In my spare time I continue to peruse some Gay pornography, hoping to find examples of my kind of man-to-man sex: dominance and submission without sadomasochism or abuse. I also read articles on Gay psychology and occasional works of fiction, because we’re more likely to see ourselves illuminated by science and art than by hyper-conventional, stereotyped, packaged sex for sale, or the amateur junk on streaming sex sites.
I want to see how other guys get excited by male power without demeaning themselves or their partner. Sadly, the pickings are few and the porn is mostly boring; often what I find are examples of exactly what I don’t want. For instance, today I watched a fuck scene that took place in a public bathroom; two guys, apparently strangers, hooked up, then moved to a corner, where one guy leaned against the wall and the other guy fucked him. Not a word got said. Finally it was over, the top pulled up his pants and walked away without so much as a “See ya around.” Then the camera focused on the bottom, who hastily dressed and left, probably feeling ashamed.
This was not an uncommon scenario years ago, and I suppose it happens just as much today. But I found myself wondering what each guy was thinking as they went their separate ways. Did the top feel elated? Did he feel deflated? Did the bottom think, “Yeah, fucked by a stud!” Or did he think, “Good grief, a public bathroom.” Or even, “He could have said thank you.”
Maybe you find this scenario exciting; I don’t judge another guy’s turnons. But it was a huge turnoff to me. It all seemed so furtive and 1950s, impersonal, dehumanizing. Having the top walk out like he was done with the bottom, embarassed to be there, makes a negative statement about both guys—and by extension the audience. Are you someone other guys should be ashamed to be seen with? Don’t you resent the idea?
Suppose instead the director had said, “We’re going to be taping in a bathroom and I want it hot and hard. But when you’re done, before we cut, I want the top to ask for the bottom’s phone number.”
That one little direction would have suggested the possibility of post-fuck friendship. The message of the video would have been pro-Gay instead of pro-shame.
I write this as a guy who met my Boy in a bathroom in a leather bar in Chicago. It doesn’t matter where you meet, but how you treat each other does matter. Don’t walk away ashamed.
This isn’t the ’50s, ’60s or ’70s, when Gay men didn’t have many places to meet each other but tea-rooms and parks. We have Gay auto clubs, Gay synagogues, Gay political caucuses. Last summer Boy and I put on a Gay golf tournament! You can meet a man anywhere.
How you treat him says everything about who you are as a human being. Don’t be a user, and don’t be used. It isn’t fulfilling. You end up jaded, cynical and lonely. You end up jacking off by yourself because you can’t be bothered with another human being. That’s no way to live.
Again I find myself thinking how intimate it is to be naked with someone else. By the time you’re done fucking a guy you can tell his whole life story. You know whether he’s selfish or giving, whether his mind is open or closed; you know where he’s vulnerable. Perhaps you know where he’s strong. You know how desperate he is, what he’s willing to put up with, his drug use, his mental and physical health; you know how much money he makes, what kind of job he probably has, how much education, his intelligence or lack thereof; whether he has an imagination or is just going through the only motions he knows. You know what excites him and what turns him off, and from there you can probably figure out his entire history. You know whether he drives or takes the bus or subway; you know what kind of car he has. You know how long it’s been since he saw a doctor or dentist; you can guess his HIV status. You know him as well as a family member who was there the day he was born; in some ways you know him better than his family.
You know whether he’s got a wife or a boyfriend; you know whether he just got dumped, or dumped someone. You know whether he can read and write, and whether he actually does those things. You know what kind of music he listens to. You know the state of his soul, whether he’s damned or blessed.
That’s a lot to know about someone. Fucking will teach you everything about him. And the guy who walked away without even saying thanks or “I enjoyed it”? He’s a guy you never should have been with in the first place, so now you also know to get thee to a therapist and what to talk about.
There are a lot worse turnons in this world than SM—in the right context it can be a healthy thing to do—but even vanilla guys can be users or the used. Don’t be one of them, it doesn’t help you.
Instead, cherish your feelings—notice them, honor them as part of your most important reality. If you feel good about yourself, keep doing what you’re doing. If you feel bad, change it. Don’t get into a compulsive rut.
If you need help, talk to a friend as you really are, not as you purport to be to the outside world. We only go around once in this life, and there are no prizes for the phony self you’re tempted to project. Get naked and the other guy will see right through you, just as you see through him. There’s no substitute for honesty and being the authentic self you really are.
With any luck at all you’ll find a compassionate Gay man who cares about your wounded personality, because he identifies with you. Gay men are the best lovers ever because the vast majority of us have compassion built into every muscle and bone. I’d sooner trust my life with Gay men than anyone else; Straight women second. We all need compassion, and somehow evolution has given us more than the average person. Suppose that director had said, “Before you walk away, get his phone number”? It would have turned an exercise in sleaze into a dawning of nobility. That’s what friendship is: a willingness to postpone or even sacrifice your own immediate impulse for the sake of your friend’s need.
It’s a noble and holy thing. Don’t blow it. There’s no substitute for a friend who knows you and accepts you as you really are.
* * *
Since last we met Boy and I have been through a few things; nothing bad, just the frustrations and pleasures of life. We’re both a bit inclined to procrastinate about things that need to be done, which never helps us. My computer died; I bought a new one but still haven’t taken in the old to be fixed, though it contains data I must have to function. He needs his hair cut but keeps putting it off. I’m finding he tends to get depressed around the holidays; unresolved family issues which he doesn’t want to talk about. We had a good Thanksgiving, though, and we keep plugging away at our jobs. It hasn’t been too cold here so far, though this morning we got our first dusting of snow. They say there’s more to come.
We’ve been watching movies at home thanks to Netflix. He loves oldies, and I love hearing him talk about them afterward, or even pause to point out something in the middle of the show. He knows all these dead actors I never heard of; when we watch a film he’s already seen, I love seeing his body help act out a scene. He’s also the kind who loves conducting the orchestra with his magic air baton; we saw “Oliver!” the other day, and You’ve Got to Pick a Pocket or Two.
Boy’s so smart when he analyzes; I love to hear him talk.
I’m not sure, with all my reading and porn-example searching, I’ve made much progress in our singular quest of creating a lasting dom-sub relationship; nor have I made much progress in finishing a novel about it. (He’s not here to illuminate my fiction. The characters are already set.) I rewrite the same eight chapters instead of writing more. I keep pushing my mental boundaries but crashing against the wall; we understand this much but not more. I suppose we’ve settled into a routine; we both love power, get off endlessly over it, without turning up the heat where it becomes abuse, the mistake most other guys make. He’s my puppy, not my bitch, and oh, do I admire when he is powerful.
Meanwhile he’s gotten completely into a good but limited pattern at home; his two interests are fucking and cooking. He’s a wonderful cook who expands his repertoire every week. I take it he knows enough, when he looks at a recipe, to figure out what’s delicious and what’s a disaster, so he only makes the good stuff. We’ve been eating real good, me making my old favorites, him making new things he’s found. Thanksgiving really was a feast; I made the dressing and roasted the bird and he did everything else. I even ate sweet potatoes, but there’s nothing you can do to a cranberry to make it edible.
We’re still monogamous; we have a vow to tell each other if we’re not, so neither of us contracts HIV. I’d hate the day I had to tell him I fucked up, or had to hear him say he did, but we back up our pledge of honesty with retests every 3 months.
We’re also working with a lawyer on a “pre-nuptial” agreement, which is kind of a laugh considering this ain’t even Iowa; but we’re starting to have discussions about how to Provide for and protect each other in case of something bad.
A friend of mine taught me to capitalize Providing, because it’s (maybe sexist here) the ultimate job of a man to Provide for himself and his loved ones; worthy of respect and of capitalizing. I make no statement about Lesbian relationships, single Moms or anyone else. Obviously women are as capable of and as good at Providing as any man is.
But where there’s a man it’s his job to Provide. Where there are two in an equal relationship, I suppose they’re both responsible for their provisions. In a Gay dom-sub marriage like ours, I Provide. He could, but I take great pride in it, and he goes along, one of his gracious gifts to me.
I buy the groceries, I pay the rent. He pays the utes and often picks up the check at a restaurant. He makes (a lot) more money than I do and has a finance-oriented job, but he submits to my desire to Provide for him. On some level he enjoys it and on another level he’d rather we were equal in expenditures. I accidentally crimp his style, but that also means he saves more for his old age. Or mine!
At times it’s a confused balancing act. But his feelings are so tender, our devotion to each other so strong, that I feel confident in making joint financial decisions, limiting his spending and channeling any excess funds into his retirement. He’s significantly younger, he wouldn’t think of this, but I do. And he accepts that.
He’s a fantastic pup. I haven’t even mentioned how good his body’s looking these days, now that he’s got me as his Coach.
It’s funny in a way, the best rule I ever made for us is that when sex starts, he’s always down on all fours. Sometimes I’m demanding, sometimes he’s a hungry boy, but always, down on all fours.
He’s a bottom; I’m a top. I try to be innovative, but even when I’m not, he always responds with the pure unconditional love of a puppy to his master.
I’m not a control freak, but I do have self-respect and compassion for a Boy who’s got some healing to do so he stops getting depressed over the holidays; and who’s got enough courage and enough love to be open with who he really is and what he really feels.
Maybe someday this will all change, but for now my cock’s his Boss. And you’re damn right I want this puppy’s phone number.∞
