DaveCullen.com
                       HOME       COLUMBINE       BIO       WATCH       STORIES       BLOG      

                       — Conclusive Evidence of My Existence —

So I had this three-way last weekend . . .

And the third person is relevant, for reasons I'll explain in a minute.

I'm not sure this is an appropriate topic for a blog, but the whole purpose of this thing is to bare my soul and just express whatever it is about life that seems perplexing or illuminating. At least I thought it was--I seem to have drifted off into a lot of quickie stuff on more superficial topics. Oddly enough, the sex entry feels like the serious one.

Hmmmmm. Why should that be odd? We sure do have some fucked up notions about sex.

So this is your warning. This will get graphic, but only where necessary to describe what the hell I'm trying to say. Here, I'll keep it off the homepage, click below to read the rest of it:

moremoremore -- read the rest.

(If you're already on the separate page where additional copy follows, no clicking is required. I hope that wasn't too confusing, but I thought I'd let you see exactly how I put it on the home page. Those fraidycats who refused to come here didn't get any of the good stuff.)

So I wasn't sure about this three-way, because it was Saturday night at the big decadent three-day party in Aspen and I was so freaking worn out from Friday and there were beautiful men all around me--and smart successful ones too, all inside the same people--so I was very much the candystore kid, and my usual indecisive self about who I wanted to go for and . . .

Wait a sec. That sounds like I've been the slut king lately. Truth is, since my breakup in May, I think I've only had sex with one other guy--because I only count it if I come, and I've had this strange string of aborted encounters where I don't. And aside from my trips to NY and LA and Aspen, I've been pretty much a window shopper. Just been having fun dancing, once or twice a week and maybe picking someone up one out of eight times. But the possibility of going home with someone, that can be intoxicating.

So that's where I was, not expecting to hook up with anybody, but kind of itching to since I hadn't in so long.

And then out of nowhere, this hot young thing accosts me. It's kind of blurry, but he must have danced with me, but I think he propositioned me pretty quickly and pretty boldly. But the deal included his boyfriend, who seemed like a nice guy, but I wasn't really into him.

But what the hell. This kid--25, maybe? I could have been way off, but seemed really young for me. I'm 42 and rarely go five years out of my age group. That's who I'm most attracted to, and frankly, they tend to have a lot more to say. Where was I? Young. Hot. Why not?

I went back to their place, and kid was too coked up to get it hard, and I was too tired for much of a showing, but we had a blast anyway. I've never been obsessed with genitalia--they're great, but so much more to the body than that. And I love kissing and hugging, and holding and squeezing, and . . . It was just great. And surprisingly, I ended up having more fun with the boyfriend than the hottie, though they each played a different role.

Most of all, it just felt so incredibly good to be surrounded. Once we wrapped things up for the first round, we curled up all around each other, with me in the middle and took "a nap" (from like 6 a.m. to 7 a.m.), and I never realized just how lonely I felt until I nestled in with two people all excited to hold me, surrounded on more or less all sides.

(This is the part where I'm supposed to acknowledge how that's no answer to loneliness though, and if I thought it was bleak before, just wait to the feeling the next morning when I was all alone. Please. Go visit someone else's blog if you're looking for that. I felt fantastic the next morning. I'll readily admit that it's no long-term solution: I'll continue feeling lonely sleeping alone 29 days a month and having no real sweetheart to curl up with on the couch or when I fall asleep. But it sure does make things better in the meantime.)

Hennyway, all that's just prologue. The boy left the room for maybe half an hour toward the end of it to get a smoke and some air and who knows what outside. And I felt a little awkward because I was suddenly alone in bed with someone I had no interest in being naked with, but the weird thing is, that was the best thing. In one way, anyway. He was sweet and slow and soulful and that's the only time I got hard. Really hard, for a long time, and it was sweet, though not completely satisfying, because I was thinking about the other guy the whole time--picturing him, actually--and yet by far the most arousing.

When the youngster walked back in, I noticed myself get excited and at the same time a little . . . unnerved? Apprehensive? Because I sensed the moment he walked through the door that my hardon was gone for the "evening."

That penis. Great little barometer of everything going on below the surface. No fooling that guy. I was so turned on by this kid and yet . . . my dick kept telling me he (it) was not interested.

He liked it rough. (He the kid, not my dick.) Not whips and chains rough, but headlock rough, full-nelson rough, throw each other around the bed, pin each other down, and punch each other in the chests rough. Once he woke up from the nap, he got really hard, really rambunctious and really rough.

I used to love that shit. Thought I still did. Pretty sure I still do. Maybe not in isolation. I think I like it more as contrast.

I like it a lot, just not so relentlessly. I need it tender too, and these days it better be more than 50/50 on the tender side.

80/20? I don't know what my last boyfriend did to me. For those of you who are new here, I spent six tumultuous years with him, on and off, and we sure had our problems, but I sure did/do love that boy (39-year-old boy), and he sure did change me.

I think I know why I haven't come with almost anybody since him. They're not him, and I'm not in love with them. (Those are two different things, aren't they. I'm not sure which. Both, but one probably much more than the other and I really haven't a clue which. Not yet.) I don't want to get so tangled up I'm lost in their arms, their eyes, their soul.

Sex used to be 90% about domination for me. I always had to be on top. The tougher they were the better, cause then I got to be tougher than a tough guy. I still love to wrestle for it, but it just can't be the main course anymore. It was so weird looking into this guy's eyes last weekend. He was so fucking intense, he wanted so badly to take it to the mat with me--and I was too worn out from Friday to bother, but not finding the same thrill there anyway.

Now I have to clear one thing up. I liked it. I really liked it. It was kinda wild to experience, but even as it kept happening, and my dick completely checked out, I just wanted to pin him down and yell, "Hey! Hold me for awhile and slide softly back and forth against me like your boyfriend did, and then try to pin me, preferably when I least expect it."

That's another weird thing about three-ways: you're outnumbered. One on one, I probably would have (spoken up). But with two other people, who must run the same drill every weekend, I just didn't have the confidence.

Or maybe I felt like a big old weanie. I'm old. I want to be held. Heeheehee. Half and half, I guess.

But I kept lying there--and I was mostly just lying, definitely the lazy partner, but it was 8 a.m. by the end of this--and thinking, where is the tenderness? (Now I've got that General Public song running through my mind: "Where is the tenderness? Where is the tenderness? . . .)  This could be so fucking hot--well it was hot, but so fucking wonderful--with just a little dash of tenderness. Or preferably a whole lot more.

I'm not sure what I want to say, or what I want to figure out, exactly. Hope this hasn't been too disappointing. I realized about halfway through that I wasn't really ready to write this. Not ready to complete it, anyway. It's been a week and it has been tumbling around and around in my head and I am getting better about the writing instincts, because it's like a dryer with a built-in buzzer sometimes now. The buzzer went off about 30 minutes ago, and it was suddenly exactly the time to spill and start solving on paper ("paper"). Luckily I've gotten smart enough to dash for "paper" and do it. Oddly enough, it reared its head in the middle of that Real World. Oh, not so odd. Maybe this is info you should have. I was watching an episode very much centered around CT, the one where his girlfriend comes to visit, and he was hot and cold and sweet and wonderful and mean and angry, and I had this sudden urge to write about all my intensely conflicted feelings about him, but before I could get to my computer, the other stuff started spilling.

So I wrote about this awhile, got halfway through, wrote the shallow entry on Real World posted right before this, posted that and returned to this. So that's how it happened.

I wasn't ready to solve this thing--I'm not sure I've even made it clear what the thing is I'm trying to solve, but if I knew that I would be finished, don't you get that? But I was ready to start. Time to throw it down onto paper and start making sense of it.

I'm just kind of confused. Is this a good thing?--being unaroused by sexual violence and a hot package without the tenderness to go with it? Mostly, I think. That last wonderful boyfriend finally taught me how to love, and ruined me for sport sex forever. I'm older now, and the sex is much more fulfilling, but I guess I'm mourning the thoroughly rambunctious part I might have left behind without realizing I had cut it loose. Scary to lose it. Scary to be old. And be a little less turned on by the bad boy I always wanted to be.

Or was I just too damn tired to wrestle back enough to enjoy it? That really might be all it was. The previous night, when I was brimming with energy, I know what would have happended: I would have wrestled him down--he was smaller and lighter, but surprisingly strong--and fucked his brains out. I know what would have happened, but not how I would have felt about it. Would everything have been wonderful, and no questions raised? Or the exact same reaction, all the same questions?

I don't know. Regardless of the circumstances, I think I'm afraid about growing old, afrad of being back on my own, and weirded out finding myself in such a different place than the last time. I'm really not sure what my body wants anymore, less sure what my heart is after. (In terms of sexual encounters, I mean.)

But it's Saturday night, and I'm about to grab my first drink, hop in the shower and head out to clubland, so I guess I'll let you know.

And wasn't that a subtle way of also indicating that I wrote this stone cold sober. I imagine a few of you were wondering. Not drunk, just confused. Troubled? Not dangerously, or even very uncomfortably--much more troubled by what has not been in my life lately--but yeah, I think that's the right word. I'm troubled. As always. So thanks for listening.