So I went this week to see me old man rock out in his (proper) Fleetwood Mac (before they got the girls and Americans involved) covers band over in lovely, lovely Wakefield and, as ever, he was pretty amazing. Boy that man can play guitar! And a good job too – 'cos God knows what he'd do with himself if he couldn't (probably go the same way as my nan – his mum – and end his days in cigarette seclusion watching Coronation Street and wishing someone would call). All the old favourites: Green Manalishi…Need Your Love So Bad (what a song!)…Baby, Please Stop Messing 'Round, You're Messing 'Round With My Heart (do doo do do do doo do)…
Love, they say, is the sweetest thing – but is it as sweet as those marshmallow and chocolate things Americans eat around the campfire? And, if it is, despite its yumminess and moreish qualities, wouldn't we expect it to give us something of a headache, make us a little bit sick? I'm rubbish at being in love; I lose myself, get carried away, my head filled with thoughts of another, no matter how distant they are. Happiness comes only when we're side-by-side; trauma at the slightest disharmony, misunderstanding, disagreement; it triggers something in me; I don't know what. I'm a nice guy and I got a lot of love to give – maybe too much sometimes – but I can't say I'm very good at knowing what to do with it.
I was in love with a girl once – she was about five years younger than me, which felt really young at the time, since she'd just turned eighteen – and we had this magical month together in Albuquerque, New Mexico, falling for each other, having fun in bed, going on adventures on bicycles and people said that when we rode together down the street it was like streamers of light trailing behind us in our glow and happiness. She looked like Liv Tyler, and I was down with that – but, alas, it couldn't last: I was a wandering sadhu-type and we always knew the day would come when I would move on; the day came – a hugging tree whispered something about some distant, unheard-of mountain in my ear (and you all know how that story went) – and off I went. And when I came back two months later she had met someone else. She told me about it – the precognitive dreams she'd had of him, of how perfect they were together – and of how it could never have happened if it wasn't for what had been done during our time together – and when I met them I had to admit it all seemed pretty magical and great. But my heart cracked open a little, and all the love I had felt for her drained out – no longer anything to attach itself to – and suddenly this big heart of mine that had grown and grown in her presence was left empty and sad. That was a hard feeling and I suffered it and felt it through sleepless nights – and this was the last time I looked at a bottle of alcohol and thought, maybe (this was '99; I didn't) – and eventually, through feeling that, something came and the space was flooded and filled with another kind of love. I thanked her for the gift she had given me – for the way she had stretched me and forced my heart to grow – and she thanked me for her man, and when I saw the two of them laying together sleeping in bed one morning (you had to pass through her room to get to the toilet) and the way their feet entwined together sticking out the blankets I just thought that was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen and I blessed them wholeheartedly. It felt good to have been a part of that – and for all I know, they're still together, raising kids and making joy with each other – and I moved on and, alas, never saw them again. I would like to hear from her, though; she seemed like a pretty magic soul and I'd love to know how things've turned out…
I went to Venice with X last weekend; it was arranged months ago but the timing couldn't have been more perfect, the need to sort out our ongoing break-up, nine months old and unrepaired but never completely final, and it was all rather fitting in that crumbling, ruined city of ancients; Death in Venice and all that. My heart was closed from the start and that made me sad because with my heart closed and withholding my love it was hard to let myself enjoy the time, to be the bundle of sillinesses and excitement and giggles that I generally am – but I guess it was what was needed. I didn't want to be a good guy for her; I didn't want to come across as 'fun' and make myself attractive to her – and, more than anything I just didn't want to give anymore. It was clear that we were over – forever? who knows? but for the foreseeable future and beyond – and that was kind of the business that needed doing. On the last morning we took a boat over to the cemetery island – my most very favourite place in the whole watery city – and then had our big talk and said our goodbyes. Her chin wobbled in her tears, and when she thanked me for our time together – for all of it, all the way back to Mexico, eight years ago – mine did too, and in those tears I was just thinking, what a nice girl, and how sad this is, and how silly and…you have to stop those thoughts. Closeness and tenderness comes, and with it the temptation and forgetfulness of the things that have caused this moment; no, we said our goodbyes, and she gave me back the 'commitment ring' I'd bought her, and in that final hug my head and heart were filled with blessings for her to meet someone new: someone she deserved and who deserved her, and who could take her to the next level and love her in the ways that I wasn't able, to heal her of the harms I may have caused her, to make her feel good about herself, because I hated to see her feeling bad about herself. It was a genuine blessing that overwhelmed my being and I was glad and perhaps surprised to see it there; I wasn't expecting to feel those things. But I did; I guess the time was ripe.
I'd been praying for an answer to this question for so long – the question of should we/shouldn't we? – and maybe what I was expecting was some kind of sign or dream, some strange meeting in the street with someone who waffled aimlessly but apparently read my mind and told me what I needed to know, some synchronicity – but what I got was much better than that. Life sent me another, and put them side by side, and in my heart I was truly able to see what it was I wanted, and what I didn't, and the answer came from within and filled me, plain as a tofu and ryvita sandwich. All that seems kind of obvious, really – but it was somehow startling to me, so used am I to 'figuring things out' or having the answers come in dreams and wonders; this seemed so simple and beautiful and true – and clever, too. Life is much smarter than I am; Life knows the perfect time, the perfect place, the perfect way. Life is good to me.
And if you don't like the word 'Life' in that paragraph, just substitute it with the word 'God' – in that context, they're basically the same thing. ;-)
So it was over, and I am new, and alone, and fresh again. Thirty-one – and Xless for the first time in just over six years. Maybe that should be scary; it's not. I'm still young – and my life is about more than finding a partner. Who knows? Maybe I never will. Maybe it's not my path. Children? Sure, I could dig that – but maybe that's not my path either. Certainly there are advantages to this freedom – especially for me when I consider the dreams I have for my future (you know, get book published, jettison everything I ever was and go on further adventures, onward ever onward into the unknown and new). Life is about learning and enjoyment; experience and fun. What else could it be? And who's to judge what shape or form that should come in? Maybe there's someone out there for me and maybe there isn't – maybe I'm destined to a long line of encounters and lovers, learning something new from each on this quest to become 'whole' – whatever that means – and that's not to say I'm some sort of slut – far from it! – but, polyamorous? Sure, why not.
I was counting up and I reckoned I've had 13 lovers – ya know, sex – another two that was just oral, and then 35 women that I've kissed in total. Several of those I could discount because they were so brief – and then there were three snogs with guys as well, back in my drunken youth. That's not bad going, really – and I mean that in the way that, it's not really too much. Only about twenty percent of those figures come from the last seven years – things certainly slowed down a bit when I quit drinking! (And that's a good thing). All in all, I think I've been a pretty good boy.
My first girlfriend I was seeing about five months before we went to bed together – and for nearly a year before she first gave me a blowjob. Also, I never came in her mouth – because she didn't want me to – until after we broke up, when we had our little 'farewell fling' (as you do) and she told me she wanted to be the first one to do that. I found it difficult to let her do that, and always have, scarred by the bragging boys at school who did it to girls even when they'd promised they wouldn't, me thinking how horrible and mean that was – and thinking that it seemed most girls didn't really like that (and my experience has ninety percent backed that up) – and I didn't want to be one of those cruel, unfeeling guys, I wanted to be one of the good ones. I dunno, I guess I've always just been happier giving pleasure, and never understood how sex could be a selfish thing; I mean, if the other person's not enjoying it, how could you enjoy it yourself? That's my biggest kick, seeing someone else get off. I love to give pleasure – but I also find it challenging sometimes to receive it for myself. Believe it or not, that's something I've had to work on.
I was with another girl once – also in America; we were together about three months – and we had a pretty intense and passionate affair, full of the madness of youth. We hurt each other at times, I guess – we were pretty much always drunk – but also there was a tenderness, a love. One thing I always remember her saying was about sex, was about how if she suddenly didn't feel like it she knew with me it was always okay to stop and I'd be just as happy to hug and chatter and, whatever, go and make a cup of tea and carry on with the day; that made me really happy to hear her say that; I thought it was a wonderful compliment; it's the kind of thing I always like to hear. And it's true as well, it's never really bothered me, still doesn't; like I say, there's no point doing something if both parties aren't digging it – and there's plenty else you can do besides to enjoy your time with someone. Of course I'm sure lots of people feel this way – I'd be a fool to think they didn't – but at the same time I know not everyone does. That's sad – and I feel an intense sadness for people – namely, women; beautiful, beautiful women – that have to put up with that. Men can really suck sometimes – which, thinking about it, is probably about as big an understatement as it's possible to get – and a tragic one, too.
Still, that's not to say that it's all one-way traffic; I'd say I've definitely felt used by women too – and it's a crappy, crappy feeling. I remember particularly this one time, this one girl, and even mid-act I was so conscious of that, so hating it – and so down and dispirited with myself for allowing it to happen – it really stuck in my mind. I guess it was the first time I'd really seen it – and seen it so clearly that I never wanted to allow it to happen again. And you know what? I don't think I have. :-)
I'd also say I've suffered at the eyes and hands of men – particularly during my table-waiting days in the gay restaurant in Charlottesville – and that's another incentive to try and be a better guy, to experience how it feels to be looked at as a piece of meat, as a hole to be penetrated and fucked, and cast aside like some used-up animal carcass. I first felt that sitting in a gay pub in Leeds where me and my chum went to drink during our skinny-hipped androgyny days, left alone while he was in the bog and looking around at a room full of crotch-rubbing men lasering their eyes at me and licking their lips and wanting. It was fuckin' horrible – and in my eighteen year-old brain there came the realisation, "my God, is this what it feels like to be a woman?" and I never wanted to do that. It's not nice to feel like a piece of meat; doubly so to make someone feel that way.
Still, I do look at women in a sexual way and like what I see – and I wonder if that makes me bad, somehow – somehow wrong or hypocritical, given what I've just said – even though I'd like to think, really, that's just me being harsh on myself. But, sure, I like the curve of a good breast, a bit of cleavage, the secret thrill of the accidentally revealed, bending-over bosom. Is that so wrong? Or is it – as would appear to be indicated by the excellent 'The Naked Ape', which I'm reading now – simply my in-built and naturally correct response to such stimulus? I'd say so. (I would, wouldn't I?) But finally it appears I have my answer as to why women love to reveal their cleavage – even on the coldest of days – when men hardly ever show off their chest-areas. And the reason they wear lipstick? Even better…
I had this girlfriend once who didn't give a monkeys about my cum; she liked it; she wanted it; she loved doing it and it made her happy to have that part of me in her mouth, in her tummy. I can dig that – when the roles are reversed, there's nothing I love more than the taste and smell of a woman, to get her off in that way, to have her juice in my mouth and in my face – and especially so when I've been lucky enough to be with one who was blessed with the awe-inspiring gift of female ejaculation. I can dig it, from that perspective – but I still find it hard to receive that kind of love, to let it happen and trust that it's all right – at least for the first few times. I always try and tell them – try and warn them – and if that's not 'lol' then I don't know what is – but I just can't help it. That's sad in a way – because it is such a wonderful feeling. I feel like, in that moment, my semen is me, is the essence of me, and when it's lost, in the room, on a belly, spurned and cast aside, that is me too; conversely, when it's taken in – whether that be by mouth or otherwise – I feel I am taken in, and wanted, and loved, in all aspects of me, and in my essence. You may mock and scoff at the way I feel – you may think, well that's a nice try to get someone to do those things – but I swear that's my true experience, I'm not just making this up. It's sad that we can't just love everything about each other – because we are such delicious creatures. Certainly, that's how I love a woman, and her essence. I even quite like my own…
My favourite method of contraception is probably none at all – that is, natural timing or the pill. Mostly in my life I've probably done withdrawal – and I'm proud to say I've been good with that. I know this day and age we're all supposed to be using condoms and stuff but, man, I just can't get on with those things; I feel like I've had my nob cut off; I feel like I'm the one who should be saying, "is it in?" Basically, I can barely feel anything at all. But I'd say I'd been pretty careful and, here I am, thirty-one and disease and child-free, and never even really had any scares. It's not good to be blasé, I know – but then, this is about me and my actual, honest experience. To be honest, I'd rather have no sex than sex with a condom; there's plenty of other fun things you can do besides intercourse - things far superior to intercourse that is less-than-great. Sometimes I wish I didn't come at all; you know, what with pregnancy and all that it does seem rather a headache when pleasure rather than procreation is what it's about – and ultimately, coming – the male orgasm – is in so many ways the end to pleasure, the end to intercourse, and the end to the ecstasy of the physical union. Don't get me wrong, I love a good orgasm, and it's still the highest feeling, but because it's the end – at least, for a while – there's also a little sadness mixed in there too. I just want to keep on doing it. I don't really want it to end. I guess there's a reason the French call it 'the little death' – although they say it in French.
Have I come to the end of my sex-talk for one day? I rather think I might've done! And the work bell beckons. Hope you enjoyed!
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