Light Rain, Dark Green

This farm has a calming effect on me. As I've probably mentioned before, it's divided by a stand of hemlock that climb a steep hill.  They are not a wall, but a depth of green into which your eyes can fall, into which your eyes search for the source of forest sounds that weigh on your curiosity.  Eventually, you succumb.  You drop the spade, leave the weeding half done.  The dog looks up from her spot on the ground and her thoughts read, 'he's going?  I hadn't suspected that.'

I've been thinking a lot about death.  Funny how I've been detached from such an impactful inevitability for so long.  I want to matter more while I'm alive.  I want to trip over the thing I'm supposed to do before I die.  I think that if this happens something might be different, that I'll be able to let go more easily, that dying won't hurt so much.  I guess I haven't really thought about why I need to matter more while I'm alive.  Maybe I just need attention.

I am a snowball of defects.  I am an engine that backfires the same chugs, the same stalls over and over again. The only virtue of my imperfection is that I have been leveled by it so frequently that I am left with a level field upon which to think, act and explore my life.  I'm at such a depth, my frequent falls from grace don't even skin my knees.

I had a  meeting recently with a man who possesses drive, brains and a breadth of interest. He boasted that as part of a recruiting protocol that was undertaken by a firm interested in hiring him, more than 20 thousand dollars was spent on the interview process.  And I asked, "What were they trying to determine?  Clearly you are qualified for the position."  And he returned a question, "Well don't you think that they should be careful?  What do you think that they should be looking for?"  And I responded, "I think that they should be looking for someone who they can talk to, when, after they're done, they have better, clearer ideas than when they started."  I think he thought I was belittling the recruiting process of this company that hired him and now that I reflect upon it, I was.  How is it that you measure an individual?

I want to be selfish, indulgent, lauded, beautiful, dominant, rich, gifted and strong and I think I am capable of pushing others out of my way in order to get there, blinded as I am by own ignorance and lack of virtue.  What an appropriate landscape for this discovery:  yellowing fields rolling to the bottom of a ravine where there's a patch of level earth big enough for a polo match.  With the wise hemlock sentinels above me not just masking, but making a darkness from which there are  drums, hoots and shrieks.  What a happy idiot I am tumbling about like a toddler on a mat.  Watch me drop to my knees, not to pray, but to scoop dirt with my hands, to dig potatoes with my fingers, to fall before  licentious fantasy.

 The bottom of the earth is not all fire.  In my hell there is dark green and light rain.

Darker and Darker Still

 I get out of bed, take a piss and happen to look up and see myself in the mirror.  My hair is rumpled, I'm unshaved.  I think I look sexy with my shirt off and my cock hanging out, pissing in the commode.  I walk downstairs and flip on the light in the hallway.  I pull on my boots and grab a sweatshirt, then head out to start my chores.

A cooing mourning dove starts this day as does a dense fog and the sound of the running stream.  Gravel crunches under my feet , then the sound crosses over to swishing grass as I make my way down the drive and then through the fields to the barn.  Dew completely soaks my boots and pant legs.

Inside the barn, a flock of chickens waits eagerly at their coop door.  They jostle about, but make no clucking sounds.  Even the rooster is quiet.  I open the door and they rush out into the pasture, into the fog, damp and dawn, then march upon the fields.  They are merciless.  They inspect each blade of grass with precision, either with their eyes or their sharp beaks.  Whatever they find is seized from its resting spot, like grabbing a pea with a pair of chop sticks. It is grabbed, clamped and swallowed.  There's no time for chewing and barely a pause in their march.  They are the most loyal soldiers to appetite, survival, and selfishness.

I remain in the barn.  A quartet of young wrens flies about in a mild panic.  Their wing-beating sounds like an airplane with a rubber band propeller.  Some lightly thrum themselves against the glass window frame trying to make an escape.  They flutter here and there, through the wire of the chicken coop, into the rafters, back through the chicken wire.  They're fat and healthy chicks.  They've been reared on chicken feed and insects from the field.  These cherubs will be small masters of the sky.

I am waiting on the platform for the A train to take me downtown.  A tall, twenty-something Hispanic, in the company of an older woman, asks me for directions.  He has on a tight-fitting, long-sleeved shirt, tight pants, heavy jewelry and sunglasses.  He looks like he's been outfitted from the wardrobe department of Sanford and Son.  Though he is manly looking, he still has enough baby fat on him to give him feminine curves and despite his flashy, ethnic look, he is gentle and soft spoken.  After I help him, he and his mother (?) settle into the bench next to me.  He and I exchange smiles.  He has a sweet, submissiveness.

When the train arrives, he and his mother stay close.  The young man and I exchange smiles again.

What happens to me when I want like this?  I stand there, holding onto the overhead handrail and feel my attraction to him weigh upon me.  What is it that fuels the intensity of my desire?  Years I've spent, readying myself for this day of work in New York City.  I have suffered for years with long work hours and education to get to a position where I can command the money and the schedule that I do.  But none of that matters now.  He radiates a heat.  I relax my knees and feel how easily I could just lie down on the subway car floor. This feeling is like a release from every tension I've ever known.  Awash in it as I am now, I might float, I might stop in time, I might not remember anything that has ever troubled me, I might live one pure, now instant.

The car shakes as we move the through the tunnel.  We enter a longer stretch of track where the train accelerates.  The momentum is carried through each car and each of the bodies on the train.  Those of us that are holding onto the overhead rail lean back into the wake of the increased speed.  The connection I feel to the young man is like this invisible force that acts on all of us in the car.  I imagine the distance between us commuted by this connection, just as you erase distance when you look through the scope of a rifle, just as your eye is locked onto the object in the cross hairs while the rest of the world tumbles to blurred edges.

We are several stops into the trip.  I know where he's going because I'm the one who gave him the directions to get there. I know that in another stop, he'll be gone, that I will never see him again, and I'll only be left with this wanting. That prospect seems unbearable to me. I rush through my work bag to search for a business card.  I don't know how I'm going to give it to him or what I'll say when I do,  but I know that this can't be the last time I see him.  I realize, pathetically, that for months, I've been tricking myself into believing that I've been happy or even ok.  Outside of the train, solitary light bulbs whiz by.  The contrast to what I feel now and what I have been feeling and thinking for months is like these spaced moments of light in barreling darkness.

When the doors open, he moves to exit and looks at me again.  I hand him the card.  I have to reach past two people to do this.   I only say...I flounder it...I say, "here you are".  He smiles and nods like he's known all along that this would happen.  He takes the card, and exits.

Two hours later, he texts me.  When I receive the text, I'm immersed in my pretend life, the one where I pretend that the words coming out of my mouth and the things that I talk about matter.  In fact, when I see the text, I'm in the process of talking and I stutter so that the last part comes out like babble. It is maybe the most real thing I've said all day.  Meaningless, yes, but at least is is true. I look around me and really take things in.  I feel like inviting everyone to a bar.  I feel like taking my clothes off and going to bed. I feel like opening up the window, climbing out, making my way down the side of the building, then down the block, and not turning around.   I text him back 'great to hear from you'.  I write the word 'great' but the words do nothing to convey how I feel.  I ask him, 'can I see you later today?' and he replies back quickly, 'yes'.

In the quiet of the barn, the wren chicks have exhausted themselves trying to beat their way through the windowpanes.  They perch on the seal panting shallow, quick, silent breaths.  The light that shines into this dark paddock is like the light for which you build church windows.  Even though everything has been still, dust remains floating in the air, rising and sinking like a thousand hot air balloons in a race to circle the globe in 80 days.

After we are together, I catch him looking at himself in the mirror.  He studies his hair, his face, and then his eyes. He scrutinizes himself for flaws like the chickens look for bugs.  I want to take a snapshot of him so that I catch the shine of the pomade in his hair.  So he can autograph the picture with a marker and write on it 'See ya 'round, Casanova'.   I recognize that face that he makes at himself in the mirror, as he swivels his chin from side to side.  I know that bandaid of affirmation that gets applied.  I know that Dumbo journey up an down in the bright, white rays of morning. And all these years I  thought it was a spotlight.  I had no idea it was evidence, proof all along that I was part of something infinitely larger and much more stark.  I know why the little birds are so afraid and why they've rushed to the sides of the frame.

Dayton Dreams

If you've been reading my blog for awhile, you know I travel often for work.  I've been traveling further and further west in the past couple of months and I love it.  The guys are the kind of straight-looking built guys that make me go crazy.  Those fucking white, bubble asses!  Christ, they make me nuts.  Love the smell of their sweet pussies, love to eat them out, love to fuck them.  Love to be in them so hard and just dripping inside of them, you know?  I have to tell them, 'don't move, don't move', cause I'm so close to cumming.  I just lie there with them, kissing them, by cock deep inside of them, just dripping.

I'm currently at a hotel in Dayton, Ohio.  Here's a pic of my cock I just took.

And here's a shot of me in the mirror at the hotel

So listen, this is what I want:

I want a gay man with his head on straight.  You can't be a druggie...even part time...(sorry about that)

You should be positive like me so I can fuck you without a condom and we can make love like people are supposed to make love.

I want you to have a life outside of us.

I want to see the joy you have for life, so I can see life through your eyes.  I am go go go and with someone who sees the beautify and life and takes time to take it in, I am a better person.

And this is what you'll get:

Total worship in bed.  I'll completely possess you.
My generosity
My admiration and respect.

This guy has been driving me nuts with his fucking perfect pussy.  He's a masculine guy with very white skin and nearly hairless all over.  Thirty something.  Honestly, it's like he's giving off a chemical that is making me go insane. And it's like he knows he's doing it to me.  I look in his eyes sometimes and I think...are you the devil or what?  It's like he has a grip on my soul, my sanity, everything I am.

I think that's how I threw my back out to be perfectly honest.  He's a bigger guy with long big legs and I think the combination of having that weight on my shoulders along with all of that lower back movement on my part  ;) wore out my muscles.  The other day I was bending over to put something in the dishwasher and I had a fast, shooting pain in my lower left side.  It felt like I had been tasered.  I almost dropped to my knees the pain was so intense.  Since then, I have been having small electric-like shots of pain there, but its no where nearly as debilitating.

Things at the farm are robust.  The recent rain gave everything a second lease on life.  The lawn is lush and emerald and after it's been cut, you have to stand there and marvel at its green beauty.  The sunflowers that I struggled with earlier this year are up and in flower.  The struggle consisted of me and little fucking turd of a groundhog who made it his business to chew off the top two leaves of each seedling as it spouted.  The dog is no help.  She spends hours, stone-still pointing the asshole out, but do you think she ever runs after it, catches and kills it?  Hell no.  I have the world's only nature-loving dog.

Said 'screw this' to the mountain of work I had on my desk the other day, went downstairs, grabbed a glass of wine and headed off into the fields with the dog.  We crossed the stream and the 'wild tub' as I call it...a natural waterfall and place to bathe... then headed up the logging trail into the dark, still forest.  We follow a deer trail, well worn over the years, by the dutiful, short steps of small hoofs that have downtrodden its path. It's like walking in the gutter lane at a bowling alley, but it's a sure, clean way.  Once you are into the forest about 500 yards or so, the path levels off and you get the sense that you are navigating the edge of a dark, large brimmed hat before you begin a descent down a gravely road that opens into another part of the stream and more waterfalls.

One of these days, I'm going to find someone to bring up here, lay him down next to that stream and screw them right there atop the soft earth. I want to fill him with my cum.  Cream inside of him while he's laying on the moist earth with those stark hemlocks above.  Have the drumming blood in my ears, quiet after the rush, and have that sound replaced with the sound of the nearby running water.

Ass-tral projections

I have this sweet boyfriend.  I told you.  He says to me, ‘know one gives you the pleasure that I do’.  He says this while I’m inside of him, holding his sweet, smooth, perfect ass; his beautiful legs wrapped around me.  I can’t get enough of him.  He is right.  He has me completely.  I am spellbound.

I push my cock all the way into him, as deep and as hard as I can.  I slide my hand closer to his pussy and pull it open so that I can go in deeper still.  I wrap my whole body around him, then take his mouth with my own.  I would consume him if I could.  As it is, I grab the back of his head and tell him I’m going to make him mine.  I ask if he’s ready to go on the journey with me.

We look at each other, half bound up as we are, with my dick in his perfect cunt, with his delicious, smooth legs around my body.  We agree with our eyes that we will bond.  I take his mouth again.  I tell him, ‘Open yourself to me.  Let me have my way with you. Let me satisfy myself in your pussy’. 

I stroke harder and harder inside of him.  I pull my cock all of the way out and push it all the way in over and over and faster and faster.   I hold onto him tightly.  I tell him with each stroke, I love you, I love you, I love you.  He’s completely enveloped in my arms.  His mouth is all mine.  And then I tell him ‘I’m going to marry you right now’.  I make him tell me that he wants me to make him mine.  When he tells me that he wants me, it makes me go crazy.  I push my cock hard into his cunt and flood that sweet pussy with hot cum.

I keep my cock pressed as hard as I can into his pussy.  My cock pulses with each squirt of cum, deep inside of him.  He whispers, ‘I can feel you.’

Afterwards I lie there, my cock still in him and he strokes my hair.  He kisses me gently on my face.  I lay on top of him, spent.

I don’t know what we are doing.  I don’t know where or what these trips are, dark as they are, as ecstatic as they are.  But I can tell you that the two of us have converged during those times.  We have met somewhere inside, like its astral.  It’s a connection that will never stop or never go away.  

I'm going to a party

It's been months since I've been to a party.  I keep using work as an excuse to not socialize, but the fact of the matter is, I'd rather stay in.  I know that some people find the seduction of someone socially arousing, but it just frustrates me.  If I see you and like you and we hit it off, I don't feel like putting the breaks on in front of a bunch of other people. I want you all to myself, all alone, so I can have my way with you.

I'm with someone now that I can totally have my way with.  It's heart-stopping.  I just keep my dick rock hard, slowly pumping inside of him for what seems like hours (it's probably only an hour or so, but it's certainly longer than what most people are used to).  Do you have any idea how exhilarating it is to be on the edge of cumming for more than an hour, just dripping inside of perfect man pussy?

That sounds crude, but I tell you, I've never had anything like it.  This boy is like a geisha.  He's pumped up, muscular, but still round like a woman...or like anything that is sexy...is.  Having him underneath me, penetrating him, fucking him for hours and then finally unloading two full nuts of cum pushed all the way inside of him is like a bottle of wellbutrin washed down with a hefty dose of scotch.  It takes me 30% longer to get anywhere I'm going after that.  That's how sated and slowed down I am.

I got sidetracked.  Where was I?  Oh yes, the party.  Well, I'm not going to be able to see my regular boy this January 31st.  If I were, I'd probably skip out of town with him in tow on the 30th and spend the weekend up here in this time-stop-capsule screwing him morning, noon and night, but I have a friend really down on his luck and he's been bugging me to come up here, so I'm going to treat him for the New Year.  That said, I'll stay in the city for the party, pick his ass up on the 31st and haul him up here for a few days of farm R and R.

The party is at a theatre and will be filled to the brim with a bunch of theatre queers...my favorite kind of folk, since they're mostly gregarious and funny.
I'm planning on doing a lot of flirting and trawling, oh yeah, and drinking ;)

Stay warm, farm followers!  Let me hear from you, wherever you are!

Christmases Kinky

It’s Christmas, always a time for memories, but I’m not going to talk about sugar cookies and stockings.  It is the gay farmer website after all.  I’m going to talk about a couple of queer Christmases I had when I was living in NYC.

This memory is of a Christmas I must have had more than 20 years ago when I was about 24 or so.  At the time, I was a bartender at a notorious bar in the Village, a left over from the 60’s, called the Ninth Circle.  This bar had already long since peaked, had been visited by some of NY’s coolest set, but now was just a watering hole for the last hangers on of that era, those about to die of AIDS or just beginning to, underworld small time crooks and young hustlers looking for food, lodging and spending cash.  One hustler…what was his name?  I can’t recall.  I can see still see him.  Not much to look at, thin, unkempt, but cocksure and reckless.  He trawled the waters of that older crowd, would sidle up next to them as they sat at the bar, take out his cock and let them grope it under the concealment of the bar rail.  His cock was huge and from my vantage, I could watch the old men’s expression change to lust as they touched it.  Afterwards, they would flag me down to order him a beer or drink of some kind.  They were hateful perverts, all of those old men.  Deceitful.  They didn’t even have the decency to pay the young kid money.  They cheaply doled out their affection in drinks, dinners at the diner, or a place to sleep next to them back at their apartments.

What was I talking about?  Oh, yeah, Christmases.  Well one Christmas, I spent walking all over the city with a friend I met at that bar. His name was Tommy.  He was a graduate of the Julliard School of Drama and kept me in stitches whenever I worked.  He was a funny, funny guy and …well, I can’t remember how or why we agreed to do it, but one Christmas morning, we put on Santa hats and walked all the way from our apartments in the Village, up Eight Avenue, across Central Park, past the Museum, then down through the East Side till we ended up back in the Village at a burger joint.  We had martinis and burgers for Christmas.  It was wonderful.

But the real reason, I’m telling you all of this is this.  After I said goodnight to Tommy, I went to a porno bookstore.  Now remember, its Christmas night.  Still there were a couple of hustlers in there trying to make a few bucks.  Maybe for some last minute shopping, who knows.  Well, there was this one that simply blew my mind.  He was about 6 foot tall, Hispanic, very light skinned, very tough, big bubble ass and a full, red lips.  When I approached him, I wasn’t certain whether he was going to be hostile or what.  After a brief conversation…I remember he was playing a video game while we talked.  My eyes were on him, but his were on the video screen before him… I convinced him to come into the back of the bookstore with me and share a stall.  This place was run by the mob.  All of them were then and you could pay off the attendants to let you share a booth together, normally only 5 or 10 dollars.   Anyway, I got this guy in there and he acts like this tough top and he wants me to suck his dick (which was huge, by the way), but I wanted some of that ass.

After fooling around with his cock for a while, I got him to turn around.  His ass was perfect and when I started to eat him out, the scent of it was sweet and fresh.  For a while, he held himself stiffly, but soon began to relax and after a few minutes more, he was actually sticking it out for me so that I could eat him out deeper.  Lastly, he reached around and spread his fat, bubble cheeks for me so I could really get in there. Even now when I think about it, I get hard. 

The guy was driving my crazy, so I stood up and whispered that I wanted to fuck him.  He told me that it would cost me 60 bucks and I can tell you I practically threw the money at him.  I couldn’t get in my wallet fast enough.  I gave him the money.  I remember the sound of the bills folding in his hand as he turned around to present his back to me again.  His pants were down around his ankles.   I remember the outline of his muscled legs.  He had taken off his black aviator jacket and hung in on the hook on the back of the door.  His t-shirt was lifted slightly to reveal his stocky waste.

I ate him some more to get him good and wet, then rock hard, I pushed my cock slowly into that perfect ass.  He was tense.  After a few strokes, I felt like I would explode in him.  I had to keep thinking of horrible things: the prospect of getting arrested or killed, to keep from coming.   Then, just as he had before, he relaxed and soon he was pushing his ass towards me and leaning more deeply into the wall in front of him.  I was crazy with lust.  It was one of the most rapturous fucks I have ever had and I can tell you that I was especially crazed when I reached around and felt that his cock was rock hard.

After a bit more pumping, I pulled out and came huge ropes of cum.  He did not.  Then we silently put our clothes back on.  He left the booth before me…almost like he couldn’t wait to get out…away from me?  Away from the shame?  I don’t know.

By the time I pulled myself together and moved to leave the store, he was back at the video game.  He never looked up as I left and I never saw him again. 

If I could go back and relive that day, I would not have paid him for sex.  I would have asked him to dinner and then, if he needed money, just given it to him.  As I look back on Christmases past, I don’t remember the money or the presents. I remember the contact. I remember the people.  I remember the rush of feeling that I was in love.

Strong Coffee

Over the many years I dreamed of this house, I anticipated a deliciously brewed cup of coffee.  For years, I had been living with a small 3 cup brewing system in my room of a NYC apartment and I vowed that when I had the space, I would purchase a great coffee maker and brew enough coffee for my 4 cup thirst along with the needs of any friends that might amble in.

While the home was being built, I sated anticipation with shopping at places like Bed Bath and Beyond, the Kitchen Store and the like to find all the things I would need to stock my dreamed-of kitchen.  I wasn’t just out-rigging a meatloaf and potatoes operation; I was out for nothing short of a restaurant grade finish.  And during one of those forays, I bought a coffee maker priced at 120 dollars.

It was a Cuisinart and it had a built in grinder for the beans, some weird kind of way to select the number of cups you were going to brew, and a big thermal pot to store all the coffee in when it was finished brewing so it wouldn’t sit on the burner too long and get acrid.

The first couple of pots were a disaster.  If you don’t tell the machine you would like to brew less than 4 cups, it misdirects the water over the grounds and you get tea colored coffee.  If you don’t preheat the thermas, the coffee pours out warm at best.  If you don’t program it right it beeps…and beeps…and beeps till you want to  throw the mother fucker through the goddamn window.

Yes, folks that 120 dollar Cuisinart was an exercise in anger management for me and finally, I just got sick of trying to pretend I enjoyed operating the machine or drinking its coffee.  So you know what I did?  I dumbed things down considerably.  I bought a French Press and I can tell you I wish I had thought of doing it sooner.  You boil water on the stove till its well, boiling hot, so temperature is not an issue with this brew.  The first sip can set your head on fire if you’re not careful.  Secondly, and this is the real pioneer part of the story that I like, I don’t use the water out of the tap.  No, I fetch, yes, fetch it out of the stream that runs below my house.  I actually fetch a pail of water when I get up in the morning.  It’s one of the first things I do.

I don’t like using the tap because it can sometimes taste like sulfur. The stream water, on the other hand, tastes mountain-fresh.  Indeed, you can watch it roll down the mountain from my upstairs window. 

So I just wanted to give you that report before I started out with my day.  I wanted to give you a heads up on what’s in store for you when you drop by.  Not just any kind of coffee.  Mountain stream water coffee.  French pressed if you like.  And there will be time to talk or share a piece of pie or just sit by yourself if you care to and look at that mountain, listen to that stream and wander off with that water on a trip some 300 miles away to the great, blue sea.

Your Ass is Grass

I never really imagined I would grow up to be an ass licker.  I mean, brown noser yes, but asslicker…literally?  No.  I don’t even know why I’m so obsessed with it.  What is it with queers and their assholes?

When I was in my ‘formative’ years, I never found my own ass erotic at all.  Never, NEVER, did an idea pop into my head…hey, if I shove something up there instead of squeezing something out, it will feel great.  The idea was as far removed from me as PA is from Honolulu.  But I did grow up with a neighbor friend.  His name was Wissy Seletnick.  The Wissy part was short for Aloysius.   He was a short, stout, sexy Polock and he had this thing where he liked to shove an empty enema bottle up his ass, blow air up there and fart.  Now I ask you, how do you dream that shit up?  But anyway, there you have it.  That’s what he would do and on any number of occasions he would ‘entertain’ me with that.  I mean, we were like 9…10 years old.  That boy was troubled. 

Cut to Provincetown, Mass sometime in the early nineties.  I had never been there before, never even heard of the joint, but I went up with a ‘production’ of Vampire Lesbians in Sodom’.   Couldn’t have been rinky-dinkier if you wanted it to be.  And I got housed with this perfect blond, California surfer kid.  I think he was 28 at the time.  I was maybe 29 or 30.  He looked like a young Rob Redford.  Gorgeous.  And he was straight, or so the story went.  Then one night after a couple of belts and nothing to do…they roll up the sidewalk there by 1 or so in the AM…we were in our rooms and I think I must have suggested that I read something to him out of my journal…or some piece of bullshit I was working on …novel, I can’t remember all the crap I was turning out then, but somehow, and I’m vague on the details, we ended up in bed, me reading to him and the next thing you know we were making out.  And I’m not sure if it was my idea or his, but I ended up fondling his asshole and from the moment I touched it, it was like I’d pressed one of those Staples buttons, “That Was Easy!”  The response I got from him was over the top: moaning and groaning and writhing in the sheets.  Well you can imagine what that looked like…Rob Redford squirming around like a finger puppet with my hand doing the fingering…I went crazy.  And the more I fondled, the more he encouraged me to go.  It was dark and he kept saying…another finger….another finger.  Good thing I was only born with five, that ‘straight’ porn star could have taken enough fingers up there to make applause.  

Well eventually he came.  He was half on the floor at that point and my hand was so deep inside of him, I would have had to open his mouth to see my wrist watch.  And we had an entire summer of sex.  He worked at a hammock store and he actually brought a hammock back to the room we stayed in, slung it between two walls and encouraged me to fuck him in it.  My lord, those were fun days.  PS, later I found that the rest of the cast would stand outside of the door and hear us going at in there.  His cover was officially blown.

When we moved back to NYC, we continued to try to make a go of our ‘relationship’ but it was clear after awhile that it was built on obsession…nothing to do with love.  He and I both were trying to fill holes that….well, no matter how much you stuff in the physical ones…the emotional ones continue to gape. 

I’m 47 years old now.  The idea that I still flirt with fucking ass, eating it, having a boyfriend ‘wife’ blows my mind. Yet, here I am still.  I wonder how all of this will play out 3 years from now when I’m 50…how about 55 or worse yet 60?  I mean, I know that straight people have the same problem…finding sexual attractiveness in older partners…but I think it’s going to be especially difficult to find it between two men.  How is any 50 year old man still going to be taking loads, fingers, dildo’s whatever up his ass at that age?

It’s absolutely frigid here.  We have 30 degree temps and half the land is still covered with snow.  The spring birds have returned and must be half starved, half frozen at this point.  A hillside of daffodils planted some 3 years ago is erupting in those stout, pine green stems I love to see.  Looks like the display will be full.  I can’t wait to lie in some warm grass soon and look at them.  Who will be in my arms on that day?  Where will my hands be…and where will they wander?  Over grass, across his sunshine heated clothes, feeling thigh and buttocks.  Where will all my protestations about gay sex be then, when I pull that man to me, kiss him and make him mine?  

Spring Starts

Listen readers, I'm really sorry about the lapse in writing.  It won't happen again.  This gay farmer is committing to keeping you informed on all the latest in farm tips and sexploits.  So stay tuned.

Spent a whirlwind week speaking at a conference in Indianapolis where I enjoyed 70 degree weather (ok...only for a day, but I enjoyed it) and then spent the remainder of the week in the far less glamourous reaches of southern Pa where I can half heartily report that the daffodils are budded above muddy cold earth and scattered forsythia blooms look forlorn and ragged.

Put in a cold frame, did I tell you?  You know what that is? Well, it's ironically named for one, because not more than 14 days after putting it in, temperatures outside dipped to 17.  I like to say if it had been one mark higher on the meter, the temp would have been legal.  Anyway a cold frame is a couple pieces of wood slapped together to form a rectangle with a sloped top...the slope of which slides south.  You put the frame on a suitably tilled plot of soil, then put a couple of glass panes over top to trap all the solar energy that streams inside.  For two weeks there, it was doing great and the soil inside was like padding around a north carolina farm in July.  So I got cocky and laced the whole thing with a seed mix for fancy salad greens.  One week later, I added a row of radishes and beets.  Two days after that...just as the lettuce was beginning to emerge, we had this cold snap we're currently going through and I've been afraid to look inside ever since.

Back in the single saddle again.  Did I tell you?  I won't go into all the gory details, but yes, single again.

You know what my problem is?  I just can't get off on the gay of it all any more.  The more I think about sex with men my age, the more I think about gay sex in general, the more it seems laughable.  I mean, Jesus, I'm 47 years old, and while I probably have a few more miles on me in the attractive department, the idea of laying down with another man, equally as old and playing house, seems preposterous.  What am I going to do?

I can't date someone younger...too much younger...I just don't think we'll have anything to talk about.  It's like I've reached a Waterloo.  Before, anxious ridden, I used to be able to turn on a porn, take a hit of poppers and lose myself in some jerk off session.  I used to be able to escape that way.  Same thing with tricking.  Used to be able to log on to the web, find an apartment buzzer to ring, head on over, shoot a load and move on with my day...now...regardless of what I try, jerking off or sleeping around, I can't prevent reality from covering me over.  I was, am and will be an older gay man, pursuing the sex of what really should be left to adolescents.  At least straights can legitimize their partnership with some solid goals like children and though I wouldn't defend that statement vigorously, it is a reality.  I mean an old woman and old man having sex is almost as gross as two men, almost, but their partnership has the rearing of kids  as a focal point and that somehow seems like it makes more sense to me.  What do partnered gay men strive for?  Extracurricular play dates with online buddies?  A trip to NY for the black party?  Redecorating the vacation house in CR?  I don't know.  I guess the more I talk about it, the more ridiculous my statements seem.  I guess they pursue happiness, like they're supposed to.  I guess that's what they do.

I haven't been doing that.  I've been pursuing making money, shopping and growing vegetables.  And here's where I am:  Business is up; I have a house full of shit that doesn't look right; and the icy weather snapped up the vegetables in the frame.  I'm one for three.

Saw a couple with an old dog living in an RV.  I imagined they were thrown out of some house somewhere, more victims of the current economic times.  I thought, how do you make the decision to live in an RV with an old dog.  And then it dawned on me, with the right partner, with the right friend, life is much , much better, and almost anything is bearable and nice.

It's hard to believe...

I keep a garden journal in a small, but beautiful note book I bought when I was in Costa Rica.  I promise not to digress too much, but that trip was one of the best I've ever had.  I went with my best friend.  I can't remember the airline we flew, but from the moment we met one another in NYC to go to the airport...where did we meet, Penn Station?  I'm trying to remember...anyway, this friend of mine is always good for a few laughs and we were joking the entire time.  Desperate to catch up, when we approached the airline counter, I convinced the gate agent that my friend was very ill...that's the reason he looked the way he did.  I tell you it was murderous fun...insulting my friend like that in front of the ticket agent and my friend unable to respond in kind because he knew that if she bought it, we would be upgraded.  Well it worked. In fact, they damn near brought a wheel chair to collect us.  We were upgraded free of charge and placed in first class where we proceeded to order two glasses of scotch at 6 in the morning.

Anyway...I went to Costa Rica and one evening my friend and his boyfriend (who is Costa Rican and lives there) and I rented ATV's and we drove about 5 miles to this little town in. the. middle. of. nowhere.  And god was it fun and when we arrived, they were selling these really cute books made of some oddly stained wood and impressed with some dried leaves and shalac'd over and bound with a bit of burlap. Really cool.  So I bought one and have been using it to journal my garden experiences here on the farm.

It's really great to look back through it.  I can reread my thoughts on grafting, check the dates of when the redwinged black birds returned, recount the days when the last garden row got put it.

Any-way the whole reason I bring this up is because we had a MOTHER of a snow storm here two days ago.  There are sections of the property where the drifts are nearly 3 feet, yet according to the garden journal, I should be hearing spring peepers any day now and finding evidence of their mating (you know, popper bottles, used condoms, shit covered toilet paper...wait a second, that's Central Park Brambles....sorry)...I should be finding evidence of their mating...the large clumps of eggs and the long rows of trailing ones in the marshes by the last week of March. It seems like we have a long way to go between here and there.

The sun is intense though.  It's like someone hung a hydrogen bomb low in the sky ...I mean, I know that's what the sun is, but...I mean...you know what I mean. Anyway the point is, its fucking intense that sun and it's easy to see that whatever the snow cover, it's no match for that fire ball.

Oh, anyway, let me give you an update on the 'farmer things' that are going on here.  I built two cold frame...frames and covered them with old glass window panes I saved when I redid the lower part of the barn.   I placed the frames, covered with the glass on the south side of the barn...I really should have taken a picture so you could see....placed them on the south side of the barn and dug in their 'beds' with composed manure.  Under one, I tried to make it a 'hot bed' by digging in some half rotten manure and mixing it with pigeon shit and saw dust (you know, you really have to see this mess in operation...I mean, how on god's earth am I going to find a suitable partner when I'm out in the barn scooping up pigeon shit and saw dust...who the hell am I going to end up fucking in my life...?  A Log Cabin Republican?  I don't know) then covering it up with more manure and some compost.  I'm going to seed them with salad greens in a week.

I have to get to work.  I attached a a pic of the great winter wilderness...just a ways down from the house next to the creek.  Enjoy!

The First Thing Green

I planted Brussels sprouts this past year.  The greenhouse nearby, you know the one I mean, with its hay bales outside and rows of potted mums, had a perennial sale in the spring.  Must have been sometime in June if I recollect correctly and if you bought one tray of plants, you had to take the second along for free.  I couldn’t get out of there.  Every time I reached for something, I was forced to take an additional pot with the other free hand.

Anyway, I ended up with a tray of Brussels sprouts.  Not cause I wanted them, but because I was strong-armed into the deal.  At that time there was no room in the regular vegetable garden, so I cleared some space in a particularly anemic row of blueberries and put them in.  Well, they grew, but don’t ask me how.  The soil had been amended with enough acid to fill a battery.  The blueberries were already responding, but I had no idea the sprouts would do well in such an environment.

They filled out.  I don’t know if you’ve ever tried them, but those sickly little cabbage plants grow past their awkward looking stage pretty quickly and before you know it, you have these stalwart plants with guts and glory and the like.  The first forming cabbages look like marbles along the sides but it takes well into September and October before they beef into the sprouts you and I see in the store.

There were bugs.  Chewing kinds and some other kind that left a frass on the lips of each lime colored head.  Then came the first frost and though the pumpkins collapsed, the sprouts held their ground.  There were mornings that the entire landscape looked like it had been carved out of ice and though the leaves of the sprouts laid low, each day as the sun warmed, their regular turgor returned.

Christmas has come and gone.  Red ribbons and fancy paper peak out of the tops of black trash bags and wag in the wind.  At this point, we’ve had enough freezes and blizzards to fill a Dairy Queen.  I can go into the field and pull some of those frozen cabbage heads off of the plant…maybe snap off a couple of crisply frozen leaves of kale along with them, come inside and watch them return to their normal texture within minutes.  Both can be chopped and thrown in a pan with pasta and cheese, or the kale can be stirred into a chicken broth with beans and sausage for a delicious soup.  It’s as though the freezing has sweetened them, yet each keeps it’s crispness and original texture.   Put it alongside a piece of peach pie made back when August held reign and you have yourself a plate of bounty.

In the melting snow and thawing land, the mustard and nettle rise again.  The first taste of the fresh earth born, the first thing green that nourishes and wakes.  Spring comes soon in the collapse of cold, in the warm gaze of my grateful eyes.  A buttery taste, a shake of salt, and a long wrapping time of warmth.

The Diner's Open!

When I first moved up here, I had this idea that I would open up a diner.  I saw the alarm clock read 5am; I smelled coffee brewing in an urn; I saw hand written orders hanging from a stainless steel roundabout; I saw me talking through a window into the kitchen over the sound of sizzling eggs to familiar faces at the counter.  I’d say, “Hey!  Any of you farmer Mary’s want to have a piece of fresh pie?”  And I’d hear the rough crowd roar, “Sure! Count me in!  I’ll take one to go!”

My secret boyfriend’s name is Arthur and he’s a game warden up here.  Nice build on him; wears a tan, tight fitting policeman’s suit; has a gold badge and carries a gun to shoot poachers.  Every day, he pretends to nonchalantly drop in for a something, coffee, pie, cup of white bean soup, then he’ll look for a reason to talk to me.  “Didn’t you tell me you were from New York way?  I heard on the radio you people are supposed to get one hell of a storm down there.”  Or  “ You said you heard coyotes out at your place?  You know you have to be careful if you have cats.  Those coyotes will eat cats.”

I say to him.  “You know, the next time you’re out by my place, you should drop by.  There is something shitting on the rocks in my stream, right next to a hole a in the side of the hill, and I would love for you to look at that crap and tell me what kind of animal laid it.”

He says, “Oh that’s probably a muskrat.”

And I say, because I want to wow him with my outdoorsiness, I say, “You don’t think it could be a mink or an otter?”  

And he says, as though that didn’t faze him a bit, he says, “Nah, probably just a muskrat.”

I get this idea now, while I watch him blow over the top of his coffee and measure off another portion of peach pie with his fork.  I have this idea that I’m going to talk this cocky son-of-a-bitch into my bed and fuck him with his legs up in the air.  I work him over one more time with my eyes and take a moment to wipe up the counter space next to him.  When he looks up at me, right into my eyes and says, “You ever seen a muskrat?”   then smiles a big, illegal grin, I know that it will all come true.

Once I had sex with a trucker.  I stopped off at some rest stop somewhere, don’t ask me where the hell I was, and I went into use the john and there was some thirty-something guy in one of the cans, sitting on the crapper and jerking off.  So while we peered at each other through the crack in the metal door, we somehow made this agreement through finger gestures and head bobs that we were going to see each other outside.

The next thing you know, I find myself climbing into the cab of a big semi.  It was the first and last time I’ve ever been in one and I was shocked to discover that behind the front row seat, they have a whole bed in the back!

 So we start fooling around and the next thing you know, he wants me to fuck him.  Well you know me, I’ll try anything once, but when he pulled off his overhauls, what did I find but him in a pair of pink girl’s panties! And he starts moanin, “Oh fuck me, officer, fuck me for speeding.”  I don’t know where he came up with that one.  The only thing about me that looked like a policeman that day was some leftover powdered donut on my shirt from the Krispy Creme in Clark’s Summit.  But anyway, he’s going on,  “I don’t have the money for a ticket, so you’ll just have to fuck me for speeding.”  Then he proceeds to pull off those panties and I can see why he made up the speeding part, because tracked down the center of them was a thick, brown racing stripe.  I mean, this Mary might have been speeding, but god knows he put on the brakes and left some pretty wide skid marks before he got to me.

Even then, I was ready to forge ahead. I had been driving for about 4 hours and had another 2 to go and I needed something to relieve the monotony, but just as I was about to go down, I was hit in the face with a smell that was packing almost as much cargo as that truck.  I haven’t smelled that much shit since I saw the last Mamet play on Broadway.  Then he wiggles around, and honestly this was the part that made me run screaming from that cab, he wiggles around and put that pink, pimpled ass of his up in the air and all I could see was hole hair and shit smears.  I tell you, that was it. Good Night Irene.  You could have forced me to drive another 2 hundred miles.  I would have done every inch of them within the speed limit just so’s I wouldn’t have to take another look or have another whiff of that sewer.

But you know, now that I have the diner and Arthur, I have no need for rest stops and truck cabs.  I’m fine with him, flawed though he is.  Happy to watch his four wheeled drive, all-terrain Wrangler pull up the road and watch him fuss over any dog hair, Peter, our Labrador leaves on the seat.  I built a bench on the hill overlooking the stream and Arthur and I sit there at dusk looking down into the ravine to see if we can catch sight of the Kingfisher that’s built a nest down there or watch a hawk dive from the pines to catch a small, sharp meal.  We sit there sometimes almost an hour, before he says he’s got to go to bed or wants to watch something on the TV.  His favorite shows are cop show.  He likes to sit on the sofa, neat as a pin, and glue his eyes to the NYPD or Los Angeles Police Force and watch the drama unfold.  When I catch him like that, from my vantage at the kitchen counter…leafing through a seed catalogue or fingering the handle of a coffee mug... I think to myself, ‘boy oh boy, can I pick ‘em’.