Pie

There's an hilarious rush round the hour of four on a Friday and Saturday night, when everybody's suddenly online throwing 'hey mister's every which way in anxious states of drunken arousal, lest they miss out on a fuck. These are the dregs of the night who haven't managed to nab that right guy to cap an otherwise middling evening of debauch. So, it was with this rabble I joined rank on the Saturday just been. 

I ended up at a similarly desperate guys place nearer to five, more drunk than I can remember being since, well, last summer. I was holding a bacon and egg pie which (in my inebriation) I'd figured a suitable token at that hour. The guy in question was lovely. I stumbled into his room, we stripped and chatted cosily like only conspirators can (strangers for the cause), and within ten minutes or less I was comatose (maybe even mid-sentence). He didn't seem to mind. 

We eventually consummated our rushed agreement when I woke up, and then he hustled me out of his Sunday morning, where he undoubtedly wanted isolation in which to nurse a hangover with base notes of regret. 

Living the dream.

Ballin'

Had a post-work supplement to help alleviate the prolonged strain of service. It could only be justified, at that hour and contrary to my otherwise being completely shattered, by the convenient proximity of this gentleman's apartment. Which turned out to be fucking beautiful. There've been a few 'dates' recently where my host has made me feel comparatively impoverished, this being an especial case, casting a shadow of self-doubt over my recently cheerful pennilessness. Oh well. 

Despite the relative affluence of this guys accommodation, it was an instant-brew we revived with the following morning. 

Its weirdly common, and I'm getting used to it, to the point where I drink it at home with runny cream (out of some kind of nostalgia? povo does nouveau riche. Coffee snobbery is dire vice).

Anyway this guy took 'hosting' literally. There was a little bedside bottle of still water ready for me, an identical one on his side. 

So we're clear this was a really nice guy, and I've preached endlessly on the necessity of a workable connection for a satisfying hookup, which at the very least can be a great sexual compatibility. Sometimes a persons body can phrase things the best, like when your needs align uncannily with a strangers, it's like some profound statement about your oblivious coexistence. Like astrology or something, underlying desire lines like luminous webbing, channels of sexual inevitability flinging you into the open arms/legs of a cosmically ordained counterpart. 

So yeah, it was a good hookup as they go .

Smells make certain memories more distinct than others, and this one had a smell and a taste that reminded me of some of my earliest experiences. I think it was the banana flavoured lube, but there were other hints I can't place, like a blandness that was also sweet. Maybe vanilla. Or white chocolate (I'm not being 'racial', though he was a white boy. A recent trend of mine).

The view from his balcony was pretty fantastic. Maybe I should join a corporate ladder and climb my way into similar affluence, though life without the culinary perks of working in a restaurant is inconceivable. And why is a muted pallet the decor preference of expensive inner-city living? Is there something about colour that's incongruous with the career-attentive urbanite?

Also; my current grindr frequency has me treating people like mirrors instead of entities valuable in/of themselves, I'm gauging myself through their sexual interest in sick games of validation. Not always, but I can pick when I've been guilty of it over the last few months. It feels different, I'm less connected. I hope I can fuck my way back to a more wholesome angle. 

An Inventory

Things grindr has incidentally taught me I don't like; 

Too much cologne

(there's no easy blame for excessive use of the the above. I think personal hygiene can often be clutched at with neurotic gusto as a means of allaying social anxieties, and things like fragrances resorted to with irrational talismanic reverence. I'm personally quite lax about such things, within reason. Anyway, a recent hookup left me with a metal-taste that seeped into my sinuses and bed sheets with pesky resilience. Yuck).

Guys with an aversion to body hair

(I know I said I'm fine with an openness about physical preferences, and that I even support the potentially demeaning conveyance of these on grindr, but seriously; no body hair? That's just fucking weird. I'm talking about the painstaking cosmetic removal of body hair, not its natural absence, and then the insistence of sexual partners doing the same. Is it an an inter-species trans-humanism thing, denying the human body's natural defences?).

Flakes/time-wasters

(If I wanted to pic-swap I'd watch porn. I came here to fuck! Also, hosting is give and take).

Prime example of a time-waster;

Had a guy come up to my apartment and after four flights of stairs he realised he'd left his inhaler at home. He left mine with a nearly blue face, and I haven't seen him since. I hope he made it. 

Also, some of the hottest guys on grindr speak minimal English. I might have to become an arm-chair polyglot (yes, I'm aware I'm reading grindr like it's amazon.com). But seriously, it's a great way of meeting travellers, drifters, and other deliciously untethered beauties for sex that's no less passionate for its momentariness. You never know when that person might cross paths with you again, the world is an open playing field and ones genitals a glaring beacon. 

A thread with the various European boys I've bedded lately is their dissatisfaction with Auckland. 'Expensive and boring' is the verdict. I'm fenced on this, expensive yes but being from a small town I'm yet to be jaded by the city's comparative perks. I'd like to think I can be content anywhere.

 Grindr certainly helps. 

(And is it true parks lower regional suicide rates? I wonder if that's true of most public spaces, libraries for example).

Porno Playlands

It's been forever I know. 

Other projects have gotten in the way of blogging, not the sex mind; just the chronicle. 

Recently had a friend point out the critical (yet invisible) referent of 'sex-stocks', when scrolling for a hookup. These massively pivot on ones profile image, a careful selfie being a make and a clumsy one being a break, generally. And the selfie-genre being so established now (Kardashian's 'Selfish' perhaps fully realising the auto-deification of such practices), it isn't surprising many profile pics are 'professional' ones, maybe recycled from various art/modelling portfolios or (more desperately) captured (paid for?) with the express purpose. 

This conversation came about perusing profiles together (out of curiosity, not recruiting for 'group-fun', though I'm into it), when we came across a pic of a guy recently featured in LYC's Gear Up campaign. We knew this because he'd used the image as his profile pic. I won't mention which in case there are patent-clauses being breached, but I will say this; 

Drool.

Admittedly, after finally collating a selection of selfies I'm happy with, my sense of personal security plummeted. I don't have the time, money or metabolism to look like that, but lord knows I want to. But then why should I? If sex is all, do I have to look like some porn-god to satisfy someone I'll know for twenty-four hours or less? I mean, they're not paying. 

Having said that, before reiterating my stale tirade against the commodification of sex, I'd like to pose grindr is a discursive platform where the fantasy narratives and desire objects proliferated by pornography can be explored and potentially refuted. Certainly the Gear Up campaign is abetting the normalisation of a certain silhouette as desirable, and I don't blame that guy for capitalising on it albeit obtusely (shamelessly?).

I only think that playing with eroticised image should be exactly that; play. Especially when it comes to casual sex. When appearance is thusly regimented the game becomes elitist and overly serious, and not fun. 

Everyone should be allowed to ride. 

(Also, when did the know-how to objectify one's self to an acceptable standard become a valuable life skill? And a fucking knee-jerk one at that? I feel like I've been sneak-attack assimilated into some garish double-think, lured fatally by sex. Oh well).