See How Much Ass I Get?

ShaneXtopher

Ass by any other name...
#41
Week 6, Day 5 - Whodunnit? (My Ass)

I got some ass.

<font color = red><I>The Suspects:</I>

<B>Darryl Davidson</B>, who called and asked me to meet him for a drink, saying we had some unfinished business.

<B>Jake</B>, who called me after he got out of work and invited me to join him and some friends for a night of drinking and shirtless dancing.

<B>Corey Cuirson</B>, an ex- of an ex- who claims to be a 100% top, and makes no qualms about sleeping around, and who also told me I need to call

<B>Armando</B>, the cute Latin boy who works at my Tuesday Night bar, and who told Corey to tell me to call if he ran into me since he lost my number.

<B>Danny Pintauro</B>, Jonathan of Who's the Boss?

or

<B>Some guy with spiky blonde hair</B>
</font>
Send me your guesses by PMing me, or email me by <a href = mailto:shanextopher@aol.com>pointing your mouse here and click</A>ing.


Ass Tally:

Days with Ass: 6
Days w/o Ass: 34
Days with Ass-free Play: 2
Brushes with Ass: 22.5
Numbers to Potential Ass: 16
Straight Man Ass: 1
Lame Ass: 2
Ass in Holding Pattern: 1
Repeat Ass: 2
Denied-Access Ass: 1
Double Ass: 1
 

ShaneXtopher

Ass by any other name...
#42
Week 6, Day 6 - Whodunnit (My Ass) Part Two

<center><font size = 6 face = garamond color = red><B>WHODUNNIT?</B>
(My Ass)</font>

<font size = 5 face = garamond color = red>The Suspects...</font>


<img src = http://www.myvideostore.com/content/people/pics/josh_lucas.jpg>
<font color = red><B>Darryl Davidson

<img height = 150 width = 100 src = http://i.imdb.com/Photos/Events/0882-mtv/klein_ch.ris>
Jake

<img height = 141 width = 100 src = http://www.allstarz.org/~colinfarrell/specialolymp8.jpg>
Corey Cuirson

<img height = 158 width = 100 src = http://www.fuzzyco.com/productions/evente/images/jrn-armando.jpg>
Armando

<img height = 120 width = 100 src = http://www.shanedesmond.com/images/42-2463-sm.jpg>
Danny Pintauro

<img height = 129 width = 100 src = http://www.rmlicensing.com/Fido/logo.jpg>
Some guy with spiky blonde hair
</font></font>

<B><I>THE EVIDENCE...</B></I>
</center>

<font face = arial>It was shortly after nine pee emme when I returned to my domicile that fateful Saturday evening in Julye. I had hoped to hear from Jacob, as I had not seen him since the morning previous, though I knew he was working layte, wayting taybles at his ristorante. I knew this because I was privy to his shejool.

At like tennish my cell went all spastic with a call from Darryl Davidson. Guess he was a little confused about where we were n stuff since there was like... no closure for him, though I guess there was for me... and didn't realize he really needed any from me since he made it pretty clear he didn't want a relationship. So whatever. I told him I'd meet him for a drink at my favorite bar.

While I was waiting to hear back from Darryl, my phone rang again and it was my good friend Rob, whom I've known since I was 16, and who had once been picked up at a gay club by Danny Pintauro of the long-lived ABC series Who's the Boss? which was a starring vehicle for world-reknowned sitcom star Judith Light. This phone call from Rob got me thinking about Danny Pintauro, and how Rob had gone home with him, and I wondered if I myself would do the same thing since Danny Pintauro is totally hot now. I wondered also when I might bump into Mr. Pintauro, as it was my understanding that he lives in NYC, and in fact has been spotted from time to time at my favorite bar.

Darryl called me back and told me he was in a cab on his way to meet me. This was at approximately 11 pm. I quickly changed and sucked down a beer before crossing the street and entering my favorite bar, and instead of finding Darryl, I actually ran into someone who I had just been thinking about earlier in the evening... someone I had mused over the possibility of bumping into...

Inside the front door of my favorite bar was none other than...

<center><font size = 5 color = red>To Be Continued...!</font>
</center>
 
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ShaneXtopher

Ass by any other name...
#43
Week 6, Day 7 - Whodunnit (My Ass) Part Three

<center><font size = 6 face = garamond color = red><B>WHODUNNIT?</B>
(My Ass)</font>

<B><I>THE EVIDENCE...
...continued</I>
</center>

<font face = arial>Inside the front door of my favorite bar was none other than...

Corey Cuirson, a co-ex of one of my less forgivably obnoxious exes, Mitchell. (He always referred to himself in third person as 'Little Mitty,' which was cute until just about the time you realized he wasn't ever going to put out.)

Corey had never been terribly interested in me. We had initially met earlier in the year when I was much more of a prude than I am now. He also wrote me off as a devout top, which he himself is, and when two tops meet, what's the point? he must have figured. But when my versatility was mentioned in conversation his face lit up like a 15 year-old boy in a catholic school girl gang shower. He started going full-tilt with the flirtation, which did not go unnoticed by Darryl, who had recently arrived.

I excused myself from Corey and his entourage of twinkie boys and gave Darryl a big hug. We chatted and laughed and I put a few drinks back as I bounced fluidly between Corey and Darryl.

Just then... my phone rang!

It was Jake. He was going to a crowded club to dance shirtless with his friends. Did I want to join him? I ran it by Darryl and Corey, who both scoffed at the idea of paying a $20 cover. My wallet was also a bit on the anemic side. I told Jake I was going to pass, but insisted he call me if his plans changed.

As I continued to converse with both Corey and Darryl, Corey mentioned that he had bumped into someone earlier in the night. Someone who was asking about me. Someone who wanted to talk to me, but had lost my number. Someone who was, in fact, out on this very evening at a bar down the street which was normally my Tuesday bar.

Armando!

I called him on my cell and he invited me to come join him. I dragged Darryl along with me, but not before we had 'the talk.' Completely out of character as the smart-ass, he told me he missed me and was sad when I stopped calling him. I told him that I had liked him plenty, but he'd made it pretty clear that he did not want a boyfriend, whereas I very much do. It felt like an impasse, so I let him go. I told him about Jake, and how into him I am, and he seemed to back off a bit.

We entered my Tuesday night bar, where I soon found Armando! He gave me a hard time about not meeting him the previous Sunday... it would appear I had made pretty solid plans with him in my drunken state, and he was a bit offended that I hadn't shown up to meet him. When I asked him why he hadn't returned my calls (I had called him twice... once a few days before and once a few hours before) and he got all kinda of snotty and actually pretty rude. I felt momentarily bad for having blown him off, but then once he started treating me like crap I was suddenly very glad things had happened this way. Far better to find out now that he's an uppity bi-polar bitch.

As the night went on I found myself bonding more and more with Corey, particularly after he found out I'd taken the NYPD exam in February. He told me again and again what a hot cop I'd make, which didn't hurt my ego at all. While we were flirting away we were approached by some guy with spiky blonde hair. He was very tall...like 6'6", and totally cute in his tank top and button nose. Corey and I both talked to him for a while, and then spikey blonde guy gave both of us his phone number before disappearing into the crowd.

I called Jake and left a message with him... I told him I was getting pretty bored and that he should come find me when he got out of his club. I told him where I was and hoped that he'd arrive to rescue me from what had become a headache of an evening.

By 3:30 I was pretty drunk... I tried one more time to talk to Armando, but he was flailing drunk and becoming more than a bit pugnacious. I searched for Darryl, but couldn't find him... perhaps he was outside smoking?

I made my way out to the sidewalk, where I met the person I would go home with...
<center>
<font color = red>Was it...

<img src = http://www.myvideostore.com/content/people/pics/josh_lucas.jpg>
Darryl Davidson
...the sorta-jilted pseudo-ex who was quasi-fun in bed despite his ultra-lame tendency to be only semi-hard?

<img height = 150 width = 100 src = http://i.imdb.com/Photos/Events/0882-mtv/klein_ch.ris>
Jake
...the knight in shining gym shorts, come to save me from vending my ass to non-deserving non-Jakes?

<img height = 141 width = 100 src = http://www.allstarz.org/~colinfarrell/specialolymp8.jpg>
Corey Cuirson
...the cutie top-boy who was suddenly very interested in wanting to top a cop wanna-be?

<img height = 158 width = 100 src = http://www.fuzzyco.com/productions/evente/images/jrn-armando.jpg>
Armando
...the formerly sweet Latin boy who, with alcohol, turns into Diane Ladd in 'Wild at Heart'?

<img height = 120 width = 100 src = http://www.shanedesmond.com/images/42-2463-sm.jpg>
Danny Pintauro
...former child star turned hottie homo?

or...

<img height = 129 width = 100 src = http://www.rmlicensing.com/Fido/logo.jpg>
Some guy with spiky blonde hair?



<center><font size = 5 color = red>To Be Concluded...!</font>
</center>
 

ShaneXtopher

Ass by any other name...
#44
Week 7, Day 1 - Whodunnit (May Ass) The Thrilling Conclusion.

<center><font size = 6 face = garamond color = red><B>WHODUNNIT?</B>
(My Ass)</font>

<font face = arial><B>The Conclusion...</center>

Going home with the guy with the spiky blonde hair seemed like such a great idea at the time. I was drunk and horny, and he was... there. We hung out on the fire escape and talked, and he kept insisting that he didn't want to hook up, that he genuinely liked me and didn't want to fuck things up.

But I wanted to get laid. And this is where I make my official entrance into villainy. I assured him there wouldn't be any awkward feelings, that it was okay for us to fuck, and of course I would see him again. And I think I might even have mostly meant it at the time.

But the morning after was a nightmare. I must have had my extra-strength beer goggles on, cause this guy was just not at all cute. He tried to cuddle with me while I got ready for work, and he began saying all kinds of mushy things that just made me uncomfortable. And I didn't have the heart to say, after assuring him the night before that this wasn't a hookup, that I was suddenly very repelled by him.

By the time I was completely ready for work he was still there, and all I really wanted to do was take a little nap, by myself, with the 30 minutes I had to kill. But he was not taking any hints. I literally had to say 'Hit the road, Jack' and scoot him out the door. Of course he asked for my number first, which I was fretting, but I gave it to him. I told him I have a lot of stuff going on right now, but to give me a try later in the week. He frowned knowingly and left.

I brought this guy home. He was not terribly attractive. I told him everything he wanted to hear, we had sex, then the morning after all of his fears came true. He had hooked up with a guy who had little to no real interest in him as anything other than a fuck, which was the last thing he wanted. And it was totally my doing.

I really am a villain.

So... guy with the spiky blonde hair... wherever you are... you deserve way better. I'm sorry.

<center><img height = 129 width = 100 src = http://www.rmlicensing.com/Fido/logo.jpg></center>


Ass Tally:

Days with Ass: 6
Days w/o Ass: 37
Days with Ass-free Play: 2
Brushes with Ass: 22.5
Numbers to Potential Ass: 16
Straight Man Ass: 1
Lame Ass: 2
Ass in Holding Pattern: 1
Repeat Ass: 2
Denied-Access Ass: 1
Double Ass: 1
 
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ShaneXtopher

Ass by any other name...
#45
Week 7, Day 2 - Clean Ass Slate

As we discovered in my previous post, I am a villain. And as such, I guess it's only fair that I eventually am foiled and knocked down a couple notches. The good guy deserves to win. And hopefully at some point the villain can be redeemed, though redemption is certainly a slippery animal, and not all villains are entitled to it.

Two days after the events of the Whodunnit transpired, I wound up getting the night off from work for the first time in at least two weeks. I called Jake to let him know. He insisted that we do something fun, so I suggested I meet him at his apartment and we go rollerblading.

It was my first time doing this. Ever. And in all honesty, I did pretty damn well. Jacob would agree. He was incredibly patient and encouraging with me. He had never taught anyone to skate before, so he was enduring as much of a challenge as I was.

After a while I was finally gliding along. I was in a crowded park and actually managed to not bump into anyone. I fell once, but only because I was headed for traffic and I felt sitting on my ass would be a better choice than hugging the hood of a taxi.

We had a total blast. It was exactly what I needed after feeling down about myself for the past couple days. Jake has a gift for lifting me up, for making every moment enjoyable. He loves life, and he loves fun, and he appreciates the value of time well-spent.

Back at his apartment we eventually wound up lying in bed together. My head was on his chest and his arm was around me. I was feeling blissfully happy to be where I was. And then, like an alarm clock on full blast might rip you out of the most pleasant dream you've ever had...

"Shane, I think it's a bad idea for us to be anything other than friends."

I let the words repeat in my head a few times, and then I had a million thoughts all at once. When I was finally able to speak, all I could really say was "Okay."

He told me how much he loves spending time with me, and I agreed. He told me how great it is to have a workout buddy, and I agreed. He told me he thinks that we could do just about anything together and make it a blast, and I agreed. But the more we talked the more I realized he doesn't know what he wants. He's 24 and never really let himself date around. He has finally moved to Manhattan and he wants to explore his options. He needs to take time to figure out what exactly it is that he wants in a man.

I've been through this. I've been going through this since last year. I've dated around, I've done the hookups, and I've certainly been no angel, but I'm ready for LOVE. I know that. And it makes little to no sense to go through that with someone who is not ready for the same thing.

I could very easily fall in love with Jake, but it's not something he is prepared for. I deserve to fall in love with someone who can love me back, and he's simply not in a position to do that. He needs to sow his wild oats. I don't want to be the next recipient of those oats. Because odds are, there would be others after me. He needs that. He's entitled to that. And he has enough respect for me to not want to put me through having him and then losing him.

We have discovered that we thrive when we are together, we support each other, and we need each other. All of that together is important enough to have led us to the conclusion that we will best serve each other as friends. GREAT friends.

And that's it.

That's the conversation we had. And while we agreed on everything, I did not own up to the hollow feeling I had inside. I felt like I deserved to lose him after the poor choices I made this weekend. I felt like karma was swinging back around to kick my ass. And for one brief moment, when I did feel ready to FIGHT for a romantic future with him, ready to take him by the shoulders and say "Come on, man! I fucking ADORE you. And you adore me! We are so right together... everyone sees it. We fit. We're natural. Look at all the signs! Just fucking give it a shot. We could be fuckin legends together!" ...the one thought that brought it all to a dead halt was this:

I don't deserve him. A guy who does the things I did this weekend does not deserve the love of someone like Jake.

I've been foiled. I've been knocked down a couple of notches. I am still a villain, however, as I cannot change what I did this weekend. As for redemption... who knows. Not today. And the good guy does deserve to win. It just sucks to see that the good guy isn't me.


Ass Tally:

Days with Ass: 6
Days w/o Ass: 38
Days with Ass-free Play: 2
Brushes with Ass: 22.5
Numbers to Potential Ass: 16
Straight Man Ass: 1
Lame Ass: 2
Ass in Holding Pattern: 0
Repeat Ass: 2
Denied-Access Ass: 1
Double Ass: 1
 
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ShaneXtopher

Ass by any other name...
#46
Week 7, Day 3 - 525,600 Asses

I saw Rent today... front row center, dammit. And I must tell you, maybe it's due to the raw nerves and emotional weeks I've been experiencing, but I wept like a baby in a headlock. And most importantly, I have officially fallen head over ass for Cary Shields who played Roger. I fully plan on hunting his ass down and pillaging it like a village full of retarded midgets. More on that as it develops.

As for the tone of my last entry... all I really have to say is 'Whine, whah, blaaaaaaaah. I'm Shane, I'm bad, and I feel sorry for myself. Don't you all feel bad for me? I'm worthless. I'm poo. DOUBLE-POO! Forget the cupcake, I don't even deserve to lick the wrapper! '

Um, can I get a 'fuck that'?

Ya know... what I did to spikey blonde guy was shitty. But he was drunk too, and he knew I was drunk... a retarded midget would've known what he was getting himself into. If there is blame to be laid at all, it is certainly not resting on me completely. And as badly as I feel for how things went... dude. He was ANNOYING the morning after. Don't be all huggin up on me and shit when I'm trying to get ready for work. You just had sex with a total stranger. It was fun. But this is reality. Back the fuck up a little bit. Read the signs. If the guy like... is too mortified to look at you? It might be a good time to go. Sorry, Bucko.

I've been in Spike's shoes before. It fucking BLOWS. But in all honesty, I dealt with being in his position much better than I've dealt with being the position I found myself in. It was a necessary step for me to feel as badly as I did (and do) because I don't ever want to be in that position again. On either side.

And I got to thinking... as long as I've been keeping this journal, I have yet to obtain ass while sober. I have always been drunk. When you think about it, it's not even real ass. Getting drunk is totally easy and totally cheating... I mean if you're drunk enough you'd give ass to a retarded midget! I might as well have not had any ass at all! I might as well set the tally back to zero!

I haven't had a drink since Saturday. And dammit, I plan on getting me some fine, sober ass, fueled by nothing but my confidence, my hormones, and my fine, eager ass.

I've made some adjustments to the Ass Tally.


Ass Tally:

Days with Drunken Ass: 6
Days with SOBER Ass: 0
Days w/o Ass: 39
Days with Ass-free Play: 2
Brushes with Ass: 22.5
Numbers to Potential Ass: 16
Straight Man Ass: 1
Lame Ass: 2
Ass in Holding Pattern: 0
Repeat Ass: 2
Denied-Access Ass: 1
Double Ass: 1
 
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ShaneXtopher

Ass by any other name...
#47
Week 7, Day 4, 5, 6 - Crazy Ass!

I have been so busy this weekend I've barely had time to eat n crap... I have a friend in town til tomorrow, and I filmed a TV pilot today (WOO HOO) and I am also working like a motherfucker at my normal jobs. I'm testing for another potential TV job tomorrow, and working a split, and checking out an apartment (out on my ass Sept 1), so it will probably be another day or so before I can give you a real update.

All you really need to know is... I have gotten no ass. I did however see Take Me Out this weekend, so I got to see lots of fine naked man ass live on stage.

And... I have a date Monday night, which I plan on being sober for, thank you very much. I'll report back as soon as I'm able.

Thank you all for reading. Your support and participation in this journal mean more to me than I can possibly communicate. I wish I could ride all of your asses to show how much I appreciate you, but since I can't... let's all just close our eyes and imagine it together.

Long live ASS!


Ass Tally:

Days with Drunken Ass: 6
Days with SOBER Ass: 0
Days w/o Ass: 42
Days with Ass-free Play: 2
Brushes with Ass: 22.5
Numbers to Potential Ass: 16
Straight Man Ass: 1
Lame Ass: 2
Ass in Holding Pattern: 1
Repeat Ass: 2
Denied-Access Ass: 1
Double Ass: 1
 
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ShaneXtopher

Ass by any other name...
#48
Week 7, Day 7 - Delay of Ass

David is a model and a chef at my restaurant. He's incredibly kind, very sexy, and he makes me giddy when we work together. All of the girls at work are crushing on him, but none of them know that he's gay, and certainly not that he wants to date me.

We were supposed to have gone out last night, but we both had plans early this morning, so we pushed things off for a night. I want to be able to spend time with this guy when I'm not falling face-first into my club soda, splash of cran, twist of lime.


Ass Tally:

Days with Drunken Ass: 6
Days with SOBER Ass: 0
Days w/o Ass: 43
Days with Ass-free Play: 2
Brushes with Ass: 22.5
Numbers to Potential Ass: 16
Straight Man Ass: 1
Lame Ass: 2
Ass in Holding Pattern: 1
Repeat Ass: 2
Denied-Access Ass: 1
Double Ass: 1
 

ShaneXtopher

Ass by any other name...
#49
Week 8, Day 1 - Walking on Broken Ass

I had my date tonight with David, the chef/model I work with. He is exquisite. He is exactly what I want physically, and emotionally, he's over the top. He's right for me. We are a total match. AND... he's a fucking Scorpio. The next in a long line of them...

In other news, I had class tonight, and I was once again exposed to Tate, the hot Texan. We talked a lot, and got to become friends pretty quick. I want him as my friend, as I think we can benefit each other as far as keeping each other motivated for acting stuff, etc. But my friend Bethany Dun seems to think he's gay, so in the back of my mind I wonder if she's right.

Regardless, Tate and I are getting together tomorrow to talk acting stuff. And he's joining my gym so we can also be workou buddies. Wonder how Jake is gonna take news of his being replaced. Serves the fucker right if you ask me.


Ass Tally:

Days with Drunken Ass: 6
Days with SOBER Ass: 0
Days w/o Ass: 44
Days with Ass-free Play: 2
Brushes with Ass: 22.5
Numbers to Potential Ass: 17
Straight Man Ass: 1
Lame Ass: 2
Ass in Holding Pattern: 1
Repeat Ass: 2
Denied-Access Ass: 1
Double Ass: 1
 

ShaneXtopher

Ass by any other name...
#50
Week 8, Day 2 - Sometimes Ass Comes Back

I hadn't talked to Jake in a few days... he'd become a bit of a flake in the reliability department, "I'm too hung over to work out," becoming his mantra. So of course he called me last night and left a message. And of course he wants to see me. And of course he had to call me 'Baby,' which like... instantly makes me swoon. Fucker. Just when you think you're over someone... Damn Scorpio Boys.

At work, David popped in to say hello. It was his night off, so it was a pleasant surprise. I'm going to do my best to not fall for him... but he's so pretty! Sexy damn Scorpios.

After work, a bunch of us went out for drinks to celebrate the departure of one of our managers. I had pretty much decided I'm not drinking anymore... but free drinks? Come on. No man is that strong. Eventually the evening pared down to about 15 of us... and we all wanted to dance, so I dragged everyone to Splash, a gay club down the street from where we were located. I got my drink on, got my dance on... and there was no pursuit of ass! I just had a great time with friends.

Then at the end of the evening, as I was standing outside with one of the girls from work, I heard someone say my name, and I turned to find a smiling Sk8r Thug Nick. What I experienced was a mix of relief and anger. It was good to see him, but I was pissed that he never called me back. We talked a bit, danced a bit, and he told me to call him... so here's hoping he actually means it. Of course I'd already gotten to the point where I decided he wasn't interested, and wasn't going to call back, so I hate to rewind and do it all over, but I guess I'm just enough of a sucker to give him another try.

And he's a friggin' Scorpio!


Ass Tally:

Days with Drunken Ass: 6
Days with SOBER Ass: 0
Days w/o Ass: 45
Days with Ass-free Play: 2
Brushes with Ass: 22.5
Numbers to Potential Ass: 17
Straight Man Ass: 1
Lame Ass: 2
Ass in Holding Pattern: 1
Repeat Ass: 2
Denied-Access Ass: 1
Double Ass: 1
 

ShaneXtopher

Ass by any other name...
#51
Week 8, Day 3 - Take My Ass, Please.

Okay, no dout it was good to see Skater Thug Nick. And no doubt he's a hottie. Also no doubt he was fucking INTENSELY great in bed.

Yet, here I am all doubty. I was several 300 thread count bedsheets to the wind when we fucked. For all I know he was horrible. Or we were terrible together. Or *I* was terrible.

Okay, so not that last part. But the question is... why do I want him to call me so badly?

It's because he <I>hasn't</I> called. That's why I want him to. Because as long as he doesn't call me, I'm the one that was used. I'm the trick. I'm the guy with spikey blonde hair.

I am MOVING into the gym, and I am not leaving until my fat percentage is comparable to skim milk.


Ass Tally:

Days with Drunken Ass: 6
Days with SOBER Ass: 0
Days w/o Ass: 46
Days with Ass-free Play: 2
Brushes with Ass: 22.5
Numbers to Potential Ass: 17
Straight Man Ass: 1
Lame Ass: 2
Ass in Holding Pattern: 1
Repeat Ass: 2
Denied-Access Ass: 1
Double Ass: 1
 

ShaneXtopher

Ass by any other name...
#52
Week 8, Day 4 - Asshole Calling

I called Spike today. I got his voicemail. It went pretty much like this.

<I><font color = 'yellow'>Okay, so I'm pretty much the biggest asshole on the face of the earth for not calling you back. What I really want to do to make this easier for myself is feed you some line about how I met someone or how I've been so busy I just couldn't get back to you, but the fact of the matter is I fucked up the night you came home with me. I was very uncomfortable the next morning because it was then that I realized I didn't fully mean the things I told you the night before. I'm sure you've figured this all out by now, but I just wanted to call and fess up. I know you were hoping for a prince, but I'm Frog City. I'm sorry. Whatever that's worth. Take care.</font></I>

And when I got out of work I had a message from Jake. Of course he was going drinking... and of course he wanted me to come... and of course he called me Baby. I called and let him know I was a bit too tired and poor to go drinking... and that I haven't been thrilled with some of the choices I've made recently while drinking. But I hadn't seen him in over a week, so I went and met him to say a quick hello.

He had that familiar glint in his eye... it said "I'm just drunk enough to do things to you I don't want to do when I'm sober," and this was only further confirmation for me that my choice to not drink for a while is indeed the right one. I gave him a hug and told him to call me in the morning if he wanted to join me at the gym.


Ass Tally:

Days with Drunken Ass: 6
Days with SOBER Ass: 0
Days w/o Ass: 47
Days with Ass-free Play: 2
Brushes with Ass: 22.5
Numbers to Potential Ass: 17
Straight Man Ass: 1
Lame Ass: 2
Ass in Holding Pattern: 1
Repeat Ass: 2
Denied-Access Ass: 1
Double Ass: 1
 

ShaneXtopher

Ass by any other name...
#53
Pause!

Sorry for the lack of tales about tail. My folks are in town, so if my pursuit of ass wasn't suffering already, it certainly is now.

More soon.
 

ShaneXtopher

Ass by any other name...
#54
Remember How Much Ass I Got? Part One of Two, Possibly Three, but Probably Two.

<I>More soon.</I>

I wrote that on August 13. Wow, I’m an asshole.

I have a lot of apologizing to do. But before that, I should probably tell you about the final slice of New York style ass.

As you may remember, my parents were in town for a visit. That’s where we left off. It was a nice visit that simply went on a bit too long. Walking through Times Square is enough of a pain in the ass, due to the slow people and the old people and the people who have no idea where they’re going. But when you are suddenly responsible for two slow old people who have no idea where they’re going, the rage quotient actually turns over and starts again at zero. It’s kinda like getting the high score on Ms. Pac Man. You’re so full of rage you actually become placid.

This sums up most of my first 36 hours with my parents. It was unbearable, but I survived. The thought of sitting through Toni Braxton as Aida flanked by my parents (my father had forgotten his hearing aid at home) was just about the most horrifying I had had in my adult life. But sitting with them on the ground floor of their hotel four hours into the blackout, listening to my mother gripe on and on about the heat and the dark and the eleven-floors-we-can-never-climb-that, while there was a steamin slab o’ man staring at me from three tables away? This was hell on earth. And I was waist-deep in this hell-on-earth, mother jabbering on one side, father obliviously snoozing on the other, when two things hit me: 1) Eleven flights was not too much for me, and 2) my father left his hearing aid at home on purpose.

I said a hasty goodbye to my parents, told them I needed to go for a walk, and I met Mr. Eye Contact in the lobby. He was perfect. Barrel-chested, handsome face, intense steel blue eyes. He looked like all the rugged, hadsome parts of Mel Gibson at his prime, mixed with a dash of Tom Wopat from his Dukes of Hazzards days. And he had a superhero jaw. Ya know? Like a perfectly square jaw and chin, with just enough stubble on it to make me completely hard by looking at him.

He was the lovechild of the Marlboro Man and the Brawny Paper Towel guy.

This was exactly what I needed. What better way to firmly, and finally, assert myself as a sexual human being than by having sex in my parents’ hotel room with a rugged, handsome stranger during a fucking historic blackout? We chatted it up a bit, and when he asked me what I had in mind, I told him I had the key to my parents’ room, and his fuck-me blue eyes lit up in that ‘ooh, kinky’ kinda way.

And I know red is supposed to be the fuck-me color, but if you had only seen his eyes… his irises didn’t reflect my desire so much as actually depict, flash-card style, the many sordid activities that were running through my mind. If you’d seen them, you’d say they were fuck-me blue too.

And as we climbed further up the eleven flights, we realized we’d stopped passing other stair-dwellers a few flights back, so we just kinda kissed and stumbled up the last few flights. It was magical in all those romantic ways. If it had been a movie we’d have whisked each other over a threshold and made love in a bed of rose-petals, but this wasn’t a movie, and even if it was, there’d be that awkward moment for the audience where you’re like “They’re gonna fuck now. And they’re both guys. And as okay as I am with that, it’s still just weird. And wait. How do they do the threshhold thing? Who carries who? Betcha didn’t think o’ that part, didja gays? HA! Gotcha there! WHO CARRIES WHO, HOMOS? WHO CARRIES WHO? WHO… CARRIES… WHO???” and then no matter who actually does the carrying, then one or the other will always, ALWAYS be labeled the bottom in your mind, and every time you see him in the future you’ll secretly be thinking “I know. I KNOW WHAT YOU DO IN BED. You catch. You’re the catcher. I’ve seen you. You catch a pink sidewinder.”

So we kissed and tripped and fondled and giggled, and between the stairs and the bedroom, he mentioned his boyfriend and then uttered his name. I… reacted poorly. I didn’t want the guy to have a boyfriend, and if he had one I certainly didn’t want to know about it, or know the boyfriend’s NAME, because... And I told him this, and he said “What does it matter to you? What are you looking for out of this?” And the answer I gave him is really the answer to about three hundred other questions I’d had all summer long and never quite realized until I said it out loud.

“I’m looking for love, …” and the … is where his name would have gone if I’d ever even bothered to get it. And he laughed for a solid minute and said “You don’t even know my name. You’re a regular Lancelot, ya know that? Talkin’ all love and romance. Fuck that. You don’t even know my fucking name. Fuck you, buddy. A game show host would have asked me my name!”

“I’m not a game show host.”

“Right. You’re just some guy who wants to fuck me in his parents’ hotel room.”

“I’m just trying to do the right thing!”

“According to who? You want the same thing I want. We all want. And you’re a scared little fuck.”

And I had no idea what to say. I just kind of… I had no idea what I was doing anymore, so I just stopped and took stock of what I <I>was</I> sure of, and all I could say was, “My name is Shane.”

He laughed again. And it wasn’t as cruel as it sounded last time. “I can love you. If that’s what you want. I can go into that room with you for an hour or ‘til the lights come up or whatever, and I’ll love you that whole time, but when it’s over, it’s over.”

I let his offer float on the air for a moment, before I walked the rest of the distance to the room. He silently followed. I unlocked the door and absent-mindedly flicked the light switch on and off. I grabbed his hand, and pulled him close to me, then kissed him and whispered “sorry,” then, “goodbye.”

And that was the end of my summer.

And that’s the toughest entry I’ve written, because it’s the one event that happened to me this whole time where making the ‘right decision’ was every bit as unbearable as making the ‘wrong’ one. It’s not supposed to be like that. I’m supposed to be able to make mature, adult decisions and live with them. Or make impulsive, childish decisions and live with those too. I should be able, three months down the road, to look back and say “I made the right choice. I can live with that. I can go on with my life and not wonder how he was in bed. How he sounded. How he tasted. What it would be like to be with him each and every day, and how he’d make me scream, and what name I’d be uttering as he did so.”

But instead… I did the right thing and made the right call.


There’s still more to tell, more to catch you up on. But that’s the ‘final chapter’, so to speak, of my debaucherous summer of love. The next couple of months were truly uneventful on the ass front (or as gay meteorologists might say “IN the ass front”) but there are plenty of loose ends to tie up. (There’s another lame ass joke in there if anyone wants to salvage it.)

For those who waited and waited and didn’t give up hope that I might reply, thank you. I’m glad you’ve returned. I’ll have my final entry posted very soon.

And for those who waited and did give up… I know exactly how you feel.

I’m sorry.

Now go get some ass.

Not too much! It’s not healthy. Remember what your parents said. You’ll fill up on ass.
 

ShaneXtopher

Ass by any other name...
#55
Remember How Much Ass I Got? Part Two of Two, Possibly Three, but... okay Three.

I promised you there was more to tell so I’ve returned as promised, my Ass Faithful, to take care of loose ends and fill the gaping holes.

*GASP* That's not what I meant at all. You, and the filth that mucks about in those minds!

This journal – yea! like life itself - has been about births and deaths. Beginnings and ends. Tops and bottoms. But if this journal has been about anything, really, it’s been about creamy things in the center. Though if you truly want to get to the center of me, you don’t need to ‘See How Much Ass I Get,’ but see, rather, WHY.

We must see the beginning, and the end, to fully understand the hole. Er, WHOLE.

Are you with me, my assciples?

Granted, ‘See Why Ass I Get?’ sounds a bit medieval, or American Indianish, and doesn’t have quite the hook of a ‘See How Much Ass I Get?’ But it’s certainly got more meat. And if this journal has been about anything, really, it’s been about satisfying, mouth-watering meat! So, as I’m about to hit the bottom and end this thing once and for all, I think it’s important to pay a visit to the top you never really saw. My VH-1: Behind the Ass.


To the beginning...

In mid-March, I met Joe and we began dating. Our first date lasted fourteen hours. On our second date I bought him a copy of Watership Down by Richard Adams (it just felt appropriate to his personality – gregarious, soul-searching and a bit haunted), and on every date after that we established a pattern of buying each other things on impulse. He was a big child. He loved Spongebob, and Coco Puffs, and he wanted to learn how to dance like Justin Timberlake. We kissed better together than anyone else I’d ever kissed (he explained it was our pheromones) and while things progressed for us incredibly slowly in the bedroom, neither of us were afraid to be affectionate with each other in public, whether it was on a sidewalk in the West Village or in a pizza joint in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn.

We spent a lot of time together over the course of a month and a half. He’s the first guy I’d met who made me finally understand that there would be life for me after Conrad, the Scorpio military guy from Texas who’d SUCKED OUT MY SOUL the previous fall, I think partly because he’d had a similar experience with another soul-sucker, his appropriately enough from Los Angeles.

But the more time I spent with him, the less convincing his humor felt. It became more and more suspicious to me that the absence of sexual contact in our relationship might bear real meaning. And as time went by, a sadness spilled over him like the blood that washed over the fields in Fiver’s Watership Down visions. He stopped wanting to see me regularly, then he stopped calling me back, then he stopped answering emails, and then he just stopped. That was early May.

I had no idea what to do with all the things I’d been buying him piecemeal for his birthday, which was May 17. I eventually put them in a milk crate, but I didn’t have the heart to throw them away, or give them away. I didn’t want these things to be recycled, I wanted them to be his. They each had special meaning, and I wanted him to love each and every carefully-chosen gift I’d chosen for him. And, with the time that lapsed, I hoped that each item might make him feel pain or regret for giving me up.

I finally got a surprise call from him, and a visit, in mid-June. I’d just moved into my summer place in the West Village. He laughed at the leopard print bed set (“It’s not mine! It’s the girl’s I’m subleasing from.” “I believe you. You’re really more of a zebra.”) and we swapped chitchat for a few minutes, then I asked him what had happened between us, and at first he said he couldn’t really say, then he unloaded this big metaphor about buying a plant, this big beautiful plant, and not caring for it properly, but it never wilts, it’s just really beautiful, so you keep on going, not taking care of it, and it’s still beautiful, but then one day you kinda realize that you’re not putting the care and caution into it that you really should, and maybe it won’t be so beautiful for long, then you wake up and start to take care of the plant like you should have been all along, but in a couple days it dies. Like that. And you’re stuck with a dead plant. And that's kinda what happened.Then he told me absolutely none of his choices have had anything to do with me, it’s all him, I’m hands-down one of the best people he’s ever met and I shouldn’t think for a second I’d done anything wrong.

And that he needed to leave for work.

So I stood there for a second, feeling jilted and wilted, and all I could think to do was place this milk carton full of gifts in his arms, say ‘Happy Birthday’ and send him on his way. Standing in my doorway with an armful of presents, some wrapped, some not, some in paper bags, some plastic... and I thought “of course what I mean by Happy Birthday is fall under a train, manboy. I’m not the dead plant. You are. Go somewhere and die alone, you tactless fuck.” He looked every bit as much the child as I’d always known him to look, but now completely void of happiness. I said goodbye and quickly memorized his face: sorrow, then shadow, then door.

That was June 17, a month after his birthday and the day of my first journal entry and my decision to not live the life of a dead plant.


And to the end... a final trip to the final ass, the night of the blackout.

After a cool shower and failed nap attempt, I returned to the dining room and peaked in on my parents. All the other tables in the hotel restaurant were littered with food wrappers from expeditions to convenience stores, and my parents’ table stood completely empty. God, i was starving my parents. Before they could spot me I took a quick trip to a deli across the street and returned with enough Doritos, Planters Peanuts and Pepperidge Farms Cookies to ward off a fleet of vampires.

Had the snacks been, ya know, garlicy.

As I set the feast out I apologized and lied that I’d taken a nap upstairs. I felt terrible as I watched my mom wordlessly remove a piece of gum from her mouth and wrap it in a business card she’d pulled from her always-overflowing pocket book. Trapped in a strange city during a blackout, abandoned by her son, and left with nothing to eat but a stick of Trident. I recoiled at my own villainy.

We ate in relative silence. I looked at the table where Fuck-Me Blue had been sitting; he and his friends were long gone.

The next day, after we’d checked out of the hotel and my parents had taken me back to the West Village, my mother suddenly remembered something. “You had a fan last night,” she said and she started flipping through her pocket book.

“What do you mean?”

“I was supposed to tell you last night, but I was out of it. A nice looking guy came to our table, while you were napping upstairs, and he went on about you.”

“Good-looking guy,” my father added.

“He said he met you on the stairs,” my mother said, as she dropped a lipstick out of her cluttered purse.

“What are you looking for?”

“He said you helped someone out. Did someone have trouble with the stairs?” she asked.

“Did you throw a little old lady over your shoulder?” my father toothlessly laughed.

“He’s moving here from Chicago. He does something with the police. I told him you aced the NYPD exam, and he said he wasn’t surprised." She couldn't help but add, "I still don’t want you doing that, Shane, I think it’s so dangerous.”

“Mom…”

“He wants you to call him. He said he thought he might be able to help you.”

“He gave you his number?” I asked, incredulous.

“Business card. Ah, well, I’ll mail it to you when I find it. Good-looking guy.”

“Good-looking,” my father added.

“What was his name? I'm so out of it,” my mother rolled her eyes.

“It doesn’t matter,” I replied.

“I think he liked you,” she smiled. My father was smiling as well, nothing but cuspid.

“Send me the card,” I grinned and shrugged, then we said our goodbyes and they drove off toward the West Side Highway, my father behind the wheel, and my mother doubtless still fumbling through the contents of her pocketbook in search of the business card she’d absent-mindedly folded a piece of gum in and thrown away the night before.

[continued...]
 

ShaneXtopher

Ass by any other name...
#56
Remember How Much Ass I Got? Part Two and a half of Three or Four, but probably Three

[...continued]

And it seemed kind of perfect. The whole experience with Fuck-Me Blue. And on about twenty different levels. He’s physically the most beautiful man I’ve ever been in the presence of, and yet I refused him. I set out this summer to let myself flourish and bloom and live life, enjoy myself, (while being safe), yet I chose instead to close the floor in his face. Sure, he had a boyfriend. Maybe they were on the rocks. Maybe he was staying behind in Chicago. Maybe there was no boyfriend. Maybe the boyfriend was a creation to fuel the naughtiness of the situation we’d already propelled ourselves into.

And what made him talk to my parents? Why didn’t he wait for me to come back? Maybe he did and he had to leave. Maybe it was a move to piss me off, to say to me ‘look how easily I could have fucked with your life. I could have told your parents what we were going to do, but I didn’t.’ Maybe there’s a bigger, more cosmic reason behind it. Maybe my mother meeting this handsome guy who seemed to be interested in me… maybe it was what she needed in order to finally and fully embrace my gayness, and her wishes for me to have a happy future. She’s been nothing short of miraculous in that department ever since her visit.

But then the part that makes me lose sleep at night… is the fucking business card. I watched my mother fold her gum in a card she’d pulled out of her pocketbook. Would she have been oblivious enough to have done this accidentally? Or angry enough with me to have done it on purpose? Or maybe that wasn’t the card. Maybe she lost it. Maybe she still has it. Maybe she’ll find it, and wrap it in a big box of condoms and lube and ship it to me express.

Maybe I need to make stronger choices. Maybe I need to risk more. Maybe I need to never let good opportunities slip between my fingers. Maybe I’ve already lost my chance with the man of my dreams once… five times… a hundred times, and he’s constantly barely out of my reach because of a decision I didn’t make. Or because of a snooze button I hit one too many times. Or because he was right in front of my face but I was too busy wondering about all the bad things that might happen instead of letting myself actually enjoy the good.

Maybe I really am Joe's dead plant.


I will make one last post in the very near future. There’s just too much ass to pack in one entry. So take some time, reflect, get some ass, and meet me back here soon for a trip up Memory Ass, where I’ll finally tie up all the loose ends. Ya know… all that ‘Whatever happened to… crap.

You’ll laugh, you’ll cry, you’ll lick your own ass.
 
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ShaneXtopher

Ass by any other name...
#57
Remember How Much Ass I Got? The Final Chapter

<I><font color = 'cyan'>When Jacob asked me what it is I'm looking for, I told him: "Dating's fun, but I want to be with someone. I want to nurture a relationship with one person I can potentially share my life with." To which he smiled broadly and said "I'll drink to that."</font></I>

Not to quote myself, but I think that's the experience, and corresponding journal entry, that included more clarity than I felt all summer. Week 3, Day 2.

What a summer it was.

I packed up my belongings and moved out of the West Village at the end of September. I’m now living in Hell’s Kitchen, a block west of Times Square. And while parts of Hell’s Kitchen certainly have the homey, artsy, hip and cruisy feel of the West Village, the closeness to Times Square dilutes the charm with a nauseating and invisible air of urgency and idiocy. I live by myself in a studio apartment, where it’s perfectly easy for me to take home anyone I’d like at any hour without disturbing anyone, but this is an option I’ve yet to exercise. Or exorcise.

I don’t spend anywhere near as much time at my favorite bar, as I no longer live across the street from it. But I do pop in on Thursday afternoons to say hello, and I do get sporadic phone messages and IMs from Fred Sally, asking me to join him for a memorable late-night excursion. I hope that soon I’ll be able to take him up on that.

Steve, my amnesiac friend, left St. Vincent’s shortly after my visit and was flown home to recuperate with his family in Florida. He’s missing bits and pieces here and there, but his memory has been almost completely restored. He does indeed remember me.

Keith is still struggling with Hodgkin’s. He’s days away from the scan which will dictate whether he will either continue to receive treatments, or be officially classified as terminal.

As for the ass we’ve all known and loved, those fleeting, intoxicating and often nameless hash marks on my tally card, I guess this is where we freeze-frame on them like at the end of a movie, and tell you via subtitles… whatever became of...

I wish I could tell you more about Darryl Davidson, Sk8r Thug Nick, Wesley, Armando and the guy with the spikey blonde hair, but I’ve neither seen nor heard from any of them, which is for the best. I like to imagine the four of them all trying to take home the guy with spikey blonde hair, and him knowing better this time.

Jesse Jackson, interestingly enough, went on to become a Reverend, and has continuously denied allegations of any sexual history with me.

The two guys from work I was involved with, Marco and David, are now dating each other. I wish them the best, but... Boys, there is a life outside your fishtank.

Hugh Jackman stars as Peter Allen in The Boy From Oz.

Then there was the Threesome Twosome: Adam, who moaned like a champ, and the bald guy who was either Finnish or Swedish. The middle-aged muscle guy from Chicago who grabbed my arm three times before even speaking to me, and the pock-marked uber-fag who tried to use his tongue to take a culture from the back of my throat after I’d showed him no interest whatsoever. “I wanna see you naked” guy and the Abercrombie frat stud whose only real flaw was meeting me on a night I was consumed with emotion over a sick friend. The guy I never talked to, but looked so cool outside the window smoking that cigarette… the chick who insisted I was straight and coming home with her before she fell across a table of empty Rolling Rock bottles. And the bit player who has come to the forefront most: Tate, the hot Texan from my acting class, who has become a dedicated and regular friend.

Thank you all for the dance.

And Jacob… Oh, Jacob.

Jacob continues to be the sexiest of thorns in my side. He left town for a month, and the night before his departure he begged me to come to his place to say goodbye. I predictably acquiesced and wound up spending the night with him, in his bed, very little clothing, lots of cuddling, (no kissing!), and nothing but warm, meaningful glances all morning as we dressed, and shared a cab, then smooched goodbye. He’s been back in town for a couple of weeks now and I keep putting off seeing him because I know it’s just going to send me back to square one, which is wanting him and his ass, regardless of consequences.

And back to that journal entry I cited earlier...

<I><font color = 'cyan'>We wanted to go dancing, but it got too late, so we both took a raincheck. He told me to call him tomorrow... he's leaving town for a few days, but he may still be in town tomorrow night, and if that is the case, by God, there will be dancing.</font></I>

The dancing never came, but this is Jacob and me we’re talking about, so really the dancing’s never stopped.

And to return to the beginning one last time...

I finally did hear from Joe last week, and I now know why things didn’t work out between us. Near the end of our dating each other, he’d tested HIV positive, and he basically took himself out of the game. Hindsight is of course 20/20 and I now understand that the dead plant in his metaphor was not me or our relationship, but rather how he perceived himself and his health.

He asked me how things might have ben different if he'd told me earlier, and I told him that if he had let me in I would of course have stayed with him and done my best to make it work. He reacted emotionally, and I could see the 'what if?' scenarios playing through his head. They started to go through mine too, but instead I derailed all that by simply and honestly thanking him for being an important part of my life, and inviting him to continue to be just that, as my friend. He’s accepted, and I’m very proud to have him back in my life.

It’s incredible to me, and quite remarkable, how the impact his news had on his own life directly and unknowingly impacted my life and the way I conducted myself for an entire summer. These past months I've felt like I was trying to keep up with choreography I’d never learned. And all the dancers who knew the combinations were behind me instead of in front of me, I couldn’t watch them as a guide, so I just kinda made it all up. With no training or experience, no familiarity with the moves or the music, just this undeniable, unexplainable, unexpected need to dance.

And by god, there was dancing.

And maybes.

(And ass.)

This was my journal. It was about how much ass I got.

Of course if it had just been about that, I would never have told you more than what I originally did, which was pretty much:

1. That I was gay.

2. That I was attractive.

3. That I had just moved to the West Village.

Hopefully this experience impacted your ass as unexpectedly as it did mine. And hopefully you can see how challenging, humbling, and positive this thread has been on a personal level.

I think that's all for now. Time to go get me some ass!


Final Ass Tally:

Days I will doubt my ass: 0
 

ShaneXtopher

Ass by any other name...
#59
"You have to cast a wider net."

“You have to cast a wider net.”

These are the wise words of my straight friend Justin, imparted hot on the heels of my confiding in him that all I really want is to be in a healthy, monogamous relationship. Justin has noticed my tendency to fall for, and pin all my hopes on, one guy and one guy only. No matter how long we’ve known each other, or how much of a lapse there is between dates. And in most cases, my dating trajectory has followed this pattern:

First date, two day waiting period, second date, fooling around, two day waiting period, third date, sex, then a smattering of missed calls, voice mail messages, IMs and emails, all of the “things are crazy for me right now, Shane, maybe we can get together in a couple weeks” variety. Then the inevitable failure to call or IM or email at all.

This makes Shane = Sad.

So I took some Shane time. It was healthy and introspective. There was a lot of masturbation. Then I got back on the crazy bicycle that is Dating in Manhattan, and I rode.

Dating really is like riding a bike. Unfortunately, when you date in Manhattan the bike has no seat, and the wheels are all fucked up. And there are no bike lanes. Or street signs. And there’s lots of oncoming traffic. And pedestrians. Some of the pedestrians have big shopping bags and some have babies. You have to be careful of the babies. And there’s been this catastrophe that blocked out the sun, so vision is impaired. And I don’t have headlights, I have a flashlight, but the batteries are dead. Or low. Or maybe there are no batteries at all. Maybe I used them in my TV remote. Or my Walkman. But I can’t FIND my walkman, to, ya know, make the bike ride more pleasurable, not that listening to a walkman while you ride your bike is necessarily SMART, but it’s better than listening to the squealing of the fucked up wheels, and the blaring of the horns. And whatever sound babies make.

And ALL YOU WANT is to find someone else to ride with, and it doesn’t matter if his bike is all fucked up, because yours is too, but you can’t for the life of you see any other bikes, let alone guys on bikes, or really ANYTHING, because of the blocked-out sun. But you keep on riding. Because that’s what you do.

That’s dating in Manhattan.

And after riding for a while, the sun came back out. And I found the bike lane. And other bikes, some of which have really appealing guys on them. My bike is still seatless and fucked up, but the more guys I’ve met the more I’ve realized it’s better for the bike to be fucked up than the guy riding it.

And I’ve gotten good at it. I’ve met a lot of great guys. I’ve had some great dates. But here’s the problem, and the reason I’m keeping this journal again.

I’ve taken Justin’s advice in casting a wider net, but I’m afraid the net may be a bit too wide. I’m getting a lot of nibbles, and some bites, but I’m not throwing enough back. I’m currently dating fifteen different guys.

Let me repeat that.

I’m currently dating fifteen different guys.

FIFTEEN.

And Justin, straight though he may be, suddenly has a severe case of net envy.
 

ShaneXtopher

Ass by any other name...
#60
Come Back to the Five and Dime, Ass, Ass.

Wow, that last entry of mine was certainly thought-provoking. So thought-provoking in fact that I had nothing to do but sit here and manually provoke my thought center for the past 10 months instead of writing a follow-up post or two.

Lame-ass.

I wish I could say the long delay from January to today was due to the fact that I have been racking up tallies on the ass board, but... Well, I don't want to say too much, otherwise you won't read, right? I need to tease and tempt you with tales of ass. Make you realize how bad you need it. I want you to beg for it. You need it bad, don't you? DON'T YOU? *smack* That's what I thought.

Remind me to never get into leather.

If I'm going to get you back, My Dearly Ass-parted, it's time to pull out all the stops. Or to be more poetic: it's time to unplug the ass and let the love ooze in. Perhaps out. Maybe both. In rapid succession. And quite possibly more than once.

But first, to play a little catch-up. The Dating Fifteen Guys thing was fun for like... an episode. I was unemployed, and had all the free time in the world to let cute guys supply me with free dinner and free drinks. And I hadn't dated anyone in months so I suppose I'd talked myself into earning the right to date fifteen guys. But the longer this went on, and by the time I finally did sit down to get a tally on just how many asses I had in a holding pattern, I started feeling yucky about myself. Not TOO yucky. I mean I wasn't having sex with ANY of them. Yes, there was lots and lots of kissing, which is only really irresponsible if you're carrying mono or Strep or The Republican Gene or something, and yes, there was some manual provocation of though centers, (my cute new way of saying "touching of dick") which is only irresponsible if you're a Mormon or related to the person, but for some reason is okay if you're a Mormon AND related to the person.

Was that political?

And I was riding high on the "My life could be a reality series on Fox!" gag for a week or two (Average 'Mo?) but then everything just sort of started piling up. When Dan calls, and says "Hey, it's Dan," but two of your fifteen guys are Dan? Trouble. Or when one of the fifteen calls and says, simply "Hey, it's me!" Well, fuck. How do you respond to that? And when you make two dates for the same Sunday, so you go see a movie with Jason, and afterwards he wants to get dinner too, but you can't because you are having drinks with Freddy, and no I am NOT changing those names to protect the innocent, because YOU TOO wish you could have two dates on the same day, one with a Freddy and the other with a Jason. You'd hack and slash and stab to be in a Versus like that. So don't EVEN fuck with me, K?

(By the way, Freddy won. So handsome! Despite being a full six inches shorter than me, he actually had a good three inches on Jason..)

But honestly. Even for me. Even for Late-Blooming, Ass-Virgin til 29, Making Up For Lost Time, Why Doesn't Anyone Love Me ME. Fifteen guys is at LEAST fourteen too many.

So I did the only mature and responsible thing. I stopped answering my phone. I stopped replying to IMs and emails. I went to my Fortrass of Solitude, and I thunk. I thunk long and I thunk hard. I ate a lot of Ben and Jerry's. This was back when they were still making Chubby Hubby. And I slept late a lot. And after three days of waking up at 3pm I emerged renewed. Okay, not renewed. More akin to... tired and lethargic and up two pant sizes. But somehow or other the numbers had shifted. I had gone from Fifteen... to One.

His name was Billy, cute, spunky, 22, and we'd met upstairs at my favorite bar. I'd seen him across the room, and approached him and told him he had the best smile ever. He thanked me, brandishing his teeth as he did so, and then I told him I had to leave. Fred Sally was waiting for me outside so we could go to the bar across the street from my favorite bar and that seemed like as good an excuse as any to run away.

And when I met Fred Sally and told him about Billy, and how cute his smile was, he gave me a look which either said "eat all of your peas or I will beat your ass" or "get back up there and give him your number!" and, as I was fresh outta peas, I ran back upstairs and slipped Billy my digits.

We talked the next day and began seeing each other regularly. When I spent my few days at the Fortrass of Solitude, his was the only number I found myself capable of dialing when I emerged. And so that's how it went for a few weeks. There was lots of cuddling and kissing and doing things with thingies (Oh yeah, baby. Provoke my thought center!), but no ass. He met my work friends. He met my friends at my favorite bar. He met my gay friends at the Superbowl party. And it was at this party that he fatefully whispered in my ear "I've decided to give you my ass!"

I let the words ring in my ear. I was sipping a beer at the time and I honestly think all of existence went into freeze-frame. All of my gay friends became fashionably sporty mannequins, my throat clenched in mid-beer swallow, and Janet's tit stood silent in bas relief on the screen.

Okay so it didn't really happen during the Janet's tit.

As the words echoed (...give you my ass... my ass... ass...) time unfroze. A play unfolded on the TV, and sporty homos crunched on fat-free chips and crudite, and when I looked at Billy he was hopeful and proud and his smile flashed at me with all the radiant brilliance of a motel vacancy sign.

"I've decided to give you my ass!"

Who SAYS that?

Sometimes people just say things that ruin EVERYTHING. And for me, it wasn't necessarily the fact that he had decided to give me his ass. But it's something we really hadn't even talked about. And I wasn't there yet at all. And the FOOTBALL GAME WAS SO GOOD. It was just not time- and space-appropriate. Like farting in confessional.

He totally farted in my confessional!

I walked him to his train station, kissed him goodnight, and that was the last time I saw him.

I met someone new the next night. We had drinks and held hands and laughed and cuddled and kissed and provoked each other's... Fuck that. Grabbed each other's cocks. And we had dinner. And it was all so magical that if I had shat my shorts I'm quite certain the skid marks would've been solid platinum.

His name was Steven W. and we had friends in common. They raved about him to me, and about me to him, and it felt like a comfortable fit. Because he was cute, he was my age, and because as we said goodnight he whispered in my ear what he wanted to do to MY ass.

NOT what he wanted me to do to his.

And I had a moment of clarity. One of those occasions where something just slides across the surface of your brain and PLUNKS right into place like a metal ball into the hole at the end of a labyrinth.

I'm a bottom.

I mean... Okay. Here's the deal. I love topping. It's very enjoyable, and I'm pretty good at it.

Bottoming, on the other hand, is infinitely more pleasurable to me. I can't imagine living without it. I did it for 29 years, I hope to never do it again.

I am a total fucking bottom.

...

And there's so much more to tell to get you back to today. I hope you'll check back soon. There'll be coke-sniffing club kids. Adulterous affairs. Meddlesome exes. Guys on motorcycles. A journey to Chicago and another to San Francisco.

You'll find out why I can't go back to my favorite bar.

And Jacob is in there too.

Most importantly, you'll see how much ass I get.
 
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