Sunday, September 29th, 2013 (Part 2)

Sugarland has this crazy atmosphere of grunge and lights. It’s kind of a mix between bar and club. They have a fun dance floor and that’s where we went after getting our first round of drinks. A drag queen was just finishing up her show, killing it as she sang along to Whitney Houston.

The bar was dark. And foggy. I could hardly see anyone’s face. Which made it hard to find and pick a decent guy to hit on. (You know how picky I am.) You were still the last guy I’d kissed, and I think I went into the night hoping for a nice dance floor make-out. I definitely didn’t have plans on bringing anyone home with me. I had a “no-one-night-stands” resolution.

However, thinking and doing are completely different things.

At one point in the later part of the evening, Mitchell C headed to the bathroom, leaving Mitchell F and I dancing alone. One thing led to another as we closed the distance between us, our bodies touching now, our faces inches apart. I remember feeling in control in that moment, thinking that I had the power to let the night continue at its normal pace or send it careening in an entirely new direction. With whiskey on my breath and coursing through my bloodstream, I hazarded toward the exciting, unknown path and closed the distance between our lips.

It was somewhat sloppy, making out with Mitchell F. I was drunk. He was drunk. We were dancing in a gay bar in Brooklyn at 3AM. Could I really expect more? It wasn’t you I was kissing. Even at our drunkest, we didn’t have sloppy kisses. But Mitchell F was a good substitute. A good first after you kiss.

Then Mitchell C reappeared and swiftly broke us up. I’m not sure why he was so against it. I guess two friends making out can be hard to handle, especially when you’re stranded in Brooklyn and don’t want to be a third wheel.

We ended up staying at Sugarland for another thirty minutes and then decided to head home to Manhattan.

That’s not where the night’s story ends, though.

As you can probably guess, the L train was not an option, at least not for three drunk guys at 3:30AM. We weren’t about to wait nineteen minutes for it to take us all of three stops. So we climbed out of the subway station and took a cab instead, deciding to get out at Union Square where we could get trains home. We all lived in different places – Mitchell C on the West Side, Mitchell F in Astoria and me on the East Side. Mitchell C was drunker than I thought and actually threw up out the cab window as we drove. He managed to keep it all outside of the cab, so props to him.

When we got out at Union Square, Mitchell C headed toward the 1 train. Mitchell F said he was going to take the 6 and then transfer at 59th to get a train to Astoria. And this is how I really knew Mitchell C was drunk. The train to Astoria runs through Union Square. While the 6 train was what I needed to take to get home. I knew what was happening, but Mitchell C didn’t seem to have a clue as he said good night and left us to go find his 1 train. Mitchell F followed me down to the 6 train and we confirmed he was coming back to my apartment.

We had six minutes to wait for the next train, six minutes in which we stood there on the subway platform at Union Square and made out like one of those obnoxious PDA couples. Mitchell F kept grabbing my ass and sliding his fingers under my shirt. I think I must have been less drunk than him because I felt uncomfortable with all the PDA, like everyone else on the platform was watching and judging us. Not that there were that many other people on the platform at 4AM. But in the moment, I wanted to have sex with him (I think I thought it would help me with getting over you), so I went along with it. When the train came, we hopped on and made our way up to my apartment. Luckily we got seats, so the PDA was minimized on the ride.

But even when we got off the train and had a ten-minute walk to my apartment, Mitchell F couldn’t keep his hands off me. He kept stopping me in the middle of the sidewalk to push me against whatever building, fence or gate was nearby so he could make-out with me some more. I had to pee like no other, and I kept trying to get him to continue moving. We were already so close.

Finally we did make it to my apartment and I did get to pee. Then, I had sex with my first guy since you.

It wasn’t bad sex. But it wasn’t great sex, either. A nice neutral five or six. I’m not really a fan of drunken sex. Most of the neutrality I think was my fault. I’ve topped you for the last year and a half, so to get back to bottoming was uncomfortable. My legs aren’t limber; I can’t bend them up to my head. My ass was about as tight as tight could be. (Mitchell F didn’t seem to mind this, though.) And my endurance was not so great.

But I managed to remember how to bottom. Though I don’t have any moves to speak of. And I didn’t last very long. I’m sure Mitchell F was disappointed. But that’s life. Especially when I’ve been having sex with you for so long. I know what you like. And there was passion in our sex. Not just lust or carnality or whatever you want to call it. Sex when it’s meaningful is so much better.

We finished up around five and headed to bed. I was super exhausted and couldn’t wait to fall asleep. But I didn’t sleep well at all. I kept waking up throughout the night. Mitchell F had the bad habit of sleeping in the middle of the bed (you know how I like having my own side, how I have trouble falling asleep if someone’s touching me), forcing me to curl up into a cramped third of my full-size mattress. Not comfortable. And it was hot and I kept having to get out of bed to go and pee.

Then when I did finally get to sleep, I dreamed of you. And it made me not want to wake up. I dreamed we were waiting together at a bus stop, one of those dusty, middle of nowhere ones out west. And you were making out with me just like Mitchell F and I had been doing earlier that night. We weren’t getting back together or anything; we made that perfectly clear in our dream dialogue. We were enjoying ourselves, enjoying the loving and familiar touch of each other. We were waiting for the bus to come so we could go back to your place to fuck.

The bus never came, though. We never got on. We never had sex. But we made out at that station for a while, feeling each other’s muscles, probing beneath our shirts and pants. There was a frenzied passion to it and I tried to stay emerged in my dream. I wanted to hold onto you in that sexual moment for as long as I could.

And then I woke up. Missing you while I had another guy still asleep in my bed.

Mitchell F left around ten that morning. It was a fun enough night, but I was happy to see him go. I’ve been kicking myself all day that I didn’t stick to my “no-one-night-stand” resolution. And not because I’m upset that I had sex with Mitchell F or that it wasn’t amazing sex. I’m upset that I can’t keep promises I make to myself. I’ve really got to work on that. And despite physically moving on to someone else, I’m more wrapped up with your memory than before.

I’ve now had sex with nine guys total in my life. That’s penetrative sex. I’m not counting blow jobs or hand jobs or anything in this number. For the longest time I thought I’d be stuck at eight. But now I’m realizing that I am going to get into double digits, after all.

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One comment

  1. Great post. Sex with someone new after a break up is hard. What you’re writing completely resonates with me. It’s hard to go from having sex out of love and passion, to just having sex. It almost hurts to do it, and missing that person becomes so much more intense.

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