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12:32 a.m. - December 29, 2004
There is never an opportune or apropos time to tell a guy with whom you are mutually interested about sexual intimacy problems. Issues. Baggage. Mental blocks. Panic. Whichever term selected, I do not advise elaborating on it while laying on a bed next to a man who has planned on sex for the evening.

Note to self: See, see again how it's not meant to be. Buy into the concept of lifelong celibacy, Jason.

What kills me first is that it was me who solidified the initial gesture: I took his hand and put it into my lap. What kills me second is that after moving to the bedroom I froze and lay there debating the whathow, while he lay on his side wondering why I had my hands crossed over my body and had pulled away. I listened to him swallow and meekly said This is awkward. Offered him a blowjob, a handjob - but he wanted to touch and roll, wanted me to lay back and let him make me feel good.

Separate trajectories, different landing gear.

I squeaked it out with an oblique reference to childhood, a neighbor, end result: I don't like to be touched intimately but am open to you getting your nut. He was quiet, said now it makes sense, and then nothing else. What can anybody say when a guy's unloaded the barest details like a memorized apology, caught between shame and defiance, hope that the moment will somehow pass without mention or awkwardness, sending him ESP signals please work with me, please but preparing for pity or oh shit that's a faster let-down than a limp cock at a buffet of hot men. I mumbed my apologies and left a few minutes after telling him this is why I've avoided being intimate with him and said I'm sorry. He didn't say anything.

There is nothing lonelier than laying next to a man and feeling alone.

I thought I could do it, live in the right now.

Exit Jon.

This means I have no one to see movies with.


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