Tuesday, July 24, 2012

I May Have Made A Mistake

I thought I'd be healthier and more balanced, a little more proper by standards I delusionally believe exist, if I stuck to a single sexual partner, which is what I'd been doing for the last several months.  Perhaps that's not right for me, though.

Last night, I returned to my roots:  I got back in touch with my inner slut.  I had a raunchy hook-up with somebodies new, and it was like old times again.  It felt kind of right for me.  And I think I know why.

Yes, the sex is awesome.  I'm pretty vanilla in the sack -- no bells or whistles -- but I'm mind-blowingly filthy, especially with frank, baggage-free, equally adventurous partners.  But what's truly grand is after:  when you strike up the conversation that introduces you to a real person, one with passions and stories and quirks of his own.  Yesterday, I met a man who will remain unnamed.  But in our conversation, a detailed portrait of a noteworthy human being emerged:  handsome, artistic, articulate, former smoker, one-time denizen of Boston, then New York.  Not as far as I could tell an animal person, perhaps not a foodie, and unsure as of this printing how much of a music lover, but deeply resonant with other people and a celebrant of the visual arts.  Generous.  Gracious.  Observant.  Who else knows this person exists?

When I was an indigent bed-hopper (as well as a entry-level job-holding, roommate having bed-hopper), I found that so many times my sexual partners found me the kind of person to whom they could open up without reservation.  Physical sex is a snap, doable with many a warm body, but momentary friendship of this sort takes a lot of courage with anyone else.  Apparently I make it very easy and non-threatening.  Once the guy has ascertained I'm not a typical objectify-your-ass and project my id-born fantasies onto the blank canvas you represent-type gay man, he would open up like a secret flower, revealing all sorts of idiosyncracies and traits.  And a history.  People love to talk to me, especially after we've fucked.  I think it's because I come across as genuinely interested, a true listener.  These men have so much power and confidence in themselves when they're around me, and I in turn am heartened and enriched for their autonomy and individuality.  I don't demand concessions; I demand that they get their own way.  I get the sense that this is rare, and my partners find it refreshing and liberating.

So many men throughout the years...  And some of the tales are harrowing indeed.  There's the adorkable flag dancer, the collector of outre toys, the British immigrant with an underwear fixation, the gardner, for sure.  But there have also been a couple of possible killers.  I've blown cops, I've coupled with convicted bank robbers.  Such a wealth of humanity represented in my sexual history (yes, which would make C. Everett Koop blanch and scramble for his batphone to the CDC.)

No matter.  I'm now reclaiming my sluthood, because in being a slut I half-unwittingly became the repository for some very precious characters and their stories, which no one else has heard, and should they go to Hell, I promise to keep my sins slight enough that I might still bear their intimate treasures up to Heaven to share with all the more boring people.  Just to make the latter jealous, and to make them regret that they shunned so many interesting and wonderful fellow humans in life.