Urgh.

[thepnutgallery]

Been reading a lot of marvelously worded posts tonight, and there is simply no way this is going to come out as anything other than frustrated jumble.

I just got back from WP weekend. It was a fantastic weekend, thanks in large part to Michael Hunt, who is simply an amazing friend, and no thanks to Friday's migraine, which kept me from going up that day, and kept me throwing up until Saturday at 7am.

The biggest thing I have realized from the weekend is that I have fallen for Tim, the gent from my last post. I fucked exactly one guy over the weekend, more out of a sense of duty than anything else - we were supposed to fuck last year at PS Pride and couldn't. All the other guys hitting on me were simply not Tim. I went to sleep, woke up, and danced thinking about him. I am frustrated, livid with myself for this. I love my single life. Adore it. And if it happens, as it seems to with so many gay men, that I end up alone when I'm 70 because I don't want to stop fucking men now, I have zero problem with that. Bedtime Bear will always be there if I need someone to cuddle with.

Unfortunately, I cannot continue to love my single life when I think about him all the damn time. I do recognize that being frustrated, livid, even disgusted is a poor way to start a relationship.

I had dinner with him tonight, both to see him, and sort of to apologize for going to WP without him in the first place. We discussed, in a roundabout and general way, my frustration. He talked about the crux of gay men's existence, of how eventually, no matter whether you choose to stay single forever, or settle down and miss out on the parties and sexfests, you're going to look back and wish you did more of the other.

We also talked about life, and he pointed out, as so many have, that my goal to just skip to the ending or read a synopsis gets in the way of my living. Life, like a movie, is about the journey. It is the journey that matters. I need to concentrate on the journey. (Cue me singing "Open Arms" and receiving only a flat look for the effort). At some point he asked if I was addicted to him, and I returned his flat look, and at another he asked if he was supposed to be my next husband, and I groaned. I want to say "Well, just do it for now, and quit when it stops being fun." Y'know, because that's ever worked for any addiction, ever.

There is at least one more hurdle before anything truly drastic happens, which doesn't seem like much of one to me, but is apparently a fairly large one, from Wyatt's experience with it.