Coitus At Last! / "White"

WARNING: the following blog-post is about sex, especially gay sex; if the subject matter might offend, please do not continue reading.

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Those of you who have been following my blog are probably aware of my difficulties in finding a sexual partner. For BADD2012, Blogging Against Disablism Day, I wrote Sexual Eunuchs? about being gay and disabled, discriminated against twice by society at large and by the so-called gay community. Then for BADD2013 I scribed No Sex Please, We're… Disabled!, which hopefully highlighted some of the logistical difficulties in arranging a sexual liaison.

Well, a few months back, whilst on my annual sojourn in Spain, I finally - and fantastically - met a chap who was willing to play with this disabled writer. After more than eleven years without experiencing coitus, I truly felt like Madonna's virgin, "touched for the very first time". A tad nervous, to be sure. And giddy as an adolescent again too!

Thankfully, the lover and myself hit it off and we were able to have several days/nights of fun and games together. Yes, we had to pause to let cramps, muscle-spasms or stabbing pains pass. Yes, some positions proved impossible with my bone, joint and muscle issues relating to my various arthritic conditions. Yes, we had to pause so as I could regain my breath due to exertional apnœa. And yes, we had to stop for rest-breaks and sleeps, because of the ME/FMS. Through all this, though, we: laughed; gasped; giggled; chatted; kissed; and all the other things that lovers usually do. We had a lot of fun and parted chums. I was thankful for being able to both give and receive sexual pleasure once again. Mostly I was overjoyed to have tactile pleasure. I cannot say I did not want the sexual intercourse, as I very desperately did; but I was happiest at having someone to embrace and to cuddle me. I miss that intimacy.

Naturally, apart from my bodily fluids, my creative juices began flowing. As is my usual modus operandi, over several days I drafted a poem in my head, before finally typing it out and making final amendments and redactions.

What I wrote is neither poetry nor prose: it is somewhere in between. I have occasionally written other pieces that cross-over the two genres. Is it prosaïc poëtry or poëtic prose?

White…

White: the virginal page, upon which nought has yet been written; under the hand-scribed or typed words.

White: the spume of the sea, tickling the sand and giggling in a low susurrus; exhibitionist surf crashing on the rocks; the once-shy now wild white-horses frolicking in the sunshine and the salty brine; sea-angels coruscating whilst they play in the isthmus between water and air.

White: the clouds occasionally slipping through the habitual cerulean firmament; the blanket occasionally blocking the sun from view.

White: all the flowers in my garden - alegría, geranium, rose, cyclamen, kalanchoë, marguerite, snapdragon,…

White: the sense of peace, calm, tranquility, clear-headedness, purity.

White: the froth on our coffees; the head on our beers; the wine we daily drank, and supped, imbibed and got drunk upon; libation unto we demi-gods.

White: all my bedding, your sheets and pillow-cases enveloping our hot, our cold, our fevered shells; your bathroom’s sanitaryware taking away our bodies’ unwanted fluids and detritus; your soft, warm towels drying our skin and hair.

White: the hairs amongst the silken grey and black on your head, your chest and my favourite hirsute spot, the wee hollow between your shoulders and neck.

White: your buttock cheeks, sandwiched between your lobster-red torso and firm legs.

White: the little jewel sewn on your puce rosebud.

White: the cum that spilled across your salt & pepper’d chest this morning; mimicking a champagne explosion and creating an ephemeral œuvre; becoming diaphanous and then invisible as it soaked into your hungry flesh; disappearing as you from me, all except memory.

White.

postcards (from Málaga)

[Image description: the Mediterranean from Málaga]

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postcards (from Málaga)


wish you were here:
          on the Paseo del Parque
          sitting on this bench
          colour bleached
          olive, satin green, bare wood
          sun-drenched;
          watching the red and black ladybird
          crawl up the leg of my jeans;
          pigeons herding by
          on the white marble plain
          dappled with guano
          stained by age
          and accidents' cracks;
your hand on my thigh.

wish you were here:
          an unblemished azure sky;
          the salt-air of a calm sea
          cerulean and aquamarine
          bejewelled with gems
          of coruscating sun
          the chanting wavelets
          lap the honeyed sand gently;
          mid-distance fishermen
          trawl for their morning catch;
          while hirsute joggers limp past -
          here, they do not run -
          ectomorphic flesh
          posturing machismo
          mesomorphs are prized so dear;
          palm trees rasp against the breeze
          shivering in the unwelcome chill;
you come to mind, and
I horripilate to the thrill.

wish you were here:
          in the Alcazabar ruins
          fragments of Roman lore
          Moorish exotica restored;
          setting for nuptial reminiscences;
          literally breath-taking panoramas
          of this Legoland city
          from towers and look-out points,
          and timeless vistas
          quite unexpectedly
          tell of half-remembered historias;
          lunching on a marble tombstone
          unpeeling my oranges
          as those spectres once did
          savouring the thirst-quenching liquid
          trickling down my throat
          my fingers all sticky
          from this self-indulgent fest;
          in the future I believe Hope, lest…
but you are there, my very own.

wish you were here:
          on the mountainside
          in the fir and rowan woodland;
          the fresh scent of pine
          absorbing my nostrils
          in olfactory delight;
          the harsh glare of the sun
          defused and blurred and softened;
          calming tones
          of clover, sage and unripe lemons
          an intoxicating verdure;
          marred by the detritus
          of trysts and assignations
          of the echo of al fresco coitus
          and juvenile masturbations;
and I want you, need you now
of that I am so sure.

wish you were here:
          at the El Telón bar;
          the wondrous aroma of coffee
          its unique woodiness
          its heady spiciness;
          perhaps the only
          proof of God's existence;
          every time I pass a café
          experiencing a spiritual epiphany;
          and my prayers
          turn to
          are for
You
          x

Bisexual Blues

Does anyone notice anything striking about the above chart? No, I am no tart: I have not experienced coitus with half the men mentioned (some names may have been altered), but there has been physical contact of a sexual nature or a declaration of love/lust from the gentlemen concerned. With the exception of Manuel, I have not even physically met any of the chaps in the 2010's as I have been too ill/disabled to do so.

So, any conclusions? Would you agree with me that there is ever such a slight bias towards the closeted bisexuals? I seem to attract them like bees to the flowers in my garden. Is it my man-musk, my pheromones, my epicene features, my psyche, something else? Well, whatever it is, I find it difficult to attract out gay guys.

For the last few years I have been doggedly refusing to entertain non-out bi guys with the result being zero sex. During my three month sojourn in Spain, all the non-out men who wanted sex, also requested discretion as their wives & families did not know. I excused this behaviour in a facebook posting a month or so ago:

I am surprised just how many young(ish) Spaniards are still closeted here. More than half the locals have no image on GAYDAR and most of the rest post images of parts of their bodies (thankfully rarely the rudey bits!). Spain is one of the least homophobic countries in the world; but the machista/macho culture is still very strong here. Straight (rich &/or connected) men are the hegemony! Such a shame for lives to be blighted…

In a similar vein, I noticed that nigh on all the GAYDAR entries are either for non-out bisexuals or bi-curious, only a minority openly declare as gay.

Pondering on the issue has also brought me to the conclusion, that these men are intrinsically weak however physically strong they are with all their show-off gym-work. Where is the strength of character to be true to themselves, to honour themselves not just 'honour' their parents? Perhaps some of it is down to peer-pressure, but again I counter where is the demonstration of inner courage?

Mostly what irks me though, is that I am going to have to get off my high ethical horse and accept offers from non-out bisexuals - otherwise I am likely to go to my grave without ever having sex again!