Tomorrow, October 31: Halloween. Candy. Orthodontist appointment. (Maybe I'll grow a pair large enough to flirt with my sexy new orthodontist, and even ask him out.)
November 1: Day-after-Halloween sale on candy.
November 2: I have two tickets to "Spring Awakening". I also still don't have someone to take (Charlie's not calling me back for some reason), so if you know anyone... Or maybe I can hire an escort.
November 10: Date with charming guy I met on Lovetastic.
Thanksgiving: Roommate's going out of town. Excuse to eat tons of cranberry sauce.
First week of December: One year anniversary at the Job. Promotion? Raise? Both highly likely.
Christmas: Entire week off of work. Who wants to rendezvous in Aruba?
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
Dirty Dancing With The Stars
I've never really watched "Dancing with the Stars" before, but this season I find myself just sucked in by it every time I switch to ABC during commercial breaks of "How I Met Your Mother". I don't know if it's the quality of performances or the lust I feel for some of the guys strutting their stuff.
I mean, that cute little blond guy who dances with Kelly Taylor (sorry, Jenny Garth)? Every time I see him I just want to bend him over and...
And Cameron Matheson? I'd bend over for him!
I mean, that cute little blond guy who dances with Kelly Taylor (sorry, Jenny Garth)? Every time I see him I just want to bend him over and...
And Cameron Matheson? I'd bend over for him!
Tuesday, October 9, 2007
Monday, October 8, 2007
Miscellaneous Updates
I saw Hung Bleach Blonde Guy at my secret place today, and he actually talked to me for a bit. He could have easily avoided me, pretended he didn't see me, or acted like he didn't recognize/remember me. But he was the one to first say hello, and we had a short conversation. It's probably not the best for my obsessive personality, but again, he seems like a genuinely nice guy. Maybe he'll email me back this time.
(Side note: Anonymous brought up a pretty good point in his comment to "Just Sex?" when he suggested I'm afraid of being really hurt, so I fixate on fantasies. It's quite possible, though I'm not so sure if real hurt can feel much worse than what I felt the last time I saw HBBG with someone else.)
Also, Sharona called me again today. She wanted to wish me a happy birthday and said she sent me something to my apartment in _________ (she named my neighborhood). Though she's a day early, it really freaked me out that she knows when my birthday is and what neighborhood I live in. Granted, I probably told the Ukranian what part of town I live in, but I don't remember mentioning my birthday. She also said she wanted to jump out of a cake if only I would answer the phone. It's obviously a joke now, but I still get shaken up when she calls, and I have no idea who could be behind it. I accused Charlie, the only one who knew about him, my birthday, my neighborhood, etc., and he insists it's not him. It's still a mystery, and not one that I'm having any fun with anymore.
(Side note: Anonymous brought up a pretty good point in his comment to "Just Sex?" when he suggested I'm afraid of being really hurt, so I fixate on fantasies. It's quite possible, though I'm not so sure if real hurt can feel much worse than what I felt the last time I saw HBBG with someone else.)
Also, Sharona called me again today. She wanted to wish me a happy birthday and said she sent me something to my apartment in _________ (she named my neighborhood). Though she's a day early, it really freaked me out that she knows when my birthday is and what neighborhood I live in. Granted, I probably told the Ukranian what part of town I live in, but I don't remember mentioning my birthday. She also said she wanted to jump out of a cake if only I would answer the phone. It's obviously a joke now, but I still get shaken up when she calls, and I have no idea who could be behind it. I accused Charlie, the only one who knew about him, my birthday, my neighborhood, etc., and he insists it's not him. It's still a mystery, and not one that I'm having any fun with anymore.
Milestone
A couple of weeks ago--he says, realizing that many of his posts begin this way and vowing to try to be more timely with updates--I hit a major milestone in my career.
No, I didn't get a promotion.
No, I didn't get a raise.
No, I didn't file my first sexual harassment suit.
I bought my first official book, all on my own.
Not only that, but it's by my favorite writer of EVER, someone whom I tracked down at my previous job (the one that fired me last year) and reconnected with in August. I read her new book, loved it, and negotiated a two-book deal. She's now my author.
This, my friends, is what every editor dreams of: working with his favorite author. And to think I'm really only starting out. Can it get any better than this? I still get teary-eyed every time I think about it.
No, I didn't get a promotion.
No, I didn't get a raise.
No, I didn't file my first sexual harassment suit.
I bought my first official book, all on my own.
Not only that, but it's by my favorite writer of EVER, someone whom I tracked down at my previous job (the one that fired me last year) and reconnected with in August. I read her new book, loved it, and negotiated a two-book deal. She's now my author.
This, my friends, is what every editor dreams of: working with his favorite author. And to think I'm really only starting out. Can it get any better than this? I still get teary-eyed every time I think about it.
Sunday, October 7, 2007
Just Sex?
What is it that makes me fixate on certain people and not others? Allow me to illustrate this with an example...
So I have this kind of secret place in my neighborhood where I go to sunbathe nude. (Don't ask me where cuz if I tell you then it wouldn't be a secret anymore.) It's kind of--ok, VERY--cruisy, and sometimes, I admit, I might partake in the festivities, if the guy is hot enough. Or I'm horny enough. But mostly I just go to bake since I feel less self conscious taking most, if not all, of my clothes off.
About a month and a half ago, there was a guy on the rock just downriver from me, and I was mighty interested in seeing what he had. Long story short, I wound up on his rock, both of us naked and stroking (he was super hung). It didn't last very long, neither of us came, and we kept being interrupted anyway. We only spoke about five sentences to each other, and yet I haven't been able to get him out of my head. I wanted to give him my number when I left but chickened out. I saw him again two weekends ago with another guy and got insanely jealous and depressed. I'm not sure why, really, especially considering it's what goes on there.
There's more to the story about Craigslist postings and ignored emails, but the point is that I've become virtually obsessed with this near perfect manly specimen of bleach blonde goodness.
Yet I met another cute guy online last weekend and ultimately had anal intercourse with him (which I almost never do). He was a nice, intelligent, attractive, well-built guy, but after we were done and he said he doesn't like to repeat tricks, I was okay. Not distraught in the least.
But Hung Bleach Blonde Guy? Crushed. Devastated. Unreasonably attached and torn asunder.
In the end, I guess it's not really that I have so much of a problem separating sex and emotions like I once thought I did. But I still don't understand why I'm inexplicably smitten with someone I barely talked to while I could care less about someone with whom I was as intimate as I could get. Hormones or pheromones, maybe? Could it be that Hung Bleach Blonde Guy is The One?
See, there I go again...
So I have this kind of secret place in my neighborhood where I go to sunbathe nude. (Don't ask me where cuz if I tell you then it wouldn't be a secret anymore.) It's kind of--ok, VERY--cruisy, and sometimes, I admit, I might partake in the festivities, if the guy is hot enough. Or I'm horny enough. But mostly I just go to bake since I feel less self conscious taking most, if not all, of my clothes off.
About a month and a half ago, there was a guy on the rock just downriver from me, and I was mighty interested in seeing what he had. Long story short, I wound up on his rock, both of us naked and stroking (he was super hung). It didn't last very long, neither of us came, and we kept being interrupted anyway. We only spoke about five sentences to each other, and yet I haven't been able to get him out of my head. I wanted to give him my number when I left but chickened out. I saw him again two weekends ago with another guy and got insanely jealous and depressed. I'm not sure why, really, especially considering it's what goes on there.
There's more to the story about Craigslist postings and ignored emails, but the point is that I've become virtually obsessed with this near perfect manly specimen of bleach blonde goodness.
Yet I met another cute guy online last weekend and ultimately had anal intercourse with him (which I almost never do). He was a nice, intelligent, attractive, well-built guy, but after we were done and he said he doesn't like to repeat tricks, I was okay. Not distraught in the least.
But Hung Bleach Blonde Guy? Crushed. Devastated. Unreasonably attached and torn asunder.
In the end, I guess it's not really that I have so much of a problem separating sex and emotions like I once thought I did. But I still don't understand why I'm inexplicably smitten with someone I barely talked to while I could care less about someone with whom I was as intimate as I could get. Hormones or pheromones, maybe? Could it be that Hung Bleach Blonde Guy is The One?
See, there I go again...
Sunday, September 23, 2007
My Sharona
Okay, so I think it's about time I told you about my stalker. Now that she's stopped calling me and I have some distance from the situation, I can actually laugh at it rather than tremble with fear.
Let me take you back a while, to the end of July. I met this guy online and he seemed pretty nice. I decided to throw caution to the wind and meet him for drinks after work one Thursday night. We had margaritas at some Mexican place on the Upper East Side, which was his neighborhood. The conversation wasn't bad, and for being a Ukranian, his English was pretty good. The only think was that he spoke very softly, so I had a hard time hearing him. But it was interesting to learn about his culture.
At some point, he mentioned he was a bottom, and even though I was really tired and not horny, I had a physical reaction that resulted in me making the mistake of going back to his apartment and fucking him silly. He was actually pretty good (if teenily endowed), I'll admit it. Bad move, Peter.
Over the course of the evening, I had told him that I would be spending the weekend with my parents upstate, since they were visiting and I had that Friday off. He asked me at least three times, so he knew I was going away for the weekend. There's no cell reception at the family cabin, so I got home that Sunday night to three texts from this guy. "What are you doing this weekend?" "Why aren't you answering me?" Something else.
So on Monday, I sent him an email telling him that I had a nice time but I didn't feel any chemistry (read: you didn't listen to a word I said, overdid the texts, and are a bit clingy). He took it fairly well until a few days later when it finally hit him that I fucked him. He couldn't quite understand why I did that, and I told him the truth that I didn't know why either. Mistake number 2: answering him.
Flash forward a couple of weeks to me at work when my cell phone rings. The number came up as withheld, but for some assinine reason, I picked it up. Mistake #3. There was a woman on the other end with a heavy Eastern European accent claiming that I had gone out with her brother the weekend before. Granted, I knew who she was talking about, but I played the semantics game and told her I hadn't gone out with anyone. She proceeded to plead into the phone that her brother was crying and wouldn't stop and she didn't know what to do. I told her I didn't know who she was, please leave me alone. The phone cut out.
A few minutes later, my cell rang again. Withheld again. This time I didn't answer it. She left a message anyway, basically saying the same thing. Brother's crying, please call him. Please, Peter, please.
This was about at lunch time, so I went outside for a walk around the block and to call my friend Charlie, the only person who knew I had gone out with the Ukranian. I told him all about the calls from this woman, who says her name is Sharona. (You'd have to hear the messages to get the full effect of the voice and accent on her name.) As I'm talking to him? Four more calls. She left two messages, same thing.
The next day, she called me at the same time. That day, a Tuesday, I didn't answer the phone at all, and she left another 5 messages. In one of them she claimed to have tried to call my work but the receptionist wouldn't put her through. I asked the receptionist, but no one called for me. I don't think I ever told the Ukranian where I worked, either, so it kind of creeped me out.
Her last message that day included me last name. Well, a mangled version of my last name because it's nearly unpronouncable. I don't believe I ever told him my last name, so this gave me the shakes. I literally could not write because of it. Everyone at work--my desk is in a pod of eight cubicles with low walls--knew what was happening by this point (they didn't know I fucked him, though), so it became like a soap opera.
The next day Sharona called a few more times before one of my female coworkers decided that she was going to answer it, pretend to be my boss, and tell her to stop calling me. Sharona just called back and told my voicemail that "the bitch" better not answer my phone again. She always called between 12:30 and 2pm, so it's quite possible she was actually calling from the Ukraine, but I don't know how realistic that is.
After that, I didn't hear from her for a few days. The next week, it started again. I answered once to tell her that I would get the police involved if she didn't stop calling, and she did claim to be calling from Europe. During all of this, I had emailed the Ukrainian asking him to tell his sister to stop calling me, and he replied with a nasty email about how his sister was in the Ukraine and wouldn't call me. I asked him who Sharona was then, and he told me he wasn't my secretary, how was he supposed to know who's calling me. Of course, two days later he texted me to tell me to stop emailing him about nonsensical shit.
Kray-zee, with a capital KRAY.
At that point, I told myself it was all a big practical joke. But the phone calls kept coming, only more sporadically and fewer in number. Just when I thought it was over, she would call me again. One time, there was a series of calls in which she was drunk and wanted to have sex with me. She even faked an orgasm on my voicemail. Then called to apologize for being drunk and horny.
They started to only come once or twice a week, and now they've finally stopped, I think. Hopefully for good. I haven't heard from Sharona in two weeks, and I'd like to leave it that way.
So, moral of the story: You always wish you had a stalker until you actually get one; then it loses its fun very quickly.
Let me take you back a while, to the end of July. I met this guy online and he seemed pretty nice. I decided to throw caution to the wind and meet him for drinks after work one Thursday night. We had margaritas at some Mexican place on the Upper East Side, which was his neighborhood. The conversation wasn't bad, and for being a Ukranian, his English was pretty good. The only think was that he spoke very softly, so I had a hard time hearing him. But it was interesting to learn about his culture.
At some point, he mentioned he was a bottom, and even though I was really tired and not horny, I had a physical reaction that resulted in me making the mistake of going back to his apartment and fucking him silly. He was actually pretty good (if teenily endowed), I'll admit it. Bad move, Peter.
Over the course of the evening, I had told him that I would be spending the weekend with my parents upstate, since they were visiting and I had that Friday off. He asked me at least three times, so he knew I was going away for the weekend. There's no cell reception at the family cabin, so I got home that Sunday night to three texts from this guy. "What are you doing this weekend?" "Why aren't you answering me?" Something else.
So on Monday, I sent him an email telling him that I had a nice time but I didn't feel any chemistry (read: you didn't listen to a word I said, overdid the texts, and are a bit clingy). He took it fairly well until a few days later when it finally hit him that I fucked him. He couldn't quite understand why I did that, and I told him the truth that I didn't know why either. Mistake number 2: answering him.
Flash forward a couple of weeks to me at work when my cell phone rings. The number came up as withheld, but for some assinine reason, I picked it up. Mistake #3. There was a woman on the other end with a heavy Eastern European accent claiming that I had gone out with her brother the weekend before. Granted, I knew who she was talking about, but I played the semantics game and told her I hadn't gone out with anyone. She proceeded to plead into the phone that her brother was crying and wouldn't stop and she didn't know what to do. I told her I didn't know who she was, please leave me alone. The phone cut out.
A few minutes later, my cell rang again. Withheld again. This time I didn't answer it. She left a message anyway, basically saying the same thing. Brother's crying, please call him. Please, Peter, please.
This was about at lunch time, so I went outside for a walk around the block and to call my friend Charlie, the only person who knew I had gone out with the Ukranian. I told him all about the calls from this woman, who says her name is Sharona. (You'd have to hear the messages to get the full effect of the voice and accent on her name.) As I'm talking to him? Four more calls. She left two messages, same thing.
The next day, she called me at the same time. That day, a Tuesday, I didn't answer the phone at all, and she left another 5 messages. In one of them she claimed to have tried to call my work but the receptionist wouldn't put her through. I asked the receptionist, but no one called for me. I don't think I ever told the Ukranian where I worked, either, so it kind of creeped me out.
Her last message that day included me last name. Well, a mangled version of my last name because it's nearly unpronouncable. I don't believe I ever told him my last name, so this gave me the shakes. I literally could not write because of it. Everyone at work--my desk is in a pod of eight cubicles with low walls--knew what was happening by this point (they didn't know I fucked him, though), so it became like a soap opera.
The next day Sharona called a few more times before one of my female coworkers decided that she was going to answer it, pretend to be my boss, and tell her to stop calling me. Sharona just called back and told my voicemail that "the bitch" better not answer my phone again. She always called between 12:30 and 2pm, so it's quite possible she was actually calling from the Ukraine, but I don't know how realistic that is.
After that, I didn't hear from her for a few days. The next week, it started again. I answered once to tell her that I would get the police involved if she didn't stop calling, and she did claim to be calling from Europe. During all of this, I had emailed the Ukrainian asking him to tell his sister to stop calling me, and he replied with a nasty email about how his sister was in the Ukraine and wouldn't call me. I asked him who Sharona was then, and he told me he wasn't my secretary, how was he supposed to know who's calling me. Of course, two days later he texted me to tell me to stop emailing him about nonsensical shit.
Kray-zee, with a capital KRAY.
At that point, I told myself it was all a big practical joke. But the phone calls kept coming, only more sporadically and fewer in number. Just when I thought it was over, she would call me again. One time, there was a series of calls in which she was drunk and wanted to have sex with me. She even faked an orgasm on my voicemail. Then called to apologize for being drunk and horny.
They started to only come once or twice a week, and now they've finally stopped, I think. Hopefully for good. I haven't heard from Sharona in two weeks, and I'd like to leave it that way.
So, moral of the story: You always wish you had a stalker until you actually get one; then it loses its fun very quickly.
Thursday, July 19, 2007
Two Kinds of Gay Men
I think there are two types of gay men in this world: the kind who idolize The Ladies on the Lanai ("The Golden Girls") and those who prefer their peaches from Georgia ("Designing Women"). While I am a fan of both shows, I lean more toward the Sugarbaker sisters, Mary Jo, and Charlene. (Okay, and Anthony, too, and Bernice.) I'll admit that the show did start to go downhill once the core four began leaving and were replaced. I still find the later episodes entertaining, but they've definitely lost something (i.e. Delta Burke and Jean Smart).
So I was watching a rerun the other night as I ate my dinner. Ironically enough, the network formerly known as Pax--a fairly conservative, values-oriented, vaguely Christian station--has been showing two episodes at 7 and 7:30 Eastern time. This particular episode was the one where the ladies agree to decorate the funeral of their friend dying from AIDS while Mary Jo is caught up in a PTA debate about handing out free condoms.
Now, first, I have to note that this episode was from 1987, a full 20 years ago! Let's give it up for them portraying an AIDS afflicted gay character as more than a scary, contagious monster at a time when most of the general public was probably unaware of it. They addressed how he communicated the virus, which obviously tied in with the PTA plot. They presented the other side's argument, but used humanity to sensitively convey their message and put a face with the disease. The inevitable ending was a moving finish to an episode still poignant two decades after it was first aired.
What really makes me love this series so much, though, is its ability to have me laughing one minute and crying the next. I can think of so many instances when I've run the gamut of emotions (when Suzanne becomes a foster mom for Li Sing, when Suzanne goes to her reunion with a few extra pounds, when Charlene has her baby at the same moment Ruby Dee dies and goes to meet Dolly Parton in Heaven). That's a quality I love in sitcoms, which is probably why I like "Scrubs" as much as I do, too.
So which camp are you in: GG or DW?
So I was watching a rerun the other night as I ate my dinner. Ironically enough, the network formerly known as Pax--a fairly conservative, values-oriented, vaguely Christian station--has been showing two episodes at 7 and 7:30 Eastern time. This particular episode was the one where the ladies agree to decorate the funeral of their friend dying from AIDS while Mary Jo is caught up in a PTA debate about handing out free condoms.
Now, first, I have to note that this episode was from 1987, a full 20 years ago! Let's give it up for them portraying an AIDS afflicted gay character as more than a scary, contagious monster at a time when most of the general public was probably unaware of it. They addressed how he communicated the virus, which obviously tied in with the PTA plot. They presented the other side's argument, but used humanity to sensitively convey their message and put a face with the disease. The inevitable ending was a moving finish to an episode still poignant two decades after it was first aired.
What really makes me love this series so much, though, is its ability to have me laughing one minute and crying the next. I can think of so many instances when I've run the gamut of emotions (when Suzanne becomes a foster mom for Li Sing, when Suzanne goes to her reunion with a few extra pounds, when Charlene has her baby at the same moment Ruby Dee dies and goes to meet Dolly Parton in Heaven). That's a quality I love in sitcoms, which is probably why I like "Scrubs" as much as I do, too.
So which camp are you in: GG or DW?
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
I Now Pronounce You Offensive
I want to boycott that new movie with Adam Sandler and Kevin James, the one where they pretend to be a gay couple to get marriage benefits. I want to boycott it for two reasons (based solely on the previews, I should add):
1. It's unrealistic. It's set in New York, so they're not going to get any benefits by getting married because they can't get married.
2. It stereotypes gay men for the purpose of laughs, as if we're the joke of society.
Okay, three reasons:
3. It just doesn't look funny.
I was at the movies a couple weeks ago with Charlie (yes, we've been spending a lot of time together), seeing "1408" when the preview for this piece of crap played. We were seated behind two couples, the males halves of both being large and burly. I'll do my own stereotyping and say they were your typical outer borough blue collar guys. That's just the vibe I got. And, of course, they laughed heartily at the parts that really were not funny to Charlie and I. We looked at each other and rolled our eyes, silently agreeing that this was not a movie that we wanted to see or even remotely approved of.
I'm pretty surprised that I haven't heard of any gay rights groups getting up in arms over their depiction of a serious community-wide struggle as a source for comedy. It kind of sickens me a little.
Granted, I haven't seen the movie and it very well may have a pro-gay marriage message, but the concept and the previews and the commercials all smack of exploitation and marginalizes the issue. I'm curious if anyone else has had this reaction or if any of my gay readers plan on seeing the movie.
1. It's unrealistic. It's set in New York, so they're not going to get any benefits by getting married because they can't get married.
2. It stereotypes gay men for the purpose of laughs, as if we're the joke of society.
Okay, three reasons:
3. It just doesn't look funny.
I was at the movies a couple weeks ago with Charlie (yes, we've been spending a lot of time together), seeing "1408" when the preview for this piece of crap played. We were seated behind two couples, the males halves of both being large and burly. I'll do my own stereotyping and say they were your typical outer borough blue collar guys. That's just the vibe I got. And, of course, they laughed heartily at the parts that really were not funny to Charlie and I. We looked at each other and rolled our eyes, silently agreeing that this was not a movie that we wanted to see or even remotely approved of.
I'm pretty surprised that I haven't heard of any gay rights groups getting up in arms over their depiction of a serious community-wide struggle as a source for comedy. It kind of sickens me a little.
Granted, I haven't seen the movie and it very well may have a pro-gay marriage message, but the concept and the previews and the commercials all smack of exploitation and marginalizes the issue. I'm curious if anyone else has had this reaction or if any of my gay readers plan on seeing the movie.
Friday, July 13, 2007
Apologies (or: Everything is Sort Of OK Again)
Only about 10 minutes after I posted last night's rant, I got a series of text messages from Charlie asking if I was mad at him and if we could talk. I told him we'd talk in the morning, but he called and left a very apologetic voicemail anyway.
I slept for only about 3 hours as I had a lot on my mind. He called again around 10:30 in the morning, but I hadn't had breakfast, so I wasn't up for talking just yet. I called him back an hour later and we had a long talk about what happened. Basically, once his trick left, he felt really bad about abandoning me and assured me that he's never done that with anyone before. I clued him in to my neuroses and social anxiety and told him I was more hurt than mad. The time I spent thinking about what he did calmed me down, and I know that his leaving had nothing to do with me and choosing a blow job over a friend. Things kind of snowballed and he was thinking with his dick instead of with a rational mind. I got it and I couldn't really hold it against him, especially after he was so apologetic. It's really just the reality of going places with guys hotter than yourself*; they get more attention and sometimes force you into the shadows. Idon't like it, but I understand it.
I opened up to him about everything I wrote in last night's post about how I felt and how I distort things in my own mind. I told him I needed to find a therapist to work through my shit--btw, does anyone have any recommendations for a good gay or gay-friendly psychiatrist/psychologist in New York City?--and I don't think I scared him away. We decided that he would never make me do something I wasn't comfortable doing and that he's usually very conscientious about sticking with the friends he's with. I still worry I might be a downer, but he also told me he would never think that of me.
We both find each other oddly comforting and trustworthy and can seem to talk about things with each other that we wouldn't with other friends, which is ironic since we've known each other for like 3 weeks. The open lines of communication and honesty in our chat this morning was really good, I think, and it's another thing I don't really have with most of my friends. Maybe this will be that one friendship that I've been sorely lacking in this city.
*I don't think I'm terribly unattractive--actually, I muse most rush hours that I'm more often than not in the top five cute guys in any given subway car I ride in--but when I get around a bunch of gay guys in a bar or club or other gathering, my self-esteem is shattered. I can't talk to people for fear of rejection because I'm no longer good looking. I become quiet and taciturn so that I don't draw attention to myself and my mediocre face and physique. Perhaps it's a form of body dysmorphia; that's something I need the psychiatrist to diagnose.
I slept for only about 3 hours as I had a lot on my mind. He called again around 10:30 in the morning, but I hadn't had breakfast, so I wasn't up for talking just yet. I called him back an hour later and we had a long talk about what happened. Basically, once his trick left, he felt really bad about abandoning me and assured me that he's never done that with anyone before. I clued him in to my neuroses and social anxiety and told him I was more hurt than mad. The time I spent thinking about what he did calmed me down, and I know that his leaving had nothing to do with me and choosing a blow job over a friend. Things kind of snowballed and he was thinking with his dick instead of with a rational mind. I got it and I couldn't really hold it against him, especially after he was so apologetic. It's really just the reality of going places with guys hotter than yourself*; they get more attention and sometimes force you into the shadows. Idon't like it, but I understand it.
I opened up to him about everything I wrote in last night's post about how I felt and how I distort things in my own mind. I told him I needed to find a therapist to work through my shit--btw, does anyone have any recommendations for a good gay or gay-friendly psychiatrist/psychologist in New York City?--and I don't think I scared him away. We decided that he would never make me do something I wasn't comfortable doing and that he's usually very conscientious about sticking with the friends he's with. I still worry I might be a downer, but he also told me he would never think that of me.
We both find each other oddly comforting and trustworthy and can seem to talk about things with each other that we wouldn't with other friends, which is ironic since we've known each other for like 3 weeks. The open lines of communication and honesty in our chat this morning was really good, I think, and it's another thing I don't really have with most of my friends. Maybe this will be that one friendship that I've been sorely lacking in this city.
*I don't think I'm terribly unattractive--actually, I muse most rush hours that I'm more often than not in the top five cute guys in any given subway car I ride in--but when I get around a bunch of gay guys in a bar or club or other gathering, my self-esteem is shattered. I can't talk to people for fear of rejection because I'm no longer good looking. I become quiet and taciturn so that I don't draw attention to myself and my mediocre face and physique. Perhaps it's a form of body dysmorphia; that's something I need the psychiatrist to diagnose.
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