Tag Archives: bottoms

Something Achingly Personal And Sexual In Nature

Personal Bits, Queer stuff

I tend not to deliver in bed.

I can hear SharkBoy’s spine compress and extend simultaneously as he reads that so I better explain myself.

On many occasion during my formative youth I had a tendency to attract guys who thought I would be something I completely wasn’t. I would often find myself stupefied at suggestion that would fall from my various date’s lips as the night progressed into the boozy, flirty time. Suggestions of violence or odd behaviour that would kill my desire just to cuddle or have plain, vanilla sex, of which, I’m utterly satisfied to have 90% of the time.

I’ve always dressed a bit rough. I’ve been told I have expressive eyes and combined with a shaved head and goatee since I was 21, I would often have to suggest to my date that discussing my next attack on their genitals while actually clothespinning various flaps of skin, probably wasn’t going to be as much fun for me as it would be for them.

While living in Ottawa, I purchased a motorcycle jacket at Costco. Yes. A full on, Marlon Brando bad ass motorcycle jacket that despite it’s purchasing origins, suggested that I rode a steel horse around town. I didn’t – In fact I was driving a 3 year old rusted out K car for the company I worked for. To add to this image of manlyman testosterone, I purchased a pair of engineer boots on sale at Filene’s Basement in Boston ($60!). Coupled with a tight tee and jeans, I looked pretty bad ass. One night I met a guy dressed similarly, but he was 6 foot, 2 inches, Germanic handsome, blond shock hair and muscular. When we got back to my place (I guess I looked good because he was blinded to the fact that we drove home in a K car) we discovered that we were essentially both wanting each other to do stuff to each other that we wanted each other to do to us each.

In short: we were both bottoms.

Discovering that you’re something you’re not while a god of a man stands before you is pretty tough on the self esteem. I did try, but I couldn’t be the guy he wanted me to be. We had a great friendship after that but I was still very attracted to him, which killed the whole friend thing eventually. I did learn about Bette Davis and Joan Crawford from him, for which I will be eternally thankful.

While working at a leather bar during Media School, these kinds of encounters were commonplace – I recall taking home one guy I thought was tall and handsome and clever but after we messed around a bit he stopped what we were doing (I thought it was going fine…) and said that we weren’t going to be compatible in bed and that the reason why was over in the corner of the room, in an old steamer trunk. I left shortly after that not knowing what was in that trunk. It haunts me to this day. Was I suppose to go open it? Was it full of dresses? Of knives? Weasels?

The weirdest was meeting someone who wanted me to physically abuse him (no surprise there, considering where we met. I was pretty open minded at that time and thought it wasn’t outside my realm of comfort) while talking about the sexiness of another bartender that I worked with (okay, first warning sign) and then crossing the conversation over to a fantasy where he is introduced to my actor brother in a professional, career building manner.

Seriously. He wanted me to twist his nipples off while fantasizing about my brother advancing his acting career.

After this incident I’ve come to believe that S&M and all that sub-culture paradigm was extremely reliant on damaging egos and breaking down self esteem. This was just weird. So as I lay there considering what he just told me I decided that one kidney punch wouldn’t hurt (me) and we were done.

Thing is, in this experience (and others) I’ve drawn from the experiences and molded myself. No, I’m not a bottom exclusively. No I can’t imagine inflicting extended amounts of pain on someone during sex. No I’m not going to introduce you to my brother. Or his agent.

CP24 To Offer Breakfast Television Some Youthful Competition?

Celebs and Media, Toronto, You Stupid Dick

First, let me preface this post by apologizing to all my non-Toronto readers. Go look at my Flickr account, this post will not interest you.

I’ve steadily been having a big hate-on for Breakfast Television since it’s sale to Rogers and its long, slow departure from CityTV/CTV while remaining on CTV’s news channel. The choppy and awkward station ID/commercial flips between the two has been like trying to track a schizophrenic family member’s conversation who hasn’t taken their meds in months. For the last month or so, any fan of Breakfast Television who watches on the CP24 channel will have noticed that when BT goes to commercial, CP24 kicks in with “More On CP24!” teasers of weather and traffic.

Let’s just get past the fact that the bumper title is dangerously close to “MORON CP24!” if you’re not watching the screen closely…

Besides being utterly maladroit (like that? I have Thesuarus.com open), these extra reports of traffic and weather are an additional assault of already mentioned information (it’s fucking scrolling across the bottom already!!), jazzed up with an odd segment of Cam Woolley driving around town and talking about traffic (different idea but utterly useless: “Here’s a live feed of us stuck in traffic on the DVP!”).

I’ve posted before about how BT gets my ire: particularly Kevin “I Don’t Live In Toronto” Frankish and his need to revolve the show around himself. Even his post-show blog (full of terminology errors – he calls his video posts “blogs”), gets my blood boiling. I’m really glad he’s trying to get on board with the whole Web 2.0, new technology thing but it’s becoming unwatchable, like your parent trying to email a photo off their hard drive (no offense dad!!). I have to admit in the last while, I’ve hopped over to Canada AM and have become dangerously close to accepting their dry, conservative pap as my morning ritual.

Until this morning there was a ray of hope…

This morning during a CP24 bumper, in between the weather and traffic, there were two young somethings chatting amicably about their fantastic weekend and how great the weather was. I missed their names and the segment lasted only a minute, but they got my attention… They were young, well dressed, good looking, bright, smiling, energetic and so NOT like the current Breakfast Television crew, that my heart beat faster.

Is CP24 going to cut loose BT and have their own breakfast show of goodlookings 20-30somethings? I’m hoping that CP24 is grooming young bucks to offer a breath of fresh air from curmudgeonly Kevin “I’m Old and at no way at all a Metrosexual” Frankish? Can Dina transfer over to that show if they do? She’s the only reason I’ve hung on so long.

Public Pyjamas


1:14am and I’ve switched out the pink “bears in space suits” pyjama bottoms for the plaid “movie set” ones to garnish a little more respectability. I never understood why in movies (tv or otherwise) the lead hunk would wear these kind of flannel pants into bed. Especially when, caught in or after the act, they have to jump out of bed, after having sex. Thankfully I’ve never encountered a sex partner who insisted on layering up just after sex. If I had, I doubt they’d be in my life long enough to ask why they felt the need to cover up.

The pounding music coming from the other side of the door I’m standing in front of at 1:14am isn’t really that loud, it’s just at that borderline level that will keep you awake. That muh muh muh of 110 beats per minute has been leaking down into our bedroom for the last three hours since we got into bed. The apartment I live in is old with quaint hardwood floors of long wooden slats that squeak reassuringly as you walk down the halls. Unfortunately they’re also shit for masking noise, and I think the new roommate of the tennant upstairs doesn’t know this. Yet. He doesn’t know that his off-beat tapping with the music is like a drum just above our heads. He’s not hammering his foot down, like the music, it’s just loud enough to register, but it’s inconsistent. 3 taps here. 4 tap stanza there. It’s like shitting beside a Republican.

About 20 years ago I was standing in front of a door about to ask of the occupant to reduce the noise from their stereo, much like I was going to do just then. Thing was, I was a tennant in this person’s house and I was suitably nervous about deconstructing our tennat/owner relationship. Actually it was the son of the people I was living with while I was going to art college, so I wasn’t worried about an upsetting a neighbour, moreso than the son punching the “art fag” in the face. He was blaring U2’s Joshua Tree at house shuddering levels while the parents were away for the weekend, Bono screaming about independence and liberty and freedom. The son’s contempt for me was pretty obvious when after knocking during the pauses in the songs, he wouldn’t open his door. His motivations for the volume level were never revealed to me and I assumed than he was a pissed off teen. Or he was passed out from huffing glue. I never found out. To this date, any U2 song fills me with dread.

I knock on the door. Pause. Again. I hear a chair being pushed back and the door flies open. Not having seen the new roommate, I was expecting a young, lanky university student but was faced with a man in his mid-twenties, dressed like he was the frontman for Hedley: tight low slung jeans that made his upper thighs look uncomfortably sausage-stuffed while the calves looked twiggy (how is this sexy on a guy?), distressed crazy graphic tee, hair like he ripped Ms Liza’s wig off in a back alley fight.

“Hi -”

“The music, right?”

My palms go out and up, shoulders into my ears. A “you got me!” stance. Why the hell did I do that? Am I that much of a pussy that I can’t say “No shit, you insensitive buffoon!”

“It’s off now!” And with that, he’s justified and apologized for the last three hours. The door starts to close.

“It’s also the foot tapping…” I offer.

“Foot tapping?”

“Tapping. Yeah.”

“Well the music is off.”

“Okay. Good night.”

I lay awake for a few hours after that, trying to come down from my jacked up state of confrontation. The music is definitely off, the foot is still, but the floor continues to creak with his every move. 2 out of 3 distractions is good enough to get at least 4 hours of sleep.