Sunday Morning Questions: Jockapalooza Edition

Thanks to several of my readers, I had a birthday that I can describe only as . . . well, you’ll see.

It’s true that I got some DVDs.

It’s also true that I got a book for my relaxation time.

And I did get some underwear.

But mostly I got jocks.

And jocks.

And jocks.

(Yes, I posted the last two before.)

In fact, it was something of a jockapalooza. Thank you, readers! I (and some local guys who like jocks) am a very happy camper.

I’m still taking questions for my Sunday morning columns. My account at formspring.me is still working, but it’s not quite as anonymous user-friendly as it used to be, so feel free to email me at the address on the sidebar. Put Sunday Questions in the subject line so I can find it easily, and you’ll be my favorite reader of the day.


Do you ever experience that sweet sorrow after hooking up with someone you know (or have reason to believe) that you will never meet again?

The first time I had that experience was during my college years. I met an older guy in the cruisy campus toilets and had sex with him in the stall. He was in his late thirties, handsome, not married, and obviously not from the podunk town where I was stuck during my undergraduate years. It turned out he was indeed just passing through, and would be leaving for his home in the District of Columbia the next morning.

He invited me to his motel room to spend the night, though. That was novel for me. So I told my roommate lies about where I'd be, biked to the motel on the edge of town, knocked at his door, and found myself ushered into his room. He'd somehow bought a couple of cheap scented candles and had gone to an effort to make things nice, which is an accomplishment in a Motel 6.

He made love to me that night, over and over again. It wasn't fucking. It was lovemaking. He kept telling me how handsome I was, and how excited I made him. In fact, he was so sweet and gentle and hot that I fell in love with him that night. And even though he left at dawn the next morning and I never saw him again, I truly believed then—and now—that knowing our paths were crossing only for a short time made the coupling even sweeter.

Not to go all Pippin on you, but everything has its season. Not every person in your life is meant to be in it forever. People play cameo roles in your life and vanish, just as you do in theirs. The duration of their appearances is not necessarily what's important; what they say, and how they behave, and the intensity and flavor of what they bring determines how important they are, and will become.
There's sorrow in that, yes. But the sweetness is what matters in the end.


Have you ever hit someone hard enough to hurt them? Did you regret it immediately? Did they deserve it?

When I was in third grade, a kid named Michael Rennie was being a total dick to me (I thought . . . I don't remember on what grounds I decided it) when we were walking home from the bus stop after school. I swung up with my lunchbox and banged him on the head. The blow brought him to his knees.

It was a metal lunchbox. Snoopy, if you must know.

He wasn't seriously hurt, but it only took a few short seconds for me to learn that no matter how dickish someone is behaving, beaning them over the head with a lunchbox made me even more of a dick. I apologized profusely afterward, but never really forgave myself. I've never hit anyone since then. With or without Snoopy.

However. I have hit guys hard enough to hurt in roleplay sexual contexts. They loved it, and I didn't regret it.


You Blog is new to me. Have you an opinion on the "Why?" of last year's trial in Kennebunk, Maine? (Me, I do not.)


It took me a while to get around to this question because it required, you know, actually researching the whole trial thing. (And I'm fundamentally lazy.) But if you mean the Kennebunk, Maine trial about the Zumba teacher who was running a prostitution ring in which over 60 clients were charged as well. And my reply is . . . well, is there really anything else to do in Kennebunk?

It really seems that most of the press coverage is of a slut-shaming sort that revels in tsk-tsking at the fact that the woman involved not only enjoyed having sex, but wasn't all that ashamed about engaging it in with multiple partners, without shame or regret. Good for her. I hope that she's able to parlay her story into a book or TV movie to tell her side of the story.

Also: Zumba has never sounded so appealing.