Suddenly I Don't Know Anymore, Part 3

I had a magnificent walk of shame the following morning. And I didn’t even feel like a cheap slut, particularly since I had spent the night in a fabulous four-floor townhouse in the West Village, dry-humping into that sleepy hour where night bleeds seamlessly into morning.

Ricky had failed to mention that he lived in a friggin’ castle the few times we had hooked up. He braved the G train into Brooklyn to my little shithole corner of the world to desecrate my air mattress each time, so I had no inkling of what awaited me. I understood his reasoning, though. After all, this house was his and his wife’s and I was the first piece of trade he had invited there—which obviously filled me with a bit of pride. Whether out of my own naïveté or all consuming self-involvement, it didn’t bother me that we were hooking up in the same bed that he had shared with her for X number of years. The thought didn’t even cross my mind until recently.

Tim retired as soon as we got back to Ricky’s house. How convenient. Though, we had already decided that no hanky panky would occur; that’s what Saturday was for. I would have the shithole corner of the world to myself, the roomies all out of town. So he would come over. Instead, we stayed up talking, making out, doing more coke and watching “Project Runway.” And speaking of which: seriously, Jeffrey? I hate that fucking douche. The details of our conversation have since disappeared from my memory--all I can remember was that it was fun. But after a few hours, we decided to turn in. Sleep was a foolish idea, however, as neither one of us was tired and before I could properly adjust my hip, we were dry humping. Followed by cuddling. Followed by more dry humping. Unfortunately, there was no wet humping denouement, but what can ya do? I got up to leave at 7 so I could run home and get ready for work. Just like that, our first date was finally over. I thought it a resounding success. But I might have misinterpreted something along the way.

Ricky had already informed me that he might not be able to make our date to the Met, so it came as no surprise to me when he cancelled later that day. What did come as a surprise was the identity of his soon-to-be-ex-wife. He had mentioned the night before that he was an actor and I remembered the name of one his movies, so being the crack detective I am, I went looking for him on IMDB. Turns out he was a minor actor, but he had some success as a writer/director, having been nominated for the Grand Jury Prize at Sundance for his first film, which coincidentally starred his wife—whom I actually recognized. She’s a considerably more successful actress, having starred in two successful shows and a good number of films and even getting nominated for an Emmy a few years back. And we’re talking primetime here, kids. When I told my friends, they couldn’t believe it, but I just chalked it up to the constant randomness my life throws at me. This time it was thrown all up in a bitch’s face.

Saturday came around and Ricky text’d me that he might not be able to make it to our little rendezvous. I didn’t think anything of it. He had gone out of town with Tim and I figured he was caught up doing whatever have you. Then he text’d me again, confirming that he wouldn’t be able to make it at all. I was disappointed, though not devastated. I still expected him to call eventually, expected us to go out on another date. Hell, at least expected us to get in one more shag. I stopped expecting about a week ago. Although, I can’t bring myself to erase his number from my phone. Maybe he’ll call, maybe not. But I’d at least like to know it’s him so I can have the satisfaction of not answering…I shouldn’t answer right?

Suddenly I Don't Know Anymore, Part 2

I refuse to believe it's me. I always think it's me, but that's just negative thinking. Rather, I just think everyone else sucks but me. Oh, wait, that's negative too. Well then, I'm positive everyone else sucks but me and I'm happy that it's not me. That works, no?

I didn't see Ricky for a week since he propositioned me for that sex party, which in hindsight I regret not attending. Then one Sunday, he came over before heading off to meet up with some friends, squeezing me into his busy schedule. How sweet. We fucked for about an hour and made out as we got dressed and he headed out the door. When he left, I was caught up in something I had not known before, an excitement for something other than drugs or free booze. Nothing like love, at least not how I imagined it would be, but the promise of something more than just the occasional hook-up. And I didn't mind that promise, hell, I actually looked forward to it. My first relationship! Yay! We had plans to go out that following Saturday to the Met for what would be our first date.

On Thursday night, we were talking online, my preferred form of communication, when he invited me out to drinks with him in Manhattan, before going to a friend's party--managing to fit me in again, the little dear. Now I was stoned, mind you, and on the Queens border of Brooklyn, thus getting on the G and L trains was not a task to be taken lightly. However, never one to turn down free drinks, though I'll get to that debilitating tendency in a later post, and secretly wanting to see him/happy that he wanted to see me as well, I eventually accepted. So it was that our first and more than likely, our last, date was to be that night.

Hmm, how do I ease into this? Or perhaps, I should just jump right into it. Yes, that’d be best. Turns out Ricky was married for ten years and still married as it turned out, though, his divorce would be finalized in four months. Maybe it was the three vodka cranberries, but that revelation didn’t shake me as much as he had expected, or as much as it should have. Many a gay man marries for different reasons; Ricky loved his soon to be ex-wife, but now he was done with women. What had brought that about, I’m not sure, but it didn’t matter much to me. I just like him. Ricky’s friend, Saul, happened to be at the bar that night, as well. Apparently, it was a favorite hang out of theirs—I had been there several times myself—but Saul was doing us the great service of pretending to ignore us for most of the night. Then all pretensions fell and our date became more of a friendly get-together. I didn’t entirely mind the fact of Saul’s presence as he was one of those fun, witty gays you hear so much about. Still, a part of me wanted him and the rest of the bar to disappear so I could be with my old man. Didn’t happen though. Instead, the three of us left together.

They were heading to a party to meet up with Ricky’s houseguest/friend from LA, Tim. I walked with them to a corner store so Ricky could go to an ATM. Saul had ordered coke from his dealer, which should have been an indication that this night was not going to end anytime soon. Still, I thought I wasn’t invited to said party, even after I found myself outside with Ricky and Saul. Saul waited for the dealer to show up, while Ricky and I made our way into the apartment. You know, I didn’t think there were parties solely attended by fabulous gay men in the city anymore, but I came face to face with just that. Well, that and an obligatory hag. Clearly, a token. We had arrived just as the party was winding down, though Saul, Ricky and I had enough time to take one turn each sniffing in the bathroom. When my turn came, I headed to the bathroom, locked the door and pulled out the packet Ricky had discreetly snuck into my pocket. I had done coke before (who hasn’t, really?) and I was used to getting a gram here or there, splitting with my friends whenever the mood struck us, so when I reached into my pocket and pulled out an eight ball, I was more than a little surprised. Excited would be a better word. I carefully measured out my lines, ran the water to divert the sound of my nostrils hovering up the white powder, then returned to the party, my pupils more dilated than when I had arrived. After a few more minutes, Saul took his turn, and then the party was over. Everyone left, except the three of us, Tim, the slumbering host and his boy toy-cum-boyfriend who invited us to stay as long as we wanted. Which we did, blowing rails on a $3000 table and chatting about things you chat on coke about: life, love, sex and doing more coke. We left the apartment at around 2 a.m. Already aware that the L train was down for the night, I was hopelessly relieved when Ricky invited me to spend the night at his place, something he had never done, what with the divorce and all. The drunk, coked out me was flying high that night.

Suddenly I Don't Know Anymore, Part 1

So I recently lost my virginity, as I made sure the entire world knew. An underwhelming experience, for sure, but an experience that needed to happen, nonetheless. It left me not wanting to be touched or kissed or loved. Even sex was an abhorrent concept. But I've never been a quitter and shortly thereafter I found myself not only remounting the horse, but fucking the living shit out of it. The second guy I slept with, let's call him Ricky, was fantastic. He was a 41 year old I met online, as I'm unable to interact in the real world with real people. But before I get to Ricky, I should mention that I started off the week with a hot 26 year old PhD student who worked in the same place I did. We met up at his apartment during my lunch break and jacked off together. Pure romance. It's inconsequential, but you must understand I was on a mission. I had decided on Sunday, while upstate, to try the whole sex thing again as my loins were burning through my boxer briefs when I found Ricky. We were intended to meet up on Sunday night, but I didn't come back into the city until late, so we rescheduled. Monday was the PhD student, Tuesday was Ricky. Tuesday was, as I mentioned before, fantastic. We had sex for two hours, including one or two breaks to avoid exhaustion or untimely death, and I began to like Ricky. By the time Wednesday rolled around, I decided to become a manwhore. Sex was too good not to have all the time and with as many people as possible! Wednesday I had some ass lined up, but had to cancel due to previous plans with a friend--bros before hos, dude!--but Thursday I was at it again. That experience was also completely forgettable, except for my first use of poppers. Until then, I had always read in personal ads and the like about poppers though remained in the dark as to what they actually were. I was even offered some by the gross toothless turquoise man in Queens, though I refused...for reasons that should be evident in that paramour's description. But I tried them when this guy, a 35 year old, 6'5" dance instuctor (not quite as hot as it sounds) because I was in a devil may care mood, fucking the world and not giving a damn. Final diagnosis: eh, I'll stick to pot. After the less than stellar Thursday, I decided I wanted a triumphant Friday! Ricky and I had decided on a simple code to alert one another to our willingness to copulate: text 'I'm horny.' Which is what I did Friday after work, but it was for naught. He had a date. Ever the good sport and a class act, I told him to call me if his date didn't put out. Funny story: he did end up calling me, but it was around 1:30 and I was returning underground from a party. I got his message an hour later and called him back. Turns out he had called to invite me to a 'sex party.' His date did end up putting out, plus a little extra, apparently. After that, a weeklong dry spell took violent hold of my life.