There is a lot more to this, of course, but that may keep the editor satisfied until we get to the period of my life that was devoted to debauchery. That was a great and memorable decade. The pre-and-post ludes to it were sort of interesting as well, and naturally included some memorable sexual encounters.
So, here's the deal. If you are resting quietly some place you feel comfortable reading about that sort of thing, we can dispense with a lot of the usual crap. I like writing for you guys, thinking of myself in similar circumstances, that low but nearly constant feeling of mild arousal that can go critical at any useful (or inconvenient) time. This is about the time in society when aberrant hijinks were neither approved nor celebrated. That added some spice to the whole clandestine courtship ritual, shorn sometimes of even identity. Had I been born later, I might have groomed by the trans crowd and wound up living quite a different, and I think less satisfying way than I did. These days just being "gay" and out still has some consequences, but back then it was dramatic and some of the activities in some places could result in trouble. So, this is a weird time in life looking back on the erotic carnival that was life in this marvelous and fertile world.
I suffer from the writer's curse, so this has come up before. One of the first big ones was a friendship with a young man I worked with, selling men's clothes in one of those large department stores in the mall. It was a three-part romance called "Café Au Lait." Fun, and my first inter-racial fling. I refer you to the footnote in the header here about everything being of legal age. But it was the first real exposure I had to another gay male, since the interior line position I also held on the football team did not support a lot of more delicate interaction, and that may be why I liked it so much.
It turned into a cool sort of romance, since he was- what do we call it now? "BIPOC?" But it was very cool, which I suppose mixes blessing and curse in the way it always passes. There are some events that shadow the rest, of course. Some of them hang in memory, oddly focused and of great interest to me while filled with obligation and concern for others. I remember the process in attempting to manage the affairs of my own parents, a remote control process jointly attempted by their joint committee of children, all of whom lived a minimum of four states away from their lovely retirement home on the bluff above a sparkling bay on a gigantic lake of fresh, potable water.
Along the way, it involved physically dispossessing them of their home, forced relocation to supervised care, and eventually to death. They dealt with what was imposed, and were cooperative in the process in the events that went with it.
In the process, Father attempted to go back to the life some part of him recalled with certainty. He was found walking in the darkness away from the place of supervised living, attempting to 'go home' to a place part of his mind recalled. It was similar to his nightly wanderings at the house before we moved them, ransacking various drawers for things he wanted to keep organized in some manner only appropriate for that moment and in which the manner of his remaining neural process was able to accommodate.
My version of it was different, but driven with the same inexorable force that is oddly gentle in the great stream. It was pure good luck that I am of the age I am now. Had I possessed the same sensibilities I grew to enjoy, I might have wound up under the command of some inter-sexual interventionist and a castrati, bereft of desire. And desire was what it was about I was writing a mildly pornographic essay of some length to tell the story of what it was like to grow up appearing to be a red-blooded male while wishing- at times- to be the opposite. To live as one while the other called pensively was an experience that caused a lifetime of problems, which could have been solved if society had embraced the sort of sexuality that appealed to me it might have been easier. But I also would have missed the experience of marriage and child raising, even if it came with mixed results.
I did the erotic piece in first draft as a sort of biographical piece, lurching from some of the better sexual encounters to the next level I could recall. You know how those sorts of piles go, from one titillating episode to the next. Then I realized how having that secret life made everything was filled with a prospective erotic desire. I like women and have great passion with several. On the other hand, as I attempted to capture a secret life, I again experienced the actual consequences of wanting sex in a particular manner that at the time was unusual, and the exposure of which could have had real negative consequences. I was moderately successful in portraying myself in a way society rewarded in a handsome fashion.
Given the external factors in play- the AIDS epidemic being just one of them, it is understandable that some activities and behavior patterns caused additional stress in the normal life process. Writing this account was intended to be an erotic adventure with a gay twist. It turned into a sort of biographical tale, based on the way I got to the most satisfying sex of my life. I maintain I did the best I could under the circumstances and regret those I hurt. But damn, it was fun getting to where I did. And each of the stages along the way had their moments. I was writing about one encounter that has stayed with me.
It was a brief and fairly unemotional interaction with a working guy I met in a bar one afternoon at one of the brief periods of freedom along the way. I was drunk enough that afternoon and I was in a gay bar by intent, horny and willing to do about anything. I had found by then that I enjoyed submitting to a man's need and found great satisfaction in pleasing several of them. This one was straightforward and met my need to be the provider of enjoyment whether there was any reciprocal effort or not. I went with my new friend to his work-truck, administered efficient fellatio, and then essentially was dismissed from the truck without a thank-you. Watching him drive away, adjusting my clothes in daylight on a public street, I realized I enjoyed being a worthless cock-sucking tramp.
So, this started as a simple sex tale. It became more. It became a partial biography in which I was able to just admit I was a whore, and frankly enjoyed it. I will tell you more about it in a tale called "Glances, Men. Part 2."
