Goodbye

I need you, and I don't want to need you. Needing you scares me, infuriates me. Who would want to be this vulnerable? You're going to leave me I'm sure. You haven't said so, but it's inevitable. That's why I'm going. Leaving you will hurt, but not as much as being left.

David

I first met David at Las Termas, a gay steambath in Puebla, Mexico. I was sitting at the far end of the murky jacuzzi, looking out longingly through the semi-darkness at all the brown, horny bodies (the more sexually savvy among them wrapped in too small loinclothes made tantalizingly transparent in all the moist heat, a minimalist fashion statement that said "I'm modest" while setting off the plump roundness of an ass, the fullness of a package), when my future boyfriend-- if we can call him that-- dove in, swam over, and proceeded without a word to suck my cock. That, dear reader, is what I call an auspicious beginning. During the somewhat anticlimactic post-blow conversation, I learned that he had a longterm partner of a dozen years, but his marriage need not get in the way of our romance.

We started to date, and a few weeks later I attended his 30th birthday party. When a very dark skinned, very drunk, friend of a friend started to flirt a little too aggressively with David, he let him (and inadvertently, me) know how things were. "I like white skinned guys. See that guy over there, he's my husband...and that one there," pointing at me," that's my boyfriend....and that one there," wagging his finger at yet another guest,"he's my lover...all white..white, white, white!"

David had invited me to spend the night, and as the guests started to go, I wondered just where I'd be sleeping. All the available beds were already taken, so David invited me to sleep with him and his husband. They urged me not to be uptight; they'd done this before (I'm sure that's true); it wouldn't be a problem. I climbed in for a minute, but in the end decided I couldn't do it and crawled off to sleep alone on the couch.

Mexican Quotient

Researchers have recently identified statistically significant differences between the thinking patterns of gringos and Mexicans. The following questions are designed to help us determine whether you have a cognitive style typical of a gringo or a Mexican.

(1) You have a rash on your leg. What do you do?

a. Go to a dermatologist.
b. Rub your wounds with a mixture of lime, garlic, and salt.
c. Pick up a special pomada at the vetinary supply store.

(2) You want to ask about the well-being of a friend. What do you say? (All responses have been translated into English.)

a. How are you?
b. How are the vibrations?
c. What fart?

(3) Which of the following can be used as a personal lubricant during safe sex?

a. A water-based product like K-Y
b. Oil of olay
c. Dandruff shampoo

(4) You consider yourself a straight guy. You'll have sex with...

a. Women only
b. Women for free--guys have to pay
c. Anybody who looks good in a dress

Meth Eyes

My friend Greg and I are deep in conversation in Golden Gate Park when she spots us. Little miss public service approaches with long, triumphant strides and attempts to engage the enemy: did we know that gay men have sex in this park? Like a mouse playing dead in hopes the cat will get bored, I go into ignore mode. "Please Greg," I siliently plead, "don't talk to this witch"...but it's too late--his tender heart has already been hit by her faux-friendly fire. She goes on about the gay menace in the bushes, and he smiles and nods. Finally, as her speech reaches an almost orgasmic climax, she points a finger at me. Apparently, the dark circles under my eyes are not merely, as I had thought, ugly, but rather constitute proof of my drugging and sexing ways. In that moment, a look of smug congratulations sweeps over her pinched features. She has intervened masterfully: there would be one less blow job in the park today.

Almighty Narcissism

Happiness is a contract with God. God agrees to bring good stuff into your life. You agree to notice. It's simple: no gratitude, no goodies. Personally, I don't get why God's so concerned about what me and fellow members of my species think of him, why he's so hung up on being praised all the time. He even wrote the book of psalms, love letters to himself, in case we need a little verbal prompting. I mean can he really be so insecure, so high maintainance? What's with the endless demand for acknowledment-- the constant hallelujah this, hallelujah that? You'd think if anybody wasn't angling for a pat on the back it would be the almighty! Now I understand why all those nuns, who are symbolically married to the dude, don't look so pleased. I'd be sour too. A personal relationship with the divine narcissist in the sky must be a bit taxing. Better, I'm thinking, just to buy a dog.

The Fungi Follies

I would have denied it at the time, but growing up I was a mushroom sadist. My brother hated mushrooms, but he loved pizza. I liked both, and wasn't afraid to use this fact to my tactical advantage at the dinner table. Here's what would happen. My parents would order us some pizza, and I'd request mushrooms as a topping on half. Then I'd eat the pieces without mushrooms first. Before long the only pizza left was covered in the fungi and my brother wouldn't touch it, so I ate those pieces too! Emmm....

Each one of us lives in a different world. I gave no further thought to my mischevious mushroom capers once dinner was over; my brother remembers the incidents 25 years later, with what I suspect is a low-grade lingering resentment, as abusive brotherly bullying.

I'm sorry Eric. I didn't really know what I was doing to you. If I could, I'd travel back to that time and let you eat the whole pie.

Boyscout Hospitality

George insisted Kevin sleep with us. No, he couldn't sleep on the couch. Kevin had gotten drunk at our party, weren't we morally obligated to invite him into our bed? Where was my sense of hospitality? Nevermind Kevin was my bestfriend Steve's boyfriend. Steve would understand it wasn't sexual. It would be like the boyscouts. I said no, and went off to sleep on the couch by myself. George (my boyfriend) and Kevin (Steve's boyfriend) slept together.

Fast forward two weeks: George and I split up; Steve and Kevin split up; George and Kevin moved in together.

True story I swear, scouts honor.

A Farting Typology

Dan Savage once wrote in his sex advice column, Savage Love, that "all long-term relationships" were characterized by "unselfconscious farting." That Dan is a smart guy, and his observation got me thinking. I'd already made a list of the qualities I was looking for in a boyfriend (smart, handsome, blah, blah, blah) ; now I needed to decide how my future Mr. Right would manage his intestinal gas. Did I want someone who demurely excused himself, or just let it rip?

The way two people fart together (there's no end of possibilities--unobtrusively, maliciously, shamefully, comically...and so on) says loads about who they are as a couple. What kind of intimacy can there be between partners who aren't even willing to acknowledge their intestinal gas? Honesty, I reasoned, is a trait that runs across domains--a guy whose not embarrassed to fart will also be able to communicate other uncomfortable (smelly) truths. Only dishonest cheaters head to the bathroom when they feel one coming on. I knew that I was looking for an intimate relationship full of truthful sharing and transparency, so hidden farting was a deal breaker. If my guy wouldn't fart, I wouldn't stay. Period.

Today, I'm happy to report that my new boyfriend, Jose, has a farting style that really works for me. (Many thanks to all my new-agey friends--Mike, Debbie, Steve-- who taught me how to attract just the right kind of intestinal gas from the universe.) When Jose lets one fly, he does so with humor and penache: I can't help but be charmed.

The Best Place

I was traveling through the state of Nayarit in Mexico a few years back, and got into a conversation with one of the locals. Asked him if he liked the city of Tepic. His reply? " Of course, I was born here. It's the most beautiful place in all of Mexico." Here's a fellow, I thought, who doesn't get around much. Trust me, Tepic's not on any gringo's top ten in Mexico list by a very wide margin. The only people passionate about the place were born there. It's a quintessentially Mexican attitude, this fierce loyalty to the place of birth. In the dustiest villiages, and the filthiest city slums everybody will tell you the same thing--their place is best.

The longer I live in Mexico, the easier life here gets. My Spanish gets better and better. I learn how to cook the food, how to eat it. Still, there are some cultural barriers no gringo can cross. I'll never really understand, for instance, what it means to be this rooted. Every year more and more gringos come to visit. We enjoy the beach and the beer, and leave just as ignorant as we came. There are mysteries the land only shares with the people who belong to it. I love Mexico, but will never be Mexican.

Salto de Sapito

I'm reading peacefully on the bed when Jose sneaks into the room. His shirtless body seems coiled with a mischevious energy, ready to spring. He says he's going to give me the salto de sapito--jump of the little frog--so I clench myself as the full weight of his body lands on mine. I twist and scream (baby,baby,baby...!) but it's no use. Jose is younger, stronger, and more determined to fuck me than I am to resist him.

Maybe this is what love is. One day we're dancing naked together in the kitchen, our dicks swinging comically to the latin beat; the next day he's moved in, and I'm picking up his blackberry shampoo. Jose doesn't have a job so I buy everything and don't care. I'm afraid to tell my friends how it is, afraid they'll think I'm being used for money. It just doesn't feel that way. I've been used before, but its never felt this good. Sometimes I think I'm the one using him. Why would a beautiful, muscular 22 year-old guy want to be with fat, balding, gringo me? I try to talk to Jose about it. He tells me to shut up my little bocita and take off my clothes, so I do.

Three Little Games

(1) Let's play pretend. I'll be a nine year-old boy, and you can be my daddy. When people ask what we're doing we tell them. Why not? It's just a silly game.

(2) Let's play pretend. I'll be a nine year-old boy, and you can be my daddy. When people ask what we're doing we'll pretend we are not pretending. We don't want to stop playing the game, but we're ashamed of it, and can't let anybody else know.

(3) Let's play pretend. I'll be a nine year-old boy, and you can be my daddy. When people ask what we're doing we have no idea what they are talking about. We've forgotten all about the game, but still play it out of habit.

Ticket to Ride

My aunt Kathy offers this dating tip: before going out with a guy check out the car. Smart girls of either gender, she quips, can look at a floorboard littered with candybar wrappers and last week's pizza, and know a thing or two about a fellow's apartment, employment status...even sexual appetites. In her orange county conventional way, she's right of course. Don't expect messy car dude to squeeze the lubricant tube neatly from the bottom, or offer moist post-event towelettes. The same guy that leaves a half carton of milk on the plastic upholstery, might well expect you to drink down every drop of his juices.

Before you slam that car door shut though, let me just say, on behalf of horny slobs everywhere-- so what! Do you want to be clean, or do you want mind-blowing orgasmic bliss? That is the question. Nothing squeezes all the sweet juiciness out of a love-life faster than limiting yourself to guys you should go out with. The best sex stretches boundaries, and breaks rules. Touching another person can be like jumping off a high rock ledge into a freezing lake. You just have to screw up your courage and leap into the air never really knowing what it's going to feel like when you hit water. We're somehow different (bigger,brighter) after entering into such a dangerous intimacy. Sometimes you have to let down your gaurd, and just get on in.