To begin, D.
I'd had a lot to drink. His apartment was some ritzy shit. I have an irrational hate of the rich, and this guy came as close to resentful assumptions I'm wont to make as is humanly possible, thusly receiving a giddy punish-fucking by yours truly. And that's all I have to say on the matter.
Not twelve hours later there was J. Younger than I normally like, but I think I'm converted. In a word adorable, in more words a sensitive boy from the suburbs who I'd enjoy seeing again. After the sex (which had to be quick, in his friend's city apartment where J had spent the weekend while said-friend was out for an unspecified duration), we got coffee, an activity reserved for not-assholes only. Depending on whether or not alcohol is involved, in which case even if some guy in the morning makes you negatively question your sexual orientation, sharing morning bean and even brunch is a courtesy I'm fond of.
Finally, the following evening, there was C.
Now I've only had good experiences with British boys and C was no exception, rather a shining example of everything I've come to love and eventually crave from Europeans. Especially the French, but that's for other posts.
Long and then some, this was one of those rare sessions you only leave throbbing dully with fatigue. I've always thought the idea of sex as cardio fallaciously tongue in cheek, something posited by tanned athletic braggarts who thankfully, probably compensate for nubby appendages with shameless promotion of their own prowess.
But I'm not so sure now. I really think I lost weight fucking C.
I did have trouble finding his room though. He lived in a large villa shared with eight or nine other people, all coupled. In a house of defacto bliss, one promiscuous gay guy with his ground level lair and separate side door. Lol.
I'd been to dinner, was drunk, was on the phone trying to navigate the side of his house in the dark while he gave directions in real time, tripped and fell and felt something take a chunk from my shin, a morsel scraped blessed millimetres from the bone. Being drunk, and wanting sex, I cast it aside in my mind as a graze and nothing more.
It wasn't until later, when I was actually fucking him, that I noticed the blood. There was quite a lot, on the sheets and the carpet. I went icy thinking I'd 'broken his plumbing' by being too rough. Sitting sweaty and naked in what looked like a crime scene, we both realised it was my knee, which on inspection proved a deeper and grosser chink. Anyway we dressed it and carried on, which is kind of romantic.
You really do dictate the kind of experiences you're going to have. I think that might be a source of stigma for grindr, that it dispels notions of serendipity, of external forces responding to desire with magical instantaneity. I think we've seen too many romcoms, and there are pressures to have your fulfilment assume an acceptable form, or risk the reclusive pervert's lot. A kind of, 'everyone wants it but its only okay if it's sought after in a roundabout way' double-speak.
I'm personally getting comfortable in the burgeoning Age of the Active Sex Pest (that's me). Before I could pretend I was merely seeking a 'good time', hanging out in bars waiting for sex opportunities to present themselves behind a thin facade of sociability. Now even that lens has dropped, and the random quickie normalises tenfold by stride of grindr's and tinder's combined popularity. Why shouldn't I take what I want directly, no frills?
This world fucking rules.
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