The Drought has Broken, but Occasionally so is My Spirit
I managed to get lucky (yes, with the requisite turgidity) last Friday week at Aarows (the non-discriminating SOPV in Rydalmere), which at least gives me proof that in practice at least (and that IS where it counts!), those academic wankers who claim that bisexuality in men is false are wrong wrong wrong wrong. The man who pursued me told me he was bisexual, and that he liked me in particular for having a two-sexed body.
But I got cocky about looking boyish, with my body slimmed down to muscle, and this Sunday night got rejected by every cute Asian guy at the sauna in Sussex St last Sunday. If I can rejected by so many gay men, then I am not an attractive boy.
I think I have to cease this pursuit. The rejection really depresses me, no matter how I try to rationalise it away, and I am so emotionally crippled I find it hard or impossible to face my work in a highly sexed sexual health organisation. I am surrounded by people who can get sex fairly easily, when the converse is my current experience.
Everything about my life is great, except for the starvation of my skin. Worse, being conscious of this hunger only drives people away. The standard options do not work for me. I am simply not an off-the-shelf human, and therefor off-the-shelf solutions are often innappropriate.
But I am often in a state of near-panic, when I think about not knowing where if anywhere the next touch will come from.
I might dig out the stockings and suspenders and try my luck on the streets of East Sydney. Maybe I can sell what I can't give away.
More importantly, I hope I can avoid the thought/s that lead to panic, fear, and depression. So I don't now how or where or if the next touch is coming. If it doesn't come, I hope God puts me out of my misery quickly. See, that's the sort of overdramatic crap I have to deal with. It's not an all or nothing deal, norrie. We've improved from no sex at all (2004), to a little sexual touch (2005), and a complete fuck already in 2006. Things are getting better, and I'm only feeling so bad because my body didn't dare tell me before about how bad it felt about not being touched.
Hey, if any of my friends read this, offer me a hug. I haven't been historically good at offering or asking for one, but a bit more caring human warmth and pressure on my chest saves my skin from panicking. And I'm probably okay to hug, although I may feel a bit weird compared to men or women