It doesn’t matter what any of us look like – fat, ugly, beautiful,
handsome, young, old, white, African, Asian, or whatever – THIS is the
only acceptable partner for our lives. And if this is the ONLY
ACCEPTABLE OPTION, then we are in a really bad state, because there is
simply not enough of these Adonis Fantasy Men to go around.
We no longer see human beings and learn to love them, explore them, lock eyes with them and feel the exhilaration of romance and falling in love. We just log on to Planetromeo, the gay slot-machine, and repeatedly “load more guys” waiting for a jackpot that will never come. We are addicts, just like any common gamblers addicted to their machines. It doesn’t matter how many beautiful, similarly-tortured, like-minded souls send us a message, because unless they are this dude above, we are simply not interested.
We ignore, block, or prick-tease our way around our fellow brothers-in-pain, compounding the sense of self-hatred onto ourselves, and projecting it onto others. We salivate over these perfect guys, (perfect on the outside, not anywhere else), who exist only on our screens in porno fantasies. We throw ourselves repeatedly at them, we have childish tantrums if they ignore or reject us, and we pull our hair and wail about our accursed single-lives.
We deny our true desires, and claim we want only NSA FUN, because we don’t want to look needy and desperate, BUT THAT’S EXACTLY WHAT WE ALL ARE. It’s also really convenient to claim we’re “not after a relationship” because it makes our job so much easier when we “accidentally” forget to message that last fuck back. There was nothing wrong with him, he was hot and sexy and made us cum, but he wasn’t our jackpot, he wasn’t our Knight in Shining Hot Top Masc Str8 Acting Armour come on a white horse, torso exposed, muscles rippling, cock large thick and hard, ready to pound us endlessly into a multi-orgasmic nirvana happily ever after till Cher turns back time (eeew a gay icon, that’s so gay, it’s making me soft to think about her! REAL MASC MEN ONLY. NO HOMO. NO FEM.)
We have denied an entire half of our sexuality (our versatility, the fact that we have a cock AND a hole) and become addicted to bottomness, searching endlessly for the Hot Masc Top to save us, refusing to ever supply the pleasure we are addicted to receiving. We have shoved ourselves into hetero normative gender roles of masculine and feminine, man and woman, husband and wife, top and bottom, big spoon and little spoon, pitcher and catcher, top bunk and bottom bunk, and LITERALLY HATE OURSELVES for it. Oh, we claim we are versatile, but first opportunity it’s legs up and open high in the air, come save me Top Tarzan Man! If we allowed ourselves some love and romance, as we once did, in our fledgling days of true pride, we might fall for a man deeply enough to want all of him, and to want to give all of ourselves, not just our holes. But nope! Our sex addicted bottom-selves won’t allow this, (after all love and romance, those aren’t “masc things”, those are girly concepts, right?), and it’s easier to just BLOCK, PULL THAT LEVER, LOAD MORE GUYS, JACKPOT? BLOCK, PULL THAT LEVER, LOAD MORE GUYS…
BLOCK. PULL THAT LEVER. LOAD MORE GUYS…. and then pull that trigger because right now, in 2014, a bullet seems preferable to looking at another headless, soulless torso with the word MASC written above it.
We no longer see human beings and learn to love them, explore them, lock eyes with them and feel the exhilaration of romance and falling in love. We just log on to Planetromeo, the gay slot-machine, and repeatedly “load more guys” waiting for a jackpot that will never come. We are addicts, just like any common gamblers addicted to their machines. It doesn’t matter how many beautiful, similarly-tortured, like-minded souls send us a message, because unless they are this dude above, we are simply not interested.
We ignore, block, or prick-tease our way around our fellow brothers-in-pain, compounding the sense of self-hatred onto ourselves, and projecting it onto others. We salivate over these perfect guys, (perfect on the outside, not anywhere else), who exist only on our screens in porno fantasies. We throw ourselves repeatedly at them, we have childish tantrums if they ignore or reject us, and we pull our hair and wail about our accursed single-lives.
We deny our true desires, and claim we want only NSA FUN, because we don’t want to look needy and desperate, BUT THAT’S EXACTLY WHAT WE ALL ARE. It’s also really convenient to claim we’re “not after a relationship” because it makes our job so much easier when we “accidentally” forget to message that last fuck back. There was nothing wrong with him, he was hot and sexy and made us cum, but he wasn’t our jackpot, he wasn’t our Knight in Shining Hot Top Masc Str8 Acting Armour come on a white horse, torso exposed, muscles rippling, cock large thick and hard, ready to pound us endlessly into a multi-orgasmic nirvana happily ever after till Cher turns back time (eeew a gay icon, that’s so gay, it’s making me soft to think about her! REAL MASC MEN ONLY. NO HOMO. NO FEM.)
We have denied an entire half of our sexuality (our versatility, the fact that we have a cock AND a hole) and become addicted to bottomness, searching endlessly for the Hot Masc Top to save us, refusing to ever supply the pleasure we are addicted to receiving. We have shoved ourselves into hetero normative gender roles of masculine and feminine, man and woman, husband and wife, top and bottom, big spoon and little spoon, pitcher and catcher, top bunk and bottom bunk, and LITERALLY HATE OURSELVES for it. Oh, we claim we are versatile, but first opportunity it’s legs up and open high in the air, come save me Top Tarzan Man! If we allowed ourselves some love and romance, as we once did, in our fledgling days of true pride, we might fall for a man deeply enough to want all of him, and to want to give all of ourselves, not just our holes. But nope! Our sex addicted bottom-selves won’t allow this, (after all love and romance, those aren’t “masc things”, those are girly concepts, right?), and it’s easier to just BLOCK, PULL THAT LEVER, LOAD MORE GUYS, JACKPOT? BLOCK, PULL THAT LEVER, LOAD MORE GUYS…
BLOCK. PULL THAT LEVER. LOAD MORE GUYS…. and then pull that trigger because right now, in 2014, a bullet seems preferable to looking at another headless, soulless torso with the word MASC written above it.
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