Mike Alvear's Urge & Merge

It was just after midnight and we were curled up on her sofa, making out like teenagers. The first date had gone unusually well; hours of scintillating conversation, intermingled with blatant sexual innuendo, had led to a cab outside her home. When I asked if she intended to ‘invite me up for coffee’, she rolled her eyes. ‘I know exactly what kind of “coffee” you want.’

‘I like my coffee like I like my women’ I replied. ‘Dark, and just slightly bitter. Like you.’

In the flickering candlelight of her tiny living room, hands, mouths and lips were moving in synchronous motion. She was astride me, her bra vanished, and I was flicking counter-clockwise circles with the tip of my tongue around her perfectly formed, eraser-tip nipples, when I deftly slid my fingers into her jeans and down the crack of her ass. She paused.

‘I don’t think we should, tonight’ she heaved. ‘After all, it’s only our first date.’

I cradled her face in my hands. ‘We don’t have to. You’re the woman; you have the right to say no at any time. But we are adults. We’re here. We’re worked up. What is accomplished by sending me home all hot and bothered? I’m going to walk out the door and one of two things is going to happen: either we’re both going to go masturbate alone, or you’re going to masturbate and I’m going to go make a phone call. It’s up to you.’

Several hours and broken pieces of furniture later, we both agreed we’d come, to the right conclusion.

I’m always amazed in this day and age when I encounter women who choose to postpone sex with a man they think has relationship potential, either because they think they won’t be taken seriously if they sleep with a man on the first date, or out of some antiquated notion that unless you make us work for it, we won’t appreciate it.

I’m here to call bullshit on both. Read the rest of this entry »

I grew up during the peak of the Star Wars fad and had I not been genetically predisposed to favor my He-Man toys over my Chewbacca action figure, I might’ve paid more attention to space. I only knew of it what they said about it at the beginning of Star Trek, that it was “the final frontier.” Space was something confusing, big, and daunting. Who needed it? Well, as it turns out, most of us do.

Actual space, the space above us where the sun burns and galaxies collide, is a complicated mass of mathematics and physics. I have spent most of this year studying a microcosm of space, the space that exists between humans. Although not quite as overwhelming and endlessly possible as actual space, the space that human beings require can be just as complicated and is equally affected by numbers and science.

They say that actual space is relative, like time, and so indeed is human space. People need space, although at varying degrees. I spent two months living out of a suitcase in two of my friends’ living room. One of them needed little space at all and the sight of my unemployed ass sitting idly on the sofa when he got home from work was a welcome one. The other friend required much more space, actually the specific space in which I’d been sleeping, and he jumped for joy when I finally moved on and he was able to reclaim the couch as his.
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Raise your hand if you’ve ever survived a difficult relationship with a man and decided life surely must be better on the opposite side of the fence. I don’t know if gay men go through that thought  process, but everyone of my girlfriends has said it at least once jokingly after a horrendous breakup.

Being a literal sort of girl, I decided to go see if that pasture was any greener than the straight side of the field.

I decide to pole vault into girl-on-girl world in the summer of 1988. Having had at least a decade of dick behind me (sometimes literally), I noticed my lesbian friends seemed to be having a hell of a lot more fun than I was. I had already slept with women in college, so that so called taboo was out of the way.

Luckily I had my own personal guide to lesbian Atlanta to help ease the transition. She would show up at work on Mondays with blackened eyes and enormous hickeys from her weekend romps, sharing  her adventures with our co-workers during smoke breaks. Her pickups showered her with attention; sending flowers, taking her to lunch, giving her rent money. There was an endless line up of older gay women in expensive cars spoiling her rotten and that looked like exactly what I needed too. At that point in my life I had financially and emotionally supported an ever changing line up of would be rock stars, so a sugar mama sounded like a dream come true.

I started hitting up the gay bars with her on weekends. I chopped off my hair into a cute, shaggy little cut and found freedom in a cosmetic free face. I added some polo shirts and flat shoes to my wardrobe. I danced my Doc Martin shod feet off to “I Just Want To Be Your Lover Girl”  at the Sports Page  and Talluleh’s.

I discovered that picking up women is a lot more difficult than picking up men. Read the rest of this entry »

I’ve never been big on romance in the traditional sense. I find the notion of a candlelit dinner or a romantic stroll on the beach to be trite and too structured. My idea of romance has always been along the lines of someone buying me a beer, letting me eat the last piece of pizza, or keeping their mouth shut during my favorite television show.

Contrary to normal consensus, my distaste for romance has little to do with my elevated levels of jadedness. Even when I was younger and much more naïve than I am now, someone buying me flowers or writing me a poem seemed awkward, forced, and cheesy. But now, at 33 and still single, people assume that I hate romance because I’ve been dating for 15 years and I’m simply exhausted. This mis-perception often pops up when discussing my views with less experienced friends, friends who still think that the odds of them meeting someone casually at a coffee shop aren’t actually less than the odds of them getting mauled by a pack of wild dogs.

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Since the dawn of time, all of mankind has been plagued with questions that distract and taunt us.

Why do bad things happen to good people? What is my purpose in life? Why is “The View” still on the air? Most of these types of questions are best left unanswered, yet they bob in and out of our minds on a daily basis.

Being single can be a bottomless well of unanswerable questions, triggering confusion and frustration rarely seen outside of a Physics class. While in the midst of a dating dry spell, one finds themselves consumed with thoughts as to why no one wants to go out with them. Is it because of what you do for a living, where you hang out, who you know, or because you look like an Ewok? These concerns turn out to be as insignificant as a Mosque in Alabama once you actually start dating someone. That’s when the real trouble begins.

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So I get this email from a guy who met somebody he spent the weekend with.  Apparently, the clouds broke, the birds chirped, and the sun shone through.  He had met The One.

But The One barely returned his calls or texts.

So he wanted to know if he should keep calling and texting.

Which brings me to that Ostrich look.

The one we all get when hope, longing and desire makes us deaf, dumb and blind.

It’s hard to avoid it when The One sends a text for every three you send.   Doesn’t that mean he’s interested and just needs a little push?

Think back to the last time you responded once or twice to somebody who blew up your phone with calls and texts. Why didn’t you respond?  Was it because you were too busy? Because you never got any of his messages? Because you were stuck in a dead zone for a month and couldn’t call out? Because you weren’t “ready for a relationship?” Because you had intimacy issues?  Or because you weren’t interested?  You can avoid this kind of heartbreak with the next Mr. I Know He Loves Me So Why Isn’t He Calling Back? Here’s how: Read the rest of this entry »

I was sitting alone in an abortion clinic waiting my turn. I remember waking up at 5am or so to get to the clinic by 6:30am for a 7am appointment. That turned into a 9am appointment. Let me tell you something. I’ve had very few humbling experiences like that one. I looked around the waiting room and recognized the look on so many of the women’s faces. Most of them were there alone, like me. They had this expression on their face that I will never forget.

Shame.

Their eyes all looked empty. Their mouths were tight. They avoided any and all eye contact. But I still could read their minds. They, and I, were thinking, “What wrong turn did I make to end up here? How did it get that bad?”

I made the decision to terminate my pregnancy quite easily. In fact, looking back on it, I’m alarmed at how easy that decision was. It was never a question. I was completely detached. The father did what a lot of men in his situation do and denied it was his, claiming I was lying and making it up. I can remember him coming over my apartment and giving me $150 dollars, not saying a word, turning and walking away. He wouldn’t even look at me. I went in for my first appointment and was told to come back because I wasn’t far enough along. Yes, I went through the first part, the blood tests, the waiting, the watching women walk in and out of the waiting room with this vacant look in their eyes not once, but twice.

I had two weeks before they could do the procedure. In that time, I did everything I could to avoid thinking that their was a small, peanut sized person growing inside me. It wasn’t until the day before I went in for the second appointment that I found myself talking to him. Yes, I had this gut feeling it was a boy. I asked him to understand why I was doing what I was doing. That I wasn’t ready, couldn’t provide for him, blah blah blah. I gave him a few pat excuses.  The real reason, at least this is what I told myself, was that I just didn’t want him. It’s quite easy to convince yourself of certainly realities and truths isn’t it?

The morning before I went in, I remember looking at this picture of my Mother I have hung on my wall over my bed. That’s when it really hit me. Here I was acknowledging a connection that I never really experienced or acknowledged as I was about to terminate another one.  I said one final prayer to my Mom and asked her to take care of William for me. That was his name. It came to me so easily as I prayed, too. As if it had been there all along. The only person, other than Karen and the father, who knew was my uncle, a Franciscan priest. He wanted so badly to come with me that day, but for obvious reasons couldn’t. Read the rest of this entry »

Gay men by nature are more judgmental than Christian Fundamentalists and the Taliban combined. Having spent over half of my life immersed within the culture, like an abused spouse with no real intentions of walking away, I’ve simply gotten used to it. You quickly adapt to what is acceptable dress and music choices. But the one aspect of gay life that still eludes me, leaving me as mesmerized as Jane Goodall observing a pack of wild monkeys, is the appropriateness of how often one goes to the gay bar.

It would appear that a line has been drawn in the sand. On one side are the gays that would rather vacation in liberal, free-thinking West Virginia before they’d step foot into a gay bar. On the other side are the gays that can tell you the drink specials at any bar on any night and which drag queen is hosting what and where. The two rarely cross paths, obviously, but when they do, who exactly has the upper hand in judging the other?

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I’m guessing  the sex is so hot when the Obamas are done, the Bidens light a cigarette.  Barack and Michelle are doing for fidelity what Clinton did with infidelity–make us cover our eyes and peek through our fingers.  

Of course, monogamy’s always been sexy–for the first year or two of a relationship. But 17 years into a marriage? With two kids? That’s a recipe for sexual amnesia (“You wanna put what where? Why?”)

In HBO’s The Sex Inspectors (the sex makeover TV series), we help long-term couples with kids re-ignite the passion that marked their early relationship. By using cameras in the bedroom, we show them what they’re doing wrong–in and out of bed. But who needs cameras when you can look at a picture-perfect relationship? Here’s how M & O fire on all cylinders:

Kiss, Kiss. A passionate kiss is like a spider’s web–it leads to the undoing of the fly. Most couples don’t realize that before sex walks out the door, affection flies out the window. It’s not an accident that the Obamas kiss A LOT. They hold hands, hug and touch even more. They’re not showing off; they’re setting the stage. The best way to open the bedroom doors is to warm the path to it.

Pump, Pump. Barack, at 47, is almost 6′ 2″ and probably 170 lbs. Michelle, at 45, is almost 6′ and probably around the same weight. They don’t stay that way by doing daily doughnut drive-bys. They’re nuts about exercise, hitting the gym by 6 a.m. Shape up or the sex ships out. Arousal is about blood flow. So is exercise. You don’t need a Dalmatian to connect the dots.

Look, Look. Nancy Reagan looked at Ronnie like she admired him. Laura Bush looked at George like she loved him. Michelle looks at Obama like she’s undressing him. Embers turn to flames when you treat the object of your affection like the object of your desire.

Tush, Tush. They say behind every great man is a great woman. Not anymore. Now, it’s BESIDE every great man is a great woman. She’s not the wind beneath his wings; she is one of his wings. The sense of shared accomplishment is both cause and effect of their intimacy.

But enough lessons. It’s more fun to watch. Like Bill Clinton (“I feel your pain, can I feel it a little more?”), Obama’s got charm and empathy to spare–traits that do not go unnoticed by women. But unlike the former Bubba-in-chief, he’s the Hubba-Hubba-in-Chief. In real estate terms, that man is ocean-view property. And don’t get me started on her. She’s the first-ever FLILF (First Lady I’d Like To…)

Between the two, there’s going to be a whole lotta humpin’ in the White House. At last, a government-run sex education program we can all agree on!

Click here to see my collection of the sexiest Obama pics on the net.

Love ain’t enough. 

That’s a bitter pill to swallow. Or as a slightly oversexed friend likes to say, a bitter pillow to bite. 

When you’re in a relationship you realize love has all the limitations of glue:  It can’t stick if the parts don’t fit. I thought about all this when I bumped into an ex-boyfriend, who reminded me of a column I wrote about our break-up.  It was the first time I had ever written about love, and I remember being startled by the emotional response it got:

Our relationship ended after six or seven years.  That I couldn’t remember exactly when we met or how long we’d been together was a constant source of irritation to him.  Enraged at my memory lapses, he would introduce me as “my boyfriend, Ronald Reagan.”  

We fought for all the reasons people fight-money, misunderstanding, lust, and trust.  At first, problems came at us with all the weight of mid-summer snowflakes.  They melted before we even had the chance to flick them off.  But winter crept in and suddenly nothing would melt.  There was no avalanche, really.  I guess the snow just built up and caved the roof in. 

We drifted into a trial separation.  He got more clarity and I got more distant.  One day the phone rang.  He looked at the caller ID. 

“Who is it?” I asked.  “You,” he answered.

Confused, I walked over and saw what the caller ID flashed:   “UNAVAILABLE.”

I wonder if men are really capable of working things out in a relationship.  We have what it takes to love but do we have what it takes to stay?  Straight men can barely stay with women; what are the odds gay men can stay with each other?

We want our relationships to last like trees, stately oaks with deep roots that last forever.  But our relationships endure more like perennials, barely scratching the topsoil, coming back again and again in bloom-and-doom boomerangs.

Our relationship boomeranged from one end of the spectrum to the other, but our love didn’t.  It was so palpable, so present.  But people who think that’s all you need to keep a relationship going are wrong.  And single, too.  Only the unmarried think you can save a relationship with more love.

My love never changed, but my dreams did.  And so did his.  The steadiness of our affection and the changes in our aspirations met like an irresistible force crashing into an immovable object.  The only thing left standing was our dogs.

In the final moments before he left, we hugged and cried for so long I didn’t think we’d ever let go of each other.  I joked and told him I was crying because I felt so bad for him, that I knew how hard it would be to live without me.  He said he was crying because I was holding him so tight. 

As he pulled away in his rented truck, I realized what happened in his rear-view mirror is what happened in his heart.  I got smaller and smaller until I was no longer there. 

I waved until the truck pulled out of sight.  Only once before, at my brother’s funeral, had grief overwhelmed me with such force. 

Now I’m single, at an age where I remember thinking “I could never date anyone that old.”   But I’m also at the point where I can appreciate the deal brokered between age and wisdom.  Life does not take youth and beauty away from you; you are released from them.  And one of the things this bittersweet freedom allows is the capacity to experience profound love.  Like I did, for six or seven years.