The Cure

Trying to appear invisible and nondescript, while hiding behind the corner of a stack of bookshelves, I waited for a library patron to leave. He was searching for a specific Dewey decimal number, pointing at the printed numbers on the books’ spines.

Adrenaline raced through me and my senses were heightened. My face was flushed and I tried to keep my breathing shallow. Finally, he found the book he needed and left, so I quickly moved to the section further down from where he had been, labeled “homosexuality.”

I was going to cure myself.

I scanned through the first few books, and slid one thick volume from the shelf, hiding it under my arm, with the blank, back cover facing outward. I walked quickly to a private, partitioned reading table, avoiding the gaze of other library patrons whom I walked past.

I opened the book, and began reading about clinical case studies of homosexual patients, written in a dry, academic tone with a psychoanalytical viewpoint. I was sixteen years old, and struggled to understand the terminology. What I read was that homosexuality was a mental illness, and various techniques had been used to try to cure it, including electroshock therapy and behavioural modification methods. My heart sunk, because it confirmed what I already believed – I have a mental illness, and drastic methods must be taken. Determined to find a cure, I read on.

I’d known for a while that I was attracted to the same gender. Being the son of a Lutheran minister in a small town, I enjoyed being raised in the church, attending youth group, singing in the choir and participating in events. While I didn’t understand all the theology behind church rituals, I loved the feeling of belonging and being part of a community that, until now, had loved me. But, being gay was a sin, and I not only felt great guilt, but a self-repulsion knowing that God condemned me.

I must find a cure. I prayed daily, on my hands and knees, begging God to change me… but to no avail. I still wanted to be with a man – it felt like it was a part of my soul: a part that needed to be severed.

When I graduated a year early and was accepted at a local college, I moved to Vancouver where I had access to the Public Library and a large collection of books. I was determined to read every book on homosexuality available to find a way to heal myself. I was too afraid to see a therapist, so I needed to do it on my own.

This was over 20 years ago, before being gay was widely discussed in the media, and before the Internet had been invented. I was too naïve, and ‘in the closet’ to search out other forms of assistance. The library was to be my saviour.

Three evenings a week for a year, I visited the library, going through the same ritual of stalking the bookshelves for a new book, spending three to four hours reading it front-to-back in a private reading stall (I was too fearful to sign out a book). I eventually began to change my mind.

I realized that there was a large range of viewpoints on homosexuality, depending on when the book was published and who wrote it. I learned that it was no longer considered a mental illness, since the 1970s, by the American Psychiatric Association. I discovered that Alfred Kinsey had developed a new model of sexuality and preference, based on a scale that may shift over an individual’s life. I read radical/political essays – mostly from San Francisco - by gay, lesbian, transsexual and transgender peoples who believed that homophobia was the problem: not being gay.

I read personal accounts from gay men who had suffered electroshock and behavioural modification therapies, lithium psychiatric interventions and more, who had learned to heal…by loving themselves. And I researched a wide variety of theological interpretations of the bible, from diverse religious viewpoints, towards homosexuality.

I learned that I could love and be loved as a gay man, not only by myself and others, but also by my Creator.

I had found my cure.

Intimacy Moment #3

Officially, he'd broken up with me a couple of weeks prior. But we'd organized a weekend camping trip before he ended our monogamous relationship. We agreed to still go on the trip together, but we'd try to keep our hands off each other.

Obviously this wasn't going to work...I was still strongly attracted to him. He was strongly attracted to me. He just didn't want to be committed to me, and wanted to have sex with other people. Since I was his first real relationship with another man, he believed we could keep our hands off of each other. Since he was my fourth relationship, I knew this wouldn't happen. I admit, I was manipulative...I wanted him back, and I wanted sex. I didn't want to let go of him and our fabulous sexual relationship

I think I've written about this before, but let me say it again. I've had sex with men since I was 15. That's about 20 years. I've had sex with so many men, I can't count the number. Plus having four long term relationships. But I learned things about sex with him, that I never experienced or knew previously.

I'm not talking about anything kinky. We only ever had very vanilla sex. But his technique was beyond anything I'd ever experienced. It's ironic. I'm an out gay man for 20 years. He's a straight man trying to come out as bisexual, who knows far more about sucking cock and fucking than any gay man I've ever had sex with before.

Before I met him, I'd never cum from having a blow job. He could make me come in two minutes, without ever touching my cock with his hand - it was just his mouth that did it. He made me shoot my load so strongly, that it would hit my forehead, or the back of the wall, regularly. I also had double orgasms - something I read about in porn and thought was a legend. I'd cum once, he'd continue, and I'd cum again a few minutes later.

He taught me his techniques, so I could do it to him as well. As I've mentioned before, he was extremely well hung, at least 10" and thick, so he rarely ever had a good blow job. Not many guys could wrap their mouths and throats around him, and make him cum. So both of us loved having sex with each other. In fact, the last time I ever saw him (because eventually I did stop seeing him), I gave him the hottest blow job he's ever had - he was groaning loudly, while my straight roommate was right next door to us. Very embarrassing, but he couldn't help the noise. I really loved to gag on his cock and make him shoot his thick, exceptional load.

Back to the camping trip. We drove north, hiked a mountain, visited the ocean, and gazed at a waterfall. It was on the Sea to Sky highway, north of Vancouver, on the way to Whistler. We stopped at typical tourist traps, as well as headed up unpaved roads to unknown destinations. We had packed all our food and a cooler, so we didn't need to stop anywhere. We talked, listened to CDs, and became hornier and even more horny. Since he'd broken up with me, two weeks ago, neither of us had had sex.

To save money, he put a foam mattress in the back of his 4x4, with lots of pillows and blankets, so that we didn't need to bring a tent or go to a campground. So we'd have to sleep together, side by side. I brought my laptop and rented 6 DVDs, that we could watch, while lying next to each other in the back.

At our first stop in the afternoon, for a short nap, I had my hand on his dick, right away, once we were lying together in the back of the 4x4. He was already hard. He said, "No, we shouldn't be doing this." I assured him I knew we shouldn't be doing this, but what the hell. So I gave him one of my now famous blow jobs. I promised we wouldn't do this again, after our weekend. (Right!) I wiped my fist across my mouth, clearing off the excess.

Once it got dark, he said we should find an out-of-the-way place, on a back road, where we could park, watch DVDs and sleep for the night. I agreed. We found one. Then, what happened, I've never experienced before (or since).

We started to watch a DVD on my laptop, laying next to each other in the back on the foam mattress. Of course, my hand was soon on his dick, and his on mine. We were both hard already. He expertly stroked my nice. above average, thick cock, while I stroked his ten incher. It wasn't jerking up and down, hand around cock type of jerking. Sometimes, but not always. What happened is, we were playing with each other and we had lots of precum. So we used the precum to play with the backside of our cocks. The place where the skin connects with the head. It was like being in an extended moment of heightened sexual ecstacy. We did this for at least three hours, if not four. It was like having an extended moment of sexual orgasm - it was Tantric. My whole body was turned on constantly, while watching the DVDs. We both were rock hard the whole time. We both had a steady stream of precum to play with.

There was no discussion, really. We just did it. We both felt the Tantric sexuality of it. We just did it, had fun, and it felt so fucking good. It was really intimate.

I still remember the hardness of his cock. The slippery juice of his precum. The delicious healthy smell on my fingers. I know he felt the same way.

What is intimate about this situation is that there was no talking, just connecting on a very physical level. There were no cumming, no blow jobs, (until later). Just enjoying hard cocks, slippery cum, and massaging that most intimate joining of skin to skin. Mmm. It's worth writing about, for prosperity.

Attempt to tell Intimacy Moment #2 (The B eauty and Horror of Bisexual Men)

We were in the midst of our "honeymoon," high from sexual feelings for each other, but still didn't know each other. We went for dinner at a small Italian restaurant, a block away from Kitsilano beach, where all the beautiful people hang out. We got a patio-side table, next to the sidewalk. We were so engrossed in each other. The energy was thick between us (have you ever experienced this?). We were both engaged in a sense of heightened unreality. We wanted each other. Every word we spoke to each other was important and undeniably fascinating.

In the middle of our main course, a single woman near us, on the patio, asked us, "Are you brothers? You seem to be a lot alike..."

We laughed. I was complimented...I thought, I had found someone very special, who would spend the rest of my life with me.

The horrible thing about bisexual men is that they can fall in love with you, and deny it at the same time. They're not comfortable with being gay, and they're uncomfortable with being straight. In fact, they're fearful of being in love, with anyone...actually, I should say, they're terrified of commitment because that means they have to make a decision. Meanwhile, their hormones, psyche and soul leads them to hook up with a man, but their mind tells them they should love a woman. These men are conflicted and are not good partners.

They can block it off, longer than most of us. After dinner, we walked on the beach. It was July, the weather was warm. We walked down to an isolated beach, where beach-goers lit illegal fires, hung out, drank beer, kissed. There were about a dozen of heterosexual partners around us, sitting around the fire, drinking. But he sat me down on a beached log, myself sitting in between his legs, feeling his HUGE cock on my butt, and began kissing my neck, then my cheek, and then my lips, in front of all the other straight lovers. I felt a warmth from him, that was stronger than any other lover I have ever been with.

I said to him, "You should stop, there are people who can see this." He told me to ignore it.

Meanwhile, he's very publicly embracing me, kissing me, and making love to me in the most lovely way. I was in heaven. But it was only a moment in time. One that I'll remember for its intimacy.

Of course, it didn't last. Two weeks later, driving around in his 4x4, I was caressing his leg while he was driving. He asked me to stop. He was afraid another driver would see me doing this (which was unlikely, considering we're a couple feet higher than anyone else, and his windows are slightly tinted). I've found with bisexual men, they have moments of great intimacy, and then moments of total fear. It's unfortunate they're so attractive.

Moments of Intimacy

Rarely do I read about moments of intimacy. They’re difficult to express. Or, are they so rare, that few people experience them? I don’t know. It may be both. Here’s my attempt to express some of mine.

Delerium
We’re sitting in his Ford 4x4, listening to Delerium on my CD player that’s connected to his car’s stereo system. It’s a winter night on Saltspring Island. His car is parked on the edge of the hill, within a few steps from the bed and breakfast. I sense the drop-off in front of us – if the car were to roll, we’d be dead.

I can’t remember why, but he’s let me drive his 4x4, and I’m sitting in the driver’s seat. He’s next to me in the passenger seat. We’re still new to each other – I’ve only known him for a few months. But I believe we’re a lot alike.

Before we go inside, I ask him to listen to a track from Delerium, the album named Karma, with me.

The funny thing is, I don’t think we smoked a joint, but I remember feeling stoned. Was it the beautiful energy I felt between us, or did we puff on some dooby? I don’t remember, but I think it must be the energy between us, because he didn’t like to smoke pot.

So we lean back in our car seats, listening to the music wave over us. Delerium is a journey. It begins at one point, and ends at another.

I felt every note, and the song seemed to take forever.

I looked over at him, and he appeared to be experiencing the same ecstasy of the song. We listened to a couple more. When it was over, he was all smirks, and his body was draped off the seat. I really felt like we had connected.

For me, it was a moment of intimacy. One that I’ll never forget. For him, I don’t know.

(This post doesn't do the experience justice.)

Thank God, the Pope is dead
I can think of very few people and institutions as evil as the Pope, the Vatican, and the Catholic church. George Bush and the U.S. government comes in at the top ten. I am revolted by the news coverage of Pope John Paul II's death - headlines say things like "The Whole World Mourns the Passing Away of the Pope." Bullshit. Only the tiniest portion of the world even cares. The rest are celebrating. There are very few Catholics in the world, compared to the billions of others in different religions.

Take a look at the Pope's and Catholic church's record...they don't believe in birth control, making women second class citizens and baby producers...they believe gays are an abomination and have caused so much self-loathing and self-hatred for some of God's children...look at all the sexual abuse their repressed sexuality has caused for countless boys and girls, men and women...look at the Vatican's wealth - shouldn't they sell all their priceless treasures to help others? Do you think Christ would approve of their hoardes of wealth?...It goes on and on. I'm so irritated by the media's coverage of his death, making him sound like a saint, when I truly think he has been incredibly evil and caused so much suffering and injustice.

Even the concept of a man being the mouthpiece of God is incredibly insulting to my intelligence and the holiness of humanity. The Pope isn't Christ, for goodness sake! I truly wish it wasn't just the Pope who had died, but the whole institution of Catholicism.