Monday, October 20, 2008

The Weekend in Memory and Desire

I don't spend as much time in D.C. as I'd like to. Despite the fact that I work in Bethesda, which is right on the border, I live in an exurb, so whenever we go downtown -- usually to see the symphony, the opera, or a play -- it takes an hour and involves driving and parking. Well, b&c drives and park, and I try to pretend that I don't expect him to drive us into a bus or statue at any moment. Anyway, when we drive in, we almost always pass at least two or three places that I remember because I once (or more than once) hooked up with someone who lived there. It's a very pleasant lens through which to view the city, or at least it's far more amusing than dwelling on my imminent traffic-related death.

I tend not to remember boring sex, so if I still have an association of a location with a play session, it's a pretty good bet that the sex was exemplary. I suppose that if I'd had a horrific experience, I'd remember the places where those happened, too, but so far I've never had a jealous boyfriend or wife come at me with a sharp implement. Then again, I'm still young.

I don't always think about past sex in the car; sometimes, I just fall asleep instead. I did this past Friday night when I walked from the office over to Austin Grill to meet b&c for dinner and then we drove down to the Kennedy Center. That's only a half-hour trip, but when we got in the car, I made the mistake of asking what we were going to be hearing, and the following exchanged ensued.
B&c: Mahler's Third
TED: Oh God.
B&c: What?
TED: Well, let's see. Since I've known you, we've seen Mahler's First twice, we've seen Mahler's Ninth, we've seen Mahler's Eighth, and now we're going to see Mahler's Third. This guy must have written like five or six symphonies, at least.
B&c: Actually, he wrote nine. That's why there's Mahler's Ninth. Oh. That was a joke, wasn't it?
TED: Jesus Christ. Have we met? Of course it was a joke. In fact, I'm pretty sure that Leonard Slatkin said that after Mahler wrote the Eighth, he wrote a full-length piece that included some vocalists and that he didn't call a symphony but that Slatkin says really is a symphony, so that the Ninth might actually be considered the Tenth. I only pretend not to be listening. Anyway, what else is on the program?
B&c: Nothing.
TED: What do you mean nothing? You mean it's a forty-minute program. Sweet! Maybe there is a god.
B&c: No. The Third is actually a ninety-plus-minute symphony. So it's ninety minutes without an intermission.
TED: Did you hear that?
B&c: Hear what?
TED: That was the sound of God dying. Again.

And then, because the concept of a ninety-minute symphony is simply too horrible to contemplate, I went to sleep. We got to the Kennedy Center early, as we invariably do. B&c gives a small amount of money to the KC every year, so they let us in a few minutes early, and we went to the minor donor's lounge (they call it something else, I think), where I got a cup of coffee, in the vain hope that more caffeine would allow me to survive the symphony.

I have to say that I'm pretty much over Mahler. I mean, some of the symphonies are great, but all of the conductors/music directors in DC and Baltimore since I've known b&c have had a major hard-on for Mahler to the point where your chances of hearing a nice Beethoven or Mozart (and the list goes on) symphony are vastly diminished. B&c says that we have Leonard Bernstein and a host of gay music graduate students who lived in New York in the fifties to blame for this state of affairs. Whatever. We started chatting about other things we'd seen or were going to see, including Carmen, which is sometime soon.
TED: I'm actually looking forward to Carmen. I've never seen it live, and it's four acts, but it's not unduly long, is it?
B&c: It depends on which version they do.
TED: Do you mean they might do the version where Carmen decides to leave behind her life of sin and emigrates to the new world where she takes a job as a clerk in a government office and lives happily ever after on a defined benefit pension plan?
B&c: No. I don't think Bizet actually wrote that version.
TED: Pity. Her aria about the full funding limitation would doubtless have become a standard.
B&c: Doubtless.

As it happens, b&c was wrong about the program. Instead of the ninety-two-minute (I checked) symphony without intermission, the interim conductor (Ivan Fischer, who has a lovely Hungarian accent and could surely be depended upon to make the trains run on time) was going to give a brief talk before each movement, and there would be an intermission after the long, long first movement.

Oh, the humanity.

Anyway, I slept until nine or so on Saturday morning, then I got up to take care of some chores. We had arranged to travel into town again with some friends to meet some other friends to have dinner at Alero and then see Chuecatown at Reel Affirmations, the DC-area LGBT film festival. B&c had a driver showing up at 6am Sunday morning to take him to the airport for his flight to Managua, so I told him to be sure to be packed by 5:30, when Christopher would be showing up for a pre-drive drink. B&c spent most of the rest of the day muttering about how he should have opted to stay home Saturday evening. I ignored his muttering. Around 1, my buddy J., the Republican, called to ask whether I could change the dinner reservation to include two of his friends who wanted to see the movie with us. I told him I'd try, but that I wouldn't try until he was sure that these guys were definite about coming. I know these guys, and they're pleasant enough, but they're not very reliable. J. said he'd call back "right away." When I hadn't heard from him after an hour, I decided that what I really needed -- because I had a solo at church the next day -- was a haircut. After my last hair atrocity, I was afraid to go back to the place I'd been going to, so I drove down to the local barber shop. On Saturdays, this place has the twin advantages of shorter waits and a staff of non-Caucasian male barbers, all of whom fill out the backs of their jeans just the way backs of jeans are meant to be filled out. They were watching a football game, of course, but there's no pleasure without pain, I reckon. Then I drove home, and, at 3, J. called back to say that his friends had decided not to accompany us for the evening because they wanted to see the earlier movie because the movie I'd selected had subtitles. As I regard reticence to see films with subtitles as a moral failing (even when, as was likely the case here, that reticence is due to an expectation of being too drunk to read), I was unable to feel any regret at their failure to join us, especially since it meant that I didn't have to call the restaurant.

Besides, I'd just had my hair cut, which almost invariably means that I'm a) covered with hair, and b) horny, so dealing with J.'s friends' (and J.'s) whinging about subtitles was the last thing on my mind. I almost felt bad about taking b&c away from his packing, but I figured I wouldn't have another chance before he flew off to Nicaragua, so after I got out of the shower, I lay on the bed and read for a few minutes until he came to join me. He was still grumbling about the packing, but there's always a sure way to shut him up. I was considerate enough to only take forty-five minutes of his time, though. What can I say? I'm a giver.

Because of a traffic incident and a miscommunication with another friend, we were late leaving the house to head into DC. Fortunately, Christopher and I had each consumed a martini, but I was still feeling unduly tense, as happens whenever I fear being late for a dinner reservation. Still, we drove down sixteenth street, and when we got to the place where fifteenth street runs into it, I couldn't help noticing the apartment building of a guy I used to hook up with occasionally a few years ago. He was twenty-four and a very eager bottom. He was completely unreliable, but heavens he was limber. He moved to L.A. back in '02 or '03, I think. And not much later, we drove by a larger apartment building where lived (and likely still lives) a very hot Latin bottom whose ass I would eat until he begged me to fuck him. Sadly, he was very enamored of both drama and self-righteousness, and seeing him became untenable, but what an ass he had. And I'd just stopped thinking about how much I used to love rimming him when we parked and walked briskly to the restaurant.

Dinner was fine, and despite an incredibly slow ticket-buying line, I managed to get our movie tickets between the arrivals of the Margarita and the entree. My friend Custer was due to show up with a date, but he was coming later, so we ended up leaving his tickets at the will call. Chuecatown was an entertaining indictment of the real estate development profession. I thought that Victor (the real estate guy) was far too sympathetic a character, but that may have been because he was played by Pablo Puyol, who may have the world's most photogenic ass. In fact, the last time I'd gone to a movie at Reel Affirmations, I'd seen Sr. Puyol's ass (and the rest of him) in 20 Centimeters, and when said ass made its first appearance, my FWP Bing, who was sitting next to me and who had had perhaps two drinks too many at dinner, cried out, "Oh my God." The ass was certainly worthy of the exclamation. For reasons that were never entirely clear to me, Bing soon afterward lost interest in hanging out with me (with or without privileges), and I grew tired of having my invitations refused or not answered and stopped contacting him. So I hadn't seen him for going on two years when he showed up at the end of the movie as Custer's date Saturday night. It felt a bit awkward when Custer introduced him to me, but I just said that we'd already met and left it at that. He didn't seem interested in talking to me, and it was already 11, and b&c had an early flight to catch, and I had to sing the next morning, so we all headed home. Bing and Custer actually seem very well suited to each other. I suppose that if they start dating, I'll see even less of Custer than I do now, but I see precious little of him now, so it's no great loss.

I half woke up to kiss b&c goodbye the next morning, but then I went back to sleep, not rising until after 8. I got dressed and arrived at church around 9:25, in time to see YFU rehearsing with the youth ensemble. Then I ran through my piece (Bobby McFerrin's gorgeous version of the 23rd Psalm) once, and then the service started. Our Director of Religious Education was leading the service yesterday morning, and she'd specifically requested the song, and I of course sing any time I'm asked, so I said I'd sing it. I spent most of the time before singing reflecting on the words, and when I got up and sang, I thought it went pretty well. Nobody applauded, at least. And then the DRE got up to give the sermon and bowed in my direction and said from the pulpit that she had never heard the song sung as beautifully and then she said some other very kind things, and I was grateful for the praise, but it was all a little much. And when the service was over, there was a great deal more praise from a great many other people, and I remember thinking that I would have enjoyed that a lot more if it had been spread out over a month or so because I was getting a little bit overwhelmed.

Fortunately, I couldn't hang out at church because I'd invited Logan over at noon, so I hurried home, showered, and changed into something less appropriate for a worship service. When he showed up, we stood in the entryway and made out for what seemed like a very long time, and then I took him upstairs, and we did other things for a very long time. He left around 2:30, but we only fucked until about 1:30. It was awesome, as usual. At some point I hauled him into the shower and fucked him under the running water, but mostly we had extended foreplay followed by an extended fuck in the bed. I had him bounce up and down on my cock and jerk himself most of the way to orgasm, and then I grabbed his cock, stroked him quickly for a bit, and pulled the trigger. Then I put him on his back and on his side and, finally, on his stomach, plowing him hard in all positions until I shot. He was purring throughout. He jumped in the shower again, and then we lay together, not speaking, never speaking, intertwined for an hour or so. Then we got dressed, I kissed him goodbye, I did a few more chores, and I went to get YFU from her mother's, and we spent the rest of the day together. Every weekend should be so pleasant.


The Blackout Blog said...

staff of men non-Caucasian barbers, all of whom fill out the backs of their jeans just the way backs of jeans are meant to be filled out.
I probably shouldn't comment on this, but I'm SO glad you said it.

I remember thinking that I would have enjoyed that a lot more if it had been spread out over a month or so
How many times did I think the exact same thing after a performance in college!

franck said...

Such a small world. You went to see a movie called Chuecatown and I live 6 metro stops away from Chueca, Madrid's gaybourhood...ehm... in view of your recent rant I'll change that to gay neighbourhood (sorry, the u stays)

YvesPaul said...

Glad you had a great time.

Will said...

I think I've finally cracked the theory by which you choose the pictures that accompany the text. The subject is (mostly) Mahler but the the pictures are all of men who are conspicuously aroused. What, i wondered could be the connection.

The blog began with with an obsessive concern about the LENGTH of the Mahler 3rd, and the pictures feature cocks of prodigious LENGTH on on all the impossibly perfect-bodied young men.