God, He Id Naa’t-dy, Yo

Think about how nasty nature is.  Mother Nature makes no apologies about anything She has created, or gets us to do.  Nature just gets the job done, in a hot nasty way, even when circumstances are against it.  Arnold and I had an enjoyable evening last night.  We alternated between me sucking him and him fucking me with my dildo.  I got us to take our time and relax, and I think Arnold followed suit from my example.  His dick is nice, comfortable in my mouth.  And his shot was even nicer.  It feels so awesome to make your bro squirt.  It’s so dirty and hot.  Arnold and I are definitely friends with benefits in the truest sense of that term, as there is no romantic angle to it at all.  Just bros doing what bros do best:  gettin’ each other off in the funnest possible way!  We don’t hug or kiss or anything like that.  But it’s such a good, laid-back time.  We had something to eat and drink while I washed the dishes, watched a movie, and then he asked if he could play with my masturbation cream and pulled his pants down.  I always leave the fun stuff–lubes, condoms, latex gloves, massage oils–sitting out in my place for just this reason.  This is the time when I feel such happiness for the gift of gay sex.

But on some level, I still put myself under pressure, a habit I am constantly trying to get rid of.  It’s a dreadful habit from years ago, when I would feel extreme anxiety to perform with guys.  So when it came to my turn, I got that same old annoying nervous feeling as he went down on me, despite my best efforts to just RELAX.  Anyway, it took forever for me to cum.  There’s no way he could use his mouth for that long, so he switched to jacking me with his hand.  But this is my buddy; he didn’t care.  In fact, he mentioned the positive aspect of the sex lasting longer in my case.  Also, the longer it takes for me, the bigger the load as well.  It was about four or five shots total–big gloppy squirts, the largest one of which landed all over my face and couch cushions.  (God don’t care about the couch cushions.)  Success!  But why don’t I feel successful on the inside?  I have successfully learned to be pretty relaxed when it comes to pleasuring/sucking/hand jobbing my bros and bringing them to ejac.  But I still have yet to come to terms with the reverse role.

I feel hurt, angry, and frustrated!  My nerves and dick and psyche don’t respond the way I want them to.  And I don’t want to just give up and say I’m a total bottom, because I know that I’m not.  For a while, I feared that maybe I permanently damaged my dick nerves with the enlargement process.  But I have since decided that is impossible because my morning woodies are hard as rock.  So it must be psychological in nature, and also medical?

I am getting some much-needed benefit from a small dose of an antipsychotic, but it’s definitely messing with me in other unfortunate ways.  This antipsychotic seems to be working for me by dulling perceptions a little bit, so I don’t get set off by them in either a manic or depressed direction, which is good for everything EXCEPT cock functioning I’m figuring out.  I don’t really know for sure of course, but this is my hunch.

Also, I’ve been masturbating and NEMOing on my back for years.  So that is the hydraulics state my body is used to.  My dick doesn’t stay hard when I stand up, so I practice getting aroused and hard while standing and walking around the room so I can fix this trend.  The drug is doing so many wonderful things for me, I don’t want to go off of it.  But I wonder what I would be like sexually if I weren’t on any medication?

I feel hope for a healthier, younger, more virile, future (due in part to the new drug making me feel good things like hope, peace, and happiness).  I am also of the opinion that furthering my body fat loss will fix a LOT.  If I lose enough fat, there is the possibility of going off of some of my medicines, and changing my life in a much more significant way.  There are at least two I may be able to get off of.

I have hope.  I believe in my dreams.  I have changed and healed for the better.  Mother Nature finds a way.  She did last night when She got me to squirt a bunch of thick gloppy jizz two feet in the air, despite my sorrow and other probs.  It was really nasty and quite a show.  That’s why I want to get into porn.  If I can just manage to iron out these other issues, I’ve obviously got some raw talent here.

I ask God and Mother Nature to help me heal my mind, heart, body, and shlong in every possible way.  I love how hot and nasty you are, Nature, and I want to participate in your messy, semen-drenched gay fuckfest to the fullest, as is my birthright.  I’ve got news for the lazy fags of this world:  real life can be like the pornos, AS LONG AS:

  • I am as patient and kind, and warm and loving with myself as I am with my bros.
  • I never give up on my health goals, and remember that I have hope and genuine capability for remarkable changes still to come.
  • I allow fears to pass away as I simply let go, and experience my bros pleasuring me one moment at a time.

There, I feel better.  I’m on track for today.  Workouts, fat loss diet, going to play tennis in a few minutes with new guy I met from a personals ad.  He says he’s an intermediate player like me, but we’ll just have to see how compatible we are.  He also claims to have an eight inch cock.  But that’s not nearly as important as how big the organ between his ears is.  And in his chest.

I know I’m weird, but I have the ability to socialize now so I’m going to take advantage of it.  What is your gay male sex life like?  Training tips, sex skills and experiences?  I would love to hear from you.  You can now follow my Facebook page and get all my posts from this point forward on there.  But don’t forget to check out the July, 2017, archive, available on the WordPress site.  Thank you.  {>^<V}

It/He/You Don’t Have to Be Perfect

God and Mother Nature got together to create evolution, and it is the veritable definition of imperfection.  This never-ending process of tinkering has “successfully” resulted in a planet on which the vast majority of species died out ages ago.  Yet for some reason, we have the capacity to imagine perfection.  Why?  Concepts such as success and failure, perfect and flawed, are entirely human inventions.  They have no basis in biological fact.  But love, I believe, does have a biological basis.  Yet most people do whatever they possibly can to circumvent it, even deny its existence.

Despite having to slither through a hot mess of astounding proportions to get there, the miracle of gay male love still manages to find its way to the surface.  Despite having to bear a veritable mountain of neglect, heartache, abuse, and suffering for almost forty years, somehow I am still alive and capable of starting over, psychologically, mentally, physically and, especially, emotionally and interrelationally.  The love of my biology still manages to find a way.

Love is a problematic word though.  I started using it to describe how I felt with my new friend Todd and, understandably, he got a bit worried because the terms of our relationship are that of a sexual friendship, not something more serious.  But I thought we cleared it up.  I tried to explain that I felt feelings of love because I believe in loving one’s friends.  There are so many kinds of love, yet only one word to describe them all.  So we English speakers are screwed–unless we choose to persevere through the messy work of explaining our feelings and motivations to someone who has the capacity to listen.

But what if you’ve never been listened to before?  What if you grew up in a family where everything you ever did or said or expressed or needed was either mocked or summarily ignored?  A family in which it did not matter what you did or said, or even how you did or said it, the message was always the same:  you and your need to be listened to, cherished, valued, acknowledged, and loved MEAN NOTHING.  YOU ARE NOTHING.  YOU DON’T EVEN EXIST.  And if you have the audacity to show signs of self-esteem on your own, YOU WILL BE DESTROYED.

So, as I tried to explain to Todd, not only have I never had a functional, dignified sexual relationship before now, I haven’t ever really had a normal, functional platonic relationship before either.  My previous relationships were always at my expense.  I recently had a bad weekend, but I had long since adopted the habit of hiding my suffering from everyone, my broken heart assuming that it would never be acknowledged or listened to anyway.  I didn’t realize how much pain I was in until I started having this conversation with Todd.  I think he understood why I started getting a little suspicious that perhaps he was blowing me off; on Monday I wrote him some rather terse text messages.  But, very ironically, Todd deals with a similar issue in that he told me how he is used to being used and discarded by sex partners himself.  So he has some pretty major insecurities too.  It was a difficult conversation, and very messy.

I became someone who doesn’t notice things, important things, that are right in front of my nose.  Now I know why.  It’s because I disacknowledged most of the things about myself as my family had done.  A week ago, I met Todd at a coffee shop.  He was nervous and pretty uncomfortable and it showed.  I remember seeing the fear in his eyes and the expressions on his face, but I didn’t act on that knowledge.  Fortunately he was patient enough to explain to me (a couple of times) the specific reasons why he felt that way with me in a public place.

We had a good talk over dinner today.  And our communicating still isn’t perfect.  It doesn’t have to be.  It never will be.  Not in this life anyway.  On Monday afternoon, I asked Todd an important question, and I didn’t get a straight answer, so those terse texts I sent him are actually much more reasonable now that I think about it.  Also we met like two and a half weeks ago!  It’s just that we hit it off so quickly and had the most obscure things in common, more of which we discovered today.  Time sure does dilate when it’s packed full of completely new socio-homoerotic experiences.  And you are each highly attracted to the other.  But now that this initial fiery force has settled a bit, we can move forward having learned important things about the other.  This process is called building trust.  At least I think it is.  I don’t know anymore what’s what.

Another flaky piece of crap just canceled on me.  And Spencer hasn’t written me in a few days.  It’s easy to get paranoid if you let yourself.  I’m just so incredibly afraid to get close to anyone because my heart and body can FEEL the rejection coming.  “It’s only a matter of time,” it says, “until you get destroyed once again.”  Until that friend stops writing you, until that cousin “explains” to you that your feelings are “wrong”.  How do you know it won’t happen this time?  You don’t.

A few weeks ago, I kind of snapped a little bit.  I realized that I had been alone almost full-time for twenty-plus years.  And I knew I could not take it anymore.  So I got up and did something about it.  I continued to go to a coffee shop every day to be around people as I had been doing for years.  But I also started to place really interesting, innovative personals ads to try to attract guys like me.  It has begotten mixed results.  And I had this bad weekend.  But my cousin helped me on Monday night.  She showed me love and acceptance via text message and even affirmed the validity of my feelings!  I could hardly believe my eyes.  I think she has finally started to understand some things about our family.  We have even planned a trip together next month, just the two of us.

I am so very tired of being so sick and poor and screwed up socially.  And I am even more tired of running into people who are the same.  Just when I think things are changing for me and I am undergoing a bona fide healing, something even worse comes to the forefront, bubbling up through the humongous tragedy of my life.  Then I have to deal with that and heal that, and come to a place of peace.  And then start the whole horrible process all over again.  I am scared for my future.

But then I remember my dreams of becoming a bodybuilder and fitness model.  And of finding true friendship and love.  And I feel hope all over again, even though it is far from perfect.  {>^<V}

Canada: the Promised Land?

This isn’t the only option.  The American way of handling sexuality as a whole, gay sexuality specifically, and gay socializing and culture is just one of several.  I have never experienced gay culture in Canada personally, but I have heard some things…

Like they allow full male nudity in the strip clubs/bars apparently.  I saw a documentary on sexuality by the BBC once, and they showed the interior of a club that might have been in Toronto.  It looked nice–clean, spacious, ample room on the bar.  I can’t imagine it was in America because this totally naked guy squatted down right in front of a customer, like a few inches from the guy’s drink!  Anyway, the stripper held his junk forward (probably a good idea around tipsy gay men) and let the customer fondle his crack and anus.  It was amazing.  The guy was sizzling hot; well-muscled and totally shaved.  I want to go to that place!

Then I met a man, on a date, who did go to a Canadian city near the border, for the purpose of visiting one of these clubs.  He confirmed that the laws are different and the strippers were, indeed, buck naked.  One of the first things I asked the man was where do they put their tips?  He described the joint as having a bit of a jock theme that night, so the strippers wore tennis shoes with those tube socks hiked up over their calves.  The socks held the money until their break.  Hmm, handy.

This conversation triggered the memory of a truly disastrous/hilarious date from years before.  This guy seemed great.  He picked me up and paid for lunch.  But the closer we got to his part of town–the GERMAN part of town–the more things deteriorated.  I was never in any danger, unless you consider being driven around by a nazi to be intrinsically dangerous.  He was just so PROUD of his German heritage.  It was a sunny day and the windows were down, so he began to point some things out as we made our way south on the main street of our town.  He delighted me with comments about how the black people standing on the corner were probably on their way to a drug deal, because they looked like they were in need of their next fix.  And he regaled me with stories about how during World Wars I and II, the townspeople tortured and murdered German breeds of dogs in the streets of the German neighborhood.  Sure he was a kook, but his feelings of hurt and anger were very real, I observed.

So, of course, I refused to see him again.  He wrote me twice totally bitching at me for not writing him back and “ignoring” him.  So I DID write him back and explained that I simply couldn’t afford to be seen in public with him; I value my reputation too much.  He stopped writing.

But I’m sure the reason I encountered him was because of his comment about Canada and her gay bars, strippers, culture, and men:  “It’s the promised land,” he said after regaling me with some stories about his trips there.  His eyes lit up with the energy of hope and joy, even if only briefly.  And I never forgot, even after all these years.  Now I can’t wait to go myself.  {>^<V}

Whaaaaaaaah? II

That stupid guy, the one who wrote me that tirade about how fat, bald, and unattractive he thinks he is, still has not written me back, and I don’t think he ever will.  Even after I clearly bent over backwards to assure and reassure him that I wasn’t shallow like that.  It’s really sad.  He didn’t believe me and he is probably the one still stuck on those ghastly homo-normative body requirements.  It’s so hilarious to me how supposedly grown men stick to these requirements, even when they don’t exhibit them themselves, or someone puts it in writing that they don’t care about such things, like I did.  Most gay men either seem to have very low self-esteem combined with an inferiority complex, or very low self-esteem combined with a completely unreasonable superiority complex.  And the men with any shred of self-esteem comprise such a small minority that one could easily give up the search.  I’m so glad I did not!

It finally happened.  Within a few days of each other a couple weeks ago, I met Spencer and Todd (not their real names).  Spencer responded to one of my unusual Craig’s List ads in which I tried to articulate how I was truly looking for SINGLE friends (plural) to get to know for the long term, and also to have sex with.  We soon met for coffee and really hit it off.  Spencer is very interesting and positive-minded.  He works on his health and pushes himself to improve on a regular basis, such as his current project to learn a foreign language.

Meeting Todd wasn’t so cut and dried.  On a Friday afternoon, I looked through the personal ads myself and found one with a photo of a very nice looking erect penis.  In any other circumstance I would have passed up such an annoying hookup ad, but something guided my hands to read the ad and write him; there is no other explanation.  Fortunately, before realizing what I was doing, I was talking to him and trading pictures.  And he was CUTE!  And handsome, with a full manly face, substantive dimples, and just all-around charm.  Everything was against us getting together, yet we still did later that night.  He is a plump boy too, but he had taken responsibility (unlike the other guy) for his health and his future.  Only a man with some level of self-esteem is capable of doing something that brave.  He had already lost about 135 pounds!

There was something different and special about Todd.  He wasn’t an impatient, childish piece of crap.  He had manners, and he showed up at my house within like seconds of his promised arrival time of eleven p.m.  We talked at length with our clothes on, and learned a great deal about each other.  But when we did start getting friendlier, we couldn’t keep our hands off each other.  We talked a LOT during the sex and learned even more about each other.  Todd was nervous about taking his clothes off because he was still self-conscious about his weight, but I can see through fat into the real man inside.  And my intuition was spot on.  He is a good person who has so much potential as a long-term friend.  We haven’t stopped texting and visiting each other since.  Sometimes I’m not sure if he believes me when I say I’m attracted to him, but I understand because he told me how he has been rejected so many times by the flakes.  I hope he is able to heal that aspect of his self-image soon.  But it takes time.  And he has been working out at the gym all by himself to boot.  That shows character.  I, in turn, was equally afraid that he would soon lose interest in me, per my experience with EVERY OTHER GAY MAN I HAVE EVER MET IN MY LIFE.  But that’s not what happened.

Anyway, back to Spencer.  He and I couldn’t stop kissing the other night when we met after his foreign language lesson.  It was so freeing and healing.  He kept embracing me right there in the parking lot.  My fearful heart frequently made me look around to make sure no one was walking or driving up to us to engage in harassment or violence.  But no one did, and if Spencer noticed I was doing that, he didn’t say anything.  Healing itself is more than violent enough, I soon found out.

With Todd, the connection was on a deeper, more soul-based level, but Spencer is a little bit more mysterious.  The two times we have gotten together we took a long time to warm up to each other.  Then at some point the ice broke and everything changed.  It happened the same way, twice, from my perspective.  But it happened, that’s all that I care about.  Perhaps the warm-up time will shorten as we progress, but I don’t care.  It’s working.

I pushed myself out of my shell and comfort zone.  I pushed and pushed.  And pushed some more.  For several months now.  Then, the moment I found two awesome guys who care about me, my soul was profoundly moved in a deep, metaphysical manner.  It’s happened many times before, but not to this extent.  I’ve never really been cared about until now.  So my body went berserk.  Not because something is wrong or sick, but because the body only has so many ways to effect permanent change.  It’s also known as a healing crisis.

I met Spencer.  I met Todd.  Then the following Thursday I woke up with a scratchy throat.  And within thirty-six hours I was flat on my back with a temperature of 103.3.  I’m sure it was also due to letting the stress catch up with me without realizing it.  But I knew what was going on.  I worried it might be a doozy this time.  But it really wasn’t so bad, relatively speaking.  There was minimal nasal congestion so that made breathing while sleeping significantly easier than times past.  Also, the high temperatures weren’t as miserable as they usually were.  I came to the one most logical conclusion I could think of:  ultimately, the only avenue out of a lifetime of debilitating mental and physical illness was via the swift elimination of some pesky, depressed brain cells.  I figure my body realized it needed to kill off many of my original, injured, and depressed neurons to get past this point into a new life following a “miraculous” cure.  Well, it’s not as miraculous as it seems; after all, the mammalian body has been evolving all sorts of intricate ways to solve problems for millions of years.  Why should this be any different?  There were certainly more than enough freshly-born, exercise-induced neurons just waiting to come online.

I didn’t know how high to let the fever get so, naturally, I let my body lead the way.  At 103.3, I had the feeling to stop, and that the cooking of neurons to death was progressing swimmingly.  But after this point, the cooking of many other, healthy, body tissues including brain tissue would begin and I would risk more global injury.  So, I took two giant painkillers and made my way to the clinic at my grocery store.  It was a Saturday morning and I was the first in line.  I started antibiotics right away because it was strep on my tonsil and my right ear canal was rife with fluid.  It had only been forty-eight hours since my first symptoms.

The process was speedy and efficient.  With laser precision, something was getting in and getting out while effecting minimal discomfort, picking and choosing which neurons to destroy in a way no current medical technology could possibly hope to achieve.  Strep are ubiquitous, according to the nurse practitioner I saw, so that was the best and simplest method of getting the job done.  The mission accomplished, it was okay to knock it all out with the miracle of antibiotics, another efficacious agent my body would have been aware of.  My pee was almost brownish later that day, but I wasn’t worried.  Somehow I just KNEW that it represented the removal of the remains of the dead–the obliterated bodies of the neurons and other cells that had plagued me my entire life, and that I no longer need.  I was free.  FREE AT LAST.  And I look forward to the “miracles” that are in-store for me.  {>^<V}

Having Problems Really SUCKS

I got probs.  And the more men I meet, the more problems I uncover.  We learn who we are by our interactions with others–this is the normal way of life, and it’s long overdue for me.  Fortunately I already knew this, so it’s not as shocking and disorienting as it might have been otherwise.  But it still sucks greatly to discover that you have psychological issues with sex.

I have never had normal, functional sexual relationships before.  So, now that I am forming them, I experience so much stress in the bedroom that I shock my body into getting sick with a cold or a sinus infection.  I thought I was past all that because I started supplementing with some vitamins my pharmacist recommended, and had ceased getting sick all the time.  But now it’s happening again.  Ugh!

Years ago, I got into a very bad habit of feeling such incredible fear and pressure when I was with a guy, that I never calmed down from it.  So now it sneaks up inside of me and I don’t realize it until it’s too late.  It’s so ingrained I can’t just choose to relax easily.  It’s going to take some practice with a great new friend I made in Todd (pseudonym).  How did this happen?  How did I get into such a panic about sex?

It’s because I didn’t start soon enough, or on the right foot.  The first sexual encounter I had, I was so petrified with fear I gave myself diarrhea the next day.  I was twenty-one I think.  I had had relatively good experiences with masturbation since the age of thirteen so, naturally, I get hard pretty easily when I’m by myself still to this day.

But with other guys…such a problem for me.  My friend Todd is so wonderful.  He is patient and kind and understanding, just the sort of chap I need.  All things can be healed with enough love and patience.  And I might need a lot.  The topping of Arnold was an excellent example of this.  I somehow got myself to relax and respond naturally.  I didn’t have performance anxiety because he was new to it as well.  Somehow I must have decided on a deeper level that I was going to be calm and relaxed.  Perhaps I didn’t care how my dick performed with Arnold because we were just experimenting.  But with Todd, I think I got back into my old habits because I wanted to impress him and make him feel good and show him how horny I was for him.  The more I want my dick to get hard, the softer it gets!  It must be a form of distraction; the mental wanting of my cerebrum takes the energy away from my brain stem.

It’s also the ambivalence my subconscious still has toward being male and topping.  I understand why guys are total bottoms.  If they had a similar problem growing up, then it makes sense that they might just give up on penetrating altogether.  But, of course, there are many all-bottom guys in the world, with innumerable reasons for how they got that way as adults.  Gay lovemaking with my beautiful new beaux (Arnold, Todd, and Spencer) is supposed to be fun!  But I must be patient with myself.  Rome wasn’t built in a day, and neither is the pillar of sexual healing.  {>^<V}

Rosy the Wiener

White guys can be so hot.  I’ve noticed that if a white guy has a rosy face, then his dick and scrotum are usually rosy as well.  But if he has very dark features, such as one of those five o’clock shadows that makes his face look gray from a distance, then his dick and balls can be gray or even olive.  I’m one of the rosy ones.  So is my friend Todd.  His entire cock is pinky, not just the head.  So are his lusciously full lips.  I don’t think there’s anything more beautiful in the universe than a ruggedly handsome guy–you know, muscles, beard, chiseled brow and jaw–who has the lips of an angel, or the eyelashes of a doe.  Once I met a guy at the gym who looked like he was wearing rouge, that’s how naturally pink his cheeks were (face cheeks, that is).  I have ridiculously rosy cheeks.  It’s probably due to my Swiss-German ancestry.  I wish I got a thicker/blacker beard and bush, but oh well, you can’t have everything.  I’m sure there are darky guys out there who wish they had my eyes or something.

But I digest (just kidding, I know the word is digress).  Anyway, one of the darky kind of guys was fucking me one recent Saturday night.  A darky fucking a pinky!  He had the very full, dense five o’clock shadow I mentioned, complete with dimples just like Tom Selleck.  But somehow this guy was even hotter.  He shaved his body hair except for his bush, so that only made it stand out even more!  I complimented him on it, and he laughed awkwardly like he was embarrassed.  I pulled his gorgeous muscular hindquarters in close and asked him to go as deeply as he could so I could feel that beautiful black bush tickle my scrote.  I don’t think he was prepared for my exuberance.  What a waste of sumptuous bush and elephant-gray dick though.  He seems to be another clueless guy when it comes to conversation and making time for his sex life.  To make a long story short, he might be one of these turds who believes that his time and schedule are the only ones that matter.  I feel disappointed.  I wanted to get to know him.  He seemed nice underneath his stuck-uppery.  He had a really neat house too.

Oh well, once God closes a door, something better comes through the window.  I shall assume that I will meet a wonderfully kind, warm, and communicative guy very soon–a guy who is both a darky and a pinky at the SAME TIME!  Thick black stubble, dimples, eye lashes like a Mediterranean waiter, and the bright, blushing face and ass lips of the newest member of the Swiss Guard…

A guy like this for example:

Andre van Vliet

André van Vliet, world-renowned organist.

{>^<V}

Whaaaaaaaah?

Apparently I’m doing better than I thought.  Making the transition from an insecure young person devastated by mental illness, who was brainwashed into taking on a woman’s persona, into a happy, hot, sexy muscle guy who truly feels like a real man on the inside too, is possible.  I almost gave up several times, but I’m glad I didn’t.  I must have had subconscious faith in myself and my dreams.  I always felt so bad that I took it for granted that guys would look down on me, especially hot guys.  And the possibility of them feeling jealous or intimidated?  Wow, that didn’t cross my mind until today.  I keep forgetting that American men are masters of hiding their true feelings.  I know I did it for decades.  Why do I keep getting fooled?

My erect dick started out at 5.75 inches long.  But through a lot of perseverance with my penile enlargement exercises, I have made it to 7.00 inches on the dot.  It sticks out far now.  Guys seem to notice.  And the more fat I lose down there, the bigger it appears.  I definitely would like to make it even bigger.  It takes a long time and you have to be careful not to overdo the exercises.  But it does work, obviously.  I can’t help it.  I gotta either have a huge cock and/or get my hands on one, one way or another.  A good friend of mine has a boyfriend with an eleven inch dick.  When he told me I started to cry, no joke.  Right there in the coffee bar.  The barista gave me a free drink.  He probably thought we were talking about someone who died.  I felt sad that the guy met my friend before me.  My rectum felt sad too.  Using dildos, I calculated that I can fit 9.5 inches of whatever into my boy pussy.  That would leave about an inch and a half of wiggle room…

I got to know the eleven inch guy.  And you know what?  He’s a bit precious.  He clearly enjoys spending time with me; when he does grace me with a get-together, he opens up and we talk and have lots of fun.  But he still hasn’t returned several important text messages I sent him days ago.  Once I texted him when my car broke down.  Everyone else I knew was busy or out of town, and I was trapped in the Whole Foods parking lot–a fate worse than death.  I was surrounded by pretentious douchewads as far as the eye could see but, in their defense, two of them did help me bump start my car.  Anyway, the guy totally blew me off.  Apparently he’s moody and goes home and plays his guitar by himself for hours on end, due to him being so deep I guess.  These are classic symptoms of low self-esteem, and I fear he is depressed.  Fortunately he has my good friend as a boyfriend.  Anyway, I wonder why he doesn’t have some sort of penis-related self-esteem.  But if self-esteem were physiologically connected to one’s penis, then we both should have superhero confidence, right?  I’ve had a rather hefty seven-incher for a couple years now, but I have developed self-confidence by many other means that I do not wish to gloss over in this post.  But I shall save them for another time.

Tonight, however, this is what happened.  I met a guy on Craig’s List and we seemed to hit it off.  He said he was interested and sent me his picture.  He was a bit plump, but I didn’t mind.  I liked his crotch.  And his face was so cute!  I just wanted to meet new guys and socialize anyway.  Rejecting him for his weight was the furthest thing from my mind.  But the whole time it turned out that he was super insecure about it.  Finally, we got into an email argument over nothing, and he wrote, “And we’re finished.”  I was like, wow, so dramatic.  I wrote him back to explain that if he couldn’t handle the simplest of conflicts, then how exactly did he function at work, for example?  And that I genuinely liked him and gave him a chance.  I assumed that I would not hear from him, and I wasted my valuable time and energy on yet another ridiculously immature flake.

Then something interesting happened.  He wrote back with a lengthy tirade about how guys always find something to reject him over, and all the pain he was in over being overweight and out of shape.  I could hardly believe my eyes:

  • I know I’m not fit and handsome like you, and obviously you have your shit together and I don’t, you’re witty and intelligent, and you have a big dick–many good attributes.  I liked you too, and I was flattered that you even talked to me.  Fat, ugly, out of shape, bald me.  But there always seems to be something where when guys see me they find something to nitpick just to get out of being with a fat ugly guy.  I’m sorry, maybe that’s just my wall that I’ve built, but that’s how I feel.  I’m always on guard and probably overreact.  Okay so this is a rant–I’m sorry.

I really didn’t mind the weight.  He didn’t appear to be morbidly obese or anything like that.  I bent over backwards in previous emails to assure him that I was not concerned about his appearance.  But obviously he did not hear me.  I decided to try a different approach with my response:

  • You may be surprised to learn that I used to be overweight and very out of shape.  But I decided to change and was a personal training client for four and a half years nonstop.  I’ve been relatively hot for enough years now that I forgot what you might be going through.  But I am still over twenty percent body fat.  Guess what!  I have really thinning hair and thick red psoriasis on my scalp.  I took it for granted that fatter guys would NOT feel intimidated by me, but I was wrong of course.  I understand what you say in your email.  All guys want to be hot.  I’m sorry guys were mean to you.  Like I said, the guys who were born hot are all but worthless.  They are really horrible.  I have stories of them.  They don’t even know how to speak like a man.  I’ve met some who literally seemed retarded.  It’s crazy.  If I meet a kind hot guy I will let you know, in the mean time it’s up to the rest of us to find a way to meet and be friends and fuck I guess.  🙂

Here’s the deal.  The difference between being born hot and becoming hot later in life cannot be overemphasized.  It’s like the difference between being a native speaker of French and learning it from scratch as an adult with flash cards.  And I’m not even extremely ripped or anything yet!  But apparently, this guy assumed I have my “shit together”?  Good God, if only he knew.  I’ve been trying so hard for so many years to make up for the depth of my insecurity and perceived lacks, that I forgot to notice how far I’d come.  Native French speakers are notorious cunts, just like the hot fags who treat everyone they meet like shit, especially if you dare to have more than an ounce of fat.

Once, at college, our native French teacher’s parent’s showed up during class; they were visiting from the homeland.  The previous day this instructor, who was actually pretty nice, told us they were coming, and encouraged us to practice speaking French with them.  So, naturally, when there was a lull in the conversation, I gathered my nerve and bravely asked if they had been to any shows on Broadway.  New York is known for the theater, of course.  I thought this would be an excellent way to start.  I don’t even remember how I said it because it involved one of the past tenses–you know, Have you been to the theater, that sort of thing.  Well, the dad totally yelled at me!  He was like, NO.  We HAVEN’T BEEN to the THEATER.  One could have heard the proverbial pin drop in the classroom.  I looked at my teacher.  She looked embarrassed, which helped a little.  No wonder everybody hates these goddamn fucks.  Years later, an American French professor, who went to boarding school in France as a child, explained it to us:  they are taught by the school system from an early age to have a cultural superiority complex.  That, combined with a hefty national chip on their shoulder, makes for a pretty unpleasant group of people.  Just like the hot fags who roll out of bed every morning looking like a Greek god.

So it finally happened.  Someone out there is jealous of the forty-one-year-old guy who can’t work, pulls in a cool ten thousand dollars a year from Disability, has to live in a bad part of town, and has a hard time brushing his teeth regularly.  And all because I’ve managed to counteract my dumpy genes with several years of nonstop ass kicking in the gym to put on a few pounds of muscle.

Please continue reading at Whaaaaaaaah? II.

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