Restrained Foreplay with A Boyish Man

Nudity Advisory: If you are uncomfortable with male nudity or gay themes, please exit this blog at once. Thank you.

He was nicely dressed and groomed and he was handsome in a way that I found appealing. One smile in his direction as he walked inside the coffee shop was enough to make him want to sit net to me. Within minutes we were getting to know each other.

We were both Latino; I thought he was Anglo or Italian. You can't tell ethnicity sometimes. You have to wait till the guy tells you. He was very proper in his approach and very traditionally Latino. He later said the same about me; that's the reason I appealed to him so much.

To my surprise after 1/2 hour of light conversation he accepted an invitation to coffee and dessert at my place. He quickly said he's like that. I thought he really wanted dessert. He didn't come across as rabidly sexual and that was part of the charm. I thought for a moment or two that he liked being invited over for coffee and dessert whenever possible.

On my yellow sofa we slowly got closer and closer until he felt the urge to hug me, so I let him. I told him if he continued to full-body hug me so tightly I would get too excited to restrain myself. But he opted for more conversation and intimate moments over coffee and scones.

Then the little series of games began. It's a good thing that I'm flexible and willing to learn new approaches to man-to-man experiences so I played along. He made rules about no shirts coming off. Then he broke them and we were both shirtless 1/2 hour later. Me made rules about no pants off. Those came off as well. His last rule, or so I thought, was that we would not go to bed that night. It was he that suggested 15 minutes  later that we go to my bedroom to relax. He called it relaxing and I couldn't figure out till later.

We played show and and tell games and hide the baloney games and finally I said I'd have to pee as I left the bed with my briefs still on and a raging hard on to go with it. He said he'd like to see me in the nude. I complied. We played more of his little games and I was more patient than usual.

We finally did reach orgasm; well he did by getting him hot and bothered when I licked his nipples as he groaned with pleasure. He told me to stop even though it was causing him such pleasure. If I didn't stop, he said, he would ejaculate all over my bed or down his hairy thighs. I couldn't figure out why he'd want me to stop so I gently kept licking his left nipple and he finally shot hot streams of jism into his half-cupped hands as he tried to catch the dripping semen.

He then told me that was the first time he'd ever had sex with a man. He wasn't sure if he should have done so as he was struggling with his sexuality and his Christian upbringing, but he sure wanted to see me again. Had he told me from the start both of these details I would have said that I was not the kind of guy that initiates struggling Christians into man-to-man intimacies since I know first-hand how complicated that struggle can at times be. But he was grateful for the experience. I was relieved that he had taken the first time so well. He said that it couldn't have been with a nicer and more patient guy. I smiled, kissed him in the nude as he waved goodbye and walked through the front door ready for his drive home to his mom and dad, his wife or his empty apartment.

Gay Christian Male and Temptation

Something is not quite typical about the mostly nude or sex-oriented posts that appear from time to time on this blog. With all respect to gay or bisexual men who are not Christian or religious, this blog would be more in sync with a secular or humanist individual because of its obsession and, at times, naturalness regarding nudity and sex. It stretches belief to realize that I am obsessed with reading the Bible and praying daily two or three times a day, as well. My most tender moments are of God and spiritual themes.

There have been times when I've not given myself pleasure for weeks, if you can believe it. It surprised me that I could be so disciplined. I'm not sure what brought that about. It wasn't lack of ability, but rather, something unseen or unexplainable. I can't be sure it was all of a spiritual nature. It simply was that I chose not to masturbate.

In addition, for two or three weeks now I purposely stay away from instant gay dating sites which hook you up with a variety of men. I've even met guys younger than myself by 10 or 15 years. That surprised me though I never told them my age. But ultimately, sites like that lead to more complications than is worth the bother.

So what happens now? I think it's healthy, in part, not to be ashamed of my nude body even though it still needs work, but both my physique and myself are works in progress. I am still evolving and becoming better and better even as I experience each passing year. It's better to be alive, though not as young as I used to be, than not to be alive at all. For that I am grateful.

At the local Starbucks I am starting to get positive comments from guys that are younger and more buff than I am, as well as previous acquaintances that approve of my gradual evolution into a different, improved model.

Nevertheless, I am still searching for a solution to the dichotomy of my life which features episodes of darkness and light and sometimes the half-light that is closer to the human condition and experience.

Whether you are struggling with any of the episodes I document in this blog or other challenges, never give up. Remember:

Darkness lightness. The night lasts only a few hours. Light, perhaps redefined, will come again into my life and into yours, as well.

Gay-friendly Starbucks - Wilton Manors, FL

Every Starbucks reflects its immediate community and reinforces it. At least in this venue the staff reflects in part its neighborhood. The few barristas that are heterosexual are, shrewdly, gay-tolerant.

For those who don't drink this very successful outlet is the ideal choice for makng friends. After hours of coffee, tea and pleasant conversation, one can walk to the curb with very little effort. Equal time spent in a nearby bar pales in comparison.

Not everybody in the gay hood is gay, lesbian or transgender. Those who are 'other' feel at ease when same sex parties kiss or they simply fail to return.

Age, disabilities, accent or political affinities are all welcome and feel at Home here. This is my second home for I come here after work for an hour before heading home.

If I am fortunate it's likely that I'll meet my next significant other at the granite counter or in the sometimes smoky patio by swaying palm trees.

Gay tourists must stop here when in town and in need of recreation and relaxation.

Gays in Heaven

Wondering: So you are the one that sets the limits?
Where is God in all of this?

Wondering, thank you for taking the time and for caring enough to quote me in full, as well, as asking your valid question.

First of all, I hesitated with sharing what many will see as an unflattering version of gay life within an ultra-progressive adventist context, my own. Nevertheless, it is a slice of my gay life, past and present.

Whether you chose to believe it or not, I can only assure you that it is the truth.
God came to my rescue with these amazing texts: The Lord is my light and my salvation. The Lord is the strength of my life. Of whom then shall I be afraid. The Lord is my shepherd. He restores my soul.

During the last months of a broken relationship, as the 14 years were coming to an end, it was only these words, learned during childhood, that game me strength, hope and sanity to endure the ultimate insult. As I fell asleep chanting these words until sleep finally eased my pain, the man I had loved and cared for through sickness and unemployment, had abondoned me and without concern as to my feelings left me to my "guest room" in our own house while he slept with his new younger, wealthier lover in what formerly was our master bedroom.
Most people in that situation would either go mad or go beserk. I did not have the economic luxury to do either.

In spite of the realization that according to my Adventist family I was "living in sin" and in spite of having fallen from a dynamic faith relationship with Christ into nominal Christianity, I believed enough in Christ to seek him as I lived out the remaining months of a living hell.
So for whatever it's worth, even homosexuals still have an open door to God's grace at all times. "...whoever belives in him should not perish..."

And let's not talk of cheap grace. Grace is never cheap. Grace is simply free. The more sinful we find ourselves to be, the freer it seems. The more righteous or moral we think we are, the less need we seem to have for God's "forgiving love, loving kindness, and unmerited favor."
Only the greatest of sinners can ever truly appreciate the incredible gift of being saved by nothing more than a relationship with Christ, not on how near-perfect and morally upright we imagine ourselves to be. "Those who have been forgiven much have greater love for Christ."
Those who consider their sins paltry love less because they believe they have been forgiven for less, and because theirs are so-called lesser evils and more "normal" human failings. "All have sinned and fall short of the glory of God and are justified freely ..."

Thank you all for taking time--those of you who are not squeemish--to read my personal story. I hope it has been of benefit to some of you.

Posted by: Bunbury Vidal

The above post was taken from a larger dialogue by progressive Christians regarding the film For the Bible Tells Me So.

A Lighter Shade of Dark

I'll give anyone a chance even if I'm not sure if what I'm doing is exactly right.

The folks in church are nice, but they don't know I'm gay, or bisexual or whatever it is I happen to be today. At least one guy suspects, he even unzipped his pants for me--so strong were his suspicions. Now that friendship is crumbling and fading fast. If he wanted me to see it so bad, why is he so uncomfortable every time we shake hands, half-heartedly. Ah, because he knows where my hand has been. But he's a nice guy otherwise, though he's not sure what he's feeling or what he wants. I have to decide that myself.

I didn't plan it this way, but that's how it turned out. I met a charming little vixen online and we struck up a conversation. Just before I drove down to the bottom of the world to see her, I had a last minute date with a slim Latino that answered a half-formed personal ad. It was electrifying to have him sitting so close to me in the restaurant--his slightly sweaty arm nudging mine as we picked up and set our iced tea glasses on the afternoon table.

He invited me to an all gay party for which he cooked all the food. I wanted someone like him in my life so I could eat so well, so often. I liked only some of the ones there. I didn't like the crass language; it rubbed me the wrong way.

At last I had to fly and hit the road. I said thank you to Rodolfo and that I looked forward to seeing him again. But in a way I had seen his coarser side--which was how he was with his somewhat crass friends--and I doubted I'd want to see him again.

I arrived after rain and roads unfamiliar had slipped me into the sinister darkness--well not that sinister--of the South Miami strip. I finally met Jane and was surprised at how slightly mannish she was. I guess if a woman has been in the army, it's bound to rub off a little on her. We had dinner and then sat in my car where she did most of the talking. I felt for her and her troubles, but didn't feel much attraction, just friendship. But how to tell her? Last night was not the time to tell her. Besides, maybe she felt the same way about me, but just didn't show it. How do I get myself into these quandaries?

As I was saying my goodbyes, Rodolfo calls to find out how my "dinner with friends in South Miami" turned out. I said fine, not mentioning it was only one friend, and that I had been getting to know her before I met him. But I hinted at his party that I dated men and women, but not simultaneously. Well that was until today.

This morning they both text messaged me, and I responded to both, to keep both doors open. I don't want to sleep with either one of them though. I just want to be their friend. Or perhaps I'd like to get closer to him, but keep her in my life out of compassion. Of course, she'll soon realize I'm not going to drive so far and spend more money than I normally spend on dining out on a regular basis. But maybe, by sharing what means I have with her or with him, more will come to me. You know, just like in the Law of attraction, and all that positive-thinking stuff.

A Night in Sodom

It's painful to read the story of Sodom and Gomorrah in the Bible because you get the impression that this story is probably why lots of people hate gays so much. It obviously reported what might have been a mass rape had not supernatural intervention changed things considerably.

Imagine though, if the two messengers (angels) had not rescued Lot as he spoke to his friends and neighbors about how wrong it would be for them all to rape his two male guests. The story would have been even more heinous and then when both Cities of the Plain were destroyed by volcanic lava, as some have suggested, then perhaps some folk today would say that the Gang Rape Mob had gotten their just rewards.

I've sometimes felt sad for all those homosexual, as well as non-homosexual men and women along with their children, who were destroyed in such a painful way. Some progressive folk have suggested that it was natural causes that destroyed them, and that it was not divine retribution that wiped out all those people, the semi-good (Lot's future sons-in-law and his wife) with the bad. But I start to think that if I were visiting such a sex-obsessed culture that wanted to gang rape every stranger that came into town and took refuge in a religious persons' home, I probably would have been raped, as well. That's nothing anyone wants to experience, regardless of whatever distorted prison fantasies some gay men have. I've had them in the past myself. I even used to hang out in bathhouses when I was a young man that had mock prison cells replete with bars and minimal mattresses. I'm glad I survived to tell the tale.

Imperfect Art's Better than No Art at All

"Don't worry if it's good or bad art. Just keep on producing. Let others decide if it's good or bad." Paraphrase of a statement by Andy Warhol heard on PBS.

While some deified him making him to be larger than he, or anyone has a right to be, that is the nature of hagiography and you wouldn't bother making documentries or writing biographies unless you felt your subject was larger than life. The American Masters documentary seemed to last forever. I say that in a good way. It could have lasted another hour and I would have enjoyed it, as well. It seemed, at first, to be the four hour film that is playing in New York City. It's hard to imagine that the longer film could be any more intriguing, but that, of course, waits to be seen. [Further research has confirmed to my delight that the PBS 2 hour installment is the second half of Andy Warhol: A Documentary Film by Ken Burns. Where else, really, except on PBS would you have anyone even in the art mainstream going to a four hour film. This is one DVD that will be worth buying from PBS when they release it on their website .]

Having had interest in Warhol in the past, starting in the late 70s mainly through his artistic patronage of Lou Reed and the Velvet Underground, later on I became more interested in him because of his art for art sake aesthetic.

While a junior at the Greater New York Academy our high school choir naively sang backup on little-known Warhol superstar "adult" film actress, Ultra Violet's (Isabelle Collin Dufresne) one and only music album. The music teacher later became aware of what Andy Warhol movies were like and requested that we not tell the conserative high school princial, less she get into trouble for not checking out who we did back-up singing for. It was a great brush with Warhol's Factory group in a modern recording studio. Perhaps the reason for her realtive unknown status when copared with Viva and Joe Dallesandro is the following quote:

Andy Warhol on Ultra Violet: “She was past a certain age, but she was still
beautiful; she looked a lot like Vivien Leigh... Ultra would do almost anything
for publicity. She’d go on talk shows ‘representing the underground,’ and it was
hilarious because she was as big a mystery to us as she was to everybody else...
She’d tell journalists, ‘I collect art and love’. But what she really collected
were press clippings.”

That sounds all too familiar for Warhol who is supposed to have expresse little sympathy for little Edie Sedgwick when he was informed of her death.

In the mid eighties his films, especially the ones directed by Paul
Morrissey, like Flesh and Trash, caught my eye. They were vaguely
interesting to watch, but they made for good conversation at the rare dinner
party where I could mention that I had videotapes of those films and fished
around for other Warhol admirers.

In the late 80s I saw a documentary that I mistakenly remembered as stating that Chelsea Girls was a lost film of his.
Only snipets remained and what was shown in that documentary seemed priceless to
me for it only hinted at what it must have been like to have seen all three
hours of it. Well, six hours, since it was shown in split screen mode.

Late last year, when I found the DVD version on an imitation ebay site,
I almost forked over $25 dollars for what I had doubts was either a rare bit of
film history, or a mildly interesting piece of trash. Reviews I read mentioned
that the people and the goings on in the film were distasteful and only had
modest artistic or sociological value.

Tonight's documentary expressed a
very different point of view. It presented Chelsea Girls as one of Warhol's masterpieces.
I felt a little disoriented about whether I made a mistake in not buying this
out-of-print masterpiece when I had a chance to do so. I'm sure if it's as good
as PBS says it is, it will be released again someday.

While the film had
limited value for recreating the Happenings and art atmosphere of the 60s, a
decade that fascinates me for different reasons as time goes by, one thing was
evident this time around that I had ignored during other encounters with
Warhol's various art projects. The man was vanity and self-absorption
personified. You could say I wasted two hours of my life watching this art
biography. But in the end, he was a human being whose mother visited him in the
hospital when he was recovering from his near death, the result of being shot by
an enraged former Factory denizen. At the end of his quite/quiet life, his
remains now rest on an eternally snowy hillside in his hometown, I presume,
where remaining relatives or admirers visit him or photograh for this and future
documentaries. They mentioned that the first half of the 20th century was
important for Picasso and that the last half was important because of Warhol. I
wondered who would be the major artist, or writer, or musician for the first
half of the 21st century.

Watching the film about Warhol and his often
incessant art production made me long again to explore writing seriously. I have
a Canon camcorder I purchased last year and half ago and have only shot two or
three cassettes worth of film. I could do so much more with that $600 dollar
investment if I set my mind to it. I could buy a sampler and create my own
"borrowed" musical soundtracks for the two or three films as well as others.

I even thought of taking the few nude and semi-nude pictures I've taken
of myself and doctoring them with Photoshop and putting them on this site. Most
are anonymous so my identify would still be protected. I don't want my mother
recognizing her nude son on an accidental visit to her son's blog or site one
spring day. Or I thought of searching for "found" photos and processing them
beyond recognition, as Warhol or others seem to have done, and then I could have
said to have created some kind of art or artifact, as opposed to creating
nothing at all.

This is perhaps an attempt to take to heart Warhol's
advice to keep on producing without worrying about its eventual merit.
Perfectionism has its negative factors. When you can't be certain of the
relative perfection of something you write or do, and decide not to write or do
anything at all, you wind up with an entire life of waiting for perfection to
arrive, for people to arrive to show you the way to a more perfect life, and
eventually you arrive at the end of your life, and you're still waiting for that
perfect moment that, alas, never did arrive.

Better to attempt imperfect
writing and imperfect works of art or music, than nothing at all. Perfection is
after all a relative concept.