Just thought I’d get the bitch slaps in right up front with the title . . .
This is the third and final part of what was originally intended to be a 738 part post in honor of my favorite blogger and his fondness for beating a subject to a bloody death. And beyond. But I’ve already provided enough backstory and explanation in the previous two parts, and beating around the bush further just delays the inevitable. So here’s the problem . . .
Noom, my bar boy friend and current love of my life, is one of the most incredible guys I’ve ever met. He’s got a body to die for and a heart larger than Oprah’s ass. And for some unfathomable reason, to borrow from Sally Field, he likes me, he really likes me. So, okay, he does have that fault.
I saw Noom last just before Thanksgiving last year on a short trip to Bangkok, the primary purpose of which was to make good on a promise I’d made to my nephew to take him to Thailand to get him laid for his 18th birthday. Noom was thrilled to meet another member of his family. I think he was even more thrilled to be spending his evenings in gogo bars that displayed vagina for a change. My nephew was just happy that I didn’t set him up with a ladyboy. Getting laid a dozen times put a smile on his face too. But that’s a story yet to be told. As well as a threat of a story to be told to his mother. In any case, Noom and I were glad to have had the time to spend together, sad that it was too short, even sadder that we were separating yet again, and happy about looking forward to my next visit and the next time we would be able to see each other once again. That was then. And between us nothing has changed.
So here’s the problem . . .
A few weeks after returning home we were blessed with one of those days that only Californians can expect in December and I decided to take advantage by returning to a scene I’d spotted the week before while driving through the foothills. There was an old dilapidated barn sitting maybe half a mile off the highway, the sole structure amidst an expanse of knee-high wild grasses still golden brown from the summer’s heat and shimmering in the gentle blasts of air making their way down through the mountain pass. It was a scene worthy of Ansel Adams if he’d ever bothered to spring for color film. And good for an hour or two of indulging my photography jones.
I’d spent about a half hour snapping shots when some asshole decided to interfere; another photographer who couldn’t resist the sun’s play over the bucolic scene. In a small crowd of strangers you can acknowledge the presence of others with a slight smile and nod of the head. When there are only two of you, politeness dictates something more. An insincere greeting if nothing else. But then I’ve never been accused of being polite. Instead I said hi by accusing him of trying to steal my shot. That type of greeting is usually good for at least a momentary look of concern. But he laughed, immediately, and then told me it was a shame that whatever photos I’d be taking would never be as good as his. Yup, it was love at first bite.
Photography, like masturbation, is a solo sport. While you may occasionally share the fruits of your labor with someone else, it’s really about your own equipment and what you can do with it. After our quick bout of Who Has The Bigger Dick, we separated, and spent about an hour engrossed in setting and lining up the type of shots that cause most people to shake their head in bafflement, trying to make the most of a scene that with the exception of a few rickety buildings that had lost their battle with the elements was an otherwise featureless landscape where nature seemed to have run out of ideas. A rusty stave here, a partially buried piece of equipment only those with a cowboy fetish would recognize there, an occasional glance at what the other guy was shooting proved that besides being surly, we shared the same taste in photographic subjects. And thanks to the digital age, the few times we ended up standing in the same place we’d quickly flash our best award winning shots for the other guy to properly admire. If admire is the right word for caustic comments about lousy depth of fields, angles, and the dire need of cropping.
Tiring of the barn’s one-note act, Phil – as I learned his name was once we got around to introductions later – nodded toward a few equally world-weary outbuildings further up the hillside, a small grouping of boxy structures perched on tall, skinny stilts reminiscent of the illustrations in a Dr. Seuss book. Our solo efforts became a group grope and we headed up the hill with him leading the way which, conveniently, allowed me to check out his ass. It was as fine as the rest of him.
Falling back into our routine of ignoring each other until another opportunity presented itself to prove who was the better photographer, Phil finally committed a foul by, in response to my incredible shot of a weather beaten wood support post, he showed me his latest treasure: a picture of me. Though he controlled himself from making a comment about the similarity of the two photos, I scoffed at the idea of my suitability as a male model anyway. Phil brushed away my protest. “No. Seriously. The strength in your face . . .,” he said. And then gave me The Look.
So here’s the problem . . .
Phil is gay; he’s out to family, friends, and acquaintances who care enough to notice without the demand for a proclamation to satisfy their curiosity. Filipino-Hawaiian with the typical smattering of a conglomeration of Anglo-Saxon bloodlines that are responsible for making island boys so beautifully exotic, he’s a transplant from O’ahu and now lives a mere 20 minutes from where I do. A hunk with a nicely defined muscular build and the shade of dusky brown skin that gets even my little toes hard, he’s 32-years-old, and – with apologies to Sally Field once again – he likes me, he really likes me.
That afternoon, we quit ignoring each other and then ended up spending the rest of the day, evening, and night together. (I know, a gay meets gay has hot, steamy, sex in a secluded outdoor setting scene would have made for a much better tale, but – unfortunately – we managed to keep our clothes on for several hours instead.) We got together again a few nights later, made a habit of that, found time to spend together for Christmas, traded New Year’s Eve countdown kisses, and went from getting in touch with each other to see if we both had the weekend free to just assuming we’ll spend every night together unless one of us has another engagement and says differently.
One of the nice things about aging is the incredible number of gay boys who are into daddies. I get laid more since turning fifty then back when I could understand why some hottie would want to get tangled in the sheets with me. The only problem is too many of those guys want to call you daddy. And want you to call them son. Unfortunately when “Oh, Daddy!” becomes the mating call, far too often diapers or corporal attention to their buttocks soon follows. Not that I can’t or won’t role play (at least until the diaper thingy comes up) but for many it is beyond a mild infatuation and instead is a true fetish. Enlivening your sex life is one thing, when it’s a mandatory part of your mutual orgasm, it’s a bit too much and I can’t really be bothered.
But Phil is not into daddies. He has had boyfriends younger, the same age, and older than he is in the past. It’s scary when you met a gay guy who’s actually normal. It’s even scarier when you’ve been enjoying an unattached life of sexual freedom to meet a gay guy you begin to think of as a boyfriend. Especially when he’s hot. And feels the same way about you. And appears to have absolutely no interest in wearing diapers.
Besides sharing with me an interest in photography, and sex, Phil loves travel too. Though his arena has been South America primarily while my interest has been SE Asia. I’ve shown him a few photobooks of my shots from Thailand – there’s no competition about who has taken the best shots of Bangkok since he hasn’t been there – and he wants to accompany on my next trip. He’s also seen pictures I’ve taken of Noom – ‘cuz what value is a photobook of shots of Thailand without shots of Noom included – and considering both the frequency and intimacy of those photographs, who Noom is and what he means to me has been discussed. To some degree. We’ve yet to put a name to what the two of us are currently sharing, there have been no spoken commitments about being faithful, or considerations about what our future may hold. So jealousy – or concern – over a Thai bar boy has not been a problem. But then that view may be different when said hunk is staring you in the face. That Noom and Phil will meet is a given. How those two (in my mind) separate relationships manage to allow for the other – or not – is yet to be seen.
So here’s the problem . . .
I want my cake. And I want to eat it too. Straying outside of a committed relationship for sex, when it’s only sex, and when that act has been blessed by both parties involved, is one thing. When that sex also involves love, respect, friendship, and caring, it’s a different story. Obviously a three-way is the answer. But outside of my fantasy life, that’s not likely. That’s like buying a lottery ticket. You hope you win, it’d be nice to win, the chances of winning millions of dollars however are slim to none.
With the exception of wanting to make sure I do not hurt him in anyway, I do not see a problem with Noom’s side of the equation. Fortunately, we’ve gone through a similar scenario when my buddy Dave and I revisited our old haunts in Bangkok accompanied by Noom that time around. Both did fine at first, and then it became a bit problematic when each realized there was love in addition to friendship involved. But once Noom learned his position was not threatened, it was no longer a concern. The difference is that in that battle Noom had sex on his side, Dave did not. Even though we did all end up naked in bed together. (I really, really need to stop wishing for that three-way resolution!)
I love having sex with Noom. I love having sex with Phil. I’d love to have Noom for sex when I’m in Thailand, and to have Phil for sex when I’m not. But with neither guy is it sex and sex alone. Regardless of how much I love the sex. Just in case I failed to mention that before. How the sex part of our relationships will shake out when all three of us are in Thailand is part of the question. Though that could easily end up being me shaking it on my own. I know – and just don’t yet want to admit to it – that that probably means giving up doing Noom. Unless I hit the three-way lottery. And I suspect – and just don’t yet want to admit to it – the same will hold true for not just when Phil is with me in Thailand, but for any future trips I make on my own. Assuming what Phil and I share continues to grow into a full blown relationship. Which is safe to assume.
Phil is a pretty levelheaded guy. Meaning he doesn’t act like a woman. I do not foresee him objecting to my continued friendship with Noom. A friendship that incudes sex may be different. The commitments I’ve made to Noom and my continued support of his efforts to make a future for himself are not on the table for discussion; behaving myself while doing so may be an issue. I fell in love with a bar boy, because Noom being Noom, how could I not? But now I’m falling in love with an equally incredible person, one with whom there holds the promise of a relationship beyond what Noom and I can have.
So there’s my problem . . .
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I Fell In Love With A Bar Boy: Three-way