I occasionally wonder of the source of my distaste and poor response to silly little gay boys when I encounter them in the bars. I do consider whether my response is bigotry of some sort or some sensible response to as-yet unknown data.
Then, most often, I am vindicated.
Take last night for an example: he was a handsome enough young fellow, but his hummingbird attention span and his inability to follow through with his conversation after stating the importance of having one with me both wore thin easily.
To offer details: I was in a suit, a great cut dark grey pinstripe with red silk pocket square and red and black striped tie. What he didn’t know was that I was fully sated having come from a sex party, in suit, sucking dick in the corners and guys got off on face-fucking whatever office avatar I represented… he wouldn’t have known, mostly for his inability to actually build the conversation he so apparently craved.
Back to the point: at one moment, he was in past all the boundaries I had not given consent to cross, rubbing on the wool and through it, me. He sensed that it made me uncomfortable, than produced inadequate excuses why it did so. Clearly, I was shy. *snicker*
So, that vindication I mentioned earlier…? Yeah. I get home, climb the steps to my room and begin to undress…
Then I see it, the shiny little specks. Glints all about my suit jacket, and then also on my trousers. The little fucker was covered in body glitter.
Ugh. No wonder his pawing set me off and put up the defenses.
Damned craft herpes.
gryphon's hole 