My Roving Eye

While working in a regular job is nice and everything, and the crazy regimen I've been keeping at the gym has reduced my body fat percentage to something ridiculous, this inability to whore safely is starting to irk me something fierce. I don't imagine that I'll even want to do it much longer; it'd be better to make use of the motivation while it's still available. Making the decision to start in first place came out an intention for it fund my travel ambitions, and now I seem to be mired in a deadly dull routine, somewhere I don't find particularly inspiring, which is leaving me neither enough time or energy to peruse any of my other projects; this blog being one of them.

I also don't like being poor. What happened to going out to restaurants? I love eating at restaurants.

So let's make a list, shall we? Nations and their legal positions on prostitution. Where should an increasingly buff Note be off to next?

Opinions are welcome but may be disregarded.


Australia: Legal, with some restrictions on streetwalking. Possible. Not streetwalking, mind.

Canada: Legal, with restrictions on incalls and streetwalking. That's fine. I don't like incalls, and I don't like walking on the street. Cabs were invented for a reason.

Israel: Tel Aviv specifically. Um... after weighing the pros and cons, I don't think I care whether prostitution is legal or not.

France: Oh, the French. I can speak French, barely. I don't know if it would be enough, given that no French law has ever been produced to be anything but deliberately obtuse. That said, sex for money is apparently legal.

Germany: Legal, but I have no ability with the German.

New Zealand: The most comprehensive legalization of sex work I've been able to track down, with legal recourse mapped out and everything; but more people live in London alone than reside in the entire country.

Spain: Unless I can live in the Guggenheim Bilbao, I don't care.

U.K.: Although you can legally be venting every orifice in public due to alcohol toxicity, you can't peddle your ass. Interesting, no? Not surprising, but interesting. More reserved forms of prostitution are fine. I like the U.K. well enough.

United States: You've got to be kidding.

Not Greece, because I don't like Greek men. Not Eastern Europe, because I only want to hang out there and drink. In Brazil I wouldn't stand a chance. In Russia I might end up dead, either that, or the mistress of an overly affectionate, middle-aged crime tsar; and who needs an overly affectionate partner?

Suddenly the world doesn't seem so big of a place.

I Do Feel A Little Stiff

Opened my eyes and saw a grey chest hair.

Hunh. What did I get up to last night? Let's see... wine. More wine. Drinks with a friend up the street, then dancing. Oh, dancing. Oh, dear.

I'm coming to the conclusion that if I don't have a nap after getting up early and working all day, before going out on the town, it ends badly. Which is to say, I end badly drunk. I don't weather exhaustion very well. Not when paired with the booze. I'm not sure if I ever did, but it's especially bad now that I don't drink as much or as often as I used to. I used to drink a whole bunch.

The grey hair was attached to a tight little torso, a taught stretch of abdomen, and only a little furry. I slid my hand down. Oh, and a nice ass. Nothing for it, then. Toss it up.

Sex in a morning shaft of sunlight. Life is good sometimes. I've been working on a concordance of kisses, a la Nicola Six; this morning I brought out The Wet One and The Hungry Gardener: both are aggressively slutty, which is what you want to start with when your already naked with a stranger, and you need his cock hard; fast. They worked just fine. I made him come with his head and shoulders hanging off the bed, deep down my throat, with two fingers up his lubed, slippery ass, his prostate hard as a stone.

"Wow," he said.

Then he made me breakfast.

This time, I didn't make the same mistake as the last time I went home with someone for recreation: no phone numbers were given. I'm still getting wiggy, stalker-y texts from the last one.

He was kind enough to drive me home. We were coming over the bridge, and I was looking at the water: "I can't believe your not hungover," he said.

"I don't really get hungover."
"What?"
"No. Not really."

That was the last thing we said to one another. I didn't really have anything else.

So, what else to accomplish today? Maybe this bottle of Pinot Noir has some ideas.

I Don't Take Tests, As A Rule

But I just had to know.

You are best described as a: Socialist

And here I thought I was an autocrat.

The Green Fairy and Her Party Pronouncements

Since you all asked:

Flatemate and I set off to find the party, hopeful that the location would be both sumptuous and entertaining.

We should have also mentioned in our oblations to the gods "easy to find".

An hour after we got off the bus (don't ask -- it seemed a good idea at the time) we found the house... which ended up being full of middle-aged lesbians, and the guest of honour was too blissed out on ecstacy, rolling on the couch, to be remotely capable of entertaining us.

She was also the reason we came.

We did make the best a remote and desolate situation. We danced (artfully). We talked (animatedly). We stuck a pose (devastatingly). Then I got hoary on the green licorice drink and Flatemate had to get us both into a cab.

I miss home.

Unveil The Geek In PVC

What I've had to contend with, on a fairly regular basis, is the examination of who I am, in relation to who I've been, and what, if anything, that discrepancy means.

For example, a number of years ago, while I was shaking a handful of dice, rolling up a character for Dungeons & Dragons, I had to ask myself, how do I see ME? I mean, was I actually this chaotic evil, grey elf illusionist? Were my choices of presentation determining my inherent quality as a person? Was I a team player or an anarchist? Did I want to relate to my fellows, or did I want to contribute to their demise? What was my sense of fashion? Was one eye differently coloured than the other? Did activity concerning role-playing games factor into my long-term life goals at all?

Alright. I give up.

To be honeset, I wasn't rolling up a character in that instance I was describing. Those were questions plaguing my peers. I was more in control.

I was the Dungeon Master.

And Apologies

I've been trying to adjust myself to my new schedule faster than has probably been wise. I've been falling asleep at the keyboard when I get home, instead of typing out anything remotely readable. Once I get over this melting-the-wax-phallus-at-both-ends thing, more will be forthcoming.

And incoming, I expect.

Alright. Sex.

I’ve had a lot of it. Not much of that has been with the same partner, but I did have a boyfriend once. Well, more than once; but one time it was love; and I had a lot of sex with him specifically.

Breaking up was (I am unafraid to say it now, even though I was afraid at the time) the hardest thing I have ever done: the meanest decision; because what’s left after you’ve done away with love? What happens when you’ve been choosy, and careful, and still, there, in the fucking muck, is love? Bleeding….

I drank, of course. In (and out of) the relationship; but after with a particularly extravagant flourish. Who remembers going home in a taxi? Why should you? Taxis (I’ll attest from my sober moments) are boring. As long as you can still press a crumpled bill into the poor immigrant’s hand, you’re in the clear. Home free.

Is this my house?

Point being, the breakup was not all that great; and sex, after being sex combined with love, was unbearably desolate without. Alcohol was a fine surrogate for emotional and physical intensity.

That was, until I discovered that you can have it in a group.

When I started go-go dancing, it was to satisfy curiosity first, and pay the bills second; and besides basic hypotheses about my character, I needed to know whether the experience would inadvertently increase, or retard, my libido.

Where I was living at the time, promiscuous outdoor homosexual sex was relatively easy to find. I had, for the most part, abstained; but as I was coming home from work -- or what seemed to be work, seeing as I got paid for it: the gyrating; and the frottage; and the necking in the back rooms…

I was fit to be tied by the time I got on my bike to ferry myself home.

Add a few cocktails, and I predictably ended up, straddling my bike in the park-grounds at 4am, scanning the darkness:

One. Two…. Three, Four Five. All together, against a picnic table.

As it often occurs to me:

Why not?

And that was fun: a release, after the teasing; after being the tease, for hours.

I approached hesitantly. They were well involved. All of them; and I was unsure of the etiquette. Do you just insert yourself? Do you wait patiently for an invitation?

A little from column A, and a little from column B, it turns out. In no short time at all, I had my tongue down one man’s throat, while my cock was out and being sucked by another, and hands… hands were everywhere, with mouths. The one I was so deeply making out with brought my right paw around his back to his ass, so I could feel the Fifth fucking him, right at the join.

(The Fifth, interestingly enough, was the only one that seemed a little less than interested in my arrival.)

This, I thought, was the way to spend an hour before going home. Yes, Group Sex. The answer to the highly driven, yet emotionally unavailable, young gay male. Thank god we share that libido. Thank god it’s (mostly) only jealous when we’re not getting off. We’re more giving when we’re horny, and if your disguised in a crowd afterwards, so much the better.

That night was a good one, and prompted me to stop fairly regularly after I was “dancing”. (I’m an expert now at inducing the group sex dynamic in a public space – so long as it’s dark… and certainly not past dawn.) The thing that makes such activity so palatable, especially after a break-up, after love dies, is that it has nothing to do with that heart wrenching emotion – three people are not replacing one, and one can never hope to accomplish what you can get by being the centre of naked attention, braced backwards over a picnic table, staring up at the stars still seen between tree branches and the urban pollution of light. That’s just fun. That’s just recreation.

That’s just sex.

It’s the conversations you have to avoid, have to scuttle before they make their appearance when you bring someone home, or have to excuse yourself from someone else’s.

I’m not looking for…

Thanks for a wonderful time…

I don’t think this is right for….

I've have had enough of apologizing, and winging, and making amends. I’ve also had enough of parrying the emotional destitutions of others. When I catch my breath again, I’ll fall in love. It’s inevitable. As for now, I intend to travel, and play, and do myself proud; and make the money that allows me to keep some distance, even as I orgasm.

Especially as I orgasam.