I don't sleep well when a handsome man is sound asleep in my arms, snoring away.  And I'm OK with that.

Last night was an award-winning encounter.  Depending on how you look at it, of course.  I'm afraid the downside of being a sex addict is that even "award-winning" encounters blur into a matter of routine.  We both enjoyed ourselves, certainly, but my head was in its usual ether the whole time, my mouth running independently of the mind that wanted to ask him to just love me. Change. Stop this hetero nonsense and come live with me.

Ew.  No, that's not right.  Try again:

Tom. Real name, Tim.  Hot. Friendly. Great attitude. "Come pick me up" kinda guy.  And... I said...
"OK!"  I had nothing better to do. But then, what better is there to do than fall back on the tried-and-true addictive behaviors?  Plus, did I mention he was HOT?  Yeah, he was.

We chatted, texted. He sent a face pic (which modesty and a potential lawsuit prevent me from posting here...) Butt, on the other hand, is totally fair game...

Let's consider my options last night. Of which, there were none. 
One Rule of Thumb applies: when a young 23 year old man offers
to come over, get drunk and naked, watch porn, and possibly spend the night
cuddling, I have to say Yes.  It was a lovely, rainy night in Chicago. The
cat has now been missing over one week. Enough about that. After all,
she bears the major responsibility for her disappearance.  I needed to
relax, move on, let go. Have sex. With this guy.

So, yeah. Drove over to Clark and Wrightwood, twenty minutes. He was waiting out front, wearing a red jacket.  And a jockstrap. (I knew this because he had previously sent a photo. My "bonus" for agreeing to pick him up.)  Cute in person. Great voice. Holy cow. This man is articulate.  I only wish I had had video cameras and tape recorders set up. Because he was firing off golden material all night. We got back. He instantly stripped down. To his jock.  Thank you.

A little unnerving, frankly, to have a man of his caliber so candid, open, willing to get naked. To get on his knees. And suck. Which he did, very well, for a "basically straight" guy.  You know, the new book should be titled, "The New 'Straight.'" He was that.  We made out like bandits.  Drank PBR, Jameson, and then shared a bottle of oatmeal stout. Which was amazing. It was a good evening.  Truly, I did not have better things to do.

Twink porn on the TV.  Lame.  I hate it when they talk, when there is any pretense of plot.  And these boys are just too damn skinny, hairless, and girly. He showed me a few of his favorites on the laptop. The lad prefers "thick" white ladies. Referred to black men as "shine." Oh, Lordie, no.  Took me back to Bing Crosby and the Mills Brothers.  That's the part I needed to be able to transcribe for my one-man show. Amazing, really. I can't even...tell you... And, still, we kissed.  It got to be 11:30 pm, and he needed to get up at 5:30.  At which point he announced he would be leaving at midnight. Fifteen minutes to wrap things up. The pressure was on. Already, I was feeling abandoned. I took him into the bedroom. Onto the bed.  I rubbed his back. I licked. Everywhere.  (That had been a major selling point earlier in the negotiations.)
I wrapped my arms around him. He breathed into my shoulder. He started snoring.  I was enchanted. And wide awake: wasn't he supposed to leave soon?

Needless to say, this went on alllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll night.  Which was only five hours.  Holding him, staring at his back, the nape of his neck (my favorite body part, btw), and wondering how I had gotten so lucky.

Where am I?
Oh, yeah. Chicago.
Currently, Homoneurotica has THREE followers. You'll forgive me for not keeping
up-to-date.  Perhaps my marketing skills are lacking. Maybe my writing isn't up to snuff.
I'm no Joe Orton, though I acknowledge the inspiration.  I've been lax. Apologies.
Now, go get some more followers.  We deserve it.

Where am I?
Moved (back) to Chicago. My go-to. My fall back plan.
Chicago, historically, has been where I head when I don't know where I'm heading.
I flash back - frequently - to the night after graduation from college. 1980, the year.
Me, wide awake ALL NIGHT, terrified.  Wondering, what next?  Finally, a ray of light.
A beacon:  Chicago.  Specifically, Evanston.  My brother had gone to Northwestern,
and I really had no direction in mind. Seemed as good as any.  Evanston had a dance
studio.  I fancied myself a dancer.  Also, Second City.  I fancied myself an Improv comedian.
I was not.  But. There it was, a short Greyhound away.  And Greyhound - back then - had
all sorts of romantic/bohemian charm.  I bussed into Chicago on a wing and a prayer, and about
$150 in hand.  I took the el up to Evanston. I knew how to do that from previous trips.  I booked
a room at the historic Orrington Hotel.  Because I had stayed there once with family, for my brother's
graduation.  See, everything is based pretty much on sentimental connections.  There I was.
On my way. Bright lights, big city.  Scared shitless.

Next morning, I looked up roommate ads in the newspaper, because we didn't have internet then.
Found a place.  Found a roommate.  Walked there, met the guy, gave him money. The rest is history.

I am here again.  Floundering, but with a sense of direction.  I have skills.  Sometimes, I have sex.
I am a modestly successful masseur.  I have a nice apartment in a funky neighborhood. The future is
bright.  I am frequently lonely.

That's where I am.

You Never Forget Your First Foursome!

Reminded of one of Blanche Dubois' great lines: "Sometimes there's God - so quickly."

I may be overly dramatic (who, me?) BUT: that's pretty much the bottom (no unintended pun intended) line on Sunday evenings successful group event chez moi.  In the tiny living room. On the hardwood floor.  How else do you explain a spontaneous, HOT, and successful event?  Sure, I had  a little something to do with putting together exactly the right combination BUT, ultimately, these things are in the hands of a Higher Power.  Craigslist, Manhunt.

So yeah. Anyway.  There we were, four "buddies" having at it in the dimming light of evening, blinds drawn, pants down, clothes all the way off.  It came together (again - that's unintended but appropriate) pretty smoothly.  A post I had responded to (yes, I still do that.  Apparently.) answered back:  Hi, it's Chris.  (Name not changed at all.) We got together a few times.... which we had.  At work, at home. He's a makeout king, and kinda cute at 26.  He wanted to put a group together for some "good fun," which appealed to me.   When I started asking questions:  who else is coming?  Do they have photos?  Etc., we began the complicated business of forwarding emails from interested parties.

One of whom I had, uh, "gotten together with" a few times before as well.  I am starting to feel like a slut. And I kinda like the feeling.  (Remember Looking for Mr. Goodbar?  One of those movies I had NO idea why my mother had taken us to.  It had a profound effect - I liked the idea of doing Good Work during the day, and whoring around at night.  Go figure.)  I contacted Kevin (also his Real Name) AND threw in a tall, sexy, partnered "buddy" (we'll need to start a Gay-pedia site for definitions) and, within a half hour, each showed up in my tiny living room.  I gotta get new furniture.  Sex on recliners is - no, wait a minute: it's HOT - awkward?

What's the protocol in these situations?  What would Emily Post suggest?  Snacks?  I had no beer/soda/water to offer.  Next time I'll offer hors d'oeuvres.  (Sp?)  We chatted individually, and a few awkward moments of group discussion.  "What do we do next?"  And the pants came off.  Chris was on the floor, cute/chubby sorta guy, friendly, willing.  We three let him get the ball rolling, then hands and mouths started wandering....Heavy sigh.  Men made out.  With each other.  It was fun.  Everyone had a good time, there were no injuries, and we left agreeing to do this again.  Soon. Like, tomorrow night.  Possibly adding a few more to the mix.

I gotta get some pillows.

Why are the Good Ones always the Married Ones?  Let's think about this... it's not just the "unavailability" of these guys, nor the presumed "masculinity" they carry.  They're cool.  Most of them, genuinely Nice. Which, in the realm of Gaydom, is a rare commodity.  Sex is sex.  If it's not going to be LTR, committed, monogamous, then at least let it be Fun.  Hot. Hot AND Fun?  That would be the Married Men.

This last/current guy is cool.  OK, there have been TWO.  And they're both pretty amazing.  Great attitudes,
fun, friendly, passionate (ie, horny), and eager to strip down.  No complaints.  And they don't stick around to bore me with endless monologues about Them.  Which is fine, although I do hanker after the One who WILL stick around, and let me talk about ME.

My new favorite Married Man dropped by this morning.  It had been a good morning - my first day off in several weeks.  Still, I can't help waking up, getting up, at 7:30.  I made coffee, baked scones.  Award-winning scones: chocolate chunks, slivered almonds, coconut.  I was impressed, at that early hour.  A quick text message to ____________________ was replied to with a quick, "I'll be there in a bit."  Whoa.  Really?  I left the door ajar, climbed back into bed - naked, of course - and waited.  I didn't have to wait long. 

Before I was fully conscious, a tall, handsome (in a dorky, David Duchovny way) had stripped down in my bedroom and was laying on top of me, making out like bandits.  Dear Lord, it was wonderful.  I imagined how great this sort of thing could be if we were actually in a committed relationship.  No, really: I did a quick personal inventory.  It wasn't the fact that he would soon be off running errands for "The Wife," but the fact that a tall, handsome, (in a dorky, David Duchovny way), was naked in bed with me.  Although that went a long way... He was Nice. Cute.  Sweet.  And... well, you don't need to hear the details.  Do you...?

We parted company.  We'll do this again.  Back to the scones.

Ech

Quick, before the melatonin and Miller kick in.
File this under: Was It Worth It?
Feeling all Joe Orton and shit, I gotta hit the hay pretty quick here. After yet
another furtive evening of pursuit, I finally hit the big time with a dark-haired young man.
Cause... 35 is young now, dammit. He was willing, I was tired, the wind was blowing. In other
words, the planets had aligned in my favor. He drove in from Ann Arbor, six pack in tow.
Which was fine, because I am sick of this micro-brew crap from Whole Foods.

You know how you can tell instantly whether sexual chemistry is there? Yeah. Like that.
Nice enough, good looking enough. Just ... something about him. Maybe his talk about being
between girlfriends? Or the off-handed, "You wanna turn the lights down and go at it?" which
seemed to indicate there was no point in talking. I insisted on small talk. Where ya from? What're you studying? OK, now let's slip out clothes off. Which we did.

Among the Things I Find Most Annoying, this one is paramount: that "yummy" sound some
guys make; the "mmm" "aaaaah" noise that's supposed to signal approval or titillation. Gimme a break. Shut up and enjoy it. I don't need approval. (Wait - might have just had a breakthrough!)

At any rate. While I was rubbing his back - which I am VERY good at, btw, he let slip, "So, if you were going to FUCK me, how would you do it?" Uh... by slipping erect penis into your willing ass? Like THAT? It's the talking that kills an erection quicker than imagining Rick Santorum in the room. Which could be kinda hot, come to think of it. I can talk or I can fuck. Take your pick.

That and I've never been able to keep it up with a condom on. So I just don't do it. Unless it is requested. Did I just write that? Am I opening myself up to criticism or lawsuits? It's late, I'm tired. I did not fall in love.

He did request "another round" but I was done. Maybe if he'd been a better conversationalist.

Goodnight.

Happy New Year

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

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.