Man Whores and First Loves

January 3, 2010

I have this friend who is a total man whore. He’s had sex with more people than there are days in the year and, from what he’s said and how he acts, he’s just getting started. Going out with him is like watching a National Geographic special on the hunting rituals of African lions. When he walks into a bar, he surveys his surroundings, looking for other predators and any territory they may have already claimed. Then, with a keen eye, he laps the bar once looking for the perfect catch that suits his mood du juor. Sometimes it’s a young twink, just out of the closet. Other times it’s an Emo punk with lots of guy liner and even more attitude. Frequently it’s a muscle-head gym-rat whose vocabulary generally falls under the category of remedial. And there are times when he actually filters his desires through the fields of education, employment status and personal hygiene…but not very often.

Once he’s chosen his target, he slithers up to the bar, orders a dirty martini (he thinks the glass makes him look sophisticated and, thus, more desirable). For the next thirty minutes, or so, he studies his prey, deducing what kind of lover they will be based on basic social interactions. According to him, anyone who drinks a mixed drink is a bottom, guys that dance mostly with their hips are good in bed and anyone with gelled hair has tan lines and shaves his pubic hair in the shape of a landing strip.

After he stalks them from afar, he sets down his untouched martini and moves in for the kill. I pick up his abandoned drink and watch in amazement as, time after time, he bags the boy he’s been eyeing and they leave hand in hand.

The next morning I usually wake up to the phone ringing. I pick it up and listen to a blow by blow (literally) account of my man whore friend’s night and how he thinks his boy/man/tranny performed. After he’s rated them on looks, technique, degree of sexual difficulty and overall physical prowess he opens his digital database to file them in their correct location.

Yes, he has a database of everyone he’s ever hooked up. He says it’s to help him chronicle who he’s slept with in case he ever catches an STD or something like that, but I think he’s tracking his sexual conquests in hopes of making it into the Guinness Book of World Records…that, or an updated version of the Kama Sutra. As I sit back and listen about how this boy could fold his legs behind his back or that guy could make his pecs dance, I can’t help but be a little jealous of my man whore friend’s database. Not because I want a recount of my sexual history (which is not all that exciting anyway), but because of my first love, Hector Castro.

After I graduated from college, I moved in with my uncles, UJR in Miami Beach. I told everyone that I was moving down there because it was such a vibrant scene for graphic design and how I would be able to find a job, but the real reason I moved there is because I wanted to fall in love. Attending a conservative, Jesuit college did not really aid me in either finding gay friends or cultivating a successful gay lifestyle. I’d been out of the closet for almost two years and the only Judy Garland movie I’d ever seen was “The Wizard of Oz” and my fashion sense was less than fabulous.

I spent the first few weeks in Miami, going out to clubs, trying to meet people and spending way too much money. But sooner than I thought, my money ran out. Not ready to grow up and get a “real job”, I applied for a part-time position at the Blockbuster Video store down the street from UJR’s condo.

On my first day, I rollerbladed to the store and walked in. At the front counter was Hector, a sassy Cuban American with thick black hair and perfect teeth. I introduced myself and told him that I was there for my first day of employment. He looked me up and down and asked “Are you gay or straight?” My heart started beating faster than normal, my head flooded with all the bad memories of high school bullies and social ostricization. I swallowed the large ball in my throat and answered “Gay.” “Thank God,” he said, “If we get any more straight people in here I’m totally going to quit.” And with that one statement, Hector became my new gay mentor, the Yoda to my Luke Skywalker.

Over the next six months, Hector took me under his gay wing and taught me the ropes of how to be a successful homo. I learned that gay men never drive straight ahead, we drive gaily forward. He disseminated to me the importance of manscaping and, in certain situations, the appropriateness of guyliner. We spent endless hours together, dancing at clubs, trolling for boyfriends and criticizing the fashion sense of anyone that dared walk into the video store. But then I went and fucked it all up by falling in love with him.

One night after our usual dance club bonanzo, we were sitting on UJR’s balcony, smoking a cigarette. It had been a very long time since I had hooked up and, in a weak moment of sexual frustration I asked Hector “What would you do if I kissed you?” He doused his cigarette and, with his brown, almond shaped eyes, said “I guess I’d kiss you back.” Like my man whore friend, I pounced on him and devoured his face. We spent the next few months in a secret affair. We would slip into the break room at work and steal kisses from one another. Every weekend we’d go out, dance our faces off, and end up on UJR’s balcony making out until the sun came up.

I eventually decided to confess my feelings to Hector in the hopes that he would return them and we could move in together, adopt a gaggle of children and spend the rest of lives together in a cocoon of gay love and mutual respect. I walked into work on the day I had decided to tell him how I felt, semi-confidant in the fact that he would feel the same. As soon as I walked through the glass door my nose was attacked by a foul-smelling cologne. I followed the skunky scent to a swarthy looking guy next to my would-be boyfriend. I assumed he was one of the many disgruntled customers we had on a daily basis, wanting a refund on his copy of Evita because Madonna can’t act. I was steps away from them when Hector grabbed the smelly, swarthy guy and swapped saliva with him. In my head I broke their embrace and gave the swarthy guy a swirly. But in reality, I stood there, frozen with disappointment, glaring at the love of my life kissing another person.

Feeling my gaze, Hector broke from his make out session and greeted me. Then, with no regard to my feelings (that he was unaware of), he introduced me to Eduardo, his new boyfriend. “Your boyfriend?” I asked as incredulously as I could muster. “We met last night at a foam party.” Eduardo said as he rubbed Hector’s perfectly flat stomach. For those of you that don’t know what a foam party is, it’s basically a dance party where everyone strips down to his underwear and they fill the space with soapy bubbles. I had to sit through, for what seemed like six hours, of how Eduardo and Hector met on the dance floor during a Thunderpuss remix of some Cher song, how they bonded over their mutual love of black beans and rice, their hot night of passionate sex and arguing over who was cuter. I faked a smile until my head started to ache with the instant hatred I had for Eduardo and the growing sadness in my heart because, despite what I had dreamed, Hector and I were not going to be together.

Instead of being mature about my friend finding a boyfriend, I did what any twenty-two year old, immature gay boy would do: I tried to sabotage their relationship. When Eduardo would call Hector at work, I would say that Hector wasn’t there or that he had just stepped out with some guy. When Hector would talk about how wonderful Eduardo was, or what an excellent lover Eduardo was, I’d fake a smile and then remind him that most relationships, especially gay ones that were forged at foam parties, didn’t have a chance of survival. On his days off when I knew Hector was with Eduardo, I’d fabricate a video emergency, forcing Hector to come in, ruining whatever plans he had with his smelly boyfriend.

But nothing I did could break them up. I eventually had to leave Blockbuster and get a job at the rival video store down the street. That didn’t really work out, so I bagged myself a boyfriend and tried to live my life and forget about the Cuban-American who broke my heart. That relationship didn’t work out (that’s a whole other story) and I ended up moving to New Jersey to live with my Homo Honey.

It’s been over ten years since my almost relationship with Hector and I can’t help but feel guilty about my selfish behavior in terms of his relationship. I wish I had his phone number or e-mail address so I could see how he’s doing, and make sure he’s happy. I’ve tried finding him online, but with so many Hector Castros living in Miami Florida, locating him is harder than debating the merits of metal versus wood framing in new home construction with a dykey lesbian.

And that’s why I’m jealous of my man whore friend. If I had kept a running tally of everyone I’d ever hooked up with, I’d have Hector’s contact information, so I could call him and apologize for being such a royal ass to him and Eduardo.

My advice to my first love, Hector:

My dearest Hector, I hope you’re happy and living a successful life. Please, call/text/e-mail me. I’d love to talk and rehash all the fun we used to have on the beach.

My advice to everyone else:

When you fall in love for the first time, express your feelings as soon as you can. If they’re great enough for you to fall in love with, I’m sure there are plenty of other suitors that would be glad to beat you to the punch.

My advice to my man whore friend:

Stop being such a man whore. People are starting to talk.


3 Responses to “Man Whores and First Loves”

  1. […] now gay and keep in touch with blasts from the past. Even though I never found my first love (see Man Whores and First Loves for more information) I was able to connect with the two other people I ever dated seriously […]

  2. Emily Says:

    It was dark when I woke. This is a ray of sushnnie.

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