Shooting Flare Guns At Closet Cases

The next thud you hear is my self-esteem smacking against pavement. It sounds exactly the way balls against ass does not.

I'll blame it on The Internet. Fuck GMail. Fuck the way my fingers slip over the mouse. My hands are slick with disappointment and someone else's sweat. I didn't want to do touch him anyway. Hated the way his humble cock poked through his shorts. The way he breathed like I was putting out cigarettes on his tonsils.


I am too old for bicurious pussies.

Rene was first. "Meet me at 5:30." He said. "My house is your house. You will fuck me until I can't walk anymore, and then I will crawl to you so we can fuck some more."

But before sex, before Rene's quivering cock, I'm meeting a friend at the book store. "Maybe you should call me Goat With A Thousand Young when you talk about me in your journal." He says. No more requests for your names. For now he is Cheerio. And he'll either like it or won't. "Are you not allowed to take a shower at Clitty's?"

I'm not staying at Clitty's, but do I smell? Am I covered in? Oh, right. There's still a bit of blood on my hands from nosebleed #374.2. I head to the bathroom, wash it off. Come back and get the Cheerio seal of approval. We talk novels and bad poetry, and I'm off.

Rene's house isn't quite where he said it would be. Or, more correctly, not where I thought he said it would be. I am walking on sleepless pavement. I can feel sweat forming on my back. My knees need to crack.

"Hi." He says when I finally arrive at the house.

"Hey." I smile. He had problems sending a pic. His AIM was wonky. My GMail fucken sucked today. He was cuter than I feared. "Nice apartment." If you're into college minimalism.

His room is a bed, a desk, no wall decorations, no throw rug, no pictures on his desk, just a computer.

"Mind if I shower?" I ask.

He smiles, sweetly. I take my backpack into his halfbath. Soap, check. I turn on the water. Scrub scrub. Why am I doing this? Have I learned nothing since I started this journal? Why on Earth would I...my dick nods to attention. Right.

I walk back to Rene's bedroom. He is on the phone. "Ok." He says to the phone. Then, to me, "Sorry, I have to go. I was hoping you would be here an hour ago."

"Oh." Unfuck. "Ok."

Luckily, there was a backup plan. Eric wanted me to meet him at a bar on the other side of Harvard Square. I had a half an hour to get there before he said he'd just go home and beat off. A bus arrives at the end of Rene's street, just as I get there. The bus goes straight to the bar, but I feel compelled to get off at Harvard. I recognize a friend from poetry slam on the sidewalk. We talk about nothing. I stop in at the computer cave and check my e-mail. One message from Eric. "Fuck. Don't come. My roommate is gonna be home after all. Sorry dude. Don't come."

Unfuck you, too.

I check scattered e-mails. Thanks to fucken GMail I have the e-mail that my new landlord sent at 11 fucken in the morning asking me to call him before 6. It's 6:30. No keys for the new place.

Among spam and Livejournal comments, floating like an obese duck in jello, is another e-mail from Robert. Robert and I have been trying to hook up all week. He's a kind of chunky Chinese guy. Not kind of. Chunky. He's in the closet. Closets are my least favorite rooms in the house. "I really want you to come over now." He says.

So I hop on the next bus. Walk over to his iron gated apartment complex. "Nice apartment." I say, and this time I mean it.

He doesn't say thanks, just angles his head like he's considering cracking his neck.

Fear Factor is on the TV, and he wants to finish watching it. Whatever, I'm early. Just as the third stunt is about to begin, his shaking hand goes up my shirt. "I love redheads." He says. "Are you...all red?" This is time #6,327 someone has asked me this.

"Want to check?"

And my pants are coming down. He doesn't even bother unbuttoning the pants. I must be losing weight. He is not, but that's ok. He is breathing like I'm putting out cigarette butts on his tonsils. I can smell him freaking out. See the word fag roll across his pupils. He touches my cock like it's a doorknob on fire. I kiss his neck. I don't know why. I don't mean it. I grab his ass. I think someone with his weight should have a better ass. He does have a nice cock, though. I start to gently tug and "I can't do this." He says. "I'm sorry."

"Are you sure?" I ask, knowing the answer.

"Yea. You can stay and watch the end of Fear Factor...maybe...tomorrow night we could...?"

No, we can't. You won't want to tomorrow night either. We are too ugly to fuck. You are too nervous. I am a nosebleed to your asthma. All I want to do is go back to the home I don't have.

The streetlights shake their heads as I walk by. I'm taking the T back to Allston. I am shooting flare guns at closet cases. Help me, I think I wanted this. Wanted a night of accidental cockteasers, weak willed fags who couldn't find their spine with their backs. People who can't kiss or look at themselves when they masturbate.

At the next internet cafe, I get an IM from Timmy. He's missed me so much he hasn't e-mailed me in a year. But he lives in Allston now. I am in Allston. Turns out, I'm right down the street from his house. Do I want to stop over? Sure, this night can't get any worse, right? I'm a writer, I'll write myself a goddamned fucken happy-ass Hollywood ending to tonight.

But I don't live in Hollywood.

As soon as I get in the house, he grabs my hand and pushes it to his tiny, tiny erection. I do not have a large dick. Timmy has a toothpick. "What took you so long?" He asks.

"I ran into a bunch of drunken stupid frat boys at Redneck's." And...you're wearing a necklace with a greek symbol on it. Great.

He smiles, then asks, "Do you suck dick?"

"Sometimes." I say. "You?"

"Nope." Then he is in my mouth. Pushing me with his sweaty hands. He's small. Even if he wasn't drunk, I could easily push him away, but what the fuck, he begins poorly jerking me off as I suck him.

His cock tastes like PBR.

It takes him ten seconds, fifteen, and....he's done. I've had bigger sneezes.

I stand up and present him with my dick.

"No, dude." He says. "I'm done. Tired."

"You're not even going to jerk me off."

He gets this truly evil grin on his face. "Welcome to the Frat House."

He'd been waiting to say that all night. I want to say something equally scathing in return, like welcome to the fag house or something. Instead, I let my teeth do the talking for me.

I grab my bag, and hurry out the door and into the street. I'm so thirsty, and disgusted. I head into the Store 24 for a Diet Cherry Vanilla Dr. Pepper, precisely because it has a terrible shitty aftertaste that tastes nothing like Timmy's dick.

I think I see Timmy on my way out of the store, but I'm probably just being paranoid. And so what if it was him? At his level of drunkenness, I could have cockslapped him unconscious.

Rene will call tomorrow, but I won't pick up. Eric will see me online and debate sending an IM. He probably won't. Eric will wait until another day when his roommate will show up at the last moment. I don't think I'll be hearing from Timmy again.

I have already blocked them all from seeing me for who they are.

original posts: http://community.livejournal.com/bad_sex/1743746.html
http://insafemode.livejournal.com/131723.html
http://insafemode.livejournal.com/132266.html

Emptyful

On my way home from the grocery store I saw a poster that said $200 costume contest tonight. $100 for gentleman in funniest costume, $100 for lady in sexiest costume. On another day, I might have pondered the inherent sexism of this obviously frat boy planned party. Today I was thinking, to make it fair, shouldn't it be $100 for the gentleman in the most desperate costume?

Today, I am the most desperate man at the party. I've got two hours before my first hookup since Ethan referred to me as Safey. It's not hard to fall into the familiar routine of shower, shave, tweeze, doubt. It's in the shower that doubt arrives early. I've spent most of my life as a writer, hanging around other writers. I enjoy long-winded, well written sarcastic LiveJournal posts. An e-mail with six paragraphs of witty misanthropy can cause me to fall in love. So why am I going to meet someone based on a "Send me back a pic if interested" "I'm interested, name the time and place" "Three o'clock, here's my address" "See you then" e-mail exchange?

Apparently, my love is a symphony of urbane observations. My lust is "Nice hair, let's fuck."

I spend a half hour in the too hot shower. The bathroom gets so steamy that I have to kneel in order to see my reflection in the mirror. There's an analogy or a metaphor here that I'm not interested in seeing.

I'm embarrassed by the way my hair is thinning in front, the spot of dry skin just northwest of my lip, what feels like it may be the start of a pimple on my butt. I should call this off. I really don't have any hope for love, and given my history with meeting strangers for sex, I don't have any hope for lust. Odds are the picture was fake, he lied about his age, he's married, he hasn't changed his underwear since the Carter administration, he thinks patchouli is an adequate substitute for personal hygiene, he kisses like the Tasmanian Devil. Odds are, I'll leave his house feeling empty, and not empty of sperm, but empty of dignity. I know all this will come to pass. Still, I lather my face with shaving gel, and pick up the razor. I do a seek and destroy mission on my ass, and discover there is nothing remotely pimpular.

I'm just about to finish shaving when I knick a place on my neck. I will always have at least one blemish.

I toss on jeans and a shirt, and call the number he gave me to let him know I'm on my way over. The phone rings four times. I pray for the machine. I don't want to do this. At some point in the shower I stopped seeing this as an opportunity to get off, and started thinking of it as the real ending to my novel. The Last Hookup. One more real story. Not the bullshit Fox and I might live happily ever after. The real ending is me having learned nothing, putting on my jeans and my fuzy Lucky shirt, and walking to some stranger's hope with the hopes of sticking my dick in his ass.

I get the machine. His name is Matthew. I leave a message on his machine. Crisis averted, I can go back to sending suggestive e-mails to the cute boy in Chicago with the self-deprecating wit and the digital camera.

The phone rings. Matthew.

I pack a bottle of watermelon lube and condoms in my bag, and head out the door.



Most of the guys on The Internet are either deceitful or else they've been victimized by a ruler maker with a cruel sense of humor. Seven inches is often four and a half. I don't ask people for their cock size not just because I know they'll lie but because I don't have a huge kielbasa myself. Also, I'm an ass man, what do I care how big their cocks are?

What Matthew either lied about, or has been conned to believe is that he's 6'1". He's close. He's pretty much my height. I'm 6'. I don't understand why he's added inches to his height anymore than I understand people sending out old or fake pics. Obviously, I'm going to find out before you even get your clothes off.

We head immediately to his bedroom, where we talk. Matthew seems like a nice guy. He's a poet (shoot me now) getting his MFA at a local college. He's occasionally gone to a reading I host, and a reading I frequent. However, we've never been at either place at the same time. Lovely. I've been rather proud of the fact that I've never let my poet life and my sex life intersect. So when he leans in to kiss me, I pretend not to notice the Selected Poems of Elizabeth Bishop collection sitting on his desk.

His kiss. Our kiss. Our kiss is bad. His breath tastes like stale nicotine. Have I mentioned how much I love the taste of nicotine? No? There must be a reason.

Most of the problems with our kissing are not Matthew's fault. We are completely out of synch. I am lips when he is tongue, I am tongue while he is lips, he is tongue while I am wishing I was somewhere else.

It isn't long before our clothes came off.

In a normal relationship, or at least a well-thought-out hookup or one night stand, you and your partner have some sense of what the other person likes/wants. Matthew's body is not proportionate to what I was looking for. I don't ask him, but I'm fairly certain he isn't all that thrilled with me either. Understand, he isn't ugly. Far from it. He is very cute in a nerdy sort of way. And I generally find nerds quite sexy. But his weight is in all the wrong places for me.

After a few minutes of awkward kissing and skin on skin, he rolls over and asks me to rim him. Despite my well publicized liking of the ass, I haven't had a lot of experience licking of the ass. I've only ever rimmed two guys: Victor, and some guy during Whore Month who didn't even warrant his own story.

Matthew bends over, showing that he does, indeed, have an ass, but much like the rest of his body it isn't the shape I prefer. I soldier on. Slather some watermelon flavored lube in the vicinity of his mangina and dive in. And much like diving too deeply into a pool with too much chlorine, my eyes start burning and I can't breathe. Why? His ass is not proper rimming shape. There is no position I can find where I can breathe. It could be worse. At least his ass is meticulously clean (as it should always be when meeting for sex).

I give up and begin fingering him. His breathing gets heavy, and, though I won't realize it until a few minutes later, he comes. He then sits up, covering the wet spot on the bed with his ass and attacks my mouth with second hand tar. He also begins licking my ear. Have I mentioned how much I love having my ear licked? No? Hmmm. Funny, that. I figure he must enjoy having his ear licked, so I decide to sacrifice my tongue to save my ear. I breathe heavily into his ear while doing some more licking. Then, just as he is getting into it, I can't do it anymore. It is too absurd.

As soon as I stop, he pushes me back on the bed, and begins snapping his finger around my nipples. Not sexy. I move his hand down toward my cock. While our arms were moving my hand brushes his chest, and I realize he's already come. I'm not even on the same continent with coming.

He proceeds to go down on me. I think. I stop paying attention at this point. I am trying to remember whether or not I'd locked the door on my way out of the house.

"Want to 69?" Not really, but since I'm here, sure, why not. I begin nearly gagging on his cock. I don't think it is big, I haven't really noticed it one way or the other. While I try various ways to get him off using my mouth and hand, he is...what the hell is he doing? Is he still blowing me? I can't feel a fucken thing. "I want you to come on my chest." Yea, and I want sarchal's Diesel Cords on my bedroom floor. There are some things you have to be patient for.

And he is patient. In the time it takes me to come, he comes again. This time I see it with my own eyes, and it does nothing for me. I kneel there, passionately jerking my cock, for what seems like months. If our roles were reversed, I probably would have gone out for pizza while he was jerking off. I would have gone out for pizza in Italy.

While he towels off, I put on my clothes and jacket, stuff my lube and unused condoms back in the bag, and head home. I am barely out of his house when I notice a woman in a burka walking toward me. Most days, a woman in a burka would set off my inner-activist, I'd think how wrong it was for a woman to be forced to cover herself. Today all I can think of was how comfortable she looks. How warm. How safe. If she'd just come from robbing a bank or fucking a stranger, nobody would be able to pick her out of a police lineup. I am walking the streets in tight pants. And my fly is open.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/78855.html

Election Day For Whores

I'm distressed to learn that any fake ad I place on Craigslist gets hotter reponses than my real ones. Some people think it's cruel that I occasionally place ads when I don't really intend to whore myself out anymore, but if someone interesting, or at least someone hot, responded to my ad I'd consider them. Unfortunately, everyone on Craigslist is either illiterate or has finely honed fetishes that I either can not or have no desire to fill.

Aside from the usual crop of thirty-eight year old uggos who want me to suck their dick, ignoring the fact that my ad mentioned that I was looking for someone younger than me, and that I wasn't looking to suck anyone's dick, today I received enough extreme fetishes to hit Craigslist Bingo.

1.) A straight chick, who is so out of shape she can't walk, is apparently looking through the men for men section hoping to find someone she can convert. I did not reply.

2.) Two "straight" guys looking for a "young, petite male student" to suck their dicks while watching television. But they "don't want to do anything gay." I'm sorry, getting your dick sucked by a guy is gay. Even if it's by a young, petite student. I know, the Catholic Church and NAMBLA would like you to believe that if you're getting your cock sucked off by someone who looks like a little boy, you're not necessarily gay. Well, you are. And odds are, if you're only into young, petite, submissive boys, you're probably not just gay, but a pedophile. Please register at your local precinct. Also, my ad says I'm 27, not 17. I did not "misleed" you.

3.) An absolutely hot, physically flawless specimen e-mailed me at 8 AM, responding to an ad I'd placed the night before. I was out voting. When I came back I had his first e-mail (8:04) with pics exhibiting his incredible hotness. I also had a second e-mail (9:25) accusing me of being a pic collector. Dude, I was not at the computer. Your hotness gets overruled by your impatience, poor grammar and excessive use of exclamation points. And the third e-mail (9:34) threatening to "xpouse" me was so funny that I'm thinking of having it framed, and hung up on my wall.

4.) "Straight" Asian guy who likes to dress up as a woman and get spanked. I wish you all the luck in the world, I'm just not into that. E-mailing me your phone number, and pics of you in drag after I respectfully declined to meet you is not going to accomplish anything. Even if you e-mail the information to me again, an hour later.

5.) There's this guy who lives down the street from the house I lived in when I first started this journal. Every day. EVERY DAY, he posts at least ten ads about how he wants "straight" guys to just knock on his door, whip out their cocks, throw on a condom and fuck him silly. After seeing his ad for a few weeks, I finally responded to it in February. I figured it was right down the street, and I'd never done anything like that before, even during Whore Month. Why not? Well, I asked him for a pic. All he had to say was "I'm in the closet, and terrified of being exposed (or xpoused, if he preferred), I don't feel comfortable sending out a pic," and I would have either gotten so drunk that I didn't care, and headed over to his house, or I would have wished him luck, and filed that fantasy away for another day. Instead, he got super aggressive and sent me all these e-mails about why he shouldn't have to send a pic to get laid, his offer was so good, it shouldn't matter if he weighed 800 pounds and had a skin condition. Ummm. Yea. Now my fantasy is to meet someone who's fucked him. I want as much info as I can get before meeting him. Someone needs to write this man's memoirs, and I think I'm the guy to do it.

6.) There's this one asshole who posts ads every couple of months with these really specific age limits and things that he's willing to do. While his ads are always hilarious to read, I get the impression that he's fucking with people, and probably collecting stories for a book. I hate that shit.

7.) Special Occasion posters. These people always suggest that they're only being gay because it's some sort of holiday. Their birthday, Christmas, Ramadan, Arbor Day. Today, every tenth ad had some reference to "pulling levers" on "Erection Day". Oh, ha ha you clever faggot. I'd never noticed the similarity between election and erection until today. Really, you and the other thirty-five people that posted that today are the supreme height of witiness, why don't you go write a LiveJournal entry mocking other people for their Craigslist post. That will show them, huh?

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/78062.html

Another Personal Post

From an actual ad:

My boyfriend dumped me because he said I was needy. All I wanted was love, respect and the few things a relationship was based on. He never wanted to give me any of those things. Material things do not make up for emotional things. Why is it that was supposed to be an apology for not giving me the things that I want. I posted this here because Iknow he reads these. Im not sure what hurts worse

Uhhhhh, I would have dumped your needy ass, too, bitch. Jesus, it's one thing to confess something like this to your friend or in your Livejournal (*coughs politely*), but why the hell would you post a thing like that in a place where people are looking for casual gay sex.

Oh, right, because you wanted your boyfriend to see it. Well, if Elvis or Tommy, or any of my other exes posted an ad like that I'd certainly run out to take them back. In fact, I'd buy a car so I could drive over, pick them up, warmly embrace them, slap the handcuffs around their wrists and drive them to the nearest institution so they could get the help and attention they so desperately need.

If I were to place an ad on Craigslist this week (which I might do just for the amusement of viewing the responses, I don't think I have time or the interest for whoring this weekend), my ad would look like this:

Tricks For Treats

No, not those kind of tricks. I'm not offering anyone money for sex. I'm broke, too.

I'm a 27 year old versatile redhead looking for someone my age or younger for safe fun. I have the weekend off from work, and would rather not spend it masturbating to reruns of Queer as Folk. So, if you're a guy in your twenties, looking to get fucked or better yet interested in a full day of various positions/techniques, drop me a pic, and I'll reply in kind. While I am fairly open minded about things, I tend to be on the French Vanilla side of kink. I don't want you to dress me up in high heels and a Red Sox uniform and flog me with a leather whip. I also would appreciate keeping our bodily fluid interaction to saliva and sperm. Otherwise, let me know what you're into.

If you're a closet case, it's Halloween, put on a mask and an outift and pretend you have a fucken spine.

Hitting Too Close To Home (Part 6: I'm Such A Character)

Earlier this month, for the first time, I met someone as Insafemode. It wasn't a date, or a hook-up, or anything remotely scandalous. I was meeting another writer for a drink (Cola, for those keeping track of Safey's alcoholism). I was curious how I would come across to someone who only knew me through this blog. The few people who know me in person, and who read this can probably vouch that I don't come across as...well, slutty in real life. Maybe if I wrote more entries about my music obsessions or my recipe for Ground Nut Stew, Insafemode would be a more balanced me instead of a cariacture. But who wants to read about how I couldn't sleep this morning because a pack of cute Latinos are scraping paint off the house?

Put your hands down, there's no nudity involved in the story.

Before I agreed to meet said writer for drinks, I tried to evaluate whether I should "Insafe it up." Should I be as catty and queercentric as I am in this LJ? Hell, no. I can't stand being around catty guys for more than a few minutes at a time, I certainly wouldn't be able to be one.

So I went as me. Straight seeming gay guy. Good listener. Inquisitive soul. Forever in blue jeans. I showered the "unemployed poet" stench off me before I left. I would have been early to the meeting had not my roommate said "What's wrong with your hair? Are you trying to look gay?" which meant I had to towel my hair drier so as not to have the "slick emo kid look." (I prefer having the scruffy emo guy look)

As a regular reader of this LJ, Other Writer remarked that I don't come across Insafemodish in person. I'll take that as a compliment.

In addition to learning that I'm not Insafemodish, I also learned that I have a number of readers not brave enough to put me on their friends lists (pussy pervs!) for various reasons. Some don't want their friends page covered in gay porn, some don't have LJs, others are just afraid I'm contagious (they're just fucken freckles).

What I didn't realize is that there was at least one person not on my friends list who was cyberstalking me.

"Did you just call me Safey?"

"Yea."

I pushed his ass of my crotch. "Why?"

"I thought that's what some of your exes called you."

What would Clark Kent say if, one day, Jimmy Olsen was bouncing on his cock and said "Go ahead, call me Lois if it turns you on, Superman?" Fuck if I know. (author's note: I'm using fuck as an interjection, not a verb in that last sentence)

"Look." he said, as I pulled up my boxers. "I have a Livejournal. I've been reading your stories for a couple of months now. I kept answering Craigslist ads that I thought might be yours."

"How did you know when you found me?"

"Your e-mail address has Insafemode in it." Ok, it was my turn to be the moron asking about cancerous freckles.

I tried to rectify things in my mind. A cute guy had been searching me out because of my LJ. He'd found me because I, apparently, have no secret agent skillz whatsoever He'd invited me over to his house so that I could fuck him, and then he threw me the fuck out before I could even take off my shoes. Then, for whatever reason he'd gone to my house (since I'd foolishly given him my address & phone number). There, he threw me on the couch, took off his clothes and proceeded to address me by a fictional alias.

"Um." was really the best thing I could come up with.

"I should go." Yes, you should go. But now you know who I am, where I live, what I look like. Fuck, I need a hypnotist or the MIB memory eraser.

"No. Don't go. Not yet."

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/45826.html

Hitting Too Close To Home (Part 5: My Spotty Reputation)

I wanted to start off smooth and snide. Maybe pretend to ignore him and mutter "Man, I'd love to go home right now, but the vibe is all wrong." And then just walk on by the house. Then I would not answer his e-mails or phone calls (which I was certain there would be hundreds of) until that one day when I'd run into him at, of all places, Good Vibrations. I'd be by the vibrator wall. I'd slowly turn toward him, offer no proof that I recognized him, and say "Gosh. I want to get one of these vibes for my hot, eighteen year old poolboy/boyfriend, but I'm afraid I'll get the wrong type. You look like someone who knows his vibes, what would you get?" He would be not only crushed but rendered impotent by the exchange, and would spend the rest of his life breaking out into hives whenever someone discussed sex toys, acoustics, or that Marky Mark & The Funky Bunch video. One day, five years down the line, he'd be at a party, doing lines of Pixie Stix off some skank's diseased stomach when a certain Beach Boys song would catch his ear. At that moment he'd realize how empty his life was without me, and he would have no choice but to slit his wrists and throw himself into a vat of Hydrochloric Acid and lemon juice. His stomach skank would think it was a bad reaction to the nose candy, but, even though I would have so moved on by then, when word of Ethan's death reached me, I would know that I was the reason he pulled his fizzing body out of the acid vat and threw himself out the plate glass window and on to the salt-covered barbed-wire electric fence.

When I realized how that scenario was far too good for Ethan, I looked him almost dead in the eye and said "Hey."

"Hey."

"Why are you sitting on my doorstep?"

"I felt like an asshole."

If I had written the experience,instead of living it, I would have said "You were an asshole. I hope you didn't come here looking for forgiveness or sex, because you can forget about either." Instead, I said "Don't worry about it." Liam was right, I am a fucken pussy.

"Can I come in?"

No, you cockblocking, bad vibe having piece of spermicide, you can't. "Sure. You have to be quiet, though, my roommates are sleeping."

Let's pretend that we had some long conversation that completely vindicated why he essentially threw me out of his house. Maybe his Dad died, or his roommate urinated in his fish tank. The assumption that we'd reconciled our first encounter, makes us both sound a little less desperate than the truth: as soon as we were inside the door we began snogging.

"Before we go any further," he said with one hand down the front of my jeans, "I have to ask. Do you have AIDS?'

"No. I'm very much negative."

"So what's with all those spots?" I wondered if I'd had such a stressful night that I'd entered some sort of second puberty. Was my face a minefield of pustules? No.

"Spots?"

"Spots. They're all over your arm."

"My freckles?" Was it possible he'd never seen a person with freckles before?

"Freckles?"

"Yea. Freckles. When I'm out in the sun, instead of getting a tan, I get freckles. It's like low carb skin cancer. I've had them since I was born."

"So, they're not like lesions or an STD or anything."

"Unless you consider life as an STD, no. They're just freckles. No more contagious than my hair color."

"Oh." He pushed me on the sofa, slid off his Umbros, and sat his ample ass on my exposed cock. "Ooooh. You like that don't you."

I suppressed a snicker (and perhaps a Twix or two). Talking dirty is a fine art. Ethan was still fingerpainting.

"I know you love my ass. Don't you Safey?"

I froze. "What did you just call me?"

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/45618.html

Hitting Too Close To Home (Part 4: Floored)

A majority of homes that I've lived in have hard wood floors. No wonder I grew up gay.

As a hard wood sort of fella, I've always had an aversion to carpets. They're high maintenance. When I moved to Big City, four years ago, the first major purchase I made was a bed, which was followed by sheets, a bedspread, and a matching carpet. I remember thinking how out of place the patch of carpet looked on the floor. I got the same feeling when James took off his clothes, and asked "So, do you like what you see?"

No, I didn't like what I saw. I saw a bunch of flea-sized Tibetans dying various patches of his hair, and weaving them into patterns. I saw a chia face with that ugly "not yet a beard, no longer just stubble" look going against the grain of his skin. I saw a man so petrified by the way he looked that he sent out fake pictures and then had the balls to take off his clothes and ask me if I liked what I saw.

I didn't reply. I pretended to be so absorbed by examining the room's decor that I hadn't heard him. I decided that if he was the type of person who loudly repeated questions when they weren't answered, I would leave. I prayed for him to ask again.

The next thing I knew Fuzzy Sluglips was more up close and personal than that horrible Robert Redford movie. I braced myself for impact. Scratch. Scratch, Scratch. I loathe stubble burn. I pushed him away. "I don't think this is a very good idea. The vibe is all wrong."

What the fuck did I say that for? I mean, I know that I needed to say something to stop the kissing and get out of naked guy's house, but of all phrases to come out of my mouth, that one kind of hurt to say.

I walked home quickly, taking a light detour when I noticed a skunk down the street from James's house. The night had been bad enough, I didn't need it to end traumatically.

I was staring off into space as I got home. Trying to spit the venomous taste of "the vibe is all wrong" out of my mouth without actually spitting. I was so wrapped up in my thoughts that I nearly tripped over Ethan as I walked up the stairs to my front door.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/45196.html

Hitting Too Close To Home (Part 3: Fuzzy Recollections)

At some point in the past month, I've begun to schiz. Insobermode flops between leather computer chair and leather sofa, watching TV screen or computer monitor. He lives on Ramen noodles and Cherry Coke. Insafemode leaves the house at odd hours, whether it's to meet strangers for sex, or just to mill around Boston.

It was Insafemode who left the house at 3:45 on a Friday morning, after Insobermode had been rejected. While Insobermode had fretted about what would happen on his way to meet Ethan, Insafemode was writing a LJ entry in his head as he swaggered over to James's house.

Neither personality had walked in this direction before. I'm not talking metaphorically, I'd never had any particular reason to investigate the area Southwest of Chez Insafemode. After a couple of blocks, the familiar multi-family houses gave way to apartment/condo/dorm complexes; the sort of buildings with broom closet sized rooms, where people who wanted to live closer to their sub-living wage jobs.

I envisioned entering James's terrarium. He would be standing on the not-so-far side of the room, that "come hither, even though you're only standing three feet away" look in his eyes. He would coyly offer me a drink from the water bottle hanging from his wall. After a few sips, he would start playing hard-to-get running laps on his metal wheel.

At roughly the point where I was mentally envisioning leaving his house in a plastic ball, the quality of the buildings started to improve. Parking lots were filled with Maseratis and other mid-life crisis mobiles instead of 1984 Ford Tauruses.

James would answer the door in a cashmere bathrobe. In the middle of his room would be a water fountain shaped like an erect penis. His chihuahua, Gates, would be shivering in his lush doggy bed. "Insafemode," he'd say, "so glad you could make it. Your picture doesn't do you justice. Let's say we cut through the bullshit." At which point he'd, literally, disrobe, revealing his perfectly chiseled ass. We'd fuck until the Cubs won the world series. When we were both too spent to do more than twitch and moan, we'd fall asleep in each others' arms. The next day, my own private Dellionairre would take me out to brunch where we'd discuss those poor slobs running around the streets in plastic hamster balls.

As quickly as they'd popped up, the posh condorms disappeared. I arrived at the properly numbered house. Hamster cage it was.

I buzzed the button with "james 's place" written in cursive letters on a post-it note, a big smiley face dotting the "j". Nothing about our encounter was what I imagined. His condorm was deceptively large. Two bedrooms, one kitchen, one bathroom, one den. His room was the swallowing image of Ethan's. Madonna poster? Check. Computer with pretty boys fucking screen saver? Check. Rainbow triangle adhered to window? Check.

"Hi."

James was...not the guy from his picture. Heavy-set, but not fat, he was majorly stubble-faced. I imagined he had a thick carpet of hair covering his body from Adam's apple to toe knuckle. A theory that was quickly proven accurate.

He pulled me toward him, and shut the door in one fluid motion. "So," he asked, "do you like what you see?"

A question, I realized, that I really shouldn't answer honestly.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/43308.html

Hitting Too Close To Home (Part 2: Still Up)

As the front gate clicked shut behind me, I tried to figure out what I could have possibly done wrong. I'd barely said anything, I hadn't made any moves on him...maybe that was the problem. Maybe I hadn't been forward enough. We'd been meeting for sex, and we'd spent the ten or so minutes I'd actually been in his house making small talk and watching Tom Green being interviewed on Leno. I don't even like Leno, and I fucken hate Tom Green. I should have jumped him, or at the very least kissed him. Fuck.

I'd only ever been rejected for my looks before. Now someone who had found me physically attractive, someone who liked being around me and was 100% definitely gay, someone who had invited me over to their house for sex had rejected me without even seeing me naked. This was new territory. Painful new territory. Atlantis without an oxygen tank. I got the bends, and they weren't nearly as fun as The Radiohead album led me to believe.

Since I only lived about a ten minute walk from his house, I didn't have to spend too much time brooding in the rain that should have been falling around me. It had been less than a half-hour round trip. Some evil bastard in my brain took possession of the remote that controls my mental broadband. Images of my dead gecko, the smell of Ryan's shampoo, Ethan saying "I'm really glad we finally met" "the vibe is all wrong" "you should leave", the memory of Liam's "I never want to see you again you fucken pussy" e-mail. To top it all off there was some sort of fire near my house, so in addition to the lovely mental soundtrack of rejection, I had the piercing sounds of fire engine to fill my head.

Refusing to surrender to depression, I watched some South Park as soon as I got home. I didn't do a lot of laughing, but it kept my mind occupied.

After about an hour, I grew steadily more bored and negative, but not an ounce less horny. What to do? Watch more TV? Write an Insafemode entry? Masturbate? E-mail James? Hmmmm.

I'm not sure whether I had some subconscious premonition, but I'd given James a short-term bullshit excuse. One of those things that could have taken ten minutes or ten hours. Much like sex, but not.

I shot him an e-mail letting him know that I was once again looking for something someone to do. Then I sat back and waited for a reply. And waited. And waited. After an hour had passed, I figured he'd either gone to sleep or found someone else. I headed to bed, but remote control wielding demon wouldn't let me sleep; images of gecko, Elvis's laughter, dead chinchilla, the smell of MAMIP's cologne, "you should leave."

After two hours of pointless tossing and turning, I got up and plodded over to the computer to write an entry. One new message in my inbox.

From: Jamesishorny
To: Insafemode
Subject: Still up

Sorry I missed you. After your e-mail, I decided to head out to The Leather Bar with a friend. I just got back. Am a little buzzed, but wide awake and still very interested in getting together. If you're still awake, hit me up.

I looked at the time sent. It had just arrived. Sweet. I replied that I was, in fact, still awake, and could be in his house (which was about the same distance as Ethan's but in the opposite direction) in ten minutes or so.

The same distance, but in the opposite direction. I liked that. Surely that meant I would have as much success with James as I had failure with Ethan, right? Isn't that the way metaphors and cheesy chick-flick logic work?

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/42676.html

Hitting Too Close To Home (Part 1: The Vibe)

Shortly before I left Cranberry Lake for Boston, I worked as a stage manager/actor/lighting designer for a theatre troupe in Tourist Trap. It didn't pay well, but it allowed me to spend several hours a day attending to the needs of a certain parasite who need not be named. When said parasite was removed from my gills, I began shark swimming through life. When the mother of one of my coworkers got wind that I was leaving for Big City, she smiled at me and said "I knew you'd be moving on soon. You're a big fish in a small pond."

I know that she meant I was a talented actor in a limited scene (there's no accounting for taste), but my subconscious interpreted the statement differently. I had lived in Cranberry Lake for nearly seventeen years that. I couldn't leave the house to get my mail without running into four people I'd slept with, two of my elementary school teachers, one of my mother's best friends, and a former coworker with a partridge in a fucking pear tree sticking out of their ass. After Ryan's death, I lost all desire to get into a relationship with someone I already knew.

I began moving on whims. Six months in Boston, a year in Vermont, a year and a half in Boston, three months touring the country, five months in Boston, five months in Pieceofshitdeserttown, and another six months in Boston. All in all that's nearly three years of the last five that I've lived in Boston. No one will ever be able to say "You're a big fish in a small pond" to me here. I live in an ocean.

The problem with the ocean is that there are a startlingly high number of beautiful fish: marlins, coral angels, clownfish, heniochis, red volitan lions. I'm at best a minatus grouper. I stand out enough to get noticed, but I'm not the fish that either the tourists, the scientists or the anglers are looking for. Discarding the fish metaphor, I'm never surprised when someone expresses an interest in meeting me because of my writing or my personal ads,then stops e-mailing me after they've seen a pic.

Last night was an exercise in frustration. I've been writing about Ryan for the book, one of my geckos died, Timmy didn't work out, blah blah blah, depressing shit. So perhaps it wasn't a good time for me to be trolling for a date, but (insert deity here) I wanted to fuck the pain away.

Enter The Internet. I had a few e-mails from people who wanted to meet me, filed away in my inbox. I sent them replies, and placed an ad of my own. Among all the thirty-eight year old obese married guys who chose to ignore the "under thirty" that I placed not once but twice in the four sentence ad, was an e-mail from someone named James. James was my age. His picture was a face. A cute face but it could have been pasted on to any body. Whatever, I was depressed and horny. We made plans to meet around 11:30.

At 11:00 I got an e-mail from someone I'd been interested in for a long time, Ethan. Ethan was Colombian. His pic suggested he was slightly chubby and a shy, fairly masculine guy. In short, perfect. Also, he'd known what I looked like for a month or so, and he thought I was cute. Booya.

Ethan's roommate was out of town, and he was horny. I e-mailed James a bullshit excuse why I couldn't meet, showered, grabbed some condoms and lube and headed down the street to Ethan's house. Down the street.

It's been a long time since I've gone to someone else's house for sex. Since the night I started this journal, to be exact. My record on going to people's houses for sex is poor. This is why I prefer to host. Last night, hosting was not an option, so I trekked over to Ethan's house.

Ethan was not a slightly chubby, shy, fairly masculine Colombian. Unlike certain Pakistanis, he hadn't lied to me, he'd just lost some weight since the photograph, and become, for lack of a better term, gayer. My gaydar has very limited range, but even I could tell from the moment that he opened the door that he would have a Madonna poster in his room. I don't know what he does for a living, but I imagine it involves flowers, choreography, or a pair of scissors. Not exactly my type socially, but the boy was hot.

We walked up to his bedroom, where we sat down on his bed. The next two minutes were a blur. We talked about how his little brother was living in Pieceofshitdeserttown, how disillusioned he was with "the gay scene," how he was really glad we'd finally gotten together.

This was the moment of the film where everything turns around for the hero. After a particularly tragic time involving lots of rain and tear-stained introspective brooding, the main character meets someone he finally clicks with. Fuck you, Timmy. I'm so over you, Elvis. Look at this extremely hot guy who likes me for my looks and my personality. I'm going to fuck all the ghosts away.

Camera zooms in on the protagonist and his love/lust interest. They are sitting together on the bed. Both are smiling. The camera pulls in tight on the love interest's lips as he says "The vibe is all wrong." Pan out. Protagonist is clearly rattled. "You should leave."

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/41848.html

Exquisite Corpse

There's nothing terribly original, unique, or even slightly uncommon about the fact that I find sleeping people beautiful. I can't possibly be the only person on my block who ever wished they could kiss, caress, fuck the hell out of a sleeping person without having to deal with their being awake. Unfortunately, the only options for that are roofies or necrophilia. The former is far too expensive for my taste, and necrophilia? Well, my mother always told me "don't knock it until you try it." I shall never knock necrophiliacs. Likewise, I shall never knock up a corpse.

So here I am on a Saturday night staring at a sleeping boy. A sleeping boy who a few hours ago was nothing more than a name called out during masturbation. Call him Timmy if you'd like. I do.

Tonight after a big gay fundraiser full of some of the most talented same-gender-fucking writers in Big City, Steggy and a few stragglers came to Chez Insafemode for some gossip and writing games (we're losers, fuck off). About ten minutes after we sit down, the phone rings. It's Timmy, The King of Impeccable Timing. While there is little I'd like more some Timmy ass up in my grill, my friends currently in the house come first, not me. At this point, I may never come. So I tell him I'll see him tomorrow, when I mean Monday.

Well, an hour or so passes. The friends drive off into the moonset, and I sit down at my computer to check e-mail. The phone rings. "Hello, Timmy."

"How'd you know it was me."

"It's 2:15 in the morning. Not many other people call me this latearly."

"Oh." "Yea." "Are your friends still there?" Why is it that gay boys sound so damned cute when they're nervous? Is that the vocal equivalent of being asleep?

"Nope. They just left. What's up?"

"I'm down the street from your house."

"Oh."

"Can I come over?"

"That would be"'the best thing that's happened to me all week, and it's been a good week. "That would be" a good way for me to get rid of my oceanic backlog of sperm "That would be" the reason why I'm stuttering like an idiot "fine."

And there he is, all 6'2" 150 pounds of him.

After the disappointment of my last few potential relationships, this could go really really right (much to the dismay of those who revel in my romantic/erotic misery). We sit down on the sofa and do some talking snuggling.

Snuggling? What am I a fabric softener? Since when do I snuggle? I don't even know this kid. This beautiful, intelligent, romantic kid. Shit, I'm getting sickeningly schmaltzy here. And, damn it, it hasn't even been an hour since I was openly ogling my friend's girlfriend's gay friend. The absurdly cute kid who actually wears *gasps* briefs. I can't love Timmy. Were it not for Caller ID, I wouldn't even know his last name.

Yet, there I was snuggling with him not one hour ago, right before he started snoring. It's very cute snoring, kinda like Huey, Dewy, and Louie from Duck Tales. Still, that's not what I wanted him to be doing with his mouth within the first fifteen minutes of our meeting.

As he snored, I couldn't stop fucken staring at him. Full blown, deep breathing, slack-jawed, I'm a dumb-ass romantic staring. I'm going to have to fuck him all day tomorrow to get this romantic crap out of my brain.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/41148.html

His Name Was Marc

Sometimes this journal makes me fall down stairs. I'll be at work, dropping off someone's check, and I'll see someone giving me the eye from another table. Not the "let's take off each other's clothes and fuck right here on the table" look, but the "I think I know you from somewhere" look.

Two weeks ago, I dropped off salads to a guy that I had gone to elementary school with. Hadn't seen him in fifteen years, but we immediately recognized each other. No, this story is not going to get kinky.

Before I took a six month desert sabbatical from work, I got the eye from one of my own customers, while I was taking their order. I'd already introduced myself as Insafemode, so I figured if the person really knew me, he would have recognized the name, and figured out how we knew each other. He did look somewhat familiar to me, but I happen to think that all white people look alike, so I dismissed it.

When I stopped by the table to make sure they liked the food, he asked me if I went to some high school near Boston. No, I didn't. He then asked if I ever worked at a movie theatre. No, I hadn't. We went back and forth about places we might know each other from, Cranberry Lake, a renaissance faire I used to work at, places I'd performed, the state he had lived for a few years. Nada, nothing, zip. We just looked familiar to each other.

At least, when we recognized where it was we knew each other from, that's what we led the rest of the people at the table to believe. Oh, we'd met alright.

I think the chronology went: Guy I Blew on the Beach, Joey, Tommy, Marc. I don't know, I was rather busy with the ass and cock that month.

You'd think I'd be fixated on Tommy. He was beautiful, astounding in bed, had many common interests, and had the libido of a seventeen year old...you know, because he was seventeen. I wasn't. Not because I was a whore, but because Tommy was seventeen, and just as much of a whore as I was. While I thought he was amazing, my self-confidence led me to believe the feeling was not mutual. So back to AOL's Cranberry Lake Whore4Whore I went.

As soon as I entered the chatroom I got an IM. Marc had read my profile, and wanted to hang out somewhere public and safe. So we did. He was a twenty-five year old student who was about to transfer from UMass Cranberry Lake to some Ssuthern University. He really likes Cranberry Lake, but he hadn't found anyone interested in the same type of films, animation, books, whathaveyou until he read my profile.

The scene resumes at my house. We're talking about Run Lola Run. We're naked. Because, really, there's no better way to talk about a foreign movie than when you're about to fuck a film student.

The conversation was great. The sex was equivalent. I wasn't aware of it as it was happening, but we were having angry sex. I wasn't aware of it because I wasn't the one who was angry. I was in bliss. He was way better than Joey or The Guy I Blew on the Beach, and nearly as good as Tommy, who had only left the house about eight hours earlier.

When we were finished, he immediately started to put his clothes on and head to the door.

"Have somewhere you've got to be?"

"Kind of." He said, as he put on his Southern U cap.

"Want to get together sometime and rent a couple of movies."

"I can't. When I get home I've got to tell Joey that we're even. Then, I'm hoping he'll be faithful to me. Otherwise I'm dumping his ass. Even if that happens, I won't be calling you."

"Oh."

I was almost tempted, as I cleared their dishes away and dropped the check off, to ask how Joey was doing. For all I know, Marc was a sleazebag who dumped Joey when he failed to be a cutiful nineteen year old hornball. Marc was pretty sleazy. He lied to me about his age, wasn't up front with me about having a boyfriend, and he apprently monitored his BF's Internet use by reading over his chatroom logs. But who was I to judge? I was the guy that blew his boyfriend on his bed. I didn't say or ask anything. That may have been the reason he left me such a good tip.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/14961.html

A Personal Post

I was telling one of the two people that know me/read this journal that the other day I received yet another e-mail from an antique online personals ad (hadn't placed an ad in about a year) and briefly considered meeting someone. Why? To have more stories for this LJ. These are the lengths I was pondering going to until I realized that Iwanted to keep all of my horrible sex stories in the past.

Then I got another e-mail. I didn't reply to it. Instead I decided to update my profile on the dating site, and see if I got any replies.

This is how it reads:

Someone recently made a degrading remark about a gay mutual friend, and implied that the annoying fantasy world he lived in was because he was gay. When I replied that I'd rather not be lumped into a category with the lunatic simply because we both liked cock and ass, my friend said "Wait, you swing that way too?" "Yes," I said, "but whereas many of our gay friends prefer to swing for the fences, I prefer to bunt."

This pretty much sums up my sexuality.

Odds are, if you see me in a gym, I'm asking for directions. By the same token, if you see me up at the buffet with a heaping plate of food, I'm filling my plate for someone confined to a wheelchair or a pantsuit.


Ideal Person: So far my experience with men has been, at best, unbalanced. I've had some mundane relationships with people who I really cared about, and I've had some amazing sex with people I wouldn't mind seeing strapped to an anchor and dropped off in the deep side of the continental shelf.

I'm tempted to write that I'm looking for someone interested in more than just sex, but I should point out that "more than just sex" implies that they're interested in sex. I already have friends who don't put out.

I don't really go to clubs, but that's mainly because I work nights, not because I think I'm too good for them.

I'm not interested in married guys or people into in-depth role playing. I have a father, thank you, and there is a reason I don't have kids. That said, I'm pretty open minded in the bedroom (and the kitchen, and the bathroom at City Hall, and the sidewalk in front of my Republican neighbor's house...) but there's only one bodily fluid I'm interested in exchanging, and it doesn't usually involve toilets.

Basically, I'm looking for someone for a LTR, but realize I'll probably have to go through a few one-night-stands/STRs to get there. As long as there are no STDs I'll be a happy man.

I wonder if I'll get any interesting replies.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/8439.html?view=2873079#t2873079

The Squeaky Wheel Gets The Fleece

I'm standing at the gates of Heaven or Hell, and the doorbell doesn't work. Saint Peter must be on a lunchbreak, or else Cerberus is paddling around the River Styx looking for driftbones. The gates are red ivory, and thanks to Christo & Jean Claude's billowy purple canvas stretched around the length of the fence, I can't see fuck all on the other side. After a round of vigorous knocking and door-kicking, I try the doorbell again. In the distance a dog howls. So these are the gates of hell, the doorbell is so high pitched only Cerberus can hear it, and now he knows I'm here.

I pull out my cell phone and check my missed calls. Score.

Emmet answers on the first ring. "Hello?"

"Hi. I'm outside. I don't think your doorbell is working."

"Ummm. I'm outside on my front porch. I don't think that's my doorbell. Wait. Are you the guy across the street?"

I cross the River Styx, making sure to look both ways for speeding gondolas. Emmet is sitting on a blue futon, sipping a pear margarita with an umbrella in it. It occurs to me that I've never met anyone who puts umbrellas in their drinks when they're at home. This is a whole new level of Gay.

I sit down in the captain's chair next to his futon. He kicks a cooler toward me. Inside is a blender of margarita mix, two green and orange striped, curved goblets, and about a half dozen little umbrellas.

"Tommy should be on his way shortly." Emmet says. I doubt him. Not because I think Emmet is lying, but because I know Tommy. Tommy and I have fooled around twice. He's stood me up three times, and the last time we tried to plan a threesome, we ended up alone, eating shitty pancakes at three in the morning. We haven't spoken much since.

Apparently, Emmet is Tommy's latest fuckbuddy, a twenty-two year old MIT student with the keys to his parents' summer house. It's not quite yet summer, which means Tommy is not quite yet eighteen. Three more days. But given our history, it seems pretty stupid to turn down the possibility of a threesome based on a 72 hour legal formality.

Two hours, and a blender and a half later, it's pretty obvious that Tommy found a better offer. Likely, one with money involved. So this is neither Heaven nor Hell but Purgatory. I decide to take my fate into my own hands, and head home.

"What? I don't even get a blowjob?" Emmet asks.

No, Third Wheel, you were just a bait to try and get Tommy back into my sex life. He wanted a threesome, you wanted a threesome, and I wanted him. I appreciate the alcohol, but I had no intention of touching your dick unless Tommy asked me to.

Don't get me wrong, Emmet was cute, and I'm not particularly choosy, but I had planned this entire day to literally get back in touch with Tommy. I'd been pretty much celibate since Elvis left, and all I could think of was Tommy's tongue.

"Ummm. What?"

"Fucker. You come over here and drink like half a bottle of tequila, and you can't even suck me off a little?" Maybe this isn't Purgatory after all. "You faggots are all the same." Says the guy with little drink umbrellas in his pink cooler. "You're all talk talk talk when it comes to sex. You lead a guy on over The Internet, go to his house, and then suddenly your legs are superglued shut. Fine. Fuck you. Get off my porch."

I am already ahead of him on the last count. I'm about halfway across the street, and ready to bolt if he makes a move toward me. My attempt to apologize for not being as much of a whore as he thought are interrupted by a car horn. This is the second time I've nearly been run over when Tommy stood me up. Surely this is some sort of sign.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/112723.html

Staying On The Right Side Of The Breakdown Lane

Staying on the right side of the breakdown lane, I pedal. I pedal as though I could overcome stars and cars alike. It's as though reconnecting with Tommy would somehow save either his life or mine. There's nothing quite as invigorating as an unhealthy sense of melodrama.

It's 2:22 AM and I am biking the streets of Cranberry Lake because my car has been impounded and Tommy doesn't have one yet. He's eighteen now, and somehow I think that makes things better.

AOL Chatroom CranberryLakeM4M
Tommyislegal: Hey Insafemode
Insafemode: Tommy! Long time, no talk. How goes it.
Tommyislegal: Pretty good
Insafemode: Cool. Up to anything exciting lately.
Tommyislegal: Nah. Kinda bored. Kinda horny. U UP 4 anything? :-)
Insafemode: I'm definitely up for getting together. Unfortunately, my car's kinda dead. D'you have wheels?
Tommyislegal: I've got a bike. ;)
Insafemode: Up for a ride then?

It's 2:22 AM and I am biking the streets of Cranberry Lake because I have not yet grasped the concept that lust only leaves me feeling empty. I am madly in love with someone who I am fairly sure is incapable of loving me back. So tonight I throw on my jacket and gloves, take my long-ignored bike out of the back yard, and hit the streets. There isn't much distance between my house and Tommy's. There are, however, a lot of twists and turns. We agree to meet at The Generic Mom and Pop Store about halfway between our houses. There we'll buy rolling papers and condoms, then bike back to my place.

I don't smoke anymore. I gave up cigarettes after I finished smoking the pack that ElvisSeith left behind. The last time I smoked pot was with Tommy. I haven't hooked up with anyone since Big Gay Toms's friend, and I haven't gotten laid since ByronElvis left. Why am I getting on my bike at GodAwful O'clock in the morning to meet someone who I'm not in love with, knowing that I will be engaging in at least two activities I should not be doing.

It's 2:22 AM and I don't hear the serve of the approaching van.

Staying on the right side of the breakdown line is tricky. The roads curve too often. Though it's not yet winter, there's black ice glimmering on the slick, black pavement. I'm thinking this may be a metaphor for something. I am wishing I was in better shape. I feel like Ive been kicked in the chest and thrown in a freezer. I will have to stop a little bit before the store to catch my breath. I don't want to look too winded. I've got to focus.

It's 2:22 AM and I am pedaling head over feet over head over feet (and I'm not even in love). The bike is briefly above me, then beside me. The ground is not as frozen as I'd feared. My head is two inches away from a pine tree. The van honks its horn as it speeds off into the night.

It's 2:22 AM. I'm cold. Apart from the chain having come off, it looks like my bike is ok. My legs work fine, my arms appear to be in working order. Apart from a dull pounding, my head's no better or worse than usual. If I hadn't told Tommy I'd meet him, I'd turn around, go home and get some rest. But desperation and lust rule out common sense and well being. I put the chain back on my bike and start pedaling again.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/13956.html

Elvis Rex (Part 1: Airport?)

Three days after The Brian Incident, I woke up sick. I believed it was karma. All I wanted to do was puke. So I puked. Repeatedly.

After about an hour of my bulimia impersonation, I drove to the doctor's office where my mom used to work. The receptionist was as frigid as my Dad’s joke about her lack-of-sex-life had led me to believe. Her armchair diagnosis was appendicitis and she recommended driving to the hospital instead of “wasting the doctor’s time.” I made sure to puke on the bathroom floor before I left.

I drove the five miles or so between the doctor’s office and the hospital with my head out the window, howling like Ludo from Labyrinth. It felt like there was a small raccoon trying to dig its way out of my stomach.

"Kidney stones" said the hospital receptionist as she wheeled me into the ER. I harassed Passing Doctor #1 until he gave me an IV full of weak-ass pain reliever. I then became “the lost patient.” Despite the fact that my breathing was slightly louder and more annoying than Darth Vader’s, the doctors managed to misplace me in several small rooms until Passing Doctor #4 pumped my IV full of Demerol. I liked Doctor #4.

The next thing I remember my mother is shaking me awake. She asks me where I've been for the last 24 hours. Beside my bed are a bottle of pills, a reminder that I have a urologist appointment, and a pee strainer. I have a hazy recollection of a hospital. Apparently the doctors of Malpractice Med allowed me to drive home when I was out of my mind on Demerol.

A few minutes after my mother left, I went downstairs to check my messages. Seith called to remind me to pick him up at the airport. Seith…I didn’t recall…

My brain clicked. Seith was Prittib0i, the guy I'd been talking to on AOL recently. I wondered how he got my phone number. Airport?

I rushed upstairs and checked my computer. I always saved the really important IM/chatroom conversations as word files. Sure enough, I had invited Seith to come up and stay in Boston for a few days. Not only that, I had purchased a plane ticket for him with my credit card. Fuck.

I arrived at The Airport about ten minutes after his flight did. As I wandered toward baggage claim, I saw him on a pay phone. We made small talk on the way out to the car. It’s hard for me to recall the details of our first few hours together, as all I could think was “whatthefuckwhatthefuckwhatthefuckwhatthefuck.” He was exhausted when I got home, so I let him set up shop in my room while I went to work.

When I came home, he was sitting in my beanbag. Naked. Aroused. He was watching a Backstreet Boys video on MTV. Had the sound been off, I might have been able to understand what he was doing. As it was all I could think of was “thank God my mother didn’t drop in to see how I was doing.”

Then something sank in. There was a hot, naked, aroused boy sitting in my beanbag, smiling at me. He stood up and asked if I needed a shower after my long day at work. I stammered a yes, and we headed upstairs. On the way up the stairs I noticed his one physical flaw. The boy had no ass. None. He was very slim, and had a back that was completely flat between shoulder blades and whatever you call the reverse side of kneecaps. It looked like he had been ironed.

I undressed as he tried to figure out the shower. When he bent over, I could almost make out his butt cheeks. If I squinted real hard. When he turned around he took one look at my naked body and laughed. “Awww it’s so leeetle and kyoot.”

I had never had my cock belittled before. I’ve got the lovely average thing going on. Nothing spectacular, but hardly a microphallus. He may have been nine inches long, but a boy without an ass should never criticize anyone else’s body.

Only twice in my life have I ever showered with another guy. The second time was awful but mercifully short. The first time was with Seith, and it was long and wonderful. As long as I kept my hands away from the place where his ass should have been, I was in heaven. Our mouths fit together perfectly. We had each seen enough porn to know where all the erogenous zones were, and we made full use of them.

After about a half an hour we turned the shower off and headed into what had once been my bedroom. I could now see it was our bedroom. All the furniture had been moved around, there was a Playstation hooked up to my TV, and my computer background was a naked picture of Seith. This made me point and laugh.

“What?” “That picture!” He tilted his head to the side like a Velociraptor, “What about it?” “You look like a total skank.”

In the picture, Seith was wearing a club boy shirt and Adidas sweat pants, which were pulled down to show off his huge cock. It was his facial expression that was hysterical. The sort of face you only see in cheap pornography and Abercrombie & Fitch ads. Maybe in Zoolander if you know when to look.

He pushed me on the bed. “I thought you liked skank.” “Uhhhh-” and then his tongue was tickling the roof of my mouth.

After another ten minutes of foreplay, he lay on his back and spread his legs. Looking back, I’m grateful he didn’t assume the doggystyle position. I can’t imagine maintaining my erection while looking for his ass.

Condom on? Check. Proper application of lubrication? Check. And off we go. The first fifteen minutes were amazing. Perfect rhythm. Position changes. Everything was perfect until he said “Oh, God, you’re better than my brother.”

Five years later a friend and I used to play a game where we tried to think of the most awful things to say to someone in bed. Not surprisingly “you’re better than my brother” was near the top of the list. I believe it was between “I thought you said this wasn’t your first time” and “excuse me.”

Needless to say, I stopped, completely stunned. “Don’t stop.” “But--” “Don’t stop.”

So I started up again, trying to push what he said out of my mind. After about twenty minutes, we were both spent. I propped myself on my elbow, meaning to ask him about the brother comment when he shushed me. That’s when I heard my mother coming up the stairs.

original posts: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/2063.html,
http://community.livejournal.com/bad_sex/393128.html

Drowning Pedophilia

So what do you do when you find out the stranger you picked up in a grocery store is underage? You fuck him.

Maybe it was the pot mumbling, or maybe I was just an unethical hornball. Whatever the lame excuse, once I processed the fact that I couldn't actually be arrested for being a twenty-one year old fooling around with a seventeen year old, all my reservations about how his family could kill me anyway flew right out the window. Perhaps they were trying to catch up with the pot smoke.

Tommy wanted to blow me again, and how could I say no to more head from the best barely legal fallater to ever walk the earth?

We're on the bed doing some 69 and, as I'm wont to do when there's ass to be played with, I let my fingers do the walking. A little squishy squish, some slappy slap, and some pokey poke (I'm gonna stoppy stop now). I'll confess it right here, publicly, for all the cringing world to see that yes, I have an ass fetish. Tommy's ass, while not ideally round, was at least present. So I slide my index finger in and out a few times before upgrading to the middle finger. Next up is the thumb of doom which, while it obviously can't get in as deep as it's better hung companions, has better girth, and is much easier to make eccentric ellipses with.

Tommy is bucking and thrashing and SPLAT. Drizzle. Drizzle. Moan. SPLAT. Drizzle. Yelp. SPLAT. Drizzle. Drizzle. Screech. SPLAAAAAAAAAT. Drizzle. Drizzle. Drizzle. Drip. Drip. SPLAT. Drip.

Damn.

"Fuck me. Please."

I was taken a bit aback. Not that Tommy wanted to be fucked, but that he was so enthusiastic about it. He had been a typical mellow stoner up to this point. Monotonous voice, Garfield shaded eyelids, and slouch.

It would be nice to think I had some sort of internal dialog about whether or not this was a good idea, but the only thing my dick could think of to say to my brain was "Thank God you keep your condoms within reach of the bed, now move my damned arm."

And in we go, doggy style. This boy was tighter than spandex on David Lee Roth. The only word that accurately describes sex with Tommy is "Damn."

When we were finished, we passed out draped across each other. When I woke up it was dark outside. I kept staring at Tommy, thinking he was bathed in moonlight, but it was actually a streetlight. Eventually we got up, and I drove him over to a friend's house, where he'd decided to stay the night.

This was the start of something a tad more meaningful than just whoring around. You know that cliché about how there are other fish in the sea? I kept thinking Tommy would be the keeper. Turns out I had throw him back. He was too small.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/17452.html

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

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

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