A Minor Situation

The warning signs:
He lived with his parents.
He rode his bike because he didn't have a car.
He liked cartoons.
He got my sense of humor.
He was smoking pot with the bagboys at a grocery store.

On their own, none of these things mean everything, but put altogether, how did I not realize that I had picked up an underage boy in a grocery store parking lot. I mean, he looked over 18.

His profile hadn't listed an age, but I assumed --

Fuck.

I was now the posterboy for "contributing to the delinquency of a minor." We'd drank, smoked pot, and he'd sucked my dick.

I was going to prison.

But first I was going to take a long hit off the joint he rolled. I briefly pondered buying some off him and offering him a beer just to cover the points spread.

"Want to go back inside?" he asked. Yes. I wanted to go back inside with him, alter the timeline and meet him when he was eighteen. If I couldn't do that, I wanted to go inside and freak out about the fact that he never told me he was jailbait, and I wasn't intelligent enough to ask him how old he was. But I thought that might ruin the mood, so I asked "How long have you known John?"

"Since we were kids." Right. When they were kids. As opposed to now that they were in high school together. I ---

I remembered something from an online argument in one of the chatrooms. A sixteen year old was talking about his twenty year old fuckbuddy, and when people harangued him about legal issues, he'd linked them to a website about state laws. In our state it was perfectly legal for someone under twenty-two to fuck around with someone over sixteen. I was under twenty-two.

"How old are you?" "Seventeen."

I did the legal happy dance in my head. Morally, I was still less than thrilled. I just couldn't picture myself driving a white van and hanging around tech school parking lots. I was too good for that. Only grocery store parking lots for me.

"My friends tell me I give great head." Nice segue.

"You're amazing. You should be teaching classes." Instead of attending them in a middle high school.

"I've always wanted to get fucked, but never had the courage to ask anybody about it. It's why I decided to meet someone online today."

Rut-roh Rhaggy.

There were so many ways this could go horribly wrong.

1.) His parents could find out. Being absolutely terrified about his parents discovering his sexuality, he could lie and say he'd been seduced. Neither of us would ever be able to go out in public in Nowheresville again without facing some sort of ridicule.

2.) His parents could find out, and he could be completely honest with them, and they could fuck up his life anyway.

3.) Miss M. could hear us through the thin walls, if she hadn't already, and start telling everyone in the neighborhood, and her family, and his family, and my family, that I was fucking teenage boys. Goodbye any sort of political career (which is a moot point at this stage in my life, but at the time it was still a nearly improbable possibility).

4.) He could suggest a threesome with Johnny, who I'd known since Johnny was eleven. That would never happen. Johnny was cute and all but he was Johnny, just a kid. I couldn't be attracted to him any more than I could be attracted to his fri-- Bugger.

5.) No one would find out, and we'd end up having a secret relationship which would do wonders for us sexually but distract him from his college applications.

6.) We would end up in a relationship so wonderful that he would come out to his parents, introduce me, and then they would beat me to death with their collection of Gideon's Bibles.

7.) We would end up in a relationship so wonderful that he would come out to his parents, who would pretend to love me while secretly pooring arsenic into my Cherry Coke until I died.

8.) We would end up in a relationship so wonderful that he would come out to his parents, who would really love me, and want to spend some time camping or something with my family who would kill me when they found out I'd been fucking a seventeen year old boy.

There were hundreds of variations on these thoughts involving angry mob justice, Jerry Springer, NAMBLA meetings, and various other things I never wanted to be a part of my autobiography if I ever became famous. But we connected on so many levels before I found out how old he was, and it wasn't as though he were thirteen, or mentally retarded or anything. He was nearly a consenting adult.

I was nearly kidding myself.

I decided to make it a non-issue. We spent some time talking about how long he'd wanted to get fucked, why he wanted to get fucked. If he was sure it was a great idea to get fucked by some guy he'd just met on The Internet. The fact that I really wanted to fuck him, but really didn't want to fuck him up. I suggested we wait.

He kissed me. That boy could do anything with his mouth.

At this point, age was a moot point. I still wasn't going to fuck him until he'd really thought about it, but it was because I didn't want to see him make a mistake, not because he was seventeen.

His hands went down to my zipper again. I took his hand and led him back upstairs.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/9235.html

Sex Acts Named For Car Models

While most of the other people in CranberryLakeM4M room scrolled things like: "38/m/brown/brown/5'4/8," I would check profiles and send deliberately horrible one-liners to guys who I thought might be my type.

I was an AOL lurker.

This is how I met Brian, and Big Gay Tom's friend (though once I found out who he was, we actually called and met before I went all ho). This was also the way I met Tommy.

I don't know what ridiculous thing I said to Tommy, but it made him LOL. We talked for all of about twenty minutes before he relayed to me that he was horny. This was someone I could bond with, but not in that ropes and whips sort of way. He said he was saving up for a car, but was currently biking places. He said this as a way of telling me he was fit (little did he know how low my standards were). He was still living with his parents in order to not pay rent and save up for some HolyGrailMobile, and was not out to his parents, so he didn't want to meet at his house. While I didn't live too far from him, it was far enough that he didn't want to bike it.

We agreed to meet in a grocery store parking lot. I was meeting someone in a parking lot for sex. I didn't think I could get much lower. Little did I know.

Neither Tommy nor I had pictures online, so we gave each other descriptions. I didn't see anyone on a bike when I drove in, so I went into a bookstore, and sat at a table by the window, waiting. After about ten minutes, I went back into the parking lot. The only person I saw with a bike was near the grocery store carriages, smoking cigarettes with the juvenile delinquent bag boys. I waited another fifteen minutes, then headed home.

I had been stood up in a grocery store parking lot.

So I went back home and resumed my online lurking. About five minutes into it, Tommy IMed me.

Tommyisawhore: What happened.
Insafemode: I went to the grocery store,
Insafemode: waited about a half hour, and didn't see you,
Insafemode: so I came home.
Tommyisawhore: Oh. Were you the guy in the bookstore?
Insafemode: Yea.
Tommyisawhore: Yum.
Tommyisawhore: Sorry. I ran into some friends
Tommyisawhore: had to smoke them out.
Tommyisawhore: I wasn't sure if you were you, so I didn't say anything.
Tommyisawhore: Want to try again?
Insafemode: Sure.

I was smitten by the fact that anyone said "Yum" in reference to me. I don't think it's happened since.

Back to the parking lot I went. Sure enough, one of the boys who'd been smoking by the carriages earlier sauntered over to my car. It was my turn to say Yum. I did wonder what he was doing hanging with the Stop and Shop bag boys, but I was meeting a stranger for sex in a grocery store parking lot, so I didn't think I could take much of a moral high ground.

We had a few good laughs on the brief car ride over to my house. We had a lot in common. So much so that we decided to hang out and play MST3K while watching TV for a while. At around 4 in the afternoon, Animaniacs came on, and we realized we both had a place of reverence for Wakko Warner and Pinky & The Brain. At some point in the episode, Pinky started playing with some sticks or something. "This is getting me incredibly hard." Tommy said, as he stood up and demonstrated.

Due to the lack of visual barricades, and multitude of nosy neighbors, we headed upstairs to my bedroom where Tommy turned the TV onto Animaniacs, and began taking my pants off. I've mentally filed "Pinky & The Brain" under surprisingly gay pornography ever since. Though neither of us spent much time watching the TV.

If saraH gave the world's worst blowjob, Tommy gave the world's best. The prelude to the blowjob was a sexy striptease that lasted about thirty seconds before he was naked and and kneeling over my cock.

He was all over the place. His tongue went from head to shaft to sac to belly button to shaft to sac to shaft to head. It was as if he was born with four tongues. I quickly reached the internalized orgasm phase where you use every iota of your sexual power not to be a victim of premature ejaculation (and when premature ejaculation is involved, everyone's a victim). He had pressed every button except the one in my ass, where I carefully guided his finger. Bingo.

After about ten minutes, he took each nut into his mouth individually and began to hum. This was the only time I've ever had a hummer. Mind/wadblowing doesn't even begin to describe it. I fought the wave, and I won. Barely. He kept looking up and smiling at me. Then he'd go back to making me the happiest man to ever pick up a strange man in a parking lot.

We'd been going about twenty minutes when I just couldn't take it anymore. So Tommy did. I must have lost ten pounds in that orgasm. I didn't think it would ever stop. Tommy swallowed easily a half dozen times before I was through.

"Huuuuuuuuuuaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh." was really the only appropriate thing I could say.

After a few full body spasms while he continued to suck the sperm inhaler, I reached down to begin some well deserved reciprocation, but he intercepted my hand. "Mind if we go out for a smoke first?"

He could have asked me if I minded if we went out and bought some submachine guns and took out a preschool and I would have said "No problem."

We threw on some clothes, and headed to my back porch. Tommy rolled himself a joint, and we passed it back and forth a few times.

My next door neighbor to the right was a really sweet grandmother. I used to visit with her every couple of days. Sometimes I'd make dinner for her, other times she'd come over to my house and listen to me play piano. When I used to work at a summer camp, she had her grandchildren attend it. They were great kids. Taylor was nine, Clayton was twelve, and John was sixteen.

I'm reasonably sure she knew what we were smoking when she leaned over the fence and said "Something smells good. Oh, I miss being able to smoke my -- Well, hello, Tommy."

"Hey, Miss M. How're you?"

"I'm doing great. I didn't know you knew Insafemode."

"Yea, we go way back."

"Well you have excellent taste in friends."

"Awww. And you're not at all biased because I hang out with John all the time."

"Not at all. Ta ta boys." and she headed off her porch and over to the community pool.

"Where do you know Miss M from?" I asked.

"Oh, Johnny and I were on the JV football squad together last year."

Uh. What?

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/9192.html

In Stealth Mode

Apart from the occasional tourist looking for a more enjoyable vacation, Nowheresvillem4m was mostly filled with the same desperate whores every day. Not that I was a desperate whore or anything. I'm just saying.

There was TommyIsAWhore, RandomProvincetownSlut, AlwaysOnEBoy, and VinnyTheStylist. They were like a background image. I always noticed them but rarely engaged them in conversation. After all, I'd already hooked up with, or rejected all of them. Isn't that what whores are supposed to do?

I'd never met up with VinnyTheStylist. Even via AOL, I sort of sensed there was something not quite right about him. We'd never IMed, but he would often scroll his sexual frustrations throughout the chat room. And who wants to fuck a whiny AOL scrollmonster?

One day I was IMing with Tommy (he was the one person I had no desire to ignore, even if we didn't plan on hooking up again) when I got a deluge of IMs from people in the chatroom. I answered them all with the appropriate responses. Most quickly got Xed out and forgotten, but one of the conversations seemed to be going pretty well. I was being my usually charming hysterical self and he was finding me amusing. We were several minutes into the conversation when I noticed that it was VinnieTheStylist.

Some times your first impressions of people are wrong, so I decided not to begrudge his scrolling habits, and continued the conversation.

He seemed really sweet. After about a half an hour, he suggested we meet at a local hotel for drinks. We wouldn't hook-up that day, but we'd hang out and see what happened. He didn't have a pic to send me, so I declined to send him my own.

I got to the hotel about fifteen minutes early. I ordered myself an amaretto sour, and watched golf on the hotel lounge's obscenely large television. About five minutes later an incredibly disheveled (and not in a cute way), wild-haired, junkie-looking guy shuffled in. He looked the way William S. Burroughs should have looked when he was about forty. I had a disturbing feeling that this was VinnyTheStylist.

He sat down and ordered a Bud. The bartender flat out refused to serve him. For the first time in my life, I became completely engrossed in the PGA on ABC.

The person I assumed to be Vinnie ordered a Coke. The bartender gave it to him. Reluctantly. Vinnie downed his Coke, and got on his cell phone. "Hey, Mom? Yea, I'm not gonna be able to make it for dinner tonight. I've got a date. Huh? No. I'm clean. Just a little nervous about my date, that's all." He rubbed at his nose, which I noticed was crusted with blood. Birdie, par, drive, nice lie, to the pin, fairway, please don't let this be VinnieTheStylist, chip, water hazard, sploosh.

"Hey." he turned to me, as he hung up his phone. "Are you AliasUsed?"

John Daley is in the rough. "Sorry?"

"I'm Vinnie. You're AliasUsed, right?"

"No. Sorry."

"Oh." Tiger Woods. Greg Norman. From the tee.

I watched golf for a half hour while Vinnie preened, picked up, then returned his cell phone to his pocket, drank four or five more overpriced Cokes, then went to the bathroom.

This was my opportunity. I paid for my one, well-nursed drink, and walked out to my car. As I climbed into my car, I heard Vinnie call out the alias (not Insafemode) that I had given him. I closed the door, turned the key in the ignition, and pulled out of the parking lot.

I was getting ready to turn onto the highway onramp when a jeep swerved alongside me. Vinnie was inside. He was shouting something I couldn't make out in my direction. I turned onto the onramp. He cut off a tractor trailer truck, nearly getting himself killed, in order to follow me. Shit.

Rather than try any fancy driving or speeding, I drove as if I wasn't being pursued by a coked-up online whore reject. He rode my ass, flashed his lights, beeped his horn, pulled alongside me and made the roll-down-the-window pantomime. Since he didn't appear to have a gun, I obliged.

"I know who you are. Pull over. Let's talk."

"Go away." I rolled my window up. He swerved really quickly in front of me, and slowed down. I fucken hate crazy people. I tried to get around him, but he kept swerving in front of me.

The next exit was mine. I hoped that he would continue swerving in front of me, so I could quickly veer off the highway and drive home.

No such luck.

He pulled in behind me, and started riding my ass again.

There were very few times that I was pleased to live near a police station. This was one of them. I pulled into the parking lot. He did not follow me in.

I sat in the lot, destressing for about five minutes. There was nowhere, excepting people's driveways, for Vinnie to park and have a view of the police station. I pulled out, looking intently both ways. Nothing. I breathed. I took a right into my condo complex. No Vinnie. I parked next to a massive SUV (I knew they were good for something), and trembled to my apartment.

I decided this was a perfect time to end Whore Month. I signed onto my AOL screenname, went InStealthMode, and blocked VinnieTheStylist from IMing or e-mailing me, and signed off. Then, because I was more horny than enlightened, I signed in under a different screenname.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/9510.html

Smell This!

I used to use a shower gel called "Smell This!", which smelled like cake batter. I liked it because it's a faint smell. Not overbearing like patchouli, not girly as perfume, not jocky as Old Spice, and not my fathery like Brut.

Most people never noticed it. But one guy who really into rimming, came up for air and said "You know, your asshole tastes like cake frosting."

"Makes sense." I replied. "I got fingered by a baker about an hour ago."

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/210871.html

Alternative Methods

I hope whoever coined the phrase "There's only one way to find out" died long-suffering from a debilitating disease. Is there really only one way to find out whether a friend has syphilis? No. You don't have to fuck them to find out, you can ask them, or if you're too shy, ask someone who's slept with them, you could even spy on them in the shower and see if they exhibit any symptoms.

Wondering if your mother's having an affair? You don't have to sit in the closet and wait for her and the postman to make a delivery to the dead letter office. You don't even have to set up a camera in their room. You could just ask her, or put a sleazy ad on Craigslist.org, or tell your father you heard her and his best friend jumping on the bed together while he was at work. There are always several methods to discover things. Yet, I found myself in Joey's bedroom, talking about the taste of cocks saying "There's only one way to find out."

I don't remember what his cock tasted like except that it probably tasted more or less like cock. This was after I discovered the taste of Altoids, but before I discovered when they could really be useful. So all cock tasted pretty much like cock.

There was nothing particularly interesting about sex with Joey. This is not a condemnation of him, merely a sad commentary on how much sex I had been having with assorted people that month. Were we to have met at any other month in my life, I probably would have been able to regale you with more details about what we did in he and his boyfriend's bedroom. As it was, I don't even remember what happened after we blew each other. I know at some point I must have left. Otherwise, I'd still be there now.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/14601.html

Everything's Going Nineteen

Joey was nineteen and...well...nineteen. We IMed for two hours that I should have been outside enjoying the summer days. I was mostly unemployed, the show I was stagemanaging wasn't up yet, and the show I was acting in when Mike and Gina visited wasn't into heavy rehearsals yet.

The conversation, like all the IM conversations I had that month, meandered around how horny he was. Unlike the rest of the conversations I had that month, Joey already had a boyfriend, so he didn't need me to unhorny him.

We agreed to meet anyway. As friends.

I take a quick shower, in case there's still the scent of cum on me from the kid I blew on the beach a few hours before. Once I'm all dressed and ready, I check my e-mail for better offers, and head over to Joey's.

Joey was cutiful. A little more than cute. Not quite beautiful. He was about 5'6" with brown hair that was almost gray. He showed me around his house while his father snoozed in the living room.

It was a nice house. Kitchen, three bedrooms, living room, dining room, front porch, pool in the backyard. Typical Cranberry Lake house.

"The best room in the house" he says, in case I don't know where he's leading me to, "is my bedroom. This is where Forgethisnameit'snotimportant & I sleep."

"Wait. Your boyfriend lives with you?"

"Yea."

"Your boyfriend lives with you, and you invited me over to hang out in your bedroom while your boyfriend who lives with you isn't home?" I aked.

"Well, my parents don't know he's my boyfriend."

"Do your parents know you're gay?"

He shook his head. "No."

"But they know that you sleep in a room with another boy. A room with only one bed?"

"Yea. They're really not too bright."

Apparently his father was Sleeping Ugly, snoozing his life away in the living room. I wondered if he secretly knew that his son was a fairy prince.

Joey showed me a picture of his boyfriend whose name wasn't important enough for me to remember. He was cute but older. Of course, I was older, too, but his boyfriend with the unremarkable name looked a few years older than I. He was 28.

No parents were this dumb. I had a feeling they weren't the ones who'd dropped out of high school to get their GEDs.

I tried to get off the subject of his boyfriend (primarily because I was trying to get off). I don't know what we started talking about. I know that we were only talking about ten minutes before we started discussing what kind of cock we liked.

At that point in my life, I had only ever been with circumsized guys, and I was circumsized myself. Joey had only been with non-circumsized guys, and was non-circumsized himself.

"I wonder if they taste different?" he asked uninnocently.

"There's only one way to find out."

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/14267.html

Say Huh?

One of the cumstains I picked up in bar came over to my house. I had no plans to fuck him, we were just going to hang out, and chill. While I was in the kitchen, grabbing us some malt beverages, I hear him going through my magazine rack. "Oooooh." He says, picking up a magazine "I've never even heard of this before. Schoolgay Today? Sounds hot."

"That's Psychology Today, pervert."

Turns out the guy was completely illiterate. He couldn't even read the signs that said "You're not getting any."

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/44639.html

A Couple Of Nights I Wish I Could Forget

There really wasn't that much special about Eric. He was a heavyset business guy, roughly my age at the time (21) who was visiting The Peninsula for a week. His hotel was roughly a half an hour drive from where I lived in Cranberry Lake.

The first night that I encountered him in an AOL chatroom, I passed him over in favor of AlwaysOnEBoy. That proved to be a worthless evening, so the next night I decided not to be so choosy. I gave Eric directions to a local bar where we met up for drinks. Eric was husky. While husky isn't my favorite body type, I'm certainly not Johan Paulik enough to make fun of a person's appearance. So I'll just leave it at husky.

After a few Captain and Cokes, we headed over to my house, took a few Mike's Hard Lemonades out of the fridge and took off our clothes. A typical Wednesday night at Insafemode's house.

I'm not one to belittle another man's manhood. I'm no Long Dong Silver, but this guy ---

When I found his cock, I wasn't sure what I wanted to do with it. Return it to the Smurf Village Lost and Found? Impale it with a toothpick and offer it at cocktail parties? Keep it on ice in case I ever lost my pinky in a freak fingering accident? In the end I decided to try and suck it for a while, but his rolls kept bopping my nose. He wasn't a behemoth, but he refused to lay back, which would have made access to his microphallus much easier. As it was, his stomach was pressing against my nose, and since his cock was in my mouth, I was out of breathing holes. So I stopped.

"Maybe we better try something else."

His eyes were two lone bulbs on a a vast Light Bright. "Do you want to fuck me?"

Technically, the answer was no. I managed to skirt around the issue by announcing that I had no condoms (a shaved face lie). He offered to pick some up, but my nose had been close enough to his ass to know that I didn't want to go in there, even with a layer of latex around my cock. "That would be great. But the nearest 7-11 is a few miles away, and I'm awfully tired. Maybe we should try this another time."

After an awkward goodbye kiss, *shudder*, he drove out of the condo parking lot for what I assumed was the last time.

The next night I was IMing with AlwaysOnEBoy, negotiating a less frustrating rendez-vous when I got an IM from a screenname I didn't recognize. EBoy couldn't make it out that night, and after the frustration with Eric, I was desperate for some orifice. So, after exchanging pictures, I gave the guy directions to my house.

I'm always honest with I send out pictures. I don't consider myself hot but I've never made anyone run screaming from the site of my face. I've had my fair share of rejection when I've sent out my pic, but I've also had my fair share (and perhaps a few other people's) of acceptance.

The boy in the picture was fairly average looking. I love average looking guys. And not just because I may be one.

The guy was going to drop by at nine. I showered, and put some Gomez on, and sat down in my living room. At 9:15 the doorbell rang.

Imagine my surprise when I opened up the door and found Eric.

"Ummm..Hi, Eric. What are you doing here?"

"Sorry I'm late but I had a tough time finding this place."

I wondered if I'd somehow entered a Twilight Zone episode.

"Oh. Did you" Awkward pause "leave something here?"

"Huh?" Awkward pause "No. I thought -- Are you Insafemode?"

What the?? "Yes."

"Didn't we agree to meet up tonight?"

"No. We talked about getting together again at some point but I have plans tonight. I'm actually supposed to be meeting someone here very soon."

"Oh. I thought you said tonight at nine." He was staring at my rug.

"No." I felt really bad. I tried to figure exactly how I'd misled him into thinking we were going to meet again tonight. I hadn't. I'd suggested that there may be some time in the future when our paths would cross again, but I'd certainly never said "How about tomorrow at nine?".

Eric started to walk away. I was about to close the door when he turned around. "I know I look a bit different than I did in the pic I sent, but I'm not ugly. You're treating me like I'm ugly."

"You're the one who sent me the picture tonight? You're TheAliasThatIveSinceForgotten?"

"Yea. who did you think I was?"

"You're Eric. We met last night for drinks. You came over. We hung out a bit."

"Really? We've met before?"

I don't believe in amnesia. If I've ever had it, I've forgotten. I certainly don't believe that Eric "forgot" that he'd been over the previous night. I didn't know what game he was playing but I wanted no part in it.

"I'm sorry," he said, as I made to close my door, "I meet a lot of people on the road. Sometimes I forget who I have and haven't met."

"Well, good luck with that. Night."

You couldn't have picked his face off the pavement with a spatula. "Night."

I went back online to chat or hookup. Business was slow, so I decided to get some reading done when I heard an IM open up.

AliasIveForgotten: Hey there!

Insafemode: Hello, Eric.

AliasIveForgotten: I'm sorry. Have we met?

original post: http://community.livejournal.com/bad_sex/556568.html

Decidedly Unawesome

Jordan was twenty-three, sunburnt, and had the sort of hairstyle that can only come from sitting on the top deck of a boat on a very windy day, which made sense, he'd just taken a ferry over a small island not too far from where I lived. He was a writer. I was to discover, later, that he was a very awful writer, but I was twenty-one year old wannabe writer with an erection, a drawer full of condoms, and a refrigerator full of beer, and he was an attractive...writer.

Jordan's sunburn was a Speedo sunburn. Only his cock and his crack were left unlobstered. This, he said, was the reason he had to take a few Vicodin before we fucked. It's also the reason we had to stop at CVS and buy him some Solarcain on the way back to my apartment.

"Oh, yea." He said, as I sprayed the Solarcain on his back. "This feels awesome." If he was this easy to please, I had the feeling we were going to be in for a night full of -- "Ow. Ow. My back is...ow...careful." or not.

After three beers, and two shots of Tequila (plus three Vicodin for him), I decided to make my move. "Easy." He said. "I still kinda...oh yea." I, gently, very gently, put my hand on his face and begin kissing him. His lips were cracked. It wasn't too noticeable when I closed my eyes and kissed him, but when he started kissing down my body, I got a sensation I imagined not dissimilar to having my stomach licked by a cat. While his tongue seemed pretty adept at giving head, his lips caused the little man in charge of my brain synapses to push the button marked "Chafing! Chafing! Avert blowjob!"

I pulled out of his mouth, and pulled him up on the bed, where I began to--"Do you want to 69?" He asked.

"Uhhhh...ok."

I had a plan. I would let him think I was into 69ing for about five seconds, and then I would knead and/or spank his burnt ass. Surely, this would cause him to..."Oh, yea!" He yelled after the first spank. "This feels awesome." What kind of writer says this feels awesome to every physical sensation they feel. Oh, right. One who's been popping Vicodin all day. My spanking was not going to produce the intended result.

"Have you ever...fucked a guy?" He asked.

"No." I said. Which would have been true had he asked "Have you ever...fucked a guy...today?" I was taking artistic license.

"Want to?"

I smiled the way I imagined virgins smiled. "Yea."

"Awesome." And he laid his head down on the pillow and stuck his ass in the air. A position, I've since learned, isn't exceptionally comfortable even when you're not 90% sunburnt.

I strapped on a condom, and "Ow. Ow. Yes. Ow. Yea. Ow. Awesome. Yea. Ow."

His little ow symphony started to grate on me. "Ow. Yea. This feels. Ow. Awesome. Ow." So I started pulling his lower body toward mine, like I was giving his inner thighs The Heimlich. "Ow. Yes. Ow. Ow. STOP!"

I stopped.

"Ow. Ow. Ahhhhhhhhh. Thanks."

The hell? I'd stopped, thinking he was in pain from the way I was gripping his thighs. He rolled over, revealing several unmistakably sticky spots on the blue sheets.

"That felt awesome. I'm gonna, like, pass out, though. Those Vics...yea, I'm tired. You can keep fucking me until you're done or whatever, but I'm..yea, don't worry about it. It feels awesome."

While I admired his desire to make sure I got to come, I was a little leery of fucking someone I know regarded as a comatose drug addict, even though I, clearly, had his consent. "How about until I wait until you wake up."

"Yea." He said. "Whatever."

I pulled a sheet over him, propped a fan in his general direction, and went downstairs to get another drink. He was still out cold when I was ready to fall asleep. I debated whether or not to crawl into bed with him. On the one hand, he was cute. On the other, he was liable to say "Ow. Awesome. Ow." every time I touched him. On a mythical third hand, I didn't know him very well, and didn't want to discover that he was kleptomaniacal drug addict after he left my house. So I climbed into the spare bed. "Mmmmmm." he said. If this was followed by an awesome, I was going to punch him very hard in the middle of his peeling back. "Change your mind?"

"Huh?"

"You gonna fuck the Sleeping Beauty?"

Eww, dude. "Only after he wakes up."

"I'm awayyyy...ow!" He said, rolling over to face me. "Do you know where I left my Vicodin?"

On the nightstand to his left. "No."

"Oh, then maybe, we'd better wait. I feel kinda..." He was getting pukeface. Code red! Code red! "Where's your bathroom?"

I pointed. Then decided to take action, and have him lean on me, as I half-dragged him into the "Bluhoooooruk." bathroom. He didn't make it to the toilet. Close, though.

While I toweled up the puke, Comatose No Longer Beauty went back to the spare bedroom, popped a few pills, and put on his clothes. "I'm gonna....yea, I'm sorry about the puke, but...I think I'd better go. I don't want to miss the last ferry. I've gotta...you know...work tomorrow and stuff."

"No problem." I said.

He ambled over and leaned in to kiss -- "Dude, you just threw up on my floor."

"Right. Sorry."

"I'll e-mail you tomorrow when I get out of work. Tonight was...awesome...until the whole puking thing. Again, sorry."

"No problem."

"Talk at you tomorrow then?"

"Sure." I said. "That would be...awesome."

original post: http://community.livejournal.com/bad_sex/2345421.html

Fighting Nitrous Oxide

During Whore Month, I averaged about 1.33 random hookups a day. Most of the time, I couldn't even be bothered to learn a person's name. Really, who wants to risk the codependent personal attachment implied in calling the person you're fucking by name?

One name I remember vividly is Ryan Duda. I hadn't planned on learning it, but it was written very neatly on his mailbox. From the moment I read it, I couldn't get "Camptown Races" our of my head.

I rang the doorbell, and was relieved to discover he wasn't one of those weird assholes who sends out fake pics. He was just as nerdy hot as I'd hoped. Blond, alfafed hair, glasses, and Milk and Cheese t-shirt. I wanted to take him right there on the doorstep. Instead, we headed up to his apartment and smoked apple flavored tobacco out of his gigantic Shiva shaped hookah.

After about a half hour of smoking and John Madden football, our clothes were off, and I was admiring his shaved seven inch cock. We were in the midst of one of the better kisses I've been involved in when

Who's got a Shiva shaped bong? Duda, Duda.
Who's got a seven inch schlong? Duda, Duda,

Suddenly I was in The Giggle Loop. He probably grew up having people make fun of his name, I didn't want to be the umpteen millionth guy who thought he was cute by making a Duda joke. Laughing at his name while we kissed would be extremely inappropriate. *snork*

"What?" he asked.

I knew if I spoke, I was going to start giggling. So I returned to kissing him. Soon he was licking his way down my stomach, and

Who's as long as he is thick? Duda. Duda.
Who's about to suck my dick? Duda. Duda.

*giggle*

He looked up at me quizzically. "What?"

"Nothing, I'm *giggle* ticklish."

"Ok."

I couldn't concentrate. Not that one has to concentrate in order to get a blowjob. Still, it's nice to be able to enjoy the sensation of hot nerd tongue without having to think

Who's got plaid sheets on his bed? Duda. Duda.
Who's real good at giving head? Duda. Duda.

*snicker* *snicker*

"Wow." he said. "You must be really ticklish."

"Well, that is a uhhh sensitive area."

He smiled at me. "I didn't know you were so" lewd smirk "sensitive." Neither did I.

Another fifteen minutes passed. Smirking, giggling, and moaning flip flopped as often as sexual positions until I couldn't take it anymore.

"Who smokes apple flavored hash? Duda. Duda.
Who's wearing a come mustache? Oh, Duda's gay.

original posts: http://community.livejournal.com/bad_sex/778973.html
http://community.livejournal.com/metaquotes/1700626.html

Apiphobia And Frank's Ass

Frank had the type of ass you wish they modeled pillows after. An ass that soft, he had to be eating nothing but goosedown. Frank was the sort of person I could see myself spending the rest of my life with. In bed. It was not to bee.

Frank had come over around four in the morning. He'd got lost on his way down from Boston, and with no cell phone he had only managed to find my place by dumb luck. I had actually given up on him, and was just starting to jerk off when the doorbell rang.

A few Mike's Hard Lemonades later and we were testing my bedsprings, and the stability of the computer chair, and the angle of the staircase. His ass was so soft, I was afraid that if I gripped it too tight he would pop and float all over the room. We were still going at it hard and heavy at 5:30 when I noticed the first yellow jacket.

Ever since I stepped in a wasp's nest when I was ten years old, I've had a tremendous fear of bees. I don't mind spiders, caterpillars, moths or anything. Cockroaches disgust me, but they don't give me the willies. I just squash them or Raid them. Bees and I have an arrangement. I don't mess with them, they leave me alone. It usually works out splendidly but this particular morning a yellowjacket had decided to land on Frank's perfect ass.

While he didn't exactly deflate, the sting did send him flapping around the room. That's when we noticed the other yellowjackets. Dozens of them. Not swarming, just hovering. We threw on our clothes and slowly made our way downstairs where dozens of other bees were having some sort of bizarre hoedown in my living room.

It turns out there was a hive in my next door neighbor's attic, and the bees were flying through the cracks into my attic where they sought to establish another colony. I hired an exterminator to take care of that. No one ruins a sweet ass fucking and gets away with it.

original post: http://community.livejournal.com/bad_sex/548993.html

The Kind of Beach Movies They Didn't Make In The 50s

I know how sand is formed. It is the rubbing of bodies against rock. The incoming waves are only there to clean your skin cells away. You may not want to touch the shiny part of sand. It could be a potential ancestor who got recreationed out of procreation.

BoyWhoseNameICantRemember: You use awfully big words. Weird concepts.
NotYetInsafemode: My libido is unscrupulous
BoyWhoseNameICantRemember: Should I bring Trojans?
NotYetInsafemode: Only if you want to let the Greeks invade
BoyWhoseNameICantRemember: So I'll see you in an hour?

I drove myself out of my mind and on to the road. I was still fairly new to the whole hook-up thing. The days of me saying "Sure, let's fuck" weren't far off, but there was just enough hill on my horizon that I couldn't make them out yet. I was still believing that I was looking for love. That somehow this stranger would be the answer to my every agnostic prayer.

I drove by him twice. It was two AM. It was dark outside. He was wearing a black hoodie. I was about to turn around and go home when I saw his hand wave.

He kissed me when he got in the car, as though we were lovers who hadn't seen each other in a few days.

"Where's your car?" I asked, because I am the king of social grace.

"I didn't want to risk my Aunt hearing me pull out, so I biked here."

"You live with your Aunt?"

"No. I'm just here on vacation for a couple weeks. A little downtime between exams and summer work."

"Oh, where are you from?"

Where he was from was such an important detail that I stored it next to his name. I must have blocked the synapse necessary for its retrieval with something slightly more important to me, like what I had for breakfast on my fifth birthday: Pancakes.

We talked for hours. All I remember is that we spent a great deal of time talking about The Black Cauldron, and how Disney never gave it its due. We talked about everything but what we were there to do. Eventually, I couldn't help but kiss him. I straddled his body because the sand was making my ass itch. He kissed like a closeted college student who met up with another closeted college student over The Internet. No one would make a romance movie about our lovemaking. The tide didn't come in over our bodies. The breeze didn't blow either of our hair in a sultry manner. I sucked his cock because it seemed like the right thing to do. I swallowed because I hadn't yet. He'd been eating a lot of fruit.

His lips were chapped.

I was almost there when the sound of someone approaching approached. He looked up startled. I hit him on the chin. This startled him more.

No one was approaching except daylight. I gave him my number. He said he'd call me the next day. Of course, I never heard from him again. As I pulled away from the beach, my headlights caught his back as he leaned over into the sea to wash his face. I'd like to think my sperm grew into jellyfish.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/17108.html

Requited (Part 5: Near Truth)

Every hack psychologist and creative writing teacher will tell you that writing is therapeutic. I feel it’s my job as an author to tell you they’re full of shit. Reliving Ryan’s death has never brought me an ounce of peace. I feel like I’m Bill Murray’s character in Groundhog Day. Only instead of aiming to seduce Andie MacDowell, I’m trying to kill Ryan in such a way that no one will know who he is. As his lover, his confident, and his killer, it’s my duty to keep his secret.

So why am I telling it here? There’s no moral here, no healing, no zen realization about life’s suffering or love. I can’t offer any reason why I happened to Ryan or vice-versa. I offer it only as what it is, near truth. Which is all I have left.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/44954.html

Requited (Part 4: Kelland's Prophecy)

Maybe I’m in the minority (and I don’t just mean because of the gay thing), but I don’t find rape confessions to be a big turn on. Sex was no longer on my mind, in fact it wasn’t even in the same zip code as my mind, as I held Ryan sobbing in my arms. “I’m so sorry. I know this isn’t” sob “what you planned on tonight.”

I kissed the top of his head. “Don’t worry about it.”

I fell asleep sitting against the couch with Ryan in my lap. When I woke up it was light out. Ryan was still asleep. I wiggled out from beneath him, and put a pillow under his head. I went upstairs to shower my drunk off. It was my day off, but I had to go to work, pick up my check, cash it, and frivolously spend it on CDs. I’d get some writing done until Ryan woke up, then either fix us breakfast, or head out to a diner.

By the time I was done with my shower, Ryan was up. “Hey.”

I flashed him my ridiculous looking smile. “Morning.”

“Thanks for the pillow.”

“No problem. It’s probably not as comfortable as my inner-thigh, but it’s the best I could come up with on short notice.”

He grinned back. I’m a sucker for goofy smiles.

“I should probably head home and get ready for work.”

“Want some breakfast first? I asked.

“Nah. Never touch the stuff. Are you working tonight?”

“Nope. You’re working with Karen.”

“Mind if I stop by later? No drinking this time.”

“Sure. Give me a call when you’re on your way.”

He did his best to dewrinkle his shirt and headed to the door. Then stopped, walked back toward me and kissed me. I’m also a sucker for good kissers.

I spent the day in a daze of good music and happy thoughts. I went swimming, fired up the grill and made some chicken. I was adding my homemade teriyaki glaze when the phone rang.

“Hey Safe, it’s Ryan. I’m on my way.”

His arrival was perfectly timed with my completion of dinner, which was delicious. I felt incredibly domestic.

As Ryan and I put the dishes in the sink he threw his arms around me and kissed me on the cheek. I giggled. This was the gayest I’d ever been without having my dick in someone’s ass.

“Do you want go upstairs?” he asked. I wasn’t entirely sure I wanted to waste any energy walking all the way to the other side of the condo and up the stairs, but I said yes.

If I were to go on pure lust factor, perhaps the sex would have been mundane, very vanilla. But this wasn’t about sex. This was someone I’d been subconsciously in love with for years. Someone who, if he didn’t love me back, at least wanted to take a chance on me.

I fell asleep with his arms wrapped around me. His personal faith in humanity flotation device. I could save him.

I woke up the next day and he was gone. My panic attack lasted just long enough for me to notice the note on my computer desk.

Safe, I’ve got to go home and get some stuff done before I go to work tomorrow morning. I’d call in sick, but I don’t want you to fire me. I probably won’t be able to come over afterward, but I’ll call you. Last night was fantastic. Good food, good fun. Love you.

He loved me. I did the happy underwear dance around the room. Looked longingly at the phone. I wanted to call everyone I knew and tell them the news, but, of course, I couldn’t. I wasn’t going to be the one to push Ryan out of the closet. Not yet, anyway.

I went through the motions of my day, as though I was on ecstasy, which, in a sense, I was. I got home a little late, made myself some mac and cheese, and sat down to write. I don’t know when I fell asleep, I only know that I woke up next to a blank piece of paper and half a bowl of cold macaroni and cheese. I looked at my answering machine. No messages. I was okay with that. After only two days of knowing Ryan was gay and interested, I wasn’t going to turn into that obnoxious “Why didn’t you call me?” obsessive lover.

The next day, I got up early, headed out to work, and started doing some of the miscellaneous jobs that should have been Ryan’s. I was organizing cases of wine by brand when the phone rang.

“Thank you for calling Cranberry Liquors, this is Zachary, how may I help you?”

“Safey, it’s Karen. Is Ryan there?”

“Not yet. I was about to give him a call. I got so busy organizing the wines that I didn’t realize he was late. Want me to give him a message.”

“No. He didn’t come in yesterday.”

My Adam’s apple falls into my stomach. “What?”

“I would have called you, but it was so dead yesterday that he sort of did us a favor.”

“Ok. Well, thanks Karen. I’ll call him and see what’s going on.”

I call his cell phone, and am not terribly surprised to get no answer. I am wearing my best pessimism. He freaked out about us and moved to Tibet. His mother had another heart attack, and he’s at the hospital again, and was too overwhelmed to remember to call out for work. But Ryan isn’t the sort of employee to even call in sick, nevermind do a no-call no-show. And if there was some sort of emergency he would have called me. I’m his boyfriend. Sort of. I must have come on too strong, and now he can’t even stand to look at me.

I am just reaching the meat of my pity-me sandwich when I see him walking toward the door. I crack my knuckles, breathe deep, and say, “You’re late.”

“It’s eleven o’clock in the morning. If anything, it’s a little early to be buying a case of beer.”

“Sorry,” I say to the person who isn’t Ryan. “I thought you were someone else.”

“No problem.” As he walks over to the beer cooler, I dial Ryan’s home number.

“Hello.”

“Ms. Evans? Is Ryan there?”

“Who is this?” He is screening his calls. Or she is. She sounds like she’s holding back tears. Did he tell her?

“Safey Mode. I work with him at Cranberry Li―”

“Oh, Safe. I’m sorry. I should have had someone call yesterday. I’ve just been so―”

I remember seeing Michael Hutchence’s father, Kelland, interviewed on VH1. He was telling the story about how, on the day his son’s body was found, the first phone call he received was from a reporter asking if he had a comment for the papers. “You mean about the new album?” Kelland asked. The nervous reporter muttered only “Oh God.” and hung up.

“He died yesterday.” The beer cooler slams shut. I sit down. Ms. Evans and the man with the case of Michelob Light are talking to me at the same time. So sorry. How much? Visions of his car wrapped around a tree. Lovely day for the beach. Drunk driving. Incorrect change. Cryptic suicide note. So sorry. Dead. Have a nice day. Dead.

I hang up the phone, walk over to the door, and lock it. I pull the chain on the open sign, and walk into the beer cooler to scream.

Requited (Part 3: Getting Religion)

My mother used to call the Catholics vampires because were so fixated on drinking the blood of Christ. "The only reason they chose wine to represent His blood was to give them an excuse to be alcoholics."

The first time I went to Catholic mass, I was nine and spending a school vacation at a friend's cabin in Remote Resort Town. I was so fascinated with the rituals that I followed my friend up to the altar and heard the priest say "This is the body of Christ. It was broken for you. This is the blood of Christ. It was shed for you." Shed not spilled but shed. Something done with Purpose, something even more powerful than Reason. As an adult, I recognize the power of His blood being shed instead of spilled. As a child, I envisioned snakes.

Despite my family's somewhat negative view of Catholicism (my parents were both raised Catholic, and were practicing adults until the Catholic Adoption service deemed them unfit to adopt...and for the record, as the child they did end up adopting and raising, they're saints compared to an overwhelming majority of Catholic parents I know), I've never been one to generalize about people. If I'm going to dislike someone, it's going to be for their specific attitudes and actions or their vocation.

I refuse to generalize about Catholics, but I will say that in my experience, catholic priests are snakes. I remember hearing about priest abuse back when I was a pre-teen in Cranberry Lake. My neighbor across the street was raped by a priest in the seventies. She was raising her children Congregationalist. By the time we moved from Cranberry Lake to Nowheresville, she had converted my mother. While I've never had strong opinions on the religion front, it was nice to see my mother find something she believed in.

I found my faith in the body of man. I've never felt the need to kneel for any man, but I've prayed to eyes, and made sacrifice for holy voices that offer me love or forgiveness.

Ryan's eyes were salvation. That first night, when the awkward drunken conversation had been pissed out of us in the river of Guinness and Cider Jack, our conversation got exceptionally sober.

"When did you realize you were gay?" he asked me. Of course you, faithful reader, already know the answer. I told him a more condensed version of the truth.

I suppose this was my moment to ask him when he realized. I didn't.

The subject shimmied into something abstract and unimportant like what we looked for in guys, when I noticed that Ryan had fallen asleep. On my floor, like a teenage girl at a slumber party.

There is something perfect about the physical appearance of a sleeping man. Still, all I wanted to do was interrupt his sleep. A kiss on the cheek, pulling him up by the arm and leading him up to my bed. I wasn't thinking of fucking. I wanted to rest my head on his stomach and listen to the tide of his breath.

"Ryan." I whispered as I brushed his hair back. "Ryan."

"Huh?"

"It's me, Insafemode."

"Oh. Safey. Is it time to go to wor--" comprehension pried his eyelids apart. "What?"

"I thought you might want to go upstairs and sleep in a bed."

"With you?"

"I was hoping." His eyes swiveled away from mine. "But there's the spare bedroom if you'd prefer."

"I'm sorry. It's--" his eyes came back, as if on a pendulum. He leaned in to kiss me. His tongue tasted like barley. His 3 AM stubble scratched my own. I bent toward him for another kiss when he shot up and into the bathroom. Another sacrifice to the porcelain oh god of hangovers.

"Are you ok?" I asked when he came back out. "I know I'm not the world's best kisser, but--"

"No, it's not that, it's--"

"I know. I was kidding. We both drank quite a bit tonight."

"It's not that either. The last time I kissed a guy--" I knew this was a pause I shouldn't fill. "I was raped. My--" He turned and spoke to the TV, as though it were displaying the real truth behind human emotion, rather than reflecting the streetlight as filtered through venetian blinds. "I don't want to talk about it."

"Ok."

"Now I can't-- can't kiss a guy, can't even pass a fucken church without shaking." "Fuck. Fuck him."

I was nine years old and standing behind Patrick, waiting to take communion for a religion I knew nothing about. Everyone else in the church was standing up and walking toward the altar. I heard the priest say "This is the body of Christ. It was broken for you. This is the blood of Christ. It was shed for you."

Ryan was shaking in my arms. Baptizing me with his tears. His tears shed for his lost faith. It occurred to me, shed is more than a verb meaning to pour forth. It's also a noun. A place to store things when you don't need them, but know that someday soon you will: a rake, a bicycle, a secret, your religion.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/40301.html

Requited (Part 2: Awkward Pauses Between Breaths)

Ryan and I had known each other since he was thirteen and I was sixteen. The fact that we never had an inclination about each other is further proof that something in Cranberry Lake air jams the fuck out of gaydar.

We'd met at a summer camp, and as is common in Cranberry Lake and the rest of The Peninsula, we'd seen a hell of a lot of each other since: various parties, at the beach, at random mutual friends' houses.

I was managing a liquor store and waiting tables when he showed up at the restaurant looking for a job. He was less than qualified, and therefore, not hired. So I hired him at the liquor store, allowing me to take more time off to wait tables and fuck strangers that I'd met over The Internet. His working at the store affected my porn time, not a bit.

So when he showed up at my front door "Ryan."I was thinking FUCK.

"Insafemode."

"I wasn't expecting ---" someone who I've hired twice to work with me to show up on my doorstep wanting me to fuck them up the ass. I wasn't disappointed, mind you. Ryan was fun to be around, and easy on the eyes.

"This is very ---"fucking awkward.

"Awkward. Yea." But I was willing to make the most of it. Even if we weren't going to get our fuck on, our IM conversation had hinted that he really needed someone gay to hear his shit. I was gay. I was his friend. I was more than willing to hear him out, and offer whatever advice I could.

"Yea." Was he going to come in or was he going to run screaming back into his car and drive off into the night. And if he did, was I going to half to hire a replacement at the liquor store?

"Well ---" I did my best frog bow a la Lewis Carroll. "C'mon in."

Ryan did the hawk circle around the den, picking up and then replacing the seashell ashtray, and the Tom Robbins book. "So. This is Chez Insafemode."

"You've been here before." "Haven't you?"

"Not since you got back from college, no." I watched a single drop of sweat make its way down Ryan's forehead and down the bridge of his nose. I could barely restrain myself from walking over to the couch and licking it off.

I had never realized how beautiful his face was. Well." Maybe I had. Maybe that's why I kept hiring him. Maybe my gaydar wasn't as fucked as I thought. Maybe I'd just buried it into my subconscious. How had I not realized how badly I wanted him. "Hard yes I was Lemonade?"

"I should probably be going." Over my dead fucken body.

"No. Please. Make yourself at home. Move in I know this isn't what" I tapped on a few of the piano keys. "either of us expected but" damn it, it's what I've wanted for years, whether I was aware of it or not. I flipped the cover over the keys. "you said you needed someone to talk to."

"Yea. But the idea was that it wasn't someone I knew. And that we would" he picked up the ashtray again I'd never seen him nervous before. He was so cute when he didn't know what to do with himself. "but I mean" he put it back down "that would be weird now" So the fuck what? he examined it as if it contained the most important element of his DNA "Right?" Wrong. It made perfect since. Our lives had been intertwined for six years. There was no logical reason for it. Small towns be damned. We were meant to be together forever and ever and -- I must have been fucken tanked.

"Are you sure you don't want something to drink?" I didn't want to be the only one trashed out of my fucken gourd.

"Jesus. I could really use something to drink, but if I have to drive home later." The only thing you'll be driving later is my cock. ***Author's note: when the fuck am I? I'm dancing between verb tenses like David fucken Byrne. Maybe the situation was so tense it transcended tenses. Am I drunk now?***

"No. Don't worry. You can sleep in my bed the spare" I remembered the piles of dirty laundry and other assorted crap I'd thrown in the spare bedroom. "Couch. The spare couch." My bed.

"Okay." He sat on the couch. "Do you have any Guinness?"

I did. Back when I juggled restaurant work and managing a liquor store, my house was filled with every conceivable beer and hard liquor known to Cranberry Lake Liquors. I wasn't too much of a lush but company was forever dropping by, and whether it was a friend from work or someone who stopped over for some cock, they always wanted something to drink. I wondered if he knew that I'd been a little liberal with my employee discount. Would he care? Had he been liberal with his discount? Dear Lord, what if we started fucking on a regular basis and I ended up having to fire him for stealing or --- Yea, I was drunk.

"So." Ryan picked up the ashtray again. "You're gay."

"Yea." I went into the kitchen and pulled out a Guinness and a Hard Cider (much better than Hard Lemonade).

"I had no idea."

"Well. When I'm not in love or balls deep in a guy's ass, it's not an important part of my life."

"Fuck." I handed him the Guinness and a gigantic mug I'd picked up when I worked at a Renaissance Faire. "Have you ever fooled around with anyone I know before?"

"That's classified." I hadn't. Yet. "Would you want me telling the next guy about you."

He chugged the Guinness like it was a Coor's Lite. "Well. We're not going to." We were going to I could see it in his eyes. And in the bulge in his khakis. "I mean, we can talk and everything" more chugging "but you probably don't want to" "that would be too" perfect?

"Another one?"

"Thanks."

I went into the kitchen again. I brought the whole four pack out. It wasn't too far a walk from the den to the kitchen but I had a feeling I wouldn't want to leave the room again. It also didn't take much of a psychic to realize that he was going to drink through his fair share of widget cans.

He took the second can, popped the top and poured it into the mug. "You're not just trying to get me drunk to take advantage of me, are you?"

"Would you like me to seduce you?" "Is that what you're trying to tell me?" I couldn't tell whether he was getting the movie reference, or if he thought I was just quoting a George Michael song.

"Ha." He took another pull. "Man." "I don't know if I'm up for this." Again, I refer you to the bulging khakis. He was up for it.

"No worries." I sat down in one of the chairs facing the couch. "You said you wanted to talk about things first anyway."

He picked up the ashtray again.

"So talk."

second draft of original (highly confusing) post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/36285.html

Requited (Part 1: Non-Picture Of Pre-Sex Rituals)

It wasn't that I was ugly, it was just that when I first started whoring over AOL, I didn't have any pictures of myself on my computer. I knew what I looked like. Most people on AOL just assumed that if you didn't have a picture on your computer then you were some hideously deformed freak with a tuna casserole where your face should be. After a week of being mostly rejected due to my non-pic having status, I broke down and got some pictures scanned.

Sure, some of the people who rejected me because I didn't have a pic went on to reject me again, but more than a few became Insafemode Entries.

Not being too much of a hypocrite, I often agreed to meet people without pictures. Most of the guys were average to good looking. Granted, I have fairly low standards. The way I figured it, it was just as easy to lie about what you looked like by sending a fake pic as it was to just not send a pic.

Ryan was a twenty year old closet case who didn't want his picture sent out, but he seemed sweet and funny so I decided to take a chance. I attended to the usual: toss all of the dirty laundry into the spare bedroom, change the sheets, make sure the condom drawer was filled, and make sure I'd taken proper advantage of my employee discount at the liquor store.

The doorbell rang at almost exactly midnight, thirty seconds before Cinderella's coach turned back into a pumpkin, and a minute before Peter Peter came to eat it.

When you've agreed to meet someone for sex, someone you haven't seen before, you mentally come up with a variety of possible appearances for them. Ryan said he was 5'9", brown almost black hair, swimmer's build. With a description like that he could look like anyone. Well, anyone 5'9" with almost black hair.

I tried to picture how he carried himself. Perfect posture? Mild slouch? Hunchback? What did his ass look like? I hadn't yet met Elvis, so I didn't realize that it was possible to have a concave ass.

When the doorbell rang I imagined his wide nose, piercing green eyes, and big pouty lips. I was in no way prepared for who would be waiting on the other side.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/35665.html

CSB

I don't think I'd ever refer to something as The Kiss of Death. Depending on who they get to play Death in Good Omens, I can't imagine Death being kissable. Let's review the people who've played Death in TV shows and movies: Norm Macdonald, William Sadler, Jason Alexander, and Adam Corrola. None of them are on my top million list of guys to fuck.

If there were any characteristic of a person that I would even consider labeling "The Kiss of Death", it would be the use of patchouli as a bathing substitute. Even before I lived in Vermont, where showers are viewed with a disdain that Republicans reserve for a gay marriage ceremony involving a black guy and an Iraqi civilian, I couldn't stand the vile smell of patchouli. Even typing that word makes my nose hurt.

On the first night of my Acting class in college, I caught a whiff of something patchouliesque. Something *sniff* *sniff* almost like patchouli, but somehow not displeasing. Nasal gaydar. When I turned around I saw the hottest, obviously gay guy I had ever laid eyes on. I made small talk with him, and bided my time before I went full on flirtatious. This was back before Whore Month, before Ryan came into play, before I had dared do anything remotely gay near where I lived. Sure, there'd been Victor at boarding school, and Alex at college, but those were faraway places.

After a couple of weeks, the boy in class had done some obviously gay things. He had rapped the complete lyrics to Vanilla Ice's "Ice Ice Baby", he wore tight fitting t-shirts, he kept mentioning that his friends said he looked like Leonardo diCaprio. He couldn't be gayer if he was walking around with my dick in his ass, something I was hoping to prove with extensive testing.

We started hanging out a lot. More than a lot. When he went through a rough patch with his mother, he moved in to my condo for a while. Neither of us were yet twenty-one, but I looked old enough to not get carded very often. So every other night or so we ended up plastered and sharing the pull out bed in the living room. It was on one of those nights that I decided to grow some balls and tell him how I felt. Why that night? I was hammered. How hammered? Hammered. I was hammered. There were nails buried in plaster mumbling "That guy is hammered." That's how hammered I was. Hammered. I was playing some sort of show tune on the piano, the boy was singing along. He was singing beautifully. (I later discovered he was practically tone deaf, but it sounded amazing while I was hammered) At one point he leaned in real close and started close crooning. I turned my head toward his and leaned in to kiss him. Well, that's what I did in my head. In real life, I turned toward him all googledy eyed, and we started laughing.

He'd been in the house about two weeks when I finally said "I am so in love with you" in a way that I could pretend it was a joke if he didn't feel the same way.

"Dude, if I was gay, I'd be all over you." He said. I hate that phrase. You have no idea how many times I've heard it. Usually from guys who later came out as gay. This was the first time. It stung like a wasp with a harpoon gun on his abdomen.

"You're not gay?" I asked with mock mock horror.

"No. But every gay guy I've ever met crushes all over me. You should meet my friend Tom." So a couple of weeks later, after Cute Straight Boy had mended fences with his mom, and moved back into his garage apartment, he took me to hang out with his friend Big Gay Tom. It was hate at first site. I find uber-queeny gays annoying, Tom didn't like guys who weren't flamboyant. Tom was insanely jealous that CSB had lived at my house for a few weeks, I was insanely jealous that Big Gay Tom was always giving CSB the option of getting kissed or hit, and CSB usually picked getting kissed. We each hated the fact that the other person was crushing on their not-gay boyfriend.

After a particularly funny remark that CSB made, Tom brayed like a donkey while I said "I would so have his babies." And the claws came out. Tom's claws. I let him go absolutely crazy and catty and vicious while I sat quiet and reserved, imagining that CSB wold think I was classy for not stooping to Tom's level. When he realized how not Gay I was, he'd surely fall in love with me, and we would have hot hot sex in his mother's garage. That would be so hot.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/84348.html

Slow Flashes (Part 16: Survival Techniques)

Running is not a sport. It's a survival technique. A zebra munches on grass. She senses danger and her ears go flat. Whether the lion is sighted or not, the exodus begins. Zebras charging through grasslands, stomping through the plains. No rest until the danger is gone. All this, and no Nike endorsement deals.

With the help of three women who didn't like her very much, I managed to outrun Beckee Krackow. I camped out on their couch for the remaining nine days in Wisconsin. We made dinners together, crashed sorority parties, closed down Hurricane bars, and made dozens of mix tapes that featured little digs at Beckee that no one but the four of us would ever understand. I was almost having the time of my life. But this fun wasn't something I'd planned. Wasn't the spontaneous product of a carefree life. This fun was the byproduct of running away from my problems. And even though I was fairly sure they wouldn't be catching up to me any time soon, I was still uneasy about their proximity to my back. Every jeep that passed was Beckee. Every man I made eye contact with was unHarry. Every joke I cracked made three people laugh, and two cringe.

This is the way it has always been. Jeremy Burdick hits me in the face with a rock, I run home. The Saint tells me that hanging out with Kevin Harris makes me look gay, I run away from Kevin without looking back. The first time I got tired of dating Beckee Krackow, I gave her a Valentine's Day present, and ran to the safety of my dorm. Everything running. It's a wonder my feet ever touch the ground. This stupid fear of getting caught being who I was. Staring too long at Saint Christopher's ass, or unHarry, or that stupid crying faggy baby Jeremy Bird Dick. I spent so much time running from who I was afraid to be, that I never took a break to realize who I was. And now here I was, running from this crazed psychopath, Beckee Krackow, a girl who had never really done anything wrong except love me.

And, shit, even my running wasn't very original. Simone, Rachael, and Susan had already rescued one high school ex that Beckee had trapped. Alex. unHarry's junior year roommate, a tall, goofy looking kid with a blond fro. "He was obviously freaked out the very first night he was in town." Susan said. "Harry picked him up at the airport, and he met Beckee and us at The Safe House." So those fuckers knew where it was before I showed up. I wondered why they pretended they'd never been there before. "And then one of Beckee's skanky ass friends showed up, and kept flirting with Alex all through dinner. He looked so uncomfortable."

I wondered if the skanky ass friend was Michelle. If she'd laid her foot in Alex's lap while she bragged about how she orgasmed while giving head. If Beckee took him home afterward and read some poetry she'd written about him.

"He was weird anyway." Simone said. "He was always looking at people like they were some sort of exotic meat."

Rachel nodded. "Gave me the fucken creeps."

If they only knew.

I hadn't spent much time in high school getting to know Alex. Pretty much all the information I had about him came through Beckee. According to her, Alex's father was one of those rich shit heads whose jobs required him to move all over the world. That Alex never really settled anywhere until Torpor Heights. Five years old, and friendless in Madrid. Caught torturing a parrot to death in Belize at age seven. At twelve, he half-blinded a girl with a rock in Ghana. When he was fourteen he did something in a former Soviet Republic that made him chuckle, but that he wouldn't explain. Something bad enough to make his father send him to boarding school back in America. At fifteen, he was assigned to live with Harold Brissette. I don't know how or when they started fucking. Whether it was rape or if they were just two curious, horny teenagers doing what curious, horny teenagers do.

"He totally cries during sex." Beckee said. We were backstage, rehearsing for Romeo & Juliet. I had a few minutes before I had to go out, so Beckee was sitting in my lap, complaining about her sex life with unHarry. "It's so annoying. It's like, he's terrified of the vagina. Like it's going to eat him or something. Rargh." She wrapped her legs around my arm. "I don't get what's so scary about genetalia anyway."

"Pussy looks like an unhealed scar." I said. "Or some chasm to an alien universe."

"Oh, please. If there's anything alien looking about genetalia, it's the cock. It's fricken hilarious. Big droopy trunk and this hairy, floppy purse behind it."

"Don't knock my sword." I said, grabbing my junk as punctuation.

She chortled. "Puh-lease. I'm not afraid of your sperm purse."

"You haven't seen Kilo yet."

"Keeloh?" She asked.

"Short for Kilometer."

It was her turn to grab my junk. To her credit, she refrained from replying with the appropriate more like centi or, cock forbid, milli joke. "There isn't a penis in the world that scares me."

"And there isn't a vagina in the world that scares me." I replied. Which was true. I wasn't scared of them, just repulsed by them.

"Well, then you're one up on my gay ex-boyfriend."

"So you guys are definitely broken up?" I asked.

"Do you think I'd be playing with your sword if we weren't?" To my credit, I refrained from replying with the appropriate truth. "I mean. You have to promise not to tell anyone. But. Ok. Harry is totally gay."

I blushed. "So you've said."

"No, I mean like. Like he and his roommate fuck." And I'm sure she kept talking, but I didn't hear a word she said. I was picturing Alex and unHarry. Trying to figure out who was top, whether they held each other afterward. When I came to, she was looking at me. I was definitely supposed to be saying something.

"Why are you telling me this?"

The question became, why did she tell me this repeatedly? Every time we got together there was some mention of unHarry and Alex having sex.

Now that I'm comfortably in my twenties, I understand. She needed to talk to someone about how this guy she loved, who claimed to love her, was gay. How frustrated she was. And since unHarry and I weren't friends, and, maybe in her eyes, were romantic rivals, I was a perfect candidate. She didn't know that I, too, was a stupid, confused sixteen year old closet case, and because of how quickly and frequently she'd divulged unHarry's secret, I was now terrified to tell Beckee Krackow anything that she could use as a weapon with her next boyfriend. So, a couple of weeks later, I gave her the stuffed bear, and stopped talking to her.

A year later, I was in the theater, hanging out with JBob and a few of the techies when I heard Beckee screaming. She and Alex were in the basement, supposedly working on one of the one act plays for an upcoming festival. It wasn't a long series of screams and crying, it was a short burst of "No. No. Get off me!" followed by silence. None of us flew down the stairs to rescue her. I cracked jokes about how that must have been the first time she'd ever said those words. JBob and a couple of the techies laughed. A couple of them cringed.

It was summer before Beckee told me what happened. How Alex had raped her in the basement that she had to spend three mornings a week, rehearsing in. I had just financed Jennifer's abortion when she told me, and I was all out of comforting words. I mean what could I have possibly said to take her pain away? Should I have told her about Jennifer? Should I have mentioned that I was starting to get the sneaking suspicion that my interest in gay porn wasn't so much a phase but an obsession? Not knowing the most soothing thing to say, I asked "Did you tell Harry?"

She didn't. She didn't tell Harry. She didn't tell her psychologist. She didn't tell a dean, so no disciplinary action against Alex was taken. And two weeks before he was scheduled to graduate, he raped a sophomore who did report it. But since, as far as the school knew, it was a first offense, they chose to let him graduate. After that, he disappeared for two years, until either Beckee or Harry invited him to Wisconsin. I don't know what happened there, either. Why he had a black eye and a limp when he showed up at Simone, Rachel, and Susan's. How, despite all that, he still smiled through most of the visit.

original posts: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/234070.html
http://community.livejournal.com/2_much_sex_info/94957.html

Slow Flashes (Part 15: Planning The Great Escape)

I firmly believe that men are much better at cock-sucking then women. I also believe that women are better muff-divers. It has to do with having the equipment and knowing how it works. I fully acknowledge that men can become great at cunnilingus, and women can become amazing at fellatio, but I believe this comes with practice or inherent talent. The people born with this talent are roughly equivalent to the people born with perfect pitch. They're out there, but your chances of meeting them over Craigslist or Love.com are pretty slim.

unHarry gave much better head than Beckee. We were in the back of his Corolla. I tried not to imagine which of Beckee's mom's friends he'd done this with the night before.

When we were both finished, he said "Please don't tell Beckee about this. She'll die."

I had no plans to tell anyone. I made my way over to the music store a little early, where I inventoried my sins. We were done a little before midnight. Beckee was asleep when I got back. unHarry was not in the apartment. I took my cell phone and the business card out of my pocket. It could have been a trap. Simone, Rachel and Susan could have been really good friends with Beckee. If I called them, they'd promise to pick me up the next morning, and when they came by, the three of them would hold me down while Beckee duct taped my limbs together and locked me in the tupperware bin beneath her bed, only taking me out for the occasional feed-and-fuck. But maybe it wasn't a trap. They'd seemed sincere enough. And horrified enough by everyone else at that awful birthday party. I called.

"Had enough?" Rachel asked.

"More than." I replied. And I detailed as much of the badness as I dared. I told them about Beckee burning the bad poetry, and the naked unHarry, but I left out the sex.

"Jesus." She said. "Here's what you need to do..."





Beckee and I left her house at eleven in the morning. It was her day off. I told her how sorry I was for making light of her feelings, but, I explained, things between Jennifer and me weren't really over, and until we were completely finished, I didn't feel comfortable being with anyone else. I felt awful about leading her on, but I was glad she had unHarry. Anyway, I didn't want to infringe on her hospitality any more, so I'd moved my flight up. My supposed flight left at 2:30 in the afternoon. I was so sorry, but this really was the best way, you know?

According to the plan, Beckee would drop me off around 1. I would wander around the airport until 2, when Rachel and Simone would pick me up (Susan was working).

We didn't factor in Beckee being a complete spaz. At 1:15, instead of looking through the airport giftshop, or watching Beckee's taillights disappearing, I saw a huge sign that said "Welcome to Illinois."

"Uhhhh."

"Oh, shit." Beckee said. "Oh, shit. I missed the exit. I'm so sorry." And she got off at the next exit, sped from exit ramp to entrance ramp, and the jeep hit 110 flying back toward Milwaukee. "If we missed your flight, I'll pay the fees to get you on the next one. God, please don't think I did this on purpose. I'm so sorry."

I believed her.

We got to the airport at 1:54. Still time to catch the flight I wasn't taking.

"Thanks, Beckee. I'm sorry" no I'm not "things didn't work out the way we'd" and by we'd, I mean, you'd "hoped. But thanks for a memorable trip."

"I'm not leaving yet. I'll walk you to the gate." Oh. Fuck.

"But you're parked in a no-parking zone."

"No biggee, I left it running. Anyway, I've got to pee. I'll be right back."

Well shit fuck bitch ass cooter cunt cock dickweed, what was I going to do now? I was standing in the check-in lane for a flight that I didn't have a ticket for, and I had no idea where Simone and Rachel were.

That's when I noticed the newspaper moving towards me at an alarmingly quick pace. There was clearly a body behind it. Two firm, female looking legs. And just as the newspaper passed by me, Rachel stuck her head around it, and said "Run!" So I did.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/232943.html