Sep. 9th, 2002 06:40 am
My decadent gay lifestyle
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muckefuckSaturday night, I begged off from getting drunk with ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
spookyfruit and the Economist, pleading two prior commitments--one earlier in the evening (rollick's Witch Hunt Party) and the other early enough the next day that sleeping in the whole morning was not an option. As it was, I managed to vitiate both arguments by not only leaving the party early but also staying out till all hours anyway. At least I can blame selfishness rather than lameness, which might be better in some people's eyes, I dunno.
I walkedwelcomerain back to her place, since no one wants to be at the Morse el stop alone that late at night. My original cunning plan was to hop the bus that goes basically from their door to mine, but I was convinced to hang around a bit on the off chance that spookyfruit's plans would fall through and he'd be back soon. When we got the word that he had made his rendezvous, it briefly flashed through my head that there was still time for me to hook up with them. It wasn't that late and I wasn't that tired. But, a moment later, I was stumbling to the bus stop with my overloaded sack from bookshopping earlier in the afternoon (prize catch: The physics of Christmas).
At that point, I realised that (1) there was a gay bar a few blocks away and (2) tonight was Bear Night. A voice inside my pointed out the contradiction of going there when I had just decided against meeting my friends at a bar. But two rationalisations appeared to rescue me: First, I don't go out drinking that often. Why waste an opportunity on a straight bar, especially when I'm so seldom up in this neighbourhood? Second--and self-delusional--I won't be out that late. If it's just me, I can leave anytime I choose without being wheedled into staying.
There was a time when I was regular at the monthly Bear Night. My gentleman friend and I would talk our Friends in Evanston into coming along so we'd have a ride home (typically their home) and keep them out as long as we could. That is, he would. I went mostly to exchange greetings, banter, and hugs with people I knew (or wanted to), but he was there to satisfy his voyeuristic tendencies (and then some). Since things didn't really get going until late, that meant sometimes dragging him bodily from the room at 3 a.m.
Like most such events, this one was best approached with minimal expectations; anything else sets you up for a sucky time. If I saw several acquaintances and at least a few guys I thought were pretty gorgeous, I was happy. This time, in spite of myself, I added to those expectations one wistful hope: Making out with a handsome bear daddy would be a really nice treat. I had my bag checked (by the...slowest...hat-check...clerk...ever) and began weaving through the thinner-than-expected crowd.
I knew no one. No, that's an exaggerration. I saw one acquaintance that I could name, who I used to chat with superficially at these things. But he was deep in a circle including the Evil Cub, among others, so I just patted him on the shoulder and exchanged greetings as I moved past. A few other faces looked familar, but--as I explained to someone later in the evening--I couldn't be quite sure I was recognising them and not just their subtype. (As in, "I know a short, stocky guy with a dark flattop and goattee. Maybe that's him, and maybe that's just someone who looks like him.") In any case, I had no names for the faces, so, after some awkward gawking about, I found a bench in a dark corner and sat down.
There was a kind of cute daddy by himself near me, and I considered trying to catch his attention, but I reminded myself that's not what I came for. I figured I'd hang around a little while longer and, if I didn't see anyone I knew, I'd just bugger off before I got myself in trouble. Suddenly, however, I found myself in conversation with two younger guys to my right, both named Steve. The taller of the two--with the scraggly beard, gaunt underfed look, and deliberate diction of a theology student--gregariously reached out to me and told the story of how he had first met the other Steve--a fleshy man with Lore-style head and facial hair.
After a spell of pleasant conversation--about daddies, the bar scene, the top shortage, etc.--I placed my gay bear artist friends ten feet away, right next to where the acceptable daddy had been sitting. They were deep in conversation with two or three buddies of their own. I caught the attention of one as he and another shirtless guy headed towards the back room. (Really, an area partitioned off from where I was sitting by a heavy curtain of faux leather.) "We're going to lecture people about having sex in a public place!" he said cheerfully. Skinny Steve set off on what we call a "slut lap" and I told Stocky Steve I was going to greet the other half of the pair. We chatted amiably and I brought up the promised Korean supermarket trip.
Around this time, his other half re-appeared with Evil Santa in tow. E.S. is my link with the two artists and a truly legendary whiner. He is the one friend of mine that my easy-going gentleman friend wanted nothing to do with. I learned from E.S.'s friends that the only way to deal with him is to taunt him mercilessly, so--knowing how ticklish he is--I snuck up behind him to give him a start. I asked the Shirtless Friend, who normally goes by "Brian", how the lecturing had gone. "They wouldn't listen!" he cried, outraged.
This is where the inevitable Lost Time creeps in. There must've been more banter--at some time, I discussed body jewellery with Brian--but I don't really remember much until Skinny Steve returned. He said that Stocky Steve, who had wandered off when I found my friends, had gone home. Steve was contrite, blaming himself for ruining his friend's evening. We started discussing spiritual issues and then he said, gazing into the room, "There goes my friend T.H.!" This was a daddy he had mentioned earlier, and I spotted him immediately: Big-bellied, balding, bearded, blue-eyed and white-haired. In short, a rare beauty. "Introduce me," I demanded. He had wandered out of the room, so we set off in pursuit.
We caught up with him sitting near the front door. He was an extremely genial man and we easily fell into conversation, somehow losing Steve again in the process. It's unclear to me who made the first move; we were sitting next to each other on bar stools when he lifted up my leg to place it over his, but I may have already slung my arm around him by that point. "Isn't that more comfortable?" he asked. "For you or me?" I replied. When he found out I was from St. Louis, he told me a story about impersonating a bishop so he could gain access to the New Cathedral during a wedding. And the next thing I knew, we were kissing.
Things couldn't go much beyond that, not with the commitments I have to the GWO. Some time later there was a convenient opening when Evil Santa bumbled back and proceeded to tell us about the medical condition he has which prevented him from going home with someone. I could hardly have ordered a better mood-killer. "I hope I hear from you soon," Daddy Bishop said, clutching my phone number. "I hope you do, too," I replied, somewhat enigmatically. And I mean it: He's a perfectly sweet guy with an attractive personality and I think he and my lover would get along well. (Always a crapshoot, as I well know.) He's in the neighbourhood (well, that neighbourhood) and seems exactly the kind of mellow, thoughtful person I wish I knew more of.
And the kissing? I'd be lying if I didn't say I was pleased at getting my sleazy little wish granted. But, at the time, I couldn't help thinking, "My boyfriend kisses much better than this." Much to his credit, he has basically spoiled me for other men. A part of me could glimpse another life in which I was living contentedly with Daddy Bishop, but it would have to be one in which the GWO were completely out of the picture. If I don't hear from him in a while, I'll call and propose a get-together in a "safe" place, like a coffeehouse. Either I'll discover then that he's not really interested in something besides a sexual relationship and we'll part, hopefully on good terms, or we'll decide to meet again, possibly with the GWO. It doesn't make sense to have any expectations one way or the other.
spookyfruit and the Economist, pleading two prior commitments--one earlier in the evening (rollick's Witch Hunt Party) and the other early enough the next day that sleeping in the whole morning was not an option. As it was, I managed to vitiate both arguments by not only leaving the party early but also staying out till all hours anyway. At least I can blame selfishness rather than lameness, which might be better in some people's eyes, I dunno. I walked
welcomerain back to her place, since no one wants to be at the Morse el stop alone that late at night. My original cunning plan was to hop the bus that goes basically from their door to mine, but I was convinced to hang around a bit on the off chance that spookyfruit's plans would fall through and he'd be back soon. When we got the word that he had made his rendezvous, it briefly flashed through my head that there was still time for me to hook up with them. It wasn't that late and I wasn't that tired. But, a moment later, I was stumbling to the bus stop with my overloaded sack from bookshopping earlier in the afternoon (prize catch: The physics of Christmas).At that point, I realised that (1) there was a gay bar a few blocks away and (2) tonight was Bear Night. A voice inside my pointed out the contradiction of going there when I had just decided against meeting my friends at a bar. But two rationalisations appeared to rescue me: First, I don't go out drinking that often. Why waste an opportunity on a straight bar, especially when I'm so seldom up in this neighbourhood? Second--and self-delusional--I won't be out that late. If it's just me, I can leave anytime I choose without being wheedled into staying.
There was a time when I was regular at the monthly Bear Night. My gentleman friend and I would talk our Friends in Evanston into coming along so we'd have a ride home (typically their home) and keep them out as long as we could. That is, he would. I went mostly to exchange greetings, banter, and hugs with people I knew (or wanted to), but he was there to satisfy his voyeuristic tendencies (and then some). Since things didn't really get going until late, that meant sometimes dragging him bodily from the room at 3 a.m.
Like most such events, this one was best approached with minimal expectations; anything else sets you up for a sucky time. If I saw several acquaintances and at least a few guys I thought were pretty gorgeous, I was happy. This time, in spite of myself, I added to those expectations one wistful hope: Making out with a handsome bear daddy would be a really nice treat. I had my bag checked (by the...slowest...hat-check...clerk...ever) and began weaving through the thinner-than-expected crowd.
I knew no one. No, that's an exaggerration. I saw one acquaintance that I could name, who I used to chat with superficially at these things. But he was deep in a circle including the Evil Cub, among others, so I just patted him on the shoulder and exchanged greetings as I moved past. A few other faces looked familar, but--as I explained to someone later in the evening--I couldn't be quite sure I was recognising them and not just their subtype. (As in, "I know a short, stocky guy with a dark flattop and goattee. Maybe that's him, and maybe that's just someone who looks like him.") In any case, I had no names for the faces, so, after some awkward gawking about, I found a bench in a dark corner and sat down.
There was a kind of cute daddy by himself near me, and I considered trying to catch his attention, but I reminded myself that's not what I came for. I figured I'd hang around a little while longer and, if I didn't see anyone I knew, I'd just bugger off before I got myself in trouble. Suddenly, however, I found myself in conversation with two younger guys to my right, both named Steve. The taller of the two--with the scraggly beard, gaunt underfed look, and deliberate diction of a theology student--gregariously reached out to me and told the story of how he had first met the other Steve--a fleshy man with Lore-style head and facial hair.
After a spell of pleasant conversation--about daddies, the bar scene, the top shortage, etc.--I placed my gay bear artist friends ten feet away, right next to where the acceptable daddy had been sitting. They were deep in conversation with two or three buddies of their own. I caught the attention of one as he and another shirtless guy headed towards the back room. (Really, an area partitioned off from where I was sitting by a heavy curtain of faux leather.) "We're going to lecture people about having sex in a public place!" he said cheerfully. Skinny Steve set off on what we call a "slut lap" and I told Stocky Steve I was going to greet the other half of the pair. We chatted amiably and I brought up the promised Korean supermarket trip.
Around this time, his other half re-appeared with Evil Santa in tow. E.S. is my link with the two artists and a truly legendary whiner. He is the one friend of mine that my easy-going gentleman friend wanted nothing to do with. I learned from E.S.'s friends that the only way to deal with him is to taunt him mercilessly, so--knowing how ticklish he is--I snuck up behind him to give him a start. I asked the Shirtless Friend, who normally goes by "Brian", how the lecturing had gone. "They wouldn't listen!" he cried, outraged.
This is where the inevitable Lost Time creeps in. There must've been more banter--at some time, I discussed body jewellery with Brian--but I don't really remember much until Skinny Steve returned. He said that Stocky Steve, who had wandered off when I found my friends, had gone home. Steve was contrite, blaming himself for ruining his friend's evening. We started discussing spiritual issues and then he said, gazing into the room, "There goes my friend T.H.!" This was a daddy he had mentioned earlier, and I spotted him immediately: Big-bellied, balding, bearded, blue-eyed and white-haired. In short, a rare beauty. "Introduce me," I demanded. He had wandered out of the room, so we set off in pursuit.
We caught up with him sitting near the front door. He was an extremely genial man and we easily fell into conversation, somehow losing Steve again in the process. It's unclear to me who made the first move; we were sitting next to each other on bar stools when he lifted up my leg to place it over his, but I may have already slung my arm around him by that point. "Isn't that more comfortable?" he asked. "For you or me?" I replied. When he found out I was from St. Louis, he told me a story about impersonating a bishop so he could gain access to the New Cathedral during a wedding. And the next thing I knew, we were kissing.
Things couldn't go much beyond that, not with the commitments I have to the GWO. Some time later there was a convenient opening when Evil Santa bumbled back and proceeded to tell us about the medical condition he has which prevented him from going home with someone. I could hardly have ordered a better mood-killer. "I hope I hear from you soon," Daddy Bishop said, clutching my phone number. "I hope you do, too," I replied, somewhat enigmatically. And I mean it: He's a perfectly sweet guy with an attractive personality and I think he and my lover would get along well. (Always a crapshoot, as I well know.) He's in the neighbourhood (well, that neighbourhood) and seems exactly the kind of mellow, thoughtful person I wish I knew more of.
And the kissing? I'd be lying if I didn't say I was pleased at getting my sleazy little wish granted. But, at the time, I couldn't help thinking, "My boyfriend kisses much better than this." Much to his credit, he has basically spoiled me for other men. A part of me could glimpse another life in which I was living contentedly with Daddy Bishop, but it would have to be one in which the GWO were completely out of the picture. If I don't hear from him in a while, I'll call and propose a get-together in a "safe" place, like a coffeehouse. Either I'll discover then that he's not really interested in something besides a sexual relationship and we'll part, hopefully on good terms, or we'll decide to meet again, possibly with the GWO. It doesn't make sense to have any expectations one way or the other.
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no subject
Slut-lap?
no subject
Lore-style?
And here I thought your were a Brunching fan! Bald, with whiskers sprouting from the chin and no 'stache
Slut-lap?
Once around all rooms of the bar to cruise anything interesting. Steve used a more euphemistic term, but I knew what he really meant. (By the end of the evening, he was even hitting on me!) A walk-through to greet people you know we called "making the rounds". (Of course, you're crusing the whole time your doing that, but that's not all you're doing.)
no subject
Indeedy they were. No point in editing other people's journals; that's just annoying.
And here I thought your were a Brunching fan!
Indeedy I am. But there are other Lores in the world. I was hoping this was a Brunching reference and not a "Star Trek: The Next Generation" reference, but you never can tell.
(Of course, you're crusing the whole time your doing that, but that's not all you're doing.)
Indeedy I'm not… wait, that makes no sense. Can't maintain parallelism… argh… editor sense tingling… melting away…
So is cruising for kisses a common thing? It seems so tame and friendly compared to most of the cruising stories I hear.
no subject
I can tell you that my friend and fellow daddy chaser ottr4bear considers cruising successful if he merely gets to chat with a hot, sexy daddy for an hour or so. But I think he's atypically easy-going. My gentleman friend was never trying to pick people up; he was happy just to get his fingers a little dirty. If, in addition to chatting with some nice guys, I got to flirt with and collect hugs from some sexy men, I always left with a big smile on my face. This was not the case with GWO's ex, who I've never seen smile ever. (I'm always tempted to greet him with an ear-to-ear grin when I see him at these events, but I don't really want to give him further cause to pulp me.)
In sum, I'm not sure how much this "tameness" is characteristic of me and my circle and how much is the bear community, which is--or, at least, was before it got so unwieldy and marketable--traditionally very fun-loving and cuddly. Most bears would be very out of place in an Al Pacino film, as you'll discover if you join us on the So Twisted bar tour, where we discover what happens when you cover
no subject
no subject
If you actually want to visit a Korean supermarket, you're better off making plans with me than waiting for the GBAFs to get their act together. Since Ch'useok is the 21st, I was hoping to go to Arirang this coming weekend. Are you free on Sunday or before the game on Saturday?
no subject
no subject
Pencil me in for early Saturday afternoon, then. We can take the slow bus to K-town and then cab it back with our goodies so they make it to the game all fresh and scrummy. A big pitcher of sikhye followed by a few osipchu will have everyone in the right frame of mind!