To All the Guys I’ve Fucked Before

The Little Baldy

Caught my attention through an almost random remark on his posting at M4M. A conversation followed, then a coffee date. I like the bald guys with good strong noses. (“Yes, he wants nothing for baldness or nose,” declared an acquaintance.) We argued a lot. He shook a little. It’s a tremor caused by one of his medications; most guys, he implied, react badly, if not freak out altogether, once he “discloses.” Well, like I care.

Back at his place, there was some dispute about whether or not he should be rolling a joint right in front of me. I hovered in the other room. He likes kissing, so that’s what I did, and afterward, we were dressed again and talking back at the screen with great erudition as we watched cooking shows. This is a man with a rich former life, with many skills, who knows his wine and his food and how to live.

He would then fall lock step into convention and placed drugs ahead of everything else, assuming that since I’m straightedge and he does J several times a day, there was no future. “Now, who told you that?” I replied, and, while I waited for another time to elucidate what actually happened with the White Mexican and how I prefer to handle such things, he accepted an invitation to sushi.

I have two dress-up modes – natural fibres (woollen sweater, linen pants) and postmodern (stretch trousers, nylon–polyester shirting). I chose the former and he chose the latter, looking rat-arsed stunning in a custom-made leather pantalon and a superb fly-front jacket of unknown material. The evening was only a little bit stilted, and half of a pair of Jewish guys at the next table gazed longingly at my man through their entire meal.

He invited me to dinner on Christmas Eve; I kissed him goodbye in the subway.

I brought along anise-pignoli cookies, but bailed, choked, chickened out on wine. (“Bring any red wine that you like – in other words, any red wine that you read the label of and think will be a pleasing addition,” like a cabernet franc, a pinot grigio, or a pinot noir. “A delicious shiraz would not be out of place.”) Nor did I bring a Christmas salad featuring spinach and pomegranate seeds, as had been broadly implied I should.

As soon as I had my coat off he got a few good smooches out of me (his idea; I was happy to go along) and rubbed his hand on my chest, a spiritual and symbolic male gesture dating back centuries. He had made a superb towering fusion presentation of grilled eggplant, mushrooms and peppers with rice cooked in a pineapple-pomegranate reduction. I suppose his Xmas present of a scratch-off lottery ticket fell into the category of “joke” or “it’s the thought that counts.”

It was just great until I apparently flunked a secret preordained test by hovering in the other room again while he rolled a joint again. After that, he was distant and inert. He pushed me away when I kissed him. He did it again during a chaste farewell hug, and that really hurt, because to a writer nonverbal cues fairly scream. “Well, you scratched your ticket and you’re all bundled up,” he said, “so I guess you’ll be off.” “Evidently,” I said testily as I walked down the stairs.

“Ta-ta,” I offered as I passed through the door. “Goodbye,” he said, the vast confidence of his former life filling his voice.

I wrote an almost-neutral single-sentence E-mail that thanked him for dinner, with just enough of a hint that I was dissatisfied, and got a reply on Boxing Day that his dad had died on Christmas. He’d be moving back with his mother.

His family can be traced to the 16th century, with an actual shield; it features three pomegranates. And pomegranates stain.

I’ll always be his friend. But I probably should only do that if I can stop being sad.

The White Mexican

He headed me off at the pass at the St. Marc Spa and wouldn’t let go. He’s a body-hair fetishist with no gag reflex, so I was perfect for him.

Unfortunately, he got to know me at an unsettled time of my life, the era adduced in the revised “Deconstructing ‘You’ve Got Blog.’ ” I was tense and worried all day, every day, plus understimulated. (A 56 K modem and a barely-functional radio are not enough media input for a professional writer.) Nothing was going right. I wasn’t even eating properly, and that’s quite a feat for a vegetarian; we’re already used to eating dirt.

I bumped into him again on Queen St. one humid, overcast, unsettled, worrisome day; we were frequent “partners” for two more years. The problem was that he came to visit me at his whim. I had so little contact with the outside world that I had to unload for a while when he came by. In fact, this was merely one of the huge litany of deep-seated, immutable character flaws that I would end up hearing recited, at enormous length and typically at high volume, on several occasions over the time we were “together.”

He dumped me twice. I didn’t particularly care the first time, and in fact, a while later, he all but begged me to take him back. As has been the case before, he found he had taken me for granted, and admitted he had not really learned to appreciate me. Two of my correspondents supported my taking him back, because it would be big of me and would show forgiveness; the rest of them were hanging judges. But I did it. I took him back, and, to no one’s surprise, neither of us had changed, and all my previous alleged character flaws were still in place.

Oddly, I had no significant complaints about him. He was just half an increment bigger than me, making it hard to be all “huggy,” as he ever-more-insistently demanded near the end. (I am not very “huggy.” I am with boys I like more.) He stank, because he smoked. Most onerously, like every druggie, he placed his “right” to do drugs, even before my very eyes, over my own preferences and wishes. (You don’t find that kind of presumptuousness without the corollary – he got even more irate when I called him on it.) That’s nearly the full list, really. Hardly two hours’ worth of screaming diatribe, which is what I got from him.

He wasn’t even gonna show enough guts to dump me properly the second time; if I hadn’t been in possession of a couple of DVDs I’d borrowed, which he had to come by to collect, I would simply never have heard from him again.

By his own admission, as physical beings go, I’m his dream man, and he’s never had such good sex in his life. Top that? He can’t.

Ends in zh

Received several replies from him on M4M. Great photos, actually. Intelligent chat sessions. Months passed before we even got each other on the phone, and if anyone has a manly voice and diction, it’s this fella. Also Portuguese, fit, handsome, and uncut. He wanted to test his absence of gag reflex.

I was tremendously interested. Projecting, even. Unwise and immature, I know. He has a boyfriend with “a big heart and cock.” I’ve never let that stop me before, though I will never be the OTHER WOMAN again.

He lives in the hood, broadly speaking, in what I could tell would be a dumpy apartment in a converted house. Less dumpy than expected, but still substandard. Has the dark eyes of his ethnic group. Took a while to get his clothes off. Lived up to the pattern of oral submissives by getting on his haunches, sucking me, and then two minutes later pulling his pants open and jerking off. The harder I hit him, the more he liked it. Just like old times with the White Mexican. He’s come to the right place.

Now, what about me?

He’s shockingly trim, with excellent legs, and a superb long thick penis with a hugely motile foreskin. (Spanking clean. That won’t be necessary.) Has nipples more sensitive than mine, but knows what to do with mine like nobody else at all, ever.

He came twice – in the early stages of sucking me. This was hardly planned.

And after the second time, he pretty much wanted me out of there. I eventually was able to talk him down from the ledge long enough to get him to lie down and let me splooge massively on him. “Don’t get any cum on this when you get up,” he demanded. “What a gay thing to say.” “It’s not a gay thing to say. It’s black velvet that’s a bitch to wash.”

“I’ll try not to feel like I’m being rushed out,” I told him, “even though I am.”

His boyfriend is away in an Eastern Bloc nation for six weeks and he was looking for “variety.” How can he claim to be a top and also an oral submissive? “I just am.” Well, from now on he’s only gonna get to be one of those, and only when his man gets back.

I had hopes. Not high hopes, but hopes.

The Dick

I ran a biketrials club and found there were two fairies in it, though I only ever bedded one of them. The gang were having lunch, he called some guy walking by a fairy, I told him he was sitting right next to one, and I later found myself on the phone with him at length. He’s allegedly bisexual, but mostly cruel, and repelled beyond words by hairs residing lower than the jawline.

So what was I doing? Taking what I could get.

He’s the only man I’ve ever done with a bigger cock. (I have touched one other. I conclude not that I’m unnaturally huge but that the oft-heard claim that the average penis is a mere six inches long is crushingly accurate.) He’s also an alcoholic. Bit early for that at his age.

I have an anecdote about the two of us going to the Comfort Zone for drum & bass night, but I’m so soured on the entire memory that I won’t bother. (I wasn’t the oldest person there – the most beautiful boy-girl couple ever encountered took that prize. The boy did, at least.)

I don’t know what my fatal error was. I think it had to do with not allowing him to carry out his best-laid plans for a proper date. He had lined us up to go to OCA(D) to view art objects contributed for auction. Then we were to sit in some bar and listen to cabaret, as though I would ever permit that. I had expected to simply pick him up from his lobby, but he invited me up for a Victorian Order of Nurses–style home visit. After 40 minutes, I took my shoes off (actually my black vegan Docs, freshly polished, no doubt with animal products) and got comfortable.

We had dinner. We had coffee. I did him well.

He’s a cute, solid man, but he mentioned twice that he earns really a surprising amount of money, and went so far as to actually open the receipt for his paycheck before my very eyes. (Guys seem to have a pattern of doing things in front of me, don’t they? What’s next? Sacrificing a ram?) He is, moreover, a foot fetishist. Or a sneaker fetishist, actually, which I can halfway understand: Why else do guys buy so many pairs of sneakers?

Who knows how long it should have lasted, but it should have lasted more than one night. Why? Oh, not because I liked him, though I did, enough. If nothing else, he should have kept up with me because of all the other foot fetishists I know. I could have hooked him up.

Money don’t buy you manners.

Not Really a Bottom

A tall, fat, reasonably handsome fella, massively codependent with his former roommate, living in an overpriced, cramped apartment in Stack o’ Fags, pulling down high Gs and blowing it all on (a) pork chops and (b) electronics – by my count, two Sony TVs, two VCRs, all three video-game consoles, a DVD player, a full stereo, both species of laptop plus a desktop computer, two cellphones, and a home screenphone. Plus a washer and dryer.

He chatted me up at the Eagle and was almost immediately annoyed as hell that I said the music there was at least better than the Céline Dion twaddle the Woody’s sweaterfags lapped up. He could tell, with very little prompting, that I had exactly what he needed.

I’ve known him for more than a year. He’s never stopped being neurotic, or even reduced in any way. (Or really reduced in weight, another of his self-hatreds.) Worst of all is his crazed Freudian insistence on asepsis of operating-theatre quality. Nothing less than a fresh shower right then and there was good enough. One’s ordinary smells after a day at the office are as repellent as sulphur, and heaven help you if you’ve been excited that evening, because your member won’t be fresh anymore.

But this is a guy who likes to get fucked, something he said he knew he wanted from the time he was young. (Bottoms are born; tops are cultivated.) A hygiene freak with an anal fixation?

He’s not really a bottom. He’s too jealous (I’ve witnessed this firsthand), too much of a milquetoast, too strung up by his own list of prerequisites before he’ll let you give him what he desperately needs. He’s not really a bottom; he just likes to get fucked.

He’d never gotten it better than from me and will never get it that good again. I can put up with a lot, but laugh at me even once and I’m your enemy for life. Meanwhile, you’ll still be neurotic, not to mention fat.

“Flandular Release”

One of the lads who orders me in, rather like a pizza – to his well-decorated gay apartment. Had some weird shit going on with his foreskin requiring a “flandular release” operation. I believe him, but I think that’s not the term for it. Brown hair. A cat, who batted me across the nose.


Also ordered in. Handsome 41-year-old short guy with a good body. Really very attractive. Shaves his shoulders and back, and ought not to bother. Full-on candles and Enya (or moral-equivalent Celtic female keening) when I came over. He kept tweaking my tits, which I cannot stand. The last time he did, I reflexively gave him a very small slap. “Don’t slap my face.” “I just did.” “Don’t do it again.”

Later, I said “I’ll just rehydrate for a minute” defensively as he leaned against the back of a chair with his head resting on his arms, staring at the floor – anything other than me. It’s not as though I’m trying to rush you out of here, he said impatiently.

He was looking forward to taking a shower and going to bed. He would ignore my polite thank-you snatchmail.

Sauna selections

You don’t get to be on this list if we didn’t finish in some way or if you uttered any variant of the obnoxious euphemism “Let’s take a break.” You thought I wasn’t keeping track?

  • Four black guys: 250-pound hirsute American (insisted on condom for blowjob); 220-pound statuesque local who virtually ignored me the entire time; tiny but immensely jovial man with a foreskin like a deflated life preserver; soft-skinned bald guy from the islands who really knows how to get you the hell out of his room when he’s had enough.
  • Jewish princess. “Oh, you’re not looking for me,” he said when I tracked him down after the last black negro of colour listed above. So I tracked him down again. “What do you mean, ‘Oh, you’re not looking for me’?” Ravenously overjoyed bottom. Insisted on condom for blowjob. (I don’t object, of course. It’s just odd, and not really necessary.) Treated splooge like the blood of the creature from Alien, a joke I actually used that he agreed was accurate.
  • A separate black guy, invariably found at Spa Excess, who seemed to adore me. I don’t know exactly why. I think some people are just gregarious and loving. I seem to recall always getting my hand snagged on his necklace, and he never wanted to do much apart from... caress. I am not very “huggy.”
  • A hairy and average Atlantan who was nonetheless smart and personable. He could really take me.
  • A couple – three, I think – of somewhat sad middle-aged types. They’re a bit too eager. I now barely even smile at them lest they get any idea, let alone the wrong one.
  • A hefty man, not of the bear genus, shaven in the wrong places, who did not enjoy it and turned his head away when I came. I’ve only gotten it in a guy’s eye once; let’s be realistic here.
  • Short but solid fella, with a full head of hair trimmed to suede, and a very thick penis. He seemed to enjoy himself. Now, I bumped into him at the Toolbox rather a long time later while he was in the nude, if I recall correctly. Turns out he speaks French. The facial appearance finally made sense; the absence of foreskin didn’t. Must be Ontarian. He’s another one who has a permanent raincheck offer without knowing it. Or wanting it, apparently.

6-Foot-2, 200-Pound Dutchman

I was young, he was less so. We met at one of those all-night wicker places – AIDS Action Now or Queer Nation or something. We seemed the only guys there who could actually write something that people could understand and would bear to read, so we got to know each other. Actually, I seem to recall his walking up the sidewalk from the 519 after a meeting saying that so-and-so couldn’t do his volunteer task after all, and could someone else? It may have involved transcribing a tape. In fact, I think it did.

Being Dutch, he had no compunctions about living on welfare. I suppose his underemployment foreshadowed my own. But they had a car. We drove out to the launch party for Meryn Cadell’s Angel Food for Thought (now impossible to find), and much later, at my house, after massaging my back, he undid my belt.

We fit together perfectly and he was ravishingly thankful to have someone vaguely sexually responsive in bed with him. And someone he could argue with. He’s sharp, unlike his milquetoast lover of seven years.

He came so close to admitting he loved me – I’d already done it – that he and the milquetoast fled to Vancouver. He’s still there. I don’t particularly care if the milquetoast is.

We would not have lasted: I was already a vegetarian and went veeg, while he, being Dutch, not only would eat anything, he would seek it out. One of my few remaining images of him involves his pointing out every component particle of headcheese and where it came from.

But another of my images rivals the Waking Life memory in Tom’s case: The sticky, just-barely-perspiring feel of his muscular, hairless shoulder blade as he got out of bed, with a heavy sigh. And he actually made a young man’s dream come true once, arriving unannounced at my place after I’d already gone to bed and fallen asleep. It’s not so often you get a 6′2″, 200-pound Dutchman paying a midnight visit to make love to you.

Nobody else has his name, and he’s quite readily Googlable. I do it now and then. It’s been a long time, though, and I’m somewhat hardened.

Taking Me for Granted

Looking back, I don’t know why I bothered with this one. Obviously because I was too young. A middle-aged black man with low-slung ears actually chatted me up at Woody’s. It took me two years to make him understand that we couldn’t communicate and we had nothing whatsoever going sexually.

I mean literally not communicate. He would ignore, not hear, or fail to understand my sentences. And he would never ever lay off the black shit. Like, OK, I’m OK with it, OK? You’re in my bed, aren’t you? But that wasn’t good enough for his wounded activist friends, who, I was told, held the perverse preconception that having a white boyfriend was less prestigious for a black man. (Is there any Western culture where that is generally true? At all? Anywhere?)

What was he doing hanging out with those guys? Only one of them could be described as out of the closet, a pattern that holds true for black guys to this very day. (Now we’ve got a nice new term to excuse it: on the down low. That’s four simple syllables. So is hypocrisy. How about living a lie?) They were a corrosive influence. The man and I saw the movie Glory at the Eglinton Theatre, and the first thing out of his mouth, the very first thing, was “What did it feel like sitting next to a black man while you were watching that?”

It didn’t feel like anything. What was I supposed to feel like? The guy whipping Denzel Washington? Matthew Broderick feeling all sorry for it? Some cracker?

He had no dick worth talking about (its hood was much less than enough), was in not particularly good shape, and – did I mention? – wasn’t out at work. Or really to all that many people. In the whole world.

During my time in Parkdale, he spent the night. Once. Barely anything happened. And he complained about the hard-to-adjust shower.

I bumped into him at the Eagle this year. Actually twice. He’s greying. It was a strange night acoustically: We were right under the speaker upstairs, but we could hear each other loudly at a distance of two feet. He told me, loudly, that in retrospect he took me for granted and didn’t get to know me well. Now, I was young, but he is right.

I think it all boiled down to my cock. If I were hung a small as he was, it would have taken me much less time to make him understand that we had no compatibility at all.


At a difficult period in my life (how many have there been?), a handsome, sarcastic Greek man with a good strong nose chatted me up at the Eagle. He was surprised that I employed the film Head On as a conversational gambit. (When a Greek man chats you up, talk to him about the only film concerning a queer Greek immigrant, in this case the potent Alex Dimitriades.)

He was housesitting this rich computer queen’s mansion of an apartment uptown. Boy, did it have toys. But we did not have sex. Not really. More of what resembles sex than he’d had in a very long time, but not really. There are straight guys who take it up the arse who are less querulous than him, obsessed as he is with staying hermetically “safe.” He thinks a drop of precum on the tongue is gonna give him AIDS. (From a guy who’s negative? How’s that gonna work?)

He was in outright denial that we got along famously, that I gave him all sorts of the sex he desperately needs, and that, at his age (roughly mine), he could really afford to still be jerking off with strangers, as though this were after football practice two months before the prom.

Much later, I gave him a choice. Others would call it an ultimatum, but you know, sometimes I’m like that, because I have no time for fools. You know I’ve got what’s good for you, I told him. You can finally, at last, stop dicking around and take me up on my offer... or I’ll never speak to you again.

He tries to say a feeble hi to me once in a while.

(Author’s note: This man is so convoluted that he caused me to write the only piece I’ve ever taken down from my site unprompted. Why? Because it was such bad writing. He was enough of a maelstrom that he made me write like an amateur.)

Fascist German

He’s stunning to regard at 6′5″, with a full head of salt-and-pepper hair and matching beard. But he has a tiny dick, indisputably the ugliest I’ve ever seen. Scratchy, stunted hair on his back, which I assure you is a disadvantage I do not have. I’m an alpaca compared to his jumbo club pack of steel wool.

He’s a tacky racist who supports the death penalty. He complained bitterly about his former white-collar job in the rag trade, where he was forced to work under a Jew. Now where is he? Driving a forklift.

And is German. A German racist?

At bruncheon – he’s a tacky racist snob, but he insisted on Horny Tim’s – he griped about the lower orders, especially his coworkers. He’s waiting till his dad croaks so he can change his surname; if he does it early, he gets cut out of the will. Was upset that my bathroom didn’t have a bathmat. (Um, why? It’s too small, and what are towels for?) Paraded around nude and broadly implied, in that evangelical, ideological way “naturists” have, that I must be afflicted with body shame for not doing the same. In reality, I was merely cold. I often am. A fact he will never actually discover: I wear pyjamas to bed.

Oh, and the kicker? He lives in Etobicoke. It’s all making sense now.

Danger Penis

Diseased Pariah News had a short, punchy reference for the way a fag gets AIDS: From a Danger Penis. What other dangers come attached?

There’s a lad in town, a tad younger than me, handsome in an Irish way, aggressively smart in the way a centipede is aggressively mobile, rather fit, prone to hanging out at the Eagle with only the cool, self-entitled late-30s hepcats, vicous, and predatory. His goal seems to be to get fucked by every hairy and/or well-built or overweight man in town, but once only.

He was enduring a boring chatting-up by a guy from San Francisco and eyeing me with interest. You always know when you’ve been cruised by this fellow, because he’ll slow his pace and rotate his head in two dimensions to look straight at you as he passes. Then he’ll do it again on the way back. Subtlety is not his forte, nor should it really be, because the entire preceding paragraph beggars in the task of explaining just how sexy he is: MAXIMALLY.

At any rate, he dragged me back to his ill-furnished co-op apartment, and was very pleasant as I did him. Then there was the next morning. “If I want to sit around and watch TV all day, that’s what I’ll do,” he informed me defiantly as he lounged in his threadbare robe.

Not only is he in nice shape and good to look at and enjoyable to fuck, he’s got a big uncut piece. I would have been pleased to do a few repeat engagements, as I tried to make clear, which efforts resulted in a pointed telephone message: “I picked you up in a bar. I didn’t make any promises about keeping in touch or friendship or anything else.”

Well, I didn’t make any offers – apart from doing you a few more times.

I now know another guy who’s done him – once. This I don’t get: Apart from some artificial self-imposed rule, why wouldn’t you ride the ferris wheel again if you like it the first time?

He does, however, seem to have decided that watching TV by day and driftnetting the ever-shrinking gene pool of unenumerated Toronto homosexualists by night might not be the only activities a man in his 30s might choose to do, so now he’s off welfare and working. He’s still on the prowl and he’s still nasty as hell. Sometimes he’ll start off charming if he wants something out of you, but anything vaguely resembling rejection and out come the knives. (It’s always interesting looking up his old Usenet postings, where he dispenses with the charm altogether.)

To his possible annoyance and perplexity, I say hello every single time I see him. Flummoxed, he always has no choice but to say hi back. It probably hurts him, and I rather like that.

The Maltese

The Maltese are a beautiful people. They’re either unduly short or, in one case I know, extravagantly tall. This one’s short and charming and cried when he came. I’ve never heard sweeter, more considerate words, not even pre-scripted, than what he said to me when he left. They were the Platonic essence of what I needed to hear, a form filling out the emotional mould exactly. I can’t remember a word he said; it was perfect.

I managed to unintentionally snub him a few weeks ago and will have to make it up to him the next time. He brightens my day whenever I see him, let alone talk to him.

I keep wondering if he’s happy, or even well, since he seems not to be working.

Can straight people actually understand how we become linked for life after a single evening? There isn’t a word for it. It’s like being besotted, though the eros is gone. Devoted, perhaps. With shades of guardianship.

I sound like a promiscuity apologist; the difference is, they are liars.

Strawberry Blond

This one I can name, because he is dead, and I have covered him before: Tom.


He’s right out of Boys in the Band, though he can’t help his pockmarks, and as a one-man dermatology interest group, I don’t really mind. He’s another hair fetishist, and he actually slavers. He can leave behind a pool of saliva on the floor.

He’s a Jewish intellectual disconnected from the 20th century (he admitted that his hermetic historian life<hyphen>style kept him from exposure to newspapers, films, television, and “radio broadcasts”); after the second viewing I couldn’t really stomach the nebbishness and the absolute lack of common conversational ground.

He was terribly disappointed. Yeah, that’ll happen.

The Skinhead

I am not convinced he isn’t actually the biggest mistake of my life. Whenever I think of him, my eyes separate from their previous target and stare into space. They call this a reverie.

He’s a slightly short, hairless, very fit, uncut skinhead bottom, my age, with a small moustache. I learned a lesson from this. I learned to pay attention to my reactions while they’re happening. I’m not perfect at it; I let the Little Baldy push me away without speaking. (But I was shocked as it happened.) I’m improving, though. Because afterward, when he lay on top of me, fitting every joint and extremity as if custom-made, and purred and caressed my entire being, I tried to be all cool. What I didn’t do was be real.

I’ve never had a stronger Woman’s Intuition. It screamed “Get his number!” Because he had asked if I live here. I told him he could catch me if he saw me again and we could give it another whirl. “Anytime,” he said.

When will that be? Every month I wait, and I haven’t stopped being gobsmacked.

If he lives here, he’s become invisible.


John Kusch’s now-defunct restored diaries (Parts I, II, III, IV and V) included a series of postings documenting, at least nominally, All the Guys [He’d] Fucked Before. The purpose was partly autobiographic, partly cathartic, with shades of expiation.

I have written about the exteriorized psychology of the Weblog, which is “a part of you, or of your psyche; while a titanium hip joint or a pacemaker might bring technology inside the corporeal you, a Weblog uses technology to bring the psychological you outside of it. Your Weblog acts as a new limb, a new mouth, and a new hemisphere of the brain. Once those new organs come into being, you’re no more likely to remove or amputate them than the original organic equipment they augment.”

What I have further learned is that this new way of seeing snowballs over time. It becomes ever more absurd to leave significant events of one’s life undocumented. The Weblog format permits millions to document even the insignificant events of their lives; we can hardly leave out the big stuff while we’re at it. Self-published diaries are a form of real-time populist autobiography, a contribution to history we don’t have to wait for snob historians to write about.

In pre-Internet terms, the rhetorical question I could use to defend this posting would be: “What have I got to hide?” But that is an outdated mindset. It’s not a question of hiding vs. exposing, of concealing vs. disclosing. There’s been a generational shift. Old people hid things, or failed to discuss them, unless there was a reason to disclose or discuss them – and that reason generally had to be good enough that everyone would have done the same in their shoes. Mores evolved: It became permissible to discuss serious illnesses, divorce, homosexualism, other previous taboos.

But what has not been recognized is that mores have evolved yet further so that the former order is inverted. Young people disclose or discuss things unless they have a fantastically persuasive reason not to, and that standard is considerably higher now that almost nothing is embarrassing or shameful anymore.

I am an early member of the Internet generation. As I insistently remind people, I’ve been online since 1991; I predate the Web. I’m also a writer, and have been out of the closet (now a prehistoric concept) for 15 years. I have only vestigial traces of an urge to hide things. I have a stronger-than-ever urge to publish, so that’s what I’m doing.

I can add two further motivating factors:

So I am walking in the footsteps of John Kusch.

I made an editorial decision not to publish actual names, with the exception of Tom, who is dead anyway. I did this not to protect their “privacy,” which is at best a questionable concept; what we did together happened to me, and I have a right to document it. It is just that, by uncanny luck, my former lovers almost always have unusual names. Combined with the discernible personal details, reasonably-well-connected people will know exactly who I’m talking about. I’d prefer that they merely strongly suspect.

The case could be made that, to be consistent with my philosophy of maximal openness and rejection of the impulse toward secrecy, names should be named. I forbear from so doing. I can express truth sufficiently without that step.

Who’s excluded

It had to be actual sex, not just affection, even if nudity was involved. I had an infuriating erotic friendship with an infuriating erotic friend for the better part of two years, for example. It was all about never-quite: I never quite loved him, he never quite got used to me, we never quite did anything. I popped a lot of bones, but he never did, and nobody popped anything else. So he doesn’t get in.

The criterion seems to be: Somebody has to have come. Now, if I’m really strict about this a few blowjobs I got at Naked Night at the Toolbox would be included, but I guess I’m not being really strict.

Future additions

Sportfucking with Brett will be revived, returning my memories of that friendship to the public arena before Brett D. Stewart jets off to L.A. with his B-list bf, and I am trying to figure out how to write and structure an actual online biography that will, of course, leave out nought significant.

The overriding philosophy is, as it turns out, an overriding philosophy of my entire life: Write what happens. You can’t very well expect a writer not to write. You can’t wash the stripes off a zebra.

And I sign my name to everything. | 2003.01.01, 09; 06.25