I was fisted (once) in Croatia. Call it the perks of growing up without a guide… No one shows you what this whole “gay” thing is, so you kind of have to learn on your own. Being Italian (relentless sexual appetite) and a naïve, shy Texan guy, I attracted many wolves-carnal men who prey on those ingredients. I’d be flirting innocently and the next thing I know, some Croatian is four knuckles deep and I, too shy and timid to have said no to the request.
But the point is, I thought after that experience, I knew what pain meant.
***
“Please.” I begged John.
We sat on the couch watching Harry Potter in our Sahuarita home- a community for upper-middle class families to avoid raising children in the crime-ridden and homo-friendly city of Tucson. Instead of living in sin, Sahuarita residents lived in a suburb 20 miles south of the city, with all the freaky, overly manicured ‘everything(s)’ to rival The Stepford Wives.
We sat in silence after arriving home from a particularly melodramatic car ride, the one where John told me he wanted end our two-year relationship and taste some other sausages for a while.
Meanwhile, Dumbledore explained to Harry that magic was a gift and every wizard has a choice: to use it for good or to practice the dark arts.
I may have been experienced in sex, but I was emotionally un-evolved. I was desperately in love with this airman and didn’t want to lose him. Every action I committed back then was done so while living underneath the intoxicating and blinding cloud of loving love; and baby, it was pouring down.
I loved the idea of being in love with someone like John; an airman whom I met in a foreign country – talk about a gay wet dream.
I thought I couldn’t live my life without him.
While I watched the movie, I thought about how I feared leaving him, knowing I’d soon forget how it felt with our lips against each other, engaging in fucked up “hate-love” sex, and then cuddling with our pets while watching a movie. I thought that was my raison d’etre, not this crazy corporate, entertainment world I live in now.
But we were all wrong for each other (first relationships are always so). Where I wanted to watch Dopo Mezzanotte, he wanted to watch Norbit.
“Please, let’s stay together.” I … begged.
John showed no emotion, I felt myself wilting inside.
John said, “I’ve made my decision. No, I’m sorry.”
I yelled, “What the hell do you think you’re missing? You self-righteous bastard! You think you DESERVE to be a slut?”
John responded, “I think I fucking do. I never got to experience that before you. You traveled the world and fucked every nation. Why shouldn’t I?”
“I’ll never be handsome enough or muscular or ripped or witty enough for you will I? I shouldn’t have pierced my ears because they’re so big and I didn’t want to attract attention to them, right? I mean that’s what you told me. And that my nose was crooked and big. Is that what it is? You can’t stand to fuck me anymore because I’m not a model like you?” I shouted while nearly crying.
“Yes ALL that, Jake. And the fact that you’re the world’s biggest drama queen. Can’t you just accept that I don’t want to be in this relationship? Why does it have to be a battle?” John said sarcastic and calm.
“I’m not going to beg someone to love me. That’s pathetic. If you don’t want to be with me, I can’t force you. But know this, every time I see a low down, dirty dog sniffing the ass of another; I’ll smile and think of you.” I said through my teeth.
I then stormed up to my new room, knowing I would begin the ritual of packing my shit. The rejection was biting; it felt like Goliath had just fisted my heart.
****
About two years later, life changed.
I downloaded gay dating applications, convincing myself I was a young professional who had time for sex, but not relationships.
But I really I liked leading men on.
Like a gay Hannibal, I craved men’s hearts, hoping to win and then crush them.
I perfected the art of writing eloquent love letters purely with body language. I worked hard, ensuring I would soon possess all the tools to court and trap men. I needed to use a combination of wit and sex. The process kicked my adrenaline in; I felt like some kind of sexual spy.
Plus I was just shy of reaching my 22nd birthday; I was horny 24/7.
I logged in.
‘Hey handsome.’ He messaged me.
Hmm Let’s see his profile. Okay, okay, he’s Hispanic, that’s good; I like em darker. Oh and he’s very muscular, that’s very good, this will be a fun one. Woah, that’s a bit harrier than I expected.. nope, think of it as masculine. You can do this. You’ve done this many times, you just need some conversation and to present him with your kiss. Act coy, shy, and naïve.
From the pictures he provided, he looked to be a buff Rico Suave, with flowy hair and a protruding chest.
Two hours later I walked in circles around Fuller and Fountain, searching for the entrance to his apartment’s complex.
I pressed the buzzer to the speakerphone, sweating and breathing heavy after walking up and down the hill twice to find the place. The texts he sent me with directions were really not specific, nor did they make much sense. I could tell he didn’t have a full handle on English. Ironically, that kind of turned me on more.
I then felt my heartbeat quicken as the buzzer rang. That was the nervous, “fight or flight” heartbeat.
He rang a bell to unlock the door. I entered what looked to be the hallways of a shitty dorm from the 70’s. The florescent lights buzzed audibly and the elevator smelled of urine.
After I exited, I peered down a long hallway. At the very end of it, a door opened and out popped a silhouetted figure.
His mystery pulled on me like the great, big, August moon that hung in the sky that night. I made my way down the hallway; I’d finally reached the point of no return.
“I’m glad you found the place.” He said to me and smiled as I slipped through the door.
I noticed him inspecting me, with an expression of relief, almost as if he were thinking, “wow, he’s a lot better looking in person.”
The opposite can be said for how I felt about him.
His pictures were certainly of him, but I never noticed his height. I’m always the shorter guy; sometimes I think THAT’S why I am gay. I couldn’t possibly date a tall, gorgeous girl and couldn’t hold a yellow fever for the pretty/exotic short ones. I’m proud of being a buff nugget, a lil guy. But my man can’t be that way!
For the first time in my life, I was taller than the man who wanted to sleep with me.
He grabbed my head, pulled it down towards him and started making out with me. Being a polite Texan, I obliged for like … two seconds.
I then looked around and said, “Your place is nice.”
It was.
“Mmmm, thanks. I umm live here three years now.” He said in a harsh accent.
As we spoke he pushed me towards his couch, where he had a bowl of marijuana lying on the coffee table.
“You are so sexy. I can’t wait to fuck you.” He said and then licked his lips.
I blushed, as if that were a compliment, laughed nervously, looked to my left and said, “Thanks.”
I wasn’t so forward; if I’d have returned like terms, they would be lies. I’m a terrible liar.
“So what do you do?” I asked him. He really didn’t turn me on. He kissed me too violently and far too wet and brought to mind the image of Scrappy Doo wearing a sombrero. But I desperately hoped I could salvage the experience by getting to know him a bit. Perhaps if there was a mental connection the sex could be saved.
“I umm.. uhh… he. I umm… skin care. I work skin care.” He blew smoke rings from the marijuana as he answered me.
Okay… so conversation’s not going to be an option here.
I looked at the pipe and found my last refuge. Perhaps a hit of marijuana would clear the fog, riiiggghhhhhhttttt???
Antonio, that was the name he gave me via text, grew impatient. He continually rubbed his crotch and licked his lips as we struggled to converse.
“Shall we go to the room now?” He asked in that cute, robotic foreign accent.
Antonio’s bed lay extremely low to the ground; I suppose to account for his height.
I followed him in. “Okay okay, no chains or pickled heads… We’re good so far.” I thought.
Once again he forcefully pulled my mouth down to him and ate at my face.
Then, while making out, Antonio tried to lift both my legs around his waist. Being smaller than I was, he lost his balance and fell on his back with my weight on top of his body.
“Are you okay?” I asked, shocked, but somewhat hoping he blew out his back and would be unable to continue.
“Fine.” He growled as he pushed me onto the bed while magically taking off my pants and underwear.
“Turn around.” He told me.
I obeyed.
The man pushed my head into the bed and grabbed my waist like a steering wheel. He then fervently began moving his tongue in and out of my cheeks.
I lied down, with my ass in the air, while Antonio sucked at my hole. He was insane; it was almost as if my intestines were an oxygen tank and he, the scuba diver.
But I was not into it; I was not into him. Who was this guy? Antonio in … skin care? What the fuck was I doing?
He continued eating at me…like a tiny Chihuahua and I started thinking about laundry, errands, investment portfolios…
“Suck my dick.” Rapido, his penis was suddenly in my face. His dick was small, like a boy’s, but it fit his tiny frame.
“My, what terrible luck I have!” I thought, as I faked ‘deep’ throating.
During all this, I remained limp as pasta.
Antonio flipped me around like I was a Lazy Susan and started sucking me off. He moaned, growled, groaned and played with himself and I stared up at the ceiling, back down at him, and then up to the ceiling again. There was no way I would be able to grow an erection.
I raised myself up from his bed.
“I’m sorry.” I said.
Antonio stopped and suddenly his eyes grew wide, like a Disney character.
“What, what is it?” he asked innocently, almost pathetically.
His immediate reaction largely juxtaposed his prior demeanor. I couldn’t tell him the truth; those big eyes were swimming with hurt and insecurity.
Moronically I said, “Let’s just take another hit.”
I wanted to buy more time. My goal was to think about hairy muscle men and Mediterranean muscle hunks (you can see a pattern here) until I could grow horny enough to make this a quickie and then get the hell out.
We took a hit each, but when he tried to kiss me again I instantly recoiled and closed up, like a TickleMe Plant.
I looked at him, lost for a moment.
He looked at me with trepidation, knowing what was to come but dreading the words.
“I’m sorry, there’s just no chemistry here.” I said slowly.
He shut down quicker than my Mac.
He looked at the floor while his shoulders drooped. His eyes filled slightly with tears as he raised his head to fake a smile.
“Oh, that’s … that’s okay.” He said.
…
Silence.
I dressed then looked at him.
“I mean that’s the nature of the game I suppose. You win some you lose some. I’m sorry.” I said.
He laughed nervously, still faking a smile, and he escorted me to his front door.
“How do you leave something like this?” I asked unsure of what the proper etiquette would be.
I gave him a hug.
When the door behind me closed and I was finally in that piss-stained elevator again, I flashed through everything that happened and shuddered.
“That was the most embarrassing and awkward moment of my life…How the hell do I end up in these kinds of situations?” I thought to myself.
I then realized that John shitting on our relationship turned me into Snape. I was rejected and in an ironically twisted fashion, I dedicated my life to rejecting others.
We (men- the brutish, pig gender of society) are all carrying wands and using magic. Naturally our wands are our penises and magic is sex.
After being broken and tossed to the side, I allowed the negative emotions to fuel my actions, effectively practicing the dark arts with my magic. I didn’t want to be the Voldermort of sex! Voldermort always dies in the end, whether it’s loneliness or AIDS- I didn’t want any part of it.
I realized that there’s already enough negative in the world- terrible drivers, spaghetti sauce on your white shirt, litigators, cheaters, liars, and those who find joy in breaking hearts. Why should I contribute to the banal?
My life should really coincide with Harry’s! I mean I lived in the closet, he lived in a closet, he was British, I speak in a terrible, fake British accent. The epiphany hit me like a bludger during a Quidditch game.
There’s so much negative in the world, why was I contributing? Who really wins in the end? I broke Antonio down, Avada Kadavra-ed his spirit. Poor man, I never want to be responsible doing that to another human again. I’ve been there and it truly feels shitty.
I now contribute my magic for good- being a sexual metaphor that means I only sleep with guys to better an existing and monogamous relationship. How do you use your magic wand?
Filed under: DATING, HOLLYWOOD LIFE, travel
