Main | Friday, February 23, 2007


Long overdue, here's the text from my performance at last week's Worst.Sex.Ever show. My apologies for the delay. I misplaced my notes during the post-show drunkathon and had just resigned myself to rewriting it from scratch when I found the notes in the same coat I'd searched three times. Stupid beer. (Photo via emcee Chris Hampton.)

Worst. Sex. Ever.

Like most gay men in their 40's, I've developed a pretty good sense when somebody just isn't gonna work out sexually. Unlike in my youth, when I ignored glaring, flashing warning signs, like the guy who said, "Listen, if we're gonna do this, we should probably get going. I've got this ankle bracelet on and I'm not supposed to be this far from my house."

Or the guy who said, "I suppose I should tell you that I'm just getting over the clap. I mean, it's cool, I had the shot and all, so in case there's still some discharge, you don't have to worry."

OR the guy who said, "I don't live far, but if you come over, don't park in the driveway. My ex is kinda crazy and the last time he saw a trick's car in my driveway, he sorta set it on fire."

Yeah, still did them. All three. Luckily, nothing ended up burning, including my dick.

And since WYSIWYG is an all-blogger event, I feel I must share with you some of the worst things guys have said to me online, where it's always hard to make the right call, even when you think you've been around. Here's a top ten list, some of which I've shared with my blog readers, as a public service. These are all verbatim emails.

1. Hey dud! Put that in the sexy place.

2. I am sloppy wide open bottom. You will never get to the bottom of my cunt.

3. Tonight, I'm feeling VERY ranchy. How 'bout u?

4. I hope you're into barebaking, cuz I'd love for you to bread me.

5. Can you get into rapping me? I love rap scenes. I will leave the door open. Bring something sharp.

6. Can't you host? I can't, cuz I'm small and somewhat spaced.

7. I am *completely* uninhabited.

8. Are you interested in a gang-bag? I would love for you and your hot friends to gang-bag me because I am a sloppy wide open bottom.

(Number 8 might have been the same guy from #2.)

9. Do you love man-smells like I do? I hope so because I haven't had a shower in 5 days.

And the worst thing ever said to me online, from just yesterday:

10. You are the hottest guy I've seen on this site EVER. I would do anything you want me to. P.S. I LOVE OLD MEN!

I didn't do any of those guys. Mostly. But now let's get to some non-virtual sex. I should preface this by repeating that I have been around. Oh, yes. I've been to bathhouses and sex clubs. I've attended International Mister Leather and Folsom Street Fair, many, many times. I was in a bar when their Mr. Watersports 1998 won his golden crown (which, incidentally, was not unlike attending a Gallagher concert, in that everybody near the stage was given a plastic sheet if they wanted it. Um, most, didn't want it.)

I was in the house when a cock-n-ball torture demonstration when horribly, horribly wrong ("Paramedics to the SF Eagle, stat!"), and I was in the house when the winner of the Mr. Powerhouse contest was revealed by having a famous fisting porn star squat over the judge's open hand and push out the winner's billiard ball.

"And YOUR Mr. Powerhouse 1997 is ...."


"Number 14!"

I've played along, even when the scene held little interest. I've tied men up. I've flogged them, fisted them, spanked them, gut-punched them, shaved their heads and their asses. Once, a guy asked me if he could bring his "sounds" and thinking he meant music, I enthusiastically said, "Sure, bring 'em all!", only to find out that the "sounds" he was referring to were long, steel surgical rods that he intended to plunge into my urethra. (Sooo not gonna happen.)

So you can see that I am good sport, usually. There's only a handful of physical kinks that I haven't gamely played along with. Physical kinks are easy. Spread apart this, shackle that, electrify those. Easy. But it's the mental kinks that drive me crazy. (Not the name calling, so much. I've happily called guys whores and pigs and worthless pieces of shit when they wanted me to. Mostly, because, you know, they were.)

It's the role-playing that works my nerves. In the last 20 years, I've been the angry prison warden with an escaped prisoner. I've been a soccer coach, a police officer, and a school principal. I've been a drill sergeant so many times that my boots have a permanent spit shine.

A few years ago, I showed up at the Hell's Kitchen apartment of a very hot Latino bodybuilder, who, in the thickest Elmer Fudd accent I've ever heard, presented me with an elaborate fantasy in which I was to describe all the most horrible violent things I might want to do him. Standing in his kitchen, I just sort of nodded, trying to decide what I was going to do.

He took off his shirt, revealing a massive muscular chest, and naturally, instinctively, I reached out for it. And he recoiled from my touch. He jerked back as if I was reaching for him with poo on a stick. I said, "What's the matter?" and he said, fuddily, "I'm weewee not into a wot of...touching."

I said, "Oh, my god, we could have done this on the phone!" And when I stormed out, I said, "By the way, call me in a hour, because now I really do want to do horrible things to you."

But my worst role playing situation happened back in San Francisco. I was home officed, and one slow afternoon I picked up a guy online with the intriguing, if redundant screen name "WhiteTrashRedneck". He was hot, covered with tats, not normally my thing, but certainly in character with his screen name.

Within 5 minutes of arrival, he laid it on me. "So, you get into any, um role playing?"

Mentally, I cringed. Well maybe I cringed a little physically, too.

"Like what?"

"Well, something that I really dig is daddy/ boy roleplay."

"What, like a power exchange, master/slave kinda thing?"

"No, like you play like you're my father and I'm your son."

(Visions of NAMBLA flash through my head.)

"Ooookay. And what's the situation?"

(Of course I knew what the situation would be, it's the oldest one in the book for us roleplaying experts.)

"Well, maybe I could be beating off and..."

"And "Daddy" could catch you?"

"Yeah, and maybe..."

"And maybe Daddy could tell you that it's OK and that all men do it and that Daddy should probably make sure that you're doing it correctly by demonstrating proper beating off technique to his son?

WhiteTrashRedneck's eyes glazed over. "Yeaaaaah, that's hottttttttt!"

I sighed. But I stepped up to the plate. I exited, stage left, and returned to catch my son jacking off. I confronted him, angrily. His frantic denial turned to tearful confession. I consoled. He calmed. I demonstrated. He watched. And through it all, folks, I stayed in character. I was the Daddy of WhiteTrashRedneck. I may have been ad-libbing, this may be been mere Daddy/Boy improv, but I hit my marks and I owned that character. We're talking Daytime Emmy here, people.

And thirty minutes later, after that bravura performance, as I had WhiteTrashRedneck face down on my bed and was fucking the WhiteTrash out of him, he began to whimper. Softly, at first, then more loudly.

"Why, Daddy, why??"

I thought, "Oh, great. I didn't know there was a second act."

"Because I caught you."

"You didn't catch me, you MADE me!"

Um, what?

"Why Daddy, why? I'm just a little boy! I'm just a little boy!"

I got off him and WhiteTrashRedneck rolled over and began screaming at me, "You raped me! You raped me, Daddy! I hate you! I hate you!"

He was really screaming! Somebody was going to CALL THE POLICE. There were a dozen units in my building and the walls were paper thin.

I got off the bed. "Yeah, listen...this isn't..."

"Dude, it's cool."

"Whatever, but..."

"No seriously, my shrink said it's good for me do this."

"Listen, I don't think my neighbors need to be hearing somebody screaming "You raped me, Daddy' coming out of my apartment."

And I made him leave. And I fled the apartment soon after him, afraid to be at home in case someone HAD called the police. I didn't come back for hours. About a month later, I had forgotten about him completely when my black mail lady handed me my mail as I passed in the hallway.

With a faint smirk on her face, she held out a stack of envelopes and said, "Here's your mail...Daddy."

Labels: , ,

comments powered by Disqus