Don’t Look Back

Peel the wet clothes from your body; around you others half-naked push and pull at their own clothes. You turn to avoid them when naked; wrap the towel hastily around your waist, step quickly over the slick tile into the showers. Each time is an awakening, shedding through force and repetition the fear that’s kept you clothed since boyhood. Under spraying nozzles men of all shapes and skin tones lather, turn, rinse, shake. Partitions lend some small privacy, yet the one across from you can always see, should he choose. Face the spray and the wet tiled wall, prime the soap dispenser wondering what someone would make of your back. Each soap squirt a staccato in your palm; a rapid percussion to lather broad expanses of your skin; turn under the spray and glance across at the boy browner than you; smoother skin and a beautiful dick; turn away and sigh at the sight, too shy for your own good. It sticks in your head. And now you’re responding in kind; your own dick stirs, unwelcome in this room, or so you’d think. Stay under the spray and will it down and when it won’t something falls from your shoulders; some burden you’ve never been without. Turn boldened and he glances there and you glance back and his stirs back, rising. You’ve never ever done this. Each bolder you two stare; heat strong welling up from your skin, a game you begin. Show and turn away; reveal and cover, each second a lovely sin. Wish it could go on, go anywhere but here, make him something he won’t be. Imagine a dark room and a wordless wrestling; what you’d love to do with that. Around you the others come and go, the showers never emptying. Look back as you grab the towel; there’s the line you crossed, the path you can’t take back. Will he or won’t he and what’ll you do now? This gym ain’t so straight after all.

Share amongst yourselves

Is it just me, or do my comments fail to load most of the time? Then again, how would you let me know? Email me.

Have you bombed Vince yet? Do you have some love to share, or are you too busy building a fortress around your heart to protect you from future pain? No regrets. No retreat. Bombs away.

I Would Do Anything for Love, But I Won’t Do That

I suppose he found me through the ‘AOL Member Directory” search. I keep meaning to delete my old cruising profile, but it’s kind of like a pair of jeans I’ve outgrown: maybe someday I’ll fit into them again. So I put it off.

‘Hi there, nice profile,’ he writes. The little IM window popping up over my email takes me by surprise. I do what I used to do; I cut and paste his screenname in the ‘find a profile” box. No profile for that member. Oh well, I think, what could it hurt?

‘Hi back,” I type.

Thus begins our conversation, me and the SF Giant’s ‘Number 1 Fan”. Or so he says. I tell him I was on the field of Pac Bell Park Saturday. He gushes a bit. Then changes course. ‘Trade pics?” he asks.

Oh, what the hell, I think. You never know.

Ooh. Er. Yikes, I think.

‘It’s not a great pic of me,” he types, ‘much better looking in person.”

I give him the benefit of the doubt, but even that won’t quite do. ‘Not quite a match for me, but thanks, and good luck out there,” I type. My standard let-em-down-easy.

A few moments pass. Back to my email.

‘I’d be willing to pay you,” he writes.

I stop and look at that sentence for awhile.

‘$100?” he asks.

I look at it some more. No, no way, I think.

‘$150?”

I look at that for awhile.

‘$200?”

My mind begins to play little games. After a few seconds I type, ‘For what?” I hit ‘send” and then wince. What am I doing?

‘Kissing. Mutual oral, j/o, open,” he replies.

I imagine engaging in these activities with him. I imagine attempting to eroticize the idea of prostituting myself. No, no way. No fucking way. Thanks for the ego stroke buddy, I think, but no way. I close his window.

He won’t let up. The price rises with his desperation. Any reply will fuel the flames. I close his windows. After a few minutes he gives up.

I’m finishing my email when another IM pops up on my screen; a different screenname.

‘Nice profile,” he types. I cut and paste again. No profile.

‘I’m married, so need to be discrete,” he types.

Oh no, I think.

‘I don’t have a pic, but I once paid an escort,” he types. ‘Are you an escort?”

I could take you many places, I think. But I can’t take you there.

Round Three

Kudos to all of you who helped make the third round of The Love Bomb a sweet, sticky mess, bombing Kate and her dog Simon into a state of giddiness and cake-making. May a thousand monkeys give you a thousand spankings. And may I point out that there is no such thing as too much Bomb. Though a new week is upon us, Kate needs a constant barrage of love and cowboy hats to keep her stylin’ through all her future travels.

Time for a new target. Suit up, butt pirates of the Caribbean; it’s time to take a new hostage. A relative newcomer to blogging (well, newer than me), Vince is our sweet and sulky Red-Headed Wolf, a wayward nun and love warrior whose wings have been singed and who needs to get bombed. Those of us in animal shelter administration might not like the “Radom Beatings on a Dead Horse” tag (we can be humorless that way) but we’re willing to look the dead horse in the mouth just because Vince is so cuddly, even when he’s trying to be grumpy. Which is almost never. Really.

Bombs away, darlings. Stalk him at bingo. Donate to his causes. Wade through his archives (relax, you’re soaking in it!) Round up a pack of hairy men and have then air-lifted through his living room window. Welcome him to our twisted little community. It’s not like he doesn’t fit in.

A Warning to the People of San Francisco

The Human Bullet forgot to put a pair of underwear in his gym bag this morning.

The Human Bullet is going commando.

Unleashed

Due to a series of scheduling conflicts, I became the representative for the animal shelter at a meeting of a subcommittee of the SF Board of Supervisors today at City Hall; my role was to speak out against the policy drafted by the city’s Park and Recreation Board that effectively tries to eliminate off-leash exercise areas for dogs in the city’s parks. Little-’ol-administrative-assistant-me, representing a world famous animal shelter that is the model for other shelters around the world; representing the Behavior and Training Department which is led by one of the world’s top dog trainers who has written books considered to be the Bibles of dog training. And lest you think this was a minor issue, the meetings regarding this issue have been the highest-attended meetings in city history (San Franciscans love their dogs). Man was I terrified. Earlier I walked down the halls, past the doors of the Board’s offices, reminded of the ex-firefighter who assassinated Supervisor Harvey Milk (the first openly gay elected SF Supervisor) and Mayor George Moscone in their offices in 1978.

But I had my two minute speech prepared, and yes, I made cable access.

Later, as I was leaving City Hall alone, after hours, I walked down the gleaming marble main staircase to the empty lobby. I could feel the power and importance of the building. Suddenly I was like TJ on The West Wing. I participated in the political process, I made a scratch on history.

Then I took MUNI home.

///

Speaking of politicians, after I read your post about the Myers-Briggs personality test, I took it again and reconfirmed my rock-solid INFJ category. Yes, I’m a Counselor. Now, I don’t normally take to labels and categories and astrology signs, etc, but damn, I have never read something that accurate about me.

I’ll try not to bore you with the details (you’re probably more interested in your type), but following my recent minor meltdown, I found comfort in the fact that “mute withdrawal” is a major INFJ defense. Also, we tend to rarely be at complete peace with ourselves, needing constant growth and improvement. And INFJ’s are supposed to be the rarest of all types. Which is both kind of exciting and sad.

Isn’t that sexy? Aren’t you happy you stopped by?

///

When I got home from City Hall, I got Louie and walked across the street to the dog park and let him run around, off-leash. We worked on some of the tricks for our drill team that’s performing on the field at Pac Bell park on Saturday (another terrifying proposition, made worse because Barry Bonds has hit 599 career home runs, so the game is sold-out).

Then we wandered up the trail that snaked around the edge of the park, a trail that looks out over the whole city. A rare warm summer evening; the sun setting behind us, the buildings downtown glowing.

Tonight, without prompting, he followed me down to my room. He’s laying beside me, his sides rising and falling. When I can’t think of the right word, my hand leaves the keyboard for a moment and scratches his soft ears.

Disclaimer

Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain.

I know

Patience, young grasshopper.

Litany

“I’m like your secret friend”, says the Tattooed Monk, sitting across the table from me. “You don’t include me in your plans with your other friends.”

I looked down at my ravioli and bit my tongue. I could immediately think of three instances in the past two weeks that would contradict his statement, but I had a feeling that an itemized list wouldn’t work well here. Instead I heard one of my best friends tell me that he couldn’t tell if I cherished him, and really, his perception was all that mattered.

“I wish you could see into my heart, and see where you are there,” I said, not meaning to be sentimental.

I am floundering, and when things feel dark I retreat, not only from the harsh uncaring world but from friends and family as well. I’ve been putting on a good act, but the seams are starting to pop.

This week marked the six-month anniversary of Mom’s death. I don’t know if that means anything; the only thing I know for sure is that nothing about grief is what I expected it to be.

I have to ask Louie to come down to my room with me; he seems to prefer the company of my roommate. I pretend like it doesn’t matter. Maybe Schwinng just gives him more treats, but it feels like my fuck-up. I get irritable with Louie and I make it worse.

I don’t think I’m doing myself and the world a big service by being an administrative assistant at an animal shelter.

I don’t know how to get there from here.

I don’t know what to think about the war. I don’t know what to think about Israel. I don’t know what to think about writing, about family. I don’t know what my “voice” is, what my “truth” is, what I deserve to be. I don’t know what to think about Ski, about sex, about sleeping alone. I don’t know what to think about the virus in my blood or the boys at the gym or the homeless. I don’t know how to buy a car. I feel like instead of this, I should try to make you laugh.

I wonder if there is meaning in life that I’m missing. I don’t think I’m writing well these days.

I’m a short-tempered son of a bitch.

I don’t care about the fucking copier or the purchase orders or the goddamned safety committee. I don’t care what fabulous new restaurant opened. I don’t care about Diesel jeans. I don’t care about porn stars or your real estate. I don’t care if you can’t handle real emotions so you build your life around being fabulous. I don’t care about your religion. No, not that religion, the other one. I don’t care if you think I’m sick.

I want the Tattooed Monk to know I cherish him. I want Louie to know I cherish him. I want Bearbait and the Studly Couple and Handsome and Ski and Schwinng and God to know I cherish them. I want you to laugh, I want you to stay. I want to spoon. I want to be held down, not back. I want to see my Mom again. I want to look more dangerous. I want to know that I’ll get there, come what may.

Round Three

Well, anecdotal evidence now suggests that Love Bombs have some interesting side effects; namely a strong urge to disrobe, drink beer, and take self portraits for posterity and wide appreciation. Research is under way. If more pictures are available, please forward them to me for documentation purposes only. Luckily for us, the U.S. State Department has not yet called for disarmament. Perhaps they are busy elsewhere.

Have I told you that Louie is a very sensitive boy? It is my belief that Louie was picking up some frantic vibes from another dog in San Francisco; when he was unable to attract my attention by his sad gaze today, he pushed my arm out of the way with his wet nose and clicked on a link to the right and sure enough, he was right. Simon is unsettled. Simon being Kate’s dog. Simon saw Kate packing and communicated his distress the only way he could, tearing apart a flour bag, a tin of cocoa, and leaving a discreet calling card in her roommate’s room. Oh dear.

Torn between two coasts, our Kate is. Which fair city shall she grace with her style and wit? Far be it from me to influence her decision. I only want her happy. I think she needs to get Love Bombed.

What say you, Marines? Can you find a little something inside, deep down, can you fish it up and staple it to a valentine for our urban cowgirl? Can you go a few clicks out of your cyber-way today? Can you hire a stripper to slip into her room late at night, a raw steak for Simon in hand, to offer Macarenas as congratulations on One Year of Blogging!!!

I think you can.