This little graphic seems to be a popular element on many bears’ personal web pages. It attempts to define what a bear is. Unfortunately, its tone is snotty and dismissive (”decidedly not contemporary gay male culture“). It reeks of arrogant superiority — we’re real men who celebrate our manhood, it seems to say, and we’re not like those other gays — and it puts lie to the contention that the bear community started out as some kind of inclusive haven.
The ladies, I think, doth protest too much. Just because someone wears a beard, drives a truck, and dresses on weekends like he’s not really a Linux systems administrator doesn’t mean that he’s “rooted in contemporary male culture.” Sure, plaid and leather and grungy jeans can be sexy, but when an hairy, bearded, upper class IT fag puts them on, they’re just as much drag as a sequined dress and high heels.
I’ve been feeling confident and attractive lately. I think it has something to do with the fact that I’m no longer working at an incompetently managed soul-sucking hellhole of a company. I think it’s also because I’ve been wearing my Crackpuppy T-shirt as much as possible. It’s my new favourite shirt. It makes me want to shit-disturb and envelope-push.
I was on Church Street yesterday walking north to Kitchen Stuff Plus in the hopes of finding a replacement kitchen timer when a skinny older guy called to me from one of the storefronts. He told me that I shouldn’t be walking alone. When I asked him what he meant, he told me that someone as good looking as me should always have someone on his arm. I smiled and thanked him and told him that I did have someone, but that he was at work. He seemed a little disappointed.
On the way back, still lacking a kitchen timer, I ran into him again. This time I gave him a big hug and introduced myself properly. He somewhat sheepishly admitted that he had a crush on me.
I went out again to find a new timer. I got one, but it’s not egg-shaped like my old one. I liked that timer egg.
After my seminar at the outplacement service this morning, I walked down to Nathan Phillips Square to eat a hot dog and watch people. I’d only been there about 15 minutes when a cute daddy type started cruising me.
I was sitting on one of the benches watching the reflecting pool. He was sitting at the next bench over, hunched over and reading a copy of the National Post. I stole a few glances at him, and when he noticed me looking, he started looking back.
Not wanting to be too obvious, I toned down the cruising a bit and concentrated on my hot dog. He ratcheted it up, glancing at me over the rims of his glasses, but making an intense effort to concentrate on his newspaper whenever he noticed me noticing him. Eventually he gave up the pretence and rolled up his newspaper, getting up slowly and walking over to my bench.
Smiling at me and the corners of his eyes crinkling, he gestured to the empty space next to me. “Would you mind if I sit here?” His voice sounded like gravel.
I wiped my mouth with the napkin. “OK.” That’s my default response to everything when I’m nervous.
He sat down and smiled at me again. More crinkling. “Warm weather, isn’t it?” I couldn’t help looking at his beard, an even mixture of white and black hairs.
“Um… yeah. It’s not so bad today, though.” I looked down. White hair was popping out the front and back of his shirt.
He lifted his neck and reached up to scratch under his chin. His hands were fat and stumpy; his ring finger looked like it was being strangled by his wedding ring.
“Do you work around here?” Lord, oh Lord, do I ever hate smalltalk.
“No. I just wanted to come here to enjoy the sun, do some people watching. You know.” For some reason I didn’t want to tell him that I’m unemployed. An awkward pause, then I crumpled the napkin in my hand, leaned back a bit, and shoved it in my pocket.
“You like people watching, eh?”
I smiled sheepishly. I didn’t say anything at first. “I was…” He interrupted me.
“Are you on holiday? Are you done your lunch?”
“Oh, yeah. I just had a hot dog. That’s all.”
He lowered his voice. “Why don’t we go somewhere else?”
My heart was racing. “Pardon?”
“I’m here on business. I’m staying across the street. I have a few minutes.” He tilted his head, asking the unstated question: “Do you want to come with me?”
Was this guy gay? What the hell was going on? I thought about it for a few seconds. “OK.”
He asked again. “So you want to have some fun?” As if he was talking about cards or Monopoly.
I tried to smile. “Yes.”
“Good.”
He got up and headed south. I followed behind him, across the street, through the doors, and into the elevator. There were four Chinese women in the elevator talking about where to go to lunch; one of them wanted to go to an egg place. They squawked at each other, but my new friend and I were silent. For some reason, I noticed that he’d lost the newspaper somewhere along the way.
I purposely didn’t look him in the eyes. Thankfully, the elevator ride was fast. I was nervous. What was I doing? What if this guy was a freakazoid?
He let me into his room first, then followed after me and closed the door behind him. The wallpaper was a horrible striped pattern.
He came up close to me, touching my chest awkwardly, like he was trying to make a palm print. I leaned in to kiss him. I wanted to feel his beard against mine. None of that, though; he pulled back and shook his head. “I’m not into that.” Closet-o-rama: No kissing here! Instead he gestured downwards with his head. His belly was hanging over his belt. I licked my lips. That probably looked really tacky, but I didn’t need to be subtle any more.
While I watched, he unzipped his pants and pulled out his dick. It was uncut and had long, droopy, overhanging foreskin. I took it in my hands, pulling and stretching his foreskin. He reached down, unbuckled his belt, and pulled down his pants and underwear.
I unzipped my shorts and started stroking my dick, but he wasn’t interested in my cock. “Take it in your mouth.”
I was on my knees in seconds.
I pulled back his foreskin. His dickhead was wet, pink, and slimy, and it smelled sweaty. He had so much foreskin that it bunched up awkwardly behind the head of his dick.
I pulled his foreskin forward again and started fucking his foreskin with my tongue. It tasted ripe. He sighed, and I took that as my cue: I took his dick all the way in my mouth, taking my hand off it and reaching around his thighs to rest my hands on his ass. He bent down to play with my left nipple.
The nipple thing didn’t last long. He quickly dropped his hands and rested them on his thighs, right next to his pubes. Salt-and-pepper pubes.
I took his dick all the way. I thrust my face up and down on his dick for a good few minutes, his fat belly pushing against my forehead and his fat ass in my hands. I could see his gold wedding band as I took his dick down my throat. I focused on it. Was he thinking of his wife while fucked my face? Would he be thinking of my face while he fucked his wife?
It didn’t take him long to get close to shooting his load. “I’m gonna cum!” He tried to pull away from me, but I wouldn’t let him. I held onto his ass.
“I’m gonna cum,” he warned me again. He came in my mouth. A silent shooter.
He pulled out and I got up. It took me about 30 seconds of stroking my dick before I ended up blowing my load, all while he pulled up his pants and buckled his belt again.
I tucked my dick back in my pants, sperm still all over it and in my foreskin. It’s hard to zip up with cummy hands without getting sperm stains all over them, but I’m a master. “You should get going.” He wanted to kick me out.
“I’ll just wash my hands.” He nodded. For a few seconds, I thought about stealing a miniature shampoo bottle as a souvenir. I didn’t. I washed my hands, dried them off, then walked out. He looked like he’d been staring at me in the mirror. One side of his shirt was untucked a bit.
He led me to the door. Just past the threshold, I turned around to thank him and say goodbye. “Thanks.” His white hair was still popping out of the neck of his shirt.
He thanked me in return, smiled, and closed the door behind me.
My mustache still smells like dick.
That look sums up my reaction to the interview. Thanks for the words of encouragement anyway, guys.
The manager who interviewed me was a distillation of everything that’s wrong with every engineer I’ve ever met. He was Eastern European, and like every other Eastern European engineer I’ve ever met, came across as unemotional, robotic, and hopelessly geeky. I spent more than an hour with him, and at no point during the interview did he project any sense of humour or personality. He didn’t smile once. Not even when he greeted me at the reception desk.
I knew within the first two minutes that I didn’t want the job and that continuing the interview was pointless. The first question he asked me was what my understanding of what the job entailed. Upon hearing my answer, he proceeded to tell me that the job was in fact even more boring than I’d been led to believe. Apparently the poor sucker who gets the job won’t be supporting customers like I’d thought. Instead, he’ll spend his days sitting in front of a computer reviewing other people’s designs. Of course when he asked me if the job interested me, I said yes and threw out some lines about how my previous job had prepared me for blah blah blah. I don’t think he bought it. Who would? If there’s anything more boring than designing computers, it’s looking for mistakes in other people’s designs.
He probably thinks I’m stupid, because I flubbed one of the technical questions and am pretty sure that I stumbled on a few others. I gave him a few examples of high-speed PCB design rules, and mentioned signal trace length matching for differential pairs. He asked me why length-mismatched differential pair traces act like a radiating antenna and I told him that I’d have to look it up, as my experience was really focused on practical aspects of design for EMI compliance and not electromagnetic theory. He also asked me why it’s bad for high-speed signal traces to cross splits in ground and power planes; I gave the right answer, but he didn’t seem to like what I’d told him.
The previous paragraph completely sums up what I hate about electrical engineering. Who wants to know that shit? Not me. If anyone reading this understands what the hell that means, please stay away from me. (Unless you’re fat and hairy, of course.)
Now if he’d wanted someone to redecorate those horrible brown cubicles…
Update: Fuck, was this ever badly written. I’ve gone through it and fixed all the nonsensical grammar mistakes. It should be readable this time.
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