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10:32 a.m. - February 15, 2003
Gay sex 3 warning. Valentine's Day sex is just too generic, like shopping at WalMart, but damn! it was h o t
A[deleted]a called last night and when she heard Spec in the background she threatened to come over and either drive him away or take me away. She's pretty upset and I tried to calm her, saying everything was fine; her concern? That he'll do permanent damage and she'll have to identify my body; I reminded her that it's next of kin that makes the morgue visits but it didn't mollify. She remarked that I'm a fool, a God-damned lovable fool and muttered that I must be some type of simpleton. She's likely right.

I feel like a kid when Iím around Spec, in a good way; half the time Iím not preoccupied with the things I worry about, donít look over my shoulder, relax. As twisted as it is, I feel safe with him, can be me. I can take him around the backyard and point out all the daffodils like a toddler, going from one to another and Iím excited, happy Ė gleeful! Ė and when I sober up I think Somethingís wrong here.

When I was a child I couldnít wait to grow up and most observers would probably say that I was more an adult as a child than I am now. I didnít run and play; I was furtive and secretive, disappearing for hours while I occupied myself. I was one of those eerily grown up children who read books and dismissed his peers as too child-like with a roll of the eyes. But I knew then that I was missing out, that something was different; when I am with Spec, I feel I have the opportunity to let down the guard and be as mature or immature as I am. It's like I have the chance of regaining something, of collecting marbles and jacks from the ground after the game is over.

Part of me likes Spec telling me what to do in a perverted take on the father Ė son dynamic, part of me enjoys his Call me daddy and my deference to someone more experienced and grounded than myself. The other part of me feels abhorrent and dirty, haranguing myself for being weak and wondering if all this derives from those experiences as a child and if so, how do I cease its impact.

I feel Iím innocent again when Iím with him. Thatís what it is. And I love that sensation too much to truly turn away.

Last night we made a fire in the living room and brought out blankets and pillows and lay there talking about politics and the economy, his new duties at the agency, a few projects I have coming up soon and I thought How strange, I feel so grown up when I let down my guard and I leaned over to kiss him and his big smile made me feel great. Itís like riding a wave with steep amplitudes and seeing only the tops of the successive waves before you, unaware that the valleys are hidden between the crests. I thrive on this mixture of emotions, of innocence counteracted by fear, of repugnance and attraction, of the push and pull dynamics. I enjoy pleasing him on the one hand, am turned off on the other, thinking Another reason Iím fucked. But last night I made him hard and I played with his dick and I love feeling that heft, always a bit jealous Ė though, ahem, itís not like his dwarfs mine or anything Ė and I undressed him and I felt so warm and safe, despite everything Ė and itís this despite everything that I donít understand, how easily the logical detachment I present to the world is subsumed and disregarded in favor of this other person, maybe the only, who can make me feel good and bad. He moved and I told him to lay still, and I undressed him and played with the hair on his chest, licked his nipples, ate out his pits, kissed him and relished the sensation of his stubble across my face. I was in control, I had the power to say when and how, and I gave him a wet, slurpy blowjob the way heís always liked and as big as his dick is, I can take it down and what a skill to possess and own up to, eh? And just as Iím in control I relinquish it and he became dominant and aggressive and that turned me on like it always has, and the feeling of his hands on my hips as he fucked me doggy-style was nearly eclipsed by the sensation of his balls slapping against me and I couldnít stand it and let go completely. Iíve never experienced sex like it before; is it supposed to be this way? I felt alive, caught a glimpse of what T.S. Eliot calls the fulfillment of the hour.

Iím the last person that would rhapsodize over sex.

How can I resist when he tells me he could have anybody he wants, and he wants me; and what he says is true. Iím a short, chunky non-descript-looking guy with few qualities that make people look twice and heís the guy you turn around to look at when he passes on the street. And Iím not knocking myself down, simply citing facts. I go round and round in circles and I canít reconcile the two parts of him that I see Ė the loving, caring man I trust Ė and how he can belittle and hit me, and then blame me. The view I have from the pit is limited and all I see is his face from my vantage point, thatís the key; that sad part deep inside thinks this is the best Iíll ever attain and with the desperation of a tracheotomastic I breathe in what I can.

We had sex three times last night and then again this morning, and now heís finally awake, listening to my CDs. He asks why I listen to sad music and times like this, I know beyond any elusive realization of the hourís fulfillment that he just doesnít get me. The dilemma is that I donít get myself, either.

 

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