I Quoteth:

"The big difference between sex for money and sex for free is that sex for money costs less."
Brendan Francis

Feeling

fat - slept through spinning

Playing

Revival Broadway Cast, "Cabaret"

Saturday 26 May

Better Than Sex?

Well, that was anti-climatic.  In more ways than one, apparently.  Unsurprisingly, Tyler pulled a Whitney on me and was a no-show for his scheduled appearance.  Ah well, I suppose it's better off anyway.  I mean, I was starting to search my body for one of those "tester" labels they place on the trial bottles of soaps and lotions at Bath and Body Works.  A tester bottle of "garcon" for straight boys to squeeze before actually making a purchase.

I finished posting yesterday's entry at about the same time Tyler should have been knocking on my door - if he so desired.  I closed down my computer, double checked the hair and ran downstairs in order to position myself and the room to look as casually passive as possible.  No need to let Tyler in on the fact that I was probably just as nervous as he.  At 7:35p, with still no sign of Tyler, I was still hopeful.  Maybe he had been going back and forth with his decision until the very last minute when he finally decided to go through with it.  But it seems I've filled my quota of real life movie-plot scenarios for the year with Dawson.  Any more and I'd probably become delusional.  I'd start thinking I was Crouching Tiger trying to run up walls and shit.  So, by 8:30p and halfway through the Barbara Streisand Timeless concert on FOX, it was pretty obvious that he wasn't coming.  In any sense.  Hmm, come to think of it, maybe he did show up at my door but was freaked out by the explicitly homosexual sounds coming from my television.  I mean, he would have arrived somewhere around the time Babs was belting out "Don't Rain on My Parade" which would scare any closet homo all the way into Narnia.  

I ended up calling John, going out to spend my tip money on the Sex and the City second season video collection and mixing up some sort of variation of the cosmopolitan with whatever obscenely expensive liquor my parents had in their wet bar.  Hey, call it whatever you want but if it's pink, alcohol and in a martini glass, I'm drinking it.  We watched about five episodes straight through.  If I wasn't going to get any play, might as well watch other people doing it.  

John left around 12:30a and I sent myself to bed.  I was, of course, a little disappointed that Tyler had crapped out on me but I couldn't help but notice that a larger part of myself was, well, relieved.  Strange, I thought to myself.  Was I really so nervous that not having to go through with it left me feeling a sense of relief?  I've kissed guys before.  Hell, I've done a lot more than that before, too.  And sure, I still get a sense of nervous excitement out of it, but this was different.  I realized that underneath the initial desire for Tyler was a very strong voice telling me to rethink my plans.  Save for a few unique and singular moments, I've always had some sort of emotional meaning underneath every physical act of affection I've shared with another boy.  However great or small, there had to be some sort of connection between us before I felt right about any sort of intimacy.  I used to take this to the extreme in my early relationships when kissing a guy would automatically designate him as my new serious boyfriend, 'till death do us part and all that crap.  Having gotten over that, the connection could come in the form of a single evening of close conversation that lasts into the wee hours of the morning or some sort of less tangible yet very real exchange of trust.  Whatever form it happened to take, it was there and I let that guide me into a first kiss.  With Tyler, what kind of connection did we have?  His coming over here would have been for one reason only.  Sure, we probably would have talked for a while, shared a drink or two, but there would really only be one thought on both of our minds.  Even Dawson and I were at least close friends prior to our famous evening together and ended up deepening our friendship by the time either of us made any sort of physical move.  I don't think that would have been the case with Tyler.  It would have been sex for sex sake flat and simple.  Even in my thirst for an exciting summer away from school, I don't know if I would have felt right about compromising the choices I've made for myself in the end.  Is it wrong to make a decision when desire is the leading factor?  No.  I don't think so.  But when desire is the sole factor, for me, it's just not my style.

Besides, I've already broken enough of my summer resolutions at this point.

Speaking of summer resolutions, in keeping with summer resolution number one I've been hitting Bally's at 6a four times a week.  Rah me!  I've even joined my dad's spinning class.  Feeling fierce and fabulous the other day, I headed into the free weight area ready for a nice long ninety-minute workout before work.  Immediately, I spotted him.  The boy I haven't been able to keep my eyes off of every time I go to the gym was in the middle of a set of curls.  Thinking quickly, I decided to start with some inclined bench presses which would conveniently have me positioned in a nice little sight line of Bally Boy.  I pressed play on my discman - first track, RuPaul, "Supermodel."  What else? - and started to bench press my little ass off.  I was so consumed with looking at Bally Boy in the mirror that I seemed to have lost track of how many repetitions I had completed.  Usually doing sets of twelve, I think I was on about twenty-four when I was jolted out of my trance by the unmistakable feeling of my elbows giving way under the pressure of the barbell.  Eesh.  Okay, keep cool, just push.  Push.  You can do it, Michael.  You can do it without looking like an asshole in front of Bally Boy.  You can do it, you can do it, you can ... you ... you ... can't do it.  You can't do it.  Oh Christ, can't lift the bar.  Oh crap, bar resting on chest.  Oh Jesus, Bally Boy is watching.  What to do, what to do?  Okay, now bar is on fucking lap.  Bally Boy is still looking. Bally Boy is looking at you with bar bell pressed onto crotch.  Christ.  Hehe, just smile.  Haha, isn't this funny?  Okay, put bar on floor.  Put bar on floor, get up and put back on stand.  No problem.  Okay, putting bar onto floor.  Getting up.  Picking up bar.  Lifting bar to stand.  Not so bad.  Not so bad.  Not so ... oh shit, bar is tipping to left.  Bar is tipping to left.  Fuck.  Oh Jesus, weight has now slipped off end of barbell and has rolled across floor and landed in front of Bally Boy's feet while other weight has fallen off other end with loud thud due to sudden change of weight distribution on barbell.  Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.  Oh God, Bally Boy is picking up weight and bringing it back to me.  God, he's perfect.  Am such an asshole.  Bally Boy is handing weight to me.  "Hehe, thanks.  Whoops."  Whoops?  Am such a loser.  No wonder only date assholes.  Okay, just sit back down on bench and continue bench presses like nothing happened.  Sitting down.  Can't get arm straight.  What the?  Oh crap, arm is tangled in discman wire.  Get off.  Get off.  Get off!  Ouch!  Motherfu-- ugh, have now ripped headphones off head trying to get arm untangled from wire.  Maybe should consider relocating to cardio area until current weight room population goes home.  Yes, good idea.

Maybe should consider focusing more on actual workout instead of beautiful weight room boys.  Yes, even better idea.