So some people may be curious as to why I am putting near nude pictures of myself on my 'blog. Especially given my social phobia, general anxiety disorder and extremely negative body image. If you've seen the nudes, you can see why I have such a low opinion of my physical self. Ironically, those are the fleshy reasons that posing nude contains such emotional currency with me. My body is just awful. There is a lot of hair, testosterone has taken my balls, given me breasts and thinned out the hair on the front of my noggin. One thing I see in one of my nudes is the Black Hole behind my cock, where my tiny, empty scrotum hangs. There are no nudes on my blog, but several were taken. My penis is average in length and width, and generally works very well. No complaints. But I've found that I'm rather sensitive about infertility and the two surgeries to remove my non-functioning nuts.
All I can do, as they say, is deal with it. Accept what I cannot change and all that crap. And I have. I don't wander the streets of East Arlington, earnestly calling out for Bjorn and Andre (a name given to my balls by an ex-girlfriend named Sandra, an graduate student, back in 1999). They also went by the names Sarah and Robin. That was the doing of a lovely Czech woman I fell in love with in the Spring of 1998. In fact, every woman I've been with (not including the one night stands) has taken it upon herself to attach little names to my little cock and balls. I returned the honor by naming the vagina, breasts, and sometimes clitoris of my paramour. It's fun. Try it!
Fiona's vagina was named, Harriet. I don't think Harriet the Vagina liked me. Louann's clitoris was called Bug, because the new Volkswagon Bug was new and she had just bought one. Whatever year it was that we cuckolded her husband. In Milwaukee, at a Socialist Party Convention, a comrade and I hooked up at the Hotel Wisconsin. She named her vagina and clitoris Emma, for Emma Goldman (I loved that, still do). That was remarkable because it usually takes awhile before you start naming things. Before we had sex, she said something like, "I'd like you to meet my little Emma G" and then revealed a very bushy marvel between her legs. I swear this is true. I could go on, but I'm indulging romantic nostalgia too much as it is.
I'm not going to mention if the Love of my life currently has a name for my bits, or if I have a name for hers. And what those names are, if we do. I'm sure that Linda is the last woman I'll ever love. Even if she dumps me, I'm not doing "love" again with anyone else. She is it. I'm mentioning this to show that, while I did have more than my share of partners in bed in my life, that frantic horniness is behind me. How do I know? I don't, really. Linda could dump me tonight, for all I know, and who could blame her? But I doubt it. And I can say for sure how I feel; I do so love that woman. If she moves on from me, I'll have my memories of her. Memories of us together would make the affections of another woman a dim, moon cast shadow compared to the light of my beloved Linda.
One of the reasons I screwed around so much in my youth is that I wanted to be normal. In my twenty-something eyes, everyone was fucking. The picture I had of myself in my mind was not flattering; I weighed a lot more than I do now, although I was far more social. Still, I charmed a fair number of attractive women into bed, sometimes even into a relationship.
I'm incredibly fond of women.
There was an actress from a play called, "Stages" that was playing at UMass Boston when I was a student there. We flirted. My flirtations had a goal, to bed this gorgeous actress. She was just flirting for the hell of it. Just because. It bothers me to this day that I never had the courage to ask her out. That shit haunts neurotic people like me forever. I had what the kids call a "crush" on her. Plus, she could have been a model, she was that pretty. After the play one night we went out to dinner with about 5 other people, some my guests, some hers. After that, I never saw her again, as the show was staged just before the Winter break. Saturday, December 11th, 1996.
Sometimes, the things that don't happen give us strength, or at least a fond memory.
Why am I thinking about this stuff? I'm especially given to a sentimental disposition these days, and my thoughts keep turning to the past; attending university, having an affair with a married woman, doing Socialist Party shit, and thinking about friends long gone. Most women I've slept with were close friends even after the break-up. The ex-girlfriend who found herself and came out as a lesbian is my best friend outside of my Linda. Although it was easy because I'm a friend of her partner. Clare and Melanie have been together for 7 years or so. Amazing. I love them both, as friends, of course.
It has also occurred to me that, had I been fertile for all those years of free love and sex, I'd be a father right now. I'd like to say that precautions were always taken, but they rarely were. Working up to sex is a tough time to think about anything but sex, even if it's contraception. But I'm disease and baby free. That's a good thing. A very good thing. Disease or baby. There's no way I could handle a child! I've seen what parents and grandparents go through; the work, the constant worry, the irritation, more worry, physical and emotional pain...mercy. I'd be in a state of constant terror. When I'm around Linda's grandchild I'm equally protective. My eyes are always upon him, I'm conscious of people in the vicinity, and cars, and bikes, and wind...everything. It's exhausting. I don't know how his mother does it. How any mother does it.
Women are so much stronger than men. A casual stroll through this dump of a planet will make that clear.
With any luck, this sentimental jag will end soon, and I'll stop reminiscing about purely sexual one nighters and the actual relationships, the longest of which lasted almost 5 years. There are also a few men in there. Not partners, just friends. I'm thinking of Adam and Moisha, both international business lawyers now, and I never see them. Social phobia keeps me from going out for a drink, or just calling to say, "Hi." Poor Moisha wrote a spy novel and sent it to me from London. He was kindly trying to engage me, as he wants me to write, too. After giving him my opinions on his novel, that was it. I fell out of contact with him, again. Too bad.
Anyway, enjoy my semi-nude photographs. I'm fat, have way too much skin, am white as a ghost and hirsute. I'm awful. But take a gander, for there I am. I'm enjoying the catharsis. In the immortal words of Popeye, "I am what I am!"