Irritable Bowel Syndrome

Earlier this week I watched a "gay interest" film entitled Boy Culture. Earlier this summer I read a novel entitled A Single Man. Both were interesting, and both featured protagonists whose mind was often momentarily infiltrated by the audience. Telltale moments of passion and temptation, like...

"I didn't know whether to turn on all the water faucets in the apartment or jump in the shower with him."

or

"I watched him walking around the room, admiring my furnishings in his toga-like towel, imagining what the full body of the glimpsed glory of man hidden beneath truly could be."

And I've realized that this is what my internal communication has become. These momentary temptations, where I allow myself to communicate everything I wish I could see just a little clearer - just a little longer - just a little more. When you produce these incredible fantasies of being collected into the arms of hercules, kissed as though all of the power of creation were being forced into your mouth, and then ______________(fill in the blank).


This weekend, my room-mates friends from Southern Ontario have arrived. They are energetic, friendly, charming and charismatic. The best eye candy I've seen in town for quite some time (Brock, when will bailing be done so that you can come back to town). A little bit younger than me, but only by a few years.

One of them is named Alex. He wears loose skinny jeans, like a hipster. He's friendly, relatively knowledgeable. Seems to emanate with that false "realness" that everybody over 22 knows is actually just a man that enjoys beer more frequently than he should and has, at his young age, already managed to develop some telltale physical signs of alcohol induced aging. Also, my guess would be he smokes weed. He probably has a tattoo (which I wouldn't mind finding).

And, judging by his ability to grow facial hair, he surely has body hair (which means that exploring would be possible).

He is a good body shape. Nice eyes. Nice smile - sexy smile. An ass that fits into the pockets of his jeans just perfectly - a little round, but not obscenely large. A nice feature to grab.

Thank goodness for irritable bowel syndrome.

He told me today that he was afflicted by this - and that he could tell me some pretty ridiculous shitting stories.

This, my friends, is what we call "realness".