Casanova Diary

Happily, neither Blondie nor I are the kind of people to track the date of “firsts”.  I had to look at the calendar to figure out that she and I have been dating for someplace between one and two months.  The question of when we were “officially” dating can be answered by reading posts at the end of March and in early April…but the “real” date?  Dunno.

I added the status “In a relationship” to my facebook account and instantly got a bunch of replies.  ”Who will be our surrogate bachelor, the one we live vicariously through while we live out our dull lives?” was one comment.

Surrogate bachelor?  Dull lives?  No pressure to perform for the crowd, eh?!?

So, yeah. These comments worry me for many reasons..

First, it seems to confirm that I’m the ‘bachelor’ cartoon in a few of their stories.  They see me as a colorful character.  I’ll play the clown, but only on my terms.  I’ll have to continue watching this in the future.

Second, it means that some friends assume that because I’m now in a relationship, my life is going to get dull as theirs are dull.  That’s sad because it seems to say that they let their lives get dull. To me, it means that they gave up.

Third, it means that they think my life – dating Blondie – is now somehow pure and vanilla.  It suggests that if I’m willing to put “In a relationship” onto the page it also means that I’m on the road to marriage, children and moving out to some boonie far-ring suburban hell.

No sir.  Not for me.  Nor for Blondie.

To be honest, I’ve been quiet on this site because I’ve been sorting out the transition from dating around to dating one woman.  It’s been both nice and challenging.

I know, for both of us, there’s no ’settling down’ or ‘dull lives’ in our future.

After all, New York is only a few weeks away where we get to take a ropes class from Midori.  Not so dull, eh?  :)

I wrote a dozen little stories about how I’ve used text messages in funny ways.  None of them were as interesting as the website texts from last night which lets people submit text messages they sent or received.

As you’d expect, there are some pearls of wisdom in the bunch:

(248): break up sex still means we will always be broken up.

…or the interesting…

(917): I cheated on you last night. I slept with my laptop.

Good stuff.

There are an uncountable number of posts about people in the various states of inebriation:

• tipsy
• drunk
• blotto
• hungover
• …and the one that describes the process where you try to remember what happened because everything is a blur (at best) and you seem to recall an incident with a cheese grater and a room full of horrified looks.

I wish I could remember what that last one was called…

Oh, yeah.

“Regret.”

When I got divorced, I deliberately set out to try to rediscover myself.  I felt adrift and needed to pin down a few things that were never resolved before my marriage.

(To be honest, these things probably contributed to the failure of my marriage – when you stop trying to understand yourself, everything it gets difficult to understand why some things work and why others do not.)

In many cases, the only way to understand ourselves is through our interactions with other people.  I don’t “interact” with people with a deliberate agenda.  I just know that the most important lessons that I’ve learned about myself all came from being with people.

Meditation is a good thing, a way to sift and sort the accumulations of the day, but if nothing accumulated in the day, then what good does meditation do?

The Kinky Housewife

One of these chance meetings involved a woman I have to call “The Kinky Housewife”…or how about “KH” for short?

KH and I met through a dating website.  She approached me and we started a good email conversation about a few books we both enjoyed.  Soon we were chatting in IM.

The conversation was good.  She was intelligent, had some interesting views on life and was attractive but there was one problem.  She didn’t have an avocation much less a vocation.

Her only goal was to find a man who would be her husband and who would have “kinky” sex with her.  She wanted to be a housewife and was hoping to find somebody who would impose 24/7 bdsm rules upon her.

As we talked, I was happy that we had intelligent conversations.  I was interested in the “unique” lifestyle that she wanted to pursue.  I couldn’t stand the fact that KH wasn’t passionate about anything.  Even sex – she made it clear that she would go along with just about anything, but she didn’t have strong desires or motives even in that arena.

Not a dog.

I broke it off before we even met.  I was tempted to meet her, to find out just how far she was willing to go and see if there was a potential for more.  Yet, after weeks discussing a wide range of topics and feeling like I was always driving the conversation – no matter how hard I worked to turn the conversation to let her lead it – I gave up.  And the “weeks” was actually weeks…she wanted to talk for at least a month before we met because in the past she said men “took advantage” of her submissive personality.  In this case, waiting weeks simply let me know that I didn’t want to take advantage of her.

I don’t know…

Maybe I should have met her.  I didn’t because I just didn’t see the point.  I need some passion in my life and I need it in my relationships, too.  The fantasy of a woman who is willing to “do anything it takes to please her man” is kind of spooky when you meet a woman who believes that in real life.

I think she needed to learn quite a bit about life.  She had never held a job, didn’t finish college, and essentially hid in her parents’ house despite the fact she was 24.  Her “life” was mostly fantasy.  I couldn’t take advantage of that nor could I find myself interested in it, either.

Before Blondie, I never dated anybody who was seriously fit.  Blondie is an instructor at a gym and so she’s not just healthy, she’s not just fit, she is seriously fit.

Me?  I’m healthy.  (Note where that puts me on the scale in the prior paragraph.)

Athletic Sex

In my reader, I came across this article that joked a bit about using sex to burn off some calories. As I thought about it, I started to wonder:  when is sex an athletic activity?

I guess I’d generally say “it’s athletic if you break a sweat” which makes sense.  And more specifically, in the bedroom, if things are going right then we’re both enjoying a raised heart rate, we’re using a wide range of muscle groups and we’re both sweating.  That sounds athletic to me.

Athletic isn’t (necessarily) kinky.

For me, when the sex is non-sweaty and easy going, it sometimes seems more tender but quickly loses it’s spark.  I wouldn’t say slow sex is boring because I can’t imagine sex ever being boring.  Yet, it isn’t the kind of sex that leads to fireworks, as does more athletic or energetic sex.

I danced around this when I described the woman who seemed to think that I brought up Too Much Kink too fast.  Looking back, I see that I did something strange – I confused “athletic” and “kink” with each other.

The slow and comfortable missionary that she seemed to want just didn’t seem like something that would be consistently satisfying.  But!  Instead of seeing if things still worked by adding some energy, I asked her if she enjoyed anything a bit more kinky.  That was a strange mix-up on my part.  I need to think about that one a bit more.

Athletic and Intimacy?

Finally, is athletic sex “intimate” in the same way that slower stuff is considered intimate?

For me,  even when it’s hot and sweaty sex, I still find present the hallmarks of “intimacy” such as reassuring words, eye contact and so on.  There’s just more energy, when it’s athletic.

Does ‘intimacy’ mean ‘low energy’ to most people?  Does ‘romantic’ equal ‘not athletic’?

If you think about romantic symbols like candle light, wine, and bearskin rugs…do you also think about hot and heavy energetic sex?  Or is it ‘tender’ and ’slow’ sex?

Athletic sex…hmmmm….

Awhile ago, I wrote that I was afraid that I was becoming a cartoon to my friends.

Another time, I mentioned how friends who know about my interests start to assume all kinds of things about me.  Apparently, because I “do things” and “have an open mind” then I must “be one”…no matter what “one” might even be!

Then, today, I read a post that described people who are the kinky equivalent of weekend warriors.

And then things snapped together in my head…

“Say hello to yourself.”  ”Hello, myself.”

As I’ve been more open with friends about my interests, the things they say or assume change. If I say I own a pair of leather pants (barely kinky) then some automatically assume I’m deep into all-things-kinky. If I tell my friends that I’ve been to a local bdsm club, they assume that I must be a swinger or bisexual.

When I first started to explore my interest in all-things-not-vanilla, I tried to put aside my preconceptions.  I was anxious and on my toes as I showed up at events, places or met people who were more experienced and kinky.  I was lucky to meet people who talked with me about my adventures and explorations.  Even more lucky, they talked with me about their experiences.

I learned.

The most important lesson I learned was not how to swing a flogger or tie a knot.

The most important lesson was started (and continues today) when I had the realization that I had some serious misconceptions about myself much less about what “kinky” means.

I saw that I was projecting these assumptions about myself onto circumstances with other people.  To be brutally honest, it fucked up one relationship that was wonderfully laced with bdsm elements and that only ended because I just didn’t understand myself very well.

Seen as a Cartoon

I fear that my friends see me as a cartoon: a leather wearing, fuck-anything, sex maniac.

That’s completely untrue.  I won’t fuck anything.

More seriously, it’s clear that by sharing a little information about my non-traditional interests, they often assume that I must like even more than I’m saying.  That’s when I go from being Jay to being Jay The Sex Maniac.  Or whatever.

But whatever it is that I am in their mind, it’s not me but a fiction.

I am not your entertainment.

At the local bdsm club, there are a few men who come to the events, tend to group together, would often talk loudly and for many months after I first started going I didn’t understand why they were there.

I had a conversation with one and learned that they were there without their wives.  When I asked if their wives had ever come in the past, one said:

Never.  They don’t like this stuff at all.  For awhile, they didn’t like us coming, either, until we explained that this wasn’t any different that going to the bar and watching a football game.  Except some of the people here are naked and like getting spanked.

Like a football game?

Fuck no.

I am not your entertainment.  I am not something to be observed.  What I do is not sport.

I’ll be honest – I’m not being oppressed.  Nobody has taken anything from me.

But I need to figure out how to talk with my friends in a way that lets them know my interests don’t distance me from our shared humanity.  This is going to be difficult, both understanding what to say to my friends and then to say it.

I’m tired:

• I got confirmation that Blondie and I will be in a class hosted by Midori in May.  Cool.
• I’m been getting more and more “dating questions” from my friends, especially the female friends. I’m wondering why I’m seen as trustworthy. Did things change when I started to date Blondie?
• Newbie seems to be getting her life together.  She contacted me a week or so after she pulled a “no-show” on me for dinner.  We had coffee and she apologized for not keeping her word.  We talked again tonight and she seems to be doing some good things for herself, professionally and personally.  I’m happy for her.
• A friend is moving in a few weeks.  She was incredibly helpful to me during my divorce.  Her husband died a few months ago and she’s moving to get a fresh start.  I agree with her that it’s the right thing, but I’ll miss her.
• My “old” friends, from before my divorce, are harder and harder to find. The divorce was years ago but since then, they all got married. So now? I’m the single guy who doesn’t get called. Ah well.

Add these things to the normal load at work, daily chores and keeping this site up-to-date and you get a very tired man named Jay.

More tomorrow, of course.

I’m not the most kinky guy.  I like what I like, but compared to some of my friends, I fall into the ‘mostly harmless’ category.  But then, compared to other friends, I’m a raging madman filled with insatiable and unholy desires.

Thus, it doesn’t matter what I mean when I ask “what’s your kink?” because nobody uses the word ‘kinky’ in the same way.  It’s a loaded term.

Some sex is vanilla ice cream with vanilla sauce…

I was really fond of one woman I dated.  I drove 90 minutes to see her.  She was funny, an artist, had great friends and was thinking about all kinds of interesting things.  We hit it off, enjoyed the same food and drink, and wound up in bed on the second date.  And then on the third date.  And then on the fourth date.

To paraphrase Woody Allen, even bad sex is still good.

Technically, it wasn’t bad sex.  She was beautiful and everything worked just fine.  But missionary is missionary and it won’t ever be anything but missionary.

On that fourth and final date, I asked her if there were any kinky things she liked.  Given her artistic background, her often-raunchy sense of humor, and prior dating history, I assumed it was a safe question to ask.

I was wrong.  Everything switched off.  Bam.

…but ‘Kinky’ doesn’t mean “Chocolate” to everybody…

To me, I meant “I’m open minded and wouldn’t mind trying things you like if you’re afraid to ask.”  Unfortunately, I didn’t say it that way so I’m not sure how she interpreted my less articulate, slightly inebriated version of this question.

Whatever it meant to her, it must have been bad.  Things never recovered.

She told me, in a few of the last email we exchanged, about prior boyfriends and how they had incredible and uncontrollably passionate sex.  I asked a few questions, trying to understand where she was going with the stories.  I was flummoxed.

I couldn’t tell if she was defending her sex drive because she felt I was questioning it.  I couldn’t tell if she felt having sex in the foyer was kinky.  I couldn’t tell if she simply liked those guys more than me and was trying to explain something.  I couldn’t tell if she was angry at me and the letters and comments were aimed at hurting my ego (because I hurt hers?).  Maybe none or maybe all of those things?

I never found out.

All I learned was that I will never use the word “kinky” in an emotionally charged situation until everybody already agrees what it means.

I’m just going to say it: sometimes, even the best of us just can’t get it up.

There are plenty of reasons for this. Sometimes it’s because I drank too much.  Sometimes I’m not in the mood.  Sometimes I’m stressed out.  Sometimes I’m just not that into our partner.

But remember!  Talking about it is forbidden.  There is the unspoken rule: “Never talk about impotence, whether temporary or less-temporary.  Never.  Ever.  EVER.”

But it happens.

For me, I know that unless it’s the last issue – knowing my partner isn’t a good match – then there’s no reason to obsess.  Obsession leads to performance anxiety the next time and, then, another round with a limp wiener.  Whee.

When it happens, I try to be graceful about it.  Getting frustrated isn’t going to help. Knowing how to deliver the news is going to help.  For me, it’s simple: “Well, things aren’t going to work today.  It’s not you, and it’s not a problem, but it’s just not going to happen this time.”  If she asks why, I’ll tell her what I think is going on…hoping she doesn’t say something like “shake it off, it will be OK.”

Er.  Yeah, I know things will be OK but just not at this moment.

After that, things can go in several ways…from offering to continuing the event via other means (toys are a man’s best friend, in this case) to letting things wind down naturally.  The one thing that can’t happen is to continue as if nothing is wrong.

Here’s the funny thing – even as I write about this, I still find myself following that unspoken rule by doing everything I can to talk around the topic without addressing it directly.

This is true even though this has never been a regular problem for me.  (I’m crossing my fingers.  Jinx!)  For me, it’s rare enough that I remember that it has happened but I can’t remember when.  Yet, writing the words “my limp dick” as an example out-of-context phrase is still a serious challenge…and writing about impotence is something I debated for hours.

I mean…wow.  If you want to get inside the head of the average guy, start with that.  I’ll bet it will explain 99% of the problems guys have with the changing gender roles and sexual situations of our time and place.

(And, yeah, things with Blondie are just fine.  This isn’t a confession of that nature.  It’s something I was thinking about after seeing a Viagra commercial that did everything it could to talk about impotence without talking about impotence.)

You’ve already heard about it I’m sure…that Amazon is now excluding many feminist and LGBT books from searches while porn is still showing up. For example, if you search for homosexuality on the site, you get a ton of books on how to prevent it but none that are written in a positive manner.  At the same time, Girls Gone Wild videos are still showing up in searches.

Something funky is going on over there.  This is just a total disaster.

As such, the term Amazon Rank needs a new definition. Goo look at it.

A few blog entries ago, Jay wrote about compliments.  I’ve been thinking about them ever since.  Mostly, I’ve been thinking about the compliments I’ve been given.

The best ones are said during heated moments: in a fight, after sex, in a time of distress… or other such situation.  These are the ones I carry with me.  These are the ones I remember the most at the end of the day, when my body needs rest but my mind hasn’t settled down yet.  These are the compliments you know are 100% true.

One of the best was given to me by a gay man, when I was 19.

At the moment I was hanging out with a close friend who was also a drag queen.  I met him the way I met most people I knew from NYC… in a short, quiet moment in a busy place.  We bonded over something minute in a fraction of a second, and were sharing shoes 3 days later.

After a few weeks of hanging out, I was invited to “The Cock”.  It was dingy, dirty, and the most fantastic gay club I’d ever been to.  Located on the lower east side, it had no moniker or sign in the front, just an over-sized neon red rooster.  It was the kind of place tourists walked past and claimed they needed a tetanus shot.  They were probably right.

It was also a men-only club.  My friend dressed me and did my makeup… taught me to walk in 9 inch heels (before then my personal best was 6 ½… and I’d barely call it walking).  Before long I was dancing in those heels and peeing in a urinal and everything.  I could only manage it while drunk and in ridiculously high heels… something about the height, then squatting… I don’t know.

But I’m getting off track.

Re-invented as a passable drag queen, so The Cock became my new favorite place.

One night, while dancing to some ABBA remixes, I bumped into one of the most gorgeous men I’ve ever met.  We locked eyes.  We danced.  We did way too many lemon drops, and finally we kissed.

He told me I had the kind of lips most people hope for after some surgery.  I told him they were real.  He replied with “there’s only one way to tell if they’re real or fake… and it would be a shame to find out in that hell of a bathroom”.

So we grabbed a cab and went back to his place.  We made out the whole time, and a $20 cab ride later I realized we were in Queens, and panicked a little.  He was such a good kisser I lost track of time.  My fears were nullified when I saw he lived in a 3 floor brownstone.  Yes, I was a real-estate slut.

His place was decorated beautifully, I noticed everything from MoMa that I wanted but refused to spend money on.  He put on some music.  We danced.  We drank some wine, and he made some breakfast.

I took off everything except my shoes, my bra, and garter-skirt combination.

We made out on the couch some more.  He had moves like I’d never seen before.  To this day I still don’t know what he did to my ears, but it was the closest I’ve ever come to an orgasm without any actual contact in that area.

We started what I now refer to as “The Blow-Job Dance”.  He let me know without words exactly what he wanted, and I played hard to get.  When my lips were once again challenged, I gave in.

He came, I politely excused myself to the bathroom to spit and rinse (I usually don’t swallow until the 3^rd date, or unless surprised), and we shared a cigarette.

He said I was too good to be true.  Young, pretty, and I could suck and tuck like a pro.

Wait… what?

Holy shit, he didn’t know that I was a girl.  The tucking comment made my stomach flip.  How did he not know?  Surely my boobs must have given something away, right?  I mean…. Shit.  I didn’t have an Adam’s apple, and I’m pretty sure I don’t sound like a man.  Maybe I should lay off the cigarettes and whiskey.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

I sat on his couch stunned.  I had 2 options.  I could leave, and he would never be the wiser… or I could tell him and pray he was bi-sexual.

“So, what’d you think?” I stammered like a nervous idiot.

“Those lips are definitely real, and that’s the best blow job I’ve ever had.”

“You’re lying.  You don’t have to butter me up.”

“No, really.  You were great.”

Shit.

“Have you ever been with a woman before?”

“Why would you ask me that?”

I couldn’t tell him.  I’d never been in this situation before.  What the fuck was I supposed to say?  I couldn’t bring myself to say it, so I pulled down my lingerie, closed my eyes and hoped for the best.

He burst out laughing.  Then he cried.  Then he laughed.

“The best head I ever got was from a chick”.

He didn’t say anything else so I left.  It was 5am and beyond awkward.

I barely got dressed.  I pulled the skirt up, grabbed my dress, and wasn’t fully clothed until 2 minutes after I shut the front door.

I never went back to The Cock after that, and never saw him again.

Come to think of it, I’ve never been back to Queens after that either.

C’est la vie.