The Guys With Whom I’ve Had Sex

brucela-27color.jpgI leafed endlessly through the men’s underwear section of the Sears catalog when I was 3. I recall it perfectly.

When I was 12, I loved a man, 33, who was doing me a lot of damage; our ‘relationship’ lasted 6 years.

I seduced a football player and a wrestler from my high school when I was 16. The wrestler, probably on steroids because he was impossibly muscular for 17, was big and gruff looking. He took to wine coolers and back rubs very, very quickly, and it wasn’t long before he discovered how much he loved getting ‘pinned’. Last I heard, he was a cop in Atlanta.

I found my high school quarterback’s sneakers in his gym locker and stole them. I returned them in his home mailbox, slightly more used. He wore them the rest of the semester.

I discovered my insane fascination with blonds thanks to a handsome 16 year old Swedish friend who was covered with blond fur, and had a Dad who looked just like him. His Dad didn’t like underwear. Shawn and I hung out in our boxers a lot, but there’s no more to tell. He was genuinely never into it, and I think genuinely fine that I was. He was really kind. He’s a fireman now.

I had a secret boyfriend in high school who died accidentally while experimenting with shooting up Valium.I was booted as a pledge in a fraternity for being “gay looking” by a man who, in a gay bar four years later, begged me to go home with him. When I stopped laughing, I declined.

I joined another fraternity and had the hottest frat boy experience, right out of a porn flick, with the social chairman. He led me into an attic space littered with composites and trophies stolen from other frats. A bare lightbulb swinging from a cord overhead lit the room, and the sound system downstairs thumped up through the floor. We gulped beer, we made small talk, we stared at each other, we stood in tense silence, and then finally, he pulled the chain on the light and we went for it. A year later, he had a similar experience with another brother. The other brother freaked out and spun the story making Ed out to have taken advantage of him while he was drunk, and they threw him out of the fraternity.

I stayed at UF for a year and a half, squandering my family’s money, being a really half-assed student and screwing drunk, closeted frat boys until I was expelled. I returned to Naples at 21, got a job and enrolled in community college, where a drink and dial experience turned into a two year relationship with Ron.

My Godfather, Greg Rosatti, was the choreographer on Blue Sky, with Jessica Lange and Tommy Lee Jones. I caught the eye of the assistant to the director, David Bradford, 29, and had sex with him in his villa. The next day the director, Tony Richardson, singled me out. “You’ve got a great mug,” he said. I spent the next six hours dancing with Jessica Lange, who was delightful, telling me dirty jokes between takes. The film wrapped, and I returned to Naples, and to Ron, who suspected something, and pressed it out of me. He kicked me out of our apartment, and I went to my Grandparents’ house and came out to my family. Two months later, I transferred to USF in Tampa. Some time after that, David Bradford died of AIDS. So did Greg, and so did Tony.

I transferred to USF in Tampa, and had a torrid series of dates with a big, goofy, blond guy named Chad, who is now a husband and father.

I had my last girlfriend at USF, and I came out to most of the guys in the Lambda Chi chapter there. I was probably the first gay guy most of them actually got to know. I became, (what else?) the social chairman of the fraternity, threw some great parties, improved their standing with the sororities, helped the rush chairman double the size of the house, and convinced them to consider rushees they suspected might be gay.

I graduated and got a corporate job, working for a real hard ass homophobe named Mike, whom I encountered a year later in the only gay bar in town. He saw me and headed for the door. Then at work the next week, he tried to get me into the sack. When I stopped sweating, I declined.

My room mate, (a different) Chad, and I lived in Ft. Lauderdale for just over a year. A memorable year, and yet a year I can’t remember much of.

Chad taught me that when you have a trick over to your house, you put your wallet in the freezer.

We tallied our tricks and boyfriends that year; I had about 35 on my list, including every butch blond bartender I could find, my acting agent, a big British rower, more than a few hardcore alcoholics, and a 5’3″ bodybuilder who had a serious baby fetish and a fridge full of baby food. At his request, I swaddled him in a white towel diaper, cradled him in my lap, fed him with a spoon while he cooed and spit up, and yes, I burped him. I didn’t date him after that. I wasn’t into it.

I dated a really cute, freckled redhead, Jim Giordani, with a heavy Boston accent. He was a nurse, and as sweet as can be. He kinda disappeared.

In Ft. Lauderdale, I had a buddy, Michael, who was heavily tattooed and pierced – mostly facially – and a full time, hardcore, total leather boy to boot. He was a preacher’s kid from Georgia. He’d visit every once in a while. I think we might have been boyfriends, but we were a little embarrassed to be seen with each other in public – he in his vests and chaps, me in my khakis.

I met a great guy driving up I-95. Blue eyes and a smile like that are not blurred by the speed of a passing car. We dated for a while, and now he’s a good friend who came to our wedding.

There was a blond, mustached, on-duty FHP officer whom I cruised in the parking lot of Panda. I stared boldly. He asked me if I had a problem. “No, a fetish,” I replied, “a uniform fetish.” I drove off, and he followed me for two miles when he passed and then slowed in front of me… leading me to an empty parking lot near the Ft. Lauderdale shipyards. After submitting my license and registration, he submitted to a cavity search, in the back of his squad, in broad daylight. His boots needed polishing after I left.

I dated some obnoxious guy in Miami Beach. I can’t even remember his name, but by God he was the neediest, pushiest asshole on the planet. He kept a framed photo of his ex, some hot, 21 year-old blond guy named Gregg, by the bed. Once I even got off thinking about Gregg. A year later, our paths crossed at my talent agency. Gregg chain-smoked his way through a life of intrigue and mystery, although I’m sure he’d disagree with that description. Nonetheless, we’d spend weekends tooling around in his Honda del Sol, coked up to the moon, at celebrity parties, having sex, and getting stoned in his model friend’s apartment in Miami Beach. One of those THC-soaked weekends in the Miami Beach condo, we made pot brownies with a bag of shake we found in the fridge. We added too much of it, and the brownies were disgusting and powerful. (And when you eat marijuana, the buzz lasts a long, long time.) We got really high before we realized that there was nothing in the place to eat… except the brownies. It was hell, plus we were so baked it took us two hours to stop eating the brownies and realize that we could order a pizza. I couldn’t function. I barely knew my own name. The stoned Miami Beach weekends ground to a halt the day we let ourselves in and there were, literally, 32 BALES of marijuana that the model’s boyfriend had dropped there. (Current market: $700,000) I am grateful to him for saving us at that moment. He turned to me and said, “We’d go to jail for 20 years just for being in the room with this shit, no questions asked. We’re leaving.” That was the last we saw of that place. I did hook up with Gregg again just after Joe, which was hot at the time, but it’s just never really been in the cards for Gregg and me, and we’ve always known that, deep down, in spite of how well we always got along. We’ve always had the worst timing, too much need for the spotlight, and far too much competitive fire sign energy for a bed or relationship with two Aries boys in it. And I could never get used to the smoking. He’s the sweetest guy ever, just the same. I haven’t talked to him for two and a half years, and he is missed. Plus, Sam’s super curious to meet him.

The last blond bartender, Billy, looked like a Billy doll. He came to my apartment after work, at 3am. He woke me up and got in the shower. Then he told me that Lady Di was just killed in a car accident. I sent him home, and never saw him again.

Thoroughly burnt out on hot bartenders, I met Gerardo and opted for what I thought was mature and grounded. What I didn’t know was how unstable he really was. Kind, but unstable. I knew I was making a mistake when I packed the U-Haul, but I didn’t know what to do. We moved to L.A. together, and didn’t last long. Feeling sorry for someone is no substitute for being in love with them, and no matter how philanthropic it is, it isn’t sustainable.

I dated a few nice guys after Gerardo, nearly all blond, including an incredibly sweet guy named Michael Caress, a couple of bodybuilders and a TV gossip show host. The show host officed near my work and I flirted with him shamelessly via email. We went on a single date, during which he downed about two bottles of white zinfandel, confessed to having a famous Olympic diver for a boyfriend, aired a truckload of secrets including where the diver kept his medals and why, and mourned some pretty woeful aspects of his very complicated life. It was heart-wrenching. At the end of the date, he hugged me goodbye and drove off. He made it home safely, but they canceled his show not long after that.

I once did some pretty extreme stuff with a trick that involved a pair of playtex living gloves. My Mom was asleep in the second bedroom. He stole my wallet. I hadn’t put it in the freezer.

Just before New Year’s Eve, I met Joe, and we were together for almost six years, during which we had a few adventures, a handful of three ways, and some old cars and real estate. Most importantly we learned what we did and didn’t want out of life and love, and I think we’re both grateful for those lessons. I also learned that when it comes to relationships, pretty early on you know what will end it, just not when. Joe’s happy now with a guy he met while we were still together, and it took us a while, but we’re truly happy for each other.

This list is by no means as exhaustive as the list of women, mostly because there have been so many more men than women. Even as I type this, more rogues from my gallery come to mind. There have been over 200, I am sure. Don’t feel funny about judging me for it; I still judge myself a little.

And then there’s Sam, the last man with whom I’ll ever make love. Where do I begin? He’s a bookish ex-porn star, a doughy candy store boy turned hunky fitness coach. His goofy cuteness belies the tack-sharp journalist within, and don’t think he doesn’t know it and work it for all it’s worth. It’s one of the many things I love about him. He is living proof and a constant inspiration that people can continue to evolve and grow if they just have the courage and discipline to do so. My dear (now departed) friend Chad used to send me clippings of big blond boys who look curiously like Sam.

Sam has a distinctly Chad-like quality about him that everyone who knew Chad notice right off. tfl.jpg He’s all the best qualities of any boyfriend I’ve had, rolled into one, and then some – and even then he’s still beautifully flawed. He’s the Tom drawing of a lifeguard, come to life. He told me when we met that he was glad to hear that I’d lived in Ft. Lauderdale for a while because that meant I had been a slut and done my share of living and learning. He was right. We have that in common too, and what’s more, we share a philosophy about continuing to learn, questioning the status quo, and living life without regrets; life is too short for remorse. Since the beginning, he has shown me that anything is possible, and we’ve manifested the first of many, many fantastic things together. For the first time in my life, I know that only death will separate us.

10 Responses to “The Guys With Whom I’ve Had Sex”

  1. Tuesday, January 15, 2008 at 7:47 pm

    The quote that comes to mind after reading this is: “Do one thing, every day, that scares you.”

    Bronson, you truly live this quote when it comes to sex: and it’s something I admire and cherish.

    Together, our journey ahead will sometimes be like the journey behind: winding, varied terrain with forks, rest-stops, and even occasional breathlessness. But I know the view from the top of the mountain is made more beautiful by the hike you take to get there.

    I’m humbled to be adventuring up the mountain with you, my brah.


  2. Monday, January 28, 2008 at 6:45 pm

    I think it’s so cute and charming that a post about all the guys you’ve had in your life can also end up being a love letter to the guy you love…

  3. 3 Joe Shmo
    Sunday, February 17, 2008 at 6:53 pm

    Wow, I didn’t even rate… i guess i wasn’t that memorable. Well, it wasn’t a long fling, so I guess that’s ok. Glad you’re happy.

  4. Monday, February 18, 2008 at 8:53 am

    Hey, I’m only a mortal man with a mortal memory.

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