isn't sleep deprivation a no no under the terms of the Geneva Convention? . . . if so, do these terms apply to prisoners of love? . . . or lust?

here's the thing: last weekend i got less shuteye over 72 hours (8, max) than during any other period in my life (except maybe the 2003 White Party in Miami . . . but then it was Ecstasy and desire keeping me up not a human being).

i met the Blue Light Special Friday night at Columbia . . . a swimming meet upset our plans and sent us back to my apartment for another peek into his bag of tricks instead of the dinner i had suggested . . . he parked his scooter (yes, he actually rides a Speedy scooter and somehow brings it off despite the fact that 40 is approaching as rapidly as a bullet train) . . . he withdrew a beautifully bound album . . . it was filled with professional black and white shots of him mostly shirtless . . . few captured his boyish sweetness but even before he shyly confessed his adoration of Marky Mark, it was obvious who his upper body role model had been.

next he removed a series of small books featuring erotic male photography inexpensively printed by Bruno Gmunder in his native Deutschland . . . pictures of dicks don't do much for me especially with the real deal sitting next to me but we paged through each volume commenting on the specific appeal of the models or goofiness of their poses . . . this must be your favorite i teased, holding up the volume that showcased Ion Davidov, a Bel Ami star . . . yes, he said but the spine is broken only because it is the oldest . . . i didn't exactly understand why we were strolling down his fantasy lane but casually admitted that we could add another dimension to several of the Hungarian models in his Men of Kristen Bjorn book by using the VCR in my bedroom.

the Blue Light Special concluded the show and tell portion of the evening by changing into a new outfit . . . standing before me in a skimpy red Speedo that barely concealed his erection and that probably would have raised more than an eyebrow in the Columbia locker room he demanded so do u want to eat or do u want to party? . . . was he aware of the implications of his word choice? . . . or should i ignore the drug connotations of "party" on the grounds that English is his 2nd or 3rd language (he learned Portuguese because he thinks Brazilian men are the hottest in the world)? . . . as i followed him into the bedroom like a dog about to be rewarded with table scraps he suggested why don't u put on some fucky music . . . now that's more like my idea of partying: mixing sex and music, my two drugs of choice.

and party we did . . . like it was 1999 . . . i honestly can say that looking into his amazing blue eyes as i slowly thrust my cock deep inside of him i felt as if i were making love, not fucking, for one of the very few times in my life . . . it didn't hurt that a DJ Encore's remix of Frou Frou's "Breathe In" (cuz i love u now, can't help but love u now) helped me keep perfect rhythm and a rapturous smile on his face . . . our connection was so strong that it swept away all my defenses but the cuddling and whispers for several hours afterward sealed my fate.

if only he hadn't asked to watch the Montreal Men after i showed him the only porno tape i ever have purchased: Bo Garrett in Smoking Hunks #63 . . . U see, old coots in good shape like Wayne Rogers can still get it on with the best of them i lectured . . . bored by my cigarette fetish, he asked don't they ever fuck? but he insisted on watching the Kristen Bjorn dub straight to the end . . . i fell asleep before i could point out the guy who had stayed at my house in the Pines wondering if the Blue Light Special could make me as popular at tea.