Run Crissy Run

see my Saturday run at Crissy (no not that Chrissy) field:


Here

MSM seeks hot queer fornication or something like it

I am newly occupied with religious zeal as I determinedly seek a mate. Part of aging into my mid 30s brings with it a realization that I am old enough to appreciate and secure enough to attract a man worthy of spending intimate blocks of time with me. I have grown weary and bored with creating profile after profile on sites like manhunt and gayforsexnow. I have exhausted my archive stock of personal dick footage and haven't posted a more recent shot of my face than the one I snapped 6 years ago. Details, details. I don't look a day over 27. And I'm barely over 30 in spirit.

How many ways can I convey that my slim, slender, smooth build wants to feel itself against the sweaty, sexed up, touchy-feely man meat that lurks on the other side of cyberspace? I am versatile btm but can versatile top with the butchest. "Don't hate me because I'm beautiful" or a similar version begotten in bitterness usually fills the field of copy. When my latest manhunt profile hit cyberspace, I decided the time had come to seek alternative venues for hooking up. "Seeking guys with a huge cock who don't transfer their internalized homophobia on to me just because I'm pretty."--- read the latest attempt or something like it.

I'm all about the huge cock, but is that truly the most important feature I desire? And the internalized homophobia. Nothing gets me more hard than a dash of social discourse on gender relations right in the middle of stats. review... Length, girth and ... internalized homophobia. Now I'm wet.

Admittedly, I deserve to be bitch slapped by the first brute who reads it but I must explain the weary reasoning for my bitterness. It stems from eons of time spent in pursuit of the trickiest hookup that boiled over to homophobic slurs and assaults on my gayness. It started with a disdain that originated upon reading a request for "no fems" in profile upon profile. I appreciate just as much masculinity as the next queen but a stab to target the swishy set hits close to home. If those who claim to be butchest were to see me outside of a sexual setting, they would undoubtedly call me nelly, queer, fag and nancy boy. Also described as feminine, I am familiar with the slurs relegated to sissies on the playground.

"Are you a f***ng woman or what?" popped up on my IM -instant message. Since I was being singled out for my flamboyance any hope to achieve brotherhood vanished. The str8s attacked the sissies. Alarms went off in my head and on the site to warn of an attack of the fag-bashing cocksuckers.

I responded with a superior air equivalent to the charity I afforded the mere mortal children who taunted my sissified youth. Believing myself to be naturally superior and evermore evolved, I condescended.

Naturally, my defensive attempts to save face soon took precedence and my original purpose of finding compatible cock fell out of focus.

Bored and disgusted by the carnal beast of the cyber cock, I sought and found other criteria. eHarmony.com is under investigation for a possible class-action lawsuit that claims the website discriminates on the basis of sexual orientation. The popularity of matchmaking websites has paved the way and opened avenues for sites more attune to my gay reality as a sex positive singleton with HIV.

Enter poz.com. I burned the midnight oil writing and re-writing upon editing my limit of 700 characters. How was I to adequately and eloquently describe my Hollywood charisma and ultimate search for my postmodern mister right and his sidekick mister happy. And all within the 7 square miles that makes up San Francisco. Add the poz factor to that, minus the mediocrity of those men who can't possibly exist on the same level as myself and throw out the ethnicity of non-Aryan types save one or two Lotharios and maybe three Brazilian bombshells and you have my mystery date.

My resulting profile reads as follows:

France Fell but Edie Didn't Fall (A non sequitur headline paying homage to my patron saint. Edith Bouvier Beale of Grey Gardens) -- a perfectly random addition to the blended insanity of my sex poz life.

gayqueerfag (a handle spouting anthem of "gay shame" -- I'm reclaiming the epithets as powerful.

33 --San Francisco, California (my real age and exact location)

Describe who you are looking for:

I wish to meet someone like me. That's a non-typical, passionate, intelligent, attractive gay guy with intense star quality and major wow factor. Sex positive, queerly realized and campy enough to strike awe. Must be physically compatible and completely in sync.

THE BASICS
I am a:
male

seeking a:
male

for:
dating, friendship, relationship, sexual encounters

I identify as:
gay

I have been positive since:
2002

APPEARANCE
My build:
slim
My height:
5' 10''
My eyes:
green
My hair:
brown
My ethnicity:
white
My body art:
tattoos

WORK
My education:
college grad
My area of work or study:
non-profit/community based
My annual income:
none of your business

LIFESTYLE
Smoke?
No, but I would date a smoker
Drink?
socially
Drugs?
I will tell you later
My scene:
other
In a social setting, I'm:
I will tell you later
My favorite music:
Broadway showtunes, standards, American Idol, off-the-chart one-hit-wonders, Pussy Tourette
My favorite movies:
Whatever Happened to Baby Jane? Valley of the Dolls, The Women, Stage Door, Grey Gardens, Hedwig and the Angry Inch, Hustler White, Wizard of Oz, Talk to Her
My favorite books:
My Face For All the World to See, Day of the Locust, Oliver Button is a Sissy, Walking Through Clear Water in a Pool Painted Black, The Bouviers
My favorite TV:
Kathy Griffin- My Life on the D List, Project Runway, Ugly Betty, All My Children,
My favorite foods:
Oatmeal, Frosted Shredded Mini-Wheats, Fruit, Balance bars
PERSONAL DETAILS
My relationship status:
single
My kid status:
I do not want kids
My health status:
no major complaints
Any other sexual history, including STD's, that you want to share?
"In order to know virtue, we must first acquaint ourselves with vice." - Marquis de Sade
My religion:
spiritual, but not religious
I speak:
French, English
My politics:
liberal
My astrological sign:
Virgo
I'm interested in:
community service, working out, movies, photography, reading, theater

More about you:
I think critically and consider myself an atypical fag. I spend time alone because I lack enough patience to deal with the banality of most people. I am an adopted, only child and was conditioned early on to believe that the whole world revolved around me. Or wish it did. I maintain an internal Rolodex of imaginary friends gleaned from pop culture. I'm always up on the headlines and view life with an activist spirit bent on social justice. I'm seeking someone who makes me say wow but I'll settle for starstruck. I love to run outdoors. Running makes me a better person. The number 5150 is tattooed on my right bicep. The word doll is on my left. I have yet to implement my ultimate purpose.

More about who you're looking for:
I'm in search of someone intelligent and random and kooky and irreverent with an enviable sense of style. Sex positive and campy a plus. I want to meet someone with enough varied interests to hold mine. Shared values regarding the body and its upkeep are pluses. No sexual hangups and enough wherewithal to awaken the potential for shared passion. Tactile/loves to kiss. I want to be impressed with your package, physical,spiritual, mental, but not so much that I deem myself unworthy of your attention. Must be evolved beyond my plateau and able to appreciate just how damn special I am. Film Enthusiasts welcome. A provocateur of pornographic esteem. Someone I could fall for.

That about sums me up as neatly as I can box into a limited field of under 1000 words. Do I sound smart? Cultured, Evolved? How about with-it? And in touch with the feminine side of my masculinity or vice versa? Did I convey how much I value physical fitness and the ascetic beauty of the male genitalia without coming across as gauche or a blowhard in search of a blowjob for that matter?

Never content to sit in idle anticipation for the flood of cyber winks that would fill my inbox to runeth over, I perused the matching postings in search of a geographically close-by suitor.

The following profiles prompted the witty, scathing responses that follow: Submitted as online "flirts" to individual inboxes:

Profile of Boytoy- age 35
I am a 35 year old good looking white guy. 5'9", 140 lbs., lean swimmers body, with a bubble butt, versatile to bottom. I am looking for versatile to top Latin or white guys/couples for friendship and maybe more. I enjoy the beach, traveling, and listening to music. --

My size-up critique?

I thought him a bit long in the tooth to still be called a boy-toy. That's an honor bestowed to the twink set. This toy is not privy to the SMS speak of modern text messaging.--- He should practice curt brevity with the edited VGL GWM, vers, bubble butt iso same or MSMM latin.

This is what I wrote to him.

Subject: still a boytoy??...Sent: Aug 8,
2007 9:01 AM

You're a cute one, aren't you? Totally cute. Consider it a compliment. Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown (he listed as favorite) is a
Pedro Almodovar film. Have you seen the others? Let's hook up on manhunt.
xxxoo mta

# 2-- In response to sfca415. Headline= Breathe:

Subject: They always have to remind me to breathe --Sent: Aug 8, 2007 8:54 AM

I'm not cruising you because I know you're with partner but I just wanted to
convey my appreciation for the character you described in your profile. You are
very well-spoken. I relate to almost everything that you said and easily could
have plagiarized the copy for my own profile. I sense a serenity that is lacking
in my own frenetic laundry list of traits although I'm totally with you on the
level. nice to embark upon you. cheers mta

#3 caught my fancy with his reported confession to favor Broadway show tunes. A fag worth fucking in love with Broadway-- perish the thought.

Coinciding with a reported income topping out at 100K+ and professed fondness for Pedro Almodovar films--- but his devotion to religious rituals and identification as Catholic stirred the sin in my loins. Not to mention the ethnicity of any name ending in a vowel.

Subject: Saints, Broadway and Almovodar sent:
Aug 8, 2007 8:00 AM

Antonio, Are you Italian? I am. (too
cute--- stifle a gag)
I'm compelled to let you know that we share an interest in particular
movies and music. Pedro Almovodar is fantastic. (and don't I know
him personally, she said)
You know he discovered Penelope Cruz... (although he said
I was much funner, right Edie?)
You are the only person I have met outside of the Best of Broadway
who claims to appreciate Broadway musicals in capital letters. I thought my predilection for Broadway was confirmation that my interests were
stereotypically gay. (oh, surely you jest-- now
stop)
Congrats for breaking the mold. Thanks for representing. (Kudos to you babe)
Oh-- regarding your claim to appreciate religious rituals and the
like...(lest I forget...)
I assume you mean the most Holy Communion and Confirmation? FYI, (twitters :)
I received both. (straight from my the heart of my very
own Eucharistic minister)

(in case you were
thinking of Mary Catherine Gallagher...)

I'm also guilty of committing all (count- em-- all) 33 (one for each of my years) of the official mortal sins as defined by the Catholic church.

They are:

1. Abortion, 2. Anger, 3. Adultery 4. Amending the words of the Holy Bible, (paraphrasing or
   plagiarizing material for personal gain) 5. Blasphemy against
   the Holy Spirit (Damn that ghost) 6. Carousing,
   7.Cowardice (yellow-bellied lions lack courage)
   8. Defrauders, (especially
   check frauders and paper-hangers of the mail fraud variety)
   9. Dissensions (any disagreement or difference of opinion 10. Disrespect towards parents, (aka dishonoring the 12th commandment
   not to be confused with the 12th step of Alcoholics Anonymous) 11.
   Drunkenness, (especially public)
   12.Enmities, (like the one Tori Spelling harbors for
   Shannon Doherty) 13. Envy, (Green
   like Lindsay Lohan's complexion after a hurl)
   14. Factions (Rosie vs. Elizabeth) 15. Faithless or the lack of faith
   i.e. not of the faith" often used to describe one's preference for
   fisting or some other odd sexual practice. 16. Bearing
   false witness (liars) (tiny, white lies don't count as
   much as big, whopping ruses) 17. Fornicators aka committing of pornication, usually between a man and a woman devoid of the sacrament of
   marriage. See "thy shall covet thy neighbor's ass"
   18. Greed, (the
   lifeblood of 1980s capitalist consumerism) 19.
   Holy Communion received while in a state of mortal sin, -- (as
   opposed to a state of smut or kink) 20.
   Idolatry, (Ryan Idol
   notwithstanding-- or Tom Cruise's Magnolia mantra "respect the
   cock")
   21. Impurity, (Thoughts etc) 22.
   Jealousy, (Not to be confused wit
   23. Licentiousness, (moral depravity i.e. lewdness) 24. Lewdness
   (see licentiousness) 25. Love and practice falsehoods, (don't
   lie and say you love me when you really don't. or Don't profess
   to be str8 when you're really gay can be. 26. Male
   prostitution, aka hustling on the blvd 27. Murderers, (like the Sopranos) 28. Pollution (Al Gore is watching)
   29. Quarrelling, (damn you Stella. don't be cross) 30.
   Sodomites, aka the practice of anal sex with
   another queer
   31. Sorcery, (not to be confused with
   witchcraft) 32. Strife, see
   discord esp. urban 33. Thieves,
   (steal/robbers) i.e.
   gypsies, tramps &...

And I still receive communion on the most holy high holidays. Makes you wonder, doesn't it? I hope I haven't blabbed you to boredom but I must let you know that you managed to catch my interest. For what it's worth. Wow.mta

And on to ponder the philosophical pursuit of chaotic man-frenzy...

Subject: dancing star notwithstanding Sent: Aug 8, 2007 6:30 AM to Nietzche philosophical queen

You need chaos in your soul to give birth to a dancing star.

I have a journal with that Nietzsche quote on the cover. It accurately sums up the state of my karma. I'm in the process of becoming one with my dancing star. snaps! mta (and double kudos to my wonder twin star karma-- like Jem and the Hologram- ...for crissake...)

Alliterative astro-logic for an astro-boy

Subject: zen of zodiac Sent: Aug 8, 2007 6:28 AM
Your profile caught my attention and elicited a pleasant surprise when I discovered you were Pisces, the most compatible astrological sign matching my Virgo. They're opposite ends of the spectrum-- isn't that freaky that I was on the same wavelength? I'm not as frivolous as the above statement implies. (honest I'm not, giggled the vixen dixie- boop-boop-de-oop) mta

And on to far reaching latitudes... I still have no idea who the hell Gilbert and George are or what happened in their interview with Mark Francis circa 1981. (see below) But I googled the dickens out of this elitist attempt at acheiving hyper-culture. Alas, I simply cannot compete with the likes of the Donnas. Tiffany meets Kelly Ripa = mall rats+rat fuck= ratted hair

Subject: Donnas were from Jersey Sent: Aug 8, 2007 6:19 AM

Hey Hello I happened upon your profile and it intrigued me enough to google Gilbert and George, Interview with Mark Francis 1981. You know what's really funny? You represented and accurately summed up what you were looking for enough to tempt me to plagarize and cut and paste the field on to my profile. Instead, I opted for the overly wordy, less descriptive version currently featured.

(and hip to be square) I am so down with...

"A guy who pushes back"

Exactly. I should have thought of it. Brilliant. Also, I thought I was one of few people who appreciated the Donnas. (putrid mall rats) For what it's worth, I think you're groovy. (like totally, Greg) Back at'cha and Kudos (and one to grow on-- hot-stuff) --mta

To conclude with homage to my french bitch. Phuque my pussy, Pussy says.

Subject: Bonjour Sent: Aug 8, 2007 9:04 AM
Je m'appelle Michael. J'adore les gens francais.

Voulez-vous mon-toit si-vous plait? wink, wink...

And so it goes. The end of my mating call. If this new cat and mouse game is evidence of the fun to come, I must shift gears from yesterday's dick pic and focus on the wit and coy banter of my cyber sin confessions. Lying and utter dissension topthe list as most abused mortal sins. When HIV positive status just isn't enough to create a faction, a professed preference for foreign cinema and a predilection for all invasive sin is the penultimate next best thing. This most contemporary of urban rituals will have me surfing the sexual marketplace ISO LTR for NSA in no time. MSM, queer, BB, poz,(sex) harm redux, idu, pornicating sinner seeks anonymous fuck.

How's that grab you, Pussy, she said...

Aryan Love

I remember one childhood day when my mother pulled me aside and warned me that it was extremely important that I try to get along with other children. Since I was an only adopted child, I was made to believe that the entire universe revolved around me. Teachers described me as a flamboyant, sensitive child. But soon, I matured into an antisocial sissy that spent the majority of the tween years isolating in a walk-in closet with my Hollywood fanzines and dolls.

Thus, my formative years were grounded in a negative perception of self image and a depressive loathing that laid the path for years to come. In 1980 my divorced father and his child-bride belted me into the back of their station wagon and took me to the drive-in showing of Herbie Goes Bananas. I had no interest in the trite telling of a VW bug's life. Bored and bitter, I peered through the rear view window to discover an angel of an image. When I saw Christopher Atkins frolicking on the beach of the Blue Lagoon, I felt a dreamy warm chill flash through my gut. Doing a 180, I read his gorgeous, full lips word for word through the back window, since I could not hear the spoken dialogue.

"Turn around and watch our movie," my father scolded.

Forbidden and banished from my evening in the twilight of the Blue Lagoon, I wept in angry tears.

"That goddamn film is not for a 7 year old," said the macho asshole/father.

I went home that night and dreamed of a blond, Aryan god. Hollywood's image was forever in my head. The bleached, athletic prowess of a California beach boy stayed in my subconscious and served as the ultimate prototype of perfection.

As I shed the poundage of a suicidal childhood, puberty led to adulthood and a modicum of self-acceptance. No matter what I looked like in the mirror, an uncomely nerd stared back. This dreadful image followed me through high school, into college and a young adulthood spent in a microcosm of looksism aka Hollywood.

Slim and suddenly able to compete in a model's market, I maintained the destructive behavioral pattern fueled by an inaccurate self perception. Christopher Atkins moved on to yesterday's news but his masculine ideal remained the golden-haired standard.
I became bewitched by the American Model Guild beefcake icon imagery but his tantalizing unattainable bulge haunted me.

Upon a recent evening set in my current habitat of ennui, I met my childhood wet dream incarnate. A friend showed up at my door and introduced me to Bjorn. I dried the dish soap on my ragged jeans and considered it a welcome substitute for the laundry I was too broke to do. Luckily, the faded frumpy cornflower blue sweatshirt I wore was baggy enough to hide evidence of my neglected abdominals. Sticking my hand out to welcome the hazy figure I saw in the foyer, I licked my lips twice when my eyes focused. Bjorn stood before me and I blushed like Blanche Dubois.

"Why didn't you tell me he was so fine?" said Bjorn to my friend.

Since I had been wearing the same drab dress for over a depressive week, I cursed myself and hurried to the loo to implement damage control. I remembered reading that Bette Davis was dubbed the "little brown wren" upon her Hollywood arrival and I flashed to that image. Piper Laurie's cacophonous curse lectured in my ears. "They're all gonna laugh at you," she ragged. "He's never going to f**k you, " rang the mantra. Over and over, the sirens taunted me. The blond Venus in my living room must have mistaken me for someone else.

When I finally rejoined my company I flashed on Shirley Maclaine doing a fast-switch with her hairpiece in the ladies room before she lunched with Jack Nicholson in Terms of Endearment. If she could dance the entire Nutcracker ballet suite with a broken ankle (Washington Ballet circa 1950s), then I could fake my through social niceties with my childhood lover fantasy.

Bjorn took his shirt off and I channeled Paris Hilton with

"Wow, you're HOT".

"Puleeze," said my amused friend, rolling his eyes.

I accepted Bjorn's complimentary stares much less gracefully than Shirley did in her dance of the lost cupcake.

My friend busied himself perusing the craigslist m4m postings and I sat beholden by Bjorn. He layered the saccharine on tri-fold and lambasted me with butterfly kisses.

"I dreamed of you last week." he said. As we had just barely met, I questioned the validity of this statement. "Here, read my journal," he offered as he pulled out a tattered, steno pad labeled "treatment journal". The handwriting was psycho Palmer method but I was able to eke out a semblance of translation. Something to the effect of song lyrics or a dream sequence was on the page but I could not be sure. I interviewed him with the journalistic training I acquired at USC and practiced active listening. Bjorn seemed a bit off balance; a quality I could relate to as evidenced by the number 5150 tattooed on my arm. The cuckoo's scarlet letter scored me some points with an impressed Bjorn. He lapsed into a deep, throaty rendition of a Kurt Cobain tune. I brought up the parallel between the wispy Nirvana singer's suicide and Bjorn's most recent attempt to overdose.

I probed him for sketches of a biographical narrative. He made references to a broken home, a neglectful mother and tyrant father. I pictured the young, blond, curly-haired innocent Dickensian character. The tragedy of the marble faun.

He told me I looked like a rock star.

Then he leaned really close to my ear and confessed he only watched straight porn. He said it as if gay porn was totally inappropriate to watch during gay sex.

By the end of the interview, I was to learn Bjorn was born 14 days after my September birth date in 1973 and was the absent father of two children. A daughter named Destiny and

... 'wait,- stop, go back...

I could not believe the parallels. I was 2 weeks older than him. Amazing! And his daughter's name is the same as my niece just as his name is the same as my sister's ex-husband, himself a parolee, just like Bjorn. Of course, my sister's ex served time for attempted man-slaughter while Bjorn's only crime was stealing my heart.

I stared into his eyes and imagined being swallowed by...the California sea-scape. By this time, I was living an out-of-body experience or did I only want to because he said he did. No stranger to attempted suicide, he parroted other accounts I have heard about near-death. Ominous light coupled with a feeling of peace led to the spirit levitating above the body/ to end all that landed him in the latest sanitarium led to Bjorn's recollection of an ominous light, feeling of peace and a levitation above his body.

Suicide, pills, teen-age delinquency, children, sex, meds, porno and blond! I was beside myself; - in complete disbelief. I pictured a paperback novel with Fabio on the dog-eared cover. The hallowed story of this lusty squire.

Suddenly he was last summer) overcome with passion. We were two babes in the woods. with Determined dynamism. My sexual half-life up to the present had been primarily dominated by the hurried hushes and carnal urgings uttered by straight-as-identified men. I was totally disconnected from the 'wow' factor for years. Having humored the homophobic hostility of MSM for so long, I could barely remember the sparkle kiss of contentedness shared with another man.

Bjorn's tranquil caress brought me to Xanadu. I flashed on Olivia Newton-John and a memory of Let's Get Physical reverberated through my physique. The nirvana euphoria I experienced made me question the association Bjorn made between himself and the wispy wimp of Kurt C0bain.

I enjoyed myself sexually but how could I not? He's completely unreal and I'm still not so sure that he is one hundred percent cuckoo-loo. That explains why he claimed attraction for me. He has to be nuts. Or ulterior motives are in play. I'm out of the running. I can barely stomach myself. How can he?

I wanted to bask in the promising pillow talk and dream of my future ex-husband. I tried to picture myself as the second half of two dads to his children. Bjorn lapsed into baby-talk and for a while looked and sounded like an eight year-old. He sat on the floor and surrounded himself with a Mr. Wizard-like set of drug paraphernalia. He seemed to be playing paddy-cake with a witch doctor's unction. I knew Bjorn had a drug-induced past, another trait he shared with me. The unguent combination he prepared in the spoon looked unlike any injectable substance I had ever seen. "It's synthetic cocaine," he offered. "Want a hit?"

Good Lord. Being an advocate for junkie's rights had never exposed me to this sideshow. I soon learned that Bjorn's synthetic coke was actually a crushed-up and watered down smattering of Welbutrin mixed with another undetermined psych med, "dipped in Ecstasy" that was actually heated by flame and drawn up in clumps through a used syringe.

Another parallel screamed in my brain as I flashed on the imagined vision of my overly medicated birth mother morphing into drug addict vis-a-vis Liz Taylor's lobotomized fate a la the Three Faces of Eve.

Did Bjorn's dissociation match the disorder my biological birth mother effected in Agnew Insane Asylum? I knew better than to look this "hung like a (gift)-horse" in the mouth and my optimistic dreams of coupledom gave way to self chastisement.

The familiar lashings of self-doubt and hatred caustically attacked me from the eaves of my id.

Bjorn was gone. As he left upon Aurora's awakening, he blew me (and then a kiss) vowing to return for the dawn of our relationship. I have not seen him since.

I bid farewell to him and adieu to the hateful imps wreaking havoc on my self image. I realized I could never imagine that I would somehow be worthy of the attention he gave. And by the rate things are going, I'm not sure I ever will. God save me from myself.