the sex therapist, part 3

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seriously, i didn't think there was gonna be a part 3 either.


for those who don't wanna bother with part 1 and part 2, the short version is, i booked an appointment with a TV therapist, he flaked on me and i sent him an email expressing my feelings about same.


so today, lo and behold, and at long last, the following email arrives in my inbox:

hmm, he must've read my post.

after mulling this over for a few minutes, i did what i shoulda done in the first place:  a little digging into mr. donaghue's background revealed that his presence on television might perhaps have less to do with his penetrating insight and therapeutic acumen than the fact that he was fucking jai rodriguez (you know, the cute one from the execrable queer eye for the straight guy)

[and yeah, noblesavage, i would--in a new york minute]

at about the time said mr. rodriguez was forming his own production company and decided a reality series featuring his hot boyfriend would be a really great idea.

with this in mind, i tendered the following reply:

asshole.

[and in case you happen to be reading this, mr. donaghue, be aware that i really don't take my life and what happens in it too seriously, but it does tend to make for good blogfodder.  thanks for your contribution.]

the sex therapist, part 2

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read part 1 here.


a few months back, i discovered i had the logo channel--you know, lifetime for homos.  and what a trainwreck it mostly is--bad movies interspersed with endless drag reality shows, boring talk, and, god, those A-List fiascos.

but one day they featured a promo for a new reality series.  it was called bad sex, and it offered to take the viewer along as a motley crew of sluts, compulsives, late bloomers, intimacy-phobes, cheaters, romance junkies, substance abusers and/or obsessives--in other words, my people--underwent a 10-week process of intensive individual and group sex therapy.

so i DVR'd it, and when i'd racked up six or so episodes (because i like my reality TV like i like my men--lined up one after another), i sat down to watch.

each episode focused on one group member and his or her particular struggles, daily routine and interactions with the others, taking him/her from start of the process to finish, with a little epilogue at the end letting us know how each is doing now.

it was a diverse group--men, women, gay, straight--with a wide range of issues; the unifying factor was the therapist, chris donaghue.

is he a world-class therapist?  i dunno, but i liked the way he handled this group of people, challenged them and held them to a standard--plus, the fact that he's gay, practices locally and is now somewhat of a known quantity helped.

so, after giving it more than a little thought, i emailed him, asked him if he had a slot available. turns out he did, and at a time that worked for me, so we arranged for a meeting this past tuesday at two, to feel each other out.

*      *      *      *      *

what am i hoping to achieve with therapy, you may ask?  well, let's talk about that.

am i looking to give up casual sex?  hell, no--at a time when so many men my age are content to sit on the couch and let their balls shrink-wrap into old age, my slutty ass still wakes up every day with morning wood, my prostate is the same size it always was, i never get up in the middle of the night to pee, and i still cum in the same gushing spurts as i did when i was twenty.  give all that up?  not on your fuckin' life.

what i want is to achieve a balance.  as noblesavage so astutely and tactfully pointed out in his comment to the previous part of this post, much of the sex in which i indulge is, and always has been, of the mediocre variety--an inevitable by-product of pursuing quantity over quality.

i wanna learn to get past the yearning for strange and focus on those partners (or maybe, god forbid, one partner) with whom i have a real connection, drop my shields, develop some intimacy and thus add a dimension to my life that has heretofore been missing--you know, that thing grownups do.

i knew it wouldn't be easy--the first thing chris would tell me to do is what he told his group to do: totally abstain from all sex for a month or so in order to clear the mental and emotional decks.  no hookups, no porn, no jacking off, no manhunt, adam or craigslist, no nothin'.

and how was i gonna fill all those sudden, empty new hours?  i hadn't a clue, but--seriously, folks--after all these months of focused introspection, i was ready to find out.

*      *      *      *      *

so, filled with this resolve, i showed up at the address he gave me at the appointed hour, found the suite--no name on the directory downstairs, or the door--took a deep breath, grabbed the knob, twisted, and

nothing.  didn't budge.

ok, so he's late--it happens.  i gave him ten minutes, called, got his voicemail, left him a message--am i in the wrong place?

yeah, i was.

*      *      *      *      *

ten minutes ago, i sent him the following email:

first rule of the universe:  never piss off a blogger.

update:  but wait, there's more.

who'd have ever thought

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i'd live to see a day in america when a republican presidential front-runner without a hint of scandal in either his professional or personal life would be excoriated for being smart, driven and successful, and his wife for choosing to stay at home and be an actual mother to their five bright, well-adjusted kids?

seriously, folks, would you really prefer some inept, mediocre slob with three ex-wives and two kids in rehab running the country, just so you can take comfort in knowing he fully identifies with the common man?

there's a lot you can say about mitt romney, much of it deservedly critical, but i've really had about enough of this particular line of bullshit.

the sex therapist, part 1

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what's with all the sex around here lately in a blog that used to be all about the booze, you ask?

it's where my mind is right now--for the past several months, i've been rooting around in my psyche tryin to dig up little nuggets of insight into what moves me in that particular arena and why, the fruits of which laborious cogitation can be recently seen on these here pages.

the booze, i'm handling.  smoking has really helped in that regard (yeah, i know), but even before i started that shit again, i had, through a systematic reduction in dosage, dropped my alcohol intake to a point where i'm really not worried about it right now.

when i came out at 34, i couldn't then have imagined the sheer depth and range of the sexual experiences i had waiting for me in this fine city of the angels.  at a time in life when most gay men start winding down from their hedonistic youth, i set out to fulfill every sexual fantasy i had ever entertained--check off every last box, goddammit--and in that quest, i can say i've pretty much succeeded.  for an hour, anyway.

but, like the old joke, i can't really say i've had 21 years of experience in gay life--it's more like one year of experience 21 times.  and now i'm 55 years old and i've had a helluva run, but if i don't move on up the gay evolutionary ladder on my own pretty soon, nature is sure as hell gonna do it for me.

problem is, your faithful blogger is a novelty junky--if i had a nickel for every time i've turned down a hot, willing guy i'd seen a few times for whatever was waiting behind door no. 3, i'd be typing this in a really expensive whorehouse in rio right now.

and the thought of an actual relationship?  at even the first hint of intimacy, and no matter how great the sex and how perfect for me the guy might be, my schizoid ass freezes up tighter than hillary's twat in a pair of brass panties in january (v could tell you a little about this--and yet he still sticks around, though god knows why).

which brings us to the point of this post:  with the booze thing pushed to the back burner, i decided late last year it was time to finally tackle the big problem--i.e., my existential aloneness--and what better way to do this than on the couch of a sex therapist?

but finding one i could respect and allow to challenge me was a problem, and a big one.  see, in my experience--and i've had more than a little--most therapists are dimwitted, conventional hacks, and when sitting across from one i tend to find myself thinking three moves ahead as they dully process whatever bullshit i choose to feed 'em on that particular day, because god knows their little pinheads would explode if i actually told 'em some of the truth i've laid out here.

and then something interesting and most unexpected happened--i thought i'd maybe found him.

and what a disappointment he turned out to be.

i'll finish this tomorrow--sun's coming up and i'm tired

matthieu and the art of the edge

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one i left out last night, due less to oversight than the fact that he'd never texted me a message of sufficient salacity to merit a screenshot. 



one of the most important questions in the standard guttermorality post-coital interview is the following:

you find it easier to relax, edge yourself and have to hold back from cumming watching porn, or with an actual guy?

the answer i get back is almost always, "oh, porn--no question."  and after probably having spent the better part of the last hour tryin to get said interviewee off, i have no trouble believing that.

the other reason i have no trouble believing it is because it's true of me, too.

but, boy, it's not true of matthieu.

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i was never much for porn in my early days--i mean, yeah, there was that one night back in my last year of architecture school when my horniness finally overrode my fear and i drove 30 miles to an adult bookstore in a remote suburb of austin where nobody could possibly know me, grabbed the first two gay videos i found, rented 'em without once making eye contact with the clerk, rushed back to my place and spent the next 24 hours explosively jerking off to what was probably the lamest, cheesiest porn on the planet, but it still excited me tremendously.  even so, i wrote it off at the time as a poor substitute for what the real thing must be like.

my next brush with gay porn wouldn't happen for seven years until i moved to LA, came out, and realized it was everywhere, including the bedrooms of lots of the boys i ended up going home with. which annoyed me to no end, because why would i want to watch two guys on a video screen when i had a warm, flesh-and-blood version of the real thing right there in my arms--and, more to the point, why would they?

all porn back then was the same to me--basically, naked kabuki.  two or more buffed, manicured boys would politely take turns fellating one another, then would come the rimming, followed by the standard rear entry, after five mechanical minutes of which they'd switch to some formalized sideways position before finishing up missionary style, during which the designated top would pound away until the bottom finally shot his load, with the finale being the top pulling out and flogging his semi-flaccid meat until he, too, finally managed to nut.  jesus, where was the fun in that?

then, a couple years ago, i discovered xtube, and everything changed.

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i came out late after years of controlled self-denial, and i've always wondered if that's why i have such a hard time relaxing during sex--and i mean, even good sex.  to me, every hookup is a performance, a role to be played and mastered, and even when in the saddle and fully engaged, i'm at the same time a detached, outside observer, watching and evaluating my every move.

all that fell away when i discovered online amateur porn--my god, real, uninhibited guys, actually into each other, filming their sex for all the world to see.

that first weekend, i probably spent 30 hours patiently combing through xtube's archives, culling the wheat from the chaff (no small task, trust me), collecting those rare instances of guys--pretty, not-so-pretty, didn't matter--busting all over each other without even tryin'.  and then edging and uncontrollably busting all over myself while watching 'em over and over, in a way i'd never been able to achieve with an actual partner.

*     *     *     *     *

i remember my first sight of him--short, round, buddha-bellied--and thinking i'd made a huge mistake, but not having the heart to tell him we weren't a match.  and then finding out how wrong i was.

matthieu is one of those rare ones who is unselfconsciously comfortable in his own skin, and totally receptive to every attention paid him.  i've learned through experience exactly what to do and when, and i can tell from his breathing, body tension and heartbeat how far i can push and tease him before i have to back off--i can take him up and bring him back down over and over again until he can't stand it anymore, he says, "that's it, mike", and i bring on the big finish and he shudders in my arms for half an hour.

i've told him more than once he doesn't know how lucky he is.

"me?", he says, looking down at himself and grinning.

yeah, you.

program note

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yeah, i'm officially "R" rated now--my choice, not blogger's, and i probably shoulda done it from the beginning.

i figure if i'm gonna publish content like the previous post, then the twenty or so fresh innocents who come traipsing through here every day courtesy of the blogger platform's "next blog" button at the top of each of its blogs (yes, there are such masochists among us--try surfing random blogs sometime if you're suffering from insomnia), then they deserve a better warning than the disclaimer in my right-hand column.

so, yeah--an extra click to get here from now on.  i'll try to make it worth the effort.

full closet and nothing to wear

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let's take a break from racism (both mine and everybody else's) for a minute and talk about something else.

couple weeks ago, in response to one of my trick posts, faithful reader noblesavage challenged me to write about my less remarkable hookups--you know, the everyday sex life of mkf.  i blew him off because i couldn't imagine a way to make such a thing interesting.

but then tonight as i was on my phone, horny and flipping through the hangers, debating whether to go out and get something new or just throw on some old thing, it suddenly hit me: here, contained within this sleek, shiny little box is not only a meticulous record of my sexual activity for the last three years, but a post, goddammit.

i remember back when i got my first iphone and naively opted not to include that newfangled text messaging in my plan--that lasted about a week.  seems laughable now, because today i live and die by it.

be warned--this post may set a record for the longest post in the history of blogger (which probably says a lot more about mkf than it does about blogger).

last names have been blurred out to protect the--oh, who am i kidding?  there are no innocents (save maybe one) in this one.

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hot, ripped-up, tattooed lil' skater dude, but rick can't host and he won't make the time commitment necessary to come back to my place, so we're reduced to fucking in this open-air restaurant near his place that thoughtfully leaves its restrooms unlocked after it closes.  it's always fun, but i'm getting a little old for that shit.

next.

lemme tellya, there's nothing like a boy who knows that when he graduates from UCLA in june his dick-loving ass is headed straight back to saudi arabia and an arranged marriage, so he'd better get it while he can.  but i've been dipping into that well a little too often lately, so

next--and speaking of which:

the other thing about arab boys is their complete and utter lack of sentimentality when it comes to sex--they're hot, but don't ever fall for one.  i'm looking for a little more tonight, though, so

next.

it's really not that big, but getting into fort knox is easier than breaking into this boy, and i really don't have the energy to work that particular combination tonight.

next.

hot asian guy--body like bruce lee, flexible as a gymnast, lets me play him like a stradivarius--incredible sex.  problem is, johnny always let me know in subtle and not-so-subtle ways that he was tricking down whenever he was with me, and i knew it was only a matter of time before i'd get the above kiss-off.

i bided my time, knowing that, sooner or later

he'd come back (they always come back), but i'm not in the mood to be somebody's compromise fuck tonight, so

next.

it's true--in addition to my other sterling qualities, i am a brilliant conversationalist in the sack.  but not tonight.

next.

ah, carlos 2--a perennial favorite.  looks like he just spent the last five years lifting weights in prison, and a total top--until he sees me coming, that is.  only available on saturdays, though.

next.

the reason carlos 3 fell outta rotation was because the last time we got together he kept texting me obsessively while i was on my way to his place, as if me pulling over every two minutes to answer him was gonna get me there faster.  i'm still irritated, so no soup for him.

next.

you remember him, right?  by the time i finally got him calmed down and into bed, i realized what a waste of time, charm and effort it had been.  oh well, everybody hits a dry hole every now and then.

next.

it's really not that big.  seriously, it's not.

next.

the thing about poor henry is, he'll never understand that a great smile, a great personality and all the gym muscles in the world won't make me wanna re-fuck a guy who refuses to clear the decks first.  i even went so far as to give him a third chance.  there won't be a fourth.

next.

in his quest to replace that high, david has gone down a dark rabbit hole in the last few months; i can't save him from it and i'm not in the mood to follow him there tonight, so

next.

show me a beautiful man, and i'll show you a man who's bored with him.

next.

little shane (who only rates a slot in my contacts so i don't reply to one of his incessant texts accidentally)--you gotta give the boy points for persistence.  maybe one of these days i'll be feeling masochistic enough to invite him over for another roll in the hay (and a smoke, of course).  it sure as hell ain't gonna happen tonight, though.

next.

this kid--i swear to god i had no idea how young he was that first time until he turned the lights on afterwards and i saw the hannah montana posters on the walls.  he's a wild little fuck, but this roleplay business he insists on is getting totally outta hand, and i just don't have the energy tonight.  where do they learn this shit at that age, anyway?

next.

sweet and vulnerable, lean, muscular basketball-player build, in his junior year at cal state dominguez hills, has no idea how drop-dead gorgeous he is, wants to get attached, impervious to hints he should find a boy his own age. and since i know if i keep seeing tony i'm either gonna hurt him or corrupt him, i stopped replying to his texts.

and holy shit, he just texted me as i wrote this.

next.

slim, argentinian polo-playing playboy-type--as suave as ricardo montalban outta bed, and a model of utter depravity between the sheets.  if he could leave it at that, we could have a perfectly nice time, but no, he wants to bring a u-haul to every hookup.  once and for all, gregorio, i am not dating material.

next.

yeah?  then why aren't you answering your goddam phone?

next.

i could make this post even longer by putting up a couple dozen like this one--young, mostly beautiful, ruined bottomless pits all--but it's just too damn depressing.

next.

funny story about peter--first night i met him, he showed up fresh from the faultline in full twink-leather regalia.  i stripped him outta everything but his wrist cuffs and the one around his ankle, which had a little red, glowing light--"kids and their disco-wear", i thought, and forgot all about it until later, when, since said ankle was propped up against my left ear, i heard it beeping before he did.  when i mentioned this to him, he dropped his poppers, yelled, "shit! i left my charger at home!", threw me off and levitated outta that bed like he'd been called to jesus, grabbed his clothes as he ran down the stairs and was outta there in a screeching puff of smoke before i ever figured out what the beeping ankle bracelet must've been.

he's been back since and he's lots of fun, but i really don't feel like hiding all my valuables tonight, so

next.

who the fuck is rutul?

next.

and that's the thing--he literally means all night.  i'm tellin ya, i could hook a dildo up to a jackhammer, shove it up this boy's ass, turn it on, go to work, come home, turn it off and he'd be, like, "why are you stopping?"

next.

seriously, it's not that big.

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i'm stopping this nonsense only because it's almost six in the morning--trust me, i could go on, and on, and on.

reading this, you might think i'm some kinda invincible sex god or something, but i'm not--i'm just some schlubby middle-aged guy you wouldn't look at twice if you passed me on the street.

and it's not that big.  really.