ken doll.

i had an ex-girlfriend who used to refer to men as “ken dolls” when she wasn’t attracted to them.

“ken dolls, you know, no parts”

ah.

that comes up later.

i went to a professional function the other night. open bar. at 32 you would think i’ve figured out how to handle situations with class and dignity.

more or less you would be wrong. i got drunk. again.

during which time i met a boy, a corn-fed, kinda aryan, wholesome boy.

preppy. way too preppy.

i don’t really like boys. by not really i mean that i don’t. and though i work with them a lot, i dislike preppy types.

boys are all ken dolls to me. some nice, some not, some friends, some attractive, but no parts.

because i’m in full slut mode, i kissed him anyway. i liked his smile.

he makes me feel tender.  i want to take care of him.  i haven’t felt that way in ages.

now i’m currently dealing in the scandal that i’m gay, which i maintain i’m not, though a public kiss like that undercuts that argument.

but i did like him.

it happens maybe every 3 – 4 years. kissing a boy.

he was cute. i’ll admit i found him cute. and i liked him, he was charming, more so than any woman i’ve met in a while.

but for the life of me i can’t imagine his cock. and don’t really want to. i just really liked him. romantically, if not sexually.

he likes me, i’m getting texts. i’m not sure what to say, because i don’t remember what i did say. and mostly because deep down inside, i might want him, and i’m not prepared for that. not in the slightest. but i want to see him again.

we can add this to a long list of things i’m preparing to disclose to the artist.  it’s very likely she’ll handle this worst.

i’m still thinking this all through, dealing with this class of issues. i’m 32. that’s sorta sad.

at least three of you darling readers will likely start writing your obnoxious emails again now, using this as another excuse to be rude and close-minded. fuck you.

homecoming. present tense.

men behaving badly. tonight’s theme. bachelor party.

we meet at a steak house, of course.

i’m still staggering from meeting with her last night. distracted. horny. hurt. that was the last time, we both know it. all predictable but i’m feeling bad for myself thinking that tonight he’s fucking her instead of me.

i can’t talk to these boys about her, i’ve used up my sympathy card on this front. and it’s really not an event that should be centered on me. we’re here for doug.

my previously mentioned past issues of masculinity are on display – maybe due to the fact that these friends are from my past. i work my way down the table, away from the competition to be alpha male for the evening, towards chris. chris, importantly, isn’t interested in contesting his dominance either. we sit and chat about anything other than the knicks.

i believe that the last time i was in this situation they were talking about the knicks, too.

i not happy at these sorts of events. testosterone is flowing, bringing out the worst in my friends and i’m trying to avoid it. alcohol, beef and, oddly, cheese, are what the event is calling for. also women but that’s quiet now.

i order a steak. share an order of mushrooms.

whiskey seems to be the drink of the day. that’s fine. i like that. i order one, two, three, four. i start to lose count.

i’m midway into convincing morgan into engaging me in a conversation on michael chabon and “the wonderboys” place in it his oeuvre. we’re both making shit up though, way to drunk to be meaningful. jesse complains at our nerdiness. we need to “get our man on”, whatever that means. why does doug have these friends? i’m so screwed. this evening ends badly.

“strip club”

oh fuck, that was inevitable. i guess it’s better than “poker club”.

an aside on strip clubs:

i don’t like them them. and not for any theories regarding feminism and exploitation. i’m happy to hear why i should respect those arguments though.

if you’ve ever handed over $100 to a woman for writhing briefly in you lap, you’re aware of who holds the power in this relationship. i’m confidant that while the job may not be fun, it’s a better alternative than most jobs. at least at the quality levels i’ve attended. they control the situation, if they’re any good at it.

none of which is to suggest that i’m powerless against their wiles or that its not completely free will that brought me here – everything here is on me.

i’ve got no issues with strippers themselves, either. they seem very nice. it’s a job like anything else. i bet the are basically pretty sexualized girls i’d love to know outside of this situation. the very few i have known bear that theory out.

i don’t like these places because they don’t work right. name another sex worker activity where the probability of orgasm falls closer to zero as the quality of establishment increases.

i’m also aware that the stripper hates you. and within the transactional context, don’t really believe that i’m going to be the client to change that.

fuck it, though. i’m here until the end. we’re going to a strip club. maybe it will be a good one.

and it is.

these women are gorgeous, smart enough to keep my intoxicated mind engaged, and savory. the holy triumvirate of sex organization.

i’m screwed. this will be costly. i order my $10 whiskey and put on my best ironic detachment face. it won’t hold off the girls, but it should keep my friends at bay for a while. i roll my eyes as we all pitch in for doug’s first lap dance. i feel bad about that later, he’s really entitled to feel however he wants tonight. and really, these girls are exploiting us, not him. he’s feelings are pure tonight, just horny exuberance. one last hurrah before this constitutes cheating on her.

this goes on for a few songs. i’ve lost count of songs, drinks and $20 bills leaving my wallet. i only know my watch doesn’t say 2 a.m. yet. i can’t leave.

then mona shows up. dan’s seen my grimaces, knows my finances, and has found, what is by any reasonably reckoning my ideal girl and paid for a dance. out of the blue she takes my drink out of my hand, splits my legs apart and pushing her ass into my groin.

my entire plan until this point has been to get drunk and avoid temptation. this is not avoiding.

she’s hot. perfect even – at least if perfect is a facsimile of last night’s sexual error. rail thin, small breasts, brunette, beautiful, maybe edgier than who i look to date now. in a hall filled with buxom blonds she stands out. market differentiation. madison avenue could use this girl.

21, she claims, and looks exactly like what i would have dated at 21 – albeit idealized.

i didn’t ask for this, but i’m now starting to rationalize, looking for reasons why she might actually want to fuck me. she says she likes heidegger — though i think dan put her up to that. is it really fair when hot women and your friends conspire against you?

more writhing into my cock. i’m hard. i’m sorry.

i agree to go upstairs for some fee i’m not sure i understand yet. dan’s prepared to lord his wall street job over me to cover it – i wave him off with an arrogant flair, my lone alpha moment.

we now have 15 minute alone. 15 minutes, i maintain even now, i don’t really want. didn’t want when i entered. won’t want later either.

also, my wallet will be empty, but hey, at least i got her fee down to just all the cash i had.

she starts to dance, and then quickly, ohmygod her tits, firm, in my face. pressing.

i’m naive but i wasn’t expecting this effect. not at all. i just needed to get away from my friends. but this is nice, i can’t lie. i’m getting hornier, and falling under her spell. i try to avoid saying any awful cliches. try to keep the conversation light.

for 5 minutes we talk as she pushes knees, thighs, tits and ass into me at various points. we chat. she’s in college, swears it’s nyu, philosophy major. “likes older men”, natch. i’m very hard. completely aroused. i want this to be real, want her to care about my job, my arousal. i want to fall for her mirage.

she smiles in a way that makes we realize she sees past me, and knows where this conversation is going three steps ahead of me. i’m nothing new here. i really shouldn’t have expected to be unique i suppose.

then fucking fuck, michael’s upstairs too. some giant boobs blond chick is commandeering him.

i’m uncomfortable now. for some reason i’ve decided this experience should be private. this commodity, staple of american titillation – i’m entitled to have it independently. i’m, of course, an idiot, but this isn’t a situation i know very well. i skip these things as often as possible.

i briefly resist the temptation to flee. but when mike gets his third warning about “hands” i freak out a bit and stand up too quickly, almost hitting my hed in mona’s. i apologize. in truth she was doing a great job, and i was aroused, but my arousal is for me and my partners. michael ruined it.

i need to get away from him. i really can’t see him staring at blondie’s tits anymore. seeing his leering smile. i get up, leaving my 15 minutes worth of cash on the table and a kind word, and walk out, down the stairs, leaving my friends behind in the club.

i stink of strawberry. or raspberry. when it’s this artificial who can tell.

i bum a cigarette off a russian mafioso type outside the club and breath in the relaxing nicotine. waves of tension release.

have i mentioned i hadn’t smoked in 2 years? i hadn’t. that’s fucked now too.

my mind wanders to her. i want to call her. talk through this with her. it’s a horrible idea, i’m pretty sure she’s dead set against strip clubs, and certainly wouldn’t have any sympathy from me. and at any rate she’s fucking him back into consciousness from his business trip now.

i fumble over my phone for other numbers in the right timezones i can talk this through with. failure. behind me are my closest, if also most estranged, friends. i need new ones for this new phase of my life.

i bum another cigarette. but this one costs a dollar. i smoke it down to the nub almost burning my fingers before holding out the hand to hail a cab and return to brooklyn, where i belong. i leave doug behind, i’ll apologize at the wedding.

i’ll feel like an asshole tomorrow, but maybe that will displace my jealousy, my need to undo the past and be in her bed that’s consuming me right now.

masculinity.

i’m having issues with my masculinity now. it’s new and unused, doesn’t feel right on me. i’ve never been stereotypically male – i only vaguely understand that there’s an intensely important collegiate sports tournament going on, and wasn’t the type to join in the betting pool. but things are changing now as my mind unleashes years of pent up changes.

relationships tend to freeze things up artificially. lock in ratios and interactions between partners, as change gets minimized to ease the burden of change on your partner until stress fractures the blockage or the relationship.

it was seven years ago that my masculine development stagnated at the beginning of a relationship – i wasn’t particularly masculine then; not girly or feminized, just naturally not particularly male, while apparently still being sexualized. it was a common observation, though the wording varied among partners.

when ex and i got together and settled into roles, i stopped my progression toward who i’ve secretly been becoming, i suppose.

now i find new sensations rising up in unexpected situations. i’m more aggressive, assertive. boasting more. taking control. i’m undergoing a mental puberty without the angst. i’m no brute, let’s be clear. i am who i am, and that’s not changing, but the context of my decision making is clouded with increased hormones and obscured judgments.

i find myself more eager to take control when i have sex now, aware of and projecting some power arrived at exclusively by virtue of my sex. it’s more than a little frightening.

i could just take her, she could have no say. that’s a complete mindfuck for someone raised in a strong feminist culture. but i’m big enough, strong enough, an now, perhaps, aggressive enough and i think i get off on knowing that i couldn’t be stopped.

she seems to be aware of that and likes it too. she pushes harder onto me, responding to my aggression with flowing wet lubrication. she dares me, “take me,” as she gives herself up to me slightly more, her head falling deeper into the bed. it makes me harder. i enjoy it as i pull deeper into her.

maybe i’m just scared of these new feelings. i’ve not made the mistakes that would have taught me how far i could go, how to deal with these new feelings as they naturally developed. confronted with it all at once, i’m having to learn about it now with no measure of safety and with the costs of mistakes higher now that i’m older, my personal responsibility far greater, and pain i can cause far greater than at any other time in my life.

not understanding this feeling would be catastrophic, but not denying them would be passionless, hopeless, and inhuman. i need to balance. i’ll not be undoing these changes.

i’m terrified, i’m empowered.

i’m absolutely lust-filled and i think i like it.