Homoneurotica

Happy New Year

2011-12-31T19:19:00.000-08:00

Sometimes, having sex with someone is the most efficient way to get them to leave.

That would be a great one-liner but I feel I owe our (five) followers something
more elaborate. When it rains, it pours. And my three-way fantasy seemed
about to come true.

One twenty-one year old, a 38 year old auto mechanic. It was insanely complicated setting it all up: forwarding pics and emails to one or the other. I was wiped out before it began. Not to mention the fact that all this cost me a couple of episodes of "The Twilight Zone" marathon, dammit.

The young one showed up first. I was shocked. Usually they don't. He drove a nice car. Nervous, edgy, smiled a lot, didn't drink beer. He just sat there. We waited for the third to drive in from Jackson. Thirty five miles. Man, these guys are dedicated. I knew immediately, the way we know these things, that my heart was not in it. And the third guy would just complicate matters. What's a proper host to do? "Excuse me, but... Happy New Year. Leave the beer."

We sat, we chatted, we drank beer, I wanted to go to bed. Alone. Then it all happened at once. The mechanic took off his clothes, the young guy followed him into the bedroom. I suppose I could have stayed in the living room. Again, not sure of the protocol in this situation. I went into the bedroom as well. Moans, sighs, some unpleasant odors.

To be blunt, it was no fun for me. They both came, I did not. And hey, I was the host! Rude...

But, of course, it was over and all that was left was for them to put their clothes on and leave. Which they did. But not quick enough to suit me.

He took the beer.

Looking forward to 2012. Is this when the world ends?

Back in the Saddle

2011-12-29T19:16:00.000-08:00

OK. That was crazy hot, sweet, passionate (I’m probably a little in denial about that part) sex. Dayum. About time. Way overdue.

What a sweet guy. Cradle robber, that’s me. What’s with these 23 year-olds? And I tell ya, the really awesome part was this: I had just watched “Juno” yesterday and fell in love with Michael Cera. Dear Lord, do they come any cuter? Well…. apparently they do.

The heavens smiled on me today after a two week (or longer) dry spell. Which is just as well, really. I am, after all, STILL a recovering sex addict. But wait: am I, really? I can honestly say it’s not the sex I’m after. Mostly I would say I am addicted to loneliness, to the pursuit of almost anything outside myself. Music, books, graduate school, the endless pursuit of Otherness. Sex is a fun sideline but hardly consistent enough to qualify as addiction. (I can hear my peers in Tucson chanting, “If it looks like a duck, walks like a duck…”)

So. We’ll call him Paul. Cause that’s his name. Hope he doesn’t read this… but it’s important to not change names. Met him through craigslist, of course. The site where people get murdered. Adorable photo, I was certain he wouldn’t be at all interested in me. Guess what? HE WAS!!!! OMG! I was a bit concerned that he would be TAKING THE BUS from Ann Arbor. Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat???? Now that’s dedication. Or a sure sign I had attracted someone more desperate than I. Whatever. He showed up and charmed me off my feet and into bed. Where all hell broke loose.

After a few moments of polite and – I’m sure of it – sincere conversation (I like him! I really like him!) I made a move. I had to act quickly in keeping with the spontaneity of it all. Never mind the fact that he had missed the first bus, waited half an hour for the next one, then endured a forty-five minute ride to my corner… I also felt I had better start kissing him and getting all sexy before he changed his mind. Yep. A long bus trip is no deterrent to cold feet. And, naturally, I felt sex was the polite and expected thing to do. He hadn’t come all the way out here to get better acquainted. Yeah, yeah, sure, sure. Fascinating. Now, could we get down to business?

My self esteem had already started slipping down its slippery slope. Sex is what will keep this beautiful young man interested. Better act quickly before he realizes I am fifty three, not forty three. That my brilliant wit and sense of humor might be sexy but cannot stand the test of time. I closed in.

Sex is secondary to kissing. And, sure, I even allowed myself to pretend I was making out naked with Michael Cera. Whatever. He was a great kisser. We kissed. We sucked. We… uh… did not practice safe sex. What’s up with that? I wasn’t even drunk.

He’s gone now, after a long hot shower, some good conversation. I offered to drive him home but, really, I think we’re both happier he took the number four.

Next time. I’ll pick him up.

Christmas, Baby

2010-12-28T17:48:00.000-08:00

Where's my merlot? Oh... found it...

Andy Williams on the hi-fi. Lost again as I am, annually,
floundering in reminiscences of Christmases past. Oh, I've
got horror stories. Well only one, really. I watched the truly
horrifying "Precious" last week and felt instantly better about
my humbly dysfunctional family. See, always something to be
grateful for.

What's all this got to do with being a middle-aged gay man with
no discernible life direction? Everything, I think. Maybe if things
had been much, much worse I would have had to struggle more to
"get out." Then I could have opened a halfway house for young gays
whose parents had kicked them out... I could still do that if people still
kicked their kids out for being gay.

Do they? In St. Joseph, MO? I'll look into it.

Happy Holidays.

Graveyard Shift

2010-06-12T23:36:00.000-07:00

Well that was just silly. But, all in all, kinda fun.
Sometimes I just do silly things.

After yet another fruitless (pun intended) day of
scouring the internet for love or, better yet, a quick fling with someone
I'm not even very attracted to, I was ready for bed.
At, oh... 12 AM. Then HE contacted me. Cute, younger,
intriguing face, smooth bod, nice smile.... AND he wanted me to come over!
(Maybe. I'm never sure whether I actually invite myself into these situations.)
We negotiated. I thought it was going to be an overnight LTR. He just wanted sex.
Fine. Hey, he only lives ten blocks away! And I have access to a bicycle!!!
The Pabst Blue Ribbon had worn off and I was quickly getting my second wind.
After at least three/four other ne'er do-wells had petered out (again, pun...)
I was ready for action. Threw my shoes on, got a phone number and grabbed the
garage door opener on my way out. I had a plan!!!

Then I got lost. I hadn't taken the time to get directions from mapquest.
Not that it would have mattered. I've been through this sort of thing before.
Distance/inconvenience/physical exertion - they all add to the thrill.
More often than not, the actual sex is beside the point. I raced off into
the night. It was not - as he had claimed - just "a couple of blocks" south.
In fact, I was so sure I was headed the wrong direction I pulled a U-turn
and asked some friendly college boys where Pacific was. The other way.
About twelve blocks. Down hills, up hills, (Omaha is hilly) riding sans helmet,
reflective clothing or LIGHTS, I changed my course yet again. Being smart, clearly,
doesn't enter into compulsive sexual pursuits. Oh, come on: I was clever enough
to ask directions!

The bike is a racer, thin wheels, easily blown out by potholes.
I did look both ways before running red lights. A left turn took me almost
to downtown. I passed a hospital. That might be fortuitous, I thought. Up a long hill.
Where the hell is this street??? I took a shortcut which led me three blocks
out of my way. FINALLY. Pacific. I turned right, down a hill, found the house,
no porch light on. Oh. No. This is not going to happen. I locked the bike to a
streetlamp, walked up the steps and timidly knocked on the door.
I didn't really care any more at that point. I was hardly in Top condition.
If you get my meaning. You do?

No answer. I tried the doorbell, feeling the sinking feeling that perhaps
this was the wrong house. I walked back down the steps and took out
my cel phone to call. (See? Clever!!!) There was a voicemail and text
message waiting. Uh... apparently his roommate had come home suddenly.
He was sorry for the inconvenience. I politely returned the phone call and
suggested perhaps another evening would be better. Earlier, maybe?

Long ride home. In the dark. It seemed shorter going home. I rode past my
favorite grocery store and for a moment considered stopping in for some soy milk.
It's open 24 hours. I pedaled past the cemetery, nodded at the graves and murmured,
"Wait for me. I'll be there."

I had the remote control in hand as I turned into the driveway and coasted into the
garage as the door opened. Very Bat-cave.

Bedtime.

The Truffaut Test

2009-12-27T10:39:00.000-08:00

It had been a lovely evening, doomed from the start.

We met, as is my wont, online. Gaybay.com, I think.
If that isn't a site, it should be. We'll bid on each other.
The ones that don't sell get bumped to the end of the line and
have to lower their reserve price. He was from Chicago. I've lived in Chicago! It must be fate.
(Add that to the list which includes: I'm human, you're human;
we're both single and rapidly approaching middle-age -
we should get together! OMG!)

So we set a dinner date for Saturday night. What the hell.
My social calendar was open. It always is. Dinner sounded good.
And he looked cute in his thumbnail photo. They always do.

The great thing about inviting someone over is that is
inspires me to clean as I would ordinarily not do for myself.
The tub got scoured. I washed off the gunk that accumulates
on the Sonic Care toothbrush. I was thorough. I even bought
new aromatherapy soap for the seashell soapdish.
(I elaborate: it's rectangular ceramic.)

I've had a lot of quality solitary time over the
Christmas holiday and had been re-watching "The 400 Blows"
with and without commentary. So I was really in no mood to
be sociable. I kept looking around for a movie camera to stare
into, freeze framing my romantic ambiguity. It worked so well
for Leaud. Alas we were alone in the Chinese restaurant.
I had recommended it - it's right up the street, affordable,
doesn't suck. I do know a couple of people who have been ill
after eating there, however. So it was chancy. Oh, he's a great
guy. A good potential friend. It was just one of those things
that one day I may finally realize: we all look vastly different
in real life from our online photos. And the harsh overhead
lighting didn't help his case. I took sex off the menu and hoped
he wouldn't ask for dessert.

I'd bought a bottle of Merlot as promised. That part of the
evening I was looking forward to. I even held out hope that a slight
buzz might make us both more sexually appealing. But no.
He was too friendly. Too nice. (I hearken back to another blind
date where I had been accused of being "too nice." I should have
slapped him and had my way... "Too nice? I'll show you too nice! How's that rug burn feel?")

The real problem, the wine told me, was the movie. My date
eyeballed - touched! - the Antoine Doinel boxed set of DVDs.
Impeccable conversationalist, I asked if he was familiar with
Truffaut. Not so much. I'm no film snob, but... come on.
The real awakening for me had been the second viewing accompanied
by reminiscences from Truffaut's childhood friend and co-conspirator,
Robert Lachenay. Watching the familiar story unfold with additional
insight from this remarkable man humbled me as it brought back
memories of a dear friend, long lost to time and geography and
circumstance. I miss him. Had we lived in Paris during the
occupation, we may very well have developed into New Wave
filmmakers. In our own way, I suppose we have. And I'm glad I've
hung onto his letters all these years. I may be called upon one day
to supply biographical material on a DVD commentary.

I wish Truffaut had left his hero on the beach staring into
the camera, his future uncertain. But now I have four more
movies to watch.

I'd Love to Kiss Ya -

2009-10-24T20:28:00.000-07:00

I'm sorry. I can't have sex with you.
Oh, I think we both know the reasons.
You're a swell guy, really. Nice smile. I think
maybe you're sincere. But come on... You're not
going to be as good as I am. No one ever is.
That and, if you get really into it I might confuse
that for passion. Like - you really like me.
Maybe I put too much emotion into these things.
I can't help it - a romantic at heart. I love to make out.
Frankly, sex I can do without. A bit of a letdown, really,
after the endless emails, Manhunt hunts, browsing craigslist,
gay.com, ebay...

I've been thru this enough to know the routine. We'll have sex,
you'll jump up after asking for a towel, clean up, get dressed.
Maybe we'll exchange a few pleasantries: "Man, I sure needed that";
"Thanks. What was your name again?"
Or not. Please try not to disturb my neighbors on your way out.

You won't call. That would be bad form. Frankly, I'd prefer that
you not contact me again. It's been fun, but... I don't expect this
to grow into a committed relationship. And if you do keep in touch,
well then it just gets messy: I'll expect a phone call/email/
unannounced visit every now and then. How does once a week sound?

I understand your need for "discretion."
I totally accept your situation - married/partnered, incredibly
and neurotically closeted, whatever. If we were both more
realistic and in touch with our feelings and motives we probably
would have just jerked off and avoided this whole thing.

Or maybe you're healthier and more well adjusted than I am.
I'm reminded - give me a moment here, can you? - of that
magnificent young gymast I met in LA decades ago. My first,
really, successful hookup. Met him on the phone. He drove up
from Long Beach, a good hour each way. So good looking, I was
intimidated. He wasn't. I started undressing him and felt my
knees get weak. But I digress. Point being, he was clearly brought
up differently than I was. He was OK with it. In fact, his parents
and girlfriend knew about this side of him. They probably all had my
phone number and address... I was surprised they hadn't come up
with him to check me out. Again, I digress.

If I think this is all natural, healthy, recreational sex between two
normal, healthy, consenting adults... well... I don't think I can go
through with it. I need that element of taboo to really, uh, perform.
It would be better if we both felt just awful afterwards and pledged
never to do it again. Until the next time.

Oh, what the hell. Let's get naked.

Life is a Butt Print (In the Grass)

2009-09-20T19:03:00.000-07:00

It comes to me, sometimes, during rare, fleeting moments like this;
quiet meditative glimpses of acceptance. I recall one such episode
in Massachussetts. As I stood out on a back porch, cool misty rain
lightly surrounding me, I closed my eyes and dared to exhale: all
is right with the world. (And yeah, I will mix my tenses if I want.)
If there is a God, He is in His heaven and I am at peace. I accept
myself and surrender to this moment.

Then I hear how New Age-y I sound. Wayne Dyer appears before
me, a floating disembodied bald head and I snap back to reality: I am
working way too for too little and truly have no idea of my place on
this earth. I do, however, harbor significant thoughts of my
inisignificance in the universe.

Where was I? Oh - my butt print. In the grass. It's a bit of a trek to
the nearest laundromat. I hadn't brought anything along to read - no
room in the laundry/book bag. And it felt wrong somehow to not
be totally present for my laundry. ("When doing laundry, just do laundry." -
Zen saying.) The grass outside beckoned, lined by trees. There was even
a little alcove seemingly just right for meditation. So, I did. A few
moments, counting breaths. In. Out. Repeat.

Ants scurrying all around me. I respected their business while also
worrying they might scurry up my leg and nibble on my penis. (You
knew I had to get the word penis in there...) Still, ants have much to
teach us. Regard their bizzy-ness: do you really think each is
constantly mindful of his purpose on earth? I think it's so much random
scrambling about, searching, exploring, mindless labor, in fact. I empathize
with urgent grasping. The next Thing. Blade to blade, crumb to crumb.
How many heavy, awkward objects have I hauled back to any given second
story apartment; semi-circular, two tiered coffee tables of indeterminate
vintage. That sort of thing. Panting, sweating, never a thought to the
cumulative psychic damage of giving in, once more, to my need for More.

I did have cool bachelor pads, tho.

So, the ants. Fear of being bit. Especially on my dick. I mean, come on.
And it was probably time to check on the laundry. I like this particular
laundromat, but that's a different story. I stood up, crouched, and
went on observing my Teachers. Where my butt once smashed them, blades
of grass slowly bounced back to life. And I thought, hmmm, there's
a lesson here. You leave your butt print and life goes on as it always has.

That doesn't sound nearly as profound as I'd hoped.

Sorry this wasn't sexy.

Who the Hell Are We?

2009-09-20T16:30:00.000-07:00

You don't know? Then what the hell are you doing here?

"Homoneurotic," a long standing performing tradition from
the depths of Tucson, AZ, has taken a long distance hiatus.
One of us remains, the other has fled to the frigid northeast
for higher education and some serious chilling out.

Meanwhile -- you have found our blog. Our respite. Our depository for
new material and old, for late night scribblings and myriad
literary pursuits we're not even aware of yet. We love to write,
we love to be read. But mostly, we love to click "Publish."

What follows is an ever changing compendium of fiction,
prose, porn, poetry, short novels, novel ideas,
rejected novel ideas, standup comedy that hasn't stood up yet
and screenplays. Don't forget the screenplays.

Read on... if you dare.