve never known about it than you can possibly imagine. I had a crush on a guy for like three years and sat on it because he wasn’t gay, and even if he was, he wouldn’t be interested. And then he came out, and he still wasn’t interested. Oh well.

My current crush has plainly stated that he doesn’t get the tattoo thing (and for those of you who don’t know me, I’ve got tons of them), and while I can pull off the sexy Big Daddy, Chocolate Thunder thing, I take it his types run more of the Abercrombie + Fitch, Brad Pitt fashion. Typical faggot.

But I’m tired of watching people from afar and never copping to my feelings. I used to be deathly afraid to approach people.  Strange, I know. I’m this gregarious, and bubbly guy, but even I have insecurities.  In my fantasy world it’s Matthew Fox or Blair Underwood, but in my real life I have a soft spot for Average Joes.  I’m not scared of a bald spot or a tummy.  Hell, I even blogged about it here.

So, Dear Reader, if any of you know any nerdy Semitic types with glasses, who like galleries, museums, cars, gadgets, have an awesome sense of humor, and love to make out, gimme a holler. Just don’t tell them you found me soliciting for romance on the internet, cause that would be weird, right?

Oh, straight men. How thou confuseth us. Well, not me, really. There are a lot of gay men out there who covet you hetero boys because we always seem to want what we can’t have. If you would just give us five minutes of your time, we’d drop our bottom jaws like rattlesnakes and give you the best toe-curling, eye-rolling oral sex of your lives. And that gesture alone would convince you that life is indeed sweeter as a full blown homo (pun intended) with Kylie on your iPod and a rainbow sticker on the back of the Mini Cooper.

But you do confuse the straight women you purportedly say you love so much. I feel for straight women; mainly because they have to deal with straight men. I’m not saying that all straight men are awful, some are okay, I guess: Abraham Lincoln, Martin Luther King, Jr., and Atticus Finch from To Kill a Mockingbird come to mind.

Believe me, there are tons of out and proud fags out there who I’d love to do terribly kinky things to and they’re not giving me the time of day either. Why complicate the issue with unobtainable straight dudes? It’s just not my bag.

But let me focus. Sometimes, people, straight men have a thing for dick. They just do. They might not say so, because if they did, then they’d be “gay” and everyone knows that’s such a horrible thing. Cause gay means pink taffeta and the worst thing of all, butt invasion. Oh you didn’t know? When you’re gay, you spend all waking moments thinking of how you could shove things up your butt and turning straight men gay, because we don’t have jobs or care about the election. Politics are boring compared to lubed up traffic cones, right?

The truth is, some gay men leave their butts to the sole function that everyone uses it for and for that purpose only. Conversely, I know some straight men who can’t get off unless they have a finger or two shoved up the chute and I repeat: That doesn’t make them gay. Shocking, I know, but I give you my word on that. Sexual orientation, and sexual identity are two different things.  And I love you, honestly, but I don’t have time to delve into the complexities of these matters. Look it up and get a book and let the experts explain the difference. But trust me, what people do, what turns them on, and what they’ll honestly admit to, can be vastly different. Especially when they hold onto to calling themselves straight as if their lives depended on it.

So, to my friend who inspired this post, I don’t know what to say about your ex-boyfriend. You’re a girl, he’s a boy, albeit a bit of a weirdo, but I like the guy. Him spending all this time with this other guy doesn’t mean that they’re fucking each other, but they just might be. Or maybe they’re just blowing each other (which is still sex), or jerking off together (which is also still sex), or maybe they’re just “emotionally connected” to each other (which is like sex without fucking).

I know that’s a tough thing to hear after being in a relationship with this guy, and what girl wants to hear that her former flame’s gone fag? Only he can answer that, sweets. And even with that, could he really be honest with you, if he can’t be honest with himself? The truth is, you might never know what’s up with this question mark of a dude, and you just have to make your peace with that. Again, go look up sexual identity and sexual orientation and get yourself acquainted with the differences. It might help to give you some clarity.

Wrapping up, you two are exes for a reason. That gray area of confusion, especially after all this time is a dangerous place to be. Do yourself a favor and move on. There are certainly guys out there who have their shit together and will man up and do you right and devote their time, kisses, and dick to you, and you alone.

I grew up with AIDS. When it made its impact in America, I was roughly ten years old and along with poverty, crack, and gangs, I watched it kick the inner city’s and a lot of black and brown people’s ass.  A neighbor buried a son who, being a child of the eighties, loved his drugs, and fucking around with men who also loved drugs. Watching him waste away, I saw just how hardcore HIV and the virus could be. And I also knew that like him, I also had a thing for other guys, and I promised myself I would minimize the risks that lead to infection.

And I have.

In the twenty-five years since HIV hit this country, drug therapy, meds, and the disease itself have changed. In 2008, a positive diagnosis is no longer a death sentence. People who tested positive two decades ago and are still well are living proof—survivors that have come through the other side.  I once thought, even fairly recently, that I would never date or enter into a relationship with someone who was positive. Today, I can’t say that is the case. Does that mean that I have some death wish? Not at all. I’m just being honest.

I know we’ve all been force-fed that HIV = DEATH. Or AIDS means the end of the line and you better take that trip around the world now because your days are now numbered. But it just isn’t the case anymore.  Not to minimize the impact of AIDS–people will still succumb to it–but it really has become more of a chronic disease along the lines of diabetes or hypertension if treated properly, and there’s no reason to think that a long life after diagnosis isn’t possible.

But I’m still saddened by the number of infections. The numbers are up 12 percent since last year among young gay men according to The Washington Post, and sadly among men who have sex with men (a phrase conjured up by health officials because it accurately describes men who fuck around with other men but don’t consider themselves gay—some call the down low or DL types), the numbers are even more staggering, especially with regard to Black men. The Black AIDS Institute claims that black men are up to eight times more likely to be infected than white dudes.

Okay, so I’m not trying to be Debbie Downer here. I’m not a doctor, a health practitioner, or an AIDS educator, but I am a gay man who is genuinely concerned about his fellow fags and homos.

If you’re going to fuck, fuck safely and responsibly. Have safe sex. Wear a fucking condom. Don’t party your simple ass up on meth and go on crazy sex binges where you don’t know your partner or where his cock has been. I don’t care how deliriously hot these guys are, or if they’re cocks are so big, you’re tripping over them. I like my kink, and I like my sleaze, and I don’t think that monogamy is always the answer for everyone, but even with that alternative point of view, I’m not stupid. So for your own sake, you don’t be stupid. You can still participate in kinky fun without putting yourself at risk or the people fucking you at risk. Trust me. When I was in college and just starting to fuck around with guys for the first time, we got creative and did all kinds of hot, sexy, titillating (and low-risk) things that buttered our bread and turned our cranks, and we all got off. No one ended up disappointed. (Fer’instance, Google: Princeton Rub)

All I’m saying is that if you’re out there banging around, get yourself fucking tested already. Find out where you stand, and if you are positive, it’s not the end of the road for you, my friend. You can and will have a long and productive life ahead of you. But like anything out there worth doing and worth doing well, you’re going to have to do your part.

I have a feeling I’m not done on the topic, and I’d love to hear how people out there who are dealing with HIV and AIDS first hand live their lives with regards to dating and romance.

I’m surely not the only homo who would love to wrap their legs around Henry Rollins and not just because he’s a hot and sexy punk rock singer, spoken word performer, actor, but because he’s a huge advocate for queers and GLBT rights and politics. I found this interview on Queerpunks via my good friend Jbrotherlove. It’s a bit dated, but I feel the sentiments are worth repeating:

“Basically, I am sick of the ignorance, hatred and all the bullshit. The truth that someone is gay is as odd as the fact that someone is straight. It is what it is, there’s nothing new about homosexuality and these people either need to evolve or get the fuck out of the way. If they want to hate, fine but they will have to keep it to themselves or expect complete turbulence from me. It’s insane to me that someone has that kind of time in their day to hate someone for what they can’t help and for what there is absolutely nothing wrong with.”

Click here for the post in its entirety.

I really have to hand it to my folks. I don’t know how old I was when I realized the wonderful awesomeness that is masturbation; twelve, thirteen maybe…but after I did, I started doing it: All. The. Time. And now over two decades later, here I am, still giving myself the good wank. And often.

But looking back, I swore I was discreet, stealth. I was like a Navy SEAL the way I covertly floated into the bathroom and locked the door to spend some quality time by myself. It was like I invented it. I had this secret thing that I could do and could never share with anyone. Perhaps only Einstein felt as I did when he discovered the Theory of Relativity and scribbled his famous equation across a chalkboard could understand the pleasure I was feeling two, three and sometimes four times a day. Of course, my folks had no idea. Yeah, right. They were just good at letting me tire myself out. They probably bought stock in Kleenex.

I have never been caught, thank God. I have left some choice reading material and inspiration behind. Not quite the same thing, but since everybody does it (ponder my shock when I realized that women did it too! Yay, women!), I’ve never had to save face or justify my behavior.

As a single man, I’ve found myself getting really creative. Sometimes porn is a catalyst, other times it’s the memory of the Trader Joe’s cashier, or maybe its just me really exploring and enjoying myself; nothing wrong with that.  I’ve test driven condoms, lubes, jerk styles (I honestly think I might be ambidextrous); I’ve tried overhand, underhand, both hands, and no hands. I beat off so much that I’ve never had a wet dream. At least I don’t think I have.

Then there’s the matter of when: upon waking, in the shower, before bed (is there anything better than a good whack session to get yourself into some serious slumber?). There are all kinds of sleeves and toys (have you seen the Fleshlight?), but I’m old school. Other than the occasional butt plug, I keep my beating off sessions free of accoutrements.

So with that, Dear Reader, I would love to hear about your experiences about self-love and pleasure. That is, if you’re not too prudish. Have you ever been caught? Have an unusual technique, discovered something new and interesting about yourself? Edged yourself raw? Feel free to share in comments, or shoot me an email if you’d like to keep it private.

2/2

So, dude’s originally from Turkey, is finishing up a grad program at USC, loves movies, classic American fiction and is able to put his words together better than me despite the fact that English isn’t his first language (and I’m digging the accent).

He responded to a posting I made on Craigslist. That should’ve been a huge flashing light there, but then again, I met my roommate on good ole CL and despite a couple road bumps with her, we are pretty damn peachy. Now I know what people have said about Craigslist and have experienced true nightmares. But the rarely browsed Misc Romance is where I posted, (as opposed to the flat out hook-up sections) and where the fellow found my posting.

We talk on the phone briefly a couple times to set up a coffee date and I found his gay accent on this side of endearing.

The morning of coffee date, he calls me saying he’s waiting on his friend to get back from being out and about because they shared a car (Uh oh #1). He asked me to be patient, and he apologized, and even though he was driving from Long Beach to Hollywood (Uh oh #2), he’d be there as fast when he could and would call me en route. A couple of hours later, said friend has returned and he’s on his way.

I get to the coffee place and there he is, the poor thing.

You know how sometimes, when you’re shopping, you see a group of people and you don’t really pay attention cause you’re trying to find the best bananas, or the fat free microwave popcorn, and then you take a second glance and you realize that the people are most likely from a group home and are on an outing?  That’s what ran through my head when our eyes met.

Or didn’t meet–partly because he couldn’t maintain eye contact. He was dressed like a ten year old whose mother picked out his clothes for his school picture that day his clunky skate shoe contrasting with his wide wale corduroy pants.  Now I’m not saying that to dis the poor dude. I’m no fashionista, but what I met up with in person was vastly different from who I felt like I talked to prior.

He was smart, no doubt, but most likely suffered from a mild form of autism, or Asperger’s Syndrome (my brother has autism and my mom worked in special ed for years so perhaps I’m biased; I’m certainly aware of the characteristics), but my heart really bled for the guy…once again, as much as I complain about my own dating life, it must be doubly difficult for someone with special needs, or disabled, or ___________. (Fill in your own blank.)

The date concluded at a sandwich shop after coffee where I passed on lunch, but he not only killed a footlong turkey sub, he proceeded to load up on the condiments, so it was a wet, soggy, drippy mess.  Did I mention his bottom teeth were completely rotten? Rotten. And he was in such a divine state eating that sandwich but I couldn’t wait for it to be over.

That was a rough one. Partly because I felt for this guy, but mostly because it was just a flat out, gawd-awful date.

1 of 2.

At some point a couple years back, I told myself I’d swear off hook ups, booty calls, and friends with benefits situations for something tangible with someone significant. I had good intentions in mind and signed up with a series of online dating services that catered to the GLBT world as well as straight ones, and told myself that I’d date anyone who’d respond. I did this as a way of shaking myself free of my whatever I’d done in the past and clearly hadn’t worked.

I don’t even really remember the details about this particular dude. He was an actor, he had strangely cropped pictures taken from weird angles, but some people (like myself) get bizarre results from cameras: Either I look uncomfortable, or constipated. Or both. (Check my Flickr page for proof.)

But I threw caution to the wind, we exchanged a couple of emails, briefly talked on the phone to set up a coffee date, and off I went to the heart of the San Fernando Valley to meet up.

So I show up, look around, try to remember what he looked like and I hear my name being called. I look left…I look right, and nothing. Yet I still hear my name. And then. I look. Down.

He was a little person.

And I guess he never thought it was worthy of discussion or even letting me know that he was indeed a little person. Was I supposed to be able to tell from his canted and strangely composed profile pics?

I shrugged it off and sat down and we started talking, and this non-coffee drinker indulged in a LARGE non-fat latte. I don’t remember what happened next. I assume we started talking, or at least part of me did, because fifteen minutes in, my consciousness found its way back into my body and then I bolted from my seat, said, “I gotta go.” and peaced out.

I’m not proud of it. It was abrupt and mean, and despite the bitchiness this fag can sometimes possess, I never intentionally try and hurt anyone’s feelings, homo’s honor. But I also hate being deceived and lied to. I imagine being a little person is hard. I imagine being a gay little person is even that much harder. And I’m not saying I would imagine a love connection with dude would’ve been imminent, but at least let someone know what they’re getting into.  Hell, the old me might have even given the dude some quality time, if only for the curiosity factor, but not site unseen. You gotta put a person up on game.

Stay tuned for part two. And feel free to contribute your own hell dates to the comments section. I’d love to hear about them, and how you’ve handled them.

I have to admit that knowing he went to an Ivy has left me a bit insecure, which I guess says more about me than him. I went to a state school but he could care less about that preferring to wrap his love around me like it comes in ribbons. Right now he’s obsessed with quantum physics or is it alternative realities; ones that may very well exist, but I just smile politely while I leaf through my celebrity rags. He gets so excited about these parallel dimensions – worlds that are just like are our own apparently, but operate independently without any of the inhabitants being wise. “It’s almost like the old axiom of the tree falling in the woods,” he says. “In our world, it makes a sound because that’s our reality.  We’re conditioned to expect a thunderous crash because that’s what we know.” Seeing him so entrenched in thought, his science magazine folded in half with the tip of his finger holding his place reminded me of why I fell in love with him in the first place.  He shrugs, pushes his glasses up and squints at the fine print.

We don’t argue much but we once got into it over a movie.  A mother lost her only child and then plotted with a geneticist to replicate another child from the first’s remains.  Or was it the one where the ten-year old android’s mother died and he wasn’t programmed or equipped with the emotions of how to cope with the loss?  In any event, I pleaded with him to feel some sort of empathy, but his mind is like a computer: cold, mechanical, and set to deal with only the rational. I, on the other hand, sob openly at sappy commercials and can’t pass the homeless without handing over any spare change.  I know I’m emotional, but then again, children of suicides usually are. “If you have never had to deal with loss,” I tell him, my face painted salty with tears, “then you have no understanding of what its like, David.  You just…don’t.” I remember burying my mother alone, revering her as if she was responsible for the concept of light, with only the city worker who got time and a half for working Thanksgiving Day standing respectfully some distance away from me. “Life isn’t some equation,” I say, then float away and bite my bottom lip for that sensation I know will distract me from my anger and sadness.  Grabbing a dog-eared paperback – Faulkner, I think – I sank into the kitchen window seat and started reading the first random page that fell open.

I sometimes question our relationship and often cop to the feeling that he’ll meet someone new. He’ll figure out that this game with me has come to an end; that the ruse is up and I’ll be sent home with some nice parting gifts. How was I so lucky to land him? Perhaps I should be happy for the time we have spent together. Eight years is a long time to be with one you love when you’re barely thirty and then, in that instant the fog lifts: eight years– and the fact puts me at ease.

He started losing his hair as a teenager and was mostly bald by the time he finished grad school, which is when we met. He keeps it short and doesn’t bother to waste time on snake oil treatments or high-minded science to cure his hair ails. I like him that way, just as he is.

He comes to me and covers my hand with his, wordlessly rubbing that spot between forefinger and thumb with his own digit for a spell before stepping aside to delve into some journal on astronomy. As he does so, he’s back in that place where logic rules. He furrows his brow, the machine racing towards full tilt, and twists up his mouth in that way in which only he can.

The first in an occasional post directed to my fellow gay men whom sometimes need a little direction.

This is going out to all my fellow homos and queers. I love you. You know I do. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be writing and trying to give you all some sage advice on the regular. With that, what is it with you all and your futile desire to bed straight guys? Oh, its one thing to be cute in college in those drunken moments when you get liquored up, stumble, trip and end up in dorm-issued twin bed together, but why are you torturing yourself? (Actually, that sounds kind of hot…)

Once again, I think, it’s become a perception issue. The clichés and stereotypes dictate the popular misconception that straight men love sports and trucks and beer and fags are limp-wristed florists and hair stylists. Gay men must be submissive prissy weak types whom rollerblade through life in oversized Dior sun specs. I realize that notion prevails. But we gay men, have got to get over ourselves. Are there men who fit the profile? Of course there are. But by generalizing men and putting them in such categories is profoundly silly. And stupid. So stop. Like, now.

I have the worst gaydar ever. Two men could be fucking in front of me, and I’d still have questions and doubt and I’ll totally admit to that. Perhaps that’s why I’ve been so perpetually single: I can’t tell whose gay and blindly throw my dart as if I was blindfolded. But I certainly don’t go after straight men on purpose…probably because of that whole, oh, I don’t know—they’re straight thing?

I love men. You might have figured that out by now, but I do. But it took me a really long time to get to that point, and accept it, and be cool with it. It was a long, arduous journey, but one of the most significant things in my life and banging around with guys ranks with bacon, my iPhone, and fast, free wi-fi as the loves of my life.  So with that obstacle dealt with, I can’t understand why guys who fuck around with other guys (I’m talking about you, my fellow homosexual) would trouble themselves with the unobtainable.  That’s not to say that straight guys aren’t accessible. In my experience, it seems that men of all persuasions are obsessed with dick; how else would explain the transsexual sex workers getting all the action they do? Gay men aren’t spending time with them. Those are straight men perusing those particular classified ads. And that’s ok. Sexuality is fluid, it ebbs and flows and things aren’t always as resolute as they might seem.

But why trouble yourself? Why get ensnared in the whole DL drama, and with married men when you could be fucking someone out and proud? Is it a loathing and self-hating thing? Is it a way of keeping someone at arm’s length, or a way of keeping chaos and complication entangled in one’s life?

What are your thoughts on it, dear readers?  Can you add to the discussion and share with us a perspective I might be missing? And while you’re thinking about it, watch the clip from Police Academy featuring the Blue Oyster Bar.

I recently talked about giving into one’s kinky desires and in this new found sense of self, I felt it would only be appropriate to talk about the things that personally yank my chain. In the scheme of things, my tastes probably aren’t all that strange or profound, but a fetish is as fetish does, so here’s a list of five things that can get me going.

1. Sports wear: I think most gay men have a thing for the male form, hence their homosexuality. Nothing butters my bread more than a guy in something tight and athletic and revealing. When I find my Mr. Right, he could probably get me to do pretty much anything if he rocked something like this wrestling singlet. Don’t act like you wouldn’t give in to that either.

2. Blue collar average joes: Who hasn’t wanted to bang their cable guy or auto mechanic? An aw-shucks attitude, a bit of gut maybe, a streak of dirt or grease on their stubbled cheek can make me want to do really nasty things. And I know the pic is just an illustration, but I would totally hit that shit.

3. Nerdy glasses: I have no idea where this came from but I’m being honest here. I have a thing for guys in glasses. And if the guy or his frames lean towards the nerdy side, I’m pretty much putty in your hands. You in glasses + horny me = shut the door with a Do Not Disturb sign. And yes, I would totally hit Lewis Skolnick. Don’t judge.

4. Body hair: Now I know a lot of women who love their smooth and shiny dudes and find any fuzz on a man to be gross. Me, on the other hand, love a hairy chest which I thought was my initial turn on, but its not. Turns out, I can totally get worked up over a guy’s furry butt, or his armpits, or his…well, just about any part of him. Don’t ask me where it came from, cause I don’t know either. I think it screams masculinity, and it turns my crank like little else can.

5. Adam’s apples: Maybe its because mine isn’t too prominent, but looking at a guy’s adam’s apple while he’s talking can induce swoons of delight in Yours Truly. Another unexplainable that came out of nowhere. Is it because its like a miniature bulge which might be reminiscent of a bigger bulge in another area? Maybe, but why fight the fight? I like it. Shut up.

There you go, people. I know its a little on the vanilla side. No fisting or anything extreme. I didn’t get into my burgeoning interest in leather or BDSM, or how papercuts have become this thing that drive me crazy with irritation, pain and then…lust? Go figure. But I’m sure in time we’ll talk it out here.

That’s my brief and incomplete list. What’s yours? Post them in comments and share!