I locked eyes with this guy in a crowded bar, I buy him a drink, and he takes two sips and says, “You a top or a bottom?” Now we’re in a classy bar so I’m kinda put off. But I tell him anyway because I need to get some and I’m not thinking with my big head. He says, “Where do you live?” I tell him. He says, “Why don’t we go back to your place?”
Hey Woody,
I locked eyes with this guy in a crowded bar, I buy him a drink, and he takes two sips and says, “You a top or a bottom?” Now we’re in a classy bar so I’m kinda put off. But I tell him anyway because I need to get some and I’m not thinking with my big head. He says, “Where do you live?” I tell him. He says, “Why don’t we go back to your place?” I take him. We’re at my place. I open the door and wave him to the couch. In the middle of asking him if he wants something to drink, I notice he doesn’t sit down in the living room, he just keeps walking—right into my bedroom. I sigh. This is not what I want—getting action from a man with all the warmth of getting cash from an ATM. I go to the bedroom where he’s already completely undressed. I get undressed. He’s like, “f*#k me, f$#k me.” I’m like, “dude, ever heard of foreplay?” He apologizes, saying I’m not really like this, it’s just that you turn me on.” So, out come the rubbers and in “it” goes. We start having sex and, of course, I’m not doing it hard enough, even though the bed’s moving like a sorority house pillow fight. He finishes, and sure enough he’s grabbing for his clothes before I lay my head on the pillow. The guy had the nerve to ask for my phone number, and I, of course, gave it to him, knowing he’s never going to call. Woody, the whole evening sucked. I don’t mind one night stands (hell, I go out because I want to get laid), but that was awful. What do you do when you want to get laid but you want some class in the process? What could I have done to salvage the situation?
— Disappointed
Dear Disappointed:
You idiot! You went home with my editor. If you think he’s going to say “I’m sorry” just because you’re a reader, don’t hold your breath. He doesn’t do apologies unless he thinks they’re hot twins looking for a third.
Anyway, there’s nothing you could have done. From the portion of your letter I didn’t print, (because you wrote a freaking novel and who has the space) it was clear that the guy hated himself for liking men. The only way he could reconcile his desire with the hatred of his desire was to treat it as antiseptically as possible.
Of course, you don’t have to be a self-hating homosexual to have sex without intimacy. You could just like no-strings sex. If you’re asking me how to avoid guys who’ll treat you like a human dildo instead of a human being, listen carefully:
If the guy you meet asks what you do in bed before he asks what you do in life, if he asks where you live before he asks how you’re doing, if he asks about your rubbers before he asks about your job, then you’re in for session of sex with all the tenderness of a cement mixer. If that’s not what you want, stop it in its tracks. Just say, “You know, I’m really attracted to you but it sounds like you just want to get off and I just happen to be in your line of sight. Here are two phone numbers; if I’ve pegged you wrong, call the first one—it’s mine. If I’ve got you right, call the second—it’s Woody’s.
