“Your story is what you have, what you will always have. It is something to own”
– Michelle Obama –
The way our brains operate often fascinates me. Most nights, they turn into a cinema that plays dreadful scenes from a horror movie titled My Regrettable Decisions. When I wake up the next morning, however, I barely remember tearing up in the middle of an intense masturbation session the night prior. I can wake up feeling refreshed AF and be ready to carpe diem the shit out of my day only to have a mini-breakdown after I accidentally listen to some melancholic songs I have emotional attachments to. Don’t we all wish our brain worked like Netflix where we can pick and choose which memories to replay during our mental breakdown? I used to be bewildered by people who have a strong dependency on alcohol to get through their days. However, as I undergo the adulting process, it all starts to make more sense to me, especially with some hardcore stuff that people had to go through. Raw doggin’ reality is fucking hard, you know?.
Some people have asked me, “damn, how do you manage to remember all the guys you’ve banged?” To simply answer your question: no, there are a few guys that I completely forgot about until I decided to start this blog and tried to compile all my encounters into an Excel spreadsheet (to quote Ava Max, I’m sweet but a psycho). With that said, I’m pretty confident that I had missed a few guys in my spreadsheet because they are so unmemorable I can’t possibly dedicate an hour of my life writing a 1500 words chapter about a boring one night stand. Besides, there might be an underlying theme in some of my encounters that I eventually group them into a chapter because I’m one lazy motherfucker. So yeah… if you really want to be featured on my blog, you better step your pussy up or fuck me up real good!
Obviously, there are some details in every chapter that I manufactured to amplify the comedic effects or to help me write a more coherent storyline. I mean… you can’t possibly expect me to remember the exact shirt a guy was wearing to meet me five years ago. However, I try my best to portray my subject’s vibe, and the outfits, for example, are merely a medium to help me comprehend my own sensory processing. Isn’t that what a good writer supposed to do, transporting their audience into their own reverie by incorporating vivid imageries to help bring their stories to life? Simply put, I only did it for the sake of literature.
Unfortunately, there are some experiences that I just cannot remember about even if my life depends on it and it’s not because they’re indubitably horrible or spectacularly delightful. They’re just meh at best.
I remember going to a guy’s house in Culver City one night and spending the night at his place, but that’s the extent of my memory of him. I also remember having a guy over for a quick “lunch break” and the only thing I can remember about the experience is his oddly curved big sausage. And let’s not get started on all the guys I chatted with online, only to be ghosted the very next morning after an intense conversation about our shared hatred for LA traffic (what can I say, I’m one boring ass bitch). I find it disheartening that I can’t remember some of the penises that I had the opportunity to play with, let alone their owners’ name.
Isn’t it demoralizing how we, gay people, minimize the existence of other guys to codenames on our contact book like “muscle daddy with cock ring #2” or “hot (psycho?) twink”?
I recently just scrolled through my contact list and I thought, “holy shit, who are these guys and why do I have all these guys’ numbers saved on a first name basis only?” Isn’t there so much more to someone other than their penis sizes and their kinks in bed? What about their stories? What about their aspirations in life? Don’t you want to know what life decisions one has made that led them to your bed at 3 AM? Don’t you want to know what could come out of their mouth and not just what goes inside of it?
I have nothing against people who have had a lot of sex, and this is not a biased rambling coming from someone who has had a lot of sex himself. But think about it: we exist because of sex, so shouldn’t that something that we should honor? That, however, raises one important question:
Is there such a thing as having too much sex?
There was a period of time in my life where I could be having three to four different guys in a week (not at the same time, I wasn’t trying to get rectal prolapse), and I might recall a thing or two about some of those encounters, whether it’s the guy’s face or his cringeworthy moans. But I guess it’s like eating a good pizza every day; it gives you temporary fulfillment every day but you probably won’t remember the toppings you had on your pizza five days ago. And I don’t know about you, but I find it quite depressing how our memories of that person who was, literally and figuratively, a part of you, perish faster than Kim Kardashian’s marriage with Kris Humphries (can you believe it was a thing that happened back in the days?!)
I guess it’s one of the main reasons why I started this blog; I want to pay tributes to the people who have shared their precious times in their most vulnerable state with me before I turn into an old absentminded bitch and let those memories fade away.
To those who had given me the honor and privilege to witness your private parts and share pleasurable (or not so pleasurable) sensations with me, let it be known that I am forever grateful for the opportunity. Although our moments might not be something that I cherish forever, please keep in mind that I tried my damn hardest to perform to the best of my ability, and it’s never my intention to cause you any physical or emotional pain. I do hope that one day, some of you unfortunate souls who had seen my janky buttock in the flesh would read my blog and came up to me to refresh my memories about our experience(s).
But for now, I wish you nothing but the best in life.
SquirtTale 