The Free Thinker

Seven weeks. Forty-nine days. One thousand one hundred seventy-six hours...since I’ve had sex.

Oh sure, I’ve gone this long before. But I don’t think I’ve ever gone this long without trying. The more observant, homosexual and Canadian among you may notice that Montreal Pride was seven weeks ago.

Let’s just say that I did something...out of character. Something a lot of gay men do. But it wasn’t me.

I haven’t dwelled on the event itself, but it made me feel like such a nasty, carnal beast that I resolved to make myself feel human again. It worked.

But something unexpected happened. Going chaste seems to have *gasp* made me happier. See the thing is, sex can be great. But most of the time it’s awkward, or rushed, or sloppy, or just plain awful.

But I kept coming back for more. Because I went out, I took too much G, and suddenly getting laid seemed like a mission. But the truth is hunting down sex is fucking stressful. And with that stress out my mind I have the emotional energy to actually enjoy my life. There’s also some satisfaction that comes from knowing I’m in control of my hormones.

Not to worry gay world, I am far from done with intercourse. But it would seem that, for the time being, I’m done with random intercourse. If somebody really wows me I’ll go for it. But the bar has certainly been raised.

I look back on the people I’ve been with, and even the people I’ve wanted to date, and I wonder what the hell I was doing wasting time with those losers.

Screwed over once again by hopeless romanticism. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to head off to the gym. When the time comes to re-break my man-hymen I want to be ready.

Image courtesy of tim_d.

Alright so I broke my promise. I'm so sorry blogland. You just can't compete with summer.

But since today is a holiday in the US (where all our clients are), but not in Canada (where we are), I am at work...with nothing to do. What better time to get back in the groove? However, I'm going to stay away from the heavy stuff until I'm back in better blogging shape. I therefore bring you: the signs that I go to a gay gym.

Now just as there's more to being gay than really liking penis, there's more to a gay gym than having a primarily gay clientelle. No, the gay gym drips in gayness, even without any homosexuals present.

My gym is gay because:

• It has three calf machines that see almost no use, yet three ab machines and an ass machine that are in near-constant use. My last two gyms had neither ass nor ab machines.
  
• It has a hair gel dispenser and two handheld hair dryers in the change room.
  
• It has a separate women-only weight room to keep all the pussy out of the sausage party.
  
• The few straight guys that come always bring their girlfriends...and kiss them constantly to reinforce their heterosexuality.
  
• It is, quite literally, right behind Fly, the most gayest gay club evar.
  
• Everybody there is in really good shape. As if they bulked up at a "normal" gym first to prepare themselves.
  
• To work out there is to checked out non-stop...and to like it.
  
• The change room has ten showers with doors and one without. Guess which one gets used the most.
  
• Last month a bunch of posters went up trying to sell personal training sessions. The tag line: "Get in shape for pride!"
  
• Guys are constantly pulling up their shirts to check out their abs.

And finally:

• There's not a sauna, because, well, do I really have to explain this one? A gay gym with a sauna would soon end up being used as a discount bathhouse.

That's it for now folks. Let's hope I can get back in the habit!

A lot of my friends have been sucked into the Facebook black hole. Quite frankly, I find it merely okay. It's nice for screwing around for 10 minutes, but that's about it. Of course today it's been more interesting than normal. My Facebook inbox had a nice little note from some dude I don't know, who presumably messaged everyone in the Gay Toronto group I joined for no reason in particular. Take a look at this thing:

HOTEL PARTY REMINDER
OVER 100 FUCKIN HOT DUDES


Hey…we are having another party!!!! …this one will be at a downtown hotel….we are just finalizing the hotel and will let everyone know the hotel and location tomorrow……over 100 fuckin crazy hot horny guys…guys gone wild!!!!… The last house party was awesome, with over 40 amazing hot horny guys…this one over 100 guys…if you’re up for a fucking hot anything goes night this is IT…. We will see you at This Friday Night’s Party at 11:00 P.M.!!!!

GUYS…. BE REAL! BE 19 to 40, BE DECENT SHAPE (height/weight proportionate), BE COOL, BE FUN, BE OPEN MINDED & BE READY to bust loose & have fun...

Cool Fun hot crazy horny guys…gay, bi dudes hanging out, chilling, beers, drinks…420….and doing anything guys want to do….its up to you!

Always a good idea to bring anything you may want to drink. Have a few beers here for guys who didn’t pick anything up….

A great way to meet some real cool fun guys…get into some real hot man on man……THE HOTEL LOCATION WILL BE RIGHT IN THE DOWNTOWN CORE

We will send the hotel info, address, directions and all the details..........upon check-in on Friday around noon we will send out the actual room number or call our cell contact number for a recording with the room number….

See you on Friday for an unforgettable fucking awesome night!!!

Yeah I'm afraid I'll have to send my regrets. Blind dates are bad enough, but blind hotel orgies? Sounds like a scheme for a bunch of old overweight creeps to lure a few fit, naive youngins over, get them smashed, and pass 'em around. The relative unattractiveness of the host underscores the danger in attending such a sordid affair.

I'm extremely curious about the identity of the kind gent who's financing the hotel room though. And extremely sorry for the poor cleaning lady that will have to clean up after this thing.

This is why I reserve orgies for trusted acquaintances only.

* Just kidding, I really am more of a one-on-one guy. The ride may run frequently, but there's only seating for one.

I broke a promise to a close friend this week.

See, way back in the day Meaghan made me promise that I would never, ever date another Adam. I guess having her friend Ryan dating another Ryan was stressful enough.

I'm so sorry Meaghan. But he's just too hot. However, I will admit that it takes some getting used to. I'm usually one to say a partners name during intimate moments and, well, needless to say I won't be doing that in this instance. In my brain he sort of...has no name. And every so often I'll remember his name is Adam and consider how weird it is.

Anyways last night we had a date and it went pretty well. In fact, isn't this more likely to go well because we have the same names? That's like Harding's Law or something, right?

Having the same name led to a very cute event at dinner last night, at least. He was checking his phone, then turned it and showed me that he'd named me "Cute Adam" in the phonebook. Then I pulled out my phone and showed him that I'd named him "Hot Adam." It was quite the little moment.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to found a gay Garden of Eden. All we need now are a couple of Steves and a really hot straight guy to act as the forbidden fruit.

Image courtesy of Wikipedia.

Grinding is very accurately named. In fact, it's a lot like the picture on the right. Take something benign looking and put it through the grind, and the result is something nasty looking that nobody needs to see.

Now some of you might remember that it was scarcely a year ago that I scandalously took a trick I met at Stereo (who is now a close friend, incidentally) and essentially dry fucked him on the back stage. However, today I'm a more mature clubber and I'm here to tell you that it ain't right.

Now that I can actually dance worth a crap I'd much rather dance with a guy. And, truth be told, if he's got some good moves I'm going to be much more attracted to him anyways. If he grabs my waist and tries to pull me toward him he'd better be smoking, because that's two strikes right there.

Sometimes I can tolerate it. Grinding at Fly is just a fact of life. And at Pride, well, it's all about boys. But keep grinding out of my beloved Comfort Zone. It's a dancer's club people! It's not a pickup club. We don't need to see groping on the dance floor, let alone a five-person grind sandwich like I saw this past weekend.

I'm not even saying you can't have your fun at the Zone. Hell, there are seats and dark corners everywhere. I've been known to partake myself. Have at it.

But the Zone is a mixed club and you're giving our people a bad name when you act tactlessly. Why not show off some of our stereotypically impressive dance moves instead?

Image courtesy of Secretly Ironic.

As if you needed another reason to avoid Georgia, the U.S. Circuit Court of Appeals has upheld a Georgia law banning the sale of sex toys.

Seriously, what year is it in Georgia?

I mean even if you think it's gross. Even if you think it's reprehensible. Even if you think it's unbelievably wrong it's still a freaking waste of time to pass, enforce and uphold laws like this. Honestly, of all the societal problems we're battling right now, I'd have to say sexual depravity is pretty low on the list. Now I can't claim to understand the unique challenges facing this backwater bigothole. But I can tell you that getting between women and their vibrators ain't gonna solve 'em.

So now you're going to pay Georgia. I will not visit your state. I will not watch sports featuring your teams. I will not speak kindly about your southern hospitality. And worst of all, I will not travel via your beloved airport hub. Of course I've never done any of those things anyways, but thanks for keeping me on course.

First man to mail the governor a butt plug gets a hand job from me.

Sometimes all it takes is one juicy, beautiful, GENIUS quote to take an old issue and put it back in the spotlight. That's exactly what US congressman Gary Ackerman did yesterday in a comment about their military's "don't ask don't tell" policy that lets them boot gays out at will:

For some reason, the military seems more afraid of gay people than they are against terrorists, but they're very brave with the terrorists. ... If the terrorists ever got a hold of this information, they'd get a platoon of lesbians to chase us out of Baghdad.

Of course this quote spread across the Internet like wildfire. Personally I don't find the idea too too scary...until I consider what would happen when their cycles got in sync. Now that's a bloodbath. I don't even want to think about the PMS.

Underwear is a strange thing. Tantalizing, yet functional. Tawdry, yet universal. For most of my life I've considered underwear in a very pragmatic way, as the last line of defense between my goodies and the outside world.

In fact, when Tavy and I moved in together, we famously merged our underwear collections into a single pool. A lot of people found this objectionable. But logically, between any exchange there is a wash cycle, and as his live-in boyfriend I was clearly comfortable with his wang, so why not?

Unfortunately this influx of briefs allowed me get lazy. Truth be told, shortly before I met Tavy I went to Wal-mart and stocked up on budget boxers. These were the last underwear I purchased for nearly three years. Sure they got a little beat up, but as long as they were keeping everything hidden I really didn't care.

My how things have changed.

Last summer I started to realize just how important nice underwear is in the Toronto scene. In Ottawa it wasn't nearly as big of a deal. But here, not only to people see more of your underwear (should you choose to remove your shirt), but they seem to place a lot more importance on it as well. Also, tight-fitting briefs are essential for successfully smuggling goodies into your venue of choice.

Now instead of underwear acting as a rarely-seen tool to keep the horse in the barn I look forward to throwing on a nice pair of underwear for a night on the town.

As a result, I've gone from spending nothing on underwear to spending most of my meager clothing budget on them. In fact, I haven't been able to find the cash to make a meaningful investment in my wardrobe since the summer. The shirt I wore for New Year's was in fact a cute little number I picked at Value Village. It went great with my thirty dollar undies:

$30 for underwear. This is a personal record for me. But I challenge you to look at them without smiling. The only way they could be better is if they had a target on the ass.

Besides, they serve an important purpose. When you think about it, underwear is a lot like the curtain in a theatre. It hides the good stuff until it's time for show to begin. If you saw a tattered curtain, wouldn't you wonder if it was worth staying through the second act?

Did you ever get off the subway at Wellesley and get the feeling that everyone on the train is thinking "I knew he was gay!"?