The World is Full of Married Fags

Human beings are not meant to be monogamous. Millions of years of evolution have programmed us to spread our seed far and wide, though I think Madonna had something to do with it too. Being locked into a one on one relationship is apparently unnatural and boring; it's no coincidence that the words 'monogamy' and 'monotony' are only a few letters apart. You may love blueberry pancakes, but that doesn't mean you want to eat them every goddamn day for the rest of your life. Sometimes you have a craving for pizza, or pickled pig's feet, the culinary equivalent of edgeplay.

Men are much more prone to this than women, because men are dogs. Put two men together? Sister you are asking for trouble. Asking a gay man not to be a slut is like asking a fish to live on land or George Bush to read a book without pictures. Not likely honey. I am fully aware that many of the men I encounter are going to be otherwise involved, already taken; that doesn't stop me. I'm just over it.

I have a long history of sleeping with married men, dating way back to dear old Dad (Thank you, thank you, I'm here all week folks!). I rationalized my behavior by demanding that my part time paramours buy me shiny objects. What I meant was jewelry, but I ended up with hand mirrors and shards of broken glass, so I guess I should have been more specific. I figured, hey, if someone ain't keeping the home fires burning, why should I deny myself an hour of mediocre sex with an emotionally unavailable liar? "If loving you is wrong, I don't wanna be right". If you don't know that classic song by Millie Jackson, I urge you to download it. And by download, I mean steal it, illegally.

But it's really not a smart choice to be someone's 'boy on the side'. The hell with that. I recently ended a year long affair I was having with a 'married' man. He was a gorgeous, strapping beast of a man, and I knew full well he was in a long term relationship with some wealthy, ugly, cold hearted man. I went for it anyway.

I didn't think it was possible, but he actually did things I'd never even heard of. After kissing me roughly, chewing on my lips, and forcing his fat tongue down my throat, he slowly drooled spit into my open mouth. OK, a spit scene. Thank God he hadn't eaten onions at lunch.

He then clamped his entire mouth over my mouth and nose (he was a rather large hunk of man meat). I was pinned down by his muscular arms, and struggled as I became lightheaded from lack of oxygen. It's always hot sex when I can think to myself, "Ah, so this is how I die." I really thought I was going to asphyxiate, and was momentarily pissed that I'd bothered to pay off my MasterCard. He pulled back a bit and said softly, "Just breathe", and clamped back down onto me.

I did as I was told, and began taking deep breaths; all the air I was getting came from deep within his lungs. I felt our chests rising and falling as I inhaled and exhaled within him. He was my own personal iron lung. I relaxed, his hands groping me, and then I felt his finger press itself into my Private Idaho. I felt a tingling sensation there, and suspected that he had covertly given me a booty bump of some kind of sex enhancing wonder drug.

That would explain my hallucinating that his boyfriend came home unexpectedly and found us entwined on the kitchen floor, using Miracle Whip for lube. I must have really been tripping, because I vividly recall being dragged out the apartment by my hair, and waking up naked in the hallway in a puddle of semen and mayonnaise. Oh wait, that actually happened. Gosh, some people can just be so touchy.

I continued to sleep with this dude, until one rather unseemly evening. We were messing around on his couch, and I realized he was pushing himself into me- sans rubber. Oh hells no. That was my wake up call; he didn't care about me at all. I popped myself off his raw meat, and then took a shower in the spare (whore's) bathroom. I said to myself out loud, this isn't a movie bitch; this is actually your life. I then made sure to have him take me out to dinner. To paraphrase Margo Channing, I can't be had for the price of a salted peanut, but apparently I can be barebacked for a $60 steak. I called him the next day to end it. He was hot, but this was a dead end for me. Sayonara sailor.

Perhaps the solution for me is to have my fun, but not get emotionally involved. Married men of the world, take note; if you expect to get an amazing roll in the sheets with me, be prepared to give me expensive trinkets. I cannot be bought, but I can be leased.