Daddy's LIttle Boy

I should warn you that I am not about to talk about actual fathers and sons. Get that link out of your head right now or you will feel very very dirty when you read the rest of this entry.

I have always had a knack for finding guys that like to be called Daddy. I called my first boyfriend Daddy. Vince, the boyfriend after him, was Papa. And Lenny was just Dad. Lenny called me Beautiful Baby Boy. BBB for short.

It doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out why this happened. I wasn't raised with my father, and by the time I was an adult I craved a nurtering male role model as much as I craved hot man sex. Fortunately, in the gay community, its not so crazy to get both in the same guy.

But my last relationship wasn't like that. Scott and I were equals, and by the time we broke up I was no longer in my 20's and I thought it would seem a bit silly to call someone Daddy in my 30's. I guess I thought that the little boy in me had grown up. Until last night.

I went to a big dance party in Chelsea that I heard had a reputation for being popular with big older manly men. For most of the night I danced in circles around my friends, but when they left at 3am I started wandering around to find someone new to hang out with. It was that time of the night when guys whip their heads frantically looking for someone to keep them warm after the party, and I was starting to feel the whiplash myself. My wandering ended by the back bar, where a very tall bearded man caught my eye. His defining qualities were his enormous feet and a slightly insane look of desire that filled his eyes when he saw my butt.

An hour later we were in his bed. I recognized that he was 5 inches taller than me and probably 15 years older, but I still tried to get on top of him. He wasn't having it. He pushed my down, laid and top of me, and told me to be a good boy.

Oohhhhhh yeahhhhhh.

So I won't bore you with the details, but I will share the funny part. He kept telling me to grab him in his special place, and when I would, he would whisper in my ear, "What's that?"

At first I assumed it was a rhetorical question. You know, I have one too. I know what it is. But seriously, he kept asking me, "What's that?"

The first time I answered it came out more as a question. "Your dick?"

"Yeah, that's right". Oh good, I got it right. Maybe he'll stop asking me what it is. But no.

5 minutes later. "Put your hand down there." I do. "What's that?"

I thought I already got this answer right. I must not have. "Daddy's dick?"

"Oh yeah! Good boy!"

Oh, good, this time I passed. But he still made me repeat it for the next hour or so.

So we did it, we slept for a few hours, and then in the morning we woke up and did it again. As I was getting dressed I wanted to thank him, but it occurred to me that I didn't know his name. All I had called him so far was Daddy. I went back to the bed and he pulled my back into his chest to cuddle with him one last time, and when I looked at the wall ahead of me I saw a child's painting on the wall that said, "To Uncle Tom."

Tom. That's right. "Thanks Daddy Tom," I said, and kissed him goodbye.

Bob the Alien

There's an alien in my house. He's green, and his name is Bob The Alien, and he lives in my dining room, which is actually my living room and bedroom too. He's only 6 inches tall, and not scary at all. He's more of a pet than a threat. (That rhymed. Please note my literary genius.)

He used to live by Mars. Not on it exactly. Apparently there's a trailer park in orbit around Mars and his whole family lived in a beat up double wide when he was a kid. He got his own trailer when he grew up though, which he paid for with the proceeds from his online dildo shop marketed to Mars housewives. He kind of made it big for a while but then the pressure really got to him and he decided he needed to get away. He hopped on the next intergalactic dump truck and ended up here on Earth.

He roamed city to city for a while looking for someplace that felt familiar to call home. When he got to El Cajon something clicked. It was really hot and there were lots of white trash people in spandex and socks and sandals (apparently trailer fashion is the same across the universe). Bob was so happy he tazered the counter girl at Foster's Freeze and got himself an ice cream cone.

He hovered out to El Cajon Boulevard and there, just after he passed Marge the one-legged frizzy-haired scraggly-toothed hooker, he saw me. I was coming out of the post office with my box of 8 CDs for $.01 from Columbia House, and when I looked up from my New Kids CD, I returned his stare. I thought I was having a flashback, but in a blink he was in front of me rubbing his crotch asking if I wanted a date (he learned that from Marge). He put a voodoo alien mind spell on me and hopped in my pocket. I got in my Camaro and started driving home.

When we got home we made sweet love, and I rocked all 6 inches of him (lost him for a minute...oops!). After the mind spell wore off I started freaking out, but he convinced me quickly that he meant no harm. I went and got us some cake from mom's fridge (I was 19 and living back at home). When he told me that he only wanted the cake and not the icing, I knew he was the yin to my yang. I only ever eat the icing. I wasn't gonna put him in my butt again, but I had a new best friend.

He took me on field trips a lot. He made me get dressed up in furry bright-colored clothes and big tall shoes and took me to parties with loud music and lots of lights. There were lots of kids around who had their own aliens too. People sucked pacifiers and hugged a lot. Bob said it was better than anything on or around Mars, and I thought it was better than anything on or around Earth. We bonded.

A lot of people never noticed Bob, but Bob didn't mind. Umecke and Rowena and Vince hung out with Bob all the time, and besides he was a 6-inch alien and he understood that not everyone could relate. I think he might be 400 years old too, so really he's at peace with life.

When I graduated college, I moved to San Francisco and started a new part of my life. I dabbled in the leather scene, but it was too much for Bob. What a baby. Aliens are total wusses.

Now we live in New York. There's not much more to say, except that Bob's smiling face is the first thing I see when I come home everyday. You can't actually see his smile because his mouth is stuck in that crazy circle after the stroke he had last year, but I know its there on the inside. We're tight like that. Crazy Bob.

Give everyone a hug Bob.

Aww, that's sweet.

I got my sexy back, but I think its broken

Last week an "emerging" photographer took pictures of me for a series he is shooting of male torsos and antique tzotchkes; an old mini horn, a set of antique keys, a small vase. When we made it through his collection of old things, he said I could pose however I wanted and he would shoot me. So of course I threw my clothes off and went to town. It was a very erotic experience. On the way out, when I was fully dressed, I grabbed his crotch and kissed him goodbye. He said he wanted to shoot me again this weekend.

For the past nine weeks my sex drive was gone. I wasn't just busy. It was noticeably gone. In therapy I reconfirmed it every week. I went to my doctor and had my testosterone checked. It was strange. Just gone.

But in this last week the anticipation of the photo shoot woke me up inside again. It was subtle. It was like the last half hour of sleep when you wake up on vacation. I barely noticed I was awake until he showed up.

Today he wanted to shoot a butch boy theme. I wore full leather gear on a bed of blue fur holding a teddy bear. I asked him in the beginning if he would do the shoot naked. I told him that it would make me less self conscious and help me create the sexy mood. And yes, in the end, I slept with him.

But now that I'm awake again, I remember what it feels like, and I remember that its as disconcerting as being asleep. Tonight I went to the opening of a new gay night at a fabulous lounge. I met beautiful boys who flirted with me. And then I went home alone. As I walked home I felt the unfulfilled desire that is so much a part of being sexually awake. It was loneliness, but in a subtle form. It was under my skin, behind my eyes, at the root of every hair, and it itched, not hurt, but itched and I couldn't scratch it. I can never scratch it. And I thought about how I try to get rid of it by talking to friends, but I find that they usually itch too, and no one can get rid of it for long but they try with alcohol or substances or random sex or keeping themselves busy. And that works for a minute. But then its back. Except for when I'm in love.

As I write this, I realize how thankful I am to be awake again. Sometimes its uncomfortable, but it makes me feel alive. It allows me to connect to men, and helps me take risks. And I think that I have to feel like this to get excited about loving someone again. So I am thankful. Good morning to me.

Sexy Dreams

I'm not going to complain because I am blessed and complaining would be ridiculous. But let me just state the facts. I haven't had 8 hours of sleep in any of the last 12 consecutive nights. When I first started this whole sleep deprived thing I thought I would catch up on weekends, but when you work 60 hours a week and go to the gym every morning at 6am Monday to Friday, you kind of wake up excited at the crack of dawn on weekends and try to figure out how to fit your life into that precious 48-hour timeframe.

And just to complicate matters, I have such intense dreams that they constantly wake me up. I'm usually scared and running from someone. Sometimes I'm crying. The rest of the time I'm getting sex. Earlier this week I woke up from a dream where I was sitting naked on my couch next to my friend Matt, though we were just chilling, watching TV or something. This didn't seem strange in my dream. He noticed my gorgeous balls and started rubbing them, and while I was confused by the turn of events, I didn't stop him. I just let him rub my gorgeous balls. And then I woke up.

Another common sex theme in my dreams is that a man (or two) has broken into my house or somewhere else and I am being held captive by them. In my dreams they often take their clothes off for some reason or another. Sometimes they intend to violate me, sometimes its just hot/humid, usually there is no explanation. I always start lusting after them, and I try to have sex with them. More specifically, I try to give them head. Interestingly, I am not doing this in an attempt to be let go by this mad man. I just ache to have him want my sex. Sometimes I succeed. This was how I had my last wet dream in January. Just to confuse matters, my best friend (a girl) was in bed with me. I woke up as I came, literally groaning as I opened my eyes, and then immediately started laughing at the absurdity of the whole thing.

While I'm on the subject of dreams... My workout partner Matt said he had a dream last night where he was at a table with a really masculine girl. Across this long table was the perfect boy, and he was very frustrated that he was with the girl because she was preventing him from talking to the boy. So for context, know that Matt is always talking about the perfect guys at our gym. So what if I'm the really masculine girl that is stopping him from getting the perfect boy? Wouldn't that be funny? I asked if he thought I was her, and he laughed and said, "Maybe you are."

Taking down my Christmas tree makes me sad

When Scott and I moved to New York in 2005, we had a very hard time assimilating into winter. I bought us a Martha Stewart pre-lit tree that year to try and brighten up our house. Years ago mom gave me all the ornaments that she collected for me when I was a kid (one each year until I was about 20) and it made me so happy to put them all on the tree. I thought I would continue that tradition, and I made Scott go shopping with me to pick out the perfect pair of ornaments for ourselves that year. We bought them at Crate & Barrel on Houston and Broadway. They made the tree our tree. It made it even more our home. We kept the tree up through February 2006 because we loved it so much.

But it was bittersweet to put it up this year. I already felt lonely, and I thought the tree would help. But I didn't really feel anything. It didn't make me feel better or worse. It was just there. I felt a little numb I think.

I thought I would leave it up through winter again and see if it brightened my season a bit, but a couple weeks ago I realized that it wasn't working. I might as well take it down.

When I started taking it down this morning I started with all of the ornaments from when I was a kid. When all that was left were the balls, I looked and saw that the only two unique ones left were mine and Scott's.


I don't miss everything about our relationship, but I do miss some things. I miss his company, and his friendship. I miss having someone around that understands me. I miss the way we laughed all the time. I miss the way he helped make winter bearable.

I don't know that I'll put the tree up next year. Or if I do, maybe its time to get rid of our tree, and find a fabulous new one of my own.