I tell guys I'm a face guy. Faceless profiles that hit me up have an uphill battle holding my interest no matter how ripped the body or how skilled the hand is at the shutter to capture moments with inanimate objects or pleasant scenery. But at the same time, I sometimes struggle really hard to picture the guy's face when after a few months I come across the notes I jotted down from an encounter and am about to write it up for this blog.
This guy is an expat, living in central america, but back in the states to take care of some business that needed his physical presence. He had turned me down one night but then changed his mind in the morning. Turned out, he just had plenty of other offers. I might have been the first for him that morning, but he had taken a number of loads, two of them raw, from five tops the night before as a hotel PrEP whore. Both of us were still a little jet lagged, so I became raw load number three at 5 AM in the morning local time. My notes tells me that he's a handsome fella with a nice beard and salt and pepper hair, but what I remember most is his story of him having to take the backroad to the airport as the locals were protesting in the streets and shutting down roads and traffic. He barely made his flight.
And what struck me is two-fold. First, how as airplanes crisscross the sky, the passengers crisscross on the ground into a grid of experience as expansive as the known universe. And second, how I've indulged in such excess in comparison to those of others. Not just sex, but just life in general.