There was a moment yesterday at Riis Beach when I saw myself, saw the scene I existed in, and was so happy to have such a gay life. I was wearing an American flag thong, drinking a vodka/soda, and losing my mind dancing to a Deborah Cox remix. Life truly does not get better. Or gayer.
It has been such an insane weekend - basically a mid-thirties gay version of some Girls Gone Wild Spring Break adventure.
Saturday on the beach, there is the guy that I think is one of the cutest people on the planet, long-running crush that I used to work with. He was wearing some vintage running shorts with nothing underneath, the outline of his dick so clear. It was so beautiful. The image is burned in my memory. As soon as I got back from the beach on Saturday, I showered and jerked off, recalling the memory, replaying it again and again, while it was still crisp, before it started to fade.
I have been recalling that dick, the brief glimpse I got of it while talking to him, recalling it over and over all weekend, waking up the image all I think about for my first ten minutes away.
I tried to convince him to come Sunday, but probably for the best he did not, probably for the best because I would have been a thirsty, drooling mess around him. But I found other people to occupy my attention, other boys to crush on. On the bus ride home, I sat next to this boy, cute, and we made out most of the way home to Williamsburg.
Today, I am in a world of pain, of hurt, my body upset with me for raging so hard for four days straight, raging so hard for four days gay.
God Bless America.
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