Sex Degrees of Separation

After secretly reading one local gay Atlanta blogger for the past couple of years I finally put two and two together.

I had a sneaky feeling that I had encountered this person in real life. The words on the screen read like words that had been poured into my ears over the thumping bass of a dark dance club. I kept thinking that I had to know the person based on what bars he frequents and that in gay Atlanta it is typically less than sex six degrees of separation. I read more and then a nagging feeling grew over me that the encounter was an unpleasant one. My suspicions were realized when this blogger posted photos of himself from a recent vacation.

I remember the night well, when at Heretic I met this fellow gay Atlanta blogger. I was prowling Heretic alone with a beer in hand and the requisite cigarette in the other. Suddenly a man in his mid to late forties approaches me and drags me over to his friends of the same age. I sized them up as shallow, snotty queens that I wouldn't give a second of thought, much less stand next to and attempt a conversation that didn't start with "Have you seen the Fall collection for..."

Having been injected into this uber gay circle of people like a dose of healthy reality, I introduced myself out of politeness.  I see judgement lingering in the wrinkles around their puffy eyes. The guy that created this situation and wanted in my pants begins his seduction of me with his attempts to impress me with his career and alleged comfort level in life.

Yawwwn. My Bud Light was getting warm.

I have never slept with a person based on their job nor for the size of their condo/house/wallet. My dick does not react to dollar bills. I have slept with men for the simple reason that they were attractive and made my dick hard. All I have to do is think back to the hot Argentinian Publix cashier from Roswell. I am not for sale because I am having a drink in a bar where men like to go and have sex on a pool table. Yes, I've spent my time in the pool room, but it was not a financial transaction just one of mutual lust, heat and alcohol.

The guy steps up his offers to take me home, dinner, vacation, he was pulling out all the stops to lure me. I smiled and refused and refused even more. Fortunately my drink went dry and before he could offer a refill I sprinted out of the circle of pretentious queens into the sweaty throng of shirtless men.

His blog makes much more sense to me now that I know who is and having met him. I can see the fucker sitting on the other side of his Apple exuberantly tapping keys with a smug look on his face, absorbed in his own self-satisfaction while an empty house behind him closes in on him like a noose.