(Missed Part I? » Read it here.)
Yesterday on slowPainful dot com:
Blah blah back from hiatus blah blah introduced theme blah Craigslist blah. Images images images napkin by Einstein image. Blah Blah. Talking about gay sex blah repugnant/enticing blah blah blah. Cliffhanger…
… Like I was saying, repugnant gay sex, once str8 dudes hear about it enough, starts to become incredibly, irresistibly enticing.
If you want proof, like I did, place an ad on Craigslist, or on Backpage if you’re feeling extra slutty, and offer no-strings-attached, no-effort-involved and super respectful quick release to your hetero bro’s. Use your imagination, sell it baby, flaunt it!
(Sorry, mom, about the flaunting, if you happen to be watching with eternally pursed lips from your ectoplasmic eyrie. And speaking of which, how about that back-to-school birthday present you gave me in Grade 9—seriously? Hot pants?)
Well, pump my pecker with a canister vacuum! It just so happens that the average dude’s Holy Grail is a blow job that doesn’t involve twelve weeks of training, big hugs every time she remembers about “the teeth thing”, and a gold star when she doesn’t stop when you scream, five seconds before you’re about to ejaculate, “for fuck’s sake don’t stop!”
So enticing has that Craigslist ad been to bi-neutral babes that I’ve had three years of mind-alteringly gorgeous hammer hawks from nineteen to forty-plus dropping by to change their pace, then skipping out of my apartment with demented smiles on their faces faster than they can say “Shit, I just got a text from my girlfriend”.
Women, let’s talk.
Straight dudes are terrified of, mystified by and hopeless at relating to women and understanding women ’cause they’ve been in the ManBox since birth, where the only manly things to do are get mad or grow a tumor. Their idea of constructive argument, and this is at its best, is to convince you via logic that you’re not feeling what you’re feeling. You know this already.
I’m telling you this, girlfriend, because your man needs a skin flute virtuoso to improvise for an hour or two; at least once in his life, the future father of your kids needs to kick back, watch girl-on-girl porn and enjoy the ministrations of a pro, and honey, I’m sorry. Every time you lose focus to brush that strand of hair behind your ear I think,“there should be a certification for this before someone gets hurt.”
Your dude needs some attention without having to worry about feelings, or buying flowers, or possible future ramifications like child support, or having to figure out whether you’re crying ’cause you crave his warm embrace or ’cause you’re working up to your Lorena Bobbitt moment.
He just needs a blowcation.
And when the five minutes, or fifteen or fifty minutes, or five hours is done, and your dude hugs me, or shakes my hand, and heads back home, I think,
“I wonder if women know what goes on between men when women aren’t around…”
Then I give myself a high five, wash the cum off my face and have a glass of wine.
I just “celebrated” my sixty-second birthday. I sent myself a surprise card, ate a pint of Kawartha Lakes vanilla ice cream (I’m terribly post-Häagen-Dazs) and settled into a gentle evening of naked Skype-ing.
The gentleman from Germany asked ME, not the other way around, which I like, because at my age I’m very careful about not pulling the homo version of a “Weinstein”. (I figure I might as well go for the “entered the language” thing right away.)
Gay youths in particular deserve sexual hijinks and substance-fueled shenanigans with guys their own age, something I never experienced as a fledgling fag. You can’t determine what’s age-appropriate for teen boyfriends if the very idea starts people foaming at the mouth and quoting Leviticus, which religious people do so much their bibles’ cracked spines fall open at the page.
In my day, a Thursday in 1973 if my memory is correct, queers of all ages worked the dark, seamy side of the subculture, sneaking around in a crepuscular wet dream of bars, public washrooms, parks and porn houses; when not sneaking around we hid in plain sight, and it was the hiding and the sneaking, not the sex, that was bad for us.
Young guys didn’t know who to turn to, because even acknowledging what you were doing was unthinkable.
But older guys, who’d orchestrated double lives for decades, teetering on a cliff-edge, in daily imminent danger of losing all—they could at least show you the ropes before they put on Judy at Carnegie Hall and tied you up with them. Clang, clang, clang went the trolley!
The paradigm was ancient Greece: a mentor who took you under his wing, or the pink, wrinkly albatross who hung around your neck, and it all felt as old as time and just as dismally inescapable.
Sixty-two now means that, to the freshly baked batch of baby queers still cooling in the pans, I am more than “past my prime”.
Oh, dear lord. I am a few laps around the racetrack beyond even “silver daddy”, and I don’t know how to fake it past this point, ’cause the first-wave baby boomer who was supposed to fax The Globe and Mail with whatever ghastly fate we’re rehabilitating next (“fifty is the new forty!”) is apparently hiding in his bedroom with a dog dish full of gin.
“Golden Grandad” is all I can come up with, and it just sounds like something that would cost you jail time: “He was doing so well on probation, then—BOOM! He golden-grandad’s himself right back inside!”
Old age is getting older, faster. Every grade nine kid hacks banking websites for casual fun; my generation had to be sat down at assembly to have it explained to us that the people on the screen didn’t actually live inside the TV. Some of us cried.
And every year, at the special showing of The Wizard of Oz—for which I would provide my mother with an encyclical from the Pope giving me permission to stay up past 7 pm—
—when that magical moment came when Dorothy walked out of her farmhouse door into Oz, I was overcome with joy, for those three extra shades of grey suddenly flickering on our black and white telly would obviously make her life as a gay icon and refugee from reality infinitely more bearable.
Pictures that flew through the air.
Since being shipped off for landfill by the Shelf-Life Sub-Committee of the Supreme Council of Gay Hook-Ups, I’ve noticed a change.
During those white nights when someone discovers me unconscious at the computer in my chaps and an egg-yolk stained cardigan from Hudson’s Bay, and eases me with infinite tenderness onto the floor so they can get back onto mormonboyz dot com, I find that not a single one of the someones is curious any more why I bark out “Kate Bush!” or “thalidomide!” during my REM cycle, or why, every mid-November, I awake shrieking “Where were you when Kennedy was shot?! The first one!”
And occasionally, as from my privileged vantage point of the floor I smoke a cigarette and watch their flawless millennial ankles cross and recross, I remember something.
I explain to the someone, because he’s here, and old guys need to explain, that there was once a time when you read a personal ad in a newspaper, and something grabbed you about it, so that your heart beat a little faster at the idea of meeting its author.
You then sat down at your desk and replied with a letter, writing with care using a fountain pen on real stationery, possibly including a snapshot you’d had developed at the Rexall drug store, put the whole kit—thoughtful, handwritten letter and photograph—in the matching envelope, then dropped it into the post box for collection.
Then, if you can even imagine it, you waited patiently for a reply.
Waited — !
The German guy naked-Skype-ing with me is in his fifties, not bad looking. He’s high on something.
He looks at me for several seconds, his face without expression.
“I luff ze body, ja your body is old, your chest ist schrecklich! Schrecklich! Jaaaa, I like very much your old body, your body in a state of decay!”
… and waited.