Wednesday, August 8, 2007

A Walk on the Wild Side

If The Neighbors Will Hear were a Victorian novel, then this post would be a chapter titled "In Which Our Hero Demonstrates Why He Is More Fabulous Than You."

Last night I did something that I always swore that I'd never, ever do. It was pretty far out there, even for me. So much so that I abandoned my usual don't ask, don't tell position and actually told b&c that I was going to do it beforehand. I figured that if I tried to keep it to myself, he'd likely find out about it anyway, and then he'd be both shocked and dismayed, whereas if I told him preemptively, he'd just be dismayed. I have to say he took it pretty well.

Anyway, on Monday, I was sitting at my desk, surfing for porn that would make it past the office's content filter diligently toiling away researching arcane tax matters (in case you're wondering, according to the Tax Court, strippers can depreciate their breast implants over a seven-year period as an ordinary and necessary business expense) for the profit of my capitalist overlords, when I got a call from a guy whom I hadn't talked to in a couple of years. He asked whether I remembered him, and I said that I did, and then he asked whether I wanted to do something with him Tuesday evening. I mentioned that it was something I'd watched other people do but had never actually done myself and was slightly reticent to try. He said that he was sure it was something I'd be good at and that it was really something I needed to try at least once. What the hell, right? So I made arrangements to meet him at his house after work last night.

He lives in Potomac, an extremely expensive suburb. You remember how I said that where I live is essentially Stepford Lite? Well, Potomac is Stepford. He even lives in one of the nicer parts of Potomac, and to get to his house, you have to drive down a private road. It's very secluded, just the sort of place where you'd expect to do the sort of thing that might shock your partner. Anyway, I got there, and he was waiting for me in the driveway. With his wife.

Yes, it's true. Last night, for the first time ever, I went to a rehearsal of a barbershop chorus.



I know what you're thinking: scores of men all standing together, blending in close harmony. Woof, right? Surprisingly, though:

Your search - "gay barbershop chorus" - did not match any documents.




Anyway, it's a good idea to visit other cultures from time to time, and few things are as foreign as a barbershop chorus. It's gratifying, if a bit eyebrow raising, to be considered fresh meat. In fact, in that crowd, I suppose I'd be chicken. Anyway, I do have a thing for older, hot, gay men, and, well, one out of three isn't bad, I suppose. Actually, there were a number of guys who did fit the bill, especially if you're willing to view a wedding band as a statement of legal condition rather than fixed orientation. There were even two very cute gay guys in their twenties, who, I assume, must have gotten lost and just decided to sing along.



There are, of course, plenty of attractive gay men who sing a cappella music. Barbershop maybe not so much, but one must go in amongst the breeders from time to time. In any case, these guys certainly were friendly, and God knows they love to sing. The guy who invited me (he knows me from church choir) told me I could sit and observe or just get up on the risers and join in, so I decided to jump in, and when, after an hour-and-a-half of rehearsing, we had a short break, other guys who introduced themselves to me mostly wanted us to sing more. Apparently, part of being fresh meat at a barbershop group means getting pulled into a substantial number of pick-up quartets to sing songs you don't know. It's a little embarrassing to admit just how much fun that was.



The whole thing was a kick. I may go back, but it's a longshot, for a few reasons. It's a significant time commitment. The rehearsals are three hours long, and they're over in Northern Virginia (ick), so there's also travel time. Also, while I'm definitely up for it vocally, barbershop requires a level of showmanship that may elude me. I'm used to just kind of standing there and letting my voice speak for itself. Last night, I actually had to learn choreography. Scary. Anyway, they gave me a nice button to commemorate the experience.

By the way, the young twenty-something guy that I fucked a couple of weeks ago got back in touch with me and said that he'd like to find some way to become regular fuckbuddies. I'm not so sure about that, especially in light of my recent decision to never have sex again. I suppose I could tell him that we can fool around but not have actual sex, but that's a tricky conversation to have with my cock up his ass. Still, I don't think it counts as sex if you finish yourself off by hand after having fucked the cum out of the other guy, so there's hope. He had asked me to stop by his place last night (his parents are on vacation; Cthulhu preserve us), but I'd already agreed to attend the rehearsal. He was fine with me stopping by after 11, but I reckon that if you follow up a barbershop rehearsal with hot butt fucking of a twenty-something, you're just asking the universe to implode on the paradox. I hate it when that happens.

Anyway, I probably wouldn't have been able to find his folks' house last night. After we got back to my host's place, it was about all I could do to find my way out of the private road he lives on. I tried my best to retrace the way I'd come in, but I ended up lost in Potomac. To be honest, it's not the scariest place in the world to be lost in. In fact, I was all set right now to say

Your search - "mean streets of Potomac" - did not match any documents.


but as it happens, there are no fewer than three hits, including this page from this site, which, well, speaks for itself, I guess. Those crazy breeders and their legalized matrimony.

Anyway, if you're lost in Potomac, the only thing you really have to fear is that you'll end up with a resident's property bill. I figured that I would find my way out eventually, but it just seemed easier to phone b&c and ask for help. I drove until I found a road that he knew, and he told me that I could turn either way and that eventually I'd come to one of three roads that I knew. He was right, but I was really in the depths of the exurbs. Fortunately, when I got to one of the roads I knew, I guessed correctly as to which way to turn and eventually ended up at home rather than at Great Falls. It's a nice place to visit, but it closes at sundown, so the only thing you're likely to find there at 11 pm is a bored park ranger.

Hmmmm.

2 comments:

indytallguy@yahoo.com said...

I so thought this was going to be about fisting.

Will said...

How long do you expect us to believe you're really not going to have sex ever again?bmgkij