It has been brought to my attention that I neglected to include a link to Beardos, Indies, and Baddies last week. Whoops. Sorry, Seph.
I had a conversation this week with an older gentleman—older than I, anyway, as he's in his fifties—on the eve of his first sexual experience with a guy. He'd built his life according to the blueprints he thought was supposed to follow Married young, to a high school sweetheart. Respectable job. Two children. A position in his church. He'd been starving for a man-on-man encounter all his life. Watched gay porn like crazy. Masturbated with dildos.
Finally he'd decided to take the step of meeting up with a total stranger to whom he'd been chatting on the internet, rent a hotel room together, and take care of business. He was writing me to ask questions about how he should prepare, and what to expect.
I know that some of my readers are impatient with this guy already. I understand that. When one lives with a certain degree of honesty, or has taken the risks and suffered the consequences and the fallout, it's easy to brand others as cowards. It's simple to point a finger and insist that others tread the same path you have, or risk your censure.
And as I spoke to this gentleman—I use the word in its most complimentary sense, as he was a true gentleman—I realized how extremely fortunate a life I've had. I've always had a clear view of my sexuality and the determination to do with it what I wanted. I've always set my own metaphorical destinations, and felt free to jump track when I wasn't heading where I wanted.
Talking to someone for whom making his own choice was new made me much more grateful for what I've had, all along. This was a guy who was giddy with happiness because his wife had been away the night before and he was able to experience the novelty of sleeping in the nude. Except for a period in college in which I donned briefs at night to spare my roommates, I've slept in the nude since I was out of diapers. But I went to bed that night appreciating the freedom I've enjoyed all those years, a little more.
For the record, I think anyone making a stand about his or her sexuality and choosing to explore it is a brave individual indeed—no matter what time of life.
Enough of that. I wanted to warn you guys that for the next couple of weeks I'm not going to hold myself to the same schedule as usual. I'm sure there will be entries, but as I am going to be busy with family stuff and the holidays (don't forget you have a week left of Christmas shopping), I'm not going to try to make near-daily entries again until probably after the new year. I won't be abandoning Breeder's Readers altogether, though, don't worry.
Let's get to some questions from formspring.me.
How many sexual partners have you had?
I would be unable to count, at this point.
However, when I go to a mainstream movie and a number (usually it's 30, for some reason) is thrown out to show that the romantic lead has been quite a hardcord Lothario, all I want to do is stroke the poor little Hollywood star's hair, make a pained face, and say in that pitying way that we Southerners have, "Oh, honey."
How many loads have you given or taken in one day?
The most I've taken in a single day was about 17, when I was in my teens. The most I've given was 8.
Do you (or did you at some point) know someone like Edina or Patsy on Absolutely Fabulous? Who is it and what sort of relationship/friendship do you have with them? What aspect of him/her do you relate to Eddy or Pats?
As much as I would like to be a Patsy, I'm afraid I'll always see myself as an Edina. I've known a few Patsys in my life--they didn't resemble her because of the style, or the boozing, or the drugs, but they did seem to be the essence of cool compared to how I perceive my relative oafishness.
Secretly, though, I dread I'm a sweater-wearing Saffie.
Your best fag hag girl says she has a friend who needs to be "broken in" as a bottom or top (the natural opposite of you) and suggests that you would be perfect. When you finally meet him, it turns out to be her 18-year-old nephew. Do you fuck?
Why wouldn't I?
Are you a member of the jihadists for peace movement?
No. Do they serve good refreshments at meetings? That's usually the criterion by which I decide to join groups.
Just to expand on a question posted today: Do you ever fear being outed to your wife? Sounds like friends and colleagues know.
Among the couple of assumptions here is one that I'm closeted. Though I don't intend either to confirm or deny it in this forum, I would say remind you that it is an assumption.
I don't fear being outed. I'm not ashamed of my sexuality.
What would you do if your kids found your blog?
No child is going to stumble over a blog like mine. Not by accident. He'd have to be looking for it.
Sexuality is nothing to be frightened of. Not at any age. I'm not ashamed of the fact that I have a sex life. Anyone who wants to picture me reforming my ways and vowing to sin no more, because of the wide-eyed reproach of a sinless child, has been reading too many fucking cheap Victorian novels--or hasn't moved past that sentimental level of thinking.
I would hope that any child of mine who read my blog would come away with the message that sex is fun, erotic, and meant to be enjoyed, even while it's strange, messy, and sometimes uncomfortable. Most of all, I'd want him to know that it's a part of life that can and should be examined and celebrated.
In other words, the same things I say without the blog.
It's about to hit the fan. Who's at your back? Keel, King, Gale, Smith, King(2), Purdey, or Gambit?
Oh my god. I don't get to take Mrs. Peel? Then it's got to be Purdey. She might be a clotheshorse, but she can karate chop like no one's business.