I have noticed that every other woman I see hanging out with GayBoys(tm) is younger and prettier than me.  I am beginning to worry that my Boys could do better.  I have a nice car, and I have certain perspectives that can only really be bought with time and experience, but honestly I usually feel like I get more out of our relationship than they do.

In high school I had a friend who had a secret boyfriend.  She was a soft, doughy, pathos-inducing girl whose stepfather was always left alone with her right before she “Tripped and hit her eye on the doorknob”, and he was a hunky popular boy who would be sweet as pie to her when they were alone, but would not acknowlege her otherwise.  AND he had an official girlfriend, but they “weren’t close”.

They “weren’t fucking”, actually.  Not my friend and this boy.  They totally were fucking.  But the matched set/popular girl was not putting out, so my friend got to be the secret girlfriend who did.

I watch our relationship for signs that I am a secret girlfriend.  Not in the sexual intimacy sense, but in actual real-life measures: look at their FB timelines.  I see myself, a goofy-looking elderly woman, grinning in the background of their lives.  Roller skating with The Brunette.  At pride with The Blonde.  Our relationship may be inexplicable, ineffable, and a lot of other things that start with I-N-E and end with A-B-L-E, but there it is.

(Except I totally put out, eh)

Yesterday was a good day that started out bad - I had an exam and was feeling a little wobbly.  Went to see my boys after.  Held my own in a spectacular wrestle!  Usually they end when I get ‘accidentally’ punched in the face or something.  I’m not saying they accidentally-on-purpose punch me.  I’m just saying punches are flying *everywhere*, and I am old and slow.

At one point I was pinned down and being tickled.  The Blonde took my phone, and umm… jammed it… into an indelicate place.  Then The Brunette called me.  I don’t have voice mail.  It just kept ringing.

Luckily, being somewhat unfamiliar with lady-parts, they had managed to miss all the good bits and were essentially vibrating the bejeezus out of some inconsequential swamplands next door to Disneyland.

Tragically, straight guys do this with shocking regularity too.

Better luck next time, Boys!

On Saturday we (Carpenter and I) were supposed to go to this Sexy Show thing with Pilot Girl.  It did not so much work out.  Pilot Girl assures us that the Sexy Show has been more fun in the past, but this time it was a dismal basement full of sex toys, big girls busting out of their lingerie, and pathetic guys who were expecting the dildo saleswomen to be hotter and more flirtatious.

And Pilot Girl wasn’t feeling well, so she left early.  The Carpenter and I marvelled at the equipment-intensive sex stuff and wandered away somewhat reassured that we can get off without battery power and load-bearing walls.  I’m not saying that I didn’t think about buying the $125 dollar uber-vibrator.  My decision was financial, not ‘why pay for what I can do myself’ snobbery.

As we were driving away, all dressed up and nowhere to go, I asked The Carpenter what he would like to do.  He had no ideas.  I pointed out that if we didn’t come up with something I was going to wind up watching Futurama with The Boys while he went to make sure Pilot Girl was okay and to walk The Cutest Dog In Creation.

“True”  he said.

I tossed him my phone.  Had him text The Brunette and ask if he was up for a Game Night.  This is a trick question.  It’s like asking if fire is hot.  OF COURSE he’s up for a game night.  As an interesting side-note, all my chats with The Boys on our iPhones include Derby Girl. She just likes to eavesdrop on the debauchery.

She offered to host us, and feed us four pounds of lasagna, on like, no notice.

So we ended up at her place.  Blonde, Brunette, Me, Carpenter, Derby Girl and her new beau Scientist.  Scientist is like Carpenter.  Manly-man.  Very straight.  I get a little nervous. Most of the homophobia I have encountered in my life has come from straight men, and it has been vicious.  And you can never really tell beforehand how someone will react.  A lot seem to have this “as long as you’re not in-my-face about it” policy, which boils down to “as long as I can’t tell”, which is not even an achievable goal for lots of gay men.  

And of course dessert was popsicles.  And you can’t give a gay man a popsicle.  Has anyone ever seen a gay man just eat a popsicle without demonstrating his capacity?!  So The Blonde and The Brunette are deep-throating their dessert and giggling about how it freezes the back of their throats and that kinda hurts, and Derby Girl and I are laughing and saying stuff like “You’re telling us” and whatnot.

Scientist says something about the popsicle not being so big and all, and it not really being that impressive?  I dunno.  I was too busy cracking up.

“My mouth isn’t the only place I could fit this whole thing.  Trust me, you’d be impressed.” says The Blonde (or words to that effect!), not missing a beat.  Scientist and Carpenter both crack up.  And that’s it.  That’s the big hurdle.  The spectre of anal sex; the knowledge that they are in the presence of (at least) one man who allows himself to be penetrated.  

The joke was deft, quickly and skillfully delivered, a witty repartee that flowed from the obvious to the OMG he just SAID THAT.  It made sense in context and was not gratuitous. That helps a lot.  But it also helps that we are dealing with two straight men who know who and what they are.  They are not easily threatened or emasculated.  They are not insecure. They know funny when they hear it, and that was funny.

Later on, we were helping clean up and put Derby Girl’s house back to rights.  She has this big tablecloth that is actually a wood-slat floor covering that she uses two small wood-clamps to keep secured to the table.  The Brunette was playing with one.  He came up behind Scientist with it and reached around to pretend to put it on Scientist’s nipple.

“Go ahead!” proclaims Scientist, “You’ll never find it!”  This is just a guy thing; not gay or straight.  They never think you can find their nipples through a tshirt. Brunette can, and did.  Scientist yelped, and smiled, and told him ‘good job’.

He’s a keeper.

If you watch straight porn, there is (was!) only one named male porn star.  Ron Jeremy.  All others were porn NPCs.  I think this is because every guy watching porn doesn’t really want there to be guys in it.  They need the dick as a stand-in, but the guy - the actual man behind the dick - is not only unnecessary to the fantasy, he is potentially damaging to it.

Ron Jeremy is a straight man’s dream.  He’s the living proof that any goofy-looking motherfucker with a big enough dick could be a porn star.  That is the meta-fantasy to the basic “that’s me in there, porking that plastic surgery lawsuit!” fantasy.  Credit to The Brunette for ‘porking’.  Hadn’t heard that one since 8th grade…

Anyhoo, that doesn’t leave a lot of room for female viewers of straight porn.  I’m not going to get into any lame debate about story, acting, or romance, cause fuck that, I’m talking about *porn* and I don’t want to watch Julia Roberts emote about getting nailed.

But I, just like a guy, am looking for two things in porn - someone I’d like to sleep with if I could, and a little fantasy-role play where I can imagine that’s me doing the stuff in the movie.

Basically I want a pretty girl and a pretty boy.  Ron Jeremy can’t be anywhere near it.

The Boys asked me if I ever watch gay (male) porn.  I do.  I can forego the female stand-in for my feminine identity and make due with two attractive guys.  I don’t need to imagine myself in there for it to work for me.  I can just appreciate it for sheer aesthetics. 

And there are a lot of aesthetics to be appreciated.   Because gay men are looking at the whole package, and there is no duality - the men in gay porn are the fuckers and the fuckees for the viewing public.  And let’s face it, if we wanted to see ugly people fuck we’d have mirrors in our bedrooms.  Or go to the amateur sites.  Eww.

Then I read about James Deen.  That article already covers a lot of ground about the notion of feminist porn.  Mostly I was awed by the kid.  A little searching with the safeties off, and I was pretty impressed.  This is NOT Ron Jeremy.  This is a beautiful young man.  I could be a fan.

It has been brought to my attention that not only are gay men hot, but they also have really big cocks.  Thanks for that.

I haven’t posted in a while.  Our friendship is in one of those mellow states.  Comfortable and easy.  And none of the drama has been related to the issues I like to talk about here; sex, sexuality, gender, feminism, etc…

That’s a good thing.  Your friendships should not make you write essays.  If they’re that thought-provoking, they’re probably not that *fun*.

But yesterday I was thrust into Mom-mode by a sick kid.  A Blonde, specifically.  I ditched class early (didn’t tell them the sick kid I was taking to the Dr had not sprung from my own loins) because he texted me “I want my mommy”.

That broke my heart on so many levels.  I am sad for my friend who is so far from home.  I am sad because I get that feeling too - the intense need for a nurturing woman to take care of me - but I never really had it.  My mom was not a “mommy”.  I am sad because I am not able to fulfill that role for him.  It’s not just that no one can replace your mother.  Both of them have told me that they just don’t think of me that way.

Every time I try to cram our friendship into a template of male/female relationships, they just shrug it off.  And never give me another definition to cling to.  The Blonde won’t even say ‘fag hag’.  I understand why.  I just don’t understand why I seem to need a template or definition.  For what?  To explain my life to outsiders?  Who cares?  No one asks?

So yesterday I’m in the waiting room, waiting.  Playing Bejeweled.  The Blonde goes to a Dr who specializes in gay men’s health.  The receptionist is a cute gay man.  The Blonde had previously mentioned this, so when he goes in he sends me a text, letting me know that “That’s the guy”

And yeah, he’s cute, but not in a way I expected.  So far The Blonde doesn’t seem to have a ‘type’.  The Brunette is very ectomorphic.  The receptionist is very much a mesomorph, and a well-built one.  Nice shoulders.  Super-short hair.  You know who else is all shoulders and shaved head?  My Carpenter.  The Blonde might not have a type, but I do.  Receptionist is hot!

So I’m giggling in the waiting room.  Then a guy comes in.  Also hot.  

Another guy comes in.  This one is older, overweight.

Another guy comes in.  Hot.  

I start doing math.  Blonde is hot.  Receptionist is hot.  Guy #1 is hot.  Guy #2 is old and in obvious ill health.  Guy #3 is hot. Four-fifths hot. NOT FAIR.

If homosexuals are roughly 10% of the population, they are entitled to only 10% of the hot guys.  That’s one in ten.  So only The Blonde, *maybe* the receptionist had any right to be hot!  And I’m not even counting The Brunette, who is also hot!!!  That fucks up the numbers even more!  I can’t help but think that they are leeching off the potential hot guys out there for us ladies.

Sometimes it sucks to be old, and fat, and female, and straight, and married.

I confronted The Blonde about it when he got out.  I used “you people” and everything.  I sort of hoped he’d challenge me on principle.  Instead I got another shrug.  Yeah.  Gay men are hot.  Sucks to be you.

The Blonde is going to try a new gym.  He was told that Whatever Gym is ‘the best’.  I was teasing him, because we had previously discussed eye candy at gyms.

Me: “Best gym for hot guys?”

Blonde: “Just the best gym.  The University is the best gym for hot guys, unless there’s a gym called Gay Twink Gym.”

Me: “You should open a gym called Gay Twink Gym.”

Blonde: “I would just call it GTG.”

Me: “But if a twink works out, doesn’t he lose his required petite-ness?”

Blonde: “The weights would only go up to twenty pounds.”

… is incredibly gendered.  I discovered this when The Blonde discovered that he was “The Other Man”.  He was contacted (on FB!) by the husband of a guy he used to ‘date’ two years ago.  Who turns out to have been married at the time.  A lot of things clicked in place - a process I most recently observed in Pilot Girl’s life when she went to surprise a boyfriend who was in training in another province and got to meet his *actual* girlfriend.

No wonder we never hung out at his place.  No wonder he didn’t take me to meet his parents.  Click-click-click.

The Blonde had no idea, and it was so long ago (and far away from where he is now emotionally/relationship-wise) that he is not hurt or angry or confused.

He is mostly amused and bewildered.  

“One for the bucket list.”  He called it.

“Whore.” I called him.  Kidding!  I kid!

But then he did call me out for calling him ‘The Other Woman’ or ‘A Kept Woman’ or ‘Mistress’ or something like that.  Man!  Male!

Yeah, yeah.  I know.  But the language doesn’t translate properly.  If I want to tease you for being… that… those are the best terms.  The Other Man is okay, but Kept Man doesn’t quite have the same oomph, and the masculine of Mistress is Master.  That doesn’t work at all, or at least I’d be accusing him of something far different.

Side Note:  The Blonde would probably make an excellent Dominatrix.  Dammit.  Another gendered one.  Dominator is just not the same thing!

Anyway, it turns out he never even exchanged fluids with Mr. Married Man.  Derby Girl and I were completely let down by this detail.  It was all sexy and salacious, until we found out that The Blonde’s crime was essentially this: he held hands with a married guy.  BFD.

I’m trying to read.  For school.  Getting distracted.  By FB, by Tumblr, and by the two little girls fighting like stray cats in the other room.  Twelve and five, but the twelve year old is midgety and the five year old is gargantuan.  They are on a spare bed covered in miscellaneous toys.  They had been trying to cull the toy-herd, but Three of Three refused to be parted with any of her treasures.  Dolls, balls, and playdoh, oh my.

Second of Three: “Mom!  Help!  She’s going for my eyes!”

Me: “If I wanted to referee a fight between violent hooligans, I’d be at The Boys’ right now.”

Second of Three: “Balls everywhere!”

Me: “That too.”

Ugh.  Indeed.