A gay adult story: Dear Diary, aka Coping with Coming Out by Randy Horn ,
I was so depressed, having not been laid in 5 years…
Dear DiarySun 10/17/04
I feel foolish writing in this book. I’ve never kept a diary before. I don’t even like the word “diary”. It is a silly word. A child’s word. I think I made a new friend a little over a week ago. His name is Ricky. I am writing this on his advice. He says it will help me cope with my emerging feelings. So, here I am, trying out his advice. It can’t hurt, right?
Okay then, here it is. These first entries will be very long Dear Diary. So many new sensations, longings, feelings, have happened to me in the last few days. I need to peel back the events. Relive them as they happened. To catch up with today.
Anyway, as I said, I met Ricky just over a week ago. It was Saturday, mid-afternoon. I was sitting on a bench in Legion Park. The one all the way in the back, by the cornfield. I had my head leaning all the way back, just kind of staring off into sky.
I was wondering if I was ever going to get laid again before I die. The last time I had enjoyed a woman’s charms was 12/31/99 (I can’t forget THAT day for so many reasons). What happened? When I was younger, women picked me up all the time. This was good for me. I didn’t have to go against my very shy nature and learn how to pick them up. Well, now that I have gotten older (is 47 really referred to as “older”?!), I am apparently not as attractive to women as I was back then.
So, I guess I am just sitting there feeling sorry for myself. Very, very sorry for myself. It must’ve been written across my face in neon, because Ricky walked up and said he could see from the other side of the park that I looked like I needed a friend. He said I looked much sadder close up.
I didn’t reply. I hoped he’d just go away. I was not in a people person kind of a mood and I said so. I said him to “I really am not in the mood to talk, please leave me alone”.
“Okay. I’ll just sit here, on the other end of the bench. I have things I can think about too. If you feel like talking, just do…” And with that, he sat down, took a handheld computer from his pocket and started doing something on it.
I was a bit pissed. Here I picked the most isolated bench in the park to sit and feel sorry for myself on this chilly autumn day, and this strange, younger man comes over and intrudes on my solitude. I turn slightly away from him and return to my “pity party”.
It got more and more difficult to ignore the sounds his handheld was making. I tried to see the screen by looking through the corner of my eye. I wanted to know what he was playing. I didn’t want to talk.
“Oil Pipe”, he says, “the original and still the best pipeline game”.
Was he reading my mind? Was I so curious that I was being obvious? Did he just think it was time for someone to say something? Whatever it was, it was the start of a new friendship. We talked for hours. First about the game. I told I had Oil Pipe registered as a DOS game on my PC, I wasn’t aware it was still being supported and that it became a Windows based application. We had a lot in common. He was a computer geek, a sci-fi buff, and a Mustang man as well. I eventually opened up about my sexual situation and the fears that accompany it. He was easy to talk to.
As the sunset, chilly morphed into “fucking cold”. Ricky suggested we go to his place, catch a buzz and warm up. He said, “I don’t think you should be alone yet. I’m worried about you”.
I declined. I don’t know why. Why have I pulled away from virtually every person that ever showed they care for me? Ricky didn’t force the issue, instead, he handed me a business card, “Computers for Dummies”. Catchy. Like the book series. “My cell is listed, call me when you feel like talking again.”
We parted ways. Hours later, I am still thinking about my new friend. There is something about him. I haven’t related like that to another human being since my best friend moved to LA. Finally, I decide to call him. I ask him to come to my place. My comfort level is better here. He got here in less than half an hour. Bearing gifts: Christian Brothers brandy (did I tell him that was my favorite alcohol beverage or is this another thing we have in common?), a half gallon of orange juice (I have to have told him I like brandy and o. j.), and a bag of ice.
I poured us drinks. We talked. No, I hadn’t told him, it was his favorite as well. We talked about a lot of things. About how I lost an excellent job (that I hated, btw) in 2000 and every job I’ve had since paid less than the last. How hard I’ve found it to live on $26k/year when I used to make $60k. Yes, I had a nice glow going. Those Christian Brothers sure know their shit! I was opening up to Ricky as if he was an old friend and I was just catching him up to on happened since I last saw him. I was really enjoying his company. There was something about him…
“Do you get high?”, Ricky asks. “A little. Occasionally. Kind of a money thing” I replied. On that, Ricky pulled a beautiful, round wooden stash box from one jacket pocket, and a pipe from the other.
“Whoa, now you’re talking. Truthfully, I’m not much of a drinker (you can probably tell by how drunk I am from 2 drinks), I am more of a stoner.”
“You’ll love this shit then. I know a guy grows in a closet. He grows for himself, 3 harvests per year. He always plants 50% more than he needs, in case he has a gardening disaster strike. I buy the stuff that he has over his requirement. I don’t smoke nearly as much as he does, so it lasts me until his next grow as well. Nice symbiotic relationship. Sucks, though, when he has a grow problem, like disease or pestilence.”
He was right about the weed. Between that and the drinks, I was fucked up.
The subject gradually got back to sex. The subject always ends up at sex if the conversation carries on long enough. I am much more comfortable with Ricky than many people I’ve known 10 years. I confess that sex has never played a prominent role in my life. When I was married (16 years), my wife used to get pissed because I only fucked her once a week. Some weeks not at all.
Ricky asked me if I was turned off by sex. I told him I don’t know. I don’t think so. I took care of my own urges at least once a day. So I enjoy a good orgasm. Sex with her really wasn’t great from day one, but we had a personal connection. I enjoyed her company. Just not sex.
“My God. You had a sexless marriage?”
“Nah, I just wished it was. Not her. She would have been happy to fuck everyday. When we had sex, she had multiple orgasms every single time. I often thought it was unfair. I always made sure she was pleased. I told her, over and over, in a loving fashion, how to please me. She just didn’t retain it.” I told Ricky all this. I was feeling so comfortable with him. There was just something about him, and I was so fucked up…
Ricky asked what my fantasies were when I masturbated. “Obviously, your wife wasn’t in them”, he properly observed. I lied and told him I fantasized about Wendy, my youngest step-daughter’s best friend.