I was on my best philosophical behavior, sitting bored and polite at the university library, and sneakily posing with a mountain of random books that I do not intend to read, when I suddenly got an urge for sex. As a student, it is my obligation to pick up random books out of the bookshelves, and proceed to arrange them around my laptop, deliberatively adding a certain mystique to what would otherwise be, a lackluster procrastinator reality. Interestingly enough, what moves me towards various fields of study, it is not an actual interest for knowledge, (that would be horrible) but more profoundly, the very stubborn belief that one day: I will either end up scoring a millionaire, or a lover, at the university cafeteria. That said, you can understand why I’m easily distracted. Waiting for a lover to come, my time is wasted checking Ryan McKinley status updates, going through Swedish male models graduation pictures, and cyber stalking my ex using a public wireless connection – while all around, normal people look impressively absorbed in (sigh) so-called rational behaviors. Since it was already late in the afternoon, and having accomplished that day’s prerogatives (that is, nothing): I decided to go for a break, thus leaving the library and walking five minutes towards the nearest department store where apparently, filthy gays covertly gather in restrooms, doing filthy things.
That day, I was to be seen sporting black top-shop skinny jeans with a lovely merino wool twinset in that same black, completed with a Burberry navy trench coat on top: to add some contrast, and to avoid much undesired comparisons with all-black-bourgeois design students. As you may well envision, mine, was a tired 2006 look, certainly overdressed for the occasion (meaning, my life) but alas I prefer not to risk being ran over by an ice cream van, looking like the ordinary undergrad in sneakers, or worse, looking like an up-to-date social arriviste. Yes, there are many things that can define a gay. Being a bullying magnet is certainly the first. Moreover, we are also known for caring a bit too much for our over-groomed bodies, and often (think about every gay you’ve ever known) recognized for that general tendency for drama and exaggeration – yet the one thing we must take pride for, is in our overly-sexual reputation. Everything you probably heard about gays being nasty-gay, is most certainly: true. It is also true, that in the department store next to my university campus, there is a variety of bathrooms fixed with ambience music and soft lightning, which host an infinite count of daily encounters between male homosexuals and bi-curious. Welcome, to the disgusting world of cruising for sex. No hotel expenses, no romantic dinners, and more importantly: no extensive and futile courtship to end up having less-than-magical sexual intercourse in the backseat of your fathers ride. For us, things are done quickly, effectively, and borderline publicly. (Further information on the topic can be found filled under the tags #Ew. or #Gross.)
The time has come for us to discuss my weekly fix of promiscuity. It usually involves an older guy (I can more efficiently objectify an older person), locked in a restroom (preferably in strictly essential nakedness – say pants down at maximum) standing by my side for a masturbation session that may or may not include kisses or hickeys depending on how irresistibly attractive the guy with the huge dick is. As usual - when I got there – that modern and slightly luxurious restroom, was already bursting with titillating sexual activity: older males trying to get their youth back by paying poor young chavs for sex; and poor chavs wanting to collect retirement pensions, though not visibly keen on sucking rancid dicks. Luckily for me, amidst all that human tragedy , there were also business men in suits (always a keeper) and university students dealing with concentration issues. Among them, I found a fair-haired handsome guy, looking unexpectedly preppy, in an emerald-green wool sweater with leather elbow patches and wearing straight-cut jeans.
As you know, nothing is to please me more than a handsome wasp who leaves his seaside estate and kate-middletonish girlfriend, to spend the afternoon smirking at me as we both wash our hands and share looks through the mirror reflection of a public restroom. He was, by definition, a hottie. And two minutes following a brief courtship, that hottie overtly agreed in progressing for sexual interaction – locking himself in one of the stalls, which is the gay-cruising equivalent for straight’s ‘shall we go up?’ expression. Following his move, I headed to the adjacent stall. Inside, a small vertical gap between the plywood plaque that separates the two spaces, was just enough for us to catch a glimpse at each others hard-ons. Yet, as I pulled my pants down to join the naked showdown he had already started: my dick didn’t respond to the call. Maybe it was the nuclear radiation coming from Japan. Maybe it was the news of Rachel Zoe’s new-born baby. Either way, I wasn’t responding as I usually do in this type of slut context. And no, this is not a case of so-called chronic erectile dysfunction. Such is the least concern for a person who actually has to organize his masturbating schedule in print, in order to avoid overlap or overload. That said, we have to ask ourselves what the serious fuck went down on my brain that led to an incommensurable loss of anonymous homoerotic sex.
Defeated, I pulled my pants up and rushed to lock myself in the car, feeling like a cheap histrionic slut with zero romantic recollections – and only seldom appreciated for crying at funerals of unrelated deceased persons, thus halting the glory of their memory and collecting their families attentions. So, should I cry? Was this my penis funeral? Had my body come to terms with pleasure? And if so, should I get a veil and mourn the loss of my sexual appetite – dynasty style?
- Until I figured, my body wasn’t to blame: I was.
Focusing to shed a tear, so I’d better frame the moment with an Evita Peron facial expression, I came to realize, that maybe, having too much of a nasty thing, led me to feel like a nasty nothing.
Dear 20-something preppy male with a nice gay penis: I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I didn’t get down on my knees and treated you like a piece of objectified meat that you deserved to be treated for. I’m also sorry we didn’t end up cleaning our bodies with toilet paper in a slightly scared/worn off mood fearing for the security guy that might arrest us for public indecency. Truth is, I didn’t felt like using you. Instead, I graciously felt like I could loose you. Yes, and no: I want no more anonymous tales of sex-Samantha. No more. Instead, I want you to ask me my name and tell me how pretty I look as I arrive at 9 O’clock at the a restaurant with a view over the sea. I also want you to discover my co-dependent, passive aggressive, stalky and potentially overwhelming personality over a dinner date, where the pressure of undefined expectations lingering, will make my stomach ache. Also, I will need you to gently throw me against your car, – under the streetlamps gloom – and kiss me, closing your right hand in the back of my head, as we press our bodies against each other to feel the newness of our humps.
Yes, when cruising it’s not amusing, it’s probably because destiny got us drift ashore. Forever sailing. Forever chasing that present absence: we are bound to run in circles. It is the endless cruising. The fast love. Not knowing when will we reach the shore, or if we are to reach the shore. On our way, we leave no stone unturned, no corner unexplored – moving relentlessly to the beat of opportunity knocking. But for how long? And more importantly, for what for?
If I’m not the guy you’re taking home, I’ll keep dancing on my own.
