Sex

My brother left New York more than a decade ago, and returned for the first time last weekend. He came back to find that he could barely remember exactly where on his block he had lived. The East Village is now capped with a luxury high rise buildings and nicer restaurants than he’d known in his time there. Though he wasn’t surprised to see what had changed, throughout the weekend he continued to wonder what his life would have been like if he’d stayed. I surmised that at 31 he’d probably still be single, or at least not married with two kids, as he currently is, and also that he’d probably not have wanted to stay in his tiny apartment, which we all thought to be a dump back then, even though it is now quite desirable address for people my age.

It made me wonder too what my life will be like if I remain in this town for the next decade. Will I still remain scraping by in an apartment in the eastern boroughs, and consider every 2 week to 2 month relationship as significant as the marriages my friends from back home and high school rushed into after college? Their marriages may take years to unravel, resulting in relentless analysis and heartache, but in New York our love lives seem to barrel along the path to destruction much faster, allowing us to pack countless romances into the space of our twenties with as much acumen as we pack a lifetime of belongings into studio apartments. More… »

Before I ever set foot in Italy, I had heard of the Trevi Fountain. Like the Statue of Liberty, or Eiffel Tower, it is one of the iconic landmarks and most popular tourist destinations in the world. But unlike Lady Liberty or la Tour, I had absolutely no interest in visiting it. What eventually enticed me to go see it during my four months in Rome, in addition to my parents’ insistence, was hearing about the legend of its coins. Being a sucker for astrology and superstitions in general, I was thrilled to learn that it was commonly believed that throwing coins into its depths could not only ensure that one would come back to Rome, but also find love.

From the outset it seems obvious that the promises could take years to be fulfilled, and my only case example I had was my parents. They waited more than 2 decades before they returned, and though they had already found love, their marriage endured and flourished throughout that time. So with nothing but a couple cents to lose, I tossed the pennies over the appropriate shoulder and hoped for the best. A few weeks later, one of my best girlfriend’s in Rome, best gay friend, an American studying for a year in Germany, came to visit. She had told me about him before and he and I had even chatted online before his arrival, but whether we would connect in person was yet to be seen. More… »

I had a threesome in a hot tub when I was 22. It was spring break, and I was in Palm Springs, CA. I was staying at an all-gay-men’s hotel with one of my friends from work. While the stranger we brought home from the bar attended to us, I noticed that one of the hotel owners was watching us through the bushes, and then more brazenly right next to the hot tub. Usually one’s reaction might be to grow shy and insist we take the party to a more private location, but at that time, and in that setting I did what I think every young, gay man, freed from the mores of society would do in that situation. I arched my back, pursed my lips and locked eyes with the voyeur while the stranger went down on my friend and I.

There is a mentality about public displays of affection that every gay man is at some point forced to address. Those of us fortunate enough to live in a big city where gay couples are more predominant may think less about kissing our boyfriends, or our dates on the street, but for so many others it is not even an option. When I first came out to my family, my mother, not surprised by this revelation, was chiefly concerned that I would end up wounded or killed if I expressed this sort of affection for another man in public. My immense naiveté at the time shrugged this sentiment off as simply ignorance on her part and an example of just how outdated older generations’ thinking could be. More… »

Déjà vu is described as the illusion of having previously experienced something actually being encountered for the first time. Though I sometimes have this uncanny feeling that the scene before me, no matter how mundane or common, is something I’ve seen before in a dream, déjà vu is stil lnot quite as unsettling as déjà screw: the uncertain feeling or absolute assertion that the person you just fucked was someone you have actually encountered before. Like the French term that precedes it, this sensation may sometimes only be an illusion, clouded by alcohol, drugs, or blind lust. The encounter may only appear to be the same, but in the gay community, these occurrences are not altogether uncommon.

It is important to realize that déjà screw is not exclusive to just sexual encounters. Every day and night we face the possibility of running into an ex, a former fuck buddy, or a one night stand. If we are sober enough to maintain composure and remember their name, awkwardness can usually be easily diffused with a nod of the head, perhaps a casual smile, and noncommittal wink. It’s enough to acknowledge their presence and not be forced to engage in forced pleasantries or small talk. More… »

It’s funny to hear how two people met. I know before we said that this is something you should avoid asking any new couple, but alone, when you’ve had the chance to drag your friend away to grill them on their crush it will most certainly be one of the first things they confess. We met in the Starbucks line, on the subway, around work, during a friend’s party, online, after church, on the street, and every other preposition followed by clichéd location. I don’t think it’s funny because the account of their coming together is every very humorous, but because it will be a story they will always have to tell if it works out, and the story that will be hardest to forget if they break up. More… »

The Olympics came to a close on Sunday. Personally, I’ve given little thought to these events in the past, but was enthralled with the stories of victory and defeat, not least of which the gold medal win of Australia’s 20-year-old Matthew Mitcham, who held the distinction of not only defeating the heavily favored Chinese divers but was the ONLY openly gay male athlete at the games. It was nice to see the out and proud Aussie take the gold — though the silver may have better suited his fair skin tone. Still, the whole Olympiad just made me think of sex, or rather my lack there of. With the solos, the duos, the teams, the “water sports,” spandex, and the relentless parade of perfectly toned bodies, the Olympic Village must have been a veritable Shangri-la for Mitcham or any of the closeted competitors.

 

Unfortunately, the Olympics fell far short of the abundant and gratuitous porn one can find online to really satisfy any carnal yearnings. The nightly barrage of chiseled abs and taut pecs reminded me that these sporting events too closely resembled the challenges we face on a more consistent basis — the challenge of dating and maintaining relationships in an age of up to the minute updates. Whether on TV or on your laptop in the living room, the man of your dreams seems to be within reach, but the games we play in the competition of love, often keep us from the podium of happily ever after.

Any casual viewer of television sitcoms or romantic comedies, (I assume that to be anyone reading this column) knows about ‘the game,’ its apparent ‘rules,’ and that no matter how closely played or followed, how it’s next to impossible to win. Like the tie-breaking guidelines for women’s gymnastics, ‘the rules’ of the game are both arbitrary and unfair. They ask us to go against our better judgment and emotions and force us to agonize about making the wrong decision. In an age of constant communication, they tell us to be aloof and unavailable. When we are falling head over heels for someone they dictate that we play it cool and act like there is something else we’d rather be doing.

 

The decathlon may seem like the ultimate torture for many, but anyone who has agonized over when to send a text message after a second date knows that playing ‘the game,’ can be even more exhausting. So why do we put ourselves through it? The game seems to be designed to ease ourselves and the object of our affection into a relationship that neither may truly wish to be a part of. We heighten tension by becoming aloof, and replace genuine affection and growing interest with a competitive drive to successfully woo the unwooable. Am I the only one that sees the flaws in this plan? More… »

It’s been more than 30 days since my ex’s last email. I know this for a fact because in the months following our break-up, my frustration at his refusal to stop communicating with me resulted in my not simply deleting his emails, but having them automatically filtered to Trash. In a daily moment of weakness I would check the Trash and when the final email appeared I crafted my last response and polite request to cease and desist. Emails that find their way into your Trash, which are few in the age of unlimited storage space, are automatically deleted after 30 days. Rather than just permanently delete them myself, I decided the 30 days would be a test for both him and I. My Trash is now empty…success?

 

Even though we are all now children of the internet age, we were raised with certain notions of romantic souvenirs. Nary a romantic comedy, sitcom, or drama is without the ritual exchange of presents between lovers. We watched after school teen queens horde scribbled love letters from their high school sweethearts, and the gentlemen of the original silver screen clutch dropped handkerchiefs of the lady that struck their fancy.

 

Throughout adolescence we adopt this habit of assigning extraordinary value to ordinary things. We press and dry flowers we’d have otherwise dumped. We save cards, movie stubs, and matchbooks, because they are the tangible proof that each date and milestone took place. But when everything can be more easily stored online, real love letters are all but obsolete, and space in our tiny apartments is at a premium, what happens when hearts are broken and relationships dissolve? More… »

INTRODUCING “The Discussion Fourgy.” Every week we pose a question and post the most hilarious, thoughtful, insightful, and totally brainless responses. The Fourgy is: A gay man. A straight man. A gay gal. And a straight gal.
 
Q: According to NPR: “Sex without Condoms is the new Engagement Ring.”  Can rubberless dongs truly replace princess cut canary diamonds? Is Trojan the new Cartier? Discuss.

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Straight Guy Tom responds:
The only way this substitution will hold is if the birth control pill becomes the new prenuptial agreement. Although, do you suppose online sales of cock rings have skyrocketed?

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Gay Gal Mazbot responds:
um, this whole thing confuses me.  i mean do girls really think that just because they get a ring, and have unsafe sex, that they will magically never be exposed to an STD?  And it’s not like people can’t cheat? But more importantly, it’s very foretelling of our sad economic state if people are will to trade safe sex for a proposal.

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Straight Gal Molly Responds:
Wow, I haven’t had a fourgy since college!!
Off the cuff I think that, unless your loved one is extremely rich, you can be fairly certain they aren’t giving anyone else a princess cut canary diamond. It is a lot harder to be sure, however, that they are not giving anyone else their rubberless dong.

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Gay Guy Phillip responds:

If you ask me, engagements are always messy. Ring or no ring, you’re still dealing with shit.

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Our celebrity-obsessed culture has made it harder to date than ever before. Every budding ingénue is a socialite, accommodating every young hunk and his entourage thinks they are the reincarnation of the Rat Pack. A society of status has filtered down to the masses through the ubiquitous social networking sites. I will admit, I am a self-proclaimed socialite, but I accept both the good and the bad that the moniker implies. A socialite at their best prides themselves on numerous and diverse social cliques and interests, at their worst they are nothing more than vapid, fame-seeking whores who subsist on being seen. Though catfights abound, historically, socialites are most in crisis when they attempt to enter relationships. Their sole persona has been crafted from their singularity, so it’s no surprise that becoming comfortable as a couple oft meets with limited success.

Case examples of this phenomenon are documented in every Hollywood weekly and gossip blog, where celebrity couples are scrutinized until they end in eventual heartbreak. Proof that one cannot exist in the public eye as both an independent half of a pair is exhibited by these publications’ predilection of combining the two stars’ names into something cute and clever like Brangelina. For us commoners our relationship ups and downs are charted on the news feeds of thousands of our closest friends and stalkers. More… »

I’m not sure which is more puzzling. The fact that manhunt.net is owned by two 60-year-old Republicans, or that it’s based in Cambridge, MA. Eitherway, you’ve got to read this.

As a normative way of socializing for gay men, online cruising is a disaster. We need to recognize its effects — including its tendency to isolate us, encourage objectification, and diminish our sense of life’s nonsexual possibilities — as disasters. We need to recognize that too many of us, too much of the time, are cruising online because it is easier and feels safer than thinking about the love we are missing and the power we do not have. Too many of us, too much of the time, are cruising online because it’s easier and feels safer than mustering the courage, patience, discipline, and imagination required to help ourselves and each other become the men that, in our strongest moments, we want to be. [OUT]