Excess Baggage

Excess Baggage

A month or so back l gloated about my tribe of fuck buddies. But just like the celeb who’s squeaky clean until it comes out he’s a child beater (hint, hint) or just about everyone else, including myself, a person who stayed in an unsatisfying, psychologically abusive relationship way too long, my “Daddy loves” all come with their own excess baggage.

T, the most stable of the group with a good job and his own house, has Catholic guilt big time. Like some guys who have to get drunk to have man-to-man sex, T has to get high before he turns into a sexual animal or play as l label him my “private leatherman.”

J, the 53 year old who looks 30 and has the emotional maturity of a 13 year old, constantly sends me long winded texts on how l’ve changed his life or how he plans to change his. He never filled me in what did he did with himself from age 20 to 50, but l’m beginning to wonder if he was institutionalized or literally in the gutter and now lives with his str8 older brother who has five kids by two ex-wives and fucks a still married girlfriend because J is either slow or psychotic. The last time l saw him l told him he talked too much about bettering his life. “Start walking the talk.”

M, my humpy trust fund baby has no interest in what his fluctuating payout is invested in, even though he doesn’t want to work and plans to rely on that money to live on till his millionaire parents die which may not happen for another fifteen years, and who may leave their estate in the hands of his enterprising brother who doesn’t like him. He has admitted to a host of mental issues for which he takes psychotropic drugs. But l saw them all played out in vivid Technicolor when he spent the night at my place, hallucinating the entire night while he slept. I would have tried to calm him rather than retreat to my other bedroom with my doggies, but I also knew I was totally out of my depth.

About the only fuck buddy without excess baggage is E. who works hard and views a night in the hay with Ray as stress relief. No hang-ups, no agendas, no illusions, no skeletons in the closet. Just slam, bam, thank you ma’am.

Refreshing ain’t it?

But does that mean I love any of my boys less? Hell no! Their foibles, like my own, are what make them more real, more needing and, for me, phenomenally more sexy.

 

 

 

 

It’s 2047…

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