Fuck First, Ask Questions Later.

Let me clarify something before I begin:

I’m not ashamed of who I am, but on many occasions I am ashamed of what I do. Shame is the reason I don’t write this blog under my name, it’s the reason this blog can be about the personal topics that it is, heck, it's probably the reason I am writing this blog in the first place. I said from the start that this would not be a “here’s every detail of my sex life” blog, and I am not seeking anything more than my own honesty. Yes, I write about sex, but when I do it’s as part of a bigger picture, because in so many cases lust is the reason I mess up. Lust is my crux. I won't ever write about my sex life just for the sake of it; there is always something more.

I have grown up in a binge generation. Bred within me is an attitude of reckless excess: to drink more, fuck more and live life fast and hard. I see the self-destruction, on regular occasions I feel myself relentlessly letting go, and yet.. I wouldn’t have it any other way. At the base of my being are these cravings that I so often find myself powerless to resist because I'm unwilling to do so. I guess a testament to this behaviour is the fact that I have never properly “dated”. Even the night I met my boyfriend we slept together, and a relationship subsequently developed from that event.

Within the circles I exist, this is the Age of Fucking.  The “first kiss” has become a movie convention, and a fading one at that; these days in the real world such a notion is giving way to the first sex. During my initial Grindr phase that I was in the midst of a year ago, after some friendly chatting a fresh-faced and well-to-do guy asked if I wanted to go for a drink. I suppose at a stretch that could be defined as a “date”, but after four beers I was tipsy and within three hours of meeting we were back at my flat, naked in bed. The notable fact was that he had valiantly proclaimed “We shouldn’t have sex tonight” since we had just met, but those honourable intentions went out the window faster than I went down on him. I mean, he was on Grindr, so I'd be surprised if he was expecting a romantic, drawn-out courtship.

Technology – and I'm referring to these apps in particular – has drastically exacerbated this convention, but it is simultaneously a cause and result of this facet of society. Taking Grindr as an example, it succeeds because of sex, it exists because people want sex. I mean, take the name itself, which its creator has stated comes from a coffee grinder. "It is a little bit rough – not to mix, but to grind. Our design, logo, colouring – we wanted something a little bit tougher, rough. It’s also very masculine. It’s a masculine word, sound." (source - Xtra)

The definition of this apparently masculine word: "to reduce (something) to small particles or powder by crushing it." Perhaps in this context meaning the egos of men that, upon repeated rejection, come out of Grindr as pulverised dust.

While I'm on the topic, it's the same with Scruff. Grabbing someone by the scruff of the neck? Another tough and masculine word, which obviously equals "sexy". Manhunt brings in a predator-prey dynamic, or maybe a countrywide search for a sex offender. That must be hot these days.

It doesn't seem too hard to come up with names. How's about "Manhandle" or "Backhand"? Maybe "Meatmarket" or "Slamr", ooh or for the upper classes of French cruising: "Saucisson". This is fun.

But I digress; the fact of the matter is that they work. They really work. And if you're in the market for what they offer, there is no easier access to the horde (whorde?) of eager strangers. I should point out that by no means am I judging, because I like many others have thrived on the experiences that Grindr offers up. It's like a great big sandbox to stick my head in.

Now, considering my relatively limited collection of one-time suitors, it is safe to say I have only had a mere mouthful of the smorgasbord that is laid out in our sleazy world. There is so much more to be tasted and I find I can have an unhealthy appetite. So the concept of a abstinent date has thus far remained kind of alien to me, though it is one I’d be open to trying. But whatever way my mind is programmed means that I find it hard to distinguish the sex from the date – if I find someone attractive, one of the first things I want is to have sex with them, then get to know them, maybe. Priorities aren’t so clear-cut these days, everyone is entitled to their own. Whether I’ll develop self-restraint in the future and be able to make it to a second date before I find my boxers round my ankles, well that remains to be seen, but I won’t be losing sleep over it. As it stands, the equivalent of the first date – for me at least – has always been sex, and I like it that way. There are few things more instantly personal than getting naked with someone. Hopes and dreams can be discussed afterwards if desired.

Now, massive credit to the people who go about the traditional dating process, maintaining their dignity and ideals. Fair play to them, I wish I had their patience and resilience. But for me [cliché incoming] sex is like a drug, and there are so many different types, different batches just waiting to be sampled. Also, I really shouldn't understate that I have had a relationship for almost 3 years after what I presumed was a “one-night-stand”, so I find even this method can proffer long-term rewards. And in the meantime you get quick, easy fun that – in its own way – can reveal much about you, though admittedly not always things you are glad to know..

Maybe I’m hanging on furiously to the stage of my life that permits casual, risky fun without incurring heavy judgement. Maybe a few years down the line everything will be in order and my life will be settled and have direction. The drug-fueled weekends and jumping from bed to bed trying to outpace regret will be a thing of the past. I’ll have a career, a relationship I have no doubts about, and a direction in life. One day I’ll get there, however many beds that need hopped in the long term. If it comes down to it, I won't be afraid to do the legwork – either clothed or naked – to find exactly where I want to be and who I want to be with. Because in this world it's increasingly likely I'll have to, and I'm more than happy to play the game.

PDA Aversion

A few weeks ago Cord dropped me off at the airport and we said our usual goodbyes, as it would be another 5 weeks until we saw each other again. We were in his car, and several people stood in the shelter nearby, waiting for their pick-ups. At this point came a dreaded and familiar occurrence when I knew we were about to kiss. I had expected it because it is always the same..

Things, I sense, are not to supposed to happen like this:

When he begins to move in there’s a kind of twisting in my gut, and a little voice in my head cringes “what if someone sees us!”. As I steal a glance to the side to check if anyone is near, a sad truth bubbles up every time that happens - I am simply not comfortable kissing in public, I literally kiss with one eye open. Which I suppose must look a hell of a lot more strange than just two guys kissing :/ I can't help it; daylight displays of public affection make my skin crawl. I followed this thought down the rabbit hole while I was waiting for my flight, because though I initially jumped to the conclusion that it stems from my insecurities, two questions developed:

Is it because I don’t want to be seen kissing a guy?

or...

Is it because I don’t want to be seen kissing him?


I still can't figure out if the latter question has an answer, but I've considered the former many times, and in reply my mind jumps back to all the times in nightclubs, when I’m in a haze of wonderful drunkenness, my tongue wrestling with a stranger's. Clearly when I'm drunk and surrounded by other gay people, my inhibitions drop completely. In some ways it's sad that I only feel truly able to be myself when I'm out of my mind and soaked in male attention. This will be no surprise if you've even glanced at previous posts; it grows from my greatest flaw.

In the sober light of day things couldn't be more different. As most of my.. ahem.. "gentlemen callers" in the past have been under the cover of darkness, Cord is really the only guy I've been in the position of PDA-ing with. So for now, I can't know for certain if the unease is due to him or simply due to me. Perhaps down the line I'll have my answer when/if I have another relationship. Naturally I'd be lying if I said I wasn't worried that the insecurity signals a fading interest in staying in this relationship, but that's just par for the course. In time I'll know.

It is somewhat shameful to admit, as for some couples it is second nature, but I have never properly held Cord's hand in daylight... in fact, in the almost-3-years since we met, I think I have held his hand while walking along the street 3 times... And every single time I was drunk and it was night-time. Whether I will ever be comfortable with regular, casual, no-fuss PDA, who knows. It's possibly just not the kind of person I am right now. Cord let the issue die a long time ago, after he had featured it as part of THE LIST, which was ridiculous and still makes me laugh. For those of you unaware, "the list" was a hand-typed collection of the things Cord wished he could change about me, which he wrote during one of our rocky weeks in our first year. Ah those were the infamous dramatic days. Here's a link if you fancy a browse, it's a short and not-so-sweet compilation, and really paints me as the cunt I can be.

:) smiley face.


As I said though, drunk was when I let my guard down, at least in the early flourishing days of our new relationship. On nights out we'd end up embraced, often in the middle of the dancefloor. Things were new and shiny then.

Now... there’s little spontaneity, there isn’t a thrill, it’s just plain normal. I feel for him; because of me we don't really "get off" anywhere other than in private. The only way I usually end up kissing him during the night is when he asks me, but it’s the fact that he asks that takes the spark and extinguishes it. I want someone to take control, assert themselves. That can be very sexy. Within reason obviously, sexual assault is a no-no.

It is of course my fault (like a lot of things) but it’s a part of who I am and a part of how I am when I’m with him. I guess it’s not uncommon for the passion to be taken off the boil and reduced to a simmer after a few years. But with strangers – tall dark handsome new strangers – there is the electric charge when we meet eyes, when the instant lust and desire brings us into silent and physical agreement. Unfortunately (isn’t there always an “unfortunately”), the sleazy flipside is that I have absolutely no problem making out with newly met men on nights out, and a big part of me relishes it. It’s so fun and it feels so natural to me. Alcohol opens the realm of horny possibility, a risky place indeed.

If I'm going to return to that place while Cord is across the world, it's abundantly clear I will have to return to being single before embarking on another free-spirited journey through the hordes of clubs and men.


This will be me when I finally manage to move to London:

Cut The Crap.

I had one of those dreams – the kind that casts a hook deep into your subconscious and tugs at forgotten feelings, pulling them up, up, all the way up, so that when you wake your mind is not as it was when it hit the pillow.

It was in the midst of this reverie that I woke, my eyes opening fully aware as my conscious sprang into panic at what its hidden layers had regurgitated.

It started with this story, and I'm ending it with this one.

Back in school Clay was the first boy I ever felt a strong attraction to, but the night I discovered he was gay was also the night that ruined our friendship. By the time we left school we were all but strangers, until a few months ago when messaging picked up between us via Facebook, followed by a friend request sent by him. It was the mundane civilities of basic conversation: "Have you finished uni", "Are you back in NI these days", "What are your plans" etc. etc. There was a giant elephant in the chatroom – that night – and it only once ever so briefly tiptoed on the edge of our conversation. As we had lain on the floor after our sexual foray, we had spoken about being gay and those other tentative topics usually brought up when two souls bump closets. I had told him about the boy I had lost my virginity to – a guy in our school. It was this name that he brought up in a message:

"I saw ****** the other day lol". He probably threw in a pointless "lol" as they tend to feature heavily in awkward correspondence. But other than my acknowledgement (probably something like "oh right lol"), our chats went no further in that direction, and the elephant stepped back into the corner.

At that point I was heading to San Francisco, incidentally where my boyfriend saw the messages and got suspicious, but I quelled his worries. I thought nothing more of Clay... until I had the dream.


As dreams go, it was far from x-rated. As I slept my mind twisted itself between romantic and sexual desires. I was in the shower with him, we were touching hands, kissing, smiling as water and elation splashed over us. It wasn't just erotic, it was kind of beautiful...

and it was dangerous. See, it was more than a sex dream, it meant something more – something I didn't want to say, something I didn't want to know. There was a very real source to my worry, because instead of waking up thinking "Hmm, that was a weird dream", I woke scrambling for my phone, thinking "Fucking hell, I still feel for him, I have to stop this." I had given myself away, my subconscious couldn't keep it hidden any longer.

Self-restraint was never my strong suit, but in this case I think it worked to my advantage. I didn't want to leave it with silence, I needed to put a nail in the coffin, to hammer this shut once and for all. Few things hit harder than the truth. To just delete him without a word would raise questions, especially as we have a few mutual friends, and besides that, it annoys me when people just up and cut you out without any apparent reason. He had only added me recently, so I didn't have the excuse of us not being in touch. Essentially "unrequited" is a sad word to use, but it was the case, and I was certain once he knew how things stood we would never be in contact again. For my own sake it had to be this way. Facebook had been the only means of communication, hence it was the only bridge that needed burning.

So I told him, plain and simple.

Hey. I'm gonna have to delete you on here, I think after all this time I still have feelings for you which is stupid and embarrassing and not good for my relationship, so this is for the best. Sorry about this, take care of yourself.

Sent.

His reply was short, though I hadn't been expecting one at all. It ended simply with ok cool. take care.

Deleted.
Finished.
Enough.

It is odd that the feelings that urge me to get closer to this person are so capable of repelling him. No good could come of having him in my life. Finally I've strapped on a pair and hauled myself out of his life by choice. It only took 7 years...


There have been few circumstances lately that resolve in a way I am entirely happy with, but fortunately this was one of them. It feels healthy taking the necessary steps to leave behind a burden that was so unnecessary. Smell steps, yes, but in the right direction, that's the important thing. Pushing myself to shed more baggage. I knew there was something else I could do right there and then: it was time to close the chapter on Portuguy. In the past year we have barely communicated and I had almost forgotten he was still in my friend lists, so it was as easy as a few clicks on Facebook and Skype and I bid farewell to the adonis and his brief but.. primal effect on me – a legacy I won't likely forget.

This bit of emotional spring cleaning is good for my relationship and good for me, because with the future fogged in uncertainty, the best thing to do is take it one step at a time and try not to slip.

(Nothing like a clichéd "journeying" metaphor to finish a post...)

The Doubt Reflux

The more things change, the more they stay the same.


When I started this blog about a year and a half ago it primarily cruxed* around one issue - my boyfriend's impending departure for a year abroad, and the consequences this would have on our relationship. It was after the inaugural months of our coupledom, in that period when things get serious and passion starts to open the door to deeper feelings. I admit I held a bit of resentment towards him for his plans to jump country – or rather, a resentment towards him for refusing to discuss it. If I remember correctly this bore heavily in early posts, and really began to piss me off. The main reason for my ire was that whatever way the situation went it would affect both of us, but I felt like I was just, I dunno, collateral. When I finally wrangled the conversation out of him it emerged that though he "hadn't really been thinking about it", the possibility of calling a break between us had crossed his mind. We talked, blah blah blah, and decided we'd try and stick together.
 
 (*I've realised "cruxed" isn't a word, so I'm coining it now - the verb form of crux. Let it be written.)

After that the issue kinda got pushed to the bottom of the pile, then of course the shit massively hit the fan and everything went tits up with our relationship anyway. Ironically, as it turned out, he didn't get a place on the scheme he had his mind set on. And then we cleaned the shit off the fan and were eventually stronger for it.
Now, I'm sure I've written how we'd approach the year apart determined and just take it in our stride, but yet as the familiar obstacle looms once again I find myself in the other chair, or in the other shoes, or however that saying goes... on the other side of the fence? on the other bus? in the other bed?.. THE SHOE IS ON THE OTHER FOOT. Yep, nailed it.


The problem is I'm really not sure I can sustain a relationship when the two of us will be apart for month after month after month on end. Seeing each other once every 5 weeks or so is hard enough, but once in a year?? For me, that's just... that's not really a relationship.
If this was a few more years down the line I would give it a damn good shot without a second thought; I'd have a mature and committed stance and do my best to make it through the time apart. But as for right now, 3 thoughts come to mind that feed the doubt:

I'm only 23,
I like sex,
and I like to drink.

On reflection, I think these 3 factors that fuel my libido all lie in the shadow of a very simple fact: I don't want to be alone. Whether one-night stands, friends with benefits or a proper relationship, I like to have access to a tangible attraction. I don't like to be lonely. Now I don't mean lonely in the "no friends" sense, I mean not having that emotional/sexual attachment. For me, the physicality of a relationship is a huge part of having that connection. Whatever way I am right now, emotions generally aren't solely enough to get me by. And the thought of celibacy is just ridiculous. By no means am I implying that sex is the focus of my relationship, believe me, it isn't, but obviously sex between a couple has slightly more of a symbolic weight – it isn't just cumming and going. I need it.


All of this rambling leads me to one point, and now I shall make it:

I don't want to betray Cord. But with a back-catalogue of fuck-ups to my name, it is clear I can't trust myself. I really dislike being apart from him, and I get giddy excitement every time we're due to be reunited. But.. there's has to come a point at which I look at 9500 kilometers and 365 days and think it's just too much.

Too much distance, too much time.

I'd probably not even make it to the 3 month mark. My money situation at the minute hardly affords multiple leisure trips to Japan.. and if I manage to get myself employed, I want to be in or as near to London as possible. Being in London means gay guys and gay bars.


As is clear, my mind has mulled this over and over, and in familiar fashion there are two ways this can go.

1. He stays.

2. He leaves. I will try my damn best to take on the year apart, because at the heart of all this I do want to stay with him. But if drink or lust or loneliness leads me into the arms of someone else, it'd be better for both of us if we match the geographical distance with an emotional equivalent. It'd be the lesser of two evils to let him go and give in to inevitable urges than it would be to stack up a heap of lies and infidelities and guilt. Whether a separation would be indefinite or not who knows – after all, this is all in the land of unfortunate hypothetics*, in the valley of worst-case scenarios. Let us hope I have the strength to never venture there.

(Again, I don't think "hypothetics" is a real word, I'm on a roll today.)

 
So, if needs be, here's hoping I'm man enough to keep my dick in my pants. Time – and possibly distance – will tell.



Stunning track: