Gaylien … No More Gay Boyfriends For Me. Thanks! - #8
How my relationship misadventures with a sizzling awkward, perhaps gay beefcake lead me to my truer self.
Back in the day, when cats referred to The OKCupid, by it’s full, entire gov’ment name and not simply as The OKC, I let my gay BFF / brother-sister from another mother-mister, pretend to be me online to get me some man-pussy, which is one of my old-school nicknames for dick sex. I, hella thirsty, horny and staying at my Mommy’s house, post college, post Berkeley, leapt at the opportunity to get some new weiner when she left town on business, A.K.A. vacaying in Downtown Vegas, at the Gold Nugget for a black Golden Girls trip.
Now, I am cute as a button and never had any issues getting cock sandwiches, which is another nickname for sex, however, living with my Mom in Butt-Fuck-Egypt, California, I was enduring an odd dry spell. All puns intended. So I invited my GBFF, who was also staying with his fam bam at the time in the same area to help me find a fella to give my precious cooch some love and attention.
Now, before you get on me about the types of dudes I do the horizontal hokey pokey with, let me turn you around and mention … my United Colors Of Benetton upbringing. I grew up in Southern Cali in the high desert, about an hour away from the City of Angels on a steady diet of rude girl, sand dune music. Punk and Rock and Ska; Suicidal Tendencies, Sublime, The Descendents, Bad Brains, Queens of the Stone Age, The Clash, Alice in Chains, The Specials, Bob and Bunny with a splash of Color Me Badd, Warren G, Stevie Nicks, Pac, Brenton Woods and tablespoon of pop and alternative music mixed in. You wouldn’t find me in a mosh pit crip walking, but you could surely find me in the pit skanking for reals. I’ve always had a Mexican girl BFF and a GBFF, race and sexual orientation was never an issue in my life. They were my family. I was their family, no questions asked.
I’ve always lived in a multicultural environment, forever a minority surrounded by people of caucasian persuasion and code-mixing, which equated to an epically long white boy phase sprinkled with a We Are The World groove of different kinds of tasty men. I date everything, but white boys are usually the most dominant form of ding-dong variety around me. Now I have had a little bit of everything on my buffet plate, Dope Ethiopian Skater Boys, Kosher Jewish Surfer Bros, Hot Chocolate American Graffiti Artists, Caliente Meximelt Latino Mathematicians, Hearty Filipino Rude Boys and I must admit my colorful sexual appetite has lead to a more brilliant and vibrant way to see and understand the world and all our beautiful cultures, up close and personal. Immersing myself into other cultures has allowed others to immerse themselves into my progressive, free Co-Co So-Cal lifestyle and culture as well.
Getting back to the situation at hand, The OKC chap my GBFF found, (or maybe he found us,) was hot as shit, a possible Gyllenhaal-Gosling genetic love child with a bod and fashion designed by some Eurotrash version Abercrombie Fitch fully equipped with a chiseled Greek-statue face and piercing eyes to match. Sadly, he had the personality of a dead rotting fish, you could tell he was nice though and mos def down to fuck. He was living in Encino and after a few nights of sexting and cyber and phone boning it was on like Donkey Kong and he was on his way over. My GBFF watched him drive up with his red Pontiac Firebird with Illinois plates and observed our initial interaction, and texted me every two minutes until I gave him the okay to get lost. I have had an amazing history of getting along swell with people from Portland, Chicago, Philly, Iceland and Baltimore for like forevers, so I had a feeling I was going to be ‘okay’ with him.
Let me tell you about his eyes a little bit more, they were cold, blaring White Walker blue. Two great, big ol’ beautiful, glassy, judgemental marbles, vacuuming you up whole. Unwavering and stark he’d stared at everybody, everyone, without blinking, with little to no emotion in his frozen handsome face. Like he was in deep, deep thought...about you. Why do you look that way? Why do you move like that? He seriously could make one feel straight up crazy uncomfortable just by laying those bright peepers on’em for a few seconds.
He brought his own slightly bumping so-so techno-trance-ish, Calvin Harris-esque muzac for us to get our freak on to, it was burned on a CD and he also brought an unopened brand new bottle of Jameson and 3 pre-rolled j’s, even though he consumed neither, like ever. He was quieter than a deaf mute in a silent film, in between asking me pre-rehearsed regular and weird questions and watching me get lit, as he literally lit my joints and poured me more dranks, as I happily and drunkenly, poured myself over him.
“How old were you when your family left Puerto Rico? Would you let me finger you in the ass at a Denny’s? What’s your favorite color?” He asked, gawking at my ass.
He did not answer any questions. He did not share one thing about himself. I couldn’t tell you anything about this guy. Did he have sisters? Did he go to college? What was his favorite color? His actions in retrospect were highly suspicious, Dahmer-like in a way. It was if he waiting for me to get drunk enough to pounce me, but not wanting to pounce me until I was ready. For sure, pouncing and bouncing was his objective. More the former than the latter. He was dissecting and downloading me like a Dr. Manhattan project. Disassembling and reassembling me, he was an alien-droid learning to be human … through me. He was my audience, I felt like I was on a stage in front of him. I had to be on in front of him. Awkward, warm and talkative, curvaceous like a cartoon. I was a lot to take in. He got mad creep-sexy James Spader all up on me as we sat across from each other on my Mama’s floral tapestry covered cocktail chairs, me, coincidentally in a black and white jailbird inspired shorter than short t-shirt dress. I could tell he liked me a lot. Who wouldn’t? Those sound like classic last words.
At the exact moment, I ran out of conversation for 3.5 seconds, he began to undress ... himself. Each piece of clothing he deliberately and carefully folded, and placed in a perfect pile over his shoes on the floor, on my Mama’s swirl designed, art deco rug. He was fully erect and grabbed a condom from his folded jean pocket, a motherfucking Magnum. He rolled it on and he actually fit the damn thing. Thank God! He stood in front of me naked, and undressed me, before he even kissed me. He folded my clothes up too, another meticulous pile. His lips and tongue finally touched mine, I got the first, full burst charge of the actual salacious, sinfulness of our one night stand-ish actions. He had a huge throbbing veiny cock, romance novel size, a weighty one, that flopped about, like rocks in a sock. We fucked mmmmm … pretty much immediately after that, mostly doggy style standing up in between him spooning me on my Mama’s vintage velvet mint green fainting sofa. He caressed me and kissed my back, shoulders and neck in silence...to the beat of his own trance music. This emotionless entity, with those eyes, didn’t want to leave, not even the following day, and we texted and talked on the phone all thee time and continued to get it on endlessly even after I moved to LA with a few of my GBFF’s.
The months passed, turning quickly like feather-like pages, he was way very attentive, A.K.A. needy and wanted to hang out all thee time. He loved picking me up on Friday nights to have me all weekend to himself in his minimalist Encino pool house, he was renting from some rich industry folks perpetually on vacation. He would record me, talking to him just lounging around his pad in my underwear and we even made a song or two together. Me singing and rapping, attempting to spit mad fire.
He is one of the many fellas who was in awe of me, like he was consuming me. A larger incubus to my ripening succubus. He would pamper me when I was at his crib, stock the fridge with my favorite things, all the shit he didn’t like; my liquor, my Pom juice, my Drumstick Ice Cream Bars. My junk dirty snacks and beverages. He’d make me these level 500 vegan, raw apps, he’d massage me, kiss me on the forehead, in between making beats, and let me pick all the documentaries and 80’s jams on Netflix. He was cool.
There were no others, just me. I was his Highlander, the only one. Just me, him and the gay porn. Yeah, the gay porn. Did I forget to mention that. Urm, yeah, the second time we were in the bone zone at his place, bisexual threesome guy, guy girl porn was on. The third time we got it on, and everytime after that full on gym rat hot guy on hot guy hardcore, butt-pounding, tongue-frenching, creamsicle ass-dripping, balls-to-the-skeet-wall gay porn was on a Macbook or on a TV or on a cell phone, or on all three. You bet your cum squirting ass, if we were banging there was also a vid on of a guy getting his bang, bang on with another guy.
At first it was not a big deal … Hello, I’m the poster child for the United Colors of Benetton! It was exciting, avant garde, cutting edge and we would mimic and do whatever they did in the movie, then duh, you know what's coming, he started watching the gay porn movies more and more, and getting his rocks off with me doggy style mostly, hello, my face faced the other way, his face buried in the meat spinning, semen slinging, daddy-on-daddy guttural moan competetion porn video. He wasn’t getting all America Me, with me, we weren’t doing anal, besides a handful of ‘wandering thumb in the booty fiascos’, however, our sex life was certainly off. I told myself, ‘He’s sweet, a good guy. I’m not going to let this get to me. It’s no biggie. I’m a modern wo-man. He only went out with me, he only stayed in with me, he only wanted to be with me. We were having fun together. I was having fun with him.’ No matter what I told myself, I still could not ignore this growing oddity.
Was he gay? Was he attracted to my GBFF home boy’s online persona when they were communicating and vibing online, on The OKC, on some subconscious homo-erotic plane, when my bestie was pretending to be me? Like on some level did he know he was convo’ing with a gay guy? Was he getting all Sloppy Joe with my female Manwich? Was he with me because I was manish in some way? There was this blasted hobo who yelled at me, “El Guapa” that one time we were leaving The Cha Cha at 2 am-ish in Silverlake. Was the hobo right? Was I El Guapa? Was I not being a progressive yupster if I wasn’t down with his behavior? Was I being fucking prejudiced? Was there a gay elephant in the room who wanted to fuck? Oh my, was I the gay elephant?
A few weeks later, I invited him to my GBFF’s house, where my other fast ass, sexually open Boo-Friends were enjoying one of our traditional Friday nights. Ah, our traditional Friday nights consisted of rocking out to Rilo Kiley, The Bird and The Bee and dirty snacks, drinking, smoking, wiggle dancing and flirting with each other, while we played grab ass and talked shit. Most of my pals knew of the rouse and how we met, nobody was tripping off of it, except the room would get strangely quiet whenever he spoke directly to my GBFF, the one who did my catfish bidding for me, pretending to be me and had chatted it up with him and baited him on The OKC. It was like, any moment he was going to find us out.
Having no personality, my almost boyfriend, also known as the Gaylien, didn’t turn down one advance my friends put on him, and most of them were fake. Whether they were real advances or not, the spineless Ken sex-doll, was just a wet ball of yes. He exchanged his phone number, you know for a ‘good time,’ with my dumb ass slightly hating girlfriends who were lesbians who didn’t even want to have a ‘good time’ with him, they were just messing with me to mindfuck and punk him to see if he would give them his digits just for shits and gigs. Puh! Those darn girlfriends who are no longer my girlfriends for the record. Thank goodness, I know better lesbians now!
Anywho, poor tragically yummy, introverted, Gaylien was quiet and uncultured, inhaling everything we extroverted asses did, our gestures, our sayings, our love for each other. He couldn’t be more comfortable watching us, making us more uncomfortable and be more uncomfortable in his skin at the same time. Everytime one of us joked he wouldn’t or couldn't laugh or get even just a smidgen loose, and everytime we got physical with him, playing grab ass he would make it painfully outlandish by groping, bumping and grinding on us … mostly on my guy friends and me …and he elongated the weirdness of his actions with his trademark hair-raising Menendez Brother glare. He was no-joke, rape dry-humping all my guy friends … and me. Our hair and our flimsy-floppy necks were jerking hard and all over the damn place, like crash test dummy newborn babies, as he picked us up and pumped on us, punching us with his meaty pelvis … mostly on the guys and … me. It was out of control, he was giving everyone whiplash, again mostly the guys … and me. He was a almost harmless over-the-clothes molester, the chomo bro of us grown-ass young adults. He was a gangbang of one. It was like we were his science experiments for the night and this fool failed all his own tests.
I was failing too, at reading him that night. My nervous, insecure, infinitely Hershey squirting, Hellmouth did all of the yapping that night, and G did all the hearing and absorbing, occasionally he’d do some funky impression of what he thought we acted like before humping us some more. Maybe he was having a social retard moment, from being around so many new cray-cray, uber-cool, outgoing people at once, and sucking sweaty, sour taint at attempting to just act fucking normal. Maybe he was being fucking normal. Maybe I didn’t know this dude at all from a can of gay discontinued rainbow paint and I had no DJ Clue of how he was supposed to act, and what was actually normal to him. Who knows?
In the wee hours in the morning. He stared at me passionately from across the room in between bumbling dry humps and not mother-fucking blinking. He walked up on me, gave me a hug and one of those kisses on the forehead. He posted up on a wall, drinking a water. He was 100% sober. The gang and I were 100% buzzed. He smiled and laughed a lot when he listened to me. He found me entertaining, and would let me, for lack of better words, be me, by welcoming me to be my loud ass dismissively crazy, eclectic, intellectual, funny story telling, kooky trivial fact giving, hair tossing, BS talking self. Me. He found me to be me. His eyes visually swallowed my mouth as a chatted it up with everybody, like he was saving my words. Saving them to build himself an identity, a better personality. We had a magnetic attraction we were just unable to connect. I wish I could have accepted him the same lovely way he accepted me.
I only knew him through our selfish, controlled, one-on-one rendezvous, gay porn bedazzled sex sessions. He was really no match for my really real real world of over the top, dysfunctional bawdy as fuck, theater and FIDM school drop out friend crew. We were the first to go ‘home’ to his joint in Encino and I even though I had a pretty okay time with him, I still was a tad salty about his behavior. Ironically, mostly about him snagging my GF’s digits and not the incessant dog humping. I made him delete my girls’ numbers and scolded him as we went to Encino to do what we normally would do. Attempt to bond and fuck like bunnies over some cornhole canyon, population paste slathered porno. I shouted at him in his Sunfire, ‘Don’t you know how to act, man? Don’t you know how to just...be?” I didn’t. He didn’t. He really didn’t. He was just some unsure, Aspergery kid from the midwest with a a’ight ear for music, who had great big dap-bong-pipe dreams of making it in LA. Aren’t we all?
I wanted so desperately to ask him if he was gay and why he was humping all my dude friends and … me. I didn’t though. I didn’t have the balls. Literally and figuratively. To ask him, Are ya’ gay? Do you want to fuck bros? You want to bone bros and me? Why are you assaulting my homies and … me with your dry, meat sausage? If you have to ask those type of questions, real talk you already know the answer. Why would I ask questions I already knew the answers to. Why?
I look back now and see everyone’s immaturity, mine, wanting to claim him even though I didn't know who he was, not even in a ‘regular’ social setting. I could see crystal clear, the immaturity and insensitivity of my friends playing an advanced game of grab ass with a newbie, and them being horny fucks who didn’t care about me, him or any sort of blossoming relationship they were dying to poop on because they wanted me to be eternally single. Ok, that’s dramatic. He was just a glamified fuck buddy fuck boy toy with a killer bod and ass. We’d all be stupid to not play grab ass with him.
I went to a few dozens of Gaylien’s shows, this shadow of a person, and we continued our weekly Encino sex seshes, never discussing anything real or progressing. I think of us eating bok choy and star fruit, sipping juice boxes by the pool naked, his trance putting me in a trance from his boombox, us, so pretty from the outside looking in, and the hungry way he used to look at me and I realized that just because we were smashing and spending time together, it did not mean we were in a real relationship, at all. His lack of soul is what made his mediocre music and his personality suck, and made us go nowhere at all. Plus, we didn’t invest any real parts of ourselves in each other. Who in the fuck would want to be around a blank canvas you had to constantly paint on and perform for? Nobody wants to create and paint their own lover.
He was not a cheater, he was nice, he was chill, he had a nest egg, he was polite, he was unassuming, he was a faux creative, he was yummy looking, we never argued, he took good care of me when I was around him, and me of him, he fucked me like a champ, like I was lubed up funhat or Nick Jonas, or just some hot and horny gay THOT, and again he was wonderland in bed, but who gives a shit about those things when there is no true zest or electricity popping off.
He was not the worst guy I have been with. Believe me, I have had worst motherfucking boyfriends. Like literally one of my boyfriends at a ‘Meet My Parent dinner’, after eating an entire trough of my Mom’s homemade spaghetti and meatballs and drinking an entire bottle of her Johnny Walker Black label tried to fuck her. He tried to fuck my Mom, well not fuck her but kiss her … like tonsil hockey her to death … Nonetheless, I never question or wonder why I even let my Gaylien go, like a clear balloon in a midnight star speckled sky, or why I let them all go. I do know why though, deep down I do. I need more from a person, not just some smoking hottie ghost in a shell. I know, it would have never worked because I am too much woman and human for a drab, vapid hollow doll, someone who was barely a human at all personality wise.
Could I have honestly been okay, in a relationship with a guy who was overtly sexually attracted to men, a gay guy who was awkwardly super into me? I would be the only biatch he fucked with. His only lay-day. Could I ignore that insignificant fact … and focus on all the good stuff we had and the rad life we could have built together. Be his Phyllis Gates, he’d be my Rock Hudson. His Liza or Star Jones to whatever rude rubbish they were fucking married to. Although their husbands, were negative and blatant weirdos. So perhaps they don’t count. Could I be the beard of all beards. Queen Beard. Could I have done that? Maybe. Then get butt hurt when he butt fucks my buddy or some boner he met in We-hoe 6 months or 60 years down the road. I wouldn’t be able to do that. Lying to myself, waiting for him to burn me with his truth. I would have set myself up for failure, by not following my heart. Yes, yes, I had to let him go. It had nothing to do with him leaning more toward the ‘G’ in the LGBTQ than the ‘Q’. Hell, I am a motherfucking Q. Gaylien was just an temporary empty sweet morsel of quirky mystery, and we weren’t meant to make it, and that’s it.
Sometimes you just have a ‘relationship’ to learn. To learn from. To learn what your taste. To learn what you require in a relationship, what your prerequisites are. Sometimes you just have fun with a person. Somebody you met on the ‘gram or some free, BS, booty call app, somebody you are supposed to have a short term romance with for a few hours, days or few months. Sometimes they just have fun with you, your ass literally. Sometimes you’re just meant to pass like ships in the night or collide like platinum cymbals over 2 years until they disappear from your life completely. And you disappear from their life. And that's okay. Sometimes you learn what to do, and what not to do; and most importantly you can learn qualities you like and dislike in a potential mate. For example, you never know you love avocado or that you are repulsed and allergic to it until you try it a few times. Sometimes you just need to exchange energy with other beasts and critters to realize your truer needs ... like not having a soulless, socially retarded boyfriend who rape dry humps your buds and has an addictive penchant for gay porno who you barely rock or vibe with. Yeah, I have no need for that. And as much as I miss watching Snowballs with Gaylien, a gay skiing fantasy rectum riding porno film we watched like a zillion times, it comforts me through these wiser years to be able to say that. I have no need for a Boo like that, that I’m not compatible with that doesn’t bring out the best in me, and that feels good. I need more … and no more gay boyfriends for me. For reals. Thanks!