Where’s the Sausage?

I grew up getting into the bad habit of sitting back and just kind of–waiting for everything.  The severe depression didn’t help matters.  But now, for the first time in my life, I am learning how it feels to get up and do things.  They say it’s critical to accept the self.  But how do you accept yourself when you started out so dysfunctional?

I am currently using subliminal hypnosis videos to make some changes.  Everything was going pretty well at my job, but then I realized that I wasn’t making the executive decisions I needed to make, such as what needed to be uploaded to our big database.  It’s not easy being in my forties and learning what many guys in their twenties, or even in their teens, usually learn.  It’s a big hit on my ego.  But, thankfully, at least I can do it.  Before, I would not have been able to handle it, and would have stopped working.

I have a problem.  I’m surrounded by women at this job.  In hindsight, for someone who prefers men, it sure seems odd that I would have picked this opportunity.  But it seemed like a good idea at the time–a paid way to learn database work.  I need to learn database skills and querying in order to run the corporation I plan to start in the near future.  But it’s rough.  My supervisor AND her boss are both pregnant.  I can hardly believe it.

This is it.  I mean, ENOUGH!  See, I have many issues with lunatic, out of control, women, because of my mom.  They say that you subconsciously keep putting yourself into situations to resolve deep-seated issues, and the “universe” complies.  Well, I think this predicament is an excellent example of this phenomenon, to say the least!  And the only other men there remind me of my worthless dad.

The bitch and the coward.  The bitch and the coward.  Just like mom and dad.

Looking back, I knew that my supervisor was nuts, but I wanted the job so bad.  Also, they were willing to let me work the small number of hours per week, that I required, as a contractor.  So, I mustn’t be too hard on myself; no one else in my town was willing to let me work so few hours in a white collar office setting.  So, I ignored the rampant red flags:  the constant profanity including the f-word, the insane demands such as interrupting to inform me that I’m not talking fast enough (WTF?!), the frantic inability to have a normal conversation without needless emotional drama, the bizarre demand of telling me to perform two job descriptions (everyone else just has one) and, of course, the constant mood swings and controlling behavior for absolutely no good reason.

Technically, there are two other men who work in the office, but they are hardly ever there.  And I don’t have meetings or projects with them.  So, more often than not, I’m the only cock in the room.  This is it.  This is my chance to triumph over my fears; my mom fucked me over good, so I still feel unsure about my manhood.  It sucks.  But maybe this time I can truly heal it.  It’s amazing–men hardly bother me at all.  If I worked in the sausage fest of my dreams, I would have no problem.  So why am I surrounded by pregnant twat again?  Apparently, I won’t be able to be with men until I solve this problem.

I don’t feel like a man all the way yet.  I never have.  I don’t feel like a woman–anymore, but I don’t feel satisfied as a man, that’s for sure.  So the solution is simple:

I won’t be able to start my corporation until I stop being afraid.  When that happens, it will be a natural progression in that I will stop working at this place at the right time, and for the right reasons, due to the demands of my own business.  And I won’t quit working there out of fear, or something I can’t handle.  It’s very hard for me to learn all these new skills, but the only way out is through.

Half the time, I have no idea what anybody in this office is talking about.  But that’s not too surprising.  Most of the time my supervisor “communicates” for no reason other than to cause confusion and discord.  She’s one of these people who says no to everything by default, and then proceeds to restate the exact same thing you just said so as to appear to be correcting you.  She also explained to me that her email inbox is “fucking crazy” so I’m not allowed to send her email, but then when I stop by her office to ask a simple question, more often than not, she’s too busy and important to speak to me.  Every other human being on the planet takes responsibility for their inbox, yet she’s the one exception I suppose.  So I doubt I’m the only one who feels this way.

It’s isolating.  Because of fear, I haven’t ever really lived in the world yet.  I still can’t exactly see my way out, but I know it’s coming.  In a world where hardly anyone takes a shred of responsibility for their own lives or behavior, I must be my own father, leader, and example of masterful manhood unto myself.  And become the only cock in the room, regardless of who else is present.

Healing is weird.  It’s obviously not taught in school.  Healing is a skill you have to learn as an adult, just like database skills, in my case.  Healing is both simple and hard at the same time.  I just remembered a very crazy lady at Starbucks I talk to.  And there is another lady whose gift shop I like to visit after work.  I feel strangely “attracted” to them both.  Why?  Pheromones?  Am I secretly straight?  At the gift shop, the lady has a truly worthless gay male employee.  I have visited countless times after initially being introduced to him, and I don’t think he has even once looked in my direction, much less made eye contact or said hello.  According to this proprietress, he likes one of their regular customers, but has never approached him.  The guy does, however, secretly photograph the customer’s dark hairy butt crack with his phone when he bends over to look at a bottom shelf.  I’m so repelled by this guy that I have ceased saying hello, or acknowledging him in any way.  Why bother, right?

I refused to talk to my mom for an entire year.  Yet she kept sending me her inane letters every week as if everything were completely normal.  It was the year I had my first semi-functional part-time job as a janitor after becoming disabled.  I started to feel like a man for the first time.  I quickly realized that my pain had nothing to do with whether or not she was in my life but, rather, it was a matter of the needy, lunatic mom within my own psyche.  Late at night, all alone in the library I cleaned, I was spraying the glass doors and wiping them down.  I hadn’t been in contact with anyone for several hours and worked in almost complete silence.  Yet I wasn’t alone.  She was there.  Contaminating my experience of myself.

The easy part of healing is just saying no, and giving yourself the gift of freedom.  It’s not about worrying about or fearing my mom, or the hormonal crazies at work.  It’s about finally choosing to turn away from them, once and for all, and then maybe some real men will show up–men like me.

I know full-well that these other random people in my life are not my parents.  So why does interacting with them inspire such primordial white-hot fear and rage?  I guess it’s because I don’t have very “good guys” in my life yet, and I feel so very, very alone.  {>^<V}

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Halloween Seventeen I

What a month.  October, that is.  All sorts of fascinating things have happened in my life, and I hope the same is true for you.  On Tuesday, the thirty-first, the supervisor where I volunteer took me out to lunch.  She wanted to do something to thank me for my efforts, and also to go over the schedule for an upcoming event.  Additionally, she surprised me with a part-time job offer!  It was very exciting.  I’m moving up and out into the world, as making connections and becoming part of a team is a bold new achievement for me.  After being disabled for so long, I am now experiencing some long overdue confidence building and life progress.

I dress up in business formal attire when I go in to the office.  After all, it’s at a pretty fancy place downtown.  It’s a big deal to me.  It’s an important part of my new morning routine.  I lay out my clothes every night so that they are ready when I get up at six on volunteer days.  My supervisor and her boss dress in business formal, so I decided why shouldn’t I?  But no one else there does.  So, as one can imagine, my appearance is a great way to stand out from the crowd without having to say a thing.  And, sure enough, people have started to notice and take me much more seriously, especially the men.  This is what I am discovering about working:  it has very little to do with work.  Sure, I get tasks done, but the actual working part is only about twenty percent of the deal for me right now.  The other eighty is getting up, grooming and taking care of this wacky body I have, dressing of course, gas for the car, getting myself there on time with a belly full of breakfast, and trying not to get some of the breakfast on my business formal clothes!  It just goes on and on.  It’s fascinating.  Including every related activity, I clearly spend far more time and calories on the stuff around the computer work I do for the organization.  The work is really just an afterthought.  But I understand that it could have something to do with the fact that I am still at the beginning of a business office career; perhaps it will feel different after I am endowed with greater levels of responsibility.

I have, however, decided that working has a LOT to do with sex; cologne mingling with crotch smell and ball sack pheromones, some tasteful jewelry mingling with body hair, a chunky new wristwatch, a gold-plated tie bar, the unavoidable bulge in the front of a man’s slacks, and his voluminous glutes in back….  It’s often wrapped up in a man’s self-concept and self-esteem.  I’m sure many men have already gone through this process years ago, but I’ve never lived like this before–I didn’t realize how much fun it was going to be!  It is an enhancement of the things on everyone’s mind, yet no one openly talks about:  what’s underneath the accoutrements of alpha manhood.  My wardrobe feels like a sex-drenched extension of my physical body and all the nifty decorations Mother Nature gave me to begin with.  A real gold chain around my neck brings the eye to my chest hair on days I don’t wear a tie.  Unpacking myself at the urinal reminds me of just how much bush is being covered up down there.  And, of course, there’s the bulge protruding from roughly the center of a man’s body.  However I sit, stand, walk, or talk, the outline of my good stuff is always there–and that’s how it should be.  The reminders of raw manhood, albeit obscured a bit for modesty and professionalism, subconsciously direct the right people to my root.

On a subtler note, there is the intrinsic sexiness of a “cocked” fedora framing my flourishing beard, which again refers to my thick, mature, bush underneath.  Currently though, I meticulously shave around my mouth in a veiled attempt to articulate that my other mouth down below is perfectly depilated, and open for business.  It ALSO refers to the fact that I won’t give razor burn to a guy’s face or asshole.  Clearly it’s an extremely sexual thing for me, but if it has no effect on someone, it’s okay because to them it’s just a facial hair style choice.

Sometimes I think working is really just an excuse to meet people.  When you get right down to it, most of working for a living seems kind of unnecessary; like it’s nice to do, but not critically necessary to the functioning of human civilization.  So, if that’s the case where you work, maybe it’s time to accept that God gave us school and work mostly for the purpose of getting together with guys for making love.  A man’s sexuality needs the proper and satisfying avenue of expression.  If you don’t have reasons to demonstrate your intelligence, physical strength and endurance, artistic genius, fashion sense, or problem-solving abilities, then how will all the other fuzzy little monkeys out there know you wanna get laid?  At work at least, show them with body language and other forms of nonverbal communication.

I have big plans.  And, as I have attempted to enucleate, they have almost nothing to do with my current job description, although completing clerical tasks at lightening speed with great accuracy is yet another way to show off my masculine prowess.  For example, getting noticed for working like a “mad skills machine” on Excel isn’t that far removed from fucking like one, right?  I am getting back into lifting now that my knee is better.  Therefore, next spring I can roll up the sleeves, of my short-sleeved dress shirts, to expose the fullness of my biceps.  I’ll still be in a tie of course, but in a physical state that necessitates the ends of my sleeves having to pick a notch either above or below the bulge.  I say the former rather than the latter is the way to go, don’t you?

Let’s see, what else could I get away with?  What ideas do you have?  What types of pleasing feats of manly expression in the office (or just strutting down the street  for that matter) do you practice?  Please share them with me and others.  Let’s get this party started!  {>^<V}

I wish to take a moment to thank my readers and followers for their patience during my two and a half month break from blogging.  There were several things I needed to square away including an exciting new volunteer opportunity, which will probably turn into an excellent part time job.

Now that I’m back in the swing of writing, we can begin to explore even more wonderful and interesting topics.  And I can get started on the products for sale section.

You guys are the best!  {>^<V}

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}