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.