I'm a big fan, but not really a student, of English English, by which I mean English as it's spoken in England. I'm a big fan (and a student, or at least an erstwhile student) of American English, too, but there are certain times when I prefer the way the English do it. But before I get into that, I want to say that what you see above is Parsloes Park, in the London Borough of Barking and Dagenham (RM9). On the other hand, this
is a picture of two guys fucking while a third guy looks on with apparent interest. I can't say for certain that they're not fucking in Barking and Dagenham, but I'd say the odds are against it. And -- even though I'm woefully ignorant of the state of public sex facilities in the UK -- I'm reasonably certain that they're not fucking in Parsloes Park. (Please note that when I say "they," I mean the particular guys in this picture rather than people in general. I'm sure that the actual inhabitants of Barking and Dagenham are fucking like bunnies. "Fucking like bunnies" is an odd expression, is it not? Does it mean that they have lots and lots of fun sex in Barking and Dagenham, or does it mean that when people in Barking and Dagenham fuck, it's over very quickly and for the purposes of procreation only? They are British, after all.) Not that I have anything against cottaging, mind you. "Cottaging" is one of the British words that I love.
In the U.S., "mad" typically means angry; in England, "mad" typically means insane. (I should note that all of these assertions are based on my impressions from reading: I am not a linguist, even though I am very fond of using my tongue.) So if I were to say that I'm barking mad, it would be a lot like saying that I'm batshit insane. I say that I'm batshit insane all the time, but I use that term the way many Americans use "crazy." Patsy Cline may have been crazy for cryin' and crazy for tryin' and crazy for lovin' you, but nobody would have institutionalized her for it. (But if they had, maybe she wouldn't have been on that plane, and she would have sung many more sad songs before finally getting over Charlie and settling down with a nice country music executive. I love you, Patsy!) I don't know whether the English use "barking mad" to mean that someone has seriously misguided opinions, or whether it's reserved for people who need straitjackets and lots of medications, but I'm pretty sure that it doesn't mean, "I'm so angry I could howl," which is how I felt last night. But more about that later, too.
I feel slightly bad for what I'm about to say, but you'll just have to believe me when I tell you that I'm not writing any of this out of malice, even though it seems just a teeny weeny bit stalkerish. As it happens, when I was thinking about this yesterday, it occurred to me that I hadn't heard from my phone stalker in about a month and then around 5:30 yesterday afternoon, my cell said "Private Call," and I answered it, and it was he. I was still in my office, of course. I usually close my door if a call like that comes in. I don't think that people who walk by my office can hear what I'm saying if I keep my voice down, but I might have an unusually pleased expression on my face, and nobody around here trusts anyone who looks happy during tax season. Anyway, it suited my purposes to keep my door open and pretend to my phone stalker that I couldn't talk freely and that I had to keep my remarks neutral in tone and ambiguous in meaning. He got extremely heated up, and I let the call run for seven minutes and forty-nine seconds before flipping the phone closed. He loves it when I abuse him. He called back four times in the next ten minutes before giving up. So, readers, at this point are you a) wondering when I'm going to get around to discussing my stalkerish behavior, b) realizing that you'd forgotten all about that because I was prattling on about the phone stalker, c) entirely unaware that I've even gone off topic, or d) just hoping I'll get to the next picture of naked men, already? If you chose d), let me just say that this
is not a naked man (It appears to be Eastbury Manner House, in Barking, but sometimes appearances are deceiving.), but it's a pretty safe bet that there are more coming.
Anyway. Yesterday, I was looking at my reader stats on Sitemeter, and I noticed that there was a guy in Dagenham, Barking and Dagenham who had been on the site for a long time. In fact, when all was said and done, his visit lasted just over three hours (3:02:02) and included 98 page views. I was a little sad when he he was no longer on the "Who's On" page, but then he came back on, almost immediately, for another 13 page views and an additional twenty-three minutes and thirty-one seconds. I'm generally so happy when anyone bothers to read my blog that I don't expect anything more than that, but I was just the littlest bit disappointed that Ewan (almost certainly not his real name, but let's pretend that's the name that he gives when he has a run in with the local constabulary when he's out cottaging) didn't leave a comment. I mean, almost three and a half hours reading the site in a single evening: I might reasonably expect him to book a ticket on BA to come over and give me a blowjob, so a comment hardly seems an unreasonable hope.
But then I did some research because, after all, I didn't even know where Dagenham, Barking and Dagenham, was. As it happens, Dagenham Heathway, the Underground station near which I'm assuming Ewan lives -- in a small flat interestingly furnished with a combination of thrift store finds, aboriginal art, and neon-colored sex toys -- is pretty far out (Zone 5!) on the District line, and yesterday major parts of the District line were suspended because of signal problems at Barking. (You gotta love the Internet.) So Ewan had probably had a difficult commute home, and after more than three hours reading the site and using his sex toy collection, he was probably simply too tired to clean off his keyboard and leave a comment. It's OK, Ewan. I forgive you, and come back again soon.
By the way, the Google search that led Ewan to The Neighbors Will Hear was "cut/uncut men," for which I am the first result. If Ewan spent a similar amount of time on all the results on the first page, well, either he's still at it, or he's expired from severe dehydration by now. Let's hope, for his sake, that he stopped after me.
Anyway. Did I mention that I was very angry last night? I once again let my libido get the best of my judgment, and I paid the price. Rafael, the very hirsute, fit cutie who had four anal orgasms the last (and first) time he came over had been campaigning for a repeat engagement. He sort of blew me off a few weeks back, so I'd given up on him, but he got in touch with me and said that he could play Monday night. He told me that his brother had closed down his business and so now he was working for himself, and he had a job to do Monday evening, but either he'd be done by 8 (I was working late, of course), or he'd reschedule the job for Tuesday. That sounded slightly ominous, in terms of scheduling, to me, but I figured I'd go for it. After all, I'd had Balloon Boy and Giancarlo on Sunday, and I'd invited Judd to come over Tuesday, so if Monday fell through, it wouldn't be a big deal, right? But then I got a text message around 7:30 saying that he was still on the job and that he had to get the people some heat (he's an HVAC guy) and that he'd let me know when he was done. (I'd told him I'd pick him up and bring him to my place.) And then I didn't hear from him again until 10, when I'd already -- after a text message from me went unanswered -- left the office and gotten home. He said that he had another half hour of work to do and asked whether we could reschedule for Tuesday. I asked him whether he was sure about Tuesday, and he texted back, "Definately [sic]".
So I (Bad TED! Naughty, naughty, stupid TED! You must be punished.) told him Tuesday would work. I hadn't actually heard back from Judd at that point, but Judd always says yes if he's in town, and when I went to check my email, Judd had indeed accepted my invitation. The smart thing to do would have been to tell Rafael that he'd have to share me. The last time he'd been over, we'd played with Judd, and it had been fine. But a few days earlier Rafael had told me, "Your friend was nice, but he's not your equal," and had said that he wanted a one-on-one session the next time. So I asked Judd if we could play Friday or next Tuesday instead, and he said that was okay, except he said okay to Friday and Tuesday. Well, why not? I was still annoyed at Rafael, but then Nike texted me to ask whether I could play, and I went to get him, and we came back, and he was very passionate and gave me a first-rate blowjob after a lot of making out, so my mood was restored.
So yesterday morning, I get a text from Rafael saying that he's horny and asking if we're still on for the evening, and I text back, "Yes." So he asks when I'll be coming through Rockville to pick him up, and I tell him it'll be around 7:30, and he texts back that 7:30 is kind of late, but he'll do it. And I'm a little miffed because the night before he left me hanging, but I don't say anything. And midway through the day, I text him to ask if he's hungry for cock, and he calls me to say that he is hungry for cock, but that he'll get a ride to my place with his brother, who lives about half a mile away, because first he has to go to the Apple store to get his phone fixed and then he has to visit his grandfather who's been in the hospital for a few days. And I start to get a sinking feeling, but there's not a lot I can do. I follow my original plan of leaving the office at 7, and I don't hear from Rafael. I wait until visiting hours are over, and I text him, and half an hour later, he replies that he's with his grandfather but that he'll call me when they're leaving the hospital. And then nothing. I send another text message, and I get very angry, and I leave a very angry (but calm) message in his voicemail. And Nike texts me again to ask whether he can come over, but he'd told me Monday night that he wasn't free Tuesday night, and I'm too angry to deal with anyone, so I lie and tell him that I'm still at work and can't play.
Mostly, of course, I was angry at myself. I mean, yeah, fucking Rafael was awesome, but fucking Judd (or any of several other guys) is awesome, too, and I let Rafael blow me off three times, which is two times more than I let anyone blow me off. Each of his excuses independently was a good excuse, but collectively, they add up to either a liar or someone who's walking around under too intense a cloud of bad karma to risk associating with.
I wasn't at all surprised when I got an email from Rafael this morning. He had a story about getting into a fight with his brother and getting kicked out of the car and not being able to call me because his phone was dead. My first thought was, "That's the best you got?" I was over the anger by then, but I don't like being angry, and I'm not going to put myself in a position to experience it again on his behalf. I considered telling him that if he could find a way to my place, he could come over when Judd was coming over on Friday (Judd thought Rafael was hot and wanted me to put the two of them in contact. I asked Raf if he wanted Judd's number, but he didn't. Judd went so far as to post a missed connections ad about the encounter and asking for another opportunity to eat Raf's ass. That's the closest I'll ever be to having an MC ad dedicated to me: I was mentioned in the ad as "a friend."), but I thought better of it, and I believe that my reply should discourage him from contacting me again.