Some days, the saying goes, the bear gets you. Or maybe the bear doesn't get you. Or the somewhat bearish guy doesn't get any. Any way you put it, yesterday was just a bad day.
Naturally, I blame b&c. There I was, minding my own business, sitting in my office, hanging out on gay.com, fielding the replies to my latest CL ad, when up pops a window, and there's the familiar face of my partner saying "I thought I'd find you here." Keep in mind that b&c is currently in Jordan, which, if not quite half a world away, is still a bit of a hike. I have been getting the occasional email from him, but not as many as usual, which generally means that he's been getting plenty of cock. And there he is, on my screen, telling me that in Jordan, there's a thriving, underground gay scene, and that 90% of the guys are tops, and that they mostly have no safe places to play, so that as a bottom with a hotel room, he's a hot commodity. I tell him that bragging is considered bad form in many places, to which he replies that he's not bragging, he's just grateful. Hmmmm. Well, it looked a lot like bragging to me. Anyway, we were chatting for just a couple of minutes when he had to leave because "one of my twinks unexpectedly showed up at the door."
Now as I've said before, I'm not jealous of b&c's sexual exploits, but I am envious when he's getting more than I am, which appears to be most of the time, since when he's not getting serially pounded by hard-up Jordanians, he's home and not working and has all the time in the world for the hunt. Anyway. Not only has he now officially lost any right to ever complain about his sex life, he's coming home to a double treatment of Rid. In the past, when he's given me the gift of an arachnid invasion, I have never whinged. (Note to guys in open relationships: never give your partner genital lice, but if he gives them to you, bear it stoically. You will gain about six months of moral superiority for each louse and another two months for each nit.) After all, I'm not terribly hairy, and they always (That sounds like I have them all the time, doesn't it? It was actually twice, but I like to try to convince b&c that he's given them to me more often than that. I like my moral superiority.) go away with a single treatment. Still, I'd like to forestall that if at all possible. I keep telling b&c that since we live in Maryland, bringing me crabs is the ultimate in coals-to-Newcastle bad taste.
Anyway, it's a bad idea for me to arrange hook-ups when I'm feeling the need to meet a quota. I say yes to people that I should say no to. Not so much to people who are in any way harmful as to people who are decidedly flaky. For example, David. David described himself as "45, very fit. smooth , muscled. 31 waist. 168lbs. 5. 10...dark hair. blue eyes, tan. rock hard nips." What's not to like, right? The problem is that he lives near Logan Circle. I don't mean to offend any of my DC readers, but I've generally found that guys who live within five or six blocks of either Logan or Dupont Circle are, well, unreliable. But after ten emails each way, we'd settled all the details, exchanged cell numbers, and arranged for me to meet him in front of his building at 7 o'clock.
On the one hand, I should probably have called David before I left Bethesda. On the other, I didn't want to sound like I didn't trust him, even though I had an inkling that he might stand me up. Logan Circle, after all. Besides, I thought I had two other irons in the fire. Anyway, I arrived at 7 sharp, having survived the forty minutes of DC traffic that is required to travel eight miles, and I called David, and there was no response. I left a message, read my book for a while, tried again at 7:15, left another message, and left.
These days I'm usually pretty careful, and it's rare that I'm unexpectedly stood up. (I don't count all the guys that I know are going to not follow through. In those cases, I just double book. When I'm sure a guy's just fantasizing, I'm never wrong.) Perhaps that -- or the feeling that I was falling farther behind in the hook-up race -- was responsible for my entirely unexpected anger. I like to think, though, that I was angry on behalf of the environment. After all, the drive down and back had wasted at least a gallon of gas and caused excessive emissions (of the entirely wrong sort). I may be a horndog, but I'm a green horndog, damn it. David, on the other hand, clearly hates the planet.
I think that revenge fantasies are a healthy thing, don't you? Ultimately, I lack both the means and the meanness to carry them out, but if you know a 45 (probably 50, right?) year old guy named David who may or may not be a designer and who lives on the corner of O Street and 10th Street Northwest (I realize that this description could apply to a half-dozen men. Alas.), then tell him to be very afraid. If he and I are ever alone in a dark alley, I'm going to have some very harsh words for him. I like to think that the guilt associated with blowing me off (and destroying the planet) will get into his soul and bring him to an early demise in thirty years. Forty years, tops. Logan Circle guys probably don't actually feel guilt, but I can always hope that he hits the poppers too hard while he's in Georgetown and falls down the Exorcist stairs. Is falling down the Exorcist stairs carbon-neutral? It's very important to me that my revenge on David be carbon-neutral. If you hear that he dies in a fire or something, let me know so that I can plant some trees, ok?
Note to Internet entrepreneurs: as far as I know, there's no customizable death watch site on the Net. What's needed is a place for you to input the particulars of the men who've done you wrong, then douchebagdeathwatch.com can scour the obituaries every day and send you an email when one kicks off. My anger with a guy who stands me up typically only lasts eighteen hours, at most, but plenty of guys know how to carry a grudge, and, regardless, at the time of the stand up, guys are angry enough to plop down the money. Someone could make a fortune!
Anyway, I thought that I had two more guys lined up, but I knew that the one who said he wanted to come over at 11:30 to get fucked for the first time was a low probability. The guy due over at 9:30 was someone who I'd fucked before, and while he's not the most reliable guy I know, I figured there was a pretty good chance that he'd show. But when I got home, there wasn't a confirmation email from him, so I wrote him off. I answered a CL ad from a forty-five-year-old married guy who wanted to give head and who wasn't far away, and pretty quickly, I was back in the car. Like many married men, he was somewhat paranoid, so he asked me to park in a nearby parking lot so that he could pick me up and drive me to his parking lot so the nosy concierge wouldn't see me. Whatever.
You know how I always say that I'm the world's worst cocksucker? Not even close! After I parked my car, the guy drove by in his pick up, and we went to his condo, and I got undressed and lay down on the bed, and he got to work. It was fine at first, but for some reason, he must have expected me to blow a load within ninety seconds, because once we were two minutes in, he started jerking me off while he sucked only on my head, without taking any care to avoid using his teeth. Ouch. I started to squirm to get away from him, and he asked whether I was okay, and I asked him to watch the teeth. He tried again, but I had been thinking that he looked like someone, and right when he tried to go farther down my cock, I realized who. I was getting a blow job from a larger, younger, bearish version of Garry Marshall. Suddenly I was all "I'm getting head from Laverne DeFazio's brother," and I lost interest. He said he was done shortly thereafter. I should have left directly, but I offered reciprocation only because I thought it would be good to show off my superior cocksucking skills, and how often do I get that chance? I went down on him and rubbed his nipples for a couple of minutes, then -- having demonstrated that while he was an awful cocksucker, I am a perfectly adequate cocksucker; if you read my last post, you will see that I am clearly not writing "cocksucker" with sufficient frequency, and I am now attempting to ameliorate the cocksucker deficit -- I excused myself and went home. Oh, the humanity.
When I got home, it was still early enough to hook up, but my cockhead was a little sore from all the biting. I consoled myself with the thought that I have reliable action set up for the weekend, but I was nonetheless angry for letting myself be taken advantage of. I need to find a chalkboard so I can write "No one can take advantage of you unless you let him" and "I will not cruise Logan Circle men on the Internet" one hundred times each. Then I need to stop being so hard on myself for making occasional mistakes. Nobody's perfect.
3 years ago