Saturday Night
It's Saturday night, and like most gay men I know, I followed the traditional expectation to be out and about among drunken, hedonistic society. Somewhere in the middle of this, I was reminded that I am not inherently hedonistic.
I went to Portland's own gay strip club, Silverado, and regardless of the readily objectified, beautifully naked man-flesh on stage, I found myself uncomfortable, unhappy, and quite definitely not drunk enough to cope. Perhaps it was the massive throng of people, so close together that it was simply impossible to get anywhere in the bar without being inadvertently (or completely intentionally) groped. Perhaps it was the friend I came to see, a newer association, who was indeed drunk enough to be flirting with half of a committed couple I know. In either case, it dawned on me early on that regardless of the invite to come out for fun, I was going it alone. Normally I don't mind winging it by myself in other distinctive environments; constant objectification is not one of these. I had three beers, and two-thirds of the way into the third beer, I chucked it, gathered my coat around me, and walked out the exit. Stumbling toward me were two men I know in their mid- to late-forties, on there way in to the same bar I was leaving. They pressured me to return with them, noting that, "It's early--you know what happens when you're here awhile. Give it a couple drinks." And they were right; I do know what happens when I'm there for a while. I abandon all pretense at the morals and dreams that keep me in the dating world. I worry less about the judgement of those around me. I get drunk, I lose all feel for protecting myself against social death, and I become openly slutty. Usually I go home with someone attractive, at least marginally. I enjoy myself having sex with this stranger, and then wake up feeling disgusting.
This is certainly no reflection on the men, other than that they too are indulging in base desires and disregarding consequence. Typically, these men are not in my bed because their highest goal in life is to fuck and be fucked by anything pretty that happens to be drunk enough to say "yes." Maybe my perspective is skewed in this, and perhaps I'm giving credit where it is certainly not due; regardless, I choose to believe that the same trap I see myself drowning in is not specific to me. There are chicken-hawks out there, and ass-hounds, and I know this. I've been prey to them before, and I've also been them before. You cannot be promiscuous and not be in this situation, I suppose. And realistically, there is a moment of celebration when you've conquered some beautiful young man. There is even celebration in mutual conquer. I just don't feel it much, anymore, right this moment. The heroin I know it is, though, it will most likely last only until loneliness sets its teeth in.
It's difficult for me, because I still believe, regardless of overwhelming evidence otherwise, that romance and excitement and commitment and connection are possible. I grew up with Cinderella, and it's difficult to imagine her a year later, pulling the prince aside and saying, "My love, though I love thee with all my heart, I find my body craves the flesh of other suitors. I wish to ride the fruitful loins of other men before coming home to thee. Wouldst thou be opposed to an open relationship?" No, no, if there were disappointments, it was because princes are designed for infidelity. Not because a woman in love thought it would be healthy to love everyone with her loose poontang.
So where are all of the marriageable men? Am I truly alone on an island, seeking something that everyone else has forgotten or stopped believing in? I don't even want perfection. I just want to be respected, and every avenue down which I stroll has a waiting hard dick ready for action. It's not that I don't like sex--Jesus, no, I love sex, and the feel of naked flesh on flesh, building toward beautiful climax... I just don't remember how I got here, or how I'm missing the opportunities that used to be so easy to find. I'm not old, and I'm not unattractive. I begin to think that if I did become the gym rat society wants me to be, it would be even more difficult to filter away the douche-bags. As of now, when I get even the meaningless attention men in bars dole out, I blossom like a flower in springtime, straining toward the sunlight. And when that sunlight turns to another flower, I wither and weaken in sadness. I know that I place far too much importance on what other people think--its what has enabled me to be too perfect the boyfriend, when I have been one. Too considerate. Too careful. Too comforting. With Christian, I gave him love and support. We fought maybe twice in six months. I let him come to me when other things were awful, and know that I would be a stronghold away from the negative influence of his ridiculously dramatic friends. All the while he was fucking other men, so I suppose that was a great plan.
I'm not certain who I should be, or who I am. It's probably best that I just remain single for a while. I have much to offer--I own a car, I have an awesome job, I'm going to school and being responsible. And beyond that, I guess I need to make a concerted effort to stop catering to base desires. Things aren't getting better fucking random people. I have been so consumed by getting laid that I have forgotten my friends. I think it's about time that I let myself sink into non-sexual relationships with people I'm not attracted to, and see if that serves me better.
Wish me luck, and resolve. I have precious little of either, most of the time.
I went to Portland's own gay strip club, Silverado, and regardless of the readily objectified, beautifully naked man-flesh on stage, I found myself uncomfortable, unhappy, and quite definitely not drunk enough to cope. Perhaps it was the massive throng of people, so close together that it was simply impossible to get anywhere in the bar without being inadvertently (or completely intentionally) groped. Perhaps it was the friend I came to see, a newer association, who was indeed drunk enough to be flirting with half of a committed couple I know. In either case, it dawned on me early on that regardless of the invite to come out for fun, I was going it alone. Normally I don't mind winging it by myself in other distinctive environments; constant objectification is not one of these. I had three beers, and two-thirds of the way into the third beer, I chucked it, gathered my coat around me, and walked out the exit. Stumbling toward me were two men I know in their mid- to late-forties, on there way in to the same bar I was leaving. They pressured me to return with them, noting that, "It's early--you know what happens when you're here awhile. Give it a couple drinks." And they were right; I do know what happens when I'm there for a while. I abandon all pretense at the morals and dreams that keep me in the dating world. I worry less about the judgement of those around me. I get drunk, I lose all feel for protecting myself against social death, and I become openly slutty. Usually I go home with someone attractive, at least marginally. I enjoy myself having sex with this stranger, and then wake up feeling disgusting.
This is certainly no reflection on the men, other than that they too are indulging in base desires and disregarding consequence. Typically, these men are not in my bed because their highest goal in life is to fuck and be fucked by anything pretty that happens to be drunk enough to say "yes." Maybe my perspective is skewed in this, and perhaps I'm giving credit where it is certainly not due; regardless, I choose to believe that the same trap I see myself drowning in is not specific to me. There are chicken-hawks out there, and ass-hounds, and I know this. I've been prey to them before, and I've also been them before. You cannot be promiscuous and not be in this situation, I suppose. And realistically, there is a moment of celebration when you've conquered some beautiful young man. There is even celebration in mutual conquer. I just don't feel it much, anymore, right this moment. The heroin I know it is, though, it will most likely last only until loneliness sets its teeth in.
It's difficult for me, because I still believe, regardless of overwhelming evidence otherwise, that romance and excitement and commitment and connection are possible. I grew up with Cinderella, and it's difficult to imagine her a year later, pulling the prince aside and saying, "My love, though I love thee with all my heart, I find my body craves the flesh of other suitors. I wish to ride the fruitful loins of other men before coming home to thee. Wouldst thou be opposed to an open relationship?" No, no, if there were disappointments, it was because princes are designed for infidelity. Not because a woman in love thought it would be healthy to love everyone with her loose poontang.
So where are all of the marriageable men? Am I truly alone on an island, seeking something that everyone else has forgotten or stopped believing in? I don't even want perfection. I just want to be respected, and every avenue down which I stroll has a waiting hard dick ready for action. It's not that I don't like sex--Jesus, no, I love sex, and the feel of naked flesh on flesh, building toward beautiful climax... I just don't remember how I got here, or how I'm missing the opportunities that used to be so easy to find. I'm not old, and I'm not unattractive. I begin to think that if I did become the gym rat society wants me to be, it would be even more difficult to filter away the douche-bags. As of now, when I get even the meaningless attention men in bars dole out, I blossom like a flower in springtime, straining toward the sunlight. And when that sunlight turns to another flower, I wither and weaken in sadness. I know that I place far too much importance on what other people think--its what has enabled me to be too perfect the boyfriend, when I have been one. Too considerate. Too careful. Too comforting. With Christian, I gave him love and support. We fought maybe twice in six months. I let him come to me when other things were awful, and know that I would be a stronghold away from the negative influence of his ridiculously dramatic friends. All the while he was fucking other men, so I suppose that was a great plan.
I'm not certain who I should be, or who I am. It's probably best that I just remain single for a while. I have much to offer--I own a car, I have an awesome job, I'm going to school and being responsible. And beyond that, I guess I need to make a concerted effort to stop catering to base desires. Things aren't getting better fucking random people. I have been so consumed by getting laid that I have forgotten my friends. I think it's about time that I let myself sink into non-sexual relationships with people I'm not attracted to, and see if that serves me better.
Wish me luck, and resolve. I have precious little of either, most of the time.