FickstutenMarkt

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Ghost

There's been lots of talk about the phenomenon of ghosting, when you avoid directly breaking up with someone simply by fading away or ignoring him. I am guilty on multiple counts. I'm terrible at saying I don't want to see someone again.

I have to wonder, though, at what stage in the "dating" the disinterested party becomes a ghost, rather than it being the other party's inability to take a hint. Say you have a couple of dates with a guy and then decide the sex isn't so great and that he isn't much of a conversationalist either, so when he texts you again and you don't respond in time for the weekend, shouldn't that send a strong signal?

If it were me waiting to hear back, I'd drop it. I let people know I'm interested, and if they don't respond, I move on. Someone else, and I'm drawing from actual experience here, might decide to keep texting. And if no response, he hits me up on Scruff, and Grindr, and BarebackRT in what appears to me to be mounting desperation. Coming at me from multiple angles does nothing but annoy me.

So yeah, I suppose I ghost guys, but in the case above, was it even fair to say we were dating?

Flake

Now that my sexual life is almost totally dependent on online services and mobile apps, I'm having to come to terms with how unpredictably people behave. For my part, I am very reserved about hooking up. I need stats and a representative selection of pictures, I need to have a few words of conversation with a potential partner before I will commit to meeting. This is mostly to protect myself. I'm not a large person and I'm now in my mid-40s. In other words, I'm becoming a mark.

To some people, this caution equates to flakiness or game playing, but you can be assured that if I say I am ready to meet, I am ready to meet. And if we agree on a time and a place, I will be there.

Contrast this behavior with what I've been experiencing, largely from younger men.

• The younger, hotter guy who trades pics and compliments and then vanishes as soon as I say I'm interested.
• The guy who, after I invite him over, replies two hours later that this phone died.
• The guy who abruptly stops trading messages when things start to heat up and then writes back two days later as if there were no interruption at all.
• The guy who wants to get together right now but has no pics and a blank profile.
• The guy whose profile says, in no uncertain terms, that he wants only HIV- partners yet hits me up for sex.
• The guy who gets pissed when I point out his behavior is unacceptable, insults me, and then blocks me.

I should confess I don't handle these situations as calmly as I could. Two of these scenarios occurred just last night, and I was completely out of patience. If I hadn't been so tired, I probably would read them to filth over their immaturity, but instead I just went to bed. More and more, I'm finding that going to bed, even alone, is the only way to handle flaky online communication.

Moving

Much as like the MTA euphemism that inspired this blog title, it has taken me longer to get moving that I might have liked. The last few years have been challenging, if not exactly busy, and writing hasn't been something I've felt like doing. Recently friends have encouraged me to blog again. (I'm not sure if they know about this one, as I meant it to be secret, but I'm bad a keeping my own secrets.) Anyway, I'll think about it.

Women

I've noticed that in US gay bars, it is more and more common to find women hanging out with their gay friends. I think I'm witnessing a generational shift. Just a few years ago, it was unusual to find even one woman at a gay bar in New York. Last night, I did a bar crawl with a visiting friend. We went to five bars in Midtown West and the East Village, and every one of them was full of women. I was shocked.

I struggle with this because—I won't even try to hide it—I don't want to socialize with straight women in gay bars. I worry, however, that this is the attitude of a gay misogynist dinosaur. The price gays are paying for greater mainstream acceptance is the loss of our counterculture. Some find this acceptable, but I'm uncomfortable with it. I can, and do, interact with women everywhere else. I'd like to have a few places where I can be with just men, but it looks like there will be fewer and fewer of those.

Last Sunday, there was one very drunk and very deluded woman walking around at New York's one and only cruise bar in a bra and braces. She went into the men's room and started whining about how she was gay man trapped in a woman's body and was offended because no one at the bar wanted to talk to her. Really, honey? You're hanging out half naked in the men's room of a gay bar and feeling lonely? Try taking a walk down the street. You'll make lots of new friends.

Finally, I couldn't take anymore of her whining—she wouldn't leave the bathroom—and I shouted out over the stall wall, "You're not welcome here for the same reason men aren't welcome at the ob gyn: we don't belong there!" And then I asked security to make her leave. This was an extreme example of the trend, I'll grant, but it shows there are no exclusive gay bars left in New York, or possibly anywhere. I'm not happy about this.

Yellow

Over the weekend I managed to tackle a painting project I'd been dreaming about for years. My previous roommate had taken some paint purchased by his previous roommate and painted the hall near the entrance. It was a toxicly bright yellow, and every time I walked in the door I wanted to change it. After this year's endless winter relented and we finally had a full weekend without rain, I fixed it, by extending the living room's color. I think it makes the room look bigger.

Bust

The Berlin trip was kind of a bust. I can't blame Berlin. The weather was perfect: six days of sunny warm days and cool nights. The problem was me sleeping past noon every day and not feeling especially inspired to do anything. Maybe an April trip was too soon after my December visit, or maybe the difficulty I have eating well over there just left me worn out.

I'm planning to go back in September, as in, I've already booked an apartment and bought a plane ticket, but I'm really thinking I should save the vacation days, and cash, and do something else. Like saving the money.

Yeah right. Almost as soon as I starting thinking of canceling the September trip, I started thinking of what else I could do that around Labor Day. Southern Decadence comes to mind. If there's one thing I can say about New Orleans, it's that I will have no trouble finding something to eat. I almost did this trip back in 2008, but a hurricane changed my mind and I went to the Folsom Street Fair later that September instead. It's a pity Southern Decadence always falls in hurricane season, but it sure keeps the hotels and air fares reasonable.

I should give myself another week to think about this, but I dread the thought of another trans-Atlantic trip anytime soon.

Packing

A friend talked me into going to Berlin for Easter. I'll fly the Atlantic for any excuse nowadays, so it took little persuasion. It's fascinating how different cultures honor the Resurrection in their own way, and the Berliners' approach, I can appreciate.

The hardest part of a trip to a big fetish event is the packing. Whatever else one might say about such occasions, there is no question costume changes are a huge part of it. Mix the rarity, for some of us, of opportunities to wear our gear with the naturally queeny inclination not to be seen in the same outfit twice, and voilà: overstuffed suitcase. Leather is heavy, especially the boots, and if you want to avoid heavy luggage fees from the airline, some editorial selection is necessary.

I don't fly until Tuesday night, but as I'll be busy with work Monday night, I started packing already. I've been at it for an hour, and not a single item has made it to a suitcase yet. First I arrayed all the gear on my bed: tops, bottoms, accessories. Then I put away the impulse buys I never wear but still like to look at. I check the event calendar and ask, will I need more than two outfits of latex? Should they be street legal? Will I have an occasion to wear this neoprene singlet, and if I do should I bring my wrestling shoes, which I would not otherwise wear? Will three pairs of leather slacks be enough, or too much?

And then there's cotton. For some reason no matter what I pack for, I always bring two or three times more t-shirts than I need. This time it should be easier, because my favorites are from Berlin, but I have this rule about not wearing bar or shop t-shirts in the city where I bought them, because then it's not special, so I have a smaller selection to tempt me.

As important as the fetish gear is, having comfortable clothing is also key, for daytime tourism. Translation: bring a lot of jeans and top layers. Doing this reminds that I've more or less given up on mainstream stylishness, except for work, and it's a little depressing. On the other hand, t-shirts and jeans are a timeless look for a reason.

I'd better get back to it. I haven't even determined if a trip to the laundromat will be necessary this weekend. Sigh.

IML?

I've made plans to attend International Mr. Leather in Chicago once again this year, but I'm thinking of skipping it to save money. I have a feeling if I go I'll have an okay time but wonder why I've chosen to spend Memorial Day Weekend holed up in a crowded hotel in downtown Chicago. If I don't, I'll probably wish I were there, but at least I'll be $1200-$1500 richer. (It's not possible for me to do it any cheaper, not with the constant temptation of the vendor market.)

Why is it these days everything I do requires a decision about spending money? It was easier to justify expenses like this when it only meant going deeper into debt, but now that I'm flush, it's about ending 2011 with $x in the bank or $x-1200 in the bank. What would Suzie Orman do?

Telecommuting

I've been working at home a lot lately. My job has evolved to where it is 70% web-based workflow, so there are few technical reasons for me to be in the office and fewer reasons still pertaining to coworker interaction, as my team is geographically dispersed.

I've been enjoying the freedom of it. There's nothing like waking up at 8:00, booting up the laptop, and being on the job at 8:30 while still in my robe sipping coffee. I'm also cooking for myself more, which is nice and healthy, but I'm getting tired of frying things.

There were points when I thought there were simply too many distractions to work at home, namely the TV. During the uprising in Egypt, I was glued to CNN an entire afternoon when I ought to have been working. But the novelty of TV at work wore off, and CNN's incessant coverage of right-wing lunatics made switching the boob tube off an easy decision.

My company offers the option to work full-time at home. I can't imagine wanting to do this in July or August, in my un-air-conditioned apartment, but if I evict my roommate, his bedroom would make a decent home office, and I could air-condition it. The company would pay for a dedicated phone line, internet access, and a printer, which would take some of the financial sting out of living alone.

Of course, my commute to Midtown, door to door, is only about 30 minutes on a good day, I've got a couple of new Brooks Brothers suits gathering dust, and there's truly a lot to be said for Midtown happy hours. Maybe I won't give up the cubicle yet.

Alone

Last year, after I paid off my debt and my roommate told me he was moving out, I had a decision to make: find a new roommate or go it alone. I could afford to live alone, but it would mean giving up travel and being more conservative financially than I've ever managed to be. I chose the roommate.

I've come to regret that choice. It's not that my new roommate is bad. He pays the rent, has a sweet disposition, and spends a lot of time running around the city. He'd be perfect if only he weren't such a slob. Three months into our cohabitation, I'm fed up with cleaning up after him. I didn't place many conditions on him to move in, but I was clear about my expectation of a thorough biweekly housecleaning. He's not doing it.

More than that, I've been feeling, as a single 40-year-old, that I shouldn't be dealing with anyone else's messes. It's time to make a sacrifice to get some privacy. So I've decided that I will live alone by 2012. The only questions are whether to stay in this apartment, and if so, how soon to evict the party bear.

I have a good deal on rent here. It's a two-bedroom apartment priced only slightly more than many one-bedroom apartments are going for in this area, but it has some deficiencies. The renovation was sloppy, the stove needs to be replaced, and so does the carpeting. The neighborhood has grown noisier as more bars have moved in, and with my landlord living across the hall, I sometimes feel like I'm under scrutiny.

A change of scenery could be good for me. I've been exploring other parts of Queens, and there are some really wonderful neighborhoods out here. Off Skillman Avenue in Sunnyside there's a small enclave of ivy-covered homes with gardens that looks like it was transplanted from England. On 90th Street in East Elmhurst there's a row of cottages so cute I could pinch myself, and in Jackson Heights almost every block has a different style of housing, not to mention the vibrant gay nightlife.

But if I stay here alone, I'd be the rare New Yorker with a spare bedroom. Sometimes when I'm vacuuming or cleaning the toilet, I fantasize about what I'd do with my roommate's space. I could move half my clothes in there, get a desk and have a home office, and get a futon couch/bed for company. I could list it on Ebab.de and make new European friends. The possibilities are endless.

But now I need to clean the bathroom sink of someone's hair…

2010

I turned 40 a month ago. Not much has changed, except now I have a good excuse for the gradual and inevitable decline in what limited vigor and stamina I had. Systems break down, and I'm loving it.

2010 was a stressful year. It started out with the simultaneous realizations that I was 10 pounds heavier than I ever imagined possible and that I was so deep in debt I needed to take drastic steps to cut my spending. Weight loss and saving money are complementary objectives and I recommend pursuing them both at the same time. Cook your own food and skip the booze and snacks. The pounds will melt away and you'll save a mint.

I joined a friend in using the LoseIt app to track calories, and incredibly by May I had lost the 10 pounds and then some. It was a little alarming because people kept asking what happened to my ass. Same thing that happened to my gut.

Cutting debt was a lot harder, because I needed to rid myself of several thousand more dollars than pounds. I didn't have a game plan, and if there's an app for getting by in New York City with a third of your income going to debt service, I have yet to discover it.

Nevertheless, I managed to plan several trips for the year, having become addicted to travel and elite flyer status. Despite the near poverty, I managed to go to Washington, Madrid, Chicago, London, San Francisco (twice), Provence, Berlin, and New Orleans last year. I leveraged reward points and traveled with friends to save money, but when I look back, I don't know what I was thinking. (But I'm still thinking it, as my 2011 travel calendar will attest.)

Aside from that, the job I'd been hating since before the great recession started was not getting any better, and yet I had to feel grateful to have a job at all. I focused on the fat and the spending and dealt with the job as well as I could manage. Eventually I'd find something else or they'd sack me.

At some point in April my roommate of six years told me he was buying a condo and would probably move out by September. Suddenly the fact that I was the only one who had spent any money on our apartment in the last three years made a lot of sense. His money was going elsewhere. I wasn't mad. He was a good roommate and a kind person, and it would be hard to find someone as good. I had to decide whether to stay in the apartment, move in with someone else, or try and make it on my own. It was another big variable in a life equation growing more complex every day.

By May it struck me that something weird was going on at my company. The senior members of my department, marketing and communication, seemed stressed. Their doors were always closed, yet client work and other projects were running behind schedule or not getting done at all. My office was in the middle of a long corridor with the CFO at one end and the CEO at the other, and there was a noticeable uptick in traffic. In retrospect, I can see that there are but a few explanations for situations like this: your company is going out of business, being taken over, or trying to hide something from the government. At the time, I was just so happy that no one was riding my ass about anything that it seemed like I might even come to like my job again.

In June, the head of my department finally broke the news: the company was being acquired by a much larger competitor. She needed the whole department's help in managing the PR and internal communication, and we were obliged to sign a non-disclosure agreement until the deal was announced. We all spent the next month working long hours and weekends, preparing plans and materials we had to revise every time the announcement was delayed. It was an incredible bonding experience, as times of excessive drinking so often are.

Thankfully, in terms of me not having to cancel my July vacation in London, the deal was finally announced at the end of June. And after that, my job got easy, because most of the work dried up. Nobody was starting new projects, and it was the middle of summer. Anybody with a phone was phoning it in.

As scary as it was to think I would be out of a job in a few months, the acquisition presented an opportunity to get out of debt: because of the takeover, I could either roll my company's retirement plan into the acquiring company's plan or I could cash out. After some serious number crunching, I realized that even with the early withdrawal penalty, I could erase my debt and have a few grand to spare. I went for it. A lot of us did.

At the end of July, the deal closed, and we were all officially employees of another company. Incredibly, except for the department head, my team all had secure jobs. One person left, but the rest of us are still there, eight months later.

I decided to stay in my apartment and find a new roommate. I met a few potential ones, including a sexy Hungarian personal trainer. Then my current roommate announced his condo deal would not close in September. Alas, the hot Hungarian roommate was not to be.

If anything happened in August, I don't remember. Too much tequila. I did buy a new suit at Brooks Brothers. A coworker's wedding was coming up, and I was still certain I'd be looking for work soon.

By September, the integration teams were in full effect at work. I flew south to meet my new manager and to attend a conference. It was a great show of confidence for them to pay for me to travel anywhere, much more than anything I'd experienced in the previous three years. A lot of people were worried about their futures with the new employer, but for me, all signs were encouraging.

In October, things were degenerating at the old workplace, as they must during a takeover. The obvious overhead were given notice, and there were some surprises and a few voluntary resignations. I couldn't wait for November to relocate to the new company's office. My roommate announced he'd move out by the end of November, and I picked a new roommate for January, a friend of a friend of my old roommate who ran in the same circles as me, when I bothered to run at all.

In November, the disbursement from my retirement fund came. I happily scheduled three huge credit card payments and then went shopping for bedroom furniture. I visited a friend in France, which was kind of awful and deserves a post of its own, someday.

In December I got my apartment ready for the new roommate: switched bedrooms, cleaned the carpets, nearly broke my back lifting things. I'm sure I could have skipped it all and the new roommate would never have noticed. I went to Berlin for a week, having canceled an earlier planned trip there because of work. December is not the best month for a vacation in Northern Europe, but Berliners take the snow in stride. You can get by rather affordably as a tourist in Berlin, and the nightlife is great, even in December. Then it was back to the States for the holidays, yadda yadda yadda, and finally New Orleans for New Year's Eve.

The lesson I learned from the last year is that if you don't actively work to control your destiny, something else will. Or that no matter what you plan for, unforeseen things will make you change your plans. Or maybe it's that you can't stop change. Whatever it was, I'm thankful for most of the changes, sad about some, and hope I never again go through a year like 2010.

Incidentally

The weird sensitive skin thing? Pretty sure it's from stressing a nerve in my neck during a workout. It has happened a few times in the last two years, after my intermittent workouts. It always clears up after a few weeks of inactivity.

Reasonable Fucksimile

You read it here first.

Sent from my iPhone

It's back

That weird sensitivity I experienced last summer is back, though not as intense. I woke up that way Monday morning. The one commonality I can think of is that on both occasions I worked out vigorously on an elliptical trainer. When I do this I like to twist my torso, in the probably mistaken belief that it will reduce my love handles. I think it pinched a nerve instead, or maybe caused some swelling in my spine.

This time around, the sensitivity is more general and spread equally on my chest and back. My tits feel especially sore, but there's a high concentration of nerve cells there, so that would fit my speculation.

Hope this clears up faster than it did last time. I must be even more fragile than I thought.

Back

A cute guy on Adam4Adam just sent a message saying how he missed my old blog. I can't imagine why he would, but I miss my old blog too. So, here I am again, seven months later.

The weird sensitivity I was feeling cleared up entirely by the end of July. Never did have the MRI, so it will remain a mystery. I thought perhaps my trip to Phoenix was the cause, but I went there again in November without suffering another bout of it. Anyway, back to my regular lax posting schedule.

Medical mystery

Four weeks ago, I started to feel a strange sensitivity on the left half of my body, roughly from my abdomen to my shoulder, extending from my naval to the center of my back. I woke up one morning, and it felt like I had a sunburn. I only felt the pain whenever something touched me, but little things like rolling over in bed or the friction of clothing as I walked were startlingly painful. I did my best not to move for two weeks, missing out on Folsom Street East and Gay Pride Weekend.

I saw a neurologist, to ascertain if I were neurotic, but his test of my reflexes was normal. He speculated the cause was a viral inflammation around my upper spine, near the neck, and that it would probably clear up on its own.

It took a few weeks, but it does at last appear to be improving. First it migrated partially to the right, which was worrisome. My right shoulder blade is still hurting, but everywhere else is far less sensitive than before. Test results from my physical last week indicate nothing out of order, which I guess is a relief. I'm astonished that I continue to have such healthy checkups yet feel so crappy most of the time. I'm a pitta vata and wear out easily.

I was to have an MRI, if my insurance company ever approves it, but I think I'll skip it. I had one four years ago after hitting my head in a fall. It was interesting but still unpleasant. I don't like a medical mystery, but the neurologist said the MRI could only confirm his suspicion, not establish a cause.

Music purchases to dwindle in 2008

I have decided not to buy anymore DRM-restricted music from iTunes, after several restricted tracks I purchased recently became available without DRM. One of them, a single from Santogold I purchased in May, showed up in my iTunes Plus "upgrade" page in June. I can think of only one reason for this music, which was released in April of this year, not to have been available as iTunes Plus in the first place: to exploit the 30% upgrade fee. That pisses me off, Santogold, and I won't be buying the rest of your album. This ripoff only cost me 30 cents, but a ripoff is a ripoff.

Ditto for El Perro del Mar's two albums, the latest of which came out in the spring with DRM, but by June was also miraculously free of it. I think I'll give her albums to anyone who asks. The new one is kind of boring, but free is free. I think her label can afford it, now that I've paid them $6 extra.

This upgrade policy has been worrying me for a while. When the major record labels finally allow their songs to sell DRM-free on iTunes, I'll have to pay hundreds of dollars to rid my library of DRM. Since Apple won't let you pick which ones to upgrade, nor simply remove the DRM from existing files, it makes no sense to me to keep buying tracks with DRM. I'm such an Apple fanboy that the DRM doesn't really keep me from doing anything I want to do with the music, but a ripoff is a ripoff.

And I won't go to Amazon or Rhapsody to buy music, either. If the record labels don't want to sell where I want to buy, then they lose the sale.

I disabled Flash in Safari

And I'm happier for it, because the browser never crashes now. Sorry, Gawker Media. Your advertisers drove me to this decision.

Oh, and the last thing I want on my iPhone is Flash.

Sent by iPhone

Hometown tragedy / Times have changed

There was a shooting spree at a plastics factory in my hometown of Henderson, Kentucky, this week that left six people dead. Details of the killer and his victims have been published in the Gleaner, the local newspaper, which now appears to be part of the Courier & Press, of neighboring Evansville, Indiana.

Tragic story. I wouldn’t be surprised to see crystal meth in the killer’s toxicology report. My mother says its use is rampant, though not perhaps to the same extent as marijuana. I was relieved not to recognize any of the names but surprised that so many of them were Hispanic. When I left Henderson, in 1989, there were very few Hispanics in the county. In fact, I’m not even sure I ever met a Latino until college, where I learned to say “Latino” instead of “Hispanic”. ( “Latino” is too vague for my liking but that’s a topic for another day.)