Relationships are hard, no news there. Rara and I have been together for three years and one of the hardest aspects of living as a couple is finding other couples to hang out with. Worst case scenario: you find a couple that's cool. You share common interests. You dine, have a few drinks, maybe head back to their place and realize that you've just spent three hours with people who imagined the evening would end with a little partner swap. Best case scenario you meet a couple and find two new friends to weather the storm with. Maybe they've been through a slump and can relate when you, as a couple, inevitably do. But realistically you meet a couple and love one of them, only to have your hopes dashed because the other one is a chucklehead.
We met Andrew and Erica one summer morning while walking a cocker spaniel we occasionally dogsat. She broke her leash and ran right up to them. A conversation ensued and the seeds of a new friendship were planted. I liked Andrew, a former Marine, wrought with some overt maleness that was easily overlooked because he was just plain fun to hang out with. Unfortunately, Erica was on her quest to match wits with Rachel, a nurse. She constantly made glaringly ignorant statements like, "Female muscle tissue is different from male, it's more sensitive," and "I used to model so I know the human body." Yeah, like porn stars know how to screen for prostate enlargement.
We lost touch. Well, more like, we know where they are, and it would be easy enough to call them, but I just can't watch Rachel suffer any longer.
Then there was Christine. We met her one Sunday while we were admiring Duke, a burly bulldog with an equally burly owner. Duke let us shower him with attention before sauntering off to lift his leg over a rhododendron. After his piss he spotted Daisy, Christine's skittish collie, and moseyed up to her for a ride, (you'll excuse the pun), doggie style. We exchanged pleasantries amist Duke's writhing and Daisey's whimpers, and Rachel, god bless her kindness, invited Christine to dinner after Duke was out of earshot.
Christine was in the mist of a sexual orientation crisis. She hit on Rachel, dated our friend Colin for three months, then left us all for a butch lesbian more manly than Colin or I put together.
Which brings us to last night. Rachel invited her friends Liz and Meagan for dinner. It might be important to mention that the last two couples have been, shall we say, heterosexually challenged. Maybe she is sending me an unconscious message: Make one false move, bucko, and I'm heading to the other side. She would be a loss my gender would miss dearly. During a friendly game of Pictionary my usual spot next to Rara was taken by Meagan in a dry run of my worst fear come true, so I took Liz's side and we proceeded to play.
The word was burst. So in an act of desperation, I drew a picture of a penis "bursting," as any man will attest to the sensation. I saw her eyebrows crinkle in confusion, or disgust, so I added a set of circles at the base to clarify. She blurted, "Penis on wheels!"
She didn't guess 'burst' before the timer ran out. But we did win by quite a large gap. I'd have to say that finding that as a couple, finding a couple to hang out with takes trial and error. And more importantly, a willingness to draw outside the lines to find that perfect fit. It's fair to say I like Liz and Meagan, even if they eye Rachel like baseball scouts eye a new recruit. But their job isn't that hard, there's no brochure needed, especially when I say things like, "No, you lesbian, those are testicles."
Sunday, March 30, 2008
Sunday, March 23, 2008
The Servant waits while the Master bates
It started with the usual pangs of adolescence that blossomed into a desire to grind my pelvis into anything in a skirt. But my fear of girls overrode the will to act and I had to settle for grinding against inanimate objects, like the desk. Until I entered into an intimate relationship with an old back massager I found in the attic. It started out innocently enough: me, shirtless on my bed, massaging everywhere but the area that ached. I tried to ignore it. But it beckoned. It ‘slipped’ and a wave of pleasure overcame me. I held on as long as I could. Thirty seconds, give or take a few.
I had every intention of living life to the fullest with that massager, until the fateful day it died in a plume of gray smoke. I had to find another way to avoid the temptations of actual sex rather than appliance based simulated sex. I did pretty well for awhile, until I got sober at 23 and decided it was time to experience it in the flesh.
Enter Sandy. She attended my Tuesday night AA meeting. She was the only female in the meeting that didn’t have a front tooth missing or three rug rats running around. I suggested coffee afterwards and to my surprise, she agreed.
At coffee, we sat together in a booth. Sandy ordered tea. I had medium regular with extra sugar. “I’d love to go on a date with you sometime,” Sandy blurted between sips.
It caught me off guard. Maybe she sensed my hidden agenda. I tried not to react for fear it would expose me further, “How about tomorrow night?”
“Why not tonight?” She answered, her raised eyebrow made me realize I wasn’t the only one with an agenda.
We went to her house and once the lights dimmed Sandy turned into a rapacious predator. She said the filthiest things I ever heard outside of porn. She wanted to suck things, lick others, and asked me if I wanted to pound her into the mattress. Of course I wanted these things. But hearing them verbalized made them a little too real. My virginity was never a matter of integrity, only shame. Its abrupt three dimensional end, was a little too real for me. So I told her the truth.
“Um, before we get too involved in this there’s something I should tell you.”
Sandy leaned back. Candlelight illuminated her face. “What is it?” she asked tenderly.
“It’s just that…well…I’ve never done this before.”
No one knew. It felt weird to say.
She led me to her room where a candle provided the only light. When the time was right I reached for a condom, fiddled with the rapper, and rolled it on. It desensitized me, which helped.
Sandy moaned, panted, and screamed obscenities. I had a mental checklist going: I really liked the oral, wasn’t a fan of the slippery tongue in my ear, could’ve done without her asking me if she was my little slut. None of that mattered when I got behind her, though, and I was well on my way to finishing when Sandy rasped, “Slap me.”
I stopped and looked around, wondering if I heard her correctly. She said it again, “Come on baby, slap me.”
The whole idea crushed my groove and turned me off. “Um, I’m really not into that.” I said passively.
There was a short pause that made me think the matter was dropped. So I got back to work. A few strokes later, it came up again. “Please baby, slap me.” She repeated. I fumbled with a few words before she ordered, “Do it now, slap me now!”
I didn’t want to disappoint her. So I leaned forward, wound up, and smacked her upside the head. She broke the awkward silence that ensued by saying, “No, you asshole. I meant slap my ass.”
There were others. Shelly had a hygiene problem that roused my dog and forced him to leave the room. There was my first ménage a trois where I experienced pleasure overload that caused temporary erectile dysfunction. And let’s not forget Jeanine, who I inadvertently thumbed after our senior prom. I guess I’d say I’m an advocate for sex education, lest anyone else end up like me. I’m fortunate to have learned from my mistakes. Enough to bag a babe like Rachel.
I had every intention of living life to the fullest with that massager, until the fateful day it died in a plume of gray smoke. I had to find another way to avoid the temptations of actual sex rather than appliance based simulated sex. I did pretty well for awhile, until I got sober at 23 and decided it was time to experience it in the flesh.
Enter Sandy. She attended my Tuesday night AA meeting. She was the only female in the meeting that didn’t have a front tooth missing or three rug rats running around. I suggested coffee afterwards and to my surprise, she agreed.
At coffee, we sat together in a booth. Sandy ordered tea. I had medium regular with extra sugar. “I’d love to go on a date with you sometime,” Sandy blurted between sips.
It caught me off guard. Maybe she sensed my hidden agenda. I tried not to react for fear it would expose me further, “How about tomorrow night?”
“Why not tonight?” She answered, her raised eyebrow made me realize I wasn’t the only one with an agenda.
We went to her house and once the lights dimmed Sandy turned into a rapacious predator. She said the filthiest things I ever heard outside of porn. She wanted to suck things, lick others, and asked me if I wanted to pound her into the mattress. Of course I wanted these things. But hearing them verbalized made them a little too real. My virginity was never a matter of integrity, only shame. Its abrupt three dimensional end, was a little too real for me. So I told her the truth.
“Um, before we get too involved in this there’s something I should tell you.”
Sandy leaned back. Candlelight illuminated her face. “What is it?” she asked tenderly.
“It’s just that…well…I’ve never done this before.”
No one knew. It felt weird to say.
She led me to her room where a candle provided the only light. When the time was right I reached for a condom, fiddled with the rapper, and rolled it on. It desensitized me, which helped.
Sandy moaned, panted, and screamed obscenities. I had a mental checklist going: I really liked the oral, wasn’t a fan of the slippery tongue in my ear, could’ve done without her asking me if she was my little slut. None of that mattered when I got behind her, though, and I was well on my way to finishing when Sandy rasped, “Slap me.”
I stopped and looked around, wondering if I heard her correctly. She said it again, “Come on baby, slap me.”
The whole idea crushed my groove and turned me off. “Um, I’m really not into that.” I said passively.
There was a short pause that made me think the matter was dropped. So I got back to work. A few strokes later, it came up again. “Please baby, slap me.” She repeated. I fumbled with a few words before she ordered, “Do it now, slap me now!”
I didn’t want to disappoint her. So I leaned forward, wound up, and smacked her upside the head. She broke the awkward silence that ensued by saying, “No, you asshole. I meant slap my ass.”
There were others. Shelly had a hygiene problem that roused my dog and forced him to leave the room. There was my first ménage a trois where I experienced pleasure overload that caused temporary erectile dysfunction. And let’s not forget Jeanine, who I inadvertently thumbed after our senior prom. I guess I’d say I’m an advocate for sex education, lest anyone else end up like me. I’m fortunate to have learned from my mistakes. Enough to bag a babe like Rachel.
Monday, March 17, 2008
Everybody loves Bry
Its not comfortable, not in the sense of familiarity, but comfortable like a silk suit. The material caresses, the fit is fantastic, but not at all what I'm used to, comfortable but uncomfortable at the same time. I'm talking about the natural high I've been on for over a week now. I was in Lexington, talking to the freshmen about exercise and nutrition, they loved me, asked their teachers if I would come and speak more often. The number one highest rated speaker they have, at least that's what they tell me to keep me coming back, and it works. My total body conditioning class is overflowing, some of the late arrivals don't even have weights, but stay anyway. My clients keep renewing, and others are lining up, because they have heard I'm a great trainer. Next month I sit with one of the better agents in the business to discuss my memoir. I attended a sales course for work and had to leave early. My coworkers complained they'd be bored without me. Everyone thinks I'm a riot.
But it won't last. No high ever does.
Ever since my first experience with drugs I've been caught in a vicious cycle of instant gratification, followed by self loathing, depression, and the subsequent hunt for the next high. Like all highs, this one will end with a crash. A plummet back down to earth where reality reveals me to be a good trainer, a decent writer, and lucky not to have gone back to prison, or a life of crime. When agents reject me, It'll be because my writing sucks. When my class is sparse, I'll be because I made it too hard. If my clients don't renew, it'll be because I'm an awful trainer. It's the duality of ambivalence, that tender trap. To deny it is to deny my own humanity. To misunderstand it dooms me to repeat it. My therapist tells me I can't ever be all one thing, that behind every intense emotion lies its polar opposite, lurking, waiting to center us, to balance the equation.
Thank god for Rachel. She lets me soar for awhile, tethered to reality but when I fly too high she grounds me. Sometimes it takes a a good, hard, slap to revive me. She winds me back up and sends me off into the world. She doesn't say it but I know she's bracing herself for the next crash.
Today I feel numb. Another unique aspect of living a life less ordinary. There are times, when someone really gets into my story, that I can feel that familiar pang, like before a robbery or scoring an ounce of coke. But I don't miss it.
Well, that's a lie.
I miss it sometimes.
But it won't last. No high ever does.
Ever since my first experience with drugs I've been caught in a vicious cycle of instant gratification, followed by self loathing, depression, and the subsequent hunt for the next high. Like all highs, this one will end with a crash. A plummet back down to earth where reality reveals me to be a good trainer, a decent writer, and lucky not to have gone back to prison, or a life of crime. When agents reject me, It'll be because my writing sucks. When my class is sparse, I'll be because I made it too hard. If my clients don't renew, it'll be because I'm an awful trainer. It's the duality of ambivalence, that tender trap. To deny it is to deny my own humanity. To misunderstand it dooms me to repeat it. My therapist tells me I can't ever be all one thing, that behind every intense emotion lies its polar opposite, lurking, waiting to center us, to balance the equation.
Thank god for Rachel. She lets me soar for awhile, tethered to reality but when I fly too high she grounds me. Sometimes it takes a a good, hard, slap to revive me. She winds me back up and sends me off into the world. She doesn't say it but I know she's bracing herself for the next crash.
Today I feel numb. Another unique aspect of living a life less ordinary. There are times, when someone really gets into my story, that I can feel that familiar pang, like before a robbery or scoring an ounce of coke. But I don't miss it.
Well, that's a lie.
I miss it sometimes.
Sunday, March 2, 2008
Presents = Love
My 38th birthday is Tuesday and all I can think is, Big F'ing Deal. Birthdays are heralded as special days but in reality I didn't do anything magnanimous, except get yanked from a womb I'll spend the rest of my life trying to work my way back into (Holla Freud fans). But this year more than any other I feel less like celebrating the day Mom pushed extra hard so she could expel the one thing keeping her from boozing, the only reason she refused to breastfeed me. The day after having me, her breasts turned into taps. Although if what they say is true, that whatever Mom ingested would be passed through the breast milk, Mom was coughing up coffee brandy with a nicotine chaser.
It's a far cry from my tenth, the year Mom threw a party and invited all my friends. (Well, she invited my 1st grade class, hardly friends since I was a recluse). But they came and I was the man of the hour. My 'friends' gathered around the race car cake my mother made, a tribute to how much she paid attention, since I've never once alluded to being a fan of racing. To her credit she abstained from drinking, or at least curtailed it enough to avoid flipping out when we decided to re-wrap the cat in one of my present boxes.
I received a myriad of gifts but ultimately hunched over my Lego collection after I assimilated the small box Mikey Newhall gave me into the collective. Mikey took awkwardness to a new level. The type that could calculate Force=Mass x Acceleration in his head but had trouble zipping up or fastening his belt after taking a whiz. I piled my presents high, thirteen in all, and sat back to take in what they represented: Presents=Love.
It's a far cry from my tenth, the year Mom threw a party and invited all my friends. (Well, she invited my 1st grade class, hardly friends since I was a recluse). But they came and I was the man of the hour. My 'friends' gathered around the race car cake my mother made, a tribute to how much she paid attention, since I've never once alluded to being a fan of racing. To her credit she abstained from drinking, or at least curtailed it enough to avoid flipping out when we decided to re-wrap the cat in one of my present boxes.
I received a myriad of gifts but ultimately hunched over my Lego collection after I assimilated the small box Mikey Newhall gave me into the collective. Mikey took awkwardness to a new level. The type that could calculate Force=Mass x Acceleration in his head but had trouble zipping up or fastening his belt after taking a whiz. I piled my presents high, thirteen in all, and sat back to take in what they represented: Presents=Love.
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