When I was coming out at age 17, a major theme in my writing was that sex and love were essentially the same thing…there was (and could be) no difference between the two. “How can you be with someone if there’s no love?”, I asked. “How can gay men be so promiscuous?” “Sex without love is meaningless.” I was very young and idealistic. I was later to find that sex and love were not necessarily related in any way.

As I aged, I began taking to heart the 70’s texts which were the only ones available in the Greensboro Public Library . Gay relationships did not need to “ape” heterosexual marriage. A relationship not based in total freedom and mired in jealousy and suspicion is invalid from the onset. Queers are free to develop new concepts where love is concerned. Even now, I don’t disagree; I’ve developed a whole lifestyle based on divorcing the concept of sex and love. It has suited me well for many years.

Or has it? Sometimes I think I have rendered myself incapable of having a relationship based on love, trust, and (assorted gods forbid) monogamy. I tell myself repeatedly that this is not what I want.

I spent a lot of time alone as a kid, and I’ve continued doing so as an adult. In junior high and — to a lesser extent –high school, I was not what you would describe as popular. Most of my weekends were spent alone, reading, driving around aimlessly, and immersed in thought. A positive result of this is that I’ve become quite comfortable with my own company. I don’t need someone around in order to complete every little activity like eating, going to a movie, traveling, etc. In fact, I often prefer to do many of these things alone. Unfortunately, the experience has also left some of my critical social skills a bit lacking.

Also, I am selfish by nature — blame it on being an only child if you like — and I often see myself as totally unwilling to commit myself to another person. This is not necessarily a bad thing, because I shouldn’t expect anyone else to do the same for me. But there’s a paradox here. Sometimes I do find myself willing to commit, and then I expect the return, which is often not forthcoming.

Is it any wonder the longest “relationship” of my life lasted a scant six months? It’s a very unusual thing when i find myself willing to commit to a relationship, and when I do this, I tend to expect a more than satisfactory return on my emotional investment. If I’m going to suffer and pine away, I want the other person to suffer and pine away just as much. If I’m going to break all my own rules and get completely “hooked”, I expect the same in return. No wonder things get so strange; life and relationships just don’t work that way.

Of course, communication is a big factor. I often complain that “I don’t know where I stand”. I think this is a pretty universal problem; there is precious little actual communication in most relationships. In my case, I realize that it stems from my inability to let myself show traces of vulnerability by actually admitting how involved I am. So how can I fault someone else for not doing the same thing? Also, I have a big fear of screwing things up by over-analyzing and of scaring other people off by “talking about it too much”, even though I realize I’m screwing up even more by NOT talking. Maybe I’m too worried about causing the other person problems to pay attention to the wear and tear I’m exposing myself to.

Why can’t sex just be sex? What’s wrong with a series of “fuck buddies” with whom you may also share friendship, but not necessarily traditional “love”? I’ve always thought I’d grow old with a few good, non-sexual friends and get my urges taken care of on the side. I have really high standards for the people I call my “friends”; very few manage to make it for the long haul. But what happens when someone meets these standards and there’s also a “romantic” connection? Is it time to re-evaluate the concept that the people I really like and the people I have sex with should be completely separate? Is it not possible that I’m not always after “the wrong boy”?

Obviously I have a lot on my mind right now, and while this current round of analysis may have been triggered by a specific scenario, it’s a pattern I often ponder, and obviously worry about as well. Boys will continue to come and go, but will I allow myself to keep them around for a while?

It’s all over: the party, the final day, everything. After seven years, four months (to the day, incidentally), I am no longer empoyed. It feels, I must say, really fucking strange. No more voice mail, no more stessed-out whiny yuppie babies, no more lines and corporate double-talk.

To its credit, I was always treated well. I never really felt “fucked over”, I advanced pretty far before complete burnout hit, and my last boss was great for letting me (a) do my job with minimal second-guessing and (b) supporting me in the pursuit my own interests. I’ve made friends from coast to coast.

Neither our regional manager nor our owner bothered to call me and wish me well after seven years of working together very closely. On the other hand, my Payroll administrator, who I’ve met one time and who I love, called the day before I left. Hooray for the rank and file!

Damn! A whole year online. Actually a little more, since the experimental Planet SOMA went up in early February 1996. I never thought that (a) I’d still be doing this so obsessively a year later or (b) that I’d be approaching my 100,000th visitor ny now. All I can say is a very big “thanks” to everyone who has stopped by, written words of support, offered suggestions, wished me well when I was sick and when my car became charcoal, or even told me I was dead wrong about something. Special thanks to all those who have linked me to your own sites or otherwise pointed people in my direction. It’s been tons of fun.

This article was also published using actual ink on actual paper in 1997 in a North Carolina zine called Preparation X. It reflects a time and place in my life that its long past. Although it’s not something I regret, it’s also not a scene I pursue these days.

I was sixteen years old the first time I had sex in a public restroom. Predictably, it was at the mall. The basement of Montgomery Ward’s at Carolina Circle Mall in Greensboro NC to be precise. I later learned that this particular men’s room was a pretty lame cruising ground. Four Seasons Mall was much better, and it also provided a much enhanced shopping experience in between sessions.

There were many rules to this game, the first one being that not calling attention to oneself while entering and leaving the restroom was tremendously important. I never once had a serious brush with the law or with mall security mostly because I was cool enough not to lurk outside the door and keep going in and out, etc. It was also important to flush all those notes written on toilet paper (”Do you suck?”) and clean up the floor after you finished.

Technique and sign language and visual cues became very important as I grew more accomplished. Rule number two was that appropriate footwear was absolutely essential. Nothing pointed out a troll like cheap sneakers from Pic-n-Pay or K-Mart, topped out with dark blue dress socks. This being the pre-Doc Martens era of the early 80’s, any boots other than the cowboy or hiking variety signaled trouble as well.

Timing was important. On Friday and Saturday nights, the high school “hangout” nights, there was never anything much going on. Everyone was afraid of being caught, I guess. I always had my best luck on Sunday afternoons.

Location was an issue too. Penney’s and Sears seemed to be big draws just about everywhere, maybe because they spent less money on security and usually had bigger restrooms with better designs. I’ve heard stories about really active K-mart stores in small towns. Of course I was later to learn that college campuses could be even more fun.

The goal, of course, was to find someone your own age or reasonably close. Strangely enough, this was often not all that difficult; I learned some of my best moves from a 14-year-old I met at Penney’s when I was 17.

Since HIV was not an issue yet, there were tons of guys roaming around, representing every possible point on the old Kinsey scale. Rule number three was that the queers all said they were “bi” and the straight boys never said anything at all. Neither did one of my married teachers when I ran into him. My ethics prevented me from mating with Mr. D, though I sensed he was less concerned than I.

All in all, it was a pretty strange culture. It was usually very anonymous, although my personal rule was never to “do it” unless I’d at least gotten a glimpse of a face. Despite this fact, I did manage to meet some of my partners and I remain friends with a few of them to this day. The sex was adventurous (particularly given that the two individuals involved were separated by a wall) and dangerous. And it was usually pretty damned fun.

Of course, if all else failed, you could still go shopping…

Since I’ve gotten older and moved to San Francisco (where you can pick up guys at the bus stop), I’ve moved away from the tearoom scene. But these were a few of my favorites from my youth in North Carolina:

Four Seasons Mall, Greensboro:

This was where I really learned “the art”. I could be found here a lot as a high school senior, especially since I worked in the mall. My favorite was Ivey’s (now Dillard’s) before it was remodeled. I met lots of my favorites here including a couple of still current friends. Fond memories:

• Mark: We met and retired to my car for a drive to some nearby woods when I was 17 and he was a year or two younger. I was amazed that he was so accomplished (and such a slut). This was the first time I ever “swallowed”.
• Darrell: Short kid with a monster dick. We actually carried on an affair of sorts for a while. He was one of the only people who I ever enjoyed being fucked by.
• Unnamed redneck boy: He worked at McCrory’s. We met after he got off and went to my car. We met again a year or so later and did it in his pickup truck, him feigning heterosexuality at the time. Then a couple of years later when we were both “of age”, we met again in a bar. He’d gotten over his bout with heterosexuality and was now begging to be treated roughly. I accommodated as best I could.

Carolina Circle Mall, Greensboro:

This was the first place I “did it” in a mall at age 16. I’ve never had good luck there since.

University of North Carolina at Greensboro:

Aah the stories I could tell. The basement of Elliott Center. The library. I got together with every kind of people here in combinations of two, three, four, and more, including (I later discovered) with several friends who were in severe denial about their sexuality. A few interesting moments:

• The shoe guy: He was a severe foot/shoe fetishist, about 22, who liked to lick my hightops and feel the soles of my feet. Then he wanted me to come on him while he did it. He was fun and always came around on Sunday nights. I always went sockless these nights for his benefit
• The “tell me a story” guy: Little frat-boy guy who liked to be told dirty stories (which he always directed to the subject of dildoes). This was a little scary, as you never knew who was listening.
• The exhibitionist: This was a really cute guy about 18, who would do damn near anything as long as someone else was watching. He wouldn’t do a damned thing otherwise.
• The professor: This man defined the term “troll”. He was uglier than sin and about 107 years old. He’d learned the “footwear rule” and tricked a few unsuspecting souls this way, but usually he just grabbed a middle stall and kept anyone else from doing anything by perpetually and consciously getting in the way. I disliked him intensely and told him so on one or two occasions.

Duke University, Durham:

Duke had the most incredible collection of tearooms I’ve ever seen. I engaged in uninterrupted orgies in the basement of the library and Page Auditorium. Dozens of cute little rich boys were there for the taking on Sunday afternoons. These were the only tearooms I even saw where fucking was a major menu item. Some highlights:

• The trekkie: A very cute little hippie-deadhead boy. I bent him over a toilet and fucked him for all he was worth on a couple of occasions. He gave me his phone number once, warning me never to call between 7 and 8 because he never missed “Star Trek”. Unfortunately, the one time I did call him, there was a marathon going on. He wanted me to call back in two days. I declined.
• The drunk: Saw him twice. He was pretty unremarkable except for the fact that he always passed notes under the stall which asked “want a beer?”. I always opted against ‘cuz they were always warm.

Other spots:

Had some interesting moments as well at Eastland and South Park Malls in Charlotte, as well as Crabtree Valley in Raleigh and South Square in Durham. It was fun being a teenager with a car…

I sometimes wonder now if this scene has evaporated now, a victim of HIV and savvy restroom designers, or if I’ve just grown out of it.

Sat through my first episode of “Friends” last night. I know I’m running a little late on this particular trend. I actually only watched it because I was hoping to catch the new Apple commericial, which was scheduled to run between 8 and 9. Is it just my imagination or is this a really lame and stupid show? What is so appealing about these people? And which of the guys is the one who’s supposed to be so damned cute? I just don’t get it…

I learned many things in the past week while working on the current feelance web project. First and foremost is that most movie studio web sites seem designed primarily for people who have T1 lines in their homes. It should not take five minutes for a web page to load at 28.8K. Ever. Period.

Another bit of realization: people were really amused at the thought of me in a tapas joint. Maybe I’ve carried this whole “lowbrow” thing too far. On the other hand, it IS pretty unusual to find me in a tapas place or anyplace where I’ll have to shell out more than ten bucks (tip included) for dinner…

Why is it that every major bill of my year falls due in February?

Hmmm…sixteen years ago Friday was the first time I ever had sex in an actual bed. I think some sort of celebration is in order…

Anyone who knows me well is aware that I love rain and storms. In fact, overabundant sunshine actually depresses me. I’ve been like this since I was a kid. But jeez…enough is enough! It might be nice to spend at least one day this month not being waterlogged. I’ve killed off two umbrellas in the past week. Dashing up to the corner store has become a monumental feat of planning and timing.

Color me very pissed that Channel 44 has replaced my two back-to-back reruns of “Grace Under Fire” at 6PM with “Star Trek: The Next Generation”. Nothing against “TNG”, but I’ve seen ‘em all, and it’s not exactly what I’m looking for at 6:00.

Three of the last four guys I’ve had sex with have begged me to cum in their mouths. Should this worry me? Should it worry THEM?

Word on the street is that The Power Exchange Main Station, an SF sex club, will be going co-sexual soon. There’s to be a male-only side and a male-female side. Seems like someone’s being left out doesn’t it? I’m sure female-female scenes will be tolerated on the co-ed side, as long as they’re doing it for the enjoyment of the menfolk. A question: do any heterosexual females have the same odd fascination with watching two guys go at it that so many straight men have with girlsex?

Yo quiero Waffle House.

Who woulda thunk it? I’m (a) typing my second anniversary “editorial” and (b) so busy these past two weeks or so that I almost missed it? I didn’t know what I was getting into when I started this thing. I was just going to throw up a simple couple of vanity pages with some info about the City, a few dirty pictures, an abbreviated life story, etc. I thought it might get me some interesting email and might even get me laid on occasion.

I was right on both scores (especially the email part), but Planet SOMA turned out to have a little more profound effect than planned. To start with, there are now over 300 pages here. The dirty pictures and sex club info have become the part of the site I care least about and am teetering on the verge of retiring.

And almost a quarter of a million visits to the front page. Jeez…

In the process, I’ve met many interesting people (both in person and in text format), gone some very interesting places, and seen some…ummm…very interesting things. Planet SOMA has been featured on other web sites, in print, and even on a Canadian radio station. I even took the site “on the road” last summer all around the country.

It’s been fun, and thanks to all who have offered support and criticism/commentary, as well as places to sleep and guided tours on the road, not to mention the occasional dinner and cheap sex.

Oh, and the freelance stuff which has come in as a result has been a nice side benefit too, even thought it’s kept me away a good bit lately.

Ten years ago this week I was just getting used to a new apartment in Charlotte NC (still the coolest apartment I’ve ever occupied and it rented for $250). I was thoroughly annoyed with fags. I was pondering the oddly disturbing fact that I was about to enter my mid-20s. I had recurring fantasies involving the Beastie Boys having their way with me. I was planning one of my first really major road trips, to Boston and New York with my friend Jeff.

This week in 1998, I’m pondering keeping an apartment in SF (which is about the same size and rents for more than $800) by myself when my roomie moves out. I’m thoroughly annoyed with fags. I’m pondering the less disturbing fact that I’m about to enter my mid-30s. I’d still probably do the Beastie Boys if the opportunity should arise. And I’m planning on Chicago and Minneapolis in the fall.

Yup…it’s birthday time once again. Two weeks from today yer humble host hits 34. I will have outlived Mama Cass and Jesus Christ. I will be the same age as my mother at the time of my birth. And in two short years it will be legal for me to be attracted to people half my age. My birthday will require a tremendous outpouring of support. A list of appropriate gifts is available upon request…

It hits me that I’ve been in San Francisco for six years as of this week. I’m not sure if that’s really cause for reflection or anything, but it makes an interesting side note, particularly given the fact that I’m thinking of leaving.

So the 1998 road trip countdown begins. I’ll be leaving ten days from today. I think. I really should be coming up with an intinerary soon. I crave White Castle.

Anybody got a suggestion on a good (and relatively cheap) camcorder repair shop in the Bay Area?

Y’know, there are few meals more perfect than a carnitas burrito from Pancho Villa at 16th and Mission. This is just a thought. Not a paid advertisement…

So I’m spending Friday evening watching Jaws and remembering the first time I saw it. I was about 11, and my Mom and Dad really didn’t want me to go, especially since we had a beach trip scheduled soon after. They should have been more worried about my growing fascination with long-haired boys in swim trunks than with my (non-existent) fear of sharks…

And they really grew to regret letting me go after I bought a copy of this really annoying novelty record called “Mister Jaws”. It was one of those things where a “reporter” asked questions which were answered by samples from then-popular songs. I drove them nuts listening to it over and over again. If pressed, I could probably still recite it from memory.

I hope I never get the urge to have kids.

Memories of Watergate…

I was a youngster in that exciting summer of 1974, and my biggest memories of the whole affair were that my favorite TV shows got pre-empted an awful lot. That was a really traumatic year anyway, as I lost both The Brady Bunch and The Partridge Family.

That’s me, deeply in the throes of withdrawal…

But I did pick up enough of the Watergate action to realize that impeachment is nothing but a precursor to a Senate trial which might conceivably remove a president from office…an arraignment or an indictment, if you will. I figured this out at age 10. It’s very disturbing to me that full-grown adults are so ignorant of the concept today.

What the hell are they teaching kids in schools these days? I guess “self-esteem” is more important than, say, reading or writing or learning how the country works. It’s no wonder we keep electing such blithering idiots to public office and passing such blatantly unconstitutional ballot initiatives. Most voters haven’t a clue what’s going on!

It was 65 in Greensboro yesterday, while it snowed in parts of San Francisco. But never fear: they’re predicting freezing rain for my Friday arrival in North Carolina, so I’ll be spared some considerable irony…

I got a full, eight-hour good night’s sleep last night. I was starting to forget how nice that is. It’s been a long week…

Somehow during everything else that was going on this week, I managed to finish a big chunk of pruning and retooling on Planet SOMA. About 35 pages are no longer here, and several have been moved or consolidated. Most people won’t notice the difference. Also, just about all pages now have the blue background and the convenient “you are here” navaigation links at the top.

Still in progress: all those pages from US Tour 1997, and Planet SOMA in the 70’s, which is way overdue for some work.

If you run into any broken links or missing graphics, please let me know. I’m planning to have everything in order by Planet SOMA’s “official” third anniversary in a month or so.

Quote from yer humble host, fifteen years ago today: “I guess one never knows how depressed one is until extremely drunk.”

Yer humble host in 1996…

Three years ago today was the official “grand opening” of Planet SOMA.

Needless to say, things have changed somewhat. All in all, it’s been an interesting three years. I’ve met interesting people, been interesting places, and actually forged a bit of a career out of this “web thing”.

Thanks to everyone who’s visited over the years, sent email of support (or dissent), hosted me on a road trip, consented to sleep with me, or just hung out with me in sleazy diners. And thanks to Trey for creating the first blatant infringement on Planet SOMA’s name and layout. My lawyers would be contacting him soon had I not foolishly offered blanket permission. Damned Southern charm…

For the past two years, I’ve unveiled some great new feature or design for “anniversary day”. No such luck this year, although I’ve been tweaking the design for a month or so (and am pretty much done for now) and I DID add that search engine last week.

So I’ll just say “thanks” again and hope you stop back by once or twice in the next three years.

Random thoughts generated by a short attention span on a Saturday morning:

• Eggo frozen waffles really ARE better than store brands.
• Obsessively cleaning one’s apartment for the first time in over six years can result in the discovery of a surprising amount of money.
• Supposing I wrote stories about what a hot college jock I am. Think I could make any money selling my dozen recently-unearthed pairs of old shoes at one of those foot fetish sites?
• Some idiot just called me (on the phone) trying to “get the website for San Francisco city guides”. I have no idea what he was talking about. I have even less idea how he got my number.
• Does anyone remember the mystical and magical show called “Night Flight” which used to run on the USA Network before said cable channel became flat out useless?
• Speaking of the old videotape I’m watching from 1988: does anyone else find it a huge injustice that Dusty Springfield will never sing again but that the Pet Shop Boys probably will?
• I am convinced that the lead singer of the New Radicals does not really sing. He’s merely an adorable boy who’s lip synching to previously unreleased World Party songs.
• Will I ever have a boyfriend who has a washer and dryer in his home?
• One more time: why does it cost 25-50 cents more to sell a gallon of gas in northern California than anywhere else in the country (or even the state)? And why is milk twice as expensive here in the largest dairy-producing state? And why is it impossible to buy a decent tomato here?

Sure, the news today had stories about the fact that we now seem to be at war. There was also mention of the fact the Fred Phelps made his semi-annual visit to San Francisco on Friday (he’s done wonders for queers ever since we put him on the payroll as official spokesidiot for bigotry).

But today’s completely unnewsworthy story on horse racing at Golden Gate Fields was the one which caught my eye. You see, I grew up going to the horse races and I know what a wondrous thing it is.

About twice a year, my mom and dad and I (sometimes with my grandmother) would pack up the car bound for a little town called Charles Town, West Virginia and go to the races.

The trip was pretty similar each time. The first day, we’d drive up, check into our motel, hit that night’s races, and have a late snack at the diner downtown. On the second day, we’d drive to wherever there were races in the suburbs of Washington or Baltimore. My dad would watch the horses and my mom and I often hit a mall or whatever. Back to Charles Town that night for a repeat. On the third and final day, we’d either go to Washington (for culture) or one of the big theme parks in Virginia (for fun) and then home.

These were great trips. They weren’t really about gambling (although I did learn how to pick a winner). For me, and I suspect somewhat for my mom and dad as well, they were largely about people-watching. Some of the strangest characters in the world lurk about eastern race tracks: big fat drunk guys in plaid sportcoats, scary kids who looked like modern adaptations of Dickensian orphans, bored and damaged-looking mothers…

The food was great too: no frills pizza and hot dogs and hamburgers. There was lots of beer, too, but my mom and dad didn’t drink. The whole atmosphere was so incredibly seedy. I loved it. It prepared me for the pockmarked urban landscapes I love to this day. It was all about the working class (or maybe not even as well-to-do as that…)

Somehow, I can’t imagine that any track in the increasingly trendy and sanitized Bay Area could match up to Charles Town or Laurel or Timonium. No doubt, the uptight soccer moms of Marin County would be horrified at the idea of a child visiting such a place. It’s just too real for our sophisticated palates. I envision lattes and biscotti and sandwiches on focaccia.

But maybe I’m wrong. Anybody wanna check it out with me? Casino gambling bores me. Dog racing horrifies me. But I could be in the mood to hang out with the horses this week.

Hallelujah! McDonald’s has added sexual orientation to its non-dicrimination policy. Now queers have the right to cook really vile-tasting fast food for five bucks an hour. I’d imagine domestic partner benefits aren’t an issue. Does Master Ronald even OFFER benefits to his plantation workers? Maybe just to the overseers…

Maybe they need a visit from Michael Moore and crew. Yer humble host is most excited about his new show, The Awful Truth, which starts this weekend on Bravo. Michael Moore rules the universe as I currently see it. Among the planned excursions on the show: Michael drives a van full of sodomites through states which still have sodomy laws, videotaping the felonies they commit therein.

Beats hell out of another Friends re-run, huh?

In other breaking news, I’ve managed (thanks to Dan) to obtain something I’ve been wanting for a long time: an original Charles Chips cannister. For those of you who have no clue what a Charles Chip might be, this was a company which used to do weekly home delivery of potato chips. Yes, it sounds as strange to me as it does to you.

My aunt next door got Charles Chips delivered. Most of my other neighbors did too. I always felt a little inadequate as a child because we never had one of these cans in my house. Mom and Dad boughts Lay’s at Winn-Dixie instead.

But now I have one. My life is almost complete.