believe it or not, i don't write about every sexual encounter i have . . . U get to be a man of a certain age and U hardly can avoid the sense of been there, done that with most things, especially the old in-out, in out as my droogie friend Alex from A Clockwork Orange might say, no matter how hot the mouth or the butt . . . the encounters recorded here must be about more than friction . . . otherwise, i might just as well be grinding out reality porn.

for going on three years i've been having a "contextual" relationship with a age-appropriate man with whom i would gladly have begun sharing my bed on a regular basis and all that entails for someone whose sex has more often been vertical . . . we met on a New Year's Eve warm enough for solitary men without plans to cruise Central Park . . . he gave me an awesome blow job while i sat on my favorite bench gazing at the empty, illuminated offices of the midtown skyline flickering through the bare trees . . . with his grey streaked ponytail and well-tended facial hair, he resembled an archetypal silent movie villain, the kind who ties damsels in distress to the ties of railroad tracks and then looks straight into the camera while twirling both ends of his handlebar mustache . . . i love it because i can make u come with my mouth he whispered before leaving but my geyser gush had as much to do with the 2-gauge Prince Albert i found when i grabbed his dick . . . that and the drumsticks in his backpack which had me convinced that he was in a rock 'n roll band and on his way to a gig.

now by a contextual relationship, i mean one that exists only in certain place and time, in this case the Ramble after dark . . . when i met Silent Movie Villain a second time i tried to change the context . . . we both had a vivid memory of how we had welcomed 2002 and neither of us felt much like waiting for the summer sun to set before we got reacquainted so i invited him back to my apartment . . . en route he told me that he had grown up in central Florida, worked for the Metropolitan Museum of Art and that he had been carrying bagpipes, not drumsticks, in his backpack . . . he also showed me a small purse he was knitting using a stitch that had been developed by a Native American tribe and told me he spent most Saturday nights two-step dancing . . . plus he lived in the Chelsea Hotel . . . his cool factor exploded like a Roman candle with each new detail.

even before the second fabulous blow job, which occurred not in bed but while i was seated in a comfortable white leather chair, Silent Movie Villain's bio had begun to rival his oral technique in my quickening affections . . . but it also made me more than a little uneasy that all the energy seemed to be coming from his direction . . . how often, after all, do U find men with big, beautiful dicks content merely to suck off their more modestly endowed partners? . . . call me overly schematic, but i believe that similar cock size is no less essential than comparable bank accounts if U want to have a versatile relationship based on mutual respect and equality . . . is it any wonder i'm still single in a milieu more defined by tops and bottoms?

Silent Movie Villain stuck around way longer than the situation technically called for and the more we conversed, the more mysterious his personal life became . . . when i mentioned that i worked in the addiction field he told me how significant Al-Anon had been in his life . . . going to meetings has helped me overcome my codependence he said . . . both of the people i have been seriously involved with were substance abusers he said without offering any details . . . it's taken me twelve years to realize that i only can be responsible for myself, not another person . . . i suppressed a yawn . . . the language of recovery can sound so canned but hey, whatever works for U.

call me up at work anytime u want a blow job he said giving me his phone number . . . u even can come around the museum one Monday when it's closed and we'll find somewhere to go he promised . . . not wanting to appear over eager, i waited a week or two to call Silent Movie Villain . . . he returned the call after only a slightly shorter interval, but arrived at my apartment within an hour of dialing the number . . . i kept my distance and we sat talking for a couple of hours . . . here i thought i was coming over to give u a blow job he finally said . . . i moved next to him on the couch . . . U know when someone is ready to be kissed but he wasn't giving me those signals so i cut to the chase, unbuckling his belt, determined that tonight's sex would not be entirely one-sided even if it were going to take place again in the living room.

whoever said enough is enough but too much is just right obviously hadn't ever gone down on Silent Movie Villain . . . his Prince Albert, which he had fashioned himself along with the series of metal rings to ensure he also had low hangers, kept banging against my molars . . . watch your teeth he said more than once . . . i suppose i could have asked him to remove his jewelry but instead, i eventually took offense and gave up on trying to get him off . . . maybe he picked up on the tension or maybe he didn't, but when he left, i decided that the next move would have to be his.

needless to say, my phone didn't ring . . . well maybe i'm not the best cocksucker in the world i grudgingly admitted to myself but hadn't we made a connection on a higher level? . . . recalling that an ex-lover had told me what u lack in technique u more than make up in enthusiasm transformed my insecurity into anger and the next time i ran into Silent Movie Villain in the Ramble, during the fall, i rode away from him even when he clearly stopped in his tracks to say hello . . . fuck him, i decided . . . good blow jobs are a dime a dozen . . . we stared straight past one another whenever our paths crossed again . . . funny how male insecurity and a communications breakdown initiated our Cold War, too.

more than a year passes . . . i'm seated on my favorite bench one late winter evening, getting one of those dime-a-dozen blow jobs from a Nina Simone fan who also works at the Metropolitan Museum when up walks Silent Movie Villain . . . gay detente ensues in the form of a very hot three-way . . . i don't hear any criticisms of the other guy's technique but the scene itself and the presence of the Silent Movie Villain's gorgeous Prince Albert while my own cock is getting the full Hoover treatment vacuums up my insecurity . . . nevertheless i don't stick around to sign any treaties once my weapon has been the first to discharge peacefully.

(yeah, yeah, i know this entry seems like an endless therapy session but hey isn't clinical self-exposure worth a little of your patience? stick with it a bit longer and U may even learn something . . . unless of course U are already a member of Sexual Compulsives Anonymous . . . in which case, by reading this U get credit for attending an online meeting!)

a month or two later my contextual relationship with Silent Movie Villain enters its second phase . . . we end up talking, even cuddling and exchanging a kiss or two before he goes down on me in the Ramble . . . u made me feel very insecure i confess during our post-fellatio chit chat and i don't like that feeling, especially during sex . . . i can't make u feel anything he responds . . . u r completely responsible for your own feelings . . . i'm not sure i agree with this and begin to wonder if even contextual relationships don't require a little codependence . . . BINGO.

ours took this form: i let him suck me off in return for the pretense that what we had was something more than a contextual relationship . . . yes, it's true . . . i believed him when he told me what i wanted to hear . . . sure i'll come visit u on Fire Island he said, as he unzipped my fly . . . we'll go down to the beach with a bottle of champagne and i'll fuck you in the moonlight he said, drawing me onto his lap . . . no way am i ever gonna let that accessorized monster up my poop chute i thought initially but his dirty talk increased the intensity of my orgasm and eventually i managed to persuade myself that if he did make the trip i would flip for the first time in several years . . . it will be like losing my cherry all over again i teased, moving my butt back and forth over his erection . . . wouldn't it be funny if i turned out to be a bottom all these years? . . . he got a big kick out of that.

come May i'm more likely to be found in the meatrack than the Ramble especially this year . . . i quit my job and can spend up to three weeks a month in the Pines as a 3/4 share . . . i left Silent Movie Villain a voice mail message at work--he never gave me his home number--inviting him to join me for the first weekend . . . i don't want u to think i'm blowing u off he apologized to my answering machine before giving me his vacation schedule for the summer . . . okay, fair enough but when i tried a second time, a month later, he didn't respond at all.

i've been meaning to call u he said as soon as he spotted me again in the Ramble . . . he'd been away, in Florida, trying to prevent the sale of some private land used for Boy Scout jamborees . . . as a kid, he had attended jamborees at a private camp on the land and now he served on the camp's board of directors . . . the state claims it needs the property for water but there's no reason to sell the place he insisted, pointing the finger at a greedy executive director who already had secured board approval with the promise of financial solvency for the organization . . . it sounded like John Sayles movie to me and definitely contributed to his biographical appeal so long as i hushed the ugly, nagging little voice in the back of my head that questioned an adult gay male's continuing association with a youth camp.

this conversation and the concurrent cuddling, which naturally concluded with a non-reciprocal blow job, gave me renewed hope that he would find his way to the beach eventually but it was being asked to walk him to the subway that gave me enough confidence to begin describing Silent Movie Villain to my friends, even some of the straight ones.

i got the look back before he descended the stairs at the 72nd Street station i explained, promising that they would get to meet him soon . . . u don't get the look back when somebody is only interested in anonymous sex . . . so what if our cruising schedules rather than traditional dates determine when we actually see each other? . . . i would not have refrained from expressing incredulity with a theatrical eye roll if one of them had offered such a lame rationalization but they so rarely see me in the starry-eyed mode i suppose they took pity.

not so starry-eyed, however, that i could resist describing in vivid detail a mid-summer encounter under a full moon . . . let's move to another bench where we won't be surrounded by so many spectators urged Silent Movie Villain who had had his hair expensively cut, losing the ponytail at the suggestion of a headhunter in the museum world (not having an advanced degree is liability enough no matter how experienced or knowledgeable u may be she had counseled) . . . i hesitated at first because truth be told, it was getting harder and harder for him to make me come with his mouth and i would not have minded if somebody else had joined us if only to give me something to do . . . but i followed him because i didn't want to offend him.

his bench choice in an open area indicated that his desire to move had been motivated more by the kind of crowd that had gathered around us than any desire for privacy . . . again i had to hush the nagging little voice that had noticed Silent Movie Villain's distinct aversion to black men and the occasional comment that might be construed as anti-Semitic . . . u can take the cracker out of Florida but u can't take the cracker out of the cocksucker . . . SHUT UP.

so there i am, getting another superb blow job, wishing we were at the beach on the one hand, and glad we aren't on the other because i still wasn't crazy about the idea of getting fucked when up strolls a good looking Middle Eastern or Hispanic guy at least 20 years our junior who pulls out his sizable dick and begins beating it against Silent Movie Villain's back as he kneels in front of me, his head bobbing up and down in syncopated rhythm . . . milk that cock, man, milk it good, suck out all that hot juice . . . off i go and, seconds later, when Silent Movie Villain stands to spit out my load and wipe up some of his own dribbling semen, his Prince Albert catches a moon ray and reflects it as powerfully as a searchlight in a prison yard . . . wow, take a look at that bling bling! exclaims our third party, a phrase i later have to explain to Silent Movie Villain who is way more familiar with Mozart than Mos Def.

my eagerness to tell this story must have been a subconscious recognition that we were going nowhere fast but that didn't stop me from placing another call to Silent Movie Villain, this time extending an open-ended invitation to the Pines and leaving the number at the house in case he could arrange to come only on a last-minute basis . . . August passed without a word or a Ramble encounter . . . call him again advised my more forgiving friends when they asked how it was going . . . pride shut down that option tho the little voice also nagged if u really wanted to take this to another level u would call him and cook for him in the city instead of demanding that he travel 2 hours and spend at least $25 to see u because your desire to have reciprocal sex doesn't really include relaxing that tight asshole of yours enough to accommodate him . . . there, i said it, at least to myself.

every time i come here i tell myself i have to call u Silent Movie Villain announces jauntily a couple of weeks ago . . . and everytime i come here i hope to run into u i respond . . . he explains that he's been sick, he's been in Montana and that neither his job search or camp rescue efforts have not been successful . . . but i promise i'll make it to the beach in September . . . yeah, right i say, moving closer to him anyway in spite of knowing that he won't and telling him my birthday is in a few days because i still crave the physical affection he gives so freely when we meet . . . i'll do your chart he offers before telling me my own summer has been very dark and going into a long disquisition about how astrology offers a road map but can't be used to predict the future . . . this is the kind of New Age mysticism i couldn't tolerate in any other situation but i listen politely and recall that when our contextual relationship first began he used the biggest disappointment of his professional career--when the plug was pulled on an $8 million documentary he was supposed to direct about Native American culture--to illustrate planet misalignment . . . are we on repeat already? . . . aren't there any more flares left in his roman candle? . . . is this just his way of dealing with a mid-life crisis?

of course we do end up having sex, out of habit, even tho he notices my cock isn't as responsive as usual . . . he pushes me up against a rock where we will be more visible but nobody joins us and it takes me forever to come . . . he doesn't even try . . . we continue chatting and for some reason he brings up Al Anon and accuses me of codependency . . . how can i be codependent? i demand defensively, i haven't been in a relationship in years . . . just because a drunk doesn't drink doesn't mean that he's not alcoholic . . . touche, i guess, but who and what exactly are we talking about here?

on our way to the 72nd Street subway station i deliberately mention a very kinky guy earlier this summer from the beach who insisted that i fist him . . . it's not like i got much pleasure out of it . . . Silent Movie Villain misses the subtext and responds by telling me about his own experience with sexual selfishness . . . u can't allow yourself to be caught up in their game he warns . . . it may be too late, i find myself doing things i never would have considered years ago because i seem to need more and more stimulation to get off . . . maybe u should to to Sexual Compulsives Anonymous he suggests . . . oh no, not another support group . . . how will i fit all these meetings into my busy schedule?

the time between meeting and finally leaving is sometimes calling falling in love sings Lisa Loeb on my Ipod as i pedal away from Silent Movie Villain, without looking back, after we have stopped briefly in Strawberry Fields so that he can pick up any guitar picks left behind by John Lennon acolytes . . . he glues these to mirror frames in yet another example of the quirky creativity that i find so appealing but which i now decide is also a form of overcompensation . . . if he hasn't achieved success in terms of money or career, then he's going to be the best damn cocksucker in New York City.

my birthday passes without me ever providing the information necessary for Silent Movie Villain to do my chart . . . but a little more than a week later, on the day that i begin this kissing and blogging, i run into him . . . he looks as startled to see me as i am to see him since neither of us is in our usual spot . . . no, even i didn't imagine the context of our relationship was quite so specific and since i've only just left "our" bench i decide he's probably avoiding me . . . it's a little awkward, but he recovers quickly . . . how's the beach? he asks, sitting down on a bench and giving me a steady look which i don't know how to interpret because it's not dark enough yet for a blow job . . . almost over i answer, quickly adding that i can't stick around because i'm on my way to wish a friend happy 50th birthday . . . my mother would have called this was a "white lie" . . . in fact, i will deliver these greetings over the phone and can just as easily make the call after the sun has set.

life is full of missed opportunities, isn't it? he asks, smiling . . . and so it is . . . at least in a contextual relationship, no one has to move out when U break up . . . a bench or time change may be sufficient.

Tina has gotten so pushy . . . distance and darkness used to be my two best friends but recently she's been riding shotgun as i cruise through all the usual places . . . like a week or two ago, when i was sitting on my favorite bench in Central Park reading about how most New Yorkers were preparing for the Republican National Convention as if it were the siege of Troy . . . if we ignore what's going on at the Garden, maybe they will go away . . . on the plus side, however, this has meant a greatly reduced police presence in the Ramble which, along with the vehement return of unsafe sex in public places, has resulted in 70s redux this summer . . . anyway, i looked up from Talk of the Town and noticed a man on a melon green Bianchi racing bike in full regalia checking out the immediate vicinity . . . he did an unmistakable double take and headed straight for my bench . . . no Monet, he, as Cher said so memorably in Clueless: he got better looking as he came closer and when he stopped directly in front of my bench i felt just like another of my cinematic gal pals, Samantha in Sixteen Candles . . . U know the scene, where the guy she's aching for pulls up in a convertible and crooks his finger at her and she looks over her shoulder to see who he's really beckoning?

what are u reading? asks Senor Bianchi, who turns out to be from Buenos Aries . . . gulp . . . i mumble an answer but notice that he's practically thrusting his spandex cupped crotch in my face and that his Oakley sunglasses are unmistakably directed towards my own basket now that i have put The New Yorker on the bench beside me . . . less than two minutes later we're racing back to my Upper West Side apartment on our bikes ignoring even the red light at 86th Street . . . leading the way, i keep expecting to look behind me and discover that he's changed his mind . . . it wouldn't be the first time . . . not that i look behind me more than once or twice . . . pride prevents me from showing my hand just as insecurity makes my feet pump the pedals as hard as Lance Armstrong in the Pyrenees . . . the sooner we get to my place, the less chance i have of losing today's hook-up equivalent of the Tour de France . . . pride & insecurity, the only emotions that keep gay men from fucking 24/7.

can i bring mine up? he asks as i lock my bike to the wrought iron gate in front of my rent stabilized brownstone . . . obviously this must be a spontaneous sexual encounter i tell myself as he hoists his bike over his should and carries it up three flights . . . as soon as the lock turns on my door i finally believe that we really are about to get it on inside on a Wednesday afternoon without resorting to the uncertainty or time wasting that usually fucks up the search for sex online! . . . after he leans his bike against a bookcase we press our sweaty bodies together and begin deep kissing . . . his go-for-broke technique more than matches my own but when he removes his sunglasses i realize Senor Bianchi looks a little . . . wired.

okay, it's time to confess my extreme naivete: because my exposure to Tina has primarily been through skipped-over internet profiles that emphasize the "party" in PNP and cautionary tales in the New York Times it never occurred to me that she was fueling Senor Bianchi's high octane ardor . . . somehow i just don't picture your typical crystal methamphetamine addict getting up from behind his computer screen and using something other than his keyboard to find a cock to fuck him silly . . . which mine did, three times, twice without a condom because after the first time he never gave me the chance to sheathe myself again and because i can't remember when i had a really sensual guy in bed whose desire for me was all consuming . . . so what if his voluminous butt juice stained both sides of my reversible down comforter and left a faint odor that it will take a dry cleaning or two to eliminate? . . . and even if he never seemed to get really hard (clue #2 that Tina was in the house), he was single minded in his determination to keep me that way . . . how many sex pigs will go down your dick while bits of their fecal matter still cling to it and then eat your butt with complete abandon? . . . a hygienic nightmare to be sure, particularly when i allowed him to continue kissing me, but surrendering to his passion was undeniably hot.

Senor Bianchi never let on that he was high . . . in one of the two brief conversations we had between fucks, the one after i found out he was an architect who had been sexually harassed by Philip Johnson, he casually admitted that he had smoked some grass earlier in the day . . . but in the four hours that we spent together, he certainly never had an opportunity to light the pipe . . . i suppose he could have could have taken a bump orally or anally during his two trips to the shower . . . still a part of me, the part that couldn't believe it when i heard his heavily accented voice on my answering machine two days later telling me what a good time he had had and when he would be returning from the Hamptons, wants to believe that the chemistry between us was physical not chemical.

it would be easier to sustain that fantasy if i hadn't used a digital camera to document what i'm still capable of picking up in broad daylight . . . Senor Bianchi let me snap a couple of photos before he left . . . when i showed them to my housemates in the Pines, several of whom know Tina much better than i do, they insisted they could tell he was tweaking, even from the tiny image on the LCD screen . . . i got da evidence . . . isn't that what Lily Tomlin used to say on Laugh In? or was it in Appearing Nitely? . . . whatever the reference, now U know exactly why darkness and distance are my two best friends . . . as Bette Davis is supposed to have said getting old isn't for sissies and she wasn't even talking about the withering cruelty of the sexual marketplace.

ancillary evidence of Tina's popularity and her indirect impact on the sex lives of in-shape 50somethings awaited me in the meatrack on Friday . . . or at least i think it did . . . i mean, c'mon . . . two hunks pursuing me in broad daylight within a few days? . . . i'd just fucked some obviously HIV positive guy around my own age with the testosterone-enhanced body of death and was musing about my recent behavior . . . it seems as if i insist upon safe sex only with certain men . . . if i find them really attractive and they want it raw then sometimes i'm willing to sacrifice my principles to their desire only to beat myself up about it afterwards . . . this bears on my relationship with Tina, too . . . but now i'm getting ahead of myself.

back to the meatrack: from a short distance, this really handsome guy (think a Jewish Dylan McDermott) in yellow shorts gives me the kind of unmistakable head swerve i associate with Linda Blair in The Exorcist . . . when it rains it pours but i kept walking because i needed a few minutes to rejuvenate and rationalize what i'd just been doing . . . because the guy i fucked a few minutes ago is HIV positive and clearly takes excellent care of himself, he probably gets tested for STDs regularly, blah, blah, blah (notice i'm less worried about HIV transmission than syphilis having convinced myself long ago that negative tops bear little risk of HIV infection if there aren't any open sores on their penis) . . . but then our paths cross again and we're looking right at each other and we kiss and he's going down on me like i'm the last cock on earth . . . when i try to return the favor he's big but barely hard . . . uh oh . . . where have all the erections gone? (cue up Peter, Paul & Mary: girls have picked them every one) . . . we play for 10 minutes or so and while the constant eye contact, nipple chewing and butt play keep me interested between intermittent oral sex, i also notice that he's eager to attract a crowd and makes sure to grope the crotch of anybody who pushes past us . . . again, there's no smoking gun or maybe should i say lit pipe to prove he's tweaking but once i come he moves without breaking stride to a younger guy, not much of a looker, who had just joined the fun.

so now, instead of brooding about how i'm willing to bareback if the guy is hot enough, i've got something new to chew on during the long walk back from the meatrack . . . do i really want to have sex with men who are so impaired by their drug use that any stiff cock will do? . . . sure, maybe i'm being a bit melodramatic here, i mean i don't really know for certain exactly what's behind my recent winning streak but then again when darkness long ago improved your sexual batting average and U spend more and more of your daylight hours feeling invisible, U gotta admit something has changed . . . the question now becomes am i gonna let it change me too?

the punch line of an old joke may provide the answer: a guy asks a woman will you have sex with me for a million bucks? . . . she thinks about his offer for a minute before she says yes, a little hesitantly . . . will you have sex with me for $50?. . . of course not! she responds what do u think i am, a whore? . . . he nods yes and says we've already established that, now we're just negotiating the price . . . in my case, however, the currency of exchange is thermodynamic, not economic . . . my principles usually end up taking a back seat to my lust if a guy is hot enough . . . i guess that means Tina is definitely going to be along for the rest of my ride.