Well, it looks like Stephanie’s financial crisis has been resolved. BC and I began the day addressing our newly separated lives in intimate detail, moving swiftly from boyfriends to girlfriends, awkwardly at first, and then with quite a bit of enjoyment. We know each other so well, and both seem to be moving quickly in the directions that drew us together in the first place, so perhaps that contentment is an acknowledgment of the success that we’ve wanted for each other.
At 3:00 the pizza came. A stuffed pizza, with mushroom and sausage–good lord who dreamed of such a divine combination of sensation and pleasure.
Later we took Steph out to a really nice dinner at Erwin, in Boystown, a new American cuisine restaurant, where they serve martinis that are as big as my head. I had only one–tonight I wasn’t the guy with the lampshade on his head–the crab cakes, and the duck confit/venison dish (is that like mid-western surf and turf?), and the sour cherry pie. Dedicated to my commitment to new experiences, we put Steph in a cab and made our way to the Steamworks.
Now, I’m sure that many of you have experienced this kind of sexual environment before. My relation to my sexuality is quite complex, involving a lot of romance, intense emotional bonding, and eventually sex, which steamrolls into an ever more and more involved and complicated experience. I’ve never been to a sex club. The closest I came to a public sex experience was at the Folsom Street Fair a few years ago when Bob forced me into dropping my pants to compete in the “Hot Cock Contest,” loudly exaggerating, like a proud stage mother, the length and circumference of my faithful friend, which much to his horror, and mine, shriveled like a walnut once on stage. The guy taking the picture even asked–“Does it get bigger?” There is a picture of my loser penis somewhere, not even Miss Congeniality. Okay, back to the Steamworks… Chris was a great guide. I wore my contacts, which I hadn’t worn in perhaps four years, my vision a bit blurry, so it was like walking through a dreamy landscape of naked bodies and artificial attitudes. I can’t get past the attitudes and artifice. I like to talk during sex, to communicate, laugh, say stupid things, promise this and that… I giggled the entire time, not the least bit excited. In the steamroom I fell asleep for a moment to wake up to all these guys gathered around me, suddenly the center of a phallic devotional movement. I giggled again, closed my eyes, and then they were gone. Just like that. Chris led me through the maze, where all these pee-pees jutted out from the walls above like the arm-held candelabras in La Belle et la Bête. Some heads bobbed up and down on the projectiles, while Chris was cruised by this really cute guy, who kept trying to reach for Chris’ special place, only to be cut off by an intercepting mouth or hand, the two only connecting visually. Chris told me that all these guys were cruising me, but I was completely oblivious, even to the two hairy backs in the place. He even guided me toward one of the hairier backs in the hottub, who evidently was interested in me, but I really just wanted to talk about the decorative arts.
It was great to have had this experience and to embrace the mono-sexual me. I’m just not into bodies, that is, bodies free of intellect and humor. A part of me has pined for the sexual freedom of the late 70’s, perhaps because so many of my lovers came of age during that time. I see a great deal of gay identity tied to such freedom and I needed to address my estrangement. I’ve been married since age 18, and always felt a sadness at having missed out on anonymous and voluminous sexual romps. Well, I’m just not not that kind of guy it turns out. I love deeply and madly, and that’s about it. Maybe for only a few hours, but never casually. Ho hum.
Tomorrow it’s museums…