When I first moved from a small Southern city to the U.S. Midwest, I felt as if I might as well have moved there from Kazakhstan. I was supposed to be among my intellectual peers in the grad school that had given me a full ride. Whenever I opened my mouth to speak during my first week of class, though, my peers would simply stare at me, agog. The first couple of times I thought it was because I’d stunned them with my intellectual brilliance, but no. They weren’t listening to what I was saying. They were stunned by—and giggling at—my accent. “You talk funny!”, one of them volunteered.
Even one of my professors, that first week, said to me, “What you just said might have been true for all I know, but I was too busy listening to that hilarious accent of yours to notice.”
Hilarious. Jesus. At worst, my Southern drawl was extremely mild. I learned very quickly to scrub my speech patterns and speak only in approved Midwestern tones. I wanted people to listen to what I was saying, not how I said it.
I also had to battle Midwestern perceptions about Southerners and race. It seemed that every Detroiter wanted to corner me and get the real deal on how we treated African-Americans. “I bet you’ve seen some rough stuff down there,” they’d say confidentially. “Beatings. Lynchings. That kind of thing.” Well, no. I didn’t.
The more unfortunate side of the Midwestern attitude toward race could’ve easily been summed up by something someone said to me my first month in Michigan: “I know the South is full of prejudice, right,” one white guy said to me. “It’s like, the only place in the country you can get away with saying anything about hating spooks.”
Nice, right? It’s okay to be racist in the Detroit—where one can actually draw on a map the dividing lines between the highly-segregated black and white neighborhoods. It’s just considered polite not to say anything about it in front of other, presumably lesser, races. And it’s considered acceptable, to a degree, because hey, they’re still way better than Southerners, right?
I always had to explain, rather stiffly, that I grew up in a Southern city that was richly integrated, that neither I nor anyone I knew had used racial invective, especially the word spooks, and that although the South had a deep history of shame when it came to race relations, I was finding Michigan simultaneously both self-congratulatory about its alleged liberality, and yet a hell of a lot worse than anything I’d ever encountered back home.
I’ve been trying to formulate a response to all the Paula Deen nonsense that’s been filling the airwaves and creating noise on the internet the last couple of days. If you’ve not been paying attention, the rotund Southern television chef gave a deposition in which she admitted that she has, in her lifetime, uttered the word nigger. Consequently the Food Network terminated her contract. The situation’s ugly and unfortunate on both sides. It’s an ugly and hurtful word. She shouldn’t have said it. No question about it. It’s reprehensible.
At the same time, though, I have some complex feelings about the response of both the media and the internet. I’m always suspicious of cultural events when huge groups of people dogpile on to express their outraged indignation about what someone has done or said. Justified or not, there always seem to be other motives at play—whether it’s the quick fix of a rush of adrenaline and self-righteous glee, or the schadenfreude to be enjoyed from taking a vicious swipe at a target already laid low.
I’m no fan of Deen’s—either her television personality or her cooking—but a portion of the excited glee that seems to be coming from kicking her while she’s down seems to arise from people who like to take cheap and easy shots. She’s a fatty—therefore you know she must be morally weak. She uses a lot of butter—she must have no self-control whatsoever. Then there’s the fact Deen is Southern. She talks funny. (She has exactly the same accent as my mom’s mother used to, so it’s not particularly comic to me.) Of course she’s said the word nigger. She’s from the South, right? They all talk funny and act like that down there. Not like the rest of us, the nice people.
I’ve seen outrage on social media from men I know who have absolutely no issue calling women who stand in their way words like cunt and bitch; I’ve seen moral superiority from a former school acquaintance who during the election was so loud and obnoxious about “Obama bin Ladin and the fags controlling him” that it’s tough to take anything she says seriously about how deeply shocked, shocked and appalled, she is about Deen’s admission.
All of us in our lifetimes have used hateful language. That fact excuses nothing. But to dogpile onto someone else when she’s been backed into a corner, merely to express our own superiority, is disingenuous. Finger-pointing accomplishes nothing; it doesn’t help anyone explore we we use hurtful words, or under what circumstances. And those are dialogues that we, as a society, really should be having, rather than resting on our perceived laurels and congratulating ourselves for not being as bad as other people.
Whew. Heavy topic this morning. Thanks for putting up with it. Let’s get to some questions from formspring.me.
With all the sexual encounters you have had, what was the wildest request for sex from someone you have done, and to compare what was the wildest request you wouldn't do?
I think the most offbeat request I ever had was to stretch someone's scrotum skin flat and tight, like a drum—or like Cassandra the Last Human on Doctor Who, for those of you who watch that—and drive sterilized finishing nails through it into a block of wood. That I had no problem with.
I did have a problem when the same guy wanted me to study up on genital scarring and perform some of those rituals armed with a sterilized skinning knife. I passed on that one.
As a married man do you find having a wedding ring attracts more attention? Also I’ve heard (not experienced) that married men usually make lousy tops supposedly because they're doing all the humping like they do in marriage & prefer to be done than the doing.
I was just noting last week that individuals tend to be observant about certain things. Some people are very observant, for example, about eye color, and could tell you exactly what hue a person is simply by talking to them once. (I am not good at that.) Other people are good about wedding rings, and can tell you immediately if an absent person wore one or not. (I'm not really good at that either. What I am good at is telling you exactly what I ate at any restaurant I've visited in the last 15 years, and probably what everyone else in my part ordered, as well.)
So for those people who just don't notice rings, no, mine doesn't really attract attention. There are men I've been with a dozen times who don't realize it's there. I'm pretty open about being in a relationship in online profiles, so that people can self-select whether they care to pursue anything with me or not based on that criterion.
However. For those who meet me and notice the ring, it often becomes a focal point of the encounter. There are a lot of men who like to kiss it or to suck the ring it's on. Some men like to have me remove it and place it in my pocket or on the table or somewhere out of sight, so that they can pretend I'm single and theirs for the duration of the encounter. Others like me to place it on one of their fingers while we fuck, as a bonding experience—like we’re temporarily married during the fuck.
I don't know where you hear that married men are lousy tops; I hear from my best bottoms that their best tops are usually married men who fuck women as well. There are a lot of married men who prefer to be done rather than do the doing, if that makes sense—but there are just as many gay men who are like that too.
Who was the first person you thought you were in love with? Do you still think you were in love with them?
When I look back on my teen years, I think it's odd that despite all the men I had sex with, I never really fell in love with any of them. I was fond of a few. I certainly enjoyed a lot of them. I saw many of them for years. But I assumed romance wasn’t in the cards, so I didn’t expect or look for it.
It wasn't until college that I fell in love for the first time, and it was with a girl in my sophomore dorm. She was smart as a whip and tolerably pretty, in the same way Hermione is pretty at Hogwarts though neither Harry nor Ron ever notice her through most of those books. But she was from Long Island (which was as exotic to me as Hogwarts would’ve been) and she caught my fancy. I spent most of my college years mooning after her from afar.
We were good friends, you see, but she was spending most of her college years mooning after another boy. And he treated her like dirt, while he kept her hoping for an eventual romance and traditional white wedding. He kept her on the hook, while she kept me on the hook, while I mooned after her and kept dozens of hopeful men on hooks of my own.
Was I really in love? Yeah, probably. But if I didn't have the nuts to tell her about it, I didn't deserve to have her. Simple as that. What it did teach me, eventually, is that sitting around and hoping is a piss-poor excuse for courtship. I never made that mistake again.
Rob, I feel I must thank you for sharing a private side of your life and innermost thoughts. I feel there are others like me who find it difficult to respond to you as we have very ordinary lives that may bore you. Thank you again.
I appreciate that you're grateful, my loyal reader. Thank you.
I wish you wouldn't refer to your own life as boring, though. Or if it is boring, make it exciting! You have the capacity to direct your life toward goals that are both exciting and fulfilling—but it’s up to you to steer in the direction you want to go. It won’t simply happen without you taking control.
Showing posts with label rants. Show all posts
Showing posts with label rants. Show all posts
Sunday, June 23, 2013
Monday, April 2, 2012
A Fuck-You List
I’ve been feeling a little scattered this last week and a half. I haven’t been able to concentrate. My libido has been zero. All I’ve really wanted to do was turn on my music and curl up with some of the books I’ve been reading, away from people, isolated. This urge to insulate myself from the world happens late in every March, and I pretend that I don’t understand it.
Then April first rolls around, and I have to confront what’s been getting me down. It’s the anniversary of my mom’s death, you see. It’s been eighteen years—Jesus. But it still creeps up on me. Every year I manage to fool myself into thinking I won’t be affected. Every year I find out that I am just kidding myself.
So if my entries haven’t been particularly sexy this last week, I’m explaining why.
My mother was a woman with a deep and perverse sense of humor, and April Fool’s day was one of her favorite holidays. Every year she used to plan her one good trick, weeks in advance; she’d conspire with me on one really good trick to play on my friends. I’m kind of convinced that during her last long illness, she held off on expiring until April first because in a very, very twisted way, she knew it’d be her last and best joke ever.
One of the things my mother used to do, particularly during my teen years, was to make what she called Fuck-You Lists. Now, I’ve known people, particularly those in recovery programs, to make lists of things for which they’re grateful, at the end of every day. These vaguely inspirational lists are always filled with things like I’m grateful for the touch of warm sunshines on my shoulders this afternoon, telling me that spring is on the way, and I’m so grateful for the love of my husband because he keeps me on my path, and other similar sentimental Hallmark sentiments.
I kid. It’s good to be grateful, and to be aware of what’s good in one’s own life. My mother’s Fuck-You Lists, though, were kind of the opposite of these; if she was having a particularly frustrating day, she’d grab a sheet paper, a pencil from one of her crossword puzzle books, and sit down at the kitchen table with a cup of black coffee and a cigarette. She’d scrawl FUCK YOU at the top of the page, and then jot down the four or five frustrations uppermost at her mind. Then she’d tuck the paper in the napkin holder, or behind the telephone, or beneath a paperweight, and go about her business.
I think the reasoning behind the exercise was that her troubles and irritations didn’t seem so ponderous when they’d been reduced to writing on a coffee-stained slip of paper. She could get them out of her system, then leave them behind and head off to work or to one of her hundred political activities. I think it astonished relatives, neighbors, and my friends when they’d come over, wander into the kitchen, and see hundreds of slips of paper in my mom’s exquisite handwriting labeled FUCK YOU! at the top, but hey. It’s what made our home the popular place to be.
All this preamble is simply in order to say that in honor of my mom and her passing, I’ve decided to come up with a Fuck-You List of my own today, so I can get a few things off my chest and hopefully move on to better things in the coming week. So. Without further ado:
1. Dear Manhunt Guy who hit me up last night begging me to drop everything and drive thirty-nine miles to fuck him: I’ve got about ten public photos on Manhunt, all unlocked. Your only visible photo was a shot roughly the size of a postage stamp of your chest, in which you’ve used some kind of graphic program to scribble out your face with black pen. Given that imbalance, it’s perfectly reasonable for me to ask you if I may see your locked photo before I commit to a drive, and frankly, I was pissed off by your response of lol you haven’t earned that honor yet. I don’t have to ‘earn’ anything from you, kiddo, especially when it was you hitting on me. And thus I say, fuck you.
2. Dear BBRT Guy who unlocked his photos for me very late last night, and who then mocked my grammar when I commented on how good his photos were: Dude, really? On a sex site? I wrote in complete sentences. How often are you getting that on BBRT? And you know what? When it’s two-thirty a.m. and I’ve got insomnia, I really don’t care if I’ve used the subjunctive correctly or not. What’re you getting out of coming at me so aggressively, anyway? I think I’m heartily justified at giving you a hearty fuck you.
3. Dear woman who runs a local artist’s league where I was investigating a teaching opportunity: I should’ve known something weird was up when I mentioned my involvement with three of the biggest professional organizations for our particular craft, and you looked at me blankly and made me explain what the acronyms were. I’ve got more teaching experience than anyone else leading workshops in your podunk little guild. I’ve had more national exposure, and have a longer track record than you or your other instructors. Why you’ve ignored my several polite emails and phone calls suggesting you let me take you out to coffee so we can discuss me perhaps teaching a couple of courses for you is beyond me, but I’m not chasing you any longer. Fuck you, babe.
4. Dear reader who collected our handful of times together like some kind of prize he could brandish before his buddies: I was astonished at by how very hard you chased me, and I am astonished at how very hard you dropped me once you had what you wanted. You know, I’m not even angry about that, in particular. I’m upset because you never bothered to read the lovely entry I wrote about you—not because you were apprehensive about what I might’ve said, but because you were ‘too busy.’ I’d tell you fuck you, but I’ve already fucked you. So I’ll just say this, though I know you’re ‘too busy’ to read it: you let me down.
5. Dear other reader who devoured my blog from start to finish and initiated a real-life friendship with me on the basis of how well you thought you knew me, afterward: Your infatuation with my life was fueled mainly by the fact you read so much of my journal so quickly, in such a short period of time. I knew that when you were attempting to convince me that you could be my new best friend. I knew that your fascination would cool a little when you reached the point that you’d have to read my entries one at a time, when I wrote them. What I didn’t expect was that the start of that friendship would freeze altogether, and that you’d simply stop speaking to me altogether when you were forced to slow down to my everyday mundanity. You don’t read me any longer because of it, so you too won’t see this, but I was hurt by the way you broke stuff off by trying to make it seem like I was the one who was after something unreasonable, just because I’d say hello and ask how you were doing. It’s with regret that I never got to fuck you, but hey, that was never on the agenda anyway.
6. Dear everybody local who feels it necessary to comment about my haircut: I'd totally forgotten how much I absolutely dreaded going to school the day after I got a haircut when I was a kid, because everyone comments on it. Everyone. To the handful of people who say something like, Hey, you got your hair cut—I like it!, I am grateful. However, to everyone who phrases their surprise in a form similar to You cut your hair! It looks SO MUCH BETTER!—and that's a lot of people who simply shouldn't be opening their mouths—I offer a hearty fuck you. You don't see me walking up to you and saying "Ohmygod you look SO MUCH BETTER now that you've lost that extra five pounds you put on eating all those Girl Scout Tagalongs a few weeks back, lard-ass!", do you? No, you don't, because it's fucking rude to tell someone they used to be ugly. Back-handed compliments aren't compliments. Learn it! I liked my hair long. I like my hair short. One way is not better than the other. They're just different. No matter how long my hair is, I still look extra-super-foxy. No matter how long your hair is, you're still an asshole.
Whew! I think that’s all the things that have been bugging me lately. Now they’re off my chest, I hope I can walk away and leave them behind for a little while, to see if it works.
Anyone else have any other Fuck You messages to add to the list? As long as they’re not to me, add ‘em in the comments below, and then we’ll tuck them behind my mom’s avocado-green Princess phone and let someone else stumble on them, down the line.
Then April first rolls around, and I have to confront what’s been getting me down. It’s the anniversary of my mom’s death, you see. It’s been eighteen years—Jesus. But it still creeps up on me. Every year I manage to fool myself into thinking I won’t be affected. Every year I find out that I am just kidding myself.
So if my entries haven’t been particularly sexy this last week, I’m explaining why.
My mother was a woman with a deep and perverse sense of humor, and April Fool’s day was one of her favorite holidays. Every year she used to plan her one good trick, weeks in advance; she’d conspire with me on one really good trick to play on my friends. I’m kind of convinced that during her last long illness, she held off on expiring until April first because in a very, very twisted way, she knew it’d be her last and best joke ever.
One of the things my mother used to do, particularly during my teen years, was to make what she called Fuck-You Lists. Now, I’ve known people, particularly those in recovery programs, to make lists of things for which they’re grateful, at the end of every day. These vaguely inspirational lists are always filled with things like I’m grateful for the touch of warm sunshines on my shoulders this afternoon, telling me that spring is on the way, and I’m so grateful for the love of my husband because he keeps me on my path, and other similar sentimental Hallmark sentiments.
I kid. It’s good to be grateful, and to be aware of what’s good in one’s own life. My mother’s Fuck-You Lists, though, were kind of the opposite of these; if she was having a particularly frustrating day, she’d grab a sheet paper, a pencil from one of her crossword puzzle books, and sit down at the kitchen table with a cup of black coffee and a cigarette. She’d scrawl FUCK YOU at the top of the page, and then jot down the four or five frustrations uppermost at her mind. Then she’d tuck the paper in the napkin holder, or behind the telephone, or beneath a paperweight, and go about her business.
I think the reasoning behind the exercise was that her troubles and irritations didn’t seem so ponderous when they’d been reduced to writing on a coffee-stained slip of paper. She could get them out of her system, then leave them behind and head off to work or to one of her hundred political activities. I think it astonished relatives, neighbors, and my friends when they’d come over, wander into the kitchen, and see hundreds of slips of paper in my mom’s exquisite handwriting labeled FUCK YOU! at the top, but hey. It’s what made our home the popular place to be.
All this preamble is simply in order to say that in honor of my mom and her passing, I’ve decided to come up with a Fuck-You List of my own today, so I can get a few things off my chest and hopefully move on to better things in the coming week. So. Without further ado:
1. Dear Manhunt Guy who hit me up last night begging me to drop everything and drive thirty-nine miles to fuck him: I’ve got about ten public photos on Manhunt, all unlocked. Your only visible photo was a shot roughly the size of a postage stamp of your chest, in which you’ve used some kind of graphic program to scribble out your face with black pen. Given that imbalance, it’s perfectly reasonable for me to ask you if I may see your locked photo before I commit to a drive, and frankly, I was pissed off by your response of lol you haven’t earned that honor yet. I don’t have to ‘earn’ anything from you, kiddo, especially when it was you hitting on me. And thus I say, fuck you.
2. Dear BBRT Guy who unlocked his photos for me very late last night, and who then mocked my grammar when I commented on how good his photos were: Dude, really? On a sex site? I wrote in complete sentences. How often are you getting that on BBRT? And you know what? When it’s two-thirty a.m. and I’ve got insomnia, I really don’t care if I’ve used the subjunctive correctly or not. What’re you getting out of coming at me so aggressively, anyway? I think I’m heartily justified at giving you a hearty fuck you.
3. Dear woman who runs a local artist’s league where I was investigating a teaching opportunity: I should’ve known something weird was up when I mentioned my involvement with three of the biggest professional organizations for our particular craft, and you looked at me blankly and made me explain what the acronyms were. I’ve got more teaching experience than anyone else leading workshops in your podunk little guild. I’ve had more national exposure, and have a longer track record than you or your other instructors. Why you’ve ignored my several polite emails and phone calls suggesting you let me take you out to coffee so we can discuss me perhaps teaching a couple of courses for you is beyond me, but I’m not chasing you any longer. Fuck you, babe.
4. Dear reader who collected our handful of times together like some kind of prize he could brandish before his buddies: I was astonished at by how very hard you chased me, and I am astonished at how very hard you dropped me once you had what you wanted. You know, I’m not even angry about that, in particular. I’m upset because you never bothered to read the lovely entry I wrote about you—not because you were apprehensive about what I might’ve said, but because you were ‘too busy.’ I’d tell you fuck you, but I’ve already fucked you. So I’ll just say this, though I know you’re ‘too busy’ to read it: you let me down.
5. Dear other reader who devoured my blog from start to finish and initiated a real-life friendship with me on the basis of how well you thought you knew me, afterward: Your infatuation with my life was fueled mainly by the fact you read so much of my journal so quickly, in such a short period of time. I knew that when you were attempting to convince me that you could be my new best friend. I knew that your fascination would cool a little when you reached the point that you’d have to read my entries one at a time, when I wrote them. What I didn’t expect was that the start of that friendship would freeze altogether, and that you’d simply stop speaking to me altogether when you were forced to slow down to my everyday mundanity. You don’t read me any longer because of it, so you too won’t see this, but I was hurt by the way you broke stuff off by trying to make it seem like I was the one who was after something unreasonable, just because I’d say hello and ask how you were doing. It’s with regret that I never got to fuck you, but hey, that was never on the agenda anyway.
6. Dear everybody local who feels it necessary to comment about my haircut: I'd totally forgotten how much I absolutely dreaded going to school the day after I got a haircut when I was a kid, because everyone comments on it. Everyone. To the handful of people who say something like, Hey, you got your hair cut—I like it!, I am grateful. However, to everyone who phrases their surprise in a form similar to You cut your hair! It looks SO MUCH BETTER!—and that's a lot of people who simply shouldn't be opening their mouths—I offer a hearty fuck you. You don't see me walking up to you and saying "Ohmygod you look SO MUCH BETTER now that you've lost that extra five pounds you put on eating all those Girl Scout Tagalongs a few weeks back, lard-ass!", do you? No, you don't, because it's fucking rude to tell someone they used to be ugly. Back-handed compliments aren't compliments. Learn it! I liked my hair long. I like my hair short. One way is not better than the other. They're just different. No matter how long my hair is, I still look extra-super-foxy. No matter how long your hair is, you're still an asshole.
Whew! I think that’s all the things that have been bugging me lately. Now they’re off my chest, I hope I can walk away and leave them behind for a little while, to see if it works.
Anyone else have any other Fuck You messages to add to the list? As long as they’re not to me, add ‘em in the comments below, and then we’ll tuck them behind my mom’s avocado-green Princess phone and let someone else stumble on them, down the line.
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
An open letter to local online cruisers
Dear gay and/or bisexual men of the tri-state area with online profiles,
I am a visually-oriented person.
Now, I know what you think that means. You’re assuming I’m telling you I need porn to get off. A hot movie playing on the TV, or a magazine with sticky pages sitting on the side of the bed. Maybe some good old-fashioned homemade nasty photos waiting to be flicked through on your iPhone. Yeah, that. Well, no. Not that at all.
What it really means is that my memory is shot. If you want me to keep track of who you are, I kind of need to know what you look like. That’s it.
I know you’ve got a really memorable profile name fashioned from letters and numbers that may seem random to me—like cbtg432—but make perfect sense to you. Or maybe you’ve chosen a name like nybottom123 to distinguish yourself from the hundred and twenty-two New York bottoms who boldly tread before. You’ve made a lot of effort to keep your profile cryptic, with all your Ask Mes and Not Answereds. I get it. You like that veil of mystery that lures the guys in. You really, really want them to ask you. It’s not just that you overlooked the questions. I understand.
But you know, there’s something about those profiles in which they all start really to run together, somehow. It’s not that after a while all the names start to look like a big ol’ steamin’ bowl of Campbell’s Pornographic Alphabet Soup. It’s not simply that all the Ask Mes begin to mesmerize me into a hypnotic trance. It’s the fact that you’ve left your photos blank—or that you have uploaded them, but locked them all and never offer to unlock them—that drives me around the bend.
I'm old. I'm really old. I'm practically senile. I need a little help here, and you're not giving it to me.
Case in point: the guy with the minimal profile who, by way of seductive technique, unlocks his photos for him in lieu of saying hello. It might be true that I viewed your photos and said, Hey, thanks for unlocking. You’re a handsome dude. And it might be true that I replied in the affirmative when you suggested we get together some time in the future. But when you immediately relock those photos and email me two weeks later to ask if we are ever going to get together, I’m sorry. I’m not going to remember you by your profile name of ctbottom001. I’m not going to clue in on what words we might’ve exchanged from your minimal profile. If you showed me your photos again—ah, yes. Then I would remember. If you left them displayed all the time, certainly I would. I am a visually-oriented person. I need that photo of your face to associate all your Ask Mes with a real person.
Hell, even that blurry photo of your hip that you flashed me might trigger some kind of recall. Because your sorry profile isn’t doing the trick.
Case number two: Mr. BBRT profile without an unlocked photo or description, thanks for informing me that you and I talked on Manhunt. Helpful! Except it’s not, because apparently your cryptic name on BBRT is different from whatever name you chose on Manhunt. If you’d told me the other site’s profile name, or unlocked your photo so I’d recognize it, or given me some kind of clue as to whom you might be, maybe I’d have more patience and actually reply to your emails after you didn’t seem to pick up on the hint I gave you when I responded, I have no idea what you look like. Why would I meet?
Of course, after I ignore you for a solid three weeks, when you finally unlock your photos and I discover you’re the asshole from Manhunt who stood me up not once, but twice, making me wait over an hour each time before I found out you were going to be a no-show, I can kind of understand why you were reluctant to identify yourself.
So gentlemen. Let’s recap. Want me to remember you? Have some kind of photo in your profile—something visible. Don’t make me ask you to unlock, every time. Even a picture of your fucking kneecap is going to be more memorable than a standard icon of a lock. I’m not going to meet you because of that kneecap alone, but at least instead of thinking Huh? Who dat? I’ll think, Well hey, it’s that weirdo who doesn’t show anything more than a kneecap. Howdy, stranger.
And also, if you stand me up twice, don’t be surprised I’m not all that anxious to give you a shot at doing it a third time.
But that’s ancillary to my point. Which is: I am a visually-oriented person.
Yours truly.
I am a visually-oriented person.
Now, I know what you think that means. You’re assuming I’m telling you I need porn to get off. A hot movie playing on the TV, or a magazine with sticky pages sitting on the side of the bed. Maybe some good old-fashioned homemade nasty photos waiting to be flicked through on your iPhone. Yeah, that. Well, no. Not that at all.
What it really means is that my memory is shot. If you want me to keep track of who you are, I kind of need to know what you look like. That’s it.
I know you’ve got a really memorable profile name fashioned from letters and numbers that may seem random to me—like cbtg432—but make perfect sense to you. Or maybe you’ve chosen a name like nybottom123 to distinguish yourself from the hundred and twenty-two New York bottoms who boldly tread before. You’ve made a lot of effort to keep your profile cryptic, with all your Ask Mes and Not Answereds. I get it. You like that veil of mystery that lures the guys in. You really, really want them to ask you. It’s not just that you overlooked the questions. I understand.
But you know, there’s something about those profiles in which they all start really to run together, somehow. It’s not that after a while all the names start to look like a big ol’ steamin’ bowl of Campbell’s Pornographic Alphabet Soup. It’s not simply that all the Ask Mes begin to mesmerize me into a hypnotic trance. It’s the fact that you’ve left your photos blank—or that you have uploaded them, but locked them all and never offer to unlock them—that drives me around the bend.
I'm old. I'm really old. I'm practically senile. I need a little help here, and you're not giving it to me.
Case in point: the guy with the minimal profile who, by way of seductive technique, unlocks his photos for him in lieu of saying hello. It might be true that I viewed your photos and said, Hey, thanks for unlocking. You’re a handsome dude. And it might be true that I replied in the affirmative when you suggested we get together some time in the future. But when you immediately relock those photos and email me two weeks later to ask if we are ever going to get together, I’m sorry. I’m not going to remember you by your profile name of ctbottom001. I’m not going to clue in on what words we might’ve exchanged from your minimal profile. If you showed me your photos again—ah, yes. Then I would remember. If you left them displayed all the time, certainly I would. I am a visually-oriented person. I need that photo of your face to associate all your Ask Mes with a real person.
Hell, even that blurry photo of your hip that you flashed me might trigger some kind of recall. Because your sorry profile isn’t doing the trick.
Case number two: Mr. BBRT profile without an unlocked photo or description, thanks for informing me that you and I talked on Manhunt. Helpful! Except it’s not, because apparently your cryptic name on BBRT is different from whatever name you chose on Manhunt. If you’d told me the other site’s profile name, or unlocked your photo so I’d recognize it, or given me some kind of clue as to whom you might be, maybe I’d have more patience and actually reply to your emails after you didn’t seem to pick up on the hint I gave you when I responded, I have no idea what you look like. Why would I meet?
Of course, after I ignore you for a solid three weeks, when you finally unlock your photos and I discover you’re the asshole from Manhunt who stood me up not once, but twice, making me wait over an hour each time before I found out you were going to be a no-show, I can kind of understand why you were reluctant to identify yourself.
So gentlemen. Let’s recap. Want me to remember you? Have some kind of photo in your profile—something visible. Don’t make me ask you to unlock, every time. Even a picture of your fucking kneecap is going to be more memorable than a standard icon of a lock. I’m not going to meet you because of that kneecap alone, but at least instead of thinking Huh? Who dat? I’ll think, Well hey, it’s that weirdo who doesn’t show anything more than a kneecap. Howdy, stranger.
And also, if you stand me up twice, don’t be surprised I’m not all that anxious to give you a shot at doing it a third time.
But that’s ancillary to my point. Which is: I am a visually-oriented person.
Yours truly.
Sunday, October 16, 2011
Sunday Morning Questions: Find-a-Friend Edition
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Tuesday, September 7, 2010
An Open Letter to the Hungry Bottoms of the World
Dear Bottoms of the World,
You know I love you guys. I love your round butts, furry or smooth. I love the way you bend over and look back at me with an expectant look in your eyes, or lift up your legs and roll your head back while you close your eyes. The sounds you make excite me—the grunts, the moans, the little whimpers. Sometimes the outright shouts, or the animal noises you’re not even aware you’re making as I slide into you.
I love the way you guys grind and thrust and hump the bed, the way you buck and twitch and thrash as if you’re going to expire, when you shoot with my dick inside you. You guys make my life a pleasure, and for that, this top guy thanks you.
However. May I make one simple request?
If you and I are unacquainted in the flesh—that is, if we’re talking for the first time, whether in some chat room, or via instant messenger, or by email thanks to some personal ad or hookup site—may I ask that one of the first questions out of your mouth not be, “Do you know any other tops?”
I am totally aware that a lot of you guys, if not most, harbor a fantasy of multiple tops invading your hole. Perhaps you dream of a three-way with one guy banging on your back door while the other’s knocking at the front. Maybe you’ve fantasized for a long time about being the guy in the sling in one of those gang-bang videos you’ve watched, where everyone has a turn. That’s all well and good. I think sexual fantasies are healthy. Share them with your partners, absolutely. You should feel free and open with your fuckmates to be able to say whatever comes to mind.
That is, after you’ve met them in person and enjoyed each other. You see, because when we’re in the negotiation phase of things before you and I have met, and you unleash the words “Do you know any other tops,” I’m certain that what you think you’re saying is I have a fantasy of taking multiple dicks—I’m a real nasty boy at heart! But what I’m actually hearing is There’s a high probability I’m a flake whose main objective is to masturbate really quickly while I talk to you. Perhaps it’s my own deep-seated insecurities, but when you persist, I start hearing things like, Your dick isn’t enough for me or even I’m not talking to you because I find you attractive so much as I'm hot at the notion I could meet other people you know.
My suggestion is to throttle it back, tiger.
If you want to mention that you’re open to such things, in the time we’re emailing back and forth, casually mention you’re into groups. If I wanted to invite another top to share your hole for our first meeting, I’d pick up on it at that point. Otherwise, meet me first. See if we’re a good team. Then you can ask your question. It’s only polite.
Also, at that point you’ll have proved a few things to me. You’ll have shown that you show up to an appointed date—which is good to know, because I’ve been left high and dry a couple of times sitting around with a top buddy when a bottom dude I didn’t know chickened out at the last minute. You’ll have shown me that you can take an extended fucking (I hope) and that you won’t be whining for breaks in the action, when you’ve got a group of hard-dicked men all looking to poke you for relief. And finally you’ll have proven that you’re into me, and not just my little black book. Or at least you’ll have feigned it really, really well.
That’s important to me. Because arranging a meeting between you and me is tough enough, sometimes. Getting a third guy involved increases the difficulty. And more guys after that? You’re talking vanishing returns. If you really want me to arrange a three-way for you, I’m more likely to do it after you’ve proved you’re a bottom who can handle it, and for whom I want to go to a certain degree of trouble.
I’ll do it. I’m all for it. I just want to know you’re worth it.
And that’s the kind of thing I’m not likely to know when the only thing you’ve said to me so far is, “Wow dude, amazing dick.”
Until we meet,
The Breeder
You know I love you guys. I love your round butts, furry or smooth. I love the way you bend over and look back at me with an expectant look in your eyes, or lift up your legs and roll your head back while you close your eyes. The sounds you make excite me—the grunts, the moans, the little whimpers. Sometimes the outright shouts, or the animal noises you’re not even aware you’re making as I slide into you.
I love the way you guys grind and thrust and hump the bed, the way you buck and twitch and thrash as if you’re going to expire, when you shoot with my dick inside you. You guys make my life a pleasure, and for that, this top guy thanks you.
However. May I make one simple request?
If you and I are unacquainted in the flesh—that is, if we’re talking for the first time, whether in some chat room, or via instant messenger, or by email thanks to some personal ad or hookup site—may I ask that one of the first questions out of your mouth not be, “Do you know any other tops?”
I am totally aware that a lot of you guys, if not most, harbor a fantasy of multiple tops invading your hole. Perhaps you dream of a three-way with one guy banging on your back door while the other’s knocking at the front. Maybe you’ve fantasized for a long time about being the guy in the sling in one of those gang-bang videos you’ve watched, where everyone has a turn. That’s all well and good. I think sexual fantasies are healthy. Share them with your partners, absolutely. You should feel free and open with your fuckmates to be able to say whatever comes to mind.
That is, after you’ve met them in person and enjoyed each other. You see, because when we’re in the negotiation phase of things before you and I have met, and you unleash the words “Do you know any other tops,” I’m certain that what you think you’re saying is I have a fantasy of taking multiple dicks—I’m a real nasty boy at heart! But what I’m actually hearing is There’s a high probability I’m a flake whose main objective is to masturbate really quickly while I talk to you. Perhaps it’s my own deep-seated insecurities, but when you persist, I start hearing things like, Your dick isn’t enough for me or even I’m not talking to you because I find you attractive so much as I'm hot at the notion I could meet other people you know.
My suggestion is to throttle it back, tiger.
If you want to mention that you’re open to such things, in the time we’re emailing back and forth, casually mention you’re into groups. If I wanted to invite another top to share your hole for our first meeting, I’d pick up on it at that point. Otherwise, meet me first. See if we’re a good team. Then you can ask your question. It’s only polite.
Also, at that point you’ll have proved a few things to me. You’ll have shown that you show up to an appointed date—which is good to know, because I’ve been left high and dry a couple of times sitting around with a top buddy when a bottom dude I didn’t know chickened out at the last minute. You’ll have shown me that you can take an extended fucking (I hope) and that you won’t be whining for breaks in the action, when you’ve got a group of hard-dicked men all looking to poke you for relief. And finally you’ll have proven that you’re into me, and not just my little black book. Or at least you’ll have feigned it really, really well.
That’s important to me. Because arranging a meeting between you and me is tough enough, sometimes. Getting a third guy involved increases the difficulty. And more guys after that? You’re talking vanishing returns. If you really want me to arrange a three-way for you, I’m more likely to do it after you’ve proved you’re a bottom who can handle it, and for whom I want to go to a certain degree of trouble.
I’ll do it. I’m all for it. I just want to know you’re worth it.
And that’s the kind of thing I’m not likely to know when the only thing you’ve said to me so far is, “Wow dude, amazing dick.”
Until we meet,
The Breeder
Friday, May 7, 2010
Ranting: Exceptions
Whenever I create an online profile at a hookup site, I’m always cautious to warn guys that I don’t fit into any of the traditional gay types. I might be lean, but I’m not muscled enough to fit the ideal of athletic. I’m forty-six, but not silver-haired enough and too young-looking to fit most people’s idea of daddy. I’m not a twink, I’m not a partier, not a leather man, not a cowboy, not an Indian or construction worker. I’m bearded, but too skinny and hairless otherwise for most bears to go for me, much as I love them.
I’m fine with falling between the cracks when it comes to type, though often it feels as if I’m apologizing to guys when they contact me. I’m not built like you, I feel obliged to warn the muscular guys with the model-quality bodies. Or, You’ve seen my face pics, right? I’ll ask the beautiful. When the bears start to grrrr and woof! at me, I feel as if I need to warn them that my body’s pink and smooth beneath the clothing.
Everyone wants what they want. I get that. But it’s always seemed to me as if the guys who categorize men into types don’t want those of us who ooze outside the clear coloring lines. Men who invest a lot of time and money into A&F shirts and baseball caps don’t usually seem to want someone who scorns the logos. Leathermen don’t often want to pick up someone who doesn’t own any gear. Bears, for all their talk about being dismissive of traditional gay stereotypes, have become a traditional gay stereotype who tend to ignore guys who don’t look like carbon copies of the burly bear blueprint.
It’s always seemed to me that a lot of men want men who are exactly like themselves, only two degrees hotter. And it’s for that reason that I spend too much time online warning guys what I’m not.
Of course there are plenty of men who will go to great lengths to explain in their profiles what they don’t want. No fats. No fems. No one over 30, over 35, over 40. 35+ ONLY. No one old enuf 2 b my dad lol. You must be fit. No one over 200 pounds. No blacks (sorry it’s just a preference). Brothas only no whites!!! No poz. Poz only! I have standards!
One of my biggest pet peeves is with gentlemen who structure their profiles so that they read like a list of prohibitions. I, as a type-defying sort, am often approached by this sort of guy for reasons I can't fathom. I’ll receive an email from a kid who’s written that he is interest in men under 35 ONLY, fit ONLY, and who lists himself as a top. Cum fuck me lol! he'll say. Or I’ll be on Adam4Adam and get an email from a black guy who says, pretty explicitly, that under no circumstances is he interested in being with a white man.
Every time I write back and point out that I don’t fit their criterion. I always get the same response: I’m willing to make an exception.
And every time I do, my own reaction is the same: Well thank you very goddamned much, but don’t do me any favors.
People, if you’re going going to devote so much energy in your online profile to excluding guys, don’t be surprised when they react badly to suddenly being propositioned. What you’re telling me, essentially, is that none of the men meeting your rigid standards are online or want to hook up with you, and that out of boredom or horniness, you’ve decided that I’ll do. I'm your Plan B. Or Plan C, even.
I really don’t want to be anyone’s exception any more than I want to be anyone’s pity fuck. For one thing, I don’t have to be either. I’m not desperate, or unattractive, or in need of pity. I do just fine, thanks. If you want to have sex with me, don’t do it with the proviso of you’re not my type, but. . . . or I’m going outside my usual restrictions for you. I’m not going to feel grateful. I’m not even going to take you up on the grudging offer. I’m simply going to say, Thanks, but I see you’re not into guys my age [or height, or weight, or color, or whatever]. Good luck finding what you want.
And then I’ll never reply to you again.
I know, it’s kind of harsh. I could be missing out on some good times. But at the same time, I enjoy having sex with men who are really there, who are in the moment and enjoying themselves. I’m not likely to get that with someone who is lying there thinking, Jeez, I wish this guy were under 30. Or, I’d surely rather be naked with someone who looked different from you. I don't want to be with someone who's slumming.
That might not be what the guy thought to himself as we romped, certainly. But it would be what I’d be projecting on him, and that’d be enough to yank me out of it.
You like what you like. As I said, I get that. I don’t expect all guys to like me.
Just want me for what I am, that’s all I ask. Don’t make me your exception.
I’m fine with falling between the cracks when it comes to type, though often it feels as if I’m apologizing to guys when they contact me. I’m not built like you, I feel obliged to warn the muscular guys with the model-quality bodies. Or, You’ve seen my face pics, right? I’ll ask the beautiful. When the bears start to grrrr and woof! at me, I feel as if I need to warn them that my body’s pink and smooth beneath the clothing.
Everyone wants what they want. I get that. But it’s always seemed to me as if the guys who categorize men into types don’t want those of us who ooze outside the clear coloring lines. Men who invest a lot of time and money into A&F shirts and baseball caps don’t usually seem to want someone who scorns the logos. Leathermen don’t often want to pick up someone who doesn’t own any gear. Bears, for all their talk about being dismissive of traditional gay stereotypes, have become a traditional gay stereotype who tend to ignore guys who don’t look like carbon copies of the burly bear blueprint.
It’s always seemed to me that a lot of men want men who are exactly like themselves, only two degrees hotter. And it’s for that reason that I spend too much time online warning guys what I’m not.
Of course there are plenty of men who will go to great lengths to explain in their profiles what they don’t want. No fats. No fems. No one over 30, over 35, over 40. 35+ ONLY. No one old enuf 2 b my dad lol. You must be fit. No one over 200 pounds. No blacks (sorry it’s just a preference). Brothas only no whites!!! No poz. Poz only! I have standards!
One of my biggest pet peeves is with gentlemen who structure their profiles so that they read like a list of prohibitions. I, as a type-defying sort, am often approached by this sort of guy for reasons I can't fathom. I’ll receive an email from a kid who’s written that he is interest in men under 35 ONLY, fit ONLY, and who lists himself as a top. Cum fuck me lol! he'll say. Or I’ll be on Adam4Adam and get an email from a black guy who says, pretty explicitly, that under no circumstances is he interested in being with a white man.
Every time I write back and point out that I don’t fit their criterion. I always get the same response: I’m willing to make an exception.
And every time I do, my own reaction is the same: Well thank you very goddamned much, but don’t do me any favors.
People, if you’re going going to devote so much energy in your online profile to excluding guys, don’t be surprised when they react badly to suddenly being propositioned. What you’re telling me, essentially, is that none of the men meeting your rigid standards are online or want to hook up with you, and that out of boredom or horniness, you’ve decided that I’ll do. I'm your Plan B. Or Plan C, even.
I really don’t want to be anyone’s exception any more than I want to be anyone’s pity fuck. For one thing, I don’t have to be either. I’m not desperate, or unattractive, or in need of pity. I do just fine, thanks. If you want to have sex with me, don’t do it with the proviso of you’re not my type, but. . . . or I’m going outside my usual restrictions for you. I’m not going to feel grateful. I’m not even going to take you up on the grudging offer. I’m simply going to say, Thanks, but I see you’re not into guys my age [or height, or weight, or color, or whatever]. Good luck finding what you want.
And then I’ll never reply to you again.
I know, it’s kind of harsh. I could be missing out on some good times. But at the same time, I enjoy having sex with men who are really there, who are in the moment and enjoying themselves. I’m not likely to get that with someone who is lying there thinking, Jeez, I wish this guy were under 30. Or, I’d surely rather be naked with someone who looked different from you. I don't want to be with someone who's slumming.
That might not be what the guy thought to himself as we romped, certainly. But it would be what I’d be projecting on him, and that’d be enough to yank me out of it.
You like what you like. As I said, I get that. I don’t expect all guys to like me.
Just want me for what I am, that’s all I ask. Don’t make me your exception.
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