Hanging Up Your Jockstrap: Part II
So when do you know it’s time to hang up YOUR jockstrap, to stop pimping yourself while you still have some self dignity, when, while porn may still hold its joys, aggressively searching for a man no longer holds its allure.
When you’ve met a guy who’s the one and the two of you plan to be monogamous?
Can happen, but in my dealings and conversations with guys it sounds like truly mono relationships are pretty rare. Sooner or later one or the other or both begin to stray, with or without the other’s permission, even if the relationship continues infinitum because of other reasons – emotional, financial, etc. After all, men are men, and hormones are hormones.
When you find your libido isn’t what it used to be, and even the magic blue pill doesn’t do it any more?
I’m on testosterone therapy but I still find I often have to kick myself in the ass to go out to a whorehouse on a Saturday night only because it is Saturday night, when I’d rather stay home with my dogs. Often the blue pill IS my libido.
When, in your gay career, you’ve had your share of men – good, bad and indifferent – and agree with Quentin Crisp who, in his last years, admitted, refuting his life philosophy, “there is no dark, handsome man.” Or if there is, you’ve had him a dozen times over or he’s lying beside you right now?
When you feel you’ve “been there, done that” when you encounter and are attracted to and by guys and like a déjà vu moment, you can practically predict what will happen next?
The biggest killers of lust are predictability – and boredom.
When even when you still have your shit together – you work out, watch your diet, are blessed with a good body and good genes, look younger than your datebook – even with all that going for you, you feel it increasingly more difficult to score because of the forever younger and better competition that guys you want and should get would rather bed down with? Or worst, you look around and there’s almost no one you want? Forty plus is your preference but most guys your age are either looking for twenty something hotties who just want a mouth or an ass; or, more often, are train wrecks.
When you’ve given up trying to win the attention and heart of your kind of man who you objectively feel should be attainable.
One night at Slammers, I went after a guy who was my type and I thought would want me but who shied away from my advances (grabbing a guy’s crotch is how you say “How do you do” in Slammer lingo), only for him to be rejected by another younger guy he apparently wanted ten minutes later. One humpy, hairy little guy we both wanted just stood there holding up the same wall all night, I guess waiting for something that didn’t exist.
I’m a masculine, hairy, humpy top; do you know how many masculine hairy, humpy tops look at my profile on the hook-up sites but never go the next step even when I reach out to them, trying to convince them there’s a hell of a lot two other guys can do than just fuck. (Luckily, I have a few – a very few – over the years who came around to my way of thinking.)
Or maybe, just maybe that moment of reckoning comes when we realize that a lot of our subculture is driven by purely capitalistic motives – selling liquor, overpriced clothes, vaporous potentials at getting sex – and that the return on our money is no longer there.
Or when going after men is just not fun any more.