I don’t think I’m the only one that finds sex annoying from time to time. Yip… I’m either whinging at it’s absence from my life and considering joining a nunnery (only if I can do it Sister Mary-Clarence style), or I’m behaving like a rutting ad salesman. Either way I still feel unfulfilled. Am I an addict?
A few too many mornings these past few weeks I have woken up and sighed with relief to find a spare pair of contact lenses in my coat pocket and enough battery on my cell phone to log onto google maps to find a walk of shame route home. But before you all tut, ‘he’s just bragging now’, my point is that sex is sometimes the last thing I really wanted or, believe it or not, intended to happen.
Growing up, we aren’t taught the rules and etiquette of sex. For young gays this is even more apparent. How long are you supposed to wait till you sleep with someone? What are the rules of friends with benefits? What’s a reasonable time to leave after a hook-up? Do you go straight after sex or in the morning? If you stay over do you snuggle, shower or have breakfast? Do you swap numbers, arrange to do again or erase all living memory? I guess much of this is circumstantial, but trial and error just don’t cut the slutty mustard in a quest for a relationship.
I’d been warned by a protective mutual friend to give my latest crush some time and space to get over his ex. Being the cool, calm, sophisticated type of guy I am I played it breezy – oh yeah, totally breezy. Only if breezy means keen, that is. Oh yes, I flirted and smiled at him when we were out. I made every effort to charm him over Twitter and complimented him regularly. Things were looking good.
After a lengthy text conversation one hungover Saturday afternoon, we arranged to hang out, get a take away and watch a movie at my place – a mate date, you could say. At chow mein past eight and the action DVD in full explosion mode we begun to cuddle on the sofa, which led to kissing on the sofa, which led to laying down kissing on the sofa, which led to clothes being rampantly ripped off, and no longer on the sofa.
After a few sweaty hours (minutes actually) later we went upstairs. He, to my surprise, then curled up in my bed and ushered me in. We chatted some more and gradually he fell asleep on my chest. This was the bit I wanted the most. The aftermath, where hearts are still racing and breathing is slowing. The bit when every limb and nook perfectly click into place and the stillness and company is wholly comforting. Having another person to make a physical connection with is what I had been really craving, not simply a bit of Mr Bump and Mr Tickle.
The next morning we stayed in bed chatting for hours before eventually getting dressed and heading to the Wimpy Bar on the corner of my street for a slap-up breakfast. We read the paper together, made immature sausage jokes, flirted and gossiped. It was great. There was no stress or internal debate over sticking to the unwritten hook-up rules of no cuddling (and most definitely no carb filled breakfast). I felt like such a rebel. You hear that gays, I eat bread and snuggle – so what?!
We were due to meet again in a few weeks at a mutual friend’s birthday, so we parted ways with a smile and a quick kiss. The next time we met there was no awkwardness, but nor were there any signs of a rendezvous. It was clear we were both simply looking for some affection and company. The sex was just a means to an end.
Sometimes it’s nice to be wanted for a hug and spoon over the junk in your truck. Am I becoming disillusioned with the gay scene? Should I start looking for sensitive boys in museums and in the vegetable aisle in supermarkets? I think it’s time I bought some sensible shoes and ironed some shirts: out with the low cut V-neck t-shirts and Diesels and in with the brogues and skinny ties. It’s what a gay Clark Kent would do.