Unrealized sexuality: butch gay men
See more » Love and Lust
Back in Atlanta not long after my eighteenth birthday hanging out with the demimonde, though street trash is what the vanilla majority would call them. I met this man. He was as thickly muscled as anyone gets without becoming a pro bodybuilder. His harsh face suggested contempt for everybody I around him: that he was as likely to kick you aside as ask you to move. Young Richard was intimidated. As he should've been the man's livelihood was beating up drug dealers' deadbeat customers.
Intimidated and turned on.
I met the weightlifter a couple of years later. He was fresh out of prison, we met through at a restaurant I was hanging out at and freeloading off of (this was my lilies of the valley period: I neither toiled nor spun). He asked me if I'd like to sleep with him. To my surprise I said yes. I was surprised. Much of his appeal was a peculiar sort of ethical intensity that reminded me much of one of my best friends. We never managed it: one person or another kept getting in the way whenever we tried. Of all the sex I've never had I've always regretted the young weightlifter the most.
Half sounds like I'm contradicting almost everything I've written about my sexuality.
There've been big tough hairy men whose sexual charisma has excited me. The surprise is sometimes so sharp that I feel like I've slipped on some sexual banana peel and am about to trip and fall.
And I can appreciate the allure of big dicks. Though I've never been attentive enough in real life to know how hung is well hung. (It hit me the other day that I've written a few times about Mr. Penis and his fans and no one who ever commented ever confessed to caring about size. Should the pornographers be notified?)
But I've never had sex with one. When I was a young gay boy I slept with a healthy quota of vanilla gay boys. A few were well knit after the fashion of the surfer/swimmer stereotype. Not a one would've been called butch or were tops as they say nowadays.
Why no butch guy sex? Pardon me while I trot out my daddy one more time.
My daddy was as butch as men come: he was a revolting example of the highly masculine man. Unless, of course, you'd like to live with a man who goes into a rage when you cook beef on a day when he was wanting chicken. Or knocks your teeth out.
So I'm wary of masculinity. With a shameful pleasure in having gentle masculinity seen in myself.
Well, OK, masculine, even hypermasculine Tom of Finland men have their place in erotic mental space. But in my erotic imagination they just can't compete with, well, you know:
Nelly gay guys evoke extra-sexual or at least erotic-cum-emotional feelings in me. I have a weakness for seeming strong, protective.
When I was young, femme guys sometimes gave me a gleeful "Hi!" jumped into my lap and shoved their tongues down my throat. Would've things gone differently if a big hairy guy had yanked me into his lap?
I have wondered how my life would've gone if I'd been more open to butch gay men. I certainly do appreciate their erotic glamour. Some guys have wanted me to be the "total in charge top" but I can't see that an evening or hundreds on the other end of that would've diminished my life.
I could speculate that the masculine man would be more stable than the nelly queer. Really they'd have had their own failings, just a different exterior.
(The last in a sort of series. Except, being me, I'll have to write some sort of summary.)