The usual NSFW/TMI warnings apply – read on at your own risk.
I am one big walking emotion. I’m experiencing the full range of emotions. For the first time in a long time.
In the last week, I have found myself dancing alone in Tube stations out of pure joy. I have also realised that I was crying in newsagents. I’m a more emotional person than I was last year.
Pop psychology provides me with the term skin hunger, the idea that our bodies crave touch and that if we don’t have human contact, we can become mentally ill. I have no idea if it’s true, but there is a truth to it. In recent times, as I’ve been lying with all my many men, I have felt my skin drinking the affection of their touch. I know that’s a ridiculous image, but it’s genuinely how it feels. I feel myself sucking in love and power through skin-on-skin contact. When you’re used to going without physical intimacy for years at a time, indeed for seven whole years once, you forget that feeling, and now, for the first time in my life, it seems to be pretty much constantly available, because London is full of outrageous perverts.
There are four men currently sending me messages trying to meet me in the next few days that I have at least briefly engaged with. And none of them are boyfriend material.
- There’s a man who’s been messaging me for a week. He started out by saying that he was disappointed that we were both bottoms. I replied that I was still up for stuff because I don’t want to be restricted by the binary of tops and bottoms. (Which is bollocks. I was just trying to be progressive. I have never had any interest in topping. The very thought of it grosses me out. You might as well be straight. But I said I was open to anything, because London Connor says yes.) Anyway, he wants me to fist him. He asked me to measure my fist. Just the width, not the girth. I don’t even know what that means. I haven’t answered any of his messages in days. But that doesn’t stop him messaging me. He tells me that I’d only have to put one fist up him and not both. He also tells me he’d be super clean. I’m not going there though. Almost definitely not.
- A man who started messaging me before Christmas. He is quite hot. He recently moved to London from Newcastle, leaving his “pup” behind him there. He would like to train me to be his new “pup”. He’s very persuasive. I’ll leave it to your imagination what being a “pup” would involve, but there are a lot of parts of him that he considers worthy of my worship and I’m only allowed to call him Daddy or sir.
- Another man who’s been sending me “hi” messages since before Christmas. His profile says nothing about him, but he had sent so many messages that I finally answered this week. He immediately sent me a picture of his penis and asked if I wanted to meet. He wants to book a hotel room, so I’m tempted, but I feel like I should attempt to find out his name, age, nationality or what his face looks like before we do. I suspect he’s a Spanish-speaker, but for all I know, he was born and raised in Ballincollig.
- The most beautiful young man who I’ve ever spoken to online. Seriously, he couldn’t be further out of my league. He’s just phenomenally good-looking. I was so excited that he was messaging me that I sent Facebook messages to three of my friends, just to let them know that I was talking to the handsomest man ever. And he is just so sweet and shy and hot and beautiful and hot hot hot. Of course there’s a catch. He doesn’t want to have actual sex. He says sex doesn’t turn him on. He’s a gainer. He wants to get as fat as he possibly can. He has started feeding himself in earnest recently and drinking 10,000 calorie shakes that he makes himself. He hopes to take his beautiful body and grow to at least 30 stone, but he really dreams of fattening himself up until he’s 50 stone and completely immobile and helpless. He’s so handsome and he wants to do that to his lovely body and it makes me so sad. But he wants to meet, so I can lie on top of him naked and he can feel my weight and so we can eat together and he’s so beautiful that I can’t see myself not meeting him. But he’s not a boyfriend.
In some ways, this shouldn’t be making me as happy as it is. These men don’t really see me as a person. They see me as some kind of fetish object. But that’s what there is, and it’s making me happy and it’s feeding my skin hunger and my mind has moved on. As I wrote in a recent post, I’m not just chatting to men now in the hopes that they’ll meet me. I’m now auditioning potential boyfriends in my head. The conversation we have when we’re cuddling is an interview for a post as Connor’s boyfriend.
And as I said at the start of this post, I’m becoming someone with feelings again. For the last two years, in Vietnam and Longford (by the way, how great is it that I now categorise Vietnam and Longford as more or less the same?) I felt directionless and I certainly felt neither very happy nor very sad. I’m turning back into someone I like. I have direction again. I have a bounce about me that I haven’t had in a while. It reminds me of how I felt when I was interviewing “my Boys” for my PhD and I used to just start crying for no reason, but I also felt so excited all the time too. I suppose there was some form of intimacy there too.
As Barbra Streisand says “People who need people are the luckiest people in the world”. I need to keep on being someone who’s open to intimacy. “Mr O’Donoghue, tear down your walls!” (Yes, in that analogy, I am the communists and sex is free movement between Eastern and Western Europe. Deal with it.)
Anyway, I have a lot to work out. I thought I’d know by now whether or not I had a full-time job here, and I won’t know for another week. I’ve moved out of my disgusting hostel, but am now looking for another hostel. Wish me luck!
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