It's really tough to post these days without whinging. I don't, mind you, think my life is especially horrid, and I do have other things to say. But the other things to say would take a long time to think through and write out. I do sometimes get bored of writing about my sex life or of posting mildly durbanbudesque ironies. Not that there's anything wrong with either of those genres, but there are a few topics that I'd like to address that I just don't have the time for. Plus, the job is just murder right now, so I could whinge about that.
I also don't want to make it sound like I'm knocking whinging generally. What would the blogosphere be without people complaining about their lives? And let's face it: schadenfreude may be an ugly emotion, but it's also the best thing going. It explains my love-hate relationship with reality television. On the one hand, the fact that some people actually watch The Apprentice and respect Donald Trump is fairly convincing evidence of the imminent fall of Western civilization. On the other hand, I only had to watch half a season of it to feel a whole lot better about the fact that I'll never be rich. It's the same thing with blogs: a really good blog is one that makes me feel better about my own inadequacies because there's someone who's so much better in some area but is still a miserable fuck. Because of the Internet, I can eat carbs and never go anywhere near a gym and feel much better about myself. I should probably send [Oh come on, you don't expect me to name names, do you? I don't believe in talking smack about other blogs. Anyway, you can probably make your own list of fifty blogs I could be talking about. I also don't leave comments on what I consider to be trainwreck blogs.] a gram of some illicit drug or other as a thank you. (I still do, however, view the fact that the beautiful-but-miserable bloggers get dozens of comments on an entry as further confirmation of the decline and fall.)
The thing about whinging on a blog is that it has to be earned. I've seen a bit of complaining on a few blogs over the past couple of days, and it hasn't bothered me because a) they're talking about real problems, and b) I've been reading those blogs for a while, so I have some level of familiarity with their personal lives, and I'm more likely to feel sympathy with than impatience at their trials.
I, however, have nothing but work to whinge about, and how dull is that? So while I have a couple of substantial topics for which I've started drafts, the only thing I really have to write about right now is the really awful blowjob I got last night. I'd tell you to just skip the rest of the entry, but it's a little late for that, innit?
Anyway, I saw this craigslist ad for a guy who wanted to give head. There are many such ads, of course, but this guy was on my way home from the office. And I'd had maybe five hours of sleep the night before, so lying back and letting a guy go down on me was about the most I could handle. So I emailed the guy, and he said to call and come by whenever. He mentioned the possibility of using his homemade glory hole, but I said, no, thanks, the recliner will be fine. And he mentioned the possibility of straight porn, but I said
I have to say that I'm not a big fan of sex in unfinished basements. It's just so, you know, Silence of the Lambs. But when I got to the guy's place and called him, as instructed, he came out and led me down the concrete steps to the unfinished basement. I could see a so-called glory hole constructed out of cardboard boxes off to the side next to the partially obscured television screen that had a (quelle surprise) glory hole video running. But I just dropped trou and reclined in the recliner.
And it started out fine, but after ten minutes or so, he was clearly tired of sucking my cock. Which is fine, you know, but if you're used to sucking off guys who cum in two minutes, maybe figure that if a guy tells you it's going to take half an hour, you might not be up for the whole thing. He started to jerk me off after that, which would have been more pleasant if he hadn't been staring at me in such a way that his giant head blocked the entire tv screen, where one hot guy was eating another hot guy's even hotter ass.
Anyway, I blame myself. At some point, I should have thanked him and left. I mean, the head felt fine, and the hand job was okay for a while, but he got frustrated and it was more like he was beating egg whites than meat. After half an hour or so, I just took over for myself, and he stared at me some more. The combination of fatigue, basement, and big head made it so that even though I was very stiff, I had to pump myself so hard to cum that I ended up with a cramp in my upper arm. He handed me a bunch of Kleenex, and I wiped up and left.
Well, live and learn, right?
Fortunately, I don't dwell on these things. I drove home, had a snack, went upstairs, and masturbated while reading the sleazy gay novel du semaine. Apparently a bad hand job administered by someone else makes a good wank seem all the better. No joy without despair. No light without darkness. No dessert until you finish your vegetables.
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