Archive for February, 2008

… 29 bottles of wine on the wall, 29 bottles of wine.

Posted in Confession on February 28, 2008 by moderngatsby

As a social drinker I very seldom buy wine for dinner especially when I’m eating alone. But after two bottles on an empty stomach I ran the risk of crossing over from a boy who does lunch to one losing it very quickly. And with the bloom off the job that a million girls would kill for I was left rethinking it all. When your expectation of the new job, a new man, and a new beginning don’t quite pan out you start to doubt yourself. Including your sanity. In the moment when you crane your neck backwards for the last drops from your last sip to fall back and down your throat onwards and downwards to anesthetise a discounted heart you start to question everything. The story of my life. Was I doing the right thing? Should I let him go too quickly? Where will this take me?

As I sat back in the haze of a bedroom filled with cigar smoke, the feint smell of a second bottle of wine and cheap sex I realised something about myself that I didn’t want to admit. In life there have been very few obstacles. Up until a few years ago life seemed to be an effortless progression from one fabulous job to the next, one great anonymous fuck to another and one suit fitting to the next at my ancient Italian tailor. But then I joined the family company and things started going wrong. I fell in love and that ended after a few years with his cheating on me. I lost my direction and focus and become a man about town. And then the company stumbled itself and we lost pretty much everything. But now everything seems to have opened up again.

Choices. Since birth we have been told we can do anything we want. Be an astronaut, the head of publishing company or even a work from home entrepreneur. There aren’t any rules anymore and the choices have endless. And apparently they could all be delivered right to your door with just a phone call and credit card. But is it possible that we’ve gotten so spoilt by these choices that we’ve become unable to make one? That a part of us knows that when you choose something: one man, one great apartment, and one amazing job another option goes away. Are we a generation of gay men that can’t just choose just one from column A? Did we have too much to handle or was my indecisive heart right: can we have it all?

Drunk and insanely horny even after an afternoon of fucking I got off the merry go round that had become my indefinable experience with the new guy. After days of not having text messages or phone calls returned he suddenly contacted me. Only then to disappear again for days on end. A million questions ran through my head but none of them could ever be validated because they could never be asked. Perhaps he did have a lot on his mind as he had explained and needed time to sort things out or perhaps he was just ignoring me because somehow I couldn’t fit into his neatly constructed world but either way I found myself scrolling through my contact list on my mobile phone and hitting the ‘delete’ button to his profile. ‘Are you sure?’ it intuitively asked. As if knowing the alcohol level in my blood stream and sober penchant for regret.

But I was sure. I know that I deserve a man who will love me – fully. And not keep me at an arms length because he’s still sorting through the break-up and baggage of his last relationship. Sure we all need time but when the timing is right – your have to let go and take a leap of faith into the unknown. Even if joint real estate keeps your past relationship present you have to build over the foundations and start again. Each time getting stronger and surer. But as I sat there, drunk and alone, I realised that this was the temporary choice I had made for myself. In opening up, yet again blindly and with faith, I had opened myself up to much more than just a great man. I opened myself up to a great life. Full of promise and infinite choices. All my mine to make.

I’m thirty years old, told by many that I’m very good looking (but would settle for better than average when examining my reflection in the shaving mirror), and have the capacity above all to be fucking extraordinary. Sure in the morning I’ll be sober and reflective on life in general but before then I’ll have posted this online. My new job takes all my considerable strengths, natural passions and places me in a position of influence amongst the very things that I excel at. Sure I don’t have a man to share it just yet but with very little effort could that not change just as quickly as a 24-goal polo match drawn in the 6th chukka? I know that timing is everything and that someday my dreams will come true. How many others could boast the same?

Until then I have the promise of a new morning, a possible hang-over and half-eaten bacon, mushroom and English mustard sandwich to keep me company through the night. Even if it’s all after 6pm, filled with fat, carbohydrates, and tannin you have to ask: who gives a fuck right? It seemed like a good choice at the time.


… is Tom Ford out to destroy straight men?

Posted in Tom Ford on February 25, 2008 by moderngatsby

A new Tom Ford Menswear ad features a two-page spread [page one pictured] of some serious naked woman vs. clothed man violence. Angry advertising authority Copyranter argues that this is yet another piece of the designer’s unfolding plot to destroy heterosexual men. But we’re not so sure. As he notes, the ad appeared in Details, and the male model, what with his metrosexuality and niche beer selection, is clearly gay. So this is actually more of a symbol of Tom Ford’s disdain for gay men who would try to pass as straight. That makes us feel much better. The second half of the ad, with the violent crotch-grab payoff, after the jump.


… the eagle has landed.

Posted in Self-Truth on February 25, 2008 by moderngatsby

I don’t quite seem to trust myself when I’m around him. Even though the intimacy that we still share as strangers remains, the feeling has taken on something else, and emptiness pervades my soul when I’m not able to hear his thoughts spoken as words in the early hours of the morning as we eat chocolate and sip on flat soft-drinks, the dovetail fit of his arm around my waist as he holds me against him with our fingers interlocked or feeling his heart beating down the hours till the dawn when we must part as shadows that come into the daylight.

Even though the call came which took me to his front door the fading sweet pleasure that he gives me when I’m with him leaves an aftertaste that I’ve become a marionette for his self-gratification. And while a part of me realises perhaps that this is just the turmoil of a rollercoaster heart searching for love – or whatever that lexicon emotion really entails – in the depths of loneliness I am to blame. That anyone will do even if they are a reluctant participant? But when their involvement is continued, at their pleasure, am I wrong to believe that this is perhaps the classic dating game after all?

And as we move to the overtime of my own little game I like to call 24hrs and still no text message back I couldn’t get my friends words out of my head from earlier that afternoon. Most people spend their childhoods playing games. Were they just primers for the games we would play as adults? Were relationships just one big chess game – strategy moves counter moves – all designed to keep your opponent off balance until you win? Was there such a thing as an honest relationship? Or was it true, do you have to play games to make a relationship work?

But as you try and find anything to keep your hands busy so that you don’t dial his number, and your mind distracted long enough so that your thoughts don’t wonder to him, you can accomplish a lot. With my iPod set to my favourite play list of Macy Gray, Lenny Krawitz and Dionne Farris I managed to reorganise the past editions of Vanity Fair, get every copy of Wallpaper* (dating back to 1997) neatly stacked, and alphabetically arranged my CD collection not just by artist name, but album title as well. I almost got him out of my mind until I succumbed to the weakness of a distant promise.

In an offbeat remark sometime between midnight and dawn it seemed a better idea to do a sleep over on the weekend instead of during the week particularly when he had an important interview and I a client meeting in the morning. But I had missed his call earlier that afternoon because I was selfishly getting my dick sucked in an attempt to get my mind off him. I know what he wanted to ask me: he wanted me to come over and spend the night with him so that we could do the Sunday morning thing that he loved doing too. Instead, he switched off his phone and went to bed alone. Waking up to an empty pillow beside him on a Sunday morning. Just like I would.

But as I sit here I don’t want to sound like a bad sportsman but in this moment if I could scream ‘I hate fucking losing out!’ I would. Even if it was just to the owls that hunt in the pastures of my backyard for their information. So I did what any sane person would do … I went out and found someone else to fuck to get him off my mind. It worked well for the first few days and then he called again. But this time there was something missing. Perhaps I had moved on after all and this was just great sex with a great guy.

Nothing more. Nothing less.

… uhm Houston we have a problem.

Posted in coccooning, Confession on February 21, 2008 by moderngatsby

Despite the fact that there are over 8-million people living in Jo’burg, it often seems to be an island surrounded my murky waters. Even more so when you’re in love and you feel ship wrecked and alone. Times when even the most resourceful survivor will feel the need to put a message in a bottle or on a certain voice mail just so that you feel connected with something bigger. Naturally I wanted to spend every waking second with the new guy but a voice of caution told me that I was perhaps getting excited over nothing.

Understandably people lead busy lives and even more so when your life is chasing targets set by other people. A few stray comments that seemed like loose threads have slowly weaved together an all too familiar pattern of a distressing picture. When a 37-yr old man, even though apparently out of the closest, chooses to remain ambiguously straight you have to wonder where the cracks are and what are being used to cover them. As much as I wanted to engage my new romance, he wasn’t done fully with his old one, and every part of me was telling me to break away.

And so in the early hours of the morning when I’m laying wide awake I turn to DVD’s to keep my mind off him. Perhaps an unwise choice of movies was a tale on how to lose a guy in 10-days. All the classic mistakes women, or perhaps emotionally immature gay men, make when they meet a man whom they would like to get involved with. As we reached 36hrs and still no response from my last text message I thought to myself that perhaps I had failed to get the message that he was sending.

The 1820-settlers had to wait up to 6months for a response from home. It had taken me 6-mnths to get the message that I wanted someone there to share this next and exciting stage of my life with. And as my heart still flutters with a week old romance I was even more certain that I couldn’t wait another minute. Are all these improvements in instant communications really helping us or when it comes to matters of love, I couldn’t help but wonder do actions speak loader than words?

The next day, as my eyes flickered awake and I sipped yet another cup of coffee, I tried to mentally prepare myself for what was going to be a watershed day of final meetings that will inform the future at my new company. Suddenly overcome with a sense of urgency I decided to take action. I knew I was breaking all the supposed rules which told me to be less available in order to seem more desirable, I called him to find out if we were still on for our dinner date at his place later that night. While knew I was taking a chance it was, after all, a calculated risk.

But as the phone rang and rang and rang and eventually went to voicemail I realised that this was the last message I would leave for him. As cute as he is, as funny and charming and sensitive a man I would love to have in my life there comes a time when you have to realise your own self-worth. He may have been the perfect Mr. Right-Now but somewhere out there is a guy like you waiting for a guy like me. And in a moment like that you realise that right now, you’re Mr. Right.

… paint (me right).

Posted in Passion on February 18, 2008 by moderngatsby

I have to admit that between my new job kicking in and my old habits being kicked out I was silently going out of my mind screaming with frustration. We’d had one of those great 2nd dates that started with coffee at my favourite barista, a hop, skip and a jump from his place, and ended up with me cradled in his arms and talking for what seemed like ages. Again. As the sun started to set, it dawned on us that we each had lives outside the walls of his bedroom and we parted ways each heading in opposite directions. But the promise of yet another date hung in the air and I drove away with that fleeting feeling of hope.

A feeling of hope that faded as quickly as the setting sun as I remembered that this was going no where I wanted it to. After all hadn’t I learnt my lesson before? When something seems too good to be true it usually is and when a guy tells you that his life is complicated you shouldn’t hear ‘perhaps this could work out’ but ‘run for the door as quickly as you can’. Being honest upfront counted in his favour but am I being naïve in wanting to get further involved when any day he might tell me he was back with his ex even though they had just become friends?

Knowing that I was in a funny place, my fuck buddy uncharacteristically became interested and supportive of my angst. The thing that brought us together is the one thing that I am most insecure about: sex. Both guys have told me that I’m their best ever but as I got into bed that night I got to thinking. Are we secretly being graded every time we invite someone to join us in it? A+? B? D? Incomplete? Is making love really nothing more than 20-questions? And if sex is a test, how do we know if we’re passing or failing? I had to ask: how do you know if you’re good in bed?

Perhaps as someone who loves sex … in every form, shape or position it doesn’t come as a surprise that I’ve been around the block a few times. ‘More than Princess Diana but less than Madonna’ is how Andie MacDowell explained it away in that dark horse movie about four weddings and a funeral. For me there is nothing more pleasing, than having your guy lay there for a while, as you please him till the point where he loses it and his primal instincts over take his reasoning and he becomes an animal. Sometimes you find yourself on automatic pilot – doing things because you know they hit the right notes, but with this guy, I want to explore every inch of his body learning it like a school boy does his multiple tables.

The thing that gets me about this new guy is that sexually we seem to click. The same things that turn me on do him and therefore sex is something that flows rather than the stop-start thing it can become. There are no boundaries and things that I was averse to before now seem like forbidden fruit served up on a silver platter. But before I change my eating habits I think that I need to go on that third date first. I think that I need to let go of him as a potential boyfriend and rather see him as who he is … someone I could have fun with.

… and I know that I could which makes it all that much more frustrating.

.. what’s sex got to do with it?

Posted in Self-doubt, Self-Truth on February 15, 2008 by moderngatsby
I often worry that I’m good enough to fuck … but not good enough to love. Something I read somewhere once written by someone and for some reason it stuck with me. I accepted it but never understood it. Or felt that it applied to me. Like the time I sat down to talk to a homeless lady that sat outside my office building instead of throwing the change from my latte and realised I could learn so much from her. Or that I didn’t have the answers to all the questions I kept asking myself over and over again. But somehow after feeling so great about myself all afternoon, I found myself in another business class lounge waiting for a flight feeling the worst that I had for months.

After an incredible morning landing the dream job a million girls would kill for, I rewarded myself with a drink at my favourite watering hole. Introductions were made, light conversation with just enough flirting in between was had, and before long I imagined tasting the bourbon he was drinking on his tongue and down my throat. As he lived nearby it seemed logical we’d be heading in that direction. And so we did. 5-hrs passed in the blink of the eye and I needed to get to the airport and he needed to get to the gym. We exchanged numbers and made the casual promises you do.

There’s an intimacy that you can only have with a stranger. Where you can do or say or even think the unthinkable but in the bubble of the moment you imagine all sorts of crazy things like the fact that in my last relationship we didn’t have sex because he wanted to have a more meaningful relationship and here I was having sex with an amazing guy wishing that I could turn it into a relationship. So there we have it: a relationship without sex and sex without a relationship. Which one has a better chance? As I read his text message over and over again saying how great it was to meet me I couldn’t help but wonder which came first: the chicken or the sex?

I got two text messages the following day asking to see me again which can be regarded as something right? The abject misery of meeting the perfect man who is already involved or taking a break or whatever and not being able to have him especially when so much of your life is coming together in ways unimaginable. A month ago I was talking about what I wanted from life. Today I am making it happen. I’ll meet him for coffee and a chat and if a friendship comes from it then I’m the winner at the end of the day. He might not make a perfect boyfriend but a fantastic friend is the perfect consolation prize.