Bad Investments

I met the German while there was still snow on the ground.  Like all great artists, my highly creative dating life is sorted into different thematic periods.  This was in my aviation period.  I wasn’t dating jet-setters, pilots or Hermes, I had the unfortunate habit of meeting flight attendants everywhere I went.  So when the German, manager of a major airline in the Midwest, finally appeared it was a welcome break from the 15 days a month romance I was accustomed to.  The German had all the charm and wit of a working gay man in his forties, he drove a nice car and had a beautiful sweet dog named Libby.  His apartment was on north Marine drive in the quiet tree-lined Buena Park.  He had the looks the location and the love handles that I had grown to appreciate in older men.  For some reason it was easy enough to ignore the alarming fact that he was twenty five years older because he had that one trait that was more important than any other in a man:  he called me handsome.  

I was dating the German off and on for a few months.  He never seemed to be around enough for things to escalate.  The cycle went a bit like this: we saw each other once early in the week had amazing sex as many as three times before falling asleep and then we woke up early together and had coffee.  Then I’d see him later in the week and his libido would be gone and if I went in for a kiss it was a closed-mouth one.  Even though the German was located in Chicago his schedule kept him busy most days so I only saw him in those monthly couplets.  Sonnets were written in couplets and those were always romantic, maybe the distance was romantic liberty.  

This caused an unusual spike in text messages and peak hour phone calls.  Our connection was possible because of the telecommunications era, a time in which all gods were dead all wars were fought and all calls were dropped.  Internet dating was at an all time high, black out zones were around every corner and through every subway, accessibility was through the roof and etiquette was six feet under.  I knew the German was keeping his distance, but in a cellular-driven romance how can you tell if you’re getting mixed signals or just bad reception?

I finally confronted him on the distance.  I needed to know if this thing was going anywhere, were we just going through a black out zone or was the connection going to stay bad?  Either way the bars were low and I was ready to drop this call.  I asked the question that men hate it when you ask, “Is this going anywhere?  Because I have to be honest, I can’t really tell what your intentions are.”  Then, like most men when confronted with the idea of commitment he rolled over and tried to go to sleep.  When I tried to kiss him he simply said, 

“We’re not going to have sex tonight.”  There was no static in that statement.  I heard him loud and clear and I knew that this was over.  I tossed and turned for a few minutes and finally got up and put my clothes back on.  “Where are you going” he asked.  And I had to tell him that I’ve done this before.  I’ve been doing this for years.  I’ve been the boy on the side, the boy of the other side, the boy on top and the boy on bottom.  I was ready to be the boy front and center.  I’m exhausted.  I’m tired of introducing myself over and over and over again, repeating the same scripted first date dialogue.  I’ve passed the sexually liberated years of promiscuous anonymous one night stands, and I’ve done the dating game to death.  I wanted a boyfriend.  I remembered what love was with the teacher, how comfortable it felt.  That would have been nice.
  
And I remembered how the lumberjack made me feel.  I remembered that when I saw Woodchuck’s face I got excited and his face was the only face I thought about and when I saw that face it made me so happy because I could kiss it and nobody else could kiss it and when I was around that face all I wanted to do was kiss it.  All I had to do was look over and the sight of him excited me.  Love is one thing, and excitement is something entirely different.  Woodchuck filled me with energy and I haven’t felt that energy since I was with him.  What I needed was a recharge, and the German was nothing more than a dead battery.

The German simply rolled over in bed and said, “I’m not looking for a relationship right now.  And besides, you’re too young for me anyway.”  Too young?  This was something new to me.  Too young for what?  I wasn’t too young for him to take on dates.  I wasn’t too young for him to kiss.  I certainly wasn’t too young for him to have sex with.  But I was too young to have feelings for?  I was too young to be his boyfriend?  Is there an age limit on that?  It used to be that for men in their twenties a relationship was a novelty and for the men in their thirties and forties it was an investment.  But now, men are investing younger and the older men are cashing in and starting over.  It couldn’t be that I was too young, I was just making bad investments.  I was gambling my feeling away on men that were already bankrupt for love. The younger men are all taken and the older men just want to stay single.  It was a catch twenty-to-forty.  

I’ve never been eco-friendly, but I do wholeheartedly believe in sustainability.  Call it yahtzee, bingo, jackpot, black jack, or craps, I was ready for something to last.

Doing Business(men)

I am aware of the things that happen in public spaces.  About a year ago a business man jacked off next to me in an airport bathroom while I was brushing my teeth.  He thanked me and left his sperm in the sink when he left.  I've seen what happens in alley ways and public restrooms.  The problem is I look, I see these things I always notice the people around me.  These men exist in a world that is invisible unless you're looking.  It's like the cardinal rule of using a urinal: you don't look down.  Living in the city, you're supposed to build up all of these little boundaries  and learn to just not look down ever.  So, it is probably to my disadvantage that I don't have the not looking down instict because It caused me to witness the man who will be known as Mister Khaki Bulge.  Part of the morning commute on the red line involves the closeted businessmen who cruise the morning trains.  There's always a few looking around over the Red Eye for prospects.  So when Mister Khaki Bulge, MKB, spot me looking back I was trapped.  In a world where disembodied feet wash up on the shores of Canada, teenagers are shot every day and every ten seconds a Chicagoan drives a biker of the road, if you look you're involved. 

After meeting eyes with MKB he wormed his way through the crowd of pinstripes and button ups to stand next to me.  At first I was a little bit turned on, here was an attractive man with blue eyes and big arms standing close to me on the train.  I gave him a quick once over to make sure nothing was wrong with him and it was then that I spotted the bulge.  The bulge was rather large, rather Tom-of-Finland-ish, and was maintained--at first--with no real effort.  It occured to me that he must not only be wearing a cock ring to acheive this effect but he must also be wearing no underwear.  I couldn't believe what I was seeing, such a vivid and outward hard-on in the middle of the 7:30 train.  I looked around, but nobody else was looking, and suddenly I became very embarrassed because I was the one person who looked, who got an eyefull of khaki.  MKB then began rubbing himself and moving in closer, rocking nearer and nearer with each jolt of the train.  I was cornered.  The only thing I could do was turn the other way and pull out my Blackberry.  Why was I embarrassed for something he was doing?  Was it because I looked and subconsciously enabled his activity?  It can be assumed that a fallen tree made a noise even if nobody was around, but is a boner a boner if it's a loner?   

Furthermore, what was this man thinking?  How could he just get himself or anybody else all riled up before work like that?  Now I must admit, I've had my moments of public pursuit of the peen, but they've been limited to coat rooms of expensive restaurants and changing rooms at Nordstroms and I always, at the very least, knew the man's name and job title.  The only thing I knew about MKB was that he probably used extra large condoms.  If he was so bold (and the man had balls, visibly so) then couldn't he just ask for my number?  And if we did meet after that how I was I to say we met?  "This is my boyfriend, to break the ice he rubbed his cock against me on the train.  Can you believe that?" 

I put the incident out of mind, it was clearly a man-foul.  Inappropriate contact outside the boundaries of a relationship.  

Then, yesterday the same man is there on the train, only this time I'm sitting and I can't really get up to move a way and perfectly eye level is a big khaki bulge trying to break free from its zipper-fly.   MKB is rubbing himself and his dong is no more than a few inches from my face and it's getting closer each time the train rocks and I can see that he is listening to Rufus Wainright on his iPod (alarmingly expected).  I put my sunglasses on even though the train was underground.

Same as last time, except this time I stop him on the way out of the train station and ask why he can't just ask me for my number.  He just smiles and says,  "Yeah, I know."

Yeah, I know?  You know what?  You know how your actions perpetuate homophobia and delay the progress civil rights movements have made for years and years?  You know that you are embracing a stereotype?  You know that what you are doing is sexual harassment regardless of the fact that I just happen to be a gay male and find you attractive any type of unwanted and inappropriate sexual advance counts?  You know that men like you are the reason monogamy fails in our society?  You know what?  What could you possibly know?  I tell him that there is a right way to do this.  And he asks if I have a few minutes and says there's a starbucks up ahead and I'm thinking, there, coffee.  Coffee is how people should meet.  We walk to starbucks and he tells me his real name (but doesn't ask for mine) and he blushes a little.  When we get to starbucks he walks past the line and I'm not quite sure where he's going until he walks right into the bathroom.

Am I to understand that this man expects me to follow him into the bathroom and fool around right in the middle of the morning rush?  The baristas know me here, I'm a regular and I'm just supposed to go in the bathroom so some guy who doesn't even know my name can fondle in the ten minutes before work.  I turned around and ran out of there.  I do believe in romance, a little.  I do believe it can happen on the train or in a coffee shop or even in the changing room at Nordstroms.  I think that people spend far too much time trying not to look down and they miss a lot of the city that way.

I had one more encounter with MKB on the 7:30 train today, only this time it wasn't my encounter.  When I stood up to get off at the Monroe stop I saw him with his crotch up against some other business man with sunglasses on.  And for a moment, I was almost a little bit jealous.  It seemed like no matter what kind of romance I found myself in the other party was always just waiting for something better to come along. Even the train perverts are rejecting me now.  Why is it that men are always looking for a better leg to hump?