The following are some things I wrote over the course of a few days, but didn’t post until now.

I have never been too concerned about compromising images of me floating around out there on the Internet and available for public consumption. After all, I have lots of photos of me, naked me, available on a web site I created a while back. But those photos are at least somehow tasteful to me, or rather, they have a deliberateness about them which I believe doesn’t suggest that I created them in a rush of horniness to exchange with equally horny people for the purpose of getting off. It’s not me being naked that embarrasses me—it’s me being reduced to a horny creature wanking off in some seamy exchange with a stranger that I don’t want to expose… though of course I am that person too. I’ve always made it a rule to never display a photo of me with an erection—that is, me indisputably horned up. I’m not so sure that I’d mind now, provided the photos had some other merit. I’d want to control which photos people saw, though. But with video chat, emailing friends explicit photos, and other exchanges, there is a real risk that embarrassing photos of me will be publicly traded, that cheap web cam photos of me -- dick in hand, an odd grimace cast over my asymmetrical face – will find their place on the hard drives of indiscriminating older men who save any image that contains a dick – for whom good porn means mounds of porn, the kinds of guys who need to get off while cranking their flaccid dicks tirelessly to the rolling visual waves of erupting dicks, muscled fucking, and tongues lapping at the deepest recesses of a raunchy and waiting crotch. I’m not sure it would matter if my pictures were on the hard drives of cute college boys who need only the slightest encouragement, but somehow it’s a little less unsettling. Nevertheless, I don’t really want those photos on the public exchange circuit.

Over the Christmas holidays I sent a handful of photos to a friend who’s visiting his parents. I thought he’d enjoy them, bored as he is there in the sterile environment of his parents’ home. But then I thought about the details of the email. He’d be using his parents’ computer, so he’d probably open the email and then open the photos directly. A copy of the photos would be written to the hard drive and the files wouldn’t get cleaned off. I don’t really want the photos to be discovered one day as his mother or father is poking around. It’s … well, wrong.

Well, when I put the pot of eggs in water on the stove to boil a few hours ago, I KNEW that I’d forget it. I knew that, but of course I still did it. What am I to do, not make eggs? I should have done as Ann suggested and take the timer into my room, but it didn’t occur to me. I first discovered that eggs, left to dry up over a stove, will eventually explode violently. I was just a kid when I found that out, when eggs exploded all over my mother’s kitchen. It’s funny how tuned into that possibility I am now. I can sit in my study across the other side of the house as eggs dry up and begin to burn, crack and pop. The second I hear a popping noise from the kitchen I bolt upright and dash to the kitchen because I know instantly what has happened. I could hear the same sound at another time when I didn’t have eggs on the stove and I wouldn’t think anything of it. I’m clearly aware of the eggs. Yet I forget about them.

A few days ago I went with a friend to see the movie “Guys and Dolls.” I’m completely averse to musicals, so I only went to hang out with the friend. But it wasn’t too bad. Actually, as I was watching a few of the songs I thought how perfectly they were crafted and choreographed. It’s quite an art to put together such a thing. Those grand old Broadway musicals of the 30’s, 40’s, and 50’s were so perfectly written and performed. I was really distracted by the dialog in Guys and Dolls, though—the actors didn’t use contractions—“I cannot tell a lie”, etc. I’m told that the stereotypical gangster talks like that. Maybe so, but it seemed a bit too much. It was a jarring distraction to my ears.

Lately I’ve been seeing a young man at my gym regularly on the weekends. Our eyes keep meeting much more than they would without something going on. I think he could be straight, but as much as I catch him eying me, I’m becoming more and more persuaded that he’s interested in some way. I don’t imagine that he’s interested in bedding me; I do imagine that he’s attracted to me in some way but would never act upon it. That’s what I imagine. Of course it’s no mystery why my eyes are drawn to him, but I don’t quite understand why he’s always looking at me. If he’s not straight, I sense that he’s not exactly openly gay. He’s in his early 20s, tall, maybe 6 feet. He’s got long dark brown hair with some curl, the sort of hair Ann always says she likes—the 70’s retro style, his stubbled face framed by locks of hair which hang to his shoulders. He always wears a pair of long, black basketball shorts and a white sleeveless nylon shirt which easily rides up when he lifts his arms or bends over. With his long waist, the crack of his ass seems to start in the middle of his back. The most notable thing about him for me is the way he walks. He has a gait whose stride seems shorter than it ought to be, lending him just a touch of effeminacy. I like the slightly effeminate mannerism, but only, as with him, when it’s attached to an attractive and otherwise masculine figure. I’ve been seeing another man at the gym lately, a man in his late 20s, a brutish sort of muscled figure, his shirt always damp and his dirty blond hair always dripping with workout sweat, leaving a spotty trail on the black mats as he walks. Until he moves you’d think he was a foul-mouthed rugby player with hands to fondle every girl within reach, but then you see his tiny stride, the swing of his hips, and the bitchy expression, and you burst out laughing. My boy doesn’t have that--just a slightly abbreviated stride suggesting his ankles are shackled.

I read Edmund White’s “A Boy’s Own Story” this week, and I really liked it. He’s an excellent writer. One of the comments on the back (from the NY Times Book Review) claims that the book is a cross between J.D. Salinger and Oscar Wilde, and others invoke its universality. I’m not so sure. It seems to me more like Edmund White’s story, and his alone. I wonder about the audience for such a book. Kids and teenagers are out, given its explicit sexual content. And it seems to me very tightly bound to its gay audience. But even that audience is questionable. Little of it seemed to speak to my experiences as a kid. But it doesn’t matter—it was well written and thoroughly enjoyable.

Proust claiming that gays have greater sensitivity to art: “It is the homosexuality that survives in spite of obstacles, shameful, execrated, that is the only true form, the only true form that corresponds in one and the same person to an intensification of the intellectual qualities.”

And Proust on the bonds between lovers: “A man may give his fortune and even his life for a woman, and yet know quite well that in ten years’ time, more or less, he would refuse her the fortune, prefer to keep his life. For then that woman would be detached from him, alone, that is to say non-existent. What attaches us to people are the countless roots, the innumerable threads which are our memories of last night, our hopes for tomorrow morning, the continuous weft of habit from which we can never free ourselves. Just as there are misers who hoard from generosity, so we are spendthrifts who spend from avarice, and it is not so much to a person that we sacrifice our life as to everything of ours that may have become attached to that person, all those hours and days, all those things compared with which the life we have not yet lived, our life in the relative future, seems to us more remote, more detached, less intimate, less our own. What we need is to extricate ourselves from these bonds which are so much more important than the person, but they have the effect of creating in us temporary obligations which mean that we dare, for, detached from us, that person would no longer be part of us, and because in reality we create obligations (even if, by an apparent contradiction, they should lead to suicide) towards ourselves alone.”

I saw a play recently called “The Crumple Zone.” It was OK. It didn’t have any big ideas, which I think is good. Big ideas rarely make good drama, or at least, only a truly great writer can pull off something that is both good drama and has big ideas. This play was mostly about the lives and relationships of four gay guys on Staten Island. But even this playwright understands that although the play doesn’t have to have big ideas, there must be something more to it than just a four guys working out their problems. Without more it’s just soap opera.

I think it’s best to introduce a theme early on and come back to it now and again, but this play simply let one of the characters recite a life lesson in the final scene. It wasn’t exactly heavy handed, but it did seem a little lazy or inelegant. Nevertheless, I’m always overly deferential to words of wisdom spouted by writers through their characters, especially in plays. There’s something about being directly confronted by characters and their drama, the solemnity of the affair, that brings a moral weight to the wisdom being peddled—as if now we’ve come to the heart of the matter and it’s time for the alter call, all truths revealed. I want to hear words of wisdom—I feel like I need them. And for some reason I seem to believe that writers know more than the rest of us. Still, I’m a little distrustful of wisdom because it all sounds so credible and wise when stated. I’ve noticed occasionally that directly contradictory statements, when declaimed separately, seem true and profound — “Winners make their own success,” and “X was at the right place at the right time.” Which of these is true? My point is … well, if you’re writing a play, have ideas in mind but don’t be obvious in stating them, and in life, beware of plausible-sounding advice, because most anything can sound plausible if stated properly.

I went to my company’s Christmas party. After the fun had wound down, someone said how much they enjoyed office parties, and I immediately thought, “Oh, god, not me.” But then I thought, “Well, I DO enjoy them sometimes”. And this party was fun, mostly because I always enjoy the pithy remarks and observations people make when they’re making an effort to be fun. I’m not fun, and I don’t try to be. I’m way too serious and earnest to be lighthearted at an office party. It’s funny how I never find a kindred spirit at work. I look around and think to myself how, although these people are nice and all, I really wouldn’t want to hang out with any of them. The very thought of spending an hour or two with any of them sends me into a panic. Ok, that might be overstating it a bit, but I don’t want to socialize with any of these people.

I’ve started to read Gide’s “The Counterfeiters,” which I quite like. There are lots of characters, so I’ll need to read it through quickly or it’ll be difficult to put it down for a while without returning, utterly lost. His writing has an odd feeling to it, which may simply be a reflection of the time when it was written. The ideas and themes seem modern, but the setting, the world, seems a bit Dickensian. The writing of Proust, who wrote nearly contemporaneously, feels a little more congruous—the salon society of Paris is never assaulted with modernist notions. Proust was always looking to the past. Gide’s writing, with its rough edges and modernist streaks, feels as if it’s at a fault line between the old world and modernism. It’s very odd how this novel, written in 1925, is essentially a queer novel, with gay and bisexual characters and story lines. It’s not exactly explicit in its queer themes, but queerness permeates the book, or rather, such distinctions as straight and gay aren’t recognized. Characters and passions seem to move seamlessly between the sexes, so that people don’t seem straight or gay. I like it.

Early in the book there’s a section in which a young man of 18 or so abandons his home and his family, arriving at his friend’s room to stay the night. Instead of sleeping on the floor, his friend allows him to share his bed. Nothing explicitly refers to a homosexual relationship, but the scene is dripping with homoerotic tenderness. The run-away boy removes all but his shirt, crawling beside his friend under the covers, and falling asleep, kept warm by the body beside him. He wakes up early to find his friend still asleep, the boy’s arm draped over his torso. And I read it and sighed with a school girl’s longing. Hehe So nice, and so effective. When the boy gets up he notes, “I don’t know if everyone is like me, but as soon as I am awake, I like despising the people who are asleep.” I like that too.

It’s funny to contrast this novel with Proust, who seems very conflicted about gays. Nowhere in Proust is a gay character loved. Gays live as if members of a secret society, casting looks of recognition at each other as they pass on the street, but never looks of fraternity, empathy or compassion. For them, recognition breeds mistrust, fear, and self-loathing. I keep thinking they’re like vampires walking the streets in an Anne Rice novel—they see each other as only a vampire can recognize another vampire, but instead of taking comfort in their brotherhood, each fears what the other can do to expose and harm him.

Well, with extra time on my hands lately, I’ve been doing a fair amount of online chatting, even meeting a few people. It’s addictive. There’s great lure in meeting new people, and the tantalizing possibility of sex. But the potential rarely blossoms. I find myself hyper-sexualized by it all, but if I had other things to occupy me, like work, it wouldn’t be so. In the end what I really want is some nice moments, such as that depicted by Gide. All of the down-and-dirty-lube-it-up-and bend-over-fucking sex that one can get caught up in is not so satisfying. I just want some nice tenderness with a cute guy on a fairly regular basis, and then to come home to Ann afterward. Is that too much to ask? Well, many think it is. Ann seems remarkably tolerant of my chatting, etc. I’ve been struck lately by how surprised guys are about my situation--the incredulity when I tell them that my girlfriend knows about my dalliances with young men.

Let’s see. A recent inventory:

There was the Italian boy, a student of something or other at the university, and a nice guy all around, dark hair, handsome face, big dick. We met quite late one Sunday evening. There was little reason not to be completely overwhelmed by lust. And I might have been, except that things didn’t go as well as they should have. As a general rule, I don’t do these quick encounters. They never fail to disappoint.

The pharmaceuticals salesman, a 24-year-old guy who seems older than his years, mature, intelligent, engaging, at times playful. He’s partnered to an older guy, and they’ve just moved into a new house. We chat as much about career issues as about our more personal lives. I have a photo, but we’ve never met. I’d like to, as he has potential to be a good friend.

The coy, ex-army young man, 21-years old, and maybe a nice guy. He thought I was cute. I thought he was too. His ex-boyfriend is a casual acquaintance of mine. They broke up four months ago. He needs to be in a relationship or he’s not happy. We were to meet, but I doubt if it will happen. To what end? He knows I’m not looking for a bf, so that leaves… well, perhaps just to be chummy.

On video chat I’ve been chatting with a very fun, 24-year old Canadian customer service rep, or purser, who works on a cruise ship, a gay cruise ship. He’s leaving for Central America for 6 months. He’s very outgoing, effusive, and sweet. I would enjoy meeting him, though I’m far too quiet and inwardly drawn for him. But I may be able to keep up with him for short-term outings. But Vancouver is a nearly insurmountable distance.

Again on video chat there was a Puerto Rican guy of 24 (that seems to be the magic age), sultry, humorless, but sexy. We’re utterly incompatible; I could never meet him. He’s one of those serious men completely focused on the task at hand, incapable of diversion or whimsy. I become a little nervous around such people, especially when engaged in sex. He’d chat in awkward conversation for a few moments, as though fulfilling an obligatory but, to his mind, unnecessary introduction, and then quickly move to sex, the main feature. And throughout that he’d be overtaken in his own sphere of lust, uncommunicative except to convey certain directions, and I’d be intimidated, feeling pressure to measure up to such seriousness. No thank you. I can’t do it.

I chatted briefly the other day with a 24 year old (again, unless that is the in-vogue age to claim these days), another pharmaceuticals salesman who was terribly closeted and terribly horny. No photos were exchanged for the obvious reasons (what if he were outed!). We chatted (well, he whispered surreptitiously) on the phone briefly too. I believe he was screening me—to make sure I was no queen, which of course he would be able to discern by the tell-tale fairy lisp and homo intonation. He wants a “buddy” for occasional sex. This would work for me, except that I’ve no idea what he looks like, and he has roommates, which makes it impossible to meet at his place. Well, this may not be over. Stay tuned.

My Syracuse boy, such a nice gay boy, and such fun to play with, has finally met a boy he likes and is in the early stages of a relationship. I hope it works out for him. I imagine he’ll be good at the relationship thing.

My teacher friend remains, as enthusiastic and as likeable as ever.

Gide — “If one could recover the uncompromising spirit of one’s youth, one’s greatest indignation would be for what one has become.”