DLers, please share your thoughts about this HOT MESS Gawker writer. Clearly he's mentally ill, but with what? Intimacy problems? Something much more complicated? Also, I know the media world is liberal, but I'm still surprised that their editors have no problem with a full-time employee penning true stories about MDMA trips and inhaling poppers, among other things. "Just before our love got lost I said, "I am the worst guy and you are the best." We had reached the moment of truth, one that was pronounced even in our established dynamic of honesty. It was the moment when even I couldn't tolerate my behavior any longer. Or at least, I couldn't tolerate not knowing whether he would. Over the past four months, I have learned that even when you are allowed to cheat, cheating still feels like cheating. I'm still not sure how I feel about polygamy or polyamory as it concerns my sexuality, but I understand the argument for monogamy louder and clearer than ever before. Frustration would be a relief compared to this blur of confusion, seduction, distraction. It's really hard to draw lines while you are having sex. Your hand is either moving or stabilizing you and, ugh, who cares about drawing — you're having sex. These are the symptoms of my open relationship, or whatever it is. *** I fell in love in paradise. My third trip to Fire Island's Pines this summer in early August made for the most beautiful weekend of my year... Over the next two days, I consumed him in every way I could, short of literally inhaling him. Everywhere he went, my head turned and my body followed ... We walked home through the Meat Rack, the section of wilderness between the Pines and Cherry Grove that's notorious for public sex. Some guy approached us and said he wanted to play with us. We both made out with him. It was whatever. I could tell Raph wasn't at all into it, so I told the guy Raph was traditional and we went away. Then Raph and I fucked in the dunes... "I love you, too, Rich," he said. "And you're so nice to me." This he said almost frowning, but pushing back at the weight of his past. I considered the implications of his expression. Being mean to this guy, this innocent vessel of pure kindness, would require the same level cruelty as abusing an animal. The next time I was home alone that week, I was on Grindr, chatting idly but not, y'know, pointlessly. The week after Labor Day, I hooked up with two strangers... I told Raph about a former next-door neighbor that I'd reconnected with recently. I had always wanted to have sex with him. "I can see why you'd want to have sex with him, that sounds hot," he said. I took that as an endorsement. I hooked up with him. It was fun until I felt like shit... n October, Raph moved to Jersey for a month – he knew someone with an open room and he wanted some more time to find a place in New York. A few days before he moved, he found out that he had cancer... A few weeks ago, I slept with a guy multiple times and then I went home with someone else later that week who told me he loved me while we were hooking up. I don't think he meant it, but it fucked me up. The slippery slope was becoming my plane of existence. I'd think about Raphael, this perfect angel with an unlimited capacity for kindness, and how fucking Satanic I was being and I knew this had to be reconciled before my entire world exploded..." (vastly longer, unabridged version at link)
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