A Eunuch's Love Life

The more personally intimate blog of the love life of an androgynous but not sexless eunuch in this post-modern world

Sunday, September 24, 2006

The Beautiful Androgyne in Her Prime

So, there has to be a new story, to replace the old sob story giving tragic meaning to me not having found Mister Perfect or at least lucked out with some spunk young barely out of uni (or high school)... The real reason I'm not getting any nooky is I only fancy the cream of the cream, the really pretty boys, and yes, they are usually by far almost always gay, and strongly phallophillic at that; I'm just a fag hag who knows the average bloke just don't turn her on, and I don't want what I don't want, and although I want what I mostly (but not always!) can't have, I get the BEST eye candy.

I mean, reverse the genders, and I am a straight man surrounded by hot lesbians, telling me all about their wild sexual adventures. Frustrating? Oh, only if I make unfair comparisons, and weighted misjudgments, to misappreciate God's wonders. From another perspective, it's HOT. And hot lesbian chicks know other hot chicks, man, and one of those hot chicks might be bisexual, and I'm THIS close to them all, they think I'm special, this old straight man hanging with the hot young lesbian uni student crowd. I mean, there are worse fates.

I swapped a massage with my best friend last week. Now, in the reverse gender scenario, I'm an middle age guy who fancies hot young chicks and I'm massaging my best friend who's a hot young lesbian. There's no boundaries in danger, I know she only likes chicks, and while I'm androgynous, I got a dick, not what she fancies, and so seeking sexual intimacy just isn't an issue. Hey, there's many guys who wouldn't be okay with that, but you know, I'm okay with that, and I'm glad I'm the type of guy who IS okay with that, and that doesn't make me some kind of mental neuter, man, cos I'm not, and like I said, hanging with this hot lesbian chicky babe, I meet the hottest girls, and my odds are maybe low in quantity but high in quality, and I know which I want honey.

Now, reverse the genders back to reality, and my superficially sexless life is more experientally fecund. My body is joyed by the smell of fresh healthy male sweat. I am forty five, but I am accepted on the young anarchist/ green lefty/ savvy/ alternative scenes in all my bare foot wildly dancing androgynous narcissism. I am on the cutting edge of social justice activism, joying in the blooming of the young organisers working for the love of humanity against the blindly evil machinery of authoritarianism. I work with such people, committed to sex positivism in a very sex negative society, to support sex workers against unfair treatments that range from the mild to the bizarre. Barefoot and of blatantly androgynous gender, I'm a fairly well paid and well respected professional Team Leader in a challenging and stimulating NGO. I'm the editorial cartoonist for the local newspaper, put out by my local church of actual social justice activists, people actually meanigfully seeking to follow Christ, as honestly individually interpeted and felt, from both the Gospel scripture, and our own lived realities, putting our shared humanity and inclusivity ahead of dog-eat-dog competition and separatism.

I have quality of life, and quality love.

I'll take that over time wasted breathing chlorine and amyl and maybe having vaccuous sexual congress with a nice guy who just isn't my type. I like my spine being straightened by all the hot young guys around me. And life is full of seen and unseen possibilities. I have real love and integrity in my life. And great eye candy ; )
And the more she appreciated what God had given her, and the more she accepted responsibility for her own nurturing, and the more she lived joyously expressing an uncompromising love for humanity and the All that Is, the more full of love her life was.
Now I've just got to live that in the first person... But my odds are god. I mean good. The first typo was unintentional but probably Freudian. You get that.


Last Friday week my best friend took me and some hot guy in drag we met at a night club skinny dipping at a heated public swimming pool at 3 AM, and after a lovely splash I had the thrill of escaping naked with my clothes in arms running across city street with security guards in hot pursuit.

And Friday just gone I danced and played jazz jam at a huge party in student public housing that didn't stop till four police cars turned up at 4AM. Cheerin'.

Yesterday I celebrated a prisoners' rights activist's birthday with the cream of the cutting edge social justice activist set, including an MP or two and the odd convicted murderer (and I must add that the odd one I know well is a really good bloke and extremely worthwhile. Not that either of us condone murder, and he's the first to point out that it's a really fucked up thing to do, but we are all capable of doing fucked up things, particularly when we don't know any better. Bloke's so smart they passed a law against him especially, and he had to beat the state government in the High Court to win fair release when his long sentence had been duly served).

This was after six new visitors to Villawood joined me yesterday, including my best friend's sister, and I met the Morroccon guys who survived a month with no water in hold with their dead friend's bodies. See my other blog for their story (I May Well Be, there's a link over on the right probably, yeah, go on, risk really engaging your humanity, please, for the love of God, read their story...)

Anyway, it's a good life, and not only because I've never been stuck down in a hold for a month with no choice but to drink my own piss while my friend's corpses rotted.

I have real quality of life, and not the materialistic quality, but the real stuff, everyday meaningful rich connection to humanity and the triumphs of the human spirit, and the joys of the world and all the amazing talents and gifts and serendipity and bliss the Universe sends me.

And the more I appreciate what God has made me, unique and androgynous and specially talented (as we all are in our own ways), the more I become confident that some hot spunk will catch my eye and be keen enough to kiss me.

Oh sure, I can cry and wallow in self-pity at being alone, or I can marvel at all the amazing love and everything in my life, and be glad I've got the time alone to appreciate and nurture myself. More nurture, less wallow, thank you doctor.



Tuesday, September 05, 2006

Poor Baby

Poor Baby.

One thing goes wrong, so everything is wrong.

I am simply too femme for the cute guys at 357.

I didn’t stop crying until I’d agreed not to make myself go back to 357 last night. It’s the wrong place, or rather, the guys there are not a match for me, and I’m not a match for them. I can imitate a boy, but at core I’m femme, even when I had a willy, and the gay boys don’t want a femme boy. And I’m sure the things I learned at cruising class can be applied elsewhere.

I thought about a straight boy who’d kissed me, and how good I felt about that. Beautiful, giving, soft but firm, intimate, unafraid, loving.

I love being treated as a woman by a straight man. My whole face changes when I think of how happy I am to be kissed as a woman by a man who is sexually attracted to women. It changes to look unmistakably womanly. My secret gender?

I spent some time then challenging my sexist desires, and realizing that the war of the sexes goes on in my head as much as anywhere. But I love doors being opened for me; I love the signs that indicate that in some nice man’s scheme of things I am to be treated like a lady, with respect, and as a possible sex partner.

But I’m glad I was born with a boy’s body, or I’d have been pregnant very young and very often, had all my time and energy taken up with other people’s agendas (the kids and the controlling male partners), and would have missed this fascinating free-wheeling life of the mind.


Interest from the gay web dating sites has been minimal to zilch.

Interest from a hetero site has been more voluminous, although it’s turned into a game of winnowing out those whose agenda is not just plain honest sex, since for so many of them with all sorts of baggage from their parents and sexism, interaction with a girl is not about seeing if she’s wants a root, but how much power he can have over her, how much he can manipulate her, can he get her to send her webcam or revealing photos when he’s giving so little, how far can he engage her before she realizes he’s a lying cheating cad. Most of them don’t behave any better than hairless apes.

Do I want to have sex with hairless apes? No, I don’t. I want to have sex with an Angel.

I think I’ll try and stay focused on MY truth, and not allow these poor damaged people trying to get what they can from other humans with dishonesty and exploitive manipulation to take up so much of my time.

And I’m going to spend less time in places that I feel bad in, such as the chlorine and amyl stench of 357. I’m still glad I’m fighting for the rights of gender or sex diverse people to access these Sex On Premises Venues, but I don’t think it’s healthy for me to be there.

I‘m just going to accept that there are not many emotionally and sexually available people evolved enough for me, and that I choose sexual abstinence rather than sex with a hairless ape. I’m an Angel, a divinely sexual being, and I’m not settling for less!

Monday, September 04, 2006

Hit and Miss

I’ve been participating in ACON’s SOPV Crusing Workshops over the last four weeks, hoping to get some better idea of how to pick up guys or get picked up by them or have some idea when they are interested in me or not.

In the end, if they are normal guys, gay or straight or bisexual, they are not interested. If they are sexually aroused by novelty, then they may well be interested in me, and in swapping bestiality porn on the internet. Fuck, truly, I WISH I was making this up.

Anyway, we had homework from the Cruising Workshop, ie to try out a free pass to a SOPV, namely 357. I used mine at lunchtime today. And using all the skills I learned, I made passes, got ignored, showed interest, got ignored, took time out, went back to it, got snubbed, felt uncomfortable, got dizzy from the ubiquitous stench of Amyl, got sick of chlorine, wished there was a safe space to breath, sat in the spa for ten minutes (while all the guys sitting there left within five minutes), stood in the steam sauna for five minutes (and all the guys there left) fuck this is a really shit story why am I even comtemplating going back tonight to use my passout it’s just wrong wrong wrong and makes me feel overwhelmingly sad and I can’t stop crying and I wonder if this is really better than giving up and staying home and adjusting to being single and unfuckable for the rest of this life. Which might not last much longer than it takes to end it.

Internet dating a total waste of time, on straight sites, gay sitea and bi sites. Plenty want to flirt and chat, no one wants to actually meet me. I‘ve put a good two months of effort and sent about a hundred messages, so I really have given this a fair go, I reckon.

All that’s missing in my life is sex. Surely that should be bearable. But I just can’t accept this, and I can‘t change it, and maybe my work here is done, and maybe there’s a miracle around the corner. Or a bus. Ha ha.

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Friday, September 01, 2006

Gooden Gone, Going On Good

So there I was running the self-pitying story about being unfuckable, when the seriousness of stories was brought fatally home.

Two Sundays ago, my friend Marc Gooden texted me indicating a high level of distress with the world. He was angry about the money “pissed against the wall” by the well-off at the World AIDS Conference in Canada, while he suffered in dire AIDS poverty with tragically inadequate support or services. He was angry about the stupidity of the general population. Well, that’s the way it is if you climb out of the delusions of the masses, if you look back, they look distressingly stupid and infuriatingly complicit in the destruction of their planet’s future, the wellbeing of themselves and their descendents, and their vindictive jealousy and relentless persecution of the sensitive, the creative, and the exotic or diverse.

I phoned him and talked him down from his rage and despair, and urged him to focus on some things that did not infuriate him. Someone else visited him in his home in country Victoria that Sunday night, left at 4am Monday morning, and Marc was found hanged dead later that day.

Now, the late visitor looks sus in these circumstances, but presuming the Police did their job right in ruling out foul play, Marc died because he was stuck in telling himself a very distressing story.

Yes, there are horrible things happening everywhere. Bombs subsidized by US taxes have flattened towns and killed mostly children and cows in Lebanon. The average child molester, the thirty eight year old heterosexual married man, is molesting the average victim, his twelve year old daughter. And millions of children are orphaned by AIDS because the money for AIDS Prevention is being wasted on junkets or counter-productive abstinence campaigns.

Who wouldn’t get suicidally depressed looking at nothing but the bad stuff?

Yet, there are also wondrous miracles happening everywhere. Every morning and night there’s a stunning sunset or sunrise in breathtakingly beautiful full colour panorama. A hardened crim is moved to tears by the fragile beauty of a newborn baby. A dance floor comes alive with a perfect blend of sound and light and movement and happy smiling people experiencing the joy of their shared humanity and their shared connection to the source of All.

I have a choice about the stories I tell myself. I can focus on the sad story of being too weird for normal guys to fancy (which is true), or on the happy story of physically manifesting the androgyny that underlies humanity (and indeed the Source of Creation), and thus appealing to those special folk who have evolved beyond the grey trappings of normative gender expectations. The more I shine, the more normals are blinded and shy away, and the more exotic and talented people are attracted to me. No offense to normals; they vote for Howard because its the best they can do, and I bear them no ill will, as I bear dogs no ill, but I don’t want to ever ever ever fuck them.

So, I’m unpartnered, but that’s because I choose to not settle for a Normal, and Angels are not just waiting on the shelf. They’re out there, some of them still too traumatized from the brutal Normals, but some of them notice me and maybe wink.

From a certain point of view, the world is perfect, and I am perfect, and I have all the love and everything else I need right now right now. If I focus on this, and appreciate the stunning beauty the Source Of All has created in me and my body and my talents and my dancing, I shine, irresistible to All that is Good and Joy and Love.

If I look at my lovelife like a scorecard, whine about the lack of any recent entries in my sexual history, and think of my chances in terms of how I appeal to Normals, I could end up as suicidally depressed as Mr Gooden.

No way, folks. Marc’s death was a wake-up call for me, and I’m not looking back, I’m taking no prisoners, I’m not compromising on second best, I’m not settling for less than a talented androgynous Angel deserves, and I’m here to do justice to Shiva, both male and female, dancing with one leg raised, the Dancer and the Dance.

I may still end up home alone, but it is because I choose to not settle for Normal, and I will sleep with a divinely beautiful soul and body, and nothing Normal will be allowed to bring me down!

I Shine with Joy and Love and Bliss and Endless Blooming Effervescence!

It’s a much better story, and it tells itself as I walk down the street and the worlds reads my walk and eyes and reflects the story back.

And let the Dead bury the Dead.

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