NY Mirror

I recently wrote about the sharp rise in my sexploits in the wake of an emotional crisis and described how my newfound accessibility and craving for human contact had me suddenly swatting off guys like drosophila. People responded to the write-up with bravos, warnings, and condoms, while begging for a richly detailed follow-up.

Well, it's time for one because that was just the tip of the ding-dong, honey. I already discussed the three-way in the chapel of Avalon, but let me remind you that it all started when a photographer coaxed a handsome man to unleash his trouser pipe, leading to much (safe) cavorting and mayhem—and I helped!

I thought that was a fluke, but it was actually just an opening ceremony. Running around clubs with an open approach—and fly—not to mention a Neurontin prescription, I was suddenly getting attention and picking up on it rather than trying to find ways to make a chastity belt look chic, like back in the crotch-rot days. Not long after the Avalon incident, I found myself at Happy Valley in a me sandwich flanked by two other appealing slices of gentleman toast. One—a tall guy with a sweet face and a nose ring—was smashed and all over me like a sample-sale suit. The other one—a cute, wispy thing—kept buying me Cokes and flattering my jacket, a Thriller-type '80s number that demanded to be noticed. Suddenly I was backed into the wall by the tonsil hockey skills of this Olympic-caliber duo, and though I felt a little like JODIE FOSTER in The Accused, you can't exactly rape the willing, can you?

Later that night, the wispy one was so insistent we stay in touch that he wrote his number on my hand, where it still happens to be carved. The other one kept tonguing me in between pleading, "I love you! Please don't hurt me, Michael!" Me hurt him? He'd ended up with his arm tightly wound around my neck, and I felt as if I were going to be strangled by the wrong Mr. Right. I gently released myself and slipped out the door, intoxicated by the experience but not about to take things to the next, messy level.


Trinidad and toboggan
How could this be happening? Maybe because, thanks to Vitamin E oil, I read younger than I really am? "And it's dark in clubs," as a friend so nicely suggested. Whatever the case, I must have still been sporting a scarlet letter D for "Doable" because the next week at Duvet, a pretty Caribbean queen impulsively joined me on the dancefloor, rubbing his leg up and down mine like a dog, so I could feel his hanging penis. It made the above-mentioned appendage seem like a spaghetti strap by comparison. At one point, the dude playfully put his cap on my head, obviously so he could later say, "Let's trade. You give me back my hat and I'll give you my number." And he did—though it turned out the business card he handed me was actually someone else's! Oh, well, I needed a humbling experience—and maybe the guy whose card it was wanted some action, right?

In the meantime, there was plenty more a-comin'—in fact, when it rains, it whores. At Happy Valley again, my striped outfit got noticed by an exotically handsome guy—the clothes-as-icebreaker gambit works every time—so we bonded and danced, in between him purchasing me some very fizzy sodas. He strangely introduced me to his "boyfriend," but that was all forgotten when he boldly reached into my pants and exclaimed, "Come on, let's go home! You're so hot!" I was flattered, but was still afraid of intimacy and terrified that someone who thinks I'm attractive must be ready for a series of lobotomy needles. Once again, I snuck out, albeit on a cloud made of vaporized ego juice.

Clearly I was enjoying all the attention and the playing around for an audience, while wanting to protect myself from anything too real like actually having relations. But there were ramifications to this skittish-Casanova routine. When I ran into the exotically handsome guy two nights later at Duvet, he was friendly but I could swear he looked a tiny bit wounded. So now I, the troll of ages, was actually a gigantic heartbreaker? Fantastic! I must admit that knowing I suddenly had the power to hurt people gave me a distinct rise. Maybe I could finally get back at menfolk one by one for all those years when I was rejected? Alas, I'd probably be punishing myself in the process.

So I kept seeking thrills, and back at the Kurfew party at Avalon, a shirtless clubbie did an unsolicited lapdance for me, his ass smack up in my face as I gasped for air. Once I made it to freedom, I was introduced to a cute guy with green hair, whom I naturally asked, "Are you a top or bottom?" "A bottom," he blithely responded. "Guys fuck me for hours and it's so annoying. It's like, 'Come already!' " Bummer. We ended up corresponding by e-mail—he seemed like a literate enough type—and we were going to meet up at Happy Valley, but the dork canceled, saying he needed to work on his career instead. Maybe he was afraid I'd be a delayed ejaculator. Maybe he didn't realize I like to be the one doing the rejecting nowadays.

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