Big Fat Hairy Living

My boyfriend just said the three magic words to me.

I said them back.

Even though the most significant thing going on in my life lately has to be my giant Italian artist bear boyfriend, I try not to write about him too much. I can’t avoid writing about him completely, though.

The frequency of his comments to me about how much fun he has with me, how glad he is he met me, and how much he likes spending time with me is definitely increasing. It’s coming on three months since we met, and I think the time is coming soon when I’ll be able to say the three magic words to him.

Sometimes I think it would be interesting to step into his brain for a few hours and spend some time with myself to see what it is he likes about me. I can figure out some of the obvious stuff, like the fact that he likes the way I look, the way I suck his cock, and my cuddliness, but it’s all the little things I’m curious about too.I definitely have lots of little things I like about him: his hands, his smell, the shape of his neck, the bushiness of his eyebrows. I wonder what the little things that he likes about me are.

Brian from Cleveland, Greg, Christopher J., my boyfriend, and I went to Doors Open Toronto yesterday. Right before the tour of New City Hall, the boyfriend and I shared some fries on a bench in Nathan Phillips Square. It was a cute, romantic moment, sitting on a bench together surrounded by pigeons and seagulls, sharing fries with each other.

Later in the evening, Brian and I went to the boyfriend’s place for dinner and wine-tasting with his friends. As time passes, I find it more and more easy to interact with his friends. I feel like I’m almost part of their little group now.

Leo, Shawn S., and I left Toronto for Sudbury this morning for the wake. We arrived at the funeral home around 3:30. We ran into a few other Toronto bears there who knew Dan.

Dan’s sister Lidia, the first person in his family he came out to, made a real effort to welcome us. She introduced us to his family and showed us pictures of him. When we said goodbye, she hugged me and said “It feels like I’m hugging Dan. I don’t want you to let me go.”

I saw Dan and said what I needed to say to him. I feel better now.<

I’m holding up better than I expected, not that I ever expected anything like this to happen.

I’m going to the wake tomorrow. I think that will give me the closure that I need. I’ll be able to see Dan one more time and tell him what I need to tell him.

I didn’t go to work yesterday. My mother and my sister visited me at home and we went out for lunch. My boyfriend met up with us later in the afternoon and we went for a walk. It succeeded in distracting me a little.

I feel guilty. Dan and I parted on bad terms. I did something that angered him, and even though I tried to apologize, things weren’t the same afterwards. I still think he was being stubborn and unreasonable, but I wonder how things might have been if I’d never had that argument with him in the first place, if I’d been less quick to anger. We had our arguments, and we did annoy each other, but I can’t forget all the good times we had together. He was a fun person to be with. He wasn’t a bad person.

I cried some more in the evening. The tears didn’t flow as freely, but I still cried. My boyfriend held me in his arms and I cried into his chest.

After swimming in the pool, we went out to get ingredients for supper. When we got back, Eric called me. Dan had died in his sleep the previous night.

Dan and I were friends about two years ago until we had an argument and a falling out. We never really spoke after that day. I wonder how things might have turned out differently if we’d remained friends. It couldn’t have happened, though; I was stubborn, and he was even more stubborn and unreasonable than I.

I cried.

He was 36.

I’m into kinky sex. I’ve done plenty of it, and during my curious phase when I started exploring my kinky side, I bought a lot of books on BDSM. The books all invariably said two things: that BDSM can unlock very deep emotions hidden inside, and that BDSM must be done with someone that one trusts. I thought I understood, but I didn’t. Not until today.

My boyfriend can be very aggressive in bed. He tries to fulfill my daddy fantasies and he succeeds; when he treats me like his boy in bed, I get hard and stay hard. He’s very good at projecting the combination of simultaneous sexual aggressiveness and tender caring that a daddy needs to project. This afternoon while we were having sex, he was telling me how good a boy I was sucking his cock and that I make him feel good. He rolled over, pulled my face off his crotch, and pulled me up close to him to start jerking me off. He held my head close to his chest and started jerking when he whispered in my ear “I want to make my baby feel good.” As he held me close to his chest and jerked me off, he kept whispering in my ear how I was his boy, how I was doing a good job, and how he wanted to make me feel good. I lost it. I started bawling.

He immediately pulled back and asked what was wrong. I was bawling my eyes out and I managed to whimper “I never had a daddy.” He held me close to his chest and hugged me tight.

When I was growing up, my father was always absent. He was an alcoholic, and by the time I came along nine years after my sister was born, he had lost interest in his family and his children. He wasn’t physically abusive very often, but was emotionally absent. He never played ball with me, never hugged or touched me, never encouraged me, and never showed that he loved me. He actively avoided me and never did anything with me, even when I or my mother begged. He probably never even loved me. He was so self-absorbed that he got drunk and slept through my high school graduation. I don’t speak to my father any more. I haven’t spoken more than four or five words to him in two years.

While I was crying, my boyfriend held me close to him and I cried into his chest for thirty minutes.

He’s twenty years older than me; he’s a man who is old enough to be my father, and the way he acts towards me is completely the opposite of the way my actual biological father acts towards me. He’s fun, caring, and loving towards me.

When we had our aggressive daddy sex today, he was able to tap into something I didn’t know was there. I’d convinced myself not only that I didn’t care about my father (something that’s true) but also that the lack of a father was something that didn’t matter to me. The obvious signs — the most obvious being my hundreds of megabytes of daddy bear pictures and daddy-son jerk-off stories — had never led to any kind of realization on my part that it was such a profound thing for me.

I trusted him enough to let him play out fantasies that tapped really deep into me, revealing stuff that I didn’t even know about myself. It was cathartic. I feel relieved.

My father can’t hurt me any more.

This weekend, I had three very different “hanging with friends” experiences.

On Saturday, Christopher J., Mark, and I were hanging around at my place in the afternoon. We checked out the newly renovated Kitchen Stuff Plus, then had cheap (but good) Japanese food at Tokyo Grill on Yonge. Afterwards, we went to my apartment and were drinking tea and reading the newspaper and chatting. While I was working in the kitchen, I remarked that life doesn’t get any better than simple pleasures with friend and loved ones.

On Saturday evening, I went to Mark’s place for a birthday party for one of his old friends. I’ve gotten to the point where I’m comfortable enough around his friends that I can interact with them pretty easily; the fact that they’re all hip urbanites helps, because I can relate to them somewhat, even though they’re all much older than me. Even though I don’t know them very well, they were so outgoing that I found I had no problem interacting with them, and I had a great time at the party. The great food also helped; Mark and his friends definitely know how to eat.

On Sunday, I hung out with some friends of mine and some much younger friends, all in their early 20’s. I had a good time, but I found it very difficult to interact with them; they were young and straight and suburban, and I had no common point of reference. In addition, I barely knew any of them, having met most of them only once and only for a few minutes. When I was with them, I felt almost like an old fart and a museum curiosity. I had a fun time with my friends despite the difficulty of interacting with the young friends-of-a-friend.

There was lots of discussion of religion on Sunday. With the exception of one snide comment at the beginning of the evening, I held my tongue throughout the entire thing. I’m proud of myself.