Category Archives: Experiences

The Impossible I can do – Miracles take one hour and come in the form of little blue, diamond-shaped pills

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I remember, almost, the reason for it happening.

V had put on a little weight. Not a lot but there were, surely, ‘love-handles’. Add to that, my parents (and that’s just too difficult to explain coherently) and it meant that my performance was, ahem, less than perfect.

In fact, it was embarrassing. It didn’t last more than a minute or two and, once gone, it never came back. Oh yeah, I made all sorts of excuses both to V and myself. I did actually think it was a combination of my age and the smoking for so many years. But, I was also aware that it could be just psychological. It was the fat – the ‘love-handles’ that did it.

So then there was Derek. Tall, dark, handsome. The first guy I dated. We realised on the second date that, quite possibly, there was nothing. But I went to his house, we talked, we went to bed.

I was worried. What if the problem hadn’t gone away. I didn’t know. I am Top; performance is everything and, you know, it’s kind of noticeable. It’s one thing for which I can see women have the advantage. They can, if they wish, fake it. I certainly can’t.

I was right to be worried – or because I was worried that caused it all. I couldn’t be sure. True, without clothes the shape was wrong; a little to much in places that shouldn’t be. It didn’t do anything for me.

He said it was OK. But it wasn’t. It wasn’t for me. I left his house with a sinking feeling. What if this was going to happen all the time? What if it was the smoking and the age? What if all that was left was desire?

And, at the end of the day, no partner was going to be satisfied with ‘half a man’, which is how it felt.

No, I needed some sort of magic to put it right.

Something that, maybe, I should have done a few years ago, had to be done. I found a place and made an appointment. It was going to cost me €100 just for the consultation but, hey, we’re talking about the rest of my life, a new partner – it was going to be worth it, I was sure.

I didn’t have a problem talking about it – just as I don’t have a problem writing about it here. I have a problem that needs to be fixed. I explained that, in spite of the fact that it could be the age and the smoking, I felt that, actually, it was just in my head – the first sign of NOT perfect meant a sudden deflation and THE END. I explained that I was Top and that performance was everything. She understood.

She suggested 4. I said, jokingly, that it gave me 4 opportunities to get over this thing in my head and that I would have to be careful when and where I used them. She said she would make it 8. I was happier. She said that if it wasn’t solved after 8 then I would need to go to a specialist.

I went to the chemist, handed over the prescription and paid nearly €100 for 8 of the tiny things.

They, would, she warned me, take about an hour to work. Then they would last for about 3 hours. They might make me feel ‘deflated’ in myself (but not where it mattered) (or, at least, I think that’s what she meant).

I divided them, since there were four in each foil. One, I put in my bag and the other in the drawer by my bed. I cut one from the four in the drawer. I would keep that one with me……just in case something unexpected happened.

Then there was Trevor. Not my type. Noooo. Definitely not my type. But, with the the little miracles in my bedside drawer, I had no problem. I was over the moon. He had fat in the wrong places, and extremely hairy chest, was not beautiful and yet, given all those things I COULD perform!

To be honest, I was somewhat amazed. There, I said to myself, it was all in my head. I just KNEW it.

And then there was Gordon. OK, he has a fantastic body but it’s not perfect. He has a little extra weight but only a little………but not that far from V. Even though I thought, you may remember, that there was going to be nothing, I took one of the little miracles, tucked in the front pocket of my jeans, just in case.

And then there was something and, again, the miracle remained in it’s foil. OK, I thought. Problem solved. €200 down the drain, you might say but, for me, €¬200 well spent. Just knowing the little miracle was there seemed to be enough. Without it and I might never have got here. And this was what it was for…..for Gordon….who might be ‘the one’.

But still, I’m not complacent about this and realise it may not quite be all solved. Henry proved that – but, maybe because it was all rushed and because I had forgotten about the miracles or maybe because he had a little too much extra…..don’t know.

And that, of course, gets me worried about the next time I see Gordon. But I shall take one along, just in case and, hopefully, I will prove once again that just having them to hand is the only miracle I need.

I still have eight chances, eight miracles…….I’m really hoping I never need any of them, as you can probably imagine.

This morning Gordon texted. I asked him what the first song was. It was this one below. I texted back that, of course, for me, you can :-)

Strange Days Indeed

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The world is a new, brighter, more interesting world. It’s a strange thing. There is this whole new life out there that I have only just begun to explore. There was a song, by the Weather Girls – It’s Raining Men – a great gay anthem when I used to go to clubs in Manchester – and it seems so appropriate.

But, in general, it seems I’ve lost interest. Not in life or work (although, right now, work is NOT the most important thing in my life) but in trawling the sites. The new world exists outside the sites where now, every man I see becomes a potential gay man – and so many are.

But, the loss of interest in the sites worries me. As I was explaining to FfI last night. What if Gordon is not ‘the one’ and I’m making a big mistake? Today, I am meeting Othello. Othello I found through the first site I signed up on. We’re a 70% match, so they say. These sites are full of shit.

OK, I’m shallow, maybe, but crucial to anything happening between me and a guy is how he looks (and there’s still a post in draft waiting to be posted on that one). I know I’ve been spoilt – V was/is, after all, stunningly beautiful – but I can’t go for something less.

Add to this that all I can think about is Gordon, I am less than interested. Gone, out of the window, is the idea that I needed more friends who are gay; that I would have loads of sex before I got far too old – just because I never did that, really and part of me feels that I somehow missed out on all that; and that I need to keep looking for ‘Mr Right’.

But, do I have that wrong? What if Gordon is NOT the one?

So, this, being written later (this post will take 2 days to write, I feel it), I have now met Othello. We meet in the park. Othello is OK. His English is excellent – he lived in London for 5 years. He has a wicked sense of humour – very like mine. We stay in the park until he gets too cold, then go for lunch at my Saturday lunchtime café (Free Time, just off Corso Buenos Aires) which he is really impressed with; and that makes me happy. We see some guy walk past to his table. I say to Othello ‘He’s gay, isn’t he?’ (and by implication, so is the guy he’s sitting with). Othello confirms this. My gaydar seems to be getting better.

We had talked in the park. Well, mostly I did the talking. He said his life wasn’t that interesting but I did get some blood from that stone, so that was good. It seems he has never had a relationship but ‘dated’ men who already had partners. Apart from that, we have much in common, well a sense of humour, anyway.

After lunch, we take the dogs to the nearest dog area and we continue to talk and take the piss (or is it pith?) out of each other. It’s good. He would make a fine friend. And I hope he is….we shall see.

Later, Henry, who has been saying he would come (he lives out of Milan) says he will come again (this would make it about the 5th time he says he is going to come – “going to” being the operative words and “coming” not actually happening – and HE’S the reason that, on that particular day I moaned at Gordon and why Gordon and I are, possibly, maybe, perhaps, something – I do think it is a strange world full of strange coincidences). I do not think he is coming. He arrives. I am really surprised! OK so I had made an effort to make the place a little less untidy – but not really going out of my way!

He only has about 20 minutes before he must go to the party. So all the things he said he wanted to happen are simply not going to happen. But, you know, whilst Gordon and I are not yet something, I was, kind of thinking that, perhaps, maybe, I should take the opportunity….my last chance and all that………….I’m not sure if I turned him on or he was just desperate or that’s the way he is……….in about 10 minutes it was all over for him. I may need a little more time amongst other things. Anyway, he didn’t actually come to see me but was coming to a party, for which he was late. Too rushed for me. Next time, perhaps….unless Gordon becomes ‘the one’ in which case – not ever. Shame really. Cute kid (and when I say kid – I’m talking about over 20 years my junior) and he seems nice…..but, let me see…….someone who’s 40 in a full-time job with a 30-year-old body or someone who’s actually 30 and no real job and not such a body!

Hmmm. Let’s see what happens.

Later still. I am out with friends for a pizza. Again I find they have Ham and Pineapple pizza – which I have. The place is Pizza OK in Piazza 8 Novembre, near my house (i.e Porta Venezia). It’s a new selection. Still the Italians don’t go for it but it is different than the ones we used to have in the UK (and, I guess, the USA would be the same). It’s not cubed ham but slices of fresh boiled ham and not cubed pineapple from a tin but slices of very fresh, very sweet pineapple. Delicious. Oh, yes, and if you like really thin pizza base, then this pizzeria is the best I have found in Milan for that.

During the meal, Gordon phones. He is in the concert of the Diva. He wants me to listen to a song but it’s just noisy and I can’t make it out. He phones later as I walk L home. This time I recognise the song. It’s a song for me. This is sweet and lovely and, given my day, a little scary.

(Diana Ross with Ain’t No Mountain High Enough)

I have said that, if he would like, I will pick him up from the airport on Monday night. He is with one of his colleagues. I said we would take her home and, at least, I would get to spend some time with him and get a kiss or something. We both have early starts on Tuesday so that will be all – but, to me, that is important. He said he would let me know – but I explained that it would get them home faster. I hope he takes me up on it. I really do want to see him.

It’s all very confusing and they are strange days indeed for me.

Defence strategies and other things

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I feel I need to explain.  Not to you, dear reader, but to Gordon.  I don’t want to fuck this up but, maybe being out of practice, or maybe because it was ever so, I’m not very good at this dating lark.

When I had Spillaine’s Syndrome, I was in incredible pain and yet I would joke about it, all the time.  When I had my knee operation, and, afterwards, when I shouldn’t really have been in work, I joked about it.

It’s my defence.  It’s the way I cope with something serious.  It’s how I am.  I don’t try and defend it as there is not a lot I can do about it.

But I feel the need to explain it to Gordon because he sends nice text message; I reply with one that is jokey and not serious.  I try to be serious but, always, there has to be a twist, at the end, to lighten it all up.

I know why.  This is a just-in-case-I-have-it-all-wrong thing.  In case it becomes too serious and to try and stop the other person being frightened off.  I tried to tell him on Saturday night/Sunday morning.  I get a bit intense.

He didn’t understand.  I know he didn’t.  But I can stop myself (to some extent) getting intense if I joke about it; lighten it up a bit.

So, this morning I text him asking when I can phone.  I phone him.  He doesn’t really get it (I think) but he says OK.  I hope he understands.  I tell him that I don’t want to fuck it up.  I think he might get that bit.

We shall speak later……..phone calls are difficult for me.  It’s always better face-to-face.

Oh, yes, and I wore my new contact lenses for the first time Saturday.  I wonder if that was what did it.  It’s my eyes, you see.  They are striking, apparently.  Obviously, I’ve had them all my life so, for me they are just my eyes.  But women find them amazing and will tell me.  So I wore the contact lenses on Saturday night to see Gordon.  And then, I didn’t take them out when I went over to FfI on Sunday night (for some take-away pizza and red wine).

She said that I should always wear contact lenses when I go out on the pull (English phrase to mean going out looking for a partner or on a date – just in case it’s not used in the States).  It means, apparently, that my eyes aren’t hidden.

So I show her Gordon’s profile.  I show her Sweet Guy but explain that that is over as I tried 3 times to get some sort of second date and 3 times is enough.  We look at some others that are online.  I explain more things about the gay scene.

We laugh about her emails to the Dream Guy.  Not least when she told him that he had a small member.  It seemed to elicit some response from him.  I couldn’t believe that she had done that in the first place but, a woman scorned….etc., etc.

Sweet Guy had seen that I visited his profile and sends me a message, wishing me a sweet night and golden dreams.  I am confused.  I thought he wasn’t interested.  Just in case I have it wrong with Gordon, I message Sweet Guy asking how he is, etc.

Other people have messaged me as we looked at their profiles.  I’m not really bothered.  I wonder if Gordon is or is not the guy for me (before he texts me) or whether the feeling is mutual.  After he texts me it’s all OK.  I emailed him photos of my dogs on Sunday, after I got home.  He says he loves them.  The text I receive on Sunday night sends love to me, Rufus and Dino.  He may not like them so much when he meets them but that is such a sweet thing to do.  My email to him did say that I don’t think I have emotional baggage but I have these….and we come as a package.  I think he understood.

As opposed to Sweet Guy who has met them and is scared of them!

But Gordon doesn’t drink red wine and doesn’t like heat but prefers it when it is cold.

This is a confused posting.  Sorry guys.  It’s how my mind is right now.

What really counts….

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I arrive. I am early but, because of my little joke about ‘tell me an exact time…I am English so I will be there then…’ I wait outside until the clock I can see at Piazza Loreto hits 9.45……and then I call. He doesn’t want to give me his buzzer name, I guess. I understand. We don’t actually know each other.

I cannot explain how different I feel about him. I mean, the pictures are good. But it’s also the chats we have had, easy, not forced or difficult or sleazy or anything…..I look forward to his replies in a way that I hardly feel about the others. Every word he writes seems just that little bit different………..but, is it, as he says, all fake?

He’s shorter than I thought. He’s supposed to be 2″ shorter than me but it seems more. He’s just in jeans and a T-shirt, nothing special. He doesn’t look like the other 40-year-olds that I have met so far – he seems younger. But there’s no immediate connection, I feel. Maybe because of what I wrote before. Maybe because, even before I’ve seen him, I have already discounted this as being anything more than friends. I don’t know.

He pours some wine. We sit, drink, smoke, talk. He’s as funny as he is on the chat. In fact, he is the chat, only for real. We talk about crap, about gay people, about relationships, about, well, crap.

At one point, as he is refilling my glass, he comes over and kisses me. It’s not like Venice. It’s not something that I don’t want. I want this. I want him. He goes back to his chair, opposite me, across the low coffee table. Across the books all about some Viennese actress, Romy Schneider or something. The wall on the right is almost some sort of shrine to her. He tells me about her.

We kiss again, several times, I run my hands up his back, and he likes that and I like it too.< He's very clear. There will be no sex. Sex on a first date means that you don't really like the person and it's just sex. That's OK. I like that. There's some restraint, something that I can look forward to, some purpose to seeing him again. Later....we go to the bedroom, we explore. He doesn't want me to go and nor do I. We don't have sex, but it's all nice and sexy and cool. His body, though a few years older and with a little bit more weight, is just as it was on the can (or, rather, as it was in the photos). I feel slightly out of my league. I wonder what the hell he can see in a 51-year-old - but he sees something and that something is something he likes. And I like that he likes it. We talk, caress, kiss. We enjoy the warmth of each others bodies. We both want much more but we don't. It's like some sort of game where we try to save so much. He tells me he never kisses guys. Well, he never kisses them much and not on a first date. And , not only has he done that, but we have gone much further than he feels is right - but it's not something that feels wrong or bad or that it will mean we never see each other again. We sleep. I hate sleep. I don't want to waste this time; this time to look at him; to run my fingers down his back (which turns him on in a way that I find incredible and fun and interesting). I want to stay awake and look at his face, see his eyes, run my fingers over his short hair, play with his ears (another 'special' zone). I am Top. I hold him in my arms, curl up against him, kissing, loving, etc. He takes the piss out of my accent. All his previous boyfriends have had blue eyes and are Taurus. Apparently. His previous relationship was with an English guy. And that means......? We sleep some. We get up. We go to have coffee across the road at a fabulous place with the most delightful array of croissants (called brioche here). I've never done this. Got up, gone out and had coffee (breakfast) in a bar. It's new for me. It's different. It's more Italian. We won't see each other for about a week, until after he comes back from Brussels. This is good and bad. But the feelings seem mutual and that is perfect. I don't know where this will go; how it will end; if it will end. But, so far, I am enjoying the journey. And that’s what counts.

I don’t know what to give as a title

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It was strange. The restaurant (Wok of Milan) was near his house and, therefore we went there. It was OK but, to my mind, nothing special. Again, I say, if you’re a Chinese restaurant be Chinese, if Japanese, be Japanese but don’t mix and match – it’s just not possible since the food is so different.

However, we chatted about crap. I told him that Rufus had not been so well and that, surprisingly for me, I thought that, perhaps, this was it for him. He wants to come round and see him.

We talked, tentatively at first, about the online thing and about Italian men, in general. Each saying we had ‘interesting’ experiences. He admitted that one should always read the manual (in this case profile) before one ventures forth. But, then, so should I it would seem. I seem to not be able to ‘see’ the photographs properly or, rather, I seem to look at them and think that the person can’t possible look like this and it’s just a bad photo.

But it is not, generally, a bad photo. In fact, if anything, it’s a good photo! So, I should take a look, imagine that they don’t look this good, and go from there.

Anyway, back to V & I.

So we’re chatting and, eventually, he admits that he’s rather smitten with someone. He says that the guy is short and nothing like me. I say that he should go for it and not hold back like he is doing.

It seems strange to me that, after all the time we were together, I don’t feel bad about this, nor like it’s a problem only, if I am honest, slightly jealous that I haven’t found someone before him. But I put that aside, and tell him (and I mean it) that he should not worry about how the guy looks but in how he feels and if he feels like this he shouldn’t waste the chance to be with someone who could be ‘the one’.

We continue this conversation in texts as I go home and as I take the dogs out for their walk.

I get a little fed up with him and, eventually say that he should stop being so stupid.

He accepts this in the way it was intended, i.e. He should just try and see. I hope it works for him (although, obviously, providing that I find someone also) :-) I also add that he shouldn’t be thinking about the fact that the guy isn’t like me and that, in fact, the guy shouldn’t be like me – otherwise it would be me……and we can’t go there again.

Still, it was all very relaxed although I can see myself being his agony aunt, which, given my free time right now (virtually none as you may be able to tell by the blog entries) may be more than a little difficult.

And, then, last night was the sweet guy from Varese.

It’s from a different site, one where they try to match you for compatibility rather than looks or whether you are Top or Bottom or somewhere in between. We are something like 75% compatible. But I should read the manual and, in this case, rather than the small-print, the pictures. OK so a little chubby, not pretty. But the photos have got to be bad ones.

Um, no. The photos were good

He is, actually, a nice guy but I have been with V for 20 odd years. I want the 40-year-old man with the 30-year-old body (and face) – something that Italy seems incapable of providing). We go for a walk along lake Lugano (on the Italian side), stop and have a drink and then go to a pizzeria that he knows.

OK so it is a nice evening but the whole thing is very one-sided in that he is thinking ‘Wow!’ and I am not. How do I know this? Well, a) it is the first thing he says when he meets me and b) I can just tell it doesn’t go away during the evening.

He looks like my M (my first partner of 10 years) only if he were now 60 (even though the guy is supposed to be in his 40s. Actually M won’t look like this. This guy looks like M’s father!

We do kiss but there is no Karl Spark – nor will there ever be. Friends, yes. More, no!

And then, because I had moaned at Gordon (via chat) about Italian men and how difficult it was for me to handle them, I am now preparing to go to his flat as I write this. Gordon has a beautiful body – a 30-year-old body and he’s 40. So far so good. Now, on my new PC (bought today), his face does not look so good but neither does it look so bad. He doesn’t look 40 for certain.

Now I read back, you won’t get the steps between moaning at him and ending up going to his flat but, briefly, it goes like this. I moan. He asks what is wrong with Italian men. I say there’s not enough room to write about it. He says he is listening. I ask are you sure. He says yes. I give him brief idea that these people don’t do what they say (see the previous post) and, anyway, they all carry too much baggage in their heads. He writes a serious response about all this chat stuff being fake but it makes me laugh and I tell him so. Then after a bit more chat I ask him what does it make our chat, real or fake?

He then says we can meet. I say that, for some reason (and I think it is because I am quite scared – he is too beautiful, too perfect) I am not pushing this and chatting is fine but, in any event, we arrange to meet Saturday.

And so, here we are. I am about to leave and go to his place for a glass of wine (having drunk half a bottle already and not really eaten anything). This one actually seems important but will, in all probability, end up like the rest.

However, who’s to know?

Tomorrow is Boris. Coming down from Cantù, near the lakes. He wants to go to Borgo, a bit gay disco held on a Sunday night. I don’t. Other than it is full of gay people, it is Sunday night and I have customers in on Monday! Hmm, we shall see. So, Pietro, if I am less than awake on Monday, you will know why.

Oh, and by the way, another person at work now knows I am gay. It is about time that everyone knew and then I can stop pretending…….

The meaning of X; why do I put myself in these situations?

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When I was a kid, we used to write cards (birthday cards and the like) to grandparents, sisters, brothers, etc.  Always it ended with ‘Lots of love X’.  If you were really generous it would be even more ‘x’s.

I had always assumed, like one does, that everyone did this.  Here, quite often, people end with ‘baci’.

More recently, I have stopped using baci but have been putting ‘x’.  It seems that things are not (and it has taken me about 45 years to find this out) quite as I thought and that not everyone uses an x in place of baci.

Not only don’t they use it but they don’t recognise it!  Who knew?

So last night, on the phone, I was asked why the ‘x’ and was it like a signature or something.  So I explained and, in the process, learnt yet another thing that separates us from the Italians, culturally.

So, catching up with friends, as I was last night.  Telling them of the guys and why I was dropping some of them and why others were working (maybe….early days yet).  Now, I spoke to Best Mate the other night.  Told her about the sweet guy.  She was fine.  Another friend was fine…..one friend was not….

It got me to thinking, this is my problem really.  I put myself in situations that other people find hard to take.  But, and here is where the real problem lies, it is my opinion that it is their problem and not mine.  I don’t do the compromise very well.

And so, should I take up with the sweet guy, then I am sure to lose some friends along the way; people who remain ignorant; people who, because it does not seem to have touched them, still think of HIV as something that is a gay plague and that it is the fault of the person who has it and that it can be transferred just by touching, or something equally preposterous!

That’s a shame because, other than this one thing, they are nice people – but I know that I won’t compromise on it.  And that bit is my problem too.

In the meantime, my date for tomorrow (Gordon) returned to Milan from a weekend away.  He is feeling tired.  Hmmm.  This could be the prelude to bailing out for tomorrow night………shame because I found that I had missed our chats online.  Still, it will all be for the best, whatever.  Also, my piano player from Pavia is saying that Sunday will be difficult.  Hmmm.

Still, I still have Varese on Friday night.  And, tonight, hopefully I will see my friend A who I have not seen for a little while…..which will be nice.

Out on the scene again; is it the Karl Spark?

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I felt I should amend the previous post in case it gave the wrong impression……so I did.

Last night was the Mexican meal with the sweet (but far too effeminate) Stephen.  Nice kid though.  A shoe designer.  Interesting conversation, pretty and slim – just right for me in some ways but a little young and just a little to out-going.  After the meal he took me to some bars where we met many of his friends.

It was very nice for a change and his friends were nice.  I was, of course, new to the ‘scene’ so attracted interest but, although it was all very pleasant, I remembered why I don’t really like this way of spending your Friday and Saturday nights.  Still, I might go do it again with him as he is very popular and so, who knows who I might meet – except most of them aren’t ‘my sort’ at all.  I’m just such a ‘straight’ guy trapped in a gay world.  Must be the same sort of thing for effeminate but straight guys!  It makes me feel like I really don’t belong.

Still, tonight is the theatre with the nice guy from Pavia.  This, I know will be fun evening and then we shall go home (to our separate houses) as he is in for the long-term and is wooing me more than anyone else at the moment.

Of course, I haven’t really mentioned one guy that, perhaps I should.  He is very, very sweet.  Not effeminate, not my type  – but I find myself very attracted to him.  Not sure whether this is the Karl Spark but it’s pretty damned close.

Just a couple of things that are and, at the same time, are not important.  One is that he is definitely not the dominant type and, so, I’m not sure that he is strong enough – I mean to say, I sometimes need someone who is equal to me and will ‘fight’ with me.  He may be just too much of a pushover.

Oh, yes, and the other thing is that he is HIV+.  Now, before you go giving me advice and all that, bear in mind that I do know about this and I know we would have to be very careful but, really, it didn’t make any difference as to how I feel about him.  He was surprised at my reaction but I look at it this way, he’s nice, we are attracted to each other and, if I’m honest, the cigarettes are probably going to kill me first before anything else gets a look in.  And, if we’re careful, it shouldn’t be a problem.

He is a bit reticent though and I’m not sure why.  He’s also seriously Italian with all of the baggage that that entails (*sigh*).  And, he doesn’t smoke or drink, was a vegetarian (so is fussy about his food) – you know, all the things that would mean, oh, I don’t know…….

I need to see him again to see if I still feel the same way…..and if he does too, of course………

Planet Italy – The Dating Bible

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It’s official.  Italian men fall into one category.  Seriously screwed up!  Unless I am just being unlucky, of course!

This is how things are in my world:

1. Meet guy.
2. Find said guy attractive.
3. Decide to take it further.
4. Go to bed (optional here or later).
5. Have sex (optional here or later).
6. Talk some more.
7. Find you have things in common and you really like said guy or not.
8. Decide to see each other again and go through same stuff, (probably, hopefully, starting from 4).
9. After a while, if you both want it, make situation more permanent.

That’s how it’s supposed to work.  Of course, upon mutual agreement (or, perhaps, without mutual agreement) it can be stopped and taken no further at any stage.

Instead, on Planet Italy (which is NOT my world, even if I do live here) the Italian man seems to work like this:

1. Meet guy.
2. Worry about whether this is long-term or not/worry about whether this is what you really want/worry about something else.
3. Find said guy attractive.
4. Worry about whether this is long-term or not/worry about whether this is what you really want/worry about something else..
5. Decide to take it further.
6. Worry about whether this is long-term or not/worry about whether this is what you really want/worry about something else.
7. Go to bed if your worries haven’t already screwed it up in your head.
8. Worry about whether this is long-term or not/worry about whether this is what you really want/worry about something else.
9. Have sex if you overcome your worries enough or just talk about it or try and avoid it.  In any case, probably don’t have sex for all the worrying about whether this is long-term or not/worrying about whether this is what you really want/worrying about something else.
10. Talk some more – probably about how it may or may not be in the future; how everything is not straightforward how worrying about this stuff is one of the things that you cannot help.
11. Don’t bother finding out you have things in common because you’re too bloody busy talking about the worries.
12. Decide to see each other again (although why effing bother, I say).
13. Worry about whether this is long-term or not/worry about whether this is what you really want/worry about something else.
14. Go through all this crap again.

OK, so life is not perfect but we only have this moment to enjoy it since in one more second/one hour/one day/one week/one month/one year/one lifetime………..it may all be over for some reason.

Live life now!

Of course, perhaps all these Italian men are right and it is I who is actually screwed up?

OK, so last night didn’t go as expected.  However, one thing did happen that was really good and for which I am over the moon (and may explain some other time….if it continues so good).

An almost full dance card

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Well, we’re moving forward and, I have to admit, this is great fun.  At the moment, I can’t take it too seriously and nor do I want to.  I know that it’s all about finding the next ‘partner’ but I know I must keep hold of myself and not just jump into the first relationship available.  This time it’s different.

And there are, at the end of it all, many, many men out there of all shapes and sizes.  None of them perfect but then, nor am I.  All of them (the ones I am in contact with) have something to offer – and the ones I have met are nice guys, some more than others, of course.

Last night it was the turn of Trevor (not Robert as I thought in my last post).  Nice guy about 8 years younger than me.  We had chatted a lot on the phone and on the chat.  He seemed funny, witty, intelligent and a great sense of humour, so similar to my own.

We met in town (he lives in a city about an hour away) and went for a pizza.  The talk was easy, interesting – we were finding out about each other – in the process we found many, many things in common.  It was comfortable, for certain.  We talked and talked.  He told me about his marriage (they are now divorced) and his young daughter and what happened and why he got married in the first place…….

It’s a strange place, Italy.  And the family thing (and particularly the mother attachment) is something that, quite frankly, no one comes close to understanding – and trust me, I know people who were/are really close to their mothers in the UK – but it ain’t nothing like this.

So Trevor goes to his parents for lunch every day.  When he was married and lived in the flat above his parents-in-law, they would have dinner with the parents-in-law.  When he stopped them doing that, his mother-in-law would, instead, prepare food and bring it up to their flat so they could have dinner on their own!

Most Italians phone their parents once per day.  He phones his parents (and, remember he has lunch with them during the week) 3 times a day!!!!

Anyway, I know this is what it’s like and if I do end up with an Italian, I have to accept this stuff.

But, I don’t know if Trevor and I will end up as anything or nothing or friends.  We are going to the theatre on Saturday night (he has season tickets) to see some comedy called ‘The Kitchen’ although it will be in Italian which means I will be lucky to get half of it.  Still, it’s nice and, again, like Dennis, it’s a proper date.

But, right now, it’s getting a little full.  My dance card is almost completely full between now and this time next week.  When I started this, I didn’t expect it to be like this but it’s good and fun and I get to meet some interesting people and, anyway, it’s really good practice!

Men are a problem – can’t live with them, can’t live without them!

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So, this post may be a little shocking for some of you, in which case, please don’t read it – but this is the ‘gay scene’ and it is, shall we say, lacking in some morals.  I know, this will probably go to confirm that we are all bad people – but, and this is my opinion, if you (that is the general populace) hadn’t made it all illegal for so long, I really believe it wouldn’t be like this………

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