My Gentle Man Lover

The rumors are true. I have taken a Man Lover.

It's such a cliche, I know. Especially at my age. What am I going to do next, dye my hair? Buy a Porsche? Become a Republican?

Hopefully not. Seriously, could you see me as a blonde? No, for now my supple lapse in heterosexuality becomes the next questionable stain on my curriculum vitae, which it must be noted has been almost entirely clear of what many of my former peers adamantly insisted would be a scatological rap sheet of licentious, bestial faggotry.

But my Man Lover is streets ahead of such wicked depravity. Brecklyn is a class act. He has not one, but TWO bands, for which he provides hand drums and second back-up vocals. He has an amazingly decked-out (or as he says, 'brecked-out') second story loft above a beautifully restored 1968 Chevelle in his friend's garage (he doesn't drive, because of "you know, the enviro-ment, and oil just being... (he makes this great face where he raises his eyebrows and shrugs his shoulders while waving his hands around.)) He's in great shape due to riding his bicycle to and from the gym every day (not to exercise, but to hand out flyers promoting his bands and his landscaping company), which at first I have to say was a bit daunting, but soon found paid off when I enlisted his services to help me move that aquarium my great aunt died in back down to the foyer.

He's a giver. Did I mention that my Man Lover is quite the gentle Man Lover? Indeed. Brecklyn has a tender, seraphic touch, albeit hardy and virile when necessary. I swear, the man has the hands of a Messianic masseuse, or an 11 year old Korean seamstress; they're downright Dickensian.
Which brings me to one of the many issues I have begun to take with patronizing a Man Lover.

Brecklyn is a man. Now I was all for the concept of obtaining a swashbuckling swain, at first. However, the actualization of said desire has brought about it's share of hiccups, and not just due to sensitive gag reflexes. For you see, try as he might sometimes, Brecklyn just is not a woman. I know his attempts are mostly designed to please and entice me, perhaps thinking I would be more responsive to a temperate transition phase, and I can appreciate that. However, his requests to be "titty-fucked" and ongoing references to his "butt-gina" just aren't eliciting our mutual aspirations for desire. Which is probably why I keep sleeping with women.

Yes, this was never meant to be any sort of permanent replacement. I am simply a man of covetous ambition. When I hear talk of the countless hours of joy and delight brought to others by services rendered from a Man Lover, then I am prone to pursue such hedonism. Perhaps I was a bit hasty. I may have jumped the love gun in my acquisition of the first robust specimen I beckoned to play my proxy box. I suppose one hopes to squire a seasoned veteran when partaking in such games of stopgap claptrap and sham ma'am (if you're in the need for a good TSTVTG law firm).
Not to discredit Brecklyn.

He's a good man, and thorough.

Sort of Young, Dumb, and Completely Out of Cum.

I have completely run out of semen.

That's it. That's all there is, not a drop left. Any chances I had for children I actually wanted are now long gone because as I've just said, I am without semen. Now whenever I masturbate to what most would call fruition, all that ejaculates is a puff of smoke. Not even a puff, more like a faint breath, a whisper. It's like if you were to bump into a bottle of baby powder, except instead of a talcum for curing your waiter's ass it's just the remnants of my overdrawn man magma that coughs out. I swear, last time my penis just stuck out a white flag.
What happened? Where did all my white grape juice go (besides my old socks and the floor of the Burger King bathroom)? Donde esta mi semilla blanco?
I happen to know exactly where it went, but first I feel that I should tell you why. Why I let my genitalia reach such a level of barren, destitute failure. Why I've become more dry than my junior high librarian (trust me). Why when some, nay, most men can reproduce said fluids, I have lost the ability to replenish.
The answer? You guessed it... Frank Stallone.

Well, sort of. Okay, not at all really.
The answer of course is the most obvious one, the problem that plagues our entire way of life to no end for which there is no foreseeable cure, nor would we want there to be. The answer is over-masturbation.

I know, I know. How could this be? Every few years I see some article written by an accredited doctor that explains that there is no such thing as too much masturbation (unless you use the "death grip"). If it were possible, wouldn't we all have known when we were 14? I certainly would have. Age 12-15 is when I climbed the Everest of over-masturbation, pushing myself to the dangerous heights and depths of the pubescent male's waning endurance during summer breaks and "sick days", losing Sherpas and oxygen tanks to the frigid, savage snowstorms of multiple daily showers and Jergen's.
And yet I could always continue.
I remember well the first time ever I splooged my face. I was 12 years old, and I had been masturbating for a few months without culmination. I had ordered Playboy's 'The Best of Jenny McCarthy' video for a friend (I'll protect their identity here (it was Austin)), and decided to take it for a test drive. I was home early from school as winter break had just begun, and had the apartment to myself. The video was quite boring, as Playboy videos tend to be. Lots of arty and airbrushed shots of women posing in deserts and studios with perfectly pruned pubic patches of placidity, otherwise known as the stale tail, the vapid vag, the blunt cunt; the hoary quarry, the jejune poon, the ho hum cum bum. The insipid lipped...
Sorry, I got lost in some sort of parallel of euphemisms for uninteresting vaginas (the lackluster sackbuster!)
So, the last segment on this $19.99 mail order VHS is of Jenny McCarthy being photographed on a large bed by a lesser known, though still gorgeous Playmate. As the photo shoot goes on, they each remove more and more articles of clothing until they are both naked, rolling around on the bed taking pictures of their half-hearted lesbian romp. Now I've since seen more than my share of explicit lesbionatic activities, on tape and in person (thank you Denton), but at 12 years old, this was the most sexually exciting thing I had seen since Trading Places; and just like Jamie Lee Curtis' hermaphroditic breasts, I arrived.
Sparing further graphic detail, I required a shower. While I proceeded to make myself look less like someone a camel had spat upon, I was presented with an opportunity to revisit a certain occurrence, one I had just initiated into my daily existence. Which occurrence?
You guessed it... Frank Stallone.

But times have changed, and now my over-masturbation has just become an apt metaphor for selfishness in general. I spent the next 15 years pleasing myself, and mostly myself, to what end? I fostered an environment of self-pleasure and complacency that closed me off from the world, that was so concerned with my own conceit that it derived me of human connection. The only way to transcend, not defeat, mortality is to involve yourself in something greater than the confines of yourself. Essentially, I needed to get out and fuck.
When you truly fuck, you let loose all inhibition and pretext and share in the ecstasy of open-mindedness and discovery. I mean when you really let go and just bang the day and night away, until you're weak and hungry and can't smell your inter-connected stench because you've clogged your nose and every orifice with plugs and jellies and deep, dark inner thoughts that until now you were embarrassed to reveal to yourself, let alone some goofy fuck who's naked on your floor except for a torn and questionably stained argyle sock.

But no, we don't fuck that way anymore. We masturbate so much that when we do experience human interaction, sexual or no, we still are looking to please only ourselves. We become camouflaged in so much of our own juice that we have none left to share with others who may be thirsty. We've become not just a generation but an entire country of self flagellating brats, with our giant forearms and STDs, our loud music and our Dan Fogleberg; our Zima, hula hoops and Pac-man video games, don't you see?
We're a nation that is obsessed with mirrors but hates reflections (just let the pretentiousness soak in... ) We're born into an almost inescapable sense of privilege that continues until death. From that ever dwindling period between abortion and euthanasia it's me, me, me, I deserve this, I can't afford it but so what, I was born here, where's my stuff? So we continue to jerk off, and in doing so we not only squander our personal life-force, but life in general.
We've collapsed our economy and all but guaranteed a terrible life for the next few generations, as well as ensured that our country will continue to fall behind in every aspect of meaningful growth except muscle. Over-fed, over-medicated, over-populated, over-spent, under-educated and willfully full of ignorant resistance.

I'm through jerking off. I've cum all over myself for so long that a sort of second skin has formed around me like a cocoon of aged jism and forgotten dreams, a glaze of spoiled opportunities and mummified spermatozoa; an empty shell of defunct spunk. It's time to share the goo bazooka with the world, and I've got my sights set on...

You guessed it... Frank Stallone.

Less Teeth, More Enthusiasm

That's it. It's that simple. Those are the two basic rules when it comes to blowing somebody. I don't care who you are or how great your technique is; if you're looking for any sort of feedback, or have any doubts whatsoever, then these are the go to standards for improvement. Not to say that anyone's doing a less than stellar job out there. Someone who was lying once said that there's no such thing as a bad blow job. I adhere more to Carlin's line of thinking: "It's hard to argue with a good blow job".

Now I only bring this up because I'm starting to notice what a powerful proverb this mantra encompasses when applied to the world's general well being. It's kind of the basic formula for what needs to happen socially and politically in order for, I don't know, the survival of our species. Less aggression, malice, ranting, filibustering, feet stomping and pants shitting; enough cry-baby stubbornness that halts progression because it's not your agenda. That's like the child who hates the broccoli on the side, so no one gets to eat steak (I'd actually like to see someone arguing this in the Senate; "Look, steak is good, but we can't have it if there's peas on the same plate. That just can't be dinner! So, because of my deep seated illogical abhorrence of legumes, including my daughter the carob, the king shall not have his feast, and neither will any of you"). It's a baby/bathwater conundrum.

What we need is more Gung-Ho-ness (no, not the infamous Saigon whore). More pro-active, positive energy that uplifts and tantalizes the desire to leave a legacy of pride and reverence. Basically less vagina dentata, and more of the spirit that beat the sideways vaginas.

Now there is a third rule. Really it's more of an addendum, an amendment; a sort of unnecessary bonus level, if you will. I've heard it referred to as 'minding the step-children' or 'having the in-laws over'(?). I'm just going to use what seems to be the most senselessly forgotten part of the Bible and quote the Beatitudes: blessed are the meek.

Now, you don't have to involve the balls in order to perform a great BJ. They can be completely left out, I swear we won't even notice. However, if either you or the lucky recipient should choose to go the full billiard, then the only guideline is to be as gentle as possible. Just pretend that Slugworth has whispered in your ear and you've been entranced by the notion of the treat he described, absorbing all the sweet deliciousness that is the candy flavored outside knowing that you can never reach the center. And if you use your teeth on a gobstopper, then your smile will ensure your future waiting tables at Waffle House.

Speaking of the meek and the grapes, this segues nicely into the Steinbeck-like scenario (though didn't they work on a peach orchard? Oh well, the book's title comes from a song about the coming of the Lord, so...) that has become many people's modern economy (though not mine, or really anyone I'm close to for that matter). People are getting married, having families, working decent jobs, going to school, etc., and they all seem incredibly happy while reaching said accomplishments. Yet somehow, it seems that everyone is mad at the President they so valiantly heralded and triumphed. The problem here is the American dream in general, which has just been simplified to the idea that everyone deserves to be, and will become rich. When for some incomprehensible reason that doesn't happen, then people need to direct their blame and shame towards something tangible that isn't themselves. Despite the ease they feel in blaming a president who ran on a platform of personal responsibility, nothing changes. For many reasons, but the most direct being that they don’t change themselves.

Point being, it's up to us to make something happen. Personal responsibility is the agenda, and the only standard worth measuring yourself to. The system is just winners and losers, and always will be, no matter who has the majority. Whether you're making another payment on the house you've rightfully earned and/or held on to, voting for a Democrat in Texas, praying for peace in Israel, or trying to make someone's eyes see the glory while their testicles grow heavy for the vintage, just remember: Less Teeth, More Enthusiasm. 

The Rumble in the Vajungle

I was going to write about queefs, and how I once got into a drunken contest with my white rapping roommate wherein we challenged each other to write a rap song (is there anything whiter than calling it a rap song?) about vaginal flatulence. Mine was pretty profane, and I still remember the first verse, yet I find myself oddly reluctant to share it. I'm not entirely sure what this means. I fear it's a sign of maturity, or worse yet, the death of my profane indulgences. Have I entered the twilight of my vulgarity? Will I never again be able to bask in my own ribaldry?
Doubtful. Perhaps it's just no longer as challenging as it once was to offend. Everything has been done and said already, and shock value has peaked in popularity in the last twenty years. Being edgy has become so mainstream that the wanton black market has become scatologically flooded. And that's not necessarily a bad thing.
People (what people?) say that the new prohibition in these sorts of issues revolves around race, and that's partly true. The most improper words or phrases you can mutter aloud in mixed company are either racial or sexual, but do we give much thought as to why that is?

I understand that for some this isn't an issue. Certain words don't even enter into their psyche, and they therefore are normally not in danger of offending. For others though, who intentionally seek out the forbidden and the lascivious, we're often forced to self-censor, and while personally my intent is rarely to offend, I often do.
Most of the time, my interest lies in finding a way to think about or say something that generally isn't done or expressed in that manner. I’m thoroughly entertained by the fact that there are always so many unexplored options, to everything. Basically I'm looking to amuse myself, which perhaps is the basis of the entire problem. I'm consistently putting myself first.
When I focus more on my own self-interest, especially when it comes to things as trivial as jokes, I'm already being disrespectful. And while it's important to be honest with yourself (but not real important), it's better to make the small effort of recognizing why being mindful and respectful of others is mutually beneficial.
Which brings me to what I believe to be the last vestige of controversial social commentary: truth.
We go to such outrageous lengths in order to be sure we're not hurting anyone's delicate fucking sensibilities that we've become trapped within our own language from being honest. Having disregard for the feelings of others, intentional or not, does not equal bigotry, and it certainly doesn't amount to discrimination. The balancing act here is being sure that whatever your thoughts or opinions are, whether they're expressed or not, they don't cause you to treat people differently. I guess what I've arrived at is that you should probably try to offend everyone equally.
So, with that in mind...

I do the kind of shit that makes you question beliefs
Like my tongue against your ass while I'm sucking your queefs
Pissin' on your hair, 'cuz your weave is on fire
While the sweat under yo' titties is what I desire
Drinkin' all the milk out your areola
Chewin' on your ass like your shit was granola
Shittin' on my chest with my toes in your taint
While your grandma jerks me off in a bucket of paint
Spread it on the walls with her saggin' breast-eses
First be sure we TiVo the Young and the Restless-es
Watch her as she calls the little mailman a spade
Then we felch her husband's corpse with Mike's lemonade

I don't think there was a chorus.

If Anything...

You're always living in the moment, you just want a different moment.

The world is black & white. People are grey. When you're a child, you see the world as it truly is. Everything is attainable and possible, and all can be accomplished in every different way. As you get older, you begin to see why we had to delineate things. The world had to be separated to the ends of the spectrum to create the basis for structure and communal order, responsibility, laws, religions, and the standards needed to cultivate the drive for accomplishment. It is possible to live in the grey, but it's usually directionless, lonely, and unfulfilling; which isn't necessarily wrong. It's just not progressive, at least not in the way we've come to understand progress.

Hot sauce does make everything better.

Saying out loud how nice or enjoyable things are doesn't ruin the moment. It actually makes it better.

White men are still in charge of everything, they're just pussies now. They're either too afraid to have convictions, too insecure to back them up, too arrogant to change, or too rich to care. I'm not suggesting that they need to return to their old ways, or that white men should hold on to said power. I'm just saying that things are still getting decidedly worse.

I have never met anyone who was detrimental to my personal growth.

Overrated (by our generation): Blogs, The Clash, In-n-Out Burger, Hunter S. Thompson, Anal Sex, Individuality, Edward Norton, Voting, Martinis, Blow Jobs, "Closure"

If you're near a payphone, and it starts to ring, answer it.

Give your parents a break.

There is absolutely nothing that feels better than accomplishment, and it does not require validity. The happiness that follows, however, only survives when it is shared.

Unless they choose otherwise, boys become men, and girls become women. Always.

Michael Jackson was the greatest performer of all time.

Everyone always wants to be cool. Even people who are already cool. Especially people who are already cool. When people try to act uncool, it is a desperate attempt to look cool. People who are uncool are too busy working to worry about seeming cool. Eventually, they will become the people who accomplish things in life, and will possess greater currency than coolness.

I will always pick the grocery cart with the bad wheel(s).

It's not the poor or the weak or the stupid, but the willfully ignorant who have to be left behind.

Underrated (by our generation): Sincerity, Kissing, Public Libraries, Russian novelists, Community (TV), Communities (in general), Country Music, Sam Rockwell, Missionary Position

Victimization is a modern currency, and straight white men don't like being poor.

It's okay to leave the last sip of beer.

Hypocrisy does not negate merit. Catching someone in a lie is no reason to disregard everything they ever have or will say. This is such a deceptively fast moving culture that opinions and accusations have all become based on "gotcha" moments, sound bytes, tabloids and media hype. Someone capable of having differing, even opposing views and opinions is just someone capable of complex thought. I should add 'exposing hypocrisy' as overrated.

There is no need to correct someone unless it is absolutely necessary.

There is no bigger waste of time in life than being apprehensive.

Breathe deep. Drink water. Repeat. It's that simple.

Escutcheon Depilation

I'm usually not prone to spontaneous acts of metrosexuality, though I did watch the first 2 twilight movies back to back last night (honestly, I don't even understand how Edward has a team). I don't use hair product, I shop off the rack, and I seek cures for neither my manis nor pedis. However, following an essay involving discussions of my mouth being schlager-plundered and the merits of freebootying with this one begs certain questions.

Have I lost my irrevocably innate ability to exude extra testeronni? Am I slipping out of my unquestionable manliness? Have I not just questioned it?

No, I'm simply slipping out of my fire spurned hairy briefs. Those who know me have heard my rails against the pubic prunings, and have also borne witness to the burnt umber bungle that is my jungle (did that read?) Alas, with the stink and sweat of outdoor travel, and the fire dangers in nearby forests rising, I have decided my summer attire will be worn over a shorn scrotum. Yes, I have shuffled off those coital curls, those phallic follicles, those amber waves of brain. And to be honest, I still don't see the appeal.
To begin, I just have to say that this session went much better than my previous attempt at manscaping. Last time I was terribly drunk and more, and went at myself with a pair of nose hair scissors. If you're squeamish, stop reading now, because there was an injury.
I nicked myself early on, just in the general area above the shaft. It bled very slightly, so I continued. Then there was a another nick, this one more in the undercarriage, the scrote tote. It also bled, but again, lightly. So I downed my glass of whiskey and continued, working my way around the shaft, until... (I'm pausing to see if my sphincter will relax, but it doesn't seem to be helping)... I took a hit. A bad one.

How bad, you're probably not asking but deep down yearning to discover through clenched eyes, teeth and buttocks? Well, I saw the tiny piece of flesh fly away from the snap of the scissors, joining it's brethren of toenails and dandruff below.

That one was a bleeder. I had to masturbate with Neosporin for weeks.
So this experience had nowhere to go but up. I was completely sober, aside from exhaustion and what seems to be a gradually welcoming bout of cabin fever, and was working with electric clippers as well as tiny scissors. I felt safe within the confines of the National Forest, remembering that old Indian tale about bears and wolves and pretty much anyone else steering clear of pubic hair from men who dine on tuna and ramen alone. I got started, and things were going well.
As I was beginning to see the merits of such acts of self imposed emasculation, I hit a snag. Literally. But the scissors fixed that, so I went on until I hit another snag. I had reached the inside of my thigh, and there was no clear delineation of where to stop. Obviously, the thigh itself should be the natural border, but it was difficult to decide exactly where to just end things completely. During the flourishing of spring, the foliage would just naturally blend together, a seemingly flawless floral transition from gathered shrubbery to scattered brush. But now, within the throes of a dark, impending winter, the landscape had lost all sense of balance. Nature had turned to chaos.
And it wasn't just the thighs. It was awkward on all fronts, and backs. My happy trail had become more of a so-so grassy path, and the only saving grace on where to provide the cut off for the upper peninsula was the indentation from my belt. I optioned for a half-hearted fade into the thighs, filling in the gaps with eucalyptus and apple blossoms. That brought us to the perineum. I don't see the need to go into any sort of exquisite detail there.

Beneath my trousers was perhaps not the most elegant example of genital feng-shui, but I managed.
By and large the job was done. I left Eric Stoltz’s beard on the ground and dove into a nearby stream to evict the stragglers. It was very pleasant at the time, and left me with a sense of relief as I crawled into the cab of my truck for another night's well deserved rest.

And now, several days and powderings later, as I look down and scratch the haunting flashbacks of my 4th grade nothings, I am once again filled with doubt and remorse. I remember why I took so much pride in my mane, and wonder why I threw it all away on a cheap, beer induced whim (okay, so I wasn't sober).
I always said that if I were dating someone who preferred the area be cleared, then I would have no qualms about doing so, as it would have a gainful purpose. But in the meantime, I didn't see the point in keeping up such non-appearances. Once random girl from the bar is undoing your belt, she probably won't be deterred by an unkempt ball fro.

So the lesson here is to be sure of purpose when taking definitive action. Absence makes the heart grow fonder. Measure twice, cut once, or don't cut at all. Your dick in your hand is worth feeling your bush.

Susan Ursitti-ing: (usually not) A Stand-Up Routine

We need to talk about the butt fucking. Now I know this can be uncomfortable, so we'll just have to find a way to ease gently into it. I'll start off with some light fingering of ideas I've been tossing around in my head for the past week.
So, I've got a roommate. You guys have roommates? Yeah? It's great, you can split everything; the bills, the groceries, chores, whatever. You've got someone to talk to, you're not lonely. The other great thing about roommates is that you can blame them for anything embarrassing that you have lying around your place. Say you bring a girl home from the bar, and it's going well, and she starts looking around...

"Oh, is this your DVD box set of Twilight?"
"No, no. That's my roommate's. He likes that shit, I don't..."
"What are all the used napkins and tissues next to the computer?"
"Oh shit, that's my roommate. Yeah, he's disgusting, he's always doing nasty stuff like that. I think he’s been sick. I don't even know why I live with him, really."
"Wow, is this a framed, autographed picture of you and Robert Pattinson?"
"No, no. No, that's... my roommate's just really into photoshop, and he thought that'd be funny, and he put it in a heart shaped frame, just to mess with me, you know? Yeah, he put the glitter and the little jewels on it; he even put on some lipstick and kissed it, the fuckin' weirdo. Can you put it down now, please? You're smudging it."

Wouldn't it be great if you could just keep doing that, with everything? Anything embarrassing, the whole night:

"Oh, you know what? This is actually my roommate's penis. That's why it's not doing so well. You know, you live together, things get mixed up. Just the other day, he accidentally wore my Pink FLoyd T-shirt."

The girl calls you a few weeks later.

"Well, technically, it was my roommate who gave you herpes. You were the one who insisted on continuing, so... yeah, he's been spreading that shit everywhere. He's out of control. Don't worry, he's got the name of a good doctor for that, very discreet. I'll get the number from him."

No, that could never happen. You can't mistake your roommate's penis for your penis. Guys have a very close, complicated and deeply personal relationship with their penis. It's the only penis in the world to them. It's funny, a lot of guys will get all freaked out and disgusted by the sight or thought or smell of another dude's cock, but they rely on their own for everything that guides them in life. We have the one, the uber-penis, and we're shocked that you could ever entertain the notion of tackling another man's... tackle. If a woman ever cheats on a man, it's not the kissing or intimacy or anything else that bothers us. It's the fact that somehow, on some level, you didn't think that our penis was enough. Everything we've based our entire way of life on, all of our beliefs, shattered, because somehow the uber-penis just wasn't delivering. It fucks up our entire world view.
The uber-penis makes all the important decisions. It warms your hands, and creates a global stigmatism causing the majority of the world's problems. Seriously, most of the issues threatening humanity today stem from a man's insecurity, which like everything else is directly tied to the abundance of his anatomy, the bulge of his brain, the plethora of his penasia. You women have some power here, because you ultimately are the judges in said standards of girth and largeness of labial luge logs (did you know that only ex-boyfriends have tiny cocks?) If women started a whispering (eye) campaign about how small dicks are all the rage, then the world would finally be ripe for your taking (after you defeat the Chinese.)

We don't want to know about other dicks. It's just terrifying for some men. All the borderline homosexual thoughts are frightening, yet we know they’re intriguing. I've been involved in several conversations with men where this phrase was said:

"Man, I would just be gay, if it wasn't for the butt fucking."

Really? That's the ONE thing that's keeping you back, the fucking glass ceiling that limits your potential gayness? Anal?
There are so many things to explore here, but I'll try to be brief. Let's just glaze over the obvious, which is that the one thing keeping you from being gay is that you are NOT gay. You are (supposedly) straight, and therefore don't need to clarify or justify anything beyond that. What about liking women? That kind of keeps me from being gay. Tits and vagina, there's some appeal there, right? You've gotta like women somewhat.
The funny thing is (well, maybe not funny) that these are usually the guys who desperately want to fuck their girlfriend in the ass. So it can't be that they find the act of butt fucking so off-pudding...

And it can be, if done incorrectly. You know there's poo in there? Fucking poop! You thought looking at your dick as Prom Queen Carrie was bad the first time, try feeling some shit with it, and then having it soft serve its way down your shaft when you pull out. I'm sorry to be so graphic, but that's precisely the risk you're willing to take.

So it must be butt fucking another dude that's the problem. I'll put aside the argument that being a catcher would be uncomfortable, since every guy who has homo ass-pirations thinks he would automatically be a top. And let's skip right past the fact that a man's g-spot or a-spot or just a spot is up his ass, and it therefore should be quite enjoyable once understood.
I just wonder why that's the go-to singular reason. What about intimacy? Are these guys saying that they would be okay cuddling with another guy? Holding hands? Bathing? And what about his penis? How do you mediate the dueling uber-penii? How do you solve a problem like Maria?
And what about kissing? Guys, have you ever kissed another dude? I mean, really? Like a deep, sensual kiss? Let me tell you a story.

A friend and I took a couple of girls to a gay bar one night. The agenda here was to let the girls go get free drinks and dance and have fun, then be the straight guys waiting for them when they're drunk and horny from dancing all night. All you have to do is hang back and kill time. So my friend and I go to play pool, and we meet a couple of fellas. They ask us if we'd like to play teams, and being the open-minded young liberals that we are, we graciously accept.
And we have an awesome time. These guys are cool, they insist on buying us drinks, we're shooting the shit, shooting pool. After a few hours the night is dying down and we're getting ready to leave. Now, I'm not a complete asshole (?) I know the guys are interested, and I know we've kind of been leading them on. I have had many great conversations with really cool guys that I didn't realize were flirtations until halfway through, and I've always tried to be as honest and understanding as possible. I may have been drunk past such courtesies this night.
So I walk out of the bathroom and one of the guys, about 35, good looking, not hot, a little below my level, is standing at the bar calling me over. I walk up and he's ordered us a couple shots of Goldschlager. Being the cheap drunk that I am, I accept. I take the shot and intend to leave. Then, as I put the glass down, I notice his intent.
He's standing at a bit of a lean towards me. His head has a slight bob to it. There's a glint in his eye, and a smirk of gentle self-satisfaction on his face. And then he goes for it.
Now, there was probably only a second or two of actual time that passed, but somehow, my brain was able to process all of the following thoughts:
"Oh shit, here it comes. You know what, it's fine. He's really nice, he bought me a bunch of drinks. He wasn't pushy or abrasive, he spent his whole night talking to me. There is absolutely no harm in letting him have this moment. I know I'm not interested. I know it doesn't have to go any further, and who knows? It might be nice for me too, it's just a kiss. People just kiss at the end of the night, and they move on. You can deal with this. Why not?"
And I realized that this is the exact thought process that girls might go through at 1:50 AM every single fucking time they go out.

So he does it... and it's fucking amazing!

No, it... I was going to say that it's probably one of the worst kisses in the history of gay kisses, but that seems offensive in too many of the wrong directions. It was like when Lea Thompson kissed Michael J Fox in Back to the Future, or when you put on someone else's underwear. You just know that it's not right.
His mouth didn't open very much, and it was like he didn't even have lips, just facial hair that bristled against mine and made these awkward sandpaper sounds and brought visions of sagebrush and tumbleweeds to my schlager-fucked brain as he just pulsed his fat, squishy tongue in there and barely moved it around. I mean, aside from it just feeling incredibly awkward, he was also just a lousy kisser.
So I backed away, thanked him for the drinks, and turned around to see my friend and our dates watching in agape-ed awe...

Now, I don't feel bad about this. I've been that guy, and he was fine going home and jerking off. He'll regret spending all that money on shots, but that's just how things are done. Ladies, I encourage this behavior. You've got it coming, and so do we. So enjoy your free drinks, and our gentle defeat.

Or, go let our roommate fuck you up the ass, if that's what you're both into.