Fucking The Dead (-Inside)

There's a common discourtesy I've encountered. It involves guys checking their grindr messages during the hookup, establishing prospects for future satisfactions even before the bed has cooled. I'm not exactly offended (is it really discourteous in the parameters of casual/anonymous?), more concerned its symptomatic of an attention deficit intrinsic to the rapid gratification grindr provides. More than grindr, I think this describes a mind made berserk by the umpteen online spaces we move through in the course of a day, and the compulsive appetite for distraction these engender. With sex embedded as a possible outcome of 'trolling', it's easy to segue from need to habit, and finally addiction. But can an addiction be recognised in a culture where such behaviours are in the process of socialisation? 

We are all guinea pigs. Gone is media of an analogue form where exposure was a more volitional interface, replaced with immersive facilitation of every facet of our lives, begging rigours without precedent should we choose to practice selectivity. So we are clear, preference is not discernment. Preference is a user-modality internal to availability and the mechanics of consumption. 

Being guinea pigs, the job of wading through the possibilities of this brave new world with anything resembling ethical conduct, is one we've been passively assigned by the commercial run-off installing these new platforms in the first. The question is, what will they be platforms for? Will they simply meet existing needs, or will they also implant new ones for which we'll require future solutions? 

The originary premise of an app like grindr shouldn't limit it's use. The willing subject should, like with anything, be capable of repurposing it to clarify (and enrich, fingers crossed) its own existing problematic scripts. If grindr proves to have little transformative value, if the subject feels hindered as opposed to supplemented, the artefact in question (grindr, tinder etc.) should probably be discarded. Or refitted, depending on its footing in the zeitgeist. 

Anyway, I've had an unfortunate experience. Recently I met someone outside grindr. This person was really very cool, I surmised quite accurately despite being drunk, having this later confirmed for me during an arranged (and sober) meeting a few days later. As conversation followed coffee (the two alternating with swooning grace), times passing had us more and more agreeable to fates frivolous suggestion, namely the crossing of our paths. We jumped to an unmissable connection with gusto, unfurling majestically from our imagined coolness and opening up like strangers rarely do. With good reason, so it goes. I don't know what I said but some coin dropped about my sexual habits and he's since given me the shrug, being a 'one guy kind of guy'. Only the second time we'd seen each other and he felt confident enough to judge me the kind who strays not commits. What the fuck does that even mean? I just wanted to hang out (and we could do still), only he'd extrapolated a year into a fictitious future in which I slew his feelings by betraying a commitment we were nowhere near making to one another, and is consequently no longer open to the possibility. 

That's some delusional shit. That also happens to be some pretty fucking regular shit. Confabulating doomed futures from your own anxieties/insecurities, choosing to waste effort on fearful scrutiny of tenuous and unpleasant fantasies (serving what purpose?), rather than exacting pleasure from the moment (available for a limited time)? 

What a fucking idiot. 

But he's done me a favour. He's made me value the nature of grindr and its users streamlined to a shared love of sex no strings, that in my experience and with amicable frequency can blossom into friendships and more, connections that differ from the established relationship conventions in shape form duration and number, but are no less important or satisfying in being so. 

So fuck you you fucking fuck, take your scared unemployed ass (sadly true) back to the sheltered white-picket subdivision you came from. Some of us have living to do. 

RELEASE (But No Grain Waves)

So I bottomed for the first time in ages. I don't know if I've made it clear or not, but I've been the 'pitcher' rather than the 'catcher' for this blogs entirety, up until yesterday when someone broke the spell. This was achieved by a very competent someone who made me feel exquisite, had the most attentive bed manners and was otherwise a gentleman, and it was perhaps a combination of these (pleasure and safety) which drove me to offer myself in a way I'd half heartedly decided wasn't for me. How excruciatingly wrong was I!

Also, he was your typical bear, and there's something about bulkier guys that makes me want to melt submissively and satisfy every and any whim of theirs with total obeisance. 

I've been exhausted/negative on some fundamental level for some time, but now feel like someone's pushed the reset. I don't envy heterosexual males for whom sex will mostly assume the active-form of 'topping', whereas I'd forgotten that as a gay man I could essentially 'flip' a switch (flip-fucking is a colloquialism for vers or versatile, meaning good to both fuck and be fucked; that's me baby), and shift the dynamics for a totally different sexual experience. Not that sex is neatly dichotomised into acts that are either/or (passive and active, dominant and submissive etc.). 

Basically I love my ass hole again, and I'm serenely pitying my straight fellows for whom ass play is a restricted area, being beyond the comfortable parameters of masculinity as it too closely resembles homosexual practices and sensibilities. I'd forgotten how intense it can be, once the initial sting of being penetrated recedes and there's only that fullness, punctuated by the sweetest jolts to ones prostate. 

I'm definitely becoming graphic now. But seriously, it's so fucking intense and I can't believe it's been almost a year since I allowed anyone to pleasure me in that way. It feels like wasted youth and I need to get back on that saddle. 

Anyway, details. He had a serious home entertainment setup with a 'smart' television and omnipotent sound, and was a stoner but (quite unprofessionally) had no junk food set up for afterward, an observation from which I kindly declined any more than the smallest toke. He was cuddly, a signature bear trait? But they don't have to all be adorable. Just because they don't have six packs doesn't mean they  can't be total cunts. 

So we snuggled on his couch and watched horror movies, also the third season of Girls which I still hadn't gotten round to seeing as I work a lot, and then the first episode of Amerrican Horror Story's fourth season which I'll admit to having mixed feelings over. It's tone is closer to Asylum's, which makes sense because I suspect it's in the same universe (Peppa has a cameo). But ultimately it's more of the same, and for the first time I had to force interest. 

We talked and I found out this guy had just broken up with his boyfriend of seven years. Thus the cuddling. I don't mind servicing very specific wounds, especially if I get fucked like that. 

In the morning I stayed on, peppering more television with more fucking, not leaving until the afternoon at which point cravings for junk food were high (pot and movies, but where the fuck were the grain waves?). 

Also, he was a painter, but not in the high-brow sense, more the as-seen-on-the-wall-of-your-local-small-town-espresso-shop kind (those unknowing masters of kitsch), quietly filling the homes of wealthy dairy farmers everywhere with wobbly impressions of native birds. I confess to being into them, they were crazy-busy and had these glue-gun textures. He'd done a zodiac series in the style of Crowley (I'm not sure this was deliberate), and while I wouldn't pay money I seriously considered smuggling one out with me. 

There was also a Lana Del Ray portrait, just above a water cooler serving lime-flavoured H2Go. Yuck. 

In summary, my ass holding the key to a general existential refresher? The body speaks!

Sexlessness and God (and Money)

This is a sequel post. 

As mentioned, I've let anxieties mar my otherwise steady outpouring of/will to pleasure. I'm trying to describe my own psychological manoeuvres when it comes to relishing sex and physicality generally. These anxieties have been of two related camps, finances and an extrapolation of those finances into a future nowhere near coming to pass. It's only with the obviousness of hindsight these pressures are seen to be wildly unnecessary departures from an otherwise comfortable present, with every facility and support a person of my specific socioeconomic grouping could hope for (wherever I fall on the scale; lower middle?). 

What I'm asking myself is whether there's a conceptual tie between the areas of money and sex, as partitioned by my tireless ordering system (my mind).

I guess money is frequently what makes my pleasure possible, not in the sense of paying someone for sex, but in the trivial expenses surrounding a hookup, enabling the casualness. Also, a certain amount of disposable is necessary for any kind of leisure time outside the home, and even then money haemorrhages discreetly.  

If I think back, my most satisfying hookups have been bookended by drinks/coffee and other costs extraneous to the act itself. 

Do I have less sexual desire when I'm poor? That is, do I feel somehow ashamed of having less money and am I less motivated to have a sexual encounter at these times? What sense of myself are these hookups serving then, the grindr facilitated ones. Are they sought as rewards for possessing money and thereby being a contributing member of society, participating in the flow of capital as an eligible consumer? 

There might be some truth in this, no matter how uncomfortable. Maybe I do feel less deserving of sexual pleasure when I'm broke, which is normally the result of impulse expenditures and, to complete this logic, begs sacrificial abstinence. So then I have to be able to afford sex? With strangers, the answer is an emergent yes. 

What price have I preemptively stamped it with then? At what monetary low is it off the cards for me? And if I was ever rich enough, from this appalling trajectory would I expect perfect strangers to jump my bone as if drawn magnetically to my swollen bank figure? If I'm good for it, should the world open its legs to me by default? Do 'suits' already think like this?

Or is it an ingrained conceptualisation of money as the singly reliable indicator of value, by which nothing of worth escapes an equivalent mediation. Not even sex. I know I've talked about sex as commodity before, but never in observance of my own behaviours. 

More than this, I sometimes feel in spite of myself the absolute licence of money and the cloistering dearth of options when one has very little to none.

I am not a free agent. 

Sexlessness and God

It's been a while because I haven't felt grindr as natural a segue of late, it's been a nuisance and a chore (and a frequently obnoxious one) rather than the god-given convenience I felt it to be just a month ago. I don't know what's heralded this dramatic shift in viewpoint but it's settled in with gloomy belligerence. Am I turning into an urbanite prude more interested in registering the minutia of celebrity/fashion/geek culture (enlarging my store of party-ready quips), than satisfying the nearest ache any human anywhere anytime has ever known, and with near-certainty might I say will ever know? I maybe need to take a retrospective of my life and the things that I want, because obviously my values are changing, which my general discontent with (though presently not exclusive to) grindr is probably symptomatic of; a spiritual 'spring clean'. Oh joy. 

Though I'm not dissatisfied with sex period, just disillusioned about the levelheaded-ness of my casual bedfellows. Apparently you can't gauge if a person is defunct on some fundamental level after an hour and three whiskeys, a skill I'd optimistically cemented in the set. Nor can you make an even remotely accurate summation of another human via grindr chat. Like, seriously, you can't even make a reliable guess as to whether or not the person you're chatting with is worth an hour of your time sexually. They could be all late seventies Sylvester Stallone, confess reluctantly to a semi-corporate occupation with neo-liberal sensibilities which definitely rubs your own imagined proletariat-status the wrong way but you make the decision to go round because they're funny in chat but in a caustic way so you really should've known better, and regardless of money and a knee-buckling twelve-pack still be an embarrassingly inert lay. If I was into that, I'd take up a job dressing corpses at a funeral home.

I did get head in a bar the other night which was new (kind of). I'm not into 'venues' (at this stage). I'm more into seeing what kinda place the guy has, out of some vampiric curiosity. There's something I get out of the hookup which I wouldn't at a venue, it's less anonymous. Seeing their domestic space contextualises it somehow, makes a stable memory even if we never see each other again. It's how I mark time. 

Back to my hiatus. There've been stresses external to my sexual activity and various partners which are hindering my 'mojo'. I don't like the way this stress has undermined my conscious ethos on sex, forcing me imperceptibly into patterns of behaviour I can only now acknowledge as compulsive. But then maybe that's fine. If the reality principle is felt resistance to the pleasure principle, the resonance of No, then loss of control is a necessary reminder, a prophylactic against casual arrogance and also a grounding pressure. I am centred by loss of control, I frequently find it necessary to feel unsafe. These things are fine. They humble me. 

I definitely own sex less when I'm stressed. It's less playful, I take less pleasure in it, as you would medicine. 

So that's where I'm at, that's why the absence from blogging my exploits, because they've been fewer and fouler. 

This post more than any other feels like dirt in plain sight, psychic debris I wouldn't normally scrutinise, but the fantasy-audience intrinsic to the act of 'blogging' and of interfacing with media period, forces me to flaunt the wound with pride. It's like making a blood-sacrifice to a god who finally bestows the peace you've sought, but only after you and your wrongs are made example of. Is this a Christian guilt thing? Is the need to talk about sex, even if consciously prescribing the body-positive, always going to be in light of guilt and expiation?

Politically Neutral Selfies?

Not a hookup but a feeling/experience that begs incorporation, lest the saga suffer potholes. I'm currently acting out what I finally recognise as an alter-ego/avatar, and my only defence against this dissonance taking insidious root and being anything other than 'serious' play? 

This blog. 

 It's a session of updating my user selfiez that's made me realise this. I'm flaunting and flexing like the world is watching, when in fact I'm unflatteringly lit by not lime but skylight, in the least glamorous setting; a boys room, with its accompanying smells and sceptic surfaces and familiar chaos (I love it. Is this how post-industrial God feels about the world today?).

Oh fuck. Even as I write this, I've been rejected because of misrepresentation. I haven't properly curated my selfiez, and this lawyer-cum-National supporter who'd previously expressed an interest has gone cold, thanks wholly to selfiez that sell me as overly-intense/activist/pro-cuordoroy. 

I could already sense a right-wing fragility in this guy, and could've avoided scaring the poor dear off with closer attention to selfie-detail. 

Note to selfies; when dangled for sex these are ideally apolitical, especially prior to establishing a recipients stance. If political stance is known, indulge! Especially if there are fetishised radical leanings to manipulate. Try a Che Guevara tee with sativa accessories for your typical lefty, and for the far-right perhaps a suit and monocle with discreet swastika cuff links. 

But what's overtly political about my shoulder length hair and beard? Any statement either would've made in the sixties has well and truly worn down to banal appropriation. Was this guy raised in a commune? 

Also in my last post I mentioned a hookup with a Fijian/Persian boy who'd been made to feel awful about himself while out one night on Auckland's fag strip, some punters critically citing his grindr profile rather than extending fellow feeling to someone obviously pretty fresh. How fucked. I despair of this country's normalised prejudice against Asians and Indians (broad terms), and am convinced that's what this was; racism in the cloth of deferred righteousness. 

Fuck you oh nameless offender. There's no community for any of us, gay or straight, with these pricks running amok. I hope your family renounced you when you came out, it's probably what you deserved. 

Kidding, that's not a time I'd wish on anyone. 

What cunts though.

To Live And To Let

(or A CONTINENTAL BREAKFAST)

In the name of all things spontaneous, I let an itch dictate (as per usual) and had a hookup at nine o'clock in the morning. I didn't have work until that evening, and with a good eight hours to kill had nothing but empty propriety to dissuade me from thinking it a good idea. Which it definitely was because this was one of the more satisfying fucks I've had recently (do I just have a negligent short term memory?), but looking back there were environmental factors embedding and hallowing the event, such as the weather (pristine) and already being in an open, breezy mood akin to glee-club preludes.

The guy had a really nice place situated in an inner city nook angled to conceal some of our eye-sores, so that looking out I only saw heritage buildings against clear blue sky, pigeons and all, like some antiquarians Parisian fantasy.  Then he made me coffee and we exchanged the usual stats over a Marlboro light. 

This is done to simulate intimacy for those not entirely convinced of the nobility of so mannered a meeting. I've had hookups where after opening a door you're hurtling towards a silent expectant body, all necessary information previously submitted in chat. And that's fine.

But this one had wobbles, hadn't been in the country for too long, from Sydney and of a delectable Persian/Fijian blend, and I'm guessing was using grindr more for finding friends in the city, and that our sex was a lovely mishap (for him, I'm the lecher).

So we talked, before and after. We talked about some stigma within the community regarding grindr that I was unaware of. He'd apparently felt judged one night, had overheard some guys saying in disparaging tones, 'I've seen that guy on grindr', as if to say how desperate or pathetic the app is. Well buddy, what's your excuse? If you're going to chase tail for its own sake, live and let live cunt. I'm done with nonsensical sexual hypocrisy, I'm officially calling it off for the rest of 2014 and thereafter. I relish the privileges of our liberal society, no it's not perfect but bagging its perks is counter productive. Intolerance is perhaps even more galling when it comes from fellow fags.

They're just jealous bro.

Hags

I used grindr drunk and between the hours of four and six am the other night, which I'm understanding is standard practice, new to me though seeing as I'm without a smart phone and use a tablet without data, thus I go fishing from home. If I had the app with me at all times I'd be significantly less productive and/or punctual, generally. 

I'm going to refrain from using it at this time, and in a similar state in future. In hindsight it was out of some weekend fomo compulsion, getting home to an empty bed still a nubile twenty four year old (cough) under the influence. It just didn't feel right. 

However the resulting hookup was hurried and subpar. And I felt less in control. 

But, he was cute, and there was some promise of seeing each other again, perhaps both of us feeling the lamentable circumstances of our meeting and wishing to repair first impressions accordingly. His flat mate was a fuck wit though. It's like nine am and she storms in on a Sunday morning declaring he's meant to be up and drinking with her, oblivious to the fact he's got a bed-pal as she lifts the blinds, or not so oblivious as she sees my dishevelled and disbelieving head above the covers and tells me I look eerily like Ben, on which they both agree. Who the fuck is Ben? And excuse me, but could you tell your hag to rein it in? I'm naked for fucks sake! 

What's weird is this isn't the first brush I've had with an invasive fag-hag flatmate in the last few months, both of whom are single no doubt. Would this kind of behaviour be acceptable on the flip side, with my hookup storming into her room one groggy morning-after, disrupting her innocent cuddles with a presumably conservative het buddy?

I don't think so. Basic boundaries in any living situation shouldn't be affected by somebody's sexual orientation. I found it patronising. 

Also, sort your fucking drinking out! Unless its mimosas over brunch or you're holidaying in the Greek isles, Sunday morning beverages other than water range from coffee to smoothies. Period.