It seems like everybody goes to the gym now.
Gay men, anyway.
Seems like every time I meet someone new who is gay, at some point I get asked what gym I go to.
At first I was flattered by it, thinking it was a compliment. But I have come to realize in the gay community it’s just one of those questions you ask. Like when Southerners ask what church you go to.
I play basketball, though.
That and a being naturally skinny have kept me in decent shape.
I tried the gym for a while several years back. But it just wasn’t me.
The act of picking up heavy things, putting them down, then picking them up again for no reason1 bores me to tears.
I’m no stranger to labor and heavy lifting. But it’s got to be for a purpose.
The five gallon buckets need to go to the second floor, for example.
I’m the same way about running.
The Attorney runs several miles most every day.2
And I think, “Why? What’s chasing you?”
Something like running with the bulls, I get.
Well, actually, no. I get running from the bulls. You better run or you’re dead.3
Although it seems a bit foolish to me to put yourself in their path in the first place.
I guess many people find basketball equally pointless.
But it’s a game. So, it’s fun.
And getting in shape is a side-effect.
Most of you know I have always wanted to have meaty chest and an ass.
Not a huge amount in either case. Just enough that I don’t basically disappear when I turn side ways.4
All the running and jumping in basketball still hasn’t give me an ass. It’s probably just not in the cards for me. So, I should just let that dream go.
But, basketball, itself, doesn’t give you pecs.
Which is why I’m thinking of joining a gym.
I’m less than 18 months from hitting 40.5
I figure the window of opportunity to be able to fill out one of my T-shirts is starting to close.
Or maybe I just ask The Attorney for implants for my 40th.
It won’t surprise anyone that my sleep number is 4. ((If it’s chilly, maybe the top half of 2.))
I just realized that tonight is basically an anniversary night for me and the Attorney.
Is it bad that I just realized? As far as I know, he isn’t aware either.
We had our first proper date on the third Friday night in January, 2007.1
The date was actually the 19th, but since Friday is sort of our regular date night, I’m counting the anniversary today.
The timing is sort of perfect because we haven’t seen each other in about two weeks and I’m getting restless.2 And we have plans tonight.
I’d like to say I have a fourteen-day load waiting for him. But I can’t go that long without flushing the pipe. I did once go 10 days on a bet, but I will never put myself through that again.
I was ready to kill someone.
With my cock.
So, he will have to settle for the seven-year pitch in my britches.
We’ve definitely had our ups and downs3, struggles and triumphs.
And will continue to.
I’ve said before that we are a pretty unconventional couple.
But somehow it continues to work.
And after all these years, he doesn’t have to make much of a pitch to get me to pitch.
I’m ready to take the mound.
Here’s an excerpt from a post I wrote about our first date on my old blog:
After the movie we went to get some beer and pizza. The food was good and the conversation was, too. I was remarkably relaxed and had a good time. I think I feel a certain comfort with him because we are similar. We’re both kind of socially awkward; he grew up in the country; we both like basketball; and his ears are even bigger than mine.
He wanted me to go home with him, but with Granny I can’t do overnights. And I had already been with him about four hours, so I needed to head back home. We did sit in the truck and talk a little bit longer…and even played a little bit. Nothing more than a little hands in the clothes action. Mine in his shirt, his in my jeans. What can I say, I like chests, he likes cocks and we’re both pretty meaty in our respective areas.
What’s going to come of all this? I don’t know. But, I did let him have my number this time. That’s something I almost never do.
I’m glad I did.
Ninety-nine is greater than Sixty-nine.
Mathematically, a fact.
Sexually, an opinion.
I realize that a nine backed up to a nine, sexually, is really doggie-style (with penetration) or spooning (without).
But I prefer both to sixty-nine.
In fact I don’t like sixty-nine at all.
Now, I don’t sneeze at opportunity to have my pecker in somebody’s mouth. But, when I do have my pecker is somebody’s mouth1, it’s hard to concentrate on somebody’s pecker in my mouth.
You can do me. Then I’ll do you. And you can do me again if you want.
But at the same time?
I just can’t multitask in that situation.
All my thoughts and energy fly south with the rush of blood.
And what about the visuals?
I’m big on visuals. I like looking at whatever is going on between us.2
I like to see those lips stretched.
How can I gently brush away the gag-induced tear from the corner of your peepers if I can’t look you in the eye?
During sixty-nine all I can see is inner thigh hair and maybe a touch of taint.
Not exactly a stunning view.
I want to be able to give my full attention.
And expect yours in return.
I don’t even think I could manage to write my name while getting head.3 Please don’t expect me to be able give you good service.
It’s like a good conversation. It doesn’t work very well when everybody tries to talk at once.
Let’s just leave it at simple give and take.
Not give and take and take and give.
I’d rather not go that route.
I’ve been reluctant to tell this story because I never want to paint Granny in a bad light.
But the facts of life is that you take the good with the bad, right?
Getting Granny out of the house is a struggle anymore. It’s pretty much doctor visits and occasionally a ride-along to the drug store.
But, a few days after Christmas she got it in her head that she had to go to the dollar store.
I asked her what she needed so bad.
I’m glad she cleared that up for me. I thought maybe she wanted “stuff.”
So we shuffle around the dollar store for almost half an hour.
Well, she shuffled while I forced myself to simultaneously slow down and not slit my wrists.
Most of the “things” she picked up were trial-size versions of “stuff” we already have.
But, she was out and about. That was what was most important.
There is a nail salon in the same strip mall, so I thought she might enjoy a manicure, or at the very least some clear nail polish on her fingers. Something to make her feel pampered.
She resisted at first, but finally caved.
Until we got there.
Everything was okay until the woman running the place switched from speaking English to us to speaking what I suppose was Korean to the others there.
I think it was because they all started talking so fast and this cacophony of sound erupted among them. But, it freaked Granny out. She gripped my arm with more strength I have seen out of her in a decade and demanded we leave.
So, I apologized to the salon lady and said we needed to go.
She was as confused as I was.
I hope she wasn’t aware that it was the language shift. But I was sure it had something to do with it.
Granny confirmed it when we got in the truck and asked her what was the matter.
She gave a response1 that, to say the least, was completely politically incorrect and possibly a little racist.
I was shocked.
I have never seen anything remotely racist out of her in all my 38 years. In fact, she has always been very outspoken against racism. Especially to be a woman of a certain age living in the South.
But, she didn’t like them not speaking English. Not one bit.
It made no sense to me.
A couple of years ago, she had a nurse’s aide that worked for us for over a year who was of Chinese heritage. Granny loved him.2 In fact, she took it very hard when he got engaged and moved back to Boston.
Now, before you jump my shit, I know that Koreans and Chinese don’t speak the same languages. But to an untrained or inexperienced ear, Asian languages sound a like. So I wondered why the trip to the nail salon had bothered her so much when from day one she never had an issue with Sam.
Granny is nothing if she is not stubborn. She got her back up that I would question her.
“He didn’t talk that way around me,” she snapped. “He knew better.”
I guess I should, too.
That’s a fact.
This is Nikola Tesla.
According to Wikipedia, he was a Serbian American inventor, electrical engineer, mechanical engineer, physicist, and futurist best known for his contributions to the design of the modern alternating current electricity supply system.
A reader sent me this photo.
Said it looks like me.
Kinda, I guess.
There are similarities.
Especially the big nose, big ears, dark features.
And our faces are sort of shaped the same.
I found out this picture is from 1890. Which would put Tesla at about age 34. Four years younger than I am now.
Reading up on him, turns out we have other similarities.
He was tall and skinny.
Didn’t sleep much.
Sort of my fancy pants doppelgänger.
But, we have one obvious difference:
He was a genius.
Apparently he was also celibate his entire life.1
So, our brains are in totally different places.
The universe threw Telsa in my path again this morning when I stumbled across this photo:
I can really see much more similarity here. We have pretty much identical builds.
Looks like he could match my size 14s.
Plus, if he was a swimming instructor, we’re both strong swimmers, too.
It’s getting weird.