Monday, April 09, 2007


If you had asked me a year ago how and where I would spend the Easter vigil this year, I would have guessed anything but the truth. That is, in one way, an excellent thing. Not that what went on over Easter weekend was necessarily a good thing in every way [well, it was, but then, my point of view is far from what it was a year ago. Shit, it's far from what it was a week ago].

Life to be new must be surprising, must overwhelm you, must take you by storm.

On that front, Easter was #$%&-ing amazing.

You know, if you have been paying any attention at all, that I threw myself at the Silver Fox a couple of months ago, and he caught me. A good deed in a naughty world. A charitable deed. It kind of took me by surprise -- yes, I went out to the woods ready for whatever happened, and was ready for everything except the speed at which it all happened. That took my breath away. So I was a little nervous about returning to the scene of the crime. Who knew if it would hold up? would he still find me attractive? would I still find him attractive? would he have decided that it all complicated his life too much, given that he could only see his Regular Boy Friend once or twice a week anyway?

All I can say is: I had no idea. I had no @#%&-ing idea. The sex itself had some bumps in the road, largely of my making, but I have never had an experience anything like the night into Easter and Easter morning in my entire life. I have no idea who that person was, wearing my skin, in that bed, under my name, but he was certainly not anyone I had met before.

And I had never encountered anything like what for lack of a better word I will have to call the demonic nature of what we were up to. Completely overpowering. Yes, I know that I am in a particularly susceptible stage, I know that I basically have nothing to compare it to -- not in the last thirty years anyway -- I know that it was "just sex." HA! "Just sex," indeed.

If that was "just sex," let me sign up for the duration...
which is unfortunately not an option.

I have messed up practically every step in the complicated dance of being the Other Guy of whom the Regular Boy Friend is all too aware -- I have the tact of a Mack truck and nothing I can wish for myself makes much of a difference. I just keep putting my foot in it. You may [or may not] remember that I was going to ask the guy who ran the Leather Night about the guy I thought was hitting on me, only to find out finally that they were lovers; I thought, "Well, there I finally managed NOT to put my foot in it." Well, since then I have without intending to, put my foot "into it" at every possible turn, and if the RBF ever treats me as a human being again, it will be undeserved generosity.

Actually, what srikes me about both of these guys is their incredible generosity. Rack up another one for the Troll's taking advantage of the kindness of strangers...

Something happened on our first encounter which I thought a bit of a fluke, that just happened to provide the straw that broke the camel's back, the spark that set off the Great Chicago fire... what have you. No, it turns out that on our very first... um... "contact," the Silver Fox happened upon an erogenous zone I had never even dreamed I owned. [Above the waist, guys -- get over it.] We established that it was NO fluke within about twenty minutes of my arrival this time, and the [#$%&-ing loveable] bastard proceeded to explore every nook and cranny of it over the course of the next 12 to 15 hours. Any more and I would have had to crawl home on my hands and knees.

As it is, I found myself doing the "moaning in public" thing all day Monday. Certain memories arose -- in the middle of the work-day, in the middle of my trip home -- and there I was, moaning along with Donna Summer. And she wasn't even there. The physical memory of it was so overpowering that I would repeat my half of the dance wherever I happened to find myself.

So far, I am glad to say, I have not attacted the attention of strangers and passers-by. But it's only a matter of time...

I was once advised that if I had a really unbelievable meal at a restaurant, if it were really one of the peak experiences of my sensual life, I should never go back again. [It was the owner of the restaurant where we had just had such an experience talking; I pooh-poohed it at the time, but over the decades it has begun to sound more and more like wisdom.] That would argue for never seeing the Silver Fox again, and I think I am about as capable of passing up the slightest hint of his readiness to give me the time of day, let alone to give me the chance to spend another night, as I am of flapping my arms and flying to the moon. As the song goes, "I've got it bad, and that ain't good." Except it is. It is very good.

Unbe-#$%&-ing-lievably good.

Here's the thing. The likelihood of this having a future is practically nil, unless I decide to try to wreck what the SF and his RBF have going, or they decide to talk me into a threesome, neither of which is my thing. But I will admit that every time the SF talked about doing something with me in the future, my throat closed up and my ears burned, and I thought: Oh my God, it might go on past the next night. It might continue.

If I can just manage to keep my mouth shut [fat chance] and not screw it up between now and then, we might actually be able to go on seeing each other. Oh my God. At the moment, I am trying to picture a world where I live on one night a month. It has seemed pretty much impossible over the last six weeks, but I am desperately looking for shreds of evidence that it could work.

I am such a basket case.

And worse: I am a complete slut. No ifs, ands, or buts. I found myself telling him to do things I didn't even know I had contemplated, or... well, never mind that. Suffice it to say that he was fabulous and I loved it. It was weird, certainly not what I had ever expected, and matching his wrinkles up with my wrinkles is going to take some doing, but it's definitely something new. This is not a life I have lived before. And he, bless his little goat-shaped heart, thinks it is perfectly normal. Oh my God.

Oh: just in case there is anyone out there who thought I wasn't as queer as a three-dollar bill...? Forget it. I am about as straight as a comet's orbit passing by the sun: bent, bent, bent. Not a straight bone to be found from head to toe.

I have been told by the SF that I think too much. And you all certainly know that I talk too much. So I am going to try to let this all settle for a while. But not as long, I'm sure, as I ought. Sooner or later I am going to pick up the phone and ask him questions I should leave alone, or start begging for a visit, or just make him so crazy that he runs in the opposite direction.

Hey, I'm neither as fit nor as cute as the average bear, not to mention as bald as an egg from the neck down, and I somehow stumbled onto the radar of the Goat-Man from Hell. As I lay there in bed, I actually did think of the charming European tradition that witches had sex with the devil in the form of a goat: I knew EXACTLY how they felt. And I loved it.

(Did I say that already?)

So, how was my Easter? Well, it wasn't exactly what you would call Easter, but it was one hell of a holiday.

I sincerely wish you all a similar celebration, and hope that you have the strength to live on it for a while. I think that's where I'm doomed. But it still feels like a good deal, at the moment...

Wish me luck. I'll need it.

Hang in there, all.

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