Porn Star Fantasies

Here’s a little fact about my love life. I have a proclivity for a kind of man who is termed a “bear” in the gay world. Big, hairy, bulky, bearded. Magnum PI, Grizzly Adams, James Gandolfini, that guy with the tool belt in Home Improvement. The whys and the wherefores of this can be debated at a later date, eye of the beholder, psych 101 etc.

But the thing with these bears is, they tend to just like other bears. And here’s where genetics are a funny thing. While I have heard often in my life, “You’re so lucky, you could get any guy you want,”the reality is quite different.

I’ve given away the gym after having a rat in a cage epiphany. I lifted for a whole year once, then after two months off, all the muscle went. You have to wonder what the point is; my body is clearly rejecting the big hairy bastard I want to be.

I swim, I do yoga, I ride my bike. So my body reverts to the 95 kgs (200 pounds) that seems to be its natural state of being. Healthy, yes. But that does not make me the tree that big lumberjack over there wants to chop down and drag home. There’s probably a wood joke in there too, but I digress.

Anyway. So there I am on-line on bear411, my personals site. Lah lah lah, boring boring boring. Of course I get messages from guys but it’s rare that it’s someone I’m really into.

Them: Woof! You are hot!

Me: Thanks.

Them: What are you doing?

This question always puzzles me. I’m sitting here on a computer talking to you, what do you think I’m doing? Typing with one hand, making blueberry pancakes with the other?

Me: Not much. You?

Them: LOL. Same.

LOL? This is not funny. I now wonder why I spend so much time on this site. This is also not funny. He’s probably not a bad guy, but spend any amount of time on this site and it seems like the pictures change but the conversation remains the same. I’m up to the eyeballs with woofs, smileys and chats that go nowhere and guys that don’t know the difference between their, there and they’re.

Then up pops a message from a guy. Golly. A Bear! A real one! Ok, don’t reply straight away. Don’t look desperate. Read his profile, write something back that’s really witty. But nonchalant. But intriguing. Click. Open profile.

Gary aka Furrybigman. And he is… I read on. “6’2” 230 pounds.” Height to weight ratio is good. “Likes a good steak.” Ok, that’s authentic. “Loves camping.” I’m thinking he doesn’t mean the sequin-clad sense of the word. “Owns own business, a motor shop”. I have officially fallen in lust.

We chat back and forth for a week till I decide we have circled the control tower and it’s time to land this baby by his log cabin that he built with his bare hands and teeth.

So we meet for a drink. He’s out with a few friends at the Eagle, a divey leather bar. Perfect location and if it doesn’t pan out, a perfect way to leave. He’s with friends, I’m absolved of guilt.

I arrive. I scan. I find. He’s even better in real life. Be cool Karl, nonchalant, cool, nonchalant…

Me: Gary?

Gary: Karl? (Mutual smile.)

Me: You’re better in real life.

Gary: Your photos don’t do you justice.

Bingo. Chit chat, chit chat. A little hand on chest here, a little affectionate rub there. And finally a little kiss. And he can. And well. Thank you Universe. Inside, I moonwalk.

But I am intrigued by his friend that he’s out with, I’m sure I’ve seen him before.
At the risk of too much information from me, let me describe my stance on porn. Love the idea of it, but 5 minutes into every porn film I’ve ever seen, I’m thinking about the price of tea in China. Where’s the story? What’s the motivation? How do these characters know each other? The writer in me never sleeps.

But there is one porn film that was an all timer for me. It’s the only one I’ve ever owned. Without too much revealed, there’s two guys, a spa, wah wah guitars and a bongo soundtrack. But I have a feeling Gary’s friend is in it. How to put this delicately?

Me: Gary, your friend, has he ever done porn? (Hey reader, it’s LA and I’m in a leather bar. That was delicate. There are two commas in the question, count them.)

Gary: He sure has.
Me: I thought so. There’s a film I own of him that has another guy in it with him. Hot, early forties, grey hair.
Gary: Um, Karl. That was me.

Every one in the bar freezes. The music stops. A bullet sails through the air in slow motion passing through a raindrop…Oh. Wait. That was the Matrix.

Me: Really?

Gary: (now in a shiny kind of glow) Cross my heart.

I am not sure how I hadn’t put this together before. It’s so obvious now… but who cares? I’m going to bang my favourite porn star, the number one guy in my wank bank. LA, I love you too.

In a deftly clever move I don’t go home with him that night. Oh my god, how I want to, but I decide I am going to make a day of this. See you Sunday Gary. It will be a day of worship.

Sunday, Gary’s place. Spa? Tick. Beers? Tick. Clothes? Cross. Fade down. And fade up in Gary’s bedroom, post-coital glow.

And then we chat. And you know what. He’s really sweet. He’s lovely actually. I stay for dinner, drinks, some friends of his come over, more chats. Then he starts to get very friendly. Instead of saying that we have just met, there is the intimation that we are going to be dating. Though he’d like me to stay the night, I make my excuses and leave.

And I’m sad. He’s really looking for someone to date, and he’s hoping it’ll be me. And I realise that my fantasy of the hot mechanic that I’m going to drop in on from time to time is going to do a head on collision with his fantasy of the Australian writer who moves in with him in the Valley. We were both casting for people to play roles in our lives. And we both bungled our auditions.

Seems there was a bullet in the rain after all.

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