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.