A blast from the past
I was running around, doing errands this afternoon, when I saw someone from the past. I haven't seen him in about 12 years. Partly this may be because I intentionally moved out of the gay areas of Vancouver about 7 years ago, and rarely go to the West end, and I've avoided going to gay clubs. But 12-14 years ago I went quite often, and used to hang out with a couple of friends who loved getting to know everyone. We'd cruise everywhere. By cruising, I mean we'd walk around the West end, going for coffee, walking the seawalk around English Bay and Stanley park, looking at hot men and fantasizing about meeting one of them. In the evenings we'd visit a night club, doing the same. If I may say so, the three of us together were fairly good looking ourselves.

We all had similar upbringings - good parents, nice middle class lives, excellent educations. We also came from smaller cities, so Vancouver was quite new and exciting to us, because we were learning about the gay culture. We were fairly naive, but during the course of our friendship - it lasted about three years - we all changed quite a bit. Jerod was from a small town in Saskatchewan, who moved to Vancouver because the older man he was obsessively in love with moved here. But the guy was a prick, who manipulated Jerod and while he liked having him around for sex, but definitely wasn't in love with him, nor wanted commitment. So poor Jerod was always going through huge emotional distress and jealousy. It began to change Jerod. He became a popular step-class instructor, and in order to avoid feeling all his pain and wanting to feel attractive, he became quite a slut. As if to prove he was desirable.

The strange thing that happened with Jerod and I...whenever I saw someone I found very attractive, Jerod would hone in on him. He'd find out about him, what he was into, and then end up having sex with him. This, of course, would really piss me off. It happened several times. And it was usually very sleazy sex. He started having sex with guys in their cars, or at a certain video shop on Granville Street, that had those coin operated porno booths. I think he'd even jerk off with guys in the gym's shower room after he was done teaching. I was trying not to be judgemental, but it was so opposite of the Jerod I had originally met, and I was quite concerned...and turned off. At that time I hadn't yet explored my own slutty side (It would be a few more years).

There was one guy we were interested in, just because he seemed so...good looking, but remarkably superficial and dumb. At the same time friendly and shy. He looked like one of those guys you see on the covers of Men's Fitness. We ran into him everywhere - at the gym, on the street, in the clubs. We talked with him eventually, and while I found him interesting, in a scientific way, I didn't find him sexually attractive.

One night, the three of us showed up for coffee, and Jerod had this story to tell about Mr. Men's Fitness. Jerod had met him at a nightclub the night before, then went home with him. Another conquest for Jerod! He had this perfect Calvin Klein apartment - all white sheets, white sheer floor length curtains, everything obsessively in place and perfect. When Jerod finally found himself in his bed, and they both took off their clothes, Jerod said he felt like he was about to have sex with a Men's Fitness model. He felt so intimidated.

Mr. Men's Fitness is unusually good looking, in that high-fashion model way. Long limbs, no fat, all definition, perfect abs, longish dark brown hair, a long, classically handsome face, etc. But there’s nothing natural about him – it’s all hard work and artifice. It’s all about how you look.

Mr. Men's Fitness tried to say something politely to Jerod. He said he didn't like hairy chests (Jerod's chest wasn't that hairy) and then offered to get out his clippers and trim his chest hair. The thing about this guy is that he is obsessively perfect, and doesn't tolerate anything less than perfect than him.

This ended up ruining the mood for Jerod, and he ended up leaving. I thought the whole story was so funny, because it exemplified for me everything that I thought Mr. Men’s Fitness was like. And it was funny because the only reason why Jerod bothered to go home with him was to have another conquest that he could brag about.

So this afternoon, 12 – 14 years later, I’m waiting for the bus (because I can’t afford my car right now). It’s pouring rain, and chilly. Everyone is wearing a jacket, pants and holding an umbrella. Out of nowhere comes Mr. Men’s Fitness. He’s wearing a very tight t-shirt with the short sleeves looking ripped off, shorts that are nearly see-through in the rain, and is dripping wet. No jacket. His perfect dark brown, longish hair is stylishly out of place, his biceps, triceps and leg muscles are artfully ripped. He looks gorgeous, but shockingly so. I think he was out for a 10 km jog along Jericho beach. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t live in Kits.

He sees me, and recognizes me. I consider for a moment saying hello. But I really don’t want to. I don’t even remember his name. Partly, because, I’m so over that type of gay culture...the one of perfection based on looks. Sure, it’s great to look at in pictures, but in real life – no thank you. There are thousands of handsome, intelligent, gorgeous men, who are also real. But I’ve always sensed no depth to this guy.

I had on my business wear – a black jacket, black pants and gray shirt, carrying my laptop briefcase. My longish dark hair was also wet, but probably not looking perfect.

He kept trying to catch my gaze, and I kept avoiding it. He even went so far as to stand next to me, two inches away, while at the bus stop. And there was tons of room. We were almost touching. And he continued to stand there. It was intimidating. Like I said, he is friendly, and probably somewhat nice. But I just turned away, looking expectantly for the bus.

At one point, a beautiful 30-something, blond woman walked passed us, looking him up and down, inside and out, and smiled at him, in a very sexual way. I mean, he’s a Harlequin Romance man. I don’t think she thought he was gay.

I think he lives the fantasy of looking like an extraordinary man. But I know he’s lived his life in pursuit of physical and outward perfection. I also know that he never smokes, drinks, does drugs, and his diet is probably vegetarian. This is worth emulating. But his pursuit of perfection hasn’t involved his inner self, unless it is the Tony Robbins kind of perfection. More money, more self-actualization. More superficial “spirituality.” I could be wrong. I hope so.

It could be that I’m the true stuck-up fag here.

We ended up getting off at the same bus stop, which disturbs me. I hope I don’t run into him again.

One other thing…I’ve always sensed he wanted to get to know me. Opposites attract. I really don’t mean this in a self-serving way. But there have been many extraordinarily good-looking guys, without depth, but who desire depth, that have wanted to get to know me. I’ve tried it, but it doesn’t work out. I’ve done the same thing – I’ve always been fascinated by extraordinarily good looking men, who are dumb, but in the end, it doesn’t work out.

I feel guilty for not saying hello.

Messenger me
I just downloaded the most recent Messenger! It's not the most up to date, since I am on a Mac, but at least I can "chat" with people. My chat is "intertextual@hotmail.com." Chat with me!

Legal problems over?

I'm not sure where to start with this. I also have to be very vague. But in the last month and a half, I've been in conflict with a client, and I've been doing contract negotiations. Fortunately I have a sister who has acted as a legal representative for me, otherwise I'd have to pay thousands of dollars for such legal advise. It's been very stressful for me, since I haven't received any payment for thousands of dollars of work in over two months. Nevertheless, it seems like it's being worked out, although I'm taking a huge cut. It's very unpleasant, and not something I enjoy going through. But it seems like it may be resolved today. Thank goodness. Once this whole situation is over, I'll blog some more about it. It was surreal.

Hair

I’ve decided to grow my hair longer. It’s been two and a half months since I got it cut. Normally I have fairly short hair, buzzed with a number 2 on the sides, keeping the top longer, the back shaved short with a natural hairline. I’ve done a couple different looks over the years, but normally come back to my traditional haircut.

But I’ve noticed lately, in Vancouver, that there is a new look. It’s sort of 70s, I think. There are all these young, hot guys, going to the University of BC (I live near there, so I see them all the time on the bus or walking around Kitsilano) with longer hair, bangs, and a non military looking cut. Surprisingly, it’s kind of hot. Several years ago I decided to grow my hair out, and it looked good on me. I got my driver’s license taken with this haircut, and it’s a great picture. I was into bisexual guys from Port Coquitlam at the time, and this was their style. So I decided to emulate it.

(Oh man, I just poured hot wax onto me, accidentally, when picking up my cinnamon candle. Fortunately I wasn’t burned. But it’s all over my shorts and bed sheets. Anyway…)

I always had very dark, super straight hair since I was a young boy. But in the 80s, I decided to get a perm. A neighbour in Saskatoon gave me the perm. It was horrible! I ran back home, washed it with dishwashing detergent and Ajax scouring powder, hoping it would get rid of the perm. It just made my hair fuzzy. Since then, when my hair gets long, it gets curly. It curls up at the back of my neck, and curls all over. I have to use a lot of gel to get it into place and looking decent.

But it’s also kind of fun looking. I’m not this “perfect, military cut” looking guy anymore. Perhaps I seem more natural and free. I don’t know. Maybe I just look like a freak?

But since my hair has become longer, I’ve noticed everyone looking at me. Staring, in fact. It makes me feel very uncomfortable. I’m used to be noticed, but not this noticed! I had someone take my picture, and I think I look okay. So I’m not sure why I’m getting so much more attention lately. Is it because I look like an idiot, or because they like my hair long and curly at the ends?

I can be on my bicycle, and other cyclists (usually female) smile at me and say hello. I’m so uncomfortable – that’s never happened to me before. I walk onto a bus, and people make direct eye contact with me, and smile at me. Since when did Vancouver become this friendly? I keep running into this French Canadian girl, with bleached blond messy hair, who says hello, and wants to have a conversation with me (she lives in the area I think). She looks very alternative.

So, I’m feeling very uncomfortable with this new look. I’m not sure if it’s good on me, or what?! I look horrible when I wake up in the morning. All this long, curling hair becomes major fuzz and …

(ouch, I just burned myself with more candle wax)

I look like I’ve been on a major drinking binge. Maybe this huge mess and mop of hair is attractive to some people?

Possibly, but I’ve never thought of myself this way before. Of course, my friends always say positive things about me, and they like the way I look. In fact, most of them have always asked me to “Mess up your hair!”

I feel like I should buy a hair dryer. Something I haven’t owned in 15 years. Maybe a hairdryer will shock my fuzzy, curling hair into place. But then, I’d probably look extremely 80s.

Believe me, I’ll have fun with this long hair for a while, but the upkeep is too intense. With short buzzed hair, you wake up and look perfect. But with long hair, it takes far too many minutes off my life to try to style it, and make it look presentable. It also takes two hours to dry (without a hairdryer).

Actually, I wish I knew a really great stylist who knew how to work with hair like mine. And teach me how to handle it. Perhaps I’ll do some research.

Isn’t it remarkably superficial that I can spend this much time on a blog about hair? Oh my goodness. I need to get a real life.

One more Vancouver observation

1. When local Vancouverites ask you to do a hike, most people from other cities imagine a pleasant stroll over gentle, but rolling hills and beautiful moss-covered cedar forests. You stop to admire the fallen log that has sprouted a new cedar tree, or the beautiful field of ferns. You expect to enjoy the silence, broken by a lovely song of birds. (This is what I imagined at first.) Not in Vancouver.

"Let's go for a hike today," in Vancouver, means..."Let's climb a 9,000 metre mountain called Grouse Grind within an hour. Let's not even pause to look at the landscape." The Grouse Grind is a hugely steep trail, that gets worse just as you reach the top. It is the most brutal exercise you can imagine. All you New York gym queens have no idea what a real workout is. You're climbing through mud, boulders and uneven terrain. There's no chance to view the beautiful landscape - all you see is your feet, taking one step after another, and sweat dripping down your brow into your eyes, nose and mouth.

By the time you get to the top of the mountain, every ounce of energy is gone. You're just glad you're alive.

This is just one of the typical "hikes" people do in Vancouver. There are dozens of these. Usually it's worth it because the view from the top of the mountain is amazing. But getting up the mountain is pure hell.

Vancouver

I love reading blogs from writers who live in different countries and cities. It allows me to be a voyeur into their lives, which are so similar, yet different in subtle and interesting ways. Even the United States is so different from Canada, although we are neighbours. There are huge differences between New York, San Diego, Alabama, the mid-west, and Seattle. I enjoy trying to pick out the subtle cultural/geographical differences.

I love reading "Made in Brazil" because it gives me insight into their sexy, social and machismo culture, that can be dangerous, yet is surprisingly flexible when it comes to sex between men. I love reading "Tokio Bleu," because it shows me contemporary Japanese culture, which tends to be creative, gentle, intelligent and whimsically fashionable. "Is Mise" informs me on the daily life of an Irish man – going to pubs, drinking beer, socializing, joking around and yet being worldly.

Of course I’m generalizing, and steriotypifying to a large degree. But sometimes it’s helpful to do so, to gain some insight. Reading blogs from other countries makes me reflect on my own culture – Vancouver, BC, Canada. I’ll attempt to make some generalizations.

1. Vancouver is fairly multi-cultural. Other than Caucasians, the largest majority of the population are Asians (mostly Chinese, some Japanese), and then Middle Eastern and Indians. Within two blocks of me, there are three Asian restaurants. There are so few black people that when you see one, you’re surprised.

2. My Mexican roommate noticed that everyone reads on the transit here – not just newspapers, but also books.

3. I think it’s simply being a Pacific Coast city…but the main thing I noticed when I moved here is that intensity and anger is not allowed or tolerated here. Unlike Toronto, people go out of their way to appear easy-going, relaxed and non-intense. If you become intense or angry, you’re treated like a freak. Unfortunately the negative side of this is that so many people are passive-aggressive on the West Coast of Canada.

4. While there is some cultural activity in this city, it cannot be compared to Toronto or East Coast cities. After having lived here for a while, I went back to Toronto and was amazed by how so many people engaged me in an intelligent conversation about politics, the world, the arts, religion and society. These topics tend to be too intense for the West Coast.

5. Nearly everyone here is involved in physical activity – working out, hiking, swimming, sailing, skateboarding (one of the top city planners who is openly gay and 50 years old, rides to work on his skateboard everyday), rollerblading, walking, cycling, camping. It’s because nature is so prevalent here. Nature overtakes culture in this city.

6. Even though we have a huge gay population, there’s only a handful of clubs. I believe the majority of gay men (who are 28 plus) don’t ever go to a club. You’ll only meet these guys by becoming a part of their dinner party circle, gym or favourite sport. You’ll see them at large special event parties though, with their shirts off.

7. Vancouver is mostly anti-fashion. You’ll practically never seen a woman with make-up, high heels and wearing a dress. No one wears black, unless you’re an immigrant. Black is too intense.

8. No one smokes in Vancouver. You’re not allowed to, anywhere. If you’re smoking outside a building, you need to be 3 metres away from the door.

9. There is a yoga studio and natural health store every block. Along with Asian restaurants. Sushi is cheap here!

10. Since it rains 6 months of every year in Vancouver, people squint when the sun comes out (unless they’re wearing sunglasses). It really is a shock when the sun comes out and the sky is clear.

I love Vancouver!

An admission

Over the past year and a half, I’ve been celibate (thanks for the spelling correction, Maloney). Except for a single sexual experience in December 2004, which I paid for (I hired an escort), I’m re-virginizing myself. The escort experience was fine, but not worth the cost ($200 per hour).

This is my process:

• I break up with my partner, with whom I’m in love
• To get over the pain, I have lots of sex with mostly anonymous guys for about six months
• I get bored with the absence of intimacy and meaning
• I give up sex.
• Once I feel renewed, re-virginized, and pure, I end up meeting someone special.

I think I’ll be ready to date again, at the end of July.

What’s great about hiring an escort is that I don’t have to go to a gay club to pick someone up, or go online and take my chances, and I know what I’m getting.

That’s why I’ve been blogging about past experiences in the last year and a half. I have no new experiences to share.

I’ve done this every time I’ve broken up with a partner. I have sex with lots of guys for a while, then get bored, get celibate, then after a year or more, meet someone new.

That’s how I work.

Celine Dion & Quebec Canada - The English-Speaking Canadian's Perspective

A difficult relationship exists between English and French-speaking Canadians. It can be seen in the way that each perceives international singer Celine Dion. To English-speaking Canadians she epitomizes the Quebecois. Canada is a relatively accepting country - after all, we're a very multicultural society. So I'm not sure why so many English speakers have such a derogatory opinion of native Quebecers.

English-speaking Canada (ESC) tends to find Celion Dion "embarrassing." If we were American, we'd be celebrating the fact that "one of our own" is acknowledged as being the world's best "pop" singer and performer. But no, not us ESCers.

While we might acknowledge that French-Canadians are the most social, best looking, highest cultured, most sexual and fashionable of Canadians (when administered truth serum and under oath), we don't like them because they're "show offs."

I just watched a new biography on Celine Dion, this evening. It was very well done. It gave me new insight as to why I have such a difficult relationship to her.

There are two reasons.

Celine Dion's accent is hard on the ears. It's just plain UGLY. It's has none of the purity of Parisian French. It's Quebecois French. In the rest of Canada, we call it FROG language. French-Canadians speak through their nostrils. Imagine pinching your nasal passage and then pronouncing "wah, wah, wah." That's what they sound like to us.

I can hear hear Celine's Quebecois accent in her mostly lovely singing voice. It really upsets me and makes me wonder if the rest of the world is deaf. (Can't you hear it too?)

But I think the worst thing that offends my ECS sensibilities is that she is SO confident. To be that confident is okay for Americans. It's not okay for Canadians. We're not allowed to be that in-your-face about it. It's improper. Celine is so super-confident, so perfectly honest, so real and without any apparent guile it just seems...un-Canadian. And please, most Canadians wouldn't admit to visiting Las Vegas, nevermind living there.



ECSers have built our national identity on self-flagellation. We criticize ourselves, our politicans, government, economics, culture and talent incessantly. We're never good enough, and we're proud of it - but quietly proud. Our greatest sense of national unity comes from a Molson Canadian beer commercial called "I am Canadian." Our identity is created not out of an existential self-determinism, but out of what we are not. We're not American.

The Quebecois aren't American either. They're a weird hybrid of Parisian self-importance and...some permutation of Canadian culture.

Let me end with our theme song, which summarizes much better than our national anthem does, what we're all aboot about:

Hey.
I'm not a lumberjack,
or a fur trader...
and I don't live in an igloo
or eat blubber, or own a dogsled...
and I don't know Jimmy, Sally or Suzy from Canada,
although I'm certain they're really, really nice.

I have a Prime Minister,
not a President.
I speak English and French,
NOT American.
and I pronouce it ABOUT,
NOT A BOOT.

I can proudly sew my country's flag on my backpack.
I believe in peace keeping, NOT policing.
DIVERSITY, NOT assimilation,
AND THAT THE BEAVER IS A TRULY PROUD AND NOBLE ANIMAL.
A TOQUE IS A HAT,
A CHESTERFIELD IS A COUCH,
AND IT IS PRONOUCED 'ZED' NOT 'ZEE', 'ZED'!

CANADA IS THE SECOND LARGEST LANDMASS!
THE FIRST NATION OF HOCKEY!
AND THE BEST PART OF NORTH AMERICA!

MY NAME IS JOE!
AND I AM CANADIAN!

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.

Eulogy to Bloggers who have quit, or almost quit

I’m remarkably saddened by the following bloggers who have quit their blog. So this is my eulogy at their untimely and tragic blog deaths.

Space-Waitress: http://space-waitress.blogspot.com

This man was one of the most brilliant comedic writers online, who sadly had to shut down his site because his employers discovered his site. It was fascinating to hear about the behind-the-scenes goings-on as a flight attendant, and also a manager. He had a unique voice and vision. He also had (has) a long-term relationship that has lasted over a decade – which he shared with readers in an unflinching and honest manner.

Cool-Relax: http://www.coolrelax.blogspot.com

Sweet, sexy, hot. He often posts about his ex-lover DJ who is a creep (and doesn’t understand the meaning of commitment and doesn’t deserve him). CoolRelax loves golf, basketball, singing karaoke, has the sexiest mp3 voice you’ve eva heard. He’s smart and has a job saving the environment. Plus, he has great abs and tight bod. My favourite post was his description of having post-break-up anal sex with DJ. It makes me hard to this day.

Addaboy: http://addaboy.blogspot.com/

The belle of the ball, working at a big-time publicity company, meeting stars, going to parties, attracting and sleeping with New York cops. I loved hearing his ambiguous and unclear references to these.

He’s still writing, once a month. Let's hope he gets back on track.

SlimnMuscly: http://slimnmuscly.livejournal.com/

The most fascinating journal of an escort, who’s a talented painter, who spirals downward into drugs and manic depression. And ends up living with his religious parents trying to change his life. I really wish he would blog again – I’m wondering how he’s doing. I hope he hasn’t been “converted.” (I’m talking religion here.)

Toddo: http://toddo.blogspot.com/

Sigh. He’s gone from the blogosphere. He was intelligent, informative, sexy. He rarely told us about his personal life, but when he did, it was fabulous and fucking hot. He’s a journalist and radio-show host. He was ground-breaking, being a public figure, yet sharing his life with others. I guess it got the best of him? He wrote insightfully about all things. I miss him.

Shaved

I had shaved my head.

I had bought one of those shavers, or clippers, that come with various sized extensions. I used it to trim my bush hair. My genitals. I had done this since I was 14. I also trimmed my leg hair, and the hair on my forearms with a number two. I was a hairy fuck, but no one knew, since I had shaved since I started to get hair on me. I used a razor on my chest and stomach, so it was smooth, not just trimmed.

I felt like I was never supposed to have hair. When it started coming, I took it off. It wasn’t just because I was a gymnast, and there’s some unwritten rule that gymnasts must be smooth. (Have you ever seen a gymnast with hairy armpits?) That’s an excuse I used. Before it was even popular to shave body hair, I took a blade to my bod. This isn’t some kind of foreshadowing, by the way. It’s just the truth.

I don’t think even my mom knows how hairy I am. One of our favourite activities, growing up, was to suntan, and so there I was, all smooth, baking myself in the summer prairie sun, with razor bumps. Fortunately, I’m not so hairy that I have hair on my back…well, not until I was older, anyway.

Now I’m 40, and have some back hair. I’m not an ape, but still, there is hair on my back. I haven’t been shaving myself for about a year now, so I am able to reach back and pull and find a finger full. I’m not about to go show myself naked to someone, so after 26 years of shaving, I’ve given up the task for the moment. At least, my hair is a light brown, and fine.

I don’t remember the moment I decided to take the clippers to my head. The deciding moment. That’s lost to me. Looking at myself in the wall-to-wall mirror, the light a blue/white from morning sun mixed with Hollywood light bulbs and white walls, I took the buzzing instrument with a number one extension and glided it against my scalp. I started in the exact centre of my head. Methodically, I shaved it evenly, one stroke on each side, one after the other, tendrils of dark brown hair clinging to my nose and the stainless steel sink plugger. Ceramic white mauled by prickly brown hair chops.

Inches away from my reflection, I stared into my brown eyes. I was still drunk, but didn’t look it. The whites of my eyes were white. My brows framed them beautifully. Although most of my hair was gone I still looked like me, only unadulterated.

Once, on a crowded bus during rush hour in July, I sat next to a 30-something middle-eastern man who smelled of sex and sweat, and couldn’t keep his hands off his dick. Normally, this should be a turn on, but he exuded abnormality. He was wearing shapeless grey sweatpants, in which he slid his right hand down and started jerking. The bus was so crowded, people were standing hip to hip in the aisles, but this didn’t stop him. Maybe it turned him more on.

I think what turned me off is that he was turned on by me. And because I found him disgusting, I turned on him. If he had been blond or something, I wonder if I would’ve helped him, you know? Actually, that’s not the truth – I tend to find middle-eastern men extremely hot. It was his energy of perversion that grossed me out. My older sister told me when I was 12 that if a pervert comes onto you, that you should embarrass them publicly. Perverts tend to be cowards, and when you publicly state their perversion, they stand down. This all comes to mind while I’m sitting next to Mr. Jerkoff on a crowded bus, in the middle of a sweaty summer day, and he’s smelling of sex and perversion with his right hand bouncing up and down in his sweatpants.

I stated loudly, so all the bus could hear, “What are you doing? Masturbating?”

He looked at me incredulously.

“No!” he loudly proclaimed. Meanwhile, he was still spanking the monkey. He was looking me in the eye and denying that he was jerking off. How insulting is that?

“Do you want me to tell the bus driver?” I asked. A lovely blond woman standing in the bus aisle noticed our conversation, and carefully moved away from us.

The masturbator started threatening me, "I'm going kick your ass," etc. He looked me up and down, all over and sideways, his mouth and eyes agape. “What are you? Some kind of plastic thing?” he asked.

Ironically, I was terribly complimented.

By shaving my head I ended up looking even more plastic - like a science fiction, mass produced, in vitro clone. It made me look generic and indistinct.

I was at the end of a binge, coming down. It wasn’t the kind of binge where you’re just a little hung over once you woke up. It was the kind of drunk where you’ve inhaled 26 ounces within 4 hours, got blasted, said nasty things, ruined your life, then went to bed, woke up, and floated around still drunk. I was floating when I shaved my head. It’s was a graceful slow-motion episode, and every movement is meaningful and thoughtful. Including the grazing of clippers across my scalp.

It was a significant gesture, one that changed my life, forever. If I hadn't shaved my hair off, I would probably never have met Les...

It's late on Saturday night, I'm a little drunk, but here it goes, with no apologies:

Question: Suppose BC calls me, after two years, and out of nowhere? What should I say?

Answers:
It's entirely unlikely that BC will ever call me. In fact, I should drop the question. He has a history of ex-friends and ex-sex-partners calling him, but as far as I know, he never called any "ex" himself. Therefore, this question is moot.

It's assumed BC would never call me after two years because he wasn't as in love with me, as I was with him. When I think back to our relationship, I see he was very disconnected, but continued our relationship mostly because he got something out of it. It wasn't because he felt attached to me. I realize he wasn't in love with me. In fact, I think he used me.

But just in case he calls me, I need to be prepared.

He'd say "hello," and what should I say?

Here's the fast and positive version: "Hi BC, thanks for calling. I appreciate it. You have a good life. Take care. Bye." This would be a positive conversation, in that I'm not blaming him for anything, but also letting him know clearly that I don't want to speak with him again.

Here's the more complicated version: "Hi BC. Why are you calling?" BC would be irritated by this because I'm not playing by his "easy-going" guy-thing. I'm making it his responsibility to explain things, which he doesn't like to do. But this may be the best option. But his answer would be very open-ended and drab, and not help me at all.

He could call me, and say, "Hello." I could hang up immediately, which is probably the wisest decision I ever make.

But I'm thinking....Suppose he's changed. Suppose he has thought about us, how good we were together, and how much he misses me. Suppose he's been with a dozen guys since our relationship (which is likely), and has realized how terrific I am. So he calls me, a changed man. And then, how do I respond?

Do you allow someone a second chance, even when you know better? How do you manage such a call, when he could be the same person (meaning I should hang up on him) or if he has changed (in which I'd need to have a longer conversation with him)?

Who the fuck knows. It probably won't happen anyway, so I don't know why I'm wasting brain cells on the whole issue.

I guess it's a fantasy that he would call, and I simply need to let it go.

I lost respect for the Trump
I saw The Apprentice last night. I can't believe Trump fired the Bradford! I've been trying to work out the philosophy behind Trump's decision, and am not clear on it.

I admit, I find Bradford very sexy. He looks like my ex - BC - in some ways. The tall body, the cute, kind and sexy eyes. Bradford has a lot of charisma. And I like his ability to be decisive.

When Bradford offered up his immunity...he was being courageous. Taking a risk. In business, you have to take risks, and often you are rewarded for them. Especially when you're as talented as he is.

But instead, Trump used it against him, for absolutely no purpose that I can define. Trump, himself, has taken huge risks, and won. He's got an ego that would win world-wide awards. So what's his problem with Bradford? Why did he "fire" him?

I wonder if Trump is intimidated by Bradford's charisma and loveability. He doesn't want competition in his business. If you notice his two side-kicks - the old guy and the younger blond female - they always cowtow to him. They never say anything that would offend the Trump. In fact, they always manage to say the right thing, that is in concordance with Trump. I think they are "yes-men." I've lost respect for them. I think it's clear, from the second episode, that Trump doesn't want anyone who is more talented and charismatic than himself.

Is it possible that Trump's philosophy is that...when you have a gain on other competitors, that you shouldn't offer it up? It's wrong to make yourself vulnerable when you have something over other competitors that makes you safe? Possibly. Do I think it's right? No.

So, I've lost my admiration and respect for Trump, and I'm seriously considering not watching the rest of the show. Unless there's a sudden turnaround, such as Trump inviting Bradford back, I've lost all interest in the show. It's too bad - I really liked it last season.

So FUCK YOU TRUMP. I shouldn't be surprised. People like him are always assholes, interested in their own fame and fortune, and never really help anyone else to raise to the top.

An impasse

Oh fuck. I just spent an hour typing a profound message. Then IE screwed up and I lost it all. So here's the short form (in much cruder words):

I've reached an impasse. I let go of a prestigious job at a prestigious college teaching a prestigious course, with the possibility of tenure in another year. I'm feeling like an idiot. I've felt this way before - having a great job, not being happy with the SHIT going on, and yet in the past I've always succeeded, getting better work, getting better pay.

I'm scared right now that won't happen. But I need to gather my energies to make sure this happens again, now. I also need to get in touch with what I truly want to do, and make a success of it. So this is where I'm at. I'll let you know how it goes.

Fuck. I wrote such a beautiful entry about my experience, and then IE fucked up, and I lost pages of writing.

I guess, you just need to go with the flow...

Upon re-reading this entry, it is much more to the point! Isn't that positive!

Summer is over, here in Vancouver

There's something about summer that makes me not want to post, or feel like writing. It's too beautiful here...there's too much to do. We've had an amazing, third-year-in-a-row, global-warming, summer. Vancouver is always incredible in the summer. All of our city is out, on the beaches, in the streets cruising, going for coffees, hiking, camping, and mountain climbing. I bought a fan for the first time because it was so hot and humid. I'd take a shower, and drip sweat within moments of drying myself off. This is highly unusual - it's more like Toronto's weather.

It's luscious, sexy (seeing all the beautiful men, shirtless and in shorts) and having outdoor lunches with friends, or going camping on the Gulf Islands.

My idealistic summer was cut short by a phone call, from the assistant dean, of the college I work at, last week Thursday. I was about to start a new term on the following Monday. He had his secretary call me to arrange a meeting.

I asked her to forward me to the assistant dean, to ask, "Why?" The AD (assistant dean) said that there were two student complaints about me from the following year, and wanted to meet with me. Pleasantly, I asked, "why, what happened?"

The AD refused to tell me.

I said, "Yes, I did return the student final marks two weeks late... is this the problem?"

He said, "No, it's worse than that."

I asked, "What could be worse than that?"

He refused to tell me.

Over the last two years, I've had a personality conflict with the new AD. He took over two years ago. He has no educational background, and has no idea of what it's like to work with students or in an educational institution. He comes from Toronto, from a corporate/financial/managerial position. Ever since he's taken over, he's created a very negative working situation - not only for myself - but for other instructors. He does everything by the book, according to union guidelines. At least 14 instructors have quit, in the past two years. Some of the instructors have been at the college for 15 years. I have been there 5 years.

In the past 2 years since he's taken over, I've found working at the college very difficult. No one seems to be helpful. This includes long-term employees, as well as computer staff, and secretarial staff. I have problems booking rooms, getting rooms, getting the support staff to help me, getting my office set up with NOTES and computer access, etc. Before the AD came into his position, I never had any problems.

In fact, due to the AD's incompetence, I taught a course without booked computer rooms for 4 weeks. Can you imagine how pissed the students were? They had no where to go for their lab times!

I decided in the second year, that I didn't want to go through the horror of teaching students at the college, due to this new AD's control. I decided to take a term off - I refused the contract. He ended up hiring a totally incompetent teacher. He hired a previous colleague (who had no teaching experience), who had a panic attack for the first three classes. During his first class, he froze, started hyperventilating, and ran outside the classroom to find another instructor in the college for help.

The poor guy who was hired also wasn't knowledgeable in the areas that I taught, so he made up things. The worst aspect is that he never gave the college students any handouts, or gave examples.

So what happened, in the middle of the term, is that the AD ended up calling me, begging me to return. I did and saved the day!

After finishing the first term, to great success, I taught the second course in the spring, and I thought things were going well between myself and the AD. Until the phone call before the Monday (recently) I was supposed to start teaching.

I refused the AD. I said, "I want you to tell me what problems other students have told you about, so I can look up my records, and be prepared when I meet you."

The AD said "No."

The AD was playing things according to union rules (which can be a good thing, but not in this case). So I told him, "Suppose you were being accused of things, without any information, and are asked to go to a meeting without any backup...how would you respond?"

The AD said, "I would show up to the meeting."

In part, he's right. He's right, if I wanted to play the whole paternalistic, unionistic and bureaucrastic game, I would go to the meeting. But the thing is, I don't. In the first three years at the college, I was run by an assistant dean who believed in me, who gave me the benefit of the doubt. He never asked me to follow union rules because he believed in me as an instructor. This previous AD had teaching experience and umpteem years in being a manager. This horrible new AD does NOT!

I told him, "I won't meet with you under these conditions. I won't be put into the position of defense, without knowing what you want to meet me about."

Anyway, there's so much more I could talk about. A couple of things: three highly inflammatory e-mails that I shared with a union representative from the new AD, and they were concerned about - they were willing to take action against this rude AD.

So I told this new AD that I would not return to teach this term. Now he has to find someone new to teach.

I feel like I made the right decision. I will never be controlled, by someone who is not upholding me as an excellent teacher.

And plus, I can make so much more money by doing my own gig.

Update

I can't believe it's been more than a month and a half since I posted my last blog. I'm still here, still alive. But, like CoolRelax says, there's something about summer that makes me not want to post. I'm too busy enjoying the warm summer months. I see there are several other bloggers that feel the same way. I'll be back. Perhaps this post will make me feel like posting again, regularly.

I'm sorry to see that SissySpacechik has gone off-line! How terrible! One of the best sites I've ever seen!

I see that VividBlurry has posted a quote from me, along with several others. This makes me respect him again. I realize...he knows how to play the "media" and perhaps that's his plan. So "I'm loving it" again.

I have so much more to say, yet so little drive, because it's the summer, and I want to put on my swim trunks and nothing else, and walk on down to the beach to watch hot, straight volleyball players in their shirtless attires kick sand. It's the simple things that get me off.