sex in 3 acts...

An invitation (I wanna sex you up):



SEX...
It was always something akin to a profession for me. I never was paid for it, but if I had I would have been rolling in it. If I were a hooker I’d be one of the best out there.  I’m just good at what I do I guess. This isn’t me boasting… it’s just fact. And while it is fact, this doesn’t make it right either.

It was for pleasure. For fun. Used as a weapon. Used as a curse. In love. In hate. It made me feel powerful, and yet it made me feel weak. It made me feel wanted. Made me feel like I was taller then the empire state building. But the harder they are, the easier it is to fall I suppose. I was like an addict that was in a desperate need of kicking my habit. It was a game that I was beginning to lose.

I started having sex September 3, 1993. The date sticks in my head all these years for some reason. It was a late night rendezvous that was ever so awkward. I was on the phone with my ex-girlfriend (yeah that’s right, I said GIRL! I used to date them too!) and we were talking about sex. This was always something that I viewed with a great excitement and curiosity.

She agreed to come over and we’d finally “do it.”  I was so inexperienced and a bit of a fumbling idiot. I was so excited to be finally getting laid. I couldn’t wait and put the condom on before she got there, then I just put my pants on over it and waited. She came over and so began the proverbial popping of my cherry. It was then that I should have known I was queer. I really didn’t do much though. I laid there, and she did the work. It was good and everything…  just not really what I wanted to order. I had to wait for the revised menu.

This was my first time. The launching pad of many, many, many sexual encounters.  Just because I became good at it doesn’t mean I didn’t have my humble beginnings either.

A week later I had my first sexual experience with a boy. Oddly enough it was her ex-boyfriend. We believed firmly in recycling. If I thought my first time with a girl was bad, the first time with a boy was worse. At first I had no idea this boy was even remotely interested in boys. Until  I wound up being the only naked swimmer in a pool full of friends the day before this affair. Suddenly he had to leave, and I was later told that he left with a hard on. Go me!

So the next day he came over and one thing led to another. In retrospect it was a bit endearing. He was over during the day, left, and then came back that night. I was half asleep. It must have been around midnight or so. He was trying to get my attention at my window. And not by throwing pebbles, he was throwing gum. Strange I know.

I woke up and let him inside. We were trying to figure out who was going to be a top or bottom (phrases I didn’t quite know about then). I just laid on my stomach and waited. Nothing happened. I turned round and looked at him. After he still didn’t do anything I sat up. He then began to assume my position. I was a bit puzzled to say the least.  Then he says “Well, you know more about what you’re doing then I do!” This is the moment I just blinked at him and the blinks made that “doink doink” sound.

I told him that I had never been with a guy and didn’t know any more than he did. I wound up being the top. It was ridiculous. I was barely even inside of him, pumping away as if my life depended on it. I was going at it as if I was drilling for oil and they forgot to tell me I was going about it all wrong. I picture being told “You’ll never get oil that way!”

After a bit, I just gave up. We then went to sleep. I went to bed that night with such mixed emotions. What I had dreamed about was happening. I had sex with a boy. It was exciting yet I had a lot of learning to do.

The next morning we woke up and I decided I wanted to fool around some more. This time I tried the whole blow job thing again. No one had ever taught me the birds and the bees. I learned what I could from TV, movies, and of course Madonna. When he came in my mouth I freaked out. I ran around the room not knowing what to do. That’s when I ran for the window and spit it out. Poor guy. I didn’t mean to offend, I just didn’t want that in my mouth!

So there I was, in the same week having sex with both a girl and a boy. My mind surely was made up that I preferred the latter. I still wound up having sex with four more girls before closing that chapter. I think that being raised as baptist, I figured that “the bible only says gays are going to hell, not bisexuals.”
So I claimed that orientation for quite a bit, more out of fear than anything.

In the years to come I would have many more encounters. Friend sex. Threesomes. Backroom sex. Internet hookups. Sex within a relationship. Drunken sex with guys I had just met that night at the bar. Sex with people I’d rather not admit I had sex with. Sex with guys who I couldn’t even remember their name. Even rape.

Making love was something that I really only knew from the movies and love songs. Sure I’d had it a few times. I think in a way I felt that I didn’t deserve that life. The fairy tale, happy-go-lucky sort of existence. Which is what leads us to our next part of the story entitled…

Celibacy (Stop this train… I don’t want to get off!):



After years and years of meaningless sex, I grew tired. Tired of wasting my time and effort. I was fucking myself numb…so to speak.

It was about a year ago that I decided I was going to become celibate. Such a mixed reaction came from those who knew me really well. Sex was like a word used in a description of me. I had taken great delight in my sexual conquests. I was always the one who would be the first to kiss and tell. I took great joy in making people squirm while I talked about my adventures.

When I made this decision, a lot of people thought I was nuts. People were placing bets on how long I would last. When I made this choice, it was to be for a year. I never got there. I made it 4 months. But the 4 months felt, at the time, as if it was torture.

It wasn’t just about finding meaning to the sex I was having. It was about finding a deeper sexual experience altogether. A “sexperience”,  if you will. A carnival of flesh and fantasy. A celebration of two bodies coming together for an awe inspiring passionate explosion. I was really tired of just fucking. You can only fuck so much, then you start to want more.

I even dated a guy during this period. He said it was fine. Knowing men as I do, I knew that it wasn’t as fine as he wanted me to believe. I myself don’t know if I could date someone who was celibate. I really had no business trying to date while wrestling with celibacy anyway. It’s like sticking a kid in a candy store and telling them they cannot have any of it. They will either go mad avoiding the candy or break the rules and eat it all till they get sick. I had my fill of sex and was feeling really sick myself.
That boy didn’t last long. I knew it wasn’t the right time to date.

During this period I really had to figure out not only how to abstain, but how to love me as well. I started to attempt to be in tune with my body and my soul. I think it’s good for you to just stop and take stock of everything every once and awhile. I really felt as if I didn’t have anything to offer. On the other hand, I felt like I hadn’t met anyone who had anything to offer either.

Now there seems to be a bit of a debate on the whole celibacy thing. There are some that feel like it’s not true celibacy unless it’s giving up all things in the realm of sex. They think not only should you give up sex, but give up masturbation, porn, etc..  There are others who just believe abstaining from sex with another person will do just fine. I was not giving up pleasuring myself, thank you! I may have given up meaningless sex with others, but meaningless sex with myself was ok. I wasn’t going to feel bad after that. Besides, my had knew what to do and didn’t argue with me.

At first I felt terrible that I didn’t reach my goal of a year. In a way I think I cursed myself. I told everyone what I was doing. When you do that it seems to put pressure into the mix. After a bit I made the decision that I was done with my sex strike. It all began to get to me. I wanted flesh. I’m not proud of breaking my sex fast. Mainly cause it would seem I went right back into where I started with the meaningless sex. Boy was this meaningless! Which leads us to our final part…

Completion (The end is only the beginning):



I hooked up with a guy I met on an internet “dating” site. I use the term dating loosely because it was more for sex hookups than anything else. So I drive out to meet this guy, get there and he’s not too bad looking. I then breathed a sigh of relief after holding my breath waiting for what was behind door number one. We sat to do the token small talk, which didn’t really last all that long. It sure felt like a million years.  All the while I’m nervous and on the inside I’m just wanting to get it over with. After four months I was about to explode.

He’s drinking with I thought was just water. Nope. It had some GHB (Gamma hydroxy butyrate)
 in it, which is in the roofie (the date rape drug) family. And no I didn’t drink anything he offered. When he had told me he was drinking that I cringed inside. I had tried it once. It‘s not pretty, and it can kill you. So I decide to make the first move, to get the show on the road. We make out and start getting all touchy feely. Then he starts doing poppers (amyl nitrite… which is sold at many a fine porn shop. You huff this and it gives you a rush. For me it gives me a rush for 30 seconds and a headache for an hour. Needless to say, I hate poppers!).

We then decided to move into the bedroom for the main event. He says he needs to have a little smoke before we fuck. I think “Thank god, pot! Finally something natural!” Nope. Now keep in mind… I’m on the bed with my back turned to him. All the sudden I hear what to me sounds like a blow torch. I let out a little bit of an awkward laugh and ask “What, prey tell, are you smoking?”
He then says “Oh, just a little meth!”

This, my friends, is the moment that I should have run screaming out the front door. I did not. By this point I was going to have sex. I did, but shouldn’t have.  He had these wild, cracked out meth eyes after he smoked it. I thrust myself in and out while watching the emptiness in his eyes. Just hoping to cum as soon as I could. I finished. Thank god. While putting my clothes back on I said “You know that’s bad shit, and you shouldn’t ever do that again!”

He just looked at me with those empty eyes and said “I know. It’s just that my sister just died and I’ve been having a hard time dealing with it. This helps me.” I really didn’t know what to say to that. I told him to talk to someone and that continuing to do that could kill him. I then said “Hate to eat and run, but I’m going now.” I don’t think I could have walked any quicker out the door. All the while I was wondering if he’d go crazy and snap. I didn’t think staying for a heart to heart seemed like the best thing right now.

It was then that I realized that it didn’t matter if I claimed celibacy or not. I needed standards, and I needed them bad. I needed to respect myself enough not to get myself into these situations. I used to describe my past sex life as “running through the ugly forest with my pants down and hitting every branch, twig, and stump along the way.” I didn’t want that anymore.

It was then that I decided to be picky. To make better choices. That’s not to say that I haven’t slipped and had a random hook up every now and again, but those are certainly less than in the past.
I’ve even turned down sex. It just doesn’t seem worth it unless there’s something to it. I don’t need to be in love and see stars to fuck someone (or have them fuck me… cause I’m versatile.) but if I’m going to ride the ride I at least would like some butterflies.

So now I hold out. Wait for something worthwhile. For now I know how to please myself, and I do a damn good job of it.
-N

community.livejournal.com/therealljidol/309164.html
photos of madonna by steven meisel and steven klein. i do not own the rights to either of these photos.

miscommunication...

I’ve always wondered is if it’s better to say what your feeling, even if you’re not completely understood. Or if it’s better to just not say anything at all. Either way I think it’s a bit of a failure. Miscommunication is really the best word for me I suppose. Never been to keen on the word “failure.”

There have been many times where I’ve not really said what I was feeling, even though I should have. I think that when I get in certain situations, I would rather not rock the boat. Call it doormat or call it complacent. I’ve tended to bury things rather than let them grow in the sun.

I think a lot of people do that. I also believe that what with technology, it has hindered us a bit more rather than bring us closer together. Many times we wind up expressing all our feelings in a text or a nice email. I’ve always been a phone person, or even better an “in person” person. I think it’s toughest when the other person can tell how you’re feeling. When they can either see it in your eyes or tell by the sound of your voice. When you take the time out to discuss something with someone you care about, and not to hide behind technology. I’ve been guilty of it in the past for sure.

One of the problems with text or email is that so much of it can be misread or misinterpreted. That just winds up blowing things completely out of proportion. I think we have just plain forgotten how to communicate. It seems as if they are only words. I could babble on for hours about anything, but unless my heart is in it… it won’t mean a damn thing.

I talked to a friend recently on the phone. My friend and I have known each other now for 20 years. She knows me inside and out, and vice versa. I was telling her about my writing and how I’ve gotten back into it. She has always loved my writing and been quite a great fan. I told her while I have written some good things, I feel like I really didn’t have much to say until recently. It was all words. Words flowing out. For so long I was dead inside (or at least that’s how I felt) and looking back it just comes across as being rather empty. That gets old very quickly.

One of the biggest places where communication has always been a bit of an issue is in the dating realm. I’m not always the best judge as far as someone’s body language. I don’t always know if someone likes me, and when they do I go into “self disbelief” mode. I also have a hard time with what guys say. I’ll go on a date and it will seem like it went swimmingly. Then I’ll never hear from them again. Left stunned because I thought we at least we’re going to have a second date. I never get the second date.

If the guys would just take the time to say they aren’t interested, or what have you, that would make things so very simple. Often times I jump on the phone and tell friends about the date directly after. We analyze what was said as if it was Nancy Drew or The Hardy Boys. I apparently have a failure to understand guys a lot of the time.

Dating in your thirties as a gay man has proved a bit daunting. Not only are you competing with the young twenty something twink boys, you’re also having to pay way more attention to things then before. You have to start practically analyzing everything in order to survive. It might work out better if you think of it as a game show. It basically is. Try your hardest to be bachelor number one. I think when you’re younger you don’t sweat the small stuff, but really it’s the small stuff that can make it or break it.

I went to dinner recently with a friend. Our waiter was very familiar. Turns out he worked at a Starbucks near my old job. We talked a bit and caught up. My friend kept telling me he liked me and I needed to jump on that quick. I kept telling her she was crazy, but all the while second guessing. He told me over and over how good it was to see me and that I looked great. It was the way he said “great” that started to make me wonder. There was a hug emphasis on the word. Like if it were typed it would be in italics and bold,perhaps even underlined

I left him my number and wrote next to it “We should hang out. Call me sometime.”
And did I hear from him again? Nope. In the end I do believe he was interested. I don’t get why he was hovering over me and falling over himself trying to talk to me, if he weren’t interested.
It becomes frustrating after awhile. So when it gets like that I stop trying.
I figure, if it’s not the right time, we’ll just end up confusing each other. Someone won’t understand something, and then things will explode and get all jumbled up. When it’s a sure thing it’s usually not that complicated. Usually.

I’m also not a fan of internet dating sites. It’s good for someone like me who is busy and doesn’t have all the time in the world to go “man wrangling.” I tend to want to meet guys in person immediately. I like to pull them into the real world as soon as possible. With the internet you can hide behind a character of sorts. You can’t always tell who is being real or not until you grow a pair and meet them. And even after meeting them sometimes you have a hard time discovering the real them.

In the end, my biggest problem with communication is really when things go unsaid but it is assumed that the other person knows what is going on. My perception is flawed, I’ll be the first to admit it. When my breakup happened, my ex begged me not to leave his life. I was frustrated and over it. I told him I was done and we couldn’t speak anymore. He pleaded with me on this one. Said I couldn’t do that to him. I agreed, mainly cause he was able to play me like a tuba. I say tuba cause it’s big and awkward… and after holding it for so long you want to run screaming from it. Unless of course you’re into that sort of thing.

Two weeks after I gave in, he just stopped talking altogether. No email. No phone. No nothing.
That is what pisses me off the most. It was as if he was trying to have his last say. To me it’s quite hard to have a last say if you’re not saying anything at all. In my opinion, and I have a couple, it’s a rather cowardly thing to do. Not a good thing to do to someone you said you love for almost 6 years. I, however, digress.

Communication has always been a huge thing for me. We cannot survive without it. If you are in a friendship or relationship and do not have the ability to communicate, then you need to learn how or become a hermit. Really it’s communication with everyone that’s important. Your mailman, a cop, your mother… hell even the neighbors dog. Learn how to speak. Open up and share. And for Christ’s sake… be clear when you do!

It will be ok.


-N

a place that can never be

I picked up the phone to call her. My fingers found the buttons to dial the number, but for some reason this time I paused. Here was a phone number I’d take to my grave. A number that hadn’t changed for years. Eternally etched in my mind. And here I am pausing to think what the next number was.
It was just then that it finally hit me. She’s gone.
No more late night gab sessions. Never again would I hear her laugh, her cries, and her advice.
In the final year of my mother’s life I had moved cross country to be with the man I loved. It’s now looking back that I shouldn’t have left.
My mother died of cancer, 7 years ago, on December 8, 2002.
People will always tell you how to grieve. How to act. How to mourn.
Death brings a lot of uncomfortable silence…and casseroles.
I’ve had a lot of moments in the last 7 years where I wish I could just call her up.
925-625-4346. Even now I remember it.
I just wish I could enter those numbers into my cell phone and she would magically be there waiting for me on the other end.
I joke with around with people, when they say they’ll call my mom. I just tell them “Great, if you get a number for her let me know. I’d like to talk with her.”
I originally wasn’t going to fly out when she was dying. I thought that there was no way in hell that I could handle something like that. This was my first experience with death. My father died when I was 2 but I have no memory of either his death or him at all really.
I remember the second to the last phone conversation. I asked if I should fly out and see her. She said she was fine and not to worry.
Course when the cancer was discovered she didn’t even tell anyone till she absolutely had to. I came home sick from work one day and she was home, which was odd cause it was too early. She had a bandage on her neck and I flipped out. She said it was nothing, just had a cyst removed. As if it was something as normal as cutting nails or hair. Just a little something removed. She was always putting on her game face.
Now the last phone call I couldn’t make sense of anything she was saying. I remember talking to my sister and she said it was up to me if I wanted to fly out. I had made up my mind that I wasn’t going. It was my mother’s friend who called me and said they got me a plane ticket and I was to pay her back ASAP.
She told me I had to come and that I was selfish and had always been and that I needed to do this for my mother. And maybe I was being selfish, but it was really about fear more than anything.
I took an extremely early flight. Barely slept that night. And the boyfriend, that amazing man I moved heaven and earth for and gave up the last year of my mother’s life, he couldn’t even take me to the airport.
Special.
I think it was around 11am when I was driving back to the house with my brother-in-law. Had to make a jack in the box pit stop however, they don’t have too many of those in the south.
When we got there she was in and out of consciousness. I just laid in bed with her and talked to her. I had no idea if she understood anything I was saying. I was telling stories of growing up. How when I was little I called her “Mommy Monster.”
All sorts of stories from the past. I was the last person she said anything to before she slipped into the coma. She told me she loved me like 4 or 5 times.
I had decided I was going to stay up the whole night with her. I wasn’t going to fall asleep only to wake up to find my mother had passed.
I went downstairs to the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. I was just starting to pour the water into the coffee pot when my sister-in-law ran down the stairs saying something like “Oh my god, Oh my god! Come quick! She’s dying!”
I dropped what I was doing, spilling the water everywhere. To this day I still think about that moment when I’m making coffee.
I ran up there to check things out and my sister went up with me. My brother was a hysterical mess and we had to shove him out of the room. We just watched and waited. I just went into this cycle. Watching my sister, watching my mother. Waiting. Her breathing was almost a gasp by now, as if it was a huge fight to take a breath. Then after awhile, nothing. She had stopped breathing and I think we were waiting for her to spring out of bed and shout “Gotcha!”
She didn’t however. I remember looking at the clock. 9:15pm. All of the t.v. shows and movies where they asked about the time of death, I was having a columbo moment apparently.
I stayed with her body for what seemed like hours. I think it was only 20 or 30 minutes in reality. I just held her hand and sat with her. It wasn’t nearly as creepy as I thought it would be. There was a stillness and a sense of peace in the air. That stillness was of course broken once the funeral home came to collect the body.
You see, my mother wasn’t the smallest lady ever. I don’t know if these guys were wimps or what, but me and my brother had to help carry our dead mother’s body down the stairs. That folks is single handedly the worst thing I’ve ever had to do in my life. All the while we are struggling, the funeral guys are saying “It’s ok, take your time.”
I just said “No. We’re gong to get her body downstairs and on that gurney. Then I’m going outside to freak out!”
And that’s what we did. I ran out back. My sister-in-law followed me out. She asked me if I was ok. I whipped around and screamed “I just carried my mother’s fucking body down the stairs! Do you think I’m alright?”
In a way it feels as if the child in me died with her. A lot changed after her death. Oddly enough my uncle was in town, just so happens. So he was able to say goodbye. We even changed the funeral plans around so he could attend his only siblings funeral. Well he skipped out the night before.
That night I tried to sleep. It was hard to sleep and my mind kept running circles. I was in a huge state of disbelief. I just remember that Christmas tree. My mother loved the color red, so all the lights on the tree were red. It’s normally quite a sight, but eerie seeing it from the next room. Just a red glow.
The night before the funeral there was a viewing. She looked so strange. Almost alien. It wasn’t my mother anymore. I remember thinking about the time when I was in grade school, and we were going over some vocabulary words. I specifically remember the word “Serene.” When she was trying to help me remember the word and it’s definition she would repeat over and over “Serene. Calm. Serene. Calm.”
That’s how she looked. Serene. Calm.
The three children were slated to deliver eulogies. I forget if it was my sister or my brother who went first, I just remember going last. Your brain travels to odd places in times like those. All I could think of was an interview with Cher on Larry King about Sonny Bono’s funeral. She said in order to not pass out while giving the eulogy she locked her knees and grasped the sides of the pulpit. And that’s what I did. I tried not to look at mourning and crying faces. I concentrated on the walls.
At the time I couldn’t wait to leave. I didn’t really feel like I had any support. I just wanted to go home to the boyfriend (ha, home. We didn’t even live together).
When I did leave I had a breakdown in the Atlanta airport. At the time I was living in Chattanooga, TN. I had a 3 hour layover. I didn’t want to deal with anymore of that. I wanted his arms and his support. I called him and told him I couldn’t deal and asked I he could come get me at the airport. These moments should have been a red flag. my mother just died but my boyfriend couldn’t even pick me up from the airport. So silly me, I took a cab.
It must have been a day or two later that I dyed my hair black. I have always colored my hair to fit my mood.
A few weeks later, on Christmas day even, I was fired from my job. The job that originally told me to take all the time I needed. The job that pretended to understand what I was going through, fired me. It was then that I went into a bubble. I just lost it. I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t function. I stayed with the ex for a few months. It seemed to help at the time. I was just afraid to be alone. In retrospect I think he couldn’t wait to be rid of me.
So in the end it’s not just a place that cannot be, it’s places. The place where mother and son meet. The place where I played as a child. The place in my heart for a man that didn’t deserve my love. For me it’s more of an emotional place.
Even though she is gone, I believe I’ve taken a bit of her strength with me. There is still a place in my heart where she lives, and that will never be destroyed.
-N

community service.... church style!

so i'm doing my community service... (long-ish story. i got a DUI back in October and am dealing with the fallout). the one place that i was accepted for community service was a church. it's going well. it's just major flashback city is all.
i clean bathrooms... set up chairs... vacuum like a mother fucker.... windows... etc..
i had to dig out the ipod from where it was buried (i don't use it that much anymore... and it's only 1 gig... i mean really, 123 songs... come on now!)
so i have to find ways of amusing myself during all this....
picture this if you will: i'm cleaning away, either vacuuming or doing bathrooms, and i have my headphones on... now my taste in music is all across the boards... well the song that comes on is "don't rain on my parade" by barbara streisand (i'm not THAT gay i just like a few of her songs is all, and i really like that one)... so i'm doing my cleaning thing, that comes on, and i belt it out. i don't know if anyone has heard me, but i'm not too worried either.
also there have been a few other songs that are a hoot to sing (yeah, i said HOOT, so sue me!):
"losing my religion" was fun, "like a prayer", don't have "dear god" on the ipod (i should add it).
after a few days i was asked what i was afraid was going to come. when i first called to hook myself up with the community service i had mentioned that my sister and family go to that church (which is completely true). i figured that was the end of it. i kind of want this to be a don't ask don't tell thing till i'm done... then i'll tell from here to kingdom come.
the guy i'm working with (he's some sort of director type person) asks me "so, i know you said your sister and her family come here... but i don't know what your background is or where you're attending."
insert a gulp and obscenely long pause...
"well i WAS raised baptist. went to christian school, and christian camp. don't really go anywhere now. last time i went to church was about a year ago to a catholic church for a funeral."
he just kinda looked at me for a bit. i think some people don't really know what to think of me or how to respond to some of the things i say. oh well!
then he says, "well you ought to think about coming some sunday."
i just did the whole "thanks. i will."
i shall think about it all day long but that doesn't mean i will. i might just cause they were nice enough to help me get all my hours and everything.
i have nothing against religion, it's just that whole "love the sinner hate the sin" part.
i was actually told on a number of occasions that "it's ok to be gay it's just not ok to act on it"
ummmm WHAT?!?
so i can think about fucking guys i just can't actually fuck them (or to be fair can't be fucked by them either.. cause i'm versatile and all. or was, but that's another story. haven't bottomed in years).
i just always feel so itchy in church.
i did manage to take some camera phone pics... some things i just found odd and had to share.
there was a soccer ball foam thing and it said "jesus is king" and apparently he loves soccer.
also there were classrooms that each had a cutesy name and one made me cackle. it said "rainbow chasers"
another classroom had a banner telling folks to get on the glory train and "jump on board for jesus"
and then there were the midget/little kids rooms with baby itty bitty tiny toilets, and the crazy hostage table for little critters.
i just remember the year before i came out to the south and about 2 years before my mom died, we grew closer and were able to joke about things. she accepted me in her own way. i would tell her i was going to the gay bar and she'd say "bring me back a lesbian!"
i should have just to see what she would have said.
i have such mixed feelings about the church and i'm sure could write an entire book on that subject.
i also remember my mother leaving pamphlets outside my bedroom door on those ex-gay places. she was just trying to help in her own way. i flat out refused and gave them back to her telling her in a kind way that she was crazy.
we used to have so many heated talks about religion.
when i moved out here to be with the ex, i told her "neither you, god, or anyone is going to tell me who i'm going to love!"
i believed that then and still do.

i leave you with the photos... by taking fun pics and singing gay songs i feel like i can make this experience my own. and i think god (or the goddess, buddha, alah, jehova, krishna, vishnu, etc.) is smiling with me. after all, they may say it all the time but not really believe or practice it.... GOD IS LOVE (and loves ALL of us too!)
-N

i'm back...

it's been awhile. i realize that no one is following this blog so it's ok. i'm about to the point where i'm going to share and expose myself (not in that way mind you!)... so here goes... get ready!