Screwed by perfectionist fantasies

“Shut the f(rac)k up… just shut the f(rac)k up.”

Having been an out gay man for the last… dear god, 13 years, I have heard my share of sultry pillow talk. I have heard the “oh, babys,” the “I’m gonna make your toes curl” and I have even heard the “damn, I’m the luckiest guy in the world” now and then.

Sex talk, if well timed, can heighten the experience of being with another man. Coital narration can provide the right aphrodisiac and guide you deeper into your lover’s embrace.

However, if one sentence, even one word, comes out flat then the mood can be destroyed with no hope of retrieving it. At least, that is how it works in my own dysfunctional mind.

I live in a fantasy world. I have the image of the perfect man for me in mind. He is slightly taller than myself, has piercing green eyes, a well-kempt head of black hair, a physique to die for courtesy of seven days a week at the gym, has a body that is as smooth as silk, displays both masculine and feminine qualities and enjoys schlock cinema as much as I do.

Am I asking for too much?

I am just too damn picky. I have set the bar incredibly high and no man has any hope of jumping over it. Most slam their crotches into the bar during the pole vault, others scurry underneath hoping I won’t notice, but most take one look at their chances and quit the event all together.

How many relationships have I nipped in the bud simply because one tiny thing about “him” rubbed me the wrong way?

I have returned to the dating realm in the last year and find myself up to my old tricks. I met an older man for coffee one day and was immediately smitten. We chatted about this and that, sipped our lattés and had a pleasant enough time. An incredibly handsome man a few years my senior, I found myself as allured by his charm and grace as I was by the way his ass looked in a pair of faded blue jeans.

After our preliminary date, we had made arrangements to see each other again. I was truly ecstatic. A bright, professional, sexy man wanted to get to know me better. Elated, I looked forward to the next time I saw him.

However, when I received an email from him my hopes were promptly set aflame. He wrote that, while he had a good time, he feared we might not have much in common. Perhaps it was an age difference that convinced him we lived on distant planets.

With my patented brand of charisma and persuasion, I snagged a second date with him to prove his theory wrong.

We met at his place for dinner and whatever the night had in store. I had been dying to play a little tongue tag with him since we met.

One moment we were sitting awkwardly next to each other, wondering who was to make the first move.

The exquisite clash of hormone and pheromones led us into a heated make-out session. This led us to his bedroom.

I made a promise to myself to not give myself freely to another man until I felt it was “right.” Since entering my thirties, I picked up this pesky need to take things slowly. I would just have to bottle all that sexual frustration and desire for release until I felt it appropriate to uncork.

However, I found myself cheating on my own rules somewhat. What harm could it do to make out without pants off? Our goods were still tucked away by his designer briefs and my worn out boxers. With all the petting and kissing, it would have been great to simply give in.

While I contemplated doing so, I heard him utter the words “Shut the f(rac)k up. Just shut the f(rac)k up.”

Even now as I write this, I have to admit to being turned on by his cheeky little order. However, in the moment, I was taken aback. I wasn’t even saying anything. My mouth had been preoccupied.

I was left to imagine what was going on in his head when he said it. What might have been conceived as the randy talk of a confirmed top translated into something else. I was neither turned on, nor turned off. I’m not even sure what I was.

We made out for a few more minutes before I found the excuse necessary to end our evening. I never called him back. “Shut the F up” has joined a growing number of men banished to the island of misfit lovers.

Like the others he had potential but could not vanquish my candy-coated ideal of the perfect mate. He is there now with the man with the tiny penis, the man with the hair on his back, the man with a penchant for biting, the man who smoked too much dope, the man who still lives with his parents, the man that looks like a younger version of my father and many others.

I have to wonder how many possible relationships I have passed up for something so superficial.

Thus, I resolve to give the next guy a fighting chance. He won’t need those piercing green eyes, black hair, smooth and muscular physique and adoration for cult cinema. He just needs to be a little patient.

Of course, if he happens to read these last 800 or so words, I might be screwed.