I don't usually post a series of pictures of the same guy (unless they're pictures that I took, of course), but I am today. According to the captions where I found them, he's identified as a Navy Seal. I once heard on NPR that for every Navy Seal there are three hundred guys who claim to have been a Navy Seal. Mostly in bars, I reckon, but whatever. Anyway, whether this guy is a Seal or not, I wouldn't kick him out of bed. Sure, he's probably capable of killing and dismembering you and making you disappear without a trace using nothing but his very strong hands and your own dental floss, but just because he could doesn't mean he would. Besides, after fucking that guy, you'd be so exhausted and happy that you'd probably feel like you'd experienced everything life had to offer, anyway.
Anyway, last night I had to travel to the wilds of Northern Virginia. I suppose some people wouldn't call the Tysons Galleria "the wilds," but I always feel like I'm leaving civilization behind when I cross the Potomac. My sister is in town this week for some sort of training seminar, and since I already had to leave work at the scandalously early hour of 5:15 to pick up YFU, I figured the two of us could have dinner with her. She has a rental car, so she met us in Tysons, which is about halfway.
We had dinner at Legal Seafood, which I figured was a safe choice for everyone. The rest of the dinner was somewhere between forgetful and regrettable, but the entrees were very good. Mostly it was good to see my sister. Her husband is stationed at Fort Lewis, in Washington State, and she has three boys, so I only get to see her rarely. She was telling me during dinner that her husband has taken a real interest in extreme wrestling/mixed martial arts/whatever. I wanted to tell her what my reaction was the first time I saw that on TV, but YFU was at the table, so I told my sister that the first time I was flipping through channels and saw it, both guys were down on the mat, and then I covered YFU's ears with my hands, lowered my voice, and said, "And I thought, 'Why are those two guys fucking on TV?'" This cracked my sister up, and she said she couldn't wait to tell her husband. My sister and her husband are both conservatives and Christians, but they also have potty mouths and are okay with the gays, so they're cool.
After dinner, I had to drive my sister around for ten minutes while she hit the panic button on her rental car's remote. She couldn't remember where she'd parked or what sort of car she was driving. She lamented, correctly, that this episode would be used as ammunition against her in future family events. I will enjoy embellishing, but I try not to go too far down that road because whenever we're all sitting around telling old stories, someone always says, "And remember that time TED rode his bike into the Susquehanna river?" I did, in fact, ride my bike into the river: its brakes failed as I was coming towards the dock to bring my father a sandwich, and I rode right down and then off a boat ramp. That part of the story doesn't bug me. What gets me is the embellishment: that I was so worried about the sandwich that instead of gripping the brakes tightly, I was holding the brown paper bag up over my head to keep it dry and that the last thing they saw was my arm above the water's surface, like some Lady of the Lake: with this sandwich, you shall unite Britain. Or whatever. I've learned to smile when they tell the story, but the malleable nature of memory galls when it's used against me. When it alters in my favor, I don't mind so much.
I notice now -- and have done for several years -- that my memory is not what it was. I like to tell people that the processor still works at full speed but the hard drive has been full for a while. My sister told me last night that I taught her to read music and that because of that she can't remember a time when she couldn't. I have no memory of that, but it's certainly true that if she learned to read music at an early age, I'm the only one who would have taught her, and I would have been at least ten years old, so I ought to remember. She said that in the context of admonishing me after YFU told her that she doesn't know how to read music. I should probably have felt bad about that, but instead I started thinking about counting music and began quietly tapping my left leg with my left hand while counting under my breath: half notes, triplets, quarters. When I got to five notes to a beat, I realized I'd lost track of the conversation. My mind wanders easily when I'm sleep deprived. Also, I go off on tangents when writing, but I do that when I'm well rested, too, so no matter. Anyway, I realize how little I remember -- or how little I think about what's happened -- when I'm googling the blog to try to link to a specific event. I often come upon an unrelated entry where I had sex with someone. If the blog weren't here, most of those encounters would go out of my mind and never return. Just yesterday, I got to read again about a lengthy standing make out session with b&c that happened last year. It came back pretty vividly once I started reading. I feel sorry for people who have good sex and never make any note of it. Then again, I suppose there are people who keep video of every encounter and maybe they feel sorry for me because I can only read and can't watch the clip on XTube. My mind doesn't work that way, though, and I'm pretty sure that watching a clip of myself having sex would do nothing for me except maybe remind me of my failure to moisturize. Video doesn't capture the way my conscious mind gets overwhelmed by hot man-on-man action.
Anyway. I was pretty beat last night, so after helping YFU finish up her homework, I popped a couple of Benadryl and sat down to watch Top Chef. I was actually in bed by 11:30, but I made the mistake of putting O Brother, Where Art Thou in the DVD player, and I didn't actually turn off the lamp and settle in to snooze until midnight. When I got up at 6:15, the TV was still displaying the menu screen. That's still more sleep than I've gotten in many days: I am a man of constant fatigue.
I meant to get to sleep early on Tuesday, but I inexplicably found myself on squirt.org, and there was a guy saying that if I was willing, he'd be happy to travel north to take care of my cock. He was in Silver Spring, just inside the Beltway, so it wasn't that much of a journey, but he asked in such a polite way that I felt I had to say yes. So I did. Apparently, the road construction on Georgia Avenue was in full tilt at that late hour, so it took him a while to get there: I was just about to call his cell to see if he was really coming when I saw his car turn into the driveway.
I don't usually mess with squirt. It's very much a place where decisions are made based on your cock shot. I get a lot of guys there who contact me but then read my profile and see "men who won't kiss" listed in my turn-offs. Most of the guys on squirt, apparently, only kiss their wives. But there had been this guy the night before who'd said he wanted to come over and be tied up and fucked from both ends, but that it was too late right then so I should try him the next night when he would definitely be on, and even though I knew that he wouldn't be on and that I should be getting to sleep, I wanted to try because even though that guy doesn't remember (I think), he and I hooked up about six years ago when I was first separated, and he was a terrific cocksucker. He wasn't on, of course, but Todd was.
Todd had said he was all about giving me a blowjob, but I figured it couldn't hurt to try going for his nipples and a kiss when he got in the door, so I did, and he was all about that, too. In fact, there was really nothing at all squirt.orgish about this guy. Except maybe that he really was a good and avid cocksucker. But he loved the making out, and he was articulate, and after he'd gone down on me for a long time, and I'd sucked his nipples and so on and so forth and then we each took matters into our own hands (his cock is a lot like mine), and I'd shot all over his chest, he wanted to cuddle and talk. Which was cool until I started to fall asleep. He was nice about it, though, and I woke up and we talked and made out some more before he went home. Two stars, certainly, but I was much too tired to think of a cheeseburger. I reckon that his and my paths will cross again sooner or later, but on Tuesday night, it was time that I could ill afford, especially since while I do have a tendency to drift off after sex, when I'm awake again, I'm usually awake for a while. I didn't get to sleep until 2.
This would have been a much larger problem if the submissive who was supposed to come by around 6 am had shown up. This guy's been after me to fuck him for a while, and I was pretty sure he'd show, but when I saw that it was 6:15 and my cell hadn't rung, I turned off the alarm and slept until almost 8. When I was dressed, I checked my email, and there was a message from the guy, sent around 4:30, saying that he had to be at work first thing and so wouldn't be able to make it, and that he couldn't call to tell me because his wife gets the cell phone bill every month and sees the numbers he's called. I emailed him back and told him that I was no longer interested: if he couldn't show up when agreed upon and couldn't find a way to make phone calls, hooking up would be well nigh impossible. There is something very satisfying about telling a guy to get lost, and it's much more satisfying when the fault is entirely his. He sent back a very nice and apologetic email that almost made me reconsider, but instead I deleted it. There really are too many fish in the sea.